Counter strike offensive.., p.10
Counter Strike: Offensive: Book 3, page 10
"So, we go Viking!" Bjorn said excitedly, raising his battleaxe in the air triumphantly.
Jason smiled. "Evidently, we have one volunteer for the mission,"
"Two," Potato-Waffle chimed in. "Feeding people and then killing them is pretty much what I was born to do, sir,"
"Well, we need a reading party for the freighter but another for the escort vessel," Jason said.
"Sir, if you don't offer LT Coulako one of those jobs, then she may mutiny," Potato-Waffle said.
"Fine, then," Jason nodded. "Then we'll send the Nemesis ground team to board the escort ship and let the Norse raid commerce like their ancestors,"
"You've just made my day, sir!" Bjorn exclaimed.
"I'm glad. After all, I am solely here for your amusement," Jason said with a tinge of sarcasm.
The meeting devolved into logistics and coordination concerns before finally closing. With every detail discussed and the notes captured, it was just a matter of time before the command staff would generate the official operations order.
"In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, you are all dismissed," Jason said as he stood at attention. The gallery stood and rendered salutes, holding them in place until Jason returned the gesture.
CHAPTER 17
"Scopes are clear, captain," Stevens, the first officer, reported.
"Very well, Mister Stevens," Captain Beauregard replied as he drew a long sip of his coffee, pacing around the bridge as always. He glanced at the visual display and saw the pair of pinpricks of light he knew was the thruster array for their escort ship, a sight that always brought a sense of security and relief.
The escort vessel was a small sloop and was lighter in tonnage than a typical destroyer escort ship, but ideal enough to fend off Drake pirates and officially sufficient to avoid additional scrutiny by the Chartean customs officials. Although not a frontline warship, the sloop was well-armed for its size and boasted a respectable crew complement.
But the petite escort was dwarfed by Beauregard's freighter. The megaton behemoth would never win any beauty contests, but it was large and relatively fast for such a bulky ship. Without the regular shipments of food and other critical supplies, the modest human population on Chartea would starve. Charteans could eat human food, and humans could eat some Chartean food, but much of it was toxic for people, so food had to be transported to the capital planet to sustain the population.
His was a humble but noble task, and Captain Beauregard had yet to be late on any of the hundreds of runs he'd made over the years. As it was, this trip was shaping up to be another successful one. The astrogation computer was reading they were two hours ahead of schedule. This may not have seemed like a problem to the casual observer, but there was always the question of an available mooring when they arrived, a potential delay that could have serious repercussions for the starving population on Chartea.
The captain strolled through the bridge, staring out of the viewports to see the stars with his naked eyes. Decades in space and the view of the stars still mesmerized Beauregard.
The captain caught the ship's clock in the corner of his eye and realized the time had come for a routine comms check with their escort vessel.
"Comms, it's the top of the hour. Would you kindly do a comms check?" Beauregard framed the order as a curtly formed question.
"Aye, sir," the comms tech replied before speaking into the microphone. "Ajax, this is Venture; comms check,"
An awkward moment passed as the escort vessel didn't reply. The comms tech tried again, repeating the transmission, but nothing happened.
"Captain, Ajax is not responding on the main channel," the comms tech reported.
"They may be in the middle of a crew drill and can't hear you. Send a data burst text message, so they can't say we didn't try," Beauregard instructed as he casually walked to the other side of the bridge to refill his dwindling supply of coffee.
"Aye, sir," the comms tech replied. "Message sent and..."
The tech's words hung in the air.
"And what?" the captain asked expectantly.
"Sir, the data burst failed to send a receipt of confirmation. Their comms suite must be down. We're in interstellar space, so it's not like the EM spectrum is congested," the tech said, scratching his head.
"How do we know the problem isn't on our end?" Beauregard asked.
"All systems are showing green, and I'm not seeing any timed-out ports or channels. The only way to be sure is to reboot the comms suite and run a diagnostic," the tech explained.
"Just for the sake of argument, can you check the local EM field? I know it's a long shot, but we could be getting interference from solar activity or a pesky pulsar somewhere nearby," the captain suggested.
"Very well, sir," the tech replied. "The EM field is... this isn't right,"
"Explain," the captain said sternly as the odd event escalated.
"Sir, the EM field around Venture is minimal, but the EM field surrounding Ajax is completely off the charts," the tech said, scratching his head. "It's as if a flood of EM emissions were being pointed right at it,"
“Impossible,” Beauregard scoffed. "The only explanation for this would be a jamming field,"
"Sir, unless Ajax is trying to talk to us, they might not even know they're being jammed," the tech said.
"Surely, they see the interference. But where is it coming from? There isn't anything on the scan. A ship capable of generating such a large EM field would be rather large. We would see it for sure," the captain surmised.
"Or there's a cloaked ship out there," the tech said, his voice betraying his nervousness. "The old Earth nations and their Numerian allies are scouring Chartean-controlled space,"
"Why would a large force go after a shipment of groceries?" Beauregard said, scratching his chin in thought. His curiosity was piqued. "There must be something more to this,"
"Sir, Ajax is flashing their administrative lights as if operating in orbital space. I think they're trying to warn us," the tech said.
"Or they're telling us their comms are down," the captain said, but inwardly he feared the worst. His concern was palpable. "Helm, go VFR and keep your eyes glued to the escort vessel. If they so much as nudge themselves off course, I want you stuck to them like glue,"
"Yes, captain," the helmsman replied. "I'm on that thing like a fat kid on a cupcake,"
***
Lieutenant Commander Haskins was awakened when the intercom crackled to life. "Sir, you're needed in the CIC,"
Haskins recognized his XO's voice and knew it was something legitimate; otherwise, Lieutenant Forge would have handled it already.
Haskins rolled out of bed and stumbled over to the intercom. The cold deck plating sent a chill up his spine as he trod the cabin barefoot. He toggled the intercom controls for the CIC.
"XO, talk to me," Haskins demanded.
"Sir, we've got comms interference. We didn't notice it until the Venture was overdue to report in," Forge explained.
"Activate the administrative lights. At the very least, we can warn the Venture we have comms issues," Haskins ordered.
"Aye, sir," Forge replied, and the intercom went silent again.
Haskins yawned deeply as he trudged back over to his bed, instinctively tidying up the sheets like he learned at the academy. He rapidly dressed himself in a common utility uniform for expediency, as his dress uniform would require too much detailed primping. Besides, his chin was covered in a thin veil of stubble, and he wouldn't feel right being in a formal uniform without a clean shave.
With his utilities donned, Haskins rushed out of the exit to his stateroom and rounded the corner toward the CIC entrance. Upon entering the CIC, he saw several crew huddled around the comms suite. He recognized the extra bodies as comms technicians from engineering and was glad the XO had been taking measures to correct the situation.
"Status?" Haskins called out as he approached the scene.
"Sir, we can't figure it out," Lieutenant Forge explained. "There's nothing out there, but the system is acting like it's being jammed. We think it may be an issue with power distribution, but so far, everything is within specifications,"
"Kill the receiver amplifiers," Haskins snapped. "If we're being jammed, then the amplified jamming signal will fry the signal data processor,"
"Already done, sir," one of the engineers, a petty officer, said curtly.
Then, as if by magic, the radio crackled to life. "Apex warship, you are surrounded by a superior force. Cut your thrust and maintain your current heading. Power down all weapon systems, and place your reactor on standby mode,"
The comms suit operator tapped the inputs to reply, but Haskins rushed over and leaned over his shoulder to speak into the microphone. "Unknown entity, this is an Apex Imperial warship operating lawfully. Identify yourself,"
"Last warning. Power down and prepared to be boarded," the voice said plainly.
Then the klaxon sounded, and the alert board lit up. "Sir, they fired a warning shot, and it missed by mere meters,"
"Action stations!" Haskins ordered. The lighting in the CIC switched from a soft white light to a dull red one.
Lieutenant Forge shouted instructions to the command crew before toggling ship-wide comms. "All hands, all hands, action stations! This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill,"
"XO, instead of having the Marines gear up for damage control duties, get them suited up to repel boarders. Have the master at arms issue small arms to anyone with an up-to-date weapons qualification," Haskins ordered.
"Aye, sir!" Forge said before executing the order.
"Weapons, set point defenses to auto," Haskins snapped. "Sensors, find me something to shoot at,"
"Aye, sir!" the weapons control operator replied.
"Active scan initiated, sir," the sensor suite operator called out.
Haskins had run out of commands to issue. The situation left him with few options. But he remembered his training and prayed his crew did, too, as they'd drilled extensively for any conceivable scenario. However, never had they been accosted by stealth mystery ships with jamming capabilities.
"Sir, our active scanners are being jammed!" the sensor operator said with a panicked voice.
Haskins had a decision to make. Had his ship not had a duty to protect the freighter, he would have just slipped away into FTL. However, he would be court-marshaled for dereliction of duty if he did. He couldn't run, he couldn't fight, nor did he have eyes to see.
"All hands, get a weapon," Haskins said with grim determination. "Looks like we're doing this the hard way,"
CHAPTER 18
"Why so bumpy, Athena?" LT Coulako called out. "Their sensors are jammed, they can't shoot,"
"Never trust technology," Athena retorted.
"Says the AI flying a spaceship," Coulako growled as the craft buffeted from the evasive maneuvers.
"Entering my final approach," Athena announced. "I'll ease up on the maneuver shenanigans so you can do your equipment checks,"
"Thanks, gal," Coulako said kindly. The rocking motion subsided; now, everyone could stand without grabbing a hand strap. "Alright, marines, pre-combat inspections, now!"
"Oorah!" they replied in unison. The Marines quickly checked each other front and back before checking their weapons. The event was like a well-oiled machine, as the well-trained troops moved like precision robots on an assembly line.
Potato-Waffle casually pushed through the crowds of busy marines and stopped short of where Coulako stood.
"Ma'am, I'd like to take a point," the insectoid said.
Coulako gave a thumbs up. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Master Chief,"
Potato-Waffle pulled out his knives and looked them over. They had no moving parts and were immaculately polished, but the Master Chief checked them all the same. He moved on to his pistols. They were of ancient design, nickel-plated, and had large hand grips for his sizeable hands. Once satisfied, he gestured for Coulako to turn around to have her gear inspected. She obliged, and the insectoid studiously inspected her gear, his eyes remaining inches from her back to ensure he didn't miss anything.
"All good, Ma'am. I never had a doubt," Potato-Waffle said, tapping her shoulder to denote the end of his inspection.
"Let me check you over, Master Chief," Coulako said.
"Are you familiar with insectoid armor, Ma'am?" Potato asked intently.
"If not, I'm about to. A defect is a defect, no matter what the system." Coulako retorted.
"Aye, Ma'am," Potato nodded as he turned about. "This armor was made by human hands, so it might as well be inspected by a human,"
Coulako checked him over. Satisfied that his armor and equipment were adequately affixed and all harnesses were latched correctly, she tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a curt nod.
"All hands, hold on to something," Athena announced.
The marines all grabbed a hand strap and braced themselves for landing.
Thud.
The landing struts made contact with the hull of the sloop. "Alright, people. If you would kindly open the ventral hatch, you'll see that I expertly landed this rig over a dorsal airlock. Stanley, you're up," Athena announced.
"For the record, I'm a training AI, not a hacker," Stanley grumbled. His voice came through Miles' helmet speakers as he was embedded with the marine.
Miles pushed through the huddled marines and knelt down over the hatch as Potato-Waffle lifted the outer door clear. With the sloop's hull exposed within the gap, the round hatch for the dorsal airlock. "Okay, Stanley, what do you need me to do?"
"Nanobot module. Right cargo pocket," Stanley growled. "Or did you forget where you put it?"
Miles ignored the ornery AI and produced the module. He released a small cloud of nanobots to slip into the seams of the hatch while Stanley defeated the dumb AI safeguards protecting the airlock system from unauthorized access.
"I hope the Apex assholes appreciate not getting their airlock all cut up," Miles said plainly.
"I hope you get me back to my ship in one piece," Stanley growled.
"Moron! You volunteered to come with me," Miles growled.
"What's the hold-up, lance corporal?" Coulako asked expectantly.
"No hold-up, Ma'am. Stanley is doing his thing," Miles answered curtly.
"Tell him to do it faster," Coulako growled.
The hatch cycled, and a green light flashed to life. Miles reached down with his gloved hands, as he didn't dare touch bare metal exposed to the extreme temperatures of space. The hatch creaked open, and Miles stepped back to clear the way.
Potato-Waffle shuffled through the crowd and reached the hatch before reaching into his grenade pouch. He produced a yellow, rubber plastic duck, squeezed it to make it squeak, and then dropped it into the hatch. The muffled sounds of someone calling out could be heard.
"Grenade! Dive for cover!" the muffled voice said as Potato-Waffle jumped into the hatch. His knees buckled slightly when his feet hit the deck to absorb the impact. He rolled to his left just in time to avoid getting pelted by a flak gun. With knives in one set of hands and pistols in the other, the insectoid moved like a blur as he slashed the throat of a defender with lightning speed before sending a burst of pistol slugs into a pair of spacers with small arms.
The bodies flew backward from the mass of the heavy slugs, and the rest of the marines came pouring through the hatch with reckless abandon. Within seconds, the airlock bay was secured. The space was cramped and barely contained the two squads of marines on the dropship.
"Athena, what's the status on the other two dropships?" Coulako called out over the TACNET.
"Gunny Sinclair and the third squad have landed fifty meters fore of your position, and the third dropship is on approach for the engineering section," Athena replied dutifully.
It was all going according to plan, but the mission was still within its first phase, and Coulako knew the hard part was next.
"Alright, marines! Watch your corners, cover your buddy's ass, and remember your training. This is what they pay you for!" Coulako declared.
"Oorah!" the marines said in unison.
Potato-Waffle stepped toward the interior exit of the room with his pistols at the ready. But this time, he used a stun grenade and lobbed it through the hatch before Sergeant Hughes slammed it shut.
Boom.
The muffled explosion sounded as Hughes jerked the hatch open and gestured for the marines to rush in. However, the insectoid was first and rushed through in a flash.
He found the crew in various naval uniforms that served different purposes. They were all armed but were reeling from the effects of the concussion grenade. By the time the marines all filed into the corridor, the insectoid had already applied restraints to two fallen crew members.
Wordlessly, the Marines followed suit. The order of the day was minimal casualties and, if possible, none at all. However, the armed defenders in the airlock bay didn't leave them with any choice. Going forward, though, the plan was to capture and restrain versus fight to the death. But so far, all they'd encountered were lightly armed and unarmored naval personnel. The ship was a sloop and was barely longer than three hundred meters from prow to stern, so the marines knew the crew complement would be relatively small.
"We need to move forward and link up with the gunny so we can take the CIC," Coulako called out.
But no response was given as the flak gun pelted her armor, knocking her into the bulkhead. The shooter was dead before Coulako could come to her senses. The marines all fired back with controlled bursts, riddling the defender with ballistics and sending his lifeless body to the deck in a heap.
"Move!" Coulako gestured as she stomped toward the fore-section of the ship. "Stanley, give us a nano cloud,"
