by J.J. Mainor
My Internet Nightmare
Copyright 2015 by J.J. Mainor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
My Internet Nightmare
Author’s Notes
Preview: USS Krakowski
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Preview: Are There Heroes In Hell?
Chapter H-1
Chapter H-2
Chapter H-3
Chapter H-4
Preview: Prisoners of Utopia
Chapter P-1
Chapter P-2
Chapter P-3
Chapter P-4
Chapter P-5
Also By J.J. Mainor
As I hit reply and let my comment slip into the ether of my favorite internet message board, I took great satisfaction. I had been coming to my favorite message board for over a year under a variety of names and personas. As my own mood and personality changed, so too did my online presence.
There were always those who disagreed with me. Some ran crying to the moderators when a differing opinion hurt their feelings. Others flamed me openly when my superior arguments trashed their own, infantile ramblings.
Then there was the one moderator abusing his power and stalking me about the message board. Whenever he was online, he always searched for my profile. Jealous of my following on "his" board, he sought to undermine it. Frequently my posts would disappear for no reason. My threads were locked. In the worst cases, he would ban my username and force me to create another.
This mod had a following of his own: a group of like-minded members always instigating flame wars. When their enemies flamed back, the mod had his excuse to ban them. No doubt the whole group congratulated each other through the personal messaging system.
Tonight, I gave them no reason to ban me. My latest post was polite, professional, rational, and all around brilliant. Not one of the unapproved swear words appeared, and I even avoided naming the mod or any of his "crew" by name. I was sure he had no recourse but to sit at his computer and stew, while I waited for the follow-up posts agreeing with me.
Soon another posting grabbed my attention. A reply formed in my mind, but when I hit the reply button, I was sent not to the reply screen, but to the familiar message telling me I was banned!
I admit I was fuming. After all, I did nothing wrong. It was that stuck up moderator with his head up his behind who was only out to get me. Registering a new screen name, my first impulse was to send off an angry message accusing him of abusing his power. What could he do? Ban me again? I could always create another username and come back.
I could have sent him a private message telling him what a power-hungry Nazi he was and that he would regret this latest banning. Instead I decided I'd rather take the moral high road and ignore him. I searched for the register button when I felt a chill beneath my skin. I looked for the thermostat to see if I had neglected to properly adjust it for my comfort, however it registered the same temperature it always did.
"Had I been sitting still too long?" Sometimes I would have to set the thermostat to a higher temperature if I had been sitting too long, but I didn't think I had.
While I pondered the heat or lack thereof, there was suddenly a scratching on my window. I admit I was startled enough to jump from my seat, even though it turned out to be nothing more than a tree branch brushing against my window.
Before I could take relief from that discovery, the room went dark! It was only a light bulb burning out, but I was convinced the stars had aligned to tell me something...or maybe they were conspiring to stop my new registration.
The moderator certainly didn't have the power to reach out across the internet and chill my room, brush a tree limb across my window, or cause my light bulb to burn out. My mind was merely getting the best of me. Outside of a few meaningless mod duties, he had no real power over me. Nothing he could do could ever truly hurt me.
With my new resolve, I returned to my computer. My finger gravitated toward the left mouse button, as I slipped the pointer over the register button on my screen. With a gentle motion, I started the registration process anew.
I knew something wasn't right when the button didn't take me to the familiar screen with the fields asking for an email address, a screen name, and a password. No, this screen was far different.
My eyes scanned across the rows of text dominating my screen, drawing to one line printed in a bold typeface, standing out above all others.
"You're IP has been banned."
This evil mod had torn my very soul in two. The ten minutes it might take to search for instructions on changing my IP and implementing them would surely seem like an eternity. I fell from my chair and onto my knees. Raising my hands skyward, I screamed. That evil moderator had finally broken me.
Author’s Notes
If you’ve read this far, then I hope you are a fan of flash fiction. I can imagine how annoying it is to pick up a story hoping for something it’s not. I tried to let you know how short the story was. The word count is usually plastered on the retailer’s site where you picked up this copy, but admittedly it can get lost in the other information on the page, and all these extras we authors love to add tend to inflate that word count. I also know how easy it is to click that “buy” button before you realize you’re not on the page, looking at the book you thought you were.
I must admit to enjoying short stories myself as a reader. With the weather growing warming, I enjoy spending evenings outside reading other indie books. As much I enjoy immersing myself in a wonderfully crafted universe, sometimes I just want to sit down with a story I can finish in one sitting.
Whether you found this silly little piece to be exactly what you hoped for, or you were disappointed after picking it up by accident, I would encourage you to leave a review with the retailer supplying this copy. And if you wish to check out some of my other work, then keep reading for a few free previews.
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Preview: USS Krakowski
1
It came from behind Neptune: a ship. Large. Dark. Alien. Slipping between the tiny inner moons. Uncertain and uninterested until it settled on a brief orbit around Proteus; a larger, irregular, and rocky body. Its interest short-lived, the ship moved on to the outer moons.
On the icy surface of Triton sat a sprawling complex known as the Madrazo Station. Part research base, part supply depot, its main mission was the harvesting and processing of the ice. The methane and water were themselves vital, but so were the hydrogen and oxygen extracted. Anyone heading to the Kuiper Belt needed the resources, as did the supply ships the station depended on.
The most recent supply ship, the USS Montefering had left orbit almost twelve hours ago. Dr. Mariposa Harkins, director of the station, had just checked on the new arrivals, and was on her way to the storage pod to see how the inventory was going.
As usual, there were discrepancies with the manifest. Since the supply ships belonged to the military, the Montefering wouldn’t wait around for them to sort it out. And since there was no accountability for the resources anyway, all Harkins was worried about was what they did get and how much rationing, if any, would have to be done before the next supply run.
Drs. Evelyn Arndt and Hector Cabino were checking the food crates. The spare parts and nonedible supplies had already been checked and sent to their proper departments. They were easy to inventory. B
ut the hundreds of food crates had to be opened and verified by hand. Though the crates were barcoded for easy identification, the barcodes matched the goods inside about as accurately as the manifest matched the shipment.
Cabino opened a crate and examined the meal pouches inside. “More dried carrot chips.” He made the notation in the database opened on his Personal Control Tablet. Arndt stole a glance at the totals on her own PCT.
“Good, we now have enough of those to supply all the Jupiter stations.”
Dr. Harkins’ lack of surprise at the development signaled the frequency of the problem. Last month, more than half the food shipment contained dried cabbage. The month before, they received cherry jubilee. Just once the crews wished the mistakes would bring them excess Salisbury steak or chicken teriyaki.
It was widely known, but never admitted that the military would switch out some of their least favorite rations from their own stores during the supply runs; but in the spirit of accountability, the ships’ crews placed the blame on the commissary.
Supply orders were typically picked by underpaid and undereducated functionaries, whose main concern was taking their break period. It was no secret they would fill orders with whatever was closest rather than take the time to search and walk the expansive warehouse. While it was bad enough the drones took no pride in their jobs, there were supervisors who were supposed to oversee the crews and verify the accuracy of the shipments. As long as it was acceptable to blame their crews and deflect responsibility, they would put even less effort into doing their jobs than their underlings.
It did no good to file complaints. The problem had been going on since the first stations were established, yet every time the station directors contacted the managers on Earth, those managers always acted like they had no idea of the problem. There had been instances of near starvation, and more than one accident had turned deadly over the years because either spare parts or needed medical equipment never made it onto the ships. Blame always managed to return to the leadership of those stations, meaning there would never be accountability Earthside.
Dr. Harkins took up her PCT and called up the inventory. Besides the carrots, another notation grabbed her attention. “At least this time this time they sent us the red water flavoring. I was getting tired of the purple.”
Dr. Arndt set aside the crate she had just inventoried, and opened the next one. “Now if they could create a flavoring that tasted like something.” She examined the pouches inside. “Looks like we get pizza for one night.”
Cabino noted it in a message on his PCT and sent it out. Arndt smirked when it arrived on her unit.
Harkins glanced it over and deleted it. “Thanks for saving me the trouble of making the crew’s day.” Another message immediately flashed on her PCT. “Did we make another discovery already?” She opened the message and found it was not another gag.
“What is it,” Cabino asked.
“Probably nothing. I’ll let you two get back to work.” Dr. Harkins left the storage pod. On her way to the control pod, she scanned through data streaming in on her PCT. One of the satellites in orbit detected movement close to their moon. While it normally detected movement from the smaller rocks littering the Neptunian system, this object had to be unusually large to trigger an alert.
Dr. Weiling Sun, the station’s meteorologist, sat in the control pod pouring through the data from the satellite. Harkins took a seat at the station beside her. She set her PCT flat on the work surface triggering a virtual screen from the device. Then expanding it to three screens, she called up the incoming data on one, the video from the on board camera on the second, while leaving the third for shared work.
“Any idea what it is?” Unfortunately the object remained hidden in the shadows of the moon so the camera only registered a dark mass within the darkness. But the satellite’s other systems recorded plenty of data for the two scientists to analyze.
Dr. Sun highlighted the object’s path and kicked it to Harkins. “It has to be a ship. It made an unnatural course correction before entering orbit.”
They both knew it was not American. The USS Montefering was the only American ship in this region of the solar system, and it was twelve hours closer to Earth. Harkins called up the Universal Positioning Data in her third window. By treaty, all nations were required to fix positioning beacons on any space vessels in operation. And while it could take anywhere from sixteen to twenty hours for an updated signal to reach Neptune depending on where in the system a ship was, any signal of consequence would only be an hour or two old at most.
But no signals registered near the station. Sun worked to reposition a couple other satellites. A second one orbited behind the first. If she could alter its orbit as it came around the moon, she might be able to silhouette the object against Neptune. Another satellite orbiting the main planet, was about to emerge from behind the gas giant, giving them a distant view. The cameras would have to be rotated toward the moon, but with any luck, it might have access to light the other two satellites lacked.
In the meantime, Dr. Harkins accessed the station’s communications system. “This is Madrazo Station to unknown vessel: please identify yourself.” Her message was met with silence.
Dr. Sun brought up the video from the second satellite. “Another minute before it’s in position.”
“I repeat, this is Madrazo Station to unknown vessel: please identify yourself.” Her message once again earned no response. Harkins studied the raw data for any sign the ship received the message. A few readings grabbed her attention. She highlighted the pertinent data and kicked it to Sun. “Am I seeing this correctly?”
Dr. Sun looked through the readings. The satellite recorded extremely low temperatures from the ship, far too cold for human habitation.
“It’s possible,” Sun observed, “the crew is suited up. They might have life support turned off to confuse detection.”
“And if that thing is alien, they might not require the same environment we do.”
The second satellite finally captured the ship. As hoped the backdrop of the planet gave them a shape to work with. Dr. Sun ran the calculations to determine its size, while Dr. Harkins pulled up a database of known Earth ships for comparison. There was no match. Still it might have been someone’s top secret, experimental design. Dr. Sun found the ship to be rather large, several decks at least, though still maybe half the size of those in the U.S. fleet.
Dr. Harkins repositioned the communications antennae to target the inner solar system. It would be more than an hour before the Montefering would receive any message she sent, and another three after that before it reached Earth. With another ten minutes or so before the third satellite would be in position, she couldn’t wait any longer to inform Home Command.
2
The USS Dominic T Montefering was named for the 68th President of the United States. The last President to lose his reelection bid, Montefering was remembered for his botched response to Russian aggression in the Arctic, nearly a generation ago. The territorial disputes had raged for nearly two centuries, but Montefering’s disinterest in foreign matters created a vacuum of sorts that allowed the Russians to seize control of the entire Artic sea floor. A furious Canada retaliated against his indifference by cancelling precious oil contracts at a time when available reserves were about to dry up worldwide. Though alternatives had long ago steered much of the world away from fossil fuels and dragged out Peak Oil, a handful of key industries still relied on the crude. The reserves existing in the more extreme parts of the globe such as beneath the arctic sea floor were so valuable, the arctic nations were ready to go to war over territorial rights. And that war occupied most of the 69th President’s eight years in office.
When the Air Force commissioned the USS Montefering, there were those who lobbied against the name. The practice was to name the ships of the Space Fleet after recent former presidents and number 68 was the next in line. E
ven congressmen from his own party were afraid to argue in favor of the honor, but the Air Force was afraid if they made the exception this time, it would set an example that could turn the next commissioning into a partisan battle.
Still time had not softened public opinion of the former President, and the USS Montefering became a bit of an embarrassment to serve on. Over time it earned the least favorable missions, and became the station for the least desirables in the military: the inexperienced, the disgraced, and the burnouts.
The ship’s commander, Colonel Rey Cardoza, had just received his command a couple months ago. For him, this was not a punishment, but a stepping stone until another ship became available, but he treated the ship and crew as if they were the flagship of the fleet. Despite the lack of prestige, the assignment was fairly easy while the country was in peacetime. If conflict erupted, they would remain in orbit around Earth supporting any ground operation. During peace, their only task was to ferry supplies and personnel to the various civilian outposts in the system.
As easy as they had it, Cardoza and his crew looked forward to getting back to Earth. In just over twenty hours, they would make orbit. After unloading the cargo and personnel they were returning from the Madrazo Station, the ship was scheduled for three weeks of maintenance, during which time the crew would receive some much needed shore leave.
Cardoza himself looked forward to seeing his wife. With more than twenty years of service, and the kids grown and out of the house, the long deployments had become routine. Yet the reunions were no less joyous than they had been during those first years. He knew many among his crew were in their first years of service, anxious to get back to their parents and spouses and children.
An alert on his PCT brought his mind back to the job. Communications had recorded a message.
“This is Madrazo Station,” it began in Dr. Harkins’ voice. “Time is zero eight seventeen zulu. We have an unidentified ship in orbit around Triton; and we have been unable to establish communication. Will follow with more details as they become available. Out.”
From his PCT, Cardoza issued the orders to his crew to reverse course and return to Triton. With communications taking several hours to cross the expanse of the system, orders were often slow to come from Earth. It meant, the Colonels commanding the ships in the space fleet often had to make command decisions without the input from the Generals they would have had on an Earth based assignment. Nor did Cardoza have the luxury of passing the alert onto another commander because of their maintenance needs. As he brought up the communications system to inform Earth of their change in course, he knew his crew would have to accept the delay of shore leave.
Another message came in. “This is Madrazo Station. Time is zero eight twenty-one zulu. Unidentified ship has broken orbit and appears to be heading into the solar system. Unable to track at this time. I am sending all data we have on this ship. Out.”
The Colonel sent out orders to his officers. Sensors would have to be directed toward Neptune to try and locate the target, while the data from Triton needed to be analyzed.
The Personal Control Tablets meant command could be decentralized from the bridge. Officers could spend their time directly with their flights or units within their departments, while commands could be issued and information shared through the devices. Their portability meant the ship’s commander could lead while touring his ship, or breaking for a meal, or even visiting the head.
Cardoza called up the duty roster looking for the next officer in rotation for an off-ship mission. It was too early to say that mission was needed, but a team had to be assembled and ready to fly if so. That mission would belong a Lieutenant Jace Modeen.
Like many of the crew, Lt Modeen came with the ship. Cardoza knew he had survived a court martial, but because a condition of the plea deal kept the records on the case sealed, Cardoza had no idea what the charges were. All he knew was Modeen had been demoted to first lieutenant, killing any hopes for promotion in the future. Whatever happened, it could not have been severe enough to force retirement.
From what he had seen, Lt. Modeen was as dedicated as anyone he ever served with. Never heard him complain about his assignment on the Montefering, never heard him complain about command assignments on missions, never even complained about orders. Every “yes sir” came from his mouth with the enthusiasm of a first day recruit. Modeen came across as the kind of guy that was here for the service, and not the rank or pay.
3
Lt Modeen was found in the ship’s gym with some of the marines. Though the ship had artificial gravity, it was not maintained at 1g. Officially the purpose was to acclimate the relief personnel to the lower gravity environments on whatever research station they were destined for, though everyone in the service knew the real reason was to save power. Regardless of the reason, it meant the troops had to spend extra time keeping their muscles from wasting away.
The marines secretly loved the lower gravity gym. In the bars back on Earth, they could impress the women with claims of a four or five hundred pound bench press. But Modeen just wanted to make sure his legs would still work when he got back to Earth.
The marines halted their lifts. Modeen couldn’t yet feel it, but they sensed something was off about the ship. The marines were largely inactive while the ship was in transit. Officially they were stationed on the ships in the unlikely event of a conflict situation on one of the extraterrestrial bases. Unofficially, they were the workhorses loading and unloading supplies and equipment at each stop. The rest of the time, accounting for about 75% of their mission, all they could do was train within the confines of the tight ship. Life was largely dull, and without much else to worry about, they became rather in tune with the sounds and movements of the ship. They could tell the ship was undergoing a rather large course correction.
Finally noticing it himself, Lt Modeen stopped his workout and reached for his PCT before realizing he had left it in his cabin. Though he was off duty, regulations required he keep it with him at all times. He didn’t anticipate an emergency while they were in transit.
The marines had their PCTs, but received little information on the situation. Either they weren’t needed, or they didn’t have clearance for that information. Modeen approached the one who seemed to be the leader of the group.
“Excuse me, I’m Lt Modeen.”
The head marine sneered at him. “Do you want me to salute?”
The others smirked. Modeen took it in stride. He understood had he been younger, he might have been ignorant of protocol in this situation, one in which a salute was not warranted.
“No, I want to borrow your control tab.”
The marines laughed again. “And where’s yours, Lieutenant?”
Modeen shrugged his shoulders and headed for the hatch. “If you don’t want to know what’s going on, I’ll go find it.”
“Wait!” Their leader chased after him and handed over his PCT. Modeen thanked him, brought up the login screen and scanned his fingerprint, giving him more access than the marines had. He scanned through pages and pages of unsorted data to find the reason for the course correction.
“We’re going back to Neptune.”
The smirks and giggles from the marines turned to shouts of shock and disappointment as the realization of cancelled shore leave struck them.
“Why are we going back,” one of them complained.
Modeen found the message from Madrazo Station. “There’s an unidentified ship in the region.”
At that moment, the hatch opened, and Colonel Cardoza entered the gym. “Lt Modeen, I need you back on duty.”
“Yes, sir,” Modeen snapped back. “Is this about the unidentified ship?”
Cardoza noted the PCT in his hands, already streaming the data. “It left Triton at zero eight twenty-one zulu. We’re trying to locate it now, so we can intercept it. I need you to put together a team and have it ready and waiting in a transport
shuttle by fourteen hundred zulu. If we cannot establish communications once we intercept, your team will launch and board that ship to determine its origin and make a threat assessment. Madrazo Station collected data for about twenty minutes. It’s not much, but you will need it.”
“Understood, sir.” After Cardoza left, Modeen returned the PCT to his new friend. “How would you boys like a mission?”
“That’s what we’re here for. I’m Master Sergeant Dimon Barcus.” A Master Sergeant! He ranked too high to lead a single team of marines on an off-ship mission, but the man seemed willing enough. They were so used to remaining cooped up in that ship, he was willing to take on the role of one of his corporals just to see some action. As they shook hands, Modeen counted heads, wondering how many with Barcus were also higher ranking Non Commissioned Officers.
“I’ll need a full unit,” Modeen asked. “Can you get me a few more heads?”
“Consider it done.”
“We’ll brief on the flight deck at ten thirty zulu.”
The Lieutenant retrieved his own PCT from his quarters and searched for his pilot, probably the easiest choice he had to make.
Captain Corey Deckard was his best friend, and a ladies man. While the marines impressed with their strength and toughness, Deckard was the guy who flew a space ship. It helped Modeen in the bars being the friend of the guy who flew space ships, but he also appreciated Deckard’s loyalty.
Deckard had been the only person who stood up for Modeen during the court martial. Being one of the few people who knew the truth behind the incident, he wasn’t willing to let his friend take the fall, even though in the end it only helped his own quiet reassignment to the Montefering.
It would be a ballsy move to poach the Captain for his mission. Deckard’s experience placed him on ship operations. He hadn’t been in rotation for shuttle duty since making captain.
“The Colonel will not go for this,” Deckard warned. The Captain was the only person on the bridge when Modeen found him, giving them freedom to speak.
“He doesn’t have a choice. If I get a go for this mission, that ship will not be stationary. None of those lieutenants on rotation have experience docking with another ship at these speeds. I’m not asking because I want you, I need you.”
Deckard had to admit, he missed the excitement of flying the smaller shuttles. The larger ships had their thrill, but they were not meant for quick maneuvers. Yet the shuttle was not meant for the same high speeds the Montefering could reach. His friend would need someone experienced to pilot.
“On one condition,” Deckard demanded. “Tech Sergeant Tremaine Geary joins the team.”
TSgt Geary had the highest rating on the ship when it came to general maintenance. With a high probability something could go wrong, Deckard wanted the best person on that shuttle conducting any repairs. The added benefit for Modeen was that Geary could assemble a suitable technical team better than he could.
Lt Modeen found Geary in the engine room training his airmen. What he liked about the Sergeant was that this guy was career like him. Geary’s father had served on the front lines during the Arctic Wars. Despite having grown up hearing the horror stories from his father, Geary chose to enlist himself. Modeen wasn’t sure he would have chosen this life with those experiences in his own family history.
He pulled the Sergeant away from his class. “I have orders,” he told him, “to assemble a boarding party in case the Colonel can’t make contact with that mystery ship. I need Captain Deckard to pilot the shuttle, but he won’t do it unless you’re on the team.”
“You can count on me.”
Modeen took up his PCT and authorized the data for Geary’s eyes.
“I’m giving you access to the data we have on this ship. I need you to pour through it and select a team with the skills you think we might need once we’re aboard. The Colonel wants us ready to fly at fourteen hundred zulu, and our first briefing will be in the landing bay at ten thirty zulu.”
Geary ended his training, dismissed his staff, and buried himself in the trove of information Modeen just handed over. He would have to consider every probability when choosing a team, from needing to open doors to the ability to communicate with an alien entity. His enthusiasm, like Barcus’ pleased Modeen; and with his senior staff quickly in place, and the selection process delegated to them, the Lieutenant retired to the landing bay to study the data himself.
4
As it neared 10:30, Modeen noted the individuals trickling into the landing bay, distinguishing those coming for his briefing from those there as part of their regular duty assignment, by the almost lost, disoriented looks on their faces as they scanned the room for others in the same lost situation. Though they spied the lieutenant and properly identified him as the leader of this meeting, they congregated in small groups about as far away from the officer as they could get in that compartment. Officers generally didn’t fraternize with the enlisted. And the enlisted men always feared a close interaction would result in an unwanted task or a reprimand for an improper salute. The two castes became so adept at avoiding each other, their skill was on full display in front of him.
Segmenting themselves further, the Marines and Air Force personnel migrated into their own separate circles. Though there was a mutual respect between the two services, it was no secret the Marines saw the Air Force as soft while the Air Force saw the Marines as arrogant. Even within their separate circles, Modeen could identify the corporals from the lance corporals and the airmen from the airman first class without seeing their insignia, just by who stood near who within those circles.
The situation became more interesting when Barcus and Geary arrived to lead their two teams. The men stood up straight at full attention, hands came out of pockets, and gum was quickly swallowed. Barcus appeared to be crueler to his men than Geary to his during the dress down, perhaps showing off to his Air Force counterpart the increased discipline expected among his men.
At 10:29 Deckard came hurriedly into the landing bay, receiving salutes from the enlisted and answering with a half-assed salute of his own. He knew the show of respect was important in order to maintain the respect in the chain of command, but as a pilot his role as a leader was limited. Maybe he would lead the handful of other pilots, none of whom ranked lower than his friend Modeen, and on occasion he would have command of the Montefering during some rather boring hours of transport, but for the most part, he felt more like a peon along with the enlisted men, always feeling uncomfortable being saluted for no other reason than his flight training.
“I see I’m early,” Deckard joked.
“I’m surprised the Colonel let you come down here at all. He wasn’t happy when I told him I needed one of his flight officers for this mission. Does he know who’s replacing you on the bridge?”
“I didn’t tell him.” Deckard smirked at the big secret unleased on their unsuspecting CO. “I took Lieutenant Farkas out of the shuttle rotation and sent him to the bridge.” The danger in granting blanket authority in choosing a team, as the Colonel had done for this mission, is the surprise when the best help is selected from under your command. But Cardoza must have known if the mission would be needed, then those people were important to its success.
The last minute ticked away, and the two team leaders brought their teams: thirteen marines and ten techs including the leaders themselves. It was the first chance Modeen had to inspect the men and women who would be accompanying him, including an assessment of the various ranks to serve beneath him. It was interesting to see these two, like himself, went for a seasoned group: only the token private first class and airman to babysit.
“I am Lieutenant Modeen,” he began. “And although Captain Deckard is technically the ranking officer here, I am the commanding officer on this mission.” Modeen proceeded with the briefing, sharing all the information they had on the ship along with the messages from Madrazo Station. Then in tandem with the C
aptain, he laid out the plan to board their ship. It would be dangerous, but no one signed up for military service for a safe career. Everyone here was a professional. As he droned on with instructions and details, Modeen took note of the attentiveness on each face, either toward him, or toward their control tabs as they took what were no doubt copious notes on the mission.
When he was finished, the teams were dismissed to collect whatever equipment and supplies they would need, and to prepare themselves or their departments for their absence. 1300z rolled around rather quickly, and in another hour, they would prepare to launch. In the meantime, the teams were underway loading and stowing their gear and equipment onto the shuttle. Barcus and his men took charge of the food and water, while Geary’s team secured their tools and equipment.
In the passenger compartment, a Lance Corporal Oswell strapped a jug of water beneath one of the seats as a Corporal Rystad joined him with a bag of MREs.
“What’s on the menu,” the Lance Corporal asked him.
Rystad tossed the bag into the compartment. “Salisbury steak.”
“Whooee! Those boys sure know how to treat us!”
Deckard stood nearby, auditing their supplies on his PCT. “Now I can check off ‘five star dinner.’”
Lt Modeen stepped into the compartment for a brief inspection. “How goes the preparations?”
Deckard threw his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “On schedule, Major.”
The incorrect address caught everyone off guard. One of the techs, an Airman First Class Naylor leaned in to her two nearby teammates. “Why did he just call the Lieutenant, Major?”
“I heard he used to be one,” answered a Senior Airman Bruckenthal. Naylor cast a worried glance to the officer.
Their third, Senior Airman Gorra admonished the other two. “And he is still our CO on this mission. Unless you want to get someone killed, you will forget those thoughts.”
Modeen followed Deckard into the cockpit. His friend often called him Major in informal settings. It was part nickname and part respect for his former rank. He never meant any disrespect, but sometimes in situations like this, it dragged up the past at times when it needed to be forgotten the most.
“Shuttle is almost secured,” Deckard continued. “While the crew suits up, I’ll conduct the preflight check. We’ll be ready to launch at 1400.”
“With any luck, we won’t have to.”
“Did the Colonel give you any problem,” Deckard asked. Modeen had just returned from briefing Cardoza on their plan, and it was the first the Colonel had learned who would be replacing Deckard on the bridge.
“He wasn’t happy trusting Lieutenant Farkas with his ship, but the kid has to learn the controls sometime if he’s ever going to move up. Personally I’m glad you’re with me instead of him. He doesn’t have any experience docking with a moving ship.”
“He’ll get you all killed,” Deckard chuckled. What a comfort he would have been in a true command situation.
The Montefering’s flight controls were left to the senior pilots for a reason. It might seem easy to fly the larger ships when all they did was go from one point to another. They were never meant to land or even enter atmosphere: that job was left to the shuttles. Yet that simplicity in operations was what made their operation more difficult. The pilots couldn’t afford to miscalculate orbital velocities or trajectories.
Additionally, inertial dampening technology never reached the effectiveness in science fiction. Acceleration and deceleration maneuvers as well as drastic changes in course had to be careful and calculated. For that reason, Modeen’s mission had to be ready to go about an hour before the expected rendezvous at 1500z.
As the group finished up their preparations and took their places in the shuttle, Col Cardoza ordered Lt Farkas to begin deceleration. It would be ten minutes before he would let the Lieutenant begin to turn the ship around. Deckard’s expertise would have allowed him to make the U-turn at full speed, but Farkas was like a teenager behind the wheel for the first time. Not only would he have to attempt the turn at a slower speed, but he would have to make a wider swing.
Another twenty minutes would pass before the ship matched course with the approaching vessel. Then Farkas would take ten more minutes accelerating again, but to a speed just slower than that of the mystery ship, allowing it to catch the Montefering very slowly.
All the while, communications continued to broadcast a request for identification with no response. Cardoza finally gave Modeen the go on the mission.
Modeen’s team had suited up in their EVA suits and buckled into their seats. Their radios were hot. Modeen checked that everyone and everything was secure before joining Deckard in the cockpit. The Captain already had the stream from the ship’s rear cameras on his PCT. The mystery ship behind grew larger and larger in the frame, and the Captain was relieved to see the top of the ship was rather flat.
“At least our landing is going to be easy,” he noted.
Deckard called up the shuttle’s controls on his PCT. At his command, the bay doors were opened and the compartment vented to space. Deckard released the magnetic landing gear and lifted off from the flight deck. With short controlled bursts from the forward thrusters, he nudged the shuttle backwards toward the exit.
Modeen continued to examine the images coming from the cameras. Being so far from the sun and in the middle of the emptiness, little light reached the ship for accurate analysis. Still enough filtered through for some basic observations.
The Lieutenant thought he could pick out the bridge. As the ship crept closer, he spotted what could have been weapon cannons. Because they were not active, he wondered if the crew did not intend to attack, or if they were they merely waiting for a more opportune moment.
Deckard remained focused on piloting the shuttle. It’s forward most surface passed the threshold of the shuttle bay.
“Montefering, this is Deckard. We are clear.”
The home ship fired its engines, increasing speed and pulling itself away from the shuttle. The shuttle shuddered in the larger ship’s wake. Its crew in the cargo compartment, huddled nervously; several offering silent prayers for their safety.
In the cockpit, Modeen clutched his knees tightly.
“Relax Major,” Deckard advised. “This was expected.”
He activated the shuttle’s exterior cameras and brought the feed up on his PCT. Modeen eyed the images, watching their target grow on the screen.
“If you can’t do this…”
“I can do it,” the Captain snapped. The turbulence diminished as the Montefering pulled further and further ahead. Deckard stabilized the shuttle, but the disturbance slowed them more than he had wanted. He fired the shuttles thrusters hoping to minimize further loss of speed.
Modeen watched as the other ship began to pass beneath them. Deckard fired the briefest bursts from the maneuvering thrusters to ease them closer.
“Everyone hold on back there,” he ordered over the radio.
He inched the shuttle ever closer to the ship’s hull as it continued to overtake them. Its rear end was in sight on the camera feed.
“We’re running out of ship,” The Lieutenant warned.
Deckard turned off the engines and turn on the magnetics in the landing gear. As he inched ever closer, they grabbed for the hull and helped guide them until contact was made. The landing gear scraped along the hull as the shuttle’s speed was brought into synch with that of the larger ship. The crew felt themselves yanked toward the rear as the magnetics secured their grip. The Captain checked the readings from his PCT to confirm their lock was secure.
With the go ahead, Barcus unstrapped himself and turned on the lights atop his helmet. He went to the rear hatch and vented the atmosphere. His fellow marines unstrapped themselves and put their lights on. Rystad and another marine grabbed some of the equipment from under the seats while the rest took up their rifles.
Barc
us was the first onto the hull, scouting the area with a sensor akin to a stud finder. It wouldn’t do to cut a hole only to find a wall dividing their opening. Once satisfied he had a target, Rystad began drilling a hole through the metal while his partner readied a spectrometer. On top of knowing the composition of the atmosphere inside, venting the compartment below would vacate any flammable gasses before they fired up the cutting torch.
Once the drill breached the room below, the force of the air rushing out drove the drill from Rystad’s hands and into space. No matter, it served its purpose and they had their hole. The other marine uploaded the readings from his spectrometer while Rystad took up the plasma torch and began cutting through the hull.
In the cockpit, Modeen looked over the atmospheric analysis. As they expected, it was toxic inside the ship. But there was a significant amount of oxygen inside. Since the breathing apparatus on their suits could filter it out, the oxygen they carried could be saved.
Back outside, Rystad finished the entry point. He pushed on the freed metal sheet. Rather than dropping to the floor below, it floated downward.
“No artificial gravity,” he noted. It looked as though their magnetic boots would be put to good use on this mission.
Barcus switched on the light at the end of his rifle and slid through the hole into a small room with bunks: crew quarters. As his men entered behind him, he searched for any sign of life, not that he expected to find any after venting their atmosphere from this compartment. He moved to the door, ready to open it.
“Everyone grab hold of something,” he ordered. He threw open the door. The atmosphere outside the room rushed in and out through the hole to space. Once the pressure had equalized, the troops left into what looked to be a hallway. Like the room they just left he found no sign of life.
“Close it up,” he called back to the last man out. Since they didn’t want to vent the entire ship to space, this hallway would have to serve as their airlock for now.
The marines searched each of the rooms off this corridor. Each one turned out to be quarters, and each one turned out to be empty. When they reached the hatch at the end, Barcus held everyone up.
“Lieutenant Modeen, this is Sergeant Barcus. The beachhead is secure.”
Preview: Are There Heroes In Hell?
