In the cockpit, I toggled on the power, just enough to run juice to the storage compartments and the hatches over the two recon pods. Then, I left the pilot’s area and began opening doors, hatches and looking under the acceleration seats.
A few minutes later, someone called for my attention from outside the DS.
“J-Pop, ho, Lieutenant Piran,” Warlock called, “I’ve got a present for you.”
I looked down to where the Striker team leader was standing on the deck. Her legs were crossed in a relaxed manner. One hand was resting on her hip while the other was held up at shoulder height. In that hand rested a greasy, gray mass wrapped in glistening paper.
“Someone left you a prize,” she teased while casually waving the mass around.
“Where was it?” I asked.
“Under the starboard recon pod,” she replied, “We missed it at first, but Stone Angel noticed a small fiber optic cable. It was connected to the ion cannon wall.”
“So, if I’d tested the ion wall,” I said swallowing hard, “it would have exploded? That, would have been bad.”
“Not according to Fire Dove,” she said.
“I know. According to Fire Dove, it would have been awesome,” I stated, “Not for me. For him, because he’d have the opportunity to show off his amazing Medic skills.”
“Alert,” Warlock said, “I’m going to take this beauty to the Armory for safe keeping.”
“Aye, Master Sergeant and thank you,” I said. As she walked away, I noticed she used two hands to carry the explosives.
Thunder Eagle came from behind the DS. “Permission to come aboard?” she requested.
“Granted,” I replied stepping back from the hatch.
In the second it took me to step back, she had climbed into the DS and was walking by me. Striker Sky elements did not seem to have any respect for gravity, height or velocity.
“I’ll check on the lower deck,” she advised me as she disappeared down the ladder.
Looking out the hatch, I noticed Stone Angel standing at the rear of the DS. His machine gun held low but at the ready. I moved to the other hatch. Fire Dove was below the hatch and facing outboard. Towards the bow, Heavy Rain stood guard. They were taking the security of the DS seriously. It made me a little ashamed at my earlier dismissive attitude about our mission.
I waved to a flight deck crewman and gave him a ‘hook us up’ sign. He acknowledged me and went to get a tug. From this height, I had a view of the ship’s intake tube.
Fighters, GunShips and BattlePlatforms were returning. Some to rearm and some because they were no longer flight worthy. Those who could still fight were towed to the back of the stack. There, mechanics swarmed over the warships making minor repairs and adjustments. Some required more maintenance. Cutting torches were removing twisted hunks of alloy from some and, following closely behind them, other mechanics rushed over. They welded new mismatched plates on the gaping holes left by the torches. Flight worthy again, the repaired warships took their place in line.
For all the combat damage to the ships from the raging space battle, there was just as heavy a toll being paid by the pilots and crews. Medics pulled limp and bleeding bodies from the wreckage and shoved them into pressure beds. It was the best treatment as the medical units would stabilize the injured until they could be diagnosed. Without Doctors or even senior medical technicians, the Medics were operating on the side of caution. Anyone bleeding or showing signs of trauma was shoved into a mobile pressure unit. Some refused and walked or limped back to either the BattlePlatform, GunShip or Fighter pilots’ ready rooms. There, they’d wait for another ride, and another shot at the Constabulary.
I watched as a damaged Fighter came through the air curtain. I could tell it was a bad landing as the ship was sitting almost sideways on the sled. How the pilot managed to recover through the intake tube and not crash into the side of the BattleShip was beyond me. The war ship was twisted, hit in five separate places and the cockpit shield was caved in towards the pilot’s seat. Once maintenance had moved the Fighter off the intake line, they scrambled to unseal the pilot.
The Fighter pilot came out of the hatch on his own. As soon as he was clear of the damaged ship, he pulled off his helmet. Blood streamed down his face from a head wound. He shook off the Medics who rushed to render aid. While stumbling forward, he began yelling and pointing at the fresh Fighters. The Constabulary may have wrecked his ship but he wasn’t beaten yet. It took four other pilots to calm him down so the Medics could wrap the head wound.
My DS lurched as the tug towed us from the preparation area to the ready line. Now, I had rows of GunShips and BattlePlatforms on one side and rows of Fighters on the other. All ready to join the fight, they were just waiting for an opening in the launch queue.
A set of steps was rolled to the hatch of the DS. Before I could thank him, the crewman rushed away. Things were moving fast on the flight deck and no one seemed to be just standing around except the Strikers and me.
Suddenly the full ammo skids, the string of Fighters and the empty skids stopped. From between the temporarily motionless instruments of war, fifteen food carts threaded their way between the skids and Fighters. The carts had steam pouring from them. As ten passed me, I could smell fired steak and gravy. The gravy meant, there was most likely mashed potatoes, and maybe hot biscuits.
The Mess Deck team was here to prop up the Galactic Council Realm’s war machine. In a way that wasn’t in the handbooks or taught in culinary school, they were rearming the crews and refueling depleted morale. From the top of the stairs, I rendered a hand salute to the Messmen as they passed.
One food cart appeared but it wasn’t bellowing steam. I got nervous for a second, until I noticed the Marine Corps’ Sergeant accompanying the cart. Warlock blocked their way. She had a few words with the Sergeant before reaching out and shaking the Sergeant’s hand. Then she waved them forward, turned and flashed me a smile before resuming her guard stance.
I came down the steps to meet the Messman and the Sergeant.
“Sir, Rear Admiral Tuulia send her regards,” the Sergeant said crisply, “And she asked me to deliver two gifts.”
I recognized the Sergeant. The last time I saw her, she’d been a Corporal. One of two Marines who placed their bodies in front of the Admiral and challenged anyone who tried to approach.
“Congratulation Sergeant,” I said returning her salute, “You come baring gifts?”
“Yes, Sir. The food cart has better than normal rations,” she responded pointing to the cart. “And the Admiral has plotted your course,” she added handing me a tablet.
As I began to scroll through the equations, the Sergeant grabbed trays from the cart and followed the Messmen up the steps. Before I could wrap my brain around the signs, cosigns, tangents and symbols, I saw Councilor Peng, his grandson and four Marines approaching.
“Stone Angel, a minute of your time?” I called over to the Striker.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” He asked taking six long strides to reach me.
“Take a look at Admiral Tuulia’s course and give me your thoughts,” I said handing him the tablet.
“Aye Sir, I’m on it,” he replied already thumbing the tablet.
As a Master Gunner and the team’s resident brain, I was confident Stone Angel would give me an honest opinion of the route. He was deep into the math before I was two steps away.
“Councilor Peng,” I said greeting the Councilor and his entourage, “The VIP deck wasn’t available. I apologize for having to use the flight deck.”
“Lieutenant Piran, I can’t leave,” he stated motioning around at the crews who were eating with one hand and doing work with the other, “These warships, their crews, and the find young men and woman of the Ander El Aitor. I can’t desert them.”
“Sir, this is the first battle of what could be a long war,” I said, “Your presence here, while bracing for the crew, wouldn’t do them any good. What they need is the mobilization of the
Galactic Council Navy and the Marine Corps. You can’t do that from this sector of space, on a BattleShip, engaged with the enemy. In short, you’ll do more for them from Command Station, than you would from here.”
He took a long time peering around at the Fighters, the GunShips and farther away the BattlePlatforms. Finally, he exhaled and shook his head in resignation.
“Lieutenant Piran, you’re correct,” he said, “I place myself in your hands. When do we launch for Command Station?”
“We have one more group coming,” I stated. Then, I looked up at his Marine escort and announced, “Marines, I have the Councilor, you are relieved of duty.”
They didn’t move. I understood their hesitation. When you commit to guarding a person around the watches, it takes dedication and sacrifice. They’d poured themselves into the duty with the knowledge it might cost them their lives. Now, with ten words, a simple statement, they’d been relieved.
The Councilor pushed out of the wheelchair and stood. He turned and faced the proud Marines.
“Gentlemen, I am grateful to you,” he said walking up to each Marine and shaking his hand, “Because of you, I slept safely, and conducted business without trepidation or fear. Because of you, I reclaimed my title and authority as a Councilor of the Galactic Council Realm. For that, you have my undying gratitude.”
The Councilor stepped back and the four Marines snapped up a hand to the brim of their covers. Peng took time to look each men in the eyes before returning their salute. They brought their hands down.
“Sir, you have the Councilor,” one stated to me.
“I have the Councilor,” I replied.
In perfect parade ground fashion, they placed the toe of one boot behind the opposite leg, planted the toe, and did an about face. As they marched away, I held the wheelchair for the old man.
“I don’t need that,” he said shaking his head, “The Marines asked me to use it. Seems these old legs were a security risk. They said in case of a rapid exfiltration, whatever that means, the wheelchair was more dignified than a fireman’s carry.”
“Fire Dove, Heavy Rain, you have the Councilor,” I said looking at the Strikers.
“We have the Councilor,” they said stepping to each side of Shi Peng and Hui.
They escorted the Councilor and his grandson to the steps. As they climbed, I walked over to apologize to Warlock for depleting her security arrangement.
“Master Sergeant,” I began.
But she stopped me with a wave of her hand. “I believe, J-Pop, the rest of your passengers are here.”
She was pointing across the deck at eight Druids. If the food had been a distraction and the appearance of a Councilor had caused a stir, the appearance of four Brown robed Druids and four short Druids in gray robes were hypnotic. Druids don’t mix with the crew much and passing a couple of Druids in the corridors was normal. But, having eight floating across a busy flight deck in the middle of combat flights was unnerving.
“I have words Knight Protector of the Clan,” one of the adult Druids whispered.
I could felt anxiety and apprehension coming from the adults. The children, however, were emitting fear. The kind of terror no one wants children to experience. Ignoring the Druid, I bent a knee and lowered myself to the children’s level.
“I have words,” I spoke softly.
“Speak your words,” one of the kids, a little boy, blurted out. The other three children had remained silent and I admired the courage it took for the five-year-old to reply.
“I am a Knight Protector of the Clan,” I said firmly. The children stiffened at the tone and pronouncement of my fearsome title before I continued. “I am charged with protecting a Councilor of the Galactic Council. And, I require your help.”
I let the thought spin around in the children’s brains before continuing, “Will you join me in protecting Councilor Peng?”
Their fear levels lowered a little. To reinforce my request, I placed a hand on the first one’s small shoulder and locked eyes with her.
“Can I depend on you?” I asked.
A slight nod of her head and I sensed her desire to be helpful. Children always need to feel as if they’re wanted. For her, it was the scary Knight who needed help. She relaxed. I repeated the question and received two more nods. The small boy, who’d spoken up before, didn’t need the personal touch.
As soon as my hand touched his shoulder, he assured me, “Knight Protector of the Clan, I will protect the Councilor.”
The children were settled. Now I had to reassure the adult Druids. I rose to full height and stated, “Say your words.”
The Druid glanced lovingly down at the children, then raised her eyes to meet mine.
“I have no more words,” she replied.
“Warlock, let’s get our crew on board,” I said to the Master Sergeant who was giving me a quizzical stare, “We’re ready to depart.”
The Druids floated back across the flight deck. Even with reduced numbers, the brown robes caused a commotion. As I followed the children up the steps, I wondered briefly what the Druid was going to say. Would she have threatened me or begged me to protect their offspring?
Warlock walked up the steps backwards, maintaining security, until the last possible second. Across the cabin at the other hatch, Thunder Eagle mirrored her. Once both Strikers were on board, I instructed them to secure the hatches, and I stepped into the cockpit.
There was a steady stream of Fighters and GunShips, with the occasional Brick, passing by on their way to the launch tube. I expected to have a few minutes to adjust my instrument panels.
“Combat Control, this is Councilor Vessel 48, requesting access to a launch tube,” I radioed.
“CV 48, stand by,” a voice replied.
I started to lean around the back of the pilot’s chair and ask Warlock to be sure everyone was strapped in. I started to, but was interrupted almost immediately.
“CV 48, access granted,” the controller stated.
Every GunShip and every Fighter between my DS and the first air curtain pivoted and backed off the access line. Not only did I have access to the launch tube, I had express service.
Two thoughts hit me. One was, the battle was going well and, Haitham and Perwira could stop feeding warships into the fight for a few minutes to launch the Councilor’s vessel. The other thought frightened me. It was, we were losing the battle and, Haitham and Perwira wanted the Councilor launched before the BattleShip was destroyed.
The DS moved through the first air curtain. I applied power and lifted the Deep Space GunShip from the sled.
“Combat Control, CV 48 has separation from the sled,” I advised control.
“Copy CV 48, move to air curtain two for scanning,” he ordered.
I eased on more power and my GunShip slid into the dark area between air curtains.
“Warlock, is everyone strapped in?” I asked craning my neck around the seat back.
“Aye, J-Pop. Heavy Rain and the children are on deck two,” she responded.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“The little boy walked up to Heavy Rain and announced that he was his new partner on the protection detail,” she said with a rare lightness in her voice, “So when Heavy Rain went down to deck two to strap in, the boy, and the other children followed him.”
“CV 48, you are clear of structural damage and the launch tube is free of foreign objects,” Combat Control reported, “You are authorized for launch.”
I nosed the DS through the next air curtain and ran up the ion cannons. The DS rattled as the ion flow increased.
“Combat Control, CV 48 is entering the pattern,” I advised them.
“CV 48 is entering the pattern,” the voice repeated as I slammed full power to the Internal drive.
The Deep Space GunShip nosed through the final air curtain and it looked as if I were staring down the barrel of a gun. Far ahead of me, the lighted tube shrunk until it appeared too small to allow the DS to pass. One
second I was marveling at the optical illusion, the next we were in open space. Except the space wasn’t open or empty.
Chapter 26
Four BattlePlatforms bracketed my launch zone.
“CV 48, this is Brick 27’s Flight Commander,” a voice hailed me, “Move to the GunShip line and hold.”
I threaded the DS between the Bricks and together we moved forward. The space ahead was composed of rows of GunShips. Some flying left to right, while the row above and below had GunShips traveling right to left. This was the inner edge of the steel curtain. Farther out, Fighters would be deflecting the Constabulary warships.
“Brick 27 Flight Commander, what’s the hold up?” I asked felling impatient.
“The Ander El Aitor is repositioning,” he advised, “on a heading to assist your flight plan.”
I was again reminded of the critical nature of my mission. I stewed about being a bus driver when I wanted to be at the controls of a Fighter. While I bemoaned my lot, Haitham was turning the BattleShip and moving the steel curtain in the middle of an engagement. All to get the Councilor out of the area and on his way as safely as possible. I swallowed my pride and swore to buckle down and just do my job.
In front of me, I saw the lines of GunShips bow. They were shifting and turning to match the movement of the BattleShip. Off to one side, three strange warships broke through a loose seam in the GunShip’s line.
“Brick Flight 18, we have three bandits in 27’s sector,” Combat Control said, “27, hold your position.”
From where we bobbed in space waiting, it would have been a short hop for Brick 27’s BattlePlatforms to engage the Constabulary vessels. Instead of attacking, the four around me held. I saw three GunShips explode from the Constabulary ships’ missiles before other GunShips managed to take out one Constabulary ships.
The two remaining Constabulary ships broke formation and began firing their guns and missiles. Not only did they lose the protection of a lead pilot with a wingman formation, their fire was ineffective and mistimed. It appeared as if the remaining pilots had suddenly panicked.
Galactic Council Realm 3: On Guard Page 20
