Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Interesting choice,” she said while rolling her shoulders and swinging the sticks over her head, “Anytime you’re ready.”

  “Warlock. I hate to tell you,” I said fainting with my left stick than slapping her forearm with the right, “Your team failed charm school.”

  “What?” she asked as I slapped her left thigh a little harder than was necessary.

  “Charm school,” I repeated, “I bet they’re mean to their grandmothers.”

  “Grandmothers?” she asked as I caught her left hand in a writs lock with a stick.

  Warlock’s a good instructor and an experienced fighter. She countered the wrist lock by stepping in the correct direction to break the lock. It was the proper move unless you’re fighting someone who grew up around Druids. I pulled her harder in that direction, than stepped around her. One second she was countering a writ lock and the next, I was behind her.

  She spun to face me and dropped her center of gravity to avoid an anticipated head strike. Good move unless, lowering your head drives the points of your challenger’s sticks into your throat.

  Again, I’ll give her credit, she stopped when she felt the potentially dangerous pressure on her windpipe. I was already pulling the points back when she felt them touch the soft spot under her jaw. She couldn’t have known I had that kind of control.

  “You’re very good Warlock,” I said bowing to her, “Thank you for the workout.”

  “You’re not just a Fighter pilot, are you?” she asked rubbing the spot where my sticks had touched her. It was merely a reflex motion to reassure herself she wasn’t injured.

  “Not even that Sergeant,” I said placing the sticks on the rack and snatching up my blouse, “I’m just a supply deliver guy.”

  I hadn’t noticed but a small crowd had gathered. They’d been prepared for their Sergeant to administer a little justice on an uppity pilot. Instead, they watched her get destroyed, in a manner of speaking. One of Warlock’s team members took a step towards me. The massive guy was stopped in his tracks by a vicious strike to his solar plexus with the heel of her hand. Warlock was angry.

  About half way around the circular ledge, I found an empty space and leaned against the wall. Maybe I should have let her put on a show for her troops. But, I was sick of the disrespect and annoyed about the pilots’ and the teams’ attitudes.

  Gravity shifted and I used the bulkhead to catch my balance. It felt as if I were standing on a steep grade instead of a level deck. The lights dimmed and flat slabs of clear material came up from the lower deck. Flying up to join with the deck, they came together to form a see through rectangle shaped passageway.

  Steps were shoved against the structure to allow walk up access. A Strike-Kill team appeared. The five were dressed in fish scale body armor and carried weapons and other gear.

  Two lean ones walked into the rectangle and climbed the inside walls. I realized the gravity shift I’d experienced was a result of creating a low gravity environment in the training passageway. Two brutes followed the climbers in with a fifth, obviously their Team Leader, a few steps behind. The three stayed on the clear deck.

  I studied the passageway. Along the length on the outside were boxes corresponding to hatches on the inside. Some of the hatches were open, others were closed.

  The Team Leader gave a hand signal and the five began moving deeper into the passageway. What surprised me was the two on the ceiling didn’t climb down as the team advanced. They hung almost upside down. A hand and foot on the ceiling and the other hand and foot on the wall. They always kept three points of contact using bent elbows and knees to anchor to the ceiling before advancing a hand or foot. The movement seemed impossible. Yet, they managed to keep pace with the two brutes and the, I have to believe a Sergeant, Team Leader on the deck.

  As they worked their way down the passageway, one member of the team would signal and the advance would halt. The signaler would place an object on a hatch before giving the go ahead. Once they passed the hatch a flash leaped from the object. They were chemically welding the hatches shut.

  They’d passed and sealed three hatches. As they moved forward from the last one, a weapon dropped out of an open hatch and began firing at the team. I expected a duck and cover maneuver. Instead, all five concentrated fire on the weapon until it grew silent. Than a climber advanced on it, tossed a grenade in the opening, slammed it closed and sealed the hatch. The entire operation took seconds.

  All the explosives and ammo was simulator rounds. The munitions acted as real rounds without the devastation of live ammo. Another gun popped up from the deck this time. I wanted for the team to use focused fire again. They didn’t. One of the big guys pulled a sword from his back and decapitated the gun. There was nothing simulated about the sparks from the hot wires or the hunk of scrap metal the Team Leader kicked behind him as they once again advanced. I hoped the armory had a large supply of extra sim-guns.

  By the time the team reached the end of the passageway, all the hatches were sealed. As far as I could see, the team members suffered minimal damage.

  I now understood the purpose of the heaves and the gymnasts. With their training they could clear a ship’s passageway better than a squad of Marines. Climbing up to seal all the high hatches would slow down even the best trained unit. SNO had solved the issue by always having a member within arm’s reach of a hatch.

  I weaved my way back to the ladder and climbed it to the weightlifting level. Traversing the halls, I made my way to my sleeping cube. The pilots were playing cards or soaring their hands through the air and talking about long past dogfights. I ignored them and hit the rack.

  Chapter 33

  The Shuttle was old, patched together with odd pieces from scrapped shuttles. I almost wanted to call it a relic but I was the pilot and pilots always respected their boats. Thor, being a Captain and in charge of the Striker transport assets, had assigned me to the mess of a Shuttle.

  “You’ll feel right at home in it,” he’d said as he and the other six pilots climbed into GunShips.

  I didn’t bother telling him I hadn’t flown a Shuttle since Flight School. It wouldn’t have done any good, so I left it alone.

  Their GunShips weren’t in much better shape than my Shuttle. The Navy had DS GunShips scheduled for the unit. If the Navy said you have DS GunShips, then you didn’t need anything else. Even though they wouldn’t arrive for a year, as far as the Navy was concerned, you had ships.

  I don’t know where the Admiral had scrounged up the assets, possible from the Navy’s junk yard. Anyway, I was flying as an observer. Thor wanted me to learn the process before letting me handle the big boy toys, his words.

  The flight of seven attempted a touch, drop and go on a derelict Tramp Steamer. It was another of the Admiral’s acquisitions. As I watched, the seven GunShips landed in formation. Thor was on the radio as soon as they touched yelling for them to drop the Strike-Kill teams and get off the Steamer.

  It was the drop where the operation was falling apart. The lean members barely fit through the GunShip’s doors. It was taking the bulky members, made even more plus sized by their gear, a long time to squeeze through. So Thor was yelling about keeping a schedule and his pilots were yelling at the Strike-Kill teams to get out and the Strike-Kill teams were frustrated about the ill-equipped space crafts. All total, I think anyone was angry.

  Once the teams were offloaded, Thor started a new chant. He yelled about all the ships reaching the rally point on time. Except me, he didn’t want a Shuttle intermixing with the GunShip exercises he was choreographing.

  I spent the rest of the training cycle circling the Tramp. For fun and to break up the monotony, I scanned for each of the Strike-Kill teams and watched their progress. Like ants in a hill, they were scrambling all over the insides of the Steamer. The contact blinked in and out from time to time but mostly, I tracked their progress.

  Back aboard the Tres el Fuerte, I rushed to my cube and changed out of my flight suit. Slipping on a
dungaree work outfit, I went back to the flight deck.

  “Chief. About the Shuttle,” I said as I walked up to the mechanic.

  “Lieutenant. I know, I know,” he said while wiping his hands with a rag, “It belongs in a recycle bin. But, as you can see, three of the GunShips are ahead of you for repairs.”

  “Not a problem,” I said indicating my clothing, “I just wanted to ask if it was alright for me to work on her. With your approval, of course.”

  “There’s an empty bench over there and the supply room’s open for you,” he said pointing with the rag as if it were a flag, “Whatever you need, except for an extra pair of hands, it’s all yours.”

  At the Shuttle, I pulled the bolts from the Ion Wall access port. Once the Ion Cannons were exposed, I pulled all six and carried them, two at a time, to the work bench. From the supply room, I liberated new diodes and a big bucket of lubricant.

  The old diodes were over tightened from trying to overcome burn wear. I replaced them. As I’d been taught, I double checked them with the gap gauge before installing the new parts. A few frayed wires demanded another trip to the supply room. The rewiring went quickly.

  Finally, I was satisfied the Ion Cannons would give me all the power you could expect from an outdated power plant. I turned to the dirty job.

  The directional collars were corroded. The rot wouldn’t affect the power but it did retard the maneuverability. Shuttles are called buses for a reason. Under powered, combined with a lack of agility, made for less than a thrilling ride.

  I didn’t want thrills but I did want the Shuttle to perform to the best of her ability. From the first Ion Cannon to the last, each bracket and collar was scrapped, buffed and lubricated. It took hours and by the time I began carrying them, two at a time, back to the Ion Wall, I’d missed chow.

  The brackets were going up slow. I struggled with the rethreaded bolt holes and the mismatched ancient bolts. Plus, I was getting tired. Three were secured in place and I reached for the fourth Ion Cannon.

  “Lieutenant?” the mechanic asked sticking his head in the access port.

  “Right here, Chief,” I grunted as I positioned the bracket.

  “You’ve been at it for several hours,” he said climbing in and inspecting my work, “How about you come out and take a break?”

  I was too beat to answer so I slid by him. He was eyeing each and every Ion Cannon. That’s all I needed was to be told my work was subpar. Navy regulations and the discerning eye of the Navy Chief were one in the same. Both were inflexible.

  He finally crawled out to join me.

  “Do they pass?” I asked.

  “Walk with me,” he said heading for a workbench on the other side of my Shuttle.

  I sulked as we walked. If the repairs failed to meet his standards, he’d ground the Shuttle and I’d miss training.

  “When I crawled in there,” he said not bothering to look in my direction, “I had two choices depending on what I found.”

  “What the second?” I asked.

  He chuckled as we approached the work bench.

  “Ground the bird, as you know,” he said reaching for the edge of a cloth that covered the work bench, “or, invite you to share the mid rations. Let’s eat.”

  Mid Rations are meals served for personnel who work when the mess deck was closed. It was later than I thought and I happily shared a meal with the Chief and a handful of mechanics.

  As I finished and lay the container on the bench, one of the mechanics reached out and rested a hand on my arm.

  “We’ll finish up for you sir,” she said with a smile, “I’ll see what I can do about the electronics in the cockpit while we’re at it. “

  “Get out of here, Sir,” the Chief ordered, “You’ve got a flight in just a few hours.”

  “Aye, Chief,” I said, “Thank you.”

  “Look Lieutenant, if you get the itch to wrench some more,” he stated pointing to the GunShips, “You’re more then welcome.”

  “I think I’ve had my fill,” I said as I headed for the exit.

  The training over the next week went exactly the same as my first day. One angry Fight Commander, six frustrated pilots, equaled seven fuming Strike-Kill teams. While I flew, totally forgotten, in orbits around the Tramp Steamer. At least my Shuttle was performing up to specs and the electronics were better, much better. I almost never lost a team no matter how deep inside the Steamer they crawled.

  Before the training on day six, Admiral Folkert called a Special Navy Operations all hands meeting.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said for the upper deck of the gym, “Today is important. You’ve worked hard to perfect the assault aspect of the SNO mission. I’m increasing the intensity. While you slept and dined, naval ordinance personnel have been busy.”

  The mention of explosive experts being busy, sent a shiver down my spine. From what I’d observed, the assault they’d been perfecting was flawed. The exfiltration was slow and the coordination was scattered. Now the Admiral was talking about explosives. This couldn’t be good.

  “Today’s training,” the Admiral continued, “Will be conducted in as realistic an environment as we can safely provide. TNC has been placed in selected locations on the training Steamer. The locations and preset times for detonation are being downloaded to your PIDs as I speak. For safety reasons, while the TNC is set deep inside the Steamer, the ordinance detail has vented each explosion to the surface of the craft. This is to prevent internal damage from over pressure. It also will provide our pilots with realistic flight situations. But, ladies and gentlemen, the vents are no fly zones, so keep your GunShips clear of those areas.”

  He rambled on for another five minutes, pretty much restating the need for caution by the Strike-Kill teams and their pilots. And, lauding the benefits of adding tangible danger to everyone’s training. I couldn’t argue with the need, but I was still uneasy about this unit’s ability to execute in a live fire zone. It wasn’t my place or position to voice my concerns, so I didn’t.

  Five hours later, I was orbiting the Tramp Steamer, and out of boredom, mapping the actual locations of the TNC. I’d pinpointed about a third of them. As I flew another orbit, a few more were added to my map as periodic test signals aided my scanners in identifying their placement.

  I’d grown to know the Tramp Steamer from my leisurely orbits. She was a patchwork of various sections from different types of ships. What held them together, and gave some structural integrity to the assembly, were beams. From the center of the original Sloop, the Independent Transporters who had built her, had connected the pieces to a star burst of girders. As modules were added, the beams were lengthened. While they extended outward to support each new ship piece, their terminus was the hardened core around the Sloop’s Ion Wall. The Navy had cut some of the girders when they removed the Tramp Steamer’s primary drive. They’d also cut a few more of the connecting girders when they removed the three secondary Ion Walls.

  My map’s display, so far, had no TNC near any of the support beams. It wasn’t complete, but so far, I was glad to see the ordinance experts had avoided them.

  The seven GunShips appeared in a tight formation. Three split off from the formation to avoid a TNC vent but reformed the formation as the flight dropped onto the surface of the Steamer. Gasses vented from a hole, and while I couldn’t hear or feel anything, I knew the Strike-Kill teams were experiencing violent vibrations. Another explosion vented as the GunShips lifted off and the Teams disappeared into the skin of the Tramp. Two TNC locations blinked out on my map.

  Five more TNC locations took their place as the automatic system ran more tests. Two of the five were between support beams. I watched as the green light of Strike-Kill team number 4 navigated towards the area. They were timing it so they’d be beyond the beams before the detonation.

  My orbit carried me away from Team 4 and I tracked other teams who were quickly spreading throughout the Steamer. More vent holes spewed gases and corresponding lights
winked out on my map. Six more popped on and I witnessed the team’s worst nightmare. All six were at support beams.

  I pulled up the original locations on my Personnel Information Device. The six TNC locations were not positioned as reported. They’d either been moved or someone in Navy ordinance had placed them wrong.

  “J-Pop to Thor,” I radioed the flight commander, “J-Pop to Thor.”

  “J-Pop, stand by, we’re still setting our attack formation,” he radioed back.

  Below me was a disaster in the making and Captain ‘Ancient Hero’ was worried about a maneuver the DS GunShips would never be called on to perform.

  “Break off, break off. I am declaring an emergency,” I said, “TNC locations are mismarked and set to do structural damage. Abort training and evacuate the Teams. I say again, emergency, evacuate Strike-Kill teams.”

  “Understand J-Pop,” Thor shouted, “All GunShips, break off and evacuate the Teams.”

  Six pilots replied and I waited for them to return. Captain Wahid was monitoring the flight channel and also responded.

  “J-Pop, I’m recalling all the teams to the surface for pickup,” he stated, “Good call.”

  I’d orbited back over Team 4’s position. They were deeper in the Steamer. Actually four decks below where I’d last plotted them. A quick scan of the schematic I’d created, told the tale.

  The salvagers who sold the derelict Steamer to the Navy had cut straight through the ship. It was easier to strip out the fiber optic cables and the Ion Cannons from the drive walls. They were valuable and the Navy didn’t want the items. But, where they had drilled for access, they left holes. Probably collection points for the valuable scrap, the holes were four deck high voids. Team 4 had fallen through the ceiling of a collection area.

  GunShips were flying in and landing wherever team members appeared. A group would crawl out of an access port and a GunShip would swoop in and collect them. There was no orders or proper count. Some ships hovered, waiting for Teams to make it to the surface. Others had two or seven passengers. Almost none had the complete team they had deposited.