CROSSFIRE - Atlantis DSV - New Cape Quest

lump that had risen in her throat, feeling a rush of warmth and pain alike as blood made its
way back to the tips of her fingers.
With a sigh, Roderick took the cross and hung it back around her neck, quickly
burying it again underneath her dress uniform collar. She sniffed slightly as the master-atarms
dismissed the gathered crew, and seemingly instantly to her eyes, the makeshift
memorial was transformed in to the usual throng of activity that so defined a carrier‟s
operations. The dress uniformed honour guard of marines – like spectres – had vanished in
to the crowd, and it suddenly dawned on Roderick just how grimly efficient the crew had
become at holding and then dispersing such services.
“That was tough,” said the quiet, almost understated voice of Dustin Coyle beside
her, and she nodded sharply, unable to speak without the risk of breaking down.
Nonetheless, both officers found themselves staring across the now-empty drop shaft to
stare at the most unlikely of men. Commander Ed Richards hadn‟t moved from the place that
he stood during the ceremony, and continued to stare down at the floor as if the caskets had
never left. His uniform cap was folded neatly in his hand before him, and he didn‟t show
even the slightest discomfort for the unseen wounds he wore beneath his trousers. Indeed, it
would have been impossible to tell through the polished boots and immaculately-pressed
uniform that he was missing a leg at all if it were not for the walking stick that he held in his
free hand.
“And wonders never cease,” Coyle mused through gritted teeth as he continued to
watch Richards across the way.
“This isn‟t fair,” said Roderick, as if to no one in particular. “We can‟t keep doing this.”
“What?”
Roderick looked at Coyle and shook her head. “Dustin, morale on this ship is already
rarer than Banick having a sober day. We can‟t keep holding these bloody funerals on a
daily basis. That‟s what‟s killing us, not the Macs.”
“We‟ve managed so far,” Coyle offered, although his lack of conviction was only too
clear. Roderick looked back at Richards who was steadily working his way back to the
corridor, his prosthetic leg dragging lazily behind the other. Even Richards, a man so proud
he refused to face the reality of his own injuries, couldn‟t stand it.
“I got another request today from Commander Marsden on the Royal Oak,” she said,
her voice seeming to drift as she watched Richards leave. “Apparently another Alliance
fighter patrol went missing around the Macaw Bank again.”
“Another one?” Coyle asked with surprise. “That has to be the third one this week.”
“At least.”
Coyle frowned. “One thing I‟ve been wondering is why do they keep asking you about
this? Why don‟t they sent it to Intelligence?”
Roderick shook her head, but bit her tongue. “Intelligence is denying they have any
knowledge of it, but apparently whoever is attacking these Macs, their fighters... well, seems
funny, but they keep being described as „black ghosts‟. The Alliance seems to think it might
be us, but what few descriptions they have of the fighters don‟t add up. They just show up,
wipe out the whole unit, and then disappear in to thin air. There‟s not even any traceable
radio traffic.”
“So they‟re UCSVs?”
Roderick smiled. “Well, if they are, they‟re the best unmanned drones ever made.”
Coyle grinned. “Nice to know our reputation still precedes us.”
Roderick found herself staring past Coyle as she found the ashen shade of white that
flooded the face of Sarah Cunningham in the crowd, and saw the bottomless wells of
sadness that had built up in the young Lieutenant‟s eyes. A second later, and Cunningham
was stumbling away – almost in a dazed stupor.
Roderick had seen that very particular look only a few times before, and she closed
her eyes, and silently whispered a prayer...
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