Icarus (3 page)

   Jerry saw that Shawn was definitely not kidding on this matter. “I
thought—I mean—didn’t Captain Krif explain everything to you?” he stammered.

   “The Captain and I don’t exactly see eye to eye, Lieutenant. I admit,
I have a hard time reading between the lines with him, but I’m pretty sure he
didn’t mention anything regarding flying a fighter.”

   Jerry’s tone was laced with caution. “Then I should assume he didn’t
say anything to you about taking over for Lieutenant Commander Brunel?”

   Shawn chuckled, trying to decide if he’d heard the young man correctly
or not. “Take over for what?”

   “Umm…the squadron, sir?”

   “I’m sorry?”

   “Yes, sir. Raven informed most of the pilots less than an hour ago.
You wouldn’t know it to see it, but I think she was pretty upset about the
whole thing.”

   Shawn nodded slowly as shock set in. “I know how that feels.” He
removed his hands from Jerry’s shoulders and paced back a step before licking
his lips and coming to a resolute answer. “You and I—
and
Commander
Brunel—are going to have a nice little chat with Captain Krif and get this all
straightened out right now.”

   Jerry gave Shawn a desperate look, as if he were a puppy being
scolded. “But…what about chow?”

   “Now, Lieutenant.”

   Nova’s shoulders slumped. “Whatever you say, Skip—”

   Before he could finish, Shawn pressed a finger firmly to Jerry’s
mouth, silencing the remainder of the word. “Let’s not say that again, okay?
‘Sir’ is just fine with me, all right?

   With the commander’s finger held against his lip, the Lieutenant
managed to utter, “Yes, sir,” from the side of his mouth.

   “Good boy. Now, let’s go find Raven, then we’ll go to Oz and find out
what the Wizard knows.”

   “The who?”

   “Never mind. Let’s just go.”

* * *

   With a simple query, the ship’s computer notified Shawn that Roslyn
Brunel was eating in the officers’ main galley. While his stomach told him that
he should be doing the same, all the questions raised by Lieutenant Santorum’s
statements needed to be answered first.

   With Jerry in the lead, the two men traversed the seemingly endless
maze of corridors, making more left and right turns than Shawn could keep track
of. Every corridor looked identical to the one before it, and Shawn briefly
entertained the idea that Jerry was stalling for time by leading them around in
circles inside the bowels of the ship.

   After one final turn they came to a stop in front of two metal doors,
each inlaid with a square window emblazoned with Sector Command logos. Beyond
the doors, Shawn could see roughly thirty officers, representing nearly every
department on the ship, sitting down to their meals. Some were conversing with
crewmates, others were eating, and some seemed to be lost in their own thoughts
as they sat at small tables. As the two entered, Shawn and Jerry noticed Roslyn
at the same instant, sitting alone in the far corner of the dining
compartment. 

   As Shawn stepped closer to Raven he noticed that she seemed to be idly
playing with the food on her plate, neither eating it nor totally ignoring it.
When they came within speaking distance, she suddenly looked at the two men.

   She shifted her eyes from one man to other, nodding wordlessly to
Nova, and then went back to reorganizing the food on her tray into a more
palatable position. “Is there something I can help you gentleman with?” Her
words were directed at her plate. She definitely wasn’t happy; that much was
certain.

   “I’ve been told that I’m relieving you as commander of the squadron.
Please tell me there’s been a mistake.”

   Roslyn scooped up a small pile of mashed potatoes and regarded it
briefly. “Afraid I don’t know much more about it than you do, sir.” She then
hefted the fork into her mouth.

   “Then what—”

   She swallowed slowly. Knowing there was no way she could possibly
enjoy fleet food, Shawn decided the leisureliness was deliberate. “The order
came directly from Captain Krif within minutes of you reactivating your
commission.”

   Not waiting to be offered a seat—and knowing it wouldn’t happen
anyway—Shawn took the opportunity to sit in a chair next to the dark-haired,
evasive pilot, and lowered his voice. “But I’m not qualified. Hell, I haven’t
even logged a single star hour in a fighter in
years
.”

   Not bothering to look at him, Roslyn swallowed more food and then
reached for a purple, fizzing drink. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

   “So you agree?”

   “Oh, yes. Yes I do.” Her tone was emphatic.

   Shawn glanced at Nova and then looked back to Raven. “At least someone
has some sense around here.”

   “Unfortunately it’s not contagious. The upper chain of command seems
immune,” she replied dryly.

   “And you told Krif as much, I assume?”

   She slowly placed her glass back on the table, taking all efforts to
make it as smooth a gesture as possible. However, Shawn had the impression
Raven was fighting back the urge to hurl the glass across the room—or worse, at
him. “Of course I did,
Lieutenant
Commander
,” she growled, then
immediately lowered her voice when she realized all eyes in the galley were now
on her. “Giving you this assignment is not only foolish, it’s exceedingly
dangerous. You have
no
idea what you’re doing. Besides, these new
fighters are more advanced than
anything
you’ve ever flown. Hell,
they’re more advanced than anything
anyone
has ever seen before. It took
me seven months of simulator training just to get into the cockpit of one of
these things, and now I’m supposed to simply step aside, let you have one with
little or no warning, and give you my command to boot?”

   “I can see you’re upset—”

   “Upset?” she spat back. “Oh, no. This isn’t upset. This is just mildly
pissed off. You don’t want to see me upset.”

   “That’s for sure,” Nova whispered.

   Roslyn could have turned Santorum to stone with the glare she gave
him.

   Pushing his personal safety aside, Shawn tried to bring her attention
back to him. “And you couldn’t get Krif to see things differently?”

   “Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, I’m
sorry sir. Begging your pardon, but did you wake up with your head stuck up
your ass again?’ I’m sure that wouldn’t have had the desired effect.”

  
Again?
Shawn tried not to laugh, knowing that Brunel was just
as frustrated with Krif as he was. “It’s worked for me.”

   She shook her head, turning her attention despondently back to her
food. “Yeah, well…I’m not you,
apparently
.”

   “Meaning what?”

   “You’ll have to talk to the Captain about it. All I know is that I was
asked to step aside and hand the squadron over to you, and to give you a full
briefing and tour of inspection tomorrow morning at 0900 hours.”

   “That’s it?”

   “That’s it.” She grabbed a forkful of deviled ham and stuffed it into
her face. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have a meal to finish.”

   Lieutenant Santorum placed a hand lightly on Shawn’s shoulder,
indicating that it was time to go.

   When Shawn made an attempt at an apology, Roslyn discharged his words
with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant Santorum. And
take your
friend
with you.”

   When the two men had exited the galley, they stepped to one of the
wall-mounted computer terminals. Shawn withdrew his IDC and held it to the
screen, then requested the location of Captain Krif. The computer’s sultry
feminine voice responded, “Captain Krif is in his cabin, Lieutenant Commander
Kestrel.” Half expecting the sentence to end with a lip-smacking kissing sound,
Shawn gave the computer a questioning glare. “Is that the way it always
sounds?”

    “Bad maintenance overhaul a few weeks ago. I’ll tell you about it
another time. Do you want the computer to notify the captain that we’re on our
way?”

   “No. I’m sure he’s expecting me. And if he’s not, I really don’t
care.”

  
A
t
approximately 1630 hours, an understandably upset Shawn Kestrel—with Jerry
Santorum in tow—arrived at Captain Richard Krif’s cabin. More out of habit than
respect, Shawn gave the door a firm knock before entering. He was greeted by
Krif’s brusque voice coming through the small speaker embedded in the door’s
surface. “Just a moment, Kestrel.”

   “How did he know it was you?” Jerry whispered sideways.

   Shawn shook his head quickly. “Brunel might have told him we were
coming.”

   “Need me to come in for backup?”

   Despite his frustration over his current situation, Shawn still
managed a weak smile. “I can handle Krif on my own, Nova. I’ll catch up with
you later.”

   Lieutenant Santorum gave a nod, stepped away from the still-closed
doors and departed down the corridor. When the lieutenant was nearly out of
sight, Shawn turned back just in time to see the doors to Krif’s cabin part and
slide into their alcoves.

   Richard was seated behind his desk and, save for his uniform shirt
hanging neatly on a hook near the foot of the bed, was still fully dressed in
his bridge attire, including his command ball cap. He was leaning over his
computer terminal, reading something Shawn couldn’t see from his current
position on the opposite side of the screen.

   “I thought you’d be curled up in the fetal position in your cabin by
now. What took you so long to come up, ace?”

   “I was busy trying to figure things out around here, but everyone
seems to enjoy making it as complicated as possible.”

   “A likely excuse,” Krif grunted. “You were probably eyeballing more of
my female crewmembers. You’ll have to get used to it at some point, hotshot.
We’ve got a fifty-fifty mix of males to females here. I expect you to keep
yourself under control.”

   “Is that a request?”

   Krif momentarily averted his eyes from his screen and directed them at
Shawn. “It’s an order, Lieutenant Commander Kestrel.”

   Shawn smirked. “I still think ‘Captain’ sounds better.”

   “There’s only room enough for one of those on board, and it’s me. Last
I checked, your reactivation didn’t include a promotion.”

   “Well, fancy that. That’s just what I’m here to discuss: my
reactivation.” Shawn said as he folded his arms in defiance.

   Krif’s eyes never left the screen. “What about it? Have you forgotten
how to read your orders? I assume they were in your folder.”

   “What’s this I’m hearing about me taking over the command slot for the
Rippers?”

   “It’s part and parcel with your rank, Commander.”

   “What does that mean?”

   “It means that, due to your rank of Lieutenant Commander, and given
the high marks in your service record, you’re eligible for such a position.”

   It was a contrived answer, as scripted as any Shawn had ever heard. “I
highly doubt you would have cared about such things.”

   “You’re damn right about that, Kestrel.” Krif’s eyes were still
scanning his computer screen. “I was perfectly content bringing you on board as
an observer…
maybe
even an instructor for some of the junior pilots in
the fighter wing.”

   “So you’re saying this came from Sector Command?”

   Krif let out a harrumph. “No, this came down from even higher.”

   “Wait. Don’t tell me. The Office of Special Investigations?”

   Krif nodded slowly. “Give that man a cigar. You’re catching on quick,
ace.”

   “What about Brunel?”

   Krif rolled his eyes and finally gave Shawn his undivided attention.
“Jesus, Kestrel. What
about
her?”

   “She’s more qualified, more experienced—”

   “All true.”

   “Then why?”

   Krif sighed heavily, turned off his computer and pivoted in his chair
to face Shawn. “You remember Franklin Brody?”

   The image of Shawn’s former wing mate instantly popped into his mind.
During the war, Brody and Shawn had become almost inseparable. They practically
flew every mission together, and when the duo was joined with William Graves,
they formed a trio that had the best kill ratio on the
Fahrenwald
. Shawn
hadn’t heard much of Brody since the war had officially ended, knowing only
that he had been promoted to Lieutenant Commander shortly after the ceasefire
had been called with the Kafarans.

   “Yeah, of course I do.”

   “Well, Commander Brody was the CO of the Rippers up until a month ago.
Brunel was his executive officer.”

   “Brody’s here on the
Rhea
?”
Finally
, Shawn thought
excitedly,
someone I can talk to and get a straight answer from. I can’t
wait to hear what he’s been up to.

  
“He was.”

   “Was? Where did he transfer to?”

   Krif leveled his eyes at Kestrel. “Tagus Sector.”

   “Tagus sector?” Shawn replied in confusion. “There’s nothing out
there.”

   “Wrong. Somewhere out there is Commander Franklin Brody.”

   “Lost?” Shawn’s jubilation instantly turned sour.

   Krif shook his head. “No. Dead.”

   “What happened?”

   “His patrol wing radioed in that they’d seen something…something they
were unable to identify. It was big, it was fast, and it was definitely
not
natural. He and his wingman separated from a group of six fighters, leaving
Lieutenant Commander Brunel to take the rest of the squadron to a defensive
position in case of trouble. Brunel’s sensor reports showed that, as soon as
Brody and his wingman were within a thousand kilometers of the unidentified
target, they were instantly vaporized.”

   “What did Brunel do?”

   Krif shrugged. “What she was trained to do. She brought her squadron,
as well as all the sensor data on the intruder, back to the
Rhea
. We
immediately changed course to intercept the target, but by the time we got
there, it was gone.”

   “And you didn’t recover the ship’s recorder box from either Brody or
his wingman?”

   “As I said, they were both instantly vaporized. We found some debris,
but nothing larger than a mouse turd.”

   “And no trace of the unidentified target?”

   “Not even an ion trail. And, insofar as we know, no species—Kafaran or
otherwise—has anything that can completely hide an ion trail.”

   “What happened next?”

   Krif withdrew a cup from his desk and poured tea for himself before
continuing. “The incident was logged, a funeral for Brody and his wingman was
performed on the hangar deck the following day, and Brunel was given the job as
acting Commanding Officer of the Rippers. Life went on.”

   “So I still don’t get why I’m being asked to—”

   “It’s not a request, Kestrel. You’re being
ordered
to assume
command of the squadron, not asked if you fancy the idea.” Krif took a sip of
the tea, made a sour expression and then set the cup down. “It probably has
something to do with the fact that you taught Brody virtually everything he
knew about being a pilot; what he became was a direct result of your friendship
and mentoring…with a few exceptions.”

   “Meaning?”

   Krif exhaled slowly. “You see, there’s a fundamental difference
between you and Brody: I liked him. He was a good pilot, a good officer,
and
a good commander. You might be able to fill his position by rank—possibly by
your skills in the cockpit as well—but I don’t think you’re a particularly good
officer. However, Sector Command made sure this whole thing was going to
happen, and it now seems you and I are both stuck with it for the duration, so
we’d better get used to it.”

   “You give the orders and I follow them; is that how it’s going to go?”

   Krif nodded sharply. “That’s how it’s going to go. If you don’t like
it, I don’t care. You signed on for this voluntarily. Keep that in mind if—and
when—the shit hits the fan.”

   “Anything else?” Shawn asked, rolling his eyes and deciding not to
press the captain any further on the matter.

   “Your assignment is to command the Rippers. Lean on Brunel if you need
to, but not too heavily. She’s a young Lieutenant Commander with a good head on
her shoulders, but she’s still green when it comes to command. You’ll also have
to maintain minimal flight hours, which means you’ll need a ship. But before
you even set foot in one of those, I’ve already taken the liberty of assigning
you to simulator training. That should get you up to speed on the basics. You
won’t need to know more than that.”

   “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

   “I’m quite certain I’m not,” Krif replied matter-of-factly.

   “What if I’m out there and I get into trouble?”

   “First off, you won’t be out there all that often. Secondly, as soon
as Brody was killed, Sector Command initiated a new policy: no commanding
officers can detach from their assigned group at any time during a patrol or
combat situation; that’s what the junior officers are for. Aside from the
simulator, you’ll never need to learn advanced combat tactics for the new
fighters. If you see trouble, meaning if you see anything remotely exciting or
enticing, you’ll radio it in and let someone else take the credit.” Krif added
the final words with a sneer.

   “And what about you and me?”

   “Just follow orders and generally try not to be such a pain in my ass.
Do that and we will get along fine, all things considered.”

   “All things considered, Dick, I’m sure that’ll never happen.”

   “Let it go, Kestrel. It was a long time ago.”

   “Not to me, it wasn’t.”

   Krif rubbed his hands down his chin and then leaned back in his chair.
“Are you still having the nightmares?” he asked in a more congenial tone. He
took Shawn’s glare and silence as an affirmation. Before he could say anything
more, a buzz came through the intercom mounted in the desktop. “Yes, what is
it?” he asked after pressing a switch.

   “Captain, this is Commander Ashdoe,” came the stern voice of the
ship’s executive officer. “Lieutenant Commander Kestrel’s presence is requested
on the observation deck in forty minutes.”

   “Thank you, Commander,” Krif replied before switching off the channel.
He turned his attention back to Kestrel. The man looked tired, and far older
than he should have. Regardless of his personal feelings toward him, no officer
should be allowed to stand duty in that condition. “You eat yet?”

    Shawn, still glaring, slowly shook his head in silence.

   “My cook is one of the best in the fleet. He has this really annoying
habit of making too much food, and I hate for things to go to waste. My
personal dining room is right next door, and dinner should still be warm. If
you feel up to it, make yourself at home. After that, report to the observation
deck as requested.”

   Shawn didn’t say anything. He simply stared the captain down for one
final moment before exiting the space.

* * *

   Shawn put down his fork and, after taking a drink of water, instantly
wished for something a little stronger. He looked around the captain’s personal
dining area and found it to be immensely more comfortable than the crew’s
general galley. The room was probably fifteen feet wide on each side, with a
table and settings for four, and a pair of large rectangular display screens on
one of the walls. Against the wall opposite the screens was a large,
comfortable-looking leather couch that appeared to be new, save for a small
tear that had been repaired on one of the back cushions. Beside the couch and
occupying a corner of the room was a small, wooden cabinet. Opening the
cabinet, Shawn found the captain’s personal liquor stockpile.

  
Well, Dick did say to make myself at home, so why not?

   Shawn withdrew a tall bottle containing a blue, unnamed liquid. With
no label on the bottle, Shawn knew he’d have to investigate this oddity the
old-fashioned way. He swirled the liquid around the half-empty bottle, seeing
with approval that it had about the same consistency as Terran whiskey. Upon
uncorking the bottle, he was assaulted by the smell of something akin to a
mixture of anti-freeze and liquid propellant. He smirked at the bottle and
withdrew a glass from the cabinet, setting them both on the tabletop. Shawn
poured himself half a glass, swirling the liquid in his cup as he remembered the
last time he and Frank Brody had flown together. He looked to the view port in
the starboard wall, out to the luminous points of stars as they streaked by,
and further beyond, to a distant sector in the old Outer Sphere.

   Shawn held the glass up toward the window in a toast. “Here’s to you,
Commander Franklin Brody. You were the best damn wingman a guy could ask for.”
He downed the glass in a single gulp and, giving the view one final glance,
left the captain’s wardroom in search of the observation deck.

* * *

   Within minutes of leaving the wardroom, Shawn realized that he was
very likely lost. He’d passed several computer terminals—not to mention
crewmembers—that he could have queried as to the whereabouts of his
destination, but his old determination had begun to resurface, and he’d been
sure he could find the observation deck without too much trouble. After fifteen
minutes of going nowhere, he looked at his watch and saw he would be late for
his appointment if he didn’t get his bearings straight.
Why do they have to
make every one of these damn corridors look so similar?
When another
crewman approached him, a rather plain-looking fellow—save for his single,
unblinking eye—Shawn inquired as to the location of his destination.

   “You got me, sir. I’ve never laid my eye on it. If you’re lost, I’d
suggest trying one of the computer terminals.” And with that, the young man was
on his way, whistling an obscure tune Shawn couldn’t place.