Chapter 6

USS Grissom, December 1, 2153
Approaching Venus Prime

“We received notification from Venus Prime that they think they are now an Independent nation and are aligned with the Eastern Bloc. We informed them that we are coming to collect payment for our space station. So there you have it, our show of force is now a live fire war. The safety lenses have been removed from your lasers and your ships will be loaded with fifty caliber HEI ammo and Thrush antiship missiles. Bravo flight, you watch the right flank, Charlie flight, you watch the left, Delta flight you cover our backs. Alpha flight, you’re with me on point. Flight control callsign is Dark Star. Questions?”

“Just want to know how hard you want us to kick their asses, Captain,” called a voice from the back of the room, which rose some tense chuckles. Venus Prime is independent? What the hell were those colonists thinking?

Alan Scarlett looked at the men and women of his team, The Strike Force Berserkers. White, Yellow, Black, Brown, Red, Earthling, Martian, Venusian, Lunar. They’re all here and they’re not white, yellow, black, brown, or red. They’re all blue. Navy blue. Every one of them. They were all dressed in their environment suits and had their helmets on the desk, ready to wear. “I’ve never been so damn proud of a group of fliers in my life. You’ve been trained, you know what to do. Those Venusian colonists need us, and our team on the boat needs our cover.” Suddenly alarm klaxons sounded throughout the NSS Grissom, calling the flight units to launch. “Let’s go...”

“BERSERK!” the squadron cried as a man, and they released their Velcro seat belts and headed for their ships. Launch rooms throughout the carrier had the cockpit canopy of four F-733 interstellar fighters sticking up through the floor. The Berserkers slid into their side-by-side seating cockpits, sealed the canopy and went through their start-up checklists. Alan led the way, dashing into Launch Room Alpha where the four ships of his flight awaited. He flew into his cockpit, then sat idle far too long for his liking as he waited for his navigator to get into his seat. Alan grabbed the man’s environment suit and yanked him into the cockpit and remotely closed his canopy. “Hey!” the young officer cried.

“Shut the fuck up and lock in.” Without waiting for the laggard, he hit the release switch, which started the engine and dropped the F-733 into the launch-well that ran the length of the ship. As soon as he had an indicator notify him that all four ships of his flight had dropped into the well, he headed out.

Forward of the Grissom, the Berserkers formed up. Bravo flight to his right, Charlie flight to his left, Delta flight above and below them. Behind them lined up the other two squadrons that call Grissom home. The 101st Fighter Squadron “Honey Badgers” and the 33rd Fighter Squadron, the “Blue Panthers.” A flight from the Blue Panthers will cover the Grissom if they have to engage the enemy. All eyes watched their mission timers, and when the countdown reached zero, Alan eased his throttle forward. The single J-88 engine slapped his ship forward like a hockey stick propelling a puck. He didn’t have to tell teams to form up or tell his wingmen to drop back and watch their leader, or tell Delta flight to orbit the FB-719 that was rebuilt to monitor and control the fight. Call sign was Darkstar.

Being the senior man on the mission, Alan had the most junior man riding ‘shotgun.’ The pokey young man next to him was Lieutenant Junior Grade Robert Best. Lt. Jg. Best had recently joined the Berserkers, and he wasn’t scoring high marks with Alan. He constantly asked questions like, “Why are we fighting the pirates?”

“When you are ordered to attack a pirate, be assured that there is a reason behind that order. Usually, the pirate had raided a colony, or captured a cargo ship or...”

“But how will I know? Maybe they’re just trying to make a living.”

“Concentrate on your flying, lieutenant. If you want to know about our adversaries, I strongly urge you to transfer to intel. If you want to know about strategy and mission planning, I advise you to pull your head out of your ass and earn promotions that will allow that to happen.” That was the last time Alan Scarlett spoke to Lt. Jg. Best, and somehow the young spaceman didn’t transfer and ended up in his cockpit.

As they neared the orbiting colonies, the multifunction displays of the F-733’s filled with contacts that were colored white for unknown ships. “Damn,” muttered Alan. “There’s a million of them.”

“Actually, five hundred,” said Lt. JG Best.

A moment later, the display showed “502 potential targets.” Alan turned to the young lieutenant and said, “Lucky guess?”

“Yeah, that’s it, lucky guess,” came the snotty reply.

“Maybe you should tell me about your lucky guess, Ensign.” The threat was obvious: talk or get busted down from Lieutenant JG to Ensign, the lowest form of life in space. Alan Scarlett was an incredible commander, but he didn’t take any shit, not from someone who should dedicate themselves to learning.

“You need to stand down,” said Best as he took off his helmet. “They know your strengths and weaknesses. If you surrender to the independent kingdom of Venus, you might live.”

“Independent Kingdom of Venus?” That was highly classified information. The admiral just revealed to Alan that information that morning. Alan took a deep breath, like he was reaching a decision, and leaned back. His helmet quietly clicked into its magnetic clamps, then he put his finger on the right seat extract switch. It’s a button hidden on the throttle that releases the magnetic clamps so an injured or sick flier can be extracted. “Bob?” Alan said.