Icarus Page 13

  From there, the duo climbed a steep stairwell that brought them up to the next deck: the lower hangar level. As Shawn followed Jerry into the large space, he wasn’t surprised to see that this compartment was segregated from the rest of the ship. Still incorporating design cues stretching all the way back to the first floating aircraft carriers of Old Earth, the hangar bays were subdivided into smaller sections to allow for better damage control during emergency operations, as well as more efficient organization for all the equipment that could fit inside such massive vessels. Entering the space, Shawn was immediately greeted with the nose of a craft slightly smaller than the experimental fighter he was learning to fly in the simulator. Jerry explained that these were the atmospheric fighters relegated to the ship’s attached Marines, the 92nd Unified Space Marine Expeditionary Unit. Each fighter was capable of vertical takeoff and landing operations, as well as limited ultra-high altitude flight, but they were incapable of space warfare. “After all, space fighting,” explained Jerry with extreme self-confidence, “is best left to the professionals such as ourselves.”

  Across from the four VTOL fighters were six of the Rhea’s nine ELINT craft, or Electronic Intelligence gatherers. These six Z-6 Tricksters, operated by the 204th and the 215th ELINT squadrons, were capable of gathering massive amounts of tactical and combat information, relaying it back to the carrier, and coordinating all manner of battle scenarios. The snub-nosed craft, carrying a crew of five, had a large wedge-shaped advanced early-warning space and air radar attached to its spine, capable of tracking over two thousand contacts and scanning and identifying anything larger than a stapler within a seven-hundred-mile radius.

  Across from the ELINTs, next to the four VTOL fighters, was a squadron of jammers. Shawn recognized their command logo as one he’d seen aboard his own carrier back in the war. Each of the craft’s vertical tails was painted a gloss black, with a banded, yellow spectrum of color encircling their midsections. This was the 43rd Unified Space Jamming Squadron: the Streakers. These nimble little craft served as electronic and communications jammers, capable of sending the onboard computer and communications systems of nearly any vessel into complete chaos, while simultaneously allowing their own comrades to wreak havoc on their now-helpless prey. Next to the Z-6s, filling out the remainder of the space, were the four logistic-gathering Pharaohs of the 8th Unified Logistic Squadron, otherwise known as the Senders.

  Jerry took Shawn through the pilots’ briefing room, past the locker and shower rooms, and through a thirty-foot corridor before the space opened up again in front of them. On either side of them, clustered in groups of four along the port and starboard walls, were the light Vertical Takeoff and Landing transports used by the Marines to transport small equipment and personnel. Forward of these were eight medium VTOL craft, each capable of landing two hover tanks or a whole battalion of personnel. There was a large flattened area between the medium craft and the next compartment in the hangar, and Shawn recognized it as three identical lifts used to carry parts, equipment, supplies, and—most importantly—fighter craft to or from the deck above.

  Forward of those lifts, on the port side of the deck, were three sleek bombers. From the looks of them, they appeared to be both atmospheric-and space-capable, and Shawn found himself wondering if they lumbered along like the bombers he’d known from his past, or if they were as sleek as the newest fighters. Forward of the bombers was another squadron of four VTOL fighters. Opposite these two squadrons, on the starboard side of the bay, was another squadron of logistics vessels.

  As the duo transited into the final large space at the forward end of the lower hangar deck, Shawn noticed the lack of any type of fighter or logistics craft. The space held some thirty light-utility jeeps, as well as the vast majority of the hover tanks on board. Noting these to be similar to the ones he’d seen when he first came on board, Shawn was glad not to be on the receiving end of one of their laser-infused projectiles. Jerry led Shawn past the forty or so tanks until they came to a small three-man lift that took them up to the main hangar level.

  Once they arrived, Jerry’s knowledge seemed to increase tenfold. This didn’t come as a surprise to Shawn, considering that this is where all the fighter squadrons were massed. Before they entered the main flight hangar, Shawn and Jerry had to walk past Sylvia’s Delight, parked silent and alone in the forwardmost portion of the bay.

  “So how does she handle, sir?”

  Shawn was lost in thought as they walked toward D. He ran a gentle hand under the nose of the vessel, as one might scratch a loving pet. “What was that?”

  “I’ve been talking your ear off for nearly two hours now, and this is the first time I’ve asked you a question…and you were at a loss for words.”

  Shawn chuckled, patting the side of the ship gently as they continued on with their tour. “Sorry. Old habits, I guess.”

  “You’ve sure got a thing for her, don’t you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because when you look at her, it’s like you’re looking at a beautiful woman with more curves than a barrel of snakes,” the Texan drawled.

  “Well, with good reason. She’s my first ship. All mine. I could take her anywhere I wanted, any time I wanted.”

  Jerry smiled as they continued to walk toward a pair of large, closed doors that led to the next chamber. “I wish I knew what that was like. I’ve been flying for Sector Command since I got out of high school. I went right into the academy, got my wings, and the rest is history.”

  “It’s like nothing else, Jerry,” Shawn replied wistfully, thinking back to sitting at the controls of the Mark-IV. “It just feels…different. Liberating.”

  “I can see that. But, you’ve got to admit, being in a high-performance fighter does have its appeal.”

  “No argument there, Lieutenant,” Shawn agreed with a grin. “But sometimes it’s nice to slow it all down, take your time, and not have to worry about arming weapons at the drop of a hat.”

  Jerry laughed. “Whatever you say, sir.” The lieutenant approached a lighted keypad near the side of the door, withdrew his identity card and then swiped it. Immediately the large doors began to part as if they were gigantic curtains being pulled aside.

  “Shouldn’t these doors be closed while the carrier is underway?” Shawn asked, knowing full well that the large metal doors were designed to seal off one area of the hangar from another in case of emergencies. As a safety precaution, they were also supposed to be closed while the carrier was operating at high speeds.

  “Normally, yes. Right now, no. I wanted to make a grand entrance.” Jerry smiled broadly, then raised his hands high over his head as he strode confidently into the main fighter hangar. “Welcome to your new second home, Commander.”

  Along the port side of the large bay were three squadrons of attack fighters. The first group was the 538th Unified Space Interceptor Squadron, the Rippers: Shawn’s squadron. The five sleek Maelstrom fighters, arranged in a triangle formation with Shawn’s number-one craft in the lead, pointed toward the starboard side of the deck. High above the fighters, held by wires in the transverse beams overhead, was the squadron’s logo: a stylized golden chevron, with a red diamond shape protruding below it, and both symbols emblazoned over a light-blue- and white-checkered background. Next to Shawn’s group of fighters was the 435th USIS, the Red Skulls. They were the only other squadron on board equipped with the experimental fighters, and Shawn silently wondered if a small rivalry existed between their two squadrons.

  Before he could dwell on it further, Jerry explained that such a rivalry did, in fact, exist. The Skulls were purported to have recently broken the space speed record set by a fighter, but those numbers had yet to be verified. Jerry explained that Commander Saltori, the Red Skulls’ commanding officer, was “so brave, he’d shoot craps with the devil himself.”

  Further aft of the Skulls was the 331st USIS, the Hunters. They were flying the standard fighter of the time, the VSF-12 Seminole.
Shawn had seen prototypes of the 12s while he was still in the service. A great many of his friends had voiced that they’d love to have gotten their hands on one. For Shawn, it was never meant to be. He’d exited the service before the Seminoles had become operational. He laughed at the irony, considering he was going to fly the fighter that would someday replace them.

  Aft of the Hunters were two more squadrons of jammers, the Sparks of the 47th USJS and the Shockers of the 58th. Opposite of the interceptors and the jammers were another squadron of VTOL fighters and the 120th ELINT squadron of the Star Kings.

  A large connecting corridor, nearly three hundred feet long, used to transport fighters from the aft compartment to the forward hangar, was Jerry’s preferred method of getting access to the aft end of the deck. The two officers jumped in a two-man polarized tram that quickly whisked them past the pilots’ main briefing rooms and back to the rear hold in seconds. Inside the aft bay were three more squadrons of Seminole fighters, plus one bomber squadron. Shawn was amazed how well twenty-one craft fit into this space, not to mention all their required maintenance equipment.

  When Nova got the end of the hold, he turned and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, sir, that about does it,” he said with finality. “Unless you’d like to take a walk outside?” Jerry pointed a finger to the overhead, which also served as the outer hull of the ship.

  Shawn shuddered involuntarily at the thought. “No, thank you. I’ve done enough zero-g operations to last a lifetime…and then some.”

  Jerry folded his arms and stepped closer to Shawn. He unnecessarily lowered his voice, considering they were both alone in the vast hold. “You…uh…ever…you know?” Then he held his left hand out, palm up. With his other hand balled into a fist, he placed it into his flattened palm and then lifted it abruptly.

  “Ejected?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shawn nodded gently. “Sure. A few times.”

  “A few?”

  “Well, we were in combat. It happens.”

  “Oh, right. Tell me, what was it like?”

  Reluctant to recount the experience, Shawn nonetheless thought Nova deserved some kind of response. “It’s the most terrifying thing there is.”

  Jerry gave him a questioning look. “Worse than the Kafarans? Hard to believe.”

  Shawn leveled his eyes at the younger lieutenant. “Believe it. When you’re in your fighter, you’re in control. You tell it what to do and it does it. When you eject…out there…it’s a great big nothing. There’s no ground below you, and there’s no sky above. You lose all sense of direction and all sense of time. You just wait, you breathe, and you hope someone knows you’re out there. All you can do is float out there…in the void.”

  “And you did it?”

  “Twice.”

  Santorum looked astonished. “How long did it take them to find you?”

  “The first time was quick. I took a hit to my power stabilizer not long after launch, lost all control of the ship, and then ejected. I wasn’t far from the carrier, so they dispatched a retriever to come and get me.”

  Jerry nodded slowly. “And the second?”

  Shawn peered around the vast compartment before answering. “It took them eight hours to find me.”

  “Holy hell! Eight hours?”

  “My primary beacon went dead and my secondary was only at half power. They said it was a miracle they found me at all.”

  “That’s…wow. But, what did you do for eight hours to pass the time?”

  “At first I recalled some of the last letters I’d received from back home, and then started with basic arithmetic tables and fuel equations. After that, I moved on to give myself fictitious enemy scenarios and then challenged myself to think my way through each of them.”

  “So you did the same basic stuff they tell you about in flight school?”

  “Yeah, but it only lasted for about five hours.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I tried not to let the sound of my own breathing drive me crazy,” he laughed, which Jerry shared uncomfortably. “Trust me: I’m sure it wouldn’t be like that again. I hear they have triple-redundant systems for everything in the flight suits nowadays.”

  “Yeah, the thing will even give you a back rub if you talk nice enough to it.”

  Shawn managed a smile. “Good to know.”

  Jerry clapped his hands as if to symbolize that a change of subject was in order, to which Shawn could scarcely disagree. “Hey, all this walking and jabbering’s got me famished. What say we head up to the wardroom and grab a bite to eat?”

  Shawn stretched a hand toward what he hoped was the compartment’s exit. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  *

  In the galley, Shawn and Jerry met up with the rest of the squadron, who were just sitting down to eat. After about thirty minutes of small talk and dining, Shawn heard his name being called over the compartment intercom.

  “Repeat, call for Lieutenant Commander Shawn Kestrel. Please respond at the nearest terminal.” The voice of the female officer repeated the message twice more before Shawn could get to a nearby computer.

  He held his IDC to the screen. “Shawn Kestrel,” he stated. “Open the channel.”

  It was Melissa Graves. Her dark hair was spilling over her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled. “Do you have time to talk, Commander?”

  “I’m down in the galley with my squadron right now.”

  “Oh,” she said with surprise. “I don’t want to bother you. It can wait until—”

  He dismissed whatever she was about to say with a kind smile. “Don’t worry about it. In fact, why don’t you come down? You can meet the rest of the team.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly, at the same time seeming relieved that he wanted to see her.

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  She smiled a thin line and nodded. “Okay. I’ll be down in less than ten minutes.”

  True to her word, Melissa was in the galley and standing at Shawn’s side in less than ten minutes. She and Roslyn Brunel locked eyes, smiling cordially at each other as Melissa took a seat opposite Shawn. Their brief exchange was not lost on him. He began to introduce Melissa to his squadron mates, giving their names as well as informing her of their call signs.

  When Jerry Santorum was presented, the Lieutenant offered Melissa a wink and a nod after the introduction. She smiled back as if she were a shy schoolgirl being introduced to a cute boy in her class. It was fair to say that this was also not lost on Shawn.

  “So Lieutenant Santorum,” Melissa began brazenly after all the introductions were finished. “What is the meaning behind your call sign?”

  Jerry smiled broadly. “Well, ma’am. That’s a long story.”

  “Come on, Jerry,” Brunel goaded, then nodded to Shawn. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear it again.”

  Shawn nodded in agreement. “I have to admit, I’m a bit curious about that myself.”

  Jerry’s smile got even bigger, if that were possible. “About two years ago, I was flying with the Sundevils off the carrier Totonagra, and we’d just jumped into the Tratavaris sector on pirate patrol.”

  There was a litany of “ooohs” and “ahhs” from all but Shawn and Melissa. Unfazed by their taunting, Jerry continued.

  “Anyway, it didn’t take us long to find them, either. They were lying in wait: a whole angry swam of them, behind a moon circling a gas giant.”

  “How many?” Melissa asked, intrigued.

  “They were like a hive of angry hornets. They had a modified freighter they were using as a light carrier, which could launch about twenty fighters. And they were mean sons of…well, they were a might testy, if you know what I mean.”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “So as soon as those pirates locked onto us, they launched everything they had. And, of course, the Totonagra launched three squadrons to intercept.”

  “Of course,” Melissa said as
she hung on his every word.

  Jerry seemed to be eating up the attention. He started swooping his hands through the air as if they were fighters, his explanation of the skirmish getting more and more dramatic.

  “So here I was, mano a mano with this enemy fighter, when all of a sudden my missile launcher locks up. I mean dead. And I’m already low on energy, so I’ve got minimal power for lasers.”

  The whole galley now seemed intent on Jerry’s story.

  “He’s hot on my tail, and I got nowhere to go but back to the carrier, right?”

  “Sure,” Melissa said.

  Jerry then leaned in closer to Melissa, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then it dawned on me, right? Like a…like a bolt of lightning or something. I pointed my fighter right at the carrier and hit the thrusters for full burn. I figured that pirate would’ve been crazy to follow me.”

  “Did he?” Melissa asked.

  “He did, but he wasn’t fast enough. I wedged my fighter through one of the open launch tubes and, in a feat of acrobatic mastery, maneuvered right out through the other side of the Totonagra without a single bit of damage.”

  “Except for the two tow tractors you smashed on your way out,” Roslyn piped in, then sipped casually at her drink.

  “Yeah, well, except for those. But, like I said, I came out the other side and performed a perfect nose over. I mean, it was textbook…right out of a training video. Then he was there—the pirate—right in my sights. That’s when I let him have it.”

  Melissa’s head cocked back in confusion. “But you said you were almost out of energy and your missile launcher was jammed. What did you ‘let him have it’ with?”