Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  “Tripoli, this is Bravo Two,” Gunny Harrison sent. “We’re ready to transmit.”

  “Stand by, Bravo Two,” the Tripoli’s communications specialist instructed him. Seconds seemed like minutes as they passed until the specialist finally came back with, “All right, Gunny, initiate transmission.”

  “Initiating,” Harrison reported, pointing at Stevenson. Stevenson threw the switch and nodded in silent confirmation.

  “Receiving,” the specialist confirmed.

  Few things in life made a Marine more nervous than standing around waiting for a fight in the middle of a major offensive. The anticipation was enough to make a guy feel sick to his stomach. Stevenson at least had something to do, but the rest of them could only stand by, stay alert, and wait for something to happen, nervously twisting and turning, eyes darting back and forth, rifles pointing in random directions all around them.

  “Bravo... this is Trip...,” the communications specialist called after a few moments. “Your ...smission ...cut off. I ...ot receiving. I say again, ...am not recei...”

  “They’re jamming us!” Harrison shouted. “They know what we’re doing. Stevenson, cut off the transmission. Switch to high-speed download. Get everything you can as fast as you can. We’re gonna have to bug outta here fast!”

  Private First Class Irons saw it first. “Gunny, look!” he cried out, pointing up at the corner of the ceiling above where the hatch used to be. “Something’s leaking!”

  Harrison turned to Irons, then looked up to where he was pointing and saw a billowing cloud of thick, yellow-green smoke expanding rapidly under high pressure from some unseen source in the ceiling. “Breathers, right now!” he shouted over the link as he pulled his own down over his mouth and nose. “Everybody out! Back to the shuttle on the double!”

  The Marines all pulled their breathers into place and scrambled back into the corridor—right into an ambush.

  Time seemed to slow down before Sergeant Graves’ eyes. He raised his rifle, fired, turned and fired again, all in slow motion. The battle raged all around him, but somehow sounded far off. An energy bolt flashed close past the side of his head. He saw the creature that had fired at him—looked it in the eyes as he brought is rifle to bear and fired back. Its throat pulsed, the back of its neck exploded, painting the bulkhead behind it, and it fell to the soft, squishy deck like a body slowly sinking to the bottom of a pool.

  The Marines fought bravely. They fought not for the mission, but for each other. Had it been necessary, they would have fought to the very last Marine. The last much too young to die Marine, Harrison reflected as he dropped the last of the enemy warriors.

  “Grab the wounded!” Harrison shouted at those who remained on their feet, knowing that some of those wounded were probably already K.I.A. “No one gets left behind! Let’s go!”

  The Marines grabbed up their newest casualties and made their way as fast as they could back through the humid, spongy-decked corridors to the shuttle. Harrison stepped aside when he reached the hole in the bulkhead and guided his Marines through it ahead of him. As soon as the last one passed, he joined them onboard, closed and sealed the doors behind him, and then grabbed the headset off its hook while the others hurriedly dropped into whatever empty seats they could find, if any—the wounded were already filling most of them—and prepared for emergency high-speed withdrawal as best they could.

  “Get us the hell outta here!” he shouted at the pilot.

  “Initiating ‘get us the hell outta here’ maneuver!” the pilot responded, and Harrison barely had time to brace himself before the shuttle shot backwards, throwing several Marines to the deck.

  They’d made it.

  But they weren’t finished yet, Harrison reminded himself. They still had an HDC full of data to deliver, and until they did, their mission wasn’t accomplished. All they had to do was make it back across the gauntlet of open space and back aboard the Tripoli. Then and only then they would be able to relax.

  Assuming of course that the Tripoli was still in one piece.

  Chapter 1

  Mandela Station in Earth Geosynchronous Orbit, Two Days Later

  Friday, 16 July 2190

  An expectant quiet fell over the crowded auditorium as Command Chief Master Sergeant Warren Watson, the highest ranking non-commissioned officer in the Solfleet Naval Forces, emerged from the backstage shadows beyond the edge of the dark blue curtain and stepped up to the intricately carved antique wooden podium—a recent ‘thank you’ gift to Solfleet Central Command from the Congress of the United Earth Federation. Dressed in the space navy’s new black and tan class-A uniform—the black-and-browns had proven to be extremely unpopular with Navy personnel and hadn’t even lasted long enough for their initial issue to be completed—the hulking dark-skinned Jamaican veteran of more than fifteen years of direct ship-to-ship combat looked more ominous and intimidating than ever.

  “All rise for the arrival of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he practically shouted into the microphone without even having to lean toward it.

  Almost as one, the entire audience rose to its feet. Those military members familiar with the command chief’s infamous ability to spot a slacker in any size crowd, whether in uniform or not, assumed a rigid position of attention and stared straight ahead.

  The Joint Chiefs’ hard-soled footfalls echoed through the cavernous room, sounding like an entire platoon marching in parade formation as Fleet Admiral Winston Chaffee, the short, pudgy, balding Executive Officer to the reportedly ailing Command Fleet Admiral, led the six-officer procession out onto the stage and across the front of the single row of chairs that had been set up for them. Each of them was decked out in full Solfleet dress grays, the long-time symbol of total unity among the once separate branches, complete with all medals and accoutrements, with only the colored stripes on their charcoal trousers and their jacket piping to distinguish their individual branches of the service.

  They stopped in front of their chairs, turned and faced the nearly three thousand officers, senior NCOs, family members, and guests in one two-step facing maneuver, and then sat down.

  “You may be seated,” the command chief announced. Then, as the audience took their seats and settled in again, he stepped away and disappeared back behind the curtain.

  Exactly three second later, Admiral Chaffee stood up and approached the podium. The house lights dimmed and the overhead spotlight shone down on him like a golden ray of glory from Heaven, illuminating the top of his bald head so brightly that he appeared to glow with an almost angelic aura. Doing his best to ignore the light’s uncomfortable intensity, he pulled his handcomp off his belt and set it down on the podium, then folded his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat, and the microphone picked it up and transmitted to all the speakers around the room’s perimeter, eliciting grins and a few snickers from the crowd as it echoed through the entire auditorium.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized quickly, and straight-faced. “I’ve been trying to clear that hairball for weeks.”

  A wave open laughter passed over the crowd—whether that was because his joke was actually funny, or only because he happened to be the second highest ranking officer in the entire fleet, who could say?—then quickly subsided when he briefly held up his hand. Then he opened the ceremony in earnest.

  “Joint Chiefs, fellow officers, N-C-Os, enlisted personnel, distinguished family members and guests,” he began, glancing down at his handcomp to make sure he hadn’t left anyone out. “It is not often that a person in my position gets the opportunity to publicly recognize a fellow officer’s service above and beyond the call of duty in front of such a large audience. As most of you know, that honor is normally reserved for the Commander, Solfleet. So, while I certainly add my prayers to yours in wishing Command Fleet Admiral O’Shea a speedy and complete recovery, I would also like to take this opportunity to thank him for allowing me this honor and privilege.”

  Not expecting any kind of response from the
crowd, he briefly glanced down at his handcomp again, then got on with his speech.

  “By the time an officer makes it to the lofty ranks of the admiralty, more often than not he or she is content to spend the duty day sitting at a desk in the relative safety of a large central headquarters somewhere and commanding from afar. Look at me, for example.” He paused briefly and smiled while more chuckles came from the audience, then continued. “All kidding aside, I mean what I say not as a slight toward any of the fine officers who serve with honor in our great body, but rather as a comparison to those few who, at least in my eyes, stand out above the rest of us.”

  He glanced downward again.

  “Every so often, an individual comes along who refuses to allow the immense weight of those golden starbursts on his shoulders to hold him down. Despite his newfound status as a flag-grade officer, he insists, sometimes quite vehemently, on continuing to serve alongside those who serve subordinate to him, rather than from some rear area far behind them. This morning we recognize and honor just such a man.”

  Chaffee snapped to attention, then turned and marched out to center stage, stopped, and turned sharply to face the audience again. “Rear-Admiral Icarus Hansen, post,” he commanded.

  Rear-Admiral Icarus Hansen, longtime Chief and Commanding Officer of the Solfleet Intelligence Agency, didn’t yet own a set of the new black-and-tan class-A’s, and the metal rank pins on his dress grays would have been too difficult to change both expeditiously and in a manner appropriate to the occasion. So, given no other choice, he’d donned his crisp, seldom worn, black and brown class-A uniform for the ceremony, complete with its rows upon rows upon rows of colorful ribbons and all its highly polished gold-plated accoutrements. And in thirty-five years of military service, he’d acquired a lot of ribbons and accoutrements.

  In accordance with longstanding tradition, he was sitting in the back of the auditorium. He stood up, straightened his jacket, and then marched down the dimly side-lit right aisle to the stage. He ascended the five plastiwood steps, marched over in front of Admiral Chaffee and faced him, assumed the position of attention, and saluted sharply.

  Chaffee returned his salute just as sharply, and then both men dropped their hands back to their sides together. Hansen then executed a picture-perfect about-face to face the audience and remained at the position of attention. Chaffee then posted himself to Hansen’s right and stood at attention as well.

  Admiral Rodrigo Martinez-Colon, Chief of Staff of the Solfleet Naval Forces, and General Kristjana Jóhannsdótir, Chief of Staff of the Solfleet Aerospace Forces, stood together and stepped forward. Admiral Martinez-Colon, who held a pair of presentation folders, a medal case, and another slightly larger case in his hands, posted himself to Chaffee’s right while General Jóhannsdótir stepped up to the podium.

  “Attention to orders,” Jóhannsdótir commanded, speaking slowly in her strong Icelandic accent. Once again, everyone in the entire auditorium stood up, and as before, those who served in uniform assumed the position of attention. After all, Command Chief Watson might have been watching from wherever it was he had hidden himself.

  “Special order number twenty-one ninety dash four thirty-seven,” the general continued, reading from Chaffee’s handcomp. “By order of Command Fleet Admiral Jeremy W. O’Shea, Commanding Officer, Solfleet, Solfleet Central Command announces the following award. The Distinguished Service Cross with Valor device, second award, is hereby presented to Rear-Admiral Icarus Hansen, Chief and Commanding Officer, Solfleet Intelligence Agency.”

  She paused and tapped the page button, then cleared her throat, quietly so the microphone wouldn’t pick it up, and continued.

  “On eleven February, twenty-one ninety, Rear-Admiral Icarus Hansen was a passenger aboard the starcruiser U.E.F.S. Bokken, returning to Earth after completing an inspection tour of his agency’s facilities in the Caldanra system. While traveling through jumpspace in the vicinity of the Rosha’Kana system, the Bokken was attacked by a Veshtonn scouting party, forced to drop out of jumpspace, and then boarded by several dozen Veshtonn warriors. The Bokken’s Security Forces fought honorably to defend their vessel, but were vastly outnumbered and barely able to slow the enemy’s advances toward several of the ship’s vital facilities.

  “At great risk to his own life, Admiral Hansen left the relative safety of his cabin and gathered together a platoon of Solfleet Marines whom he knew to be among the passengers to help defend the ship. After leading those Marines to the armory to retrieve their weapons and equipment, Admiral Hansen broke them into fire teams and assigned a team to each of the ship’s vital areas. Admiral Hansen himself led the team that defended the Bokken’s command bridge. The fighting onboard the Bokken lasted for more than two hours, but in the end, under Admiral Hansen’s command, the Marines and what Security Forces remained successfully prevented enemy forces from capturing or destroying the vessel.

  “Immediately following this action, Admiral Hansen assumed tactical command of the Bokken and ordered her captain to change course and enter the Rosha’Kana star system, home system of our Tor’Kana allies. This decision led to the discovery of an observation post the Veshtonn had recently set up there, which in turn led directly to the discovery of their plans for invasion and allowed the Coalition time to gather its forces in preparation for that vital system’s defense—an extremely intense campaign that continues to this day.

  “Rear-Admiral Hansen’s unwavering dedication, superb leadership, and distinguished performance of duty is in keeping with the finest traditions of the military service and reflects great credit upon himself, the Solfleet Naval Forces, and Solfleet Central Command. Awarded under my hand on this sixteenth day of July, twenty-one ninety. Signed, Jeremy W. O’Shea, Command Fleet Admiral, Solfleet, Commanding. Endorsed by the Honorable Harrison G. Culpepper, Secretary General, United Earth Space Exploration Council. Approved by Madam Mirriazu Shakhar, President, United Earth Federation.”

  Admiral Martinez-Colon opened the medal case and held it out in the customary two-handed hold as Admiral Chaffee turned to him. Chaffee took the medal from its case, then he and Admiral Hansen faced one another. Chaffee pinned the medal in place, centered just below Hansen’s ribbons on the lip of his breast pocket, then accepted the empty medal case and one of the presentation folders from Martinez-Colon and handed them over to Hansen in the very official and traditional manner. He then saluted the recipient, and Hansen returned his salute, and when they finished with the obligatory “Congratulations, Admiral,” and “Thank you, sir,” the audience broke into applause.

  They faced the audience again and waited while the applause continued. Then, when it finally started to wane, General Jóhannsdótir once again commanded, “Attention to orders.” What applause still lingered ceased abruptly and the service members in attendance returned to the position of attention once more. Admiral Martinez-Colon took a step back and moved behind Hansen to his left side.

  “Special order number twenty-one ninety dash four thirty-eight,” Jóhannsdótir read. “By order of Command Fleet Admiral Jeremy W. O’Shea, Commander, Solfleet, Solfleet Central Command announces the following personnel action.

  “Madam Mirriazzu Shakhar, President, United Earth Federation, has instilled special confidence and trust in the patriotism, professionalism, and outstanding leadership of Rear-Admiral Icarus Hansen, Chief and Commanding Officer, Solfleet Intelligence Agency. Rear-Admiral Hansen is therefore hereby promoted to the permanent rank of Vice-Admiral, Solfleet, with an effective date of rank of one July, twenty-one ninety. So ordered under my hand this sixteenth day of July, twenty-one ninety. Signed, Mirriazu Shakhar, President, United Earth Federation.”

  The admirals at Hansen’s sides each took an epaulet, removed his old rank boards and slipped the new ones on in their place. Once again, salutes, handshakes, congratulations, and thanks were exchanged, and once again the audience applauded.

  “You may be seated,” Jóhannsdótir announced. Then, once the audie
nce had settled down, she raised an inviting hand toward Hansen and extended the invitation that he had hoped she would forget, despite knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that she would not. “Admiral Hansen, would you like to say a few words?”

  She stepped aside the moment he started to approach.

  “Thank you, General Jóhannsdótir,” he began, smiling warmly at her and pronouncing her difficult name perfectly. Then he looked out over the audience, paused for effect, and then said, “In all my years of military service, the one thing I’ve grown to dislike immensely is having to sit in the most uncomfortable chairs money can buy while some over-the-hill windbag like myself drones on and on at infinitum about some intangible topic that doesn’t concern me in the least.” Chaffee wasn’t the only one who could make an audience laugh, as the crowd quickly proved, but he hadn’t said it simply to compete with the fleet X.O. He’d actually meant it. “Therefore,” he continued as the audience quieted, “I’m not real big on making speeches of my own. I would, however, just like to thank President Shakhar, Admiral Chaffee for his extremely kind words, the Joint Chiefs for their participation, and all of you for taking the time to be here this morning. Your support means more to me than you can possibly know. Thank you.”

  He stepped aside to the audience’s renewed applause, and as General Jóhannsdótir returned to her seat, Command Chief Master Sergeant Watson reappeared from backstage and replaced her at the podium. “This concludes this morning’s ceremony,” he announced. “Please stand for the departure of the honored member and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  Like hundreds of mindless robots, the audience rose to its feet one more time. Hansen led the way as the official party marched off stage.

  “On behalf of Admiral Chaffee and the Joint Chiefs, I also would like to thank you all for attending,” Watson announced, bringing the gathering to its official close. “Dismissed.”