"So you decided to continue diving at the asteroid? What if your tactical assessment – not that I believe for a moment that any of that was running through your mind during your stupid stunt – had been wrong? Wright has more than eight hundred people on board, Third Lieutenant, but more important than that, we're protecting more than a dozen ships in this mining convoy, and if they don't get home, this war stops."
"What about Warren, sir?"
Cunningham looked down at the deck, shaking his head, then faced Marshall again, "You don't see the big picture, do you? Not at all. We're in the middle of a war, son, and people are going to die. People have already died by the tens of thousands over the last five years, and I'm pretty damn sure that's not stopping any time soon.”
He rubbed his hand across his eyes, continuing, “That's the risk we run going out in those scratch-built ships. He knew the risk, and so did you, and he told you to return!" The wing commander was almost shouting. "You put your fighter – I don't give a damn about you, but that fighter is irreplaceable out here – at risk for a long-shot rescue, and came home with a missile sitting on your rack that should have been targeted at an enemy."
Eyes narrowed, Marshall faced the Major, "I don't see that, sir. It worked. Now we have two fighters instead of one, two pilots instead of one, and we completed the mission. I used my initiative."
"That excuses everything, does it? Victory at any price? You got god-damned lucky, son. You probably expected a pat on the head, a medal and a promotion. None of that comes easily out here, certainly not for a reckless young fool who thinks that mission protocols are for other people. Lesser people. But Third Lieutenant Marshall can use his initiative."
"I make no excuse for my actions, sir."
Cunningham snorted, "Because you don't believe they need one, right? If you weren't Bill Marshall's boy you'd be walking home by now."
Something snapped inside Marshall, "May I speak freely, sir?"
"Go ahead, dig yourself deeper."
"I did what I thought was necessary. I would do it again in the same circumstances. If there is a lesson to be learned here, obviously I haven't learned it. And sir, if the only reason you are keeping me here is my last name, then I formally request a transfer to other duties."
"Think you are getting special dispensation? I'm holding you to a higher standard because of your father. I expect he'd like me to at least try and make a good officer out of you." He leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. "I don't care whether or not you have learned a life lesson today. That doesn't interest me in the least. But you will obey orders, Third Lieutenant, and in future you will follow mission and flight protocols to the letter. Do I make myself comprehensively clear?"
Marshall looked down at the desk, and replied, "Sir, yes, sir."
"Get out of my sight."
Snapping an unreturned salute, Marshall turned and walked out of the room. Cunningham shook his head, and started to work on a couple of datapads, when the door to his bedroom slid open. Walking through it, wearing a dressing gown, was a dark-haired woman with a strange red glint in her left eye.
"You were a little hard on him, weren't you?" she said.
He looked up at her, nodding, "It's for his own good, Deadeye. This time it worked. Next time a lot of people might get killed."
"I'm still not sure I agree. Nor do I particularly care for the nickname, John."
Cunningham pulled up a datapad, "Says here that one Second Lieutenant Louisa Caine is fit for duty again. How's the eye?"
Rubbing above her temple, she said, "It's going to take me a bit of time to get used to. But I'm ready to go again. Hell, I could have been back in a cockpit last week."
"Not until the medicos check you out. Tell you what; I'm going to split apart Marshall and Warren, move Warren over to Hawk flight for a while. Mind if I put you in as Raven Three, replacing Warren?" He smiled. "There might be a good pilot there, but he's going to need someone to keep an eye on him, at least for a while. I thought Garland for Leader, he's about due to step up."
"At least you aren't trying to talk me into it this time."
"You made it quite clear that you're only in this for the duration. If I'm going to brevet someone up, might as well be someone who can take use of it."
"Not Marshall?"
"That kid? He might make a good pilot, but unless he really settles down, he's never going to make it as a commander. Not unless he can see the whole picture instead of just what's under his nose."
Caine turned to head back into the bedroom, "I'll go and talk to him. Right now he's just going to be seething somewhere. That needs to be dealt with before it turns sour."
"Want to meet up later?"
"Maybe," she shrugged. "But a wingman's job is never done. And you have a lot of paperwork to get through if I'm back on active duty instead of dealing with your backlog."
"I'm going to get jealous at this rate."
"Just remember, if this all backfires, it was your idea." The door closed behind her.
Chapter 2
Eleven Years Later
Alamo's 'return to service' party was in full swing; Orlova had used some of her old connections to commandeer Harry's Bar for the duration, and even managed to scavenge some more tables from somewhere. The two new officers who had turned up to the party – a pair of Sub-Lieutenants, Mohmand and Jenkowski, both recently transferred from the Callisto Orbital Patrol, sat by themselves in the corner, both reluctant to join in the swing despite Lieutenant-Captain Marshall's attempts to bring them in.
Instead he'd settled for a table near the middle of the bar, and was currently engaged in an animated discussion with his astrogator, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga, over Alamo's next mission. Not that either of them knew what it was, but scuttlebutt suggested anything from a six-month stay out a Proxima to a year-long expedition out from Ragnarok. Marshall cut a sentence short when he saw a familiar face walking into the bar, then ran out to meet him in the corridor.
"My god, Teddy Warren. I haven't seen you in five years! How the hell are you? What are you doing out here at Mariner?" He looked him up and down. "That's a Triplanetary uniform you're wearing." Time had been kind to the bombastic pilot; his hair was thinning a little, something he'd indicated was a Warren family tradition, and he'd added a couple of inches onto his waistline, but otherwise it was the same old wingmate.
His old friend returned the grin, "I figured I'd be going to need it if I was going to serve on that old junkpile of yours."
"You're joking."
"No," Warren replied in his booming voice, "I bring glad tidings. Not only do you have three fighters being loaded on board now, yours truly has been named as your flight commander."
Shaking his head, Marshall gestured towards a chair, "Weren't you up for a squadron?"
"Oh yes. Stationed out at Deimos. That was going to be about as much fun as watching paint dry, so I put in for a transfer when I heard that they were giving some old birds to your ships, and when I found out that some idiot had put you in command of one of them, well, I won't deny that I pulled a few strings."
"I will be damned." Marshall waved over at Caine; she'd obviously spotted Warren coming in but decided to give them their meeting – as well as assemble a trio of drinks.
"It gets better, Danny. I'm bringing Raven Flight with me." He looked up, grinning again, "Deadeye? I heard you were serving with this madman. Still keeping him out of trouble?"
Caine sat down at the table, carefully putting the glasses down on the table, "Turns out that's part of the job description that comes with being Tactical Officer these days. After he shanghaied me back in."
Punching her lightly on the shoulder, Warren replied, "I doubt it took that much convincing." He turned back the Marshall, "I heard you had some fun out at Lalande 21185. Not everyone brings a new planet into the Confederation!"
"After two months of one Senate committee after another, I could do with a slightly less controversial mission next time," he replied
. "What do you mean, you've got Raven Flight with you?"
He took a modest swig of his drink. "Given that they decided to wind up the old Tenth, I figured I'd take the name with me."
"What?"
Warren's smile dropped, "I'm afraid so. Surplus to requirements, apparently. They're dropping down to nine squadrons, and it was on the block. I'll be honest, if they'd offered me the Tenth, I'd have taken it. I was going to end up with Eighth Patrol. No fun." He looked around the room. "None of that maudlin stuff, though. This is a party! Where's everyone else? Aren't you going to introduce me around?"
Marshall gestured around the room, "Over there is our astrogation officer, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga. Propping the bar up are Sub-Lieutenant Orlova," he indicated a pair of women, "and Ensign Esposito, one of our guidance officers and our Espatier officer, respectively."
"Espatier officers don't look like they used to," Warren replied, earning a look from Caine.
"Two of our other new recruits are lurking over in the corner – Sub-Lieutenants Mohmand and Jenkowski."
"Might have a word with them later. See if I can get some spark into them."
Continuing around the room, he waved an arm towards another table in the corner, where a pepper-haired dark man was talking animatedly to a tall brunette while a younger man watched them both, "Two other watch commanders, Sub-Lieutenants Kibaki and Ryder, and our Systems Officer, Lieutenant Quinn."
"That everyone?"
"I don't have an Operations Officer yet; one's apparently joining us tonight. Senior Lieutenant Dietz is my Exec, but he's about the only one allowed on Alamo until the dockyard finally lets her go."
Mulenga came walking over with his drink, having decided that Marshall was unlikely to return to the table soon, and sat down opposite Caine.
"You must be one of the Captain's old associates from his fighter days, Lieutenant?"
"Gosh, Captain! Got quite a ring to it now, I bet, Danny. Same league as Tramiel, or Hancock, or Duncan. God, remember him." It took him a second to remember the astrogator's question. "Oh, yes, I was his wingman for a while, one of his flight leaders later on when he got his own squadron."
"Then my old deputy for about seven months on Phobos when I was running Third Wing."
Warren laughed again, slapping Marshall on the shoulder, "Is he as annoying to work for now as he was back them?"
"I have found him so on occasion," Mulenga said, deadpan, "but I have also found it an extremely interesting experience thus far."
The four of them heard a murmur from the far side of the room; a tall, silver-haired man walked into the bar, a beautiful woman lounging on each arm, wearing Triplanetary uniform – also with the insignia of a Lieutenant-Captain on his sleeve. He looked over at Marshall, a cheeky smile on his face.
"Raven Flight getting drunk together again?" the newcomer said.
"My god, it's old home week!" Warren said, toasting no-one in particular with the remnants of his drink.
"Flynt, you old bastard. Always gatecrashing," Marshall said, a smile on his face, as he waved the captain down into a chair.
He raised a hand in reply, "Not that I have no intention of staying for as much of the party as I can, I need to have some words with you first. Best in quiet."
"Captain-to-Captain stuff, then? Guess you're going to have to get used to that!" Warren said. "How about another drink while he has his pow-wow?"
Marshall walked down the deserted corridor, Flynt following him; his two companions were chatting to Caine and Warren, drinks in their hands. He looked out at the starfield, at the ships currently laid up alongside Mariner Station. Alamo was currently surrounded by construction modules, slowly being unraveled from the cocoon of maintenance equipment that had been working to get her back to operational status for the last two months.
"I figured you'd be holding this party on board," Flynt said.
"Captain Chung hasn't turned her over yet. You know how he can be when he gets his teeth into a ship."
"Oh, the Winch has had his claws in my ships before. One day I'll have to tell you what I did to get Polaris out of his iron grip."
Gesturing out at another one of the ships, Marshall said, "What about you? How was your first cruise?"
"Compared to yours, quiet. Three months nursemaiding corporate types out at Proxima. Like one of the mining convoys during the war, but the ammunition is harsh language instead of missiles. Thunderchild's quite a ship, though, and I must thank you for Lieutenant Minh. Best engineer I've ever worked with."
"If you'd ever met Quinn, you'd know I got the better end of the deal."
"Be careful, Captain. I might end up poaching him." He paused for a moment, the continued, "How are you finding things in the big chair?"
He turned, and smiled, "I'm loving every minute of it. I'm supposed to complain about the responsibility, the grind, the paperwork, and all of that is true, but damn it Flynt, I haven't had this much fun in years. Well, aside from the Senate committees, but I can live with that."
"Good. That's what you're supposed to think, even if most commanders I've met haven't had the guts to say it."
"I was surprised when I heard you'd ended up commanding Thunderchild. You were up for a star, pretty much guaranteed."
"Jack Tramiel offered me something better," he replied, looking back out at his ship. "Command until retirement. I might end up on a carrier if we ever get one, but I'll spend the next ten years or so commanding something or another, and that's good enough for me. Worth a hundred stars." He paused, "You had a rocky one the first time out. If it means anything, I think you did well, and I don't care what those damn-fool politicians said. I know Jack agrees with me."
Marshall turned back to the party, "This is good morale-boosting stuff, but you could have said it all at the table, sprinkled with some witty repartee while your groupies linger around. Where the hell do you get them, anyway?"
The old captain opened his arms, and grinned, "Natural magnetism."
"What's up?"
Sighing, Flynt pulled a datapad out of his pocket and passed it to Marshall. He scanned the file, stopping at the title. It was a service record of Captain John Cunningham, Martian Space Service.
"He's still a Captain?"
"One promotions board after another passed him over."
"He made full Colonel by the end of the war."
"And his peacetime rank ended up the same as yours. First Lieutenant. Albeit you had a lot less seniority, and he made Captain again within a few months, but that's where he ended up, Danny." He shook his head, "One fighter command after another, less and less important postings, until finally no-one important pays any attention, and his career comes to an end. Now he can't even fly anymore; when Harper retired all the waivers got pulled." He chuckled. “That old bastard's running for the Senate, apparently.”
"All the waivers?”
"Cutbacks, Danny. For which we're to blame; they're overstocked on pilots now, and they want to save on flight pay."
Marshall passed back the pad, replying, "Dare I ask what this has to do with me?"
"Jack requested him for Triplanetary service. The request was approved, and he's joining Alamo as your Wing Commander. Senior Lieutenant rank."
"No."
"Not optional, Danny. I know you don't like him..."
"You're a master of understatement. I just got finished with a mission full of officers trying to sabotage me..."
Flynt's voice grew sharp as a razor, "Do NOT equate Cunningham with those mutineers. Not for a second. He had an outstanding combat record, and on paper should be excellent. Yes, this puts you in a bit of a tricky position..."
"He was my first commanding officer. And one who couldn't abide me."
"Prove him wrong, then. I read your file, and that was a long time ago. Hell, you should read some of the stuff they wrote about me in my younger days. Prove that you are the good command material that I know you are."
Snatching the datapad, Marshall waved it at Flyn
t, "Never mind the personal matters. This personnel record does not inspire me with confidence. Whatever mission I'm on, Alamo deserves nothing but the best. The crew deserves nothing but the best." He shook his head, “Not to mention the feelings of a certain Tactical Officer. Damn it, Flynt, I've just been through a mutiny! This crew needs to be able to trust each other, and throwing in a loose cannon is not what I need right now.”
“You, or the crew?”
Marshall fixed the older captain with a sharp stare, “That is not the issue here. My crew comes first.”
Flynt raised a hand, “He was the best. Jack and I both think he could be again."
"You take him, then."
"Thunderchild's going in for a month's overhaul. And I already have a Wing Commander. You need one. His career needs salvaging."
Scanning the datapad again, Marshall replied, "Salvaging or burying. I will – as with any other officer assigned to my command – give him a fair chance. No favors, no special privileges, nothing."
Flynt smiled. "That's what's wanted, Danny. Find out if there's something there worth keeping. If not, he's out, and no-one will stop you."
"Fair enough. I do have one more question."
"What is it?"
"What are you drinking these days? We're missing the party."
"Spoken like a true commanding officer, Danny."
The two of them turned back to the bar, walking back into the crowd.
Chapter 3
It was good to see Alamo's hangar deck in full use again. Far from the spartan expanse of his last mission, with only a trio of shuttles in a cavernous bay, this time it was dominated by a trio of fighters proudly secured to the ceiling by magnetic clamps, crewmen working on their undersides. Marshall recognized them as old P-12 Cyclones, designed for deep space patrols, though there was something different about them he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Warren, standing next to him, turned to the captain with his trademarked grin. Quinn looked like an eager schoolboy as he ordered his technicians around the deck, working on one fighter after another. He beamed as he headed over to Marshall and Warren.
Fermi's War Page 2