Tommy Thorn Marked (19 page)

“Deck Control from Saber Hawk Lead, flight of six—taxi.”

“Saber Hawk leader from Deck Control, you are clear, taxi, contact Launch Control—over”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

Saber Hawk Flight smartly acknowledged the instructions in turn. Just like seasoned fighter pilots, Tommy thought, his heart swelling with pride.

After returning Kat’s salute, Tommy guided the trainer forward, then twisted the control grip to smoothly swing his Lancer over the illuminated taxi line, and keyed the mic. “Launch Control, Saber Hawk Flight of six ready to launch,” he said as he and the other ships, all in line, approached the restricted launch-tube area.

The aft end of the Nova’s hanger deck was dominated by four launch tubes. Now the word tube might conjure up images of small round or oval-shaped shafts, but that did not accurately describe a battle cruiser’s launching portals. Launch tubes were curved-cornered, rectangular-shaped shafts with a high-pressure hatch at each end. Hatches that isolated and controlled airlocks, which allowed for the launching of fighters into space without losing pressurization in the hanger deck.

“Saber Hawk Flight, take up positions and hold,” responded Launch Control.

Tommy coaxed his ship into the brightly marked caution area behind the Alpha tube just as the inner hatch slid closed on a red-and-white, tandem-seat assault trainer; the rest of Saber Hawk flight lining up in turn with Commander Vance remaining in the rear, keeping a watchful eye on his students.

Last launch from the Nasty
, Tommy thought and watched for the last time as mechbots began darting around and under his ship, making configuration checks, interfacing with onboard computers, and sending back data to Launch Control personnel—One last check prior to the unforgiving vacuum of space
. Take a good look boys
, he thought, pulled a couple of deep breaths from the oxygen mask snugged up tightly behind his secured faceplate and waited, but not for long.

A battle cruiser, even an older one like the Nova, could launch a ship from one of her four tubes every sixty-seven seconds, and so, right on cue as Bo slid into the adjacent slot, the hatch for Alpha tube separated in the center and slid open.

“Saber Hawk Lead, proceed launch tube Alpha.”

“Saber Hawk Lead, copy—cleared proceed Alpha tube.” Tommy said, tugging on the mag-track initiator handle, but keeping his full attention on directional lights, displayed over the outer hatch, now guiding him into the well-lit launch tube.

Just a bit more…

“Mag-tack online, launch configuration complete, mag-shuttle engaged,” the onboard computer reported, a fact that had been confirmed by a subtle lurch as the Lancer was captured by the ship’s magnetic shuttle.

Inner hatch already closing, Tommy glanced to his left at a pair of launch technicians located safely behind clear steel, before focusing his attention on the launch status lights. And again—he waited.

The lights of the tube dimmed to a ghostly blue-green, Tommy could hear a caution horn and the loud click of metal latches as the outer hatch slid open, revealing the blackness of space.

“Run ’em up, Saber Hawk Lead,” a controller ordered.

Tommy pushed the throttle in his left hand forward. The readouts on the faceplate of his helmet registered full power, but Tommy could have told you that by the vibrations now consuming the Lancer as it strained against the launch shuttle.
One more launch
, he thought, eyes still fixed on the tube’s launch-control lights as they continued in their amber pulse—launch techs making one final check.

Deep breath, head back—a quick peek at his instrument panel.

Yellow—yellow—yellow—GREEN!

Tommy’s trainer was thrown from the ship with such force that if it had not been for the operation of a fully dialed inertial dampening system, he would have been crushed into goo!

But then…

The smooth, quiet sensation of space flight, and Tommy was at once hit by the beauty of the giant ringed planet as he effortlessly rolled left and brought the Lancer back across the Nova in a long graceful arch; a standard maneuver designed to allow the rest of the flight to rendezvous as quickly as possible.

“Nova Con, Hawk lead is out and up,” Tommy reported while at the same time engaging the auto-throttle to a preset velocity.

“Hawk Lead from Nova Con, copy. Switch approved to Tango and report the I.P.,” a female controller responded

“Nova Con from Hawk Lead, switching to Tango, report I.P.—Lead out,” Tommy acknowledged as the rest of his flight, already tucked neatly into formation, started checking in.

Tommy marveled at the ease in which they could perform such complex and potentially dangerous moves with seemingly little effort.
Were these the same students, that not so very long ago, were bouncing off one another in the little bumper cars?

“Saber Hawk Lead from Vance.”

Vance’s voice momentarily startled Tommy. “Hawk Lead, go ahead, Commander.”

“Mr. Thorn, my D-drive diffuser is intermittent. I’m heading back to the ship while I still can. You take ’em in.”

“Copy that,” was Tommy’s crisp reply, but he was thinking to himself,
Not again….

“And everyone stay safe!” Vance said as he peeled off and away from the formation.

Tommy had taken the lead on numerous training flights. He remembered back to the first time he had come aboard the Nova.
This was no different,
he thought. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing not having Vance around for this last flight.
You’ve got the lead, now lead
, he thought.

Twenty uneventful minutes later, Saber Hawk Flight, in perfect formation, was cruising three thousand feet above the outer edge of the belt. “Give me an update on the rings,” Tommy ordered his onboard computer.

“The outer ring, which is one thousand feet thick and 600,000 feet wide, consist of randomly spinning, tumbling frozen rocks, ranging in size from that of a negligible mass to 730,000 metric tons,” the computer responded.

Tommy processed the information, mesmerized by the spectacular image, now reflected in his darkened faceplate; hundreds of thousands of frozen rocks, some the size of small mountains, all caught in the gravity well of this massive gas giant—bathed in the diffused light of the system’s twin suns, the swirling colors more brilliant than any sunset Tommy had ever seen.

“Initial in twenty-two seconds
.
” Tommy’s computer brought him back to the complexities of this last training flight.

“Nova Con, Hawk Lead is at the initial,” Tommy reported.

“Hawk Lead from, Nova Con, you are cleared into sierra two four seven,” the controller said.

“Hawk Lead, copy—cleared sierra two four seven,” Tommy responded before addressing the flight. “Hawk Flight from Lead, we’re coming up on the I.P.”

Even before Tommy had released his mic button, Maco had rolled up and over the formation and, followed by Papas, dove into the spinning asteroids. “There’s no way you’re gonna beat me, Herfer,” Maco announced over the comm.

“Maco’s getting a jump on us, Lead,” Gary shouted, dipping his wing panel, just enough, to see Maco and Papas dodge an outer couple of rotating rocks and disappear into the ring.

“Easy, Cruiser,” Tommy calmly said and locked up the target drone’s identification symbol on his faceplate’s readout before looking over at Bo. “Okay, Two, follow me in,” Tommy said, and rolling sharply to his left, dove inverted into the field—followed closely by Bo’s Lancer.

Gary impatiently waited for his lead to clear before keying his mic. “Saber Hawk Three to Lead, we’re going in,” Gary reported, and turned to signal Magnus before peeling away after Tommy.

“Shields to full forward, arm the cannon,” Tommy commanded his computer, not taking his eyes off the tumbling objects flashing past his canopy.

“Plasma cannon is online and fully charged, forward shield to maximum,” the computer acknowledged.

Each Lancer was equipped with a pair of blasters, a single plasma cannon, and shields. The plasma cannon could be a devastating weapon. Having a large amount of energy and a bit of mass coupled with tremendous acceleration meant a significant force could be brought to bear on any target. A plasma cannon could really wear out a shield. There was, however, the need to charge the weapon between firings, a requirement that made rapid fire of a single cannon problematic.

“Bo, check weapons and shield,” Tommy said even as the first of the smaller rocks were bouncing off his ship’s invisible protection.

“Cannon in the green, shields at ninety-four percent.” Bo had to raise her voice over the growing sound of the tiny collisions, like being in a hailstorm but at speeds of over 3,000 miles per hour!

“Maco’s in hot!” the Tarchein announced, as was the required procedure when one was armed and inbound to the target.

Tommy was too busy, first rolling over and then under several large blocks, to get a tally on Maco or his wingman. All of his focus was now on the amber symbol of the target drone—and of course, not killing himself or Bo.

“Papas is in hot.”

Sounds like Papas, no emotion. Bet he’s not enjoying this much though,
thought Tommy as he made an aggressive right-hand jink, then up, now hard left, and…roll over. “There it is,” he said to himself. “The drone.”

The target drone was a metallic cube about thirty feet square, with onboard sensors that recorded all of the trainees’ actions, including the number of hits and from which student pilot’s Lancer they originated.

“Saber Hawk Lead is in hot,” Tommy announced, lining up his displayed targeting information over the spinning drone.

“In range,” the computer squawked.

Tommy squeezed the trigger and followed an orange-red plasma ball as it raced away from beneath the nose of his trainer. Direct hit! The drone lit up as flashing bolts of light spun and wrapped around the entire cube. A hit that would, under normal conditions, have destroyed the little drone, but the cannon on the Lancer had been tuned to register hits only, a capability that very much pleased Imperial accountants.

“Bo’s in hot. Nice shot, Lead!”

Tommy dodged two more medium-sized asteroids before popping out on top of the ring, taking a breath, and straining to get his head turned around in an effort to get a visual on Bo.

“Cannon charge to forty-seven percent, shields at eighty-seven percent.” The computer updated the ship’s status.

Bo suddenly came screaming up and out of the belt, rolling hard right. She had just barely gotten back into formation when…

“Follow me Two,” Tommy announced, and they were back into the chaos!

“Cruiser is in hot!”

He could not see Gary or his wingman, but that transmission confirmed that they were on their final approach vector to the drone—head up, locked in, cannon armed!

Tommy, now in the asteroids, broke off his steep dive, finding it much easier and safer to move along horizontally with the rocks rather than pulling down through the dozens of twisting, erratically wobbling obstacles.

“Cruiser’s off—splash one target drone!”

Maco’s in hot!”

Maco’s already on his second run
, thought Tommy. But where’s Mags?

“Magnus is in hot.”

“Papas is in hot.”

That’s too close
! Somehow in Maco’s haste he had slid down in between Gary and Magnus. And worse, he had dragged his wingman, Papas, along with him. There were now far too many Lancers converging on a single point in space, with no room to maneuver!

“Magnus break off!” Tommy yelled. “Mags, you read me?”

“Good hit. I’m out of here, losers. Maco is RTB.”

“Mags, do you read—BREAKOFF!” Tommy said, ignoring Maco’s call that he was returning to base. He was desperate to pull Magnus off the target and hopefully away from Papas, but it was already too late. In fact, the fate of young Magnus and Papas had probably been sealed the very instant Maco decided he had to win the Firebird—no matter the cost!

In his haste to complete the second run, Maco had not seen Gary’s wingman. And Magnus, who needed every bit of concentration to maneuver and still hit the drone, was completely oblivious to all other Lancers, including Papas, on who’s ship he was now converging!

“Breakoff Pappy,” Tommy desperately repeated!

These were the last words Papas every heard.

Flying tight off Maco’s wing panel, Papas had no idea that his bird was merging with Magnus. In fact, if not for the distraction of a blur off his right stab, he would not have even had seen the fatal collision.

With shields configured to the front, the side impact of Magnus’s Lancer sliced right through Papas’s trainer. It was assumed that the resulting fireball killed Papas instantly. Tommy could only hope that this was the truth, and not a story told to make the living, the ones that kept on flying in space, feel better.

Magnus, on the other hand, his forward shield deflecting some of the impact, acted quickly, blowing his escape pod clear of his spinning, badly damaged Lancer before it collided with an asteroid and exploded.

Tommy saw the two giant fireballs just moments before he heard the constant beeping of an escape pod’s beacon.
Someone got out,
he thought.

“Knock it off, Hawks. All Saber Hawks get on top and form up,” Tommy said, his mind racing before continuing. “Nova rescue control, from Saber Hawk Lead—we have two birds down, one in a pod. Launch the rescue bird. I repeat, launch the rescue bird!”

“Nova to Saber Hawk Lead, rescue is en route. ETA twenty-three mikes.”

Tommy quickly located Bo and Gary, both tightly formed on his left and right wing panels, awaiting instructions. Just the sight of these two, professionally doing their jobs, filled Tommy with a strange sense of calm and determined purpose.

“Mags has had it. I don’t give him five minutes, let alone twenty-three. He’s got no chance drifting along in that field,” Gary said matter-of-factly.

Tommy took a moment to think as the three cruised over the top of the expansive outer ring. “Cruiser, take Bo and RTB.”

“No way, Tommy, we’re in this together,” was Gary’s quick reply.