Transterran Gambit

The 3-D view inside it changed as the index node of the main computer closed the technical readout of the ECC Seydlitz and opened up the file on the ECC Visigoth. The EuroCon ship-of-the-line was one of the mission’s twelve target objectives and was made distinctive by the revolving electronic warfare towers jutting out in opposition from the ship’s gravity deck. A listing of the ship’s offensive and defensive systems began scrolling past his eyes. As each weapon is highlighted, its position on the hull was highlighted as well. The Visigoth bristled with weapons.

“Give me infra-red… target stationary, offering portside aspect… maximum identification range.” Hurricane said quietly, mindful of the others around him, as the view of the Visigoth changed. It shrank, lost color and detail until only a fuzzy, blotchy signature of reds and yellows remained.

“Begin closing at three-hundred k.p.s.” Hurricane said. The virtual range-finder in the upper-left of his vision indicated 800,000 Km. from the target. As the seconds passed and distance fell away, the thermal image grew until he could recognize the most distinctive features. The ECW towers on the Visigoth showed up just fine at 400,000 Km.

***

"All right, all right… everybody settle down." Captain Groover, honcho of VF-221, said as he took his place at the front of the ready-room. Hurricane settled into his couch and opened his data pad. It would be the first time they would fire live weapons against real targets.

"We've just received word from the control deck that the ship has successfully penetrated the outer sensor line and that the mission is a go." Groover said. Hurricane and the other Gunslingers clapped and whistled. The CO waited until they’d quieted before continuing. "The target for this strike is the orbital shipyard around Festung 21. Intelligence believes that Transterran may attempt to refit the heavy combatants of Seven Kreigsmarine being kept in storage here," He activated the holoform projector, bringing up an overhead view of the depot. "As you can see, the largest combatants have been placed closest to the depot itself and are defended by the laser emplacements."

"Sir, is this legal?" Lt. Cooper, the youngest pilot in the group at 19, raised his hand. Groover stepped through the holo-form and nodded.

"It's legal. These ships are officially on the scrap-list. We're just speeding up the process," Groover said. "Torpedo-Three and Torpedo-Five launch in forty minutes. We launch in sixty…" He paused and dropped his face to his watch. Hurricane did the same to his Krono-Tek and squeezed the timer button. "Now." Groover looked up again. “Our job is to sweep in ahead of the strike and open up attack lanes for our A-26’s. Once they've delivered their payloads, we'll cover them as they withdraw."

"I hope the drinks are on the dump-truck drivers when we get back." Lt. Pancho said from his seat beside Hurricane. The squadron guffawed.

"Damn right they are," Groover said. "But the number one mission priority is to get them all home. The birds are being prepped as we speak. Everyone flies with a sixty-deuce package… except you, Hurricane."

“What’s that, sir?” Hurricane said, looking up from his data pad in dumb surprise.

“We need someone to go in and eyeball the target area before the strike,” Groover said and took a dry swallow. He removed a water ration from a cargo pocket and sipped from the straw he used to puncture the foil package. “You’re the most experienced one in here so I’ve ordered your ship outfitted with a standard sensor package.”

“That’s a milk run,” Hurricane said. “I’ll be on my way out before you guys even get there. What’s the use in that? We know where they are.”

“Since the Ranger can’t proceed deeper into the system without being spotted, although we think we know where they are, it behooves us to proceed cautiously,” Groover said and crumpled the empty ration in his large fist. “So quit flapping your crap-hole, Hurricane. You get speed and surprise… that should be all you need,” He turned to pitch the balled ration pack into a waste disposal chute. “You got your ECM if you get into any smleck.”

“First in, first out,” Pancho whispered quietly and gave Hurricane a wry look. “Doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me, bro.”

"The mission comes first but I want to see every one of you back here for the post-op debrief,” Groover said and met every pilot’s eyes. “If I have to use up my valuable time writing up some flowery condolence notice for one of you undeserving bastards, I'll be super-heated. Any questions?"

The compartment was quiet. Hurricane could hear his own heart beating. The game was on but he’d been excluded… again.

***

He’d named his ship, “Thunderbird,” because he’d heard of the Navajo legend during an Earth Studies class and thought it fit. Like the F/A-300's and F-19's it was meant to replace, the F-28B Wolfhound was trans-atmospheric capable and of an efficient, lifting-body design. Based on the old X-32 testbed, it mounted a computer-controlled rocket/scram-jet hybrid, the advanced RSH-77 by Confederated Electric. The big engine produced a top speed of Mach 12.1 in atmosphere and, in vacuum delivered 7 G's of thrust. It was the pinnacle of propulsion technology for its class; Confederated Electric called it the RUSH.

When he triggered a boost, the RUSH kicked him hard in the seat and pressed the air from his chest. Too much and it induced tunnel vision. Inside or outside of atmosphere, in an instant he could go from being a target to being… gone. It was properly used sparingly because it drained fuel from the tanks and surprised the unwary; it never took long for velocity to exceed control. The engine demanded respect, as more than one rook had discovered, a few times to their demise, but the RUSH gave the rocket-jocks an edge.

The teeth of the F-28 were four EAGLE HEPACs, muzzle ports for each dimpling the underside of the forward fuselage. Hurricane inspected each as he circled the fighter, looking into all the dark nooks and crannies for foreign objects. He frowned as he saw a sensor package in each open payload bay replacing his best medium-range weapons.

"Everything looks good, Chief. How long did it take you to get all the systems checked?" Hurricane said as he finished his pre-flight inspection. He tossed his padded helmet-liner into the cockpit and put a foot into the first rung of the retractable crew-ladder.

"Six hours, sir. Gimme the F-tre-hun any day," Chief Reynolds said and spat in disdain. His ball of spittle bounced off the deck in the weak gravity provided by the Ranger’s engines. There were F-300s across the service bay being lifted into the launch bay. Reynolds eyed them for a moment and snorted his disapproval. “Skyfall nut-jobs.” He leaned against the ablative armor covering the upper surface of the fighter and nodded across the service bay. "Complete turnaround in thirty minutes…” He slapped a hand against the side of the Wolfhound. “Not like this hangar bat."

"Hangar bat? Cut her a break, Chief. The first production run of every model has bugs. Give her time." Hurricane said as he climbed up the ladder and vaulted into the cockpit. His acceleration seat still smelled new, like synthetic leather and sealant-glue.

"Try to bring it back in one piece, would ya, sir?" Chief Reynolds said as he climbed the crew-ladder to assist Hurricane in getting strapped in. "Just a little favor, for me an' the boys, eh? Maybe so we can get some sleep?"

"I'll try, Chief," Hurricane said with a smile as his harness snapped into place. "No bets with tags on the ordinance. I’m just trying to bring her back in one piece."

"It’s a start, sir," Reynolds said as he slaps Hurricane on the top of the helmet and dismounted the crew-ladder. Once at the bottom, he shoved the short, sturdy device up into the fuselage where it locked into place. "Happy high roads."

Hurricane shook his head and said, “Only the one that leads home, chief.”

Reynolds saluted as the canopy dropped. It thumped against the frame and sealed with a hiss. Hurricane delivered one in return, then put his head down and concentrated on getting Thunderbird ready to go.

He lifted his eyes from the control panel as something jolted the fighter. A mule-tractor had rolled up and attached a tow bar to his front landing strut. Thunderbird lurched again and started moving on the rubber-coated rollers installed in the long pad of each landing skid. Warning lights on the bulkheads begin flashing red. Hurricane watched his ground crew scramble for shelter. The service bay was being depressurized for launch.

Hurricane punched his access code into the terminal below the rotation control array and the fighter came alive. The tactical display came to life as the sensors did. Each instrument zeroed as they began taking readings. The banks of power-lockouts at his elbows flashed as the computer activated the flight systems. He was number three for launch behind Captain Groover in the “00” ship and Cooper in “Bird-Dawg.” One of Groover's standing orders was that rookie pilots flew on his wing until they had time to season.

"You ready for this, amigo?" Pancho's voice came over the squadron interlink. A former dump-truck driver, he had 5500 hours logged in the A-26 before he transferred to the F-28. Now he flew the #4 position of the lead flight in “Lil Caballo” and had proven to be a steady hand.

"They got it coming," Hurricane said as he flexed his fingers inside of his gloves, sealed to his pressurized flight suit by locking cuff-rings. He settled his hands on the controls. "Transterran won’t know what hit 'em. I just hope we’re doing this for the right reason."

"If they come out to play, they gonna get knocked down and chewed up." Pancho came back then cut out. The huge pressure door sealing off the service bay from the launch bay slid into the overhead. The automated loading system lifted the 00 ship, carried it over the threshold into vacuum and lowered Groover into position. It took the loader 30 seconds to move a new fighter into position. Hurricane felt his pulse quicken as the gray of the Ranger bulkhead was replaced in front of the fighter by the star field.

"Trailblazer to control, fuel lines pressurized and showing zero-fault. Navigation uplink is locked in and streaming. All systems go." Hurricane called in.

"Control to Trailblazer. Radio check."

"Five-by-five, over." Hurricane said and bumped the reception power up a notch.

"Weapons check."

"Go." Hurricane said. The Thunderbird's cannons were powered-down and the recon package secure. The image of a man walking unarmed into a room filled with thugs came into his mind. How would they react when he told them he was just looking?

"Fuel check."

"Go." Hurricane said after he dropped his eyes to his fuel display. The tanks were full and the pressure equalized in both of the fuel lines feeding the RUSH.

"RCS check."

Hurricane depressed the "PRG/TST" lockout and Thunderbird shuddered briefly before settling. Small jets of white gas erupted in sequence from each RCS nozzle buried in the skin of the fighter. The computer had purged the RCS system to test for blockages.

"Go." Hurricane said when diagnosis of each line came up green.

"Lock in XHF to four-seven-seven."

"Roger," Hurricane said and twisted the knob beside the XHF display to the proper setting. He pushed the knob down. “Frequency locked in."

Out in front of him, the lights in the status bar over the mouth of the launch bay changed, flashing twice before going from red to yellow.

"Clear left and right."

Hurricane twisted his head to each side, scanning for obstacles; service crewmen or the gantry-arm out of position. "All clear."

"Trailblazer, you're go for launch."

"Roger control." Hurricane said as calmly as he could. He took a deep, reinforcing breath and triggers the RUSH, grunting as his helmet hit the back of the headrest. His gear was up before he cleared the launch bay. The Festung 21 raid was on.

***

Sol-5/ Jupiter

All told, the Free Callisto shipyards were supplying the NorCom with 20 military vessels of assorted size in varying levels of completion, nearest was the Intrepid-class cruiser Tigerwolf… looking out of place tied-up to a row of unpowered freighters. The most basic was the heavy HMS Bellapheron that Jena could see taking shape through the open doors of the Primary Assembly building, steel frame supports being attached to the spinal mount weapon that the ship would grow around. The Primary Assembly, two kilometers long and a third as wide, disappeared as her four-seat courtesy shuttle coasted past it. Beyond the shipyard lights was Callisto, beyond that moon loomed glowing Jupiter… a sight impossible to ignore, impossible not to be hypnotized by.

“We get military types in here sometimes, but never sent directly by the Sol system commander, cut an old man a break and tell me what gives,” The pilot assigned to her by SOLCorp talked incessantly despite Jena’s repeated suggestions that such was becoming unwelcome. “Don’t tell me… let me guess… something with the EuroCon. Are they making trouble? I thought I heard that they were with Transterran now? That doesn’t sound good. Things were safer when the EuroCon couldn’t afford a thermal to wrap in. Whatever it is must be good for business though. The lads in the shop have been getting double normal rates to get these hulls done on time. Those E-Cons wouldn’t have the balls… would they?”

Jena broke the lock her eyes were keeping on Jupiter and looked over her shoulder toward the pilot cabin. The name HURLEY was stitched across the breast of the pilot’s survival gear… a grungy, well-patched pressure suit going brown with age and a more modern, expensive looking helmet.

“Good instincts,” Jena said and rolled her eyes, regretting having said anything as pilot Hurley tried to turn in his seat. “I’m only kidding… forget it, space it and seal the hatch. I don’t know what it is.”

“I knew something was going on,” Hurley said and shook a finger at her. “I was telling my hab-mates there was serious smleck happening but they all thought I was crazy. They just don’t want to see anything outside finishing their tours and getting back planet side. These are people that have a serious lack of vision,” He shook his head. “But not me though. I had the whole deal untangled by the end of day one. You don’t have to graduate ELP to figure it out, just look at how the circumstances fit. It’s cause and effect… one plus one equals two, that sort of thing.”

“I’m happy you have it figured out,” Jena said as she let her eyes go back to the view port. Another row of finished ships went past. “You’ve got a step up on the rest of us at fleet,” She tapped the view port as she saw one lit up with docking lights. “There… that’s it. Take me to that one.”

“At your service, ma’am,” The pilot said as he turned to look where she was pointing, and then settled his hands onto the shuttle controls. He triggered a burst of maneuvering thrust that briefly delivered micro-gravity. “We’re on approach at a hundred twenty kilometers. Glide path nominal. It looks like there’s a free docking ring on the ventral side. No problem.”

ADF Nereid lacked the husky aggressiveness imparted by Constellation’s designers but it did look fast, Jena granted the ship that much as it drew closer. The battle cruiser, although compact, bulged where large fuel tanks were installed ahead of the boxy engineering section and large, bullet-shaped engine shroud. Overall, her impression of the ship was that it seemed unnecessarily sleek, more than what she expected for the type, but very capable looking.

She could see space-suited crewmen walking on the outer surface, tracking down weak seals and slow leaks along a hull that was ¾ the size of an Intrepid-class heavy, but the models shared many similar features… a layer of the same RAM armor. Nereid mounted three, capital-sized HEPAC’s and six torpedo tubes to Constellation’s eight. It would make up for in speed what it lacked in bulk. The ship was going to 47 Ursae Majoris, as soon as the ADF could recruit and train a crew, but defense of Sol system came first. Kinkaid needed every asset he could get and someone at the front he could trust to get the real dope.

“I have contact with the ship, ma’am. We’re clear to dock.”

The view disappeared, replaced by the gray of the battle cruiser’s hull. She lurched against the straps of her harness as the pilot fired 25-pound thrusters to slow the shuttle. The 10-pounders “bamph’d” beneath her and the skin of the Nereid started getting closer. The shuttle lurched as docking rings made contact.

***

SOL-8/ Neptune

The alien looked plain on the outside, Leda decided as she, station commander Weston, and a crowd of curious onlookers pressed around the same view port. The ship was in orbit around Triton and passed between the moon and planet. It was large, bigger than the SOLCorp fuel tankers she’d seen moving past the station and roughly octahedral in shape but they could only make out basic details. The Sun had been eclipsed by Neptune.

“We’re getting something,” Weston said as Leda heard a voice come though his headset. He listened intently for several seconds until the speaker went silent. “A smaller contact has broken away from whatever that thing is. It must be a shuttle of some kind… heading this way.”

Leda felt her breath catch in her chest. “How long until they arrive?”

Weston activated his throat mike and said, “Vasily, what’s their ETA?”

Buzz from his earpiece.

“Twelve minutes,” Weston said and turned away from the view port. He scowled and waved his hands at the gawkers. “Everyone get back to your stations, you’re still on company time, got it?”

The crowd dispersed in a cloud of whispered grumbles. They’d be back at the view port the moment he left the room.

“Commander, can you turn off the station lights except for the ones around the place we’ve prepared?” She said and clasped her hands behind her back to keep others from noticing they trembled.

“Vasily, kill all external lights except for shuttle bay eighteen,” Weston said. “Open up the pressure doors and wait for our signal to close them, but do it slowly, we don’t want to spook them.”

Buzz from his earpiece again just before the lights in the compartment went from bright to dim. Weston nodded at Leda, falling into step with her as she moved toward the hatch for the transfer conduit to the other side of the station.

“Is it just going to be you and me in there?” Weston said quietly and stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep her from seeing they were shaking. “Maybe we should post some guards inside, just in case these things… misunderstand us.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leda said as her mind cycled through what seemed like a thousand small details for something crucial they might have missed. “Misunderstandings are going to be inevitable, but I think it should be more than just you and I. Their ships are eight-sided, right?”

“Ten minutes!” The sensor operator called out.

“I’m on the com. Continue the countdown and let me know if they start doing anything unusual,” Weston said as he unsealed the hatch to the transfer conduit. He paused and considered the words he’d just spoken. “You know what I mean.” He ducked through.

“Get a medic, maybe they’ll be able to tell us something about their biology afterward,” Leda said as she followed Weston into the conduit. She could see another hatch at the far end. “And an engineer, maybe they can identify some features of their technology. Who else?”

“You’re the expert,” Weston said and activated his headset mike. “Vasily, get Janus and Boomer and tell them to meet me at bay eighteen… and tell Boomer to bring his vid-cam. I want to be able to prove this story happened next time I tell someone about it.”