Breaking Through Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  The Forgotten Prince

  Author's Note

  BREAKING THROUGH

  Book One of the Second Star Series

  © Copyright 2014 by Josh Hayes

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in reviews, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Samantha LaFantasie

  http://samanthalafantasie.com/

  For more information on the author visit: http://www.joshhayeswriter.com/

  Second Edition

  For my wife, Jamie.

  She never doubted. Not once.

  An alert icon flashed in Lt. John McNeal’s Optic as his friend heaved for the third time. John wondered exactly how many times the human body could throw up before it turned inside out and as Mark Keen’s body slumped down again John decided that he was glad he hadn’t had the chicken.

  North Atlantic Union Food: #157 on his Top Ten Reasons to get out of the service. Well, it had started out at ten anyway. Sixty-six days and a wake up then he’d be out, free to pursue his own path, not fighting for someone else’s. If he survived that long, and judging by Mark’s condition, the odds were not in his favor.

  “Dude, I’m pretty sure your stomach is supposed to stay in there,” John said, putting a hand on his friend’s quivering back. Mark groaned and spit repeatedly into the bowl, tiny chucks of half-digested food floated in the rust colored water. John grimaced then leaned forward and flushed.

  He opened the alert and the real world burred around him as he focused on the small, semi-translucent, notification box expanding over his vision. Bold black text scrolled across the powder blue box. He cursed when he’d finished reading. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Mark spit again and groaned. “What?”

  “What do you think?” John closed the alert message, refocused his vision and backed out of the stall.

  “So much for a relaxing evening…” Mark pressed the heel of his right hand firmly into his forehead, his voice nothing more than a raspy whisper.

  John put a hand on the frame and shook his head. “Not sure relaxing is the word I’d use.”

  “Don’t those assholes know we have a title to take back?”

  John chuckled, “Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’re in great shape for Spades.”

  Mark frowned at him, his eyes bloodshot and droopy. “Hey, I’m always in shape to throw cards down.”

  Bravo Flight’s After-Dinner-Spades game was something of a legend around the NAU Fighter Carrier Lincoln. The games usually lasted well into the early morning hours, and generally attracted a healthy audience. Known for his outbursts and charismatic play style, some said Mark’s shit-talking was better than his actual skill at playing cards.

  “Sure you are.”

  Mark started to retort but a painful cough cut him off. He grimaced and rubbed his neck.

  “You want me to call the medics?”

  “Screw you.”

  John shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  The latrine door swung open, banging hard against the counter that ran along the wall opposite the stalls. A woman, dressed in the same black flight-suits as the two men, leaned across the threshold. Shoulder length raven hair shimmered and flowed weightlessly around her face. “You get it too?”

  “Hell yes, we got it.” John said.

  Mark slid back away from the toilet and leaned against the hard plastic wall, “What? Who’s that?”

  The woman motioned to the stall. “He okay?”

  “Oliver,” John said, trying to keep the smirk off his face.

  “Of course, it is.” Mark said, face buried in his palms.

  John turned to the woman and nodded sideways at his sick pal. “I’m sure Princess here will be fine. Had some bad chicken.”

  Laurie Oliver grinned, “Well, you might want to tell Her Royal Highness that Salinger will flip a lid if you two aren’t in Pre-flight ASAP.”

  “Fuck Salinger.” Mark groaned.

  John gave him a doubtful glance. “I’ll be there. Not so sure about him.”

  “Yeah, well, hurry up, would ya. I’m not in the mood to deal with CAG’s shit today, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Captain, ma’am.” John gave her a mocking salute, which she returned with a raised middle finger, then disappeared. “Come on, man, let’s get you to Sick Call.”

  “Not a chance.” Mark spit in the toilet again and used it to push himself up. His hand slipped on the vomit stained porcelain and he fell back against the blue walls. John stepped forward to help steady his friend, who immediately waved him off and said, “I got this.”

  John had to hop out of the way as his friend half-fell, half-stumbled out of the stall. Mark slowly zombie-walked across the bathroom’s tile floor and slapped the faucet on one of the sinks. Water splashed over the fake granite countertop as he pushed his head underneath the cold water and rinsed his mouth out. After scrubbing his face with his hands, he stood and pulled several sheets of paper towel out of the dispenser and dried off.

  “You might want to think about changing,” John said, pointing at the stain of the front of Mark’s flight suit.

  Mark twisted back and spit into the sink, “Why is it always us? I don’t think Alpha Flight has run half as many ops as we have.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Have you not met our Commander?”

  “Ugh.” Mark ran a hand through his hair—what hair he had. Both men sported the clean-cut, military high-and-tight, which refused to go out of style. Reason #5.

  “So… sick call?”

  Mark closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “I think the worst of it—”

  He gulped, his cheeks puffed out and eyes filled with dread as he bolted for the stall. The door slammed back against the inside wall and the sound of slashing water and heaving made John thankful he’d had the meatloaf. There were only a few things the NAU Air Force actually got right, in his opinion, and the meatloaf was one of them.

  John leaned back against the counter. “You know, pretty soon you’re going to have to find someone else to hold hair back.”

  The toilet flushed and Mark emerged from the stall, glaring at John with contempt. After a second he straightened, rolled his neck and said, "Feels like I've been hit by a truck."

  "Looks like it too."

  Mark shuffled back over to the sink and washed his face and hands while swishing some water around his mouth. After a few seconds of spitting, he looked up into the mirror. "Son of a bitch, I just got this back from the cleaners."

  John laughed. “Come on, we'll swing by the room and get you a new one on the way to sick call."

  Mark turned from the mirror and pulled more paper towels free. "I told you I'm fine."

  John pointed a finger at the stall his friend had just stumbled out of. "Do you not remember almost ripping the throne out of the floor just now? I'm pretty sure the CAG will understand why you didn't make OPS. Hell, I might even be able to skate out as well, someone’s gotta take care of Princess Chuck-a-lot.”

  A finger came up. “I’m fine.” He wiped his mouth a final time and tossed the towels in the wall-mounted trash bin. “And no way is that son of a bitch getting another point on me, a touch of nausea isn’t going to keep me out of the air today.”

  “You call that a touch?”
<
br />   Mark waved him off and headed for the door, "Screw that, man. Let's go, we've got some flying to do."

  The latrine door bounced off the counter as Mark stepped into the corridor beyond. John caught it on the backswing and slid out after him, shaking his head in frustration. Mark had always been the stubborn one, and in the six years since they’d met, John hadn’t seen any indication that that would ever change.

  Mark was a military man through and through, and would either retire when they forced him to or die trying to get there. John, on the other hand, had bigger aspirations for his life, which didn't include fighting in pointless wars so that people, who made a lot more money than he did, could continue to make more money. If anyone deserved a piece of the pie, it was him. He’d sacrificed enough for the corporations.

  Of course, he hadn’t always felt this way. When he’d first signed on he’d been the epitome of gung-ho and he’d taken the “service before self” motto seriously, until he learned what military service really meant: service to the highest bidder. Kudos to his recruiter though, he’d made it sound like the most badass thing he could do with his life. How could he say no to fast jets and faster women?

  Should have listened to Dad…

  "You're not going to like it, John. I know you." Arthur McNeal had said. "I'm telling you, son, this guy is full of it. The Top Gun, Iron Eagle days are done and gone."

  The reference had been lost on John, artifacts of a by-gone age. Besides, what could Dad really know about it? He’d stuck out his hand with a grin and said, “I bet you, you’re wrong.”

  The five hundred dollars he owed his Dad, tucked safely away in his sock drawer, seemed to laugh at him every time he looked at crisp new bills. John already knew what Arthur would say, could already see the look on his Dad's face as the bills changed hands. Maybe he could just mail it.

  Their dorm room, which housed eight pilots, was considered luxurious by most military standards. Bunks, stacked two-high, lined each wall and a row of wall-lockers spanned the width of the room at the rear of the compartment. A long table, with benches on either side, sat between them. A large red “B” was painted long ways on the tabletop, surrounded by signatures of all the pilots who’d ever served in Bravo Flight.

  The rest of their flight-mates were already sitting in Pre-Flight, probably taking bets on how pissed the Commander Air Group was going to be when Mark and John showed up late…again.

  Mark shuffled around the center table, littered with half-empty cups and plates. John grinned as Mark held his breath as he moved passed his plate. Seeing the remains of his chicken dinner made Mark groan. A towel lay, draped across the far-end, soaked in what had been Mark’s drink from dinner. He’d knocked it over in his mad dash for the latrine.

  Mark popped open his wall-locker and started peeling off his soiled suit. Beside him, Laurie Oliver’s locker hung open. Mark, who went to great lengths to convince everyone he didn’t have a thing for her, made a show of not looking.

  John felt a twinge of irritation in his right eye and blinked hard. He cursed and pulled a small dropper from his pocket.

  “Eye’s bothering you again?” Mark asked, pulling off a boot.

  “Always.” John leaned his head back and squeezed a drop into one eye. He clenched his teeth together and held his breath.

  “You’d think they’d be able to give you something that didn’t burn like hell.”

  “Oh come on now, there has to be a little torture in everything they prescribe.” John squeezed a drop into his other eye and blinked both, working the fluid around. The Opti-Gel the doctors had given him did help with the irritation, but he could do without the half-second of burning that came with it.

  John watched, through a blurry haze, as Mark tossed his vomit-stained flight suit into a corner and yanked from the wall locker. He jammed his arms and legs into the suit, then zipped it up.

  “I swear to God, if this is another drill…” Mark dropped down on to the bed and pulled on a boot.

  “Then…what?”

  Mark pulled the laces tight and muttered something under his breath.

  “Huh? What was that?”

  “It’s bullshit.”

  John laughed as Mark pulled on his second boot. “Hey, buddy, you’re preaching to the choir, man.”

  “What is this, like eight days in a row now?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Bullshit,” Mark repeated as he moved across to the small sink at the foot of the bunks. He grabbed a tube of toothpaste off the small refrigerator underneath and squeezed some onto his toothbrush. “You know,” he stuck the brush in his mouth and scrubbed, then said through gritted teeth as tiny specs of white paste splattered onto the round mirror in front of him, “Charlie Flight doesn’t have to put up with this bullshit.”

  “Oh, here we go again…”

  Mark spit, “No, I’m serious, have you seen their flight logs?” He paused to rinse, spit, then pulled a disposable towel from the dispenser next to the mirror and wiped his mouth. “I saw Johnson’s Snitch last month and he logged almost half of what we did.”

  “Johnson’s an idiot and you can’t—“ John’s alert icon flashed again. He gave the message a quick glance and then dismissed it. “Come on, we got to go.”

  They arrived in Pre-Flight five minutes later and moved silently into their seats at the back of the room. Mark took the seat at the end of the row and tried his best to look like he hadn’t just turned himself inside out. John slid into the seat next to him and caught Oliver giving them an amused smirk from across the room. She was pretty, he had to give Mark that. Those eyes. Dark brown, mysterious and sexy, and he wondered why Mark hadn’t just bitten the bullet and gone after her.

  Three rows of seats filled the small rectangular briefing room, each row on its own level, descending from the back to the front of the room. The seating arrangements of the Flight weren’t assigned, per se, but every pilot had their own seat. The eight pilots of Bravo Flight sat in their usual seats throughout the room, all listening intently to the Commander Air Group, Lieutenant Colonel Salinger, who was already well into Pre-Flight. The Colonel made it a point to stare down the two tardy pilots as they shuffled to their seats.

  “…opposition forces have moved into position here,” he turned to the holographic display behind him and indicated a location the map floating along the front of the room. “Intel has received information that the Quardief Revolutionary Guard has already taken control of these towns here and here.” He pointed to each location in turn with a pointer.

  Mark leaned over and whispered in John’s ear, “Iceland again?”

  John shook his head without taking his eyes off the holo-display. This would be the third time this year the Quardief had moved against the North Atlantic Union, their determination was admirable; their tactics however, were not. The two previous incursions had been met with overwhelming force by the NAU—some would say, too much force—which had completely decimated two entire brigades. Not to mention the local citizens caught in the middle.

  The image flickered and changed, replaced by high-resolution satellite surveillance of the area in question. Red and orange marker lines identified armed assault vehicles and troop positions. Someone whistled and Salinger nodded. “Exactly right, Quardief is not messing around this time. He has also apparently made some friends in the EU and while they might not be Falcon 3’s, but they’re better than nothing.” Another image materialized in the upper left hand corner of the display. John recognized the body style immediately: Vulture Class mid-range fighters.

  Salinger moved across the floor, through the image, and moved up behind the podium on the left side of the room. “All Union battle groups have been put on Alert Five Status, and we have pulled the first duty.” The image flickered again, returning to the stylized battle map. A red square appeared around a small section of the map and the letters PT1 flashed above it. “The Grindavik Spaceport is our primary responsibility. This is where our Intel peop
le think he will attempt to strike first. As one of the primary shipping hubs for the hemisphere, it cannot be allowed to fall into Quardief hands.”

  A hand when up on the other side of the room and someone said, “Excuse me, sir.”

  Salinger’s eyes lingered on the holo-display for another moment before turning to the pilot sitting in the front row.

  John leaned forward, saw who it was, and grinned. He turned to Mark and whispered, “Oh, this is going to be good.”

  “What is it, Lieutenant Masters?” Salinger asked.

  “I was just wondering, Sir, but isn’t Grindavik under ISC jurisdiction? Shouldn’t it be their guys flying out to save the day?”

  A murmur of voices rippled through the briefing room, neighbors leaned close to one another to whisper and point. Damn straight, John thought, then leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for the show. He’d been thinking the exact same thing; Master’s had beat him to the punch.

  Master’s had a point after all; IntraSolar Colonial controlled anything and everything that had to do with travel between the planets, included shipping to Earth. The age of commercial competition had passed away when the 2037 Monopoly Bill passed, making it legal for highly successful corporations to wipe out their competitors. When ISC came online after the First Solar Expansion it quickly found a niche and worked hard to secure and protect it.

  Salinger adjusted his white uniform shirt, pulling the sides back with his fingers so that there were no wrinkles on the front. His black slacks, which had a bright yellow stripe running down the hem, were perfectly tailored and sat just so on his patent leather shoes. The Colonel, rarely seen out of his “Blacks” uniform, always seemed to make the uniform look perfect. John absentmindedly reached down and tried to smooth out a crease on the leg of his flight suit.

  “What an astute observation, Lieutenant Masters, I’m pleased to see that someone pays attention during these little briefings of mine. I was beginning to think that I was talking to a room full of zombies.” Salinger stepped out from the podium and stroked his chin methodically. “And yes, you are correct, Lieutenant, the Grindavik Spaceport is under Colonial jurisdiction, however, the townspeople and city the port is located in are not. Those people, which happen to be Citizens of the Union, fall under our jurisdiction, and as such, it is our duty to protect them.”