Starship Exodus (The Galactic Wars Book 7) Read online

  Starship Exodus

  Tripp Ellis

  www.TrippEllis.com

  Contents

  1. The Devastator

  2. The Marines

  3. Chloe

  4. The Revenant

  5. The Marines

  6. Chloe

  7. The Revenant

  8. The Marines

  9. Chloe

  10. Emma

  11. The Marines

  12. Chloe

  13. The Marines

  14. Chloe

  15. The Marines

  16. Chloe

  17. The Marines

  18. Chloe

  19. Emma

  20. The Marines

  21. Chloe

  22. Chloe

  23. Chloe

  24. Chloe

  25. Chloe

  26. Chloe

  27. The Revenant

  28. Chloe

  29. The Marines

  30. The Revenant

  31. The Revenant

  32. The Revenant

  33. The Revenant

  34. Surrender

  35. Pow

  36. Walker

  37. Walker

  38. Walker

  39. Walker

  40. Walker

  Thank You!

  The Galactic Wars Series

  Connect With Me

  Copyright © 2016 by Tripp Ellis

  All rights reserved. Worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  The Devastator

  It was too bad she wasn't going to return from her maiden voyage. The USS Devastator was the first of its kind. A state-of-the-art destroyer designed by the famed Jürgan Haas, and constructed in the Glöckner shipyard. It was the epitome of modern craftsmanship. Made from the finest composite materials available. It was the first in a long line of many to follow. Part of President Slade’s rebuilding of the military.

  The Devastator was fast, agile, and had a full complement of weapons that lived up to her namesake. Mark 50 plasma cannons lined the port and starboard sides of the ship. A full compliment of high yield Inferno nukes and four flight decks with the capacity to launch 200 tactical fighters in a matter of minutes. Powered by four Z-core quantum reactors, and a Hughes & Kessler quantum drive, she was capable of traveling to the far reaches of the galaxy. The Devastator was sleek and sexy—the kind of ship that every captain in the fleet wanted to command. She belonged to Captain Blake.

  An alert sounded. Red triangles flashed on the LRADDS display (Long-Range Direction Distance & Speed). It was a 3-D display that tracked incoming threats. UPDF ships were displayed in green. The IFF system (Identify Friend or Foe) automatically detected UPDF ships. The ship’s auto targeting systems ignored anything within IFF signal—it greatly reduced incidents of friendly fire.

  “Sir, we’ve got an incoming unidentified object,” Kearns shouted, interrupting Blake’s conversation with his family.

  Blake’s eyes flicked to Kearns, then to the LRADDS display, then back to his wife’s concerned face on his console’s display. “Don’t worry. It’s probably nothing. A wayward asteroid drifting too close.” He faked a smile.

  Marybeth wasn’t buying it. “Stay safe out there.”

  “I will. I’ll connect with you again this evening. I gotta get to work,” he said, hurriedly.

  “Happy Birthday, Daddy,” his daughter, Jordan, said. She had a big smile, minus one conspicuous tooth—the last of her baby teeth.

  “Thank you, baby. Be good for your mother. Love you.” Ethan Blake cut the transmission. He was an average looking guy with a square face and short sandy brown hair that was starting to thin, with a few streaks of gray on the sides. His brown eyes narrowed at the LRADDS.

  Today was his 43rd birthday, and this was his first command of a starship. There was a piece of cake still sitting on his command console—angel food cake, his favorite. The CIC crew had thrown him a little surprise celebration, which the alarms had rudely interrupted.

  “Sound general quarters.”

  “Aye, sir,” the XO replied. He grabbed the handset and relayed the command over the 1MC. “All hands, man your battle stations. All hands, man your battle stations.”

  “Full power to the shields,” Blake commanded.

  “Aye, sir,” Kearns shouted. “I’m getting strange energy readings. Sensors indicate the craft is arming its weapons. It’s definitely not friendly.”

  The CIC was a beehive of activity. A dozen crew members manned their stations—backlit controls and slim smart glass displays. The subtle blue glow from the consoles illuminated their faces.

  “Can we get a visual on this thing?” Blake asked.

  “Putting it on the display now, sir,” Kearns replied.

  A small warship appeared on the main screen in the CIC. It was comparable in size to a Corvette Class Navy ship. But it was unlike anything Blake had ever seen.

  “There’s nothing like that in the known database of enemy ships,” Kearns said.

  “See if you can establish communications.”

  “Aye, sir.” Kearns pressed a button on the console. “Unidentified vessel, this is the USS Devastator. We are on a peaceful mission. Please acknowledge and state your intentions.”

  They were at the ass end of the galaxy, well beyond Federation space. Blake had been putting the Devastator through its paces and wanted to see how far it could go on a single jump. This was uncharted territory.

  There was no response.

  Kearns tried again. “Unidentified vessel, this is the USS Devastator. We are on a peaceful mission. Please acknowledge and state your intentions.” Kearns set the message to loop in every known intergalactic language.

  This time the vessel responded. A flurry of energy bolts streaked across the star field. They slammed into the Devastator shuttering the ship. Power dipped and surged for a moment.

  “Shields down to 10%,” Kearns yelled.

  10 percent? That seemed impossible, Blake thought. These were state-of-the-art shields. They were rated to withstand a continuous onslaught of high powered weapons. The enemy fire should have been like bee stings. But instead it was like getting stung by an Aldebaranian hornet—which, by the way, is deadly.

  “Evasive action!” Blake shouted. “Hit them with the Mark 50s!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  The Devastator returned fire. The cannons rattled off round after round of plasma bolts. Blue energy blasted across the inky blackness of space, pummeling the enemy ship. But they seemed to take it in stride.

  More orange energy bolts streamed toward the Devastator. The destroyer rumbled and shook upon impact. There were explosions in the CIC. Sparks showered from control consoles. Smoke filled the air. Klaxons sounded. Blake, along with several other crew, were knocked to the ground.

  Secondary explosions could be heard rumbling through the ship.

  “Sir, we’ve got a hull breach in sections 115 through 121 on decks 2 and 3.”

  “Seal the compartments.”
Blake climbed back into his chair. “Introduce them to the Infernos.”

  “Aye, sir,” the weapons officer, Ian Alexander, replied.

  Four, 50 megaton nuclear warheads rocketed toward the enemy ship. They were small tactical nukes that packed a helluva punch. No more than 6 feet long in length, they had one of the highest yields of any warheads in the UPDF arsenal. But they didn’t have a chance to unleash their destructive might. The enemy’s defensive targeting system incinerated the Infernos before they even got close.

  Whoever these aliens were, they were competent, technologically advanced, and highly aggressive.

  2

  The Marines

  “Stay frosty. There’s no telling what’s out there!” 2nd Lieutenant Griggs’s voice distorted through the comm system. His shrill voice was piercing.

  Staff Sergeant Carson Kyle’s head already felt like it was going to explode. His temples throbbed. The pressure behind his eyes made it hard to focus. Both nostrils were swollen shut, and a strange goo constantly oozed from them. It had turned him into a mouth breather, and it was fogging his visor. His blue eyes were now puffy and red. Little more than slits. The last time he checked, his temperature was hovering around 102 degrees. Despite the War-Tech T-5000’s cooling system, it felt sweltering inside the rugged battle armor. His skin was drenched in sweat. It was like sitting in a sauna. He figured he was going to lose a few pounds of water weight during this mission. That was if he could make it off the dropship. He was afraid that when he stood up he'd fall flat on his face. It was the worst time in the world to be sick.

  Air turbulence didn’t normally bother Carson. But even on solid ground, things were shaky. It started coming on a few days ago and was in full force now. It began like a typical head cold. Carson figured he'd be able to power through it. But it just kept getting worse. It was anything but typical.

  Carson hardly ever got sick. That was the real kicker. Usually somebody with an Altruvian flu could sneeze right on him, and he wouldn't catch it. It was still a mystery to him where this thing came from, but he was hoping he would kick it soon. But one thing he knew for sure, puking in a T-5000 could cause you to choke to death. It was like puking in a space suit or dive helmet. The helmet release mechanism was notorious for jamming, especially in adverse weather conditions. The ring could swell or contract, making it impossible to remove the headgear. The best you could hope for was to be stuck the entire operation with your own sour spew burning your nostrils. That, in and of itself, would be enough to make you puke again, increasing the probability of death by choking.

  The VXR-7 Vantage rumbled through the turbulent upper atmosphere. It was a state-of-the-art multi-role combat aerial vehicle. It could hold an entire platoon, and was the preferred method of troop insertions by the Navy Reapers. And the Marines were starting to gain access to them, albeit with a Navy pilot. The Marine Corps didn’t have the budget to order a slew of Vantages. Like with so many other things, the Marines just had to make do. In this case, that meant bumming a ride from the Navy.

  Carson was strapped into a seat in the cargo hold along with the rest of his platoon—two rows on either bulkhead. UPDF Special Operations Command Marines. They answered directly to the Joint Planetary Operations Command. A battle tested, elite fighting force. These boys were able to dish out pain and death like it were candy on Halloween.

  The T-5000 battle armor was almost state-of-the-art. Active camouflage that could adapt to the terrain, bullet resistant plating, and a fully networked tactical battlefield awareness system. The optical visor was able to identify, and target, threats and sync data between the platoon. Vital statistics and location data were relayed back to command in real time. It gave commanding officers an accurate look at where their troops were, and how they were doing, at all times. The computerized battlefield assistant could suggest plans of action based on the current situation and the probability of a successful outcome. It was one step short of true battlefield AI, which had been forbidden since the Uprising. It wasn't a T-6000, but then again the T-5000 was better than nothing, given the budget constraints. Sure, the Navy got the T-6000, but somehow the Marines always got the short end of the stick.

  Sergeant Carson Kyle tried to breathe slow and maintain his composure. He was in charge of the platoon’s 1st squad. He didn't have the luxury to slack off or call in sick. His men were counting on him. Besides, pain is just weakness leaving the body.

  He felt the skids of the Vantage touch down. The back hatch clicked as the locking mechanism disengaged. Hydraulics whirred, and the back ramp lowered. The platoon flooded onto the rocky terrain, weapons in the firing position. They moved with tactical precision. These guys were pros, no doubt about it. As soon as the last Marine was on the ground, the Vantage lifted off and circled the compound.

  The air was thick with haze. You could barely see a few feet past your face. It was drizzling slightly, and Carson's heads-up-display indicated the surface temperature was 37°.

  The platoon carved their way across the terrain to the outpost. The fog made it impossible to survey the damage from the air, but on the ground it was easy to see the outpost was in shambles. Structures were blasted apart. Piles of concrete and rebar were strewn about. The structures that were left standing were pocked with blast marks.

  The outpost on Ceti Reticuli 9 was a civilian one. They were on a humanitarian mission to provide aid and medical assistance to the local indigenous population. The aid workers weren’t armed. They had no means to fight back. Whoever attacked the outpost had been met with little resistance.

  The platoon took cover behind the remains of a wall at the south edge of the compound. Sergeant Kyle’s blood boiled. It was hard to differentiate the heat of anger from his fever. The fact that a non-military outpost had been destroyed by a hostile force didn't sit well with him. It violated all the rules of Galactic warfare. Either an adversary had blatantly violated the terms of the Galactic Convention, or they were dealing with an enemy who wasn't familiar with the convention at all.

  Carson peered over the ridge of the wall and tried to see into the fog. It was like looking into a bowl of milk. To make matters worse, the optical visor was filling with static and distortions. That’s just great, he thought—another malfunction.

  Griggs’s voice filtered through the comm system again. He was back on the dropship, safe and sound. “2-1 Alpha, this is Venom, give me a sit-rep. I’m getting some interference.”

  “Venom, this is 2-1 Alpha,” Carson replied. “I’m going off opticals. I can't see a thing. Sensors aren't working either."

  “Copy that.”

  Carson called over the open comm line. “Anybody else having problems with their opticals?”

  “Mine are about as clear as mud,” Lance Corporal Fenton replied. He was a wide eyed kid from a small colony in the Larkon sector.

  “I can’t see jack either,” Dorado said. “Keeps me from having to look at Milford’s ugly face, though.”

  “But your mother likes my ugly face,” Milford quipped.

  “Knock it off,” Sergeant Kyle said. “If anybody can see, sound off.”

  No one replied.

  “2-2, what about you?” Carson asked.

  “That's a negative, 2-1,” Sergeant Hawthorne replied. “Talbot, Murphy, Branson, O’Leary, Koontz, and Vasquez are all without optics as well. Stedman says his is working intermittently.”

  “2-3?” Kyle asked.

  “Negative, Sarge.” Pittman replied.

  Kyle tried to lift his visor, but there was something wrong with the motor. It wouldn’t budge. He tried to manually lift it, but it was jammed. This wasn’t the first time the platoon had run into technical issues with the T-5000 in the field. “Screw it, he muttered under his breath and removed his helmet.

  “Improvise, adapt, and overcome. Right, Sarge?” Fenton said with a sardonic tone. It was a phrase the Marines had gotten used to. They had to do more with less.

  The cold air whipped Carson in the face. It
seemed to make his nose run even more. And with composite armor covering his arms, he didn’t have a sleeve to wipe his snot on.

  This mission was off to a great start.

  The squad leapfrogged through the haze, advancing from building to building. 2nd squad took the east side while 3rd squad took the west side. Kyle led his squad north, up the middle. There wasn’t a structure left untouched by the battle. They cleared the buildings and looked for survivors, but what they found was… disturbing.

  The first building they stepped into was a horror show. It looked like they had walked into a slaughterhouse. The walls were splattered with blood. Not just a little. Gallons of it. Deep red, dried and caked. And no bodies. Just the odd body part here or there. A foot. A hand. A head. Young, old, women, and children. The killing seemed indiscriminate. Carson’s eyes went wide at the sight, and the gore made his already uneasy stomach turn. The air was filled with the tinny metallic smell of blood and putrid guts. Insects swarmed the entrails. It was a good thing the temperature was near freezing or the smell would have been unbearable.

  “What the hell happened here, Sarge?” Fenton asked.

  3

  Chloe

  Lieutenant Morgan held on for dear life, white knuckled and gritting her teeth. She was sweating under her flight suit, and her heart was thumping. Her brown eyes were wide with terror. An asteroid field was a dangerous place for an experienced pilot—even more so for a rookie. But Morgan wasn't flying the Super Phantom—she was merely a passenger, and scared to death.

  Asteroids tumbled in all directions. It was almost as if they were sentient and hell-bent on destroying the nimble fighter. They came in all shapes and sizes. From small boulders to giant craggy space rocks that were nearly the size of planets.

  Ensign Chloe Johnson spiraled her way through the maelstrom. She flew by the seat of her pants in a style that was best described as controlled chaos. It was enough to give anyone a heart attack.