End Run

by William R. Forstchen

  The captain studied the map for a long moment as if Jason were not even in the room. Finally he turned around, moving slowly, first looking at Jason over his shoulder. The man's face was lined with deep set wrinkles as if the skin was gradually losing its hold on his skull. His eyes were dark, intense. He was balding on top, his hair combed over from one side as if to cover up the loss. His nose was bulbous, heavily veined and dark red. A drinker's nose, Jason realized.

  "Lieutenant Commander Jason Bondarevsky?"

  Jason saluted.

  The captain studied him for a long moment before finally saluting in return.

  "I watched your landing on the screen, seemed a bit shaky, yes indeed, a bit shaky it was."

  Jason said nothing. Not a great landing, he had to agree, but it had nothing to do with shakiness. However he was not going to blurt out a defensive response.

  The captain looked at him, his features set, and then finally the corners of the mouth creased upward.

  "How is my good friend Admiral Tolwyn?"

  "In fine health when I left him, sir."

  The captain nodded gravely, as if this was the most important news in the universe.

  "I've looked at your file, Bondarevsky. You were part of that Gettysburg mutiny affair a year or so back."

  "I was, sir." Jason replied quietly, not wanting; to sound defensive.

  "Dirty business that, a nasty dirty business."

  "How so?" Jason asked cautiously.

  The official court of inquiry had fully cleared him of the situation, acknowledging the criminal actions of his old captain, and agreeing with the crew's decision to remove him from command. Jason had come out of it not only with a full exoneration but a decoration and the confidence of Admiral Tolwyn.

  "Just that, Bonevsky, a dirty business."

  "It's Bondarevsky," Jason said.

  "Yes, of course."

  He walked back to the map and turned his back on Jason for a moment, posing as if caught up in some deep and profound decision. He finally turned, a smile creasing his features.

  "I'm Commodore Thaddeus O'Brian, welcome aboard."

  Jason took his hand, noticing that the grip was weak, the palms clammy. He found he was forming an instant dislike and he fought it down. He knew too many people who made snap decisions about what they thought of others, a trait that he didn't quite approve of. Also, this was his first real command, and it just wouldn't work to have yet another conflict with a superior officer.

  "Your first time aboard a CVE?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, what do you think of her?"

  The captain looked up at him almost as if seeking some approval.

  "I haven't had a chance to form an opinion yet, sir, I just came aboard."

  "Well, let's go have a look at my ship then."

  Going to the back of his office, Thaddeus opened another door and motioned for Jason to follow as they started down a short corridor.

  "Had a hand in the design of her, I did," O'Brian announced, his pride evident.

  "Oh really, sir?"

  "Yes indeed, I was with transport ship design and helped in the change over of this model to light escort carrier configuration. Since I knew transports inside and out, the Admiralty office decided to give this one to me."

  "Transport ship design?"

  "Not much excitement, oh no," O'Brian said, his voice suddenly cold. "Captained transports for twenty years before being sent into the office back at Earth. But without us, you fly-boy heroes wouldn't have been able to get past the airlock. We're the ones who kept you going with weapons, food, everything that a fleet needs and little thanks we got, precious little thanks."

  Jason noticed the tone of bitterness in O'Brian's voice. The rivalry between those who were at the cutting edge of the war and those in the rear was nothing new to him; he knew it was as old as war itself and he had experienced it often enough while on leave. At times it could get so intense that those at the front and those at the rear could hate each other even more than the common enemy.

  "Here's our bridge," O'Brian announced, leading Jason into the semi-darkened room.

  It was located near the topside of the ship, just forward of the jump drive room. A small crew of deck officers and non-coms manned the various banks of displays and instruments.

  "They're almost all new people, a bit slow, but someday they'll get the hang of it," O'Brian announced.

  Jason looked around and saw more than one of the crew members hunch over with the captain's sarcastic words.

  "When Admiralty finalized the design concept for the light escort carrier they saw four roles," O'Brian announced.

  "The mission design calls for it to serve as a transport for fighter, recon, and bomber spacecraft to keep the heavy carriers freshly stocked. We haul them out, and then they fly straight in to their new homes ready for action."

  "We were running short more than once," Jason replied, "it's a good idea, better than having to uncrate them from the transports and spend several hundred man-hours of work with reassembly and testing."

  "Why? Did you have a problem with how our transports delivered them to you?"

  Jason looked around the room and saw several of the watch officers look over at him curiously, as if wondering how he would respond.

  "No, sir, it was just a question of time, that's all."

  O'Brian smiled expansively.

  "Come on, let's see the rest of the ship."

  Leaving the bridge, they headed down to the lower level and moved to the stern. Jason stopped for a moment to check one of the particle cannon firing ports. The firing system and targeting unit were located inside the ship, rather than projected out on a hull nacelle. The positioning limited the ability of the gun to fire on a line flush with the hull. If a Kilrathi fighter should ever realize that, he could come in close and hug the ship, protected by the blind spot.

  He was disappointed as well not to see one of the new gatling missile mounts, finding instead the standard single tube launch array. He was tempted to comment, but from the way his captain bubbled on about the design he realized it was best to say nothing.

  "I think I was telling you about the potential missions for this class of ship, wasn't I?"

  Jason nodded, realizing that O'Brian had been jumping from one topic to the next and that it was getting increasingly difficult to get a fix on what the man was leading to from one moment to the next.

  "Did I mention the part about serving as a transport?"

  "You did, sir," Jason replied quietly.

  "Oh yes indeed, I suppose I did. So many things to remember, don't you know."

  Jason said nothing.

  "We're also to serve on convoy duty, which is the mission we're hooking up to now, covering nine marine transport ships as they move up to the Uruk Sector for a planet assault training exercise. We've been losing too many ships to the occasional Kilrathi raider, pirates and such. There's no sense in tying up one of our precious fleet carriers for such an operation, and the one or two exterior mounted fighters that we were strapping on to the transports took forever to launch and recover."

  Jason found that he had to agree with that point. There was a constant and annoying wastage of transports to such raids. They had tried the idea of simply strapping a fighter to the outside of a ship and launching when needed. It was a nightmare and a suicide job. A pilot had to suit up, go EVA along with his launch crew. If they were in the middle of a fight and the transport did any maneuver while they were outside, they were dumped off and lost.

  "Next we're to serve as ground support for secondary operations and landings, hence the names of the ships in this class, all for amphibious operations."

  "Any chance for that type of action?" Jason asked, feeling a quick tug of hope for himself, tempered by anxiety for his squadrons. He'd been in on several such operations, and the transition from space flight, to atmosphere combat, and then back to space was challenging stuff, and deadly on new pilots without the experien
ce.

  "You fly boys are always eager for blood, aren't you?"

  "We're trained to do a job, if that's what you mean, sir," Jason replied coldly.

  "Well, I doubt it," O'Brian said, "we've just got orders to guard the convoy and nothing else. It'll be milk runs for this ship and nothing more. I got the inside word on that one, so trust me on it," and Jason detected a note of relief in O'Brian's voice.

  Reaching the stern of the ship O'Brian led the way into the engine core area. At the moment they were coasting along at a leisurely one hundred KPS and the drag scoops were raking in the stray atoms of hydrogen found out in deep space which would then serve as fuel. Jason quickly scanned the engine controls and nodded.

  "Well, I'll be damned, a Gilgamesh class engine system," he said.

  A ship's engineer turned to look at Jason and smiled.

  "Top grade design this engine is, sir," and she came to attention and saluted.

  "Ship's propulsion engineer, Mashumi."

  "You've got a good-looking system here, Mashumi."

  "We pulled the Mark 33 transport engines out and put one of these hot machines in," Mashumi announced. "We've been able to click her up to just over 247KPS, with scoops full open. Shut the scoops down, get her to streamlined configuration and we can crank up a ten gee acceleration and have you up to over ten thousand KPS in thirty minutes."

  "Well, I'll be damned, something is looking good here after all," Jason said, and instantly he cursed himself. It was a trait that had gotten him into hot water more than once—not thinking about who was listening before he spoke.

  O'Brian, who had not even bothered to look at Mashumi, turned to Jason.

  "The Mark 33 served well enough."

  "Sir, if we get into any tight spots, this engine can double what a transport ship's engine can kick up. The way I see it we can get in fast, and if need be get out fast. We can even give a Ralatha-class destroyer a run for its money."

  "Where we're going, and what we're doing, I doubt we'll ever see such a ship," O'Brian replied tartly. "Our main job is convoy patrol and I can't see any sense in putting in an engine that cost almost as much as all the rest of the ship. Financial responsibility son, you fighter boys don't think about that, but financial responsibility is important."

  "If we ever get in a jam, sir, you'll see what I mean and thank God we have this Gilgamesh power plant on board."

  "You're referring to the fourth mission concept for the CVE, is that it?" O'Brian said, his voice now betraying a clear anxiety.

  Jason looked over at O'Brian.

  "I did study up on the ship in the few hours I had between getting this assignment and leaving."

  Jason looked over at Mashumi and the others in the engine room. There was no sense in worrying them about it all and he didn't want O'Brian to bring the subject up in front of the crew. The concept was obvious. The CVE was cheap and quick to build. It was, above all else, designed to be expendable, unlike the precious heavy and medium carriers of the main fleet. It was therefore ideally suited for high-risk deep penetration raids into the Empire, or to serve as a decoy, or even as a sacrifice delaying force to cover the retreat of far more valuable ships. It was made to be thrown away if the need should ever arise.

  "They won't send us out on any suicide runs, Bonevisky. Not on my watch," O'Brian said, his eyes shifting back and forth uneasily, his words spilling out hurriedly as if trying to reassure himself. "I've got friends and contacts in the right offices back home. It'll never happen while I'm around."

  Jason looked over at Mashumi, suddenly embarrassed by the captain's shaky display.

  "I'd better go and meet my pilots, sir," Jason announced, his tone indicating that it was best to end the conversation.

  "Oh yes, indeed, but of course. How thoughtless of me," O'Brian said. "Perhaps dinner tonight? I managed to get one of my old cooks assigned here, he makes a wonderful cherry tart and his other pastries are magnificent. I think we can even dig up a little claret, some fine stock which I managed to pack along."

  Such suggestions were of course orders, though he would have preferred to have spent the time with Doomsday going over the fitness reports of his pilots, flight deck officers, and crew chiefs.

  "I'd be glad to, sir."

  "Fine then," and O'Brian turned and left the engine room.

  Jason looked over at Mashumi, who gave a curious smile of resignation before turning back to checking her engines.

  Jason strode into the pilot ready room and he could not help but allow himself a slight thrill of satisfaction as the pilots snapped to attention. He was now the commander of all flight operations aboard ship, answerable only to the Captain. He had served under some damned fine men and women, he had also served under more than one fool—but now he was the one in charge.

  He walked briskly to the front of the room, stopping in front of the holo briefing map.

  "At ease, be seated," he snapped and the men and women who were now his command settled down. He looked around the room. Doomsday and Janice "Starlight" Parker were the only two familiar faces. He had first met Janice when they were going through flight school together and then had gone their separate ways to hook back up again on Concordia. She was the ideal choice for running his recon squadron, a damned fine pilot, quick, aggressive, and a master with fighting a Ferret. He looked over at her and she flashed him a wink and sly grin. It was hard not to smile. He knew that she had always had a bit of "a thing," for him, but it had never gone beyond that, especially because of Svetlana, her roommate at school. He pushed that thought aside.

  All the rest looked far too young and had that open innocent look. After a tour of combat that would change. You could look into a pilot's eyes and know in an instant whether he had been there or not. Fighting for your life, where a split second decision would decide whether you were still here or splattered across several hundred cubic kilometers of space, tended to change you rather quickly. That, and watching friends die, then at night lying quietly in your sweat-soaked bed, waiting for the next mission—it slowly ate you up and these young pilots had yet to stare into the maw of the killing machine.

  "I only have a couple of things to say to you," he began, realizing that they were watching him nervously.

  They were most likely scared half to death. The instructors back at the flight academies had drilled the same line into him so many years ago—within a month after reaching the front you're either a veteran or dead, with the odds staked high for the less pleasant of alternatives.

  At least, he realized, they'd have a chance if the Tarawa stayed on the back roads of the bigger show; it'd give him time to teach them every trick he knew.

  "Some of you might think you are very hot stuff right now, after all you're wearing a brand new set of shiny wings. If that's the way you feel, believe me you're bound for a very short life. Those of you who are scared, that's half good. Stay scared. I'm scared every time I climb into the cockpit. That's what keeps me on my toes and kept me, and Doomsday, and Starlight alive when facing down some of the best the Kilrathi Empire can offer. But if you ever let your fear take complete control, it'll kill you, your wingman, and maybe your entire squadron."

  "Starting first watch tomorrow, we're going on a full schedule of training. I'm taking you back to square one with basic formation flying, touch down, turn around, combat landings, standard tactical maneuvers, and when I think you're ready we'll move up to advanced unit tactics. We're going to drill, drill, drill, and then drill some more. You're going to get more flying in over the next few weeks than you've had in the last six months. I want you ready for whatever comes and we're going to run this wing as if we're on the cutting edge of the front."

  "I understand you had an easy ride out here from Earth; well, the party's over."

  He looked around the room. Their expressions were fixed, betraying no feelings of either approval or disagreement. They were being cautious and he approved.

  "Doomsday will be squadron commander for the
Sabre fighter bombers, Starlight will be in charge of the recon and patrol Ferrets. I'm taking personal charge of the Rapier squadron. Are there any questions?"

  The room was silent.

  "Sir, we've heard that this here CVE will never even get to the front."

  Jason looked around the room.

  "When someone has a comment, stand and deliver it."

  A tall lanky pilot stood up, his red hair pushing the edge of a regulation cut. He had a superior, almost disdainful air about him, as if this meeting was nothing more than a bore that was interrupting other pleasures.

  "Your name, lieutenant?"

  "Kevin Tolwyn," and he paused for a moment, "sir."

  Shocked, Jason took a second to recover. The resemblance seemed to be there, the sharp eyes, the aquiline nose.

  "Yes, sir, the admiral is my uncle," Kevin finally added.

  Jason could not help but shoot a quick glance at Doomsday. Little was known of the admiral's personal life, other than the fact that his wife and three sons had all died in a Kilrathi raid very early in the war.

  "The way you say that, you seem to expect something," Jason finally snapped.

  "Oh, I don't expect anything from you, or this ship, sir. Though I should add we're all very impressed by your record on the Gettysburg."

  There was a stunned silence in the room and all turned to look at Kevin and then back to Jason.

  "Listen hard, mister, real hard," Jason snapped. "What's the rear line today could be overrun tomorrow."

  The war hasn't been going well. I don't know what bull they've been handing to you and the civilians back home, but we're hanging on by our fingernails. We lost a third of our carriers in the last three months standard, half of our fleet in the last nine months. I know that's classified information, but you might as well know the truth now. That's three carriers in just the last two actions, with full compliment of five hundred spacecraft, six hundred pilots, and ten thousand crew. The Kilrathi got the edge and they're pushing it straight into our guts. So damn it, listen up. I don't care if you're the nephew of God himself, but aboard this ship, and in my command you're going to run your butt off or I'll kick it from here all the way back to your uncle's office and it'll be years before they put you back together again. Do you read me, mister?"