Chapter 37: The Battle of Lake Baikal

NSS McDivitt, December 12, 2141
The Battle of Lake Baikal

The flying and fighting were furious. Whoever was out there wanted the Berserkers dead. They kept coming, featherbacks and fangblennies (Wester Alliance designations for the KRG-73 and the KR-66) The featherback was a squat, wide, three engine fighter and the fangblenny was a long thin single-engine fighter. The KR-66 was probably the most unstable spacecraft ever made, and it has never hit a moving target on purpose. It was impossible to keep on target. The featherback was made to offset the fangblenny’s instability. The Eastern Bloc created a fighter that was so stable it was nearly impossible to get it to turn.

Fighting in flights of two, the Berserkers made their name as they fought off the attacking Eastern Bloc ships. The space combat went down in naval history as The Battle of Lake Baikal. At the end of the first day of fighting, twenty-three Eastern Bloc fighters were shot up and only two Berserker spacecraft were hit. Berserker Four lost its forward radome and Berserker Seven caught a laser bolt through the ship’s short vertical tail. The laser bolt hit nothing but sheet metal. In the dining hall, exhausted Berserkers talked about their battles using their hands to illustrate their battles. Pilots and RIOs kidded each other about ‘the one that got away,’ and werewolves sulked on the sidelines.

Every time a new Ace was made, a reception of Viking chants of “doe-DA! doe-DA! doe-DA!” greeted the crew as they entered the dining hall. Even Rhea Seddon, MD, was elated when she got her fifth confirmed kill and she was passed weightless around the dining hall like a beach ball as the Viking cheers echoed through the McDivitt.

Down in the maintenance bay, mechanics worked overtime getting their personal weapon of war back up to FMC status (Fully Mission Capable) and painting kills on their planes. The symbol of the Eastern Bloc was a hammer being clutched by a fist over a gold star, and that was stenciled on the side of their F-201’s but before the end of Day 2, the hammer had become a bloody Viking’s Battle Axe.

Nose art and names appeared on the fighters. Lt. Joe Edwards, the first Berserker to achieve his fifth kill named his plane “Aces High” and Rhea Seddon, the oldest and wisest flier surprised them all by naming her bird, “The Old Battle Axe.” Former Werewolf Walter Concia had a cartoonish wolf on a chain painted on the nose of his F-201 and named his plane “Leash Law.” Former Werewolf Mae Jemison celebrated her love of Basketball by naming her plane “Slam Dunk” and the other former Werewolf, Stanley Love named his fighter “The Love Boat.”

For days it was the happy hunting ground for the Berserkers, and at the end of three days of combat, every single Berserker flight team except Alan and Anna became an ace and many came close to becoming a double ace, but no one made that magic tenth kill. “You’ve been at four since day one of this fight,” said Lt Commander Cathy Coleman (pilot of Aces and Eights (AKA The Deadman’s Hand)). “Stop handing your kill shots off to other people. They have to run out of poor pilots and crappy spacecraft someday.”

“I want everybody blooded,” said Alan as he headed toward the Hospital.

“We’re blooded,” said Cathy. “We want our boss in this fight, not just pointing out the easy kills.”

“They’re not easy anymore are they?” asked Alan. “They send out their junior fliers first to get them experience.”

“Like they did to us?”

“Pardon?” asked Alan.

“That’s the word going around, that half the werewolves started this sexist crap knowing they’d be grounded because they saw the fight coming and were scared.”

“Hmmmm, I hadn’t heard that. You can tell the gang for me that I do not know that to be untrue.”

“Anything else?” grinned Cathy. Her boss was ‘stirring the pot,’ allowing his fliers to get worked up to fight their way through the fatigue that’s setting in.

“Nah. I’ll make up something new when the time comes.” And he stepped into the hospital for his crew rest.

When on crew rest, Alan would nap next to Hilde, strapped in a reclining chair still in his pressure suit, but not the one with the blood stains. That one was being saved for a special purpose. He would fall asleep gently holding her hand, and she would occasionally wake and ask questions. “The bomb ... did it go off?”

“Yes honey, it went off right on time.”

“The virus gone?”

“They were all destroyed and entombed in a melted spaceship.”

“It’s over,” she sighed happily and drifted off to sleep, not knowing what was being planned.

“One down, Two to go...” muttered Alan as he drifted off.

He was out for maybe three hours when a young yeoman shook his shoulder. “Commander, twenty minutes.”

“Do we have inbound?”

“Yes, they’re thirty minutes out.”

“Time to make the chimichangas...” he groaned and rose, kissed his sleeping woman goodbye, and left. As he clomped out, magnetic boots ringing on the floor, Hilde opened her eyes and began to cry.

Alan walked through the chow hall that was filled with former werewolves enjoying a leisurely meal. “Is that good? It looks delicious,” said Alan. “Us fighting men only have time to eat MRE’s. We’ve been busy, you know, protecting your craven asses. Would you like me to save any pound cake for you?” Pound cake was a dessert in a Meal, Ready to Eat, and many people hated it. Alan loved it and generally carried one around in a sleeve pocket. They filled you up when you didn’t have time to eat a full meal.

“Shut the fuck up!” shouted a werewolf.

“Whoa, buddy, that’s conduct unbecoming an officer,” said Alan. “Luckily you won’t have to worry about that much longer, am I right?”

“Fuck you!”

“You can’t fool me with all that manly talk, buttercup. We know what you are,” and he blew the loudmouth a kiss. “Now sit down and let the men protect you.”

Yes, he was spoiling for a fight. Hilde had trained him on zero G and low G boxing and was probably better than anyone else aboard the McDivitt. He would love the chance to humiliate one of those cowards, but they wisely shut up and went back to eating their dinner, which was costing them a fortune.

Alan grabbed a piece of bread and a squeeze bottle of coffee and headed to the drop chute. At the drop chute, he met his wingman, Walter Concia. “Bulkin’ up on carbs before a fight sir?”

“Mrffl,” Alan said around a mouthful of freshly baked bread. Mars-made is good, but there’s something about zero-g bread. It’s both fluffy but dense, it’s hearty and soft and Alan can’t get enough.