CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

index finger. “This is eight,” she reported flatly, feeling weight return to her controls. “Orders
acknowledged. Hands-on, throttle and stick.”
For the next hour, every one of the squadron‟s pilots were made to hold their
formations, calling every turn, manoeuvre and course change as they happened, never
straying more than a few feet from their relative positions. It was hard work, requiring a level
of focus and concentration uncommon for most pilots. For Edwin “Roadrunner” Bruckmeyer,
it would be a lot worse than that.
Admiral Ainsley was still in the CIC reading the waypoints that were being steadily
relayed to the ship by Vengeance‟s bridge when Captain William Stiles strolled through the
clam doors on to the bridge, garnering several unsure looks from the UEO staff. Most of the
Commonwealth‟s officers were still in their tan „shore‟ uniforms in deference to the usual
black jumpsuits, and that contrasted starkly with the black-clad NSC officer who now stood
amongst them. The uniform was braided in silver, and he wore the blue, white and gold
roundel of the NSC – 12 gold stars of the European Union, surrounding the old white
compass used by the long-since defunct NATO. It didn‟t take long for one of the junior
offices to notice him and his rank insignia, directing him through the glass doors on the port
side that led straight in to the adjacent CIC.
Stiles thanked the officer, and quickly passed otherwise unnoticed over the command
deck, crossing in front of the ship‟s great crest, and entered the glass-walled combat
information centre.
He stepped lightly down the short, three-step drop to the chart floor and sidled up
next to the Admiral slowly. Ainsley‟s eye drew a cautious gaze from the chart back to his old
comrade, and he raised his brow. “Bill, where exactly are we going?”
Stiles pursed his lips for a moment as he looked at the plotted course of the
impromptu battlegroup that steadily weaved its way east, further from the Alliance patrols,
but drawing ever nearer to the Tongan Trench. “Sorry, Ainsley.”
“This is one hell of a limb you have me out on,” the Admiral muttered. “If you were
anyone else...”
“Having doubts?”
“Doubt isn‟t the word I‟d use,” Ainsley countered. “Concerns, yes. You still haven‟t
told me who you‟re answering to. I don‟t believe for a minute that Schrader has a hand in
this.”
Stiles chuckled lightly. “Mark, you know Anise just as well as I do. There isn‟t a thing
that happens on this planet without her knowing about it. She knows a lot more than she lets
on.”
“Yes, but this isn‟t her style,” Ainsley argued. “Come to think of it, it isn‟t even your
style.”
William Stiles smirked. “If it makes you feel any better, we should be arriving in about
an hour. Vengeance has already made arrangements with our contacts.”
“Yes, I‟m sure she has.”
“So how have you been, Mark?”
The Admiral scoffed. “It‟s been two years, Bill. I thought you‟d died. How about you
start with the stories?”
Stiles looked affronted. “Mark, we both picked our careers. I‟m only following my
orders, just like you. I‟m sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances, but... right
now we can‟t exactly afford to be sentimental about this kind of thing.”
“The law holds no meaning when following it defeats the spirit of its intent,” Ainsley
growled. “There‟s a reason I don‟t trust black ops.”
A few of the CIC staff were beginning to look at the two officers with curiosity, and
Ainsley eyed each of them before ushering Stiles in to Banick‟s office, next door.
He held the door as the NSC captain entered, and then let it latch shut. He hadn‟t
even turned around when Stiles shook his head. “Do me a favour and listen, or at least hear
what they have to say. There‟re things going on in the world right now, Mark, that aren‟t
doing your war any favours.”
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