Kyle turned back to the Flight Commanders. “All right,” he began briskly. “I need to meet with Captain Blair in short order, but we have some time. I presume most of you have duties to be taking care of,” he hinted, “but if someone can give me an abbreviated tour of the Flight Deck, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, sir,” Randall answered immediately, living down to Kyle’s expectations of the most senior Flight Commander. “I can show you around while Commanders Mendez and Zhao get themselves settled in.”
Kyle turned to the two officers he’d brought with him. “I want you two to do a more detailed sweep than I’ll have time for,” he instructed them quietly. “Check where your flight crews will be berthed; make sure you’re on hand as our people arrive.”
A pair of salutes answered him, and the two officers from Alamo allowed themselves to be guided away, leaving Kyle standing with Randall and Stanford.
As soon as they were alone, Randall turned to the other Flight Commander. “I’m delegating the ready squadron to you, Stanford,” he said brusquely. “Don’t scratch my paint.”
“Sir,” the pale man confirmed stiffly, and then stalked away towards what Kyle presumed to be a ready room.
“Don’t mind Stanford too much,” Randall advised Kyle after a moment of watching the other officer walk away. “He has a stick up his ass, but he’s a decent pilot.”
“I see,” the Wing Commander replied noncommittally. “Your squadron is the ready one?”
“Yeah,” the Flight Commander confirmed. “My flight crews at least. We moved most of the starfighters over to the Reserve Flotilla’s guard station, so we only have a single squadron of Badgers aboard. We’re trading off which squadron’s personnel are on-call to man them though.”
“Badgers,” Kyle repeated slowly. “This ship is still flying Badgers.”
The Badger-type fighter had been the last product of the wartime crash development programs, deployed to the Navy eighteen months after peace was declared – twenty years ago now.
“I thought Avalon was assigned Typhoons,” he continued. The Typhoon type was ten years old, two generations behind the brand new Falcon, but still at least a usable fighter.
“She carried Typhoons when she arrived,” Randall agreed. “At some point, those ships were pulled to fill out a sale to an ally, and we got the Badgers in trade. We’re all looking forward to seeing the new ships you’re supposed to be bringing, sir.”
While they’d talked, Randall had guided his new superior from the side-portion of the bay set aside for shuttles to an observation railing from which they could view Kyle’s new domain. Avalon’s main flight deck was thirty meters tall, eighty meters across, and stretched four hundred meters deep into the carrier’s hull.
Right now it was an echoing, empty, space. Equipment designed to service and move five-thousand-ton ships was neatly stored away against the sides. A handful of crewmen were rolling up the hoses they’d used to quickly refuel the shuttle from the Sphinx and Chipmunk. From the observation deck, Kyle could make out four hatches, sized to take starfighters, spaced evenly along the opposite side.
“We have four launch tubes per side,” Randall explained, pointing them out. “We kept the Badgers aboard in the tubes – they’ll be easy to deploy out that way once the new birds are aboard. With a full deck load, we can load new birds into the launch tubes every forty seconds.”
The pilot sounded proud of that, and given the age of the equipment they had to work with he was probably right to be. A forty second turn-around on the launch tubes meant a total of over three minutes to put the entirety of SFG-001 into space – three times the design requirement for a modern carrier to deploy its even larger fighter group.
“That… isn’t fast if we have an emergency,” Kyle observed.
Randall nodded.
“I guess they didn’t realize how important rapid launches would be when they built her,” he agreed. “They did retrofit in an alternative, but I’d be terrified to use it.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“There’s mass manipulators mounted all along the deck,” Randall explained. “All carriers have them to catch the returning birds, but ours are also wired so they can run in reverse – theoretically, we can turn the center twenty meters of the deck into a single massive launch tube and blow the entire Group into space in one shot.”
Kyle shook his head, eyeing the deck askance. The ability to blast everything on his flight deck into space at the push of a button wasn’t entirely appealing to him, though he’d prefer it over having to wait three minutes to put his fighters into space in an emergency.
“Any other old tricks I should know about?” he asked.
The Flight Commander shook his head with a grin.
“That’s the thing about Avalon, sir,” he replied. “I’m not sure any of us know all of her tricks.”
2
New Amazon System, Castle Federation
20:20, July 5, 2735 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
DSC-001 Avalon – Captain’s Office
“Enter,” the Captain’s voice ordered through the door after Kyle had pushed the announcer key. The Wing Commander had presumed, based on the Captain’s instruction to stop by, that Blair would be in his office even though it was late evening by the standardized time all spaceships and space stations adhered to.
The door caught the verbal instruction and slid open, allowing Kyle to step into the Captain’s office and salute crisply.
“At ease, CAG,” Blair ordered. The military, tradition-bound as it always was, had dug up the ancient acronym for ‘Commander, Air Group’ as the nickname for the commander of a Deep Space Carrier’s fighter group almost as soon as the concept of the carrier had been re-invented.
“Have a seat – and lose the jacket,” the Captain continued, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. “I thought I told you to lose that already?”
“I haven’t been by my quarters yet,” Kyle admitted as he sat down in the chair. The seat quickly contoured to him as he glanced around the room, taking in the semi-spartan appearance of the office. The desk was Castle Federation Space Navy standard, a hunk of plastic and metal familiar to any officer in uniform. Behind the desk was Avalon’s commissioning seal – a gold circle around a hand rising from waves, with the hull number DSC-001 at the top and the ship’s name at the bottom. On the left wall, some long ago artist had painted a mural of the Battle of Trinity – the arrowhead of Avalon flanked by two Alliance battleships as the Commonwealth shipyards burned behind her. The mural was worn, but the artist’s skill still showed the fire of one the greatest battles of the last war.
“I didn’t intend to invoke Captain’s priority,” Blair observed. “We are, after all, in a holding orbit with giant holes in my hull where I should have guns.”
“When the Captain says ‘stop by my office,’ you stop by,” Kyle replied with a small smile.
“It is good to see some alacrity around here, I’ll admit,” the Captain answered. “Welcome aboard Avalon,” he continued. “How’s the Flight Deck?”
“Lacking in anything resembling modern starfighters, but clear, clean and ready to receive the new birds,” Kyle answered. More than that would take time.
“Any impressions of your crew yet?” the Captain asked. “First thoughts, I suppose.”
Kyle shook his head. “Nothing concrete, sir.”
Blair nodded, as if that was the answer he expected, and then stood and crossed to stand in front of the mural of Avalon’s greatest victory, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I owe you an apology,” he said calmly. “I prefer not to interfere in the operations of the Space Force personnel aboard my ships, but it became necessary for myself and the Ship’s Marshal to arrest several of your people. I’ve arranged for them to be replaced from the Reserve Flotilla Defense Group, but it will have an impact on the morale of your people.”
“What were the charges?” Blair didn’t strike Kyle a
s a martinet, but if he’d been arresting Flight Group officers and crew before the new CAG was even aboard, there’d better have been a good reason!
“This ship had a problem with things leaving and arriving that shouldn’t,” Blair said. “Flotilla guardship is a punishment detail, so there’s a lot of it I was willing to ignore – but one group was smuggling parts off the ship. And another was smuggling Euphoria chips on.”
Kyle’s fists clenched involuntarily at the mention of Euphoria chips. One of the pilots aboard Alamo had ended up addicted to the better-than-reality virtual sims – which were ten times more addictive for someone with a starfighter pilot’s additional implants – and had committed suicide when Kyle had tried to force him to go off the habit.
“You had evidence.” It wasn’t a question. “How many?”
“Eight of your people,” Blair said quietly. “Between that and a few other things we’ve dug up, I’ve also arrested over fifty Navy crew and officers.”
“I’ll deal with the morale issues,” the Wing Commander said grimly. “Better that than Euphoria amidst my pilots.”
“I’d hoped that would be your opinion,” the Captain told him, continuing to gaze at the mural. “It’s only a symptom though, Wing Commander.
“The whole ship is like this mural,” he explained. “A faded memory of past glory. The name Avalon conjures prestige, honor, history – but everyone important knew she was half-way into the Reserve. Captain Riddle hadn’t even so much as tested the engines in two years.
“SFG-001 and SFG-279 were so intermingled, I’m not even sure Vice Commodore Larson knew which one he was supposed to be commanding before I turfed him off of my ship,” Blair continued.
Oscar Larson was the Vice Commodore in charge of SFG-279, the Starfighter Group assigned to defend the New Amazon Reserve Flotilla.
“There is rot through the entire ship,” he concluded. “Some of it is drugs, alcohol, and misbehavior fueled by being stuck on a punishment detail – that I think we can ignore if it stops.
“Some, like stealing parts and smuggling dangerous drugs, we can’t,” Blair said flatly. “The Marshal hasn’t had a chance to solidly investigate the Flight Deck – I’m leaving that to you.”
“That isn’t going to help me improve morale,” Kyle observed, considering the task before him. The last thing he wanted to start off his new command with was a witch hunt.
“There is a real core of good people on this ship,” the Captain replied. “Some are incompetents with too much political influence to keep out of uniform, so they stuck them here to make it look good. Some pissed off the wrong person, and we need to salvage them.
“And some need to crash and burn, or we can’t risk taking this ship into battle. Are you a family man, Wing Commander?” Blair asked.
Kyle shifted uncomfortably.
“Not in the sense you mean it, sir,” he said simply. “I have a son, but I haven’t seen him in years.”
The Captain turned to facing Kyle, shaking his head.
“You should,” he said strictly. “But that’s not the point,” he shrugged. “This ship’s crew is like a child – massive potential, but they’ve gone a little astray.
“For good or ill, the Joint Chiefs have put us in charge of them. We need to find the problems that need to be removed, and remove them. Others, we can ignore if they fix themselves. Do you understand me?”
“Sir,” Kyle said flatly. “I will run my Flight Deck as I see fit.” And his own life as he saw fit, as well. His job was to deliver Blair a combat-ready starfighter group when it was needed, and tradition said that how he did his job was his own concern.
“Of course,” the Captain agreed. “I want to make sure we are on the same page, that’s all,” he added quickly. “I have reason to believe there are problems in the Flight Group that haven’t been revealed yet. I think Larson was covering up more than just parts and drug smuggling, and it’s as important to you as to me if he was!”
The Wing Commander relaxed slightly. His over-reaction had been as much about the Captain’s comment on his son as anything else; that situation wasn’t anyone’s business.
“Do we have any idea what he was hiding?” he asked.
“If I knew, I’d have more guidance to give you,” Blair replied, his voice frustrated. “I know that I haven’t been able to confirm how many fighters they moved over to the Flotilla Defense Station. Even on this crap a detail, though, I can’t imagine he was selling his starfighters.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open, sir,” Kyle promised. “If I need support…”
“Any requests you have of SFG-279, the Flotilla Defense Station, my people, or of JAG will have my full support unless I know you’re wrong,” Blair promised in turn. “I’ve arranged so that you have the records of the flight crews Larson took with him as well. If you want to switch some of those he left behind with those he kept, I’ll sign off on the orders.”
“Understood,” Kyle accepted. He stood and started to leave, but turned back to meet his new Captain’s eyes. “Sir, this is Avalon,” he said quietly. “Is it really this bad?”
For the first time, he realized how tired Blair looked. Bags hung under the Captain’s eyes and it looked as though new lines had cut their way into his face.
“It might be worse,” the Captain said bluntly. “But however bad it is, CAG, it’s our job to turn this ship back into a warship of the Castle Federation Space Navy!”
New Amazon System, Castle Federation
00:10, July 6, 2735 ESMDT
DSC-001 Avalon – Flight Group Commander’s Office
Kyle was, like the vast majority of military officers throughout history, not a fan of paperwork. Actual paper was rarely involved anymore, formal command orders being one of the few exceptions, but the various branches of the Castle Federation’s military forces required their officers to fill in a vast quantity of forms and reports. Once complete, those forms and reports were transmitted via quantum entanglement to Joint Command on Castle – a flagrant abuse, in Kyle’s opinion, of mankind’s mastery of one of the great mysteries of creation.
He preferred, of course, to know how many munitions he had for his starfighters, how many starfighters he had, and how reliably he could repair said starfighters. That required detailed inventories, logs – and forms and reports. He’d made his peace with paperwork a long time ago and learned to use the summaries the ship’s computers could prepare for him as a tool.
Two hours into reviewing those summaries for Avalon, he’d sent a request over the Q-com to Joint Command for a number of records. Comparing them was… illuminating.
First, and perhaps most terrifying, was that SFG-001’s squadrons shouldn’t have been flying Badgers. There was no record at Joint Command of the switch Randall had described. Central’s records had been the source of his understanding that the ship’s squadrons were equipped with Typhoons – and those records hadn’t changed since then.
It was possible the starfighters had been switched with SFG-279’s squadrons aboard the Flotilla station, but he couldn’t tell. The station’s computers had bounced him when he’d queried them for the status of the squadrons aboard. It was certainly within Vice Commodore Larson’s authority to restrict that information – if nothing else, he was senior to Kyle in rank – but it was odd.
Missing starfighters were the most glaring concern, but not the only one the records contained. So far, he’d only skimmed the files on his squadron commanders, and they were everything Blair had warned him. Randall was the nephew of a Federal Senator, but his command evaluations suggested he shouldn’t have been given a single fighter, let alone a squadron. Stanford, on the other hand, had a sterling command record with glowing reviews – and a black mark involving a ‘borrowed’ shuttle and the daughters of two separate admirals that had brought his career to a complete halt.
Rokos’ record seemed as solid as the man himself, but all of his previous postings had been to planetary and reserve flotilla defense grou
ps. A fluke of the Space Force that would still leave any commander wondering why he’d never served aboard a carrier.
Lancet’s record was the cleanest of all four of the Flight Commanders leading his new squadrons, with no clear reason why she was aboard Avalon – except that Kyle knew the reputation of the Admiral whose flag her last carrier had flown, and could read between the lines.
Two of his officers were definitely solid. The other two he wasn’t sure of their competence or judgment, but he would reserve his opinion until he’d run training exercises. Zhao and Mendez he knew well and could lean on, but he knew that favoritism would only weaken the weapon he needed to forge.
It was hard to put his finger on what worried him. The replaced starfighters were a big deal, but the general level of completeness of the paperwork was off too. He expected a certain degree of missing paperwork, or of pieces that weren’t filled out right. All of the Group’s paperwork was marked as in and complete – Larson either had never sent anything back to his Commanders and Chiefs, or had simply signed off on everything.
The answer to most of his questions, Kyle knew, would be with the Chiefs themselves. He pulled up the first of their records – Senior Chief Petty Officer Marshall Hammond of the Castle Federation Space Force. He wasn’t surprised to realize that the man on Deck duty when the new Commander, Flight Group, came aboard had been the most senior Space Force NCO on the ship.
Hammond had come to Avalon some years back from the battlecruiser Thermopylae, accompanied by one of the worst reviews Kyle had seen that wasn’t attached to a demotion. It looked like the Chief had barely dodged being cashiered for disobeying orders and insubordination to Thermopylae’s CAG.
Thermopylae was a ship that Kyle knew, though. She was the first ship of the Last Stand class, a sister ship to his old Alamo – and the Marine Gunnery Sergeant assigned to Flight Deck security aboard Alamo had come to her from the older ship. She had in fact, unless Kyle had the dates wrong, served aboard at the same time as Chief Hammond.
Avalon Trilogy: Castle Federation Books 1-3: Includes Space Carrier Avalon, Stellar Fox, and Battle Group Avalon Page 2
