: “ Dogs of War ”

TCS Mistral Sea; O-Deck 2
The McAuliffe System
February, 25th 2681; 1607 Hours (CST)

It was a long, cold night. But then, in space, it could always be considered one long, cold night. 

Major John Peart looked at the space station just outside the viewport. A masterpiece of art; proof that human could turn a object of power and destruction in a beautiful thing. The powerful turrets were almost invisible at that distance, still, the station occupied most of the pilot's view. It have been a few days since he had arrived in the system to board the Mistral Sea. A new position; the XO of the 124th Bombardment Squadron, the Rhino Beatles.

For some time he felt it wasn't what he wanted, it was almost a step back in his career. For the last three years he was the CO of the F/A-76 Longbow squadron of a old escort carrier. Now that the ship was going to be scraped for parts, he was sent to a new ship as XO. He didn't exactly know what the hell he was going to do. The XO was something close to a slave. The CO would drop all his paperwork and pilot chew ups to the XO. He had to make the unit work and look nice so that the CO could get all the glory. He knew it, he used to do it with his old XO. John started to remember his old pilots. He shook of the memory with a smile and a sigh.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"What? Oh, hi. Didn't notice you were there."

Eve LeBroc. A gorgeous woman and an amazing friend. They had served together long ago in their first tour of duty and met again in the Mistral Sea. She was doing very well for what he found out since he boarded. She was a major, too, and was married to a senator. She was filthy rich now, but couldn't leave her beloved job and the pilots she cared so much about that had earned her the callsign "Mother."

"So... couldn't sleep either?"

Eve smiled and put her arm on his friend's shoulder, looking outside at the station.

"Nah, I'm still not used to the time yet. I have been two months on Earth with my husband before coming here and for me it's still 2210 Hours."

"Two months?" asked John as he turned to Eve with a mock serious face. "I got only two weeks of leave!"

"There are advantages in marrying a Terran Confederation senator, you know."

They both laughed going to the self-service bar to get something to drink. Eve got a seat while John reached for a bottle of synthetic pear liquor. He started pouring the amber drink on two small glasses as he noticed Eve's vacant look at the flowing liquid.

"Is everything okay?"

She sighed, grabbed her glass, and looked up trying to smile and hide a obvious look of pain. John reached for his glass looking at his friend's eyes, afraid of what was coming.

"Remember Eric Kishley? Fighter?"

John leaned back on the wall immediately remembering the young pilot that served with them in their first tour of duty. A great joker, a incredible friend. "Of course I remember. Last I hear he got a promotion just like us. He made Major. He then got assigned to become the CO of a half-squadron of Hellcats. He said it was the most exciting day of his life. Told me that the day he took command was as if it was the day his son was born."

"Yeah. After that assignment, he got assigned to the Sixth Fleet when it was sent out of Deneb to Gemini. He was stationed on the heavy cruiser TCS Olympia, Twelfth Cruiser Squadron." She took a gulp of her drink before concluding, "He's dead."

"What!?" The way the message was delivered was so fast and rough that John took a few seconds to understand. He jumped from the wall he was leaning at, almost spilling his drink over the bar. "How... how'd it happen?"

"Ever heard of Cynium?"

"Yeah... that planet they found in Gemini with intelligent life or something. Everyone was after it."

"Supposed to be relatively classified, but... exactly. He died in that battle. His entire fighter squadron was wiped out, his ship was wiped out and so was the entire cruiser squadron."

John took a seat not exactly noticing where he was, the world around him non-existing as the message reached his brain. For a few minutes of silence he tried to process the information. Eric, their friend of years, the guy that almost killed him when he dated his sister, the guy that played pranks in everyone in the ship, was dead. Dead in a useless battle whose prize ceased to exist before any of the players of this horrible game could reach it. His mind raced with memories of their time together. He came back to reality only when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

"John, you're scaring me. Say something."

"I... I was remembering that time he put a dummy in flightsuit inside Loonie's locker."

Eve could resist but smile at the memory. The poor new guy, Loonie, almost asked for transfer out of the ship after the scare of the dummy falling over him with a rubber knife strapped to its hand. It was just that time that John noticed that Eve have been crying. She passed a hand over her eyes and smiled again.

"C'mon, let's go. We can talk more about the past while we take a walk around the ship. I need it."

TCS Mistral Sea; Lt. Col. Dave Griffith's office
February, 26th, 2681; 1820 Hours (CST)

Since his first day on board a Confederation carrier, Dave Griffith has shown he was not the usual hotshot pilot. Son of two great pilots, his father one of the top aces of the Force, Dave got ace status on his first mission. Eight kills. No one really believed it. "IFFs and good luck," he said. Could be that if two of those kills were not a corvette and a frigate. He still missed the Broadsword he used on his first missions so long ago. Now, 20 years later, he was a lieutenant colonel and the commanding officer of a Devastator squadron.

The TB-81A Devastator. A nice ship. Ugly for sure, looked like a shoe-box or, rephrasing most fighter pilots, a flying casket. Still, the ship was faster and more resistant than the old Broadsword or the Longbow. It was better armed. The needed space for gunners, five to man the Devastator laser turrets unless slave circuited, were supplanted by automatic targeting system. A miracle of technology. The ship had more space for missiles, something it surely didn't lack, as well as increased armor and engine power.

Dave studied the specifications of the new bomber. Another six were coming to the Mistral Sea just today. Six now just to complete the squadron for full action station. The problem was that, been a expensive craft still in production lone on most factories, it would surely be held for jobs that really needed its excessive fire power. The Devastator bomber had just been introduced to the Fleet, the cost of this very powerful torpedo bomber had delayed its introduction. And now that the Devastator is being circulated to the Fleet, many pilots will be able to enjoy its firepower. But there still wasn't enough time for Devastators to have wide-spread circulation.

Dave has been up since 0500 Hours CST because of a load of his pilots coming in too early. Point Blank, Savage, Fungus, Boom Boom... what the hell happened with the normal callsigns like Hunter, Afterburn, Wings? thought Dave. Oh, there... there is a Afterburn coming on the next shuttle...

The Colonel checked his watch and noticed he was late. The "next shuttle" must have just landed. He closed the file about the new bomber and started to get up when the door bell rang. More like it sang. Dave have been only one week aboard this new carrier and was already annoyed by the "new developments."

"Enter," he said on a complete non-emotional voice.

The door opened when he was standing, arms crossed behind his back, almost admiral-like, his graying big mustache giving him a old Brit look.

"Captain Archibald Smith, presenting for duty," said the man on the left, a tall and bald dark man with a visible tattoo beginning on his neck and disappearing under his uniform. He carried a blue bag with the Confed star on it.

"Captain Gedi Lifeson presenting for duty, sir," said the man on the side, grinning at the companions if it was some kind of competition and he just won. This one was smaller, blond and had a boyish face. Someone would think he was a "just out of the Academy" pilot if it wasn't for the captain's double bar on his shoulder tabs.

"I believe you two came on this last shuttle... was that only you two?" Dave said motioning for both pilots to come in, as he turned to check his files about the last pilots arriving. Then he stopped in mid movement when he felt awfully bad, the sensation of been watched. By someone else.

"1st Lieutenant Ivan Toravich presenting for duty," said an icy voice with a heavy Russian accent just behind his back. Dave turned instinctively, moving to a clumsy defense position too see another officer, this one small in height, but with broad shoulders, a ugly, almost deformed face, a serious look. Dave could notice a small twist on the lipless mouth of the pilot, a smile of joy for startling his commanding officer?

"Good Christ, man! Don't you ever do that again! How'd you enter so silently without me noticing you?"

"I enlisted into the Space Force and worked on Special Operations and all of that black stuff, sir," he explained. "I made E-5 when Confed decided to give me an Academy appointment and a commission. After I became an officer I've been assigned to a bomber squadron. With all due respect, sir, moving silently is something of a ability I have naturally."

"Great - and you're modest, too. Now I have a pilot that can sneak out behind others to scare them just for fun, 'cause I don't see the use of it in space."

The two pilots behind grinned, Ivan only kept serious, his face even more scary now.

"Well, there are three of you. There is still one missing. Lieutenant Alex Lee."

The steps could be heard echoing on the corridor from the other side of the ship. And the ship was big. A young man, not over 25, blond red hair, sweaty pale face, green eyes, appeared on the door sliding front the corridor. His bag slipped from his shoulder and went flying down the corridor. A deaf sound and "ouf!" sounded just as the Lieutenant saluted still outside the office. "2nd Lieutenant Alex Lee presenting for duty, sir!"

Uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. Broken by a crewman somewhat pissed passing by the office's door throwing the bag on the lieutenant. The crewman was starting to say something, obviously not nice, to the lieutenant. Meanwhile a hand covered his obviously hurt genital when he noticed the Colonel and saluted fast, moving out of the way with apologizes muffed by curses directed to the Lieutenant and whoever made man with so vulnerable a spot.

My god, thought the Colonel. That looks more like a circus than a squadron. He tried to remain as serious as possible and patient enough to let this one slip by. He read about Lee. The one called Afterburn. Like him, Afterburn was automatic ace, scoring six kills on his first mission. Different then the colonel, Alex Lee started his career as a fighter pilot. He was member of a Hellcat squadron for his first few missions before the need for pilots on the Seventh Fleet.

Before anyone could do it, Dave called the young pilot for reassignment to the Rhino Beatles. Alex was one of the new Confed promising pilots. Very high grades at the Academy and Flight School, very good on the simulator and getting best kills/mission ratio on his old ship, not to mention the amazing work of coming back with no scratch on his ship for all his 4 combat missions. Yes, he was inexperienced on real combat, but he was so good till now that Dave wanted to get this rough diamond and liquidate it personally. A tour of duty as Devastator pilot would make him even better pilot. If he survived it.

"Well, well. Good you decided to join us," said the Colonel as he checked something on his computer terminal. "You were the last pilots to come on board. With the squadron now full, we can start training as soon as possible."

"Er... training, sir?"

"Yes, Captain Smith. Most of you never flew together before and surely we all need more time piloting the Devastator before seeing real combat. The XO, Major John Peart, will meet you in the barracks and inform of the time for the first briefing. I want you all to meet each other and start making friends. You'll need to know who your wingman is and who just might be your savior."

"Sir, you said barracks. Don't we get quarters?" timidly asked Defender Lifeson, as he looked at his partner, Warhawk, and back to the Colonel.

"In a normal situation, yes. But the Rhino Beatles would need nine quarters for officers, with the barracks almost empty. And, even though the Mistral Sea is big, we got another fourteen squadrons on board. We just don't have space for all officers, so only the majors and me will have quarters. The rest of you, captains and lieutenants, will share a barracks."

The Colonel waited for the groan of the two pilots. He loved it. Then he continued, "Don't worry. Be happy. You'll have more time to meet people and make friends. And, for what I see on the files, the Majors are the most lone times here anyway, so, no harm done."

"Now move to the barracks." Dave nodded at the man that appeared on the door. "Major Peart, your XO, will take you to your barracks, show you around, tell time tables, etc, etc. Can I trust those these men on your hands, Major?"

"As usual, sir."

"Okay, then. Dismissed."

TCS Mistral Sea, McAuliffe System; Flight Deck Alpha
February, 26th, 2681; 1923 Hours (CST)

The Mistral Sea's flight decks were something huge, almost cavernous. Her entire fighter complement was split between two huge hangar decks. Each deck had to be large enough for 135 fighter spacecraft, plus support crafts, ammunition storage, personal and space enough to make repairs on those ships and still launch a full squadron by the Launch Bay. In addition, a small corridor connected to two flight decks together. If there was a need to transfer a set of fighters to the other bay then the armored blast doors could be opened and fighters can be conveniently moved to the other landing bay.

The arrival of more crafts made the techs swarm around the deck. Pilots, some not even combat pilots, came to land the ships from the space station or sometimes directly from transports coming from different parts of the Confederation. Checks that every tech chief felt obligated to do, some even not necessary. Everything so that no accident happened later when the ship was on combat situation.

1st. Lt. Jess Morton couldn't help but take a deep breath. It was indeed amazing. Since his youth, Jess was in love for the military, its power. The ability to fly and kill. To destroy the enemy. To wear the power of a uniform... around girls. Jess was the best on the Academy, the best on his last tour of duty and might well be the best now. The big problem? He knew it. And loved the idea. Nicknamed "Mouth on the Academy" by several reasons, he was known for talking too much about his abilities and also for hitting on absolutely any women he put his eyes upon. Jess saved himself from three accusations of sexual harassment for pure luck, his skills (no one wanted to loose such a gifted pilot for such problems) and, first of all, his ability to talk people into doing his bidding. Another reason for the callsign Mouth.

Now he was on a new tour of duty. TCS Mistral Sea, second of the Midway-class megacarrier/heavy fleet carrier project. Exactly why the hell someone decide to make that enormous ship instead of several smaller ones, he didn't know. He always believed in massive power against the enemy, but better surround and conquest then make them shake under our size tactics. The enemy could concentrate on this big high tech super new megacarrier and destroy it faster then if Confed was using two, maybe more heavy carriers and escort. Well, anyway, it's up to the brass to decide, thought Jess. We just do the killing.

And there was his first target, a slim blond girl. She was in the proper tech coveralls, soiled with grease, using various tech equipment as she leaned on a Devastator and wrote on a datapad. She used a finger put push he glasses back in place. Glasses. Most people nowadays used legal genetic engineering to make their babies "perfect" before they were born; some used later treatment to fix the problem. Maybe she was of a poor family or just liked to use just primitive things to be eccentric. Okay, it was an extra charm. She was even more appealing with them.

Jess started to walk over to her, leaned by her side and started to look at the datapad, getting even closer to her. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him.

"Did you lose something here?" was all she said, in a dry, sarcastic way.

Jess was almost off balance by he reaction. He was used to getting nervous smiles, even a direct kiss without any word! Okay, that was not the truth, but he liked to believe that would happen someday. He backed up a little, still leaning on the bomber.

"I'm new here..."

"We all are, you dolt. The ship was only commissioned, what - weeks ago."

Ooo-kay. Two-zero for her. He needed to come up with something fast.

"Do you come here often?" Great, now she knows you're a idiot...

The woman turned again just to look at his face, the action so slow it was almost painful for Jess. Ouch, she now hates me. She looked seriously at him. Her glasses had slipped a little down her nose, dirt covered the right side of her cheek, previously unseen by Jess.

"Don't you have something better to do? I'm checking this ship."

"Oh, so, maybe I should treat you better. Maybe that's the ship assigned to me. I'm a Devastator pilot, you know, First Lieutenant Jess Morton, 124th Rhino Beatles," he said proudly, almost irritatingly.

"So what? First Lieutenant Katherin Langloff, same squadron. Not a pleasure to meet you."

Jess was speechless. She was in a tech's suit! She was working on a ship! How could she be an elite pilot like him? Them he noticed he must have been looking goofy, eyes wide and mouth dropping, 'cause she did finally smile at him. No, he decided... of him.

"Surprised? Well, some pilots like to put their hands on the hard work, you know. I like to know what I'm piloting and there is no one else I trust more to check my ship them myself. I was already informed that this one was assigned to me." She patted the side of the enormous microbus-like ship tenderly. It almost looked like she was in love with the craft.

Jess tried to regain his posture as quickly as possible. He moved away from the ship as if afraid to be sitting on a live been or something. It was almost like it with the why she treated it. 

Lack of a man, thought Jess with a unconscious reason for been mistreated by the girl. Gotta be. 

The funny part was that he really thought he'd met her before. Knew her from somewhere...

TCS Mistral Sea; simulator room
February 28th, 2681; 1234 Hours (CST)

The emptiness of space. There was no better place to be. Maybe just in a combat situation... Captain Seth Jackson had been a pilot for too long. A master tactician, almost a genius, "Conquest," as he was called, was quickly the chosen pilot of each squadron he worked on. He had a amazing ability to see the combat as a board game. Each piece moving. What to do. Invaluable to any squadron commander or admiral. Sure to have a easy and calm life on Intelligence, the stubborn Seth decided to join the Space Force and be inside the combat.

Managing the Academy just because of Military Science and a good piloting skill, Seth became a all-purpose fighter pilot. Would be the best if it wasn't for the fact that he sometimes slipped away from reality to plan the combat situation and forgot he was in the fighting. Once he remembered it just in time to eject. He almost died. Seth decided a bomber pilot would be better for his plans. Time to think as the ship acquired a torpedo lock, more shields and armor to protect him in case he slipped away again. 'Till now it was working.

This time he came back to reality when the VDU lightened with a helmeted face, the callsign Torpedo over the visor, a falling torpedo drawn on the left side was barely visible. On the right side was a picture of an Alien carrier, with a big bull's-eye painted on its bulk.

"Okay, people. This is today's exercise. Scenario reads: we are doing a two-wave torpedo attack on an alien convoy carrying supplies. Convoy consists of ten Triton-class transports. Escorts include two Orca-class destroyers and six Barracuda-class corvettes, plus approximately forty fighters launched from the destroyers. Primary objectives are the transports. The destroyers and corvettes are the secondary objectives."

"Our escort Panther squadron has drawn the majority of the alien fighters away from the convoy and are now engaging, giving us a clear shot on the convoy. You're weapons have been set for simulation again, so, the damage will be not real, but your systems will fail if the computer detect a specific part was hit."

Seth opened the nav computer to check the designated path. Simple one Nav point mission: Go there, kill, and come back. No problem for the entire squadron of sixteen bombers. The convoy was formed by two Orca destroyers, six Barracuda corvettes, and the sweet targets: the 10 Triton transports. A spread of IRs aimed as they approached by eight of the Devastators while the others dropped countermeasure IFFs and prepared for locks on the transport was the starting idea given by Conquest. The alien escort would have to care for the missiles and would be away from the attacking bombers. The rest of the plan was typed on the computer to be then downloaded by Torpedo and Rush for evaluation.

During the trip to the nav point on autopilot, the three pilots talked about the full concept behind the plans. It was all very simple. Too simple.

"I got blips! Four... five orange," came Fungus' voice on the comm system as he checked his HUD. "Now six reds! Repeat, six! Computer reads as Squid-class interceptors!" A couple seconds frizzed by, "Squids are engaging their boosters and are heading towards us!"

"Okay, do as planned. Ignore the destroyer and corvettes and try to stay out of their targeting range. Savage and Prodigy, forget the transports and join group one, one at each extra enemy," said the Colonel. "Brain, you are with Point Plank on Transport 5. Go people!"

The pilots came back with answers of all kinds, from the silent double click a "WOOO-HOOO!" Mouth, obviously, thought Jackson. But there was no time for that. The existence of a third element of fighters made it a little different. Learn to adapt, the first rule of war. As his ship moved to the second transport, after releasing three virtual Friend-or-Foes, and circled for the heavy torpedoes. The inevitable comm chatter came, desperate voices, taunts, laughs. Soon all started to faint on the background as Jackson typed keys, checked situations, stats.

"Wake up, Jackson!"

Conquest looked at the helmeted face on the VDU, them up when he noticed the constant irritating sound of a torpedo lock. On the way to look up he instinctively looked his ship's situation. His hear shields were almost down. He thought he felt two explosions behind him. But that was not the problem. When he got the controls again and looked up, ready to fire his torpedo, all he saw was a big gray space. Space gray? No starts?

Jackson realized soon enough his mistake, reducing speed and pulling up fast with all his might. The alert lights went on all around - the ship was just a few meters from the hull of this target transport. When the gray emptiness became black with starts, Jackson went full throttle and halted afterburners, passing very close to the ship, his shields flickering as it scrapped on the transport's shields and hull.

A laugh came from the comm. "Hey, Conquest! Trying to steal my callsign?" Damn you, Point Blank...

This tour of duty was going to be a long one.

FINIS