Blink: Phantom (Book 3)

10

The excursion chamber of the Detton-Mouré security complex was small, its Nav-Rod a poor cousin to the monstrous specimen held in Blink Station Alpha. The twelve operatives emerged back into real space in one huge surge that left the air behind them rippling and warping from the distortion of space-time.

Darien kept his carbine tucked close to his body as he reappeared, occupying as small a space as possible out of habit. They'd all heard the horror stories of operatives travelling in close proximity leaving a stray limb here or there with disastrous results. He wasn't sure how true some of the tales were, but long ago had decided it wasn't worth putting it to the test.

He looked left and right to make sure everyone had arrived safely. Sure enough, eleven other heavily armed young men and women stood, some gazing at their new surroundings, others like Idas immediately checking their weapons. He hoped all of them would be up to the task ahead. It was rare that Blink teams were deployed with the express purpose of combat. He re-checked the bandoleer of his carbine, and then looked up as the door to the chamber ground open.

A portly individual in the dark blue uniform of the local law enforcement stumped into the room and immediately Darien could see the nervousness on the man's face. Beads of sweat ran down his cheeks and his eyes were wide. Did he know just how dangerous their quarry actually was? Darien doubted it.

After a brief exchange with the security officer they set off through the station's halls, winding their way up toward the hanger at the tip of the complex. The building didn't seem to have stairs, just a series of winding, circular ramps that opened off to room after room of indeterminate purpose. As they climbed higher, however, he could hear the low rumble of engines and the clamour of voices shouting over them.

They reached their destination – a heavy circular blast door leading into the hanger. Their guide punched in a code and with a hiss of gears the whole thing rolled aside. Darien winced as a wave of heat and exhaust fumes washed over them from within. The acrid smell of burnt fuel cells stung his nostrils and he coughed once, blinking against the sudden assault on his senses. He could hear the others behind him having similar reactions. Clearing his throat, he straightened up and led them inside.

The main hanger of Detton-Mouré's security force felt like standing inside an enormous furnace. All around them the cylindrical chamber was a mess of roaring voices, repair stations, running men and women, and the thunder of engines, all of it adding to the cloying, searing heat. In the ceiling above them circular ports irised open to allow passage of gunships and troop carriers, their engines blazing against the planet's hot, humid air.

It didn't take long for Darien to pick out their flight of ships from amongst the bustle. Bulkier than the gunships of the local security, the ten Wyverns squatted on the far rim of the room, each one a ten-meter long instrument of warfare. The shovel-shaped cockpit was flanked by two heavily armoured wings and disc-like elevation turbines. A twin-linked booster engine the size of a fridge jutted from the rear, humming with power. These variants had been stripped of their heavier ordinance in favour of speed, but they still sported nose-mounted rotating assault cannons that he knew would be packed to the gunnels with armour-piercing rounds.

Technically they held a crew of six; hybrids of fighter and dropship with space for a pilot, gunner and four passengers in the rear compartment. Men weaved in and around them as the operatives approached, making final flight checks of the exterior parts. A lanky, clean-shaven young man detached himself from the jumble as they approached, clad in the deep midnight blue of the Colonial Navy.

"Flight Lieutenant Olsen," he said crisply, throwing them a salute. "You from Blink?"

"That's us."