Space Fleet Sagas Foundation Trilogy: Books One, Two, and Three in the Space Fleet Sagas

by Don Foxe

  Author’s back cover photograph courtesy of Abri Kruger Photography, South Africa.

  Cover graphics are mine, for better or worse. I do listen to others with more experience and talent, but I have a vision, so I go with it.

  A welcome to his new home to Daegen. Dae, was adopted from the Hilton Head Human Association. Risky thinks her new brother is a pain (puppy-zoomies galore), but loves him.

  Finally, my love and appreciation to Sarah. This year has been one of incredible learning. The time necessary to produce books, as well as traverse the minefields of marketing, while trying to maintain a business and a life, would not be available without her.

  CHAPTER 1

  ASTER SYSTEM

  “Casalobos,” the Admiral called over his com.

  “109 targeting incoming enemy torpedoes in support of your gunners, Admiral,” she replied and cut off further distractions.

  “Tal,” he called next.

  “First three Spirit fighters set to launch in less than one minute,” replied the Squadron Leader. No tension detectable in her tone. “Next three will follow as soon as the rear blast deflectors retract. We’ll take out as many targets as we can before they reach the carrier.” She cut him off as well.

  “OPERATIONS, update” he demanded, swiveling to face the twenty-something operator who would not dare cut him off.

  “Incoming torpedoes within range of our laser defenses. Automatic fire commencing,” he replied. “The third enemy destroyer fired their pulse cannon and plasma cannon at the Fairchild, Admiral. The loads will arrive at the same time as the torpedo swarm.”

  Switching his attention from the Admiral, the OPS controller informed fighter command, “Captain Tal, you now have fifty-three-seconds before the first wave of torpedoes impact.”

  Spirits 2, 5, and 6 fired rear thrusters against the deflectors for an emergency launch. Instead of a normal controlled departure, they screamed out of the hangar, passed through the force-screen that prevented atmosphere from escaping into open space, and exited above the carrier’s flight deck.

  The three light fighters immediately encountered intense cross-gravity waves unique to the vortex. Flamer, piloting 2, rode the strongest wave, allowing it to push his ship sideways. Spirit 2 slipped over the side of the Fairchild. Like a swimmer allowing an undertow to pull him out to sea, Flamer went with the wave until he could pull the ship out of its grip.

  The other two pilots, Wild Bill and Yassin, both made the mistake of fighting the gravity distortions crossing over the battle carrier. The small ships attempted to push forward against forces capable of moving small planets. For a moment the fighters appeared to hang still in space, caught in swirls and eddies similar to gravity whirlpools around black holes. The ships and crews pinned between the carrier and incoming enemy fire.

  Realizing the futility of fighting the headwind, Wild Bill yanked on his collective. The keel thrusters fired, sending Spirit 5 straight up the chute. The incoming pulse beam from the third enemy destroyer passed beneath them.

  Yassin and the crew of Spirit 6 disappeared within the following plasma load. The fighter vaporized in the super-heated projectile’s path toward the Space Fleet carrier’s bridge.

  The PT-109 removed incoming torpedoes as Kennedy, the ship’s AI, acquired, determined speed and course, and fired. The ship employed railgun, lasers, and the plasma cannon, selecting the defense with the best odds of reaching a target in time to prevent an impact.

  Sindy Kebede at Tac-Ops monitored the action while keeping watch on the reset-timer for the tachyon weapon, waiting for the system to recycle so she could take out the third destroyer.

  “Comeon, comeon, comeon.” She spoke the prayer-plea aloud, but it did not speed the process.

  Genna controlled the Patrol Boat’s back-up electro-magnetic generated force field. This allowed her to pad impact zones and minimize damage when missed torpedoes made contact. Instead of trusting untested software, she relied on reflexes enhanced by genetic engineering. The AI’s avatar concentrated on the incoming torpedoes, dismissing those most likely to be hit by Kennedy, and projecting flight-lines for the ones getting through. Her calculations provided only seconds to increase the force field’s strength at the points of impact. Her inhuman eye-hand coordination the last available opportunity to save the ship from lethal damage. All other systems operated at max, and Kennedy engaged with battling the gravity-distortions within the vortex, while defending the ship from enemy fire, and covering the battle carrier.

  Elie piloted the battle-tested space boat. In spite of the distortions, she forced the 109 to move. With safety limits disconnected, she taxed the power plants. The Spaniard played a deadly game of shuttling power between maneuvering the ship, and shunting as much energy to the shields as possible. She kept an eye on Genna, trying to anticipate when the avatar would shift the field in order to slide power from performance to protection.

  Her re-engineered strength nearly crushed the manual flight control yoke in her right hand when coms called out, “Spirit 6 is gone.”

  The coms officer continued to provide bad news. “Enemy pulse and plasma rounds exploded against the Fairchild’s aft deck. Upper Flight Hangar force-screen disabled. The hangar entrance collapsed. Three Spirit fighters are trapped inside. Carrier’s bridge hit, but remains operational.”

  Coms continued to voice data-reports displayed on his terminal, as well as communications incoming from the other three ships in the beleaguered battle group.

  “The 99 continues to cover the Pegasus. The 99 has taken four torpedo hits. Top, front starboard section is open to space . . . section sealed. Upper deck plasma cannon is gone. Hit amidship on port side. Section sealed. Fourth torpedo was a dud.”

  From the pilot station, Elie could see Sindy’s Tac-Ops halo-display. She knew they were doing an incredible job taking out torpedoes headed for them and the Fairchild. The loss of sonic force-field protection, no communications beyond immediate vicinity, the constant strain placed on the BCVG by the anomalies within the vortex, and more rounds incoming from enemy ships meant the odds of survival continued to stack up against them.

  Genna successfully redirected forcefield depths and prevented more than minimal damage by five high-explosive torpedoes that evaded the ship’s defenses. The Fairchild, a bigger, more important target, received more attention, and more damage.

  Coms confirmed Casalobos’ concerns.

  “Four torpedoes were blunted by the Fairchild’s force field, but one connected at the bridge. Captain, the damaged bridge could not withstand the concussion. Fairchild reporting bridge and combat control room, including main communications and telemetry consoles, destroyed. Operational control of the ship has been moved to Engineering.”

  In spite of the intense concentration required to pilot the ship, oversee command, and distribute energy, the Captain of the 109 could not ignore the call when she heard her name weakly through the Fellen trans-com bracelet she always wore.

  “Noa, copy. It’s Elie,” she answered through gritted teeth, hoping her personal communications bracelet had the power to reach the twin Tal wore.

  Kennedy, unrequested, boosted the signal while maintaining fire on incoming torpedoes.

  “Hey, Loba. We’re in pretty bad shape over here,” came the reply. “My fighters are trapped behind the blast-deflection barriers. That probably saved us when the ceiling and walls came down. Hangar is venting atmosphere. Any crew not already dead escaped. They sealed the area. Spirits 3 and 4 are safe, functional, and stuck with me. We have environment inside the ships, but no way off the hangar. Hawks is not answering hails, and I’m unable to take command. Master Chief is running the show from engineering, but he’s blind down there, Loba. He could use your help.”

  Elie smiled. One: relieved Noa, and the other fighter crews were alive. Two: The Israeli more concerned about the Master Chief than herself. Before she could respond to the gritty pilot, Sindy announced:

  “Tachyon cannon ready. Firing
. Hope you burn in hell,” she added as the super-charged beam hurled towards the enemy destroyer. “Kennedy, light that mother-fucker up.”

  Coms called the action: “Third destroyer hit by our tachyon beam. The space-frame is crumpling. Multiple hits of kinetic and plasma loads from the 109 are on the way to finish the job.”

  With the distance to travel, and the vortex playing havoc with anything moving, it would take time and luck for the rods and plasma loads to reach the crippled destroyer.

  Cons finally called out, “Two rods made contact. Implosion imminent (hesitation -- pause -- deep breath). There she blows. Implosion. Concussive reaction, amplified by the gravity distortions, completely taking out the disabled destroyer.”

  “Pegasus reports a hit to her starboard forward quarter. Casualties, but the section has been sealed. The ship remains operational. The 99 did one hell of a job keeping her safe,” the LTJG added, not realizing the sting it gave Elie, who had not kept the Fairchild as well protected.

  “Sorry, Noa,” Elie said, releasing the yoke, and returning pilot control of the 109 to Kennedy. “I should have done more to protect the Fairchild.”

  “Stow it, Elie,” Noa responded over the com. “The enemy ships targeted two-thirds of their armaments at us, not the Pegasus. The 109, the Fairchild crew, Flamer, and Wild Bill did everything possible. There were just too many incoming. If the Prophet and his other battlecruiser decide to join the fight now, I’m not sure we’ll survive. Keep an eye on them, and get the group out of this kelba vortex.”

  “Any word on Hawks?” Elie asked.

  “No, but until we know for sure if he survived or not I’m sure Rachelle and Sam will agree you should have flag. I’ll call them. Noa, out.”

  Elie was not sure what to do, then Sindy’s hand took hers. Casalobos released a long, slow breath. Whatever she faced, she had friends, an able crew, and a strong ship.

  BEFORE THESE EVENTS ---

  PART 1

  Conspiracy

  Connections

  Rivers begin from many different sources. Streams, lakes, underground springs, and glacial melting can form the headwaters that will eventually flow into a mighty river.

  Something as simple as rainfall on a mountain, or melting snow can start the momentum that grows until a river eventually forms.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mississippi, US - Six Years Past

  The jump across the small creek brought him into brush. The moonless night worked to his advantage; concealing him. A good thing since he tripped as much as walked through the overgrown thicket. His reengineered improvements, unfortunately, did not include enhanced night-vision. He had not packed special optical gear since his original plans did not include sneaking around in the dark.

  His earlier examination of area maps surprised him with the number of shuttered old United States Navy facilities within a mile of his position.

  Besides the old NASA propulsion testing center he intended to recon, to his south sat an outdated and abandoned Data Buoy Center once used to keep tabs on ocean waves and currents around the planet. To his north, the Navy once conducted research within a short walk of a Naval Oceanographic Office. These centers ceased operations before the global pandemic, but after sea-creep made the Gulf Highway, once Interstate 10, the new edge of the Gulf of Mexico.

  It required effort to work through the overgrown brush, but reward arrived with a view of his objective. The propulsion testing center consisted of four building on the far side of an open field. Security lamps around the four buildings cast circles of yellow glow on the ground. Ambient light filtered onto the field. It would make getting across the field easier. It would also make it more dangerous.

  No need to check his timepiece to know one-hundred-hour already passed. This late, or early, the lights operated as passive security, and not for workers to move between buildings.

  He pulled small, high-def zoom binoculars from the pack around his waist. The exterior lights allowed him to see the double wire fences surrounding the compound. The outer ring twelve to fifteen-feet high, with a push-out of barbed sensor-wire mounted to the top, adding another two or three-feet. The inner fence looked eight-feet high with a double strand of sensor-wire running its length along the top.

  “They will have motion detectors, or something similar, outside the fences,” he said aloud. Bad habit; talking to one’s self. Old habit he no longer worried about. Though he did whisper.

  “Drainage ditches running east and west.” He pulled the binoculars down. “Animals will use those for water. Can’t be chasing possums every night. Less likely they set motion detection along the ditch,” he surmised, returning the binoculars to his pack. “If I run along the ditch, good chance I get to the first fence without setting off an alarm. I should be able to jump the first one. Don’t hesitate between them. Get over the inside fence, and into the shadowed side of that first building.”

  He pushed his way back through the thicket, then slowly moved along the creek bank, occasionally stepping into shallow water to pass a natural obstruction too tall, thorny, or thick for any other choice. A brief unwanted thought given to omnipresent alligators each time his feet entered the slow-moving water.

  He soon noticed the depression allowing runoff from the field to merge with the stream. He crouched and followed it through the overgrowth.

  Earlier in the evening he reconnoitered research buildings on the campus of the University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg. He did not get inside, and did not learn anything of value, but sneaking around manicured bushes and flat parking lots did have its perks. No alligators and no nasty security fences topping the list.

  He dropped to one knee at the edge of the open field. The dark clothing he wore blended with the scrub. Watching for movement. Waiting for guards to make a circuit. Patient.

  Nothing happened. No obvious security patrols. No people moving between buildings. No transportation, ground or air, active. The lack of life pricked a momentary concern. If evil labored within the compound, there should be more security. If this was an honest research facility attempting to provide energy-independence for the United Earth, they might not consider it important.

  One way to find out.

  “Go.” The word escaped with a breath. He churned across the field at an inhuman pace. The reengineering may not have given him night vision, but it sure as hell gave him speed.

  He timed his leap, going up and over the twelve-foot (plus extra) obstacle, landing between the two security fences on two feet. No hesitation, and a couple of long strides followed by another leap.

  The stun rounds hit him at the apex of the jump. Four of eight fired from compressed air rifles made contact and discharged. The high voltage ammo did not interfere with his momentum, but did interfere with his brain’s ability to communicate with his muscles. Instead of landing on his feet, he plowed into the hard-packed dirt inside the second fence. His body convulsed. His body also fought the attack, allowing him to recover quicker than a normal human.

  He pushed up in time for a stun prod to press into the back of his skull, just above the neck. When the juice hit, he went down.

  The man holding the rod waved to the shooters on the roof. He addressed the team converging on the unconscious Space Ranger. “Find his transport. Sat-image shows it parked off the old access road leading to the wilderness. Disconnect the systems and trackers before you bring it in.”

  As that team departed, the team from the roof arrived.

  “Bind him, hood him, and stick him in the secure cell on the second floor,” he ordered. “If he twitches, hit him with the stunner.”

  “Which will make him twitch,” a shooter quipped.

  “Then stun him again. You do not take chances with this man.”

  “Why not just kill him now?”

  “Information, leverage, and anything else the people in charge can think of,” the one in command replied. “Get him into lockdown. We have a busy couple of days ahead making sure we’re
covered.”

  Space Fleet HQ. Toronto, CA - Now

  “Admiral Singletary.” The feminine voice sounded strained and excited. “A wormhole gate opened inside the Kuiper Belt. An alien ship entered the solar system.”

  Fleet Admiral Terrance Singletary’s concentration on reassignment and redeployment of personnel interrupted by his Aide’s news. Operation Counterstrike’s expeditionary force, deployed to the planet Fell more than a year previously, would return to Earth within the coming month. The successful liberation of the planet from Zenge invaders would count as his first major win as Commander of the United Earth Council’s Space Fleet. That he had little to do with the decision to launch the mission, the operational planning, or the actual fighting would not impact his acceptance of accolades.

  Reassigning a quarter-million people involved advanced planning. The data-dumpers in Staffing required final approval on where they believed personnel should be allocated. He did not care what they believed. Where he wanted them mattered. Important decisions, but not to the level of the unexpected arrival of an alien ship.

  “Where is the Kennedy? Did the aliens attempt contact?” he demanded, responding to the voice emanating from an embedded inter-office speaker.

  “Captain Sligh is moving to intercept,” his Aide, LTJG Krista Stewart, replied. She occupied the reception area, the final barrier before his sanctuary. Her responsibilities included filtering all incoming communications, as well as monitoring Fleet activity. “If the ship is broadcasting, there will be a lag of approximately five hours.”

  “How long for the Kennedy to reach the area?”