The hangar was bustling with activity, even though only a single Hawk was present. Thomas walked against the bulkhead, keeping clear of the craft as it swung around to face the airlock through which it had just landed. Even before the ramp had lowered, the ground crew began their efficient movements to rearm and resupply it.
He gave the crew a minute to do their jobs on the bird, ignoring the restless shifting behind him as his strike team waited impatiently. Like him, they wore their armored spacesuits, loaded with weapons and extra ammo. Everyone was still haunted by the dark, empty tomb that had been Toronto—now they had the chance to stop that from happening again, and they wanted to move now.
Finally, the flight chief waved at the troopers to approach. Thomas stepped off in his heavy suit, hearing the steady thumping of his team moving in single file behind him. He clambered up into the Hawk, passing the newly installed benches in the main cabin and nodding to the young operator seated at her side console.
“Master Rating Singh,” he said.
“Sir,” she murmured, unable to hold his gaze as her eyes swept over the armor and weapons piling into her ship. Thomas stepped forward and tapped the Hawk’s pilot on the shoulder.
“Hey, Wings,” Thomas said. “Captain wants to get my team over to Singapore—looks like the rebels are trying to board her.” Jack barely glanced up. He cycled through a series of displays on his console and tapped in quick commands.
“Okay.” He leaned over his shoulder to make sure Singh could hear. “I’ve tasked Spinners Three and Four to cover. I’m going to do a straight, fast approach, no jinking, and get the strike team locked on. What entry point do you want?”
His words were so clipped and efficient, it took Thomas a second to realize the question was aimed at him.
“Top-part midships.”
“Your team strapped in?”
Thomas glanced back to the main cabin. All the troopers were squeezed down on the benches. Buns gave him a thumbs-up.
“We’re ready to go, sir.”
Jack nodded and initiated departure procedures. The Hawk began to roll forward into the airlock even as Thomas took his own seat behind the pilot’s right shoulder. The flashing lights of the hangar gave way to the muted airlock, and then finally to the starry blackness of deep space. Thomas felt the gentle push as the Hawk thrust clear of Bowen.
Then he gasped as Jack threw open the throttle and hauled to port. The view ahead swung and then straightened with a hard jerk, and Thomas saw his distant target—the Terran destroyer Singapore. Flashes indicated anti-attack fire, most likely to keep the pack of rebel ships at bay. The line officer in him immediately began assessing the symbols on Jack’s 3D display, and experience suggested that the Hawk had a clear run to target.
That could change quickly, he knew, but it wasn’t his problem. His problem would be the rebel troops fighting their way through Singapore’s interior.
The dark form of the destroyer loomed against the blackness. Thomas gritted his teeth and gripped his seat as the Hawk decelerated and moved to a hover next to the hull. Jack nudged his bird in, clamping to the destroyer’s airlock.
“We’re secure,” he said.
Thomas unstrapped from his seat and floated into the zero-g environment, noting that his troopers were already moving to open the Hawk’s side airlock and make room for Buns to glide through. She activated the controls and did so.
“This is Bravo-One,” she reported on the strike circuit. “Entry point clear. Gravity in place, full atmo. No hostiles.”
“Deploy,” Thomas ordered.
“I’m going to lift off,” Jack said as the troopers began moving through the airlock. “I’m too much of a target here, and I reckon you don’t need an escape route like you usually do.”
Thomas’s strike instincts screamed at him to maintain the extraction point, but he knew Jack was right. Better to have the Hawk nearby in one piece, rather than splattered across Singapore’s hull.
“Agreed,” he said. “Just don’t stray too far.”
“I got your back.”
He patted Jack’s shoulder and moved to follow his troopers. The Hawk’s tactical operator, Singh, offered him a nervous smile as he passed.
“See you soon,” he said, giving her a friendly wink. Then he swung around to slide feet-first into the airlock, feeling the destroyer’s gravity field tug at him and create a “down” as he dropped through the tubing and thumped onto the deck.
His rifle was up to the guard, and he swept his eyes both directions down the familiar-looking passageway. His troopers had spread out behind what little cover was afforded, also watching both directions. The way aft was sealed off by an airtight door, but the route forward was much more exposed. The nearest exit had been buckled and torn free of its structure. Further ahead, another door had been blown completely out of its combing.
There was pounding and clanking in the distance.
Buns activated one of Singapore’s bulkhead panels to display a diagram of the ship’s interior.
“Mother, this is Alpha-One,” Thomas said on the command circuit. “Touchdown, ops yellow. Ready for orders, over.”
“This is Mother,” Bowen responded, “tactical control of your team is now shifted to callsign Raffles on this circuit. Break. Raffles, go.”
“This is Raffles actual,” a new voice replied on the circuit— the captain of Singapore himself. “My crew are in lockdown at their battle stations, mostly unarmed. The enemy force is currently contained on deck four, but they are breaking through our frames and moving forward.”
Thomas studied the destroyer’s layout on the display. The enemy was on the same deck as they were, six frames forward. If he could get access to one deck below, he could easily outflank them, but the ship was completely locked down.
“This is Alpha-One, roger,” he said. “Request access to hatches… 47F and 42D to position my troops.”
“Roger, we’ll unlock hatches 47F and 42D.”
Thomas signaled his troopers to close in on him as he strode forward. Hatch 47F loomed in the deck ahead.
“Alpha Team with me,” he ordered, “going down a deck and positioning ourselves forward of the hostiles. Bravo Team will hold position here until we’re ready, and then hit the hostiles from astern.” Buns nodded, and he scanned his troopers for any questioning looks. There were none. “Open that hatch,” he ordered.
Moving through, Alpha Team dropped to deck three and hustled forward. Thomas linked his forearm display to the helmet-cam of Alpha-Two up front, but kept his own eyes up to stay focused on one heavy step after another. It almost felt like an exercise, running in full armor through the familiar, well-lit passageway of a Terran warship. It was a dangerous illusion, he knew.
Alpha-Two reached hatch 42D and headed up the ladder to wrap armored hands around the handle, waiting for the order to open it.
“All units, Alpha-One,” he said on the strike team circuit. “Don’t be fooled by our familiar surroundings. This is not an exercise. This is not a simulation. We are engaging actual hostiles and there are actual friendlies around. Watch your fire. This is a Terran warship, and we want it to stay intact.”
He heard a deep chuckle beside him, and glared down at the grim amusement on Alpha-Three’s face. Then he motioned for the hatch to be opened.
The moment it did his team scrambled up the ladder back onto deck four, and moved toward the sealed door that lay aft. It was still intact, but the first blast to loosen it had already warped the top starboard corner. He could hear taps against it as the hostiles prepared another charge.
“All units, this is Alpha-One, in position. Bravo-One, over.”
“Bravo Team in position,” Buns replied.
“Faceplates down,” he ordered. “Assume vacuum conditions.”
Switch freq.
“Raffles, Alpha-One. We are go to take hostiles, over.”
“This is Raffles. Take hostiles.”
Switch freq.
“All units, Alpha-One. Alpha Team will commence the strike. Watch your fire—only shoot if you can positively identify the hostile.”
Thomas raised his rifle, reaching for the grenade launcher. A Terran warship door was designed to take a heavy pounding before it gave way. If he wanted to surprise the hostiles, he needed an overwhelming first strike.
“Alpha Team: target the door, one grenade each.”
Four more rifles lifted up, troopers settling into crouches.
“Fire.”
Even through the filtered audio of his helmet, the blast was deafening. The pale gray metal of the door vanished in a fireball that swept through the passageway, boiling over Alpha Team before vanishing into the sudden clouds of thick, chalky smoke. Thomas staggered at the force of the blast, but kept his feet and followed his troopers into the fray.
Even before he stepped over the twisted wreckage of the door he spotted the first dead rebel, reinforced spacesuit shredded by multiple scraps of charred metal. A pair of shots rang out ahead. He saw a heavy splash of red against the deckhead as the result of one of the impacts.
“This is Bravo-One,” he heard on the circuit, “visual on Alpha Team.”
“Visual on Bravo Team,” Alpha-Two replied. “Hostiles clear.”
“Bravo Team clear.”
Thomas did a quick sweep of his position at the destroyed door. Through the smoke he could make out nearly a dozen bodies splayed around him. None of them were moving.
“Alpha Team clear,” he reported.
His troopers emerged like golems through the blasted passageway, weapons swinging slowly over the dead hostiles as they checked for life signs. Thomas scanned the scene again, reassuring himself that the battle was in fact over.
Just like that, it was over.
“Raffles, Alpha-One,” he said on the command circuit. “Hostiles neutralized. Strike team assessing damages.”
“This is Raffles actual. Roger, Alpha-One, victor-mike-tango.”
Thomas smiled. The Astral Force had a saying, Line officers eat their young. And while it was usually verbal abuse toward the subbies, it also showed in the reluctance of line officers to acknowledge good work done by others. The coveted “bravozulu” was often cited as the highest compliment a line officer could pay anyone—dating back nearly a thousand years to the signal flags sent between sailing ships.
But a “victor-mike-tango”… Translated as “very many thanks” it was reserved as a personal message of appreciation from sender to recipient. If he hadn’t been a line officer himself for nearly twenty years, he doubted he’d have understood the depth of gratitude Singapore’s CO had just displayed.
Thomas scanned the bodies near him, then stepped back through the shattered door to give his troopers room. He listened as the captain made an update to his crew over the main broadcast, indicating that the internal threat had been eliminated. Even so, the attacking rebel ships still posed real danger to Singapore.
When Buns reported to him that the bodies had been secured, Thomas found himself strangely lacking in orders. He passed on the report to Singapore’s command team and requested further instructions. Word came back that the rebel ships were still harassing Singapore and Bowen, and that a Hawk transfer would be unsafe. With nowhere else to send them, the strike team was told to report to the hangar.
Alpha-One was invited to report to the bridge.
Thomas ordered his team to report to the hangar, then told Sergeant Buns and Alpha-Three to join him. If any more kudos were going to be handed out, Thomas wanted some of his troopers there to receive it.
Movement through the destroyer was slow, as every airtight bulkhead had to be opened and then resealed. With the ship at battle stations, the main passageways were deserted. Thomas and his troopers passed only one trio of Singapore crewmen, wearing emergency suits with helmets strapped to their waists. The trio gave Thomas a wide berth and hurried on their way.
Singapore’s bridge was much like any other—smaller than Bowen’s, with fewer consoles and crew, but the basic format still seated the captain and officer of the watch in the center, with the three warfare teams positioned around them.
Thomas weaved his way forward and stood before the center chairs. The captain was looking the other way, in conversation with his anti-attack warfare director, but the officer of the watch nodded to the troopers. Thomas saluted.
“Bowen strike team reporting, sir.”
The captain turned, and Thomas saw for the first time the face of Singapore’s commanding officer. His stomach twisted in a sudden vortex of emotion as Commander Sean Duncan’s face lit up in recognition and surprise, then a smile spread across his face.
“So that’s where you’ve been hiding for the past year.”
He glanced at Thomas’s suit, and Thomas breathed a silent prayer that it carried no rank insignia. He’d made his peace with his demotion and banishment, but meeting a career-long friend and peer… it still hurt. He and Duncan had done their initial line officer training together, and had maintained a friendly rivalry for years. When last they’d met, Lieutenant Commander Kane had been leading the race over Lieutenant Duncan.
Oh, he realized with a sickened heart, how much things could change.
“It’s good to see you again, sir,” he said aloud. “Congratulations on your command.”
Duncan reached down a hand, which Thomas gently shook in his armored glove. Thomas’s two troopers looked confused at the friendly exchange.
“I had no idea you were back in the Corps,” Duncan said. “Or that you jarheads had created some sort of elite unit.” Then a sudden flurry of symbols on the bridge sphere stole his attention. He barked commands and Thomas watched as the swarm of rebel ships scattered under Singapore’s defensive fire. Duncan turned back.
“Wasn’t I lucky to get boarded when you were nearby,” he said, glancing down at Thomas before watching his display again.
“Just doing our job, sir,” he replied carefully. He glanced instinctively at the nearest display, looking for the hostiles and Bowen’s relative position. “As soon as you tidy up the mess outside, we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Looks like the rebel ships are starting to pull back. On their previous swarm attack, one of them looked like it was trying to clamp us, but then one of your Hawks engaged it point-blank with missiles. Ballsy move, Thomas.”
“Spinner-One?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s our boy Jack Mallory, sir. Still as crazy as ever—and a lieutenant, now.” Duncan nodded with no small amount of pride. He’d been Jack’s first XO.
“I trained that cocky, talented little punk, turned him into something useful, it seems.”
“I was happy to finish the job, sir.”
Beyond Duncan, flashes of fire erupted from the rebel ships. Singapore easily deflected the desperate attack and Duncan gave the order to back off, putting distance between his ship and the enemy. Bowen was inbound at speed and was already taking over the front line of defense.
“I can’t believe how quickly these kids are growing up,” Duncan mused. “I guess war does that. Bloody war and sickly season, eh, Thomas?” The old naval toast, wishing for senior officers to die so that there’d be promotions all round. The entire conversation was getting very uncomfortable.
“I should head back to the hangar, sir,” Thomas said suddenly, “so that we’re ready to depart as soon as there’s a window for the transfer.”
“Great to see you, Thomas. I’ll look for you when we’re back in Terra—what’s your home unit?”
Thomas was already turning to go, but the innocent question stopped him. Again he saw his troopers watching him, and knew that truth was the only answer.
“Admiral Bowen, sir. We’ll see you back home.” He shooed Buns and Alpha-Three ahead of him, and kept walking even as he heard Duncan give an order to the officer of the watch.
“Contact Bowen and arrange for a transfer of Commander Kane and his team as soon as the hostiles disengage.”
Buns’ eyes snapped over to him. He forcibly gripped her suit and kept her moving.
“Keep walking, Sergeant.”