George looked at Cameron, bewildered. “Imminent what?”
Cameron took off out of the mess hall and down the corridor, with George struggling to keep up.
Fort Yonkers
Luna
Fort Yonkers hadn’t been built for Fleet. That much Commodore Hiro Osaka knew. Grown from the skeleton of the first lunar colony, the sprawling base lacked the facilities and equipment to properly care for anything larger than a six-man Griffin. The complexities of a Terran carrier seemed to baffle the gaggle of civilian engineers that pored over the flagship like ants on a picnic. Two weeks into the refit and they were already a month behind schedule. The fifty-year-old officer had walked the halls of his ship only hours before and had been horrified by the disastrous mess left behind. Cables hung down from the overhead panels and entire sections of the walls were missing, exposing the innards of the vessel.
As the commander of Carrier Battle Group Sol, Hiro oversaw a flotilla of the most advanced ships in the Terran Fleet. But even without the support craft, Hiro had the Alpha vessel.
Midway, the Terran flagship, was unlike any carrier before it.
Designed during the final days of the Emigration War, she replaced the fallen TFC Shiloh. Three times as large, and holding eighty more fighting craft than her predecessor, Midway had become the unquestioned symbol of the Federate’s supremacy in the dark skies. It wasn’t hard to see why; unless someone saw her in person, they never believed the stories of her size.
In recent years, even as newer ships of the line flew out from the various yards over Titan and Phobos, Midway had remained a sentinel in Terran space. Her crew could populate a small town or conquer a small moon. Though armed only with standard weaponry, the carrier was a match for any fighting vessel in the known universe. Hiro’s weapons officer lamented that they never installed some of the latest and greatest tools of destruction, but a forty-inch gun still packed a hell of a punch. Which made it all the more frustrating to have it under repair, collecting moon dust.
Alarms sounded throughout the base, muted now that the initial alert had gone out. The commodore seethed at the idea of sitting idly by while Mars launched an attack. Hiro looked out the small glass window next to him, imagining he could see the red planet. It was such an unimaginable distance away—but unbearably close for a military man. He took a final look at his prone and gutted berth before heading back down the hall. The civilians and soldiers he passed stared at him as he walked by. With his closely cut gray hair and piercing blue eyes, Hiro was as recognizable a face on a military post as the high chancellor himself.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand holding a small clear phone to his ear. He didn’t like the new model—the synthetic material wore too quickly and felt tacky against his cheek. His jaw clenched and relaxed, and he tried to slow his racing pulse.
“I don’t care about the old plates,” he said. His voice was calm, but he felt acid rise in his stomach. “I can’t fly until you replace the port hangar’s armor shielding.” Hiro paced back and forth in the hall, his eyes locked on a distant point of the Earth’s surface. “You have until I reach the OpCenter to give me a better answer. When the fighting starts, I’d better be up there.” He hung up, lingering in place to soak in the spectacle. For a moment he considered calling his daughter, maybe asking to speak to his grandson, but it was already late. With a sigh, he put his phone away.
The commodore turned to walk toward the operation center and nearly collided with two young men running down the corridor. They stopped cold when they saw the golden star on Hiro’s collar, the scarlet “S” designator at the top point. Each snapped off a crisp salute, which the commander took a moment to reflect on before returning. The ranking officer walked around the two pilots, glaring as only a superior can. His perfectly polished shoes clacked on the tile with a satisfying echo.
“What unit are you with?” Hiro asked.
The taller of the two turned to speak. His flight uniform was clean and pressed, with creases along the sleeves. Silver pilot wings crested his lapels with a large “A” in the background. “Sector Patrol, Wolf Squadron, sir.” His friend, a head shorter with dark and unruly hair, grinned in agreement. “We’re responding to the alert.”
“Names?”
“Lieutenants Davis and Locklear.”
Hiro stared at the growing number of winking Blue portals in the distance. “You had better get moving, boys.” He saluted, signaling for them to run off. The shorter one immediately began speed walking away, but the other remained a moment.
“Is that your ship, Commodore?” The young man pointed out the nearby window. From almost any area inside the post, the supercarrier could be seen. It blocked most of the view, not that there was all that much to miss. Just a sea of gray stretching to the horizon.
Hiro smiled. “Midway has been my home for seven years now, but I can never claim her as my own. She belongs to the crew and the pilots, to the engineers who brought her to life. Though she does do what I ask. Most of the time.” He took a moment to take in the younger officer. The dirty blonde hair was a bit long for regulation, but he couldn’t deny the man possessed a powerful bearing. Hiro liked him right away. “What is your name again, pilot?”
“Davis, sir. Cameron Davis.” He scratched his head. “We sort of met before, sir, at my commissioning ceremony. You talked about the battle at Phobos, said it made you wish you’d been a pilot again.”
“Did we speak then?”
“No. I was laid up in a chair in the back. My Dodo bricked out fifty yards from the deck. I was lucky; only sprained my neck. They had me on so many meds, I slept through my pinning.”
“But you remembered my speech?” Hiro asked.
“Some things stick with you.”
Hiro looked at Cameron’s shoulders, noticing the silver bar on either side. He almost called him a Junior Grade, but he recalled that SP worked off the Army ranking system. “May I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”
“Of course, sir.”
Hiro stared out the window, fingers brushing against the cold glass. His breath fogged the view when he pressed his face closer. “Why SP? Why not Fleet?”
“I failed the health test.”
“Really? You look perfectly fine.”
Cameron tapped his chest. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Fancy way of saying I have a genetic disposition towards a bad heart. Fleet wouldn’t accept my packet without a letter from a doctor saying I would live forever.”
Hiro nodded. He’d seen so many good soldiers turned away from service because of geneticism. “What does the disease do?”
“For now? Nothing. But, if the wrong things happen, my heart gets thicker and I can’t pump blood as well. Makes it hard to be a pilot.” He waved off the look the commodore was wearing. “It doesn’t bother me, sir. Sector took me, and they let me fly whatever I want. Besides, I’d never fit in with the active side. Too rigid.”
Hiro turned his eyes on him. “Is that right?”
“Sorry, sir. No offense meant.”
The commodore let the moment dilate. Then he smiled. Cameron felt like he’d just received a stay of execution.
“Well, Lieutenant Davis, I’ll see you in the air. Good hunting.”
Cameron grinned. “Thank you, sir.” He became serious, extending his hand to his superior. “It’s an honor to meet you, Commodore.”
The commodore took his hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Lieutenant Davis.”
The