by Tori Harris
The Sajeth Collective’s charter recognized that all civilizations in the alliance should be represented in the ranks of its military. Fortunately, the alliance’s founders also recognized that it would be foolish indeed to guarantee an even split among its member worlds. The Wek, for example, had a fine tradition of professional military service extending back several millennia. The Damarans, on the other hand, while often being quick to advocate the use of military force (as long as someone else was doing the fighting), were generally a passive civilization with virtually no history of organized military activity of any kind. Accordingly, each world was guaranteed a small percentage of the officer corps based on their population. All of the remaining officer billets, as well as the entire enlisted corps making up the Sajeth Collective military, were chosen by means of an incredibly challenging and competitive selection process. At the moment, this meant that the Damarans were entitled to appoint 2.1 percent of the alliance’s officers, up to the rank of commander, without their being subject to the same standards as everyone else. Naturally, everyone in the military was fully aware that there were three alliance civilizations that would have no representation at all were it not for the guarantees provided in the charter — leading inevitably to groups of largely incompetent officers who were sorely resented by their peers.
Experiencing feelings ranging from terror to righteous indignation and rage, Commander Woorin Miah felt a cold bead of sweat trace a line from the base of his neck all the way to his waistline. His family, after all, had enjoyed a position of power and influence on Damara for generations. While aware on some level that this had at least something to do with his appointment as a senior Sajeth Collective military officer, he also believed that he had earned the position, or was at least more qualified to hold it than some brutish Wek, particularly the one who had been making him stand at attention for the past five minutes.
“Captain, I …”
“You may address me as Commodore,” Sarafi interrupted. “A title you will find that I have earned after decades of competent service to the Collective.”
“Yes, of course, Commodore. My apologies. Our battlespace defense cruisers made short work of the Human scout vessels, sir. Surely they had no way of sending any sort of distress call other than a direct radio or optical transmission before they were destroyed.”
“And do you further assume, then, that the Humans are so inept that they would not notice that two of their scout vessels have failed to report in or return to their base on schedule?” Sarafi spat. When first approached by members of the Governing Council regarding this mission, Sarafi had quickly bought into the notion that destroying the Humans in a preemptive strike was a moral imperative – and a logical extension of his obligation to defend both Graca and the Collective. Not for the first time over the past month, however, the mission now struck him more as the errand of a fool … and possibly a dishonorable fool at that. Nevertheless, he had given his word that he would see it done, so there was little point in further introspection and debate at this point.
Miah at least had the presence of mind to realize that the commodore’s question was rhetorical in nature and did not warrant a response.
“Let me tell you what just happened here, Commander, and then I’ll predict for you what’s about to happen. Whether it was through the help of Admiral Naftur, the Pelaran Guardian ship, or just dumb luck, the Humans have managed to precisely locate our task force in a very short period of time at well over three light years from Sol. For months, the Governing Council was led to believe, primarily by members of the Damaran delegation, I might add, that the Humans were in possession of a single, unarmed starship based on what they referred to as ‘introductory’ Pelaran technology. The simple fact that they were capable of a rendezvous with Admiral Naftur’s ship at Gliese 667 is an indication that our intelligence — again, from Damaran sources — was wholly inaccurate. The same can be said for the appearance of Human scout vessels at our rally point. If we finally manage to have a little luck ourselves, it will take the Humans a few hours to realize that their scout ships are missing, and perhaps a few more to lay on an attack mission. Either way, make no mistake, they will be coming for us.”
“Sir, shouldn’t we be more concerned about an attack from the Guardian ship itself?” Miah asked sheepishly.
“When your ship is ripped apart around you and your body exposed to the vacuum of space, it will make little difference whose weapons were used,” Sarafi replied in a low, menacing tone. “Based on what we know of the Pelarans, however, their Guardians have a tendency to avoid direct involvement in military actions themselves once the cultivated world begins deploying forces of their own. Unless I miss my guess, it is the Humans we will be facing, not the Pelaran ship.”
“Then surely, Commodore, we will be more than a match for their fledgling forces,” Miah scoffed.
“I am happy to hear that you believe this to be the case, Commander, because I am about to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself as both my executive officer and intelligence chief. You may sit,” Sarafi said, gesturing to the straight-backed, unpadded chair opposite his desk and then sliding a tablet containing his orders in Miah’s direction.
“You have orders for me, Commodore?” the XO asked eagerly.
“I do indeed. As you know, our task force has a serious shortage of senior officers at the moment. Most of our acting captains hold the rank of commander — even lieutenant commander in a few cases. In fact, you are the only commander in the task force who is currently not in command of their own vessel.”
“You are giving me a ship, sir?” Miah blurted out, his enthusiasm overcoming all discipline and common sense.
Sarafi closed his eyes momentarily and breathed in slowly in an effort to control his temper. “No, Commander Miah, I am putting you in command of a detachment of four ships.”
The Damaran sat straighter in his chair, raising his chin slightly at the idea of his first independent command. “I won’t let you down, sir, thank you.”
“Your life will literally depend on that being the case, Commander,” Sarafi growled. “This mission is a dangerous one, but I can assure you that it is absolutely critical to our cause. If you succeed, perhaps my report of your performance may improve.”
“What is my mission, sir?”
“As I have said, we must assume that an attack on our forces at this location is imminent. While I agree, to some extent, with your sentiment that we have nothing to fear from the Humans, waiting here to engage their forces is not what we were sent here to do. We need every available ship in order to successfully attack Terra itself, so we cannot afford to risk a confrontation until our attack is underway. Unfortunately, five of our ships have not yet arrived, and we have no way of letting them know that we have relocated our forces unless someone remains behind at this location.” Sarafi paused, staring into Miah’s large, dark eyes in an effort to determine whether he had the vaguest understanding of what he was being asked to do.
Finally, the reality of his mission seemed to dawn on the Damaran. “So I am to remain here at the original rally point with only four ships? What am I to do if the Humans attack with a superior force?”
“Crush them,” Sarafi grunted, now beginning to enjoy the conversation as he sensed Miah’s fear increasing. “As you said, they are nothing more than ‘fledglings’ thus far … and certainly not capable of fielding forces that pose a threat to the ships I am placing under your command. We must place our faith in the intelligence reports you have been providing, Commander.”
“Can you tell me which vessels will be in my detachment?”
“Of course. I am leaving you with two of our new battlespace defense cruisers, the Hadeon and the Keturah. While I am reluctant to do so, their network of surveillance drones is already in place. Just remember that two ships cannot defend the area as effectively as four, so you should consider reducing the size of their defensive perimeter accordingly. You will also have two Shopak-class hea
vy cruisers at your disposal, but I recommend you exercise command from the Hadeon, since she possesses the most modern command and control systems.”
“And when may I abandon the original rally point and rejoin the task force?”
Sarafi could hear that the Damaran’s heart rate had nearly doubled since realizing the scope of his mission — the smell of his fear becoming so thick that it threatened to overcome the Wek officer’s own self-control. The commodore drew in a deep breath and swallowed the saliva now filling his mouth before continuing, “All five of the remaining vessels are battleships – each one commanded by a senior captain whose experience we desperately need. I am loathe to begin the attack on Terra until they have joined the task force. As each one arrives, you will immediately direct them to the new rally point. Your detachment may accompany the fifth and final ship.”
“But what do I do if they …”
“Everything you need to know is contained in your orders, Commander,” Sarafi interrupted. “Please take some time to review them and then you may ask any additional questions you have. I will be moving the task force to the new rally point in two hours, so you will need to act quickly. I suggest you shuttle over to the Hadeon immediately and take command of your detachment.”
“I understand, Commodore. Thank you, sir.”
“Dismissed, Commander Miah. Good luck.”
TFS Navajo
(Combat Information Center)
With the Hunter reconnaissance flights nearing the end of their list of potential Resistance rally points, Admiral Patterson was now well past the point of feeling anxious. For the past several days, he had pushed the question of what to do next in the event of an unsuccessful search to the back of his mind. On an intellectual level, he knew that ignoring the need for a backup plan was in no way based on his confidence that the Resistance ships would be found. The cold reality was that he simply didn’t know what to do next. Sure, there were a number of actions that he could and would take: checking the recon locations again with larger search radii, extending his picket line with the remainder of his standard Hunters, and overseeing the deployment of a number of additional capital ships expected to come online within the next few days, to name a few. All of these were purely defensive moves, however — the kinds of moves that desperate commanders have made throughout history upon finding themselves in an untenable situation.
Before entering the CIC, Patterson stepped to one side of the corridor and removed a well-worn index card from his wallet. Like the small “cheat sheets” some of his college engineering professors allowed during tests, the card was completely covered with his scrawl. Rather than odious formulas and physical constants, both sides contained motivational quotes and other bits of wisdom he had collected over the course of his career. Interestingly, the words he was looking for this morning were not those of a great military leader … although some Green Bay Packers fans might disagree.
“The strength of the group is the strength of the leader—I am the first believer that Leaders must have the quiet confidence, the certainty, of professional preparation, and personal conviction that the task can and will be done. If so, it will.”
~ Vince Lombardi
Patterson reflected for a moment, then carefully placed the fragile card back into his wallet while reminding himself that all leaders struggled with doubt, even fear, on occasion. The key was keeping those emotions in check, and never putting them on display in front of those you are trying to lead. That thought in mind, the admiral authenticated his identity and, with renewed resolve, drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode confidently onto the floor of the CIC.
“Good morning, Commander,” he greeted the young officer staring intently at the holographic display table in the center of the room. “Anything interesting yet?”
“Ah, good morning, Admiral … great timing, actually. It was a pretty peaceful watch until about half an hour ago, but since then there has been quite a bit of activity.”
“Unfortunately, that’s usually the way that kind of thing works. What’s going on?” Patterson asked, now reasonably alert after his self-administered pep talk and five and a half hours of desperately needed sleep.
“First off,” the commander replied, selecting two large ships with a gesture that sent a zoomed-in real-time view of each to large view screens nearby, “as expected, Ushant and Philippine Sea completed their climb to orbit about two hours ago. Neither has begun flight operations as yet, but both are reporting a ‘mission effective’ status and should begin taking over some of the combat air patrol missions that Jutland has been handling within the hour.”
Patterson regarded the two carriers with satisfaction while taking a sip of the morning’s second cup of “navy coffee,” noting absently that it was just the way he liked it — strong, hot, black, and with a pinch of salt. “That’s excellent news, but I actually want them taking over all of the CAP missions from Jutland as soon as possible. Pair each one with a cruiser to maximize their defensive firepower.”
“Aye, sir.”
“As soon as they get their Hunters on station, have Jutland recall their entire air wing with the exception of the birds that are out looking for the Resistance task force. Have we heard from her CAG this morning that you know of?”
“I’ll check with the bridge to make sure, but I don’t think so, sir. That’s Captain Zhukov, right?”
“Dmitri ‘Deadeye’ Zhukov, yes indeed. Have you met him?” Prescott asked, giving the man a sideways look and a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, sir,” he chuckled. “I don’t intimidate easily, but that guys scares the hell out of me.”
The admiral grinned while nodding his head knowingly. “Yeah, I understand why a lot of people say that. He’s a pretty intense guy, but probably the finest pilot in the fleet.”
“I assumed his call sign referred to the fact that he was a good shot with a pulse rifle or excellent on the gunnery range in his fighter until I met him in person.”
While many people still associated Russians with blond hair and gray eyes, those tracing their ancestors to eastern sections of the huge country were much more likely to have dark brown eyes and hair. Captain Zhukov’s were, in fact, so strikingly dark that it was often difficult to see any distinction between his irises and pupils.
“Nope, although I’m guessing that’s probably true as well,” Patterson laughed. “Don’t worry about confirming, I’ll check in with him directly. The reason I want Jutland’s fighters aboard is that I want her out of Earth’s gravity well and ready to respond when word comes in that we’ve found that enemy task force.”
“Aye, sir. That’s actually the next item I have for you,” the officer said while reconfiguring the holo table to display the most recent status information from Jutland’s reconnaissance flights. “As you know, the Hunters C-Jump back to the nearest NRD surveillance drone or communications beacon after visiting each reconnaissance location. That means we should hear from them about once every ten and a half hours. As you came in, I was just noticing that this one right here,” he said, zooming in on the last known location of “Nail 42” flight, “is running a little later than expected.”
“Hmm … well, there’s some room for variation there. How much later are we talking?”
“They’re just over five minutes off the average at this point.”
“I’m sure they’re watching the situation pretty closely over in the Jutland’s CIC, but I’ll mention it to Captain Zhukov in just a moment. Anything else?”
“Nothing else out of the ordinary at the moment, Admiral. Our favorite Pelaran elder statesman and superweapon is still right where he’s been for the past week. No change in emissions since its most recent campaign speech ended.”
“Good, hopefully it will stay that way for a while. Thank you for the update.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ensign Fletcher!” Patterson called without looking in the direction of her Communications console.
“
Yes, Admiral!” came her usual, enthusiastic reply. Over the past week or so, the young comm officer seemed to have had the dubious honor of always being on duty while the “old man” was present in the CIC. Since he rarely left the room, however, this was hardly a surprise. What did come as a surprise, especially since she was sure she had made a horrible first impression, was the fact that he actually seemed to have taken a liking to her.
“Good morning, Katy. I’d like to speak with Captain Zhukov aboard the Jutland. I’ll take it in conference room two, please,” Patterson said over his shoulder before stopping mid-stride and turning back to Ensign Fletcher. “Also, go ahead and issue a prepare for launch order for TFS Theseus.”
“Aye, sir, will do, and good morning to you as well,” she smiled.
Patterson smiled pleasantly in return before heading off once again in the direction of the conference room. The admiral’s three sons were only a little older than the young ensign. Although raising three boys had been more than enough, as far as he and Mrs. Patterson were concerned, he had still always wanted a daughter. There’s always granddaughters, he thought, assuming I don’t screw all this up. The CNO’s job was stressful under the best of circumstances, but taking personal command of Earth’s defenses had allowed the full burden of his responsibilities to bear down on him like nothing he had ever experienced before. Perhaps more so than any single person in Human history, Kevin Patterson had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Please, God, don’t let me screw this up, he thought, silently repeating the G-rated version of astronaut Alan Shepard’s famous prayer from three centuries before.
