“This is Raffles actual,” a new voice replied on the circuit— the captain of Singapore himself. “My crew are in lockdown at their battle stations, mostly unarmed. The enemy force is currently contained on deck four, but they are breaking through our frames and moving forward.”
Thomas studied the destroyer’s layout on the display. The enemy was on the same deck as they were, six frames forward. If he could get access to one deck below, he could easily outflank them, but the ship was completely locked down.
“This is Alpha-One, roger,” he said. “Request access to hatches… 47F and 42D to position my troops.”
“Roger, we’ll unlock hatches 47F and 42D.”
Thomas signaled his troopers to close in on him as he strode forward. Hatch 47F loomed in the deck ahead.
“Alpha Team with me,” he ordered, “going down a deck and positioning ourselves forward of the hostiles. Bravo Team will hold position here until we’re ready, and then hit the hostiles from astern.” Buns nodded, and he scanned his troopers for any questioning looks. There were none. “Open that hatch,” he ordered.
Moving through, Alpha Team dropped to deck three and hustled forward. Thomas linked his forearm display to the helmet-cam of Alpha-Two up front, but kept his own eyes up to stay focused on one heavy step after another. It almost felt like an exercise, running in full armor through the familiar, well-lit passageway of a Terran warship. It was a dangerous illusion, he knew.
Alpha-Two reached hatch 42D and headed up the ladder to wrap armored hands around the handle, waiting for the order to open it.
“All units, Alpha-One,” he said on the strike team circuit. “Don’t be fooled by our familiar surroundings. This is not an exercise. This is not a simulation. We are engaging actual hostiles and there are actual friendlies around. Watch your fire. This is a Terran warship, and we want it to stay intact.”
He heard a deep chuckle beside him, and glared down at the grim amusement on Alpha-Three’s face. Then he motioned for the hatch to be opened.
The moment it did his team scrambled up the ladder back onto deck four, and moved toward the sealed door that lay aft. It was still intact, but the first blast to loosen it had already warped the top starboard corner. He could hear taps against it as the hostiles prepared another charge.
“All units, this is Alpha-One, in position. Bravo-One, over.”
“Bravo Team in position,” Buns replied.
“Faceplates down,” he ordered. “Assume vacuum conditions.”
Switch freq.
“Raffles, Alpha-One. We are go to take hostiles, over.”
“This is Raffles. Take hostiles.”
Switch freq.
“All units, Alpha-One. Alpha Team will commence the strike. Watch your fire—only shoot if you can positively identify the hostile.”
Thomas raised his rifle, reaching for the grenade launcher. A Terran warship door was designed to take a heavy pounding before it gave way. If he wanted to surprise the hostiles, he needed an overwhelming first strike.
“Alpha Team: target the door, one grenade each.”
Four more rifles lifted up, troopers settling into crouches.
“Fire.”
Even through the filtered audio of his helmet, the blast was deafening. The pale gray metal of the door vanished in a fireball that swept through the passageway, boiling over Alpha Team before vanishing into the sudden clouds of thick, chalky smoke. Thomas staggered at the force of the blast, but kept his feet and followed his troopers into the fray.
Even before he stepped over the twisted wreckage of the door he spotted the first dead rebel, reinforced spacesuit shredded by multiple scraps of charred metal. A pair of shots rang out ahead. He saw a heavy splash of red against the deckhead as the result of one of the impacts.
“This is Bravo-One,” he heard on the circuit, “visual on Alpha Team.”
“Visual on Bravo Team,” Alpha-Two replied. “Hostiles clear.”
“Bravo Team clear.”
Thomas did a quick sweep of his position at the destroyed door. Through the smoke he could make out nearly a dozen bodies splayed around him. None of them were moving.
“Alpha Team clear,” he reported.
His troopers emerged like golems through the blasted passageway, weapons swinging slowly over the dead hostiles as they checked for life signs. Thomas scanned the scene again, reassuring himself that the battle was in fact over.
Just like that, it was over.
“Raffles, Alpha-One,” he said on the command circuit. “Hostiles neutralized. Strike team assessing damages.”
“This is Raffles actual. Roger, Alpha-One, victor-mike-tango.”
Thomas smiled. The Astral Force had a saying, Line officers eat their young. And while it was usually verbal abuse toward the subbies, it also showed in the reluctance of line officers to acknowledge good work done by others. The coveted “bravozulu” was often cited as the highest compliment a line officer could pay anyone—dating back nearly a thousand years to the signal flags sent between sailing ships.
But a “victor-mike-tango”… Translated as “very many thanks” it was reserved as a personal message of appreciation from sender to recipient. If he hadn’t been a line officer himself for nearly twenty years, he doubted he’d have understood the depth of gratitude Singapore’s CO had just displayed.
Thomas scanned the bodies near him, then stepped back through the shattered door to give his troopers room. He listened as the captain made an update to his crew over the main broadcast, indicating that the internal threat had been eliminated. Even so, the attacking rebel ships still posed real danger to Singapore.
When Buns reported to him that the bodies had been secured, Thomas found himself strangely lacking in orders. He passed on the report to Singapore’s command team and requested further instructions. Word came back that the rebel ships were still harassing Singapore and Bowen, and that a Hawk transfer would be unsafe. With nowhere else to send them, the strike team was told to report to the hangar.
Alpha-One was invited to report to the bridge.
Thomas ordered his team to report to the hangar, then told Sergeant Buns and Alpha-Three to join him. If any more kudos were going to be handed out, Thomas wanted some of his troopers there to receive it.
Movement through the destroyer was slow, as every airtight bulkhead had to be opened and then resealed. With the ship at battle stations, the main passageways were deserted. Thomas and his troopers passed only one trio of Singapore crewmen, wearing emergency suits with helmets strapped to their waists. The trio gave Thomas a wide berth and hurried on their way.
Singapore’s bridge was much like any other—smaller than Bowen’s, with fewer consoles and crew, but the basic format still seated the captain and officer of the watch in the center, with the three warfare teams positioned around them.
Thomas weaved his way forward and stood before the center chairs. The captain was looking the other way, in conversation with his anti-attack warfare director, but the officer of the watch nodded to the troopers. Thomas saluted.
“Bowen strike team reporting, sir.”
The captain turned, and Thomas saw for the first time the face of Singapore’s commanding officer. His stomach twisted in a sudden vortex of emotion as Commander Sean Duncan’s face lit up in recognition and surprise, then a smile spread across his face.
“So that’s where you’ve been hiding for the past year.”
He glanced at Thomas’s suit, and Thomas breathed a silent prayer that it carried no rank insignia. He’d made his peace with his demotion and banishment, but meeting a career-long friend and peer… it still hurt. He and Duncan had done their initial line officer training together, and had maintained a friendly rivalry for years. When last they’d met, Lieutenant Commander Kane had been leading the race over Lieutenant Duncan.
Oh, he realized with a sickened heart, how much things could change.
“It’s good to see you again, sir,” he said aloud. “Congratulations on your command
.”
Duncan reached down a hand, which Thomas gently shook in his armored glove. Thomas’s two troopers looked confused at the friendly exchange.
“I had no idea you were back in the Corps,” Duncan said. “Or that you jarheads had created some sort of elite unit.” Then a sudden flurry of symbols on the bridge sphere stole his attention. He barked commands and Thomas watched as the swarm of rebel ships scattered under Singapore’s defensive fire. Duncan turned back.
“Wasn’t I lucky to get boarded when you were nearby,” he said, glancing down at Thomas before watching his display again.
“Just doing our job, sir,” he replied carefully. He glanced instinctively at the nearest display, looking for the hostiles and Bowen’s relative position. “As soon as you tidy up the mess outside, we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Looks like the rebel ships are starting to pull back. On their previous swarm attack, one of them looked like it was trying to clamp us, but then one of your Hawks engaged it point-blank with missiles. Ballsy move, Thomas.”
“Spinner-One?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s our boy Jack Mallory, sir. Still as crazy as ever—and a lieutenant, now.” Duncan nodded with no small amount of pride. He’d been Jack’s first XO.
“I trained that cocky, talented little punk, turned him into something useful, it seems.”
“I was happy to finish the job, sir.”
Beyond Duncan, flashes of fire erupted from the rebel ships. Singapore easily deflected the desperate attack and Duncan gave the order to back off, putting distance between his ship and the enemy. Bowen was inbound at speed and was already taking over the front line of defense.
“I can’t believe how quickly these kids are growing up,” Duncan mused. “I guess war does that. Bloody war and sickly season, eh, Thomas?” The old naval toast, wishing for senior officers to die so that there’d be promotions all round. The entire conversation was getting very uncomfortable.
“I should head back to the hangar, sir,” Thomas said suddenly, “so that we’re ready to depart as soon as there’s a window for the transfer.”
“Great to see you, Thomas. I’ll look for you when we’re back in Terra—what’s your home unit?”
Thomas was already turning to go, but the innocent question stopped him. Again he saw his troopers watching him, and knew that truth was the only answer.
“Admiral Bowen, sir. We’ll see you back home.” He shooed Buns and Alpha-Three ahead of him, and kept walking even as he heard Duncan give an order to the officer of the watch.
“Contact Bowen and arrange for a transfer of Commander Kane and his team as soon as the hostiles disengage.”
Buns’ eyes snapped over to him. He forcibly gripped her suit and kept her moving.
“Keep walking, Sergeant.”
9
The Hawk’s hull shuddered again, but this time Jack heard a sharp bang beneath him. Atmo pressure warning lights started flashing and he slapped down the faceplate of his helmet. The moment of silence gave him a chance to take a single, deep breath, then the suit’s audio system connected directly to the Hawk’s computers and his ears were awash in alarms.
“Windmill, this is Spinner-One,” he signaled as he plunged his stick to starboard, “I am aborting my approach to hostile one-seven.”
The small rebel ship fired another volley at him as he veered away, but otherwise didn’t pursue. In his display Jack could see the cluster of rebel craft forming up in a protective perimeter around the one he’d just nailed with missiles. Not enough to destroy it, but enough to divert the rebels away from their main target for a few minutes.
He assessed his own craft. Losing atmo, one engine down, empty of missiles and low on fuel. There was nothing more he could contribute to this fight.
“Windmill, this is Spinner-One. I am heavily damaged and empty weapons. Request immediate recovery.”
“This is Windmill, roger. We’re closing Raffles to cover so no set course. Just get close and we’ll pull you in.”
Jack acknowledged, pushing his single engine to maximum as he cleared the battle zone. Bowen was ahead, visible only for the constant flashes of weapons fire she lobbed into the fray of rebel ships swarming the Terran destroyer Singapore. Her weapons would be far more effective than the Hawk’s had been.
Bowen was approaching at speed, so her relative distance to the Hawk shrank surprisingly fast. Jack steered wide for a few seconds, then reversed his turn to swing through a long arc and come up behind his mothership. Flashes of battle lit up the starry darkness ahead, but Jack focused on the charcoal-colored bulk of the cruiser as he matched vectors and sailed into a recovery position alongside the open hangar airlock.
Feeling the tug of the ship’s gravity beam, he killed his engines, letting the computers do the final work of pulling his Hawk into the barn. As it settled on the deck and the airlock pressurized, he finally let go of his controls and sat back in his seat, taking another deep breath.
“That one was nasty, eh?” he said into his internal circuit. Singh didn’t reply. Jack didn’t blame her, and took another few moments to focus on slowing his heart rate down.
The inner airlock doors opened and the Hawk was pulled through. The hangar looked very empty, Jack noted, with all three other birds still out in the action. He hoped they were doing better than he had. Unstrapping from his seat, he pushed himself up, swinging around to face Singh.
The master rating was still motionless in her chair, strapped in and staring at her controls, but her arms were floating free, hands open and limp. Almost…
Jack thrust himself over to Singh’s seat, staring into what he suddenly realized was an open helmet.
…Lifeless.
Singh’s face had barely had time to register the shock before her life was swept away by the slug which had penetrated the Hawk’s deck and shot up through her chair, her torso, and out through her head. An exit blast out the top of her helmet matched the hole in the Hawk’s deckhead, through which he could see the bright lights of the hangar glaring through.
Jack floated back, shutting his eyes tight against the sudden tears. What a fluke shot, and what a waste of an excellent human being.
A hard series of thumps against the hull startled him, until he realized it was the maintenance crew requesting entry. He released the airlock controls and also lowered the aft ramp. They were going to need some heavy equipment in here.
The first of the crew floated in, dressed in the emergency vacuum suits of battle stations, bright expressions greeting him.
“Hey, sir,” one of them said, “you took some damage on that one.”
He lifted his faceplate and stared numbly back at them.
“Singh’s dead. Get the chief up here, and get a body bag.”
Without waiting for a response he pushed clear and out the open ramp into the hangar. It wouldn’t do to have the flight department head burst into tears in front of his men.
The fueling crew was already hooking up and turned to address him, but he waved them off. Another pair of techs guided a rack of replacement missiles up to the wings, and he gestured for them to stop.
“This bird is grounded for repairs,” he called out loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Secure that gear and start your damage assessments.”
His maintenance chief floated over, grabbing the edge of the Hawk.
“You okay, sir?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he lied. “I better report to the captain.”
“Recommend you tell the XO, too, sir—he’s just forward of here in DCC.”
Jack floated forward into the main passageway and quickly found the hubbub of the damage control center. A crowd of engineers manned a series of displays with various flavors of holographic depictions of Bowen. Many red symbols on those displays—accompanied by steady chatter into headsets— suggested there was a lot of damage control underway. Prior to deployment Jack had seen a large group of spare crewmen lined up against the forward bulkhead, on
call to go wherever extra bodies were needed to shore up damage or replace downed operators. Now only a few very junior crewmen floated nervously in silence.
In the center of DCC, floating tethered in front of the largest display, Jack saw the XO. Lieutenant Perry’s back was to him, but even from here Jack could see the sweat glistening in beads on the pale skin, a drop or two breaking loose as the man gestured sharply toward different crisis points on the diagram.
Keeping clear of the crowd, Jack slid along the after bulkhead and then pushed across the open space toward the XO’s station. He thudded into the end of the main display, catching a surprised look from Perry and, beside him, Chief Ranson.
“XO, sir, flight commander,” he said without waiting for comment.
“What is it?” Perry shifted his gaze back to the damage control board.
“Spinner-One is recovered, but inoperable. Unknown repair time. One casualty.”
Ranson shook his head, his jowly face sagging in regret. He turned and spoke quietly to one of the engineers. Jack noticed the status board change to indicate one of the four Hawks was now red for operations. Something changed on the section dedicated to the ship’s medical teams, as well, but Jack didn’t pay attention.
Perry paused, looking over for a moment, then turned back to his display. His eyes moved quickly to take in the info, but Jack could see a blankness in the expression. Finally, the XO’s lips pursed in frustration.
“Chief, how does that affect us?” he asked.
“It doesn’t, sir,” Ranson replied. “The bird’ll be parked and”—he turned menacing eyes toward Jack—“I assume not refueled or rearmed.”
“That’s correct,” Jack responded.
“No additional risks from the broken Hawk, sir.”
Perry nodded, still scanning his display. He tapped a nervous finger against his lips.
“I’m still worried about that hit we took on deck five. If they don’t secure that breach, we’re going to lose the compartment.”
“Sir—”
“…and we’ll lose too much air. They’re taking too long.”
“There’s an entire damage control team doing structural repairs. It’ll be complete as soon as the last of the panels are brought aft from stores.”
March of War Page 9
