Not With A Whimper: Destroyers

by D. A. Boulter

  Not With A Whimper: Destroyers

  D.A. Boulter (c) 2017

  Copyright page

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious and any similarity to people, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright (2017) by D. A. Boulter, all rights reserved

  Cover Design by D.A. Boulter

  Images: Spaceship: philcold (from dreamstime.com)

  Earth: JohanSwanepoel (from Depositphotos.com)

  Books by D.A. Boulter

  Not With A Whimper Books:

  Not With A Whimper: Producers

  Not With A Whimper: Destroyers

  Not With A Whimper: Preservers

  Not With A Whimper: Survivors

  Yrden Chronicles Books:

  Trading For The Stars (Book 1)

  Trading For A Dream (Book 2)

  Other Amazon Books by D.A. Boulter

  Courtesan

  Pelgraff

  Pilton's Moon / Vengeance Is Mine

  ColdSleep

  The Steadfasting

  Prey

  Enemy of Korgan

  Ghost Fleet

  In The Company of Cowards

  A Throne At Stake

  D.A. Boulter’s blog: http://daboulter.blogspot.ca/

  D.A. Boulter can be contacted at: mailto:dougboulter@gmail.com

  This series is dedicated to Mrs Jennifer Hanes, my Grade 12 English teacher, who believed in my creative abilities. Thank you, and Rest In Peace.

  Note:

  Although the 4 books of the Not With A Whimper Series take place concurrently, and can thus be read in any order, the preferred reading order (according to the author) is: Producers, Destroyers, Preservers, Survivors.

  This will present the reader with the fewest spoilers, though some are unavoidable as characters from each book interact with those from the others.

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  Author’s Note

  Books by D.A. Boulter

  Not With A Whimper: Destroyers

  ONE

  AZORES ISLANDS

  Saturday, May 22nd

  The scream of the sirens brought Major Karl Müller and crew to their feet. Seconds later, they jogged past the work crew and onto their launch platform.

  “Drill or real thing?” Hauptmann Schmidt asked, breathing accelerated from the run and the adrenaline that reaction to the sirens had pumped into his system.

  Müller smiled at his second-in-command as the support team gave them the final checks on their launch suits. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Drill. Probably.” He felt his own stomach jumping slightly. With tension in the world climbing, they just might launch into a shooting war.

  Suited, they entered the shuttle-fighter’s cockpit and strapped down. Müller sat in the pilot’s seat, Schmidt took the co-pilot’s place, and Oberleutnant Kelner sat weapons. Their three other team members reported in via comm from the second deck. The first team went through the checklist.

  “Alles in Ordnung, Herr Major,” Schmidt reported. Only then did he ask, “Why drill? The South Americans are angry enough to start something; the African Nations as well.”

  Müller snorted. He checked to ensure that the comm to Command showed red – he didn’t need their private conversation going wide. Maximilian Weber’s mistake had cost him his career. “Were this the real thing, the announcement would have said, ‘This is not a drill.’” He allowed a couple of seconds to pass, and then said, “Probably.”

  Schmidt appeared to relax slightly, and Müller answered the man’s weak grin with one of his own. The final indicator lit – they were launch-ready. He thumbed the comm to green. “Command, Flight Anton, Shuttle-fighter One ready for ignition sequence.”

  They listened as shuttle-fighters 2 through 5 checked in.

  “Roger, Anton Shuttles One through Five. Activate Simulation 22.”

  Kelner grinned at Müller in acknowledgment of his prophecy.

  “Activate Simulation 22, roger.”

  Schmidt lifted the cover off the switch that turned all controls to simulation mode.

  Müller gave a nod, and watched Schmidt throw the switch. All green lights went amber. “Confirm Amber.”

  “Amber confirmed,” Schmidt reported.

  “Amber confirmed,” Kelner agreed. “Herr Major, primary target shows as African Nations Station. Probable defences: one flight of shuttle-fighters, one missile battery. Station shields likely only reinforced meteor shields. Secondary target…” he paused a moment, “civilian communications satellites.” He looked up at Müller. “Sir, civilian satellites?”

  “Oberleutnant Kelner,” Müller’s voice became tight with anger, “stick strictly to operational necessities. I’ll not have the efficiency of my crew downgraded by the questioning of Command. Especially not during an action – even a simulated action.”

  The oberleutnant’s eyes widened, but he gave a short, sharp nod. “Sir. Satellites entered into targeting computer.”

  Müller relaxed. The oberleutnant should know better. “Thank you, Oberleutnant. Hauptmann, begin launch checklist.”

  Müller wondered what surprises Command had put into Simulation 22. Their anti-shield missiles could easily deal with meteor shields – even re-enforced ones – and the AN shuttle-fighters couldn’t match those of the European Treaty Organization. The missile battery, on the other hand….

  Müller thumbed on the comm to connect him with all members of his crew. “This is Müller. We shall execute Simulation 22. Data to your screens … now. Helmets optional. Simulated lift-off in two minutes.” He removed his own helmet, and hung it from his seatback. He ran his hand through his short black hair, and then started the ignition sequence.

  Müller watched as Schmidt plotted a course that would take them into firing position. Below them, in the simulation chambers of the complex, the other four waves prepared for their own launches. Some had been called from sleep. At least the lucky bastards didn’t have to suit up and man their shuttles. His flight would need the showers after this.

  He glanced at his vids. One screen showed the launch pads, vid fed in from the tower. Their twenty-five shuttle-fighters could lift off from the Azores in under three hours – if nothing went wrong. Too much could go wrong – especially if the enemy had cruise-missile-armed submarines close by. The SAU had several of those; African Nations only a few. The Americans – it didn’t pay to think about the Americans. Fortunately, the possibility of the Americans attacking sat at about nil. If they did attack without warning, however, masses of their submarine-launched cruise missiles would overwhelm the base’s defences, and perhaps only ten of the fighters would even have a chance to launch. The rest would die on their pads. No, it didn’t pay to think about that.

  Schmidt reached the end of the checklist.

  “Launch!”

  The screens showed Anton Flight, Shuttle One accelerating through the atmosphere, the others following, one every five minutes.

  Inputted data to their screens tracked their shuttle-fighters’ trajectory, passing close by European Treaty Organization (ETO) Station
Alpha. From there Anton Shuttle-fighters One, Two and Three would make an acceleration burn to send them winging toward the AN Station, while Shuttle-fighters Four and Five would remain in stable orbit with ETO Station Alpha, to protect her from retaliation. Following flights would make sure of the kill or – if Flight One succeeded – go after secondary targets.

  “Commander,” Kelner said, words now clipped and clear. “AN Station launching defence shuttles.”

  Müller opened the comm to the rest of his attack group. “One, Two, and Three will each fire three shield-killers. Follow them up with three penetrators twenty seconds later.”

  Kelner looked over and raised his eyebrows. Nine of each seemed excessive. Müller ignored his look.

  “All fighters engage Electronic Counter-Measures, level five, ten seconds after last missile launch.”

  This time, Schmidt looked at him in surprise.

  He grinned at his second-in-command. “I have a hunch Erich. I think Command will mix it up for us. It would not show well were we to exhibit over-confidence.”

  Icons on the display showed seven of the nine ‘killers’ making it through the AN station’s defenses to impact the shields.

  “Shields down, Commander,” Kelner reported, “but it took six missiles to do it.”

  “See?”

  Schmidt nodded. “Enemy fighters turning to meet us.”

  “Donnerwetter,” Kelner cursed mildly. “They’ve a second missile battery! They’ve launched.”

  “ECM should take care of them, and our penetrators will make that their last stand. Stand by for manoeuvres!”

  The simulated AN shuttle-fighters succumbed quickly, and Müller gave the order to his three fighters to begin the orbit that would see them back with ETO Station Alpha. No other AN fighters rose to interfere, nor fighters of other nations. Berta Flight finished off the AN Station.

  The instruments went blank.

  “End of exercise. Well done, Anton Flight.” Müller recognized Oberst Dreschler’s voice.

  Müller opened the comm. “Thank you, Herr Oberst. Permission to return to the Ready Room?”

  “Permission granted.”

  Müller cut the comm. “Back to the barn, gentlemen.” He glanced at the chronometer. “Two hours. That was a short one. Well, Berta Flight takes over in only 30 minutes. Let’s shut her down, and go finish the shift in the comfort of the Ready Room.”

  * * *

  “Major Müller,” Oberst Dreschler greeted him as he stepped into the oberst’s office.

  “Reporting as ordered,” Müller said.

  “You did very well in the drill. The other flights each lost some shuttles when their shield-killers didn’t do the job first time.” Dreschler indicated a chair, which Müller sat in.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But that isn’t why I’ve called you in. I want you to watch Oberleutnant Kelner. I don’t think he’s as vigilant as we demand.”

  Müller shook his head. “I don’t understand; he executed his duties without flaw.” Or did Command have a secret microphone hidden in their shuttle, and they heard his questioning the validity of the secondary targets?

  Dreschler leaned back in his chair. “Not that sort of vigilance, Herr Major. He has become too friendly with some of the locals. And you remember what happened to Weber.”

  Müller tensed. “And you think Kelner is headed in that direction?” The fool. “I’ll speak with him. I’ll not stand for that sort of thing happening in my crew.”

  Dreschler smiled his cold smile. “Good. That will be all.”

  Müller went to his own office and pulled up Kelner’s file. He began reading it, feeling angry. He had problems enough looking after his own career; he couldn’t look after Kelner’s, too. If Kelner caused difficulties, he would have to go; it wouldn’t look good if Kelner did something stupid while a member of Müller’s crew, under his command. No, he didn’t need trouble of that sort.

  TWO

  DENVER, COLORADO

  Friday, May 28th

  Dr. Christine Burnett’s troubles began when she opened her file, and then scrolled through the pages in her reader until she reached the tabulated results of her experiment – she just didn’t know it yet. A slow smile came to her face as her eyes scanned the report. This would impress the powers that be.

  She stepped out of her office in the laboratory complex of the Denver army base, and began a quick walk to Colonel Westorn’s office. If she noted the soldier standing across the street from her quarters, she paid him no mind. Soldiers came and went regularly. She had become used to them during the months she had worked on their base.

  The wide sidewalk lay empty before her, most denizens of the complex having work hours at this time of the afternoon. She walked quickly past the training buildings – both those that held classrooms, and the others about which she knew nothing – until she came to the Headquarters Building, which housed the Base Commander’s office.

  “Good morning, Dr. Burnett,” the commander’s adjutant said.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Phelps. Has the colonel a moment for me?” She asked the question, though she had made an appointment the previous day. At times, Colonel Westorn eschewed those not of the military, though his position as Base Commander demanded that he meet with them often.

  “Yes, Doctor.” The adjutant smiled, well knowing why she asked, and nodded appreciatively. “He will see you immediately.”

  Lt. Phelps rapped twice on the door, and opened it.

  “Doctor Burnett to see you, sir.”

  “Send her in.”

  Christy shivered at the growl in his voice, but knew that her report would not antagonize him in any way, which relieved her. She couldn’t afford to antagonize him. He held the key to future contracts. If he became dissatisfied with her work, the military would never offer her another one – and that position would get around. The military’s business, she could afford to lose; the loss to her reputation, she couldn’t afford. She smiled at the lieutenant, and stepped into Colonel Westorn’s office. Lt. Phelps closed the door behind her.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” she said, taking in the man’s square face, intelligent blue-grey eyes, and brush-cut hair. That hairstyle had gone out of fashion centuries ago, but he seemed to like it. He sat as he always sat, yet something niggled at her, and she tried to place it as he turned his attention from the reader on his desk to her. He did not smile in greeting, but gave a short, almost imperceptible nod.

  “You have something to report, Doctor?”

  The tone of his voice, something in the way he said that sentence, had warning lights flashing in her brain. He knew. He already knew what she would say, and that meant that he had access to her password-protected files. It also meant things she dared not contemplate at the moment – not with the colonel waiting for her reply. Instead, she plastered a smile on her face, and gave him an enthusiastic look.

  “Yes, sir. I just received the data from the latest experiments. A compilation of results shows that we’re on the right track.”

  Colonel Westorn leaned back in his chair, and allowed a smile to cross his face. It looked practiced to Christy. Everything in his posture screamed out that he already knew, that he gave her exactly what he thought she would expect.

  “Excellent, Doctor,” Westorn said. “I don’t pretend to know the intricacies of your work, so if you’d just give me a short synopsis that I can pass up the line, I’d appreciate it.”

  He lied. She could feel it. He knew a hell of a lot more about her work – about all their work, for other civilian contractors shared her barracks – than he let on.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, and began to order her thoughts. “Our sleep-learning program has cut the time to learn a new physical skill by thirty percent over traditional methods.”

  “Yes, Doctor, but we’d already achieved that goal.”

  “True, sir, but with the latest refinements, we’ve upped the success rate from twenty-four percent of subjects
to thirty-five percent. That’s the news that you can pass up the line. And some few of our participants have exhibited an achievement rate of fifty percent faster than traditional training – a further ten-percent gain.”

  “Excellent.”

  Colonel Westorn rose to his feet, and held out his hand. Christy took it, feeling the strength in his grip, the calluses that belied the armchair-warrior persona he liked to present to the unwary.

  “Come, walk with me.”

  Christy blinked. He’d never spoken to her outside his office; outside, he barely even acknowledged her or any of the other civilians. She smiled, thoughts in turmoil, and nodded her head. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good, good.”

  He opened the door, and led her past the lieutenant, who looked about as surprised as one could look while trying to not show it. They walked down the hallway, and Christy wondered where it led, never having had a tour. In all the times she had visited the HQ building, she had never gone past the colonel’s office.

  “Have you given any further thought to our offer, Doctor?” Colonel Westorn asked.

  “Sir, you know that I’m only on loan from my institute. I’m more than happy to set up a program here – like I’ve done – and even to go a bit beyond that with some experiments to tweak the program for the military’s needs. However, I like the freedom of my own lab, where I can move in whatever direction my whims take me.” She could think of no argument that might get her to join the confines of government scientists. Everyone knew – or at least thought they knew – just what those poor souls endured. Freedom of thought, speech, or action didn’t touch any of it.

  Westorn just laughed. “Sounds good, though that’s not quite true, is it? You may have a slightly greater latitude in choosing your directions, but you still need to show a profit. That makes your whims subject to practicalities. But I understand your point.”