Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  A Shuttle was relatively slow compared to the two BattlePlatforms flanking my DS GunShip. Their approach must have been full combat advancement to out run my alarm. From the time my scanners identified the Bricks, to the time my alarms sounded, the BattlePlatforms were already in position.

  “Security Flight 990. This is DS GunShip, GCN 48, Lieutenant Piran in command,” I stated, “Call sign J-Pop.”

  “Standby J-Pop while I get this sorted out,” 990’s pilot said.

  “J-Pop standing by,” I replied.

  “Call sign Trigger,” 990 added, identifying himself.

  Call sign Trigger, yup it fit. I could only imagine what he did in flight school to get the handle.

  “J-Pop, Command Station wants a data dump of your flight logs,” Trigger said, “They’re worried about your delay in arriving.”

  “DS 48 data being sent now,” I said switching on a link with the BattlePlatform. His system would scrub and retransmit the logs to Command Station.

  “Alright J-Pop, you’re cleared for the Armory Station,” Trigger said after an hour, “Have a nice day.”

  Just for a second, I wanted to tell him what kind of day he should be having. However, an Officer and a gentleman in the Galactic Council Navy doesn’t talk like that, at least not, on an open channel. I settled for thanking him and powering up.

  Armory Station made fast work of disarming the DS. I set a coarse for Command Station and called Flight Control for recovery instructions.

  I was shocked and pleased when Flight Control cleared me directly to Command Station’s intake tube 1. No shuttling from a distant dock for me, I was getting a VIP parking spot. Alright, I knew it wasn’t me who rated the spot, it was the Deep Space GunShip. Everyone wanted to inspect the Galactic Council Navy’s newest class of warship. I was just the pilot.

  As the pilot, a full Captain greeted me and escorted me to an integration room. I’ve been here before and dreaded the next few hours. Marine Corps personnel went through my personal gear as the Captain watched.

  Everything was unpacked and spread out on the table in front of me. I nodded as each item was presented. I claimed it and it was set aside. The only item that elicited a response from the Captain was the scotch. Whether from envy or disapproval, it caused him to raise an eye brow.

  We’d been at the name it and claim it show for about fifteen minutes when there was a commotion at the door. It flew open, an Admiral marched in and everyone froze from his icy stare.

  “Just what the miss matched diode is going on here?” he growled.

  “Sir. Lieutenant Piran was late arriving,” the unnamed Captain stated, “The DS engaged raiders and the officer left the ship. We were making.”

  “Captain, I don’t care what you were making,” the Admiral said cutting him off, “This officer is one of my pilots. If there is any making to be made, it’s my job. Am I clear?”

  “Aye, Aye Sir,” the shamed Captain replied.

  “Everyone clear out,” the Admiral shouted, “Out before I lose my usual sunny disposition. Out, now. Piran, sit.”

  I’d jumped up when the Admiral made his entrance. He ordered it, so I sat.

  “James Daily? Let me get a couple of glasses,” the Admiral said eyeing my bottle of rare scotch.

  As he walked to a side cabinet, I noticed a slight limp. When he pulled out two glasses, I had a vision of a couple of broken bodies in a downed Intelligence Shuttle. By the time he was back at the table pouring generous helpings of my scotch, I recognized the Admiral.

  He and a Marine Corps General had cashiered me out of the Corps and sent me to Navy Flight School. They never introduced themselves. I met them once after a quick Courts Marshall before I was ushered off the ship.

  “How are your injuries, Admiral?” I asked as we clicked glasses.

  He took a long pull on the drink, set the glass down and smiled at me.

  “So you remember me,” he said making a dramatic display of looking at my rank insignia, “Lieutenant Piran, nice. You know the General didn’t think you’d make it through Flight School. In his opinion, once a knuckle dragger, always a knuckle dragger. You fooled him. But not me.”

  With that speech, he picked up the glass and drained his drink. I hoped he was a one drink kind of Admiral. The thought of all the great liquor being consumed like so much cheap gin, kind of made me sick. It was as if he read my mind.

  “Not to worry,” he said pushing the cork into the bottle, “We’ve got to get you checked in and shipped out to the training teams.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” I said as I began packing my gear.

  “Folkert. It’s Admiral Folkert,” he said sliding the bottle over to me, “I’m the boss of Special Navy Operations.”

  The Admiral escorted me to a small outer office. As we walked, I related the details of my flight from Construction Station. Once we entered the office, he handed me off a Petty Officer, and Folkert disappeared into an adjoining office.

  “Welcome to S.N.O.,” the Navy NCO said as he ran a reader over my PID, “Looks like you’re late reporting in Lieutenant.”

  “Aye to that, unforeseen engagement with Pirates,” I said.

  It wasn’t an excuse just a point I wanted in my record.

  “I said looks, Sir. Per the Admiral, you’re a shift early,” he said typing in a few items, “The teams are out doing live fire drills. We’ll get you out to the Tres el Fuerte where their billeted.”

  It appeared, I’ve come full circle. The Heavy Cruiser Tres el Fuerte was my last duty station as a Marine. If the Navy had pulled a Capital ship out of its normal cruising route to support Special Navy Operations, they must be serious about the project.

  Early in third shift, I boarded a Yacht and left Command Station. Far below the Station’s orbit, my Clan’s home world of Planet Uno spun. The ship didn’t set a course for the planet. It went to External drive on a heading deeper into the Realm. I made use of the bed in the stateroom and slept most of the three days it took to reach the Heavy Cruiser.

  I floated through the airlock tube and entered to the rich air of a Red Heart Plant vessel. It’d been a long time since I’ve experienced the unique smell. I inhaled deeply of the cinnamon aroma.

  “Lieutenant Piran?” an enlisted woman asked.

  “Yes,” I responded opening my eyes a little startled.

  “I’ll show you to the SNO pilot’s billet,” she said reaching for my bag.

  “I’ve got it,” I said hoisting my duffle bag, “Lead the way.”

  A Heavy Cruiser was an enormous battle platform, second only to a BattleShip for size and armaments. I knew my way around the Tres el Fuerte having served on her as a GCMC Sergeant in charge of a gun battery. The ship’s pilots were housed on a deck above the flight lines. We didn’t go there.

  We took a lift down, as in three decks, below the flight line. Once we exited the car we took a moving walk to the center of the ship. The Special Navy Operations detachment was billeted in the center of the ship.

  “Kind of far from the flight line,” I commented.

  “Yes Sir, really far,” the enlisted replied, “Because you don’t have any ships.”

  I wasn’t about to drill her on the assets assigned to the unit. There was only one DS GunShip and she was sitting on Command Station being fawned over by everyone except for the pilots who would eventually fly her sisters.

  We stepped off the walk and turned down a wide passageway. Coming the other way were five people. They had no rank insignias showing and were spread out filling the hall. I stepped to the right as was customary to allow us to pass each other.

  They maintained their five abreast formation. In their defense, their heads were leaning in and they were engrossed in an animated conversation. I hugged the wall as did my escort.

  “Pay attention to where you’re walking,” a muscular hunk said as he roughly shouldered his way pass me.

  “Was that necessary?” I asked turning to look at their backs.

  The
y didn’t stop or acknowledge me but I heard one say, “Another washed out Fighter jock. No boat to call his own.”

  The five laughed and continue on their way.

  “Just who are they?” I asked my guide.

  “Strike-Kill Team,” she replied stepping around me, “Pilots are billeted three hatches down.”

  The space was divided into single living cubes. Obviously, the Cruiser’s crew had converted a storage deck into living quarters for the SNO pilots. I wandered down a row until I located an empty area. It had a bed, a small desk, a wardrobe and a footlocker. If the footlocker was pulled out from under the rack, there wasn’t enough room to walk in the cube. I’ve lived in tighter quarters. Didn’t like it than, didn’t care much for it now.

  I’d stowed my personal stuff and hung up the flight suits and gear I’d been issued by SNO supply. Looking around the living quarters, I realized, I was on my own for chew. I headed out to find the mess deck.

  The tray was metal, the line short and the food looked, like Navy chow. Mostly empty tables filled the deck outside the serving area. Mostly, except for two tables on the far side. My five friends from the hallway were sitting at one table and two tables from them sat another group of five. They could have been mirror images of each other.

  Two of the five were slightly built but broad across the shoulders. Two others were big and thickly muscled. The final one had a physique somewhere between the pairs. Using my powers of deduction, I concluded they were Strike-Kill Teams. I knew the closeness of teams such as these so I selected a seat far from both.

  It didn’t help as I could hear one of them.

  “Another out to pasture, macho, Fighter driver,” she said, “Lost lambs without their toys.”

  A pattern was developing in my mind. The crux was, the Strike-Kill Teams didn’t hold their pilots in very high regards. My theory was proven as I lifted a fork of breaded mystery meat. The hip wasn’t thrown, it just brushed against my elbow. The meat fell and splashed in the gravy and all over my fresh duty uniform.

  “Ah, sorry about that Lieutenant,” the offender said than added without much sincerity, “By your leave, Sir.”

  The five, my associates from the hallway, walked out of the mess deck. There were chuckles before the middle one snapped out something and it stopped.

  She had dark hair with a streak of white on one side. I pegged her as being the team leader. She didn’t respect the SNO pilots either. She was just covering her crew if I decided to make an issue of the shove. I didn’t, at least not until I had a better feel for what was going on in Special Navy Operations.

  The ruckus from the hall alerted me to the return of my cube mates. They came in pushing and shoving, trash talking and acting brash. It was expected of a group of young Fighter pilots. But these folks were not so young.

  “Call sign Thor,” one said stepping up to me and standing way too close.

  He was too old for Fighters but he had all the signs of that aggressive military occupation.

  “J-Pop,” I responded.

  “Which squadron are you from?” he asked looking over his shoulder.

  The six other pilots watched and listened.

  “Forty-Ninth Air-wing,” I said watching as he started to scratch his head.

  “Can’t place that one,” he said, “Which ship?”

  “It’s a supply unit,” one of the six observers states, “Planet side flying.”

  “Supply? You fly supplies,” Thor said leaning back as if my last duty station was offensive to him, “I’m a Fighter pilot.”

  A few things clicked. They were all Fighter pilots. Rather, recent Fighter pilots, who from their looks, had reached the age limit for Fighters. Admiral Folkert had selected experienced Fighter pilots for his air assets. Only, there were no Deep Space GunShips to fly.

  So, the agility, spectral awareness to fly in a tight attack formation and the individual aggressiveness necessary to be a top Fighter pilot had been reassigned to be what? Drivers for equally aggressive Strike-Kill Teams? It wouldn’t make for a good mix.

  Thor shook his head and mumbled, “Supply,” as he strutted away. The others dispersed to their cubes seemly as disappointed as Thor at the addition of a supply pilot to their unit.

  Chapter 32

  I needed to find out more about my future passengers. Big muscles don’t grow unless you work them and it made sense the Teams would be working out. Leaving the pilots to whatever Fighter pilots did when not being obnoxious, I went in search of the gymnasium.

  It wasn’t hard to find. The billeting for SNO personnel were dispersed in hallways around the gym. I simply walked from my room, down a long hall until I found a left turn. And there I was looking over, either the most complete gym in the Realm or, someone’s idea of a nightmare.

  The gym occupied three tiered levels with open space in the center of the first two. There were weightlifting stages and exercise machines, including York 5000s, around the upper deck. One deck down, a ledge spread out reveling mats for martial arts. The Team leader with the white streak in her hair was standing in the center of one. I walked along the rail until I had a good view looking down at her on the mat.

  She was standing lose, arms at her side and relaxed. Even un-tensed, she was a gun show. Budging biceps and triceps with perfect horseshoe indentations and deltoids she’d spent hour perfecting.

  The Team leader beckoned several people over. About half were the muscle types and they flexed and sent ripples across their slabs of beef. The other half were the lean, sinewy and tight skinned types. Apparently sex wasn’t an issue as there were many women in the beef category, as well as, in the rawboned group.

  My original premise of the Strike-Kill teams consisting of two heavies and two, I wouldn’t call them lightweights, unless you compared the lean ones to their oversized team mates was correct. While my thoughts wandered, the Team Leader called one of them, a lightweight, to the center of the mat.

  She said something I was too high up to hear and the woman attacked the Team Leader. She went flying landing almost off the mat. A bull of a man stepped up and while he didn’t fly far, he did end up on his back.

  “Enjoying the show fly boy?” a short, normal sized man asked.

  “It’s Lieutenant,” I said as I turned to face the man.

  “Oh, I can see that. I asked if you were enjoying the freak show?” he asked.

  The man was in a single under-suit with no rank or indication of his job. He could be a pilot, or a desk jockey, I just couldn’t tell. But I wasn’t happy with the freak comment.

  “Look, whatever your name is,” I said locking eyes with him so nothing I said was missed, “Those are finally tune troops. I don’t know their duties but I assume they were selected for skills and body type. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off on the derogatory descriptions in my presence. Clear?”

  “What’s your name?” he asked scowling up his face as if he were memorizing my features.

  “Lieutenant Phelan Oscar Piran, call sign J-Pop,” I replied with some force behind the words.

  “Well J-Pop, my name is Captain Wahid, call sign Peerless,” he said a little smugly,” Or it was when I was with the Scout Snipers.”

  Great, during my short time with SNO, I’d somehow offended a Strike-Kill Team, their Pilots and now a Galactic Council Marine Corps’ Captain. It had to be some kind of record for collecting enemies.

  “My apologies Captain,” I said than couldn’t resist, figuring the damage was already done, “I stand by my statement about not liking the Freak comment.”

  “J-Pop, you know all the new Fighter pilots come to take a look,” he said turning to peer down at the Team Leader. She was occupied tossing another challenger across the mat, “They all get a good laugh at the extreme physiques of the Team members. I expected it from you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I stated, “Nothing funny about hard training to prepare for a mission.”

  “Are you sure you’re a pilot?” he aske
d his face breaking into a smile, “And I agree. I’m Skipper of the Strike-Kill Teams. Hand selected each and every one of them. Did all the training myself until I got my Sergeants trained up.”

  “They’re a bit rough around the edges,” I said not wanting to bring up my conflicts with the Team, “I imagine they’re hyped up and ready but have no mission.”

  “Or rides, so you’re right. You can include the pilots in that category,” he said, “By the way, that Sergeant down there, she’s my hand to hand combat instructor. Call sign Warlock.”

  As if on que, Warlock looked up and nodded to the Captain. Then, her focus shifted and she settled on me. Her eyes shot me with ice missiles. The gaze wasn’t warm and friendly.

  “If you want to know more about the Strike-Kill Teams’ tactics stick around and watch. They’re going to run a few Teams through the tunnel,” he said reaching out to shake my hand, “I’m a judge. Nice meeting you Lieutenant Piran.”

  He walked off and I began strolling around looking down at other matches on different mats. No one were as proficient as Warlock. I reached a set of steps and took them down to the lower level. Several mats held troops running weapon’s drills from different styles of Martial Arts. Apparently, the Strikers were cross trained in a variety of fighting disciplines.

  I found an empty area with fighting sticks. Peeling off my blouse, I folded it gravy stain up, I’d forgotten about the soiled area. The racks held a variety and as this was a solo session, I selected a heavy set of sticks.

  After stretching, I began the nine angles of attack drills. Once I’d warmed up, the strikes became fluid and they flowed from one angle smoothly into another. I was just about to begin a proper Sinawali when a voice behind me interrupted my concentration.

  “Sure is pretty when you fight the air like that,” Warlock said walking around me to the racks of sticks, “Care to try them on a living opponent? Fly boy.”

  I should have begged off fighting her. I really would have but I glanced at the gravy stain on my uniform. Plus, I just couldn’t ignore the fly boy remark.

  “Give me a second,” I said going to the rack and pulling out a pair of light sticks.