by Daniel Gibbs
“Colonel, I wish I could walk with you in the dark places you must go during the next few months.” The earnestness of Saurez’s words lent credence to them. “I give you my word that as old as they may be, I’ll see to it the ships making the trip with you are well maintained and ready to fight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“One last thing. President Nolan has, against the express objection of the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense, decided he wants to visit the Zvika Greengold. I believe he means to request the ship’s company volunteer for the assignment.”
Left unspoken was the need for everyone on the vessel to roger up. The Coalition Defense Force doesn’t work on requests. Only orders. Tehrani grinned. “I don’t think we’ll have any problem with that, sir. But it would be nice to let the crew have some shore leave and see their families before we head out.”
Saurez leaned back and laughed uproariously. “Well played, Colonel Tehrani. This discussion is going in the back of my head if I ever see your file on my desk for promotion to brigadier general.”
“As a positive, sir?”
“Oh, you’ll just have to wait to find out,” he replied with mirth in his tone. “I think it’s a fair request. Call it a horse trade. I’ll have my exec let you know the particulars, and we’ll see about getting as many families as possible sent to Canaan or maybe New Washington. Yes, New Washington, as it’s near your jump-off point. Godspeed, Colonel. Until next time.”
“Godspeed, General.”
The screen went blank, leaving Tehrani to her thoughts. As much as it bothered her that they were journeying with an understrength battlegroup and taking enormous risks, the thrill of sticking it to the League of Sol was undeniable. We’ve lost so many. To repay the enemy in kind by attacking their home and make them feel the same fear our citizens do… She could believe in that mission.
3
CSV Zvika Greengold
Deep Space
12 March 2434
The next few weeks flew by for Tehrani, and she suspected the entire crew felt the same way. Around-the-clock inspections, refits, and upgrades kept them all quite busy. Once the work orders ran out and the ship was certified for active combat duty once more, she received orders to rendezvous with a vessel assigned to the Coalition Intelligence Service in deep space. The entire thing felt like a cloak-and-dagger routine out of a holodrama as she sat in the CO’s chair, waiting in the middle of nowhere.
“TAO, anything on sensors?”
Bryan pivoted his head. “No, ma’am. No changes in the last five minutes.”
He’s probably getting sick of me asking him repeatedly. Tehrani furrowed her brow. “Did I mention I don’t like spies?”
“You and everyone else in the CDF,” Wright replied. “Remember, though—we’re early.” He pointed at the clock, which showed time on various Terran Coalition worlds. “Still got a bit until they’re supposed to be here.”
“Conn, Communications. Incoming transmission for you, ma’am. Sender unknown,” First Lieutenant Gopinath Singh, the Greengold’s communications officer, announced.
“Put it on my viewer.”
A moment later, an image of a nondescript human female in a CDF khaki service uniform appeared on Tehrani’s monitor. “Colonel, stand by to receive a shuttle. The individual aboard will have coordinates to your final destination.”
“And where, may I ask, is that?”
The woman smiled thinly. “I suggest you ask the occupant of the shuttle, Colonel. Anything beyond that cannot be discussed on an open commlink.”
“It’s secured—”
“Nothing electronic is secure enough for this conversation. CIS out.”
Tehrani turned toward Wright and shook her head. “Got any ideas what the spooks are up to? Because I’m perplexed.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, ma’am.” Wright, for once, appeared utterly flummoxed.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, new contact on sensors, designated Sierra One. Short-range Terran Coalition shuttle.”
“Conn, Communications. Sierra One is requesting docking permission and indicating they have one passenger who needs to see you on the bridge immediately.”
Okay, this is beyond weird. Tehrani furrowed her brow. “Put them down in the starboard bay, Lieutenant, and have a master-at-arms escort them up here.” She turned back to Wright. “I’ve seen some stuff in my day, but this takes the cake.”
“Yeah. Same, skipper.”
They didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later—which was relatively quick to land a shuttle and get up to deck one—two masters-at-arms and a man wearing a CDF khaki duty uniform entered the bridge. Much like the woman who’d contacted them earlier, he had no name tag, rank, or identifying insignia.
“And you are?” Tehrani asked curtly.
“I apologize, Colonel. I’m not at liberty to reveal my real name. You may call me Mr. Black.” He flashed a smile. “We’re going somewhere that doesn’t exist on any star chart, and the Terran Coalition has taken great pains to ensure it stays that way. I’ll need your navigator to step aside. I’ve got it from here. Also, I must inform you as well as your entire crew that if anyone speaks of this or our destination, you’ll be charged with treason and automatically placed on Lambert’s Lament. Specifically under the terms of the Terran Coalition Espionage and Galactic Security Act.”
Tehrani’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head at the mention of the Terran Coalition’s supermax prison for the absolute worst criminals in the galaxy. Serial killers, mass murderers, repeat child molesters, criminal syndicate leaders, and traitors were the only people sent to it. “Okay, Mr. Black,” she finally ground out. “I’ll ensure cooperation. But I want to know what we’re going to be doing, wherever it is we’re going.”
“Testing your new fighters, far away from any League prying eyes.”
Then why didn’t you just say that? “By all means, then.” Tehrani gestured toward the navigation console. “Lieutenant, allow our new friend here to sit.”
Mitzner sprang up to rigid attention. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” She hovered around her station like it was a life-or-death situation.
“It’ll only take a few moments.” Black took a seat and set a small electronic device down. “This will wipe any coordinates I input,” he announced before tapping the controls. “Initiating Lawrence drive jump now.”
The lights dimmed suddenly, and a whirling vortex of blue, purple, orange, and yellow opened in front of the Zvika Greengold’s bow. Without further orders from Tehrani, the ship slid through the wormhole and emerged a few seconds later on the other side.
“Conn, TAO. Sensors coming online—”
“I apologize, but scanning this system is not allowed.” He touched the device he’d erected on the navigation console. “Did you observe anything before I blanked the sensors?”
At Tehrani’s nod, Bryan cleared his throat. “Enough to see there’s a lot of ships here.”
“No, there aren’t, Lieutenant,” Black replied, his voice perfectly normal. “You saw nothing on that scan. Are we clear?”
“Yes, uh, sir.”
“Good.” Black stood. “I inputted a safe parking orbit for you, and the complement of Ghost fighters will be arriving within the hour. One other thing—I was never here.” He grinned. “I’ve always wanted to say that. Good day, Colonel.”
Tehrani stared openmouthed as the spy left the bridge. “Did that just happen?”
“Yup, skipper, it did,” Wright replied. “I think I need a drink.”
Laughter broke out from those in earshot of the XO’s comment.
Tehrani chuckled politely and shook her head. “Okay. Alert the hangar to expect company shortly. I’ll be in my day cabin. You have the conn, XO.”
“This is Major Wright. I have the conn.”
Being in a star system that officially didn’t exist was beyond bizarre to Justin. As odd as that was, it took a back seat to the marathon efforts underway in the hangar ba
y to complete the change-out packages on four of the SFS-4 Ghost fighters transferred to the Zvika Greengold. After jumping in, they’d taken forty of the oddly shaped craft on board. While Sabres and Maulers had wings and were designed for atmospheric flight as well as deep-space operation, the stealth recon fighters were clearly meant to stay in the void. They had small circular wings that turned into cylinders along with many sharp edges. Since they were black, it would be difficult for a human eye to even make them out in space.
“Admiring our handiwork, Captain Spencer?”
Justin turned to see MacIntosh standing there in a blue jumpsuit with grease streaked all over it. “Uh, yeah. I guess you could say that.”
“This one is ready to test,” MacIntosh said in his thick brogue. “If you’d like, you could take her for a spin and let me know how she handles.”
Never being one to turn down a test flight or trying something new that potentially went fast and allowed him to see more of the universe, Justin grinned. “I’d love to. Now?”
“No time like the present.”
“Give me fifteen minutes to get my flight suit on.”
“Well, I don’t have any other place to be,” MacIntosh replied.
“In that case, be right back.” Justin turned on his heel and hurried to the pilots’ locker room. Aside from a scramble situation, he’d never put on a flight suit as fast in his life. Once he’d tested the seals and ensured his helmet was properly connecting and operational, with its integrated HUD, he quickly strode back to the hangar deck. As promised, MacIntosh was still there, waiting for him. A short ladder had appeared, allowing him to climb into the cockpit of the Ghost fighter easily.
“You weren’t kidding, Spencer. Pretty fast for a pilot.” MacIntosh gestured to the ladder. “I hope it meets your approval.”
“The only thing I care about is accomplishing our mission objectives,” Justin said. “Well, and maybe have a little bit of fun at the same time, but as Major Whatley is apt to point out, our fighters are mechanical tools we use to achieve a goal.”
“Delightful fellow, that CAG of yours.” MacIntosh made a face. “A real gobby.”
Justin narrowed his eyes. “I don’t follow.”
“He’s a loudmouth.”
“That loudmouth has saved my life several times, Captain.” Justin crossed his arms in and frowned. “So kindly keep your remarks about Major Whatley to yourself.” What the Scottish officer had to say was no different from comments made in private by the pilots, but something about it annoyed Justin. He realized it was because whatever Whatley was, he was their commander—and no one else got to talk smack about him.
“Aye, laddie. I get it.” MacIntosh took a step back. “Let me know how she performs.”
“Will do, Captain.” Justin threw one leg onto the ladder and quickly climbed up. The cockpit matched the simulators to a T, down to the seat configuration. He parked himself and strapped in.
The controls were unfamiliar. He’d spent years learning where every knob, button, dial, and lever was on the Sabre. I’ve got to master this thing in a few weeks? Justin forced himself to focus on one problem at a time. Muscle memory of the controls would come in time.
“Alpha One, this is the air boss. Commence preflight when ready.”
Justin toggled his commlink to the launch control channel. “Aye, aye, ma’am. Beginning preflight checklist.” He flipped his HUD to the series of tasks, mostly focused on ensuring the craft’s safety. Once they were completed, Justin said, “Preflight complete, ready to launch.”
“Alpha One, you are cleared for launch.”
The deck crew had cleared away. MacIntosh stood toward the back and flashed him the thumbs-up sign.
“Acknowledge, Control. Launching fighter.” Justin pushed the throttle forward. He was used to a sustained rush from the engines followed by rocketing out of the hangar bay, but that didn’t happen in the Ghost. Instead, the craft eased ahead and gathered speed. Attempting to compensate, Justin moved the throttle up to fifty percent power. Gratified when it caused forward momentum to increase, he made a mental note to test acceleration and top speed metrics during the test flight.
After clearing the Zvika Greengold, Justin took in the solar system they occupied. There seemed to be no habitable planets in range of his sensors, though numerous ship contacts flashed onto the fighter’s LIDAR screen. I wonder what those are. Rumors had circled that a Coalition Intelligence Service agent had threatened the bridge crew with treason charges if they talked about what was seen there. I don’t want to know.
MacIntosh’s voice filled the commlink. “How’s it going, Captain Spencer?”
“Well, since I just got outside and haven’t even opened up the throttle yet, I can’t tell you much.” Justin grinned. “Give me a few minutes, okay?”
“Sorry. We’ve put a lot of work into this. The lads and I are anxious about whether they’ll meet specifications.”
“I’ve got to fly the thing into our enemies’ home system, so that makes two of us.” Justin shifted his focus back to testing the fighter and pushed up the engine’s thrust. Although it accelerated, it was nothing like the fast response he was used to from a Sabre. “Hey, MacIntosh. Is there an overcharge mode or something? Afterburners?”
“Uh, no. Why?”
“Because this thing moves like a one-hundred-twenty-year-old man.” Justin chuckled. Several times, he slowed forward momentum then accelerated, confirming the results of his first test. Nothing to do except see how it performs in advanced combat maneuvering. Moving on to the second phase of the flight, he engaged in a tight series of turns, simulating a dogfight. Or better put, he tried to. The Ghost’s turn ratios resembled a bomber’s more than a space-superiority fighter’s. By the end of three interlocking scissor movements, he was sure even a novice enemy pilot would’ve killed him on the first pass.
Unwilling to give up, Justin tried different thrust configurations, reducing shield and weapon power and feeding the reserves into the engines. While it helped some, the end result was the craft didn’t meet the specifications they would need to succeed in combat against the League. With a sigh, he cued his commlink. “Captain, I’m done. We’re going to have to meet with the rest of the team, but… it’s not there yet.”
“I understand.” MacIntosh sounded like someone had shot his dog. The shame was palpable.
“Hey, we all knew it wouldn’t be perfect on the first time out,” Justin added, trying to inject some hope into his voice. “I’m confident you’ll sort it out.
“Thanks. I’ll let the major know to assemble everyone.”
“Okay, see you in ten minutes. Spencer out.”
Gloomy was an apt description of the mood in the Red Tails ready room. Following test flights by Justin, First Lieutenant Francis Martin, and First Lieutenant Adrianne Green, among other pilots in their various squadrons, they’d all filed in to discuss their findings with Whatley and MacIntosh. None had fared better than Justin’s test flight, finding the same fatal flaws with lack of Delta-V acceleration and limited maneuvering capabilities.
“Well, mates, if you’re looking for positives, at least these things handle better than the Mauler bombers my boys and girls are used to,” Martin said as the discussion got underway.
Justin eyed him. “Have you ever seen a bomber score a fighter kill in space combat?”
“Eh, one of my guys had a Leaguer fly into the path of a Javelin once. Looked like an accident. Bugger messed up a perfectly good attack run on one of those Cobra destroyers.”
Laughter rippled across the room.
“That’s lovely.” Whatley snorted. “But it doesn’t solve the problem of how poorly the updated Ghosts perform.” He pivoted to MacIntosh. “Captain, what’s your get-well plan?”
MacIntosh’s face was bloodred, and he almost stammered as he spoke. “I don’t understand. The maximum speed is within parameters supplied by Space Fighter Combat Command.”
“Mate, it’s not the max speed tha
t’s the problem. It’s how fast we get there. Those things accelerate like a drunken pilot going to church.”
Justin laughed again, along with the rest of them. There’s something to be said for Martin’s aww-shucks routine. It helps lift our spirits. “My observation was the reactor and engines aren’t powerful enough to handle the new weapons systems and the weight from a full combat loadout. Yes, it’ll eventually get to its highest-rated speed, but the weight throws everything off.”
“We could try disabling the inertial dampers and go straight Newtonian physics,” Green interjected. “They wouldn’t see that coming.”
“If we had a year to retrain our minds and muscle memory, sure,” Justin replied. “We don’t.”
Feldstein stood from her perch in the front row. “Major, could we project a schematic for the modified Ghosts up on the holoprojector?”
“Sure,” Whatley said, his voice as raspy as ever. A few moments later, a sizeable 3-D projection of the SFS-4 Ghost appeared in the center of the ready room, presented in a wireframe format, with significant systems highlighted and color coded.
“The modified internal stores bay along with the wing-mounted pylons for missile hardpoints represent the majority of increased weight.” MacIntosh gestured to a series of purple markings on the display. “We could remove half the interior missiles and save several thousand kilograms.”
“Yeah, mate. Bloody great idea. We’re already going to attack Sol with one arm tied behind our backs, because my bomber has three times the Javelins as this thing carries, and you want to cut it further?” Martin’s voice took on a stern tone. “Not the best idea.”
MacIntosh held up his hands. “I’m trying to help, Lieutenant. It’s called give and take.”
Before a verbal scrum could break out, Justin interjected, “How about installing additional engine thrust nozzles or increasing the ion expulsion rate of the ones already there?”
