1: Surprise!

“Now that I’ve found you, I’m never letting go again!”

Nera rolled her eyes. “Give off, Deb!” she said, peeling the younger woman’s arms from their death grip around her shoulders. “I’m your sister, not your servant.”

“I know, I know,” Deb squealed, “isn’t this great, us both being assigned to the Papillion? We’re going to have so much fun!”

Nera groaned. “Look, Deb,” she said firmly, staring into her sister’s eyes, “I’ve worked very hard for this assignment. I’m not about to blow it. I won’t let anything stop me. Not you, or anyone else. Got it?”

Deb’s face fell and her eyes filled with tears, in the woebegone expression that never failed to win over the situation. “Oh,” she said, staring down at the floor, “I get it. You just don’t want your kid sister hanging around anymore.”

Nera let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not what I mean, Deb, and you know it! I won’t let anything jeopardize the team or our mission. You’re too young to understand what this means to me.”

“How can you say that?” Deb whimpered, not yet ready to give up on her favorite tactic, “I’m your sister.”

“That’s exactly my point. This is your first mission. You’re straight out of the Academy, without a thought in your mind about what a war is really about. You’ve never seen friends get blown to pieces before your eyes or held onto someone’s hand as he dies from wounds even doctors can’t piece back together. I’ve seen people give up, or just plain go crazy with what we have to face every day. You haven’t been through what I’ve been through. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Deb yawned, “People have been telling me that baloney all my life. ‘You’re too young.’ ‘Wait ‘til you’re older, then you’ll understand.’ Well, I’m eighteen! I’m plenty old enough. Just because I happen to be a better soldier than you doesn’t mean I’m capable!” Deb blinked. “Um, I mean, um.”

Nera shook her head. “Whatever, Deb. You’re on your own out here. Space is cold and heartless. And so am I now.” She turned away, strode to the door. The dull, gray metal slid open, revealing the busy corridor. Looking back over her shoulder, she gave one last warning. “Just stay out of my way.”

Nera strode through the crowded corridors absently, her mind wandering. It seemed eons ago when she had stepped onto her first battleship and tasted the recycled air for the first time. The press of bodies had unnerved her at first, but now she strode through the maze with little effort, dodging around and through the crowds.

The uniforms, seemingly dull and lifeless at first, she now saw as clues to a person’s personality. There, the dull browns, greens, and beiges of ground forces. Over there, the sleek, black uniforms of the ship’s crew. There, white for the medical staff, and her own: silver, the uniform for the fighting men and women, the pilots. Piping along sleeves or shoulders or the tabs on collars and breasts showed rank, while unique patches identified the unit.

All along the passageway, Nera could see new faces as brand new soldiers busied themselves shining boots and ironing uniforms. They chatted carelessly with one another, little knowing or caring the dangers soon to be faced. The sight of a veteran such as Nera often made them speechless with awe. She walked steadfastly past their adoring faces, shutting out the din of all their voices. All she wanted was the peace and quiet of her room, the first one that she would never have to share with anyone else.

The klaxon sounded just as Nera reached her door.
“Attention! Attention!” the speakers blared, up and down every corridor. “We are under attack! All hands to battle stations! Repeat: all hands to battle stations!”

All Nera needed to hear were the first few words. She was off like a shot, racing for her battle pod. She waited impatiently through the prep procedure, not for the first time wishing she could just skip the whole thing. But, the scrubbing, sanitizing, and health scans were all there for her protection. And for the safety of the ship and her crew. No one wanted a drunken soldier or one that was sick or injured piloting a battle pod. That led to disastrous results. Besides, it only took a few moments, enough time to allow Nera the luxury of collecting her wits and preparing her mind and body for the battle ahead.

Nera slipped into her worn and battered battle gear with ease. As she fit the last connection in place, the first of the new soldiers entered the room, going to her locker.

“Kaidara!”

The older woman looked up. Smiled. Nodded in greeting. She was the commander of Nera’s squad, the eldest and most experienced. It was she who had taken young Lieutenant Nera under her wing and taught her what she needed to survive.

“I’m glad you’ll be on my tail again, Captain.”

Nera grinned. “As am I, Major. Too bad as your Vice I can’t be your wingman.”

Kaidara nodded. An unfortunate necessity, but if she were killed, so would her wingman and the fleet couldn’t afford that large a break in the chain of command. She knew Nera would be wherever she couldn’t, and was reassured. Nera was an excellent pilot. If she lived long enough, she might even ascend to group command.

Nera waited for Kaidara as the other soldiers began pouring into the room. She studied their faces, postures, gestures, words of greeting. They were mostly young, less than a quarter with any battle experience. Was I, she wondered, once like them? There were twenty-four people in a flight, three flights to a squadron, three squadrons to a group, and four groups in a wing. Here, in the female locker room, were the seventy-seven women comprising the only all-female squadron in the fleet. It was a novel idea, in Nera’s opinion, but not one in which she saw any potential.

The commanders and vice commanders dressed much quicker than the new soldiers; they lined up single-file behind Kaidara, the highest-ranking in the room. As her vice, Nera was the last to enter the briefing room, hollering at the soldiers to hurry, they hadn’t all day, and where did they think they were, dressing for a Social?

When Nera slipped into the auditorium, she had to stand, for there were no more seats. Indeed, soldiers stood along every wall, commanders and vices, like her, at attention beside their squadrons. At the center of the circular room stood the Group Commander and his staff. Squadrons sat tensely on the benches, like the spokes on a wheel, their commanders at the very front.

Lieutenant Colonel Tristan Veek cleared his throat, producing an instant silence. “For all you rookies,” he began, “this is NOT time to socialize.” He paused as the ship rocked from an explosion. “We are needed out there,” he pointed skyward for emphasis, shouting to be heard over the scattered gasps and cries of excitement or fear. “I need to be able to give quick, concise, and accurate instructions without waiting for you to control your adolescent urges. Now,” he gestured to his vice, who turned on the three-dimensional display. He pointed to a ship and it lighted up so that every member of the 200+ pilot group could see. “That,” he continued, “is our position. Some of you, surely, will remember this kind of schematic from school.” He waited, but no one laughed. Nodding, he went on, “We will be exiting our ship and combining with our wing here.” Another section of the map lit up. “We will form elementary formations. First Squad, here, followed by Second Squad as backup. Third Squad will also backup First. Our target is the cruiser, here.” The enemy ship turned red.

Even Nera was surprised. Attack an enemy cruiser? she thought, too disciplined to give voice to her question.

“Yes,” Colonel Veek said, nodding, “We’re to attack the cruiser. Hopefully, it will recall enough fighters for protection that our sister ships can mobilize their own wings.” Another blast rocked the ship, sending pilots careening into each other. Nera was accustomed to such and she frowned at the cries of the rookies. The lights dimmed and died, quickly replaced by the red emergency lights. “Commanders, get your pilots to their pods!”

Doors slid open, the Squadron Commanders leading the way. Again, Nera waited until last, making sure each and every pilot of her squadron made it safely down the corridor to their assigned bay. She slapped the canopies of each twin-piloted pod, and the single pods for the flight commanders, giving the thumbs-up signal for good-luck and good-hunting, before climbing into her own single pod. The beat-up fighter was the veteran of almost as many engagements as Nera, twice that number of enemy fighters proudly painted on the dented armor.

Nera wiggled her fingers in her gloves, impatiently waiting for the signal to launch. In her headset, over the squadron’s com, Kaidara gave her customary before-combat prep speech. The tech slapped Nera’s canopy, giving her the thumbs-up. Nera smiled back, gave a thumbs-up in reply, and flipped down her visor. The ships in her squadron, led by Kaidara, began to launch.

“All right,” she said softly, under her breath, “here we go.”

Kaidara put her squadron in a delta-formation, Alpha and Bravo the arms, Charlie Flight the base. Kaidara flew her pod above, Nera below, the formation. Assembled, they formed up with Second Squad, flying at their best possible speed to the rendezvous point. Third Squad came quickly on their heels. Within minutes after the initial sighting, the 612th Fighter Wing was assembled and flying toward their assigned target. Behind them, the ships re-supplying at the Apollo Moon Installation rushed to move out into open space, shuttles racing back toward the surface. The 611th Fighter Wing scattered its pilots in a hasty effort to protect the vulnerable ships of the fleet.

As they accelerated toward the lead enemy cruiser, Kaidara gave her flights their instructions as the orders came down from the Wing Commander, watching from tactical screens aboard the Pearl Harbor, one of the four ships comprising the flotilla within the fleet to which Nera, her squadron, and Spectre Group belonged. On each of their ships, the Pearl Harbor, the Papillion, the Nakamura, and the Hastings, the command staff for each group watched anxiously from their own battle screens, giving out instructions as necessary, and readying the small retrieval units to rescue any downed pilots.

The wing made the initial attack in unison. The enemy, confident in its superiority, refused at first to even deign to notice the more than eight-hundred double-piloted ships moving to intercept. Spectre Group and Mercury Group took the topside, following Mercury’s Group Commander. The other two groups of the wing dove underneath, behind Eagle's Group Commander. Spectre targeted communications and weapons installations while Mercury took out launch bays. On the other side, the other half of the 612th followed suit.

“Make another pass,” Kaidara instructed her squadron, as per her own orders, “then splinter off into half-flights. We’re to fly cover for Mercury as they attack the ship for a third run.”
Nera nodded her head, listening to the Flight Commanders relay their compliance. She followed as the wing curved around and through the enemy battle group and attacked their cruiser again.

“Enemy fighters six o'clock low,” came the Wing Commander’s warning as they finished the second run.

“Watch the other ships,” Mercury’s Group Commander said, “Spectre, Eagle Groups, cover Mercury and Guerrilla as we make another pass. Keep on your targets, we need to stop the cruiser in its tracks!”

All the countless drills and exercises paid off as even the rookies flawlessly flew the complicated patterns to the demands of their squadron commanders. Leadership was soon turned over to flight commanders and flight vice commanders as the groups scattered to draw attention and confuse the enemy. Nera used all her skill to evade the enemy fighters and keep track of her half of the squadron. She was in constant communication with Kaidara, relating the movements of their pilots and the layout of the battle. It was she, ducking out of the dense fighting for a general look around, who first noticed the enemy cruiser slowing.

“Spectre-One-One,” she reported, “the cruiser appears to be slowing down! Or, the other ships are speeding up.”

“Good, good,” Kaidara answered, then relayed the message to the group commander.

Over the com came the voice of the Wing Commander. “Good work, Six-Twelve, the cruiser is indeed slowing. You have indeed bought the fleet enough time. Keep up the good work.”

Nera flew back into the fray, shooting the enemy fighters off the tails of one of the rookies.

“Hey, thanks, sis!”

“No chit-chat on this channel, Lieutenant!” Nera snapped. She spun her fighter into a spin to evade the enemy behind her, shooting at yet another rookie in trouble. She flew low, flipping her ship ninety degrees at the last minute, barely scraping by the twin pod. She tucked the nose of her fighter down into a dive, rescuing another rookie. She flew so close to the twin-pod she could see into the canopy, at the pilot who, in her fear, had raised her visor and was peering out. “Get that visor down, S-B Eight!” she shouted at the craft. “Watch where you’re going!” Arcing backwards in a move which shoved Nera into the back of her seat, she flew back over the craft, flipping the controls to allow her to speak to the craft individually. “S-B Eight,” she said, “Status report!”

“S-B Eight A O-K,” came the response, but Nera heard sobbing in the background.

“Get your wingman back to the Papillion,” Nera commanded, “you’re no more use in this state.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” was the disheartened response. Obediently, the twin-pod turned about and headed out of combat.

Nera kept a discrete eye on the pod, allowing herself a sigh of relief as the pilots made it to safety.

“Help! Help!” came a frightened yell, “Get’em off me!”

“Spectre-One-Two? You close enough?”

“Yes, Ma’am, already on my way!” Nera listened to the two pilots’ thanks with a rueful shake of her head, spinning away to help someone else. Skimming the cruiser, she was thrown violently off course by a blast so close that if not for the visor would have rendered her blind. Wild cheers echoed in her ears as she fought for control, dimly realizing that the fleet had caught up and was blasting away at the cruiser and the other ships of the enemy battle group.

“Six-Twelve,” came the orders from their Wing Commander, “pull back to rendezvous coordinates, and see how many of those enemy fighters you can bring back with you.”

“Fall back into initial attack patterns,” the Mercury Group Commander ordered. “Mercury, Spectre, fall in on me!”

The visor tracked his position, his and the other members of the two groups. Kaidara called the squadron together, sweeping in a spiral around the cruiser, heading up to safety behind Mercury Group. By the time they reached the rendezvous point, Nera’s console was beeping in warning.

“Spectre-One-One,” she radioed Kaidara, “I’m running low on fuel. I can’t be the only one, either.”

“Acknowledged, Spectre-One-Two. Standby.”

“Six-Twelve,” their Wing Commander addressed them a few moments later, “your ships are standing by, ready to receive. My congratulations on a job well done.”

Sure enough, just beyond the cloud of debris that, shortly before, had been an enemy ship, sat the four battleships of their flotilla, battered, but intact. To the rookies, one and all, home had never looked better.

On to "2: Challenged!"