It was like walking through a museum of wartime accomplishments. Finally, at the far end of the hallway next to the double-wide automatic hatch leading to the pilot’s briefing room, a three-foot-diameter blue and gold circular plaque depicting the battleship Argent and a stylized formation of Wildcat fighters was displayed. The words “Defender Starship Argent” and “BBV 740" were displayed around its edges, and the designation “Wildcat Fighting 16th” was emblazoned across its center. It was a statement by the Devil Cats. This was their new home, even if it was temporary. The scent of new paint led to the enormous painted one and six set against each other on the ready room automatic doors.
Jason stood for a moment examining all the Devil Cats had accomplished and he was reminded of his days in command of Yellowjacket Nine. He would never forget the day the deck chief introduced him to a logistics officer as “El Bandito.” Turned out Hunter’s reputation among the deck crews had inspired stories of him “stealing” victory in matchups where his squadron was at a disadvantage. His victory against a frigate squadron, something the captain put down to "90% luck and 10% reckless missile targeting,” cemented the moniker. It wasn’t long before “El Bandito” was leading an entire formation of “bandits,” and the rest became history.
Hunter knew well the unique mixture of hubris and raw talent strike fighter pilots commanded. He had built his entire career on swagger, and it eventually led him to the center chair of a five-million-ton warship. Now he was about to enter a room with nearly three dozen young hotshots just like himself, and this time he was the one ordering them to war.
The battalion marine at the hatch barked the order to stand at attention. Every pilot rose to his or her feet and stood proudly at their seats. The three officers strode into the briefing room.
“As you were,” Hunter said. The two senior flight commanders took their places at the front of the ready room. A smaller version of the reactive display in the executive conference dominated the wall behind the lectern. There was a small electronic map next to it that gave presenters and other officers the option to create extemporaneous designs of action plans. As the captain stood at the lectern he saw the faces of the nearly 30 pilots and was reminded of his days as a Jack driver and flight leader. He had to admit the briefing rooms aboard Argent seemed to be considerably more spacious and comfortable than some of the other places he had been stationed with his fellow pilots.
In the faces of the men and women now under his command he saw himself and his squadron mates. It hadn’t been all that long ago he was the one seated in an aggressively marked flight couch, listening to a superior officer’s words of encouragement on the occasion of a new mission. The supreme confidence he had in the skills and reputations of his fellow pilots, and the seemingly unending string of victories was like an extra shot of adrenaline. His reminder to Annora about the achievements of his football team weren’t misplaced. Some of his greatest memories and the greatest days of his life so far had occurred not even ten years before. In fact, Jason thought with a smile, ten years ago he was riding his bike along the fence at Core Two’s fleet launch station, desperately trying to get the attention of anyone inside that wasn’t military police or base security. He wanted to be a part of what was happening inside no matter what.
Jason Hunter was by no means a philosopher, but there had been times he contemplated what it meant to be so successful at such a young age. The faces of the pilots of the Fighting 16th reminded him how quickly life and career can accelerate and diverge from what you thought were your best plans. Skywatch fighter pilots had to be officers, in keeping with the tradition of the ancient wet navies and their “aircraft carriers” and bomber forces. Getting the promotion from ensign to lieutenant JG was a matter of course, very much like the marine promotion from private to private first class. Either you made the cut or you served out your commission on deck or on the surface. Getting from JG to full lieutenant was a little tougher, which explained the distribution of ranks in most squadrons, including the Devil Cats. Making lieutenant commander was like navigating the first step on the side of Mount Olympus, and captain wasn’t even worth dreaming about because it just didn’t happen. Unless you were Jason Hunter.
All the pilots in the briefing spied the priceless Skyshield Legion medal on Jason’s service uniform right away. It even outshined his eagle rank insignia, despite the fact being promoted to captain at his age was a unique accomplishment. His interstellar combat achievement medal and four-device combat action medal were no doubt results of his fighter ace status. Hunter had five confirmed deep space combat shootdowns and two probable shootdowns, something nearly everyone who had been aboard Argent for any length of time learned either by osmosis or deck to deck chatter. The Indian Forks campaign ribbon and Meritorious Service medal also distinguished him, but not like the Legion device. The only other officer any of the pilots of the 16th had known who had won the Skyshield Legion was Admiral Yackinsaw himself. Given his almost mythical status among Wildcat pilots in general and the Fighting 16th in particular, this put Jason Hunter in a class by himself. It also gave him a connection to the 16th’s living legend, which was the Skywatch equivalent of the pearl of great price.
“My senior officers and I have a tradition aboard ship,” Hunter began. “And that is to order one of Colonel Moody’s marines to shoot us if we try to sneak into a fighter and go with you.”
Everyone laughed. It was common knowledge Hunter’s surface warfare commander, chief medical officer, chief engineer and chief signals officer were the principal pilots from the captain’s infamous “Bandit Jacks” squadron.
“But the truth is, you men and women are the best, and you don’t need us tagging along. Argent is the class of the fleet, and this squadron is one of the reasons why. Now you’re probably wondering what inspired me to personally brief you on this mission instead of your flight leader and chain of command. I’m under specific orders, so I can’t disclose everything, but you deserve to know what facts I can share. It’s what I would want from my captain.”
The eyes and expressions of all the pilots and officers became deadly serious.
“We’re right on the edge of an interstellar war. You all know the history of First Praetorian. The Sarn lost more than seventy percent of their war fleet tonnage in that campaign. Skywatch Command believed that would relegate them to ‘non-factor’ status for at least the next 30 to 40 years. But it didn’t turn out that way, as I’m sure you’re all aware after the M-Ceti situation went south. We’ve logged more than ten enemy contacts in and near Mycenae Ceti, and now we’ve received a distress signal from the Proximan Communications Station at Rho Theta.”
Several of the pilots nodded, their attention locked on the captain. They were all military officers. They knew the strategic significance of knocking out the listening post. Between that and surgical strikes along the rest of the Dead Reach, they could isolate M-Ceti and hit it hard enough to make re-taking the system costly and time-consuming.
“The Sarn are on the warpath. Unlike the Yersians, their deep space military technology is a close match to our own. We have more ships, but we also have a lot more territory to protect. Now I’m going to almost violate my orders and give you the rest of the story. This is the part that is making admirals nervous. There are unidentified ships operating in this region of space, and we have credible evidence they may be allied with the Sarn. We have no hard intelligence on their capabilities, but Commander Tixia suspects they have fairly sophisticated signals capacity, which may explain their unusual interest in the listening post. I’m ordering this launch because our engines are only running at 60% and frankly you can get there faster than Argent.” Hunter stepped aside and invited Commander Roscoe to the lectern. He stepped up as the captain took his place in front of the electronic map.
“The starships Rhode Island and Minstrel are operating near the Rho Theta system,” Roscoe said. “Your orders are to provide fighter cover for Captain Walsh’s and Captain Islington’s op
erations. They both have cloaks, so be aware that omnidirectional communications are not recommended. Lights and LOS only in formation. Standard rules of engagement apply. We’re not at war, so don’t start one. You are authorized to defend yourself, but unless you are directly attacked, your orders are–”
The boatswain’s whistle sounded over the intraship. There was a breathless moment of silence and then all the lights in the ready room shifted red. The alert siren sounded as all the ready indicators simultaneously shifted to position one. Zony Tixia’s voice came over the MC.
“Attention all hands. Attention all hands. Officer of the Watch signals general quarters. Battle stations. Battle stations. Captain to the bridge. Time out mark seventy seconds. Deck officers report alert status to the first officer. The route to general quarters is up and forward to the starboard side, down and aft to the port side.”
The captain grabbed the MC patch handset from the ready room conference panel. “Hunter to bridge. Priority channel. Authorize victory seven seven one five.” There was a moment of static as the automatic signal routing recognized the priority code.
“Bridge, Tixia.”
“Hunter here. Report.”
“We have an alert distress call, sir. Fighter down. Pilot in space. Auto-react challenge is confirmed. Rho Theta position fourteen bearing three zero zero mark six. Squadron Seven One off the Marique Lex. Message repeats.”
“Notify force command I’m ordering an immediate emergency combat launch operation I.D. off mags one through six. Acknowledge deck readiness at station. Time out two minutes.”
“Affirmative, skipper. Coding your message.”
“Bring the MC up on the z-pack. Patch all priority intership to my headset. I’m on my way to the bridge. Turn the Argent into the wind. XO to CIC.”
Hunter slammed the handset back into the hook. “SCOM, I want the Cats on station and ready to cover a rescue. Affirmative?”
“Aye sir. We’ll be there before the echo dies.” The look in Zack’s eyes put the captain’s mind at ease. There was nobody else he would rather have in charge.
More voices and transmissions sounded in his headset. Hunter put his hand to his ear and rushed towards the bridge as the Devil Cats ran for the gear lane. The siren roiled through passageways and into cabins. The captain ran crazily up passageways and across access corridors towards the closest deck magneto-lift with a path to the bridge. He had to dodge fire suppression personnel, technicians, battalion marines and damage control specialists. One or two hesitated for a moment, wondering if they should salute or something, but they quickly rushed on, recognizing the general quarters signal relieved them of almost all of their deck protocols. Finally, Hunter practically skidded into one of the lift cars and punched the controls for bridge access.
This time, Argent was ready, and the captain was going to make certain the bastards paid the price.
The sound of the deck alert klaxon echoed across Flight One as the pilots of the Fighting 16th ran for their ships. Each was already equipped with their haptic pressure suit and each was either donning a colorful helmet or already wearing it. The shining hulls of their fighters reflected the overhead lights like swords in the sun. The image of knights racing for their mounts would have filled the mind of any poet witnessing the scene. The howl of the klaxon could have easily been mistaken for the herald’s trumpets. All that was missing were the banners caught high over the battlements, the golden sun resplendent at the horizon and the princess all were sworn to lay down their lives to protect.
Somewhere out there, in a trillion cubic miles of open space, a pilot just like one of their own floated in an escape assembly: His fighter disabled or outright destroyed; life support draining; energy reserves nearly gone; surrounded by enemies with dangerously unclear motives. Captain Hunter’s ship wouldn’t get there in time. Rhode Island and Minstrel might not be able to reveal their position. Their fleet-mate’s only hope rested in the six Devil Cats about to set a course for the unknown and brave the ominous shadow of death to help rescue an injured man or woman. It was six alone against whatever the enemy chose to unleash against them.
But these were no ordinary six. They were the feared Devil Cats. Vanguard of the Song of Heaven. Victorious over Dante’s Twins. Defenders of Prairie Grove. The One-Six was the squadron that turned the tide at the Reach and drove the Sarn into a second retreat during the Praetorian Counteroffensive. Their reputations were as intimidating as any, even Commander McGrath’s black-hearted 118th.
Lieutenant Chuck “Stick” Calloway bounded into his fighter’s shock couch. The autosystems were up already, which meant his only pre-flight check was to synchronize his life support system and prep his drive field. The ship responded with instant precision. He checked his weapons and reactor status. Everything was operating within tolerances. A moment later one of the deck crew climbed the last rung of his cockpit ladder. He tapped the side of his helmet. Calloway did the same.
“Transmission reception and triple-S check, sir. Affirmative?”
“Affirmative, chief. Triple-S is five by five. I’m reading voice, video, reaction and field metrics on channel. Telemetry is a binary match.”
“Very well, flight leader. You are go to switch to internal power. Good hunting.” The deck chief helped Calloway lower his canopy. It self-sealed with a comfortable thump. The pilot felt his pressure suit equalize and then reach a full charge of gases. The cockpit, meanwhile, was rapidly drained of its internal atmosphere. Among the many reasons fighters operated without internal pressure was fire prevention. Without oxygen, the only kinds of destructive reactions that could sustain themselves required fuel types that were absent in strike fighter design. There was also the issue of sudden catastrophic decompression, which could be caused by all manner of failures and cause considerable damage on its own. While it was true that all fighters had sophisticated emergency systems that could suffocate a fire in a matter of a few seconds and could simultaneously guard a pilot’s life, given the stresses sustained by the relatively small ships there was no point in tempting the gremlins.
The canopy’s automatic polarization circuitry increased its natural opacity until the interior contrast between Calloway’s visor and the fighter’s instrumentation was tuned to maximum sharpness. The high-pitched whine of the Wildcat’s twin engines combined with the hum of the incredible mainline power sources on Flight One as the lieutenant finished the last of his pre-flight checks. Various banks of indicator lights and the fighter’s heads-up display all shifted green as the deck systems released control. Cat One rose to an altitude of approximately fifteen feet and pivoted on her counter-grav towards railtunnel six. The augmented reality display intensified, creating a slow speed virtual series of guides directly into the launch chamber. Red deck lights rotated as Calloway’s fighter moved towards the tunnel entry. One by one, the other five fighters in the formation did the same, each guiding itself towards its own magnetic launch rail.
Hunter strode on to the bridge. True to her word, Lieutenant McInerney had guided the enormous starship out of the localized subspace interference caused by their rapid approach to the Kraken Nebula.
“Skywatch reports strike fighter wing Cavalier Ten is charged and prepped,” Zony reported.
“Launch all alert spacecraft,” Hunter ordered as he took the center chair once again. “Signals, get me any residual tracking. If one of those unidents is vectoring for a shoving match, I don’t want the One-Six flying into its headlights.”
“Acknowledged.”
Commander O’Malley swiveled in his station in the battleship’s CIC high above her hull in the Skywatch tower. He flipped the bank of switches over the launch intership. “Flight One, this is Force Commander. The board is green. Launch all alert spacecraft.”
The deafening howl inside mag one actually managed to intensify as more than 18 million volts of electrical power thrummed in the charged rail tunnel. Lieutenant Calloway’s silvery visor turned towards the deck barrow as he gave th
e operations specialist a thumbs-up and a snappy salute. The pilot flexed his gloved hands and took the controls. Cat One shook with fusion-powered rage for a moment and then the capacitance reflectors suddenly cut loose. The rail tunnel’s explosive magnetic power lifted the 70-ton spacecraft into a boiling vortex of kinetic momentum and accelerated it to a speed of nearly 500 miles an hour in a matter of seconds. The circular reinforcing struts passed by in a blur. Calloway’s strike fighter screamed out of Argent’s port hull and instantly established a nominal drive field. Seconds later, Cat One was circling the battleship at a velocity of two miles a second.
The same sequence played out for Lieutenant JG Al “Rat Racer” Bales in Cat Two, Lieutenant JG Craig “Silly” Hendon in Cat Three, Lieutenant JG Daniel “Coppertop” Phipps in Cat Four, Ensign Gary “Disorderly” Silva in Cat Five and Ensign Cheyenne “Tomahawk” Sandee in Cat Six.
Flight Leader Calloway gathered his pilots into a tight pursuit formation and activated his commlink.
“Argent, this is Cavalier Ten on station and awaiting orders.”
High above Argent’s bridge in the Skywatch tower, the dispatch officer combined and re-combined the overlays for Rho Theta position fourteen. His enormous circular scope displayed a rotating three-dimensional projection of open space beyond the Kraken effect and highlighted the two powerful repeaters situated at the edge of the nebula’s most dangerous regions.
“Acknowledged, Cavalier Ten, your intercept vector is three one zero mark twenty. Transmitting friendly transponder codes on secure frequency. Your signal is buster. I say again your signal is buster.”
Battle Force Page 8