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  “No, Admiral,” Blackwell said, leveling his eyes at Cody. “I want you to defend the lives and property of peaceful civilians who should be treated as future Unified citizens. Is there going to be a problem with that?”

  Whatever Darius Cody was about to say, Hansen noted with satisfaction that the admiral simply swallowed it and kept his mouth shut. He may be a pompous ass, but at least he’s a smart one.

  “No, sir. No problem at all,” Cody managed to stammer out, finally.

  “Excellent,” Blackwell said in elation, then looked to Coralin to continue handing out the remaining assignments.

  “Admiral Hansen, you will take the 7th Squadron to the Ogolo system. Once you’ve secured the area and made contact with the 92nd Unified Marines, form a defensive perimeter around the system. You may use your best judgment with respect to how you deploy the Kafaran and Rugorian units under your command. I believe Commodore Savath’s skills in that area will be invaluable. You will then contact us once those objectives are complete.”

  Salus nodded with satisfaction, in full agreement that the Kafaran commander’s wisdom in matters against the Meltranians could prove exceptionally helpful. “Yes, sir.”

  Coralin then looked to Dar’an. “Admiral, you will take the 9th Squadron to Klef under my indirect command.”

  Dar’an raised a curious eyebrow. “Your indirect command, sir?”

  “Yes. All our forces will depart in twelve hours, where I will be in overall command. The Elek system is thirteen light-years from here. Once we jump to that point, operational command of the squadrons will fall to their respective commanders and the fleet will subdivide. I’ll be transferring my flag to the carrier Franklin, remaining with the 9th as the overall tactical coordinator.” He then scanned each of the men’s faces. “A specially coded communications link will be provided to each of you shortly, which will allow all of you to maintain an open frequency directly to the Franklin and, thus, to one another.”

  Fleet Admiral Blackwell, still seated, spoke up from the left side of Coralin. “Are there any questions, gentleman?” Save for the labored breathing of Darius Cody, the room was silent. “Good. Then Godspeed to you and your fleets.”

  “We depart in exactly twelve hours,” Coralin finished. With that, Blackwell and Coralin stood and left the room, with Admiral Dar’an on their heels. Hansen stood, but was stopped by Cody’s firm grip on his forearm as he neared the door.

  “A piece of advice, Hansen. From an old acquaintance.”

  Salus looked to the open doorway that was beckoning him, but his hopes for a quick escape were blocked when the overweight admiral stepped into his path. At least Cody didn’t try to dignify whatever working relationship we have as friendship. Shrugging away from the admiral’s hand, Salus gave him a curious stare. “Yes?”

  “If I were you, I’d position those Kafarans right where they belong,” Cody said, then chuckled menacingly.

  “And where’s that, Admiral?”

  Cody’s head rolled from side to side, followed by a shrug. “Well, I hear they make a great shield.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Better to keep our forces back, and let more … experienced races take the hits. Am I right?”

  “You run your people the way you like, Darius. Don’t presume to tell me how to run mine.”

  Cody reeled in mock surprise. “Don’t tell me for a cold minute that you actually believe the Kafarans are here to help us.”

  Hansen nodded. “They’re in this as deep as we are, maybe more so.”

  “If you believe that, Salus, I’ve got a used planet I could sell you on the cheap.”

  “I’ll believe what I like.” Hansen turned to leave, but was stopped when another hand grasped his shoulder and spun him back in the direction of Cody.

  “Listen to me, Hansen. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be taking orders from me in the near future, not that tired old man or that three-armed excuse for a strategist. Best you remember that.”

  Salus pulled away and quickly grabbed two handfuls of Cody’s dress jacket, pushing the bulkier man against the conference room wall with a thud. “Remember? What I remember is a bully, someone who’s used to pushing people around to get his way. You’ll get no such groveling from me, Cody. And if I find that you have in any way endangered the people or cultures we’ve sworn to protect and help, I’ll have you in front of a JAG court so fast your head will spin.”

  Cody’s fat face turned into a threatening grin. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Hansen. You know, it’s good to have friends in powerful positions, but far worse if they’re your enemies.”

  Salus, his heart racing, released Cody’s uniform with a push. “You have your orders, Admiral. See that you follow them.” He then turned and let the briefing room doors close behind him.

  Cody straightened his uniform, his eyes burning into the spot where Hansen had stood. “I will, Admiral,” he hissed. “You bet your ass I will.”

  “Nothing makes a man more aware of his capabilities and of his limitations than those moments where he must push aside all the familiar defenses of ego and vanity, and accept by staring—with the fear that is normal to a man in combat—into the face of Death.”

  -Major Robert Johnson, United States Air Force

  Old Earth Calendar, 1946

  Chapter 1

  The primary hangar bay of the Duchess of York was a bustle of activity. The immense compartment, nearly six hundred feet long and flooded with the soft white light from the distant overhead, was a manmade cavity of the latest design. The port and starboard sides were lined with alcoves full of Maelstrom fighters waiting to launch, each pointed at a forty-five degree angle to the centerline of the ship toward the large inner doors that protected the bay from the vacuum of space. Currently there were fifty such fighters readying for launch, their respective maintenance crews giving each craft one final check, with another twenty fighters being pulled from storage in a nearly identical hangar directly below the main deck. In the center of the hangar were four large elevators, outlined with stripes of alternating black and yellow bands, being pushed to their limits to retrieve craft from the hangar below.

  Commander Shawn Kestrel exited from the lift that led directly to the hangar from the pilots’ briefing room two decks above. Upon his arrival, the commanding officer of 535th Interceptor Squadron was nearly toppled over by an ensign rushing to one of the waiting fighters, a stylus in one hand and a personal communicator in the other. The junior officer, one whom Kestrel had seen briefly in passing, was shouting something obscure into the communicator. As Shawn trained his ear in the proper direction, he could clearly discern the ensign emphasizing that “if Skull Six isn’t ready to launch in the next sixty seconds there’ll be hell to pay tonight, and both you and your immediate supervisor will go down to see the old man together.” Not noticing him until the final moment, the ensign smoothly sidestepped the commander before the imminent collision, offering a quick “excuse me, sir” and a salute as the younger man quickly carried on with fighter preparations without missing so much as a step. Shawn, momentarily frozen in his tracks, could only watch as the young man angrily stuffed the comm unit into his pocket and then began pointing and shouting something unintelligible at the enlisted man who was straddling the top of the black-and red-tipped Red Skull fighter number six.

  The fighters themselves, sleek and beautiful, were the envy of any pilot worth his salt. At the front end of the craft was an ample pair of windows that were contoured to the front of the hull, which was just wide enough for the single crewman it took to pilot the nimble craft. At the tapered aft end of the ship, jutting out on either side, were wide wing structures that fanned out and forward, giving the craft better handling during atmospheric flight; they were also used to house the small laser batteries for the craft, not to mention the multiple missile hard points underneath. At the rear were the powerful thrusters, capable of propelling the vessel at incredible speeds both in and out of the
atmosphere. All the vessel’s thrust during tight combat came from the fusion-powered engines built into the back of the craft, themselves accounting for nearly three-quarters of the fighter’s overall weight. In the last few months, the older Seminole fighters had finally been phased out in favor of these new ones, a move that Shawn had approved. With ten squadrons now manning the awesome craft, he hoped it would be enough to hold off the Meltranians—who seemed as though they were becoming better shots by the day.

  As Shawn approached his craft, with its large black “1” painted on the two large stabilizers at the craft’s stern, the crew chief exited the small hatch on the port side after just finishing his preflight check.

  Trent Maddox rubbed his sweaty hands on his dark green coveralls as he holstered a chrome micro-spanner in his breast pocket. “She’s all ready for you, boss. Everything checks out one hundred percent.”

  “Thanks,” Shawn offered with a smile and a brief handshake. “Did you get that little … what did you call it?”

  “A shimmy.”

  “Right. That shimmy … did you get it worked out?”

  Trent nodded, then patted the side of the fuselage. “Just a minor miscalibration in the inertial negators. Nothing to worry about,” he said as he lovingly patted the fighter.

  “If McAllister sees you do that, she’ll have your head.”

  Trent scowled at Shawn, then leaned in to nuzzle the fighter. “He doesn’t understand what we have, dear. Pay no attention to the primitive.”

  “Get off my fighter, you freak.” Shawn laughed as he slapped Trent on the shoulder. “Say, where is Clarissa, anyway?”

  “She’s got bridge duty,” Trent said, then held his hand to the side of the fighter. “That’s given us a lot of alone time, hasn’t it, my pet?”

  “Stop talking like that. You’re creeping me out.”

  Trent’s eyes shifted to Shawn. “Well, if you hadn’t completely wrecked our last ship, I wouldn’t have had to find a new object for my affections.”

  “I wrecked—!” Shawn began, but was silenced when Trent rushed to him and put a finger to his lips.

  “Shhh. She’ll hear you,” he said, then inclined his head toward the fighter.

  Shawn pushed Trent’s hand away. “We’ll talk about this later.” Halfway up the ladder to the cockpit, Shawn was stopped by the sound of a woman calling his name. Looking over his shoulder, he could see Melissa Graves quickly approaching. Tossing his helmet onto the pilot’s seat, Shawn stepped down from the craft just as she neared. She seemed to be out of breath.

  “Hey there, what’s the rush?” he asked.

  Winded, she took several quick breaths before speaking. “I just … wanted to see you off, that’s all.”

  Shawn brushed a lock of auburn hair away from her eyes. “You haven’t been down here in weeks.”

  Holding her hands up, she smiled brightly. “Well … I’m here now.”

  “I can see that.”

  “So, are you going to give me a kiss for good luck?” she asked, slowly stepping closer to him.

  Placing his arms around her waist, he looked down into her green eyes. “I thought I was the one who needed the luck.”

  “I seem to recall being your date for that little impromptu celebration on Melinius IV last week.”

  Shawn remembered both the evening and Melissa’s choice of attire very well. “That was a hard-won victory. We deserved that party.”

  Melissa reached up and straightened Shawn’s air supply hose. “And you got to go with me, which makes you pretty lucky.”

  “But that was last week. This is now.”

  “A date with me is worth two weeks of luck on your part, Mister Kestrel. Besides, I’m the one always sitting here, waiting for you to come back. It’s nerve-wracking.”

  The voice of the Duchess’s flight control officer boomed through the hangar’s PA system. “All pilots, stand by for launch. Repeat: all pilots stand by for launch. Enemy vessels in sectors 3, 7, 8, and 10.”

  Pulling Shawn down by his collar, Melissa kissed him passionately.

  “I’d say that was you kissing me for luck,” he said.

  “It was worth it,” she replied with satisfaction, then nestled her head into his chest. “I love you.”

  Shawn stroked the back of her head, then placed a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. “I love you, too.”

  Releasing him, Melissa stepped back slowly. “I’m not going to say it.”

  Be careful. He didn’t want her to say it either. They both knew he would do everything he could to get back to her in one piece. “Good.”

  Stepping up and into the cockpit, Shawn slipped on his helmet and strapped himself in. Flipping a series of switches, he brought the fighter’s voice activation system online. “And how are we doing this morning?”

  “All systems are operating at one hundred percent efficiency, Commander,” the synthesized female voice responded. While the voice was similar in tone to that of his beloved Sylvia’s Delight, there was still something a little off. Trent had been tinkering with it in an attempt to make the fighter feel more like home. To a large extent it had worked, while in others—ones harder to measure—it made Shawn miss his Hypervarion Mark-IV even more.

  “Initiate engine startup sequence and charge all weapons.”

  Shawn felt the familiar hum of the engines as the power core came online. On the monitor before him, he watched as each of the Maelstrom’s weapons systems went from yellow to green to signify their status. After all systems were checked, there was a perfunctory beep from the computer. “Engine’s at station keeping, and all weapons have been charged,” it said, paused, then huskily added, “dear.”

  A smile crept across the commander’s face, and when he looked out below, he saw Trent mimicking the gesture. Shawn gave his friend a thumbs-up, which was followed by Trent returning it.

  “Ripper one-zero-one,” the voice of the ship’s flight control and operations officer, Commander Weberity, came through the headset embedded in Shawn’s helmet. “Ready for launch?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Excellent. Stand by for final launch sequence.”

  The computer momentarily took control of Shawn’s fighter, maneuvering it toward the now-open launch bay doors. Looking out to his left, Shawn noted Rylani Saltori’s Red Skull fighter was likewise poised to launch.

  “You still owe me a drink, Hammer,” Shawn said, catching the attention of the Red Skulls’ commanding officer by using his call sign.

  Saltori’s olive-skinned face looked across the bay to Shawn and grinned. “I’ll take care of that as soon as we’re out of debriefing.”

  “Looking forward to it. Hopefully the Meltranians will tuck tail and run just like last time.”

  “I hope so, Shawn,” Saltori said, his voice sounding almost distant. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “Scuttlebutt has it that you’re up for carrier wing commander,” Shawn said with a note of pride.

  “Yeah,” Saltori responded coolly, “I’ve heard the same rumors.”

  “There, you see? You’ll be stuck behind a desk in no time.”

  Saltori laughed. “At this point I could use the rest. Besides, the only thing I’ll have to fire is my pen when I make those checkmarks declining your own promotion.”

  Shawn smirked. “Something tells me that little encounter is a long way off.”

  “Gentleman,” Commander Weberity’s voice echoed. “Link up with your respective squadrons at vector one-sigma once you’re clear of the carrier.”

  “Roger,” Shawn replied, then heard Saltori give the same confirmation. “Good hunting, old man.”

  Saltori smiled, then offered Shawn a relaxed salute. “You too.”

  Shawn reached and switched on the navigational computers with a single throw of two toggles, allowing the fighter’s systems to enter their final diagnostic mode before flight. As soon as the computer reported that all systems were green, he reached to his righ
t and pressed a red blinking button to indicate that the magnetic restraints had been disengaged, and that he was standing by to launch. “Computer, patch me through to the rest of the squadron.”

  A beep sounded. “Channel open, dear.”

  “Rippers, this is Commander Kestrel.”

  “Go ahead,” Lieutenant Commander Roslyn Brunel’s calm voice came back. “We’re all ready for the big speech, sir.”

  “I’ll keep this short, people. You all got the same briefing I did, so I’m not going to reinvent the wheel and tell you what job we have to do or how to do it. Once I’ve cleared the hangar, I want everyone in the squadron to form up on my wing into a trailing-V formation. The rest of the squadrons will arrange themselves on their prearranged vectors accordingly and wait for the order to attack. Hopefully the Meltranians aren’t expecting a forward assault from fighters, so we may just have the advantage here. Stay tight, but be on the alert for anything. Everyone switch to coded frequency Alpha-6 and confirm.”

  A small screen folded out from the side of the control panel on Shawn’s right. On it were a series of outlines that indicated the status of each of the six fighters in his squadron. When each of the lights had changed from yellow to green, Shawn nodded. “Flight Control Officer, Ripper One is ready to depart.”

  “Roger that, Commander,” Weberity replied.

  A moment later, the white lights of the hangar bay changed to a dim red glow. As the last of the maintenance crew evacuated the area, a yellow light above the open launch doors began to spin on its axis. A series of red lights on Kestrel’s control panel turned from yellow to blue, then the large inner doors of the hangar bay slowly began to seal themselves behind his fighter. As soon as they were sealed, the outer door—about fifty yards away—opened quickly. Shawn reached up and retracted the landing pads, allowing the fighter to hover free of the deck. In the space beyond the open doors, Shawn watched a Kafaran destroyer move down on its z-axis as it made way for the fighters that were about to launch. When the destroyer was fully cleared, Shawn’s fighter rocketed from the Duchess of York.