Tommy Thorn Marked (23 page)

“Always time for that.” Then looking for Gary and Bo, Tommy shouted, “Let’s grab some chow.”

Both Gary and Bo were chatting with their tacnavs, going over the mission one more time.

“I am there, Tommy,” Gary said as Bo jumped up and nodded. “No one should die on an empty stomach,” Gary joked.

“Hey! No one dies today!” Rahagin shouted.

“Not today,” they all repeated and headed out into the hall—laughing.

The SF-775 Rapier has the dubious honor of being the oldest active fighter in the Star Force. And although its dated technology has been continuously upgraded through an ongoing modernization program, its current capabilities leave a great deal to be desired. Consequently the type has been primarily relegated to PDF, or outpost defense assignments. And, although seven squadrons still serve aboard battle cruisers at the time of this publication, the Rapier has been designated for retirement, and will be replaced by frontline units within the next five standard years.

The Rapier is powered by a single Zan-244, low-bypass, dark-drive propulsion system, which is mounted internally, directly behind the fighter’s two crew members. Both of which are seated in individual cockpits arranged in tandem, situated just forward and above the single, massive, louvered, dark-matter intake. Internal weapons include two pairs of medium-yield blasters integrated into the leading edge of the ship’s somewhat stubby wing panels, and a single high-yield blaster mounted along the centerline with the muzzle protruding just below the Rapier’s shark-shaped nose.

As a testimony to the fighter’s longevity, the Rapier was the first fighter-type spacecraft designed by the then-fledgling military hardware supplier Zanba Industries, which has gone on to develop the finest fighters and bombers in the fleet, including both the Starbird and Firestorm.

Deep below the mountain, Stone Wood’s alarm warbled out a tone designed to alert personnel to a possible threat from space. This chilling wail was repeated in all twenty-four of the planet’s distributed underground defense complexes as lead elements of Admiral Kada’s battle groups began dropping out of hyperspace from twelve light-transition points, all scattered about the fringes of the Vargus system. Fast frigates, maneuverable corvettes, and slow blaster-laden annihilators, momentarily trailing shimmering ribbons of energized dark matter, were soon in fixed orbital assault positions about the planet.

Commissar Oden-Car looked from the big board and waved a hand toward an aide. “Silence that horn,” he said before calmly turning to Colonel Batha-Nue. “You may tell Field Marshall Dee-Trah to fire when ready…”

Sloan had completed the assembly of a passive scanner and had just commanded an auto-attach operation. The device was in the process of anchoring itself to a nearby rock face, when he was distracted by streaks of bright green light flashing up from the distant western horizon.

“Did you see that, Lieutenant?” a nervous corporal from the first fire team questioned as he moved past Sloan toward a concealed position among the low-lying rocks.

Sloan nodded and motioned for the corporal to keep moving while checking his wristcomm. “Decker, rally the troops. Looks like this party is getting started.”

“Copy that, LT,” was Sergeant Decker’s reply. But moments later, after climbing several boulders, he crouched down next to his commander and snapped open his faceplate. Decker wanted to look at the lieutenant when he delivered this news.

Sloan popped open his faceplate, listened for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at a sliver of yellow, just beginning to peek over the mountain range to his back. “Are you sure about this, Deck?” he finally asked.

“It was one of those stalkers all right,” Decker said. “I blasted the thing, but I’m sure we’ve been made, LT. I’m sure of it.”

Sloan reached up and tapped his faceplate’s release, then turned to scan the western horizon. “Have Yendalman expedite, Deck. I need his gun online ten minutes ago,” he commanded.

“Copy that, sir,” Decker responded and turned to find Sergeant Yendalman’s concealed position. He found him partially obscured within a shallow cave, well above the team, already getting his long-range sniper rifle mounted.

“How long do you figure, LT?” Decker asked, watching Yendalman as he plugged the weapon into his suit’s integrated sighting interface, target symbols already beginning to flash across his faceplate.

Sloan, still looking west, adjusted his optics. “Not sure, Deck, but if you’re right—“

“I’m right, LT,” Sergeant Decker interrupted.

“If you’re right,” Sloan continued, “then you had better get on a comm beam with the Jack.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I think we’re going to need a fire mission sooner than later.”

“Roger that, LT—I’m on it!”

Sloan wedged himself between a pair of good-sized boulders and continued to study the peaceful LZ, but as the first long streaks of dawn began to spread, slowly brightening Phang, he was finding it hard to shake a feeling of impending doom.

Captain Ramie sat, left leg casually crossed over his right, in the command chair of the Thunder-Jack. “Shields,” he commanded and then, between sips from a large mug emblazoned with the Jack’s logo, added, “Standard barrage orbit, Mr. Hayes.”

The Thunder-Jack, a recently commissioned Manta-class annihilator, was a massive warship capable of turning cityscapes and military complexes into rubble without ever leaving the relative safety of a low planetary orbit.

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman replied.

“Shields to maximum, sir,” the engineer responded from her station, which was positioned at the rear of the elongated, teardrop-shaped command deck.

Ramie carefully set the mug on one of the wide control panels that bracketed his command chair and, with some bit of pride, surveyed his bridge. Considered to be a rising star in the Force, he had been selected to skipper one of the new super battle cruisers, but Ramie had wanted an annihilator. “Can’t stand dealing with tactical pilots,” he had confided to his XO. “Damn prima donnas!”

“Standard orbit, sir,” Hayes said after confirming the stability of the maneuver.

Ramie purposely turned to his fire control officer. “Mr. Addax, get the Jack to battle stations, and charge portside batteries.”

A low-toned, sequenced alarm began a ship-wide broadcast as Lieutenant Addax swiveled his command chair to look directly at Ramie. “Charge portside batteries, aye. Target locations confirmed and loaded.”

The captain turned his attention toward the main viewing screen, where a corvette gunner had just cleared the Jack’s nose in the process of moving into a protective position. “Mr. Mie, open a beam to the Scimitar.”

Ramie flashed a broad grin in the direction of the screen, now covered with the face of Captain Uteta, the Scimitar’s Captain.

“Captain Uteta, my compliments to your crew,” Ramie said.

“Captain Ramie. And to your fine crew as well, sir,” the Tarchein captain responded cordially.

“Everything on schedule, Captain?” Ramie asked.

“Right on plan, Captain. The Scimitar is on station and standing by, though I don’t think you’ll need much in the way of protection today—these cowardly Vargin don’t seem to have the grit for battle,” Uteta said with a grin.

Captain Ramie nodded in agreement and was about to speak, when the Thunder-Jack was suddenly racked by a monstrous ball of energy. The image of Captain Uteta blinked and then disappeared from the screen.

Ramie’s eyes flashed wide as he rotated his chair toward engineering. “What was—“

Again the Thunder-Jack was struck, then again and again!

“Number three D-drive going offline, decompression in portside weapons bay decks five thru eight”

“Shut those damn computer alerts off,” the captain said, all composure seemingly gone.

“Shields failing, breach in the aft missile section, levels two through nine!” the engineer screamed over the thunderous roar of the impacts as shields worked to absorb or dissipate the incredible amounts of energy being directed at the Jack.

“Get us out of range, Mr. Hayes,” Ramie said. “NOW!”

But it was too late for the gigantic, slow-moving ship. The Jack had far too much mass to execute quick evasive maneuvers.

Captain Uteta looked on in horror as the Thunder-Jack buckled amidships and exploded in a gigantic flash of light.

“Evasive, Mr. Bellacad!” he commanded as planetary batteries, now done with the Star Force annihilator, turned their fury on the now fleeing Scimitar.

Tommy sighed, glad to finally be spaceborne, and eased his Rapier toward the squadron’s formation. The Lasercats of FS-1720 were just coming together, although already well below the battle group.

“What was that?” Rahagin blurted out over the intercom.

Tommy’s polarized visor went instantly dark, shielding his eyes from a huge fireball that erupted from somewhere thousands of feet below.

“It was the Thunder-Jack!” an excited voice yelled over the comm.

Tommy, in spite of the growing confusion, kept his fighter snugged up with Cat Lead. Mean-looking streaks of energy, originating from the planet below, were now slamming into a nearby frigate as it struggled to get to the Renegade and the relative safety of the higher-orbiting battle group.

“The Thunder-Jack is gone!” another Cat pilot shouted.

“There goes the Scimitar!” Another Lasercat Pilot shouted as the aft end of the frigate separated and spiraled towards the planet, spewing flaming chunks of debris and screaming crewmen.

“Lead to all Cats, stay off the comm,” Wagner commanded in a calm, steady voice.

The assault ships of the battle group were now in the process of putting as much distance between them and the planet’s surface guns as possible. Frigates, annihilators, and corvettes, some burning, almost all damaged, clawed out of the now-chaotic low orbits to the safety of the cruisers.

How can the skipper stay so calm?
Tommy thought as his squadron weaved their way past the fleeing starships.

“Cat Lead from Werewolf,” Commander Wolfe, the transport barge’s squadron CO, transmitted.