CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

The combat sonar blared target track warnings from multiple sources – some of them
obvious, and others being almost untraceable as the computer struggled to triangulate their
positions. With communications down, every broadband laser channel that the squadron
used to coordinate their sensor net was utterly scrambled. In the pitch black of the abyss
outside, it was about the worst situation any of them could imagine. Target feeds lagged,
sonar tracks were outdated by the time they were processed, and their lack of wireless
comms had forced them in to a holding formation that made the entire unit a sitting duck. At
any moment, either the DSV before them, or the myriad of shadows that tracked them from
the darkness could swat them from the deep... and with the state of their sensors, they‟d
never even see it coming.
“Sword, Halo... this is Minstrel. Please acknowledge,” said the scrappy, virtually
unintelligible voice.
Roberts keyed her radio so quickly she almost disengaged the safeties on her
fighters cannons. “This is Deadstick!” she barked. “What the fuck is going on!?”
Static filled the line for several, long moments, but it was not the type of white noise
that Roberts knew came from a dead line. It was the sort of sound she expected to hear from
a garbled background as someone kept their thumb on the key.
“Deadstick,” the voice said finally. “Count it out.”
It took a moment for the Raptor pilot to process the order as her eyes darted over the
instrument panels. Despite its terse, garbled tone, Roberts could hear the calm, collected
nature in which the instruction was made. Realisation began to set in as she exhaled slowly,
and routine took hold.
“Devils Five,” she reported, beginning with the depth gauges. “Fuel: two point five,
Payload: six stowed, two hot, one thousand rounds.”
“Say your heading.”
She blinked again. “Two-eight-zero, holding pattern alpha, one point five miles on
bearing two eight zero. Steady at one-five-zero.”
“State your situation.”
The world began to slow as Roberts mind turned over. Her pulse slowed, her grip on
the stick slackened, and the terror slowly made way for cold, objective logic. Unknowns
became variables, hard targets became objectives. Something, somewhere in the very core
of her psyche, clicked.
Richards kept watching the plot as his squadron suddenly changed. Its awkward
defensive posture shifted only slightly, but it was enough to bring a smile to his face. The
twelve Raptors came about, bearing back on the big DSV, now below them, and the flanks
of the wide „flying-V‟ of Raptors fanned out to bracket the ESV in her wake.
“This is Rapier Lead,” Roberts returned, her voice now a cold, dead pan. “Target
confirmed on heading zero two zero, range one point five. Possible bandits at six miles and
holding, intentions unclear.”
Richards didn‟t notice the wry smile that cracked at the corner of Callaghan‟s lips,
and those of several others around the CIC. Richards nodded his approval. “Deadstick, I
doubt very much they want a fight. If they did, they‟ve had plenty of opportunity before now.
Hold your position, keep your head cool, and stay on mission. You‟ll be the first to know if we
get the word.”
“Understood, boss.”
“Good hunting. Minstrel out.”
Richards took the headset off and continued to stare at the main plot, his eyes fixing
on the squadron of Raptors and darting to the other clusters of unknown contacts beyond
Commonwealth‟s identification range. Callaghan slowly moved from his position at the CIC
Conn down to Richards‟ side, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Nicely done,” he
muttered quietly.
“She just needed to be reminded.”
“WSKRS relayed that to all flight leaders via SEWACS, Commander,” Parish
reported. “Warseer reports the CAP has responded and is awaiting your orders.”
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