Bayonet Dawn (SMC Marauders Book 1)

by Scott Moon

  “Commander Ford, wait one moment,” a new but familiar voice said.

  She turned slowly, not sure if she should pretend to be angry.

  “You have worked for the admiral longer than I have,” Captain Roberts said. “But I don’t think he is as angry as he is acting. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Would I take an order from the admiral personally?”

  He shrugged. “Well, my shift on the bridge is done, and I thought I should learn about the crew of the Majesty.”

  Melanie narrowed her gaze. “Ship captains do not visit the quarters of their executive officers. Not inside of the door.”

  Roberts laughed and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “Listen, Ford. No one on this ship talks to me,” he said.

  “You are the captain.”

  “I know,” he said. “That is part of the job. All I am saying is that I was just tossed into this position at the last moment. Don’t worry, I know what I am doing. My marks in the SNC OCS were very high. And I received three commendations on the UNAS Nebraska.”

  “For what, perfect attendance?” she said.

  He laughed. “Now is that any way to talk to your captain?” he asked, moving closer.

  “No. Sir.”

  Looking up and down the hallway, he moved well inside of her personal comfort bubble and whispered, “I have never made an FTL Jump. Now that I am on a capital ship, that could happen at any time. Admiral Robedeaux gave me the briefing, but I am not sure I understand it.”

  Jaw locked, Melanie hesitated several seconds, waiting for him to lean forward far enough that she would be obligated to punch him. The moment passed. “I will walk you through it.”

  He withdrew and exhaled, smiled, then laughed to himself. “Thank you, Ford. You won’t tell anyone about this conversation, will you?”

  “You’re the captain.”

  He nodded. “Well, since I owe you one, let me help you out. Captains don’t visit their XOs inside of their quarters, and I am officially interviewing you about the workings of the ship. So let’s saunter over to the officers’ mess for a cup of coffee. No need for you to suffer confinement because the admiral is having a bad day.”

  “You think you are doing me a favor?” she asked.

  “Coffee, Commander Ford. I insist. Tell me all about the rest of the crew and how I can best work with them to serve the needs of the UNAS,” she said.

  Melanie walked, but she didn’t talk. The politically appointed captain was ruining her mission with his goofy, somewhat attractive smile and pleasant voice.

  He is annoying and incompetent. When I outrank him, I’ll send him back to the Nebraska.

  She calculated the time she would have after this inane detour. Moving below decks unnoticed wasn’t easy for the executive officer. The admiral’s tour of Storage Bay 27 was practically legend already, despite his sincere attempts to be discreet.

  Whoever hid the contraband mega tanks there had to know the admiral was onto them.

  Roberts slid into a booth, then froze at her expression of alarm. “Oh, would you rather sit at a table? Not the bar? Barstools are for heavy drinking and first encounters.”

  “You know a lot about this sort of thing, I am sure,” she said, turning to wave at Gabe behind the bar. “Give me something for patience… and whatever Captain Roberts wants.”

  “Right away, Mel.”

  Unseen, she hoped, she sent a text message from her wrist comm to Robedeaux. Msg: Coffee-with-Roberts:Delayed.

  “Who was that you were texting?” Roberts asked.

  “The admiral.” She slid into the booth and sat down, rigid and exhausted from the unnecessary intrigue. “I told him you were trying to get into my pants and demanded a transfer.”

  Roberts laughed. “That’s a lot of texting in such a short time.”

  She smiled with excessive force.

  Gabe brought two drinks appropriate to the time of day.

  Several moments of silence followed as she sipped her drink and avoided looking at him.

  “I read your file. Not everyone can lay claim to surviving The Long Night,” he said.

  Ford went rigid, barely able to breathe.

  “Tell me about it,” Roberts said. “I suspect we may fight in space soon.”

  Her blood pressure increased until she could feel her skin growing tight. “How can you become a captain of a ship without experience in ship-to-ship combat?”

  Roberts looked at her, his face changing from that of a nervous man promoted beyond his level of competence to a grim veteran who knew the pain that was coming with the next battle. “We are all going to get plenty of experience.”

  Melanie watched him exhale.

  The hand of cold dread grabbed her spine and shook her spirit. The look in his politically appointed, incompetent good ole boy system captain knew something she needed to know.

  “What the hell is going on, Captain? Now is the time to pick sides, and let me assure you that going against the admiral is a big mistake,” she said.

  Roberts paused, looked down at his decaffeinated coffee, then raised his handsome face to meet her gaze. “You know someone is setting Danzig up for a big fall. Thing is, it won’t matter. I’m not in the faction against your boss — of course, I am your boss, technically — but the people who orchestrated his fall left nothing out. He would burn, except for one thing.”

  Melanie, her fists clenched under the table to the point of white knuckled explosion, used retina activation to open a text chat. To an amateur like Roberts, she was batting her eyes — or maybe staring into space like a nut job. The skill was something she once learned just to see if all the bullshit she saw in spy movies could actually be done. Using eye movements to access wireless technology wasn’t hard; everyone did it from their first days in advanced training. Doing it without being noticed was tough.

  She opened her fists, then typed on her arm screen covertly.

  Roberts smiled, some of the tension draining away. She couldn’t decide if he had noticed her getting ready to message the admiral.

  “You are tough, Commander Ford. Isn’t the suspense killing you?”

  “Yes, Captain. The suspense is unreal. Or would be if I had any idea what you are talking about,” she said.

  He leaned back, then motioned for Gabe. “Can I get a hot shot in this decaf?” When the bartender, an SMC cook by training, went to unlock the liquor cabinet, Roberts continued, “With the exception of God and the price of chocolate, there are three primary forces in the universe: The Dream-rider, the Guide, and Doctor Marc Robedeaux.”

  An invisible force seemed to punch Melanie in the gut. The very real impression of being suffocated wrapped her consciousness like a blanket until she forced herself to relax. Opening her closed fists and resting them palms down on her thighs, she smiled broadly at Roberts. “I thought you didn’t know about the Guide?”

  He snorted a laugh that reminded her of gung-ho SMC and SAC grunts about to make an impossible assault. “I didn’t know the Guide had anything to do with our FTL travel.”

  Speechless, Melanie sorted the new information.

  Three loud chimes sounded, a warning before the warning. Three chimes could mean officer on deck, prepare for loss of gravity, or battle-stations.

  She moved a heartbeat faster than her new captain, sprinting past crewmembers and soldiers who yielded immediately. The XO and the captain of the ship needed to get to the bridge. They could kill people slow to move and face no legal repercussions.

  Side by side, they burst into the security airlock where two of the captain’s guards scanned them for unauthorized weapons or explosives, then helped them into combat gear.

  “Did you know this would happen?” she asked Roberts. “Christ, Marine! Are you trying to kill me with that syringe?”

  “Sorry, XO. I don’t like needles,” the guard said, pulling back the now empty syringe.

  Roberts suffered his own infection of the co
mbat cocktail stoically, his face pale as any officer facing real combat for the first time.

  “Did you know?”

  He shook his head. “If we survive this, I will share everything I can, but that will mean you’re with me after that.”

  They entered the bridge. Everyone, including the admiral, was wearing impact suits and helmets. Unlike ground forces, the bridge helmets were transparent. Someone had decided a long time ago that it was better to read expressions and allowed quicker use of multiple screens and control panels.

  “Good to have you back, XO,” the admiral said. “Captain Roberts, I trust you will allow Commander Ford to maximize her combat experience.”

  “Of course, Admiral,” Roberts said.

  Orders came on the center screen but also on individual heads-up displays. Each member of the bridge crew had individualized details pertaining to the overall crisis.

  Melanie read even as she stared through her helmet visor at the tactical display now dominating the center of the bridge.

  “Admiral Numbers for Fleet Command. I will have strategic and tactical authority, by order of the UNA Joint Service Center,” Numbers said. He was a tiny man, old and smart as anyone Melanie had ever met.

  “Please acknowledge, RFCG1.”

  “RFCG1 to Command, message received and understood.”

  “Command to RFCG1, the situation is as follows. The Dissident Union Space Fleet, in its entirety, is approaching your position with the possible intent of moving nearer to Brookhaven. Your orders: intercept and destroy all DU space capable ships. Escape pods will be quarantined until RFCG2 and 3 arrive to assist.”

  “One carrier group can’t take on an entire fleet,” Roberts said, staring straight at the screen.

  “Our group can,” Admiral Robedeaux said, voice low and harsh. He did not spare a glance at his defeatist captain.

  “They’re only DU,” Melanie said, making it a joke.

  Roberts swallowed and gave commands straight out of the standard operating procedures for combat manual. “Captain Roberts to the crew of the UNA Majesty, prepare to deploy small ships and man battle stations for immediate action.”

  Admiral Robedeaux addressed ship captains on another channel. Melanie moved between her two bosses, making sure every action was seamless.

  Red dots decorated the edge of the tactical display. Small three-dimensional ships moved toward the Robedeaux’s carrier group. A small force of blue ships responded, slow to alter course due to the momentum of the group’s cruising speed in another direction. Slowly, the bigger ships oriented to face an enemy still light hours away.

  Time was the best and the worst part of ship-to-ship battle.

  She needed to pee but resisted letting go in the suit. Sooner or later, everyone used the suit, but she wasn’t in the mood. Too much had happened during the last hour.

  More red ships appeared. Larger ships, faster ships, until it seemed an entire civilization was attacking. She supposed it was. The DU fleet had been sought for years. She didn’t understand what would make the old, outclassed fleet play its hand now.

  Against one carrier group, the DU fleet would win. Against all of Red Fleet and Blue Fleet, they didn’t stand a chance.

  “Initial estimates show the DU has more ships than reported,” Melanie said.

  An hour before contact, there were so many red battle icons that she thought the DU fleet was as large as two fleets. She looked at Admiral Robedeaux and Captain Roberts, who were near enough to each other that she could watch both of them react. “Closing speeds and estimated weapons strength is also higher than previously believed.”

  The admiral said nothing. Roberts waited nervously, but so far he was holding up better than Melanie had expected.

  “Admiral?” she asked.

  He checked a computation on a small desk screen near him.

  “Lieutenant Mud, how accurate are these closing rates?” the admiral asked.

  “Take them as the word of God,” Mud said.

  The admiral smiled and shook his head.

  Melanie studied other members of the bridge crew, making sure everyone was at his or her station.

  “Commander Ford,” the admiral asked, “do you believe the DU fleet will pursue us or continue to Brookhaven?”

  “What?” exclaimed Roberts.

  “I do not believe we can retreat or evade and still fulfill our duty,” Melanie said.

  Admiral Robedeaux nodded but focused on checking his private calculations on the desk screen.

  37

  Starfleet Pilot Corps

  BASIC Training Facility 028 existed in Hell, or at least near the Devil’s backyard. Arthur looked across the graduation ceremony without emotion. Families gathered, friends slapped each other on the back. He stood with Kroger and Eve, stunned at the vagaries of the military selection process.

  “Most people would be glad to get the Pilot Corps,” Kroger said. “More pay, better schools, commissioned rank after advanced training.”

  “No chance to stab a man in the throat with a bayonet.” Eve had grown two inches and gained fifteen pounds during basic training and was now average height. “What are the odds that all three of us are pilots?”

  Arthur shook his head and walked away, dress uniform hat in one hand. “I didn’t come here for the SPC.”

  “The test is the test. You can’t refuse. They’ll put you in the Civil Services if you give them problems, but it will be a work gang someplace. I heard from a guy that building habitats and doing relief is only what they say they are doing in all those impoverished countries,” Kroger said.

  “Leave him alone,” Eve said, walking in the same direction and thus causing the big, tattooed former pimp to follow. Her rough voice should have been sultry but was too high and thin. She’d been cut across the throat once, before Kroger picked her up — or so they told Arthur during quiet moments they confused with his giving a shit.

  “You’re too big to fly anything,” she said.

  “That’s what I told them.” Kroger sounded confused but pleased.

  Arthur wondered where his brother was now and if he were alive. He craved news of the twins and wished he could sleep for a year. Waking up, he would surely find life as he had been. Ruby would come back, fight, and make up. He’d get his factory job back and purchase a union card for Kevin, who would be a supervisor in record time with Arthur’s luck.

  Kroger laughed at something Eve said. Arthur wasn’t listening. He hadn’t figured how they became a trio of friends. The first time they met, Eve had tried to shake him down and Kroger had tried to kill him. And here they were at the end of basic training like old friends from the neighborhood.

  Marching bands played. Graduated recruits laughed and bid farewell to their families, friends, and girlfriends, only to reunite with them in a few hours. Nothing happened without a checklist and a DI corporal or DI sergeant marking each item off. After the ceremony, there was a tedious event called out-processing, which reminded him of in-processing but faster.

  Arthur returned to the barracks without knowing or caring where Eve or Kroger were even when they were right next to him.

  His footlocker was already empty and his bunk made so tightly the sheets didn’t seem real. He waited for the final inspection, mustered when DI Griggs said to muster, and saluted a final time.

  “Good work, Connelly. Good luck in Pilots,” Griggs said.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Griggs,” he said, standing at attention and saluting again.

  Griggs smiled and rolled his eyes as he chopped out a textbook-perfect salute.

  Arthur strode toward the front gate, intent on finding someplace he could get news from home, maybe all the way to Building 595 if he could manage.

  “Halt. Papers, please,” a military police officer said.

  “I’m on a two-day liberty like everyone else,” Arthur said.

  “Papers,” the guard repeated.

  Thoughts and options rolled through Arthur’s mind. He hat
ed being told what to do, being restricted from things he wanted, and most of all, being kept ignorant of current events.

  It made little sense. He was about to become very involved with current affairs. Why not keep recruits informed?

  What surprised him was his inner calm, a mental condition as strange to him as an alien world. The guard would never know how lucky he was.

  “Well, aren’t you sexy,” Eve said as she moved between them. “I bet you have a huge dick.”

  “Papers, please,” the MP stuttered.

  “Just show him your pass,” Arthur said as he turned his identification bracelet to the outside of his wrist. He realized, in that moment, he wasn’t as different from Kroger and Eve as he pretended. They were all street scum. He was from the same streets, except he’d lived in a box on the tenth floor of an overpopulated housing project and they had sheltered who knew where at night.

  When authority manifested, he resisted and fought back without thinking. The MP had been doing his job and had shown nothing but polite professionalism.

  Arthur didn’t like him.

  Eve showed her bracelet — blowing the man a kiss when he looked up, then putting two of her fingers in her mouth to the knuckles. She pulled the slippery digits slowly free of her lips.

  The guard’s face turned bright red as he retreated.

  Moments later, Kevin, Eve, and Kroger headed into town for three days of liberty before Pilot School. “You don’t have to act like a whore anymore,” Arthur said.

  “I hate you, Connelly,” she said.

  He clenched his jaw and walked most of a block, noticing that Kroger monitored their progress without a word, looking at the prefabricated buildings and clean streets more than his companions.

  “I’m sorry, Eve. I shouldn’t have said that,” Arthur said.

  She smiled too cutely. “Forgiven… hypocritical fuck stick.”

  He shook his head. After a time, she walked closer and dropped her attitude as Kroger continued to daydream and brood behind them. He knew she could act — was probably the best actor he’d ever met or ever would meet.

  “Why do you think they selected us for SPC?” she asked.