“Nonsense,” the captain cut him short. “You’re a pilot and a leader. You’re a natural, it’s in your blood. I had tremendous respect for Ambassador Ansgaard, and if he put his trust in you, it’s good enough for me. I’m Captain O’Neil, by the way. And I still expect you to salute me, Commander Blaze.”
Jason rose from his stool and raised his hand slowly, as if he’d forgotten how to salute. “I’m honored, captain.” The old reflex kicked in, and he snapped the perfect salute, then lowered his hand and extended it to the captain. “But please never order me to shoot down civilian ships.”
The captain grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. “I never will. But if you disobey my orders once, you’ll be sorry. Believe me.”
* * *
Jason had to say goodbye to Riley and leave. He returned to his quarters, packed his belongings, and took a shuttle to the Phenix. The carrier was about 450 meters in length and designed to carry seventy-two starfighters, plus other vehicles, depending on the mission.
He wanted to introduce himself to the airmen under his command, but the introductions would have to wait. Captain O’Neil told him that a Biozi fleet had engaged the Defiance and Admiral Winsley was requesting assistance.
Before the battle, Jason had barely enough time to drop his suitcase into his quarters, take a shower, shave, and put on his flight suit. He hurried to the autopod that would take him to his starfighter.
O’Neil called him on his direct channel. “No time for a briefing, huh? That’s not how I wanted you to start. I can make an announcement to the crew, if you want.”
“Not necessary, but thanks for the offer. I’ll introduce myself. Actions speak louder than words.”
“That’s the spirit. Good hunting.”
The autopod brought Jason straight to the cockpit of his Rapier. The RF-30 was a beautiful model, sleek and aerodynamic, yet powerful with its four main thrusters located under its wings. It was saddening to think that the engineers who had designed such a beauty were no more, killed in a nuclear holocaust.
Jason hopped into the open cockpit, put on his helmet, interfaced with the onboard nanocomputer via his implants, and grabbed the stick.
He activated the channel of his wing by mental command and said, “Listen up, everyone. I’m Commander Blaze, your new CO. I’m not good at speeches, so I’ll make it brief. All you need to know about me is that I served under Captain Hunt on the Remembrance and survived, my sanity mostly intact. That gives me bragging rights. Now, let’s give hell to cockroaches, and make Captain O’Neil proud. We are human!”
“We are human!” the airmen shouted in unison.
The countdown to launch appeared at the corner of Jason’s HUD.
“Remember to take a shot of anti-G serum,” he added. “Even with inertial dampers, you’ll be pulling serious gees.”
Jason felt the pressure of a transdermal syringe on his neck as it injected him with the serum. The liquid making its way into his bloodstream made him shiver, a wave of cold spreading throughout his body. The doors of the launch tube opened, and when the countdown reached zero, electromagnetic forces ejected his Rapier into space.
The battle scene unfolded before him. The Biozi were attacking in force. Three hostile battlegroups had surrounded the Defiance and were squeezing the noose around it. ASF escorts had taken damage and wouldn’t be able to hold for long.
“Take down the jump inhibitor,” O’Neil ordered.
Jason examined the 3D map. “Captain, we can do better than that. We can win.”
“It’s your first mission as Air Boss, and you’re already challenging my orders?”
“No, captain, I’m just suggesting. Let’s strike their carriers.”
“You won’t get through their defenses.”
“I believe we will. Their escort destroyers are guarding the jump inhibitor, and their interceptors won’t stop us.”
“Give it a try, but no heroics, understood?”
“Aye aye, captain.”
All open channels were listed in the corner of Jason’s HUD in small letters. There were many of them: op channel, battlegroup channel, Phenix channel, wing channel, squadron channel, and flight channel, plus his personal one. His wing consisted of seventy-two starfighters, interceptors and fighter-bombers combined. They were divided in six squadrons of twelve. In addition, each squadron was subdivided into three flights of four birds. He could change channels by mental command using his cerebral implants.
Jason switched to the wing channel. “Okay, flyboys and flygirls, here’s the plan. Squadron Bellum, keep the spiders busy. Castor, target the nearest carrier, attack pattern sigma-eight. Draco, you’re in reserve. Atlas, you’re with me. Combat speed.”
He accelerated toward the approaching Arachnid interceptors, the other eleven Rapiers of Squadron Atlas flying in formation and matching their speed to his.
“Free to engage,” Jason said to his squadron.
“That’s it, free to engage?” the pilot called Porto boomed.
“You’re all experienced combat pilots; I’m not gonna treat you like nuggets,” Jason replied. “Trust your guts, trust your wing mates, and we’ll get through this.”
Roster on screen, Jason instructed the onboard nanocomputer by mental command.
The list of pilots in his wing unfolded on his HUD. He activated the channel of his flight and said to his wingman, “First-class airman Radge, you’ve got thirty-five stars, or is it a database error?”
“Yessir, thirty-five kills it is,” the flyboy replied in an excited, high-pitched voice.
“Radge, what’s that, a nickname?”
“Name and nickname, sir.”
“Well, Radge, show me what you’ve got.”
“With pleasure, sir!”
The Arachnids fired a swarm of Alpha-class missiles. The usual tactics would be to engage in evasive maneuvers to dodge the alphas, then lock on the hostile interceptors and shoot light ordnance. Radge did neither. His Rapier rocketed straight toward the enemy formation, spewing countermeasures. Jason followed him.
The RF-30 model could accelerate faster than any other spacecraft. Its four main thrusters and twelve lateral ones gave it outstanding maneuverability, and Radge took full advantage of that. His interceptor slalomed through the swarm of missiles unscathed and maneuvered to get behind the Arachnid formation.
The Biozi interceptors engaged in evasive maneuvers, but Radge already had a lock on the squadron leader, recognizable by the position of his interceptor in the formation. Radge’s 12-mm rapid-fire guns blazed and shredded the Arachnid in a second.
“Thirty-six stars,” he said with a laugh tinged with madness.
This guy’s totally fangs out. Better watch him.
Indeed, Radge was just getting started. Having lost their leader, the Biozi squadron was in chaos, and its interceptors were easy pickings for the Rapiers. Radge locked onto another Arachnid and shot an alpha. It scored a direct hit and disintegrated the enemy interceptor.
“Impressive,” Jason admitted. “My turn.”
He stepped on the accelerator and locked onto an Arachnid that was trying to flank Radge. He shot one missile to force the interceptor to break its attack run, then hopped on its six and pulverized it with a second missile.
“Neat trick,” Radge said. “How many stars now?”
“Forty,” Jason replied. “But it’s not a competition. Forget about keeping scores and focus on the fight. There’s another squadron of Arachnid interceptors closing in. We need to protect Castor.”
The Tomahawks of Squadron Castor started an attack run on the Kraken. Trails of their Gamma-class missiles glowed against the blackness of space. Squadron Draco was next in line for their attack run.
“Flight, follow my lead,” Jason ordered. “Four against sixteen? They don’t stand a chance.”
He threw his Rapier toward the Biozi squadron.
“Blaze, what the hell are you doing?” That was O’Neil calling Jason on his direct channel. “Th
at’s cowboy tactics. Don’t try to impress me with colorful actions.”
“No colorful actions, captain,” Jason replied. “We’ve got the situation under control. We just took out a squadron of spiders without any losses. We’ll spank the other one too.”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, commander, but don’t get too cocky.”
“Roger, sir.”
The four Rapiers led by Jason slashed through the enemy formation, taking out two interceptors in the process. The Biozi craft spread out in panic.
In theory, the Arachnid interceptor was a match for the RF-30 Rapier in terms of maneuverability and firepower, but in reality the kill ratio was about six to one in favor of the Rapier. As always, the Biozi relied on rigid command structures and combat protocols, which made their tactics predictable. ASF pilots, on the other hand, liked to show initiative and improvise, throwing the enemy into disarray.
“We need to buy Castor more time,” Jason called. “The goal is not to score kills, just keep the bugs busy. Missiles full spread.”
In ASF terms, that was called a brawl, a close-range dogfight that pinned down an enemy squadron and prevented it from engaging high-value targets.
The Rapiers fired four missiles each in friend-or-foe mode. The missiles would lock onto the nearest hostile and pursue it, until they were destroyed or ran out of fuel. As long as the Arachnids were dodging missiles, they couldn’t focus on the ASF fighter-bombers.
The Biozi carrier started retreating. The Tomahawks were now at close range, scoring one hit after another. The latest models of ASF fighter-bombers were a far cry from the TH-B2 Jason used to fly in the beginning of his career. The TH-F24s of Squadron Castor outclassed any Biozi craft in their category in maneuverability and firepower.
“Your idea is working,” O’Neil told Jason. “Their escort destroyers are moving to protect the Kraken. It’s time to hit the jump inhibitor.”
“We can take out that squid, captain,” Jason said. “Just need two more mins.”
“Negative, commander. The Defiance needs to jump before it takes too much damage. It’s our flagship; we cannot lose it.”
Not like we lost the Liberty.
Jason shivered as the images of the Liberty’s last stand flashed through his mind. “Aye, captain. Initiating attack run on the jump inhibitor.”
He ordered the two squadrons he’d kept in reserve to engage the target. Biozi defenses crumbled under pressure, and the sphere of the jump inhibitor was soon engulfed in plasma. When it went offline, all starfighters were recalled, and ASF ships jumped to safety.
19
Flawed role model
Jason gave his airmen a couple of hours to rest after the battle, then conveyed a debriefing. They gathered in the largest meeting room on the Phenix, and Jason felt a pang of anxiety as two hundred pairs of eyes stared at him. He’d never been much of a public speaker, and he’d never had so many people under his command.
“Okay, it looks like I’m your CO,” he started with a smug smile. “To be honest, I was as surprised by this appointment as you were. Some of you may know that I resigned from the ASF after the Battle of Vega, and I didn’t expect to be reinstated. But now that I’m here, I’ll do my very best to lead you.”
He activated a holo-screen and displayed the statistics of the battle they’d just survived.
“We all came back alive from this gig, and that’s important,” he resumed. “We lost five birds, but the crews punched out and their pods were recovered. Good job, everyone. I think we could’ve done even better, though. Let’s look at the footage and see what we can improve.”
The holo-screen replayed the battle seen through the eye of a recon drone, and Jason zoomed in on the starfighters under his command.
“The start was strong; we took the initiative and disrupted any attempts the Biozi made to counter our attack run. Radge took out the leader of the first Arachnid squadron. They never recovered.”
The senior airman called Porto raised his hand. He was stocky, with a round face, short dark hair, and a goatee.
“Yes, Porto?”
“With all due respect, commander, I think Radge took unnecessary risks here,” Porto boomed, pointing at the screen. “He could’ve been hit by an alpha. He slipped through the nets this time, but relying on luck isn’t a good long-term strategy.”
Jason displayed the footage from Radge’s interceptor. “I’ve done the same maneuver several times,” he said. “I’ve even done this with a Cetus-class destroyer to get through a barrage of thirty-two deltas.”
The airmen met this admission with astonishment, judging by the glances they threw at one another and their excited whispering.
“Okay, I admit it was risky,” Jason added, raising his palms. “What do you say, Radge?”
“I say it wasn’t luck—it was skill.”
More whispering in the room. Everyone looked at the young pilot. Short, skinny, with ruffled hair, he made Jason think of a chick fallen from the nest. But this chick could bite.
“You’re cocky for a first-class, Radge,” one of the lieutenants said. “You’re still in your teens, and you want to give us a lesson in space warfare tactics?”
“Why not?” Radge snapped at the officer. “I’ve got more kills than you, lieutenant. More than anyone in this room, in fact, except Commander Blaze.”
This time, it wasn’t just whispering, it was outrage. Several airmen were speaking at the same time, some even yelled at Radge.
“Calm down, everyone,” Jason shouted, raising his hands. “I said calm down!”
When order was restored, he continued, “Look, Radge, what do you think we’re all doing here? You think it’s a fragging game? I told you, it’s not about who scores more points or gets more kills. It’s about teamwork. No one died today ‘cuz we all watched one another’s back.”
The pilots nodded with satisfied expressions on their faces. Jason felt relieved that, overall, his new command started rather well.
Maybe Riley was wrong about me. Maybe the ASF can make a decent officer out of me, after all.
* * *
Jason returned to his quarters after the briefing. Radge was waiting for him, leaning against the entrance door, his arms folded across his chest.
“Look at you, a model officer,” he said with a smirk.
“Is this how you address your CO, first-class? And what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m not on duty, and neither are you,” Radge said, his smirk persisting. “You see, I know ASF regulations. This’s called the casual hour. It’s like the happy hour at a pub, but instead of getting two bucks off a pint of booze, you get to socialize with your crewmates in a casual atmosphere. And, occasionally, tell your superior assholes they’re full of crap.”
Jason clenched his jaw and pointed his index finger at Radge’s chest. “Watch your mouth, bugass. Casual hour or not, you don’t get to talk to me like that, unless you’re willing to make a trip to sickbay on a stretcher.”
“We need to talk.” Radge stepped back, and the door opened automatically. “After you, sir.”
They entered Jason’s quarters, and Radge punched the button that locked the doors.
“All right, I’m all ears,” Jason said. “But you better have something worthwhile to say.”
“I do.” Radge slipped his hands into the pockets of his uniform and leaned against a wall. “I know you, Blaze. I know your secret.”
“What secret?”
“I grew up on Arcturus, in a town near the base where your unit was stationed. Every day after school, I sneaked to the base and watched the airstrip through digital field glasses. Every time I saw fighters take off, I imagined I was in one of those birds. I dreamed to be a pilot, like you and your mates. You were my role model.”
Jason gaped at Radge, trying in vain to come up with something meaningful to say in reply.
“But you let me down, like you let down the three pilots who were your friends,” Radge added.
&
nbsp; “How’d you know that?” Jason snapped with a frown.
“I know that ‘cuz I spied on you. I was the local handyman, and as the ASF was always shorthanded, they gave me small jobs from time to time. Once, they sent me a broken transceiver. When I fixed it and turned it on, I found the frequency of your squadron in its memory chip, together with the decryption algorithm. Sick luck, right?”
Jason tensed. Now he understood what secret Radge had alluded to.
“I DIYed a long-range receiver from bits and pieces, tuned it to that frequency, and listened in. I was so over the moon I even recorded stuff. Including the last words of your wing mates, the ones you betrayed. The ones you let die.”
“What do you want from me?” Jason asked blankly.
Radge scoffed. “You think I’m blackmailing you? No, mate, I won’t do that. But I want you to know that I know. You botched that mission, you made a bad call, and you sacrificed your mates to get out of that bloody mess alive. As a role model, you were dead to me. But I still applied to the ASF, passed the tests, and became a pilot. I didn’t want to be like you anymore; I wanted to be better than you.”
“Good for you, mate,” Jason snapped. “Sorry I’ve disappointed you, but honestly, I don’t give a frag about your opinion of me.”
“And what about the opinion of your fellow officers? Do they know about your past? I’ve done a little digging, and learned—surprise! —that an old pal is looking for you. Rico Varez.”
Jason swore inwardly. That cockroach would survive even a holocaust.
“That’s right, your ol’ pal settled comfortably on the Dionysus,” Radge added with a grin. “I even heard he’s in charge there. Maybe that’s where you belong.”
With those words, Radge unlocked the door and walked out. Jason remained still for a long time, staring into the void. He’d never felt so lonely in his life.
* * *
Admiral Winsley assigned the Phenix to Battlegroup Vega, led by the Remembrance. The battlegroup was on a top-priority mission, and Captain Hunt conveyed all senior officers to a briefing.
Jason was the last to arrive. He mumbled an apology and took a seat next to Captain O’Neil. A large holo-screen in the middle of the room showed the map of a sector Jason didn’t recognize.
Battlegroup Vega Page 13
