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  The base was actually a Marine training facility. Raw Marine recruits were brought here to learn the fine art of being the ‘muscle’ onboard space force ships. As the car drove through the base, Carr noticed that you couldn’t pick up a rock and throw it without hitting a drill instructor. Now he was really glad he hadn’t worn his army grays.

  There were two Kestrel class stealth scouts in existence: Kestrel and Kite, and both had been delivered to this facility. Sanchez and Carr were to take Kestrel, while Kite would be delivered to Task Force 19. Both vessels were small by conventional spaceship standards. They were larger than a shuttlecraft, but not by much. On the outside, the scouts were covered with materials that made their detection by sensors almost impossible. On the inside, they were packed with sensors and fuel, as much fuel as they could carry. A crew of two could fit snugly, provided they didn’t mind bumping into each other every time they turned around. Ships like this usually couldn’t fly too far and the eleven light-years to Sol would be pushing the small craft. It was going to be a one-way mission unless Task Force 19 prevailed and was able to give them a lift home.

  “Why did they fly them here and not to the orbital station?” Carr asked.

  “Less of a chance of them being spotted for what they are,” grinned Sanchez. “These Marine jarheads will just see a ship. On the station, they’d have been seen by pilots. Those pilots would have figured out what the scouts really were.”

  The groundcar dropped them outside a hangar where they were greeted by a space force commander. Sanchez gave a salute, but Carr opted for a handshake.

  “Commander Simon Ojukwu,” the officer introduced himself. “Welcome to Camp Caspeta.” The three of them chitchatted for a while, with most of the chatting coming from Sanchez, not Carr. He noticed that Commander Ojukwu appeared uneasy and it almost seemed to Carr like the man was stalling.

  “Commander,” interrupted Carr after several minutes, “we’ve travelled a long way to see you. Aren’t you going to invite us inside?”

  Ojukwu fidgeted, rubbing his hands together. “Certainly, this way please, Captain Carr, Commander.” Passing several stern-faced Marine sentries, they entered the hangar to find a sleek black ship in the center of the building. Carr glanced sideways and noticed an expression of delight wash over Sanchez’s face. Love at first sight, he thought to himself.

  Ojukwu beamed, as if he himself had conjured up the vehicle out of spare parts. “I present to you the high stealth scout, Kite. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  The rapture on Sanchez’s face evaporated. “Where’s Kestrel? TF Nineteen was to get Kite and we were to fly Kestrel. Commander, it’s the wrong ship.”

  “But, Commander Sanchez, they’re identical.”

  “So where’s Kestrel?” she pressed.

  “Kestrel was requisitioned earlier today. Commander, they’re identical. I assure you everything’s in order.”

  Sanchez paused to gather herself. After all, Ojukwu was a superior officer and she didn’t want to step too far over the line with him. “So,” she said in a calm voice, “I’m assuming someone from TF Nineteen came for Kestrel…”

  Ojukwu hesitated, attempting unsuccessfully to change the subject. “Are you two with Task Force Nineteen? What’s going on anyway? Where are you guys headed? Commonwealth space I’d imagine, right?”

  “Classified, Commander. Now, about Kestrel…”

  Carr wandered over to converse with some of the mechanics while the Sanchez-Ojukwu debate was going on. He returned as Ojukwu was about to take them into the vessel and conduct a brief tour. Once inside, a little of the glow returned to Sanchez’s face. Arrangements were made to pick up the ship the next morning and lift off.

  “Well,” Ojukwu said in a rushed voice, “if there’s nothing further, I’ll see you two tomorrow at zero eight-hundred hours. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” The Commander beat a hasty, almost comical retreat.

  “Does the ship check out?” Carr asked.

  “Well, as far as I can tell. Part of the reason I was selected for this mission is that I’ve actually piloted Kestrel—I was on the prototype test team. This ship is identical, so it should be fine. Damndest thing though, the task force taking the wrong ship. I told Ojukwu that I wanted it noted for the record that we were not receiving the ship that had been assigned to us in the mission profile. Seriously Carr, I know time’s short, but I think we should contact Admiral Getchell about this.”

  Carr looked around the hanger and pointed out one of the mechanics. “See that guy over there, the little one?”

  Sanchez glanced around to locate the enlisted man. He was setting on a bench, having a sandwich and talking with another mechanic.

  “Yeah, I see him. Why?”

  “Very talkative young man. While you and the Commander were discussing the situation, my new friend over there and I were chatting. I found him to be a very gabby fellow. So talkative, that I think I found out why we get Kite and not Kestrel.”

  Sanchez folded her arms and put on a severe face. “Not sure I like where this is going, but go ahead. Why don’t we get Kestrel?”

  “Well, Ojukwu said that Kestrel was requisitioned earlier today. I think the commander is engaging in the great tradition of military-speak.”

  Sanchez put her hand to her forehead as if nursing a headache. “So, you’re saying that ‘requisitioned’ really means what?”

  “Kestrel was stolen.”

  * * * *

  For a person who was about to sleep for four solid weeks, morning had come too soon for Carr. Part of the procedure leading to a planned induction into hypersleep was fasting for twelve hours in advance and the unsavory task of bowel prep. Drinking the diarrhea-inducing liquid was almost as disgusting as the multiple trips to the toilet it prompted. Then there was the anxiety of the mission ahead. By the time he fell asleep, it was time to get up and head back out to Camp Caspeta.

  The two decided not to mention their suspicions regarding a stolen ship to Commander Ojukwu, or anyone else. They would take possession of Kite and get out of town, leaving Admiral Getchell and his minions to sort through the Kestrel affair.

  As the morning progressed with preparations for departure, Carr decided that Sanchez was more moody than usual and knew it wasn’t just nerves about the mission. When she summoned him to a quiet spot beside Kite just before take-off, he had a good idea of what was coming.

  Leaning an outstretched arm against the side of the ship, she began. “I know what you’re planning and it’s not going to happen.”

  “All right, you tell me,” he said, crossing his arms, “what am I planning? Let’s get it all out in the open.”

  “We’re going to get to Earth, land, and then you’re going to pull rank on me or something, leaving me behind with the ship while you go off reconnoitering. To you, I’m just the chauffer. It’s going to be just like the last four days. You’ve shown me no confidence, no trust, and you can barely even bring yourself to talk to me.”

  “We’re mission partners, not friends.”

  “No, we’re not, Carr,” she said raking her fingers through her hair. “A partnership means sharing and trust. It means believing that your teammate is competent and will do the right thing at the right time. I know I don’t have your experience, but dammit, when Tolbert teamed me with you he didn’t just pick my name out of a hat! And my uncle being an admiral has nothing to do with my qualifications for fieldwork—I’m as qualified as any other operative. I don’t know, maybe you’re incapable of trusting someone else.”

  Carr raised his head and stared at the hanger ceiling for a moment. “Sanchez, I know you’re capable, that’s not the issue. On missions, it doesn’t pay to get personal. You get to know a person, you get to like them, and then when a tough call comes along, it affects your judgment. Best to keep it professional.”

  “Nobody’s trying to get personal, Carr. I don’t want to screw you, I just want to work with you, but I can’t do that unless you’re willing to work with me. Th
is thing is too big for mistrust and misunderstanding to get in the way. You want to be professional? Fine, BE professional! Take your head out of your ass and let’s do this—together.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Carr pointed an index finger in her direction. “Sanchez, let me tell you something. You’re…”

  “Over the line, I know, I know,” she stared down at the floor.

  “I was going to say that you’re right. You’re absolutely right,” he said as she looked up at him. “I have had my head up my ass. I’ve been preoccupied with, well, other things on my mind and that has to stop. Like you just said, this is too big.”

  The pilot looked around as if she didn’t know what to do or say. She hadn’t expected his capitulation, let alone his candor.

  “But there has to be an understanding,” he continued. “You’re in. You’re in all the way, but I do have more experience than you and I am the mission commander. When we get to the point where our butts are on the line and I say jump, you have to trust me and jump—no questions, no debate, just jump. Can you do that?”

  She nodded silently.

  “I guess what I’m asking is, can you trust me?”

  A tiny smile broke across her face and she extended her hand to him. Without words, Carr gave it a firm shake.

  By 11:30 hours, Kite was airborne and breaking the atmosphere of Rusalka. The lieutenant commander was clearly enjoying her new toy as she flew the scout to a position high above the planet before turning the controls over to the ship’s computer.

  “Ship, hold this position and await instructions to initiate hyperdrive,” she ordered.

  “Affirmative, Commander Sanchez,” replied Kite’s verbal interface, using the familiar female voice that computers always seemed to use.

  It was time to prepare for hypersleep. The ship contained two ‘coffins,’ enclosed cryonic sleep beds, which would sustain their lives in a rough state of suspended animation during the nearly four-week journey to Sol. Carr slipped into the head to prepare: one final use of the toilet, stripping off all clothes, and the donning of a cotton thong. Hypersleep demanded the exposure of skin so that the computer could better monitor the body, so subjects were mostly naked. A thong was the only concession to human modesty. When he emerged, he suspected Sanchez might make some sort of joke at his expense, but she was too engrossed in the final ship preparations to much notice.

  He laid down in one of the hypersleep chambers, which was a kind of large drawer that slid out from the wall. It was padded but a little cold, and he knew it was going to get a lot colder. A combination of drugs and low temperatures would dramatically slow down bodily processes. It wasn’t absolute suspended animation, but close to it. In most cases, a small scout craft like Kite would have been deployed from a larger ship close to the system or planet that was to be investigated. They could have chosen to stay awake for a month, but the ship really wasn’t designed for living. The sleeping option seemed like the reasonable course of action.

  The ship’s computer had dimmed the interior ambient light to a soft blue tint. When she emerged from the bathroom, Sanchez was wearing only her thong. Carr had expected some sort of bra, but it wasn’t there. Of course, his eyes went straight to her breasts, which were beautiful, as was the rest of her body. The combination of instrument lights and the blue ambient tint on her lovely olive skin produced an erotically surreal sight.

  “Sorry to shock you, Carr, but I’ve been in enough military locker rooms to leave modesty behind,” she said climbing into her coffin on the opposite wall of the cabin, lips curled upward in amusement.

  Carr looked up toward the cabin ceiling and cleared his throat. “No problem,” was all he managed to say.

  “Ship, initiate hypersleep protocols and commence navigation program Sanchez Gamma Zero,” she commanded. “Sleep well, Frank Carr.”

  “And you, Etta Sanchez.”

  “That’s good. I didn’t think you remembered my first name.”

  “Get some sleep, Sanchez.”

  His sleep chamber slid into the wall as Carr felt the sting of several injections and IVs penetrating his skin. He was also aware of a drop in temperature, but the drugs were rapidly inducing sleep and a measure of euphoria.

  So, maybe Sanchez wasn’t the fragile, geeky woman he had initially taken her for. She had surprised him several times in the last hour and he actually felt better about having her along. Yeah, she was going to be OK. Now, I just have to make certain that… I’m… OK…

  6: Encounters

  A few days after Kite jumped out of the Hybrias system, Tempest jumped in. Although his ship was damaged from its engagement with the nameless enemy, Pettigrew had entrusted Uritski Station to the care of the destroyer Reinhold and continued on to Rusalka at full speed. Chief Engineer Mullenhoff was less than enthusiastic about Tempest traveling that far and that fast considering the battle damage the vessel had incurred. Mullenhoff’s concerns were noted for the record. Pettigrew was the only person aboard who knew why they had been summoned to Rusalka and he didn’t want to miss out on the expedition to Earth.

  Upon docking at Rusalka Station, the grim task of removing the dead and wounded began. Eleven crewmembers had died and thirty-three more had been wounded. After reviewing the battle data, Pettigrew thought they were lucky that casualties hadn’t been worse. He didn’t feel lucky though, as he stood deckside on Rusalka Station watching the bodies of his dead crewmembers being carried off the ship. No one even knew why those people had given their lives, and that’s why it was so important that Tempest departed with Task Force 19 when the Sol operation got underway. He and his crew needed to see the enemy—they needed to understand why it had all happened.

  About half of Tempest’s wounded would be shuttled dirtside to Port Bannatyne for care. Ordinarily, the captain would have accompanied them, but time was working against Pettigrew as he tried to arrange for speedy repairs to his ship. To that end, he had sought and been granted an immediate conference with Admiral Getchell aboard his flagship, the battleship Vespera.

  Removing his dark blue beret as he boarded Vespera, Pettigrew was wary of the upcoming meeting. Vice Admiral Levi Getchell was a space force institution. As a young officer, he had won numerous honors fighting against the Gerrhans in the Settlement Wars. Today, in his early sixties, he had a reputation as being Old School. Getchell’s leadership style was completely opposite to that of Pettigrew and the two men had never met personally. Combined with everything else that had happened in the last ten days, Pettigrew was filled with apprehension as he entered the admiral’s stateroom.

  “Come in Captain, come in,” beckoned the gray haired man sitting behind his desk. Yet to look up, Getchell was writing with an old-fashioned pen on a paper tablet as Pettigrew moved to the front of his desk and stood at attention. Pen and paper huh? thought Pettigrew. I heard he was Old School, I just didn’t realize how Old School. Apparently, the headmaster was Socrates. These thoughts from a man who still read Ernest Hemingway. Who knows, perhaps he and the admiral would get along fine.

  The hunch about getting along fine with the admiral dissolved as the seconds ticked by. Getchell had still not looked up, leaving Pettigrew standing there. It was the old trick of establishing your superior rank by purposely ignoring someone—Getchell was putting Pettigrew in his place.

  Finally, the older man raised his head. “Please, Captain, have a seat.”

  The admiral reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a container of pills, sliding two into his hands. “I’ve read your after-action report Captain Pettigrew, and first let me offer my condolences on your fatalities. Pretty rough, huh?”

  “Yes sir, pretty rough.”

  “Of course,” Getchell swallowed his pills and chased them with water, “it might have been even rougher if your little playing possum tactic hadn’t worked out.” Pettigrew cringed inside as Getchell continued. “The enemy could have attacked that station and killed everyone on board while your ship floated around, doing no
thing.” The admiral’s expression signaled that he wanted a response.

  Pettigrew collected himself. “Sir, as I stated in my report, there was ample evidence suggesting that the enemy vessel could have easily destroyed the station, but instead was seeking engagement with another warship. I wanted to have that engagement away from the station and on our terms, sir.”

  Getchell groaned. “Suggesting, Captain, suggesting. You weren’t sure, but you rolled the dice anyway. I’ve studied your record, Captain—you’re one of Polanco’s gang.”

  This is going so much worse than he ever expected. Pettigrew knew not to say a word.

  “You’re the clever one aren’t you, Captain? Admiral Maxon’s his hotheaded girlfriend and Choi’s his sociopathic harpy. But you, you’re his prodigy, his wunderkind.”

  So very much worse…

  “Easy, Captain, easy. You don’t look too well,” Getchell chuckled. “At my age, my bark is worse than my bite. Everyone knows I don’t like Victor Polanco, including Victor. We were on opposite sides during his little putsch last year. He won and I lost, but I’m still here.”

  Pettigrew didn’t let down his guard. “Yes, sir,” was all he dare say.

  “Most men would have exiled their enemies, or worse. Actually, he did exile a bunch, but not me. Personally, I don’t like our Admiral-in-Chief, but I do appreciate that he allowed me to continue doing the only thing I’ve ever known. Does that make any sense to you, Captain?”

  “I think I can understand that, sir.”

  Admiral Getchell leaned forward, hands clasped with forearms flush on the desktop. His eyes locked with Pettigrew’s. “I have studied your record, Pettigrew. You seem to be a promising officer, maybe a little unconventional for my taste, but you get results and that’s what counts. But sometimes, like at Uritski, you take too many chances. Let me tell you, Captain, there’s going to come a day when being clever will not be the clever thing to do.”