Scorpion Relay - Part 12

At Command headquarters, for the majority of the staff and regular support personnel, it was an ordinary day helping those who sat in a large circle wearing gold shoulder boards by running reports and coordinating various actions with different branches of the fleet. Space was vast. There were hundreds of ships out there manned by their crews, altogether numbering in the hundreds of thousands, and more were in training at Highlight with the majority holding to the expectation of being given an assignment among those who already have. The fleet was growing in numbers, and the ships being built—some of them were newer and fresher in design—needed valuable officers and on-board support personnel to make sure the peace kept at all times. This much they all knew and understood better than most who did not have that heavy of rank insignia on their collar, or on their shoulders and cuff links. The antigravity lift opened at interjunction 1-Sierra-10, one of the top ten decks where the senior-most-ranking Admiralty worked. A support staff member discretely rushed the pad through twin doors sharing half of the fleet logo, then through a twin-sliding-door security checkpoint where an approved palm print was required to gain access. A tall white beam of light passed beneath her palm, the palm reader flashed green as the locks to the doors clicked off and the doors hissed open to the conference room where twenty Admirals were sitting around a shared finely-polished oval-shaped table—

"—The USSC Haleybird and the Mustang are in sector one-three-two, we can divert them to those coordinates without compromising the security on that section of the border. The Voyager, and the Daedalus have better long-range-sensor capability and a more sensitive communications array to supplement the listening posts in that sector. . ." a female head looked up sharply near the far end of the head of the table, "Yes, Lieutenant?"

She stood primly straight-backed and held the PADD in front of her with both hands like a letter, "New information has come through from the deep-space asset, Admiral."

Admiral Carrell reached out her hand to accept the PADD, "Thank you." she said cordially, then nodded to excuse the staff member.

Her thumbprint caused a brief series of acknowledging chirping sounds, then numerous more signaled the screen was filling with paragraphs of text and data.

The conversation around the rest of the table quieted down as attention fell on Admiral Carrell. Her facial expression changed as she read through the data on the PADD. . .

". . . Problem, Admiral?" a four-star five seats closer to the head of the far end of the table asked directly.

". . .Our 'ghost story' has encountered some unexpected surprises since getting underway. . . It would seem the Rotelans may be suspicious of an incursion attempt. . . The ghost story encountered a reconnaissance probe that was sniffing around for them. . . They weren't detected, but they had a close call with the probe. They managed to use a planet's atmosphere to destroy the probe before it got too close. . . Their stealth system worked as expected—the probe didn't get a clear reading on them—"

"—But now that the probe is no longer sending data to back to the ship that originally launched it—"

"—The Rotelans are likely going to get more curious about what's coming across the Neutral Zone. . ."

'Curious?' Carrell thought skeptically,"For all any of us knows, there could be a whole fleet of them lurking in wait out there. And with their probe destroyed, they're likely to divert more ships to that general region to try to catch whoever they suspect may have been responsible for that probe's destruction. We can't divert any ships to the border without arousing suspicion that could confirm what they undoubtedly suspect by now—" that fact left a foul taste in the mouth, and a knot in the stomach—

"—So what are you suggesting we do, Admiral?"

Admiral Carrell looked around the table, ". . . The only thing we can do: keep the fleet mobile and alert until we hear from our ghost story. . ."

"Is that your best suggestion?" the senior-ranking and heavily decorated four-star one seat from the head of the table asked.

"All-things-considered—right now—I think that's our only actionable suggestion at this point."

The senior-ranking four-star looked around table only to find unanimous straight faces, with one exception. 

"—Perhaps we could deploy three smaller ships closer to a more distant sector of our Neutral Zone border. Try to get their attention elsewhere to see if we can get them to reveal at least the probable locations of their ships? Get enough cloaked ships together and the tachyon emissions from their cloaking technology would be more easily detectable. That would make tracking their fleet movements easier."

"That's still an awfully long ways away. Our listening posts would be our only way of detecting anything, assuming there was anything to detect, and given the distance, getting exact readings is unlikely."

"Better than sitting around waiting for a big-enough sensor blip. Besides, our ghost story could use a few lesser-guarded door to get through when they're at that point. They would see about as much as we would be able to from this distance, and it's the move that would be least-likely to make them any more suspicious."

"He's got a point." a two-star said near the center of the table.

The room became silent for several seconds. The four-star near the head of the table leaned on his right elbow and held his clenched fist near his mouth, highlighting his large gold academy graduation ring, ". . . Do have any new information from our sources on the inside?" he asked darkly, directly.

Heads around the table only turned.

"—Okay, I'll pass long the recommendation to the president. That will be all for now. Thank you, Admiralty. This meeting is adjourned." A subtle dinging sound rang in the room for three seconds as the door locks clicked off simultaneously.

The crowd of flag officers stood up and gradually walked out of the room through the main set of twin double-doors. The three-star was among the first to leave, stepping aside a few feet outside of the doorway. "Admiral DuCannon," he carefully called out to another of the two-stars. He stopped and stepped toward the three-star instead of continuing to walk in the opposite direction, undoubtedly to the antigravity lift to head down to the mess hall for lunch. The rest of the Admiralty continued as they were, exchanging subtle chatter about this-or-that, nothing pertaining to anything classified, such as what was discussed over the last three hours. The senior-ranking security checkpoint eyed the screens monitoring the adjoining corridors and computer networks as the Admiralty walked out. Armed guards in the adjoining corridors held their particle rifles with both hands at the two o'clock position with blank faces as though assuming a security breach could happen at any moment, and were ready to act just that quickly and precisely.

"Yes, Sir," DuCannon acknowledged. The three-star made direct, candid eye contact with him. 

"Have we heard anything from our. .neighbors?"

DuCannon gasped as he skimmed through his thoughts. .and then curled his lower lip and gradually turned his head, almost mumbling, "No. Nothing, since we found out about what's going on on the other far side of the neutral zone."

"—Are you suspicious?. . ." he began to whisper. "The president will want to know what the popular conjectures and conclusions are after this morning's briefing. You know how he is."

DuCannon nodded. Duh! He kept to himself. The last thing any president wanted to do was to order a fleet action, he knew from years of serving in the Office of the Admiralty, because a fleet action was one of the most provocative, which can serve as the rough equivalent of tossing a large stone at a bee's nest and expecting them not to follow their deeply-embedded instincts centered on swarming, and their ability to sting. But sometimes provocative action can send a message that a torpedo might speak too loudly, and the military tone of voice right now would say more—and more effectively—than a flood of anti-matter detonations in deep space. Ordering small groups of ships into different areas of space for various reasons. The last time a fleet action was ordered, it served as the line of defense when a cube big enough to cast a shadow over the moon was paying humanity a malevolent visit. Malevolent, he mentally smirked, would have been a generous break. Before that, it was because outpost after outpost were disappearing. One or two managed to call for help, albeit in futility, and he knew why—he nodded.

"Do you think we have reason to believe the Klegishnans might get involved in this?"

"—I think they might have some interest in what's going on behind the Rotelans' border. An asset like what they're building represents an attempt to radically shift the balance of power in the entire region." For an instant, what he was about to say registered as common sense, but he felt compelled to say it anyway, albeit nearly at a whisper, "even one ship with the ability to cloak so excellently," and then his gut sank, "whether or not that excellence translated to fire-while-cloaked or not. . ." he gasped hesitantly, in his own mind going over the point he knew he was making, "who wouldn't want to have that kind of technology in their possession?"

That was a good point, the three-star silently recognized, but knew that much already, and was glad he wasn't the only one who recognized what the situation meant.

"All-the-same, I think they would respect the alliance, even if they did somehow manage to acquire the technology. But I wonder how good their intelligence-gathering efforts have been. . .

. . .Also a good point, the three-star nodded.

"The question that no one's been able to answer at this point is whether or not anyone else knows what we know, or more." This much he doubted, "There doesn't seem to be any indication of that much at this time, but you and I both know that part of this job—"

The three-star continued nodding, folding his arms and briefly tuning out what the DuCannon was saying to mull over what points he had made, then continued listening—

"The borders have been quiet for days before we found out what was going on, and the new activity seems to be routine security patrols. I take that on face-value."

The three-star nodded agreement and continued listening. "I think Admiral Carroll had some good points over the last two months, and was right to suggest what action she did, given what information we got from our sources."

This statement was met with more nodding.

"I think we might. . ." the two-star looked around as a precaution. The senior-ranking security officer was focused on going over whatever he was seeing on his monitors, behaving as though he had completely tuned both them out amid his observations.

DuCannon leaned toward the three-star. "I think a fleet action may be inevitable, especially if Carrell's suggestion encounters significant resistance." He was suddenly concerned whether or not he had just crossed a line by even so much as alluding to what he knew he was talking about. His face started to feel like it was gradually starting to burn. DuCannon knew the three-star knew what he was talking about since they were both a part of the close and limited circle of those senior-ranking officers who did—

—More nodding, and then he took a deep breath as though to signify the fact of his sharing what he didn't need words to recognize was a mutual opinion of the ugliness of the possibly looming situation. The risk of this quaint military venture would outweigh any hope of profit, because any potential buyer would immediately recognize the merchandise was hot—in terms of how likely one would be to be killed in one's sleep, if one was fortunate, before the technology would be allowed to leave the manufacturer's custody, so the Ferengi wouldn't be likely to make an attempt to steal it for profit. The Orion Pirates might try to acquire it—no, they wouldn't. They're cunning, even deadly dangerous, but they would more than likely recognize they'd be heading into what was essentially a death trap because they're more about intimidation and brute force, something the Rotelans would be more than ready for, and probably would be anticipating and would be happy to counter with a few high-powered disrupter pulses to virtually erase even a small group of their toughest ships. Well, they could probably put up a fight for a little while, at least, but a fleet of warbirds versus even their toughest ships would still probably be futile, so the three-star reasoned they would bow-out and stay defensive. Not that they would have to worry, they're not quite a major intergalactic power, plus they don't have anything of any real value the Rotelans would be interested in. They're too proud to even think of doing business with them. The other alien races that crossed his mind as possibly being interested in this kind of technology didn't seem likely because they were—in his assessment—too proud to so much as bother with making an attempt, and were more concerned with their own military prowess versus the balance of power in the bigger picture of things, whether or not they knew about what was going on. And their ships don't have much in the way of stealth technology, at least, mainly because they don't think they need to be stealthy because they believe they present too big and too intimidating a target—and they're probably right, at least in their own minds. But still. . .

". . .Alright," he nodded slyly, "I'll pass along your opinion and comments to the president on the matter." The three-star walked to another set of double doors behind him, while DuCannon continued walking in the same direction, and the same place, as the rest of the Office had.

The next order of business would be to convene with the president in the president's office, along with other senior officers from other branches of the military. Some branches' tactics favored boots-on-the-ground as part of any military operation, while others, like himself, preferred a sharply-targeted directed particle energy shot to a Translight core—or quantum singularity matrix, provided fire needed to be exchanged at all. Even in such a respectable military job position as he was in, and his experience with giving such an order, or giving or passing along such an order, he didn't strictly favor that idea, but recognized with equal conviction that such action was at times required. He allowed for the fact that that order might become necessary, but that's why Galileo was launched, as an earnest attempt to minimize that likelihood as much as realistically could be expected, or asked of anyone. The threat isn't the Rotelans. The threat is what the Rotelansare manufacturing. DuCannon was right, he admitted to himself, maybe a fleet action will be required to keep the peace and the balance of power, as it were. As much as they didn't want to have to deploy groups of ships, large or small, to anywhere in particular, his gut told him—if anything—that might have to do what they need to make sure their borders stay secure. The Rotelan would undoubtedly already be aware of that, and already be taking that step in anticipation of what action he realized he was decidedly going to recommend the president take in the next hour or so. He was confident the Galileo could get through, undetected by the Rotelans, get the prize and then get out with little—if any—or no incident. It's what might happen if they're caught, with or without the phase cloaking device in-hand, that made his stomach churn.

Aaen doubted—seriously doubted—that announcement, and reminded himself, and silently the rest of the crew, that the announcement only pertained to the planet's deathly atmosphere. Gasping heavily, he was confident he could have landed the shuttle if he had to but that was besides the point right now, he silent told himself. He directed his attention immediately to the 'contact'—or whatever else Jonathan had announced the sensors had detected. The navigational data looked just as it should for the moment—the impulse engines were online and putting out just enough thrust to keep them from having to repeat what they just went through, and the heat levels were barely noticeable. For now, they were in a stable low-orbit. That was fine by him for the moment. It was harder to ignore the heavy gasps of relieved panic from his left and from behind him. Understandably, it wasn't everyday this kind of thing happened, and for good reason. But it was still a tactically-sound decision. But what about that sensor contact? he kept asking himself, turning around with a seriously determined look on his face.

Aaen started breathing heavier from anticipation, "Please tell me you have more on whatever it was you picked up earlier?. . . Is it still there?"

". . .Yeah. It's still there. It's at long-range, though, at our one o'clock, almost at our two o'clock. I can't tell what it is."

Maxon stood up long enough to take another look at Jonathan's screen, then returned to her chair and faced forward, brushing her hands over her face and through her hair as though attempting to express or relieve stress. "Commander, maintain our heading, and make sure we're at full impulse." 

Aaen checked his computer. Most of the order had already been carried out. Aaen started to silently guess in the back of his mind as to when Jonathan was going to announce—

"We're moving away from the planet, captain—"

Even better, Aaen thought. But the question of whether or not there was someone else out there monitoring them—or, worse, tracking them—kept scoring this thoughts, even more than where that freakin' cloaking device is at right now . . . or whether or not they were too late. A flash of thoughts burned in the back of his head as to what they would have to do on-the-fly if its manufacturer suddenly became ahead of schedule. This thought quickly turned into an abrupt burning sensation in his face and perfectly along the curvature of his spine—

"The sensor contact is maintaining position—" his tone abruptly changed, "it's gone!"

Aaen snapped, "What?"

"It's gone!"

How the heck did it just—! "What do you mean, 'it's gone!'"

"As-in, it just dropped off the radar!—" his head snapped, "Sensors, I mean!"

Jonathan was starting to sweat. Aaen and Maxon shared a determined, concerned look. Aaen leaned toward Maxon.

"If that's a ship, then its big enough for us to detect at long-range and is generating that kind of an energy signature, it could be one of theirs." he offered sharply, trying to hide the nervous hesitation swelling in his chest. "We need to treat carefully, and get out of the neutral zone as soon as we can."

Jonathan eyed his screen briefly, and then announced, "The planet's not on our sensors anymore."

Aaen figured as much, given the lack of the slightly-dizzying general free-fall pull-back sensation on his person. The impulse engine heat levels were still well below 20%—in his judgment they were fine for the moment, so he kept to himself. The stars were looking as beautiful as ever. He felt his mind buzz as a suggestion blinked into the top of his head. "We should do a scan directed at our one o'clock, see if anything registers. . ."

(1) "—If that's a ship, they could detect our scanning beam," Jensen interjected. And they might not! Aaen silently countered. "—That's what you're here for," Aaen reminded. Part of him felt excited to see the Galileo's weapons in action, and another part of him check-mated the former point with the possibility that weapons fire of any kind on their part could only complicate the mission that much more. Who knows where that freakin' cloaking technology was at this point, and that was their mission objective, not weapons testing for what is supposed to remain a ghost story. He clenched his fists of his side of the desk mount—

"There it is! Staying at our one o'clock!"

"I need to know if it's Rotelan or not! If they're out here we need to tell Command." she said sharply.

"I'll run a scan."

What if it's a cloaked ship? Aaen wondered. What if it's not Rotelan? If it's a ship, and it's tracking us, then we'll be able to find out if it follows us. Could that be any more common sense? he asked himself, wondering why neither Maxon or Jonathan so much as hinted at that possibility. . .

". . .It's getting closer!"

The announcement made Aaen feel like someone put on brass knuckles and punched him in the chest with them. His breathing became heavier—

"How far are we from the Rotelanborder?" Maxon asked Jonathan.

". . .About twenty minutes at maximum translight from our current position, provided we don't change course."

"Nothing new from Command, yet, captain," Mason announced.

Aaen reasoned the lack of new orders meant there hasn't been a change in the part of the border where they were to breach. His thoughts kept coming back around to the sensor contact—

Jonathan became wide-eyed, and his behavior screamed he was in a moderate state of anxious panic, "It's even closer, now! About two-hundred-thousand-kilomters!. . ."

C'mon, man! Aaen impatiently faced forward, "Captain, I think it's safe to conclude there's another ship out there," The big question, in Aaen's mind, still lingered. . .

"—Wait, it's gone again!"

"Is it heading directly for us?"

". . .The last time it appeared, course estimation suggested it's course is almost perfectly perpendicular to ours. I'd say, whatever it is, it's either detected us or—hold on!—" he looked closely at his screen as another sensor alert sounded, "—Another contact, and it's pinging at about the same level!"

—Shhoot! Aaen thought, glaring wide-eyed at the viewscreen.

"—The new contact is at our eleven o'clock moving to our ten o'clock! The first contact is—" another sensor alert, "back!—and still at our two o'clock," he looked at Maxon with a sharp, alarmed look, "and closing!. . ."

Maxon took a deep breath and then said, ". . .Jensen, on my mark—charge cannons,"

Jensen sat upright in his seat in anticipation and directly said, "Standing by,"

"First contact is now at one-hundred-twenty-thousand-kilomters, on a perpendicular course. Second contact is now at our nine o'clock on a parallel course! We're getting dangerously close to both contacts!"

Another sensor alert.

Aaen snapped.

"—We've got a third contact!"

YOU'VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME! Aaen thought.

"WHERE?"

"Seven o'clock!—HOLY COW! They're all HUGE! They're all closing!"

—SHHHOOT! Aaen thought, struggling not to yell. 

Mason planted her face low in her palms. (2)

"We're still at full impulse, captain! I strongly advise against using thrusters!" Aaen declared sharply.

"All the sensor contacts are now BARELY outside of minimum detection range!"

"We so much as sneeze in the wrong direction and we're screwed—" Aaen interjected.

"Stand fast, Commander," Maxon commanded sharply.

Let's see how long that order holds up if we get caught!

". . . Sensor scan suggests the contacts may be Rotelan!"

Aaen mumbled something under his breath in early panic.

"Hold on, Commander—oh jeez that's close!" (3)

"Where are they? Do we need to change course?" Aaen asked sharply, his hands on the controls. He hadn't been this antsy since year five—

—The look on Maxon's face spoke volumes. . . Aaen's gut told him to just forget this and punch the translight engines up to translight nine and BUG OUT!  He hovered over the command and waited in anticipation for the order to come through. He sensed he and she were thinking the same thing. . .

(4) . . .One of the contacts' is changing course. . . . The first contact's turning towards us! It's at our five o'clock! The second contact. . .is getting closer to the planet's atmosphere!. . . The third contact is turning toward the first contact!. . . They're both just outside our maximum detection range . . . . and are increasing speed!

"They're probably picking up on our impulse wake! That, or they're passing over us, or beneath us!—"

Jensen snapped, "There's still time to charge weapons, captain,"

"But they're behind us," Aaen interjected, "Captain, translight nine?" his hands inched closer to the controls—

Maxon snapped, looking at Jonathan. The look on Jonathan's face gave Aaen confidence in Maxon's next order might be. . .

*****

Steve H. told Jordan Foutin, "You are the next Tom Clancy. You really are a gifted writer."

DANIEL STORM, a Jordan Foutin eBook, is available for $8.99 at any of these fine online retailers: 

smashwords.com (Remember to like and share!)

apple iBooks (This link is best viewed on iPhone or iPad)

barnesandnoble.com 

scribd.com 

kobo.com

blio.com

Make sure to buy your copy today, and like and share!

Make sure to like the official StormTeam Simulations Facebook page for the latest, including when DANIEL STORM will be available on Amazon.com for Kindle eBook and softcover! Coming soon!