Chapter Three
Moving targets provided a new challenge for the men. All had scored well during simulator training, but real targets proved more difficult. Blatant misses received sharp disciplinary words from the instructors and resulted in additional practice for the offending teams. The days grew longer as the men logged more time in space than during previous exercises.
Byron and Trindel didn’t miss a single target, and their maneuvers were quicker and tighter than the other teams. None of the pilots were as adept at sharp turns or exhibited such precise movements. However, Byron’s flying carried with it a dangerous edge. Bassa was concerned the others would attempt to emulate his tactics and was forced to point out the misjudgment of Byron’s strategy on more than one occasion. He sensed resentment, although the young man was wise enough to avoid a verbal confrontation, but the last thing Bassa needed was a squadron of reckless pilots.
Small drones were employed for the next phase of training. The devices were programmed not only to evade the trainees but to pursue as well. This added a new dimension to the exercises and the teams were forced to adjust their plan of attack. The first day with the drones resulted in two teams failing the exercise entirely. This was not acceptable to Bassa and he voiced his displeasure at the debriefing.
“The first time this squadron faces an attacker and two teams are neutralized!” he exclaimed, fury enveloping every syllable. “That is totally unacceptable. Did you forget every shred of simulator training? If you can’t avoid a drone then you don’t stand a chance in real combat.”
Bassa glared at the young men. The trainees appeared uncomfortable and the offending teams visibly sank in their seats. Officer Jarth had gone over the day’s exercise, chastising the unsuccessful teams, but Bassa wanted to ensure they understood this outcome would not be tolerated. Often one ship would miss its mark the first time out with the drones, but never two.
“We will repeat this exercise again tomorrow with no errors, understood? Bassa proclaimed.
The young men signified their compliance with a loud ‘Yes, sir!’ Bassa scanned the room, his deep scowl reflecting disgust with the sloppy flying he’d witnessed today. His gaze fell on Byron, who appeared unperturbed. The pilot had performed his drills without errors, although his flying still bordered on reckless. Bassa opted to save that observation for another time and not detract from today’s issue.
“Teams 512T and 639T, report to my office,” Bassa ordered. “Dismissed!”
On the heels of that order, Bassa exited through the side door. Byron rose to his feet and his gaze fell on Trindel’s wide-eyed face. Unconcerned with the fate of the errant teams, he gestured for his navigator to proceed him out of the room. Trindel was silent as they returned to their quarters, for which Byron felt grateful. He did ponder Bassa’s words while he showered, though. Perhaps the first team would go home tomorrow.
He’d just slipped on a shirt when a persistent beeping signified a visitor.
Byron?
Trindel’s tentative inquiry echoed in his head. Not surprised to hear his partner’s thoughts, Byron instructed his door to open. Trindel’s forlorn expression greeted him and Byron invited him to enter.
“I’ll be ready in a moment,” he said, dropping into his chair and reaching for his boots.
Trindel nodded and shifted his stance. “What do you think is going to happen to Forcance and the others?” he implored.
Byron shrugged with indifference. “I don’t know. It’s Ganst and Forcance’s second error.”
“Do you think they’ll be sent home?”
Pulling on his second boot, Byron glanced up at his navigator and sighed. Trindel possessed such a tender heart. He hated to see any man fail. However, the fate of the two teams was beyond their control, and Byron was far more concerned with his own team’s performance to care.
“Trindel, we can’t worry about them,” he said, raising his voice to emphasize his point. “Just focus on our team.”
“You don’t care what happens to the others?” Trindel asked in astonishment.
“Not really.”
His navigator’s eyes widened even further. Byron could sense his answer bothered Trindel. Rising to his feet, he approached his friend and clasped him on the shoulder.
“Trindel, my primary focus is our team. My obligations are to you, my navigator. I can’t control what happens to the others, so I’m just concentrating on our performance, all right?”
Squeezing Trindel’s shoulder in emphasis, Byron anxiously watched for his navigator’s reaction. He did not want to alienate Trindel. Few claimed friendship with Byron and it was imperative that he protect his relationship with this young man.
Trindel finally nodded with reluctance. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted.
“I’m always right,” said Byron with a wink.
Trindel smiled and the worry vanished from his face.
“That’s better!” Byron exclaimed, patting his navigator’s shoulder. “Now, let’s go eat. I’m starving!”
Byron poked at the last of his meal, contemplating another bite. The midday meal was usually light due to their afternoon flight schedule, but he doubted he could finish. As of late, his strained nerves left Byron with little appetite.
“Not hungry?” asked Trindel.
Glancing briefly at his navigator, Byron shook his head. He stabbed at his food one more time before dropping his fork and shoving aside his tray. Across from Trindel, Byron heard a sarcastic chuckle.
“He’s busy working on today’s crazy stunt,” came a deep voice, eliciting laughter from those present.
Byron scowled at Surren, annoyed by his glib comment. “No, I’m contemplating how many shots it would take to bring you down. I’m guessing one,” he countered.
Arising from his seat, Byron grabbed his tray. Surren refused to relinquish the final word, though.
“At least I’m not the prime example of reckless flying!”
Byron did not reply, allowing his unshielded contempt for Surren speak for itself. Depositing his tray on the rack, he elected to retreat to the hanger and prepare for today’s flight lesson.
Surren’s parting words continued to grate on Byron’s mind. He and Trindel never made errors and accomplished designated tasks in record time. At the moment, they were the only team without a mark on their record; a testament to their skill and ability in the cockpit.
Yet at almost every debriefing, Bassa found fault with their flying. They either performed a maneuver incorrectly or approached a target from the wrong angle. None of these corrections had resulted in disciplinary action or a mark on their record, but the squadron witnessed Bassa’s verbal reprimand every time. Byron and Trindel had become the brunt of many jokes, and he was tired of the snide remarks.
He paused at the lift, his eyes on the teleporter pod across the hall. The units were off limits to the young men until they began teleportation training in the ships. Byron knew how to teleport, though. He’d stolen a few rides during his youth and understood how to operate the device. Every time he climbed in the cockpit, the ship’s teleporter called to him. Unfortunately, Bassa had seemed adamant that the trainees not begin that particular lesson until the appointed time, and those drills remained a month in the future.
Scowling as Bassa permeated his thoughts, Byron entered the lift and requested the hanger’s level. He was annoyed the senior officer had selected his team as the example for every questionable maneuver. Byron could not understand the constant criticism. His decisions weren’t irrational nor did they place his team in danger. For reasons unknown to Byron, he’d become the senior instructor’s prime target, and he was growing tired of the negative attention.
He suited up early and returned to the hanger floor just as the other men arrived. Byron ignored the stares and proceeded to his ship for preflight inspection. By the time Trindel joined, him. Byron was already in the cockpit.
“Don’t let Surren get to you,” his navigator offered.
When the trainees were in place, the day’s assignment was announced. It involved several flight patterns and brief engagement of targets, no live ammunition. Byron wondered at what point they would fire real weapons and decided to worry about it later. He had enough problems and concerns at the moment to occupy his time.
Trindel kept them on course for every flight pattern change. They maneuvered with precision, staying in line with the other ships. The squadron had practiced these movements many times and the teams knew the commands by heart.
The promise of an encounter crossed Byron’s mind just as two drones appeared on the radar. His muscles tensed in anticipation of a chase.
“Flank right, 439T and 227T, engage,” Officer Rellen instructed.
Byron maintained their position in the ranks, watching with envy as the two ships veered toward the targets. The drones changed course and the Cosbolts were off in pursuit. Forced to concentrate on the squadron’s course, Byron was unable to watch the ensuing dogfight.
Incoming! cried Trindel, flashing the coordinates to Byron.
“291T and 479T, engage!”
Byron gritted his teeth and held his course. The squadron circled and flew between the two skirmishes. The first two Cosbolts had neutralized their targets and were returning to join the others. Today’s encounter was to be brief, which meant four to six drones at best. Byron’s team was unlikely to see action today.
Below us!
Spying two more drones on the radar, Byron caught his breath. The current position of their ship placed them in close proximity.
“192T and 715T, engage!”
Byron dove toward the targets. The drones changed course, and Byron relayed his intended target to the other team. Without waiting for an answer, he pursued the drone on the left.
The drones separated and Byron kept his sights on his selected target. The drone veered right and dropped. Byron followed, pushing the throttle forward. The drone altered course, but Byron would not be so easily shaken. Circling around, their quarry continued to avoid Byron’s sights. Trindel suggested a new strategy and his pilot agreed. They began to gain ground on the drone.
Trindel suddenly flashed a visual of the other drone. Their target nosedived just as the second drone crossed their path. Byron could not pass up the opportunity and relayed his intensions to Trindel. He fired one shot and a green light flashed in the corner of his screen. One down!
Pull up! Trindel ordered.
Byron had failed to noticed the other Cosbolt in pursuit of the drone. The ship hadn’t altered its position and they were on a collision course. Their trajectory provided more room to go over the approaching ship, but they would lose sight of their original target. Ignoring his navigator’s suggestion, Byron projected an alternate course of action and sent the ship into a nosedive.
A brief flash of panic arose from Trindel and was quickly replaced by instructions for a safe crossover. Their ship shot underneath the other fighter. Byron sensed the close proximity, but they passed without incident.
Byron caught sight of the other drone. Lining his sights, he fired two shots. The second beam reached its mark. He grinned in triumph as the green light flashed a second time.
Byron! cried the other pilot, anger in his thoughts.
We conveyed our intensions, he replied. Didn’t we? he privately asked Trindel.
Just barely, but yes, his navigator replied.
That was still too damn close! the pilot claimed.
Not as close as you think, Byron answered in exasperation as they returned to the squadron.
The ships joined the others and assumed formation. They completed the flight pattern with no further drone encounters and returned to base.
Byron felt proud of his team’s first multiple kill. He sensed the other pilot’s annoyance but chose to ignore the implication he’d done anything wrong. Two targets in one day was a rare occurrence and he intended to relish the moment.
The debriefing room meeting began with the analysis of each ship’s flight pattern. The instructors discussed the target approaches of every pilot, making suggestions and corrections where necessary. Byron and Trindel’s turn began with a compliment for the double kill. They had fired the fewest shots to achieve this goal, which also garnered praise. Officer Char offered a couple suggestions for their approach – a standard procedure. However, he paused when their final dive maneuver appeared on the screen and Bassa stepped forward.
“Why did you select that course?” he asked, his brows pulled together.
Sensing disapproval, Byron straightened his shoulders. “Going over the other Cosbolt meant we’d lose sight of our target and delay our pursuit. I knew we had enough clearance and seized the opportunity.”
Bassa’s expression did not alter and he turned to Trindel. “Did you share in his decision?”
“Well, yes,” stammered Trindel. “And I did relay our intensions,” he added, shifting in his seat.
Bassa’s gaze returned to Byron. “Your maneuver assured acquirement of your target. However,” he said in a firm voice, “I don’t want to see another close call.”
“We were within regulation distance …” began Byron.
“ ‘Within’ being the key word! No more close crossovers, period,” the senior officer admonished. “In fact, tomorrow’s lesson will focus on crossovers until I am satisfied you can perform the maneuver precisely.”
A scattering of moans were heard. Bassa’s eyes were focused on Byron, who returned the man’s stare with an equal amount of intensity. The senior officer’s scowl deepened and Byron belatedly shielded his angry thoughts.
“That will be all for today,” Bassa informed the young men. “Byron, I will see you in my office immediately.”
Byron’s body flushed with anger. Grasping his computer pad, he leapt to his feet and all but shoved Trindel out of the way. His navigator hastily stepped aside, his expression anxious. Providing Trindel with no opportunity to speak, Byron stormed out of the room. He reached the lifts ahead of the other trainees, but not before Surren’s voice reached his ears.
“I told you those crazy antics would get you in trouble!” he exclaimed in triumph.
Shooting Surren a scathing glare, Byron stepped into the open lift.
“Level Two, now!” he growled, willing the doors to close.
None of the young men reached the lift in time and Byron rode in silence. The compartment was anything but still, though. He saw no need to shield his turbulent emotions, and the fury pounding between his ears was deafening. It overshadowed the hum of the lift and emanated unchecked from his body. Had Trindel joined him, Byron’s navigator would’ve exited at the first available floor.
The doors sprang open, revealing an empty hallway. Byron strode out of the lift with a purpose, fury still pounding at his chest. The classrooms were on this level, but no sounds emanated from the rooms. He paused at a fork in the hallway, glancing in both directions. To his relief, no other personnel were present at this time of day. His passage would go unnoticed.
Turning to his left, Byron began the long walk to the officers’ wing. He’d never been summoned to Bassa’s office before, but every trainee knew the way. No man wanted to see the officers’ wing, as doing so implied a disciplinary action, but everyone had to remember the exact location.
Byron turned the corner and proceeded down another long, white corridor. He wondered if Bassa’s office resided on the far end of the complex just to make this walk more uncomfortable. If designed to give an errant pilot time to think, it was doing nothing for his state of mind.
Rounding yet another turn, he entered the officers’ wing. Byron passed two sets of doors and paused at the double doors leading to Bassa’s office. He eyed the doors with trepidation, reluctant to enter. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to quell the rising agitation and clear his thoughts. He could not afford a direct confrontation with the senior
officer. Waving his hand over the panel, Byron was immediately told to enter.
The doors slid apart, revealing a large, well-lit room. Bassa was at his desk, his eyes on his computer screen. Byron stepped into the room and the doors silently closed. Bassa did not look up or give any indication that he was aware of a visitor.
“Sir?” Byron said, unsure what he was to do next.
“Have a seat,” Bassa ordered, his eyes never leaving the screen.
Approaching the desk, Byron dropped heavily into the chair on the right. He felt like a disobedient boy, about to receive punishment for his unruly actions and attitude. He refrained from slumping in the chair and held a respectable stance with his hands in his lap.
CassaStar Page 5
