Echoes of the Storm

Chapter 3

The Ops Center at Corona Headquarters on Torredo could have been a chaotic nightmare with officers, techs, and a maintenance crew on high alert since the first Riga ships came in-system. But Ari Norse wouldn't stand for that. He had waited a long time for Jon Ardan's call and the Grand Emperor's proclamation naming him Torredo's high ambassador and placing him in charge of military operations.

He drew himself to his full height. Just shy of six-foot-four, he could intimidate even the surest under his command or win them over with regal charm. His black fatigues were plain and undecorated, a sharp contrast to military officers whose chests were weighted down with medals. Medals had never impressed Norse, though he had collected close to three dozen early in his military career, awarded for bravery and deeds beyond the call of duty.

The officer of the day, an experienced senior captain named Lirrani, seemed as unperturbed as Norse. She keyed updates to multiple displays on the SITS board. That monitor spanned a wall at the front of the Ops Center and stretched floor to ceiling, continuously fed by units in the field and in orbit. In another part of the room, techs huddled around the open back of a console replacing a malfunctioning relay. A laser drill buzzed monotonously.

Norse ignored it all. He stared over the head of a tech at a communications station, not one muscle twitching on his rugged face. Dozens of blips lit the comm tech's monitor, but Norse focused on one in particular. The small Riga transport carrying resistance operative Jack Gamble was headed out-system.

Sorry, Jack. There's no other way.

He shivered. How had he let this happen?

Quashing that thought, Norse scanned the board. "Where is the Conqueror?" His deep voice remained menacingly calm. "On main."

"Just approaching the terminator line, sir," Lirrani said, syncing her terminal's display with the SITS board. "Intercept range four minutes."

"Hmm...too far to be of service." Norse pointed toward six green blips, his crusader-class fighters, and tapped the communication tech. "Remind those pilots I will be most displeased if that transport escapes."

The sergeant with the laser drill stopped work and looked at Lirrani. The gray-haired woman remained calm, a throwback to her years in Corona special forces.

The comm tech cleared his throat and opened the channel. "Green Wing, this is Central One. Have you acquired the target?"

The comm crackled. "Central, this is Green One. We're on her tail. Slips into our cone for a half second then zips out of range."

Norse reached past the tech and flicked a switch on his keyboard. "Green One, this is Inquisitor Norse. Obliterate that shuttle, or do not bother returning to base."

Silence filled the comm channel. The Ops, usually a living, breathing hub, became a dead zone. Everyone but Lirrani glanced nervously at Norse, then quickly fell back to their work. The click of fingers against a dozen keyboards picked up, the drill droned on, and conversations resumed, voices quieter than before.

"Is that clear, Green One?" Norse asked.

"Yes, sir." One's voice was tight and grim.

Norse turned to Lirrani. "Ground ops on main, Captain."

The SITS board transformed to a street-level view of the capital. The areas near HQ had been secured. Damage by both enemy and friendly troops was heavy, but acceptable. Corona's initial defense was feeble—a necessary ploy—but the appearance of the battlecruiser Pride turned the tide. Images from the spaceport revealed her bombardment had destroyed a significant number of Riga dropships, leaving their troops dead or stranded.