CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

Rounding the apex of the mountain, the sensor returns on the rest of the squadron
steadily dropped off, one by one.
“Ghost stories,” she repeated to herself as she steadily rounded the embankment.
“Wonderful...”
Cunningham‟s eyes went wide as the sonar went berserk, returning a contact less
than half a mile in front of her. She swore as she pushed the nose of the Raptor in to a steep
dive to the sea floor, the massive bulk of the object flying by at better than three hundred
knots. “What the fuck,”
Her head snapped around in time to catch the ominous, black hull melt in to the
darkness behind her. “Rapier Nine!” she barked, “Get the hell out of here!”
Commonwealth approached the bank slowly as every alarm in the Flight Operations
Centre and CIC started blaring. Both Cunningham and Rogers had emerged from the
shadow of the mountain again, but they were not alone as the massive, unmistakeable bulk
of a warship pulled out of its hiding place to sweep around the ridge line to meet the UEO
battlecruiser.
The order for the rest of Commonwealth‟s fighter squadrons had already gone out as
Ainsley finally saw what the WSKRS returned to the ship‟s screens. Tactical officers were
calling out shooting solutions and firing orders to every one of the ships batteries as he,
Callaghan and Banick stood in silence watching in amazement.
“Batteries one through twelve are tracking, guidance locks in ten seconds!”
“Laser batteries armed. No IFF!”
“Firing-point procedures, all tubes – target designated Master Forty Three...”
All three of the officers recognised the lines of the vessel before them, appearing
from the shadow of the mountain like a ghost straight from their past. Ainsley‟s voice rose
above the din sharply.
“Belay those orders!” he cut in. “Stand down all weapons!”
“Admiral?”
“Do it, Lieutenant!” Banick added, his eyes not breaking from the ghostly image on
the screen in front of him.
The ship was in full view now, stem-to-stern being easily as large as Commonwealth
herself at around two hundred and seventy meters. Her lines were similar in many ways, if
perhaps a little unrefined by customarily „organic‟ UEO standards.
But this surprised none of them. Vessels of the North Sea Confederation were
typically bulky, utilitarian designs, and the Escort Submergence Vehicles were absolutely no
exception.
“I‟ll be damned,” Roderick whispered to herself, her mouth gawking in shock.
“Still no IFF,” repeated the tactical officers as they ran the schematic. “...Design is
consistent with North Sea Confederation Polaris class DSV. There‟re a few anomalies I can‟t
work out.”
“Don‟t bother,” Ainsley said, shaking his head. “That‟s the NSC Vengeance,
lieutenant. You won‟t find her in any fleet rosters.”
“She‟s hailing us,” Banick muttered.
“I thought she might be,” Ainsley replied, suddenly feeling a very familiar and very
sickening feeling in his gut. “...Put them up.”
Ainsley watched as the CIC‟s main screen dissolved to black, and then cut back in to
show the stern, chiselled face of a man he thought had been dead for two years. Captain
William Stiles bore a lop-sided grin, his straight-cut, black uniform being lost against the dim,
blue light of his ship‟s bridge behind him.
“Captain Smith,” Ainsley drawled slowly, deciding to use the name Stiles had tried
posing with last time they had met. “I saw you die.”
“So did the Alliance, Admiral,” Stiles countered wryly. “I‟d appreciate it if you
instructed your subfighters to stand down.”
Ainsley held that thought for a moment, as the idea crossed his mind that his silence
might very well cause the Rapiers to save him a great deal of pain and effort. After a
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