by Tripp Ellis
"The Navy,” he muttered. “Not the Marines.”
"Whatever."
They sat a moment in silence.
"I want you to hear this from me before you read about it in the tabloids.”
Tyler knew what was coming.
"I've met someone."
“Who?" Tyler was seething.
"It's none of your business."
“The hell it's not my business!”
Eden scowled at him. “Johny Rocco, if you must know.”
Tyler scoffed. “That guy is a total tool. You can’t be serious?”
“At least he’s around, Tyler.” She let out a heavy sigh. “I gotta go. They’re calling me to set.” Her image distorted, then disappeared. A text box was generated in her place that said: connection terminated.
“Fuck!” Tyler pulled off the headset.
He was back in his bunk. He slammed his fist against the bulkhead. He pulled back the privacy curtain and rolled out of his rack.
“Goddamnit!” he screamed.
“I take it she said no?” JD Brewster asked. He was one of Tyler’s roommates that shared the small compartment. There was barely room enough for the two of them to stand between the bunks.
“She dumped me for Johnny Rocco.”
“Didn’t he used to date the porn star Pamela Cooper?”
Tyler shrugged. “I try not to keep up with that kind of thing.”
“She said he was hung like a horse.” JD was just trying to rub it in. “And you know that girl has a lot to compare it to.”
Tyler scowled at him.
“His new movie is badass. Have you seen it?”
Tyler's eyes were like laser beams. JD was going to see how far he could push it. “Hey, do you think you could get me his autograph?”
"One more word, JD, and you're going to get up close and personal with my pistol."
"Sounds like your girl’s getting up close and personal with Johnny's pistol." JD was laughing his ass off.
Tyler lunged for him. He wrapped him up, tackling him to the deck.
“Okay, okay, I give,” JD said, laughing still.
Tyler had JD’s arm wrenched behind his back. The two were just horsing around.
Ensign Coleman entered the compartment to see the two men in a rather awkward position on the deck. “I’m sorry, do you want me to give you lovebirds some privacy?”
Tyler and JD picked themselves up and dusted off.
“I was just trying to console Hollywood,” JD said. “His girl dumped him for Johnny Rocco. I guess Tyler just didn’t measure up.” JD dashed out of the compartment, cackling.
“No shit?” Coleman said. “I loved his new movie. Have you seen it?”
Tyler scowled at him.
10
Tyler
It was 05:40 hours. Tyler stood on the flight deck of the Revenant with Grimsby, waiting for the team to assemble. He watched the flight crews scurry about, but his mind was somewhere else. He was still hung up on Eden.
“Sir, Bravo platoon reporting for duty, sir,” Donovan shouted.
“Let’s roll out, Master Chief!” Grimsby said.
“You heard the man,” Donovan yelled. “Move out!”
Donovan marched the platoon up the loading ramp of the Vantage TRX. Ramirez, Petrov, Jung, O’Malley, Mosley, and Faulkner, strapped into their seats in the cargo area—twin rows of seats that faced each other. Tyler brought up the rear, and Grimsby followed behind. Warrant Officer Kowalski was already in the cockpit.
“We’re going into this a little light, don’t you think, sir?” Tyler whispered to Grimsby.
“Son, I have every confidence in this platoon,” Grimsby said. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but resources are stretched thin right now. We make do with what we’ve got. Besides, we all know that one Reaper is worth 10 ordinary men.” Grimsby was proud of his men, and with good reason. But he was sounding more like a recruiting commercial.
“Hooyah,” Petrov shouted.
Grimsby leaned into Tyler. “Don’t ever undermine the confidence of the platoon again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Tyler said.
Reapers were the kind of guys that had ego to spare. But sowing the seeds of doubt before any kind of mission could be fatal. If you think you can, you can. If you think you can’t, you can’t. As far as Grimsby was concerned, this platoon, despite its small size, could handle any threat. Reapers always won. That’s just what they did. It was a sentiment that had been drilled in since BSCT—It pays to be a winner.
Tyler strapped into his safety harness. He couldn’t help but feel the butterflies in his stomach. This was his first real mission. He had graduated BSCT at the top of his class. 249 original trainees were whittled down to 22. He sailed through Reaper Qualifying Training. All of it was impossible and hellish. But it wasn’t real combat. This mission was going to test his metal.
The Vantage had been designed specifically for the Navy Reapers. This particular vehicle still had that new smell. It hadn’t been stained yet by years of blood and guts. Most dropships smelled like metal, grease, ion exhaust, and moldy canvas webbing. This beauty was brand spanking new. That fact gave Tyler a little pause. He liked ships with a few miles on them—enough to be broken in and the bugs worked out. Weston Elliott had brought the ship with him straight from the factory floor. Most of HK’s manufacturing plants, and operations headquarters, were built in rural areas and had escaped destruction during the Decluvian invasion.
In close coordination with Hughes & Kessler, the Vantage was supposed to be THE vehicle for spec-ops insertions and close air support. It had a sleek, aggressive posture, and the body work was designed by famed sports car creator Antoni Baldovini. If a tyrannosaurus and a shark had a baby, you’d get the Vantage TRX.
It had the latest composite armor plating. 30mm chain guns, fore and aft. XR-703 plasma cannons mounted on sub-wing pylons. An array of Hellstorm missiles, and two Artemis III tactical nukes. The cargo area could hold 20 troops, plus a pilot and copilot. With an extended life fuel cell and quantum drive, the Vantage could travel to the edge of the galaxy and back, and the power reserves would still register full.
Elliott trailed up the ramp. He looked out of place in full tactical gear. His helmet looked too large on his narrow head. His thin frame could barely support the weight of his gear. He listed as his pack threatened to topple him to the ground.
Tyler shook his head.
Kowalski pressed the button to raise the loading ramp. The hydraulics whirred, and the hatch slowly lifted.
Elliott fumbled for his seat, sloughed his gear aside, and latched his safety harness.
The rest of the platoon sneered and snickered.
Kowalski flipped switches and pressed buttons, powering up the ship. Glowing orange backlit displays and gauges came alive. He went through the preflight checks—all systems green. The air boss cleared the Vantage for takeoff, and Kowalski engaged the thrusters.
The air distorted with heat waves as the thrusters roared. The heavy dropship lifted from the flight deck and lumbered through the air. Kowalski throttled up and cleared the bay.
Tyler felt light in his seat as the Vantage left the artificial gravity of the Revenant. His safety harness was the only thing holding him in place. He glanced at the magnificent view of New Earth—a million shades of green, blue, and brown. But the once lush planet was now pocked and scarred from the devastating invasion. The blemishes would heal with time, but it was impossible to look at without getting angry. Tyler felt his throat tighten and his pulse rise. The Decluvians were still out there, and they could return at any time.
Petty Officer Jung sat at the nav station. He programed in the jump coordinates for Vega Navi 6.
Tyler took one last glimpse at New Earth as Kowalski engaged the slide space-drive. The bulkheads bulged and warbled as the quantum distortion rippled through the ship. Tyler's stomach twisted in knots. It only lasted for a few moments, but entering and exiting slide-spac
e could test even the most hardened sailors.
Tyler glanced around the cargo area. Elliott had gone pale, and sweat was beading on his forehead. His eyes bulged and his body writhed as he almost hurled. His cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, but he managed to hold the vomit back. But that only lasted a second. Elliott pulled off his helmet and used it as a barf bag.
Weston's performance was met with hoots and hollers from the rest of the platoon.
Petrov dug into his pocket and handed some credits to Donovan. Elliott had been the subject of numerous side bets among the platoon. How would he handle slide-space? How much would he complain? Would he break down and cry for mommy? Would he make it back alive?
A slight grin curled on Donovan’s lips. “First quantum jump?”
“No. I just never seem to get used to it.” Elliott was starting to turn green. There was a string of drool slung from his pale lips to his helmet.
Tyler dug into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He tossed it to Elliott.
Elliott’s droopy eyes were grateful. He wiped the snot from his face. He wasn’t sure what to do with the cloth when he was done.
“Keep it,” Tyler said.
Ramirez leaned into Elliott. “Never eat those eggs before a jump. You need something heavy in your stomach. Like pizza.”
The thought of food almost made Elliott hurl again. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
“Better yet, don’t eat at all.”
The sour, acidic smell of vomit wafted through the cabin. It was enough to burn your nose, make your eyes water, and turn your stomach.
The platoon didn’t seem so raucous after the stench permeated the air. They were going to have to live the next several hours with that smell.
11
Slade
The LRADDS display lit up (Long Range Direction Distance & Speed). It was a holographic display that indicated contacts in 3D space. Alarms filled the Revenant’s CIC. The red icon quickly turned green. The IFF (Identify Friend or Foe) system recognized the warship that had just jumped into orbit around New Earth.
“Sir, it’s the USS Devastator,” Lieutenant Commander Zoey Bryant said.
Admiral Slade scoffed. “How good of them to return, now that the fighting is over.”
The Devastator had jumped to safety at the first sign of the invading Decluvian fleet. President Amado had relocated his office aboard the super-carrier as a safety precaution. The Joint Planetary Operations Command (JPOC) was also aboard the Devastator. The warship had become a mobile command platform. It had enabled the preservation of the Federation government. But running from the fight hadn’t endeared the President, or JPOC, to anyone. And Acting President Perez was doing a fine job filling in.
Slade tensed up at the site of the Devastator. She knew Amado’s return was going to bring trouble. But she was thankful for one thing. Her son, Cameron, was aboard that ship. Hopefully, he was still alive.
“Sir, I’m receiving a communication from Admiral Kilgore,” Zoey said.
Slade cringed. “Devastator, this is Revenant, actual. Fleet Admiral Slade speaking.”
There was a moment of silence. “Fleet Admiral Slade?”
She could hear the disappointment in Kilgore’s voice.
“By whose authority are you an Admiral?”
“Acting President Perez.”
“Nonsense,” he grumbled. “You’re a wanted felon.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve received a full Presidential pardon. And so has my son.”
“We’ll see what Amado has to say about that.”
“He can say whatever he’d like. But under Article II, Section 2 of the Federation Constitution, Presidential pardons are absolute and cannot be revoked. As such, I demand the immediate release of my son Cameron Thomas Slade.”
Admiral Kilgore muttered something under his breath.
“I’ll expect the release of my son within the hour.”
“I will not take orders from you. Regardless of the executive actions the Secretary of Transportation has taken, it is my contention that President Amado never lost the ability to perform his duties.”
“I’m sure that congress, and the citizens of the Federation, will see the matter differently. In the mean time, I will continue to exercise command over the fleet. I have 2 destroyers and 30 enemy warships at my disposal.” Slade was bluffing. The Scorpion wasn't exactly in tip top shape. A repair crew was out in deep space trying to get her operational again. The 30 Decluvian warships that had been captured were in dry dock on Zeta 9 Centauri. They were in the process of being repaired and retrofitted. There were over 30,000 Decluvian POWs held on Zeta 9 as well.
Kilgore was silent a moment. “Is that supposed to be some type of threat?”
“Oh, come now, Admiral. You don’t really feel threatened by little old me, do you?” Slade tried to hide the glee in her voice. After all, this was the man who once ordered Slade’s assassination.
The comm line crackled with static. Kilgore had enough of the conversation.
It wasn’t long before Amado’s face was on every display throughout the colonies, making an official statement about his return. “My fellow citizens, I speak to you from aboard the USS Devastator in orbit around New Earth. As your elected President, I vehemently oppose the declaration to remove me from office. And I do not recognize the actions of Acting President Perez. As Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, I ordered the Devastator to move to a secure location, from which I continued my command of this great Federation. At no time did I lose, or relinquish control, of our fighting forces. At no time was I unable to perform my duties as President.”
“What a liar,” Slade muttered, flabbergasted. She watched the display in the CIC. Amado continued to drone on, spewing complete fabrications. He had no involvement in the defense of the Federation. His failed policies, and willful ignorance, practically invited the invasion.
Amado finally wrapped up his speech. It was painful to watch.
“And there you have it,” a reporter said. “President Amado, coming to you live from the USS Devastator. What do you make of it, Carl?” the reporter said, turning to his co-anchor.
“This is unprecedented. It looks like we now have a dispute over who is the President of the Federation.”
“I don’t think there is much of a dispute among the citizens. According to the latest interplanetary poll, Amado’s approval rating is down to 9%. The lowest approval rating in Federation history.”
“Does he have a leg to stand on?”
“For that answer, we go to Federation News Network legal analyst Megyn Cartwright.”
“Thanks, Brett. He was replaced legally by Congressional action, and ultimately, Congress can deny his return. It would take a majority vote. We’ll have to wait and see what they decide to do.”
Slade turned off the display. She’d had enough of politics for one day.
“Sir, I’m getting another communication from the Devastator,” Zoey said. “It’s Admiral Kilgore.”
“Put him through.”
Kilgore’s voice crackled over the line. “By now you are aware of the President’s position. At his request, I’m ordering you to stand down and relinquish command of the Revenant, and all remaining ships in the fleet.”
Slade clenched her jaw. Her face turned red. She had sworn an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the Federation. By congressional action, Perez had been declared Acting President. Until the formal transfer of power, Perez had her loyalty.
“You want this ship,” Slade growled. “Come and take it.”
12
Tyler
Vega Navi 6 was filled with lush green vegetation. From above, it looked like a tropical paradise. But it wasn’t the kind of place tourists visited. Far too risky for a weekend getaway.
The mining facility was located in the middle of a dense, thick jungle—a hot and sticky pit of hell that would chew you up and spit you out in a matter of hours. There were mosquitoes
so big you’d get lightheaded after a few bites. Snakes big enough to eat a man in one gulp. There were vicious strains of malaria that could put you in the ground in a matter of days. Better take your pills. All of them. Everyday.
Navi fever was even more insidious. Sweats, chills, muscle pain. Soon, your liver and kidneys would fail. Your lungs would fill with fluid. It was like drowning on dry land. There wasn’t a cure for it. No vaccines you could take. No pills to prevent it. You just had to pray you got lucky and didn’t catch the fever.
The Vantage emerged from slide space, and Kowalski began his descent.
Elliott was still trying to settle his stomach after the transition. He had just gotten things under control before the exit out of slide-space threw his everything out of whack again. The turbulent descent into the upper atmosphere didn’t help matters. The Vantage rattled and shook. Weston's teeth chattered as he tried to hang on to what remained in his stomach.
Petrov and Donovan watched Elliott like hawks, waiting to see who was going to lose the second round of their bet.
Mosley pulled a small tube of bug repellant from a pouch. It was 5% DETMT—standard government issue. He slathered it on his skin. It smelled harsh. He offered it to Faulkner after he was done.
“Oh, hell no. That shit causes cancer.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Mosley said, dismissively.
“Make you grow an extra arm on your back. Your kids will have two heads.” Faulkner knew he was indulging in hyperbole. But the jury was out on the cancer bit.
“I got three kids. I’m not having anymore,” Mosley said. “Don’t come crying to me when you get the fever.”
The turbulence finally settled as the Vantage dipped below the clouds. Kowalski plunged the craft toward the endless canopy of trees—a green jungle that seem to span an entire continent.
The mining facility was just a small speck on the ground. Kowalski dove the Vantage down until the speck became a sprawling complex.