The whole experience was one that he never wished to go through again.
* * *
After several hours, his transport arrived in the Indigo system and not long there after docked at Xalan Orbital Station where he was to meet with the senior command.
Time to be known as Dodds again, Simon thought as he picked up his belongings. An attendant met him as he exited the transport and led him from the landing deck to a lift and, from there, down the various corridors to his appointment. The escort rushed him along, giving Dodds no time, or place, to stow his bag.
“Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds to see the Admiral,” Dodds' escort informed one of the two female security guards standing outside the meeting room. She communicated the message to another standing within. The door was opened.
“Fleet Admiral Turner is waiting for you inside,” the woman said, gesturing for him to go forward.
“Admiral Turner?” Dodds repeated, feeling his mouth go dry.
“Yes, sir. Fleet Admiral Turner.”
They didn't bother to put that into the letter, Dodds thought, before realising his jaw had become slack and that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it and cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said and entered the meeting room.
* * *
Walking up to the front, he set his bag down, removed his cap, and saluted the three men seated behind a long, well polished wooden table.
“Second Lieutenant Simon Dodds reporting as requested, sir,” Dodds presented himself. He stood before the three men in full naval dress: a pair of dark blue trousers and blazer with gold trims and buttons. On his feet he wore a pair of well-polished black shoes, which he had become quite conscious of in the last couple of minutes, for some reason. Perhaps it was because of the clamorous clopping they made as he walked, announcing his arrival much more than he would have liked.
There was no answer from any of the men behind the table. The admiral, seated in the middle, continued his unhurried leaf through a number of pieces of paper in front of him, apparently deciding to make him wait on purpose.
Dodds recognised all three of the men in front of him: Commodore Parks and Commodore Hawke sat either side of Turner, both waiting patiently for the admiral to begin. Behind the desk, a window that made up the entire back wall permitted Dodds a view of the twinkling stars outside. He forced himself not to be distracted by the sight. Aside from the four men, only two others occupied the room: both armed security personnel by the closed door at the other end, rifles drawn and pointed down.
He waited some more. Turner continued to turn pages. Dodds started to get the impression that what was about to be discussed was quite confidential. After sometime, Turner looked up from his reading, gathering together the papers.
“Before we begin, Lieutenant Dodds, I have a question I want to ask you.” The admiral clasped his hands together on the desk before him.
“Yes, sir,” Dodds said.
“Tell me: what does the name “Lieutenant Commander Patrick Dean” mean to you?”
“He's a TAF pilot, sir. Flies with the Yellow Dogs. He was recently injured in the line of duty,” Dodds said truthfully.
“Wrong answer, Dodds,” Turner said with false patience. “I'll ask you that again. Who is Lieutenant Commander Patrick Dean?”
Dodds noticed that all three of the men were staring fixated at him and he became thankful for the cap that he held by his side, his grip tightening on it. He grasped the direction that the admiral's question was leading him and, remembering what he had been told on the morning of Dean's death, supplied his next answer.
“I don't know, sir. I've never heard of him.”
“Excellent. Neither have I,” Turner said, sitting back up straight. The man appeared satisfied with the point he was making, it now very clear in Dodds' mind. “Shall we get this underway then?” the admiral asked of the two other officers before turning back to Dodds.
“There are three reasons why you have been brought out here today, Lieutenant,” began Turner. “None of which should be allowed to go to your head. First and foremost: it is after considerable discussion that we have decided that your suspension from duty has been met. You should have had sufficient time during this period to reflect upon your actions and realise just how serious and costly your mistakes were.”
“Yes, sir,” Dodds said, straightening. “During my suspension I spent a lot of time...”
“Secondly,” Turner continued, raising his voice whilst at the same time telling Dodds to silence his own, “naval human resources are at an all time low and we need every man and woman we can get a hold of. You may be aware of the on-going problems we are facing securing Confederation interests against increasing insurgency, as well as the not-so-insubstantial threat posed by the Imperial civil war. The war is now causing unrest in a number of Independent World star systems; unrest and disturbance that could eventually spill over into Confederation-controlled space. Should that happen, we can be assured that immigrants will come pouring into many of our own systems, bringing refugees, criminals, bounty hunters and even more insurgents along with them. In order to pre-empt such an event we need to increase naval presence along our borders.”
Dodds saw the map he had studied for the last few hours once more in his head, focusing in on the former Independent worlds that had been swallowed up by the Empire. He could not quite imagine the same thing happening in reverse to the Confederacy, as Turner might well be suggesting. He might not know a great deal about the history of the galaxy, but he assumed that the Confederation was a little more stable than most other places; considerably more so than some of the Independents.
The image evaporated as Turner continued speaking. “This is a point that needs to be understood by all Naval personnel: the relationship between the Imperial Senate and the Emperor is now strained beyond repair and as such the Confederacy, as well as a number of Independent nations, have begun the recall of all diplomatic staff. You may hear talk of parts of the Empire having been bombed back into the stone age, but for now the Confederation will not be sending forces into any part of the region in an attempt to bring about stability.”
Dodds had heard about the issues that were plaguing the Empire, the events now a regular feature on news broadcasts. The trouble was that, since it had become such a regular feature of the news, he had almost stopped paying attention to it altogether. It was like background noise to him.
His eyes swept over Parks and Hawke sitting either side of Turner. Each both looked straight at him, as Turner did, their faces inexpressive. They were both in their forties and of similar height, although Parks looked thinner than Hawke, both in the body and face. Strands of silvery grey hair were quite prominent throughout Parks' thinning black hair, but absent from Hawke's. Turner by contrast was quite an old man. Dodds thought he was somewhere in his early sixties, close to retirement age.
Dodds had noticed when he entered the room that Parks seemed to have aged a good ten years since he had last seen the man, looking older than Hawke, despite being six or seven years younger. Strangely, Hawke appeared much healthier by comparison. Fresh-faced, the man was almost glowing.
“And finally Lieutenant it is my privilege to inform you -”
Dodds detected a hint of sarcasm in the admiral's voice.
“- that you have been recommended and subsequently selected for participation in the Navy's latest technological endeavour. It is not a decision that I entirely agree with -”
Parks turned his head only a minute amount to acknowledge the accusing look he was given by Admiral Turner.
“- but your flight profile, along with your usual ability to work well within a team, made you fit the bill.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dodds said. “It will be an honour to take part.”
Turner gave an unconvinced snort, then said, “Tell me, Lieutenant, has anyone discussed with you anything about the ATAF project?”
“No, sir. No-one has ever mentioned it to me.”
“As
it should be,” Turner said. “The project is strictly on a need-to-know basis and, as of this moment, you are not to discuss it with anyone not directly involved in the evaluations. I must warn you that to do so would result in a punishment far worse than a mere suspension from service. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I believe that is all I wish to say,” Turner concluded, sliding the papers in front of him back into their folder. “I did not intend for this to be a long meeting, so I will wrap things up here. Unless there is anything further that you wish to add, Commodore?” He looked to Parks who shook his head. “Commodore?” His attention turned to Hawke.
“I must once again reiterate my objection to this man's reinstatement into active service, Admiral!” Hawke spat. “The man is a cocky, arrogant insubordinate who is a danger to himself, his squadron and the Navy's very reputation.”
Dodds gave an inward sigh. It felt as though the commodore had spent several hours before the meeting rehearsing the line, so as to deliver it without error for maximum effect. The moment Dodds had entered the meeting room and seen Hawke seated alongside Turner and Parks, he knew there would be problems.
“I do not doubt for even one second that he will continue to mock the chain of command within weeks of being back in control of a starfighter,” Hawke went on, glaring at Dodds. “It would be better for all of us if the man were reassigned to logistics where he...”
“Yes, that will do, Commodore, I am fully aware of your objections,” interrupted the admiral, waving him down. “Thank you for repeating your original statement, but I read it clearly the first time.”
Hawke turned back to look at Dodds, a dark scowl across his face. “No, I have nothing further to add, Admiral,” he finished dryly.
Dodds felt a small sense of relief swell within him. How Hawke loved to gloat. Should Turner have agreed with the man's suggestion, Hawke's eyes would have been filled with that subtle, malicious satisfaction; the very same pleasure that Dodds had seen register during his court-martial, the moment the guilty verdict had been brought against him. But not now. He had been denied such delight today and would have to find it another time, in another place. And preferably with someone else.
Dodds' eyes were drawn to a crimson-red substance that was gathering just above the commodore's top lip and noticed that Hawke's nose had started to bleed. Hawke, too, became aware of the flow and rummaged around in a pocket for a handkerchief, producing it just as a drop of blood slid down from his nose and splattered without a sound onto the table in front of him.
Dodds watched the man place the handkerchief under his nose and tip his head back, attempting to control the flow, though Hawke kept his eyes on him as he did so. It was not as though his nose was gushing, but it was obvious it was more than a few drops. Dodds found it strange that, though Parks and Turner looked over to the man to see what the cause of his sudden discomfort was, they gave it no more than a common courtesy before they turned back to the starfighter pilot stood before them.
“Good. We must press on gentlemen, time is not a commodity we can currently afford to waste,” Turner said. “Lieutenant Dodds, I am hereby returning you to duty. Commodore Parks will brief you shortly.” He gestured to one of the guards standing by the door who strode forward to Dodds' side. “Mr Sears here will escort you to a suitable waiting room where the commodore will meet you. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dodds said, saluting before replacing his cap, picking up his bag of meagre belongings and making to leave.
“Lieutenant Dodds,” the admiral's voice called to him as he crossed the room.
“Sir?” Dodds stopped halfway to the door and turned around to face the table again.
“With regard to the statement that Commodore Hawke gave: whilst the Navy does indeed need every good pilot it can get, I will have absolutely no qualms whatsoever with immediately dismissing from service any pilot whose actions put the lives of others at risk; or whose reckless actions result in critical mission failures, directly or indirectly. Do not let your selection into the ATAF project and the early end to your suspension make you believe you are invincible, Lieutenant. The day you do a good job, I will be the one to let you know. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. Fully, sir,” Dodds said, saluted once more and left the meeting room.
III
— Reunion —
Dodds jumped to his feet as he heard the door of his assigned waiting room open, almost spilling the glass of water he held. He stood to attention and saluted Parks as the man entered.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Parks said. “Welcome back, Dodds; and welcome to the Indigo system, I might add.”
The room the pair stood in granted its occupants an appreciative view of the planet below them, something that Dodds had spent the last half-hour staring out at. He often made a habit of looking out at the stars, sometimes just for the view, but frequently because it helped him to think. He found the often tranquil views to be rather therapeutic.
“I trust you had a good journey here?” Parks said.
“Uneventful,” Dodds shrugged.
“You stayed out your entire suspension on Earth?”
“With my parents. I was giving them a hand with the business.”
Parks nodded and his eyes gave the young man a once-over. “Good to see you didn't come back soft and completely out of shape after all that time away. Too many do so after a few weeks of leave.” Parks came to stand with Dodds by the window and nodded to the planet far below. “Xalan. Where you will be spending the next three weeks training for the ATAF project. Myself and Admiral Turner will also be stationed there during that period to oversee your progress.”
“Who else will be there?” Dodds asked, figuring that he would not be the sole participant in the training program. He had a hunch that his old wingmates were on the surface.
“Aside from yourself and the White Knights, there will be two other teams of five who you will be undergoing the evaluations. At the end of the three-week period, the team who has successfully completed the evaluation and passed the final examination will be the one that will go on to pilot the ATAFs.”
“Got it,” said Dodds. Sounded easy enough.
Parks paused, then said, “This isn't an individual exercise, Lieutenant. Your success or failure during these tests will be governed by your ability to work as a team and follow orders.”
Dodds could feel Parks' stare boring into him even before he turned around to meet it.
“Don't screw this up, Dodds,” Parks said in a stern voice, his mood now a lot more serious than when he had first entered the room.
“I won't, sir,” Dodds said earnestly. Though Dodds enjoyed a good relationship with Parks - or maybe it was that the commodore just tolerated him better than most others - he was still only prepared to cut the young pilot so much slack.
“I sure hope you mean that, Lieutenant,” Parks said, walking towards the door. “Now, whilst you're here you may as well attend a medical examination before leaving for Xalan. Your team mates arrived a few days ago so they will be able to show you around. You should also know that since your departure we've lost Wells to an accident during training, as well as your own replacement. de Winter will introduce you to your new team mate when you arrive at your assigned housing block.” The door slid open as Parks approached. He hovered in the doorway, looking back at the second lieutenant who hadn't moved. “Come on. Get your gear together, Dodds, we have a lot to get through before we leave.”
Dodds picked up his bag and followed the commodore out, his head swimming with thoughts. It seemed a lot had happened since he had been away and the multiple deaths within his flight group had hit home. Not least because of the casual manner in which Parks had told him about it, as if there were greater concerns than keeping pilots alive. He wondered what other pieces of information the commodore might be holding back.
* * *
Wednesday, April 23rd,
2617
We've been stationed here at Xalan for three days now and I'm beginning to feel more settled. There hasn't been a lot happening so far, but Estelle is making us hit the simulators for hours on end. She's really cracking the whip, but I know this is a big thing for her. She had us on them for sixteen hours yesterday, first thing in the morning until last thing at night, with barely any time for lunch. I had to just get in there, shovel it down my throat and get back into the simulator suite. I thought Estelle was going to choke at the speed she wolfed hers down! She was acting like she hadn't eaten for weeks and like she didn't know where her next meal was coming from! She did the same thing at dinner, too! I'm sure that's not healthy. But there again something like this is a once in a life-time opportunity and she's determined to do whatever it takes for us to be the first to test out the Navy's latest creation. I can't say exactly what it is here or suffer the consequences.
We are getting our first briefing this afternoon and then tomorrow we'll start our formal training. I don't know any of the pilots from the others teams, but Estelle seems to know a girl called Andrea. According to her we were at flight school together years ago, but I don't honestly remember. I haven't seen her about since our arrival, but apparently that's intentional since they don't want the teams to all be mixed together.
We're in a mixed dormitory here, no separate rooms, so looks like we won't be getting any ritzy treatment even though we're involved in a special project. Luckily the room has been designed to accommodate quite a few people, and since there are only four of us we have plenty of space; so at least that won't be a cause of any tension.
Enrique is just getting on with it, as he does. With everything that's going on, he's not really found the time and space to practice his martial arts or the other things he does. He was a bit put out that there might not be anyone to partner with whilst he was here. Being a research facility there are of course some people here, but I think Enrique was bothered about “hitting nerds” as he put it.