by Daniel Gibbs
Hodges climbed down a ladder and looked over the shoulder of the rating. The heated-liquid return lines were indeed spiking and at an alarming rate. “Reduce fusion output by twenty percent and run a diagnostic on the outflow pump.”
The young woman tapped away on her controls. “Fuel injection reduced, sir. Fusion plasma reaction is down to eighty percent of normal, but the pressure in the hot line is increasing.”
It’s beyond increasing. Hodges stared at the readout, and mental alarm bells rang. Outflow was already at twenty-five hundred PSI and still rising. At three thousand, they risked pipe ruptures, among other problems. “Scram the reactor.”
“Sir?”
“I said scram the reactor now.” Tehrani’s going to have my head over this.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Hodges looked from screen to screen and realized even as the fusion reaction ceased, something was causing the pressure to continue to skyrocket. “What in the…”
“I don’t understand, sir. I show no fusion reaction in our plasma chamber yet.”
After he’d stared at the reaction control screen for close to ten seconds, it suddenly hit Hodges as to what the problem was. “Shit.” He whipped out his handcomm and keyed it for the bridge. “Colonel Tehrani, come in, please.”
“This is Tehrani. Go ahead, Major.”
“I need permission to vent our helium-3 stores into space, ma’am.”
“That’s the fuel—”
“Now, ma’am, or we lose the ship.”
“Do it, Major.”
Hodges cut off the commlink and turned back toward the rating. “Let me get in there, Corporal.” He didn’t trust the task to anyone but himself.
As the young woman stepped aside, he pulled up the emergency fuel-dump override and jettisoned the Greengold’s entire primary supply of helium-3.
From above them came a series of small popping sounds followed by ungodly screams.
Someone shouted, “We’ve got a pipe failure up here! Superheated liquid escape!” A few moments later, a wave of steam blew down.
This isn’t happening fast enough. Hodges switched screens to the pressure display. Incredibly, the hot-liquid system was up to three thousand two hundred PSI—and still climbing. He was stunned. What the visual showed was nearly impossible, yet there it sat. He took the one option left. With another button press followed by input of his security code and biometric confirmation of identity, the reserve helium-3 tanks vented into space.
More shouts and screams issued from the upper reaches of the engineering space as the deck plates clattered with enlisted personnel rushing toward the liquid spill. The ventilation system barely kept ahead of the steam release, pushing the temperature above thirty-five degrees Celsius quickly.
“Sir, shouldn’t we call for evacuation?” the young corporal next to him asked.
“Not yet,” Hodges replied. Plasma reaction inside the torus came to a stop, according to the display he stared at. A physical confirmation was the sudden loss of most electrical power. “Switch us to the emergency batteries.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The lights came back on, and the screen showed a continual drop in the hot-liquid loop pressure. Hodges let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. The first problem is solved.” He managed a smile.
“But, sir, there’s no fuel. How do we restart the reactor? Or get home?”
In the process of dealing with one emergency at a time, Hodges hadn’t even considered the possibilities of what lay next. He immediately sobered at the thought of being stuck a few jumps away from Earth, without helium-3 to power the heart of the ship, to say nothing of getting home. Hodges closed his eyes. “One problem at a time, Corporal. Begin emergency decontamination procedures and flush the torus with liquid nitrogen. I’m going to get my suit and perform an eyes-on inspection.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
A few hours later, Tehrani sat at the head of the table in the deck one conference room as the senior officers trickled in. In the space of a few minutes, she’d gone from planning to launch an attack on Earth to wondering how exactly they would recover from the latest setback. Gloomy was a good description, but as always, she forced a neutral expression onto her face and projected confidence. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We had a full engineering workup.
Hodges was the last to arrive. He took a seat next to Wright, while the CAG was off by himself on the table’s right side. “I apologize, Colonel. It took me a few minutes more than I’d planned on to decontaminate my hazard suit.” The engineer’s tone was unusually pensive.
“I understand, Major.” An alarm bell rang in the back of Tehrani’s mind. “Wait, did we have a radiation release?”
“No, ma’am. I wanted to put eyes on the torus and the plasma-generation chamber.”
She nodded. “I see. Well, what happened?”
The engineer glanced between Tehrani and Wright. “Cascade failure of our reactor fuel injectors. They were rated to last fifty years. Well, we got about thirty-six years out of them. In a nutshell, helium-3 was inserted into the reactor torus too quickly, which overheated the injectors and jammed them in the open position.”
“Which is why you ejected our entire supply of fuel into space,” Wright interjected with annoyance. “Why not shut off the valves instead?”
“Because I didn’t know what was going on until I got inside the housing,” Hodges snapped. “We were making decisions on a second-by-second basis to keep the ship from exploding in a fusion fireball!”
“Gentlemen,” Tehrani said, adopting her best soothing tone. “What’s done is done. I’ve no doubt our chief engineer made the best decision with the available information at the time. The question now is how do we recover?”
“There’s a fuel reserve on the Salinan,” Wright offered. “Is the reactor repairable?”
Hodges tilted his head and furrowed his brow. “It is, but it’ll take some time. A couple of days, minimum.” He held up a hand. “Before anyone freaks out, yes, I know our emergency batteries are rated for forty-eight hours. I’ve already talked to my counterpart on the Salinan, and we can run a power umbilical over to keep life support and the basics running. No shields, engines, or weapons.”
“Well, that’s the beginnings of a recovery plan,” Wright replied.
“The Salinan doesn’t have enough fuel to get us home. By far. There’s enough for the stealth raiders to refuel once. No one considered the possibility of the Greengold’s reactor failing as it did.”
Tehrani felt his words settle around her throat like a vise. She swallowed. “Are you saying we’re stuck here, Major?
“Without additional fuel, yes.”
I’m not leaving my crew here. They’re not becoming prisoners of war. “Where do we get more fuel?”
Everyone turned and stared at her.
Wright said, “Um, I’m not sure, ma’am. Maybe we could strip the stealth raiders of their helium-3 supplies. Put everyone on the Greengold for the trip home.”
“That won’t work,” Hodges shot back. “We need twenty times that amount of fuel.” He rubbed his eyes. “In the Terran Coalition, we get helium-3 from gas giants. Specifically, mining the top part of their atmosphere and refining it out. It’s an automated process, for the most part, with only a few dozen personnel required to oversee the system.”
Tehrani picked up the thought. “We have recon fighters, marine assault landers, and stealth raiders.” She grinned. “Let’s find one of these stations, board it, and take the fuel.”
“Let me get this straight,” Whatley said. “You want my pilots to run stealth recon missions on solar systems around here, trying to find a helium-3 mining operation so we can steal enough fuel to accomplish our mission and get home?”
“That sums it up quite well, CAG,” Wright replied. “I think I see where you’re going, though.”
“That’s insane.” Whatley crossed his arms. “I’m all for sticking it to the enemy, but I suggest to you that a better c
ourse of action is to get our birds as close to Earth as we can on the stealth raiders, launch the attack, and try our luck on the Salinan for a return trip.”
Tehrani shook her head. “Major Hodges just explained why that’s not a viable option. I’m not leaving some portion of this crew behind, nor am I sentencing them to die from carbon dioxide poisoning six thousand light-years from home.”
“There’s more to it than that. We’ll need something to ferry the helium-3 back to the Greengold. Nothing in our inventory can do it,” Hodges interjected.
“First things first. Find a source of fuel and perhaps a low-travel system with only a few freighters. Something ripe for us to raid,” Tehrani said, forcing a hopeful tone. By Allah, that sounds insane when I say it aloud.
A pregnant pause filled the room, as if no one wanted to give voice to what they probably all felt: any attempt to get more fuel from the League was a long shot at best.
Whatley finally spoke. “If we’re going to take a run at this, we’re lucky to have the best recon assets in the CDF on our flight deck. Colonel, with your permission, I’ll plan for and execute as many missions as possible to find that needle in the haystack you just laid out.”
“Proceed.” Tehrani put her hands on the table. “If we had to, how much of the crew could the stealth raiders and the Salinan take on safely?”
“The stealth raiders can generate life support for double their current crew complement with some tweaks to O2-generation systems and CO2 scrubbers. But the Salinan is a giant tug with loads of cargo space. It’s not designed to carry loads of passengers,” Wright replied. “We have to be realistic and understand that if the Zvika Greengold can’t get back to Terran Coalition space under her own power, most of our crew isn’t going home.”
“We’re not there yet,” Tehrani said quietly. She turned to Hodges. “Major, besides needing fuel, what’s the status of our reactor?”
“Structurally intact, thankfully, ma’am. Some of the primary hot-liquid loop is damaged and will need to be replaced. I’ve got every member of my team pulling double shifts now.”
“Good. Keep it up. Pull in any support you need. XO, see to it all engineering personnel are excused from watch standing.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Wright replied.
“Gentlemen, we’re probably going to need a miracle to get out of this. But we’ll do our part to make it happen. I want updates in two hours. Dismissed and Godspeed.”
They all stood and moved with purpose, almost like she’d fired a gun. More than that, Tehrani felt an essential emotion in herself and her officers: hope. Hope could see one through many a struggle, and at the moment, it was one of the few advantages they had.
9
“Anyone else find it amusing we’re using these fighters in the way the CDF intended?”
Justin chuckled. Whatley’s briefing had begun with a few jokes at the SFS-4 Ghosts’ expense. Every pilot on the ship was present as the CAG laid out their upcoming mission. Any distraction, especially one that might help get them home, was welcome. Word of the reactor failure, and worse, its dire consequences, had spread to every soldier on the Zvika Greengold. Despite the seriousness of the situation, many of the pilots used humor to cope.
“I see we’ve got a funny man here. Maybe I should put changing your call sign to Joker on the agenda,” Whatley groused at one of the pilots from Winged Lightning. “Yes, we’re going to use the Ghost for what it was designed to do—reconnaissance.” He touched a control, and the holoprojector sprang to life, displaying dozens of stars around a circle point. “We are here.” Whatley pointed at the dot in the middle, a short distance from Earth’s solar system. “Our orders are simple. Find a viable fuel supply.”
Justin leaned forward. “Major, what about secondary objectives? A helium-3 mining operation can’t be the only requirement. Logically, we need to find one in a system without a lot of traffic.”
Whatley grinned. “Well, how about that. One of you flyboys uses your head every once in a while. Captain Spencer is correct, ladies and gentlemen. It’s not enough for us to find the fuel. We have to be able to capture it quietly.”
Little stellar-cartography knowledge on the Orion arm of the galaxy existed. While the Terran Coalition had explored extensively in Sagittarius, what information they had for the local area around Earth had been carried by the Exodus refugees hundreds of years ago. In short, it was limited to mostly star type and, in a few systems, notations on exoplanets discovered before 2070.
“We’ll be running twelve recon teams at a time. Two Ghosts per team,” Whatley explained. “One squadron will be held in reserve in case of League attack.”
Feldstein raised her hand. “Major, what’re our rules of engagement?”
“Weapons hold,” Whatley replied.
“Even if attacked?”
Whatley switched off the holoprojector and gripped the sides of the lectern, leaning over it. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me make something clear to you all. If, during this mission, you’re discovered and forced to engage, you failed. Instantly. Not only that, but any hope we have of saving the Zvika Greengold, successfully attacking Earth, or getting home is gone. Are we clear?”
Justin shifted uncomfortably. Whatley’s words were spot on—but a gnawing disturbance grew in his gut. The idea of avoiding all enemy contact and being stealthy wasn’t something fighter pilots were used to. “Clear, sir.”
“Good. Get suited up and be ready for the vacuum in thirty minutes. Godspeed, pilots.”
As everyone else made a mad dash for the door, Justin touched Feldstein on the shoulder. “I want you on my wing.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I’m not much for this stealth crap. Give me some missiles and point me toward the enemy any day.”
“Right there with you, Lieutenant.” Justin flashed a grin. “I’ll see you in a few.” As he was about to clear the hatch, Whatley’s hand latched onto his shoulder.
“Captain, a word,” the CAG ground out.
“Of course, sir.”
“No heroics out there. Stay out of sight, get sensor scans, and if there’s a bunch of traffic or no visible mining stations, move on.”
Justin nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Whatley snorted and smirked. “Son, I was your age once, pawing the vacuum and loving every minute of it. You keep those combat instincts in check. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good hunting, in that case.”
“You, too, sir. In the event the Leaguers find us.”
“If the Leaguers find us, they’ll need the good luck to survive me shooting them all down.” Whatley cracked a grin as he spoke.
With a chuckle, Justin turned and walked out of the hatch. While the CAG’s good spirits were welcome, the League discovering them in the state the ship was currently in would be a death sentence. Or worse—imprisonment as a POW for who knows how long. Probably torture. My job is to succeed so we don’t have to face that fate.
It didn’t take Justin long to slide into his flight suit, check the seals of the boots, gloves, and helmet, and head into the hangar bay.
Neat lines of SFS-4 Ghost fighters were arrayed out on the deck. Justin had never seen more small craft on the Zvika Greengold than were present since they’d left New Washington—over seventy fighters and bombers, with the majority being the stealth recon type. Even though he’d flown the thing for hundreds of hours in simulations and several hands-on flights in space, it still felt foreign to him. I miss my Sabre. Justin stared longingly at the space-superiority fighter, shoved off to the side of the hangar. Well, I’ll be back to it soon enough.
After a few minutes of walking, he arrived at the pad for his Ghost—position three on the deck. His crew chief stood next to a small portable ladder.
“Ready, sir?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, Chief.”
The man gestured to the ladder. “Prepped and good to go.”
Justin cracked a grin and slid his hel
met on. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He swung one leg onto the first rung and climbed into the cockpit. A few moments later, he dropped into the pilot’s seat and secured the safety restraints. The canopy slid down automatically, sealing him in. Justin pulled up his HUD and switched to a squadron-readiness view. Most of his pilots were already showing green—ready to launch—and as he stared at the screen, the rest signaled readiness.
“CAG, this is Alpha One. Red Tails are at ready five.”
Colonel Tehrani’s voice cut into Justin’s commlink. “Captain Spencer, can you hear me?”
Okay, that’s out of the ordinary. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I wanted to wish you good luck and Godspeed. Find us some fuel so we can get home.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Justin replied, forcing confidence into his voice.
“Tehrani out.”
Justin cued his commlink to the channel used by the air boss, who had overall control of all flight operations within the hangar. “Boss, this is Red Tails commander, requesting launch permission.”
“Permission granted, Alpha One. All on-deck fighters are clear to depart.”
“Acknowledged.” Justin pushed the throttle forward, increasing his forward thrust to ten percent, and exited the Zvika Greengold.
It took a few minutes for both squadrons to get into space, during which he loitered around the carrier, overseeing the launch. The professionalism and practiced execution of every pilot was an inspiring sight. Only a few months earlier, a mass launch would’ve been a haphazard affair, as reservists who were used to flying a few hours a month had made a mess out of the evolution. They’d become a well-oiled machine, even in the unfamiliar Ghosts. Another craft closed on him and settled a few meters off Justin’s port wing.
“Alpha Two assuming wingman position,” Feldstein said, her voice crackling through the commlink. “Ready to see the sights?”
“Veni, Vidi, Fugi,” Justin replied with a loud laugh.
“Huh?”
“Oh, it’s an old inside joke. A friend of mine and I used to say that in college. It’s Latin that translates to ‘I came, I saw, I fled.’”