Mako (The Mako Saga: Book 1) (40 page)

“Oh, I am
so
taking this home with me,” said Mac, tracing a proud finger over her Renegades insignia.

“Right on!” Link agreed, his mind now brimming with ‘human blueberry’ jokes at the thought of what Hamish must look like in his. Turning to face him—his mouth already open with the punchline—Link halted abruptly at the sight of Hamish sitting alone on his bunk (his face solemn), clutching his uniform and staring in silent reflection at the lone, right-sleeve feature that distinguished his suit from those of the others … the blue backdrop and crossed white bars of the Scottish national flag.

Having a pretty good idea of what was on his mind; Link took a seat beside his friend. “You know he’d be proud of you, right?”

“Aye, Lincoln,” Hamish said soulfully. “Aye, I know he would.”

****

Very few knew this because he rarely ever discussed it, but Hamish Lunley had actually come from a family with an extremely rich military pedigree, dating back to his great, great, great grandfather in the late 18th century, and including his father, a medic in the British Army. At an early age, Hamish himself had even considered service, but against the quiet wishes of his parents—particularly his father who’d hoped that the last male Lunley would carry on the family tradition—he opted instead for college abroad and the chance to explore his biological roots in America.

Once the decision had been made, Hamish’s father said nothing else on the matter, trying as best he could to be supportive of his son’s need to be at peace with his origins, and ultimately wanting nothing more than for him to be happy. Still, in his heart, Hamish had known of his father’s dreams for his future, and that sense of personal conflict between his desire to know where he came from, and his loyalty to the only real family he’d ever known, would haunt him for many years to come.

Over the next decade, Hamish eventually found much of what he was looking for in his native homeland. He’d successfully completed college, much to his mother’s delight. He’d met an incredible group of friends, traveled extensively, and achieved his lifelong dream of becoming a business owner. He’d even solved the mystery of his origins when after an exhaustive, five-year search, he’d finally located his biological mother—a reformed alcoholic who ran a battered women’s shelter in Durham, North Carolina.

As fate would have it, Link had accompanied him on the trip up to meet her and as such, he’d been there for the pair’s brief reunion when she’d explained to Hamish just how agonizing her decision to give him up for adoption had been—bottle or no bottle. At the same time, he’d also witnessed her absolute joy over meeting the man her long-lost boy had become, and it was the incredible significance of that encounter that Lincoln Baxter understood more than most. Having lost his mother in a fatal car accident at age 15, he knew on a very personal level what this moment meant to his friend, and he’d been proud to be there with him for such a pivotal chapter in his life.

Still for Hamish, Scotland was the only real home he’d ever known, and that had never been more clear to him than upon receiving the untimely news of his father’s sudden succumbing to the family curse of cancer, having never truly known his son’s gratefulness for a love that knew no cultural or biological bounds, and a family that could’ve just as easily been someone else’s with the stroke of an adoption agency pen.

Sitting quietly on the edge of his bunk—his brown eyes fixed on the uniform he thought he’d never wear, with the colors of a homeland of which he was so eternally proud—Hamish Lunley had no words for the emotion that flooded over him.

“Take your time, brother,” said Lee, like the others, having learned of his friend’s history over time. “Trust me, they ain’t startin’ without us, so you take all the time you need.”

Thankful as always for his friends’ sentiments, Hamish rose to his feet and exhaled a deep, soulful sigh.

“I appreciate it, everyone,” he said, wiping his face and turning to the others. “I’m grateful—truly I am, but I’m fine. Now come on… there’s work to be done.”

****

An hour later, the lift doors wooshed open on Deck-2 as the group—still glowing over their sleek new look—stepped out into the corridor toward the Praetorian’s main flight deck. To no one’s surprise, any attempt on Lee Summerston’s part to mask his excitement over what lay ahead fell futilely away upon entering the room.

Staring in amazement at the cavernous, tunnel-like chamber, Lee guessed it to be roughly four stories in height, and 250, maybe 300 yards deep. Presently housing some 60-plus fighters, 17 recon ships, and half a dozen supply shuttles—all grouped into designated rows along each side of the bay—the giant, steely room was split down the center by its three primary launch points; a trio of full-length, asphalt runways which started at the rear wall catapults and released through pressurized launch tubes at the far end of the hangar.

Feeling his nose tingle with the pungent odors of jet fuel and burning metal, Lee turned to see a crew member hunched beneath the scarred hull of a fighter, his protective mask bathed in the white-hot sparks of his welding torch as, around him, dozens of engineers scurried about their tasks, each one dressed in the same, gold-colored coveralls they’d seen before on the Milky Way.

Finally, there was flight control, a heavily fortified command center located atop the rear wall of the flight deck behind five inches of blast-resistant glass. Overlooking the Praetorian’s legendary flight pylon—a tall, slender tower of numeric lights that indicated which crafts were on-deck for launch—flight control (or “flight” for short) was the operational hub for all inbound and outbound ship traffic, while also doubling as a secondary command post in the event of a crisis on the main bridge.

“Morning Eight-Two,” said Captain Ryan as he entered the bay, flanked by four additional pilots: a stocky, older man with rugged features and a brown crewcut, a younger man with a slender build and boyish good looks, a bald goliath who could’ve passed for Andre the Giant, and finally, a slender, athletic female who—Lee thought—couldn’t have been an inch less than six feet in height.

Eyeing their matching flight suits and squadron patches, Lee surmised that this was the rest of the vaunted Hit Squad, here for their training. Subsequently, if their smug expressions and bored postures were any indication, they were none too thrilled about it either.

“Welcome to flight school, and the third and final phase of your training,” the captain went on. “Before we get started, I’d like to congratulate you on your success thus far. I’ll be completely candid with you—I, like Sgt. Major Noll, held a very skeptical opinion about this project when it was first brought to my attention. However, after reading about your progress in the phase two briefings, and speaking with the sergeant major directly, I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt until such time as I either believe in your abilities, or conclude that you’re all washout crap. On that note, some of you may be thinking that the heavy lifting ended with your ground training, and thus you’re now free and clear to kick back in one of my cockpits and joyride through the stars like you did in that Sand Tiger.”

Link and Hamish grimaced.

“Well let me be the first to assure you people,” Ryan declared, “and you can bet every last cent of your PGC payday on this…
nothing
could be further from the truth. You
will
be pushed, pulled, gripped, ripped, and utterly bodyslammed until I feel satisfied of your worthiness to be in my sky. Are we clear?”

“
Yes sir!!!
” the group responded.

As the captain continued through the briefing, occasionally pausing to point out the various forms of craft they’d be learning, Lee’s eyes darted around the hangar in search of the one single piece he’d waited so anxiously to meet. Bouncing past a row of Threshers, a trio of supply shuttles, and the demolished remains of what appeared to be an engine core, Lee’s jaw tightened when his gaze finally landed on the elusive object of his search.

“And I see you’ve found her,” Ryan said from his stance alongside Catapult One where the first of three Threshers had already been prepped for launch.

Realizing that he’d just been busted, Lee snapped his attention forward.

“Renegades,” said the captain, “please allow me to introduce you to the new pride and joy of the Auran Star Corps—the SF-13 Mako.”

Their eyes went wide as the long, elegantly shaped fighter sat dormant in its corner bay, undergoing a series of inspections by none other than Chief Wyatt himself, its glass canopy retracted back along its long, silvery body, which glistened under the white glow of the hangar lights above.

Meanwhile, Ryan continued. “As the first ever ship operating with the new Easter Industries 13.0 power plant, featuring a 100% Caldrasite fuel load, the 13 is the first ship of her class with the capability of hyperspace flight, therefore allowing her to serve as both a short-range, air-superiority fighter, and a long-range interceptor. Defined by its signature variable-sweep wings, twin dorsal-finned tail, and duel, stellar-fan engines, her body was designed with a noticeably wider, flatter configuration, thus making her monumentally superior to her Alystierian counterparts in both speed and agility, particularly in intra-atmospheric combat. Because of her increased size and power supply, that also means she’s capable of carrying nearly twice the amount of armor as a Thresher, which is to say she can withstand quite a pounding before losing anything in the way of performance. Then there’s the matter of lethality,” he grinned. “Equipped with the new 253 Series, Radar Fire Control System and state of the art avionics, the Mako is armed with a pair of computer-operated, Devastator 44-B, high-yield missiles, plus three infrared Diamondbacks, four Eagle standoff missiles, and a Class Three, underbelly-mounted, twin railgun system with a 750 kilo payload.” Ryan paused, his expression filling with an almost parental sense of pride at the predatory ship. “In short, the SF-13 is the single baddest lady in the stars, and let me assure you, if someone is foolish enough to wanna dance with her… well, let’s just say they’ll end up in the infirmary with a lot more than crushed toes.”

Ryan took a step forward and returned his attention to the group. “Folks, I can promise you that Hell itself couldn’t spit out a more ferocious killing machine than this fighter,” he said, “and much to the chagrin of the boys down in R&D—who poured their hearts and souls into this project—you’re gonna get to fly her.”

Stepping over to the fighter, Lee reached up and ran a curious hand down the side of its long, silver nose, as if to make a sort of unspoken personal connection with the mysterious craft. True, he’d loved this particular fighter in the game because of its lofty reputation in the fleet’s arsenal. But in reality, his infatuation with it went a lot further back than that.

Tracing his fingers along the Mako’s iconic hull—from the outer rim of an engine fan to the rear of the port nacelle, then down the edge of a back-bladed wing—Lee recalled his grandfather’s incredible stories of life as a pilot during World War II, serving proudly as a member of the famed Eagle Squadron, a special unit of American pilots who flew in the British Royal Air Force prior to the United States’ entry into the war. Now, two generations later, it was Lee who found himself on foreign soil, working alongside an armed force that was not his own, and serving as a pilot, no less, in a global struggle against a dictator-led enemy hellbent on their conquest.

“You two need some alone time?” Mac mused alongside Danny, who smiled at his friend’s captivated look.

“Sorry, sir,” Lee offered, breaking his attention from the Mako and back to the briefing.

“Forget about it,” said Ryan. “She tends to have that effect on a lot of folks, including myself. I’ve flown these ships for my entire career—even tested a few along the way—and I’ve never climbed behind the stick of anything like this one. She really is something special.”

Lee fell back in line with the others as Ryan motioned for the four pilots who’d escorted him into the hangar to join him in front of the catapult.

“Okay folks, step one of this process is to get you in the air so that you can experience first-hand how these things actually feel in action,” said the captain. “So for that reason, I’ve asked the rest of my squad to help us out.”

The four pilots stepped up to the line and snapped to attention.

“The ugly one there is my second in command, Lt. Commander Jeff Hastings, call sign Blazer.”

The grizzled pilot with the brown crewcut stepped forward and folded his arms over his barrel chest.

“The big guy to his right is Lt. Commander Victor Mann, call sign Scar.”

The goliath stepped forward and grunted.

“The pretty boy on the end there is Lt. Marshall Weller, call sign Valentino, but most of us just call him Tino.”

Swaggering forward, the slender pilot offered a wave to the entire group. His gaze and his smile, however, rested exclusively on Mac—a fact not at all lost on Lee.

“Ain’t you a cocky one,” he thought with a frown.

“And finally we come to the lady of the house,” Ryan concluded, “Lt. Shannon Lurez, call sign Layla.”

“Layla?” Mac noted in surprise. “I guess Clapton’s fanbase really does know no bounds.”

“You have me there,” replied the tall, leggy pilot who might’ve passed as Latina back home, with her long, raven-black hair and deep, coppery skin. “I don’t know who that is but a Layla is a type of bird on our planet. It’s known for its bright red color and gracefulness in flight.”

Sensing another pair of eyes on her, Layla paused and turned to see a less-than-subtle stare gawking at her from the 82
^nd
’s shortest member. She glared a response.

“Don’t worry, folks,” Ryan followed up. “We completely understand that this is your first time out, so we promise not to be too brutal with you during these early sessions.”

“I can do brutal just fine, chica,” Link murmured, and Layla’s expression twisted hard.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Danny muttered to Lee.