From Darkness

[Manticore]

LAMBERT

The hulking shape of the LMS Mesa Verde seemed insignificant alongside the massive hull of the Dreadnought-class LNS China Lake. The two ships, accompanied by an assortment of cruisers and gunboats surrounding them, waited in the Bering system for the final order to jump into Rheinland space.

On the bridge of the Mesa Verde, the crucial cog in this entire operation, James Lambert paced nervously. He kept lifting his eyes to peer out the front viewport at the jumpgate that sat silently before them, waiting to carry them into battle.

Lieutenant Commander Steven Falkland, for his part, looked infuriatingly calm, Lambert thought. He supposed it made sense, in a twisted way – the freshly-minted Lieutenant Commander was merely responsible for the delivery and extraction of the marine unit, a far cry from their challenging work of navigating an unknown station and eliminating a single, heavily-guarded target.

There’s a reason the marines call us the ‘Grand Bus Drivers’, Lambert reflected, suddenly having to resist the urge to smirk. His training with the marines for the past few weeks had been eye-opening, and Lambert’s respect had only grown once he’d seen the meticulous way they had prepared for this specific operation. Despite knowing little about the combat environment, the marine officers had established a broad and adaptable plan of operations that remained remarkably simple.

And yet, Lambert would be spending the duration of the operation here on the Mesa Verde, likely relegated to nervously watching monitors and twiddling his thumbs. It would be the worst possible place to be while the men he now thought of as his brothers-in-arms were aboard Altona, putting their lives on the line to finally end this war.

Suddenly, an idea struck him, and he decided to act on it before his sense got the better of him. He turned to face Falkland, spine reflexively tightening to a posture of attention.

“Sir, may I have permission for a temporary relief of duty so I may join the fighter wing on this assault?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Lambert realized how idiotic they must’ve sounded. No senior officer in his right mind would sacrifice the valuable services of his executive officer for such a dangerous stunt. Not to mention that Lambert was an infamously poor pilot in a snubcraft – something that Falkland was well aware of.

The Lieutenant Commander’s face remained placid, but Lambert saw the gears turning in the man’s head as he considered the idea far longer than Lambert had anticipated he would. Then, finally, with a slight grimace of distaste, he said, “Permission granted, Lieutenant. You are relieved of your responsibilities to me until we return to Liberty.”

Lambert was stunned, but reflex took over as he saluted crisply and quickly exited the bridge before Falkland could change his mind.

He did not see the tiny smirk directed at his back as he walked away.

* * *

Less than fifteen minutes later, Lambert was uncomfortably wedged into the cockpit of his Guardian, floating alongside the Mesa Verde in space. He’d decided to visit the armory first, and sure enough there had been a spare suit of battle armor left in the wake of the marine unit’s preparations – in fact, it was the same one he’d previously used in several training exercises. He felt more comfortable going into battle with it on, but the bulk of the damned thing made the already tight fit inside the fighter’s cockpit even worse.

He sighed as he shifted again in his seat, trying in vain to find a small measure of comfort. Failing that, he glanced down at his sensors, which reported in with a bright green listing of the allied ships in the vicinity. Aside from the Mesa Verde and China Lake, there were also three Archer-class siege cruisers, four Shark-class gunboats, and a total of a dozen other Guardians in the task group. Not the most impressive fleet he’d ever been a part of, but all things told it should be plenty to handle this task.

With a few key taps, Lambert inserted himself into the fighter squadron’s comm net, then spoke into his mic. “Lieutenant Lambert, reporting in.”

“Lieutenant, good to have you with us. I’m Commander Peterson, and I’ll be Squadron Leader for this run.”

“Commander,” Lambert acknowledged respectfully. “Where do you want me?”

“Tell you what – stick on my wing for this one. I’ve heard you Primary Fleet jocks know a thing or two about torching Wraiths, perhaps that means you’ll be able to keep up with my tally?”

Several good-natured chuckles echoed over the comm, and Lambert grinned. “Fair enough, provided you don’t judge the entire Primary Fleet based on my performance. Fly with Sanders or Raven sometime if you really want a lesson.”

Peterson laughed at that. “Yes, I’ve heard of those two. Still, let’s see what you’ve got - intel indicates this one should be akin to shooting Rogues in a barrel.”

Lambert was about to reply when a new speaker interrupted their conversation – the familiar voice of Admiral Polstari. “Fighters, the fleet is preparing to move out. Please take point and inform us of any unusual sightings along the way.”

“Understood, sir,” Peterson responded. “Pilots, let’s move!”

The Guardians lit off their main engines, and swarmed towards the gate. Lambert slotted himself in on Peterson’s right wing as the gate shuddered to life, the enormous maw opening wide to swallow their tiny craft.

Lambert reached down and grabbed his helmet in a gloved fist, awkwardly pulling it to his head in the cramped space and microgravity. All was dark for a moment as he lowered it over his head, sealing it to the rest of the suit with a low hiss.

He took a deep lungful of the cool, processed air as the heads-up display snapped to life in front of him. His suit’s comms automatically connected to the squadron channel, wiring the chatter of the pilots directly to his ear.

He was ready to enter Rheinland again, for what he sincerely hoped was the last time.

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