“Ironclad Flight Control, this is Ironclad Aurora COD Two, requesting permission to depart, over.”
“COD Two, Flight. You’re cleared for departure. Hangar bay doors are open. Aurora Tactical One and Three are waiting for you on the porch, over.”
“COD Two copies. Clearing hangar bay doors now, over.”
“COD Two, Flight. Godspeed. Safe journey, gentlemen. Flight out.”
As soon as Ironclad’s COD slipped out into open space, it was flanked by two TR-3Bs, and the three black triangular craft leapt to FTL in unison. The journey had begun as a routine personnel transfer. Technicians and specialists were being ferried to the Mars Base to assist with the installation of the additional shield generators and their accompanying power plant. They had originated at Deep Space Platform Three, orbiting Saturn, but at this particular moment, Saturn was on the opposite side of Jupiter, half way across the solar system from Mars. It meant a trip on Destrier to Lunar Operations Command, then a transporter trip down to the base, followed by a three day layover until Ironclad arrived to pick them up. Another transporter trip up to the carrier, then finally on to Mars.
However, Ironclad was suddenly ordered to investigate a possible incursion detected by the new sensor net. It was decided rather than delay the team’s arrival at Mars any longer, they would take a COD the remaining distance.
The trio of Solar Warden craft exited FTL on the lee side of Mars’ larger moon, Phobos, careening around the red planet to complete its three orbits a day.
They weren’t at sub-light for long.
“This is Ironclad Aurora Tactical One to Mars Base Flight Control. We’re picking up a bogey approaching our position from the far side of the planet. Do you have any assets in the air, over?”
“Ironclad Aurora Tactical One, Mars Base Flight Control. That’s a negative–we currently have no assets in the air, over.”
“Flight, Tactical One. Bogey is approaching from 37 degrees north on the eastern horizon. Do you have it on your sensors, over?”
“Tactical One, Flight. We have the bogey on our display now. Scanning to identify target, over.”
“Tactical One copies. Standing by, over.”
The Mars Base sensors were more accurate than those aboard the TR-3Bs or the COD, and thus they were able to identify the incoming target much more quickly. Within moments, the comm clicked.
“Tactical One. Flight. Asset on approach vector has been identified as an enemy tactical reconnaissance saucer, unknown class. It is coming in hot. Recommend you take evasive action. We are scrambling a division from our air wing to offer assistance, over.”
“Tactical One copies. Taking evasive action. Tell your boys to hurry it up, over.”
The Ironclad’s CAG shot forward to engage the saucer while his wingman hung back to offer defensive counter air for the COD. The enemy saucer continued its approach, not wavering while the CAG targeted it. Then, just as the TR-3B achieved weapons lock, the saucer changed course and jinked as the black triangle darted past. It executed a bat-turn as the CAG came about to pursue. It targeted the Solar Warden craft, and fired.
“Mars Flight Control, Ironclad Aurora Tactical Three! Tactical One is down! I say again! Tactical One has been eliminated! Request immediate assistance from Mars air wing! I say again! Request immed–”
The comm went silent. Mars flight control watched the entire engagement on their tactical display, and saw the enemy destroy Aurora Tactical Three, then to everyone’s horror, the COD disappeared from their ARI. The flight control room went silent as everyone present descended into a state of shock.
“Flight, Mars Aurora Tactical One. Have the bandit on our sensors, and are moving to intercept now. Funny thing, Flight. It’s just hanging in space, like it’s waiting for us. We’re going in for the kill now, over.”
“Cody, as soon as we’re docked, put that sensor telemetry on a data key for me so I can show it to the Admiral,” Scarecrow said.
“Will do, Sir.”
“Explain how they work again?”
“You program it with a specific code, then place it against the device you want to download your data into. It connects with the original device that holds the information you want to transfer, then allows you to view the information on the new device. I’m surprised Major Cooper didn’t go over this with you. It’s basic tech for us.”
“I think she started to, but that lesson got interrupted when I was called away to deal with my first BCMS. Things got a little murky after that, and it got missed.” Scarecrow switched the comm from internal. “Flight, Tactical One, please notify the Admiral I need to meet with him in his office as soon as I’m aboard, over.”
“Tactical One, Flight. The Admiral is already in his office. We’ll inform him you’re on your way to see him, over.”
“Sir, you need to see this,” Scarecrow said as he ducked through the hatch and lunged at Reynolds desk.
“I’ve got some news as well CAG,” the rear admiral replied.
“Alright Sir, go ahead.” Scarecrow took a step back and saluted as he deferred to the rear admiral.
“First the good news. Commander Williams is out of the regeneration pod. His leg is much better, and the doctor has begun treatment to fully restore it. He’s optimistic that Williams should be back to duty by the end of the month.”
“That’s great! And Hutch? Did he say anything about him?”
“Hutch is still in his pod, but the doctor is much more hopeful than he was initially. He’s confident that Al will make a full recovery.”
“Wow …” Scarecrow released a heavy sigh as he flashed an expression of joy mixed with relief. “You just made my day. My week. Heck, my year!”
Reynolds smiled at Scarecrow’s reaction. After so many trials and setbacks, the good news was certainly welcome.
“Hey, you’re getting married in three days,” the rear admiral said as he smiled at his premier pilot. “Are you ready for that?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
“Question is, are you looking forward to it?” Reynolds flashed a wary glance at Scarecrow.
“That should go without saying,” Scarecrow said. “I just hope Hutch will be out of his regeneration pod so he can still be my best man.”
“Yes, I agree.” Reynolds paused for a moment, delaying the inevitable. “Now for the bad news.”
“Do I really want to hear this, Sir?”
“It’s not a matter of ‘want’ as much as it is ‘need,’ Commander.”
“Alright, but make it as fast and painless as possible. You need to see what I’ve got as well.”
“Black Bart is back.” Reynolds statement was blunt.
Scarecrow cursed as he looked to off to one side. “That was the last thing I wanted to hear at this particular moment. It almost cancels out all of your good news …” He hesitated to ask, “What happened, Admiral?”
“A COD on its way to the Mars Base, loaded with personnel, was destroyed. It was accompanied by two TR-3Bs from Ironclad, which were destroyed along with it. It took them out just as they were on final approach. Mars Defense Force launched a division of TR-3Bs to assist, but they were too late. They chased Black Bart as far as the asteroid belt …” Reynolds hesitated, not wanting to continue.
“Don’t say it, Sir. It greased them as well?”
Just as they were approaching the asteroid field. It fled all the way, then turned on them just as they approached the field. Afterwards, it disappeared among the asteroids. Mars Base thinks it’s lurking in there, waiting to for its next opportunity to strike.”
“Can’t they track it inside the asteroid belt?”
No. Too many exotic metals. They confuse our sensors.”
“So what are they going to do about it? Just let it have free reign and wreak havoc on our assets?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do, Steve. It singlehandedly took out six TR-3Bs, not to mention a COD loaded with personnel.”
“We’ve got to do something–”
“Let’s leave that discussion for later, shall we? Show me what you’ve got. You were pretty intent when you rushed in here.”
Scarecrow handed the rear admiral his data key. Reynolds held it up for a moment, then pressed the tiny device onto the side of his tablet while Scarecrow offered his report.
“Our mission was a success, Sir, but just as we were about to deploy our ordnance, that showed up.” He motioned to the information now coming up on Reynolds tablet. “Lieutenant Matheson said he’d never seen anything so big.”
Scarecrow eyed the Battle Group Commander as he viewed Cody’s sensor telemetry. He watched the blood drain from Reynold’s face. The rear admiral slumped back into his chair, a bearing of absolute disbelief and distress clouding his countenance.
“Do you realize what you’ve got here?” He made a weak motion with his hand at his ethereal monitor.
“No, Sir. What is it?”
Reynolds was almost afraid to tell his temporary CAG what he was looking at. “In Solar Warden, there’s a legend …” Reynolds released a heavy sigh along with his explanation. “… A legend of the …” he paused. “… The ‘White Whale.’”
“White Whale?” Scarecrow’s response was incredulous. “You mean like Captain Ahab? Moby Dick?”
“The very same.” Reynolds snapped out of his cloud of fear. He leaned forward and spun his tablet around as he rose to stand beside his temporary CAG.
“In the early days, even before the start of Solar Warden, there were stories, tales, myths, whatever you want to call them. Of a massive saucer, as big as a city. With a diameter as wide as Manhattan Island is long. At first it was just a signal that was occasionally picked up. More powerful than anything previously detected.
“But in the ‘80s, there were random sightings, messages that reported something massive had been spotted. Then the signals would go dark, and the senders would never be heard from again. But this,” he said as he motioned to the screen of his tablet, “this is the most definitive proof yet. This is like videotaping your kid’s birthday party, and Bigfoot strolls into the backyard and walks right in front of your camera to help himself to cake.”
Reynolds stared in silence at his monitor for a moment, pensive. Then without warning, he turned to Scarecrow and showed him a wry smile.
“Man, you really do have a horseshoe up your butt, don’t you?”
“I prefer to think of it as having an angel on my shoulder, Sir.”
“Whichever, Commander. I’ll contact Command and inform them of his. This is definitely a game-changer.”
“Aye, Sir. If you need me, I’ll be in sick bay, checking on Vince. Then I have another meeting with my team to finalize our plan to eliminate Black Bart. And I have some research to do with regards to our defense of Mars.” Scarecrow cast a glance at his CO.
“And now, of course, we have another problem to add to the list.”
“Good morning, Petty Officer … Banks, is it?” Scarecrow said as he entered the magazine, a cavernous warehouse located within the bowels of Nautilus. Huge racks held all of the weapons and ordnance in the ship’s arsenal, which included a variety of missiles, torpedoes and armed drones.
The TR-3B pilot stepped through the hatch with his tablet in hand, the wraith-like screen activated. He noticed a station to the left, surrounded by multitudinous small notes, photos, and various bits of minutia, occupied by a stout, middle-aged NCO. He turned and approached the balding petty officer as he sat hunched over his console like some arcane wizard, conjuring dark magic. The NCO heard Scarecrow’s greeting and spun around on his aged stool, causing it to groan and creak. Upon seeing the commander, he stood and saluted.
“That’s Chief Petty Officer, Sir! Chief Petty Officer Randall Banks. But everybody calls me ‘Randy.’” The chief petty officer cast an impish smile at the commander as he added the last statement, his round face and ruddy cheeks augmented by a huge, cookie-duster moustache perched beneath a broad, flat, rosy nose. His pale blue eyes sparkled as he spoke with a course British accent. “What can I do for ya this morning, Commahnder?”
“I need some information, Chief …” Scarecrow peered down at his tablet as he spoke.
“Pardon me for a moment, Sir.” The petty officer held up his hand, his sausage-like fingers stained with grease. He turned to address a crewman whose body shape was the antithesis of his own, who was pushing an anti-grav lift with a bundle of small missiles on it. “Oiy! If I’ve told you once, Dennis, I’ve told you a 1,000 times, the R-26’s don’t go beside the GSM charges. They go beside the J-WEM missiles. If you put ‘em beside the GSMs, I’ll nevah be ayble to find ‘em!”
The lanky 20-something waved at the petty officer in acquiescence and turned the lift around to head down another aisle.
“I swear, Commahnder, there are days when I’m convinced that boy’s muvah dropped him on his ‘ead when he was a wee lad! Now, what can I do for ya?”
Scarecrow’s eyebrows shot up at the chief’s slight, but he recovered and posed his query. “I have a bit of a problem, Chief. I’ve been reading about this missile. Actually I think it’s a torpedo, but it’s guided, like a missile.” He held his tablet up so the petty officer could see what he was referring to.
“Right. That’s a Mark III STS-29 Partisan guided missile, Sir. Nasty little buggahs! Wanna see one? I’ve got a 141 of ‘em in stock. Oiy! Dennis!” He began to wave Dennis back, but Scarecrow stopped him.
“No, Chief, I don’t really need to see one, but I do need some clarification on its yield. This information is a bit confusing.”
“That’s because its yield is variable, Sir, dependin’ on its applicay-tion. You can pre-program the yield, or you can program it on the fly, ‘case your mission parameters change unexpectedly. What is it you want to do, exactly?”
Scarecrow dropped his tablet to his side and stared at the CPO with a mild, frustrated air. “To put it quite simply, Chief,” Scarecrow said as he motioned with his free hand, “I want to destroy a Leviathan class mother ship from the inside, but with the smallest possible blast radius.”
“Don’t want much, do ya?”
Scarecrow eyed the chief petty officer with a combination of frustration and impatience. “What’ve you got for me, Chief?”
The petty officer smiled a devious smile as he raised a bushy eyebrow and motioned with a slight jerk of his large, sweaty head, rattling his comb-over as he did. “Follow me, Commahnder!”
They strode down one of the aisles to a series of cradles holding a diverse assortment of ordnance. The chief stopped in front of them and turned to face Scarecrow, resting his arm on the nose of a bomb, playing with the safety tag as he did. “Now,” he peered up into the ether as he spoke, “if I’m not mistayken, the displaycement of a Leviathine class muvah ship is approximately … eight-point-six million metric tons. And you’re gonna put the missile inside, then detonayte it? Not target it from the outside?”
“Correct. But I also want the blast to destroy or at least cripple any mother ships that may be in close proximity as well. Think ‘fleet,’ Chief.”
“Right. Then to vayporize a ship that large, and destroy or cripple any neighboring vessels, if they’re close enough …” The chief’s eyebrows shot up at his next statement. “Now mind! The snayke’eds use a distinct alloy for their ‘ulls, Commahnder. It resists damage from external, secondary explosions. We’ll need to factor that into our calulaytions. So, to do the job you want, you’re gonna need a yield of … approximately … 40… six … point … eight, megatons.” He nodded smartly as he finished.
“Forty-six point eight? Approximately?”
“Approximately. Don’t quote me, mind.”
“And what about the blast radius?”
“Wif that kind of detonay-tion.” Banks scratched the back of his head as he calculated. “Depending on what type of explosive charge you employ …”
“The smallest blast radius possible, Chief.”
“Smallest, eh? Well … if you used a trinnium-cobalt charge, then the lethal blast radius would only be …” he stared off into space with a contemplative air once more, “…’bout 200 miles. Now mind, the shock wave would reach much farver, but the EM pulse would dissipate after only 300 miles. Would that work for you, Commahnder?”
“Forty-six megatons?” Scarecrow’s raised eyebrows indicated genuine surprise, “And only 200 miles?”
“Forty-six point eiyght,” The chief corrected.
“–Point eight. Right.”
“Yep. That’s trinnium-cobalt for ya. Now mind–you’re not just dealing wif the missile, Commahnder. You also have to factor in the explosion of the muvah ship as well, not to mention any others that get tayken out beside it. Those ships have four massive MFD’s, and I’m sure you’re already aware of the lethal blast radius they produce when one a dem goes ‘boom.’”
“Yes, chief. All too well,” Scarecrow said, his tone sober. “Okay, then. Which one of these will do all that?”
The chief smiled his naughty little smile once more. He waddled down the aisle a short distance, and patted a missile with a dark, anodized-blue nose. “This one.” He smiled with pride, as if he was presenting a child who’d just received an award. He leaned in and accentuated the nickname. “I call ‘er, me ‘Auntie Gladys.’”
“Sorry Chief, but I just gotta ask!” Scarecrow shook his head and chuckled.
“I call ‘er dat, because when I was a wee lad back in Birmingham, it took quite a bit to set my sweet little auntie off, but when she did go off, you better make bloody sure you weren’t within reach of ‘er stubby little arms!”
“Okay, Chief,” Scarecrow said as he snickered again. “Give me the official name for this skull-crusher, along with all of its specifications.”