Space Fleet Sagas Foundation Trilogy: Books One, Two, and Three in the Space Fleet Sagas

by Don Foxe

  “Did Hawks ask about the vortex?” Elie asked.

  “It is called the Resa Asteri Major Vortex,” Kennedy answered. “Resa Asteri Major is the name of their system star. The vortex is a naturally occurring phenomenon. The gravity anomalies make navigation difficult. The Prophet told Hawks the superior capabilities of Earth’s ships, especially our speed, will be hampered within the vortex. If we were to become aggressive, holding talks within the vortex will allow him the opportunity to escape.”

  “Seems prudent,” Elie replied. “Coop never trusted the Mischene, and he trusted the Prophet even less. Experience with religious fanatics after the pandemic and while trying to unite the world under one governing body demonstrated time and again, they told you exactly what you wanted to hear. When they were ready, they attacked. The less prepared and more gullible you were, the easier for them to inflict maximum damage. What’s your analysis of the vortex?”

  “It is a natural occurrence, created by the proximity of a number of large orbital bodies and their placement relative to the sun,” the AI answered. “Data from Osperantue, Fellen, Rys, and the Aster drones all agree the pie-shaped wedge of space is dangerous for ships, especially smaller vessels. The gravity distortions tax power plants and result in less maneuverability. Communications are sometimes affected, especially messages traveling across the vortex boundaries. I do not believe tachyon-based communications will be lost, and if the group ships remain near to each other, basic communications systems should be unaffected.”

  “The 109 and 99 are the smaller ships,” Elie said. “Can we handle the vortex?”

  “Yes. Fighters and shuttles could be caught in dangerous waves, or between gravity whirlpools, but the larger vessels, while less efficient, will be operational.”

  “How long until the group reaches AF3?”

  “The Admiral informed the Prophet our ships will utilize space-fold and emerge on the near side of AF3 in twenty-four hours. At maximum speed, we could reach the planet in seventeen-hours. We could be in position seven hours before expected . . . if Hawks wishes,” she added.

  “Hawks just issued orders for all ships to head for AF3 and engage space-fold,” she informed her former Captain. “The Admiral ordered Pegasus to lead once we reenter natural space. The Fairchild will follow. The PT-109 and PT-99 are assigned rear and flanks, in case of a sneak attack. Orders are to reenter natural space 250,000 miles from AF3 in eighteen hours, not twenty-four,” she said.

  CHAPTER 29

  ASTER SYSTEM

  Hawks sat in his command chair on the Fairchild. The three walls depicting the region of space around his ship, including a view of Aster Farum 3’s southern pole, two of its three moons, and the Pegasus dead ahead. The PT-99 and the PT-109 sailed behind him, on either flank.

  Noa Tal, dressed in her one-piece flight suit and with her brown hair hanging in a loose tail around her left shoulder, was present and providing the details of the coming encounter with Atticus Soren, Sacred Prophet of the Tahbita. Hawks was only half listening, more upset that Tal wasn’t dressed in a Space Fleet uniform more appropriate for his bridge. If she took half an interest, she could be an attractive woman. Her flight suit did her no favors, but even it could not hide the ample swell of her chest, or the small waist. Some make-up to calm down her Jewish looks, and he could find himself more interested in what she had to say.

  Tal was giving him her exasperated look again. He was supposed to remark on whatever she had said.

  “Your opinion?” he asked. The question always a good save to use when he had not been paying attention in a meeting.

  “I wouldn’t trust him to walk my dog,” she said. “He wants us to ease out into open space and meet him about 2.5-million miles off AF3. He will leave his other battlecruisers in formation where they currently rest, and he will sail alone to the meeting point. That puts AF3 on our rear six, and we have no idea what weapons he might have there. It leaves us out-numbered six to four, regardless of the distance. I don’t like it.”

  “Haven’t we been in touch with the hold-outs on AF3?” he asked, turning to his current communications officer. The LtJG whose name he could not recall, but who had the right uniform and the right shape to hold his attention, simply nodded. “I guess I didn’t actually ask a question that required a verbal reply,” he said, peeved. “Didn’t the Admiral in charge of the military forces still loyal to the Mischene not aligned with the Prophet inform us that they still had control of all planetary defense systems, including laser and plasma cannon capable of reaching ships in their space?”

  “Yessir, they did say that,” she replied. “He also said they were running out of food and water and could not hold out much longer.”

  “Well we didn’t come prepared to fight over 350,000 Zenge on the planet’s surface,” Hawks replied. “Ten or twelve companies of Rangers and Marines might take and defend one installation, but not the entire planet. Do we have targeting data on the emplacements?”

  “Yessir,” came the reply from his Operations and Tactical officer, Lt. Michael Hanson, formerly of Seattle, Washington. He was also dressed properly in Space Fleet grays that showed off his muscled arms and tight butt. Hawks was always one to taste the fruit, regardless of the branch it fell from. He had already tasted Hanson, both on MSD and during the trip to the Aster system. Girl or boy, as long as they pleased his eye. “If requested we have missiles and torpedoes capable of knocking out every cannon on the surface,” Hanson finished.

  “I believe it has been demonstrated several times Space Fleet ships, even our smallest, are capable of taking on and defeating several Mischene battlecruisers,” he said to Tal. “That prior to upgrading our weapons and communications systems. It was before we had Spirit Wing. It was also before the Fairchild was recommissioned and refitted as a carrier.”

  It was when Daniel Cooper faced them, before he was run off by the likes of you, Tal thought to herself.

  “Coms,” still couldn’t put a name to the face, “inform Captain Pare´ the Fairchild will take the lead. Inform all three Captains we will make for the rendezvous at a modest 100,000mph. We don’t need to display all of our capabilities. Navigation, how long until we reach the designated location at that speed?”

  “A tick over one day,” Tal said, doing the math in her head. Something any good ship’s captain could do.

  “A tick over one day,” he repeated, not pleased with his XO. “That will give us time to gather as much intel as possible before the actual meeting. Coms, inform the Prophet’s people that we are moving towards his location, and we should arrive in a tick over one day, or you may want to provide a more precise time, since ‘tick’ may not translate well.”

  He crossed his legs and sat back, having won the verbal war. “Captain Tal, you obviously feel more comfortable with your squadron. Perhaps you should return and make sure they are ready. You may also have Lieutenant Leigh, per your request for transfer. I have sufficiently trained personnel for my bridge without her.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Noa Tal left to collect Harper and return to where she was, indeed, more comfortable. Which was anywhere that prick was not.

  “Captain Pare´ requests to speak with you, Admiral.” the coms officer informed Hawks. He did not want to talk with the overly confident commander of the Pegasus, but rank included responsibility.

  “Put her through,” he said.

  “Admiral, we continue to receive messages from AF3,” she said. “Signals were bounced around the system until we received a re-transmit from a patrol boat near AF2. Admiral Lexton is adamant you should not trust the Prophet, and not accept a meeting inside the Resa Vortex.”

  “Is the Admiral still begging for reinforcements as well?” Hawks asked.

  “He continues to request assistance,” she confirmed. “He says many of their military bases cannot hold out even a couple of days longer. He’s afraid they will be turned over to the Zenge and the Prophet’s Mischene officers.”

  “Captain Par�
�, AF3 is behind us,” he said. “That the Mischene who started all of this are overrun by the Mischene who want to end it is a Mischene problem. Our primary mission is to prevent expansion to our solar system. I do not give a damn which group comes out on top in the Aster system, though it would appear the Prophet controls the game.

  “My task assignment is make a deal with the Prophet. I will attempt to gain considerations for those trapped on AF3, however, I will not jeopardize Earth’s safety. Admiral Lexton chose his side, and he must live with that choice. Is there anything else, Captain?”

  “We are beginning to experience the effects of the gravitational irregularities created by the vortex,” she said, changing the subject, recognizing Hawks would take no counsel on his diplomatic mission. “Nothing substantial thus far, but the deeper we venture into this area, the more difficult it will be to maintain speed and heading.”

  “Is it dangerous?” he asked, more concerned about this than baseless warnings of treachery.

  “The chief engineers on the four ships are conferencing regarding the phenomenon,” she reported. Hawks wondered why he did not receive a report of a multi-ship discussion, but kept the thought to himself. “The over-lapping gravity wells create drag, and we will experience sudden pulls that can shift our course, but they seem confident the ships can handle both. Chief Camden on the 109 describes it as ‘sailing rough seas.'”

  “Is the Prophet’s battlecruiser still on course?” he asked.

  “It is, and it is further into the region. It appears to handle the gravity distortions with little effort,” she replied. “With all of space to choose from, I still wonder why he would want to meet in such a hostile location.”

  “Because he feels it evens the field of play,” Hawks replied. “While it causes him more problems relative to communications and systems, it makes it less likely we will engage weapons and attempt a sneak attack on him. He admitted his reasoning when he delivered the coordinates for the meeting. Make sure everyone remains on course,” he said. “Rough seas will not keep us from our appointment. Hawks, out.”

  Aboard the Destroyer Pegasus, LCMD Berenger, who stood on the bridge during Pare´s short conversation with Admiral Hawks, said, “Overconfident, isn’t he?”

  “More than a little,” Rachelle replied. “Not the best attitude when going into battle.”

  “He doesn’t expect a battle,” her XO answered. “He’s already won the war and is counting his medals.”

  “A bit snide for a career administrator, Commander,” she replied smiling. She was not sure of Berenger when he joined the crew as her First, but their time together proved productive. The man tendered a career in military paper-pushing prior to his assignment to the Pegasus, but he soon exhibited smart, capable, and honest traits. Rachelle could deal with that type of person.

  “Sorry, Captain. I spoke out of place,” said with no hint of contrition. The junior officers staffing consoles on the bridge all smiled. They also found their XO and his forthright manner refreshing.

  “We’re definitely experiencing drag,” the systems operator reported. “Engineering increased power in order to maintain speed. Nothing drastic, but scans indicate we will be forced to compensate more as we get closer to the coordinates for the meeting. Why don’t we let the Prophet come to us?” he asked aloud.

  “Politics,” Berenger answered. “We must show our willingness to meet with Soren more than half-way, as this is currently his domain. The actual positioning of our ships is a metaphor expressing our desire to negotiate and recognition of his importance.”

  “Deep,” Rachelle said. “Bullshit, but deep bullshit.”

  Her comment elicited chuckles from more than one of the officers on the bridge. Especially amusing when you put the words with the seemingly calm and controlled young woman who sat in the Captain’s chair. People often found it difficult to put the fifty-plus years of her life and experiences with the twenty-five year old face and body.

  “I notice you never call him The Prophet,” she continued. “Always just Soren.”

  “I know my history, Captain,” he said. “I will not give title to a despot. Especially one that is a religious fanatic and an expansionist. He is not a prophet. He’s just one more power-mad zealot wrapped in ministerial cloaks. That he is an alien doesn’t change the dynamic. He has no more divine right to force his ideals onto others than the religious fanatics that have plagued our own world for centuries. When your beliefs require a gun be used to spread them, they are fundamentally wrong.” He turned to his older, younger-looking commander, and added, “I know . . . more deep bull.”

  “Not at all, Number One,” she replied. “Soren is a dangerous person on a deadly and destructive mission. If calling him Prophet makes us less aware of his true nature, then let’s not give him that advantage. Do we all agree?” she asked aloud.

  “AYE!” came the unanimous reply across the bridge. The mandate was soon communicated unofficially throughout the ship, and within a few short hours the men and women of Pegasus referred to Atticus Soren as Atticus Soren. A small thing in the totality of the situation, but it did more to bring this newly formed crew together than all of the drills and meetings accomplished.

  In the hangar of the Fairchild, Noa Tal’s concerns centered on the confluence of gravity wells they would encounter. A big ship could navigate through forces capable of twisting them off course. The situation presented more serious issues for a ship the size of a Spirit fighter. A small craft intersecting the wrong confluence at just the right time could be ripped apart, even with sonic force fields.

  She called her pilots together to discuss the problems they might face in the turbulence surrounding them. The informal meeting occurred on the flight deck. The six pilots sat on the deck in a circle. Noa; to her right, Ryan Fox, Jon-Jon, Harper, William Story, a recent space pilot and former Can-Am Air Force pilot, and finally, Ahmed al Yassin, former Kuwaiti fighter pilot, on her left.

  “None of us have experience with these conditions,” she said. “It’s one thing to fly a jet through air turbulence, but the gravitational fluctuations in this part of the system have never been seen before by ships from Earth.”

  “Any suggestions from those who study such things?” Ahmed asked.

  “None, really,” she answered. “Scientists weren’t brought on the mission. The Admirals thought bunks were needed for soldiers. Hawks refuses to send the latest data to Trent Industries for detailed analysis. He’s afraid of leaks.”

  “What leaks?” Fox asked. “Some unknown enemy finds out we don’t know anything about multiple gravity wells converging at a single location, or that our scientists may or may not be able to help us navigate through them? What could someone possibly do with that intelligence?”

  “I asked a similar question, but was told to deal with the issue using the assets we have,” she replied. “Since I consider Kennedy and Rosy assets, I’ve had them look into the phenomenon. Between the two, there’s more pure intellect than a dozen scientists.”

  No one asked, expecting Tal to continue with what she discovered. “The two AI’s report besides gravity wells converging, there are ionized gas clouds with active electron particles. The particulate matter, which may be ionized or charged, creates the potential for communications and scanner interference. We could go from a little static to no coms at all. With the scanners affected, we might not be able to avoid gravitational shifts in densities. Those unexpected variations will certainly act negatively on our ability to maneuver.”

  “If we do detect high density areas, and avoid them, we should be able to operate close to normal,” Ryan Fox half-said and half-asked.

  “If we are forced to launch, it will depend on what we launch into,” Noa replied. “I would hope we could choose to exit in an area with lower particulate matter, allowing us to scan, then map routes to avoid traps. If we launch under duress, we may not have that option.”

  “Will operational and flight systems be hampered?” Harper aske
d.

  “Kennedy and Rosy agree systems will be less efficient, but remain functional. They believe the hulls of the ships will prevent interference with internal systems that remain internal. Communications and scanners rely on exterior access, and will experience more problems. The sonic force fields should also provide added protection. We’ll be able to fly and fight, but we may be flying blind at times. The heads-up displays and the virtual windscreens require optics and scan data, and those rely on external sensors.”

  “We may be forced to stick our heads out and take a look around,” Jon-Jon, the least serious member of her crew, said.

  “With those big ears of yours flopping around, any aliens who sees you will think a dog came along for a ride and was enjoying the wind,” Harper joked. She and Jon-Jon original crew on the PT-109, teammates at the Battle for Fell, and friends before either stationing.

  “Communicate,” Tal returned the meeting to a more serious tone. “We help each other, and the big ships can provide info as well.”

  “The major danger is gravity distortions,” William ‘Wild Bill’ Story said. ‘Wild Bill’ received his call sign because he was anything but wild. He represented the serious side to Jon-Jon’s easy-does-it nature. “What happens if we fly into a confluence?”

  “According to Kennedy, it will depend on the strength of the converging waves, or the type of distortion created,” she said. It was an answer, but it did not tell anyone anything. She continued, trying to put it to them as pilots. “You know how turbulence affects you dependent on where it derives from. Cross-winds can knock you sideways, and during a landing, flip you completely over and throw you into the ground. Higher up you could get caught in elevators. One might send you 5,000feet straight up, and then send you into a free-fall for the deck.”

  They all nodded. Every pilot experienced at least some degree of flying through turbulence.

  “If you get into a storm, it can be a roller-coaster. You can be in clear air, and start rolling and humping like teenagers in the back seat of a car.” This brought smiles, even from ‘Wild Bill.’