"And.. capture." The Skyshark shuddered as its grapple slammed home on Hurricane's docking...
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Chapter 1
- Location
- 'Murica
"And.. capture." The Skyshark shuddered as its grapple slammed home on Hurricane's docking trapeze. With a loud bang hydraulic rams locked the cargo plane in place so it couldn't slip back out. "LSO, Digger one, I show hard-dock."
"Copy that, Digger-one, we show same." the hasty canter of Hurricane's LSO crackled through the radio. "Spool down, hands up for recovery."
"Spool down, hands up." The pilot nodded, his gloved hand easing the throttles back to their stops while his co-pilot ran the shut-down checklist. The roar of twin turbofans dampened to a whine, then a sleepy purr, then the noise was lost in the thousand other noises filling the Skyshark's unusually spacious cabin.
Both pilots raised their hands, presenting both palms to the canopy in a now mostly-symbolic gesture relinquish control of the plane to Hurricane's deck gang. "Go for retract."
"Copy." The plane shuddered as Hurricane's retracted her trapeze and hauled the cargo plane into her belly. One set of massive doors closed, forming a deck for the plane's still-retracted landing gear, while another cranked open and a figures in brightly-colored jackets scurried through.
Bundled against the high-altitude chill and encumbered by breathing gear, it was impossible to tell them apart save for the colors of their jerseys and helmets. One dressed in white-on-yellow held a bulky telephone in one hand and gestured sharply to the plane with the other.
"Gear down," said the pilot. The Skyshark's tricycle gear dropped lose and locked into place. "Three green," he added, presenting three fingers to the canopy.
The man in yellow nodded, and Hurricane's trapeze lowered the plane onto its wheels. It took all of fifteen minutes for the deck gang to get the Skyshark shackled to a deck tractor, fold its wings, and haul it forwards to number-one elevator. An airtight bulkhead slammed shut, and a minute later the plane was jockeying for a spot on Hurricane'spressurized hanger deck.
"You see anything, sir?" asked the pilot, hands resting uncomfortably on his lap as the deck gang chained his plane down against the perforated deck.
Lieutenant Colonel Hunter shook his head. He'd been hoping that something about how the deck was organized would give him an insight into the upcoming exercise. But other than slightly more cramped conditions than he was used to, he hadn't seen anything of note. He told the pilot as much with a sigh.
"Best of luck, sir."
"Thank you, Captain." Hunter hunched forwards to the hatch and after a moment to tug his uniform smooth stepped out into the amber sodium-vapor glow. The air was bitterly cold and it reeked of kerosene and hydraulic fluid, but at least it was thick enough to breath unaided.
"Welcome aboard, sir!" A green-clad deckhand with his oxygen mask hanging loose shouted over the din of aircraft tractors and the distant, muffled thump of hydraulics. "This way."
Hunter nodded. "Thank you, airman!" The deckhand lead him through a fire-tight bulkhead into one of the ships' corridors. It was almost like the hallways back on Endeavor, but Hurricane was clearly showing her age. The lighting was a richer, more amber color, and hints of the geodetic that infested Hurricane were visible at each junction.
Standing opposite him was Colonel Jennifer Kayleigh. Unlike him she was a true colonel, a full-bird with the career to back it. With her gray-tinged red-brown hair and thin-rimmed glasses, she looked more like a librarian than an accomplished pilot and officer, but he could tell she was sizing him up even now.
"Ma'am." Hunter saluted. "Lieutenant Colonel James Hunter, Endeavor, request permission to come aboard."
"Permission granted," said Kayleigh with a crisp salute of her own. "Welcome aboard, Colonel." She smirked and glanced at one of Hurricane's hefty bulkheads. "She all you'd thought she'd be, Colonel?"
Hunter nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Looking forward to testing Endeavor against her."
"That so?" There was a glimmer in the Colonel's eye as she trailed of into taciturn silence. "This way."
Hurricane was half again the size of Endeavor, but her corridors were tighter. Fire-suppression mains and cable-runs from the battlecruiser's numerous refits closed in from above, and every few steps the walls were braced with angled girders. A flying maze, but one that her master moved through without hesitation.
"Ma'am," Hunter clambered up a steeply inclined ladder and ducked through a safety-striped companionway. "I have to ask, do you always launch decoys before a rendezvous?"
Kayleigh smiled and quickly stifled a laugh. "Only before exercises, Colonel." She sounded almost bashful. "There wouldn't be any training value if I went easy on you."
Hunter shook his head. He couldn't exactly argue with her, but he hadn't expected the exercise to begin until it had actually begun. "Fair enough."
"For what it's worth, Colonel," Kayleigh ducked through a fire-tight bulkhead, "you beat Venture by ninety minutes."
"I'll be sure to inform Colonel Everett next time we meet," said Hunter. Venture might be the nameship of the class, but Hunter was confident that his ship—his crew—would put their big sister to shame.
"Must't be too prideful, Colonel." Kayleigh shot him a quick glance. He couldn't read her expression, but her tone and the glimmer in her eye gave him pause. "Yet."
"Of course, ma'am."
Colonel Kayleigh raised her snap-top mug in humble acceptance of the other's praise. "We do what we can," she said simply, thumbing the top open just long enough to take a sip of milky tea before letting it snap shut again. "Chief Metz runs an excellent mess."
"My compliments to him then." Hunter said with sincerity. It was a good meal, hearty but not heavy and with an surprising abundance of fresh fruits. Last Meal was usually a simple affair. It was a tradition older than steam that before parting as adversaries all participants in an exercise would have one last dinner together as allies. But Kayleigh—at least according to her reputation—adored fruit and would supplement the ships' stores with her own funds whenever Hurricane made landfall. He wasn't surprised she'd splurged a bit.
"One more thing," Kayleigh adjusted her glasses and for just a movement a wicked grin graced her gentle poker face. "Chief?"
Hunter sank into his chair and covered a smirk with his hand. There was one last tradition to Last Meal, one that'd been with the fleet almost as long as gunpowder. Whichever ship played host would find some way to mock their soon-to-be opponent with dessert.
Today was no exception. A pair of mess ratings wheeled in reasonable approximation of Endeavor in cake form. Hunter and his crew groaned while Kayleigh's crew laughed and cheered. The colonel herself dipped her head in a humble flourish. "You've outdone yourself, chief."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the rating with a big-hearted grin.
"Now…" Kayleigh adjusted her glasses and peered over the cake like it was an intelligence brief. "For our guests, a section of the tail if you would."
Hunter forced a stone-faced glare as Kayleigh's rating served him a slice of his own aft.
"And for you, ma'am?"
Kayleigh slouched in her chair and gave the cake an almost whimsical glance. "Bring me his head on a platter."
The Colonel's TAO—a rather intense and thus-far taciturn woman by the name of Sarah Sukai—stifled a snorting laugh, and the mess rating was clearly struggling to keep his military bearing.
"Cap—thank you chief—Captain?" Kayleigh glanced at her officer with that level-headed librarian's gaze she'd been wearing when Hunter came aboard. "Do you have a preference?"
"Well," Sukai crossed her arms. She thicker than Kayleigh, and the predatory glint in her eye hadn't yet been tempered by age. "I think I'd like—"
The wall-mounted talkbox buzzed a desperate alarm. Kayleigh leaned back enough to snatch the corded handset from its cradle. "Kayleigh, go," she said, her smile dimming as she shifted mental gears.
The voice on the other end was too faint for anyone else to make out. But from the way Kayleigh's face got dimmer and colder with each passing moment, it couldn't be good news. "Understood, XO," she said finally. "Do we have a casualty report yet?"
In an instant the wardroom froze.
Kayleigh nodded. "Copy. Alright," she paused. "Let me know as soon as we learn more." She reached back to gingerly place the handset back in its cradle and then just as gingerly turned towards the assembled officers. She opened her mouth, then closed it a moment later.
"An LNG carrier," she began at last, "declared an emergency and diverged to Pike fleet anchorage." She paused for a moment before continuing. "Where she crashed into the flight line with full tanks. As of yet we no casualty or damage report."
Hunter muttered something between an oath and a prayer under his breath. LNG tankers were one step away from flying bombs. For one of those to plow into the flight line… he knew that the casualty report—when it came in—was going to be very long.
"Colonel," he asked, trying to compartmentalize away the disaster until at least they knew more about it, "Our exercise?"
"I know my reputation for tricks, Colonel," said Kayleigh. "But I assure you this is no ploy." A moment later, and almost to herself, she added "Of mine."
"AC?" Captain Sukai raised an eyebrow, and Hunter felt himself lean in.
"Fleet problem one-thirty-seven," said Kayleigh, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular. "I flew REDFLT. We were outnumbered, outgunned… I had a jump team hijack an LNG carrier and slave-rig the autopilot. Turned it into the world's biggest cruise missile. Wiped BLUFLT off the board before they even got airborne."
"They declared an emergency. They couldn't have—" Hunter's brows furrowed. "You think this was an attack?"
Kayleigh shook her head with a sigh. "Colonel, I see patterns. I put together small, meaningless pieces of information until I see beyond the obvious." There wasn't a shred of pride in her voice, just honest truth. "It's why I so often win. But it also means sometimes I see patterns that aren't there."
Hunter hoped that this time, Colonel Kayleigh's legendary intuition was letting her down. He could tell she was praying for the same thing.
"There's every probability this was simply a terrible accident." Kayleigh stood, her hands folded behind her back. "Until we hear otherwise from fleet intel that is the assumption we will work under, not blind panic. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But," Kayleigh cocked an eyebrow. "A combat-readiness drill is not without training value. I'm taking Hurricane to condition three, I recommend you do the same."
"Copy that, Digger-one, we show same." the hasty canter of Hurricane's LSO crackled through the radio. "Spool down, hands up for recovery."
"Spool down, hands up." The pilot nodded, his gloved hand easing the throttles back to their stops while his co-pilot ran the shut-down checklist. The roar of twin turbofans dampened to a whine, then a sleepy purr, then the noise was lost in the thousand other noises filling the Skyshark's unusually spacious cabin.
Both pilots raised their hands, presenting both palms to the canopy in a now mostly-symbolic gesture relinquish control of the plane to Hurricane's deck gang. "Go for retract."
"Copy." The plane shuddered as Hurricane's retracted her trapeze and hauled the cargo plane into her belly. One set of massive doors closed, forming a deck for the plane's still-retracted landing gear, while another cranked open and a figures in brightly-colored jackets scurried through.
Bundled against the high-altitude chill and encumbered by breathing gear, it was impossible to tell them apart save for the colors of their jerseys and helmets. One dressed in white-on-yellow held a bulky telephone in one hand and gestured sharply to the plane with the other.
"Gear down," said the pilot. The Skyshark's tricycle gear dropped lose and locked into place. "Three green," he added, presenting three fingers to the canopy.
The man in yellow nodded, and Hurricane's trapeze lowered the plane onto its wheels. It took all of fifteen minutes for the deck gang to get the Skyshark shackled to a deck tractor, fold its wings, and haul it forwards to number-one elevator. An airtight bulkhead slammed shut, and a minute later the plane was jockeying for a spot on Hurricane'spressurized hanger deck.
"You see anything, sir?" asked the pilot, hands resting uncomfortably on his lap as the deck gang chained his plane down against the perforated deck.
Lieutenant Colonel Hunter shook his head. He'd been hoping that something about how the deck was organized would give him an insight into the upcoming exercise. But other than slightly more cramped conditions than he was used to, he hadn't seen anything of note. He told the pilot as much with a sigh.
"Best of luck, sir."
"Thank you, Captain." Hunter hunched forwards to the hatch and after a moment to tug his uniform smooth stepped out into the amber sodium-vapor glow. The air was bitterly cold and it reeked of kerosene and hydraulic fluid, but at least it was thick enough to breath unaided.
"Welcome aboard, sir!" A green-clad deckhand with his oxygen mask hanging loose shouted over the din of aircraft tractors and the distant, muffled thump of hydraulics. "This way."
Hunter nodded. "Thank you, airman!" The deckhand lead him through a fire-tight bulkhead into one of the ships' corridors. It was almost like the hallways back on Endeavor, but Hurricane was clearly showing her age. The lighting was a richer, more amber color, and hints of the geodetic that infested Hurricane were visible at each junction.
Standing opposite him was Colonel Jennifer Kayleigh. Unlike him she was a true colonel, a full-bird with the career to back it. With her gray-tinged red-brown hair and thin-rimmed glasses, she looked more like a librarian than an accomplished pilot and officer, but he could tell she was sizing him up even now.
"Ma'am." Hunter saluted. "Lieutenant Colonel James Hunter, Endeavor, request permission to come aboard."
"Permission granted," said Kayleigh with a crisp salute of her own. "Welcome aboard, Colonel." She smirked and glanced at one of Hurricane's hefty bulkheads. "She all you'd thought she'd be, Colonel?"
Hunter nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Looking forward to testing Endeavor against her."
"That so?" There was a glimmer in the Colonel's eye as she trailed of into taciturn silence. "This way."
Hurricane was half again the size of Endeavor, but her corridors were tighter. Fire-suppression mains and cable-runs from the battlecruiser's numerous refits closed in from above, and every few steps the walls were braced with angled girders. A flying maze, but one that her master moved through without hesitation.
"Ma'am," Hunter clambered up a steeply inclined ladder and ducked through a safety-striped companionway. "I have to ask, do you always launch decoys before a rendezvous?"
Kayleigh smiled and quickly stifled a laugh. "Only before exercises, Colonel." She sounded almost bashful. "There wouldn't be any training value if I went easy on you."
Hunter shook his head. He couldn't exactly argue with her, but he hadn't expected the exercise to begin until it had actually begun. "Fair enough."
"For what it's worth, Colonel," Kayleigh ducked through a fire-tight bulkhead, "you beat Venture by ninety minutes."
"I'll be sure to inform Colonel Everett next time we meet," said Hunter. Venture might be the nameship of the class, but Hunter was confident that his ship—his crew—would put their big sister to shame.
"Must't be too prideful, Colonel." Kayleigh shot him a quick glance. He couldn't read her expression, but her tone and the glimmer in her eye gave him pause. "Yet."
"Of course, ma'am."
—|—|—
Hurricane's wardroom was bigger Endeavor's—a concession to the much larger staff the battlecruiser's vast missile suite demanded—but it felt smaller. Geodesic bracing closed in from all sides, and the lighting was warmer and duller than Hunter was used to. The decor—which was at least a decade out of date—smelled of titanium and the indescribable scent a working ship developed over years of service. Of course, Hunter hadn't come aboard to critique the decor. "You set an excellent table, ma'am."Colonel Kayleigh raised her snap-top mug in humble acceptance of the other's praise. "We do what we can," she said simply, thumbing the top open just long enough to take a sip of milky tea before letting it snap shut again. "Chief Metz runs an excellent mess."
"My compliments to him then." Hunter said with sincerity. It was a good meal, hearty but not heavy and with an surprising abundance of fresh fruits. Last Meal was usually a simple affair. It was a tradition older than steam that before parting as adversaries all participants in an exercise would have one last dinner together as allies. But Kayleigh—at least according to her reputation—adored fruit and would supplement the ships' stores with her own funds whenever Hurricane made landfall. He wasn't surprised she'd splurged a bit.
"One more thing," Kayleigh adjusted her glasses and for just a movement a wicked grin graced her gentle poker face. "Chief?"
Hunter sank into his chair and covered a smirk with his hand. There was one last tradition to Last Meal, one that'd been with the fleet almost as long as gunpowder. Whichever ship played host would find some way to mock their soon-to-be opponent with dessert.
Today was no exception. A pair of mess ratings wheeled in reasonable approximation of Endeavor in cake form. Hunter and his crew groaned while Kayleigh's crew laughed and cheered. The colonel herself dipped her head in a humble flourish. "You've outdone yourself, chief."
"Thank you, ma'am," said the rating with a big-hearted grin.
"Now…" Kayleigh adjusted her glasses and peered over the cake like it was an intelligence brief. "For our guests, a section of the tail if you would."
Hunter forced a stone-faced glare as Kayleigh's rating served him a slice of his own aft.
"And for you, ma'am?"
Kayleigh slouched in her chair and gave the cake an almost whimsical glance. "Bring me his head on a platter."
The Colonel's TAO—a rather intense and thus-far taciturn woman by the name of Sarah Sukai—stifled a snorting laugh, and the mess rating was clearly struggling to keep his military bearing.
"Cap—thank you chief—Captain?" Kayleigh glanced at her officer with that level-headed librarian's gaze she'd been wearing when Hunter came aboard. "Do you have a preference?"
"Well," Sukai crossed her arms. She thicker than Kayleigh, and the predatory glint in her eye hadn't yet been tempered by age. "I think I'd like—"
The wall-mounted talkbox buzzed a desperate alarm. Kayleigh leaned back enough to snatch the corded handset from its cradle. "Kayleigh, go," she said, her smile dimming as she shifted mental gears.
The voice on the other end was too faint for anyone else to make out. But from the way Kayleigh's face got dimmer and colder with each passing moment, it couldn't be good news. "Understood, XO," she said finally. "Do we have a casualty report yet?"
In an instant the wardroom froze.
Kayleigh nodded. "Copy. Alright," she paused. "Let me know as soon as we learn more." She reached back to gingerly place the handset back in its cradle and then just as gingerly turned towards the assembled officers. She opened her mouth, then closed it a moment later.
"An LNG carrier," she began at last, "declared an emergency and diverged to Pike fleet anchorage." She paused for a moment before continuing. "Where she crashed into the flight line with full tanks. As of yet we no casualty or damage report."
Hunter muttered something between an oath and a prayer under his breath. LNG tankers were one step away from flying bombs. For one of those to plow into the flight line… he knew that the casualty report—when it came in—was going to be very long.
"Colonel," he asked, trying to compartmentalize away the disaster until at least they knew more about it, "Our exercise?"
"I know my reputation for tricks, Colonel," said Kayleigh. "But I assure you this is no ploy." A moment later, and almost to herself, she added "Of mine."
"AC?" Captain Sukai raised an eyebrow, and Hunter felt himself lean in.
"Fleet problem one-thirty-seven," said Kayleigh, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular. "I flew REDFLT. We were outnumbered, outgunned… I had a jump team hijack an LNG carrier and slave-rig the autopilot. Turned it into the world's biggest cruise missile. Wiped BLUFLT off the board before they even got airborne."
"They declared an emergency. They couldn't have—" Hunter's brows furrowed. "You think this was an attack?"
Kayleigh shook her head with a sigh. "Colonel, I see patterns. I put together small, meaningless pieces of information until I see beyond the obvious." There wasn't a shred of pride in her voice, just honest truth. "It's why I so often win. But it also means sometimes I see patterns that aren't there."
Hunter hoped that this time, Colonel Kayleigh's legendary intuition was letting her down. He could tell she was praying for the same thing.
"There's every probability this was simply a terrible accident." Kayleigh stood, her hands folded behind her back. "Until we hear otherwise from fleet intel that is the assumption we will work under, not blind panic. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But," Kayleigh cocked an eyebrow. "A combat-readiness drill is not without training value. I'm taking Hurricane to condition three, I recommend you do the same."
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intriguing beginnings..more please.
- Location
- England
Shouldn't this be scent?
- Location
- 'Murica
It's botes in the air. What's not to get?
Chapter 2
- Location
- 'Murica
"All stations report condition three." Lt. Colonel Mike Aaron was as broad as Kayleigh was thin, and he gave her a polite nod as she entered Hurricane's Combat Information Center.
"Thank you, XO," Kayleigh slid into her seat with practiced grace and cinched her harness down. "My aircraft."
"Your aircraft," Aaron acknowledged, sliding back into his customary position as second in command. He took a moment and leaned over imperceptibly. "What're you thinking, Jen?"
"You don't wanna know," Kayleigh muttered back. She bit her lip, glaring at the radar-repeater plot on one of her displays. Just a handful of tracks over a desolate patch of barren ocean: Hurricane's CAP, Endeavor's CAP, Endeavor herself, who was slowly gaining some combat separation, and a few others all marked civilian.
"TAO," said the Colonel, scrunching her nose to adjust her thin-rimmed glasses.
"Go, flight," said Sukai.
"Those civvie tracks, how'd you confirm them?"
"Uh," Sukai glanced at her team for a moment, "Returns analysis and transponder codes."
Kayleigh nodded, "Any classify as volatiles carriers?"
Sukai shook her head. "No, two bulk haulers and a passenger liner."
Kayleigh nodded again but said nothing.
"I could bring them up on telephoto," Sukai offered.
"No," Kayleigh shook her head. "Not right— VCO?"
"Yeah, flight?" Captain Liam Carter glanced over from his corner of Combat.
"Who's in the air right now?"
"Dancer and RustW, ma'am."
"Alright," said Kayleigh. She trusted all her pilots, but there were some she trusted more than others. "They got enough gas for an inspection or two?"
"Yes ma'am," confirmed Carter.
"Send 'em." Kayleigh twisted in her chair to face the radio shack, "Sigs, get Endeavor on the horn, recommend she send planes for visual inspection." It wasn't a combat exercise, but it'd at least give Hunter's pilots some practice. "And, confirm they're weapons-tight, this is just a training exercise."
"On it, Flight."
Aaron leaned over in his seat, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Something's got you spooked," he said. It wasn't a question.
The Colonel blinked but didn't make eye contact. "I'm jumping at shadows, Mike," she said softly. "Nothing to worry the crew about." After a second's pause, she added a sheepish, "Yet."
Aaron gave a single nod and slipped back into his seat. He didn't make a sound, but somehow Kayleigh felt her nerves calm when he did. For a moment she smiled, she wouldn't have half the reputation she did without her XO. A moment later the smile died, and another worry started gnawing at her brain. She forced herself to ignore it for a few seconds, played the part of the calm, collected commander when she was desperate for information.
"Sigs," she asked coolly, "anything new on FLTCOM about the accident?"
"No, ma'am, just a reminder to stay weapons-tight until further orders."
Kayleigh contented herself with a single quiet nod. It was… odd that an update bulletin hadn't gone out, but not inexplicable. With fires still raging whatever was left of the admiralty had a thousand better things to do. The logic was sound, but not enough to fully quiet the tiny voice of doubt in the back of her mind.
"Uh, Flight?"
"Yeah, Sigs."
"I've got SNS, looks like they're doing a report on the crash."
Kayleigh perked up. She had a reputation for picking the thread from precious little information, but even that needed some information to work with. A news broadcast wasn't ideal, but it was something. "Put it on three," she ordered. "And tape as much of it as you can."
"Wilco, Flight."
The right-most monitor on Kayleigh's board flickered to a typically washed-out satellite feed all but washed out by angry static. "Is this the best you can do, sigs?"
"Sorry, flight. We're too far out to get a good line."
"Mm," Kayleigh growled under her breath. The colors might be muted and the image compressed, but she'd been to Pike station enough times to get her bearings. It was the flight line, sheathed in billowing smoke and scattered with smoldering wreckage.
"—into the flight line here, following a catastrophic near-total engine failure." The Satellite News Service reporter's crisp, clipped tones were audibly coming apart at the seams.
"We're told that—" The camera shuddered as the flight line flashed, a booming thunder-crack following a moment behind as stockpiled ordnance detonated from the heat. "That efforts to control the fires have been stymied at every turn by burning metal and exploding munitions."
Kayleigh squinted. If what the reporter said was right—and the images he talked over seemed to agree—she couldn't have planned a more perfect strike.
"Jen," Aaron's voice was calm and deep, but she'd known him long enough to hear the concern in his voice.
"Countries from all around the world, including the Atarashi confederacy, have expressed their deepest condolences," said the reporter, "And the confederate ambassador is expected to speak later today."
"I want that on tape," ordered Kayleigh. There was something going on. She didn't have a shred of evidence to back it up, but she knew that accident was more than just an accident.
The Atarashi ambassador was a tall, severe-looking man with hair the color of blued gunmetal pulled into a parade-ground topknot. His dress—a dull granite kimono with subtle red-orange trim and a wide sash—looked archaic and alien next to the suits and ties of the other men in the frame.
It was a deliberate choice. The Atarashi home archipelago had never been colonized, and its people reveled in displaying their untarnished culture to countries that had subjugated so many of their neighbors.
The ambassador stood square to his podium, one hand resting on the hilt of a simply-decorated sword with what had to be carefully-practiced ease. Atarashi citizens were required—by state and god—to stand armed at all times. Kayleigh'd actually met the ambassador once, and she knew that it was only his conciliatory nature that'd allowed him to trade the customary service pistol for a more traditional single-edged blade.
He stepped forward and spoke in his own language, a tongue that was somehow musical and gruffly businesslike at the same time. A moment later, a translator beside him echoed his words. Kayleigh knew he spoke English well—although with a notable accent—but she didn't blame him for wanting a second set of ears to iron out any accidental miss-phrasings.
"The peoples of the Atarashi confederacy send their deepest condolences to those widowed, orphaned, and murdered by this terrible attack."
Kayleigh raised an eyebrow. That was the kind of blunt, vivid phrasing she wasn't used to seeing from a diplomat. Of course, the Atarashi weren't a people to mince words.
After a pause to let his translator finish, the ambassador continued. "We must also beg forgiveness for our part in allowing it to be carried out."
"Our part?" Colonel Arron muttered just loud enough for Kayleigh to hear. She shushed him with a wave, already trying to puzzle it out herself.
"Within our confederacy, there are forces of disunity." That wasn't anything new. The confederacy was nominally a gathering of equals, but there was very little doubt that ethnic Atarashi were first among them. It was… odd to hear him admit it though. "forces that believe that countries who once colonized our territories have not fully paid for their crimes. Forces that would drive us to war."
There was another pause while the translator finished.
"We had thought to address this problem internally, and for that selfish hubris we ask the people of the Hyrland Federation grant us absolution."
"Sigs," Kayleigh snapped her fingers, her gaze glued to the image on her screen. "We get anything on that from fleet intel?"
"Don't think so, ma'am," said Chief Jake Thorne, "I'll check the records."
"You think he's lying?" asked Aaron.
Kayleigh shook her head. "Don't know yet."
"We believe that radical elements have seized control of some number of our civilian airships. Until we understand which—and how many—of these ships are compromised, my government recommends that all civilian shipping flying our flag be escorted back to Atarashi territorial skies."
Kayleigh scowled, mentally tallying just how many ships that'd take.
"In the interests of a greater global peace, we offer our fleet to any in need of assistance."
Kayleigh flipped her screen back to radar-repeater plot as the picture cut to a anchorwoman. "Well," she said, "Nobody's taking him up on that offer."
Aaron nodded, and more rumbled than said a noise of affirmation. Accepting foreign aid to secure your own borders was a sign of weakness at exactly the worst time. The Ambassador had to know that, but empty gesture or not, it was interesting that he'd even made the offer.
"Sigs," asked Kayleigh, "anything in the records?"
"Not yet, ma'am," said Thorne. "We might not have gotten it yet, you know how fleet intel is with this stuff."
"Yeah. Send a query up the chain just to be sure." Kayleigh sighed. "Okay, assuming he doesn't find anything, what do we think?"
"Well," said Sukai, "He's not lying. A confession like that would be horribly embarrassing, doubly so for them."
"They really want peace," half-said half-wondered Aaron.
"Yeah," said Sukai. "That's not a lie you'd tell."
"Unless you're covering for something worse," said Kayleigh. She could feel a knot forming in her brain, a puzzle box with something very important inside that she couldn't quite open. At least not yet.
"What could be worse than war-mongering terrorists?" asked Sukai.
Kayleigh raised her eyebrows enigmatically.
A moment later the desperate staccato hacking of a line-matrix printer sounded from the radio shack. "Flight, incoming from FLTCOM."
"Go, sigs," said Kayleigh.
"Uh," Thorne tore off the printout, "Fleet Intel cannot independently confirm the ambassador's statements yet, but what he said does seem to jive with what they know." He paused for a moment, "We're ordered to escort all Atarashi shipping back to their home skies. WRA tight, but aggressive maneuvering may be considered a threat per AC discretion."
"Copy that," said Kayleigh, settling in her chair and adjusting her harness. "XO go to condition two."
Aaron nodded. A loud chime blared over the 1MC, but Kayleigh tuned out the rest. She'd had her ship to to heightened alert more times than she could count, and she had far more pressing things on her mind. "Confirm with Endeavor that she's received the same orders, and have her send frequent FLTCOM position updates. Every hour on the hour. She's gonna drop off our scope but I don't want any gaps we can't avoid."
"On it, Flight."
Kayleigh glanced at her radar repeater. Endeavor was already gaining some separation, spreading the net as wide as she could. "TAO, any of those civil tracks confed?"
"Yes ma'am," said Sukai. "Track nine, Kami-eleven-eighty-nine, the Nishizumi Maru."
Kayleigh thought for a second, parsing the name in her mind. "Passenger liner?"
"Yeah," said Sukai.
"Okay," Kayleigh gave another glance to her radar display. "Endeavor's already got planes on the way. Have her take it, we'll get the next one."
"On it, flight," said Thorne.
"VCO," Kayleigh leaned sideways in her chair, glaring at her repeater from a different angle, "I want a double-strength CAP in the air." After a moment's thought she continued. "And spot four rattlers at plus fifteen. Light anti-shipping loadout."
"Wilco, flight."
"'lotta planes," muttered Aaron, his gaze never wandering from the fore quarter of Combat. "Think we'll need them?"
"I hope not," Kayleigh whispered back.
"Not what I asked." Aaron gave her a look.
Kayleigh shook her head. "I don't know. Not yet."
"Thank you, XO," Kayleigh slid into her seat with practiced grace and cinched her harness down. "My aircraft."
"Your aircraft," Aaron acknowledged, sliding back into his customary position as second in command. He took a moment and leaned over imperceptibly. "What're you thinking, Jen?"
"You don't wanna know," Kayleigh muttered back. She bit her lip, glaring at the radar-repeater plot on one of her displays. Just a handful of tracks over a desolate patch of barren ocean: Hurricane's CAP, Endeavor's CAP, Endeavor herself, who was slowly gaining some combat separation, and a few others all marked civilian.
"TAO," said the Colonel, scrunching her nose to adjust her thin-rimmed glasses.
"Go, flight," said Sukai.
"Those civvie tracks, how'd you confirm them?"
"Uh," Sukai glanced at her team for a moment, "Returns analysis and transponder codes."
Kayleigh nodded, "Any classify as volatiles carriers?"
Sukai shook her head. "No, two bulk haulers and a passenger liner."
Kayleigh nodded again but said nothing.
"I could bring them up on telephoto," Sukai offered.
"No," Kayleigh shook her head. "Not right— VCO?"
"Yeah, flight?" Captain Liam Carter glanced over from his corner of Combat.
"Who's in the air right now?"
"Dancer and RustW, ma'am."
"Alright," said Kayleigh. She trusted all her pilots, but there were some she trusted more than others. "They got enough gas for an inspection or two?"
"Yes ma'am," confirmed Carter.
"Send 'em." Kayleigh twisted in her chair to face the radio shack, "Sigs, get Endeavor on the horn, recommend she send planes for visual inspection." It wasn't a combat exercise, but it'd at least give Hunter's pilots some practice. "And, confirm they're weapons-tight, this is just a training exercise."
"On it, Flight."
Aaron leaned over in his seat, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Something's got you spooked," he said. It wasn't a question.
The Colonel blinked but didn't make eye contact. "I'm jumping at shadows, Mike," she said softly. "Nothing to worry the crew about." After a second's pause, she added a sheepish, "Yet."
Aaron gave a single nod and slipped back into his seat. He didn't make a sound, but somehow Kayleigh felt her nerves calm when he did. For a moment she smiled, she wouldn't have half the reputation she did without her XO. A moment later the smile died, and another worry started gnawing at her brain. She forced herself to ignore it for a few seconds, played the part of the calm, collected commander when she was desperate for information.
"Sigs," she asked coolly, "anything new on FLTCOM about the accident?"
"No, ma'am, just a reminder to stay weapons-tight until further orders."
Kayleigh contented herself with a single quiet nod. It was… odd that an update bulletin hadn't gone out, but not inexplicable. With fires still raging whatever was left of the admiralty had a thousand better things to do. The logic was sound, but not enough to fully quiet the tiny voice of doubt in the back of her mind.
"Uh, Flight?"
"Yeah, Sigs."
"I've got SNS, looks like they're doing a report on the crash."
Kayleigh perked up. She had a reputation for picking the thread from precious little information, but even that needed some information to work with. A news broadcast wasn't ideal, but it was something. "Put it on three," she ordered. "And tape as much of it as you can."
"Wilco, Flight."
The right-most monitor on Kayleigh's board flickered to a typically washed-out satellite feed all but washed out by angry static. "Is this the best you can do, sigs?"
"Sorry, flight. We're too far out to get a good line."
"Mm," Kayleigh growled under her breath. The colors might be muted and the image compressed, but she'd been to Pike station enough times to get her bearings. It was the flight line, sheathed in billowing smoke and scattered with smoldering wreckage.
"—into the flight line here, following a catastrophic near-total engine failure." The Satellite News Service reporter's crisp, clipped tones were audibly coming apart at the seams.
"We're told that—" The camera shuddered as the flight line flashed, a booming thunder-crack following a moment behind as stockpiled ordnance detonated from the heat. "That efforts to control the fires have been stymied at every turn by burning metal and exploding munitions."
Kayleigh squinted. If what the reporter said was right—and the images he talked over seemed to agree—she couldn't have planned a more perfect strike.
"Jen," Aaron's voice was calm and deep, but she'd known him long enough to hear the concern in his voice.
"Countries from all around the world, including the Atarashi confederacy, have expressed their deepest condolences," said the reporter, "And the confederate ambassador is expected to speak later today."
"I want that on tape," ordered Kayleigh. There was something going on. She didn't have a shred of evidence to back it up, but she knew that accident was more than just an accident.
—|—|—
The Atarashi ambassador was a tall, severe-looking man with hair the color of blued gunmetal pulled into a parade-ground topknot. His dress—a dull granite kimono with subtle red-orange trim and a wide sash—looked archaic and alien next to the suits and ties of the other men in the frame.
It was a deliberate choice. The Atarashi home archipelago had never been colonized, and its people reveled in displaying their untarnished culture to countries that had subjugated so many of their neighbors.
The ambassador stood square to his podium, one hand resting on the hilt of a simply-decorated sword with what had to be carefully-practiced ease. Atarashi citizens were required—by state and god—to stand armed at all times. Kayleigh'd actually met the ambassador once, and she knew that it was only his conciliatory nature that'd allowed him to trade the customary service pistol for a more traditional single-edged blade.
He stepped forward and spoke in his own language, a tongue that was somehow musical and gruffly businesslike at the same time. A moment later, a translator beside him echoed his words. Kayleigh knew he spoke English well—although with a notable accent—but she didn't blame him for wanting a second set of ears to iron out any accidental miss-phrasings.
"The peoples of the Atarashi confederacy send their deepest condolences to those widowed, orphaned, and murdered by this terrible attack."
Kayleigh raised an eyebrow. That was the kind of blunt, vivid phrasing she wasn't used to seeing from a diplomat. Of course, the Atarashi weren't a people to mince words.
After a pause to let his translator finish, the ambassador continued. "We must also beg forgiveness for our part in allowing it to be carried out."
"Our part?" Colonel Arron muttered just loud enough for Kayleigh to hear. She shushed him with a wave, already trying to puzzle it out herself.
"Within our confederacy, there are forces of disunity." That wasn't anything new. The confederacy was nominally a gathering of equals, but there was very little doubt that ethnic Atarashi were first among them. It was… odd to hear him admit it though. "forces that believe that countries who once colonized our territories have not fully paid for their crimes. Forces that would drive us to war."
There was another pause while the translator finished.
"We had thought to address this problem internally, and for that selfish hubris we ask the people of the Hyrland Federation grant us absolution."
"Sigs," Kayleigh snapped her fingers, her gaze glued to the image on her screen. "We get anything on that from fleet intel?"
"Don't think so, ma'am," said Chief Jake Thorne, "I'll check the records."
"You think he's lying?" asked Aaron.
Kayleigh shook her head. "Don't know yet."
"We believe that radical elements have seized control of some number of our civilian airships. Until we understand which—and how many—of these ships are compromised, my government recommends that all civilian shipping flying our flag be escorted back to Atarashi territorial skies."
Kayleigh scowled, mentally tallying just how many ships that'd take.
"In the interests of a greater global peace, we offer our fleet to any in need of assistance."
Kayleigh flipped her screen back to radar-repeater plot as the picture cut to a anchorwoman. "Well," she said, "Nobody's taking him up on that offer."
Aaron nodded, and more rumbled than said a noise of affirmation. Accepting foreign aid to secure your own borders was a sign of weakness at exactly the worst time. The Ambassador had to know that, but empty gesture or not, it was interesting that he'd even made the offer.
"Sigs," asked Kayleigh, "anything in the records?"
"Not yet, ma'am," said Thorne. "We might not have gotten it yet, you know how fleet intel is with this stuff."
"Yeah. Send a query up the chain just to be sure." Kayleigh sighed. "Okay, assuming he doesn't find anything, what do we think?"
"Well," said Sukai, "He's not lying. A confession like that would be horribly embarrassing, doubly so for them."
"They really want peace," half-said half-wondered Aaron.
"Yeah," said Sukai. "That's not a lie you'd tell."
"Unless you're covering for something worse," said Kayleigh. She could feel a knot forming in her brain, a puzzle box with something very important inside that she couldn't quite open. At least not yet.
"What could be worse than war-mongering terrorists?" asked Sukai.
Kayleigh raised her eyebrows enigmatically.
A moment later the desperate staccato hacking of a line-matrix printer sounded from the radio shack. "Flight, incoming from FLTCOM."
"Go, sigs," said Kayleigh.
"Uh," Thorne tore off the printout, "Fleet Intel cannot independently confirm the ambassador's statements yet, but what he said does seem to jive with what they know." He paused for a moment, "We're ordered to escort all Atarashi shipping back to their home skies. WRA tight, but aggressive maneuvering may be considered a threat per AC discretion."
"Copy that," said Kayleigh, settling in her chair and adjusting her harness. "XO go to condition two."
Aaron nodded. A loud chime blared over the 1MC, but Kayleigh tuned out the rest. She'd had her ship to to heightened alert more times than she could count, and she had far more pressing things on her mind. "Confirm with Endeavor that she's received the same orders, and have her send frequent FLTCOM position updates. Every hour on the hour. She's gonna drop off our scope but I don't want any gaps we can't avoid."
"On it, Flight."
Kayleigh glanced at her radar repeater. Endeavor was already gaining some separation, spreading the net as wide as she could. "TAO, any of those civil tracks confed?"
"Yes ma'am," said Sukai. "Track nine, Kami-eleven-eighty-nine, the Nishizumi Maru."
Kayleigh thought for a second, parsing the name in her mind. "Passenger liner?"
"Yeah," said Sukai.
"Okay," Kayleigh gave another glance to her radar display. "Endeavor's already got planes on the way. Have her take it, we'll get the next one."
"On it, flight," said Thorne.
"VCO," Kayleigh leaned sideways in her chair, glaring at her repeater from a different angle, "I want a double-strength CAP in the air." After a moment's thought she continued. "And spot four rattlers at plus fifteen. Light anti-shipping loadout."
"Wilco, flight."
"'lotta planes," muttered Aaron, his gaze never wandering from the fore quarter of Combat. "Think we'll need them?"
"I hope not," Kayleigh whispered back.
"Not what I asked." Aaron gave her a look.
Kayleigh shook her head. "I don't know. Not yet."
esseresse
R'lyth Power Make-up
- Location
- divorceville, state of depression
- Pronouns
- They/Her
Ah floatybotes i was thinking catamaran CVs my bad
baofengyu
moonfaced assassin of joy
- Location
- Pain Amplifier
- Location
- 'Murica
Very close. more "what happens in a steampunky airship world advanced to the nineteen-eighties."
- Location
- Deep in the Badlands of Equestria
So, armored dirigible carriers hosting turboprop aircraft fighter wings, or something similar? Maybe early jet engine aircraft on the horizon, but not a game-changing deal yet. At least, that's the direction my mind is heading at the moment.
- Location
- 'Murica
More armored dirigible carriers hosting supersonic attack jets and armed with guided missiles (and the requisite missile-defense screens to keep them alive.)
- Location
- Deep in the Badlands of Equestria
Okay, atmospheric equivalents of Colonial Battlestars, gotcha. Almost feels like we're in the middle of a Studio Ghibli production.
One other question, did you mean to duplicate the second chapter post? One got the threadmark, the earlier version is unmarked.
Chapter 3
- Location
- 'Murica
"Big sumbitch, isn't she?"
Lieutenant Ivan Brown—known ubiquitous by his callsign "Hash"—glanced over with a look of derision that could be felt even through his oxygen mask and lowered sun-visor. He rolled his eyes and glanced back to his instruments, finessing the plane's twin turbofans a little to keep his station. "She's a hundred feet shorter than Endeavor."
"I know." His RIO—callsign Takeout—shrugged, and looked back out the plane's canopy at the hulking passenger liner. The sun was starting to set, and her window-studded flank seemed to glow with reflected glare. "But it's different."
Hash sighed dramatically, pulling the throttles even further back to match speeds. With its wings spread and nothing but a nominal war-load in the belly, his Barracuda could almost keep pace at idle. "How much gas we got left?"
"'bout seventeen thousand pounds."
"Right…" Hash shook his head. That much gas would last them for hours at this throttle setting, especially with the plane almost slick.
"You're stuck with me," Takeout giggled.
Hash applied a little more throttle and twitched the plane's nose up, climbing up over the lumbering liner to clear his line of sight. Torch's plane was keeping station off the other flank, and the prowling shark of Hurricanewas distantly visible closer to the horizon. "Torch, you current?"
"Yeah, Hash." said Torch in his rumbling brogue.
"You two want in on this?"
There was a pause. Banter might not fit the cool professional mold, but it was better than spending the next several hours trying not to think about potentially shooting down a plane full of civilians. "Yeah, we're in."
"Outstanding," Hash eased the throttle back and dropped down beside the Maru. "Takeout, explain yourself."
"I didn't say she was bigger than the roost," said Takeout. "Just that she was big. You know… chunky."
Hash thought for moment, sizing up the passenger liner as it wallowed through the sky. It was chunky. More of a flying whale than a shark, and with all the windows and mezzanines it was a lot easier to get a frame of reference. "Thoughts?"
"I disagree with Takeout on principle," said Torch, "But I see what he means."
"I'm with Hash on this one," said Torch's RIO. "Big implies dimensional largeness, not just the appearance of same."
"Thank you, Dexter," said Hash. "You're outvoted, Takeout."
"Fine," Takeout made a show of rolling his eyes and bent over the Barracuda's scope. The likelihood of the plane's radar spotting something before Endeavor's enormous set did was minuscule, but Hash supposed it gave his RIO something to do. "Anything on scope?"
Takeout shook his head. "Just us and the CAP."
"Mmm," Hash nodded, glancing out at the vast expanse of empty blue below them. For just a moment, he thought about how awful it'd be to have to ditch all the way out here.
The sputtering chatter of a line-matrix printer cut through the uneasy malaise that'd declined on Hurricane's CIC. Paper tore and chief Thorne skimmed the message." Flight, there's… there's been another accident. Another attack."
Hunter scowled, but hastily repressed the gesture. "What?"
"At fort Vincent, sir. *Akayashi Maru( broke from her escort and dove for the tank farm. No casualty report as of yet."
"What ship?" said Colonel Kayleigh, glaring daggers at her radar plot.
"The Issac Alexander, ma'am," said chief Thorne.
"Pendragon's boat?"
"Yes ma'am."
Kayleigh nodded. Major Rick Pendragon. They'd met a few times, and while Kayleigh'd found him to be a competent enough officer, it didn't surprise her that under pressure he'd hesitated to blow a liner full of civilians out of the sky.
"So much for an isolated incident," Aaron barely managed to keep his voice low.
"This was never going to be isolated," said Kayleigh. Her voice was almost detached as she tried to work forwards from what little she knew. The puzzle box was starting to move, but only just. "Not if they told us about it. One attack—maybe two—they could've brushed off as accidents."
"Someday you're going to be wrong," said Aaron.
Kayleigh gave her XO a look. "I hope so."
"Jen."
"Huh?" Kayleigh took her glasses off just long enough to rub at the bridge of her nose.
"We're six thousand miles away from—" he waved at the moving map display, "—anything. There's nothing on scope but us and our birds. And you'e been on your feet all day."
"I'm fine," said Kayleigh, tugging at a harness strap to get more comfortable.
"Jen." Aaron cocked an eyebrow.
"Fine." The colonel took a deep breath and hit the quick release on her harness. "Your aircraft," she said loudly enough for the rest of Combat to hear her.
"My aircraft," said Aaron, again loudly enough for the crew to hear him before dropping back to a lower register. "I'll wake you the moment something happens."
Kayleigh raised her mug in a half salute. "Thanks, flight."
"Think they're enjoying the airshow?" said Hash, more to break the monotonous purr of the Barracuda's air circulators than anything. His RIO had been unusually quiet ever since the sun went down. Everyone sort of had.
"Huh?"
Hash grit his teeth. Now was not the time for his side-seater to be zoning out. "Chang, you with me?"
"What? Oh, yeah." Takeout nodded. "Sorry, I was just—"
"Daydreaming?" snapped Hash.
"Thinking." Takeout crossed his arms and shot an unusually serious look at the pilot.
Hash narrowed his eyes, noticing a subtle worry to his RIO's posture. "Thinking about what."
"Well…" Takeout flipped the plane's radio off transmit. "Something's been bothering me about that boat." He motioned towards the hulking Maru, her shape now only defined by her multitude of running and room lights. "Couldn't put my finger on it until just now."
"Okay…" Hash felt his grip on the controls tighten. He'd been feeling the same way for the past hour, but he hadn't been able to nail it down at all. "What's up?"
"What you just said," said Takeout. "Hash, have you actually seen anyone aboard? Beside the flight crew, I mean."
"Yeah," said Hash. "I…" He trailed off. With the glare, he hadn't been able to see inside until after sundown, and even then all he'd seen were empty halls and deserted mezzanines. "No. You?"
Takeout shook his head.
"This we gotta call in." Hash reached for the radio only for Takeout to stop him.
"We can't. They could have scanner gear."
"Yeah, I know." Hash flipped the radio back to transmit and in the same motion slammed one of his throttles back to idle. A quick tap on the rudder corrected the adverse yaw, but not before the plane's nose had wandered noticeably. "Endeavor, Hash. We've got some engine hiccups, request RTB."
"Afirm, Hash. Approach right-side one, call the ball."
Hash hauled his plane around and angled it into the pattern. Hunter was going to love this.
"So," Hunter glanced at the two pilots standing in the rear of Combat, both still in their flight gear. "What's up?"
"We didn't see anyone aboard the Maru," said the taller pilot. Hunter had to glance at the name-tape on his flightsuit before he remembered the man's callsign. Hash. Which meant the other had to be his RIO, Takeout.
Hunter squinted and cupped his chin between two fingers. "Didn't see anyone… you mean… what?"
"We were flying alongside for hours," said the other airman, Takeout. "All we saw were empty, darkened corridors."
Hunter scowled. His first thought was that it was all a coincidence. There was a full load of passengers aboard, they just hadn't been at the right windows at the right time. Almost immediately he discarded that possibility out of hand though. They'd been in formation far too long, the odds against it were too staggering. Someone would've tried to snap a photo of the Barracudas at least.
That left three possibilities: There were no passengers aboard, there were, but they were hiding, or there were passengers aboard, but they were being hidden. He wasn't sure which one left him most at ease. "That it?"
"Just about, sir," said Hash. "We didn't… I know it's not much, but we didn't wanna transmit—"
"—in case they had sniffer gear," said Hunter, finishing his pilot's thought. "Right, good thinking." He drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair, but before anything but the vaguest concept of an idea could come together the chattering printer caught his attention.
"Sir, request on FLTCOM, command wants a positional update."
"Jumpy today," muttered Hunter. He couldn't exactly blame them, but still. The Admiralty wasn't usually this interested in micromanagement. It felt… not wrong, but weird. But he wasn't in the habit of ignoring orders on a gut feeling. "Alright, send it."
"Wilco, flight."
"Um, sir?" Hash stiffened a little.
"Right," Hunter let out a scowl of annoyance. "Okay… if that liner's been hijacked I want more planes in the air. You two good to go back out?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's what I like to hear," said Hunter. "VCO, make sure Hash's plane's tanked and send them back out."
"Copy, flight."
"Good thinking you two," said Hunter. "Dismissed."
"Sir," Takeout blurted out, "what about the hostages?"
"What about them, ensign?" said Hunter. Hurricane, when she was new, would've carried a company of paratroopers. But that doctrine changed years ago, years before Endeavor was even on the slips. "We don't have boarding troops or gear aboard. Our orders are to ferry the Maru back to Confederate skies, where I'm sure the Atarashi will have boarding teams waiting. And probably a nice labor camp for the hijackers."
"Yes sir," said Takeout. "Thank you, sir."
Hunter nodded and turned back to his radar repeater. "Get back in the air, both of you."
Lieutenant Ivan Brown—known ubiquitous by his callsign "Hash"—glanced over with a look of derision that could be felt even through his oxygen mask and lowered sun-visor. He rolled his eyes and glanced back to his instruments, finessing the plane's twin turbofans a little to keep his station. "She's a hundred feet shorter than Endeavor."
"I know." His RIO—callsign Takeout—shrugged, and looked back out the plane's canopy at the hulking passenger liner. The sun was starting to set, and her window-studded flank seemed to glow with reflected glare. "But it's different."
Hash sighed dramatically, pulling the throttles even further back to match speeds. With its wings spread and nothing but a nominal war-load in the belly, his Barracuda could almost keep pace at idle. "How much gas we got left?"
"'bout seventeen thousand pounds."
"Right…" Hash shook his head. That much gas would last them for hours at this throttle setting, especially with the plane almost slick.
"You're stuck with me," Takeout giggled.
Hash applied a little more throttle and twitched the plane's nose up, climbing up over the lumbering liner to clear his line of sight. Torch's plane was keeping station off the other flank, and the prowling shark of Hurricanewas distantly visible closer to the horizon. "Torch, you current?"
"Yeah, Hash." said Torch in his rumbling brogue.
"You two want in on this?"
There was a pause. Banter might not fit the cool professional mold, but it was better than spending the next several hours trying not to think about potentially shooting down a plane full of civilians. "Yeah, we're in."
"Outstanding," Hash eased the throttle back and dropped down beside the Maru. "Takeout, explain yourself."
"I didn't say she was bigger than the roost," said Takeout. "Just that she was big. You know… chunky."
Hash thought for moment, sizing up the passenger liner as it wallowed through the sky. It was chunky. More of a flying whale than a shark, and with all the windows and mezzanines it was a lot easier to get a frame of reference. "Thoughts?"
"I disagree with Takeout on principle," said Torch, "But I see what he means."
"I'm with Hash on this one," said Torch's RIO. "Big implies dimensional largeness, not just the appearance of same."
"Thank you, Dexter," said Hash. "You're outvoted, Takeout."
"Fine," Takeout made a show of rolling his eyes and bent over the Barracuda's scope. The likelihood of the plane's radar spotting something before Endeavor's enormous set did was minuscule, but Hash supposed it gave his RIO something to do. "Anything on scope?"
Takeout shook his head. "Just us and the CAP."
"Mmm," Hash nodded, glancing out at the vast expanse of empty blue below them. For just a moment, he thought about how awful it'd be to have to ditch all the way out here.
—|—|—
The sputtering chatter of a line-matrix printer cut through the uneasy malaise that'd declined on Hurricane's CIC. Paper tore and chief Thorne skimmed the message." Flight, there's… there's been another accident. Another attack."
Hunter scowled, but hastily repressed the gesture. "What?"
"At fort Vincent, sir. *Akayashi Maru( broke from her escort and dove for the tank farm. No casualty report as of yet."
"What ship?" said Colonel Kayleigh, glaring daggers at her radar plot.
"The Issac Alexander, ma'am," said chief Thorne.
"Pendragon's boat?"
"Yes ma'am."
Kayleigh nodded. Major Rick Pendragon. They'd met a few times, and while Kayleigh'd found him to be a competent enough officer, it didn't surprise her that under pressure he'd hesitated to blow a liner full of civilians out of the sky.
"So much for an isolated incident," Aaron barely managed to keep his voice low.
"This was never going to be isolated," said Kayleigh. Her voice was almost detached as she tried to work forwards from what little she knew. The puzzle box was starting to move, but only just. "Not if they told us about it. One attack—maybe two—they could've brushed off as accidents."
"Someday you're going to be wrong," said Aaron.
Kayleigh gave her XO a look. "I hope so."
"Jen."
"Huh?" Kayleigh took her glasses off just long enough to rub at the bridge of her nose.
"We're six thousand miles away from—" he waved at the moving map display, "—anything. There's nothing on scope but us and our birds. And you'e been on your feet all day."
"I'm fine," said Kayleigh, tugging at a harness strap to get more comfortable.
"Jen." Aaron cocked an eyebrow.
"Fine." The colonel took a deep breath and hit the quick release on her harness. "Your aircraft," she said loudly enough for the rest of Combat to hear her.
"My aircraft," said Aaron, again loudly enough for the crew to hear him before dropping back to a lower register. "I'll wake you the moment something happens."
Kayleigh raised her mug in a half salute. "Thanks, flight."
—|—|—
"Think they're enjoying the airshow?" said Hash, more to break the monotonous purr of the Barracuda's air circulators than anything. His RIO had been unusually quiet ever since the sun went down. Everyone sort of had.
"Huh?"
Hash grit his teeth. Now was not the time for his side-seater to be zoning out. "Chang, you with me?"
"What? Oh, yeah." Takeout nodded. "Sorry, I was just—"
"Daydreaming?" snapped Hash.
"Thinking." Takeout crossed his arms and shot an unusually serious look at the pilot.
Hash narrowed his eyes, noticing a subtle worry to his RIO's posture. "Thinking about what."
"Well…" Takeout flipped the plane's radio off transmit. "Something's been bothering me about that boat." He motioned towards the hulking Maru, her shape now only defined by her multitude of running and room lights. "Couldn't put my finger on it until just now."
"Okay…" Hash felt his grip on the controls tighten. He'd been feeling the same way for the past hour, but he hadn't been able to nail it down at all. "What's up?"
"What you just said," said Takeout. "Hash, have you actually seen anyone aboard? Beside the flight crew, I mean."
"Yeah," said Hash. "I…" He trailed off. With the glare, he hadn't been able to see inside until after sundown, and even then all he'd seen were empty halls and deserted mezzanines. "No. You?"
Takeout shook his head.
"This we gotta call in." Hash reached for the radio only for Takeout to stop him.
"We can't. They could have scanner gear."
"Yeah, I know." Hash flipped the radio back to transmit and in the same motion slammed one of his throttles back to idle. A quick tap on the rudder corrected the adverse yaw, but not before the plane's nose had wandered noticeably. "Endeavor, Hash. We've got some engine hiccups, request RTB."
"Afirm, Hash. Approach right-side one, call the ball."
Hash hauled his plane around and angled it into the pattern. Hunter was going to love this.
—|—|—
"So," Hunter glanced at the two pilots standing in the rear of Combat, both still in their flight gear. "What's up?"
"We didn't see anyone aboard the Maru," said the taller pilot. Hunter had to glance at the name-tape on his flightsuit before he remembered the man's callsign. Hash. Which meant the other had to be his RIO, Takeout.
Hunter squinted and cupped his chin between two fingers. "Didn't see anyone… you mean… what?"
"We were flying alongside for hours," said the other airman, Takeout. "All we saw were empty, darkened corridors."
Hunter scowled. His first thought was that it was all a coincidence. There was a full load of passengers aboard, they just hadn't been at the right windows at the right time. Almost immediately he discarded that possibility out of hand though. They'd been in formation far too long, the odds against it were too staggering. Someone would've tried to snap a photo of the Barracudas at least.
That left three possibilities: There were no passengers aboard, there were, but they were hiding, or there were passengers aboard, but they were being hidden. He wasn't sure which one left him most at ease. "That it?"
"Just about, sir," said Hash. "We didn't… I know it's not much, but we didn't wanna transmit—"
"—in case they had sniffer gear," said Hunter, finishing his pilot's thought. "Right, good thinking." He drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair, but before anything but the vaguest concept of an idea could come together the chattering printer caught his attention.
"Sir, request on FLTCOM, command wants a positional update."
"Jumpy today," muttered Hunter. He couldn't exactly blame them, but still. The Admiralty wasn't usually this interested in micromanagement. It felt… not wrong, but weird. But he wasn't in the habit of ignoring orders on a gut feeling. "Alright, send it."
"Wilco, flight."
"Um, sir?" Hash stiffened a little.
"Right," Hunter let out a scowl of annoyance. "Okay… if that liner's been hijacked I want more planes in the air. You two good to go back out?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's what I like to hear," said Hunter. "VCO, make sure Hash's plane's tanked and send them back out."
"Copy, flight."
"Good thinking you two," said Hunter. "Dismissed."
"Sir," Takeout blurted out, "what about the hostages?"
"What about them, ensign?" said Hunter. Hurricane, when she was new, would've carried a company of paratroopers. But that doctrine changed years ago, years before Endeavor was even on the slips. "We don't have boarding troops or gear aboard. Our orders are to ferry the Maru back to Confederate skies, where I'm sure the Atarashi will have boarding teams waiting. And probably a nice labor camp for the hijackers."
"Yes sir," said Takeout. "Thank you, sir."
Hunter nodded and turned back to his radar repeater. "Get back in the air, both of you."
Chapter 4
- Location
- 'Murica
"Flight, new track."
"I see it," Hunter nodded, cupping his chin between two fingers and squinting at the tiny dot creeping across his scope. "We got an ID?"
"Working on it. She's definitely Confederate. Probably a patrol frigate."
"Mmm," Hunter raised his eyebrow but for a moment said nothing. Patrol frigates were small ships, unquestionably second-rate and usually handed off to local guard detachments or rear-echelon forces. At least that's how it worked in the Federal fleet, and he understood the Atarashi forces were more distinct. "She's a long way from home."
"They've got a lot of sky to cover," said his XO. "Probably just need hulls to fill the holes."
Hunter acknowledge her comment with a quick nod. "TAO—"
"Got it! Designate as Taka-three class patrol frigate."
Hunter filed that away for later reference. Taka-IIIs were the latest evolution of a particularly heavily-armed frigate hull confederate guard units had been buying up lately. Intel suspected it was meant to double-up as a proper fleet asset in times of war. That meant… something, but he wasn't sure what just yet. "Sig, She hail us?"
"No, flight."
"Flight," said the TAO. "She might not be able to see yet. Intel says her radar's pretty bad."
"Let's give her another eighty miles before we hail," said Hunter. Endeavor's radar was brand new, and he didn't want to go advertising its range just yet.
"Wilco, Flight."
Hunter fished a handset from the talker and idly tapped his finger against the microphone grille as the minutes ticked by. "Alright, hail them."
After a nod from his signals chief, Hunter tapped the transmit button and began. "Confederate vessel, this is the Federation warship Endeavor. We understand you're going to take this freighter off our hands, over."
The reply came back a moment later in the lightly-accented but flawlessly-enunciated voice of a near-fluent speaker. "Endeavor, this is Kirou. Apologies, we didn't know you'd picked up our trace."
"Sir, she's launched a flare."
"Thank you, TAO," said Hunter. Launching a single flare when approaching a potentially hostile ship was an ancient airborne tradition. Deliberately giving away your position to spoil a surprise attack defused many tensions. Of course, the gesture was mostly symbolic in the age of radar, but it still put Hunter at ease.
"May we come alongside, Endeavor?"
"Of course, Kirou, though we ask you keep your planes grounded."
"That is acceptable."
Hunter lifted his thumb from the transmit stud. "TAO, our batteries?"
"Weapons tight, sir."
"Good." Hunter scowled at his plot, trying to placate the tiny voice in the back of his head that was furious at having a foreign airship flying so close to his. It was stupid and the kind of thing that started international incidents, but he couldn't quite get the voice to quiet down.
"Endeavor, " said the officer from Kirou with what sounded like genuine regret. "you and your people have my sincerest condolences."
"Not necessary," said Hunter, trying to be diplomatic. "You weren't on the—"
"Flight, we're spiked!" yelped the TAO.
"Kirou, what the —"
"Vampire! Vampire! Vampire!"
Hunter saw it on his plot. Kirou blossomed with contacts as the frigate dumped her racks. Missile after missile roared into the sky and tore towards Endeavor. It took a moment for his point-defense gunners to release their weapons, and at this distance a moment was something he couldn't afford.
Rotary cannons opened up, tearing the closest missiles apart with streams of explosive shells while missiles leaped from Endeavor's silos to engage those further afield. One… two… three of the vampires were shredded, but Kirou was too close.
Without space, without the time to engage them in turn missiles leaked through. The deck shook under Hunter's feet as Endeavor shuddered from the turbulence of near-misses, then bucked as a warhead slammed clean into her nose.
"Helm, Dive!" Hunter roared over the noise. His stomach fell out from under him as his stricken ship turn its tail to the clouds and frantically clawed for distance. The engines roared audibly. Furious, scared, frightened all the same. "Damage report!"
"Lost the main array," said Ops. "Fires in left-chin compartments. We—" Endeavor bucked as another salvo slammed into her flank. "—we've got fires all over the left side. Suppression active."
Hunter scowled. Her ship was flooding itself with Co2 to stay alive. He knew it wouldn't be enough. "Sigs, Mayday. And signal our surrender!"
"Flight, wilco!"
"They're still shooting, Flight."
"Shoot back!" snapped Hunter. His boat was a carrier. Her teeth were her planes, planes that were roosting inside her belly with no way to launch them in time. The deck heaved under him, Endeavor heeled like a drunken whaler. "Helm—"
"I can't sir, we lost too much lift."
"Can you put us down gently?"
"I can try."
Hunter swore. "Do it. All hands, prepare to abandon ship."
Brilliant tracers from Endeavor's PDCs poured forth in response, throwing fistfuls of glowing gravel at the onrushing missiles. Needles of smoke tore from her own silos, only to suddenly kink over as Endeavor's defense missiles pulled max-g turns.
A few of the incoming crumpled under the onslaught, exploding at their warheads detonated or unburnt fuel deflagrated. A few more veered into empty sky, their control fins mauled by Endeavor's defense batteries.
But it wasn't enough. Endeavor needed space to defend herself. Space and time. And with both in precious short supply, her batteries couldn't burn through incoming before they punched through her screen and slammed into her hull. Explosions flashed along the ship's chine as missile after missile found its mark.
They were still coming, but by the third impact Takeout knew it was all over. Gaping holes were torn in Endeavor's flank with slipstream tearing mercilessly at what was left of her outer cladding. Oily smoke poured from a tear in her side as spilling aviation fuel ignited, and one of her engines was already starting to tear free from its mount.
Then his view of the battle—of the one-sided slaughter—was cut off by the rising rail of his canopy. The Barracuda was banking away from Endeavor, tucking her wings back and—from the sudden pitch of her engines—lighting her burners.
"What?" Takeout rounded on his pilot, gasping furiously into his mask. "What're we—"
"We're running, Takeout." Hash spat poison with each word. The sinew in his neck visibly taut as cable as he guided his big plane through the sound barrier and away from the roost that'd been its home. That'd been all of their homes.
"Running?" Takeout said, his voice somewhere between a demand and a wail. "We have to help!"
"With what," spat Hash. "What do we have in the bins?"
Takeout bit his lip and hissed out a furious, wordless cry. Hash was right. The Baracuda was hauling a minimal warload, and even if she'd been loaded to the gills it was doubtful she'd get enough past the Taka's screen to do any real damage. He cursed and bashed his foot against the cockpit divider.
"Check the scope," said Hash, craning his neck and pulling the Baracuda into a gentle roll to try and clear their six.
"Yeah," Takeout scowled and shook his head to clear his mind. It didn't really work, but he forced himself to focus on the glowing monochrome tube. "I think… I think we're clear."
Hash nodded and pulled the throttles well back, opening the plane's wings in the same motion to settle down for a long-haul cruise. "Look, kid, we can die pointlessly now. Or we can find some friends and get our revenge later."
Takeout glanced at him and fiddled with his helmet's sun visor. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
"Hold onto that," said Hash. "Endeavor should've gotten a mayday out. The whole fleet's gonna come running soon enough."
"Right," said Takeout flatly.
"Hurricane should be roughly on this bearing," said Hash, glancing from the plane's gyro compass to a map on his kneeboard. "You got her last positional fix?"
Takeout shook his head. "It wasn't in our last data dump."
Hash bit back a curse. "Okay. Well… she can't be more than two thousand or so miles out, and she'll come running when she heard. We'll just fly a search pattern 'till we find her."
Takeout looked over the canopy rail at the vast expanse of unblemished blue below them. "We have the gas for that?"
"Yeah," said Hash, purposefully not looking at his instruments. "Yeah, we'll be fine."
"You gonna tell me how much gas we got left?"
Takeout nodded. "Yeah."
"Well don't," said the pilot. "I don't want to know." It was a half-truth. He didn't know exactly how much gas the Barracuda had in her tanks, but he knew it wasn't much. He could hear it in the hum of her turbofans, the poor things were running on fumes. "Just… just keep looking at your scope."
"We should've met her already," said Takeout, tapping a knuckle against his screen and willing the elusive battle cruiser to reveal herself. "Maybe Endeavor didn't get the word out?"
"Can't jam FLTCOM," said Hash . He wasn't sure of the technical reasoning himself, something to do with the microwave transmitters the system used. But the scientists seemed convinced, and for the moment that was good enough for him. At least it should be.
"You sure?"
"No," admitted Hash. "But the guy with three PHDs seemed to be."
Takeout look a long, deep breath. "I guess that's… wait." He leaned forwards in his ejection seat, squinting at her board. "What the hell?"
"Takeout?" said Hash warily.
"I've got Hurricane on scope… but she's just orbiting her patrol anchor… and she's got her transponder on."
"What the hell?" Hash echoed. "BRA?"
"Two-six-three for thirty. Angels fifteen."
Hash scanned the sky. Spotting a ship at thirty miles in the dark was—"No way."
"What?"
"She's running with lights on," said Hash. He'd never served under Colonel Kayleigh, but he knew enough about her to know she'd never run with her transponder screaming and running lights active in wartime. "Takeout, we go for encrypt?"
"Uh…" Takeout glanced at the Baracuda's radio stack, running his gloved fingers over the backlit toggles as he checked its settings. "Yeah."
"What the hell are they up to," mumbled Hash.
"I see it," Hunter nodded, cupping his chin between two fingers and squinting at the tiny dot creeping across his scope. "We got an ID?"
"Working on it. She's definitely Confederate. Probably a patrol frigate."
"Mmm," Hunter raised his eyebrow but for a moment said nothing. Patrol frigates were small ships, unquestionably second-rate and usually handed off to local guard detachments or rear-echelon forces. At least that's how it worked in the Federal fleet, and he understood the Atarashi forces were more distinct. "She's a long way from home."
"They've got a lot of sky to cover," said his XO. "Probably just need hulls to fill the holes."
Hunter acknowledge her comment with a quick nod. "TAO—"
"Got it! Designate as Taka-three class patrol frigate."
Hunter filed that away for later reference. Taka-IIIs were the latest evolution of a particularly heavily-armed frigate hull confederate guard units had been buying up lately. Intel suspected it was meant to double-up as a proper fleet asset in times of war. That meant… something, but he wasn't sure what just yet. "Sig, She hail us?"
"No, flight."
"Flight," said the TAO. "She might not be able to see yet. Intel says her radar's pretty bad."
"Let's give her another eighty miles before we hail," said Hunter. Endeavor's radar was brand new, and he didn't want to go advertising its range just yet.
"Wilco, Flight."
Hunter fished a handset from the talker and idly tapped his finger against the microphone grille as the minutes ticked by. "Alright, hail them."
After a nod from his signals chief, Hunter tapped the transmit button and began. "Confederate vessel, this is the Federation warship Endeavor. We understand you're going to take this freighter off our hands, over."
The reply came back a moment later in the lightly-accented but flawlessly-enunciated voice of a near-fluent speaker. "Endeavor, this is Kirou. Apologies, we didn't know you'd picked up our trace."
"Sir, she's launched a flare."
"Thank you, TAO," said Hunter. Launching a single flare when approaching a potentially hostile ship was an ancient airborne tradition. Deliberately giving away your position to spoil a surprise attack defused many tensions. Of course, the gesture was mostly symbolic in the age of radar, but it still put Hunter at ease.
"May we come alongside, Endeavor?"
"Of course, Kirou, though we ask you keep your planes grounded."
"That is acceptable."
Hunter lifted his thumb from the transmit stud. "TAO, our batteries?"
"Weapons tight, sir."
"Good." Hunter scowled at his plot, trying to placate the tiny voice in the back of his head that was furious at having a foreign airship flying so close to his. It was stupid and the kind of thing that started international incidents, but he couldn't quite get the voice to quiet down.
"Endeavor, " said the officer from Kirou with what sounded like genuine regret. "you and your people have my sincerest condolences."
"Not necessary," said Hunter, trying to be diplomatic. "You weren't on the—"
"Flight, we're spiked!" yelped the TAO.
"Kirou, what the —"
"Vampire! Vampire! Vampire!"
Hunter saw it on his plot. Kirou blossomed with contacts as the frigate dumped her racks. Missile after missile roared into the sky and tore towards Endeavor. It took a moment for his point-defense gunners to release their weapons, and at this distance a moment was something he couldn't afford.
Rotary cannons opened up, tearing the closest missiles apart with streams of explosive shells while missiles leaped from Endeavor's silos to engage those further afield. One… two… three of the vampires were shredded, but Kirou was too close.
Without space, without the time to engage them in turn missiles leaked through. The deck shook under Hunter's feet as Endeavor shuddered from the turbulence of near-misses, then bucked as a warhead slammed clean into her nose.
"Helm, Dive!" Hunter roared over the noise. His stomach fell out from under him as his stricken ship turn its tail to the clouds and frantically clawed for distance. The engines roared audibly. Furious, scared, frightened all the same. "Damage report!"
"Lost the main array," said Ops. "Fires in left-chin compartments. We—" Endeavor bucked as another salvo slammed into her flank. "—we've got fires all over the left side. Suppression active."
Hunter scowled. Her ship was flooding itself with Co2 to stay alive. He knew it wouldn't be enough. "Sigs, Mayday. And signal our surrender!"
"Flight, wilco!"
"They're still shooting, Flight."
"Shoot back!" snapped Hunter. His boat was a carrier. Her teeth were her planes, planes that were roosting inside her belly with no way to launch them in time. The deck heaved under him, Endeavor heeled like a drunken whaler. "Helm—"
"I can't sir, we lost too much lift."
"Can you put us down gently?"
"I can try."
Hunter swore. "Do it. All hands, prepare to abandon ship."
—|—|—
Ensign Ben Chang—callsign "Takeout"—sat frozen in the right-hand seat of his Barracuda, his instruments forgotten. His mouth hung open against the rubber of his oxygen mask, he felt seconds crawl by missiles vomited from the Taka-III's missile silos and stitched the scant expanse of space between it and Endeavor with their smokey trails.Brilliant tracers from Endeavor's PDCs poured forth in response, throwing fistfuls of glowing gravel at the onrushing missiles. Needles of smoke tore from her own silos, only to suddenly kink over as Endeavor's defense missiles pulled max-g turns.
A few of the incoming crumpled under the onslaught, exploding at their warheads detonated or unburnt fuel deflagrated. A few more veered into empty sky, their control fins mauled by Endeavor's defense batteries.
But it wasn't enough. Endeavor needed space to defend herself. Space and time. And with both in precious short supply, her batteries couldn't burn through incoming before they punched through her screen and slammed into her hull. Explosions flashed along the ship's chine as missile after missile found its mark.
They were still coming, but by the third impact Takeout knew it was all over. Gaping holes were torn in Endeavor's flank with slipstream tearing mercilessly at what was left of her outer cladding. Oily smoke poured from a tear in her side as spilling aviation fuel ignited, and one of her engines was already starting to tear free from its mount.
Then his view of the battle—of the one-sided slaughter—was cut off by the rising rail of his canopy. The Barracuda was banking away from Endeavor, tucking her wings back and—from the sudden pitch of her engines—lighting her burners.
"What?" Takeout rounded on his pilot, gasping furiously into his mask. "What're we—"
"We're running, Takeout." Hash spat poison with each word. The sinew in his neck visibly taut as cable as he guided his big plane through the sound barrier and away from the roost that'd been its home. That'd been all of their homes.
"Running?" Takeout said, his voice somewhere between a demand and a wail. "We have to help!"
"With what," spat Hash. "What do we have in the bins?"
Takeout bit his lip and hissed out a furious, wordless cry. Hash was right. The Baracuda was hauling a minimal warload, and even if she'd been loaded to the gills it was doubtful she'd get enough past the Taka's screen to do any real damage. He cursed and bashed his foot against the cockpit divider.
"Check the scope," said Hash, craning his neck and pulling the Baracuda into a gentle roll to try and clear their six.
"Yeah," Takeout scowled and shook his head to clear his mind. It didn't really work, but he forced himself to focus on the glowing monochrome tube. "I think… I think we're clear."
Hash nodded and pulled the throttles well back, opening the plane's wings in the same motion to settle down for a long-haul cruise. "Look, kid, we can die pointlessly now. Or we can find some friends and get our revenge later."
Takeout glanced at him and fiddled with his helmet's sun visor. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
"Hold onto that," said Hash. "Endeavor should've gotten a mayday out. The whole fleet's gonna come running soon enough."
"Right," said Takeout flatly.
"Hurricane should be roughly on this bearing," said Hash, glancing from the plane's gyro compass to a map on his kneeboard. "You got her last positional fix?"
Takeout shook his head. "It wasn't in our last data dump."
Hash bit back a curse. "Okay. Well… she can't be more than two thousand or so miles out, and she'll come running when she heard. We'll just fly a search pattern 'till we find her."
Takeout looked over the canopy rail at the vast expanse of unblemished blue below them. "We have the gas for that?"
"Yeah," said Hash, purposefully not looking at his instruments. "Yeah, we'll be fine."
—|—|—
"Uh, Hash?""You gonna tell me how much gas we got left?"
Takeout nodded. "Yeah."
"Well don't," said the pilot. "I don't want to know." It was a half-truth. He didn't know exactly how much gas the Barracuda had in her tanks, but he knew it wasn't much. He could hear it in the hum of her turbofans, the poor things were running on fumes. "Just… just keep looking at your scope."
"We should've met her already," said Takeout, tapping a knuckle against his screen and willing the elusive battle cruiser to reveal herself. "Maybe Endeavor didn't get the word out?"
"Can't jam FLTCOM," said Hash . He wasn't sure of the technical reasoning himself, something to do with the microwave transmitters the system used. But the scientists seemed convinced, and for the moment that was good enough for him. At least it should be.
"You sure?"
"No," admitted Hash. "But the guy with three PHDs seemed to be."
Takeout look a long, deep breath. "I guess that's… wait." He leaned forwards in his ejection seat, squinting at her board. "What the hell?"
"Takeout?" said Hash warily.
"I've got Hurricane on scope… but she's just orbiting her patrol anchor… and she's got her transponder on."
"What the hell?" Hash echoed. "BRA?"
"Two-six-three for thirty. Angels fifteen."
Hash scanned the sky. Spotting a ship at thirty miles in the dark was—"No way."
"What?"
"She's running with lights on," said Hash. He'd never served under Colonel Kayleigh, but he knew enough about her to know she'd never run with her transponder screaming and running lights active in wartime. "Takeout, we go for encrypt?"
"Uh…" Takeout glanced at the Baracuda's radio stack, running his gloved fingers over the backlit toggles as he checked its settings. "Yeah."
"What the hell are they up to," mumbled Hash.
- Location
- 'Murica
Almost entirely the former. There is a degree of the latter though. Their hulls are shaped like lifting bodies to both give more grunt when maneuvering and increase rate of climb. It also lets airships cruise above their static ceiling by leaning on dynamic lift to make up the difference.
- Location
- 'Murica
"AC, you're needed in the situation room."
Colonel Kayleigh scowled and squinted at the bleary, faintly-glowing numerals on her watch. She'd managed just over three hours of uninterrupted sleep, an amount that was both too much and too little for her to really feel rested. She took a deep breath and rubbed sleep from her eye with the heel of her hand. "Thank you, airman."
She hauled herself to her feet with a grunt and set her glasses in place. Her uniform was rumpled from her nap, but a quick tug was all the ministration she could afford. She ran a hand through her graying ponytail, policing a few strands that'd come loose in bed as she ducked through the hatch.
"Courtesy of chief Metz, ma'am." An airman handed her a latch-top mug.
"Thank you," mumbled Kayleigh, flipping the lid with her thumb and guzzling down a mouthful of stiff, milky tea. Brewed strong and warm enough to wake her up, but not so hot she had to sip it with care. "Dismissed."
The situation room was only a few feet from her quarters. It was a small room dominated by a backlit potting table and separated from Combat by diver that was more symbolic than structural. If anyone in Combat needed her immediate attention, a spirited yell would suffice. Like most of Hurricane's interior it was a cramped space and filled with more electronics than it'd ever been designed to handle. Colonel Aaron was waiting for her, as were two pilots. They were still in their flight gear, and hadn't even bothered to ditch their g-suits or survival vests.
Kayleigh blinked. She knew every one of her pilots, maybe not personally but she knew their faces and names. But neither of these two men looked familiar. She didn't recognize the unit patches on their shoulder either, at least not at first. "What's up?"
The taller of the two pilots stiffened in salute, "Captain Ivan Brown, ma'am."
"Hash, right?" said Kayleigh, mentally shaking herself awake and returning his salute. "'cuda driver off Endeavor?"
"I…" Hash glanced at the other man who had to be his RIO. "We were, ma'am. We were attacked."
"A confederate ship," said the RIO. "A Taka-III, blew her right out of the sky."
"Wait wait wait," Kayleigh pulled her glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Endeavor's been hit?"
"No ma'am," said Hash. "Endeavor's gone. They pounded her into scrap."
For a moment, Kayleigh's heart froze. The next instant it was back, pounding a desperate cadence against her ribcage. She squared her shoulders and clasped her mug like a totem to keep her hands occupied. "XO, are we—"
"Already took her to general quarters," said Aaron.
"Thanks, Mike." Kayleigh gave him a quick nod of appreciation. "Captain, tell me everything you know."
"Ma'am." Hash and his RIO—callsign Takeout—told their story. Occasionally, Colonel Aaron would interject with a detail from Hurricane's side of things.
It wasn't a pleasant tale. Airships, even ones as tough as Hurricane were fragile things. Without enough space, enough time for their screens to chew through incoming weapons a ship was as good as dead. There was very little even Hurricane could've done to claw her way out of that trap, let alone a carrier like Endeavor. But there was one detail that stood out in bold relief. One detail so frightening she almost didn't want to acknowledge its existence.
A part of her noticed the two pilots had finished their report and dismissed them, but the bulk of Kayleigh's attention was focused. She scowled, but forced herself to wait until the hatch latched shut before she started pacing. Her mind was burning with splintered possibilities, none of which was fully formed but all of which were deeply worrying in their implications. She stopped at the far end of the room, bracing herself between the wall and the table. "How are we just hearing about this now?"
Aaron shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets. He started to say something, froze, then trailed off with a frustrated sigh. "I don't know."
Kayleigh ripped the talker box's handset from its cradle and coiled the cord around her wrist. "Combat, give me sigs."
"Go for sigs, AC."
"Sigs," Kayleigh scratched her temples, fully aware of how insane and insulting her next comment was going to be. "We receive any mayday calls in the past eight hours?"
The line was silent for a moment before Thorne's thoroughly confused voice crackled back. "Uh, no ma'am."
"You're sure."
"Yes ma'am. I… we would've alerted you if we received anything like that."
"Humor me, Chief," said Kayleigh. An idea was starting to coalesce in her racing mind. One that she desperately hoped would be proven wrong. "Check the FLTCOM logs for mayday calls or anything flagged—anything out of the ordinary."
"Yes ma'am. Checking…"
"Jen?" Aaron cocked an eyebrow but Kayleigh shushed him with a wave of her free hand.
"Yeah. No, ma'am, there's nothing."
"Nothing out of the ordinary?"
"Yes, ma'am. Just positional updates and a few weather bulletins."
Kayleigh bit her lip. A breath hissed through her nose before she continued. The pieces were falling together beautifully, she just didn't like the picture they were making. "When was the last message from Endeavor?"
"Twenty forty-five local, a positional update ma'am."
"Thank you, chief," said Kayleigh almost absentmindedly. She set the handset back in its cradle and leveled her gaze at her XO. "Half an hour after our guests say Endeavor was attacked."
"How's that possible?" said Aaron, mulling the problem over himself.
"FLTCOM's been compromised." It was a simple statement, the only logical explanation that accounted for all recorded observations. That didn't make it any less terrifying, and Kayleigh was astonished that the words came out her mouth so evenly.
"Okay," Aaron glared at her for a minute. "How is that possible. FLTCOM's satellites, the encryption's unbreakable."
"So I've been told," said Kayleigh. "But it's either that or assume those pilots were lying."
Aaron swore. "If they can manipulate FLTCOM…"
"They could string us across the ocean. Take us down one by one and we'd never know 'till it was our turn." Kayleigh felt a wry smile creep onto her face. It was ingenious in its own way, and she couldn't help but respect whoever the architect of this deception was. "For all we know, every message since we left TBS from Pike's been a fraud." She left unsaid the unlikley—but very real—possibility that Hurricane was the only ship left in the fleet.
Aaron scowled for a moment, then squared his shoulders and pulled his uniform smooth. "What's the plan, Jen?"
"We need to call this in," said Kayleigh, "somewhere with an underwater cable link back to the Federation."
"What about—"
"Not Califa," said Kayleigh. "Not any of the outlying territories. Too close to the Confederacy."
Aaron gave her a look.
"This isn't some isolated attack," she said. "Pulling this off would take too much effort, too many resources. They'd only go for it if they were going big." Kayleigh glanced over the frames of her glasses. "An invasion."
Aaron scowled. An angry breath muscled its way past the palisade of his mustache. Then he stiffened, cranked open the divider hatch and inclined his head in a slight bow. "Your aircraft."
"Thanks, Mike." Kayleigh gave him a nod in return and ducked through the hatch. By the time she in Combat her face had hardened into an inscrutable mask. "TAO, she barked.
"Go, flight."
"Anything on scope?"
Sukai blinked. "Just our fighters, ma'am."
"Good. Helm, lay in a course for Fort Victory. Full military"
"Helm aye."
"Um… flight," Chief Thorne coughed. "our orders—"
"We have reason to believe our orders—and quite likely the entirety of FLTCOM—have been compromised," said Kayleigh. "I'm countermanding them under my authority. Colonel Aaron?"
"I back the AC," said Aaron.
Thorne nodded. This time there was no hesitation. "Yes ma'am."
"VCO," said Kayleigh, already moving to the next item on her mental checklist. "My rattlers still at plus-fifteen?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Shift to plus-five and arm them for air-defense. And get me a spark-shark in the air. I want jammed support around the clock until I say otherwise."
"On it, ma'am."
Kayleigh slipped into her seat and cinched down her harness. The deck was already rolling beneath her as her helmsman pulled Hurricane around. The distant, muted purr of her turbofans changed timber slightly as they ran up to their maximum rated power.
Colonel Aaron slid into his seat and leaned over so only Kayleigh could hear. "When are you gonna tell the crew?"
"Now's as good a time as any," Kayleigh keyed the 1MC and cradled the handset near her chin. "Attention all hands, this is the AC." Her voice was even, with a slightly affected undercurrent of iron-hard calm. "Moments ago we received word that Endeavorwas shot down by a warship under Confederate colors. Our secure comms have been compromised, and we would not have known save for the quick thinking of Endeavor's pilots."
She stopped for a moment, gathering her words and her breath before she continued. "This attack is an act of war. A war that may well be raging under our nose this very moment. I intend to return to fleet anchorage and offer our services, where I am sure Hurricane and her crew," she emphasized the last word, "will make an invaluable contribution in the coming struggle. Stand to your duties and take heart. We're still in this fight. Kayleigh out."
Colonel Kayleigh scowled and squinted at the bleary, faintly-glowing numerals on her watch. She'd managed just over three hours of uninterrupted sleep, an amount that was both too much and too little for her to really feel rested. She took a deep breath and rubbed sleep from her eye with the heel of her hand. "Thank you, airman."
She hauled herself to her feet with a grunt and set her glasses in place. Her uniform was rumpled from her nap, but a quick tug was all the ministration she could afford. She ran a hand through her graying ponytail, policing a few strands that'd come loose in bed as she ducked through the hatch.
"Courtesy of chief Metz, ma'am." An airman handed her a latch-top mug.
"Thank you," mumbled Kayleigh, flipping the lid with her thumb and guzzling down a mouthful of stiff, milky tea. Brewed strong and warm enough to wake her up, but not so hot she had to sip it with care. "Dismissed."
The situation room was only a few feet from her quarters. It was a small room dominated by a backlit potting table and separated from Combat by diver that was more symbolic than structural. If anyone in Combat needed her immediate attention, a spirited yell would suffice. Like most of Hurricane's interior it was a cramped space and filled with more electronics than it'd ever been designed to handle. Colonel Aaron was waiting for her, as were two pilots. They were still in their flight gear, and hadn't even bothered to ditch their g-suits or survival vests.
Kayleigh blinked. She knew every one of her pilots, maybe not personally but she knew their faces and names. But neither of these two men looked familiar. She didn't recognize the unit patches on their shoulder either, at least not at first. "What's up?"
The taller of the two pilots stiffened in salute, "Captain Ivan Brown, ma'am."
"Hash, right?" said Kayleigh, mentally shaking herself awake and returning his salute. "'cuda driver off Endeavor?"
"I…" Hash glanced at the other man who had to be his RIO. "We were, ma'am. We were attacked."
"A confederate ship," said the RIO. "A Taka-III, blew her right out of the sky."
"Wait wait wait," Kayleigh pulled her glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Endeavor's been hit?"
"No ma'am," said Hash. "Endeavor's gone. They pounded her into scrap."
For a moment, Kayleigh's heart froze. The next instant it was back, pounding a desperate cadence against her ribcage. She squared her shoulders and clasped her mug like a totem to keep her hands occupied. "XO, are we—"
"Already took her to general quarters," said Aaron.
"Thanks, Mike." Kayleigh gave him a quick nod of appreciation. "Captain, tell me everything you know."
"Ma'am." Hash and his RIO—callsign Takeout—told their story. Occasionally, Colonel Aaron would interject with a detail from Hurricane's side of things.
It wasn't a pleasant tale. Airships, even ones as tough as Hurricane were fragile things. Without enough space, enough time for their screens to chew through incoming weapons a ship was as good as dead. There was very little even Hurricane could've done to claw her way out of that trap, let alone a carrier like Endeavor. But there was one detail that stood out in bold relief. One detail so frightening she almost didn't want to acknowledge its existence.
A part of her noticed the two pilots had finished their report and dismissed them, but the bulk of Kayleigh's attention was focused. She scowled, but forced herself to wait until the hatch latched shut before she started pacing. Her mind was burning with splintered possibilities, none of which was fully formed but all of which were deeply worrying in their implications. She stopped at the far end of the room, bracing herself between the wall and the table. "How are we just hearing about this now?"
Aaron shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets. He started to say something, froze, then trailed off with a frustrated sigh. "I don't know."
Kayleigh ripped the talker box's handset from its cradle and coiled the cord around her wrist. "Combat, give me sigs."
"Go for sigs, AC."
"Sigs," Kayleigh scratched her temples, fully aware of how insane and insulting her next comment was going to be. "We receive any mayday calls in the past eight hours?"
The line was silent for a moment before Thorne's thoroughly confused voice crackled back. "Uh, no ma'am."
"You're sure."
"Yes ma'am. I… we would've alerted you if we received anything like that."
"Humor me, Chief," said Kayleigh. An idea was starting to coalesce in her racing mind. One that she desperately hoped would be proven wrong. "Check the FLTCOM logs for mayday calls or anything flagged—anything out of the ordinary."
"Yes ma'am. Checking…"
"Jen?" Aaron cocked an eyebrow but Kayleigh shushed him with a wave of her free hand.
"Yeah. No, ma'am, there's nothing."
"Nothing out of the ordinary?"
"Yes, ma'am. Just positional updates and a few weather bulletins."
Kayleigh bit her lip. A breath hissed through her nose before she continued. The pieces were falling together beautifully, she just didn't like the picture they were making. "When was the last message from Endeavor?"
"Twenty forty-five local, a positional update ma'am."
"Thank you, chief," said Kayleigh almost absentmindedly. She set the handset back in its cradle and leveled her gaze at her XO. "Half an hour after our guests say Endeavor was attacked."
"How's that possible?" said Aaron, mulling the problem over himself.
"FLTCOM's been compromised." It was a simple statement, the only logical explanation that accounted for all recorded observations. That didn't make it any less terrifying, and Kayleigh was astonished that the words came out her mouth so evenly.
"Okay," Aaron glared at her for a minute. "How is that possible. FLTCOM's satellites, the encryption's unbreakable."
"So I've been told," said Kayleigh. "But it's either that or assume those pilots were lying."
Aaron swore. "If they can manipulate FLTCOM…"
"They could string us across the ocean. Take us down one by one and we'd never know 'till it was our turn." Kayleigh felt a wry smile creep onto her face. It was ingenious in its own way, and she couldn't help but respect whoever the architect of this deception was. "For all we know, every message since we left TBS from Pike's been a fraud." She left unsaid the unlikley—but very real—possibility that Hurricane was the only ship left in the fleet.
Aaron scowled for a moment, then squared his shoulders and pulled his uniform smooth. "What's the plan, Jen?"
"We need to call this in," said Kayleigh, "somewhere with an underwater cable link back to the Federation."
"What about—"
"Not Califa," said Kayleigh. "Not any of the outlying territories. Too close to the Confederacy."
Aaron gave her a look.
"This isn't some isolated attack," she said. "Pulling this off would take too much effort, too many resources. They'd only go for it if they were going big." Kayleigh glanced over the frames of her glasses. "An invasion."
Aaron scowled. An angry breath muscled its way past the palisade of his mustache. Then he stiffened, cranked open the divider hatch and inclined his head in a slight bow. "Your aircraft."
"Thanks, Mike." Kayleigh gave him a nod in return and ducked through the hatch. By the time she in Combat her face had hardened into an inscrutable mask. "TAO, she barked.
"Go, flight."
"Anything on scope?"
Sukai blinked. "Just our fighters, ma'am."
"Good. Helm, lay in a course for Fort Victory. Full military"
"Helm aye."
"Um… flight," Chief Thorne coughed. "our orders—"
"We have reason to believe our orders—and quite likely the entirety of FLTCOM—have been compromised," said Kayleigh. "I'm countermanding them under my authority. Colonel Aaron?"
"I back the AC," said Aaron.
Thorne nodded. This time there was no hesitation. "Yes ma'am."
"VCO," said Kayleigh, already moving to the next item on her mental checklist. "My rattlers still at plus-fifteen?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Shift to plus-five and arm them for air-defense. And get me a spark-shark in the air. I want jammed support around the clock until I say otherwise."
"On it, ma'am."
Kayleigh slipped into her seat and cinched down her harness. The deck was already rolling beneath her as her helmsman pulled Hurricane around. The distant, muted purr of her turbofans changed timber slightly as they ran up to their maximum rated power.
Colonel Aaron slid into his seat and leaned over so only Kayleigh could hear. "When are you gonna tell the crew?"
"Now's as good a time as any," Kayleigh keyed the 1MC and cradled the handset near her chin. "Attention all hands, this is the AC." Her voice was even, with a slightly affected undercurrent of iron-hard calm. "Moments ago we received word that Endeavorwas shot down by a warship under Confederate colors. Our secure comms have been compromised, and we would not have known save for the quick thinking of Endeavor's pilots."
She stopped for a moment, gathering her words and her breath before she continued. "This attack is an act of war. A war that may well be raging under our nose this very moment. I intend to return to fleet anchorage and offer our services, where I am sure Hurricane and her crew," she emphasized the last word, "will make an invaluable contribution in the coming struggle. Stand to your duties and take heart. We're still in this fight. Kayleigh out."