Starship Insurgent (The Galactic Wars Book 6)

by Tripp Ellis

  "Nothing surprises me anymore," Graham said.

  She continued reading through the dossier, astonished. “Born on Aldebaran Minor. He applied for, and was granted, Federation citizenship.” Her eyes snapped back and forth as she scanned the text. “Suspected of arranging financing for multiple insurgent activities. But there seems to be no concrete evidence of wrongdoing."

  “We stay on him like a hawk until we have something to go on.”

  “That’s going to be rather difficult from here.”

  “That’s why you’re going to Aldebaran Minor.”

  Emma's eyes widened. “They are not going to let a UIA agent on the planet.”

  “You won’t be going as a UIA agent.”

  Emma gave him a quizzical look. “What am I going as, a tourist?”

  The Vantage touched down on the flight deck with a slight jolt. The back ramp disengaged and the hydraulics whirred as it lowered. The platoon filed out of the ship. Emma released the buckle on her safety harness and stood up.

  “The Federation has an embassy in Mosaav. You’ll be posing as a guard in the regional security office. You’re fluent in Aldebarani, aren’t you?”

  Emma nodded. “And Saarkturese, Razurvani, Decluvian, and Xyngalish.”

  “Great, you’ll fit right in.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “How fast can you get your things together?”

  Emma rummaged through her compartment, trying to pack economically. She didn't have a lot of stuff on board. Most of it was back at her apartment on New Earth. She just brought the essentials to the Revenant. A few self-cleaning suits, tactical gear, two Bösch-Hauer X229 pistols, extra magazines, ammo, boots, heels, laptop, automated makeup applicator, earbuds, personal grooming and hygiene items, and the most indispensable of her possessions—her cat, a Taura Cepheus short hair named Oscar.

  Emma picked up the furry gray feline, and hugged him.

  "You've got stay here, you little troublemaker. I wish I could take you with me, but I don't think you'd like where I’m going.”

  Oscar purred in her ear.

  She held onto him for another moment and sat him down on the bunk where he promptly made himself comfortable. It was his bunk now. If you asked him, Oscar would probably say the Revenant was under his command.

  He may have been the ruler of all he surveyed, but Emma was still going to have to find someone to look after him.

  Emma tabbed through the messages on her PDU. There was one message she didn’t want to listen to. She debated whether or not to press play, then finally hit the button.

  “This is Sarah, with Dr. Patel’s office. We haven’t heard from you, and Dr. Patel would really like for you to come in and discuss treatment options.”

  13

  Ryan

  “Welcome to Indoc at Basic Space Combat Training at Black Rock Island, South Coravado. I am Chief Petty Officer Dugan.” His gruff voice filled the transport. He stood at the front of the shuttle surveying the fresh meat. “You will refer to me as Chief, or Instructor. Is that clear?”

  Nintey-Five Reaper candidates responded in unison. “Yes, Chief!” Their voices boomed with authority. RTC (Recruit Training Command) had already turned them into sailors. But if they wanted to be a member of the elite, they’d have to survive BSCT.

  Dugan wasn’t a meathead, but he was solid muscle. An athlete. Optimized to perfection. Keen eyes and sharp witted. He was here to make Reapers and weed out the ones who couldn’t hack it.

  Indoc, or Basic Orientation, is the first real taste of BSCT, and a high percentage of recruits drop during this section. Indoc typically lasts 3 to 5 weeks while candidates wait to class up. The lack of PT in RTC is made up for during Indoc. By the end, the candidates that survive are ready to take on the first phase of Biscuit.

  Ryan was eager to begin the challenge. So far his military experience had been less than stellar. At MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station), He was investigated for cheating, and interrogated for a few hours. MEPS is the place you go before you ship off to bootcamp. They put you through a battery of tests—eyesight, colorblindness, hearing, etc. You get up close and personal with a lot of people you’d rather not get up close and personal with. You’ll smell body odor on some recruits the likes of which you’ve never smelled before. Not everyone holds themselves to the same hygiene standards. Welcome to the military.

  Ryan didn’t miss a single question on his ASVAB (Armes Services Vocational Aptitude Battery). The NCOIC (Non Commissioned Officer in Charge) had never seen a score so high and was convinced that he had access to the answers in advance. But after 2 hours of intense grilling, and a review of Ryan’s academic history, the NCOIC finally relented.

  Ryan also scored a perfect 4 on his C-SORT (Computerized Special Operations Resiliency Test). The test assesses the recruit’s ability to handle stress. It’s used to evaluate mental toughness. It tests performance strategies, psychological resilience, and personality traits. Those who score 3, or above, have a higher probability of making it through BSCT and becoming Navy Reapers. If you score lower, you could still get into BSCT, but you’d better have high scores on your PST (Physical Strength Test).

  Boot camp (Navy RTC) was designed to take the average fat-body off the street and turn them into sailors. You’d learn the basics, like general orders, how to fold your underwear into a 6x6 square, how to put out a shipboard fire. But for a Reaper candidate, it was just an opportunity to get out of shape. There just wasn’t enough time for PT (Physical Training).

  The PST requirements for BSCT were as follows: 500 yard swim (in either the combat sidestroke or breast stroke) in 11 minutes. 50 push-ups within 2 minutes. 60 sit-ups within 2 minutes. 10 pull ups, no time limit. And a 1.5 mile run within 10 minutes, or 10:30 in boots and pants.

  These were the minimum requirements.

  It’s recommended that you surpass these. The PST wasn’t a challenge for Ryan. He was already in great shape. For a special operator, RTC is boring and stupid. The real task is to make it through with your fitness level, and sanity, intact. The real training begins at BSCT.

  “When I give the command, you will exit the vehicle in a quick and orderly fashion and take a position on the white footprints. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Chief,” the recruits responded.

  “GET UP! GET OFF MY SHUTTLE! MOVE!”

  The recruits sprang into action and scampered off the shuttle. Several rows of white flippers were painted on the asphalt, heels together, toes at 45° angles. It was an homage to the old days of Navy Frogmen.

  “Move, move, move!” Dugan chased the last of the recruits off the shuttle, shouting in their ears. They filed into position and stood at attention. Dugan paced back and forth surveying the new candidates. It was 0500 hours, and the sun wasn’t even up yet.

  The air was brisk. Ryan could hear the surf crashing against the beach somewhere out there in the darkness. Before this was all over, he was going to be intimately familiar with the cold water of Black Rock Island. The toughest military training in the galaxy was located on one of the most beautiful islands on New Earth. A few miles up the main highway was a posh resort area. It was loaded with nightlife, tourists, luxury condos, yachts, and svelte bikini-clad women. The beachfront barracks of the Reapers would be worth a fortune in the commercial market. But they weren’t for sale. You had to earn your residency.

  “You have taken the first steps toward becoming part of the UPDF’s most elite fighting force, the Navy Reapers. The Reapers success depends on teamwork, and teamwork will be an essential part of your training here at BSCT. You will live, eat, sleep, and train as a team. Most of you standing here will not make it. But those of you who do will carry on the proud tradition of the Navy Reapers. My job is to find out who deserves to be among the best of the best.”

  Of the 95 Reaper candidates standing at attention, all of them were fit and capable. They ranged in size from 5’4” to 6’6”. Physical strength and endurance were key, but m
ental toughness and discipline was the true secret to success at BSCT.

  “This is high risk training. Make no mistake about it. Some of you will get injured. Some training evolutions have the potential for loss of life. We will do everything in our power to keep that from happening. This is dangerous training for a dangerous job. Despite how it may seem, we are not trying to hurt or kill you here. If you see an unsafe condition, you must report it to one of the instructors, or class leaders. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  “Everything you do here at BSCT reflects on you, your class, and your instructors. You build your reputation in the Teams from day one. That reputation will follow you throughout your entire career. You put in 200% in everything you do. You don’t slack off. You pull your weight. If you don’t, you’re going to get a shit reputation. And let me tell you, it doesn’t wash off. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  “It is my job during this block of instruction to get you acclimated to life in the Teams, and to get you in the physical condition it takes to make it through First Phase. Some of you are already wondering if you have what it takes. If that thought is bouncing around in your mind, let me tell you… you don’t. You might as well drop now. Less than 20% of you will make it to graduation. For those of you who do graduate and earn your Reaper pin, life and the Teams can be incredible. Filled with adventure, travel, excitement, and a chance to serve with the finest warriors in the galaxy. But to be a Naval Special Warfare Operator you’re going to have to pay your dues. The price of admission is steep, and not all of you will be willing to pay it.” Dugan grinned. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  14

  Emma

  “You had a cracked thermal exchanger," a mechanic said. He was wearing a green shirt and vest that was stained with grease and oil. He stood beside the Vantage, perched on the flight deck, as he showed the broken part to a newly minted Ensign Chloe Johnson.

  Flight deck crews were easily identifiable by the color of their uniforms, broken down by task. Air wing maintenance personnel wore green. Handling officers wore yellow. Landing Signal Officers wore white. Ordinance men wore red. Plane handlers and elevator operators wore blue. The flight deck was alive with multicolored shirt crews scurrying about.

  “I've seen a lot of these lately. You're lucky. It could cause the whole vehicle to explode."

  Chloe’s eyes went wide. “It didn't show up on any diagnostic checks."

  "I think the sensor is malfunctioning within the part. Probably a quality control issue at the factory. They just don't make these things like they used to."

  “But it's fixed now, correct?"

  “Oh, sure. I got a new part in there. But since these are all coming out of the same batch, who's to say how long it's going to last?” The maintenance technician shrugged.

  It wasn’t very reassuring.

  “Just keep an eye on it, Ensign. Check it visually after every flight.”

  “This bird has less than 30 flight hours on it. It’s brand-spanking-new.”

  The mechanic shrugged. “It's a highly complex piece of machinery. Things break.”

  “You’re not really instilling confidence.”

  “You'll be fine. We haven't lost one of these birds yet. Most of these vehicles are held together with duct tape and bubble gum. Be glad you’re flying something that was made in the last 20 years, sir.” It was easy to see he was getting tired of babysitting the Ensign. "If that's all, I've got other birds that need attention."

  “Yes. That's all. Thank you."

  The mechanic trotted across the deck to another vehicle.

  Chloe shook her head. She caught sight of Emma lugging her gear to the flight deck, marching toward the Vantage.

  “Ensign Chloe Johnson. I’ll be your pilot,” she said with a bright smile.

  Emma had a quizzical look on her face. She looked over Chloe’s baby-soft skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. She looked straight off the cheer squad. “You look like you're barely out of high school.”

  "I am. There's a shortage of pilots since the war. Admiral… I mean, President Slade gave me a field commission. I just graduated cadet training.”

  “Cadet training?"

  Chloe could see the uneasy look on Emma's face. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing.”

  Emma flashed a courteous smile and extended her hand. "Special Agent Emma Castle. Nice to meet you."

  The two shook hands.

  “Well, I’m ready if you’re ready.”

  Emma nodded and followed Chloe up the ramp.

  “The entire cargo area is yours, or you can ride shotgun with me,” Chloe said.

  "Better view upfront."

  Emma stowed her gear and strapped into the copilot's seat.

  Ensign Johnson powered up the Vantage and went through her preflight checks. She pressed buttons and flicked switches. Displays and gages came alive. After a few moments, the onboard computer gave the all clear.

  The Air Boss crackled over the comm line. "Rockstar, you’re cleared for takeoff.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow. “Rockstar? The squadron must think highly of you?”

  Chloe smiled. "I pulled Captain Walker out of a tight spot in the Robot War.”

  “THE Captain Walker?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I know of him. He's a legend in the special operations community. He’s currently heading up JPOC.”

  “When you get back, I can introduce you if you like?”

  “You’re pretty well connected for an Ensign.”

  “My father served under Captain Walker in the Teams.”

  Chloe engaged the thrusters. The Vantage lifted from the deck. The massive Hughes & Kessler engines rumbled. Heat from ion exhaust distorted the air behind the thrusters. The craft lumbered forward and cleared the edge of the bay. The view of New Earth was nothing short of stunning. The blue orb hung amidst the flickering stars. The sun was cresting on the horizon.

  “I’ll have you to Aldebaran Major in less than 9 hours.” Chloe began programming jump coordinates. “You've made a slide-space jump before, haven't you?"

  “Many times."

  “Good. If you need to hurl, there's a bag under the seat.”

  “No worries. Four years in the Marine Corps. Never once had a problem."

  Ensign Johnson activated the quantum drive. The bulkheads bulged and warbled. Emma’s stomach twisted in the usual way. There was always an uncomfortable moment of transitioning into slide-space. It felt like being pushed and pulled and squeezed and twisted all at the same time. Like you had reached the top of a roller coaster and were plummeting down. Some people never got used to it.

  Chloe leaned back in her seat as the ship’s automated controls took over. “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

  “Is this what you do most of the time? Ferry people around?”

  Chloe sighed. "Yes. It's not very glamorous. Lots of downtime. But I’ve applied to Advanced Fighter Weapons School. I want to fly Stingrays.”

  “You seem like a driven young woman. I’m sure you’ll be flying a Stingray by the next time I see you.” Emma smiled.

  They weren’t halfway into the journey when an alarm sounded indicating an equipment malfunction.

  15

  Ryan

  Despite the Reapers carrying out few aquatic operations in the age of intergalactic warfare, pool training was still an essential component of BSCT. It was one of the most effective ways to get a candidate acclimated to operating in a zero oxygen environment.

  After the class had stowed their gear in the barracks, they hit the pool deck for their first training evolution. They were wearing boots, combat pants, and white T-shirts. This would be their standard uniform for the next several weeks, until they got to wear the coveted brown shirts of Second Phase. Wearing a brown shirt signified that you made it through Hell Week. If you could make it through Hell Week, the odds swung dramatically in your favor that you could become a Navy
Reaper.

  As Chief Dugan arrived, Yates did the call out, yelling, “Instructor Dugan!”

  The class responded in unison, “Hooyah, Instructor Dugan!”

  Yates was a medical rollback from a previous class. He had been waiting for his shoulder injury to heal so he could class up and start First Phase again. There were a few other rollbacks in the class, so they knew the drill.

  At BSCT, officers trained alongside enlisted. Men and women trained together as well, though there were few women. They were held to the exact same standards, no exceptions. For obvious reasons, extracurricular activities between the sexes were strictly prohibited. And if the instructors found out, both parties would be kicked out of training.

  There was one female in Class 276. Piper Parkes. She wasn’t your typical Reaper candidate. She looked like she belonged on the cover of the swimsuit edition. She was a fitness trainer in the civilian world, and was in better shape than most of the guys. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and abs of steel. Why she joined the Reapers was anyone’s guess. A girl like that could have skated through life on her looks alone. She was an engineering major in college and had come to Black Rock on a challenge contract from OCS. The newly minted ensign had caught the attention of the entire male population.

  “Give me a report, Mr. Parnell," Dugan commanded.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Parnell took the muster board from Lead Petty Officer Griffin, then reported to Dugan. "Chief, class 276 is formed. I've got 95 assigned, and 94 present. One unauthorized absence."

  Dugan smiled. "So, one of you pansies couldn't even make it to the first evolution. That might just be a new record here at Biscuit. Any other quitters?"

  The class shouted, "no, chief."

  "Drop!”

  The class hit the deck.

  "Give me 20. Push’em out!”

  The class counted off 20 push-ups. “1,2,3…”