by Daniel Gibbs
“If you’d like, Boss, I can start working something up.”
Papoutsis nodded. “Yes. It's probably time to send an unmistakable message that we won’t be trifled with.” Even if it causes the accursed CDF to send more and larger vessels. He left off the overall plan to move out of the Jewel Box nebula area the moment they’d fulfilled the terms of their agreement to the mysterious benefactor who supplied them with credits, ships, and weapons. Papoutsis didn’t trust anyone with that knowledge.
“Got it, Boss. Anything else?”
“Did we recover any cargo pods off the Hadley?”
“Enough to make good on our losses but not much more.” Parish shrugged. “Don’t we get a bounty for sinking her, though?”
That was part of the agreement with their associates—bonus schedules for destroying ships based on tonnage along with extra payments for blowing up escape pods. Completely wiping out a vessel paid quite handsomely. Most of the time, Papoutsis tried to make a little bit more by scooping up some cargo pods. “Yes,” he replied icily. “Replace our losses, bring in some new blood, and get ready to hit another ship. We might try our hand at two at a time… see how the Terrans like that.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Get out,” Papoutsis snarled and put his eyes back on the tablet. The hatch clanged shut, leaving him alone. There was a time when I held to the code. For as long as Papoutsis could remember, he’d dreamed of real success: being known as a privateer without peer. More than a few “freeports” in human neutral space were without large military fleets and, more importantly, free from interference from the major empires.
Something was missing, though, as he considered how far he’d come from humble beginnings on Aphendrika. Everyone is a hero in their own story. In Papoutsis’s own way, he’d wanted to be a hero that took from the rich and gave to the poor and downtrodden. When he got started, he’d sought out a ship from Cyrilgrad because it had a reputation for not harming spacers and even giving ten percent of the haul to charity. For a time, much profit had been made off megacorp freighters.
Eventually, the megacorps wised up, expanded their security divisions, and worked with the military forces from neutral worlds and the empires that would do business with them to crack down on pirates. It drove them to attack smaller freighters, and before too long, they were robbing hand-to-mouth independent spacer captains to feed themselves.
That a hardened criminal would commit murder on a large scale just to get a payday wasn’t such a stretch, but Papoutsis had always thought himself better than that. Now he knew he wasn’t. The idea of death terrified him, because he had a sneaking suspicion that when he finally passed on from this universe, he would face judgment at the hands of a higher power for all the sins he and those under him had committed. Papoutsis sucked in a breath and resolved to delay that day for as long as possible. Perhaps in time, I can atone for my misdeeds in some way. For the moment, the only way forward was with more innocent blood on his hands.
7
For Tehrani, the adrenaline rush of fighting for her life had given way to the boredom of deep-space anti-piracy patrol. Jump after jump, solar system after solar system, the Zvika Greengold and Battlegroup Z had a lot of ground to cover. The prospect of combat against the pirates was as much a chess match as it was a brawl against an asymmetrical opponent. After standing watch during the first shift, she went to her day cabin and started the usual grind of paperwork. With some level of amusement, Tehrani glanced at a message proclaiming a new initiative to reduce the complexity of personnel transfer forms. Yet it had three new forms attached to it. She chuckled.
The intercom on her desk buzzed. “Colonel, I’ve got flash traffic for you from CIS. Agent Grant is requesting a vidlink, ma’am,” Lieutenant Singh informed her.
Tehrani sucked in a breath. “Put him through.” I’ll probably need a shower after this.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
A moment later, her tablet came alive with Grant’s smiling face. “Colonel Tehrani! So good to see you again.” His voice oozed fake charm, not unlike a proverbial used-helicar salesman.
Forcing the most pleasant tone she could muster, Tehrani spoke. “I take it you got my message, Agent Grant?”
“Yes, I did. Very, very interesting, I might add.”
“Do I have to pry it out of you?” Tehrani’s patience ran thin with most spooks but was nonexistent with Grant.
“You don’t like me very much, do you, Colonel?” Grant smiled ever wider.
Tehrani fought to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “No, Mr. Grant, I don’t. Not after our last encounter.”
“I told you. My unique skills are useful. ” The smile disappeared in an instant. “And whatever else you may think about it, know this: I detest the League of Sol, and I’ll do whatever it takes to purge that monstrosity of an ideology from the universe.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re telling the absolute gospel truth.” Tehrani’s eyes narrowed. “Which is why I distrust you.”
“You need me about right now, Colonel.” Grant’s smug smile returned. “I have something you’re in desperate need of.”
Again, the bile rose in her throat. Oh, how I would enjoy ripping that expression off his face. “A fleet of escorts and a few more escort carriers?”
Grant chuckled. “No. A Q-ship.”
“A what ship?”
“Converted freighter… the CSV Farnborough. It presents as a regular old Aaron-Elesinberg MkII freighter but has stronger weapons than a frigate. Moreover, I’m assured we can fit some of your space-superiority fighters into the cargo bays.” Another smirk flickered onto his face. “I should mention those holds open up to the void.”
The tactical possibilities swam through Tehrani’s mind. We could catch an enemy by surprise. Especially pirates, even if their modus operandi is different than the norm. “That sounds like an interesting vessel—but how do you know it's not compromised? A ship such as what you describe must have been spotted at some point.”
“You never miss a beat, Colonel.” Grant licked his lips. “CIS goes to great lengths to keep the actual ownership and purpose of the Farnborough a secret. She’s designated as the ISV Dumaran and registered with the Interstellar Spacers Union. The entire crew has deep-cover legends. It speaks to the extraordinary nature of the threat I believe we face that CIS would sanction an operation involving her.”
“Pirates?”
“Colonel, you’re far too smart to play dumb with me,” Grant scoffed. “These are no ordinary pirates, if that’s even what they are.”
While Tehrani had her doubts after facing the enemy in battle, she was intrigued by Grant’s statement. “What do you think we’re facing?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps a significant escalation from drug- and human-trafficking cartels or an unholy alliance of megacorps. Nation-state involvement can’t be ruled out, including the League of Sol. Unfortunately, my colleagues believe we’re just dealing with up-gunned pirates.”
“Are you saying you don’t have sanction for whatever you’re proposing, Agent?” Tehrani groaned inwardly. She immediately sensed, from a strategic and tactical perspective, the odds of successfully completing her mission went up dramatically with this Q-ship. I’m also uninterested in a court-martial. A smile briefly creased her face. We hit Earth and survived. These pirates have nothing on the Zvika Greengold.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Colonel.” The used-helicar-salesman smirk returned. “Look, the piece of information that blew this situation wide open for me is your confirmation on Matrinid-tech weapons. I cannot stress to you how closely they guard technology. Anything can be bought for the right price, but we’ve been trying for decades to access meson-based energy weapons—without success.”
“In other words, whoever’s behind these attacks has serious juice?”
Grant nodded. “Got it in one, Colonel. I’ll send you a set of coordinates in deep space for a rendezvous. While I’m good at the cloak-and
-dagger stuff, space combat isn’t my thing. By the time we meet, have some fantastic CDF battle planning completed. Remember—I need to get the Farnborough home in one piece.”
To her incredible surprise, Tehrani’s mind was already churning with possibilities. It shocked her how easy it was to accept the possibly illegal appropriation of the CIS vessel. “And I need to avoid a court-martial, Agent.”
“Leave that to me. I’ll… secure the appropriate paperwork.”
“Good.” Tehrani forced a smile to her face. “Anything else, Agent?”
“No, I’m good. Have a great day, Colonel. We’ll be seeing each other.”
The vidlink screen went black, leaving Tehrani alone with her thoughts. It dawned on her that she would’ve been better off not accepting his call.
It took Justin two hours to write up the entirety of the Red Tails after-action report from their first engagement with the pirates. He’d spent more time studying gun-holocamera footage and working it all together into a usable demonstration of the enemy's capabilities and tactics. Individually, each craft was almost superior to a Terran Coalition SF-86 Sabre. The CDF fighters retained superior training. Each pirate pilot seemed to view combat as a one-on-one activity, not a team sport. Feeling thankful that Whatley had drilled the need to work together into them religiously, Justin paused outside the hatch to the CAG’s office.
“Come in!”
Justin blinked. I haven’t hit the buzzer yet. He pushed the hatch open. “How’d you know I was there, sir?”
“I’m psychic.” Whatley smirked. “Get your ass in here, Captain.”
As he slid into one of the side chairs, Justin raised an eyebrow. “I somehow doubt that, sir.”
“Your feet make a distinctive sound on the deck plates.” Whatley narrowed his eyes. “Pay attention to everything, even the smallest detail.”
“Yes, sir.” Justin shifted his feet. “I completed a review of the prior engagement. I’d like to get additional Sabres, Boars, and Maulers on deck. Go back to having twelve craft on ready five and another twelve on ready thirty.”
Whatley shook his head. “That schedule kills the crew chiefs, Captain. Even though I love to chew them out, I have to accept the reality of human limits at some point.”
“I also want to install rocket pods on the Red Tails’ Sabres. They would make sense for everyone to carry.”
“Why?” Whatley stared at him. “Those pods are for ground attack.”
“Yes, sir. However, we used them to significant effect against League bombers. I think we could inflict some damage on those corvettes and the pirates' heavy fighters with them.”
“I recall your unorthodox strategies,” Whatley replied. “Okay, fine by me, but remember—while there’s no drag in the void, additional mass lowers your delta-V.”
Justin had already considered that point and dismissed it. “Yes, sir.” We’re going to need every advantage we can get.
“Any other suggestions?”
“Besides get another carrier in here?”
Whatley snickered. “Try something that’s not a miracle from God Himself.”
Justin set his jaw. “We could try having two elements of Boars engage the bandits. They appear especially suited for dogfighting heavier craft and can carry additional Vultures and Eagles if we swapped out the anti-ship missiles.”
“Let me test my understanding here. Justin Spencer, ace of aces, wants to sit out a dogfight in favor of a different squadron because they might have better luck against the enemy because of some observation he made?” Whatley quirked his nose. “Did I hear that right?”
Justin felt his cheeks warm. I suppose I deserved that. “Uh… well, uh… yes, sir.”
“Good. There’s hope for you growing up into a seasoned officer after all.” Whatley winked. “Don’t let it go to your head.” Silence broke out as Whatley seemed to appraise him. “Did you decide on Winged Lightning’s new CO?”
“Yes, sir. Going to go with the squadron XO, First Lieutenant Kaczka.”
“Feldstein didn’t want it?”
“No, sir.” Justin shook his head. “She’d prefer to fly Sabres, per our conversation.”
“So,” Whatley said as he sucked in a breath. “You going to tell me what was going on there, or do I have to drag it out of you with laps around the hangar deck?”
Oh shit. Justin figured he probably resembled a deer caught in headlights as he stared mutely at Whatley. His jaw flapped a few times as his cheeks grew hot.
Whatley laughed loudly and slapped his desk. “Oh, Spencer, you’ve got to work on that poker face. What happened? You guys have a falling out? Disagreement over how to run the squadron? Maybe one of you got a little too friendly.”
“Uhhh—”
“Ah, so you did get too friendly. No fraternization on the Zvika Greengold. It’s not allowed, per the UCMJ, but I especially won’t have it here. Leads to distractions. Distractions get my pilots killed.”
“We—I had a moment of weakness, sir. It’s resolved, we’re good, and it won’t happen again.” No, it won’t. That much, I know. Intense shame coursed through every fiber of Justin’s being. What happened was bad enough, but that the CAG knew about it was almost worse.
“Do you remember me telling you that all of us have to find a way to keep going in war?”
“Yes, sir.”
Whatley leaned back in his chair. “Well, you discovered one of the ways to do it. I did, too, once.”
“Sir?”
“You don’t think I was always a gruff old man barking orders at youngsters, do you?” Whatley grinned. “I was going to marry a fellow pilot once.” His face clouded over. “Trust me. You don’t want to make that mistake. Besides, pretty sure you’ve got a wife waiting at home.”
“And another baby on the way.”
“Ah. Another reason to keep your head screwed on straight.”
Justin felt as if Whatley’s eyes were boring into his soul. “I make no excuses, sir.”
“There’s a reason why I’m rough on you, son.” Whatley’s expression softened into what passed for concern, coming from him. “You’ve got a lot of potential. Not just to be a great pilot—lots of people can do that. I see leadership qualities in you. If I keep tuning you and ensure you stay on the straight and narrow path, I think you’ll go far. Part of it is good character.”
“My dad used to say character is what you do when no one else is watching.”
“Someone’s always watching.” Whatley pointed his index finger upward. “If nothing else, He is.”
The usual annoyance or condescension Justin used to feel when someone brought up God wasn’t there. In its place was a level of shame, knowing that a higher power looking down on him would see Justin’s many sins. “Funny you put it that way. I’ve grown to believe the same.”
Whatley raised an eyebrow. “I saw you at the chapel once. Didn’t realize it stuck.”
“I don’t know if it did.” Justin shrugged. “But I had to face some hard truths, and one of them is I can’t control everything around me, nor do I believe everything is purely random chance.”
Silence again broke out in the office. It quickly became oppressive, though Justin wasn’t sure what to say. The entire set of subjects was wildly uncomfortable to him.
“Is your head in the game?”
Justin narrowed his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he replied without even thinking. Of course it is.
“Okay. I’m going to hold you to that, because if it’s not, you’ll make mistakes. And when you make mistakes—”
“Pilots die.” Justin set his jaw. “It’s bad enough, the losses we’ve taken. I won’t be the cause of more.”
“Good. That’s the right attitude, son.” Whatley stretched, tilting his head back. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get back to your duties. I’ll consider the Boar request. Dismissed.”
Justin sprang out of the chair. “Yes, sir. Good day, sir.”
; “Godspeed, Captain.”
After the discussion with Major Whatley, Justin ended up spending a few more hours on squadron-readiness reviews, inspecting several damaged Sabres, and writing a condolence message to Lieutenant Hawkins's wife. He detested how easy it had become to write them. The first time he wrote one, it had cut him to the core, but now it was something he did at times without emotion. It shouldn’t be this easy to lose our friends. But I’m not, am I? I’ve got a few people I’ve stayed close to but not the new pilots. Not the replacements that aren’t likely to survive.
Justin continued to ruminate on the topic over a quick dinner, which he consumed alone in the mess closest to the hangar deck. Then he made his way to the chapel for the first time in a couple of weeks. Since meeting with Father Elliott after returning from the Sol mission, Justin had gone to services a few times. He’d even gotten through a few of the Bible verses the chaplain gave him.
At 1945 CMT, most of the first- and second-watch personnel were off duty. Many of them were asleep, and that was reflected in how empty the chapel was. Justin pushed the hatch open and made his way to a pew. Each one had an actual paper printed Bible in it along with various hymn books and religious materials, since several denominations of Christians used the same space. Jews and Muslims had their spiritual areas elsewhere on the deck.
One of the passages Elliott had given Justin to review was in Deuteronomy. He flipped open the Bible in front of him and leafed to the page the verse appeared on. “Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will never leave you nor forsake you.”
“Words to live by,” Father Elliott said.
Startled, Justin whirled around to see the priest standing a pew over. “Uh, sorry, Father. I didn’t hear you come in.”