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“Confirmed, sir. That’s our target.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” Captain James Lambert nodded to the woman hunched over the scanner before turning to the ship’s helm. “Ensign Terrell, take us in.”

There was a slight shudder under his feet as Fearless’s cruise engines lit off and the gunboat jumped forward towards her quarry.

“We’re closing, sir. Eight klicks out.” A tinge of nerves colored Lieutenant Hood’s voice.

“Hold,” Lambert responded.

“Four klicks now.”

“Kill the cloak. Guns up!”

The bridge burst into action as Fearless suddenly appeared into what had previously been another blank patch of space. Their target, a plain-looking Civilian Gunboat, immediately turned and attempted to flee.

“Kill the engine. Fire disruptor.” Lambert’s order was instantly followed by Ensign Joiner, Fearless’s tactical officer. Lambert watched the white streak of a disruptor missile race away through the fore viewscreen.

“Two klicks out!” Hood cried as they entered weapons range.

“Draw your bead, Guns.”

“He’s in my sights, sir!” Joiner responded.

“Hit him.”

Lambert could just see the target now with his naked eye, and streams of blue fire began to streak towards it as Fearless continued to close on a ballistic trajectory. The enemy gunboat’s shields flashed as it suffered hits from Fearless’s barrage.

He turned away from the view and nodded to Commander Carmen, his executive officer.

She flicked on a small microphone mounted on her ear. “Romeo Actual, Sierra Actual - go, go, go!”

Two new targets suddenly appeared on the master plot, racing away from Fearless and towards the target under their own power. These were Shrikes, the Liberty Navy’s newest breed of small assault shuttles. Each crammed a team of fifteen marines aboard and could rocket across a short distance of space in short time thanks to their old-school solid fuel rocket engines.

The pair of Shrikes entered the final stage of their attack run, and some last-minute defensive fire from the enemy ship missed wildly. Most Sirians weren’t used to ships that could move this quickly - a Shrikes could easily beat a Liberator in a dead sprint.

Seconds later, they intersected with the angry red shape of the enemy ship on the plot and disappeared. Lambert turned back to Carmen, who listened into her headset for a moment, then nodded. “Romeo and Sierra have solid seals, sir. Cutting through now.”

“Very good,” he said, then turned back to the rest of the bridge. “Tactical Plan Able is in effect.”

They started their work immediately, and Lambert watched the main plot as Fearless returned to main engine power and dropped back to about two klicks behind the fleeing enemy gunboat, safely out of weapons range but still well inside disruptor range.

Lambert reached a hand into the pocket of his service khakis and drew out a small earpiece, reaching up to affix it to his ear. Immediately he could hear the chatter of the marine units on their general frequency.

The Shrikes were flown by computers and the place on the bow where a cockpit would usually sit was instead a flattened boarding apparatus. It would seal itself to the hull of the target ship and cut through the hull with laser drills until a sufficiently-sized opening was created. From there, the Shrike’s human cargo could easily manage a boarding action.

The marines were executing this now, with the fluid precision of a group of experts that has worked together for a long time. As well they should, for these were two of MARSOC’s finest Marine Special Operations Teams. Lambert listened as they breached the hull of the gunboat, meeting no initial resistance. Both marine units spread out and moved towards the bridge from different angles, taking care of the sparse resistance they came across. They made impressive time through the ship’s corridors, Lambert noted.

The voices grew slightly more frantic and there was stronger gunfire in the background when they breached the ship’s bridge, however. The firefight was furious but short-lived - Lambert knew the marines’ combat suits and superior firepower would have overwhelmed the opposition.

Major Wells, overall commander of the marine units, was the one to give the sitrep. “Fearless Actual, this is Romeo Actual.”

“Go ahead, Romeo Actual.”

“We apprehended an Outcast matching the target’s description on the bridge. New orders, sir?”

Lambert let out a slow breath of relief. This hadn’t been a waste of time, after all. “Do you have control of the ship?”

“Affirmative.”

“Form it up on us. We’re going home.”

Fearless had moored up at Norfolk while their prize was guided into one of the huge drydocks for processing. It was a much-welcomed return home for the crew after the two weeks spent tracking their target in deep space - the gunboat was a cramped space for extended operations.

Lambert granted most of the crew a few hours of station-side leave before preparing to cross to the station himself. Lieutenant Carmen would remain aboard with a skeleton crew - she preferred the quiet of a near-empty ship to the bustle and noise of the naval hub, anyways.

In fitting with the ship’s nature as a short-term assault platform, few creature comforts were extended even to her captain’s quarters. His cabin was small, with spare room for a small desk and chair the only unique accommodation. Lambert had neglected to do much else to alter the room’s spartan appearance, only having placed two visible decorations. One was a small painting hanging above the bed, depicting the famous last stand of the Bretonian fleet at Leeds in the face of the overwhelming Gallic onslaught. The second was more personal - a small framed photograph on the desk of a young girl.

His eyes lingered on that photo for a moment before he snatched a datapad and compact handgun off the desk, shoving them into a satchel and whirling out of the room in a flurry.

Moments later, he took a deep breath in the weightless tube that separated his ship and the station. He’d always found these moments relaxing, just slowly floating down the tube in complete silence. As the opening at the end of the tube loomed, he reached his arm up and grabbed a red bar on the “roof” of the tube. With a practiced motion, he swung himself into the opening and landed feet-first as gravity took over once again.

He was aboard Norfolk, at the end of a plain corridor. Lambert turned to the marine standing motionless at attention at his right and nodded, then walked deeper into the station. He reached into the satchel, retrieving the datapad, and logged into the station’s ‘net. As he walked, he surfed through the list of most recent arrivals until he located the record for his prize.

The crowds grew in size as he departed the Navy-restricted section of the base and entered the general population area. He knew where he was going, now, and increased his pace by stretching his legs into long strides.

It wasn’t a long walk, and soon enough he was facing the end of another docking tube, almost identical to the one he’d just exited. He’d arrived just in time, as two men dressed in marine battle armor from the neck down emerged from the tube as he approached it. They snapped to attention, saluting him. Lambert returned the salutes.

“All squared away, sir. No problems to report.” Major Kason Wells was the commander of Fearless’s MARSOC teams, an imposing man whose sandy-colored hair was beginning to turn gray.

Lambert nodded, glancing to the other marine. Lieutenant Brack was the commander of the second MARSOC team - the one that Wells didn’t oversee directly. Lambert had specifically requested Brack’s reassignment to Fearless because the marine had survived Hamburg along with him.

“Good job, both of you,” Lambert said. “Head on back to the ship when you’re all fin-”

He was cut off by the datapad still in his hand, which had started vibrating and chirping loudly.

Lambert paused - it only did that when he received a priority transmission. “Apologies, one moment.”

He turned away, bringing the screen up to his face and opening the transmission. New orders, direct from the Fleet Admiral. He scanned through the transmission, frowning.

Operation Royal Flush, it was to be called. An incursion into Gallic-held Leeds, taking along damn near the entire Liberty fleet. Lambert scanned the roster of units and ships, looking for his name.

It wasn’t there.

He muttered a curse under his breath. He wasn’t about to miss out on this - not with so much at stake.

Lambert turned back to the two marines, who were looking on in confusion. “New orders - the fleet’s going after Leeds. In force.”

Wells wrinkled his brow in thought. “Interesting, sir. What part are we going to play in it?”

Lambert shrugged. “We’re not on the list. Get wrapped up and get everyone back to Fearless. I need to make a call…”

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Manticore

Manticore