“Possible emissions change in targets designated King Two bearing one seven eight mark ten range now closing on a one point seven delta. CIC acknowledge.”

The officer manning the Skywatch command console was literally standing at the nerve center of the Argent’s massive electronic sensor and scanner arrays. Anything that moved, emitted a signal or any kind of energy within thirty million miles of where he was standing would instantly show up on any one of more than a hundred readouts.

It wasn’t a mistake he was also standing “above” every other location aboard the ship. The Skywatch station aboard a strike battleship was more or less the control tower for all of the vessel’s flight operations. Its sister station was the Combat Information Center, which performed the same function for the vessel’s weaponry.

The coordination between Skywatch, CIC and Force Command on the bridge was what made ships in Argent’s class so formidable. They didn’t have the numbers of fighters a true carrier could muster, nor did they have the firepower of a true battleship. But they were good enough at either combat role to rarely be underestimated.

“Affirmative, Skywatch. CIC confirms. Stand by on this channel.”

The gray phone above the conn buzzed. Captain Hunter reached up and grabbed it out of its thick metal hook.

“Bridge.” He listened carefully. “Acknowledged. Maintain alert status.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “Get me an update on our flight readiness. King Two is accelerating to launch speed. Signals, raise Ajax and Minstrel on secure frequency.”

Lieutenant Velasquez performed a readiness sweep of all alert spacecraft from the flight operations station. The activity on all three of Argent’s flight decks was brisk. Two complete watch rotations were at work arming four of the flagship’s five fighter combat squadrons. Avatars representing each of the lethal little ships turned green as they were linked into the battlespace telemetry and communications network.

“Flight One prep Squadron Nine Nine Four proceeding in combat order. Jets in thirty.”

Inside the spacious flight deck, Yellowjacket fighters emblazoned with the fanciful crimson flags, swords and grinning pirates of the storied Red Buccaneers rose from their ordnance platforms one by one and turned towards their respective rail tunnels. The high-pitched whine of their atmospheric thrusters mixed with the low hum of strengthening magnetic and anti-gravity fields. Red rotating lights flashed under each fighter’s hull. Deck crews backed away to safe distances after detaching fuel and telemetry equipment.

Each fighter followed the signals from its respective “Deck Stacker,” a Skywatch term for the flight crew member tasked with directing spacecraft to and from fueling, arming, flight check and launch stations. Moments later, flight leader Harrison March’s Yellowjacket attack fighter locked into position inside the deck’s first launch tunnel. Other fighters followed, each floating into its own launcher at fifteen second intervals. It was a highly choreographed precision maneuver that put eleven heavily-armed fighters one order away from rocketing into space at 2000 MPH.

Velasquez hung up his own handset. “Flight one reports squadron nine nine four standing by to launch at your command, sir.”

Meanwhile on the starboard side of the ship on Flight Deck Three, the exact same dance was being performed by the seventeen Wildcat fighters of Argent Squadron Eighty Five, known as “Los Gatos.” All of Fighting 85“s hulls were painted night black and decorated with silver sword blades along their lateral edges. With exactly the same precision and speed, the first twelve ships were loaded into rail launchers and ready signals were flashed to the bridge and to the Skywatch station in Argent’s “tower.”

Flight Two’s situation was a little different. The largest of Argent’s three flight decks was constructed to launch both fighters and their larger sisters the corvettes, paladins and gunships. T-Hawk Green was first in the combat readiness rotation for second watch. Because of the larger sizes of their ships, Flight Two had six heavy rail tunnels instead of the twelve smaller versions installed in the outer decks. It still meant they could put the entire 11-strong T-Hawk squadron in space in under sixty seconds if necessary. Moments after receiving the alert signal, Flight Two notified the bridge T-Hawk Green was standing by. The sharp, pointed arms of Argent’s unique weapons platforms loomed over the flight crews as they waited their turn.

Lieutenant Velasquez turned to the conn with the handset to his ear. “Flight Two is green. All decks show ready.”

“Signals, raise the Ajax.”

A few moments later, Commander Harcourt appeared on the Argent’s main screen. Behind him the tough little frigate’s bridge was alive with activity. “Ajax, Harcourt.”

“Commander, we’ve got some traveling companions standing by to assist. What is your status?” Hunter’s voice was full of confidence.

“Ajax will take the southeast picket. Minstrel will cover the front door, sir.”

“Acknowledged. T-Hawk Green will be standing by to back you up. We will have three combat space patrols on a rotating watch in the saddle. King Two is accelerating and we expect Orca to launch any moment. If any hostile fighters break range, they get one warning. Clear?”

“As a bell, sir. Ajax out.”

“Get me the Fury,” Hunter said as he picked up the armaments report for the three squadrons awaiting his launch order.

“Fury, Hunter.”

“Tell Annora I’m doing my best to match her mastery of the combat space patrol,” Jason said without looking up.

“I’m sure she’ll be gratified to hear it, sir. We can’t confirm any launch or hostile action from King Two, but they are closing range.”

“Agreed. I just found another ace in the hole. Either that or a joker. We’ll find out when we get to a decision. I have ETA to Uniform Tango at thirty one minutes present speed. Ajax and Minstrel are establishing a picket at five million miles and I’ve got Jacks, Cats and T-Hawks on station to back them up. What is our battlegroup status?”

“Revenge, Spruance, Constellation and Fury are 90% reconfigured for medium range missile standoff. Exeter and Rhode Island will take short range intercepts and Jefferson will float.”

“Sounds like we’ve done all we can. Now it’s just a question of who punches who the hardest.”

“We’ll have our gloves off, sir. Fury out.”

Hunter examined the tactical display for a moment, recognizing that cold icy feeling way down deep once again as he re-evaluated the strategic situation. Ultimately, the Perseus group’s only advantage was range and the lead time it provided. In every other respect they were outgunned and out-tonned. Hunter knew either task force would be a handful by itself. Together, they were way over his head. He knew it and so did his entire command.

The only chance Strike Fleet Perseus had was to get the Sentinel operational and in the fight.

Hunter grabbed the black phone. “Operations, this is the Flag. Launch all alert spacecraft!”

The Flight Boss on Port Deck One flipped two switches up and rammed his hand down on the red bar at the base of his vessel operations board. Three-foot-wide rotating white and red lights went active along the ceilings of all three flight decks at once indicating a “Tac-Signal One” combat launch. The priority net switched over and his voice sounded in every pilot’s headset and from squawk boxes inside Skywatch, CIC and the bridge.

“Spaceflight Operations Deck One to all alert spacecraft your signal is jets. I say again your signal is jets. Time out mark fifteen seconds. Victory Three Three Five your rally point is on the board and locked in. Spaceflight Operations Deck One to all alert spacecraft–”

The voice of the Flight Boss was overwhelmed by the piercing sound of Lieutenant Commander March’s engines and the deck-shaking thrum of the rail tunnel’s magnetic and electrical charging coils.

The rail operator peered out of the nest built into the floor of the launching system. He could see the Yellowjacket pilot’s name and “Caveman” call sign emblazoned just under his cupola. The black blast plate over his eyes made it impossible to see his face.

Commander March turned toward the nest and saluted sharply just as his engines reached launch power. He grabbed the controls with both hands as the charge indicator rolled across the rail operator’s console and finally shifted green. Tunnel One shuddered with barely restrained energy just before the stabilizers blasted all twelve of the gas pressure locks around the vessel free. Buccaneer One rocketed forward, slamming its pilot back in the crash couch. The glowing circular amplifiers slid past his fighter at faster and faster speeds until he exploded into space at more than 350MPH. Seconds later, his heavily armed little craft punched up to more than 2300MPH.

On the opposite side of Argent, the same ritual played out for Lieutenant Jonathan Tichborne’s Gato Uno, dubbed “El Jefe” by his squadron. A quick salute, and his black sword-emblazoned ship surged forward, propelled by incomprehensible power. Los Gatos were officially on patrol.

Then Lieutenant JG Eileen Walsh, callsign “Meerkat,” saluted the emblem and slammed both feet down against the gas locks. A moment later Buccaneer Four blasted free of Argent’s flight deck.

Seconds later, one of the double-sized rail tunnels along Argent’s ventral hull glowed to life. Inside, the lethal weapon points of T-Hawk Five twisted and folded towards her center axis as her drive field steadily powered up around her menacingly dark hull. The anti-magnetic energy of the gunship’s interdiction systems reacted with the apocalyptic voltage inside the rail tunnel, providing the additional energy necessary to accelerate a much larger ship to launch velocity. The pilot saluted the emblem and clamped both hands around the vessel’s grip triggers. T-Hawk Five’s engines exploded to life and caught the leading edge of the magnetic force before the ship roared out of the rail tunnel at hundreds of miles an hour. Within seconds it banked into formation with Buccaneer One like a bald eagle maneuvering into formation with a flock of sparrows and set course for the first rally point.

Behind her, Gato Cinco flashed into space, followed by Buccaneers Two and Seven and then T-Hawk Eight. In the space of only three minutes and change, DSS Argent had launched a mighty wave of fighters and gunships.