USSC Odyssey
“This is Captain Aaen Winter of The Union deep-space tactical starship Odyssey. Please identify yourself, over. ”
A human silence filled the bridge.
The hull and the deck plating shuddered and rocked abruptly as though a meteor had struck the outer hull; the bridge lighting flickered as the crew jumped to brace against their stations.
Aaen leaned forward cautiously and looked at Smith; Aaen wondered why his ship didn't automatically go to Red Alert.
The bridge was quickly again still, and silent.
Aaen gradually eased his fingers out of the indentations he had forced into the front of his cushioned armrests. “Any damage?” Aaen asked Wilson.
Wilson evaluated the data on his computer monitor with professional precision and then turned his head over his shoulder.
Seconds later, Jones slapped a hand-written printout on Smith's station. Smith nodded acknowledgment as Jones her station.
Smith read the printout and then turned to his captain and read loud enough for the bridge to hear.
“Sir, you're not gonna believe this,” Smith said darkly.
Smith immediately got Aaen's attention.
Hayes' computer flashed thrice suddenly. “We just got an enormous data download.”
“From who?” Smith asked bluntly.
Hayes was quick to decode the download. “...From...” Hayes eyed her screen quickly and carefully. “USSC...” She gradually looked over her shoulder at the rest of the bridge with a shocked look. She struggled to swallow. Her thoughts blurred from sudden-onset stress and near-panic, she couldn't feel the cool air freshly cleaned by the Co2 scrubbers while the rest of the bridge stared at her curious about whatever was displayed on her computer screen.
An uncomfortably cold mystique flooded the bridge.
The crew felt almost painful chills —
Classified Facility, North-Eastern hemisphere, Mars
There was nothing like a long day on the gun range, but there was nothing better than a deployment. Despite the dangers of climbing into a helo, flying more deeply into enemy territory than any other special operations force is capable of, and then carrying out whatever direct action orders they are given, the men of the United States Interstellar Shadow Forces Corps detachment Alpha were going to keep themselves sharp in case the call came in. They had to. They wanted to. And they did. More often than not, they liked to make a competition of their range time. Sometimes the competition was monetary, sometimes the competition was over the team's favorite beverage, or a favor, a competition with other detachments, among other possibilities. This time the call came in, but there was some much-needed prep time before deploying. Where they were going, and what they were going to do, and why, were predictably absolutely classified.
Senior Master Chief M. Devreaux attached his rifle's suppressor, slapped a fresh 30-round magazine full of 5.56-millimeter rounds into his M42 assault rifle, and then sharply chambered a round like the action was simple muscle memory. The entire process took fifteen seconds. Five seconds slower than Omega team's leader, but he chose to ignore that fact.
He got into the prone position and rested the barrel on the sandbag mount in front of him, but he insisted on holding the rifle manually, tucking the butt tightly into his shoulder.
He enjoyed the sound of the loud suppressed POP of the other eleven riflemen in the lanes to his right as he glared and sighted the holographic generic target fifty yards downrange with professional proficiency. He took one more second to inch the small red dot in the center of his rifle's holo sight on the tiny white “X” in the target's center-of-mass, and then immediately thumbed the rifle to single fire. He momentarily strained to focus on the target.
Three suppressed shots later to his right, he squeezed the trigger like he was taking a breath. He watched the round impact like lightning in the distance. The target flickered as though the power to the holo emitters had been seemingly reduced. He thought he was slightly off.
He fired a second shot within a fraction of a second of the first. The target flickered more violently this time. He was pleased that he had been lucky enough to land a shot within a centimeter of the first.
He fired a third shot even closer to the second shot. A near-perfect hole formed within the target area.
He switched the rifle to automatic and aimed higher at another “X”; one much higher on the target, and then quickly held the trigger down. The rifle breathed a tongue of fire as the target was riddled with rounds in a reasonably organized grouping.
He still had it. But he wished he didn't have to.
The rest of the range depleted their ammunition for this phase of deployment prep. They stood up, removed the magazines from their guns, and then cased them.
Next was the demo test range where they would do the live-action practice. If there were to be any mistakes, this was the time to make them. They all knew their team leader would be watching them and criticizing them. They didn't look forward to that, but they knew the criticism was to help save their careers—even more importantly, their lives.
Even better, the base's second in command would be overseeing all of them and assessing their readiness for this op, and reporting to the President. Being a special operator and assigned to a team wasn't enough. If they wanted to get paid, they had to deploy.
They were well motivated to prove themselves. More often than not, innocent lives depended on them.
*****
Steve H. of Portland, OR told Jordan Foutin, "You are the next Tom Clancy. You really are a gifted writer."
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