"Nancy, this is Jack. Uncle Timmy says seven minutes!" a voice over the intercom said. "I'll meet you in the hangar."
Uncle Timmy, actually Lieutenant Commander Timmy Uniform November Kilo Lima Three Seven Seven, or UNKL377, the AIC officer of the U.S.S. Sienna Madira, had already relayed that information to Allison through the quantum membrane wireless, but Allison had been hesitant to notify her human counterpart that it was time to go to work. She seemed to be in the midst of a serene, halcyon moment and appeared to be contemplating life, her life—Allison had been monitoring her vital signs and had worked with Nancy long enough to judge her moods. Nancy was amazingly tranquil considering their current situation. But Allison and Nancy had been through a lot in the seven years since they had left the "Farm" in Virginia. The Farm, as it was affectionately known by its alumni, was better described as an advanced training camp for superspies being trained as special operatives for the Central Intelligence Agency. On the Farm Nancy and Allison had been trained in the fundamentals and some advanced tactics for handling the stressful situations of being an undercover agent. All training aside, after that ordeal in New Africa, there was very little in terms of danger and stress that seemed to shake either of them. Allison remained quiet for another moment.
Nancy stood and took one last look through the portal as more domes without the serene smoky gray plumes passed by underneath the supercarrier—more sign of the disruption of the Martian terraforming plan, a disruption of peace, a disruption of the American way of life. The steady gray smoke had seemed to have a power over her, as if it could calm the stormy winds of the planet beneath her and bring peace to her . . . to humanity. But it was a false tranquillity, because war had been an on-again-off-again fact of humanity throughout history. There were several of the domes ahead and southeast with smoke clouds rolling wildly from them, but these clouds were black and violent looking—foreboding of even worse times to come. Then the ship rocked to port and then tossed to starboard. Then it lurched and dropped over a hundred meters as warning klaxons and lights began to ring throughout the ship.
Ma'am, better hurry.
Right, Allison. Nancy pulled her helmet over her head and attached the life support seal ring with a twist, the faceshield still in the open position as she made her way to the elevator system. The upper-deck hallway of the supercarrier was dimly lit and the metallic features of a naval vessel were accentuated dramatically by the red and yellow flashing incident lights.
"Down ladder. Make a hole!" Nancy said as she slid down a small stairwell to the main hall that led to the ship's elevator on the forward port side. Two young female ensigns and an older male chief stood backs against the wall as she bolted down the stairs by them. Their reaction was more surprise than respect.
"General quarters. General quarters! All hands, all hands, man your battle stations immediately! Radar shows multiple ground targets with incoming surface-to-air defenses. Prepare for evasive!" Uncle Timmy announced over the 1MC intercom as well as directly to all AIC implants.
"Hold the elevator please." Nancy nodded to the Army lieutenant colonel in full tank mecha commander's armor that was holding the elevator open as she approached. "Deck zero please, Lieutenant Colonel." He reacted instinctively and defensively to Nancy's appearance at first. Then he must have recognized her or at least saw the American flag over her left breast pocket. No doubt the lieutenant colonel's AIC had been briefed of a possible interaction with an oddly dressed civilian on board. No doubt they had all been briefed with "you never saw her."
The colonel was part of the ground contingent that would soon be dropped on the Separatist Army after the Navy Aviators had softened them up from the air. His nameplate on his armor read "Warboys" and he was wearing a Martian algae field camo environment suit with tank mecha armor hardpoints and there was the typical mecha neuralinterface jack on his helmet. His visor was in the up position, putting off a slight glare from the yellow warning lights blinking in the elevator, but Nancy could read "Warlord One" painted on his helmet's forehead through the visor. His environment suit, not accounting for the mecha hardpoints, was standard-issue and state-of-the-art. The difference between the Army environment suit and the Separatist suit Nancy was wearing was never more obvious—like night and day.
Her suit was more worn, ragged, and just old-looking. Or at least that was how Nancy thought of it, because it just felt that way to her. If any members of her family even knew she was still alive and by the off chance could see her in the suit, they might remark how much like her mother she looked at the moment. But they didn't know she was alive, never would see her in this suit, and perhaps never see her again.
"Certainly." Warboys pressed the elevator button and caught himself as the ship lurched hard to port again. "Jesus H. F'n Christ! We must be getting goddamned hammered if the inertial controls are having this hard a time compensating." The Sienna Madira jerked hard upward again. "Shit."
"Probably," Nancy replied. Shit, she thought while trying to balance herself with a handhold on the elevator safety rail.
"Well, I just hope the bay plating SIFs holds. Last run we lost forty-nine percent of the drops before the tanks ever got out of the bay!" he said.
"High casualty rates, sir. Hope you fare better today." She nodded emotionlessly as the elevator door opened on deck two and the lieutenant colonel hurried out.
"Thanks. Good luck!" he grunted, and told himself that he had "never seen her."
"You too, sir." Nancy held her balance as the ship rocked again and the elevator door closed. The eleven seconds that passed before the elevator doors opened again on the hangar deck seemed like an eternity—a very bumpy eternity.
"Well, this is what we're here for." Nancy stepped through the elevator door, let out a long slow sobering sigh, and made her way toward the end of the hangar bay.
Yes ma'am, it is, Allison added.
The Ares-class aerospace fighters filled the hangar from one end to the other and the technicians, flight deck officers, and pilots were scurrying all about in T-shirts or coveralls of solid reds, greens, blacks, yellows, or oranges depending on their particular jobs. The scene was reminiscent of a fire ant mound that had been kicked over. Nancy allowed her mind to rest on that image for a split second. How likely would it be that she'd ever see a fire ant mound again? Hmm, had fire ants made it to Mars and did they survive there?
Where are you, Penzington? Navy Lieutenant Commander Jack Boland called on a wireless AIC-to-AIC connection.
Just got off the elevator. Be there in a sec.
Nancy picked up her pace to the end of the large fighter plane hangar. The room was approximately four hundred meters long and at least a hundred meters wide. There were rows and rows of Ares fighters lined up on each side of the hangar and there were more of them hanging from the ceiling. Techs and pilots were scurrying furiously about them preparing for the pending attack deep into the Separatist Reservation.
Stop, Nancy! Look out! Allison warned her by shouting in her mind. Nancy stopped to let an automated equipment lift full of munitions and power packs hover past in front of her. Had she not stopped at the pristine painted black and yellow caution stripe, the two ton lift would have flattened her and never looked back. Her mission would have ended before it had even started!
Thanks for the heads-up. Fortunately for Nancy, AIs communicated with each other and the lift's AI had warned Allison. She finally reached fighter bay 133 none the worse for wear.