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  Scout force

  ( Kelly Blake - 1 )

  Rodney L. Smith

  Rodney L. Smith

  Scout force

  Chapter One

  The aged commercial transport carrying Ensign Kelly Blake landed roughly on the planet Armstrong in the Antares system, the home of Fleet Base 17, otherwise known as Antares Base. Kelly wondered if the pilot had forgotten how to land during the tediously long voyage. The transport had certainly taken its time getting here, and the spaceport controllers took their time assigning it to a gate. Things happened at a relaxed pace out here in the new worlds. The flight's pace seemed to presage how the rest of his career would go. Eventually, the steward tapped on his door to tell him he could move to the disembarkation deck.

  Kelly checked himself in the sparse cabin’s mirror. He felt out of place in his new, standard-issue, blue-black Fleet uniform. He automatically picked at the odd bit of thread that always appears on new uniforms. It was a simpler one than the Fighter Force’s forest green uniform he had previously worn. He would miss his leather flight jacket and the rank epaulettes on his shoulders. The single braid stripe on his sleeve seemed…inadequate. The shoes Fleet personnel wore were flimsy compared to his sturdy calf-length fighter boots, but those were in his past now. The only reminder of his past life would be the gold fighter wings glistening on his chest. General Bugarov could drum him out of the Fighter Force, but he had earned his wings. She couldn’t take them away. He instinctively wiped them with a cloth, although they already shone immaculately.

  Kelly had run afoul of one of the senior officers of the Fighter Force: General Irina Bugarov, not so affectionately known as Old Bugger Off. She had come up through the Pollux Planetary Defense Forces, and had held every position from flight officer to Planetary Sector Defense Commander. With no prospects for further advancement in the planetary chain of command, she applied for a lateral Fleet commission, was accepted, and rose in the ranks to be the senior fighter force officer in the 15th Battle Fleet. As the Battle Fleet Fighter Commander, she had responsibility for five carrier fighter wings and overall command of the fleet fighter defense.

  Kelly had the bad luck to expose a boneheaded tactical decision on her part, by inadvertently being in the right place at the right time to save the Fleet Carrier Bolivar from a K’Rang sneak attack. She considered Kelly’s actions to have been insubordinate, bordering on direct disobedience of her orders. It was only the intervention of Admiral Haddock-Halloway that kept Kelly from standing before a court-martial. The admiral’s power was limited, though, and he couldn’t stop her from using her authority as the senior fighter force commander to do an end run and eject Kelly from Fighter Force.

  Kelly’s new Fleet uniform was adequate, but would need to be replaced with one better tailored. Kelly was sure General Bugarov had instructed the Bolivar's Fleet Supply Officer not to spend too much time fitting his new uniform. The blouse was a bit loose across the shoulders and the pants bagged some under the seat. Still, he looked presentable enough for Fleet Base 17.

  Kelly was about 5’ 11” in his stocking feet. His hair was black and close cropped. His physique and looks were about average. He didn’t consider himself to be anything that would make women swoon. He gave himself a final look in the mirror, adjusted his hat, and proceeded to whatever this new life in the Fleet had to offer.

  He grabbed his carry-on bags and proceeded to offload with the rest of the passengers. The SS Constellation Draca was an older commercial interstellar cargo and passenger transport, not a military flight, so he had to wait his turn in line with the rest. A Fleet Captain tried to push his way through the crowd, but was abruptly brought to a halt by two offloading contract laborers, who were unimpressed by his rank and sense of entitlement. A ship’s steward fortuitously wandered by and stopped them from stuffing the captain into a storage locker just as Kelly moved to intercede.

  The captain straightened his uniform, glared at the two workers, and stomped off. No one further interfered with his bucking the line, although many a pair of eyes glared at his back.

  A Tri-Vid terminal in the embarkation lounge was tuned to the Tri-Vid News Channel. He looked up just as a breaking news feature started.

  “This is Braxton Finnery with Tri-Vid News. We have just learned that a week ago K’Rang forces attempted an unprovoked attack on the 15th Battle Fleet Flagship, the Fleet Carrier Bolivar, during routine maneuvers along the Galactic Republic border. While details on the attack are sketchy, Fleet Spokesperson General Irina Bugarov made the following statement.”

  General Bugarov marched into the press room on board the Bolivar in her forest-green flight suit, boots, and carrying her helmet under her right arm. Those who did not know her would think she was the epitome of a confident and competent leader. She strode to the podium and said, “I’m just back from inspecting the remains of the three K’Rang corvettes that penetrated our border in an attempt to strike the Bolivar. Let me state up front there was never any danger to the Fleet and the Fleet was well within Galactic Republic territory. Even though we were engaged in our training exercise at the time, our forces were alert to all possibilities. The K’Rang ships were monitored shadowing the Fleet on the other side of the border. They were observed moving toward the border and intercepted immediately upon crossing into Galactic Republic space. The three missile corvettes were destroyed well out of range of the Bolivar.”

  “This was a deliberate and unprovoked attack on the Fleet. At no time did the Fleet approach any closer than 500,000 kilometers of our side of the border.”

  A smallish woman in her early forties raised her hand and General Bugarov called on her.

  “General Bugarov, I am Mona Freelander of the Centauri News Affiliates. Can you tell us why it’s been over a week since this incident happened and we are just finding out about it now? We have also heard some rumors the attack was a bit more of a surprise than your comments would suggest.”

  General Bugarov’s eyes flashed white hot for just a split second. The casual observer probably would have missed it. Kelly had felt its searing flames before and recognized it instantly. The general paused, peered down at her pocket terminal, and replied, “We had to make sure this wasn’t more than an isolated incident. We had to move the Fleet capital ships away from the border into a more defensive posture. We took appropriate precautions to move the Fleet out of any possible danger of attack. We conducted our investigations, determined there was no further danger, and then called this news conference. Any rumors we were caught unprepared are simply fabrications. The 15th Battle Fleet was and is in a state of constant vigilance. Thank you.”

  With that, she quickly departed the newsroom to the shouts of further questions from the assembled reporters. The Tri-Vid News Channel news anchor reappeared.

  “Nagging rumors of the Fleet being caught off guard persist. While we have no further response from the Fleet, we do have a comment from the Colonial Party Senate Whip, Senator Colleen Santari.”

  An attractive, but severe woman in her thirties or forties stood before a podium bearing the seal of the Galactic Assembly upper house. Flashes went off as the woman shuffled through her pocket terminal and prepared to speak.

  “As the head of the Senate Galactic Defense Committee, I am calling hearings into this matter. As you know, my party has been opposed to these provocative exercises so close to our border with the K’Rang. If there are any indications of unpreparedness on the part of the 15th Battle Fleet, I will get to the bottom of them. Thank you.”

  Kelly turned away from the screen as one of the transport’s officers called for the assembled passenger’s attention. The purser indicated all port clearances had been completed and the passengers could disembark. Kelly picked up his
bags and strode into the spaceport.

  The Armstrong Spaceport was typical of developing planets. Small as far as spaceports went, it lacked many of the features found on some of the more prosperous planets closer to the Galactic Republic core around the Sol System. What it lacked in features, it more than made up in drabness. The color scheme was bland with the predominant color being concrete grey. It smelled faintly of curing concrete, further testifying to its newness.

  The terminal was roughly shaped like the letter E, with the upper and lower legs pushed out at a slight angle. Kelly’s transport was at the farthest gate at the end of the top leg, the interplanetary gates. He passed businessmen shopping for souvenirs in kitschy shops and families waiting in line to enter carbon copy chain restaurants, as he made his way down the long corridor.

  The terminal’s construction was adequate, but the fit and finish were not quite up to first world standards. The locals had made an effort to apply the latest styles, but they just didn’t quite get there. Everything seemed just a little off, like a picture frame slightly askew. The size and condition of the spaceport also reflected the smaller volume of passenger traffic this relatively new world generated. Kelly imagined that, as the planet continued to progress, the traffic would increase and services would follow.

  Kelly made his way through medical screening. His Fleet medical records showed him to be in excellent health and with all his vaccinations up to date. The bored medtech barely looked up from his screen at him, before he thumbed his approval for planet entry into Kelly’s pocket terminal.

  Customs screening was also perfunctory. When the customs official saw all Kelly had was his carry-on baggage, he looked at his uniform and thumbed him through. Passport control took a little longer because the agent found Kelly interesting and took some time to flirt with him before he passed him through. His uniform gave him no special privileges here on the civilian side of Armstrong.

  His baggage from the Bolivar would not arrive for at least a week, so he passed by baggage pickup and the large crowd of people expectantly hoping for their bag to be the next one to appear on the carousel. He went out into the bustling main terminal to find transport to the base. There was supposed to be a regular fleet shuttle to the northern continent and Antares Base. All he had to do was find the right gate and get manifested. He consulted his pocket terminal and asked for directions. While he stood aside waiting for the response to come up, the slightly rumpled captain who’d had the run in with the laborers went by. Taking a chance the captain knew the way, Kelly followed him.

  The captain headed for a moving sidewalk. Kelly tagged along at a discrete distance. His pocket terminal chimed to show his response had arrived and a quick glance confirmed he was headed in the right direction. At the end of the moving sidewalk, a lit sign with an arrow pointed the way to the waiting area for the fleet shuttle. Kelly lined up behind the captain to be added to the manifest for the next available shuttle.

  The captain was quickly taken care of and Kelly moved up to the counter. A sharp looking female ensign with sparkling eyes looked up at him and said, “Pocket terminal with orders posted, please.”

  Kelly handed over his pocket terminal with the orders already keyed up and waited.

  “Ensign Blake,” she said, “I can get you on the next shuttle with your carry-on, but the rest of your baggage will have to wait for the next flight.

  “That will be alright. This is all I have with me anyway.”

  “Traveling light, are we?”

  “Yes, my hold baggage won’t be here for at least a couple of weeks.”

  She had a pleasant smile. Her uniform was a custom fit and the tailor did an expert job at setting off her impressive figure. Her name badge said Nielsen. When she stepped from behind her terminal to hand him back his pocket terminal, he noticed that she was wearing Fleet transport pilot’s wings.

  “Do they have the pilots checking folks in here? That seems a little odd to me.”

  “When you run a passenger shuttle for a Fleet Base and a bug hits your crew, you get to do a little bit of everything. What do you fly?”

  “A desk probably, unless something else comes up.”

  “We could always use another pilot in our detachment, if you don’t mind being a “Trash Hauler.” We’re always undermanned.”

  Kelly cringed a little. Trash Hauler is what fighter pilots called the transport pilots that fly people and supplies around the fleet.

  “I’d prefer to do my flying outside of the atmosphere, but if that opportunity doesn’t present itself I will consider it. Thank you. You know my name but all I know is your last name.”

  “My contact info is in your terminal already.” A smile further lit up her eyes as she said that.

  “My name is Tammy. Call me no matter how you decide. We can have a drink and talk about flying. If you go to gate three and wait, they will call your flight shortly. Have a nice flight.”

  Her smile at the last exchange was almost blinding. Kelly smiled back and proceeded to gate three to wait. It was jammed with various Fleet personnel and their families heading to Antares Base. Kelly looked unsuccessfully for a place to sit, couldn’t find one, so leaned against a wall to wait. As Tammy promised, the flight was called almost before he had a chance to check for messages on his pocket terminal.

  He lined up in rank order in front of the captain and a Lieutenant Junior Grade. The enlisted and their families lined up in front of them. It was an old Fleet tradition left over from the days of three-masted frigates and longboats. Senior personnel always boarded last and disembarked first. He moved onboard the shuttle, stowed his bags and took a seat next to the LTJG. The captain had taken the two seats across the aisle for himself.

  The LTJG introduced himself as Roger Dahlens and said he was assigned to the Refit and Repair Directorate of the Fleet Yards at the Base.

  “Where you coming in from?” He asked.

  “I’m coming from Combat Fleet. I’m a transfer from Fleet Fighter Force.”

  “I noticed the fighter wings on your chest. Aren’t you in the wrong color uniform?”

  “Well I had a difference of opinion with my general and here I am.”

  “Don’t tell me. You ran afoul of Old Bugger Off.” He said a little too loud.

  The captain across the aisle looked up with a disapproving frown on his face, then went back to his reading.

  “Man, if you had a run-in with Old Bugger Off, you are in fine company here. This place is where she dumps people who prove she’s not as smart as she thinks she is. Did you see how she was sandbagging on the tri-vid this morning? Fleet Base 17 is where she sends all those that displease her. It’s legend in the Fleet. Let me shake your hand.”

  Kelly shook hands. He didn’t quite know how to take this. He had assumed being transferred out of Fighter Force would be a black mark, but here he found it made him part of a fraternity.

  LTJG Dahlens chatted on for a bit more about his job in refit and repair, but as the light faded outside he turned to the window, threw a pillow behind his head, and dropped off to sleep.

  Kelly looked past him out the window, watching the southern continent pass below them as the shuttle turned. He could make out the suburbs of Tranquility, the capital city. On the horizon, he could see the lights of two or three of the other few cities and towns on this sparsely populated planet.

  Armstrong was one of the newer settled planets in the Galactic Republic. Fleet originally settled it. The civilians in the southern continent came later. Fleet Base 17 was built as the sole tenant of the northern continent to house a major overhaul base for ships capable of landing on planets’ surfaces. Antares Station serviced larger space-going ships in orbit above the planet. Antares Base and Station could service all but the large Fleet Carriers. Kelly had read plans were in motion to expand the station to be able to handle the carriers. Once the shuttle headed out over the middle ocean, Kelly could see nothing but the deep blue sea. He turned away from the window and read the l
ocal news off his pocket terminal until he looked over to the captain across the aisle.

  His eyes met Kelly’s. “Why don’t you sit over here with me for a while, Ensign.”

  An officer’s wish or desire is the same as a command, so Kelly got up and moved over next to the captain.

  The captain’s uniform was still a little rumpled from his run in with the laborers earlier. His hair was dark with fine silver threads woven through. His uniform, though rumpled, hinted at a fit body underneath. He had the look of someone used to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed.

  “Let me introduce myself. I am Captain John Hasselrode. I heard the Lieutenant’s outburst that you had troubles with General Bugarov. Did he tell you that it doesn’t make you unique here on Fleet Base 17?”

  “I’m glad to meet you, sir. I’m Ensign Kelly Blake. Yes, sir, he did mention it.”

  “Well, Ensign Blake, tell me your sad story.”

  Kelly tactfully recounted General Bugarov’s apparent lack of understanding of space physics, her unwillingness to consider alternative tactics, her lack of thought for fleet security, and her embarrassment at being proved wrong by a 2LT. At the end, the captain had a smile on his face.

  “Ensign, I don’t know where you might like to be assigned, but you should talk to my boss. You might have the qualities he looks for in an officer. I am the Executive Officer for Admiral Craddock, Commanding Officer of the Scout Force. You might fit in pretty well. The boss is always looking for good officers who can think on their feet. Let me see your terminal and I’ll flash in my contact info.”

  The captain pulled out his own terminal, aimed it at Kelly’s, and said he hoped he would take him up on his offer.

  Kelly moved back over to his seat and pondered his options. He was certain General Bugarov intended to put him into the most miserable job she could find. Kelly didn’t like that option. Ensign Nielsen offered pleasant possibilities. Captain Hasselrode and his admiral offered other possibilities. Of course, the military is one profession where one walks up to a gift horse, pries its mouth open and checks it closely. It is always nicer, however, to have multiple options from which to choose. Kelly pulled out a pillow, wedged it into the space between the seats and caught some sleep before the shuttle landed. As he drifted in and out of sleep, he noted to himself how abysmally slow the shuttle was compared to his fighter.