Starship Valor (The Galactic Wars Book 5)

by Tripp Ellis

  “Alright, people,” Donovan growled. “Stay sharp.” She helped O'Malley to his feet. The petty officer was a little woozy from the pain medication. “You good to go, son?”

  “Aye, Master Chief.”

  O'Malley looked high as a kite. His eyes were glazed over and he could barely stand. His left arm was useless. But at least he could wield a pistol with some degree of accuracy.

  “Try not to shoot anybody on our side,” Donovan said.

  “No worries, VD.” His drug-induced smile fell. He realized what he had said, just as the words slipped out.

  The veins in Donovan’s neck bulged, and her face turned red.

  “I mean, Master Chief,” O'Malley said, correcting himself.

  “Get moving,” Donovan grumbled. She gently shoved O'Malley along.

  Horton whispered in Tyler's ear. “Do you think that’s such a good idea, bringing him along?"

  Tyler's eyes narrowed. His voice was low and deliberate. “I don't know what you're used to, Mr. Horton. But around here, nobody gets left behind."

  Kowalski’s triumphant voice filtered through Tyler’s earbud. “Bravo One, Hawkeye is on the LZ.”

  “Copy that,” Tyler said. “Bravo platoon is heading your way.”

  The squad readied their weapons. Tyler mashed a button on the wall and opened the inner airlock door. The doors slid apart and the team rushed into the airlock. There was a security monitor that allowed Tyler to see into the outer corridor. It looked clear—but he knew that could change in a heartbeat.

  Tyler opened the external door. Faulkner was the first one out. He crept down the hallway with his machine gun ready to rock 'n' roll. The rest of the platoon followed behind him. Donovan brought up the rear, helping to keep O’Malley upright.

  The squad scurried through the passageways to the main exit. Tyler signaled for the platoon to hold up at the main exit door. His sharp eyes surveyed the area. The afternoon sun was casting long shadows. The bright orange globe hung low in the sky. Nightfall was coming soon.

  Tyler scanned the tree line. The area looked clear. The exhaust from the Vantage's thrusters distorted the air as it sat on the tarmac. The back ramp was down and ready for load in. Tyler was about to signal his platoon to move when the forest came alive.

  Several dozen of the creatures emerged from the jungle. Tyler had looked right at them and never saw them. They swarmed the dropship like giant cockroaches. A few scurried up the back ramp. The clatter of their exoskeletons was unnerving.

  The platoon opened fire.

  Bullets streaked across the tarmac and into the forest. The sound of Faulkner's machine gun was deafening. Muzzle flash and gun smoke permeated the air. Shell casings pinged against the ground. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled Tyler's nostrils.

  He unloaded a full magazine in a matter of seconds. He pressed the mag release button, dropped the magazine out, and slammed another one in. In the blink of an eye, he was empty again.

  More of those things flowed from the jungle.

  The cockpit windows of the Vantage were splattered with blood. Kowalski was torn to shreds.

  “Fall back,” Tyler shouted. They were two of his least favorite words to say.

  24

  Walker

  Commander Walker knelt on the flight deck of the Revenant, petting Bailey. He reached into his pocket and tossed him a doggie-treat. Bailey crunched it down with glee.

  “You gotta stay here, boy,” Walker said.

  Bailey looked up at him with sad puppy-dog eyes.

  “I’ll be back soon. I promise. Stay out of trouble.”

  Bailey arched an eyebrow.

  “At least try to stay out of trouble.” Walker stood up and marched toward the SRV-707 Specter.

  Bailey tried to follow, but Walker gave him the eye. “Stay,” he said, drawing out the word. Walker marched up the ramp, closing it behind him as Bailey whimpered. His team was already aboard, waiting for him.

  The Specter was a long range stealth reconnaissance vehicle, with room for a pilot, copilot, and two in the jump seats. It had a sleek minimalist appearance, designed to reduce its radar cross-section. Because of its intelligence gathering role, it had limited offensive capabilities—two 7.62 mm machine guns, and only two Hellfire missiles.

  Because it was so difficult to detect and identify on sensor systems, the Reapers had been using them with increasing frequency on small team insertions. But they were expensive. Due to its sophisticated electronics and materials, they cost 10 times the amount of the Vantage. Losing one in the field was frowned upon.

  Walker slipped into the pilot’s seat and flipped switches and pressed buttons—the control panel came alive. The orange glow illuminated his face as he went through the preflight checks. The thrusters were virtually silent as they powered up, and there was very little mechanical vibration throughout the ship.

  Flight control cleared him for takeoff. Walker throttled up and lifted off the deck and eased the craft out of the bay.

  Ensign Erik Hanson sat in the copilot seat. He programmed in the jump coordinates for New Earth. Petty Officers Gavin Nichols and Kevin Mitchell sat in the jump seats.

  Walker engaged the slide-space drive. Maybe it was his imagination, but the quantum distortion seemed milder. The craft seemed to ease into slide-space without much discomfort.

  The flight was barely 20 minutes. They emerged on the dark side of Phobos 7, one of New Earth’s smaller moons. Walker figured it would help them avoid detection. It was a risky move to jump so close to a large object. There was always room for human error when plotting jump coordinates. Large gravitational fields could subtly affect re-entry points. It wasn't unheard of to materialize within a planet, or an asteroid.

  Walker eased the vehicle around the crest of the moon. The glorious blue orb of New Earth came into view. Walker squinted from the brilliant sun.

  “Plot jump coordinates in case we need to make a quick exit," Walker said.

  “Aye, sir," Hanson replied.

  The entire enemy fleet registered on the LRADDS display. They didn't seem to be responding to the Specter. Swarms of fighters weren’t launching from flight decks. Tactical missiles weren’t streaking through space.

  “Looks like we made it, sir," Hanson said.

  Walker glared at him. "We haven't made anything yet." His eyes kept flicking between the display and the warships.

  “How do you plan to get past them and down to the surface?" Nichols asked.

  "With a lot of luck." Walker engaged the thrusters, giving the craft a little push toward New Earth. Then he cut the engines, and let the Specter drift.

  Without the thrusters running, it would further reduce the craft’s profile. Combined with active signal dampening, the Specter was virtually invisible to detection systems. The black satin finish made the craft difficult to see against the black star field.

  The ship drifted toward the blue planet like a piece of space debris. Walker felt his heart beat rise as they neared the warships.

  Hanson’s eyes were wide as the tiny craft drifted past one of the massive destroyers. The tension was thick. A horde of fighters could surround them at any minute. It would make for a short mission.

  Walker breathed a sigh of relief as the Specter slipped past the enemy fleet and began re-entry. But this was where it was going to get tricky. They couldn’t just free fall—Walker was going to have to engage the thrusters.

  The tiny craft plummeted through the upper atmosphere. Walker angled the Specter toward the capital city of Nova York and powered up the engines.

  The skies over the countryside were less dense with enemy fighters. Walker figured that would be the best place to put down, then proceed on foot to Nova York to find Slade.

  The sleek black vessel broke through the clouds. Walker banked the craft around and look for a good place to land. He needed a remote area where he could camouflage the Specter after landing.

  A proximity alert sounded. An enemy fighter was on his tail.


  Walker banked the Specter hard. But the AI drone fighter stuck to him like glue. Another proximity alert sounded. The drone had launched an air to air missile. It streaked through the sky with a cloud of gray propellant billowing from its tail.

  Walker pulled hard on the controls, banking the Specter. He slammed a button on the dash, deploying electronic countermeasures. Two ECMs ejected from the stern—Mark 7 MOSS (Mobile Spaceship Simulator) decoys. The devices also attempted to jam the missiles targeting system. It was a two pronged approach. They glowed a brilliant blue, simulating the heat signature of the thrusters.

  The rocket took the bait and exploded in a blinding flash. Walker felt the shock wave ripple through the ship.

  The proximity alert sounded again. Another missile.

  More evasive maneuvers.

  Two more countermeasures.

  Another narrow escape as the second missile exploded in an amber ball of flame. But that was it. There were no more electronic countermeasures. The Specter wasn't designed for close aerial combat. As a recon ship, it was meant to jump away at the first sign of trouble, not to engage in an extended dogfight.

  Walker twisted and weaved through the sky. But no matter what he did, he just couldn't shake the AI drone. The damn thing was near perfect. It had been encoded with the entire repository of known aerial combat maneuvers. Its predictive modeling algorithms were 97.65% accurate. The more it could analyze a particular pilot’s flying style, the more accurate it became. It knew what you were going to do before you did it. Which made it damn hard to evade.

  Walker was giving it a run for its money. But he wasn't going to be able to avoid the inevitable.

  Another proximity alert sounded. Another air to air missile.

  25

  Walker

  The last thing Walker remembered was the proximity alarm sounding. He woke up with his temples throbbing and feeling like a knife had been stabbed into his lower back. His vision was blurred. It took him a moment to be able to focus. When he did, he glanced around the cockpit, or what was left of it.

  Ensign Hansen was slumped over the control panel. A torrent of blood trickled down his face, which had melded into the dash, impaled by switches and controls.

  Walker reached out his hand and checked for a pulse in the ensign’s neck—there wasn't one.

  He glanced over his shoulder to check on the petty officers, but the jump seats didn't exist anymore. Just a gaping hole where the stern of the ship had been.

  The blood had rushed to his head. It took him a moment to realize he was hanging upside down.

  He released his safety harness and slammed against the roof of the craft. He grabbed an RK 909 assault rifle and crawled out of the wreckage. The twisted, mangled carcass of the ship was barely recognizable.

  Walker climbed over the jagged edges and onto the soft grass. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he still didn't fully have his bearings. He looked to the sky, trying to find his attacker, but all he saw were puffy clouds and blue sky. Then he heard the enemy craft circling around to make a pass over the wreckage.

  Walker staggered to his feet and sprinted toward the tree line. He dove to the ground taking cover under a large oak. He heard the enemy drone rip through the air, surveying the smoldering wreckage of the Specter.

  His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. He leaned back against the trunk of the majestic oak. By now the adrenaline was wearing off to some degree, and he realized that he had an unsightly piece of metal protruding through his thigh.

  He knew better than to yank the thing out. Often, with these types of injuries, it's the foreign object that is keeping you from bleeding out. Best to leave it in place until you can get proper medical attention.

  The drone made another pass overhead. That was the last Walker heard of it. He caught a lucky break, if you could call this lucky.

  He needed to keep on the move. He knew the drone would likely send ground troops to confirm there were no survivors from the wreckage—that's what he'd do. He'd have to worry about the hunk of metal in his leg later.

  Walker used his rifle to help him climb to his feet. Then he hobbled deeper into the woods. He moved as fast as he could, wincing with each step. Weaving through trees and stepping over fallen logs. He marched up a small slope, then down to a clearing. At the bottom of the valley was a small farm. A modest house, a two-story barn, a grain silo, an old red tractor, and rows and rows of corn. It was already head high and tasseling, which was a little early for this time of year.

  This part of the country was thick with Navish—a close-knit, technophobic society that preferred the simpler ways. Mostly farmers.

  Walker scanned the sky for any trace of the drone. It seemed clear, so he hobbled across the meadow, hopped the small wooden fence, then staggered to the barn.

  Rays of light sneaked through spaces in between the wooden slats. Bales of hay were stacked high. The barn had a musty smell that was part rotten corncob, part hay, and part manure.

  Walker crawled to the corner and leaned against a bale of hay. He took off his gear and tactical vest and pulled a med kit from his pack. He unbuttoned his pants, and carefully pulled his fatigues down, exposing his thigh—he was mindful not to snag the protruding piece of shrapnel on the fabric.

  Shrapnel is a particularly insidious type of wound. But they are treated similar to other types of puncture wounds. Most people are inclined to pull the shard out, but the metal is usually blistering hot. It's best to let it cool first, even though the patient may be screaming for you to get the scalding piece of metal out. The benefit to the searing hot chunk of debris, is that there is very little bleeding.

  Walker irrigated the wound, and used a pair of forceps to remove the debris. He cleaned both entry and exit wounds and looked for extraneous fragments. Once he was certain he had removed all the foreign objects, he irrigated the wound again with an antiseptic ointment. Then he applied a regenerative compound. He used a skin sealing gel to close both entry and exit wounds.

  Shrapnel wounds are notorious for infections, so Walker took an oral antibiotic as well. He washed the pill down with a swig from his canteen. The whole process took maybe 15 minutes.

  He rested against the bale of hay for a moment and closed his eyes. But his brief rest was interrupted when the barn door flew open. A backlit figure stood in the doorway, and Walker heard the unmistakable sound of a pump action shotgun.

  CLACK CLACK.

  “What in the hell are you doing on my property?"

  Walker stared at the double-barreled shotgun. They were like two sewer pipes in his face. The frail old man aiming the weapon at him had a short white beard and was wearing overalls.

  He looked Walker up and down and was none too pleased to see Walker's fatigues around his ankles. “I swear to God, if you're doing anything inappropriate with my farm animals…”

  Walker chuckled. "No, sir. Just doing a little field surgery on my leg.”

  “You’re not one of those goddamn things, are you?”

  “No, sir."

  “I hear some of those robots can look just like people,” the old farmer said. "Are you sure you ain’t one of them?”

  “I can assure you, sir. I'm 100% human being. Commander Kurt Walker, UPDF Navy Reapers.”

  The farmer studied him for a moment, “What Biscuit class were you?”

  “209, sir.”

  “What’s written over the entrance to the Pulverizer?”

  “The only easy day was yesterday."

  Harlan grinned and lowered his weapon. "Well, shit, son. Why didn't you say so?” Harlan stood proud. “Master Chief Harlan Echols, UPDF Navy Reapers, retired.”

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Master Chief."

  “Likewise, Commander. What brings you to these parts?”

  Walker told him about his mission, and the crash.

  “Why don’t you gather your things and come into the house. There's a spare bedroom and plenty to eat."

  �
�Thank you, sir. I appreciate your hospitality."

  "Anything for a brother."

  Walker grabbed his gear and the old man helped him to his feet. He hobbled to the wood frame house. The paint was slightly peeling. He grabbed onto the handrail as he climbed the steps to the porch. Harlan held the door for him as he entered the home.

  Walker’s nostrils filled with the smell of fresh-baked blueberry pie. “Something smells good."

  “My granddaughter is fix’n up supper,” Harlan said. “Lily, we’ve got company.”

  Lily emerged from the kitchen with her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing oven mitts. She was a stunning young woman of 22, with crystal blue eyes.

  “This here’s Commander Walker,” Harlan said.

  Lily pulled off one of the oven mitts and extended her hand.

  Walker smiled and took her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

  “I hope you brought your appetite, Commander. We've got real sirloin steak, green beans, fresh corn, and sweet potatoes.”

  “Real steak?” Walker seemed impressed.

  “This is a working farm, Commander.” Her smile was overtaken with concern. "Let's hope it stays that way."

  “Any of those robots come around here, I've got something for them," Harlan said.

  “Stop, grandpa. I don't want you getting any crazy ideas. It's not worth it."

  “Hell, I’ve got some fight left in me.”

  Lily glanced to Walker. “Don’t give him any ideas. “I hear enough war stories as it is around here." She smiled. "Come on. It's almost ready." She led them into the kitchen.

  Walker took a seat at the kitchen table, and Lily served up dinner. Harlan said grace over the meal, then the trio dug in. There was nothing like surviving a crash to spur the appetite. Walker cleaned his plate in a matter of moments. He ate like it was the last meal he was ever going to have. And if it was his last meal, it sure was worthy.

  “You are quite the cook, Lily.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” Her eyes sparkled.