by J.J. Mainor
These were the people with ideas to change the world through science and medicine. Maxwell Hugo for example had finished his doctorate in chemistry. He wrote his dissertation on an idea for new type of fuel cell that would break the current reliance on Tysonium. While his older peers applauded the research, he found himself blacklisted by the manufacturers of the superheavy element. He could find jobs in his field, but no one would let him explore and develop his own work. Like the other scientists around him, he joined the Vandals because they promised him the kind of freedom in research he dreamed of.
The special warheads they attached to the missiles were the result of more than five kilohours of experimentation. His work now allowed them the means to end the Earth threat once and for all.
“Fifteen minutes before we make our move. Will you be ready in time?”
Hugo handed off a missile to a couple young men to cart away, then turned his attention to the Captain. “We’re tightening the last of the warheads now. If there is a delay it won’t be on my end, I promise you.”
Min returned his news with a genuine smile. Maybe it was because they were the same age, but she genuinely enjoyed being around this man.
“Have you given any thought to your next project?”
He looked at her as if he hadn’t considered it. This current project was everything to their cause. He feared if his chemical concoction failed to deliver as promise, he wouldn’t live long enough to propose another. Still, their colonies had practical needs he hoped to supply.
“I was thinking farming. We’ve been too reliant on local vegetation because each planet has a different soil composition making it difficult to transplant crops from one world to another. I’ve been thinking of teaming with Doctor Vanjay and his genetics background to create some kind of formula that would allow our crops to adapt to those soils.”
Min found it amusing when the Vandals promised excitement and purpose, their direction would shift towards the more mundane aspects of a society. Still, something about settling down into a calmer life almost appealed to her.
* * *
Corbitt held his eyes shut allowing the chatter on the radio to anchor him to the waking world. Once the cockpits were sealed, the waiting for orders became the worst moments for most pilots. The order to launch could come within seconds, or it might not come at all. Usually it was somewhere in between, leaving him to sit in that fighter while they waited for the Marines to show up and take their seats in the transports, and then wait some more while the carrier maneuvered into a position favorable for launch.
But with the order to suit up likely to come at any hour of the day, Corbitt, like his fellow pilots, learned to sleep lightly. It was advantageous during those waits in their fighters, especially when he longed to reclaim the ten minutes robbed from him because of this red alert. He had shut his eyes and drifted off to the sounds of Park and his crew coordinating the preparations, and the confirmations from the Marine lieutenants that their squads were properly secured.
He didn’t bother tuning into the bridge chatter which the flight chief monitored. From his control room, Park had a channel opened allowing him to receive updates on the Vandal fleet, as well as updates on their own approach. Had Corbitt been tuned in, he would have heard their captain pull the officers from their duty stations, one-by-one down to their quarters to complain about clothing left on the floor, beds left unmade in the heat of the moment, or sinks not properly dried. Then again, he didn’t need that man ruining his powernap any more than he needed to worry his mind with advance warning of the launch.
The fighters were split into four distinct wings, of which, Corbitt was assigned to the last. Park received the order to launch from the Commander, and he relayed it to the fighters, giving Alpha Team the go-ahead to take off.
It was enough warning for Corbitt to open his eyes and shake off the mild dream state he shared with the radio. While the five members of Alpha Team took their turns launching, he brought his systems to full power, firing the engines first before reactivating his sensors, targeting scanners, and every other piece of tech crammed into that tube.
With Alpha-5 away, Park ordered Bravo Team to launch. Corbitt opened multiple channels on the communications system. Each team had a separate channel assigned to them for communication between the team members. Each team leader had another channel open to coordinate their efforts with Park back in the hangar bay. And in addition, the pilots kept all those channels open as ears only; in one sense so they could prepare for changes in orders before the team leader passed them on, but in another sense they wanted to keep tabs on their friends to make sure they stayed safe.
Charlie Team was given the green light when Park himself squawked on Delta Team’s channel.
“Delta-4, this is home base.” Corbitt could hear in the commander’s voice he wasn’t going to like what would come next. “Corbitt, Captain Petron wants to see you in your quarters.”
“We’re about to launch into combat,” Corbitt protested. “I’m two minutes away from takeoff!”
He knew it wouldn’t do any good. The Captain was off in his own little world. Though the pilots had little interaction with the man, what little there had been taught Corbitt it made no difference arguing against his wishes. The man had a knack for dumping the serious work onto his executive and junior officers while he occupied his time with the most asinine and mundane things he could like these surprise inspections as his ship was on the cusp of battle.
Corbitt powered down his fighter and climbed out, watching his team leader launch out through the massive bay doors ahead of his diminished team while he crossed the flight deck in the opposite direction. It annoyed him to miss combat, and if he didn’t blame Petron at that moment, he might have felt as if he were the one letting his buddies down. Still, when this exercise in futility was over and he was allowed to return to his fighter, he knew the other pilots would be recalled from battle to go through this same exercise.
Strolling back through the corridors and upward toward the officers cabins, he came to see this as his sacrifice. If he could keep Petron occupied long enough, the other fighters would lose the option of returning home once the Vandal fighters initiated target locks. Petron could fume and lob all the court-martial threats he wanted, but his requests would be physically impossible once the enemy had been engaged.
Corbitt found the door to his cabin opened. Petron stood in the center of the room with his back to it and his hands by his hips, shaking his head in disbelief at the state of disorder. He took up the clipboard and made a notation when he sensed the occupant behind him.
“You know, Lieutenant,” he started in his calm yet disapproving drone, “I’ve talked with you before about maintaining military standards at all times.”
“You do know we’re in the middle of a red alert situation, Sir?” He was about to politely explain to the Captain the urgency of such a situation and how reporting to stations was far more crucial than making the bed when Petron cut him off.
“That’s no excuse. We’re due for an inspection any moment now. Do you want Rear Admiral Duffy walking onto my ship with your quarters looking like this?”
He strolled to the bed casually and picked up the army-green blanket as if presenting evidence in a trial.
“I just don’t understand how you can leave your quarters in this state.”
He dropped the blanket and took up the clipboard once again, studying it as if taking in figures from an official report. Corbitt knew as well as his Captain did that it was nothing more than a list of his day’s whining.
“You currently have the worst inspection scores on this ship. Last time the Admiral inspected, we nearly failed because of this room.”
“I know for a fact that’s not true, sir.” Normally it might have seemed dangerous challenging the commanding officer, but everyone knew the results of the last inspection. “Half your bridge staff scored worse than I did, and in fact, i
t was your own cabin that nearly cost you the inspection.”
Corbitt took great joy rubbing that one in. Everyone serving beneath him had felt some sense of redemption when it was Petron’s own living space which failed to pass muster after his obsession with the crew’s habits.
What made that brief moment of victory so sweet was knowing the Captain had been sabotaged. Some industrious ensign or petty officer had broken in while Petron was off with the Admiral. Even better, the culprit was smart enough not to trash the room. Instead, he or she left enough traces to make it appear the Captain had been careless enough that Petron wasn’t able to pin the blame away from himself, especially when he had been unsuccessful in finding the saboteur.
But Corbitt’s dig rolled right over his back. “You were the worst on the entire ship,” he repeated. His playbook came directly from the politicians of old: get caught in a lie and keep repeating it until either people believe it, or they get tired and give up calling him out on it. “The worst.”
Petron studied his clipboard once more, continuing on while ignoring Corbitt’s protests and challenges of truthiness.
“I don’t want to have to talk to you again about the state of this cabin. If you can’t clean up this mess, I will have to ground you.”
Corbitt fought back the smirk. “If you do that, you might not have anyone to pilot your shuttle when the time comes.”
For the first time, his digs gave the Captain pause as the suggestions of his cowardice were clear. Like everything else it was a game for Petron; to give the insult any rebuke would allow it to gain traction. It was better to let it slide than to let his subordinate think he had been rattled. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and brushed past the Lieutenant on his way out the door.
“Don’t let me see this room like this again.”
Corbitt waited for the man to disappear into another cabin before running off back to his fighter. On the way, he took note of the latest target and sure enough, Bravo-4 would be next to earn his reproach; but if he was right, those boys would be too busy with the Vandals to pay Petron’s complaints any mind.
* * *
Sadiq ordered the gunners to open up with cover fire.
The armory lay one deck above the launch bay. A dozen manned laser turrets circled the ship: two forward, two aft and four spaced along each side. The gunner would take the seat in front of a 100mm laser cannon. Once sealed inside, the pod would extend outside the hull where the operator had full 180 degree movement along all three axis. If they faced a single, massive target, a single gunner could operate the cannons remotely from a station within the armory. But more often than not, the carriers faced waves of fighters requiring full attention to each weapon; too much for one man to coordinate.
The missile tubes rest beneath the placements. There were three per side, each situated one behind the other. Two worked each tube, loading missiles which were three times as long as those on the fighters, and nine times as powerful. The loaded tube would then extend outward through the hull for immediate firing.
The three teams worked in concert, so that there was always a missile firing, one ready to move into position, and a third being loaded. Safety precautions in the launch programs prevented a tube from leaving the armory if one was already outside.
One problem with the missiles was that they were a unidirectional weapon, meaning they could only launch forward. It was more a practical issue than a flaw. As the carriers had a similar profile to the fighters, the geniuses designing the ships didn’t want to give the captains a reason to present the broadest face to the enemy. Since the forward face of these ships presented the smallest target, the engineers made sure the captains had to present that face to the enemy in order to fire those missiles.
There was always one captain though who relied on the laser cannons too much and steered the ship into battle accordingly. Thankfully for Sadiq, Captain Petron remained lost somewhere in the officers quarters. Though Kwan had yet to return, and two more of his senior officers had similarly vanished into the abyss of the Captain’s misery, this situation meant he could carry out Legacy’s role in what he perceived to be a competent manner.
“Remind our gunners they are laying down cover fire only,” he called down to the armory chief. “Last thing we want is to hit our own fighters.”
The Commander looked to the battle map generated by the computer and presented to the screen on his armrest. Each ship was represented by a point of light on the black field, from the tiny fighters to the midsized battle cruisers and the massive carriers. The flag officers had assigned targets to each ship, and the Legacy was responsible for a particular pair of Vandal cruisers.
The Earth Defense Forces were outnumbered, but the Vandals were outgunned. The EDF expected to win the day with their armaments coupled with their advanced training and tactics. Legacy only had two smaller ships to take care of.
And those two ships split up.
“Keep your eye on that second ship,” he warned his navigator. “They know by now we’re their buddy so they’re trying to flank us.”
If he had his senior man at the controls he would not have had to issue the reminder. As much as he hated the Captain right now, Sadiq reminded himself this junior lieutenant needed the combat experience anyway.
He spied the movements of the dots on his screen, advising the navigator on his course corrections. The two Vandal cruisers tried to split up to outflank the Legacy, so he ordered his navigator to swing their course outward and force the second ship back inside. If they wanted to continue, however, that second ship would have to swing farther out and farther away from its companion.
At the same time, Sadiq’s maneuvers split him gradually away from the main fleet. If his two buddies took the bait, he would pull them away as well, so that in the unlikely event they knocked the Legacy out of the fight, they would not be in such an advantageous position to shift their focus onto another EDF vessel.
Still, the ultimate confrontation between these ships was a ways off thanks to the distance that remained between them. In the meantime, the Vandals still had the waves of incoming fighters to contend with.
* * *
Corbitt raced to close the gap between him and that first Vandal cruiser. Like all Vandal ships, it had once belonged to his side, and was thus identical in design to those supporting the Earth fleet. About a third the size of the carriers, its armory was the dominant feature. Weapons platforms lined the top and bottom of the ship rather than the sides. Each of the decks supported two emplacements forward and two aft, with one on either side toward the middle.
Eight torpedo tubes rest at the bottom, four facing forward and four facing back. Unlike those of the carriers, these were situated side by side for simultaneous firing, but like the carriers, the tubes were fixed forcing the ship to face its target rather than expose the sides.
The hangar bay was far smaller, supporting a single wing of five fighters, one troop transport, and a cargo shuttle. Those of the EDF didn’t support a Marine platoon, but they housed the transport anyway just in case. However, there was never any telling what the Vandals crammed in their hangar bays until everything was launched. As Corbitt’s sensors began identifying the craft in the theater ahead, he found they threw nothing more than what was expected.
Teams Charlie and Delta had already engaged the Vandal wing from their assigned cruiser. Like everything else, those fighters were once EDF. Sometimes the Vandals seized their craft through piracy. Other times they salvaged damaged ships abandoned in the heat of battle. In some instances, they were known to sneak into the shipyards on Earth and make off with a prize before security realized the intrusion.
To distinguish between theirs and the Vandal fighters, the pilots had tiny transmitters embedded in the lining of their pressure suits. The frequency was reset ahead of every launch to prevent the Vandals from using an old frequency, though they had been known to discover the current frequency a
nd clone it in the middle of conflict. At the very least, they could make a mental note of the Vandal fighters and try to maintain identity visually. But the biggest reason for placing the chips on the pilots and not the fighters themselves was to locate a pilot lucky enough to eject from his craft in case of damage.
“Nice of you to join us, Hopeless.”
Corbitt smiled at his radio, glad to put his idiot Captain behind him and get to the work he signed up for.
“Looks like I got here just in time,” he joked. “I don’t see one kill on your belts.”
“We’re still softening ‘em up for ya,” another joked.
He spied a Vandal fighter zip by Delta-5. Both fired their lasers, but missed the other in the brief time they faced off. As Delta-5 veered back for another shot, the Vandal pilot spied Corbitt and pressed forward hoping to remove him from the fight before he could join it.
“Looks like I gotta clean up your mess again, Cloudracer.” He adjusted course to bring the enemy square into his view. The targeting scanner identified the craft and flashed the advisories onto the canopy, indicating the course corrections needed to connect a shot.
“What do ya mean, ‘again?’ Usually I’m the one on your six cleaning up after you.”
It would have been far easier opening up with his lasers and allowing the pulses of superheated light to fan out, blanketing the space ahead with the modern day version of flak, but the power cores supplying those guns had a limited shelf-life, requiring replacement after each mission. With normal use, a pilot could survive a battle without draining the cores, but if someone got a little too trigger-happy, he might find himself in a bind when he really needed those lasers.
The lesser concern was that one of his own buddies might get caught in the net he created. Sure, the cold temperatures in the vacuum would kill the danger and turn that superheated blast into a harmless beam of light, but travelling at the speed of light, each shot carried danger anywhere from a million kilometers to as far away as a couple billion depending on whether or not there was a star nearby raising the background temperature.
