Sitting quietly on the edge of his bunk—his brown eyes fixed on the uniform he thought he’d never wear, with the colors of a homeland of which he was so eternally proud—Hamish Lunley had no words for the emotion that flooded over him.
“Take your time, brother,” said Lee, like the others, having learned of his friend’s history over time. “Trust me, they ain’t startin’ without us, so you take all the time you need.”
Thankful as always for his friends’ sentiments, Hamish rose to his feet and exhaled a deep, soulful sigh.
“I appreciate it, everyone,” he said, wiping his face and turning to the others. “I’m grateful—truly I am, but I’m fine. Now come on… there’s work to be done.”
****
An hour later, the lift doors wooshed open on Deck-2 as the group—still glowing over their sleek new look—stepped out into the corridor toward the Praetorian’s main flight deck. To no one’s surprise, any attempt on Lee Summerston’s part to mask his excitement over what lay ahead fell futilely away upon entering the room.
Staring in amazement at the cavernous, tunnel-like chamber, Lee guessed it to be roughly four stories in height, and 250, maybe 300 yards deep. Presently housing some 60-plus fighters, 17 recon ships, and half a dozen supply shuttles—all grouped into designated rows along each side of the bay—the giant, steely room was split down the center by its three primary launch points; a trio of full-length, asphalt runways which started at the rear wall catapults and released through pressurized launch tubes at the far end of the hangar.
Feeling his nose tingle with the pungent odors of jet fuel and burning metal, Lee turned to see a crew member hunched beneath the scarred hull of a fighter, his protective mask bathed in the white-hot sparks of his welding torch as, around him, dozens of engineers scurried about their tasks, each one dressed in the same, gold-colored coveralls they’d seen before on the Milky Way.
Finally, there was flight control, a heavily fortified command center located atop the rear wall of the flight deck behind five inches of blast-resistant glass. Overlooking the Praetorian’s legendary flight pylon—a tall, slender tower of numeric lights that indicated which crafts were on-deck for launch—flight control (or “flight” for short) was the operational hub for all inbound and outbound ship traffic, while also doubling as a secondary command post in the event of a crisis on the main bridge.
“Morning Eight-Two,” said Captain Ryan as he entered the bay, flanked by four additional pilots: a stocky, older man with rugged features and a brown crewcut, a younger man with a slender build and boyish good looks, a bald goliath who could’ve passed for Andre the Giant, and finally, a slender, athletic female who—Lee thought—couldn’t have been an inch less than six feet in height.
Eyeing their matching flight suits and squadron patches, Lee surmised that this was the rest of the vaunted Hit Squad, here for their training. Subsequently, if their smug expressions and bored postures were any indication, they were none too thrilled about it either.
“Welcome to flight school, and the third and final phase of your training,” the captain went on. “Before we get started, I’d like to congratulate you on your success thus far. I’ll be completely candid with you—I, like Sgt. Major Noll, held a very skeptical opinion about this project when it was first brought to my attention. However, after reading about your progress in the phase two briefings, and speaking with the sergeant major directly, I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt until such time as I either believe in your abilities, or conclude that you’re all washout crap. On that note, some of you may be thinking that the heavy lifting ended with your ground training, and thus you’re now free and clear to kick back in one of my cockpits and joyride through the stars like you did in that Sand Tiger.”
Link and Hamish grimaced.
“Well let me be the first to assure you people,” Ryan declared, “and you can bet every last cent of your PGC payday on this… nothing could be further from the truth. You will be pushed, pulled, gripped, ripped, and utterly bodyslammed until I feel satisfied of your worthiness to be in my sky. Are we clear?”
“Yes sir!!!” the group responded.
As the captain continued through the briefing, occasionally pausing to point out the various forms of craft they’d be learning, Lee’s eyes darted around the hangar in search of the one single piece he’d waited so anxiously to meet. Bouncing past a row of Threshers, a trio of supply shuttles, and the demolished remains of what appeared to be an engine core, Lee’s jaw tightened when his gaze finally landed on the elusive object of his search.
“And I see you’ve found her,” Ryan said from his stance alongside Catapult One where the first of three Threshers had already been prepped for launch.
Realizing that he’d just been busted, Lee snapped his attention forward.
“Renegades,” said the captain, “please allow me to introduce you to the new pride and joy of the Auran Star Corps—the SF-13 Mako.”
Their eyes went wide as the long, elegantly shaped fighter sat dormant in its corner bay, undergoing a series of inspections by none other than Chief Wyatt himself, its glass canopy retracted back along its long, silvery body, which glistened under the white glow of the hangar lights above.
Meanwhile, Ryan continued. “As the first ever ship operating with the new Easter Industries 13.0 power plant, featuring a 100% Caldrasite fuel load, the 13 is the first ship of her class with the capability of hyperspace flight, therefore allowing her to serve as both a short-range, air-superiority fighter, and a long-range interceptor. Defined by its signature variable-sweep wings, twin dorsal-finned tail, and duel, stellar-fan engines, her body was designed with a noticeably wider, flatter configuration, thus making her monumentally superior to her Alystierian counterparts in both speed and agility, particularly in intra-atmospheric combat. Because of her increased size and power supply, that also means she’s capable of carrying nearly twice the amount of armor as a Thresher, which is to say she can withstand quite a pounding before losing anything in the way of performance. Then there’s the matter of lethality,” he grinned. “Equipped with the new 253 Series, Radar Fire Control System and state of the art avionics, the Mako is armed with a pair of computer-operated, Devastator 44-B, high-yield missiles, plus three infrared Diamondbacks, four Eagle standoff missiles, and a Class Three, underbelly-mounted, twin railgun system with a 750 kilo payload.” Ryan paused, his expression filling with an almost parental sense of pride at the predatory ship. “In short, the SF-13 is the single baddest lady in the stars, and let me assure you, if someone is foolish enough to wanna dance with her… well, let’s just say they’ll end up in the infirmary with a lot more than crushed toes.”
Ryan took a step forward and returned his attention to the group. “Folks, I can promise you that Hell itself couldn’t spit out a more ferocious killing machine than this fighter,” he said, “and much to the chagrin of the boys down in R&D—who poured their hearts and souls into this project—you’re gonna get to fly her.”
Stepping over to the fighter, Lee reached up and ran a curious hand down the side of its long, silver nose, as if to make a sort of unspoken personal connection with the mysterious craft. True, he’d loved this particular fighter in the game because of its lofty reputation in the fleet’s arsenal. But in reality, his infatuation with it went a lot further back than that.
Tracing his fingers along the Mako’s iconic hull—from the outer rim of an engine fan to the rear of the port nacelle, then down the edge of a back-bladed wing—Lee recalled his grandfather’s incredible stories of life as a pilot during World War II, serving proudly as a member of the famed Eagle Squadron, a special unit of American pilots who flew in the British Royal Air Force prior to the United States’ entry into the war. Now, two generations later, it was Lee who found himself on foreign soil, working alongside an armed force that was not his own, and serving as a pilot, no less, in a global struggle against a dictator-led enemy hellbent on their conquest.
�
��You two need some alone time?” Mac mused alongside Danny, who smiled at his friend’s captivated look.
“Sorry, sir,” Lee offered, breaking his attention from the Mako and back to the briefing.
“Forget about it,” said Ryan. “She tends to have that effect on a lot of folks, including myself. I’ve flown these ships for my entire career—even tested a few along the way—and I’ve never climbed behind the stick of anything like this one. She really is something special.”
Lee fell back in line with the others as Ryan motioned for the four pilots who’d escorted him into the hangar to join him in front of the catapult.
“Okay folks, step one of this process is to get you in the air so that you can experience first-hand how these things actually feel in action,” said the captain. “So for that reason, I’ve asked the rest of my squad to help us out.”
The four pilots stepped up to the line and snapped to attention.
“The ugly one there is my second in command, Lt. Commander Jeff Hastings, call sign Blazer.”
The grizzled pilot with the brown crewcut stepped forward and folded his arms over his barrel chest.
“The big guy to his right is Lt. Commander Victor Mann, call sign Scar.”
The goliath stepped forward and grunted.
“The pretty boy on the end there is Lt. Marshall Weller, call sign Valentino, but most of us just call him Tino.”
Swaggering forward, the slender pilot offered a wave to the entire group. His gaze and his smile, however, rested exclusively on Mac—a fact not at all lost on Lee.
“Ain’t you a cocky one,” he thought with a frown.
“And finally we come to the lady of the house,” Ryan concluded, “Lt. Shannon Lurez, call sign Layla.”
“Layla?” Mac noted in surprise. “I guess Clapton’s fanbase really does know no bounds.”
“You have me there,” replied the tall, leggy pilot who might’ve passed as Latina back home, with her long, raven-black hair and deep, coppery skin. “I don’t know who that is but a Layla is a type of bird on our planet. It’s known for its bright red color and gracefulness in flight.”
Sensing another pair of eyes on her, Layla paused and turned to see a less-than-subtle stare gawking at her from the 82nd’s shortest member. She glared a response.
“Don’t worry, folks,” Ryan followed up. “We completely understand that this is your first time out, so we promise not to be too brutal with you during these early sessions.”
“I can do brutal just fine, chica,” Link murmured, and Layla’s expression twisted hard.
“Oh, that can’t be good,” Danny muttered to Lee.
“Dibs on the troll!” she announced.
“Not good at all,” Lee muttered back to Danny.
“Five-One, meet the Renegades,” Ryan gestured to the newcomers. “This is Link Baxter, call sign Jester; Hamish Lunley, call sign Wulver; Danny Tucker, call sign Hurricane; Evelyn McKinsey, call sign Northern Star, and finally their squad leader, Lee Summerston, call sign Daredevil.”
The group nodded as their names were called.
“Hey, Chief, how do we stand?” Ryan asked over his shoulder to Wyatt, who broke from the Mako to join them. He was followed by a second member of the engineering crew, a heavy-set man with short, dark hair and round facial features.
“Chief Wyatt, my man!” Tino said gleefully as the duo approached. “How’s life up here in the dungeon?”
Wyatt shrugged. “Could be better, could be worse, but somebody’s gotta keep quality wings under flyboys like you, right Tino?”
The young pilot laughed. “I’ll tell you right now, folks,” he declared. “Chief Wyatt here is the best wrench in the fleet. You get shot down in one of his machines and you can pretty much bet your last paycheck that it was because of piloting error, not equipment. No crap-wagon Phantom is ever gonna be more prepped than our birds. Chief’s just the man like that!”
Wyatt gave an awkward smile.
“Oh hey, Chief?” Tino added. “A bunch of us are headed down to the OC after duty tonight to blow off some steam over cocktails. You interested?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Thanks, Tino, but I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”
“Oh c’mon, Chief!” Tino pressed. “You know Debbie from the 42nd has been asking about you. She’ll be there—”
This drew a scowl from Layla, and Tino backed off.
“Anyway, Chief,” he finished. “Offer stands if you change your mind. OC, 19:00.”
“One other thing, everybody,” Ryan noted, pointing toward the second crewman. “This is Petty Officer Jued Aston. He’s Chief Wyatt’s #2 here on the flight deck, and his right-hand mechanical man on the Mimic project. You’ll be seeing a lot of him over the next few weeks.”
For whatever reason, Aston seemed to care less about any of this, offering a weak nod of acknowledgement that barely recognized their presence in the room, much less their role in the project.
Not sure what to make of it, Lee shot a look to Danny, who shrugged.
“Chief, we good to go?” asked Ryan.
“Yes sir,” said Wyatt. “I’ve got five Thresher Betas fueled up and ready for launch whenever you’re ready. One, two, and three are set on the catapults, and four and five are prepped and ready in bays Alpha-1 and Bravo-2.”
“Excellent. Hit Squad, let’s take these probies for a spin, shall we?”
“RUAH!”
Before any of them could say another word, the Hit Squad grabbed their respective trainees and escorted them to their designated fighters. Naturally, as Lee was the team leader, it made sense for him to be paired off with Ryan; meanwhile, Blazer took Danny, Scar took Hamish, Layla took a visibly nervous Link, and as fate would have it—though Lee would not, given a choice—Tino waltzed off with Mac.
Ignoring the world’s biggest “told ya so” look from Danny, Lee climbed into the cockpit of the center fighter and couldn’t help but notice that while the Thresher Betas were similar in most ways to their standard Thresher counterparts, with their fixed triangular wings, narrow bodies, and single-engine tails, they were wider than conventional fighters due to their status as training ships. This meant their cockpits had to seat two occupants instead of one, and taking his seat behind the captain, Lee strapped his oxygen mask over his face and surveyed the dashboard in front of him, complete with flight stick, foot-pedal controls, and the full spectrum of instruments comprising everything from navigational to weapons systems.
“Alright, listen up,” Ryan ordered through the radio in Lee’s helmet from the chair ahead. “Once we’re in the air, your station will act as a mirror of mine so you’ll be able to see, hear, and feel everything I do with regard to the controls. Instrumentation, stick controls, pedal controls… you’ll experience all of it so that, when we put you in a Thresher of your own in a few days, it hopefully won’t be so… well, alien to you.”
“Could I actually fly this thing from back here?” Lee asked.
“If something happened, then yes,” the captain chuckled. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet, okay?”
Taking hold of the small silver buckles beside him, Lee strapped himself in and began to get acclimated with the array of flickering instrument panels, gauges and monitors that surrounded him in a U-shaped layout.
“Flight, this is Katana. You got a copy?” Ryan asked, flipping a pair of switches in front of him.
“Copy Katana,” a familiar voice responded, and Lee turned to see Reiser sitting behind the glass in the flight control room above. Feeling a slight tremor through the stick as the Thresher’s engines hummed awake, Lee snapped his eyes ahead as the fighter’s glass canopy slid forward to seal them inside.
“Five-One, sound off with radio and instrument check,” Ryan continued—the engines’ hum now building toward its explosive climax. “Katana copies in the green.”
“Blazer copies, green.”
“Scar copies, green.”
“Layla copies, green.”
“Tino copies, green. Rock n’ roll, boss!”
Lee’s lip twisted beneath his mask.
“Flight, Five-One is green across the board,” said Ryan. “Standing by for pylon authorization.”
“Flight is green,” Reiser called out. “The pylon is yours. Have fun, Captain.”
No sooner had the words left Reiser’s mouth than a violent burst of inertia rocked Lee’s helmet back against the headrest, as the fighter’s afterburner exploded in a fiery blue blaze against the catapult, sending the craft barreling toward the launch tube ahead, the scene around them roaring past the canopy at blinding speed. Feeling the intense rumble of the thrust and landing gear through his seat, Lee’s hands clenched tightly around the chattering stick between his legs as, within seconds, the thunderous jarring suddenly gave way to the smooth, gliding sensation of flight as the Thresher shot through the launch tube exit into open space.
“WOOOHOOOOOOO!!!” Lee bellowed in exhilaration as the jet swooped in a wide, circular pattern to the right, returning the view ahead to the Praetorian’s exterior and the bright blue sphere of the planet behind it.
“Not a bad way to travel, is it?” Ryan smiled through the comm.
“Hell no!” Lee exclaimed, still fighting to catch his breath from the single largest adrenaline rush of his life.
As the fighter winged its way around the massive flagship, Lee looked out over the breathtaking starry scene around him and was absolutely beside himself. Granted, this was the same view he’d marveled over from the Milky Way’s bridge before, but seeing it through a viewscreen and having it just inches in front of his face through a canopy were two entirely different experiences.
While the ship continued its effortless joyride—sweeping and climbing, dipping and diving through the cosmos—Lee found himself in a virtual trance of thrill.
Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) Page 32