by Danny Loomis
“Ten-hut!” McIntyre called again, bringing them to their feet while Grant strode from the room.
Chief McIntyre moved to the front. “All cadets will fall out and prepare for chow. Dismissed!”
Outside the entrance, number 26 was gesturing them over. “I say we head back to the simulators after chow. You guys with me?” Irish groaned inwardly even while nodding and smiling. Number 26 had turned into a bundle of energy since the class had begun actual flying. He automatically fell into the rear of their small formation when they headed for the mess hall. Oh, well. Since it was Friday she couldn’t gang up on them much longer.
ALAMO AIRFIELD (Day -39)
“For tomorrow’s exercise, you’ll be assigned to attack the destroyer Aaron.” Jankowski turned to the screen behind her. “As a review, I’ve highlighted the areas on its hull that are most vulnerable.” Red dots appeared on the thousand meter long ship, a fat spear with forward-swept wings which were actually mounts for the particle beamers.
“You’ve already been drilling in tactical formation against destroyers, plus other types of ships. Keep it simple, don’t get fancy.” She faced the team and pointed. “Number twenty-eight, you’re the leader for this mission. Have your team here at 0800 tomorrow for your safety brief. You’ll be the first team off in the morning.” Her gaze swept the room. “That’s all.”
Irish gave an internal shrug while they filed silently out of the classroom. He’d expected 26 to be picked, since she’d turned into their natural leader over the weeks of training. The only negative about 28 was his lack of imagination. He’d been good at doing team tactics by the book, in fact was one of the best in the class.
28 waved everyone over. “Let’s head for the simulators. I’ve got some thoughts on what to do tomorrow, but we need to work on ‘em.” He glanced around. “I expect lots of comments to make whatever formation we decide on the best it can be.”
By suppertime, the team had come up with a workable plan. “I feel good about tomorrow,” 28 said, digging into the beef stew.
Irish hesitated, not wanting to ruin his moment. No, had to bring it up. “It’s a good attack plan. But I still wish we’d have a couple alternatives. Not wise to lock yourself in…”
“Oh, leave him be,” 27 said. “With all the practice we’ve been getting, I’m sure we can flex our tactics to whatever the situation throws at us. Right, boss?” 28 looked up with a resigned expression. “Like I said, man. Jankowski’s the boss, I’m just temporary team leader.”
Number 26 made a face of disgust, setting her spoon down. “Gah, this stuff looks like shit.” She looked up, a bright smile on her face. “I, for one, am glad you’re the boss, number 28. Means you’re buying everyone a round after our mission tomorrow.”
“Alright, alright. I surrender. And yes, I’ll gladly buy you jerks a round-maybe even two-if we pass tomorrow’s exercise.”
Irish smiled while he leaned back, enjoying the chaffing between his teammates. Yeah, they’d do a good job. The extra simulator training they’d been doing had not only honed their physical readiness, it had cemented their attitude. An attitude that would carry them to victory.
* * *
Irish powered down the runway, and lifted the nose of his Wasp towards space. God, he loved doing combat takeoffs. “Thirty is off the runway. Will join you in fifteen mikes.”
“See you at sector three-two in fifteen,” came the reply.
Minutes later he closed up to the four green dots on his screen. “Number thirty on station.” He powered back and positioned himself on the right side of the formation.
“This is twenty-eight. Target is on far side of planet. We will move north, and come down on it in box formation. Number thirty, you’re the lid on our box.”
By the time they’d lifted over the planet and had the target on-screen twenty thousand klicks to their front, they’d formed into a square with Irish in the top position.
Sudden disorientation grabbed him, along with a sense of impending danger, emanating from—“Something’s haywire, twenty-eight. I think we’d better…”
“Can it, thirty,” snapped 28. “I don’t see any threat. We’re proceeding in.”
“Wait-hold one, look at the rear of the target. Something’s not right.”
The formation hesitated a moment. “Anyone see anything out of whack?” asked 28. A chorus of negatives was his answer. “Thirty, put a cork in it and let’s go.” They all moved forward again, except Irish.
He shook his head and blinked several times, squinting at his screen. No, there definitely was something wrong. “You’ve got to stop…” Suddenly his Wasp was shut down, including commo. He pounded the steering yoke in frustration. “Goddamnit, something’s wrong. Listen to me!”
Space around the destroyer suddenly lit up as laser fire-real lasers-reached out, cutting into the Wasps. Two ships exploded, while the other two slewed off, badly damaged. The lasers sputtered and shut down suddenly as they’d fired.
Irish gaped at the scene that only seconds before had been filled with violence and death. “Damnit, I told you,” he muttered. “Told you.” His eyes filled, and he began sobbing.
His ship powered up. “Number thirty, proceed to runway seven, north of main airfield.”
He wiped his eyes. Number seven? He’d never heard that runway number before. Giving himself a shake, he calmed his emotions and began descending towards the planet. A red dot showed on his screen, north of the main airfield by at least ten kilometers. He steered towards it.
By the time Irish landed, grief had been replaced by a rising sense of outrage. Why’d they shut him down? He might have been able to do something, anything, to keep his teammates from continuing on.
A floater arrived at the side of his Wasp, with two security personnel dismounting. Once he’d popped his hatch and clambered down the side of the ship to the pavement, they were on either side of him. He looked at them inquiringly. “What…” They grabbed his arms, swiftly locking handcuffs on him.
“You are to stay silent, Cadet,” the tall one said. He was marched to the floater, which whisked them to a large structure behind the hangar. What the hell? He kept his face a rigid mask.
Minutes later the cuffs were removed and he was thrust into a windowless cell. The door clanged shut, leaving him to stare around in bewilderment. A cot on one wall and toilet in the corner were all the furnishings the room had. Everything else was a drab light brown color that could grow old fast.
He collapsed on the cot, curling in a ball. Memories of the moment his team was cut to ribbons filled his mind, causing an upsurge of tears. For an endless age he remained on the cot. The worst part of it, he didn’t know if any of them had survived. Time wore on.
The sound of a key turning the lock to his door brought him upright. He was unaware of the time, only knowing he’d slept. A growling stomach hinted at more than one meal missed. He swung his feet off the bed, catching a whiff of himself. Didn’t smell too good, either.
“Let’s go, Staff. Time for a shower.”
He stood, staring at the familiar shape in the doorway. “Chief?”
McIntyre tossed him an orange prison outfit, a grim look on his face. “None other. Let’s get you to a shower and some grub.”
Once cleaned up, McIntyre led him to the prison messhall. “Get a plate of chow. I’ll be at the back table.”
Irish complied, confusion mixing in with outrage. Once seated in front of McIntyre, he couldn’t hold it back. “What’s going on, Chief? How…”
McIntyre leaned forward. “Don’t talk, Staff. I’m not even supposed to be here. Just listen.” He gave a quick look around. “Master Chief of this dump owes me a favor, so he let me in to see you. They’re holdin’ you until they can come up with charges against you. If it gets to a court, tell your attorney how you were held without being allowed legal counsel. Might be able to get the case dropped.”
“But…”
“
Like I said, don’t talk. The C.O. was pissed when you didn’t stay in formation with the rest of your team. I told you he hated it when cadets didn’t go strictly by the book.” He shook his head, disgust on his face.
“I mentioned that you were tryin’ to save their bacon by stopping them from getting too close to that destroyer. Rumor is it had a surge burn out a generator that was hooked up to the targets you guys were going to shoot at. When the first training laser impacted one of the targets, it caused a major malfunction. Still waitin’ for the final report.”
He looked around again. “Two of your team were killed, 28 and 29. The other two are in critical condition, but will probably make it.”
Irish slumped, relief and sorrow warring inside. “Now what?”
McIntyre leaned forward. “I let your old platoon leader know. He said to tell Lieutenant Grant, the guy who gave the intel brief. Apparently you’d worked with him in the past. I passed on word, and he should be here by tomorrow.” He looked around again. “In the meantime, you got to stay in that cell. Don’t talk to anyone, especially the legal creeps the C.O. is sending over.”
He stood, gesturing. “Let’s get you back to your cell. I’ve used up my time.”
Once McIntyre had left, Irish lay on the cot again, staring at the ceiling. Damnit, he’d tried to save them. Why was he being punished for that? It wasn’t right. He rolled on his side, and was asleep minutes later.
* * *
There was a knock on Lieutenant Commander Ridley’s office door. “Sir, Lieutenant Grant is here to see you.”
Ah. Thank you, Chief. I’ve been expecting him.” He arose when Grant walked in, and reached across his desk to shake hands. “Thank you for coming over from Wing HQ to give the intel brief, Lieutenant. Much appreciated. Please, have a seat.”
Grant perched on the edge of his chair, a serious look on his face. “I always enjoy briefing the cadets, Sir,” he said. “However, I’m here about the incident that occurred two days ago.”
“Yes, most unfortunate.” He swiveled to his computer, tapping a few keys. “I was in the process of finishing my report. I’m going to be having cadet Shannon brought up on charges for his actions.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “Charges? And what, exactly, is he to be charged with?”
“Dereliction of duty. He willfully broke formation and distracted his teammates at a crucial moment.”
Grant shook his head. “Dereliction-Do I understand you are charging him for attempting to warn his flight that something was amiss?” He took a data cube from his pocket and placed it on Ridley’s desk. “This is the report from the Captain of the destroyer involved. It shows there was a backlash from the target spheres they’d attached to their ship, which had been connected in a reverse order to the generator that caused the problem.”
Ridley picked up the cube. “How’d you get this? I haven’t even seen it yet.”
Grant came to his feet, disbelief crossing his face. “You mean you were submitting charges against cadet Shannon without having all of the information? What’s going on here, Commander?”
Ridley stood, rage flickering in his eyes. “How dare you question my actions, Lieutenant…”
“I’d advise you to watch your words from this point on, Commander,” Grant said, voice like steel. He withdrew an identification card from his pocket and handed it to Ridley. “I didn’t say I was from Wing. In fact, if you had listened to the briefing I gave the cadets, I said I was from Sector Intelligence.”
“Sector…” Ridley’s eyes dropped to the card, a confused expression replacing his anger.
“Look closely. Notice the rank?”
A white-faced Ridley handed the I.D. card back to Grant, and braced to attention. “What are your orders, Sir?”
“I understand you have not only recommended dereliction of duty charges, but have taken the steps of washing Staff Sergeant Shannon out of the flight program. Is that true?”
“Yessir. It was the logical thing to do, since he was being brought up on charges.”
Grant eyed the rigid figure in front of him with distaste. “I can’t reverse the actions you’ve taken concerning flight school. And, if you persist in pressing charges, I can’t stop that. I can, however, guarantee you are made a laughingstock for the charges. Not only was he attempting to save his teammates lives, he was trying to warn everyone that something was wrong.”
Ridley’s eyes focused on Grant. “But Sir, how could he have known?”
“Be seated, Commander, and I’ll repeat some information that was already in his file. Which you apparently did not read.” They both sat, Ridley at attention even while sitting. “During his last mission, he had a head injury that damaged the bio link in his head. The Edoans, who are head and shoulders above us in electronics usage, replaced it with a much better version. Apparently it can occasionally detect emissions from other sources. Somehow, he knew there was something wrong.”
Ridley shook his head, a puzzled look replacing the stiffness. “How could I have known that information, Sir?”
“Probably wouldn’t have known, until you did a little research after the incident. Unfortunately, you were apparently too engrossed with finding a scapegoat.” He raised a hand, cutting off Ridley’s replies. Do you still wish to follow through with filing charges?”
“No-no, Sir. Not now, not since you’ve pointed out the additional information.”
Grant nodded in satisfaction. “In that event, here’s what you will do to repair what you’ve already done…”
It was another ten minutes before Grant walked out of the C.O.’s office. Pulling rank definitely wasn’t his favorite pastime. But in this case, he felt good about it.
* * *
A key turning in the lock brought Irish upright, groggy from sleep. The guard stuck his head in the cell and beckoned. “You got a visitor.”
“Again?” He stood, shuffling towards the door. They’d questioned him endlessly last night, then hit him with what he was being charged with. Dereliction of duty. He’d shut up after that, refusing to talk. A sullen despair had replaced the outrage.
He was surprised out of his funk when he saw who was waiting in the small office to which he was escorted. “Lieutenant Grant?”
“None other.” He’d remained seated when Ian entered, and gestured at the other chair. “Take a seat, Irish.”
He remained standing, coming to parade rest and looking over Grant’s head. “If it’s all the same, Sir, I’ll stand.”
Grant gave a snort. “Can’t say I blame you for being ticked off at the system. But this time the system has good news for you. Now take a seat, will you?”
Reluctantly, he lowered himself into the chair. “The only good news at the moment would be the trumped up charges were just a joke and I’m free to go.”
An outright laugh from Grant was startling. “You just nailed it, Irish. The charges have been dropped, and after we have our conversation you really will be free to go.”
Now Irish was sitting upright, hope gleaming from his eyes. “What changed, Sir? Last I heard, the C.O. was breathing fire and brimstone towards me.”
“He’s got other worries,” Grant said with a quick headshake. “Don’t even think about him anymore. Instead, think about this. Would you like to captain your own ship on a secret mission to the Eire star system?”
Ian gaped at him, finally managing to speak. “Um–I would. But I thought I was washed out of the flight program.”
Grant tossed him a set of wings. “The records now show you never were in flight school here. In fact, you graduated two months ago on the planet Athena.” He laughed at the shocked look on his face. “Just take my word for it, you’re a pilot.” He lobbed him a set of bars. “I didn’t think it wise to have you be an officer in the Navy, so you’ll just have to be satisfied as a Captain in the Army. That a problem?”
By now Irish was standing at attention. “No, Sir! And from all that’s hap
pening, you’re not a naval Lieutenant, are you?”
Once more Grant laughed. “Irish, I’ve got to keep you around. I swear you can crack me up more than anyone else. No, I’m a Colonel in the Army. As well as being one of the executive members of Sector Intel.”
Irish collapsed into his chair. “Shit. Just when I thought things were gonna be normal again.”
Grant stood up. “I’ve got to take off for another meeting. Within the hour someone will be coming by to pick you up. For now, the guards will take you to the waiting area by the front entrance.” He made a face. “After you shower some of that stink off.”
By the time he’d regained his feet, Grant was gone. He shook his head, a genuine smile building for the first time in days. Usually he didn’t like it when things were moving so fast. In this case it was welcomed.
He was waiting outside the entrance, still in his prison fatigues when an Army sedan pulled to a stop, and the driver hopped out.
“Captain Shannon?”At his nod, he saluted and opened the rear door. “This way, Sir.”
For the next half-hour everything seemed to cascade onto Irish until he found himself in one of the suites of the Swan, the fanciest hotel in the area. Usually, this was where the visiting dignitaries stayed when on the base. He shook his head bemusedly, and started searching his new quarters.
Several Army uniforms hung in the closet, dress blues and whites. Two sets of fatigues were on the bed, plus two camouflage coveralls. He ran his hands down the dress whites, still not really believing what had happened in such a short period of time. The chiming of a doorbell had him almost running to answer it.
Grant strode in, giving him an up-and-down look. “You still in that prison getup? Hurry and change into a set of fatigues, will you? We’ve got to meet the rest of your crew at dinner. And I’m starved.”
His phone buzzed, bringing him up short. “This is Grant.” He listened a moment, face becoming serious. “What happened? Ah, I see. No, all we can do is wait at this point. I’ll bring him along right now.” He disconnected, irritation spreading across his face.
