****
The auxiliary craft bay was the single largest area on the ship. The intense light washed across the bay. It reflected from the four sleek Arrow-class combat patrol craft, highlighting their angular, yet smooth and functional design.
The interior forward section could seat up to four persons. Ideally only two were required to operate the craft—a pilot and an ops officer. The rear section contained a small cabin with four bunks, two on each side of the port and starboard bulkhead. The cargo hold was about the size of an old mechanic shop and contained compressed food sources to last for a year in space—more if rationed.
Recessed into the dorsal and ventral hull was the miniature version to the turreted railguns on Phoenix. The maximum sub-light speed was a respectable .6 c. Maximum warp speed: one thousand c. The auxiliary craft were ideally suited to give their launching mother-ship more precise sensor sweeps in areas of space further away. Especially where some kind of interference affected long-range sensors. Supporting their mother-ship in combat was also a mission profile they were ideally suited to carry out.
These new strike craft were four times the size of an old obsolete space-superiority fighter. Their long-range capability also made them versatile. A forward micro-torpedo launcher carried a magazine of ten unguided torpedo projectiles—smaller versions of anti-battleship ordnance. Those powerful torpedoes were built for the sole purpose of wrecking large capital ships. Finally, several small point defense cannons provided three hundred and sixty degrees of coverage.
Miroslav completed his external inspection—and admiration—of the craft. Tracing a finger along the line of the outer hull as he walked to the rear ramp to board. He chose the one designated Hammerhead. As he stepped to the rear ramp to board the ship he jumped backwards when the doctor greeted him from inside.
“Why hello there, Flaps,” the doctor said.
“You are one creepy doctor,” Miroslav said, raising his hand to his chest to steady his beating heart. “What were you doing in there?”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I was reading my novel when I saw you prowling around outside.”
“Prowling! I’m the pilot here . . . I’m inspecting my craft. Go read your paper story in your assigned quarters.”
“But I like being here, no one can find me so easily.”
He thought of another way the man could hide. “No one would find you if you spaced yourself either,” Miroslav said.
The creepy man laughed. “You’ve been hanging around Lee and the Commander too much, and I’m taking a break from my book for now. May I keep your company?”
“Why sure,” Miroslav said, as he slammed a fist against the control to raise the ramp behind them.
“What are you doing, Flaps?”
“Stop calling me that. Only the crew calls me that.” Really, Miroslav didn’t care. He just wanted to push the doctor’s buttons.
“Very well, what are you doing, Ensign?”
“I’m taking the ship for a test flight to see how she responds. Might take her into an atmosphere too.”
The color drained from Max’s face. “The Commander authorized this?”
“Of course! Sit tight. It’ll be one wild ride!”
“I don’t think so, let me off.”
“Relax, doc, I’m joking,” Miroslav said. “Come on up to the flight deck, let’s have a look together. And of course you can call me Flaps. After all you saved Lee, so you’re a part of this crew now.”
Max frowned. “I’d rather not be since I was quite fine with my boring planet-side life.”
Miroslav didn’t reply as they climbed the ladder to the flight deck.
“Impressive,” Miroslav said, as he sat behind the helm. “Very sleek, I like it. This feels like it could be my first command. Captain Yuri Miroslav of the USSF Hammerhead.”
“Catchy, I like it,” Max said.
“Someday . . . I hope.”
“I’m sure of it,” Max said. “You mind if I ask how you got the callsign?”
Miroslav laughed. “Sure, doc, it’s been two years now. Lee’s jokes don’t really sting as much anymore.”
He fiddled with some of the controls, initiating a systems check. “In the academy, flight cadets train on old atmospheric jets, learning to fly and think under pressure. It’s not as forgiving as spaceflight. After three months, we progressed from simulators to the real thing, ready to take our first real flight. Accompanied by an instructor of course. It’s nothing really, I was lining up for my landing and I couldn’t kill my airspeed. I was coming in too fast. I panicked and couldn’t understand what I’d missed. Then the instructor starts yelling over the comm, FLAPS! FLAPS! Yeah so I’d forgot to set my flaps. Anyway, that nickname stuck, and has been with me all the way to my first assignment aboard Trident. My scores were the highest of all the trainees. But because of that little incident on my final test, I didn’t make it into advanced strike fighter training.
“Anyway, I know I’m better than all the other selectees. None of them beat me in space or atmosphere combat simulations during our training. I got so famous around the academy I even beat Fleet pilots who came just to challenge me. But it isn’t wartime. The Fleet doesn’t have need of a juvenile expert like me. The Commander is the only one who appreciated my skill. When I first came aboard Trident, no one could call me Flaps on the bridge. Until one day I told him I was fine with it.”
The doctor smirked. “It could have been worse, they could have called you ‘Crash’.”
Miroslav supposed that was true. “Given the alternative, it seems I got the better of the two. Your turn, doc, how do you know the Commander so well?”
Tanner held up a hand. “Please call me Max,” he said, then he sighed heavily. “Before I left the Fleet to join a team researching advanced bionics, I served aboard Venture as chief medical officer. Your Commander and I shared an unhealthy obsession of twenty-first century fiction novels. I swear sometimes the crew wouldn’t understand half the things we said when we got together in the lounge.”
Miroslav snorted. “So you share a love of crappy old make believe stories. Why does it seem you’re so fond of each other?”
“You got all that from the sickbay?”
“Sure,” Miroslav said. “I’m pretty much in tune with the Commander now, as opposed to when I first boarded Trident.”
“You tend to develop a keen sense of gratitude and closeness with someone who’s saved your life. The Venture was tasked to deliver medical supplies to an independent colony in the throes of a catastrophic civil war. Our convoy of shuttles destined for the surface came under fire by one of the factions and we took a direct hit. The hostile faction controlled the district where our shuttle crashed, ten marines dead, only Aaron and I survived. I guess I was lucky, I only broke both legs on impact. Your Commander had to carry me fifty miles over a period of four days through hostile territory. And he gave me most of the water due to my injuries. He ignored every plea I made to leave me. I told him my wounds were mortal and it wasn’t worth both of us dying. All he kept repeating every time I tried to argue with him to leave me was ‘no one lives forever, Max’. He was determined that if he had to die trying, I wasn’t going to be left out there alone.”
Miroslav couldn’t remember the last time anyone or anything left him speechless.
Max continued. “Maybe it’s because he doesn’t like to lose, who knows, but that’s one thing some of the Fleet brass holds against him. They’re afraid he can’t put the needs of the many ahead of the needs of the few.”
That was the largest pile of horse manure Miroslav could ever recall hearing. “They say I’m just a kid and I don’t know anything. But one thing I know is many people throughout history used the excuse of protecting many at the expense of a few, to justify despicable acts. So if the Commander cares about everyone from the smallest fledgling colony to the largest tech-5 world, then I say we’re lucky to have such a man leading us.”