Chapter 6: T.S.S. Phoenix

Juan entered the bridge of the Phoenix. The great warship had been his post and home for nearly five years, yet the bridge was not someplace a pilot often frequented. It was the brains of the beast, and no one ventured onto it unless they had a duty to perform or were part of the command structure. He always felt out of place on the few occasions he had to step into the command center, but today he had a purpose to do so.

The bridge was buzzing with over two dozen crewmen and officers at various stations. The Phoenix may have been the oldest ship in the fleet, but was definitely one of the finest. When it was completed 45 years earlier, it was a prototype for a totally redesigned troop and spacecraft Carrier. At the time it was twice the size of anything else in the fleet, with the most cutting-edge tech. Yet the politicians of the day believed the Alliance should focus more on exploration than on defense. The ship was considered too heavily armed and massive to be a ship of peace. Therefore it was classified a shakedown ship, meant to test all the latest designs in the field before implementing them on regular service ships, but never to see actual duty itself. The entire ship had become a hodgepodge of different components and features as parts and tech were ripped out and others installed over the years.

The Earth was the most junior member of an intergalactic collective of worlds that had joined together in an alliance to protect the peace and establish a universal code of rights. A monetary act, more than a political one as it was mostly to protect economic trade agreements. With nearly 100 worlds in the Alliance, no one expected any race would dare invade it. Space seemed like a pretty peaceful place for the first few decades, yet deep in the darkness, an evil was about to show itself.

When the Serken attacked, the Earth quickly learned just how unprepared their neighbors were.  Hundreds of civilian, science and military ships fell in the first weeks.  It was the sheer massiveness of space that made the invasion impossible to do in one strike.  That bought the Alliance time to regroup and mount a defense.

The test ship was re-classed an in-service ship and commissioned the Phoenix.

The bridge was comprised of a number of different terminals and workstations, with hundreds of pipes and wires hung from the walls and off the ceiling connecting things that were never designed to be connected. The forward wall was a large window that curved out to give a 180-degree view of space. Before it was the helm and navigation stations. Nothing more in the direct proximity of the iron glass as it was the most vulnerable and dangerous spot on the bridge. The center of the bridge was the heart of the beast and the only empty space, a spot the Captain often stood as he felt he could sense the entire mechanism in the vibration of the bare deck plate below his feet. The left, right and rear walls were covered with workstations such as tactical, science, communications and so on. Near the center of the bridge was a large 8" by 10" table known as the command station. It had the ability to log in and access any terminal on the ship and monitor a dozen more. It was where the Captain and First Officer could view anything and everything they needed to command the mighty bird. Three doors led off the bridge. The large central door on the aft wall was to the main hallway. The one on the starboard wall led to a large conference room where the Captain would hold department head meetings. On the port wall was the door that led to the Captain's private office, Juan's destination.

The Phoenix was on its way to meet the rest of the fleet, and every station was on alert. Tensions were high as was to be expected when traveling through a war zone. Juan walked straight up to Commander Dobson, the First Officer, who was at the command table. Juan stood at attention and asked, "Sir. Is the Captain available?"

Dobson didn't dislike Juan, but he knew what he was there for and also knew it was a waste of time for everyone involved, so he didn't even take the time to look up from the maps he was studying. "Yes he is, but you know what he is going to say."

"Yes Sir, but I have to try."  Juan's voice was determined, yet he maintained military protocol, staying at attention until told to be at ease

Dobson's first instinct was to ignore Juan in an attempt to discourage him and hoped he would go away without another word, but after a moment it was clear he was not going anywhere.  "Lieutenant, if you know what is good for you and your career you will turn around, leave the bridge and forget this matter."

"Is that an order Sir?" Juan asked, continuing to stand respectfully at attention.

"No.  It is not an order, just friendly advice." Dobson said sternly.  He could not order an officer not to speak to the Captain, but he could strongly suggest any course of action.

"Thank you, Sir," Juan said without moving his body. "I appreciate your advice. May I see the Captain Sir?"

Dobson let out a low sigh of frustration and then said, "Go ahead."

"Thank you, sir." Juan crossed to the doors leading to Captain Carl Roche's office and knocked.

"Enter." The Captain's voice called out, muffled by the steel door. Juan entered the small office and stopped at the edge of the desk at attention. He stood there waiting to be acknowledged before speaking as was the proper military tradition.

The Captain was a large and formidable man, with a deep baritone voice that had more impact with a whisper than with a shout. With over thirty years in the service, he had earned the respect and admiration of all who had ever served with him. No one ever questioned his orders or his reasoning. Not only did he project an air of confidence and fortitude, but no one could recall a time that he had ever been wrong about anything. To ask to see him in his office was not something people did casually, especially a junior officer. After the Captain finished reading the report he had on one of his pads, he said, "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"I would like permission to lead a search party for Commander O'Hara."

Leaning back in his chair, the Captain crossed his arms over his chest and looked straight up at the young Lieutenant. Roche envisioned his role as not just a leader, but also as a teacher of sorts, so when a young officer worked up the courage to approach him directly, he made a point to temper his tone to be more like a professor than a Ship's Captain. "At ease Lieutenant. Now I understand that Search and Rescue already sent probes to all the star systems he could have reached during that battle, and there was no signal from his ship's transponder or his personal emergency signal."

"Yes, Sir, which is why I believe he is in system C-489."

The Captain uncrossed his arms and picked up a datapad with a star chart to determine a reference point. "You want to try and explain that Lieutenant?" he said as the logic of Juan's statement was not evident.

"Our probe was lost due to a unique electrical energy that fills that system. I believe he ended up there and it's masking his signal. There is a planet in that system that has indications of water and plant life, so if he landed, he should still be alive."

"Are you telling me you want to go looking for him in a place that is impossible to search because there is no evidence that he is there?"

"Not exactly Sir."

"Then what exactly?" The Captain said in that stern tone leaders like to use to make it hard for subordinates to argue with them.

"Even if his ship were completely shattered or crashed on any planet we would still get a signal from its black box."

The Captain could see the young man was grasping at straws.  He stood and moved around the desk to help make his point. "There are a dozen things that can prevent a black box from transmitting.  His ship could have flown into a gas giant, a star or even too close to a black hole, just to name a few."

"No Sir, I can't accept that," Juan said trying his best to keep his tone respectful despite his passion for the argument.

"Why?" The Captain said, not caring to be contradicted.

"Because Commander O'Hara is too good a pilot Sir." Juan was overstepping his bounds, but he was prepared to go toe to toe with his Captain over it.

The Captain realized he was allowing the conversation to escalate, so he relaxed his tone back to that of a mentor rather than an irritated leader. "I'll give you that. Have a seat Lieutenant." The Captain crossed to his windows and looked out at the stars for a moment. Then he turned back to Juan. "Lieutenant, I've known Commander O'Hara for nearly twenty years. He was a member of my first fighter squadron. I'm the one who talked him into rejoining the service five years ago, and I requested him to serve under my command, so believe me when I say if there were any way I could spare any man or any ship to go looking for him I would. The fact of the matter is I can't. We've pushed the enemy back as far as we can, and now they are regrouping for a new offensive. In thirty minutes I will be announcing our new orders to the crew. We will be joining the 3rd, 5th and 9th fleet to intercept an armada larger than anything we have ever seen before. That last attack was a decoy designed to divide up our defenses. Fortunately, Roy realized what they were doing and warned us in time. If your squad hadn't taken out those Cobras, we would have lost a lot more than we did." The Captain paused for a moment. "Commander O'Hara is the most resourceful officer I have ever known. If he wasn't killed in that battle, then he will find a way to survive." The Captain sat back in his desk chair and looked directly at Juan. "Lieutenant I have no intention of leaving anyone behind. I want you to keep note of that system. If we can spare anything after this next engagement, I will let you lead a small search team. If there is a chance, no matter how small, I intend on exploring it to the limit of our resources. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Juan said relieved that there was still a chance, but also aware that there may not be much of a fleet left after the next battle to search for anyone.

"Dismissed." the Captain said ending the conversation and ordering Juan to leave.

"Thank you, Sir." Juan stood and saluted.

The Captain returned the salute and went back to reading reports.  Juan then turned and left the Captain's office.

Captain Roche tried to go back to his work, but could not focus on it. Losing anyone in his command had always been difficult, but the loss of Lt. Commander O'Hara was different. He had known Roy since he had graduated flight school. Roy had become one of the best pilots very quickly because he had an instinct for combat fighting that took most great pilots years to develop. As Carl moved up through the ranks, he always requested Roy to be assigned to his command. They served together for over fourteen years until the day Roy's wife was killed during the attack on the Mars Station. Something inside of Roy shut down after that. He resigned his commission and returned to his family's home in Colorado. Carl would have let it be, but the war had not been going well. It was becoming harder to find talented pilots and a mutual friend had told him that Roy had become something of a hermit, sometimes going weeks without seeing or speaking to anyone. Carl decided that Roy needed to find purpose in his life again and he was just the one to give it to him.

Roche thought back to that day he went to Earth to ask Roy to return to the service. It was a cold winter day with a fresh layer of snow on the ground. The ice crunched under his feet as he walked up the unkempt path to Roy's house. He knocked on the door and rang the bell several times with no answer. Roy's sister, who still lived in town, had told Roche that he was there and wasn't answering calls from anyone. Walking around the side of the house he noticed a trail of footprints in the snow leading to an old barn. Following them, he came to an open door. Walking through it he called out "Hello? You here Lieutenant?"

"Nobody here but us pigeons," Roy called back. He was hunched over an overturned, thirty foot, wood sailboat hull, sanding away layers of peeling paint, revealing over a century of neglect and multiple restorations. Roche almost didn't recognize Roy. He had let his hair grow out and had at least a couple of weeks' worth of facial hair.  Roche made his way over the various tools and scraps of wood to where Roy was.  Roy looked up for a moment to see who it was, then looked back down and went back to work. "You win the war yet?"

"Not yet," Roche answered in a matter of a fact way. Their relationship was in many ways like a father and son; sometimes cordial, sometimes warm and at times like these when Roy didn't want to deal with the world it was very strained. The only reason Roy didn't insist on Roche leaving the moment he walked in was out of the respect that Roy had for him, but that didn't mean that Roy was in the mood to open up and talk about his feelings. It just meant that he didn't want to fuel a confrontation with his old mentor.

"Then why are you here?" Roy asked paying more attention to his boat then to the Captain.

"I need your help," Roche said in a straight and honest tone.

"To do what?"

"Win the war," he said as his voice did not waver. It was not a joke.

Roy moved down the hull a bit to get at another patch of paint.  "Why are you really here Captain?"

"To get you back in the game," Roche said following him.

"I'm retired, Captain."

"You are on a leave of absence; I never filed your resignation."

"You did what?" Roy said, surprised and a bit angry.

"You needed time. I understood that but it's been over a year, and we need you back in the saddle."

"Hand me that hammer," Roy said as he decided to go back to work on the boat rather than fighting with his former captain.  "I would appreciate it if you send those papers on so I can get the VA started on my benefits."

"No need, the way things are going there won't be any place left to file any paperwork with."

"It's not that bad out there."

"Yes, it is," Roche said in a serious tone. "You know the media never get the real story about the war. The facts are we have been pushed back in practically every front, and we're losing ground in every engagement. We're putting new pilots in fighters as quickly as we can build them and losing them almost as fast. The reality is we are not going to win this war by trying to outnumber the enemy. We need to be faster, better skilled and frankly smarter than them. I need experienced fighter pilots to lead these kids; otherwise, they're just cannon fodder."

"You're being melodramatic Carl," Roy said, using Roche's first name rather than title to demonstrate that the conversation was losing his respect.

"No.  I'm not." Roche cleared off some items from a bench and took a seat. "One more man is not going to win this war, but one man can teach twenty how to fight and survive long enough to become great themselves.  Maybe it is foolish.  Maybe we don't have a chance.  So I guess the real question is do you want to go out up there fighting or do you want to wait for the enemy to reach Earth and witness the incineration of all of this?"

"Honestly Carl, I don't know if I give a damn anymore," Roy said feeling a little unsure and defeated.

"Of course you do," Roche said, confident in his statement. "Why else would you be re-building this thing, but to have a reason to get up in the morning? If you didn't give a damn you would have stayed in bed." Roche could tell by the slightly pained look on Roy's face that he had touched on something. "Sarah was a beautiful woman, in every way. I doubt she would have wanted you to waste away the rest of your life like this. But what the hell do I know? I'm just an old hotshot pilot who never figured out when it was time to quit. I just never thought you would beat me to it." With that, Carl stood and headed for the door. "The Phoenix will be in orbit until 1600 tomorrow. If you don't report for duty by then, I will know what your answer is." Roche walked out into the snow with a bitter wind hitting his face. He didn't know if what he said was good enough to bring Roy back or even if it was the right thing to do, but he knew he needed to at least give Roy the chance to make the choice. For better or for worse it was the least he could do for his friend.

The next day Roy walked into Roche's office on the Phoenix and didn't say a word, just stood at attention in full uniform.  The Captain handed him a pad with his flight team's info and duty roster.  Roy saluted and left the office with the understanding that they were not going to discuss anything about the past.

Most of Roy's team was relatively new and didn't know about his wife's death. Those who did know about it knew not to bring up the subject. Roy threw himself into his duties and quickly became a leading ace in the fleet. No one dared probe into his emotional state. In war you want your soldiers focused and dedicated, any psychological or emotional concerns could be sorted out in peacetime.

In retrospect, Roche questioned whether it was for the best to have talked Roy into returning to service. He had done a lot of good in the past five years. Not only did he rack up over 40 confirmed kills, but also trained over 100 new pilots how to be true combat fighters. A few of them even became squadron commanders. Many would not have survived their first few months of combat without the benefit of Roy's experience and leadership. Yet in the grand scheme of things the war had turned in their favor with the improvement of logistics. The ability to find new sources of raw materials and energy combined with increased production of supplies and weapons gave the alliance the ability to not only stop the enemy's advances but to push them back. If their good fortune continued, they might be able to win the war in the next few months, or at least force the enemy back to their own solar system and contain them within. Either way, it looked like the war would never reach Earth. Roy ended up making the ultimate sacrifice. Roche could not help but feel responsible for that, yet there was no time for guilt. There was a war to win. Pulling out a pad with reports on it he tried to focus on the busy work, but couldn't. After a moment of contemplation, he pulled open the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, two glasses, then poured two fingers into each.

Rising to his feet, Roche held the glass before him and just stared at the clear brown color for a bit. It was something he didn't want to do but needed to in order to move on. Taking a moment, he swallowed the pain and raised the glasses as to make a toast. "Godspeed Roy."