Convoy I

“If only there were windshield-wipers for the inside of your helmet,” mumbled jason. as if in answer, a drop of sweat beaded off of his nose and floated lazily towards his face shield. the holographic field he was viewing his world through didn’t change, but it was still unnerving to have his real-time vision in space looking like a rain-spattered windshield on the interstate. under the circumstances, climate control or no, it was definitely reasonable.

the com ship had been picking up ghosts at the outside of it’s range for the last few cycles and about the fifth time the ensign on duty slapped the alarm, the commodore decided to triple the patrol. just the double duty the bored pilots all needed…something new to bitch about. unfortunately for all of them, it wasn’t just a case of a jumpy captain, and it definitely wasn’t forming up to be a drill.

the convoy consisted of twenty ships, one of which was a class three battle cruiser, and one carrier…the fls drake. jason had been attached to the drake for his entire tour—three and a half standard years—and he was looking forward to a break after his remaining six months. sure he had seen action before but, contrary to popular belief, that makes imminent conflict actually more frightening. he had seen friends sucked into vacuum through holes in their canopies that were not quite large enough for them to fit intact…he had seen others disappear in a flash that left only particles the size of a grain of sand and a light imprint on his eyes…he had seen the wrong end of a mig’latai plasma cannon warming to fire into his face only to be plucked from certain death by an out-of-control comrade crashing into the insect’s ship and diverting the blast into his wingman. there was no bravado—no illusions about combat left in jason—only cold hard fear and a sweat that had nothing to do with heat.

at this stage of the game, even the limited sensors on his lance (light array nilgrav combat escort) could pick out the multiple contacts making their way steadily towards the convoy. the hud was showing about fifteen separate bogeys, but if they actually were hostile, it is not so hard to piggy-back signals. in other words, there could be anywhere from fifteen to forty.

“Bravo one to tac-com, any id numbers off of inbound?” Jason waited for the reply while checking and re-checking his inventory.

“Negative, bravo one, zero conformation or response from inbound vessels. Be advised, bogeys are to be considered hostile. Please await engagement clearance, over.”

“Roger that, com, positioning at attack vectors and waiting on command, over.” great. tac-com had no idea what we were up against and command was sitting on their thumbs, thought jason as he switched to squadron push. “Bravo and Echo wings, form up on squad leaders, spearhead formation. Squadron leaders, slave to my channel and wait for engagement clearance. Forward elements, maintain splits two hundred, that’s two zero zero klicks. Stay sharp, boys.” the blanketed squadron push erupted in sub-unit orders and dressing assignments. jason filtered back to command channel only and watched his units form up in four angled fronts. he checked his stores yet again and settled deeper into his harness.

the unidentified bogeys were nearing the100,000 kilometer layer on his sensors. if any of them were large enough and were carrying any heavy deep space launchers, they would almost be in range…not that deep space rockets would be any problem for a lance’s automatic targeting system, but the idea that the convoy could be fired on—that they could be touched…

as jason was thinking about this, one of the contact icons on his hud split into two different signals. they were stacking their signals! he toggled the push, “Command, this is bravo one, additional signatures reported, repeat, i have additional bogey signatures!”

“Roger that, bravo one, hold formation and await engagement clearance, over…”


[any suggestions on what should happen next?]