: “ Assault & Assistance ”

Ymir Air Defense Base, northern continent of planet Ymir IV
The Ymir System, Downing Quadrant, Vega Sector
January 23, 2681; 0245 Hours (CST)

Major Russell "Rusty" McClellan, Terran Confederation Space Force, was settled in for the rest of the night on a bunk in the squadron’s ready room, as settled in as he could be while sleeping in his flightsuit. At least he didn’t have to wear those pain-in-the-ass steel-toed flight boots when trying to sleep on alert status. He was trying to to have, for once, a nice peaceful sleep where he can sleep just like a baby. Sleep is something that is cherished, but is taken for granted.

Major McClellan was the executive officer of the squadron that has been assigned to the rag-tag Union of Border Worlds Space Force as part of the liaison agreement. He didn’t exactly relish the assignment. He should be on board the Confederation’s newest carrier, the TCS Midway and be flying one of the state of the art Panthers that he had heard so much about. But nooo, McClellan was assigned to this patrol squadron of old outdated Excaliburs, and to work with the Border Worlds, a rag-tag bunch of people whose top line weaponry and equipment were nothing more then a pile of junk parts.

The Ymir System was right on the Terran/Kilrathi border. Part of the Union of Border Worlds, Ymir didn’t prosper as much as the "inner" territories of the Border Worlds farther away from the Kilrathi border. But Ymir had a decent economy in spite of her vulnerability to attack; her colony of 400,000 had a decent living and lifestyle and had a great economy. They got along, but didn’t know much about how to deal with Kilrathi attacks and raids. Fortunately, things got better for the colony when the Union and the Confederation moved aggressively to reestablish their relationship.

Because Ymir was right on the Kilrathi border, it has beefed up with more garrison forces then others. Ymir Base had three squadrons as her fighter complement. Well, more like two squadrons. McClellan’s squadron, the 62th Long-Range Patrol Squadron, had sixteen Excaliburs and was one of the base’s main complement. Everyone referred to it (especially the Border Worlds) as the "Confee squadron." The Border Worlds’s 52th Air Defense Squadron had a total of fifteen Vindicator ground-based fighter-bombers, it was just referred to as the “rag-tag squadron,” because they flew aging Vindicator fighters. The Border Worlds themselves joked about having to be more creative in keeping those fighters on-line.

The third squadron was called the “Bastard squadron.” It had the weirdest experiments and concoctions that McClellan had ever seen before. It really showed that the Border Worlds had to be more creative in keeping their ships up and running. It was unofficially said that the fighters from this squadron were to be deployed for last-ditch missions. For example, there was the Vindicator outfitted with engines from a light corvette. Then there was the Avenger who had its guts ripped out and replaced with a crude EW sensor and jamming package. There was an atmospheric transport that the Border Worlds had converted into a light corvette, wielding on turrets and other stuff. Needless to say, this squadron was far less capable of combat as the other two squadrons were.

There were other forces as well. Regional ConFleet HQ had sent a fleet detachment to defend the system from any Kilrathi intrusions in the Hawkins System. The blockade force consisted of the light cruiser TCS Atlanta and destroyers TCS Cushing and TCS Duncan. To add some ‘help’ the Border Worlds frigate BWS Sparta voluntarily joined them as well. It was a sizable force; Atlanta, Cushing, and Duncan carried their own fighters and more can be summoned from Ymir Air Defense Base.

But there was nothing going on right now. Absolutely nothing. The only enemy right now for the Terrans was boredom. Or so they thought.

The sandman was just getting McClellan drift off into slumber-land when a Whaaa! Whaaa! Whaaa! blared through the loudspeakers placed all around the planetary base. Instinctually the former Space Force Academy cross country runner pivoted out of his bunk, shoved his feet into his boots, and secured the laces and velcro flaps. Just then his telephone rang. This base, seated right on the Kilrathi Border, was made by the Border Worlds and they didn’t exactly have the most advanced technology, and communications was in one of those categories. Rusty grabbed for the phone.

“McClellan,” Rusty acknowledged as he answered the phone. The phone was the squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richards, who he recognized and knew but really didn’t care much about.

“Major, we got a situation here. Just six minutes ago, the picket forces consisting of Atlanta and her escorts reported strange contacts emerging from the Hawkins jump point and they are moving in to engage. They have requested reinforcements,” the Colonel said. “After that transmission we haven’t heard from them since.”

“Are they Kilrathi forces?” Rusty asked.

“The Atlanta was about to say something, and that was when we lost all communications with them. Our attempts to reestablish communication are blocked by heavy jamming. We gotta assume they are Cats. In addition, our sensor satellites are also jammed, we are blind for the entire space around this planet and we do not know what the hell is going on.” The Colonel paused. “Base commander is ordering a full magnum launch. Now get up to the hangars and wait for further orders!” The call terminated.

Rusty grabbed his stuff and ran out the door, joining the mob of pilots and tech crew already running down the ramp. They ran for the transport tractors, which were lined up in a untidy faction among the barracks. Everyone was scrambling into the transport vehicles. Rusty counted heads, making sure that all from his section were aboard, Lieutenant Colonel Richards had his own section to take care of. Satisfied, he then knocked on the cab and the driver pulled out towards the fighter craft.

Major McClellan had great confidence in his ability to survive in space; however, surviving the ride to his combat spacecraft was totally another story. In a full-scale war, getting off the ground and into the air was virtually a battle itself. In fact, most of the Terran Confederation’s simulated full-scale war scenarios called for half of the Terran’s planet-based fighter force to be totally destroyed by the initial salvo of anti-matter cruise missiles launched from capital ships.

That’s why speed, speed, speed, was always the byword in getting the starfighters based on a ground-based facility up and into the air (or should one say void?). Rusty was convinced that the Border Worlds recruited professional drag racers for runway transport drivers. He gave a little smile, maybe he was right. Hell, if it took drag racers then so be it.

Rusty looked around and with his eyes picked up the flashing lights and the silhouette of a trio of aging Border World Vindicator fighters lifting off the runway, the first starfighters to scramble. He heard a distinct sound of the obsolete fighters’ engines as they propelled them off into the air, and then he saw as the Vindicators pointed their noses up virtually straight up and then punched in their afterburners.

He saw as flame erupted from their engines and the Border Worlds fighters rocketed up, breaking Mach 1 in a matter of seconds. McClellan and the others could hear the distinct sound of sonic booms as the fighters raced out of sight and into unknown space. McClellan scowled as he saw the UBW pilots do it; one move like that back in Confed territory was enough to get him shitlisted. But here in the frontier, he learned that rules and regulations were not a word in the Border Worlds vocabulary. And the Border Worlds were gutsy as hell, even to the point of suicidal. That was something Rusty liked about them.

The alarms were still blaring as the truck screeched to a halt in front of a set of hangars belonging to the 62th Long-Range Patrol Squadron. The ground crewmen, working like a pack of monkeys, were already there prepping the sixteen F-103D Excalibur fighters ready for combat flight. “Come on, let’s go!” Rusty gave a motivational shout to his men as he ran out of the truck and ran up to his fighter. One of the crewmen tossed him his helmet and G-suit as Rusty quickly stopped for a moment to put it on. He saw that his CO had just gotten off from one of the trucks and he ran over to him. “What’s the sitrep?” he yelled over the sound of revving up engines.

“It’s Fucked Up Beyond All Repair, Major!” the Lieutenant Colonel had to yell back, “We’re blind out there. We can’t pick up any contacts beyond a hundred thousand clicks of the planet, anything further then that is registering bonkers. And in addition, we still can’t reestablish communications with Atlanta and her ships. It’s as if they put a big jamming blanket over them and this entire system.” And then Lieutenant Colonel Richards gave him the assignment.

“Rusty, your section is first to launch. When you get up there, base commander will give you instructions of what to do. Now move!” The CO clapped his shoulder, “Good luck and I’ll see you up there!” he said as the CO turned around and sprinted towards his own fighter.

Rusty nodded as he finished putting on his helmet and then raced up to the ladder, with a young techie saying “Kick some ass out there, sir!” There was no time to answer back, there was a mission to do. McClellan rounded the top of the ladder and then hopped into his Excalibur. There another tech ran up and helped Rusty into his seat and after a few moments of fumbling, he too was down and then raced down the ladder, pushing it away as he ran from the craft. Another tech was pulling the seeker heads of the missiles slung under the Excalibur’s wings and he then ran to where Rusty can see him.

“I read eight. Four IFF, and four IR,” the techie said over the radio as Rusty acknowledged it. His electronic systems were already on-line and Rusty could feel his engines revving up as he got his Excalibur ready. In its hey-day, the Excalibur was Confed’s premiere fighter. It was agile, fast, beautiful and deadly. But now even the old Excal was showing its age, which was exactly why Confed had stricken the venerable fighter from its carrier fleet and replaced it with the Panther and more recently the Vampire fighter.

The first thing Rusty did was to turn on his sensor package. The Excalibur had an outdated but still effective package, which could receive datalinks from all other radar-scanning resources (such as listening posts, base radar, capships, SWACS, or other fighters) and update it each second with a virtual crystal clear view of the surrounding area. But as he turned it on, he watched in dismay as his entire sensor screen was filled with mumbo jumbo.

Black-and-white fuzz was enveloping the entire screen, the sensor VDU was going entirely bonkers. It must be jamming. Boy, Rusty thought, they weren’t kidding when they say that everything was fucked. He then turned on the Excalibur’s powerful search and track radar. What the fuck? That too was going off the scale. The same jamming effects. What the hell is going on? Rusty knew that the Kilrathi had the Zartoth Electronic Warfare craft, an EW craft built on a frame of a Vaktoth heavy fighter. But the Cats have nothing that could make this huge jamming effort possible. Even fifty Zartoths couldn’t do something this big.

The tech moved his hands back and forth, signaling Major McClellan to roll his Excalibur out of the hangar and onto the tarmac. It was virtually pitch-black, he couldn’t see anything in the night other then the lights of the base and the flashing lights of scrambling spacefighters. He was wondering what the hell is going on. And that’s when the base commander went on an "all squadrons" frequency. From hearing the quality of the message, Rusty knew that the communications too were being jammed.

“All units... we’re being jammed... unknown forces... scramble... investigate... shoot to kill...” the message said before a wave of jamming cut the transmission off into oblivion. Rusty thought, good god. The control tower was only a couple of miles away and any transmission from that short a distance was indeed to burn through any jamming imposed by the Cats. But this jamming was strong able to totally cease transmissions. And if transmissions from a short distance were being blocked, then so can longer space-to-ground communications. What the hell is going on?

Now with communications and sensors cut off, every fighter was on its own to take off. And that’s what Major McClellan did. He started to taxi his fighter to one of the runways that were only two hundred yards away. He turned up his throttle and felt the powerful rumble as his engines revved up, propelling the Excalibur on its own power. Rusty could feel his heart beating, as he was almost there, almost to the runway, ready to take off and put an end to whatever this is.

From the corner of his eye, Rusty could see a series of bright dots from way up ahead. He wondered what they were. Where they lights from other friendly fighters, or something else? He looked vaguely at the dots, as they became closer. He stared at the lights wondering what they were and he sat there dumbfounded as a mental retard when it hit him.

“Cruise missiles!”

It was the only logical thing. The sensors were so jammed that they wouldn’t pick them up. The communications were jammed so no one would alert everyone else of their presence. The enemy had taken advantage of the chaos and pandemonium, whoever they are. Rusty reluctantly admired the enemy’s tactics, but now it didn’t matter. There was a mission to be done. It didn’t matter to Major Russell McClellan, he opened full throttle and afterburner as he got his Excalibur up to takeoff speed.

He felt his fighter picking up speed as he saw the cruise missiles come closer. He’ll be ready to go! He’ll escape the hazards of the ground in the safety of his cockpit. Maybe he wouldn’t be totally safe up there, but it’d be much safer than being on the ground. Rusty felt his nose of the Excalibur pitch up as the fighter gained lift. He saw the lights getting closer, much closer. But he was getting faster, getting higher. Getting off the ground. Oh yes! he thought. Oh baby! He was going to make it!

Major Russell "Rusty" McClellan did not make it.

Just as he lifted off, the first cruise missile out of a wave of twenty detonated in an airburst a mere hundred meters away from the Excalibur. The blast of the warhead and the resulting shockwave tossed Rusty’s unshielded Excalibur like a rag-doll and threw it towards the ground; the fighter exploded in a tremendous explosion that was followed by a machine-flash of multiple cruise missiles detonating in just a matter of seconds. In the night of the darkness, the light of the flash seemed to lit up the entire sky, as if the pure energy of the sun had taken up station right here in this world.

The wave of cruise missiles had simply obliterated the entire air base. In a matter of seconds the main military base, meant as a staging of Confed and Border World fighters, was reduced to mere ashes and ruins. No one inside the base survived the onslaught. And all around planet Ymir IV, other flashes lit up. Multiple impacts of pure explosive energy lit up the entire system, a system that was bound by darkness from the beginning. The multiple ripple of explosions were all around places that used to be other bases, munitions dumps, SAM sites, anything that had to do with the planetary defense of the Ymir System.

In just a matter of moments, all of Ymir IV’s defenses were surgically and systematically destroyed. In the middle of all the chaos and the explosions and the ripple and the shockwave, no one bothered to realize that the cruise missiles were only targeted at military targets. Not one of the cruise missiles were targeted at Ymir’s civilian population. In just a blink of an eye, Ymir IV was totally defenseless and at mercy with the unknown forces. And for the civilians of Ymir IV, a new chapter of hell was just starting. A pure hell of pain and suffering.

At least the military personnel had died an instant death. The civilians of Ymir IV would not be so lucky.

Four weeks after the assault on Ymir IV. . .

ConFleet Vega Sector HQ
Alexandria II Station; Admiral Dimitri Tupelov's Office
The McAuliffe System, Vega Sector
February 25, 2681; 1003 hours (CST)

Admiral Dimitri Tupelov, commander of the Confederate Seventh Fleet, sat in his chair contemplating the decisions that can affect the outcome of the movements of the Seventh Fleet. His eyes burned slightly from fatigue as he spent the morning looking over the Future Strategic Projections of the next week, he skimmed through several documents of classified data concerning the biology, technological capability, and psychological findings of the Aliens, now codenamed the Nephilim by Intell. Who gives a damn, they've been defeated right?

Wrong. Very dead wrong.

The Admiral removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes as the next order of business was coming in five minutes late. Dimitri Tupelov was a brilliant and large man, about 6 feet tall. Tupelov just turned 53, he sat solemn with his white gloved hands folded across his face as he leaned over the desk. His hair was still in its natural black color, and his office sparsely furnished with a few framed pictures, one of his wife and another turned over. The turned over picture was of his son, First Lieutenant Alexi Tupelov, Terran Confederation Marine Corps and Naval Academy class of 2678. Got his commission and then went to the front lines to die. It was painful looking at the picture and remembering his smile, his youth, and his death.

Civilian Precautions and Relations… the small buzzer sound as Brigadier General Harold Janos entered. The Marine General greeted the Admiral alone, not brining his usual entourage of officers. As a man who spent most of his career in infantry, Brigadier General Janos wasn't thrilled of being promoted to the position of Civilian Relations on behalf of the Terran Confederation, but he did posses the talent of working with the civilian government. Under the Marine General's arm was several Data pads of information, scenarios and estimations.

Admiral Tupelov started the conversation, “General. Today I just got a secure transmission from the Admiral of the Fleet back at Terra. Senator Taggart covertly approved the Border Worlds government request to evacuate Ymir System. As of today, our operation is a go.”

“Without any of the media knowing, my good Admiral?”

“Yes, the entire meeting was covert, with only Fleet Admiral Leonard, Senator Taggart, the Border World envoy, and a handful of senators. Right now, we can’t let word of this get out to the public. Not now.”

“I hope you read the intelligence reports on the Alien attack on Ymir, Admiral.”

“I know all about it, General.” Admiral Tupelov went into his desk and opened up a folder marked "TOP SECRET" by the people of Confed Intell. This report came in last week and was forwarded to us by Border World Intell.” Inside the report were pictures and a report of what happened to the people of Ymir.

“According to this report the Aliens came in and systematically destroyed all of the defenses. This included our fleet detachment consisting of the light cruiser TCS Atlanta and her two destroyer escorts Cushing and Duncan. In addition, the Border Worlds lost one of their frigates. After that, they wiped out Ymir Air Base. Then they landed and ritually executed over 70% of the population, and then took whatever they could see prisoner. That’s three hundred and sixty thousand people dead and missing in action Harold.”

Tupelov stood silent, wondering about the horrible fate of those people now subject to what experiments the Aliens would do to them. “There’s still forty thousand people down there, that escaped the Aliens. They are down there with dwindling food, water, and shelter. The Border Worlds are giving what help they can but they had been hit hard in the Alien intrusion, they can’t keep up support missions any longer. They, too, are running out of medical aid supplies. That’s why they turned to us.”

“My good Admiral, we will have to find out how we can evacuate Ymir as well as other Border World systems hit hard by the Aliens,” General Janos said.

"What is your recommendation, General?"

"This will be an expensive endeavor, especially with such a threat such as this one. The public does not have the slightest idea what is going on. Unfortunately the free enterprise of this sector could compromise the security. How many threats are there? Are there still rogue Aliens still running around?"

"We don’t know. We are not sure how much time we have before the Aliens show up again," Admiral Tupelov admitted. “And I know that they will be back.”

"And what about the affects from the Devonshire, Admiral?"

"Most likely it can happen to a planet." The grim news hit General Janos hard. “There were a hundred good men and women on board the Devonshire. If this hits a planet, it can wipe out its population. Millions dead.” Tupelov snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

"Very well, but I must inform you again, Admiral, this will be very costly. The best solution is to prevent it from spreading. That’s the only way, my good Admiral. Establishing quarantine is a Public Relations nightmare..."

"Not to mention the innocent civilians who we are abandoning if we establish one.” The Admiral held up a hand, interrupting him. “How many civilian businesses have the capability in this sector?"

"Three, United Galaxy, Virgin Interstellar, and Terran Oceanic."

"All right, get us enough civilian cruise liners to evacuate a planet. Tell them that the Navy, Space Force, and Marines will ensure the safety of their vessels. This will be called Operation Guideline. You may proceed with the operation. And, General Janos... do try to find the lowest cost." The General nodded and saluted to the Admiral.

The next day. . .

Lantern's Spaceport
The Venice System
February 26, 2681; 0900 Hours (CST)

Magnificent, streamlined behemoths of the stellar seas. The SS Royal Palace and the SS Grand Majestic cruise-liners sat peaceful in the protective ring of the Space Station Lantern. The rich high-class colony of Venice thrived on the pleasure cruises to escape the boredom of life on-planet. Tiny shuttles ferried off the rich to their lovely mansion homes down below on the Colony of Avalon. The colony was more like a massive luxury resort for the rich of Vega, catering to their every whim while the universe lived and died. It's actually pretty sad, having 30 thousand people frolicking with no idea what is happening outside. The Rich live in their own secluded world protected by the powers that pull strings and fill up secret accounts. A world that Jack Raymond was a part of.

"Jack Raymond, 39, Trillionaire and President of the Virgin Interstellar. Shrewd and brilliant, he is one of those exploding superstars of the business world. And he's our first candidate. The company spans over this sector, providing Human and Cargo Transportation services," Ensign Christopher Landry, Terran Confederation's Naval Judge Advocate General's newest rookie lawyer, said as he looked over the notes.

The young 23 year-old lawyer and Naval Academy class of 2680 walked feverishly to keep up pace with the officer he has been assigned to assist in the negotiations of this matter. Major Stella DeLeon, one of the Marines' best JAG officers. The two walked down the corridor of the Spaceport, Major DeLeon walked with a smooth calculated calm with a black briefcase and wearing her Marine Dress Blue Alpha uniform.

The two officers of the Judge Advocate General's office scheduled a meeting with the rich and powerful Jack Raymond. The basic outline was already drawn. Clutching his briefcase the young Ensign followed Major DeLeon around the space station's main concourse. The massive corridor of the space station were well lit and provided a spectacular view of the stars and the docked liners. Moving with the bustle of hundreds of travelers and tourists the pair of Terran Confederation officers quickly headed for the Shuttle docks hoping to catch the next transport down to the planet.

Two hours later. . .

Planet Avalon, Southern Province
Conference Hall of Jackson Raymond's Abode
1100 Hours (CST)

For the last half-hour, negotiations began for the use of Six of Virgin Stellar's Main Cruise Liners. Problems started to rise for the Confederation's JAG officers, as they were reluctant to explain the reason for the hasty loan of the cruise liners. Jack Raymond, the man sat in a massive leather executive chair behind a real oak desk. A massive lecture hall like setting surrounded the three as the try to convince Mister Raymond on the need of these ships.

"Unfortunately I cannot lend you my ships even for the price you have offered. I express a deep concern for the well being of my ship and crew, does your military have the capability to captain, maintain, and accommodate five thousand passengers for each cruise-liner? And you want six of my ships? On stand-by? This would be very difficult on my business... losing customers, a halt in revenue, and continuos payment of my workforce? The price you have offered is just a fraction of what I can loose?"

Ensign Landry was completely confused, obviously not the A student in economics. Major De Leon pointed out her proposal as being the only one she has been authorized with. The frustration was building when Mister Raymond offered them lunch.

"The negotiations have been postponed till a better deal is offered. 19 billion credits isn't enough to compensate for what I have earned in the ten years of this business." He rapped on his wooden desk. The two graciously accepted the meal and left with disappointing report to send.

Two Hours Later. . .

ConFleet Vega Sector HQ
Alexandria II Station; Admiral Dimitri Tupelov's Office
The McAuliffe System
1315 Hours (CST)

"They completely rejected the offer?" The Admiral hovered over his computer terminal, responding the communication call with another JAG negotiator. The lamplight provided enough to sufficiently illuminate the room.

"Yes, sir."

"Did they give any reason why?"

"I'm not sure, sir, but it looks like they are leaving this sector for good. I have just gotten word that Terran Oceanic will move its commercial fleet back to the Sol Sector."

"So Terran Oceanic is out of the picture. What about Virgin Stellar and United Galaxy?"

"Major DeLeon had submitted a request to inform the President of Virgin Stellar of why we need them. It was denied because of a security risk, even though they would probably agree to the list price we offered."

"It is still very expensive. 40 billion is a lot. We can buy a new heavy cruiser for 40 billion."

"I agree completely, sir. United Galaxy is still demanding the 64 billion price." The Officer on the other side of the comm watched Admiral Tupelov pause silently for a moment.

"And this is just for two cruise liners?"

"And crew, we do not have the training to run and maintain a cruise liner in such a small period of time. The Navy is mobilizing fast and we are getting reports of contained cases involving human contact with the Aliens' remains. Our Civilian Management Department are churning out the scenarios, Complete Planetary Biological Contamination, Incineration Warhead Deployment, Quarantine Duty. Hell our new Medical Ship fleet isn't going to be ready for another six months."

"All right, do what it takes. Keep up the good work, Colonel Pathmore."

"Thank you, sir." The Colonel saluted, getting a nod as a reply. "There is one other thing, Admiral Tupelov. May I grant the request of Major De Leon? I think we can disclose the information concerning the Seventh Fleet's motives in the Vega Sector."

"Request granted, I'll have it signed for your later in the hour. Good day, Colonel Pathmore." The image of the Space Force Colonel flickered off. The Admiral sat gazing out into the starry night.

One hour later. . .

Planet Avalon, Southern Province
Conference Hall of Jackson Raymond's Abode
1417 Hours (CST)

“Excuse me, but I think I said that negotiations are postponed,” Jackson Raymond said as his aide brought Major De Leon and Ensign Landry.

“I know, sir, but this time we will like to tell you the motives of our request,” Major DeLeon started to say. Jackson Raymond held up a hand in protest cutting her off, “I know your concern, Major, but as I said, I respectfully request at least forty billion for the use of my cruise liners. No offense, Major, but there is nothing else that you can do to convince me otherwise. Have a good day.”

“Sir, I’m not here to convince you, sir, I’m here because I like you to talk to someone who can,” Major DeLeon said, “Please, sir, may I use your communications holo-phone?”

“Be my guest, Major, but I don’t know how this can change my opinion.” Mr. Raymond motioned towards the desk-bounded holo-transmitter that rested on his desk.

Major DeLeon opened up her briefcase and took a single object out. It was about the size of a shoebox, and it was painted all black. Ensign Landry recognized it as a portable holo-communications device, one of the newest scrambler types that made sure that not only could people between systems talk as if they were right next to each other, but also that no one will be able to monitor the transmission. Only the highest up top brass in Confed like Generals and Admirals had such a thing, otherwise a device like this was given only in the most essential missions.

Major DeLeon also took a couple of wires from her box, and then moved over to where Raymond’s transmitter was. With quick and absolute precision, she quickly connected the device to the main holo-transmitter. What she did basically, was configure Raymond’s device to send transmissions and receive them by this little portable jewel. Once everything was finished, she turned the device on, and a couple buttons on the little device turned on. With a portable headset she connected on the device, she spoke a few quiet words into it. About a minute passed by before she finally took the device off her head.

She motioned to Mr. Raymond, “Sir, there is someone who likes to talk to you. May you wish to talk to him?” Jack Raymond nodded and then with a couple of buttons, Major DeLeon pushed a few more controls and finally Jack’s desktop bound holo-phone revved up on a very secure transmission. There was a single man staring back at him. Being a civilian, Raymond doesn’t much care about who’s who in the Confed military. But this man, Raymond saw, looked like a leader. It was his stature that just revealed it all.

“Afternoon, Mr. Raymond.” The man in the transmission said, “I am Fleet Admiral Duke Leonard, Commander-in-Chief of the Confederation Fleet. I see that you have already made acquaintances of my two officers, Major DeLeon and Ensign Landry.”

“Afternoon, Admiral,” Jack Raymond said, “I respect your call, but can we please get this conversation underway, I have a business proposal to tend to.”

“First of all, Mr. Raymond, let’s start. First of all, the reason why you have rejected the initial offer to borrow your cruise liners was because you think that we are just a bunch of joes thinking of hitch-hiking a couple of Love Boats for our own purposes of carrying senators around. Don’t you?”

Raymond nodded, “That’s the way I see it. Admiral Leonard, until you give me a legitimate reason why I should lend my ships to you, I suggest you find someone else to turn to...” He started to retort before Admiral Leonard cut him off.

“Mr. Raymond. You want a reason. I will give you a reason.” Duke took a long deep breath. “What I am about to tell you is label double-A classified information. Keep in mind that revealing information of this classification is a capital offense and if you tell anyone, you will be arrested and tried in a court of law. Do we understand each other?”

Raymond nodded.

“Listen, and you listen good, Mr. Raymond...”

FINIS