Undisclosed Location
“Sir,” a young lieutenant's voice called from twelve feet behind near the room's four-inch-thick-carbon-steel vault-like door, “the assets have reported they should be in their designated positions in a few days for the next phase. They've gone on a comm's blackout.” Security.
The light from the line of the command center's 72-inch viewscreens shined on the back wall.
The air gloomily reeked of molten steel, and there was a steely cold chilling the air. The Admiral exhaled stiffly as he eyed The Union's changing fleet positions across thousands of sectors of space. The resources, on the other hand, were right on time, as usual, and headed for the nebula, as expected. The deal was going smoothly so far. The folks at Groom Lake back in '47 would be proud, had they known.
This part was going to have to be handled delicately. . . If we're found out, the Admiral told himself. The key to winning shell games is keeping your eye on the cup the ball is under no matter how fast the cups move about the table. Of course, if the ball passes through the table while the cups are still in motion. . . It needed to.
And it would.
The interrogation room was nearly cave-dark. Eerie, and cooler than the adjacent hallway on the other side of the door behind him, or the maze of ‘office’ space he and the armed guards escorting him had to traverse to get here. The nearly cave-darkness was for the 'creature's comforts', or so they told him just before he entered the room through a darkened entrance. He casually leaned over the table looked through the two-inch-thick plexiglass window. The creature was seated behind another table. The creature's features were somewhat difficult to discern. He wanted to be sure he was looking at it in the eye like a normal person would do during a conversation, but there was enough light from the medical monitor behind the creature to discern its features. What he saw left him uneasy, subconsciously denying what he was seeing for the sake of his coping with the reality he had been handed, but he oddly didn't feel the urge to panic—
USSC Voyager
The printer activated to the crew's surprise. The Chief of the Watch eyed the crisp black text beaming onto the body of the white lip emerging from the built-in wall unit. The words “PRIORITY-ONE” and “PENTAGON” caught his eye immediately. That declaration meant the document went directly to the Captain.
The Chief of the Watch snatched the document and rushed the document to its recipient per protocol. “This just came in, Cap,"
Cap took the document and then put on his reading glasses, immediately intently scanning the document. Without missing a beat, he looked wide-awake, faced forward, and sat upright with such posture that he got the entire bridge crew's attention. This was probably gonna be a long one, the Captain told himself, making sure to remain collected and professional in front of his senior officers, even though he felt ready to get some chow from the mess hall, eat, and then get some shut-eye in his cabin. There was nothing quite like an already variably eventful eight-hour shift turning into a days-long mission, or a days-long mission turning into a weeks-long operation at the speed of a printer.
“X.O., set your course to two-five-seven-mark-three-five by one-four-six-mark-two-one-nine. Set your speed to maximum translight. Put the ship on alert level three. Now.” The Captain commanded sharply.
The X.O. authoritatively relayed the orders like there was an echo in the room. The bridge crew carried out the orders with professional swiftness and precision.” The bridge dimmed to a near-movie-theater-like light level just before the beginning of whatever the feature film. All bridge crew members admired the fine and distinctive arrays of yellow neon ribbon lights throughout the floor, walls, and bridge computers. There was no question there had been some kind of development; they all asked the same question, and all asked that question in silence as a tactical readout confirming the new and sudden course change appeared on the screen below the main viewer.
“Cap, what's going on?” the X.O. asked discretely at a near-whisper.
The Captain handed over the document.
The X.O. read the document quickly. The look on his face was of a concerned 'game face'. “Are they sure about this?”
“The UIA seems to be confident that something's going on. One thing I've learned in my career in the Space Force—you don't argue with the UIA.” And when a certain ship is even rumored to be involved, you go out of your way to find out just how fast your ship really is when your ship's destination's coordinates are fed in.
He had to address the crew to let them know what's going on. The question he had to answer next was one in his own mind—how was he going to explain this change in the mission?
He came up with a few possible answers that would preserve the ship, crew, and keep his insignia, and his command.
He proceeded to the intra-ship communications officer, a young 23-year-old ensign newly-transferred-in. The Captain gave the order to patch him into the rest of the ship. The order was carried out swiftly as the Captain took the handset off its base.
A subtle whistle sound filled every deck and room of the ship to get the crew's attention.
“Attention, all hands. This is your Captain. As of three minutes ago, Earth time, we have received updated orders from the Pentagon. The Union Intelligence Agency has discovered a new threat to our great democracy. A threat that the Pentagon believes is significant enough to send us and our magnificent ship on alert on a heading into deep space to provide tactical and strategic mission support. Additional information will be provided to your department heads as additional information becomes available. I ask you to stand ready as we don't know what to expect when we get to where we're going."
With one touch of a button, the intercom disconnected.
What the heck is the Odyssey doing way the heck out there? The Captain asked himself, mulled over a few strategic thoughts on the matter, and then quietly ordered the ensign manning the inter-ship communications station to hail the four-star overseeing fleet operations in this sector. The order was acknowledged and then promptly carried out.
With that, the Captain proceeded to his private quarters adjacent to the bridge as the line was pinging beneath The Union's flag.
*****
Steve H. of Portland, OR told Jordan Foutin, "You are the next Tom Clancy. You really are a gifted writer."
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