Flags by Tom Olbert
FLAGS
By
Tom Olbert
Copyright © 2010 by Tom Olbert
Lillibridge Press
www.lillibridgepress.com
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover design by Stanley Edwards
Edited by Marla Wick, Ph.D.
FLAGS
An electrical panel exploded, the lighting on the command bridge flickering rapidly, then turning dark red, flooding over the monitor stations like a tide of blood. “Laser strike port side,” Mohammed, the stocky, leather-faced old tactical officer reported. “Damage minimal. They’re firing blind, Captain,” he said with a slight smile.
Jamal returned his smile from the command station. “Arm missiles and fire at will. All ships follow us in: spearhead formation. Execute.” As his attack ships emerged from the radiation cloud that had obscured them, Jamal patched the computer model of the enemy blockade into his terminal and lowered the VR visor over his eyes. He watched as the hologram images of the orbiting battle stations appeared in glowing green patterns in the darkness before him, lined up along the planet’s curve. He smiled as the ring-shaped space stations rapidly dissolved under his missile barrage, the defense perimeter shattering like a broken string of beads.
Without missiles, they were virtually defenseless. As he’d hoped, the Christians had taken the bait and launched their entire arsenal the moment his drone ships had emerged from space-fold. Fighting to contain his jubilation, he slapped a fist into his palm. His plan had worked to perfection. The EM pulse the enemy had themselves created with their nuclear barrage had obscured their own scanners, making it impossible for them to get a clear fix on his real ships even as they shifted into N space.
As his fleet approached New Galilee unopposed, Jamal recited a silent prayer of thanks, realizing he’d been a bit remiss in his devotions lately. Given the circumstances, though, he knew Allah would forgive. The smile slipped from his face as a swarm of dozens of cylindrical red shapes rose from the holographic planet, splintering into hundreds and blocking the approach of his ships. In the upper left quadrant of his holo-vision, a swarm of red arrows left the green sphere of the planet’s third moon and divided into groups of four, bracketing his fleet from five angles. “Enemy fighters closing,” Mohammed announced in a tight voice. “Multiple-target interceptor missiles approaching from planet surface.”
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Laser turrets—target enemy fighters, and set computer controls for auto-firing. Tactical—lock all remaining missiles on computer-designated ground targets. Helm—take us down into the atmosphere. Signal all ships to follow.”