FLEET OPPOSED - The Prequels

With the launch of THE SPACERS on March 12, all three of the FLEET OPPOSED prequel novellas are available now! I've been very happy with the reader response so far. This is a venture into a new genre for me, and I can honestly say I'm loving it--I've never been able to write stories so quickly. A normal-sized science fiction novel is ~80,000 words (which works out to be a little over 300 pages for a printed book). THE SPACERS ended up at 40,000+ words--half a novel--and I wrote it in a month, which is "ludicrous speed" for me!

I'm working like crazy on the first book of THE HAN WARS series, FLEET OPPOSED, and enjoying every minute. So, until I get that first book out on the streets, give THE AVIATORS, THE INFANTRY, and THE SPACERS a try!

THE SPACERS - A Prequel Story to FLEET OPPOSED

And THE SPACERS is underway! My third and final prequel novella to FLEET OPPOSED has left the dock and is heading out full speed ahead...or something like that.

I'm hoping to finish writing this one sometime next month, with a release date in early April or May. We'll see. In the meantime, here's a little taste:

Fast Attack Docking Area, “Shark Country”

Halsey Point, Third Fleet Headquarters

In Orbit over Ractus III

“…and to the officers and crew of RSS Tang, I bid you farewell, fair winds, and following seas.”

From where she was seated, Commander Claire Fontaine looked out upon the assembled guests, colleagues, old friends, and especially the crew of RSS Tang—all those who weren’t still aboard standing a watch—and felt a rush of excitement. And, she had to admit, a little fear. She wasn’t one to wallow in self-doubt or constantly second-guess herself, rather she was confident in her abilities, sure in the course she would set for Tang and everyone assigned to her care, but deep down she couldn’t help but wonder if she really had what it takes to lead a crew and fight a ship of the line. She’d proven herself as a department head, a weapons officer, and as an executive officer—otherwise she wouldn’t be here—but being a captain of a ship was different. Everything, everything, rested on her shoulders, and her shoulders alone. To some it was a crushing weight, a soul-stealing confidence-shredding gauntlet they hoped to emerge from unscathed, and for others it was a challenge relished, an opportunity to flourish and to lead others to new heights they’d thought unattainable. She hoped she’d end up in the latter pile when her three-year command tour was over.

She had no way of knowing where she’d stand when she was in Daigle’s shoes a few years from now, turning over her command to someone else, but she’d find out soon enough. Her journey started right now.

Commander Daigle cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I will now read my orders of detachment,” he said. “Bureau of Fleet Personnel order number one zero six one eight tack nine, to Commander Kenneth J. Daigle. When directed by reporting senior, detach from Tang, SSF-816, and report to HQ FLEETCOM, A3 Directorate, Operations and Tactics Development Branch, as Officer in Charge, on or about the date specified. Signed, Vice Admiral Colin McIntyre, Director of Fleet Personnel.”

CDR Daigle paused, then turned toward her. In his eyes, Fontaine saw an emptiness of sorts, a look you might expect from someone watching a prized possession being taken away and being powerless to prevent it. “Commander Fontaine,” Daigle said, “I am ready to be relieved.”

This was the moment she’d been marching toward ever since the day nineteen years ago when she’d raised her right hand, taken an oath to defend the Republic, and stepped across the boundary separating her civilian self from the person—and officer—she’d now become. Four long, hard years at the Academy, followed by fifteen years of Fleet service, had definitely changed the doe-eyed dark-haired skinny girl from Biloxi who thought she knew everything and hated being told what to do. Changed her for the better.

Nineteen years of hard work, enduring long hours of constant watches, training, and drills, and pushing herself through more than one occasion when she was convinced she’d derailed her career and would never see a command of her own, had led her here, to this moment.

This ceremony, held on the massive orbital fleet yard known as Halsey Point, was no different than any of the countless others she’d attended in the past, and basically the same ceremony performed back in the days of sail and steam, of fuel oil and fission, when the command of a ship passed from one commanding officer to another. From wet navy, to space navy, traditions endured, and this was one of them. The reading of orders, and the solemn passing of responsibility. Except this time, it was different, because it was hers.

As CDR Daigle stepped away from the podium, CDR Claire Fontaine confidently walked across the stage, feeling the eyes of every assembled officer and spacer following her every move, and took her place at the podium. Directly behind her, beyond the large armored polycarbonate windows, loomed the ominous shape of her new command, RSS Tang, moored at her docking station. Docked beside it was RSS Kinn, her former ship. A fitting view, she thought, and a perfect backdrop for what she was about to say.

“And now I will read my orders,” Fontaine said. She looked down at the paper in her hands, and just as CDR Daigle had done, took a deep breath before continuing. “Bureau of Fleet Personnel order number one zero six one eight tack eight, to Commander Claire R. Fontaine. When directed by reporting senior, detach from posting as executive officer Kinn, SSF-818, on or about the date specified and report to commanding officer Tang, SSF-816, as his relief. Signed, Vice Admiral Colin McIntyre, Director of Fleet Personnel.”

Fontaine stepped away from the podium and toward CDR Daigle, who was standing beside Captain James Earl, Commander of Fast Attack Squadron THREE and her new boss. “Commander Daigle, I relieve you, sir,” she said, snapping a salute. Daigle returned the salute, and said, “I stand relieved.” They both turned toward CAPT Earl and Fontaine saluted him.

“Sir, I have properly relieved Commander Daigle and assume command of Tang,” Fontaine said.

“Congratulations, Commander Fontaine,” Earl said, returning her salute. “Take charge.”

Fontaine returned to the podium and looked out on the assembled crowd. So many faces, so many memories, all staring back at her. Lots of smiles, too. There were quite a few members of Kinn’s crew out there, too, which made her feel as if she’d done a good job as their XO. They didn’t have to be here, but they were.

“To the crew of the valiant ship Tang,” Fontaine said, “all standing orders and regulations remain in effect.” She looked to her new XO, Lieutenant Commander Taylor Moncrief, and said, “XO, take charge and dismiss the ship’s company.”

“Aye aye, ma’am,” LCDR Moncrief replied, saluting her new captain. “Tang, dismissed!”

And with that, CDR Claire Fontaine’s journey as commanding officer of the Republic Fleet fast attack RSS Tang, began.

***

Keep an eye out for it!

THE INFANTRY - Available for Pre-Order

Starting today, THE INFANTRY is live on Amazon.com and is available for pre-order! For 99 cents, you can have this military science fiction novella pop into your Kindle on Tuesday, February 5.

THE INFANTRY is the second of a series of three novella-length stories, each one a stand-alone prequel to my upcoming military science fiction novel, FLEET OPPOSED, the first book of THE HAN WARS series. In each of the three stories, THE AVIATORS, THE INFANTRY, and THE SPACERS, you'll get a glimpse inside three different service communities in the Republic Combined Fleet, and maybe meet a few characters who will make an appearance in FLEET OPPOSED or subsequent books.

Here's the LINK to pre-order the book.

New Teaser Trailer for FLEET OPPOSED

FLEET OPPOSED, the first book of THE HAN WARS series, won't be available until this time next year, but in the meantime...

THE INFANTRY - A Prequel Story to FLEET OPPOSED

This morning I finished the opening scene for THE INFANTRY, the second of three prequel novellas to FLEET OPPOSED, the first book of THE HAN WARS series. This book deals with the ground combat branch of the Republic Fleet, the Fleet Infantry.

Like the cover? Hope so. I'm sure some of you with USMC backgrounds might not appreciate that I've dickered with the EGA (Eagle, Globe and Anchor), and you have my apologies. In the world of FLEET OPPOSED, however, there is no longer a USMC, just as there's no US Army. In this world, both services have been combined to form the Fleet Infantry, and I've tried to bring some of the heraldry from both services forward to the future. If you look at the cover, you might recognize some of the symbols on the right side. They're representative of four current infantry divisions, starting with the diamond-shaped one at the top: The USMC's First Infantry Division, the US Army's Second Infantry Division, the US Army's Third Infantry Division, and finally the USMC's Fourth Infantry Division, all brought forward to the world of FLEET OPPOSED with little changes to signify their battle history during the first Han War.

The Fleet Infantry is part of the Republic's Combined Fleet, just as the USMC, although a separate service, is "part" of the US Navy. I didn't want to call them Marines, though, because it seems as though a ton of other military science fiction writers do that...and it also kinda disregards anything to do with the US Army in a future world.

Now..I'm an old Air Force guy. I understand how the USAF is organized, from a MAJCOM, NAF, wing, group, squadron, on down to flights, elements, blah blah blah. When I started doing research for THE INFANTRY, I found that I really had no idea how the US Army, or the USMC, are organized. What the heck is a battalion? What's a regiment? A fire team? A squad? WTF? I'd heard it all before, but never knew how each word fit in the overall organizational picture. A spent a good deal of time perusing Al Gore's information superhighway (thank God he invented it) to learn what it all means, and I'll be honest, my head almost exploded. I think, though, that I have a good enough handle on it now not to sound like too much of an idiot...but I guess that's for you to decide, right? I know a lot of active & ex-military types read military science fiction (I'm one of them) and nothing ruins a story for me then when an author makes a blatant "military mistake" (such as using "clip" or "cartridge" when they really mean "magazine"). I'm going to try my best to avoid doing the same thing. I promise.

So, what you see below is my attempt to construct a triangular division structure for what I'm calling the First Combined Infantry Division (Assault). I know it doesn't include some of the headquarters & other elements a normal (present day) infantry division does, but it does include the elements I need to write a story. I also fashioned it closer to a USMC infantry division than a US Army infantry division--there are regiments instead of brigade combat teams, and fire teams are led by a corporal, because I personally like how the USMC pushes responsibility down to the lowest rank possible.

Follow the red line from the Division's Commanding General (MGEN Gray) down to Captain Ricardo "Rico" Estrada, commander of Bravo Company, 3/2 Infantry. From him on down are the characters you'll meet in THE INFANTRY.

The story itself should be complete in a month or so, I'm guessing. And here's a little taste:

***

1

RSS Sioux, LHS-782

In Low Orbit Around Icarus Four, Third Fleet AOR

Launch Bay

Tomahawk Landing Craft “Boxcar One”

“Five mikes until we drop!” the loadmaster shouted as he made his way through the Tomahawk’s cramped interior.

Captain Ricardo “Rico” Estrada couldn’t help but smile. The loadmaster was fleet—a chief petty officer—but he was just as ripped as any of the troopers lining the sides of the armored landing craft, a common theme among the fleet’s assault community, the spacers who crewed the big landing craft carriers and spent most of their careers in close quarters with guys like him; people who dropped down from orbit, broke other peoples’ shit, and ruined other peoples’ days.

“You heard the man, you’ve got less than five mikes to make sure you’re good to go!” It was Gunnery Sergeant Baker, third platoon’s platoon sergeant, who didn’t need to get up and walk around to make himself heard. “Wep checks, buddy checks, strap checks. Three minutes to button up. Move!”

The platoon leader, First Lieutenant Mathew Greer, was on one of the other Tomahawks. Greer was a good kid, still feeling his oats as a platoon leader, but Estrada liked what he saw so far. Gunny Baker was as solid as they came, and he would make sure the lieutenant did things right.

In response to GySgt Baker, the assault troopers of Third Platoon, Bravo Company, 3/2 Infantry, turned to the left, then turned to the right, checking each other’s gear. Estrada saw apprehension on a few faces, maybe even a little nervous fear here and there, but they were following the Gunny’s orders to the letter. They were all in full battle armor, a requirement for on-orbit drops, and space inside the Tomahawk was definitely at a minimum. It was cramped, hot, and the oily metallic stench inside the landing craft was oppressive—but Estrada loved it. This was what it was all about, men and their machines preparing to do a job that only a select few had the courage and skill to perform. This wasn’t a combat drop, but it felt like one, and that was a good thing—the protocols they were following were exactly what they would do if it were. A training opportunity was a training opportunity, and squandering the chance to let his troopers practice a combat drop would be an opportunity wasted.

There were three Tomahawks lined up in the bay, filled with fifty troopers and enough equipment to sustain their mission for thirty days. Based on the nature of their mission, they could have just as easily chartered a commercial shuttle to get here, but division leadership was ordered to send a clear message to the resistance on this pathetic rock that the Republic meant business. A platoon of Fleet Infantry, dropping from the sky in their Tomahawks in full battle rattle, would ensure the separatist pukes understood that message loud and clear.

Estrada went through the OPORD in his head for the hundredth time. They would land to the northeast on the outskirts of the capital city—Cantu—in full view of the city’s inhabitants. They would establish a perimeter, unload, secure the Tomahawks, and move inland from the coast toward OL Lion, their operating location for the duration of their mission, about a quarter mile away from their landing zone. Once there, they would relieve the remaining contingent from First Platoon, Alpha Company, who had spent the last thirty days garrisoned on this water-logged rock…this important water-logged rock.

Icarus Four was crucial to the production of the reactor fuel that fed every ship in the fleet, as well as the tiny fusion reactors powering their armored battle suits. The single rocky continent, not much bigger that Estrada’s home state of Iowa, was an island in the middle of an ocean planet; 98 percent of Icarus Four’s surface was covered in water. The main industrial production and distribution center, located a few clicks away from their landing zone, was his true objective, if things went south. The resistance knew how important the facility was, and that made it a juicy target. His other orders, which only he, 1LT Greer, and his company XO, 1LT Roca, knew about, were to protect the facility at all costs if it came under attack. His troopers couldn’t fire first, but if they took fire, use of deadly force was authorized.

He’d read the latest reports from the surface. First Platoon hadn’t been forced to fire a single lethal shot, but it had been a close thing. They’d dealt with a few ugly confrontations, even had to break-up a large riot in the center of the city using non-lethals, but no one had been badly hurt or killed. There was definitely trouble brewing, though. A couple of intel spooks from the regiment’s S2 had been ashore for the last two weeks and had squeezed as much info as possible from the electronic ether—messages between suspected resistance sympathizers, vague references and snippets about something big about to happen. Nothing concrete or actionable, but enough to make the higher-ups nervous. That’s why he was here, the company commander, along with one of his full platoons. Dropping fifty soldiers on the outskirts of a Republic city was definitely not something that would’ve happened even just a few short years ago, but things were different now. The resistance was spreading fast, and they were beginning to get frisky. The planetary administrator—a man named McCabe—apparently didn’t want them there, arguing that his own corrupt police force could keep the resistance at bay, but the higher-ups back on Earth weren’t going to give him a choice. President Ellison had no patience for the resistance; he’d made it clear on more than one occasion that the so-called resistance was nothing more than a movement of malcontents, people who had lost their understanding of the founding principles of the Republic. What he didn’t say in his speeches, and what was becoming clearer by the day, was that the resistance was quickly becoming a threat to stability as this wasn’t the only Republic planet that was having problems. The separatist movement was a disease that needed to be eradicated before it spread.

Estrada didn’t care much for politics, or for politicians. He didn’t have the time, or patience, to keep up with the machinations of the Republic Council, or the corrupt, flawed men and women who made up its ranks. He had, however, sworn an oath to defend the Republic against all enemies, both foreign and domestic…and as far as he was concerned, the resistance fell squarely in the “domestic” category.

His official orders were to show the flag—make their presence known. Be visible, without appearing too threatening to the local populace. The resistance sentiments were high on Icarus Four, but there were many more who were steadfastly loyal to the Republic, and his troopers were there to reassure them.

Icarus Four had a stronger-than-normal planetary defense grid, but like everything else out here in the far reaches of Republic space, it had been allowed to deteriorate. “We haven’t seen the Han for a hundred years,” was the usual retort when the calls came to keep the grids manned and active, and after a while, even the fleet decided it had more important issues to grapple with. There was a planetary defense force as well, but it was nothing more than a glorified police force, and if the intel weenies were to be believed, it was rotten with resistance sympathizers. They could turn out to be a threat, but nothing his troopers couldn’t handle. Estrada clearly had them outgunned, and outclassed.

Bottom line—this could be an easy mission, a 30-day vacation away from the bowels of a LHS, or it could quickly spiral into a giant chocolate mess if the resistance decided to act.

The Tomahawk jerked slightly as the positioning crane began to move it to the final launch position. Estrada could hear the whine as the lander came to life—engines spinning up, systems pulling power.

“Three mikes!” the loadmaster yelled.

“Button up!” Gunny Baker shouted, patting the top of his bad head three times, and the troopers responded, sealing their faces behind their helmets and locking them into place. Estrada did the same, and his faceplate came alive with the normal suite of info displays he was accustomed to as a company commander. He had direct comms with every member of the platoon, from 1LT Greer on down to the most junior private, and could also tie-in to their visual displays, to add their eyes to his. His suit, the Pleiades Mk IV Battle Ensemble, transformed a human being into a living, breathing, armored weapon system. It was tough, versatile, able to be configured for several different missions, and adaptable for almost any external environment they might face. Once on the surface, most of the platoon would ditch the advanced suits and instead wear light personal armor—having a platoon of mechanized infantry enter the capital city would look a lot more like an invasion than the friendly little visit they were supposed to portray. If the resistance decided to toss feces into spinning blades, the suits would go back on…and then they’d quickly learn exactly who they were dealing with. Estrada wasn’t looking for a fight, but if the resistance pukes wanted to start something, he’d finish it…as best he could.

The thing was, these were civilians. Republic citizens. Unless they had a rifle in their hands, and were firing at them, it was going to be almost impossible to tell the difference between a loyalist trying to protect his or her property and a resistance fighter. If his troopers were forced to use lethal force, there was no question in his mind that innocents were going to get themselves killed. It was going to happen. Estrada just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

But hope was a shitty plan.

“Reaper actual to Reaper Three,” Estrada said into his helmet mic, using the callsigns they’d agreed upon during the mission planning phase. Together, they were Task Force Reaper, and 1Lt Greer, as commander of 3rd platoon, was Reaper Three. His message was going out to 1LT Greer and Estrada’s XO, 1LT Roca. All of the command elements were on different Tomahawks, so if one—or two—of the craft didn’t make it down to the surface, there would still be at least one command element surviving to command the mission.

“Reaper Three,” Greer answered.

Estrada knew he didn’t have to go over the landing plan again—they’d all memorized exactly how the initial portion of the mission was going to unfold—but he restated it anyway. “Let’s do this by the numbers, Matt. Once we’re on the ground, we disembark as if we’re under fire. Get the perimeter established. I want us on the move toward Lion within the hour.”

“Copy, sir. We’re ready to rock and roll. Reaper Three, out.”

Estrada listened as Greer passed-on the message to his squad leaders and GySgt Baker. There was no hesitation in his voice, no wavering, which was good. Greer had only made a couple of simulated combat drops before, but he didn’t seem nervous about it.

A loud clang resounded through the Tomahawk’s interior as the ship moved into its final launch position. Outside, Estrada knew the launch bay was depressurizing, and the massive drop doors were opening beneath his boots. All three Tomahawks would drop within ten seconds of each other, and then begin the quick—and sometimes violent—journey to the surface below. This was the first drop for some of his soldiers, and he knew there would be some puke to clean up afterwards.

He watched as the loadmaster strapped himself into his seat. He was also wearing combat armor, as were the two pilots up front. Estrada tied-in to the ship’s comm freq.

“This is launch bay control, all systems are green. Release in thirty seconds.”

The Tomahawk pilots answered quickly, in order.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

The loadmaster pointed to the countdown display at the front of the troop compartment, letting everyone know there was thirty seconds until the clamps released. The numbers counted down.

Estrada reached up and tightened his straps. His first drop had scared the crap out of him, as it was much rougher than he’d imagined it would be, but by his fifth drop, he’d learned to enjoy every second of it. He heard one person describe the sensation like childbirth—not the actual act of pushing a baby out of a too-small orifice mind you, but quickly forgetting what a combat drop felt like until it was experienced again. The woman—a major with over twenty drops to her credit—had three kids, so Estrada figured she knew what she was talking about.

This was Estrada’s fifteenth drop. Yeah, it was going to hurt a little bit, but so what.

It was exciting as hell.

Ten seconds. Five.

Estrada pushed his helmet back against the padded headrest. The Tomahawks were built for one thing—to get troops down to the surface as quickly as possible. They were long, rectangular-shaped armored boxes with four large engine pods, one on each corner of the upper structure. They were tough, armored, and designed to make it through an atmosphere and land even while under fire. They also had limited dampening, enough to lessen the overall g load to roughly 4 or 5 g, but the system usually lagged, allowing the troopers to feel the crushing forces of many times their body weight for most of the ride down. And it was going to get hot. Very hot.

In fifteen minutes they’d be on the surface. He knew the Gunny would have to drag a few of the sick ones out the back ramp, and scream at them to clean the puke out of their helmets, but they’d be up and operational in no time. A first drop was tough on the drop virgins, but tough was part of their creed. They were fleet infantry. They were assault.

Three. Two. One.

He heard—and felt—the clang as the clamps released, and his stomach flew into his throat.

A few drop veterans couldn’t contain their enthusiasm on the net.

“Yeehah!”

“Elevator to hell, boys and girls!”

“Assault baby, all the way!”

Estrada’s helmet hid his wide grin, lips framing clenched teeth. God he loved being a soldier.

***

Keep an eye out for it! And remember, the first prequel, THE AVIATORS, is available for pre-order right now & will officially hit the streets on Tuesday, July 24, 2018. Here's the LINK.