Kymberlynn leans over to Amye. “I want the Mokarran defeated, but the Throgen Empire…” She buzzes too close to Amye’s ear. “Run your sensor scans—there.” She points at the Throgen battle cruiser on the screen. Amye swats her hand away.
The cruiser, also an elongated craft with a square front of nothing but cannons, has what looks more like a central city with skyscrapers in the epicenter of its bulk. Before the many towers a three-story oval window pops out to Amye more than any other part of the structures. Her scans reveal nothing except extra power flows to the section of the ship’s deflector shields.
“If we’re going to launch those missiles before we’re discovered, we need to do it soon.”
“Commander, you’ll want to launch those missiles into those cannons,” Scott suggests. “We don’t know the weak point of the ship. We might get lucky and set off whatever generates weapons power.”
Amye pipes up, “I doubt it. Most ships put extra structural shielding around the weapons emplacements. I would target the oval window. It’s the bridge of this craft.” Kymberlynn will scold her for contradicting the chief engineer, but she knows she’s correct.
“Amye, we know nothing of Throgen designs,” Australia points out.
“You get some kind of reading on the window?” Reynard won’t dismiss any reasonable observation.
“No. No sensor readings. Some extra shielding. I just know it’s the bridge.”
“It’s an observation window.” Scott adds, “It should have extra shielding if blast screens don’t lower down over it. Those rockets will do little structural damage to that part of the ship. Where those towers all meet the frame system won’t feel the impact of a blast. If it’s not the bridge you’d barely tickle the cruiser. You’re better off to hit the weapons. Probabilities are better of a lucky shot.”
“You’ll take out the whole cruiser if you blow that window. Those heavier shields aren’t for stopping missiles. Mokarran or not, you’ll save a lot of soldiers.”
“Commander, we have more than enough tactical data to analyze and the Mokarran will be forced to retreat. The null field their hyperspace engine creates will trap us here longer than our shields’ resistant stand up against the Throgen cruiser,” Australia informs him.
“Commander, I know I’m correct,” Amye says.
Scott maintains, “Chances are better of damaging the cruiser firing on the cannons.”
“Target lock on the front cannons,” Reynard orders.
He didn’t even hesitate to consider. Amye sinks into her seat. She knows she’s correct. She could reprogram the missiles to target the window. She’s not part of the military. She’s not a drone in the UCP fleet. She’s Amye Jones and knows she’s accurate in her assessment.
“If you do, all the hard work you’ve done to prove yourself to this crew goes out the window,” Kymberlynn warns.
“I destroy the cruiser and show I’m worth more than he could have ever bargained for.”
“And if you’re wrong, he’ll drop you off on the next rock with a breathable atmosphere and I won’t be able to talk him out of it.”
“Missiles are locked onto the forward cannon embankment. You may fire when ready, Commander,” Amye notifies Reynard.
The sable outer shell of the Dragon swims across the surface of the hull. The constant wavering skin moves as if it were alive. Much like clouds to the gazer, the ship appears to take the shape of a mythical beast. The oval forward section of the craft becomes the head, which stretches with a long neck into the massive body of the creature with a powerful wingspan. The living skin moves away from a square section under the wings. Missile racks lower. The activation of ten weapons should send alarms through both the Mokarran and Throgen sensors, but the Dragon’s cloaking shields prevent such detection. The serpent-shaped craft and all weapons systems remain invisible.
Reynard fires.
Five rockets accelerate from under each wing.
On the Mokarran bridge the missiles seem to magically appear on their sensors.
Unable to keep the Dragon in its present location, Reynard ignites the thrusters.
It won’t take even the dumbest tactical officer two seconds to discern that rockets appeared from a cloaked ship and discover its location.
The missiles loop around the front of the Throgen battle cruiser, smashing into the second largest cannon emplacement. Explosions dot the surface.
The Throgen fighters designate the Tri-Wings and speed toward the Dragon’s location.
Reynard activates the hyperdrive. The folding of space envelops the Dragon as the hyperspace engines employ. The Silver Dragon slips into the first phase of hyperspace.
“We did no damage,” Amye reports, her tone louder than necessary.
Scott skims through the sensor readings. “I doubt those missiles could have damaged any part of that cruiser.”
“We pulled those Throgen fighters away from the Tri-Wings. It will give them a chance to regroup and defend themselves,” Australia adds.
“If the Mokarran would open fire with their main guns, they could have better protected their own.”
“I could release our footage on the ISN. Let everyone see how the smerth’n Mokarran cruiser didn’t back up its own fighters.”
“No, Doug, we know the Mokarran were allowing the slaughter of their own, but we’d need more proof. Those indoctrinated into the Tri-Star Federation will spin it as if the cruiser couldn’t fire. It’s tactically better we keep this information for us and Admiral Maxtin for now.”
“Release it anyway,” Amye pipes up. “Even if the Mokarran deny the accusation this time, the next time they don’t protect their own fighters, how many soldiers do you think will abandon the battle? Soldiers won’t die for commanders they don’t believe in.”
Reynard turns to his first officer for her opinion, “I feel everyone needs an edge on the growing threat of the Throgen Empire. Broadcast it. We give no advantage away and may gain a few allies.”
Doug opens his link to the Interplanetary Subspace Netscape. Before he’s able to transmit anything, a broadcast bursts through the communications network.
“Commander, receiving a zenith alert.”
“What’s a zenith alert?” Reynard asks.
“Nothing leading to anything good,” Amye mumbles.
“High-priority criminals never are.” Kymberlynn adds,
