Starship Valor (The Galactic Wars Book 5)

by Tripp Ellis

  “You’re not going to run for re-election?”

  “If I felt there was a better candidate, no.”

  “You’re not suggesting I would make a better candidate, are you?” Slade seemed amused.

  President Perez wasn’t joking. His imploring eyes gazed at her.

  “Oh, no. I belong in the field, commanding a starship.”

  “As Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, you would be a much more effective leader.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “The war is just beginning,” Perez said. “There are many threats out there. We need someone with military experience in the Office. I’d feel much more comfortable with someone such as yourself leading the Federation.”

  Slade pondered this for a moment, enticed by the idea. “I don’t know anything about politics. I don’t know anything about running a campaign. In fact, military regulations prevent me from campaigning. I can run for political office, but I can’t campaign without resigning my command. And that’s not something I’m willing to do.”

  “You wouldn’t have to campaign. Just put your name on the ballot. You’d be a shoe in. It wouldn’t even be a contest,” Perez chuckled. “Who’d run against you? Charles Rooney? He’s the best the Senocrats have to offer. And that’s not saying much. He creatively avoided service in the first Verge War. And the press is going to have a field day with his extracurricular activities, if you know what I mean?” Perez arched a knowing eyebrow.

  Slade sighed. “This is what I hate about politics. The mudslinging. The sensationalist yellow journalism.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few harsh words?”

  Slade arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ll stick with the battlefield. It's easier to tell who your enemies are. And, at least, you can shoot them. No thanks. Politics is not for me.” Slade had a wistful look on her face. “Once the colonies are secure, I'm going to finish my service in the Navy and retire to a quiet piece of land in the country. The kind of place where you don't have neighbors. Where you can hunt and fish and see the stars at night. A quaint cottage, a babbling brook that winds through the property, an abundance of wildlife, a few pets, and a goat—because goats are cute."

  Perez chuckled. "You and I both know you are never retiring from public service. You'd miss it too much. With modern medicine, you can stay young for a very long time. And I suspect you will keep enhancing yourself so you can stay in the fight."

  “A girl can dream, can’t she?"

  4

  Walker

  “Commander Walker, there’s an agent from the UIA here to see you,” Lieutenant Grimsby said. “Agent Falcon, I believe he said his name was. He’s in the conference room on 2 deck. He’s with Weston Elliott.”

  Walker grimaced. “Thank you.”

  Walker had been working closely with the UIA (United Intelligence Agency) to reestablish a functioning version of JPOC. And working with UIA a was like working with ghosts. You never knew their real name. Agents always had a code name. Everything was cloak and dagger. Everything was above top-secret.

  Weston Elliott was a corporate schmuck from Hughes & Kessler. They were one of the largest defense contractors. You’d be hard pressed to find a piece of military equipment that didn’t have at least one component manufactured by Hughes & Kessler. They made dropships, tactical fighters, troop transports, weapons targeting systems, terraforming stations, long-range detection systems—you name it.

  They had been supplying the military since the days of Earth. And they always got preferential treatment. They spent more on lobbyists than the GDP of some of the smaller colonies. Walker never much cared for these corporate types. They always came in with a limited understanding of combat situations and overinflated expectations. They looked at casualties in the same way they looked at damaged equipment—just a cost of doing business. Only they seemed to care more about the equipment.

  Walker made his way through the maze of passageways aboard the USS Revenant. One of the last Avenger class destroyers. The hallways bustled with activity. Sailors flowed through the corridors like worker ants. The ever present drone of the ship hummed. 24 hours a day, seven days a week, the ship rumbled with activity. It was something you got used to. And the nights you spent off the ship seemed far too quiet.

  Walker reached the compartment and stepped inside.

  Weston Elliott was wearing a handmade Navy pinstripe suit from Vescovi Couture that cost more than Walker would make in a year. Elliott wore a white cotton broadcloth shirt, a red silk tie, and leather cap-toe shoes by Zangari. His attire was made from real fabric. Not synthetic. You had to be rich to afford real fabric.

  Elliott offered his hand with a smile, and Walker shook it, begrudgingly. But the commander tried to put on a pleasant face. At 6’4”, and 250 pounds of lean muscle, Walker towered over the man.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Elliott?”

  Agent Falcon stood silent in the corner, observing. Agents were always silent. It seemed these guys only spoke when absolutely necessary. And then, with only the absolute minimum necessary information. They wanted to limit their exposure. They didn't want anything to come back to them. If something went wrong on one of these ops, you could rest assured that the UIA was never going to take the blame. They would deny any involvement.

  “I know your time is valuable, so I’ll get down to the point,” Weston said.

  Walker’s eyes filled with disdain. Elliott earned a thousand credits an hour. If anyone’s time was valuable, it was his. Walker’s value didn’t come from money. Right now, on the brink of another war, nothing was more valuable than a trained warrior.

  “We’ve lost contact with our mining facility on Vega Navi 6,” Elliott said.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but we just suffered a major assault by a foreign invader. New Earth, and a lot of the outer colonies, were devastated.” Walker’s voice had subtle undertones of sarcasm.

  Elliott tried to smile. It wasn’t the first time he had spoken with an adversarial commander. He knew men like Walker didn’t have much respect for men in suits. “Yes, I am aware of the devastation. I lost my brother in the attack.” Elliott gave a grim smile.

  “My condolences.” Walker felt like an asshole for making a smug remark.

  “Thank you. But I’m not here to grieve over losses. I’m here because the future of New Earth depends on it. Vega Navi is integral to the recovery of the Federation. It is the largest supplier of Plutrontium. Something that, I believe we both can agree, is in great demand.”

  Walker was well aware of its value. Plutrontium mines were few and far between. Any planet with an abundance of the ore was a military asset. It was no wonder the UIA was involved.

  “When was your last contact with the facility? Perhaps the comm systems are down?” Walker said.

  “We sent in a team of spec-ops contractors two weeks ago. That was the last we heard of them.”

  “We want you to send in another team,” Falcon said. “Secure the facility, bring it back online, and recover an asset.”

  Walker’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of asset?”

  “Dr. Holly Noble,” Elliott said. “She’s one of our leading quantum biologists.”

  Something about the statement struck Walker as odd. Process engineers, systems administrators, repair technicians, miners, transportation managers, geologists—those are the types of professionals you’d expect on a mining colony. “Quantum biologists?”

  “Part of our R&D team. We’re working on microbes that can devour the rock, freeing the Plutrontium trapped inside,” Elliott said. “That’s proprietary information, by the way.”

  Walker’s eyes were full of suspicion. “Vega Navi is outside the bounds of regulated space.”

  Elliott nodded. “We have a great deal of flexibility in the research we can pursue.”

  Just great, Walker thought. What kind of illegal research had their scientists been performing at the facility? Walker’s face tensed.
“I need you to be straight with me. If I send a team in, what are we getting into?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” Elliott looked sincere. “There’s nothing that I’m aware of that pushes the envelope of safety.”

  “You don’t think microbes that eat rock could be dangerous?” Walker asked, incredulous.

  “Unless you’re made out of granite, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  Walker didn’t like the sound of things. “I’ll need all the data you have. Schematics, personnel files, equipment, inventory. I want to know everything about the facility.”

  “You’ll have full access to our database.”

  “I’ll need to clear this with the Admiral.”

  “Of course,” Elliott said. Then he stammered, “I’d like to join the mission. In an advisory capacity.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “I have an intimate knowledge of the facility and its operations. You may find my expertise may come in handy.”

  Walker surveyed the skinny little man. He looked like he had never put in a hard day’s work in his life. His hands were soft and perfectly manicured. His skin was pale and smooth. He was the kind of guy who used an herb mint exfoliating gel scrub on his face every other day. He probably had six different kinds of moisturizer. Walker was sure Elliott wouldn’t last two seconds in a combat situation. And this guy wanted to come along as an advisor?

  5

  Tyler

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Ensign Tyler Finn shouted. His mouth was full. He was stuffing his face with a cheeseburger in the Wardroom.

  The message from the selection board wasn’t exactly what he was hoping for. He glared at his PDU as he scanned the message. He didn’t need to read the whole thing. Good letters start out with congratulations. Bad letters start with anything else. This is to inform you that you were considered, but not selected for promotion… blah, blah, blah… The message was signed by some dickwad lieutenant he had never heard of.

  “Oh, man. That’s harsh, Hollywood,” a cook said, looking over his shoulder.

  Tyler jerked the PDU away. “Mind your own business, Carson. I’ll have you scrubbing the head.”

  “Yes, sir. Minding my own business, sir. I’m just saying, at least they could have had the balls to do it in person, sir.”

  “Carson, I don’t think you know what mind your own business means.”

  “Uh, apparently not, sir,” Carson stammered. He scampered away before he could annoy the ensign any further.

  Tyler had lost his appetite. He grabbed his tray and pushed away from the table. He emptied it in the trash, put the dirty tray in a bin, and stomped out of the Wardroom.

  Tyler was the son of famed action movie star Sean Finn. His father was known for blockbuster franchises such as The Devastator, Alien Apocalypse, Command Decision, and Eye of the Assassin—each of which had multiple sequels. His father was currently in negotiations to take over the role of intergalactic spy Ryker Stone. It was a big deal. Every actor in New Hollywood wanted that role.

  Tyler had inherited his father's movie star good looks—the resemblance was uncanny, and his voice was practically identical. He had even starred in a few small movies himself, and had been offered sequels to roles that his father was thought too old to reprise. Tyler did a turn in Devastator 6: Rise of the Cyborgs. It was a commercial success. But the vapid nature of New Hollywood didn't suit him.

  Every media outlet covered the story when Tyler first joined the Navy. All of them referenced his father’s most famous catchphrase: Let’s get this party started. It was always spoken shortly before blowing something up. Tyler was asked to repeat the phrase so many times that it drew his utter disdain.

  His father's mystique followed him wherever he went. Once you got to know Tyler, he was just like any other guy. But his celebrity didn't endear him to his superiors. It was hard for them to take him seriously. Tyler found he had to work twice as hard as anyone else. His father got paid millions of credits to pretend to be a badass war hero. But Tyler wasn't pretending.

  Most people expected him to walk around with a cigar in his mouth, spitting funny one liners as he blasted enemies to pieces with a machine gun. It's what he did in Devastator 6. But that wasn't his style. He joined the Navy because he wanted to serve the Federation. He wanted to make a difference.

  Tyler navigated the maze of corridors to find Commander Walker in the new Special Operations Command headquarters.

  Just about every office of government had been disrupted during the invasion. It was pure chaos, and the leadership was scrambling to put things back together.

  The compartment was buzzing with activity. Walker was up to his ears with logistics and managerial duties—not his favorite thing in the world. He was constantly answering questions, taking calls, and giving directions.

  Bailey was sitting in a chair next to Walker. He had found the dog-like creature back on Thantos 6, and they had been inseparable ever since.

  Tyler stepped to the commander’s desk and saluted. “Commander Walker, do you have a moment?”

  “Does it look like I have a moment, Mr. Finn?” Walker didn’t look up from his paperwork.

  “No, sir. I’ll come back another time.” Tyler waited to be dismissed.

  “What is it, Hollywood?”

  Tyler stammered. “It’s about the promotion, sir. I was passed over. I thought you might have some added insight.”

  Walker grimaced. “I told them I would notify you personally. How did you find out?”

  “Electronic message to my PDU, sir.”

  Walker’s face tensed. “I’m sorry about that, Ensign. Things are a little chaotic right now. My men deserve better than a goddamn email notification.”

  “Sir, I was a little surprised. My performance eval’s are outstanding. I’ve got time in grade. I don’t understand.”

  “It’s competitive, and there are limited slots.” It was a standard response. And Walker hated saying it.

  Tyler almost scoffed. “Limited slots? Half the fleet has been decimated.”

  “Watch your tone, Mr. Finn.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I’m just ready. I want my own platoon.”

  “You’re a great leader. The men all like you. You’ve demonstrated the ability. But excelling at training ops and simulations are one thing. You need to be able to make the tough decisions under pressure.”

  “I can do that, sir.”

  “Who are your two closest buddies?”

  Tyler seemed a little taken aback. “O’Malley and Ramirez. We all went through Biscuit together.” It was slang for BSCT (Basic Space Combat Training). It was a grueling 24 week advanced training course that all Navy Reapers had to go through.

  “There’s a hull breach. You’ve gotta send one of them out to fix it. But there’s not enough oxygen to do the job and get back to safety. Which of your buddies do you send to die?”

  Tyler’s face went blank. He struggled to make a choice. “I don’t know,” he stammered.

  “It doesn’t matter now because you’re all dead. You hesitated.”

  Tyler’s face was sullen. He didn’t need to ask anymore questions.

  “Start prepping your gear. I’ll brief the platoon shortly. We rollout at 06:00 tomorrow.”

  “Aye, sir.” Tyler snapped a salute and marched out of the compartment.

  Walker was going to be glad to get out of this box. Pushing a pencil around was driving him crazy. He’d much rather have an RK 909 assault rifle in his hands—even if it meant people shooting back at him. It was better than dying of boredom.

  Walker looked over at Bailey who was putting a serious guilt trip on him with those sad puppy-dog eyes. Walker reached into his pocket and pulled out a doggie treat. Bailey’s tongue hung from his mouth, and his eyes were glued to the treat. Walker tossed it up, and Bailey snatched it out of the air. He chomped it down with glee. Walker petted Bailey’s head and smiled.

  6

 
Mitch

  "Oh. My. God. This place sucks balls,” Mitch said. He was standing in the CIC of one of the captured Decluvian warships. He looked out the windows at the barren landscape. The ship was in dry dock on Zeta 9 Centauri.

  “You volunteered to come here," Violet said hunched over a computer terminal. She clacked away at the keyboard, analyzing lines of code and making adjustments. She was a biosynthetic humanoid that had a fondness for humans. She had reprogrammed the virus that had disabled the Decluvian warships and saved mankind. Now she was trying to update the systems, eliminate the virus, and ensure cohesion as part of the UPDF fleet.

  Mitch gazed at the rows of warships perched in the shipyard. It was a surreal sight to see these massive war machines on the ground. The manufacturing plant was next to the shipyard. Beyond that was a POW camp where upwards of 30,000 Decluvians were housed. Not far from the factory, the landscape was dotted with tract housing for workers. Instead of being good little worker bees, most of the workers were holding picket signs, protesting in the streets.

  “I didn't think it was going to be this bad.”

  “What were you expecting? Blue water and white sand beaches?"

  “There's one bar in this town, and the drinks are overpriced and watered down."

  “Stop complaining. It lowers your intelligence. And you don't have much to lose.”

  Mitch sneered at her, but she never looked up from the display. “I'm not complaining. I'm just stating facts.” He paused a moment. “And it’s a fact that there’s not a lot of attractive women on this planet.”

  “Look at the bright side… it’s fates way of sparing you from rejection.”

  “I'll have you know that women all over the galaxy find the Mitch-ster irresistible.” He puffed up with a cocksure grin.

  Violet rolled her eyes.

  “Hey, I do okay.” Mitch was an attractive guy, but he wasn’t an underwear model. He had blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a round boyish face. He had a few more inches around his waistline than he preferred. But he was using the boredom of Zeta 9 Centauri to do something about that. He was working out more, and had taken to jogging around the complex.