“Of course, dear.”
Shawn paid the crooning computer little mind. “Rippers, report status.”
“Raven here.”
“Go ahead.”
“Sir, we lost Weasel in that blast,” Roslyn said, her breathing labored.
Shawn let out a shallow breath. Damn. Gunderson was a good pilot. “Are you okay?”
“My main oxygen circulation pump is out, but I’ll manage. Just don’t ask me to run a marathon.”
“Anyone else?” Shawn asked, hoping for more positive results from the rest of his squadron mates. Unfortunately, most everyone was just as bad. Like Shawn, Bagpipes’ weapons were down. So was her rudder control. Drake’s tactical computer was offline, but at least he could still fire his weapons manually. The only who was still at a hundred percent combat efficiency was Nova, but the underbelly of his fighter looked as if it it’d just survived one hell of a hailstorm.
“Anyone care to wager a guess as to what the hell happened back there?” Raven asked, her breathing still labored.
Shawn didn’t need to guess. Remembering what he’d seen on his tactical computer, he knew they were all very lucky to be alive at all to talk about it: Nova had disconnected his weapons computer from Shawn’s craft and fired his weapons too soon. The fighters had been too far away from their target, and an early deployment meant the missile had very likely impacted with one of the many bone-like spires jutting from the Meltranians’ hull. However, with one man down and the rest of his people limping on borrowed time, this was not the moment to speculate or question why it’d happened.
But there’s sure as hell going to be time later to discuss it.
“Drake, my transmitter is going in and out. Send a coded communication to the Duchess of York. We’re in need of repairs and we’re coming home.”
“Sir, I’m receiving a signal from the carrier,” Drake replied almost instantly. “They’re requesting all squadrons return to base. We’re pulling out.”
“A retreat?” Clarissa McAllister’s squeaky voice asked in derision.
“That’s confirmed,” Drake said. “We’re sustaining heavy casualties, and Admiral Hansen has ordered an evacuation of the system. We’ll be jumping as soon as the last fighter is on board.”
Beyond the canopy, Shawn could see the fire-covered planet of Griffin a few hundred thousand miles ahead of his ship. Completely unsuitable for life, it was nonetheless one more stepping stone the Meltranians would win in this war—one taking them even closer to Unified space. Damn.
“All right, people. You heard the man. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
%%%
As soon as Shawn’s fighter touched the deck, he popped open the canopy before the gantry had even drawn up to the side of his fuselage. Quickly unstrapping his helmet, he tossed it on the seat as he all but leapt from the fighter, thankful that the small ladder had attached itself only a half second before. Roslyn’s fighter was being parked alongside his, and Nova and Bagpipes were already being moved from the upper hangar to the lower decks for maintenance and repair. There was just as much action during fighter retrieval as there was during combat operations, and everyone was on high alert as the Duchess and the rest of the fleet prepared for their upcoming jump out of the system.
Frustrated over their defeat, and intent on flagging down Lieutenant Santorum over his performance during the mission, Shawn was sidetracked when the Duchess’s executive officer, Commander Jeannie Bates, waved him down before he’d made ten steps from his fighter.
“Shawn,” the tall blonde yelled from across the busy hangar.
He turned to see Commander Bates leap over several containers strewn about the deck, then zigzag around several crewman as she bounded like a gazelle toward his position. There was a worried look on the woman’s usually good-humored face. “What’s going on, Jeannie?”
“Glad I caught you,” she said as she caught her breath. “Captain Ramos needs you in CIC right away.”
“What for?” he replied far more defensively than he intended. The fact that she leaned away when he snapped at her made him feel even more dreadful than he already did. She was a good friend, and someone both he and Melissa had become close to in their time on board the Duchess. Even though he’d lost a man out there today, there was undoubtedly a number of people that hadn’t made it back. It certainly wasn’t her fault. “Sorry, Jeannie. I’m just … tired.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said kindly. “And I’m sure there’s a much more attractive face that you’d rather see than mine right now.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Shawn said, finding himself smiling at the smart-looking woman. “Besides, I’m sure that’ll come soon enough. So, what’s so all-fired important that Ramos sent you down to get me?”
Bates shook her head. “He didn’t say. All he said was to find the senior wing leader and bring him up.”
Shawn fought against scowling at her. “Just get Commander Saltori to do it. He’s got more seniority than—”
“Rylani … didn’t make it back.”
He looked at her in bewilderment. “But we’re still recovering fighters, right?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Shawn. We just brought the last of them back on board. Commander Saltori—”
The cacophony of noises in the hangar seemed to die down all around. “And you’re sure there’s been no mistake? I mean, what if he ejected? What about his emergency transponder?”
She cast her eyes to the deck before answering. “His fighter was overwhelmed. He took several direct hits before we … lost his signal.”
Damn. Shawn rubbed his face, absently resting his hand over his mouth to stop the stream of curses that was about to erupt from it. Damn!
“I’m sorry, Shawn. I know he was a friend.”
He looked to Jeannie and her troubled expression. He knew that she and Rylani were also friends, probably just as close as she was to Shawn and Melissa. He reached out to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She cupped it with her own just as the deck beneath their feet shuddered.
“Come on,” she said, then took off at a run toward the nearest express lift that would bring them to CIC.
Less than five minutes later, Shawn and Commander Bates were jogging through the security doors and into the Duchess’s highly fortified combat information center. All around Shawn there was a bustle of activity as personnel—some seated at their stations, others walking between them—issued orders that got the fleet moving. On the four large status displays that dominated the forward bulkhead, Shawn watched as the battle continued to rage on in the space just beyond the Duchess. Meltranian destroyers and cruisers were exchanging fire with similar Unified, Rugorian, and Kafaran warships. On the far right screen, Shawn watched a particularly helpless Kafaran warship get pummeled by multiple salvoes from two large, skull-like Meltranian cruisers.
“There’s nothing we can do for them,” came the somber voice of Darian Ramos from behind Shawn. Without the commander’s knowledge, the older man had somehow slipped close behind him undetected. Not turning to face the captain, Shawn nodded slowly.
“We’re in over our heads,” Shawn said, as much to his experiences out in the battlefield earlier as to what he was witnessing on the screens.
“The odds were against us before we fired the first salvos.”
Shawn felt the anger that was welling in him over the loss of his comrades begin to boil to the surface. “And just how, exactly, did that happen, Captain?”
“I wish to hell I knew,” Ramos said with equal disdain. “Somehow the Meltranians were able to mask their true numbers from our sensors. And, as far as I know, this is the first time that’s happened in this war.”
Shawn watched as the Kafaran warship, now fading quickly from the monitor as the Duchess and the rest of the fleet speed away at high speed, exploded in a great ball of flame and debris. “I’d say it was a pretty successful tactic.”
Ramos nodded. “And one they’
ll be sure to duplicate, unless we can figure out how to counter it.”
“We lost a lot of good people out there over a technological oversight, Captain. I’m not sure their families will appreciate a day-late response.”
Ramos sighed heavily, the weight of the lives of thousands resting on his shoulders. Still, there was time enough to take a moment for one of his best pilots. “I heard about Saltori,” Ramos continued, now stepping beside Shawn to share his view of the monitors. “It’s a damn shame. He was a hell of a pilot.”
He was a hell of a man. “He wasn’t the only one we lost out there.”
Shawn watched the scope on another screen. The Meltranians were not pursuing, and it never failed to surprise him. At every encounter where they showed superior numbers, they had yet to pursue a fleeing Unified fleet—and there had been quite a few in the last months. It seemed they were content with taking their target, the small fire world on the far left monitor. What could they possibly want there?
“That’s one of the reasons I’ve called you up here,” Ramos said, his eyes shifting from one battle display to the next.
“I haven’t had time to debrief my people yet, Captain. I don’t have all the numbers—”
“There’ll be time enough for that later, Commander,” Ramos said, accessing a nearby keypad and requesting the computer to change one of the displays. On the far right screen, the image of the lava-covered planet winked out to be replaced by a large gas giant. Shawn knew it to be Istaro—the third planet in this system—and the location of the nearest jump gate. “We’re going to destroy the gate here after we go through,” the captain said as he stared at the new image. “It’s the best way to ensure those heartless Meltranian bastards don’t follow us.”
Still, no one had yet discovered any evidence as to exactly how the Meltranians propelled themselves such great distances in short amounts of time. The jump gate was in all likelihood unnecessary for them, but Shawn knew full well Ramos’s intent. “And what … you want me to go back out there and destroy it?”
Ramos let out a chuckle, but not one laced with any kind of mirth. “Hardly. In fact, I don’t want you leaving the ship anytime soon. That’s what I’ve got droids for. Cheap and disposable,” he said, then turned his gray eyes to Shawn. “Which is completely the opposite of my most seasoned personnel.”
“I hadn’t planned on taking vacation anytime soon,” Shawn said. “So other than my flight duties, I’m pretty sure I’ll be sticking around for quite some time.”
Ramos looked at him silently for a moment before turning to one of his people, a man Shawn knew to be the Duchess’s operations officer. “I’ll be on the bridge. Notify me as soon as we’re within six miles of the jump gate.”
“Aye, sir.”
“About how long until we can make the jump?” Shawn asked.
“Just under an hour, assuming the fleet maintains maximum speed.” After surveying his people for another minute, Ramos turned back to Shawn and nodded his head toward the door. “Walk with me, Commander.”
As soon as the two were in the corridor, Shawn got in step beside the captain.
“Shawn,” Darian began as he dropped his voice, “I need your help. We need your help.”
“Of course, sir. Anything I can do.”
Ramos smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, but it isn’t going to be easy.”
“What could be so hard?” Shawn asked. “I mean, what could be any more difficult than what I’ve been doing?”
“With Commander Saltori dead, we’ve lost a valuable asset on the ship. I’m sure you’re aware that he was about to be offered the position as wing commander.”
Shawn had had conversations like this before, and knew full well where it was going. There was no way he was going to enjoy giving up being out in space for any length of time, nor would he enjoy being anchored to a desk, wiping the noses of the junior officers. Wing commander was an executive position, a stepping stone that would eventually take him to the bridge of his own carrier someday. That was the last thing Shawn wanted, and he suspected the last thing Sector Command needed. Now, more than ever, he wished he were back at the controls of Sylvia’s Delight, plying his way through the trade lanes high above the warm, sandy beaches of Minos.
“With all due respect, Darian, I don’t want the job.”
“With all due respect, I don’t give a damn,” Ramos said irritably, stopping near a deserted intersection in the corridor and pulling Shawn aside. “This isn’t a request, Shawn. You’re the senior squadron commander. You’re our best pilot. It’s your own fault for being so good at what you do.”
“That’s not a reason to bolt me to a desk in some office. I should be out there with my team.”
“I’ve read the preliminary reports. You’ve lost over half your fighters. So have a number of other squadrons. As such, we’re going to be reorganizing some billets, merging some teams and disbanding others.”
Shawn shook his head in frustration, then looked around despondently for an airlock from which to jump out. “And the Rippers?”
“Brunel will be taking over, a field promotion to full commander.”
Shawn nodded. He could think of no finer officer to take over the reins. “And the rest?”
“The Rippers and the Red Skulls … or what’s left of them … will be merging with the Jolly Rogers.”
The Jolly Rogers, a well-respected squadron with a lineage dating all the way back several hundred years to the seagoing Navy of First Earth, was one of the squadrons permanently assigned to the Duchess of York. They were commanded by a brash young upstart named Davidson. Shawn had had more than a few run-ins with him in the officers’ mess, and to say that the two got along well would not have been fair by any stretch of the term.
“And Commander Davidson? How does he feel about all this?”
“We lost Davidson out there today, too,” Ramos said as he leaned his shoulders back against a nearby doorframe. “And his executive officer was wounded pretty bad,” the captain said, then smirked. “I got word a few minutes ago that he was raising hell in sickbay, demanding that he be allowed to get back out there and take another swing at the Meltranians. However, from what I could glean from the ship’s medical officer about the nature of his injuries, I’m doubtful he’ll be flying a fighter again anytime soon—if ever.”
“There’s no worse feeling for a pilot than to be grounded,” Shawn said in reference to both to the wounded officer in sickbay as well as to his own future prospects. The implication wasn’t lost on Ramos.
“Think of it this way: you get to mold the future fighter pilots who will be winning this war for us. We need you to help get some of these green pilots up to speed.”
Oh, brother. Shawn didn’t attempt to hide his disdain and rolled his eyes. “This is not what I signed up for.”
Ramos smirked, stood upright, and placed a gentle hand on Shawn’s shoulder. “Yes it is, and you know it. And if you don’t, you’ll come to realize it soon enough. Remember, I didn’t get to where I am today without having served in that particular position a time or two myself. It’s not a bad billet to find yourself in.”
“Oh really?” Shawn laughed. “I’ve had more than a few interactions with particularly nasty carrier wing commanders in my time.”
Ramos lifted his hand, then slapped it back down. “There, you see? You’re already agreeing with me that you’ll make better decisions than your predecessors. Besides, you get a nice little staff to assist you, not to mention a personal assistant. And your authority on this ship will be equivalent to my own, so you’ll be under the direct command of Admiral Hansen.” When he saw that Shawn was unconvinced, Ramos placed his other hand on the commander’s other shoulder. “It’s a big responsibility, Shawn.”
“One best suited to a newly promoted captain with aspirations of a command of his own,” Shawn quipped. “That’s not me in either case.” He’d lost his wife during the last war, his personal freedom when he’d agreed—under protest�
��to reenlist in the service, her namesake and his pride and joy on a desolate planet a handful of months ago, and now he was losing his ability to fly at all. Quite frankly, Shawn Kestrel was tired of losing things. Perfect. Just perfect.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Darius said, mirroring Shawn’s words to Jeannie Bates in the hangar. “I wouldn’t have considered you for this position if I didn’t think you were ready. Besides, Admiral Graves has the utmost confidence in your abilities in this arena.”
The recently promoted Vice Admiral William Graves was currently on board the flagship carrier Courageous along with Fleet Admiral Hansen and a handful of senior commanders coordinating the 2nd Fleet’s strategies in this area. Shawn missed his old friend and had entertained hopes of seeing him in the near future. It now looked as if that, too, was going to be denied him. Fantastic. “So Bill knows what’s going on here?” he joked, trying with difficulty to resign himself to his fate. “I smell a conspiracy.”
Ramos smiled. “The best kind, I’m sure.”
“I guess I have little choice in the matter.”
“You’ll be moving out of your current cabin to an area closer to the admiral.”
“Flag berthing, sir?” Shawn asked in surprise.
Ramos nodded. “The only available command stateroom is there. I’ll have a yeoman bring your things up.”
Shawn returned the nod. “I’ve still got to debrief my squadron.”
Ramos looked at him dubiously. “You don’t think Brunel can handle it?”
“There’s someone in particular I need to speak to, and with all due respect, I’m not sure Raven is qualified for that specific conversation. Besides, I’ll still need to get out of my flight gear and into a shower,” he added, motioning to his well-worn jumpsuit and harness.
The captain narrowed his eyes momentarily, then nodded. “I’ll see you on the bridge shortly afterward, then.”
Shawn put on the best military face he could, although everything in him wanted to collapse to the deck with exhaustion. “I’ll be there, sir.”
Ramos turned to walk down the corridor, but after a few steps looked back over his shoulder. “And stop with all the ‘sir’ crap, Kestrel. We’re on equal footing now, remember? I’ve got a first name. Learn it. We’re going to be having a lot of conversations.”
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