The Drop

by Aaron Beatty

Trevor looked out the spacious window of the forward observation deck, watching stars flicker by. His mind was heavy with the news he had been given, and the cross on his uniform did not seem to shine as bright today as usual.

Across the deck walked a youthful Lance Corporal, seeming not to have a care in the world. Resplendent in his black-and-red uniform, he eased his way toward the table where his commanding officer sat looking out into space.

As he moved, he cast a reflection in the permaglass window that made up the barrier between the observation area and the cold void beyond. He was tall and rather thin for a marine, and his brown hair and facial features reminded one of a hawk; the cross on his uniform luminous as the sun.

With his easy manner assuming military stiffness he crisply announced,

“Sir! Lance Corporal Vonts requesting an audience with the Major, sir!”

“Granted Vonts. Sit down, and speak your mind.”

Trevor was amused at being referred to by his Marine title. He knew he had one by virtue of his flight status, but seldom thought of it; no pilot did. Usually, it was only used to make unruly marines listen to the drop ship and close support pilots.

Instantly, however, his amusement was chiselled away by the reality the title had lately assumed. At least for now, he was more than a Squadron Leader, he commanded an entire Strike Force.

He didn’t understand quite why that had such significance to him, for he had commanded men as much as machines in orbit round countless planets during as many engagements. Often he had come to the rescue of a strike force like the one for which he was now responsible.

“Sir,” started Vonts, “I hear we may get a chance to fry some slags. It is true?”

Slags, the common epithet used for anyone who did not submit to the Morality Laws. Trevor wasn’t sure if he fully agreed with the term or not. During the years of the Arachnid War places like Jameson IX in the Deatrick system, where they were heading now, sprang up. Pleasure planets they were commonly called. You could find anything you wanted there, especially contraband material, and they tended to attract people who would not accept the State religion; therefore, fertility and nature cults flourished.

“Well Vonts, I’ve been speaking to the Wing Commander, and as soon as we come out of Null Space we’re to dispatch fighters to patrol and scout out the area ahead of us. There will probably be resistance. We’ll save the rest for the briefing room,” Bedwell said, giving the last sentence special stress.

Vonts seemed a bit disappointed at the lack of a definite answer.

“Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Granted.”

“Why are we out here if we aren’t going to be used, Sir? The men are uncertain and morale is dropping rapidly.”

“Why not ask the Sergeant?”

“He won’t tell us anything, Sir. I volunteered to be a sort of unofficial go-between for you and the men.”

“You know that violates the chain of command Vonts.”

“I also know that when there’s a lack of focus and low morale... men die in the field, Sir. I went to the Sergeant first but he was unapproachable, and declined to respond to our inquiries.”

The kid was out of order, but Bedwell admired his attitude.

“Is this how it’s done now? If you don’t get a response from your superior, jump the chain of command?”

“It’s our way, Sir,” replied Vonts with no hint of an apology in his voice. “We at the bottom, the ones who do the dying. We want to know what’s really going on out here,” finished Vonts with a slight smile.

Bedwell found himself sympathising with Vonts despite himself. But he felt he had to remain stern. “Something is happening. As I said you will all be briefed soon. Dismissed.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Vonts with resignation. And with that, he saluted. Bedwell returned the salute, and Vonts began to walk away toward the large lift at the back of the deck. When he was about a quarter of the way there Bedwell turned round.

“Vonts!”

“Sir?” Vonts responded, turning round to face his commander.

“Tell them not to let the guns rust, they’ll be useful,” Bedwell said with a wink.

“Yes, Sir!” said Vonts, before turning round again and all but running to enter the lift.

Bedwell smiled as he looked out of the window again. He saw his reflection smiling back at him and that reassured him. But this was not going to be an easy mission. Jameson IX was bad news.

As pleasure worlds went, it was one of the worst, having gained a reputation for the cause of many a good soldier’s demise during the Engagement at Thermopyle.

Thermopyle Station was a key scientific facility, attempting to extract something useful from captured Arachnid equipment bought with Marine blood. The attack centred round the Government’s attempt to protect the station from being captured by radical eco-terrorist groups, usually referred to collectively as green terrorists.

The green terrorists had built up a significant force in the area, some speculated with help from Jameson IX itself. The fight lasted longer than both sides had prepared for, and in the end it was a fierce battle of attrition.

The terrorists had fought like caged beasts, knowing they had no reserve but what a few rogue planets could offer, and this far out from New Jerusalem, Imperial reinforcements would never have arrived quickly enough to affect the outcome of the battle.

In fact the station, and the fledgling Null Space technology with it, would have fallen into enemy hands had it not been for then Flight Lieutenant Trevor Bedwell, one of the best the Holy Royal Fleet had, ramming the bomber carrying torpedoes meant for the station with his already damaged fighter.

He had ejected, but not without receiving a punctured lung that, though repaired once search and rescue retrieved him, rendered him unfit for further duty as a fighter pilot. Afterward, he could only fly drop ships to insert and extract ground troops, on the rare occasions they were used.

Trevor’s flying now consisted mostly of training missions and supply runs, with the occasional joyride in a Null Space equipped shuttle to send sensitive data to command posts closer to civilisation. For his service and sacrifice, he was given the Jerusalem Star medal and a promotion to Squadron Leader. That was two years ago. Trevor looked down at that ribbon now. On it was inscribed in Hebrew, “Sacrifice, A Sweet Savour Unto the Lord”. On the back was his name, and a truncated version of the situation that had brought about its being awarded, also in stately Hebraic script.

There had been a general war on when Thermopyle went down with a race of spider-like beings that had suddenly appeared in many of the key systems of the Empire of Yeshua, the Arachnids. It had taken seven years to finally rid the Empire of them, but there had been gains from the hardship. Null Space technology, which was a direct result of the successful defence of the station, was one of them. With it, in the proper conditions, one could cross a quarter of the Empire in a single jump.

One of the negative aspects of the war however, was that there had been a number of planets like Jameson IX that had sort of “fallen away” from the Empire and become a haven for Imperial undesirables of all kinds.

Trevor’s ship, the light carrier HMS Paradigm, had been stationed at Thermopyle for the past two years, their sole purpose being to defend the station from any further attack. In the six months since the war ended, repairs had been made and the ship re-outfitted with the new drives and fresh, experimental weaponry.

Lately, Trevor had been issued transport missions more and more frequently, bringing in troops from the Gilead system, which was only a day’s flying now. He wondered why he was bringing back troops when they were so seldom used. Now of course, as Strike Force Commander, Trevor knew full well why.

Briefing Room- 0700 hours.

Everyone sat assembled in a stony silence that made the room feel empty. In the Officer’s Section, Bedwell looked a sight, his typical flight kit flowing over with Marine style combat gear. The Wing Commander, who was second in command only to the Captain herself, walked into the room from the doorway that connected the Briefing Room to Tactical.

And thus the ritual began as the Wing Commander walked crisply into the room, as if having all knowledge of the situation athand. His entrance from Tactical was symbolic too, as if he had just been brought up to speed on what was going on.

When it was over, men would be assigned life or death based on what seemed to them the carefully thought out motives of the Powers-That-Be, Fate, and their Wing Commander’s caring watchful intervention maximising their odds of coming back in one piece. Effective psychology, but Bedwell knew better. He had been on the inside at those meetings too often to allow it to affect him, but it was good for morale.

It was true the Wing Commander cared about the men in his charge, but many times Tactical had to use information months out of date; or none at all, so that a guess had to suffice. Trevor knew it was anyone’s guess what would really happen out there. But the Wing Commander did a remarkable job of instilling confidence.

Strolling up to the large holographic display terminal, he sorted his notes out and called the briefing to order.

“In two hours, we will be leaving Thermopyle and jumping into the Deatrick system.”

There was a general shuffling of papers and hushed mutters at the mention of Deatrick. The Wing Commander cleared his throat to attain silence before he continued.

“I am certain many of you are familiar with its major inhabited world, Jameson nine.”

At that point, a holographic representation of the system jumped up on the large display console to his side.

“We have been troubled by the rebellious nature of this system long enough. After receiving evidence that it assisted the Greens at Thermopyle, it has been decided we can no longer tolerate it to exist with the lax stance toward New Jerusalem it has taken for the past several years during the Arachnid War.”

“Even before Thermopyle, we lost several troops due to piracy in the area or the occasional desertion,” he spat the word desertion like it was a curse of the highest order.

“It is a pit of sin and debauchery of the worst kind, and it is our moral duty as members of the Holy Fleet of the Empire of Yeshua to bring it into submission before ourselves and God.”

The Wing Commander then paused in order to allow the room to fill with cheers, which it did forthwith. After the shouting subsided, proving to him that the men were motivated, he resumed the briefing.

“Since we now have Null Space technology, it is not only convenient to bring non-aligned systems into submission but imperative, since we have a limited time until, by way of spies and…,” again the word, “desertion, they too shall possess it. We must strike whilst we have the advantage. To those of you who are veterans of Thermopyle, this should have special significance to you.”

As if on queue, some of the men took on a stern look.

“Elsewhere at this time, light specialised carrier groups like the Paradigm are crossing similar borders carrying crack troops to other rebellious worlds. We are making the first move.”

The briefing was broken by more applause.

“Our part of the offensive will go like this.”

The holo image of the Deatrick system stopped rotating and zoomed in on Jameson IX’s local space.

“We will penetrate the Deatrick system here,” the Wing Commander said, pointing to a new bright point on the map, “on the far side of where we suspect Jameson nine’s border forces will be patrolling.”

A line on the map appeared on the borderward side of Jameson IX and the letters “Blockade” flashed across it.

“Due to the close proximity of the system’s secondary star, Deatrick Beta, to Jameson IX, we will be able to use the radiation interference from it to sneak in as close to Jameson nine as possible before striking.”

The holo map to his side parroted his words with images.

“Unfortunately, that means we will be blinded as well. To see what is in front of us, and to warn us of any trouble in case we encounter naval vessels, we will be dispatching fighters in patrol and defensive diamond formations as follows.”

The map displayed the types of fighters and routes to be taken by certain wings. Bedwell remembered when he would have been among those wings. Some of his old wingmen gave him a stray look or two.

“The rest of you will be held on board the Paradigm as a reserve except for six of you, who in pairs will be baby-sitting three drop ships as they perform the main objectives of our mission in Deatrick.”

Eyebrows raised across the room.

“At this point for the next phase of the briefing, I’ll be turning things over to Squadron Leader Trevor Bedwell.”

The Wing Commander took his seat and Trevor got up and dragged himself and all his kit up to the map area. Haltingly, he began.

“All right. What we have here are the three major cities of the planet.”

The map changed scale and a flat grid projection came up. On top it read “Jameson IX - Orbital Target List.” Spread out among the different continents of Jameson IX were cities marked Tyr, Sinner’s Paradise, and Krueger.

“Due to the clandestine nature of our mission we did not take an actual marine officer with us to command you marines from Gilead. Therefore, it was decided that I would command the marine compliment for this mission. This was to minimise any advance warnings Jameson might receive of an invasion. I know many of you thought that perhaps this was only going to be a minor mission or routine training, perhaps light peacekeeping or recovery duty. But you are seasoned troops for the most part, and we all know that Gilead prides itself on crack marines.”

The marines in the room from Gilead swelled with pride. Many eyes lit with a new found excitement at the thought of actually getting deployed.

“We will be using our new “city killer” torpedoes for the first time here, in order to bring Jameson nine to her knees with minimal effort. This will require the placement in each city of a Resonance Enhancer Beacon, or “REBel” in the exact centre of the town in relation to Jameson nine’s polar axis. Each team will receive two for the sake of redundancy in the event of losses in the field. They are precision programmed for each city so that none of the sets are interchangeable.”

Trevor then set about tasking the three teams.

“Team Sinner’s Paradise, you will circle round Deatrick Beta where your escorts will leave you. You will proceed to Jameson nine and request landing at Sinner’s Paradise. It’s their largest spaceport, and it handles most system traffic. You will pose as defectors that travelled normally from the border. Your craft has already been properly aged in order to make this more believable. Once able to land, you will take what actions you deem necessary to place your REBel and get out.”

The map followed along with him.

“Team Tyr, you will make a standard insertion along with us once Team Sinner’s Paradise makes contact with the enemy.”

He then outlined the particulars of Team Tyr’s mission.

“Team Krueger, I’ll be along with you for this one.”

The map shifted to a tactical view of Krueger.

“Krueger is the capitol of Jameson IX. If we can eliminate the government seat, we can significantly reduce the fighting ability of the Jameson In-System Forces in the event J-nine doesn’t surrender after being hit by the three STG-990s. At least enough so that the Paradigm can escape out of the system at any rate.”

“Escape, Sir?” asked a burley marine in the back.

“Save your questions for the end.”

“If everything seems to be going our way, we’ll land approximately a half kilometre from our objective area in the heart of Krueger in order to try to minimise the drop ship’s exposure to enemy fire. I’ll drop the team, and they will double time it from there to the objective, using the dark as cover, since we have this planned for early morning, Krueger local time. After setting the REBel, they will return via the infiltration route and evac from the insertion point, eliminating possible threats along the way.”

“After all Teams are clear of the planet, the Paradigm will launch three STG-990 torpedoes toward our targets. We expect the cities and surrounding countryside to be totally destroyed.”

Trevor felt ambivalent about the idea of all the mass destruction about to take place. On one hand he wanted revenge for his losing the ability to fly fighters, and like everyone, he had lost a fellow soldier or two to the appeal of the pleasure worlds. He wanted payback for that too. Yet he found it hard to see God in what they were doing, attacking without giving a chance to surrender.

It was never the Empire’s style before to attack without a warning. Even covert missions were only done after a vague warning that “some” action would be taken in the event of a non-compliant act. In short, the enemy was always warned, and given a chance to avoid slaughter. But this was fighting like the enemy, or so Trevor felt. He had noticed things weren’t like they were before the Arachnid War. It had taken being totally ruthless to beat them back. Perhaps that experience had tainted the minds of those higher up than he.

But he shrugged it off. He had his orders and this was his job.

“Any questions?”

The marine from the back again, “Yes sir. What do you mean escape the system?”

“We are but one ship Marine, and Jameson has a decent force in-system. If the Paradigm comes under heavy, sustained contact, she could be destroyed. This is all the more reason why we must succeed in our objectives.

Our strategy is mostly based on illusion. We assume they’ll think we can do globally what we’re about to do to their major cities and surrender before they lose anything else; but in truth, this is our only shot. If they manage to continue to resist, we will have to pull out. They will be devastated, but our mission will still have failed. We’re here to force Jameson nine back into the Empire, not eradicate her. Any others?”

“Yes, Sir,” spoke the drop ship pilot from Team Sinner’s Paradise.

“What happens in the event our fake is called and they attack or we’re not believed at all? What happens if we are forced into contact with the enemy?”

“Retask for a standard insertion and try to hold back and wait for us and Tyr, so they’ll have to spread out their attention. Your escorts will still be close for a time and can protect you. Stay sharp though, your team has the most dangerous task.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, Sir,” a timid Corporal spoke up.

“Go on.”

“What happens if one of us miss the evac?”

“Kiss yourself goodbye and get your heart and soul right with God. Your family will receive your Jerusalem Star in the post. If we have time, you may even receive a ceremony on board to honour you.”

The room filled with a nervous laugh.

“Anything else?”

Silence greeted him.

“Good. Back to you, Commander.”

The Wing Commander acknowledged Bedwell and strode back to the dais.

“Well, that about wraps it up. Don’t screw up out there. The standing order is still in effect; you may not die without permission. Let us pray.”

The room bowed its head.

“O Mighty God, protect us this day from the Evil One and his wiles. Sanctify us, O Lord, for your work and for the increase of your glory. O Holy Saviour, bless our weapons and our shields as we go to make battle for you against the reprobate. May your Empire endure forever, Amen.”

“Amen,” the room said in unison.

“Amen,” said Trevor, still troubled.

“We jump in about an hour. Get ready. Dismissed.”

The Wing Commander strode off back to Tactical. Everyone remained at attention until the door closed, but eased afterward. After the room had mostly cleared, Trevor headed for his quarters to prepare for the mission.

Officers Quarters--HMS Paradigm: 0815 Hours

The beeping brought him from his reminiscing with a start. He stumbled across the room, finally answering the comm unit in the opposite wall. A young, fresh-faced communications Lieutenant flashed up on the screen. Trevor took notice of how pretty she was, but was too disconnected to care much.

“This is your fifteen minute reminder, Sir. Your presence is required on the Flight Deck in fifteen minutes,” she said with a light Spanish accent.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said with a weary, distant tone.

The Lieutenant smiled and the screen went blank.

He had been in deep thought.

Flying Officer Maria Teresa Alverez, thought Trevor with a slight sadness falling over him.

The comms officer had reminded him of his old wingman, Alverez. She was only a little shorter than his six feet, lithe, with beautiful long raven black hair and emerald eyes that held your soul in a death-grip. He felt a bit silly that he had loved her so much, but it was true just the same. Perhaps she never knew, all those times that he watched her. Loving her from a distance, too timid to speak to her about more than flying and fighting.

“She knew,” he admonished himself as he checked himself out in the mirror, brushing his thick black hair, noticing the small scar that ran across the bridge of his nose between his green eyes. He was still young, but life was working on that.

“She knew and didn’t care.”

He insisted on bringing himself back up from his pain, and was annoyed by the fact that he never listened to the painfully practical voice inside him, which he felt must surely be his true self.

After all it had always been known, buried deep down. In fact, he himself had helped bury it so deep he couldn’t really hear it for all the rubbish he had filled his head with. He had paid for it dearly.

Still it made him feel soft.

She had been so beautiful, and flew as wonderfully as she looked. He had always felt she was better than him, even in the cockpit, where he allowed no one save himself. Their conversation was good enough. No one could have said anything was amiss from it. They were considered very good friends. And they were. But in the end, she always had her evening tea with some other man; some athletic hotshot younger than him with a mouth that spoke of more kills than it made.

Trevor never boasted about kills. To him that was sacred, and his record spoke for itself. He disapproved of the way most of the pilots, especially the ones fresh from flight school spoke up. He felt it very disrespectful to the dead.

“Derrick was nothing. I was twice the flyer,” he mused to himself.

He had loved her so much.

Did she ever love him? He didn’t know.

Satisfied with his appearance, he turned out the lights and left the room, the door rushing shut behind him. Walking crisply down the corridor, he stepped into the lift.

The computerised lift voice queried, “Destination?”

“Flight Deck.”

The lift began its trip down the ship to the flight area. His mind was still not clear of the minefield of memories.

At last the lift told him, “Flight Deck.” The doors opened and he stepped off.

Momentarily, his mind’s over-extension eased as he processed the bustle and activity surrounding him on every side. It always gave him a bit of a giddy thrill from the very first day he had set foot on a flight deck as a recruit. He was glad then for small pleasures, and for good things that didn’t fail to please, and silently thanked God in his heart.

Walking across, he exchanged waves and smiles with most of the chief techs and their crews, enjoying the informal air that existed around hangar bays. This was their world of machines and grease, his, the great void.

Finally, he made his way to his destination. She loomed above him for two stories, waiting for him like a faithful lover. Its cargo bay airlock was open, and he could see the marines being packed in by the Sergeant.

The Sergeant stopped his experiment in spatial economy in order to yell the men to attention for Trevor to pass between them on his way up the ramp to enter the small lift that took him to the cockpit of the craft.

Once the silence of the cockpit overtook him, his mind refused to remain quiet. Memories crept up again, painful ones.

“Yes Teresa, you hated me for that didn’t you,” thought Bedwell.

“I only meant for him to learn a lesson,” he continued, as he reflected on the past that wouldn’t die this morning. He began to strap in and power up the craft.

They had been on a strike mission that morning. She was on his wing and they were en route to target. Derrick was part of a diversionary wing to their left. He wasn’t pleased with the assignment and had spoken up about it on the flight deck prior to launch.

“You did this, didn’t you Bedwell!”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

He remembered Maria off centre to his left in the middle, helmet in hand.

“You bloody well know what I’m talking about Trevor! You always get the fat targets!”

“Jealous are we Derrick? What a sad little display we’re being shown. All targets are crucial, you know that.”

“No, not jealous like you. Not jealous of her. I see how you look at her.”

That had stung. The whelp had brought out into the open what the whole ship knew but didn’t say.

“Madness. I’m her wingman, and we depend on each other. It’s called ‘How-to-Stay-Alive’. I’m surprised you never learned it in flight school.”

“Well then explain this,” Derrick had said with a tone of finality that Trevor hadn’t cared for.

He had proceeded to read several excerpts from his personal diary some friend of Derrick’s in Technical must have hacked for him. None of them were lewd, but they were heartfelt and passionate. Trevor had felt naked to the soul.

“Pretty mushy stuff to be saying about an engaged woman.”

Just then, two Enforcers, special troops that dealt with moral crimes had stepped up, as if on a timer.

Trevor was getting desperate as this was quickly becoming a summary court-martial.

“I never knew she was claimed to such an extent, and I never acted on my feelings.”

Trevor had given a beseeching look to Alvarez. He had just known she would help.

“Maria, you didn’t tell me. Tell them, I didn’t know!”

She looked embarrassed and just turned the other way. That had hurt worse than anything else could have, even his punishment for such a crime that he committed only in his mind.

The Enforcer turned to him.

“Sir, you know the Government disapproves of illicit relationships. Flight Lieutenant Beck insists we look into this.”

Trevor hung his head, seeing his career and all that he had, foreseeably going to dust.

“I’m still the better pilot, Derrick,” he had said trembling, giving the only defence he had left.

“Your just the Wing Commander’s favourite. Get a hold on yourself. How can you call yourself a pilot acting like this. Not really holding up under stress...”

That had done it for Bedwell. He raised his head and looked Derrick in the eye. Between clenched teeth he spoke his mind.

“You cocky ones are all the same. Nobody is any good but you or your kind. Others are somehow lesser and exist only to be stepped on. You try to make us feel like slime and degrade us the most at the one thing we may be good at. You boast, but that’s all you are, a boast with no talent. You think you are something here, with all your mates and the beautiful girl at your side! Out there you are nothing, because you are all talk behind the stick, and talk doesn’t dodge blasts! We may be of the same rank... but I HAVE BEEN HERE LONGER THAN YOU AND A LOT OF OTHER PEOPLE HAVE TOO! YOU WILL SHOW US THE RESPECT WE DESERVE!”

The entire deck had fallen quiet. Trevor had just noticed he was shouting. He could feel how much a mess he looked. He had spoken out. He had told the truth, but everyone just looked at him. Stared at him, as if by telling the truth he had broken some unspoken law.

The Wing Commander came running up by this time.

“Bedwell are you okay?”

“I am now sir,” Trevor had said, winded.

“Are you sure? Take this mission off, I’ll have Beck take the objective.”

“No, Sir,” said Bedwell defiantly looking at Derrick. “I’ll fly and do my job.”

“Well, no more of this Beck,” said the Wing Commander giving him a stern glance. “Shaking up the wing leader is really bad form. Trevor, I’ll sort this mess out with the Enforcers, but I want to see you in my office after the mission.”

To everyone there he shouted; “All of you to your ships, now!”

In space, Trevor was all business. A preliminary wave of fighters had approached them and Trevor noticed Derrick taking a few hits. Despite his feelings he had commed him.

“Need assistance Derrick?”

“I’m fine limp stick, if you wouldn’t distract me. Go cry to the Wing Commander.” Alverez spoke up; “I’m going to help him.”

Not this time, thought Bedwell. “Negative Alverez. He said he could handle it. Proceed to target.”

“He’s in trouble!”

“Are you contradicting a direct order Alverez? I said proceed to target.”

He received a resentful “Yes, Sir.” Their friendship was over; he could feel it in the tone of her voice, as cold as the void between their ships.

Soon afterwards, Trevor had ordered Alverez to switch comms frequency to a tight band channel, which could only be received by their two ships. He didn’t want her getting panicky over Derrick’s self-induced situation and botching up the mission.

Ten minutes later, after the both of them dusted their main objective, a small enemy corvette, Trevor began to get distress messages from Derrick.

“Trev, I’ll take that help now.”

Trevor flew along, and did not answer.

“Trev, for God’s Sake!”

Trevor decided to answer only after a few very special words. Derrick needed a lesson, and he was going to learn it.

“Taking heavy damage! I’m sorry, ok?”

Trevor merely smiled. “Say again Beck, I cannot hear you, you’re breaking up.”

“Were you talking to Derrick?” Alverez’s question was riddled with fear.

“I think he’s in a bit of a drama. Fancy that. Thought he could outfly anything.”

“Are you going to let him die Trevor?”

Trevor answered with silence, and then engaged his afterburners, forcing Alverez to play catch up.

Manoeuvring into the combat area, Trevor cut in behind the enemy ship on Derrick’s rear and launched an image tracking missile dead centre of his target. Leaving off its attack on Derrick, the enemy fighter broke left, but the missile anticipated the move and connected, making a clean kill.

Trevor noticed Derrick’s ship was pretty heavily damaged, but did not notice what was about to take place.

The last enemy ship in the area had Alverez on its tail, and it was coming in for a frontal attack on Bedwell, when he opened up with full guns. At the last second, the Arachnid fighter had swooped down, directly into Derrick’s craft, which was too damaged to evade.

It was more than either ship could withstand, and they both shattered into a white-hot ball of plasma as the drives were breached. Trevor heard Derrick’s death scream over the comms. Alverez then screamed so loud over the channel Bedwell had to adjust the volume.

The barrage of fire Trevor had sent after the alien fighter hit Maria instead, nearly crippling her craft. She was lucky to have made it back to the carrier. Only Trevor returned without serious damage. His peace of mind, however, was permanently scarred.

She never spoke to him again. An inquiry into the matter cleared Trevor of all charges associated with the event, letting him off with a warning to pay closer attention to his comms and a month long grounding for psychiatric exams.

But others aboard thought he had taken things too far. It had only helped further alienate him from the rest of the crew. Alverez was found to be pregnant shortly afterward and was stripped of her honours and thrown out of the flight corps, only being allowed off with her life only on account of the unborn child in her womb.

He never saw her since, but he sometimes wondered what became of her. He thought about her life, how different it must be from his now.

He found himself strapped in the pilot’s seat, the panels and navigation displays powered up. The past retreated behind him, whilst the present loomed ahead of him. This was his world; here he was master. Cold confidence began to flow through him like a drink of water on a hot day, bringing him to his senses.

Having put on his helmet and adjusted the mike, he began to address the soldiers in the back. They were his soldiers now, not just cargo to be dropped and forgotten.

“I’d better be sharp on this one,” he muttered to himself before keying up.

“All right everyone, time to suit up and strap in. We’ll be dropping in the next ten minutes or so, when our window of opportunity opens. Before we go, I’d like us to have a prayer.”

Without a break he began, almost mechanically; “Holy God, who in Thy mercy doth keep us, I pray Thee that Thou wouldst protect us as we go forth to battle against the lawless in Thy name. Let us show them the folly of spitting upon Thy Holy Law, as interpreted by the High Council and His Majesty the Emperor. May we be blessed of Thee for all time. Amen.”

In the cargo area, the troops aped “Amen” in agreement. No one was thinking now, it was time. In pre-assigned seats they sat, light gleaming off their black battle armour. The crosses emblazoned above their hearts burned bright gold.

Most sat with resignation on their face, some with serene smiles. Each was strapping on an extra grenade or two, or loading their weapons, in this case P-23 plasma rifles. A few of the more massive men carried the P-25 heavy plasma. No man aboard carried less than the P-12 pistol that was required to be worn by all personnel during general alarm.

Eleven marines in all, twelve counting their commander in the cockpit, sat ready to dispense death without a second thought. The entire flight deck seemed caught up with the pageantry of it all. Beautiful death bedecked with splendour awaited its call to glory below.

“Bedwell, this is Tactical,” came the voice crackling across his headset.

“Bedwell here.”

“You’ll proceed to target with Delta wing for protection. The latest we have says that Team Sinner’s Paradise is on the ground and has made a successful infiltration.”

Trevor was pleased to know that.

“But there’s a downside, they’ve been engaged by ground forces, so they know we’re here. Team Tyr has encountered severe resistance and is currently unable to land, they’re swarming her.”

That news wiped the grin off his face.

“There’s a fifty-fifty chance of what will happen when you go. Either they will continue attacking Team Tyr and ignore you, or they’ll divert forces to intercept you. We’ve mostly gone for the latter, so expect a rough ride and an even rougher landing.”

“I’ve been through worse.”

“We know.”

There was a brief silence. Something had distracted Tactical. Then they came back on with a rushed quality to their voice they had lacked before.

“Your window’s open, drop at will. God bless you.”

“Thank you, Tactical. May God grant the Victory.”

Trevor brought the engines to life and pressed the button to close the cargo airlock. As soon as he saw the pressure differential light go green, he wound up the drives slowly and hovered just off the surface of the flight deck. The men in the back felt a slight disorientation from the lift-off.

In front of Trevor, the large hangar door slid open, revealing space to him. Taking up nearly a quarter of his view was Jameson IX.

Characteristic of his style, Trevor hit the afterburners and shot out of the bay like a poison dart for Krueger. He wondered if anyone would vomit from the force. Then he wondered at his wondering.

Space- 0905 Hours

Dodging the volley of fire that almost blew his left stabilising wing off, Trevor nearly swore. They had been trying to penetrate the fighter screen for fifteen minutes with no success. One of the fighters from delta wing was badly damaged, yet despite being told to return to base several times, Johnson stayed on. He boldly risked his life for the twelve he had sworn to protect.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t made any kills, they had already made three, but the enemy kept coming. Trevor thought he had heard that Team Tyr had finally made it to the planetary surface. If they had that was good, but it also meant that his drop ship was the last one still in space. Planetary defences would throw everything airborne at him now.

The red missile lock light came on, forcing Trevor to swerve violently to the left and right. The lock indicator showed it to be a heat seeker, which was an older technology, one more easily fooled. Swinging to and fro the entire way, Trevor aimed his ship toward a heavily damaged enemy fighter. It had lost almost all its guns, leaving only one fully functional laser with which to defend itself.

As Trevor barrelled toward its bow the enemy ship fired, cutting a small but growing chasm into the skin of the cargo area. He would have to hurry before the metal skin ripped and killed the marines inside due to depressurisation. If that laser managed to breech the hull it was over for them, and possibly the entire mission as well.