“Status
of the Valiant?” Smith asked Jones sharply.
Jones
read her screen in seconds, pushing her reading comprehension to its limits, then
turned sharply in her seat, “Online—powering-up!”
“Confirmed!” Hayes declared, listening to
the encrypted comm-chatter coming through on the communications array.
“Weapons locked-on-target!” Sandberg
declared confidently.
Smith
turned in the center seat, “Coordinate
tactical data with the Valiant!” Facing forward, “Standby attack pattern Bravo-One-Six-Eight. Keep the
dreadnought on our bow as much as you can,”
“Aye!” Wilson responded directly, his
hands hovering over the controls, ready to execute.
“Valiant reports ‘mission-ready’ status, sir,” Hayes reported.
“The away team?” Smith asked Jones and
Connors.
Connors
immediately re-evaluated the data on her screen, then reported, “I’ve still got
a lock on them—no life signs yet from Captain Winter,”
Dang it, Smith thought, “Standby to phase
them back on my command,”
Connors
nodded, “Yes, sir,”
Smith
turned to Jones, “What’s wrong?”
Jones’
turned her head, “Something’s definitely
going on over there. The readings are too sporadic because of all of the
shielding around that ship! Looks
like a possible firefight!”
“I’ve
got a lock on the away team, but I won’t be able to get them out with all the
shielding around them!”
Smith
faced forward, glaring at the behemoth of a ship above them and just ahead of
them. His gut told him it’s going to take
a real wallop to even slow that sucker down. . .maybe with the Valiant’s help they might have a chance. He recalled
his review of the brief the Captain saw. Basically, they were facing a politician with extensive military
connections within a sort of military ‘black market’ of sorts—pretty much
mercenaries from everywhere that’s anywhere with military discharge records, or
just ‘records’, that would make any otherwise honorable serviceman or woman
cringe, willing to back any agenda with a ‘notable’ payoff. These weren’t the
typical hired guns that worked under the usual ‘half now, half later’ bull story.
They were more like pirates, but with a disturbingly coherent code of loyalty
to those they worked for. That was probably because the disreputable ‘private security’ work they sought out
for whatever yuck reason or motive they had was becoming increasingly hard to
come by in a growing, flourishing democracy. Not that private security was a
bad thing, in general, but in the context of the crew of that dreadnought. . . The
thing that disturbed Smith, especially, was the fact that these ‘pirates’, ‘mercenaries’, whatever—his
attempts to distinguish the otherwise synonymous terms was accompanied by a sharp,
intermittent throbbing needle-like poking pain in the back of his head—were all
known to the Intelligence community as being highly versed in special operations
tactics and strategy. This fact made Smith’s spine tingle coldly. The only
consolation was the fact that the dreadnought wasn’t able to hide under
stealth, at least not at least as easily as Odyssey,
and not apparently as effectively, or for as long. He found himself focusing
his thoughts on how he could use those tactical facts to their advantage. . .nothing
immediately came to mind, but he kept mulling the thought over in the back of
his mind. With that, the sharp pain stopped, but that do anything for his
sudden-onset anxiety.
“The
dreadnought’s accelerating!” Hayes declared alarmed. “They’re increasing their
scan frequency and intensity! Looks like they’re trying to find a target to get
another weapons lock! I can’t guarantee we’ll be able to stay hidden under
stealth for much longer, especially if their scan beam frequency keeps
increasing, Commander!” She held back her opinion that they’d be sitting ducks before long—
Hayes’
screen flashed thrice, an inbound communications alert sounding, “Valiant reports standing by to engage
the dreadnought!” Hayes reported.
Then this is where we make our
stand, Smith
decided. “Hayes: standby to relay orders to the Valiant,”
Smith took a deep breath, leaning back in the center seat, “Connors, get ready
to pull the away team outta there as soon
as you have a window. All hands, all ships: initiate attack pattern—all
weapons: fire!”
Steve H. of Portland, OR told Jordan Foutin, "You are the next Tom Clancy. You really are a gifted writer."
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