an escort. They were shadowing while the new commander got his sea legs. They have plenty of anti-air, but they’re not adding much to the fight.”
“Where does Gilroy want us?”
The aide searched around a nearby table until he found his dusty tablet. He tapped the screen, bringing up a holographic map of lunar space. “Sector is in a scouting position here and here, near the Alpha contacts. I’m still being told to wait for our flight order.”
Newman nodded, taking the information cooly. Fleet problems were now his problems, and his peaceful drill weekend was long gone. Newman noticed George and Cameron standing a few paces away and waved them over. He returned their confused salutes and put them at ease. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, Newman silently prayed for a cup of coffee. Like everyone else, he’d been asleep an hour before.
“Lieutenant, you two are the last in the hole. Wolfpack is at half strength today, so you’re taking over the Squadron as Wolf One.”
“Sir?” Cameron asked. “What happened to Lieutenant Rico?”
“Down with a bad bug. And another six are in the drunk tank with the MPs. I can’t fly them, even with this shitstorm. You’ll do.”
“Roger, sir.”
George looked around, taking in the reality of the situation. On the table, a trio of screens showed zoom-ins of the two unknown armadas. George studied the ships’ strange designs, trying to place their origin, but he’d never seen anything like them. His palms felt suddenly cold. “Captain, have they said what we’re up against?”
The field officer shook his head. “It’s not Mars, or at least that’s what they’re saying. Could be that splinter group out of Colorum. Be prepared for a fight. People don’t show up unannounced just to shoot the breeze. Once you’re out there, rendezvous with the rest of SP and stand by.”
Cameron took in the information, his mind flipping through scenarios. Even with the colonists of the red planet pacified, the Federate had no shortage of enemies in the outer sectors. “Those don’t look like converted mining vessels, sir. Have they been converting old derelicts or something?”
Newman sighed, clenching his jaw and counting to ten. “Lieutenant, I know about as much as you right now. What I do know is that these ships are in violation of the Vienna Pact and Sector is part of the mission. So shut up, get in your ship, and get up there.”
George interrupted, placing his palm on Cameron’s chest. “What’s the rally point?”
“Savanna,” Newman said.
George immediately took off and ran over to his fighter. The hangar crew already had the ladder out for him, and they handed his flight bag up after he sat down in the cockpit. Cameron realized he hadn’t moved yet and followed suit, climbing into his ship. The newer Phoenix had cushioned interiors and poly-crystallic screens with a refined holographic overlay. Cam’s fighter was pieced together from eight different versions of the Deuce, and looked it. One computer flickered green while another beamed images in sickening orange. It had taken him months to be able to process the kaleidoscope.
In the cockpit, Cameron flipped on the master power and waited two seconds for the computer self-test to complete. He reached behind his head and pulled out his helmet from the stowage rack. The water line was still connected, and he bit down to test if it was full. A sweet mixture of water and electrolytes filled his mouth. He squeezed the baggy and shook, hearing the slosh of a half-empty bladder. Won’t be out more than an hour. It’ll be fine. Cameron pulled his helmet on and plugged into the communication box. Immediately he heard traffic from Wolfpack. It was the usual buzz: what people thought of the mission; if anyone knew something new; did so-and-so get lucky last night.
Switching to a local line, Cameron spoke. “George, you read me?”
“Lima Charlie, Cam. This shit is crazy.” George leaned back as a flight crew chief—an attractive woman with bright green eyes—tugged his harness tight and checked for frays in the straps. As she pulled away, George held up a hand. “No kiss for good luck?” The chief smacked his helmet hard enough to make him wince, but she still blushed. George laughed and pulled his canopy shut, waiting for the magnets to connect and seal. He listened until the locks clicked twice before giving the crew a nod. The Heads-Up Display, or HUD, read green, meaning the cockpit was now pressurized and ready for launch.
Cameron felt, rather than saw, the crane grab his fighter and begin moving it toward the rails. It wasn’t as efficient as launching from the airfield, as only two fighters could take off at once, but the magnetic launcher allowed crews to immediately enter the battlefield rather than waiting to taxi out into the vacuum. Cameron connected his flight suit to the hoses inside the craft. Zero-G combat was a fairly different animal than planetary dogfighting, but the human body was the same. The flight suit would help keep him conscious during even the most intense fights. Air and water flowed in hoses around his legs and torso, contracting and relaxing as the system came online. When needed, this would keep blood in the right places.
“This is Wolf Two—shit, Wolf One—show me attached on rail two.”
“Wolf One, this is Yankee One-Two.” Captain Newman’s voice came through calm as a schoolteacher over the line. “You are cleared to launch in minus sixty seconds. Good hunting.”
“One-Two, this is Wolf Six,” George said. “I’m on the rail, show me outbound.” He toggled his power amp. The engines whined in response.
The Phoenix began to vibrate around Cameron as the magnets picked up their spin. Once the green light came, the hangar crew would switch his arresting magnet forward and propel him to launch speed in under two seconds. He remembered the first time he’d launched off a rail. George had been telling jokes into the radio from the ground, and Cameron had turned to make a face at him. Three weeks in a neck brace had cemented that lesson: face forward on launch.
“George, test control jets.” Cameron watched as the twenty vertical and horizontal nozzles on George’s fighter spit out white flames in sequence. Once in the vacuum, those jets provided precise control of the craft. Had the fight been planetside, the Phoenix had standard flaps and ailerons for gravitational warfare. “You’re green, spot me.” He activated the jet self-test and watched the numbers count up. A yellow light came on for number fifteen. “Damn it. I thought they fixed that last month.”
“Yeah, still sputtering. That’s fifteen, right?”
Cameron banged his helmet against his headrest. “Same shit, different day. Like I really needed to turn right anyhow.”
“Hey, the day everything works right the first time, call in sick. The universe is clearly trying to kill you.”
An alarm chimed in their cockpits. “T-minus ten…nine…eight…”
Cameron pulled his restraints tight. His left hand rested on his engine control and missile guidance stick while his right gripped the yoke. He pressed his head back against the rest and waited for the sudden acceleration. George howled over the intercom, laughing maniacally as he always did before launch. The engines spun faster and faster, the whine deafening. Cameron only heard the mad thunder of his heart.
One moment all was still, and then the stars rushed forward at three hundred kph. Cameron sank into the molded seat, his vision blurring, his stomach somersaulting into his back. Then they were clear, rocketing out of the lunar atmosphere with the dusty ground falling farther and farther behind.
Mobilization
