Action at Omega Beacon

The channel was closed. Another check was completed and noted in the automated log monitoring her station.

“Tactical, ECM control. ECM shield online. Jammers on-line. Screens charging, two minutes.”

Three down now.

“Tactical, engineering. All systems are nominal. Reactors are running at seventy percent combined capacity. Our drive core at eleven hundred degrees centigrade and stable. Wait one… I think we might have an issue down here.”

“Not surprising engineering. We’re fresh out of the yard.” Jena said as she brought up the engineering display and scanned it for irregularities. There were none that she can see, but the engineering team from Northrop Space Systems was still flushing out gremlins. In a potentially hostile situation, Constellation could not afford to be hamstrung.

“We’re starting to get some fluxes in the main pressurized coolant line for drive three. Core temperature is starting to rise. I just got warning lights across the board.”

“Engineering, tactical. What is your situation?” Jena said as she noticed Commander Ellison, the 1st Officer, frown and hold the ear-piece of his comm-set closer. He listened in for a moment then started her way. She could hear a coolant pump thumping over the open channel and the beat of her heart accelerated to match its pace. The inner-workings of warships were not supposed to thump.

“Tactical, engineering. It looks like there’s crack in the coolant pump for drive number-three. The core temperature just spiked into the warning zone… safety interlocks are set at two-thousand degrees and will run the automated shutdown routine in ten seconds.”

“Helm, tactical. We’re about to lose number three. Be ready to compensate.” Jena said and waited for the "fault" alarm on her mimic panel to light. Constellation had twelve main engines. Each one was a Starhorse 1200 beefed up with the TIL military boost conversion, they were grouped in clusters of four and pushed “Connie” through the vacuum. The nozzles were arranged for optimum performance beneath the engine shroud and the loss of one was a minor handicap. If all twelve cut out, so would the artificial gravity.

“Tactical, helm: standing by,” Ensign Bradley called back from the controls. “I’m getting new engine settings from the command node.”

Bradley was a lanky kid from New York and never said much past reports or answers to questions. Once Jena asked him why he joined. His answer was “desperation.”

Jena quickly reviewed the data and said, “Accept new settings.”

“Tactical, commo. Omega beacon reports no contacts for plus thirty hours and no new bearings.”

“Commo, tactical. Log it.” Jena said. The core temperature for drive #3 was reaching into the critical zone, the heat level heading past magma towards solar-flare. The Starhorses were powered by the clutch of Confederated Fusion pods squatting in the engineering compartment.

“Engineering, tactical. Talk to me.” She said and focused on the sensor display. Their sister-ships, the Independence and Audacity, were creeping up from its position aft. Constellation wore #22 on her engine shroud and she had the better tech so led the action group in.

Passive sensors were sniffing hard for a trail of waste; heavy ions: Lithium or Beryllium spewed into the void from atomic powered drives, crystalline clouds of sewage vented into the abyss and flash frozen by the absence of any heat. They had been looking for twelve hours and come up with nothing.

The Indy trailed by 20 Km, well behind and below the radioactive wash of Connie’s glowing drives. Audacity was 20 Km behind her, also Intrepid-class but wearing different colors- that of the Royal Navy. The destroyer Hoel was a far-off spot, running sensor picket at 6000 Km.

"Engineering, tactical- sound off." Jena said as the engineering display beeped an alarm as the #3 drive overheated and went off-line.

“Conn, engineering. We have to shut down number three for an auto-pump replacement. There's a crack in the pump housing. We snuffed the reaction in the drive-core with high-pressure Argon.”

“Engineering, tactical. How will this affect our ability to maneuver?”

“Tactical, engineering. Control thrusters will be unaffected. We could vent some reactor mass to try and get number three restarted, but I wouldn’t recommend it right now. We’re checking all the spares for defects."

“Engineering, tactical. Wait one." Jena said and opened a new channel, then rubbed her fingers on the legs of her uniform. Just forward of her position was the Nav station. “Nav, tactical. Is your system adjusting?"

The navigator, Lieutenant Tali, a diminutive brunette with Asian features looked back from the navigator's couch and gave her a thumbs-up.

"Tactical, nav. That's affirmative," Tali said smartly. "Our current trajectory is unaffected and if we go into transit minus one engine, it shouldn't throw us off by much, eight minutes off the plot per parsec is my read. I can live with that. We're not going to Alpha Centauri."

"Nav, tactical, roger that." Jena said and closed the channel. Jena would have rechecked the calculations of anyone else. "Engineering, tactical. Go ahead."

"Tactical, engineering. We're starting to get a temperature buildup in the other engine cores. I’ll have to divert some coolant from the climate control system. It'll take up the slack, but it’s going to get hot.”

“Engineering, tactical… wait one.” She said as a signal from the ECM pit lit the mimic board that surrounded her, so she routed it through with the touch of an icon.

“ECM, tactical. Go.” She said and adjusted the flexible boom mike jutting from the jaw-pad of her helmet.

“Tactical, ECM control,” The ECM officer said. “Screen capacitors at maximum charge.”

“ECM, tactical. Out.” She said and cleared her throat, turning to look for Commander Ellison. When Captain Crites was off of the bridge, Ellison ran the show. He stood behind her, his arms clasped behind his back and a quizzical look on his angular face.

“Sir, engineering reports that drive number three has been shut down… there’s a crack in the primary coolant pump. The other engines are compensating, but it will affect jump performance and climate control.”

“Start thinking critically, Lieutenant. When you’re in charge and this happens, what are you going to do?” Ellison said as the front stretch of the circuit he paced took him past her station.

“I’d put a rush on the engine, sir. We don't know what's we're up against," Jena said. "In a combat environment, we'd need to be at one-hundred percent.”

“I concur. Get engineering on it, and remind Mister Dreedle to keep his men alert. Make sure they have our mass detectors online.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“And Mitchell,” The XO said and paused as he keyed his command code into an auxiliary terminal to silence the alarm.

“Yes, sir?” She said. Her voice overwhelmed the quiet buzz coming from the other bridge stations as the obnoxious honking suddenly quit.

“You got your summary logged and delivered in less than five minutes this time. That’s outstanding work. The less I have to listen to that damned noise the better.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jena said. “I think that’s the best time we’ve logged yet.”

“Keep it up and it could mean some extra shore leave when we get to Mars.” Ellison said. The crew knew that in him they had an advocate, fortunate because the CO, Captain Richard Crites, was an angry man. A bomb with a fuse shortened by a low-tolerance for any failure except his own, Crites knew what being Captain was about, there was no way but his way.

“Roger that, sir,” Jena said and allowed herself a tiny smile. “I’d trade it in to get those engineers to work harder on the coolant pump though.”

“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Ellison corrected as he walked past the Helm and Nav stations. “The line between high speed and hoo-shah is very fine.”

“Yes, sir.” Jena said and grinned.

“The good officer knows how to walk it and when to step down on either side.” Ellison said over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Jena said and dropped her head as she felt a warm flush race through her face. There are plates on all the consoles, a stylized logo with three letters, USA, a symbol of Constellation’s pedigree.

She traced the raised edges on the plate with a finger. The new Intrepid-class design came out of the United Space Alliance shipyard were intended to replace the aging Fast-class heavy cruisers in the Northern Combine fleet; decaying, Neo-colonial hulks, drifting in massive orbital depots: bone-yards where they waited to be slagged. Ellison stopped as he spied her musing.

“Changing times brought a need for better weapons, better systems, and better speed,” Ellison said as he paced the rail beneath her. “The Intrepid-class has all of that, plus longer range and increased power.”

“Lockheed delivered the conceptual plans, sir, and Northrop does the tests,” Jena said. She spent most of her off-duty time reading manuals. “Boeing assembles the primary hull and Rockwell puts in the rest. Thirty six months from keel-laying to launch.”

She put her head up when she heard the hiss of the seal breaking on the hatch behind her and turned to see who had switched it open.

“Captain on the bridge!” Ellison loudly called. Everyone within earshot pulled it together. They had to when the old man was around.

“Carry on, Mister Ellison, I have the conn,” Crites said as he jogged up the short ladder to the command chair and settled into position. “Lieutenant Mitchell, tactical report, please.”

His voice chaffed when he called her name.

“Quickly, Lieutenant! If this were combat we’d be dead by now!” Crites called down. Jena took a deep breath.

"Sir; all stations manned and ready, AI’s loaded and on stand-by, all guns charged and trained out along last known threat bearing, sensors functioning nominally, no contacts yet on watch record. Engine number three is down for a coolant pump replacement. Engineering estimate six hours to repair."

She completed her summary report and surveyed the rest of the bridge. Her station was an acceleration couch mounted in the middle of a semicircular pedestal. Banks of quick action keys were mounted within easy reach; petals on a high-tech flower warmly lit by a halo of hanging monitors. Luminous spouts showered her in the radiance of flowing information.

The other bridge stations were less grandiose, just pits in the decking. The crew was jammed in next to the instruments arrayed in horseshoe fashion around the command island. It was a grand position but one at the center of the Captain’s sight.

“If you do nothing else this watch, Mitchell, keep me informed about the status of that engine.”

“Yes sir.” Jena said. The command chair where Crites controlled them all was behind her, against the bulkhead, and required a short ladder to climb up to.

“Tactical, nav control,” Tali radioed back. “We’re coming up on our last checkpoint, initiate maneuvering burn on my mark in ten…”

“Tactical, helm control. Navigation uplink received and locked in. RCS primed and on stand-by, firing in eight…” Bradley declared from his. They sat at the front of the compartment and were an unlikely duo.

“The marvel twins are wired tight today.” Jena said with a quiet laugh shared by Ellison and both looked forward toward the helm station. Tali hated the name but she and Collins worked so well together that it fit.

“Conn, sensor. New contact at eight-hundred thousand kilometers. The target is moving at point two five AUH, approach vector two-seven-four-zero-two-seven. We’re picking up multi-spectral radiation. It could be a jump flare. I think we caught someone coming out of transit.”

“Sensor, this is the captain speaking, report.” Crites ordered from the command chair. The sensor pit is to her left. When she looked down on it, most of the sensor team was absorbed in the data stream from the sensors, sorting the pertinent chaff from the wheat and sifting for nuggets that should not have been there.

“New contact, jump flare. Independence got the initial detect, we just confirmed it.” Chief-of-Boat (COB)Dreedle said. He drilled his team hard but they were precise. The Intrepid-class boats needed the best.

“You’re team needs to be moving faster, senior chief,” Crites said. “We just lost points for that.”

She watched Dreedle make his rounds, pacing from one end of the sensor pit to the other. She lost sight of him as he turned down the back aisle in the pit, but every two-minutes on the step she would see his face emerge at the other end.

"Come on, Connie, show me what you got." Sensorman-3rd Timmons said from his station just below her. A wizard with the synthetic aperture array, if Dreedle was on the backstretch, Timmons would coax out its secrets with words.

“Keep it quiet unless you get something, Timmons." Dreedle snapped as he passed, cuffing the sensor tech on the back of the helmet as a reminder.

"Aye, aye, Chief. Negative trace since initial event,” Timmons said as he straightened his headgear. “Whoever it was, it looks like he got away clean."

“Conn, commo. We’ve picked up a message from Omega beacon. Priority urgent- text only.”

“Put it through.” Crites said and the printer in the commo-pit started scrolling. The secondary receiver, a small parabolic-dish mounted on the bottom of the long hull, continuously tracked in on the nearest ground-control transmitter.

“Contact report from Omega beacon. They’re picking up some displacement waves,” Ellison said and scanned over the sheet as he tore it away from the printer and walked it to the command-island. “It looks like what just came out of transit went right back into it.”

“He might’ve dropped out to get a positional fix, sir.” Dreedle said, though Jena had heard Timmons forward the idea.

“This area’s restricted. If we catch him, it’s an automatic impound,” Crites said and gave the hardcopy back to Ellison once he had looked it over. “If there’s any contraband on board, maybe we’ll get a share. Log it and continue to monitor,” He lowered the VR helmet over his seat into place over his head. “What’s problem down there, fire control?”

"Conn, fire control. We just got a "fault" alarm on tube one." Lt. Florez called in from the fire-control pit to her left. He was a ten-year veteran with a frontier deployment in his records, and had come to the Constellation from the Fast-class cruiser White Plains, as a full Commander.

"Damn it! Does nothing on this ship work right?" Crites snapped and pounded a fist on the arm of his command chair. “I’m logging a complaint with the shipyard when we get back.”

Constellation, only nine months out of the Victory Luna construction yard, was still undergoing builder’s trials when the call to action had come. Jena snickered as a Northrop tech tinkering in an open panel beneath her station shot Crites a mal look.

"Fire control, conn. Reload tube one and run systems checks on all torpedoes in the magazine."

The shielded communications room and the ECM control were the prongs on the horseshoe around the command-island, behind her and out of sight. Only voices in her headset kept them from being out of mind.

Jena detachedly listened and watched on her Engineering display as core temperatures crept upward. Crites was increasing speed to cover more search area in less time, they’d need to refuel before much longer, but the mission had tanker support.

Peltier coolers mounted to the hull drew waste heat out of the circulating coolant, transferring it into the thick RAM armor to be radiated away. The system worked adequately, but the interior of the ship often got hot enough to cause heat exhaustion, or conditions even worse. Optimal power allotments were still being determined.

“Excuse me, sir.” She said and got Ellison’s attention with a wave as she wiped at the line of sweat beading on her forehead. He was beneath her in moments; face up with an inquisitory look.

“Yes, Mitchell?”

“The Captain might want to keep an eye on the temperature, sir," Jena said. "If it gets much hotter, people are going to start getting dehydrated, even more so when we finish our maneuvering burn and go back to micro-gravity.”

“Excellent thinking,” Ellison said and nodded his agreement. He moved to the nearest intercom. “Engineering, conn. What’s the status of the heat index? When will it stabilize?”

The head of engineering was Captain-2nd Nolan. Captain-1st Crites riled at having an equivalent rank on board but Nolan was rarely seen outside of the engineering spaces.

“Conn, Engineering. Look for it to level off at about ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit,” Nolan replied. “If the good captain wants to know, I’d say we’re radiating about seventy-percent of our total signature right now.”

“He’s been advised,” Ellison said and closed the audio-link. “Just be thankful that our total signature isn’t much.”

Jena believed that a weapon used improperly was as dangerous to the user as it was to the target, learned from endless nights awake reading the classics; “Studies in zero-g maneuvering,” and “Astro-navigation Fundamentals.” Her junior year in the program was a discourse on “The Art of War.” Her ship was being applied improperly.

The Constellation, used to the doctrine and mission designed for, was an assassin’s knife. Until she activated her search radar to unleash torpedoes and main-gun fire, she was a shadow on the starfield- the black RAM armor absorbed radar signals from 10GHz to 200GHz.

"Conn to all section O-I-C’s,” Crites called. “Make your head index red. Double water rations to all personnel. The heat index is red.”

Jena removed a ration packet from a storage bin beneath her console and punctured the foil package with the beveled end of the plastic straw provided with it. Power from the atmospheric controls was being transferred to weapons as the systems cleared for action.

"Conn, commo. There’s a message coming in from Omega beacon. It’s a redbird.”

"Increase alert status,” Crites said as he tugged on the strap across his waist. “Decode the signal and put it through to my station.”

“We’re already at maximum readiness, sir,” Ellison said. “We were running an exercise when this came in. What’s the reason?”

“Our control zone is hot today. Omega beacon just got another hit on some unauthorized traffic,” Jena said and established a hotlink, putting the sensor feed from the beacon through. “Multiple signatures, they got three good returns before they lost contact.”

“Mitchell, have you identified them yet?” Crites called down.

“Sir, the shipping index says that they're destroyers- Kormorant-class,” Jena said as the computer matched the signal characteristics to known EuroCon designs. “It could be Seven Kreigsmarine.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Ellison said and walked the rail until he stood below her station. “Mitchell!”

“Sir?”

"What combat groups have Kormorants assigned?" He said.

"There's only two, sir. Five Kreigsmarine and Seven Kreigsmarine." She said, entering the hull type into the computer. The processors in the logic core did the rest, bringing up a list of all the EuroCon squadrons known to float that type of ship.

"Where does the latest intelligence put Seven Kreigsmarine?” Ellison pondered as he looked up at her, rubbing his chin, an unconscious movement she’d come to recognize when he was thinking.

"New Saxony. At least the bulk of it is," Jena said. "Kormorants have been reported doing convoy escort. They’ve got serious pirate problems there."

"Is there a transit corridor to that system open?"

Jena brought up the navigation display and touched on the dot tabbed as TAU CETI. She found the answer when the data file index opened.

"Yes, sir," She said, taking a moment to reaffirm the data in her head. "For the next fourteen days."

"Do you think it could be them?"