She couldn’t help but offer a thin smile. The captain was quite the orator, when his head wasn’t stuck up his hindquarters.
“Yeah, he was one natural heroic son of a—” Shawn stopped mid-statement and turned to Melissa, searching his vocabulary for a word that would annul any further frustrations on her part. “He was a heck of a guy.”
She frowned at him. “I beg your pardon?”
The captain snickered.
Melissa looked at him quizzically, then shook her head and smiled. She recalled her own share of stories she’d overheard other officers say about her father when they didn’t think she was listening. She remembered wild tales of her father—spurious in most every detail—blazing into battle, guns firing and yelling orders to senior officers and subordinates alike. As with most legends, they were fantastic tales that were bound to be some truth to them.
“Yes,” she offered. “I suppose he could be that way at times.”
Shawn looked to her and, still chuckling, replied “And then some.”
Her smile quickly faded as she recalled that the man they were speaking of was missing, perhaps even dead. She felt guilty for allowing herself the freedom to smile once again and, having tasted it, wanting it to last just a little longer. Decided to hold onto that modicum of joy for as long as she could, she pressed the captain further. “Tell me about a mission you flew with my father… any one. One that has a positive ending. We have some time and… and I’d very much appreciate it.”
“Positive ending,” Shawn asked as he quickly scanned his memory, then almost immediately chuckled. “Well, I do recall this one time… but, I can tell you the outcome was anything but positive, at least for me.”
Melissa positioned her elbow on the armrest and rested her chin on her upturned palm, leaning in closer to the captain, as if their separation would cause her to miss important details. “My, my,” she said wide eyed. “An unfortunate incident with my own pilot? By all means, Mister Kestrel. Please elaborate.” She watched as his deep blue eyes scanned the distant stars, and realized that she was grateful he’d shaved before they took off. She decided then and there that Shawn Kestrel looked very… presentable.
For his part, Shawn could only lick at his lips, thinking of where to begin…
*
“Shawn, we just got word in from the Fahrenwald: there’s a wave of Kafaran deck fighters approaching the task force,” William said smoothly over the tactical communication network. “The rest of our squadron is retiring home after repelling the first attack wave against Reeka Station. New contacts are two hundred and fifty miles east, relative to our current heading. We’ve been ordered in.”
Shawn scanned through the canopy of his F-A6 Raptor fighter to see his commanding officer and friend, Lieutenant Commander William ‘Wild Bill’ Graves, forming up on his starboard wing.
“Roger that, sir. Let’s go get ‘em.”
Seconds later, Shawn could see the Kafaran fighters. They were long and sleek, with forward swept wing-like structures mounted along the centerline that held plasma cannons on their inboard edges. They were similar in size and armament to the Raptor’s, so it looked as if it was going to be an interesting scuffle—considering there were four of them facing off against the two Unified Sector Command Fleet interceptors. The Kafaran’s had already begun their attack run, fast approaching the Sector Command carrier Fahrenwald and the three destroyers that formed her protective screen. The two pilots knew they had to work quickly.
Wild Bill dove in first with a hard bank to starboard, and the surprised Kafaran was caught completely off guard by the aggressiveness of his maneuver. William aligned the enemy fighter in his forward sight and let loose with three bursts from the laser cannons mounted in the leading edges of his wings. The greenish Kafaran fighter’s rear engine began to smoke and sputter as it emitted a shower of sparks into the coldness of space. After another salvo from William there was a burst of flames as the starboard wing structure separated from the fuselage. Moments later the entire fighter exploded into oblivion.
Shawn, on the other hand, hadn’t fared as well. On his first run, he’d inflicted only superficial damage to one enemy fighter, while another had managed to put a few holes in his dorsal oscillator. Nothing to serious, but Shawn was ticked off about it nonetheless, and decided his next round would be more successful.
On that pass, Shawn concentrated on the two fighters that were leading the formation. He quickly closed the range between them and fired his powerful particle accelerator guns with a fantastic degree of accuracy. The cockpit of the first fighter disintegrated in the hail of white hot fire and it fell off to port, almost becoming an impromptu kamikaze run on the Fahrenwald. Shawn snapped his fighter around to starboard and—as luck would have it—had his short-range lasers punch through the second fighter’s fuel storage module. The Kafaran exploded seconds before Shawn’s ship launched through its last position.
Shawn righted his vessel and looked out for a sign of his commanding officer. After verifying the accuracy of his radar readings, Shawn caught sight of Graves’s interceptor below and forward of his current position.
The Sector Command destroyer escorts, long and rectangular in overall shape, along with the big and beautiful Fahrenwald, were letting loose with volley after volley of turreted laser fire. The rounds looked like so many fireflies dancing around the taskforce as the Sector Command fleet tried desperately to ward off the Kafaran fighters—not to mention two enemy frigates that had just jumped into the area as well.
Shawn visually made out a lone Raptor miraculously avoiding both enemy and friendly fire simultaneously, and he quickly decided it was time for him to intervene. He rolled his Raptor to starboard, then pushed the control stick full forward, sending the little ship into a corkscrew and heading straight down. He watched his relative speed indicator and radar distance readings almost concurrently and, at two hundred feet from the Fahrenwald’s bow, pulled back hard and leveled the sturdy F-A6. The Fahrenwald was right below him now, and he could see the enemy deck fighters buzzing around her like moths to a flame. He quickly transmitted his position, hoping to avoid friendly anti-fighter emplacements.
He passed over the carrier—a mere thirty feet over the aft superstructure—and pulled up into the path of an approaching Kafaran. Shawn was now head-to-head with the fighter, but he’d been in worse places. He squeezed at the trigger on the control stick, letting his lasers fly and disintegrate the nose of the Kafaran, destroying any vestige of life on the vessel. The Kafaran’s own inertia caused it to sail harmlessly past the Raptor and out into open space.
“We’ve had more enemy fighters come in from outside the sector. I’ve bagged two more.” He could hear Graves say over the tac-net, then he visually saw his friend’s fighter spinning in a tight victory roll.
“Nice maneuver,” Shawn said. “I’m about two hundred yards off of your port-stern quarter.”
“Roger that,” Bill replied smartly. “Hey, wait a minute…What the devil? Heads up!” Graves yelled. “Get out of there, Shawn!”
Shawn swiveled his head around the cockpit, bewildered at his commander’s statement. Suddenly a shadow cast itself over his controls. He looked up, and instantly all the color drained from his face. Not less than ten feet above him was a Kafaran heavy bomber, flying parallel with him, with her lower torpedo bay doors wide open.
“Oh hell!” A hard stick to port sent Shawn soaring, but not fast enough. A single torpedo—a twelve foot long warhead packed with enough explosives to open a hundred foot wide hole in a destroyer—had been released by the bomber. Fortunately, it was destroyed before it had a chance to arm itself. Unfortunately, it was the impact with Shawn’s wing that had caused the weapons early demise.
Abruptly, all of the instruments on Shawn’s monitors began to waver with static. Thruster control was lost, and Shawn’s ship began to spiral tightly as he fought to regain control. The Raptor’s onboard computer network connection had somehow been interrupte
d after the impact, causing Shawn to lose all control in the engines vector nozzle. He swung the stick left to right, pushing on the maneuvering thruster pedals in an attempt to stop the vessel from the wild corkscrew he found himself in. Fortunately he was able to reach the manual flight switch, severing all flight controls from the ships damaged computer. After a few death defying moments—and with a lot of manual pressure to the controls—the vessel had almost completely righted itself. The maintenance staff onboard the Fahrenwald weren’t going to be happy with all the repairs the Raptor would need, but at the moment Shawn could care less. Someone else’s problem, he recalled someone had once said.
Shawn’s limping F-A6 was jostled slightly as Wild Bill’s interceptor screamed past and blasted the Kafaran who’d dropped the torpedo.
“The remaining contacts are fleeing,” Graves said dejectedly. “Our orders are not to pursue.”
“That’s a damn good thing,” Shawn tried not to sound tense. “I’m dragging my tail right now.”
William formed up on what was left of Shawn’s wing. “Ah, hell. It’s only a scratch. Quit your complaining.”
“Well, you fly her home then.” Kestrel said through gritted teeth, still trying with difficulty to keep the Raptor level and orientated at the Fahrenwald’s landing bay.
“No can do, old buddy. My ship works just fine. And as I recall, the last bet we made was ‘he who had the least damage lands first’, right?” And with that, Shawn watched as William performed another flawless barrel roll to starboard as his fighter rocketed towards the carrier.
In the end, Shawn had made it back to the Fahrenwald, but not without difficulty. With landing gear control down, he was thankful the carrier’s guidance beams had caught his fighter before it had a chance to smash into the flight deck at nearly half speed. Later that evening, after the pilots had been debriefed and the action reports had been filed, Graves and Kestrel shared a quiet drink in the officer’s mess.
Shawn’s first remark to William was that, next time, the bet about who’d get to land first would be much different.
*
As Shawn finished his story, a wry smile crept across his face as he recalled the party in the officer’s mess later that evening. The Sector Command pilots had a lot to celebrate: four squadrons of deck fighters, as well as both enemy frigates, had been completely destroyed. The Sector Command fleet hadn’t come out unscathed—losing a frigate and a destroyer themselves—but they’d won the day, and there would be time to mourn their losses later.
Melissa’s chin floated off her palm as she leaned back in the copilots seat. “That sounds like my father,” she smiled, then looked to Shawn. “My father didn’t often speak of his missions. I think he was afraid that the stories might be… too much for me.”
“Well, war is never a pretty thing.” Shawn responded solemnly.
“I suppose, even in the most humorous of stories, death was always a possibility.” She folded her arms across her chest as her gaze returned to the stars, then shivered slightly. It didn’t go unnoticed by Shawn.
“That’s what made them memorable.” He reached behind her seat and withdrew a folded wool blanket that he tossed into her lap. “It gets a little cold up here sometimes, and the heaters aren’t as efficient as they used to be.”
She unfurled the thick green blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. The contrast of the blankets color to her red hair reminded Shawn of Christmas, a holiday he hadn’t felt the need to celebrate in a long time.
She bundled herself up tightly. “Thank you, Captain.”
“After all,” he continued, “war is the great constant in the universe—aside from the bureaucratic mentality.”
She glanced in his direction, pursing her lips and slowly shaking her head. “Even with all the bureaucracy in the Unified government, I wish father would have told me something about his current assignment.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t give you a hint as to what he was up to, or where he was going.”
Melissa rolled her eyes, cursing under her breath. “It’s all ‘classification levels’ and ‘need to know’ nonsense, it would seem. Apparently, even an Admiral’s own daughter doesn’t rate a sufficient explanation. It’s beyond frustrating.”
Shawn could almost feel her agitation, realizing this all must be extremely difficult for her—an outsider to military affairs.
“I’m sorry,” he offered genuinely after a moment of silence. “I didn’t mean to—”
Melissa waived a hand lightly and then tucked it back under the blanket. “Don’t bother, Captain. It’s not like it’s entirely your fault. What’s more important now is that we find him and save him.”
Shawn gave her a cautious look. “What makes you so sure he needs saving? Maybe he’s just out of communications range. The galaxy is a pretty big, unpredictable place, you know?”
Melissa scoffed. “Unlikely.”
Knowing William as well as he did, a part of Shawn couldn’t help but agree. “Well, you said yourself. He’d been working on some kind of classified project. Who knows what could have happened to him. What section of the government was he working for, exactly? I still have a few friends with ties to Sector Command and—”
Melissa abruptly turned in her seat to face the captain. “I thought I hired you to help me find my father, not offer up wild theories as to his disappearance. No matter what he was doing for the government, they’d never have delivered this letter to me if he was still able to follow orders.” She turned her eyes back to the stars ahead. “No, Mister Kestrel. Something is afoul here, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
Stunned at her abrupt reaction, he looked briefly back to his instruments and verified that the navigational computer was still functioning normally. “Well, arguing with one another isn’t going to make our task any easier.” He let the sentence sink in before he spoke again. “Or, if we’re trying to kill each other.”
She slipped him a sideways leer, then rolled her eyes in resignation when Shawn remained silent. “Agreed.”
“Good,” he smiled. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
She glared at him, almost saying something she’d possibly regret, but then the ship’s light drive engines suddenly decelerated and a small, pinkish planet filled the view port. She watched as Shawn placed a communications headset over his ears and began speaking.
“Port of Welga. This is Captain Shawn Kestrel onboard Sylvia’s Delight. Registry number is 459-Zed-Zed-Alpha-9. Requesting clearance to land.”
Melissa spied a set of worn headphones laying on the console to her right. She gave them a light dusting before placing them over her ears. At first she heard only light static, but soon a male voice came over the airwaves.
“Roger, Sylvia’s Delight. This is Welga control. Your identification code classifies your vessel as a Hypervarion Mark-IV transport. Clearance to land approved, Captain. Taxi to bay seven upon arrival and await further instructions.”
“Roger on bay seven, control,” Shawn said before signing off of the communications channel.
“Is there any significance to bay seven?” Melissa asked.
Shawn smiled as he reached for the breaking thruster control. “That’s where all the illegal stuff happens.”
“Fantastic,” she muttered. “More pirates.”
“Relax. It was only a joke. I’ve never actually landed there before.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied, but remained unconvinced.
Sylvia’s Delight made a high, sweeping pass over the busy space port. The main complex—a large, hollow, semi-circular structure about three-quarters of a mile wide—was the same beige color as the surrounding terrain it was built from. In the open center were several large tents of various colors and patterns, erected to cover the merchants as they plied their various goods, giving the appearance that a three-ringed circus had come to town. Around the outer perimeter of the port, Melissa noticed dozens of civilian and merchant craft—wearing paint schemes in
a spectrum of colors and patterns—docked directly with the structure or neatly parked in rows beside it. On the far side of the port, protruding into lush vegetation that bordered the facility, were a series of long buildings running parallel to one another, each nearly a half a mile long. When Melissa inquired as to their purpose, Shawn informed her that they contained warehouses, cafes, and various other ship supporting facilities, and that one of the more remote ones was their intended destination.
The buildings closest to the space port looked to be in good repair, with people bustling about as they bought and plied their various commodities. However, as Sylvia’s Delight crossed over the warehouses furthest away from the station, Melissa could see that their corrugated steel construction materials had seen better days. At the furthest point from the main complex, there were large spots of rust on most of the doors, and some of the walls had begun to peal themselves away from their support framework. The captain currently had the Mark-IV hovering between two such dilapidated rows, sending up a small cloud of dust that pelted the seemingly forgotten buildings.
“That’s the place down there,” the captain said, pointing across Melissa and down to the warehouses below. Thankfully they still had an hour or two before night fell. The periphery loading docks at Welga were no place to find yourself after sundown, and not much better during the daylight, he’d told her. She could see that, every fifty feet or so, large numbers were painted on the various heavy doors leading into the structure. After bay number six, the painted number seven seemed to be curiously missing. There were several abandoned vehicles lying around—one of them upside down in a large crater—along with a handful of damaged crates and a small, overturned crane. A landing pad near what was probably bay seven, its perimeter red lights slowly pulsing, looked to have been recently cleared.
The Army Of Light (Kestrel Saga) Page 9
