Scout Pilot Of the Free Union (Space Scout Book 1) Read online

Oh, how I lusted for a fixed seat. But regretfully I shook my head. “No, don’t do that. I wouldn’t have the equipment to do that, and it will look more realistic at the base with a broken up pilot’s seat.”

  Jared shrugged. “Up to you, of course. But we will give you some decent coffee in your supplies.” He leant close and dropped his voice. “And we shifted the beer cans on the quiet for you, too. I hear things about that Colonel Starker, and he isn’t a fan of beer.”

  I clapped him on the arm and tried to look friendly. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Now, you’d better watch me while I do this, so that if asked, you can tell them how you did this.”

  I spent three entirely dull and boring hours watching Jared mess about with the wiring. First he ripped up some of the carpeting in the living area, pulled up an access hatch and pulled out a handful of electrical cables, which he cut off – seemingly at random. The hatch he left lying on the floor. “Artistic license, eh?” he chuckled. The wires he connected carefully but with odd coloured cables, so that the job looked very amateurish. I began to suspect that he might just be a very good mechanic.

  “Now,” he said finally, when I was so bored that I just wanted to sit in my sleeping pod and close my eyes; “let’s see if it all works.”

  The flight manual was open on the flight console, and I watched him familiarise himself with the main controls. “I can’t remember when we last had one of these in here,” Jared said in a nostalgic tone. “I did my basic engineering training on one of these, though. Years ago. Takes me back, it does.”

  He flicked some switches. The flight console lit up, and only two emergency alarms started. “The landing gear warnings,” he said to me. “I’ll turn them off.” He tried several switches and even typed a flurry of commands into the damage control screen, but nothing would stop the siren. Finally, with an engineer’s curse which I will not repeat, he pulled out a pair of pliers and simply snipped through the alarm cables. “Drive you mad, that would,” he observed. Next he moved to the main drive controls and ran both the navcomm and the flightcomm through a series of test commands. “All checks out,” he told me. “But there’s only one way to find out for sure. That’s to fly the bird.”

  At that moment the orderly appeared. “Message from the CEO, Captain.” I took the folded note and opened it. In spidery handwriting the message ran: Black ops visit. ETA two hours. Be a good chance for you to report.

  “Right!” I said decisively. “Then I’ve gone. You boys have never seen me, never heard of me, never done anything.” I stowed the flight manual in its appointed place, and pulled the pilot’s seat up.

  “At least let me do something about that seat, Captain!” protested Jared.

  “Out!”

  “Then good luck, Captain.”

  From the Flight deck I watched the orderly and the two engineers leave the entry hatch, then I sealed it. On command, the main drive started and hummed nicely.

  The commscreen flickered into life. “Classified One, you have taxi clearance,” intoned the Flight Controller. “Be aware we have inbound traffic from the North West.”

  I touched the auxiliary power lever, and the Speedbird groaned. A little more, and she rolled out of the hangar onto the pad. I started the pre launch checks. Half way through, the commscreen spoke again. “B Op Flight, Maintenance Five-One. You are cleared for approach. Be aware we have traffic on the launch pad.”

  “Five-one, this is B Op Flight Commander. What traffic is that?” demanded a harsh voice.

  “It is a Classified flight, I have no details,” replied the Flight Controller calmly. “Classified One, you are cleared to launch when ready.”

  I pushed the power lever all the way forward, and the Speedbird juddered, shuddered, and started rolling.

  “Cancel that clearance! We have no record of a classified flight in this entire system!”

  The Speedbird gathered speed, and I reckoned that the Flight Controller was glad to see me go.

  “B Ops leader, be advised that Classified One is on a mission for Colonel Starker,” the Flight Controller said.

  “Five-one, this IS Colonel Starker and that Speedbird is not under my command.”

  The Flight Controller and I both panicked at this point. I tried to push the power lever beyond the end of its limit. He settled for his only option.

  “Classified One, your clearance is revoked. Abort launch immediately,” he instructed me.

  Of course, the Speedbird was now almost airborne.

  “Classified One, acknowledge instruction immediately.” The Flight Controller was doing his best not to show his terror. “Classified One, acknowledge instruction!”

  “B Ops Flight Commander to B Ops units. You are cleared to fire on unidentified target.” Colonel Starker wasn’t wasting time.

  Frantically I tried the combat controls: but they were all out of action. The Speedbird was now airborne and accelerating fast. I left the combat controls and instead set the coordinates into the navcomm. As they were preprogrammed that only took a moment.

  “B Ops Leader, B Ops One. Visual on target now. Looks like a Free Union Scout craft to me.”

  The Speedbird gained more speed now and climbed steeply. A nasty vibration set my teeth chattering. Or maybe it was fear? I decided it didn’t matter much.

  “B Ops One, B Ops leader. Permission to Engage.”

  I looked in the vidscreen. Two missiles sped towards me with horrifying accuracy. The Speedbird lurched; there was a scream from tortured metal below and behind the Flight deck and most of the landing gear ripped itself from the housing and fell away. Moments later the missiles struck the falling landing gear and exploded at some distance from the Speedbird.

  “B Ops Leader, B Ops One. Strike one! Target hit!”

  “Well done!”

  Freed from the landing gear’s aerodynamic drag, the scout ship powered out of the atmosphere and as soon as the appropriate light turned from red to green, I engaged the hyperspace drive. The Speedbird escaped normal space and set course for Star Base. I blew out my cheeks, and attended to the flight chores, reducing power on the main drive to a nominal level, and relaxed.

  Sleep. I needed sleep desperately. But in one final burst of energy, I opened the commscreen and reported in. My immediate superior was not best pleased that my main mission had not been completed, and told me in no uncertain terms that as soon as Mike and the Star Base mechanics had sorted out the Speedbird’s electronics, I would be back on the same task. The recordings of the Imperium Black Ops unit’s base he dismissed as irrelevant without even examining them, which I did find a bit aggravating.

  “I’ll look at them later,” was the best I got.

  Finally I left the flight deck and flung myself into the sleeping pod. Tomorrow would be another day. Thankfully.

  Chapter six

  Secret Places

  Military officers seem to have a thing about chairs; or at least the chairs reserved for visitors to their lairs. Offices. Whatever. The chairs should be hard, unwelcoming, and designed to let you know that if you are occupying one – especially in a corridor outside a door – that the unpleasant experience you are currently enduring is going to be pleasant compared to what will happen to you when you enter the demesne of your superior. Maybe my experience is atypical – but somehow I rather doubt it.

  The Reconnaissance Unit Star Commander certainly subscribed to this practice. Sitting outside his office gave me ample time to reflect upon this and I would have preferred to remain outside, frankly. However, such was not to be my fate. The door opened and I was summoned to what I was already fearing was just the latest attempt to send me to my doom.

  “Ah, Captain Russell. Come in and sit down.”

  I saluted, and sat in front of the large, but somewhat battered desk. The Commander smiled at me, which I considered a particularly bad sign. “I have now had time to review the report you filed after your technical problems interfered with your last mission.”

&nbs
p; No reply seemed to be required, so I made none.

  “This base you have uncovered is actually most interesting to Star Base Command. I have circulated the information you were able to glean, in particular the presence there of the Imperium’s Colonel Starker. Whatever he is doing is of great interest to us, as his brief is to destabilise The Free Union in any way that he can.”

  Personally, looking at the state of The Free Union’s politics and alliances, I thought he was probably doing a good job for the Imperium but thought it best not to say so.

  “Fleet Command has instructed the Reconnaissance Unit to make enquiries and investigations into this unknown base. The planetary system is close to our borders although not on major trade routes. Traffic can be disguised by that freighter maintenance base. It is discreet, easy of access and largely disregarded. Starker could be hatching any mischief there. We need to know more.”

  Again, no reply seemed to be appropriate at this point.

  “Star Fleet has authorised me to give you a Commendation for your actions in locating and identifying this new threat to our security.”

  Oh good. I looked at the Commander with horror. Cosmic balance required that such praise was bound to be followed by something equally awful. I was not to be disappointed.

  “I have therefore created a small task force. It will consist of a StarDestroyer and three frigates. And you.”

  A sudden hope sprang in my breast, as the poets say. “Sir, the Reconnaissance Unit doesn’t have any StarDestroyers or frigates!”

  “No, we don’t. But they have been assigned to us for the duration of this mission.” The Commander stood up, so protocol insisted that I could not stay slumped in the chair, as I would have preferred. “Come with me.”

  The Commander led the way out of his office and along the corridor to a briefing room. I followed unenthusiastically. He flung open the door and strode in; the other Starfleet officers inside the room promptly stood to attention and saluted. I trailed disconsolately into the room and selected a spare chair.

  “Sit down, gentlemen. And lady,” said the Commander. I slumped into the chair I had chosen, and was amazed when the officer behind me thumped me on the shoulder. Before I could turn around, the Commander was on the air.

  “Now, let me remind you all that this is a Top Secret Classified mission. No one is to mention it outside of this room. Lives are at stake.”

  Probably mine, I thought.

  “Captain Russell here has bravely uncovered a secret Imperium base close to our borders under the direct control of Imperium Colonel Starker.” A shiver of fear ran noticeably through the room at the mention of his name, and I joined in. “This mission is to investigate further the purpose and nature of the operation he is conducting there. Captain Russell has volunteered to investigate from the ground.” Had I? My volunteering had passed me by! “You brother (and sister) Officers are to carry out a support role.”

  This was worse than I had feared. In military life, no one with any brains ever volunteers for anything. It is seriously unwise, and frequently fatal.

  “When Captain Russell goes in, you will hold the flotilla in readiness to assist him. These are your mission parameters: You will NOT cross the border into Imperium controlled territory. You will NOT engage Imperium units except and unless they fire at you first, AND you are within Free Union borders as agreed at the Council of Aldebaran. Should Imperium units cross the border, you are to instruct them to return, but you are not to initiate combat. There will be no excuses accepted.”

  “Exactly how much help can they give me, then?” I asked, making a valiant if futile attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  “The flotilla is there to provide you with a safe haven, Captain Russell. It has been carefully considered and concluded that the presence of a flotilla will deter Imperium forces from continuing to pursue you once you cross the border. Last time, you were not engaged by aircraft with the capability to operate beyond the atmosphere. You cannot count on that a second time.”

  This got better and better. The Commander saluted the room, and everyone (with varied degrees of enthusiasm) saluted back. “Captain Russell. I want you back in my office in two hours for final briefing. You other officers: please ensure that your ships are ready for departure later today.” The Commander walked out, and I slumped back into my seat.

  “Cap! It’s brilliant to see you!” Sheena clapped me on the shoulder again. It hurt. But I was amazingly pleased to see her, too.

  “You too,” I told her. “How’s Mac?”

  “He’s readying the StarDestroyer for the mission. We were amazed when the rumours got around about what you’d done! We’re so proud of you!”

  “Thanks,” I said, slightly surprised. “I’m sure that the rumours were exaggerated.”

  “We thought we knew you so well, and instead you turn out to be a real life hero!”

  I winced. “I thought we were friends. There’s no need to call me things like that. So who’s your pilot?”

  Sheena introduced me a tall, thin captain who looked seriously in need of several good meals; which of course he was unlikely to get in Star Fleet’s canteen.

  “Honour to meet you, Captain,” he said. “I’m Dexter.”

  I shook his hand, which seemed to be what he wanted. “Got to go, Sheena. I need to see what condition my ship is in.”

  “Okay, Cap. Just know, whatever happens, we’ll be right behind you. Full support is what you deserve, and what you’ll get! You can rely on us.”

  “Within mission parameters, of course,” added Captain Dexter in a prissy tone. “I will of course be in charge of the Flotilla.” He actually pronounced the capital ‘F’, which isn’t easy and is normally a sure sign of an ambitious officer, in my view. I mistrusted him on sight.

  The maintenance bay was not too far from the briefing room; fortunately the canteen lay in the way and I was able to get myself a large sandwich and an even larger coffee before I headed for the dirty rooms. The dirty rooms being the slang for the maintenance bay. I have heard of maintenance areas that are sparkling clean, whose mechanics are in pristine overalls – in fact the freighter maintenance base I had recently fled had been such a place – but Star Fleet’s Reconnaissance Unit’s maintenance area was not such a place.

  Mike and the other mechanics were normally to be found in scruffy, dirty clothes. If you tried eating your dinner off this floor, or alternatively off the various toolboxes scattered about, there was a good chance that you would be carried off by some noxious disease before you had managed to finish the food (which, if it came from the Fleet canteen, might in fact be equally poisonous.).

  My Speedbird was sitting on a variety of cradles and stands that looked at best rickety and at worst lethal. Ironically, one of the stands was in fact being kept level by the Health And Safety Guide carefully positioned under one supporting leg. The NotMike, as I usually thought about my mechanic’s various underlings, was eating a cheese sandwich with one hand and wielding a small arc welding device with the other. I hoped he didn’t put the wrong one in his mouth.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Made a right mess of this, didn’t you?” replied NotMike through a mouthful of cheese. “You’re lucky we still have some of these parts around. Not made now, you know. We’re already remanufacturing some bits and that takes ages to get the paperwork.”

  “Where’s Mike?”

  “Inside. He’s testing the repairs to the wiring on the flight computer. When I’ve finished this you’ll be good to go to a flight test.”

  I pulled a face. The chance of getting a flight test seemed a bit slender. NotMike took a huge bite from his sandwich and vanished back into the nacelle that was holding part of the landing gear.

  “Mike?” I called into the entry hatch. “Is it safe to come inside?”

  “Safer here than when you are flying it,” came the reply.

  Gingerly I hoisted myself into the entry hatch. When the ship failed to fall
from the stands and crush the NotMike welding the landing gear, I tried the staircase leading up to the living quarters. Mike was closing inspection panels over the wiring.

  “Who did the botched up wiring loom fix?” he asked me without saying hello.

  “Some bloke from an Imperium freighter base. To be fair, he was trying to make it work while making it look as if I’d fixed it myself after crashing.”

  “Rubbish job there, then. It’s way too professional. I’ve had to re route some of the wires and replace the landing gear controls, but otherwise she’s good to go.”

  “Why do you think I had the fire in the first place?” I asked. The question had been praying on my mind.

  Mike laughed. “The designers didn’t understand quite how much coffee someone like you is going to drink, and you overloaded the kitchen circuits.” He looked around and dropped his voice. “And stop filling the waste compactor with beer cans. That doesn’t help.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t panic. I cleared that myself. No one is going to know. No one who matters, anyway.”

  “Thanks, Mike. I owe you one.”

  “Least I can do for a hero. Now, when are you shipping out?”

  “Couple of hours, I’m led to believe.”

  Mike looked surprised. “I’d better get the oxygen tanks topped up and the food supplies in place, then. But the Speedbird, amazingly, will be ready to go. Despite what you did to her.”

  I sighed. “I’d hoped you were going to give me a good excuse not to go.”

  “Sorry. Oh look, it’s the boss.” Mike pointed.

  I followed the direction of Mike’s finger and saw the Unit Commander barging his way across the maintenance bay towards us.

  “Well?” the Commander demanded of Mike when he arrived.

  “Ready to lift, Sir.”

  “Good. Captain, come with me. And you!” The Commander glared at Mike. “Get this place cleaned up!”

  I followed in the wake of the Commander as he strode across the busy maintenance bay. Most of the mechanics simply ignored him and carried on working on the array of aging ships. One or two deliberately turned their backs and muttered. The Commander ignored them, and led me off to a small room near the other briefing rooms. There was only one other occupant, a small dark haired man who smiled at me and offered his hand in greeting without getting up from his chair.