Tommy Thorn Marked

by D. E. Kinney

  “Copy that, sir,” the major said, again not turning to make eye contact, and sent scramble codes to the designated squadron’s ready rooms.

  Five miles beneath the mountain range, and hundreds of feet below Stone Wood’s giant command and control center, pilots and launch crews scrambled from briefing rooms. Fighter pilots to their assigned virtual cockpits, attack pilots, gunners, and ground personnel to assault shuttles—all standing by in underground hanger bays.

  Unlike the Tarchein, the Vargins had not perfected the design and implementation of lightweight inertial dampening systems. Subsequently, they had opted to equip their fighter force with unmanned, remotely piloted aircraft, as manned designs would have been grossly outmaneuvered by Imperial pilots unencumbered by high-G forces. Their assault transports, however, along with several other combat types, had maintained pilots and crews, as those operational demands were much less severe.

  Within minutes, selected portions of the mountain range above Stone Wood came alive as a number of heavy, rock-covered steel doors slid open, allowing small brown-black fighters to stream into the night sky, much like frightened bats that had been rudely aroused from a peaceful slumber…

  Decker slid in beside Sloan as the rest of the team took up concealed positions around a makeshift perimeter. Their heavily armored commando suits’ adaptive camouflage made it nearly impossible to make out their shadowy black forms.

  “All set, LT,” Decker said.

  In the darkness, Sloan could not see the grin that he knew was always on the Volarian’s face. “You take the point, have Nadir’s team move out to the right flank, standard wedge. Qda will take the other fire team down the left side. I want every swinging D back in those hills, and sniper tripods deployed by zero five thirty.”

  Decker checked his wristcomm and nodded.

  “Move out,” Sloan said. Then putting a gloved hand on the first sergeant’s shoulder, he added, “and be careful, Deck.”

  Sergeant Decker took a moment to raise his visor, allowing Sloan to see the confidence evident within his wide-set, clear, almond-colored eyes. “Will do, Lieutenant.”

  The sergeant then closed his visor, activated his helmet’s night vision mode, and disappeared silently into the darkness…

  Imperial Fleet Admiral Kada looked up from the latest positional reports, handed Colonel Franza the datapad, and dismissed him with a casual wave of his hand. Having grown weary of border disputes, pirates, and the occasional subduing of an ill-equipped rebel uprising, he longed for an opportunity to lead a glorious full-scale invasion, and he felt that the Vargus system would satisfy that need very nicely.

  Of course, there had been the endless diplomatic pleadings for a peaceful inclusion into the Empire, but these had been rejected outright by the CFP. So great was their misplaced trust in what the Tarchein high command, and Admiral Kada, considered to be a woefully inadequate space force combined with suspected sub-par planetary defense systems, all of which were built around and in support of the coalition’s isolationist policies.

  The fourteen-member so-called Coalition of Free Planets, of which Vargus was the capital, had indeed developed planetary defenses, but nothing the Empire could not easily dispatch. Of this, Kada was quite certain.

  Aboard the super cruiser Victory, in the seclusion of his ready room, Kada eased back in his reclined command couch to admire his brilliantly conceived battle plan. The entire invasion was intricately displayed on a large, incredibly detailed holographic projection of Vargus, allowing the Imperial fleet admiral, as he watched the lifelike globe slowly rotate, to imagine the glorious accolades that awaited his triumphant return to Tarchein. Twelve full battle groups, which included seven super cruisers and thirteen battle cruisers—he let his mind wrap around the precision of the converging fleet of starships. Glorious, simply glorious, he thought and allowed his thin lips to form a broad, uncustomary smile.

  Decker moved cautiously, suit sensors tweaked to maximum settings across the board. The wide-open plain seemed harmless enough, but he had seen team members die in much more subdued surroundings. His fire team had traveled only about a mile when, while kneeling to take a bearing, he became aware of a very slight whirling sound.

  What is that? he thought. Maybe a suit fan going bad. No. He tilted his helmeted head. It’s drifting, Decker thought and moving very slowly, twisted his body until a tiny hovering disk came into focus.

  Floating about two feet from his shielded face, it was not much larger than an insect and would have been almost undetectable without his visor’s optical enhancements. But it wasn’t a heat source that gave it away. No IR reading…odd, it must be spinning though, he thought, although it did not look to be moving at all.

  Decker cautiously reached out his hand, but whatever it was just darted a few inches out of reach, only to stabilize in a new position. And then he remembered something from the intel briefings. “LT, I think we got a problem…”

  Commissar Oden-Car studied the image of the helmeted head of a Tarchein warrior, now being displayed on a full one-quarter of the big board, and smiled broadly. Within seconds, positional data being relayed from the tiny mech-stalker had been transferred to the tactical overhead view, pinpointing what the Vargus commander now knew was to be the invasion’s landing zone for the southern hemisphere.

  “We have the location of the invasion,” Oden-Car’s voice boomed over the imbedded amphitheater’s speakers. He let the elation of the moment soak in before continuing, “Deploy your forces…”

  “Listen up, Cats,” Commander Wagner said over the excited chatter of the squadron’s ready room.

  “Knock it off!” the XO said, turning to the mostly seated group.

  Wagner waited for all eyes to settle on him. “Our battle group will be coming out of hyper in three point four. That puts us, backs in straps, and ready to lunch in just under three hours—plan accordingly.”

  Tommy’s tacnav tapped his datapad and nodded. He knew they would be locked and loaded. One of the nice things about having a second crewman, he thought, especially one who had flown in combat.

  The CO brought up a projection of Vargus, then zoomed in on the southern hemisphere. “We’re going in before the transport barges,” he said, then paused. “Our job is to make sure the LZ stays cold, so I don’t want any of you messing with their Venoms. Besides, those things are quick and deadly. Not to mention that their pilot’s probably somewhere drinking a cold brindle while your butt is hanging out in the wind.” The CO paused to let the nervous laughter die down. “A Rapier’s no match for ’em. The T-darts will handle the CAP. Got it?”

  The squadron pilots and tacnavs reluctantly acknowledged their skipper, but to a man, they had all hoped for a chance at a kill. Combat air patrols were a sought after mission for fighter pilots. Damn T-darts, Tommy thought.

  “Tacs, check your load-outs,” Wagner continued. “We’ll only be carrying fins, leave the fireballs at home. Brass says there’s no way these guys come spaceside. They’re geared strictly for defending the mud.”

  “But, sir,” a young tacnav protested.

  The distinguished-looking Martian looked toward the back of the room for the source of the objection. “No fireballs, Ensign Sanma—clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the ensign responded dryly.

  Sanma voiced what they all felt, and Wagner knew it. He didn’t like the idea ether, but orders were orders.

  “Okay, double-check your pads, then check them again. We get in, cover the drop, and get home—no heroes.” Wagner again paused. “Thorn, Cruiser, Bo…”

  All three looked up from their datapads.

  “No heroes,” Wagner said and smiled.

  “Yes, sir,” they all said together.

  “Check the board for flight assignments, stay calm, do your job—there are a lot of mud-movers and boots counting on us, so let’s get it right” Wagner said and snapped off the projection before stepping down from the small stage at the front of the room.

 
“All rise!” the XO shouted while coming to attention.

  Flight crews slid out of their padded chairs and came to attention as Commander Wagner passed down the center aisle, only to stop briefly at the secured rear hatch, and turned to face their backs. “Nobody dies today!” he said, hitting the hatch release. “Not today.”

  The hatch slid closed with a muffled thud, but no one moved.

  The XO waited just long enough to ensure the CO was gone before he turned and snorted, “Well, dismissed!”

  Tommy’s tacnav, Rahagin, laid three meaty fingers on his shoulder. “You doing all right, Thorn?”

  Tommy looked up from his datapad and smiled. The reptilian looks of the Dipole had thrown him at first, but now, after months of training flights, Tommy could think of no one else he would rather have riding in the backseat. “Fine, sir.”

  “Knock off that sir stuff, Tommy. It’s just you and me, together—all the way.”

  “All the way,” Tommy repeated.

  The lieutenant showed his teeth in approval, and waited for Tommy to gather his gear before heading toward the hatch. “I think we have time to hit early mess.”

  “Always time for that.” Then looking for Gary and Bo, Tommy shouted, “Let’s grab some chow.”

  Both Gary and Bo were chatting with their tacnavs, going over the mission one more time.

  “I am there, Tommy,” Gary said as Bo jumped up and nodded. “No one should die on an empty stomach,” Gary joked.

  “Hey! No one dies today!” Rahagin shouted.

  “Not today,” they all repeated and headed out into the hall—laughing.

  The SF-775 Rapier has the dubious honor of being the oldest active fighter in the Star Force. And although its dated technology has been continuously upgraded through an ongoing modernization program, its current capabilities leave a great deal to be desired. Consequently the type has been primarily relegated to PDF, or outpost defense assignments. And, although seven squadrons still serve aboard battle cruisers at the time of this publication, the Rapier has been designated for retirement, and will be replaced by frontline units within the next five standard years.

  The Rapier is powered by a single Zan-244, low-bypass, dark-drive propulsion system, which is mounted internally, directly behind the fighter’s two crew members. Both of which are seated in individual cockpits arranged in tandem, situated just forward and above the single, massive, louvered, dark-matter intake. Internal weapons include two pairs of medium-yield blasters integrated into the leading edge of the ship’s somewhat stubby wing panels, and a single high-yield blaster mounted along the centerline with the muzzle protruding just below the Rapier’s shark-shaped nose.

  As a testimony to the fighter’s longevity, the Rapier was the first fighter-type spacecraft designed by the then-fledgling military hardware supplier Zanba Industries, which has gone on to develop the finest fighters and bombers in the fleet, including both the Starbird and Firestorm.

  - Book of Imperial Starships -

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SNAFU

  Deep below the mountain, Stone Wood’s alarm warbled out a tone designed to alert personnel to a possible threat from space. This chilling wail was repeated in all twenty-four of the planet’s distributed underground defense complexes as lead elements of Admiral Kada’s battle groups began dropping out of hyperspace from twelve light-transition points, all scattered about the fringes of the Vargus system. Fast frigates, maneuverable corvettes, and slow blaster-laden annihilators, momentarily trailing shimmering ribbons of energized dark matter, were soon in fixed orbital assault positions about the planet.

  Commissar Oden-Car looked from the big board and waved a hand toward an aide. “Silence that horn,” he said before calmly turning to Colonel Batha-Nue. “You may tell Field Marshall Dee-Trah to fire when ready…”

  Sloan had completed the assembly of a passive scanner and had just commanded an auto-attach operation. The device was in the process of anchoring itself to a nearby rock face, when he was distracted by streaks of bright green light flashing up from the distant western horizon.

  “Did you see that, Lieutenant?” a nervous corporal from the first fire team questioned as he moved past Sloan toward a concealed position among the low-lying rocks.

  Sloan nodded and motioned for the corporal to keep moving while checking his wristcomm. “Decker, rally the troops. Looks like this party is getting started.”

  “Copy that, LT,” was Sergeant Decker’s reply. But moments later, after climbing several boulders, he crouched down next to his commander and snapped open his faceplate. Decker wanted to look at the lieutenant when he delivered this news.

  Sloan popped open his faceplate, listened for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at a sliver of yellow, just beginning to peek over the mountain range to his back. “Are you sure about this, Deck?” he finally asked.

  “It was one of those stalkers all right,” Decker said. “I blasted the thing, but I’m sure we’ve been made, LT. I’m sure of it.”

  Sloan reached up and tapped his faceplate’s release, then turned to scan the western horizon. “Have Yendalman expedite, Deck. I need his gun online ten minutes ago,” he commanded.

  “Copy that, sir,” Decker responded and turned to find Sergeant Yendalman’s concealed position. He found him partially obscured within a shallow cave, well above the team, already getting his long-range sniper rifle mounted.

  “How long do you figure, LT?” Decker asked, watching Yendalman as he plugged the weapon into his suit’s integrated sighting interface, target symbols already beginning to flash across his faceplate.

  Sloan, still looking west, adjusted his optics. “Not sure, Deck, but if you’re right—“

  “I’m right, LT,” Sergeant Decker interrupted.

  “If you’re right,” Sloan continued, “then you had better get on a comm beam with the Jack.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I think we’re going to need a fire mission sooner than later.”

  “Roger that, LT—I’m on it!”

  Sloan wedged himself between a pair of good-sized boulders and continued to study the peaceful LZ, but as the first long streaks of dawn began to spread, slowly brightening Phang, he was finding it hard to shake a feeling of impending doom.

  Captain Ramie sat, left leg casually crossed over his right, in the command chair of the Thunder-Jack. “Shields,” he commanded and then, between sips from a large mug emblazoned with the Jack’s logo, added, “Standard barrage orbit, Mr. Hayes.”

  The Thunder-Jack, a recently commissioned Manta-class annihilator, was a massive warship capable of turning cityscapes and military complexes into rubble without ever leaving the relative safety of a low planetary orbit.

  “Aye, Captain,” the helmsman replied.

  “Shields to maximum, sir,” the engineer responded from her station, which was positioned at the rear of the elongated, teardrop-shaped command deck.

  Ramie carefully set the mug on one of the wide control panels that bracketed his command chair and, with some bit of pride, surveyed his bridge. Considered to be a rising star in the Force, he had been selected to skipper one of the new super battle cruisers, but Ramie had wanted an annihilator. “Can’t stand dealing with tactical pilots,” he had confided to his XO. “Damn prima donnas!”

  “Standard orbit, sir,” Hayes said after confirming the stability of the maneuver.

  Ramie purposely turned to his fire control officer. “Mr. Addax, get the Jack to battle stations, and charge portside batteries.”

  A low-toned, sequenced alarm began a ship-wide broadcast as Lieutenant Addax swiveled his command chair to look directly at Ramie. “Charge portside batteries, aye. Target locations confirmed and loaded.”

  The captain turned his attention toward the main viewing screen, where a corvette gunner had just cleared the Jack’s nose in the process of moving into a protective position. “Mr. Mie, open a beam to the Scimitar.”

  Ramie flashed a broad grin in the direction of the
screen, now covered with the face of Captain Uteta, the Scimitar’s Captain.

  “Captain Uteta, my compliments to your crew,” Ramie said.

  “Captain Ramie. And to your fine crew as well, sir,” the Tarchein captain responded cordially.

  “Everything on schedule, Captain?” Ramie asked.

  “Right on plan, Captain. The Scimitar is on station and standing by, though I don’t think you’ll need much in the way of protection today—these cowardly Vargin don’t seem to have the grit for battle,” Uteta said with a grin.

  Captain Ramie nodded in agreement and was about to speak, when the Thunder-Jack was suddenly racked by a monstrous ball of energy. The image of Captain Uteta blinked and then disappeared from the screen.

  Ramie’s eyes flashed wide as he rotated his chair toward engineering. “What was—“

  Again the Thunder-Jack was struck, then again and again!

  “Number three D-drive going offline, decompression in portside weapons bay decks five thru eight”

  “Shut those damn computer alerts off,” the captain said, all composure seemingly gone.

  “Shields failing, breach in the aft missile section, levels two through nine!” the engineer screamed over the thunderous roar of the impacts as shields worked to absorb or dissipate the incredible amounts of energy being directed at the Jack.

  “Get us out of range, Mr. Hayes,” Ramie said. “NOW!”

  But it was too late for the gigantic, slow-moving ship. The Jack had far too much mass to execute quick evasive maneuvers.

  Captain Uteta looked on in horror as the Thunder-Jack buckled amidships and exploded in a gigantic flash of light.

  “Evasive, Mr. Bellacad!” he commanded as planetary batteries, now done with the Star Force annihilator, turned their fury on the now fleeing Scimitar.