“You’re on, sir. Scenario?”
“Active interception of an inbound bomber squadron.”
Hume’s rich voice filled his in helmet commlink. “Right. Cheerio, then, and do try to keep up.”
A few more minutes passed as hangar crews moved Amir’s fighter into the launch tube. More than anything, he wanted to be in space. Grounded for weeks inside the Lion made him feel cooped up. Like a caged tiger. The familiar crunch of the catapult locking down on the fuselage of his craft reminded him that freedom was a few seconds away.
“Colonel Amir, this is the boss.” The voice of the Lion’s Air Boss cut into his thoughts. “You’re clear to launch.”
“Acknowledged.” Amir toggled his engines to maximum and triggered the launch sequence. The sides of the tube streaked by for a moment, and then—stars. The view in front of him was majestic. Six large heavy cruisers in a protective formation around the Lion of Judah, along with a battleship of Saurian design—the RNV Resit Kartal. Unlike the human warships, with their boxy designs, the alien vessel held sweeping lines and reminded him of a boat’s bow, cutting across the water. “Reaper One to Red Dawg One, come in.”
“I read you five by five,” Hume replied. “Moving to safe distance for simulated attack run.”
Amir maneuvered between the small fleet, expertly guiding his craft. He glanced down at a new display and set of buttons—the drone controls. With the flick of a switch, the system armed itself. He configured one drone for defense, and two for offense, noting with satisfaction as they separated from his fighter, they kept pace and perfect formation. “I’m ready to engage, Red Dawg One.”
“Acknowledged. May the best pilot win,” Hume replied, his tone happy.
Their flight computers inputted another two squadrons each of fighters and bombers. Amir’s tactical plot quickly populated, with his AI-generated wingmen forming up. He quickly calculated the proper position to intercept—the entire point of the exercise being to interdict the enemy bombers before they took out friendly capital ships—and pulled his throttle to maximum. G-forces pressed him into his seat as he quickly accelerated to what would be equal to 15-Gs, without inertial damping technology.
“Ah, the old come-straight-at-me strategy?” Hume said through the commlink.
“Something like that.” Amir tightened his grip on the flight yoke as the distance grew closer. As soon as he entered maximum missile range, he obtained a positive lock on a bomber at the edge of Hume’s formation. The lock-on tone sounded, and he triggered a LIDAR guided missile. The simulated weapon raced toward its target, while the rest of the AI-controlled wingmen followed suit.
Blue icons filled his HUD as his entire flight launched. Then red images popped into place, along with enemy lock-on alerts as Hume’s bombers loosed their LIDAR guided weapons. The two flights of missiles crossed each other in space, and the advanced AI system records hits and misses. The drones performed exceptionally well, shooting down multiple inbound threats. When both salvos had pressed home, there were no hits on either side.
“These drones work pretty good,” Kenneth said across the commlink.
Amir snorted. “Don’t praise your own work.”
“Hey, I just installed them. Much smarter people came up with them.”
“Something we can agree on,” Hume interjected to laughter from all.
“Let’s see how they perform in a dogfight,” Amir said as he looped his Phantom around, increasing thrust and heading straight for the center of the bomber formation. The two offensive drones maintained position with him and matched him, movement for movement. Sliding in behind one of the lumbering bombers, he pulled the trigger to fire his craft’s miniature neutron cannons. Blue shots of energy stabbed out, hitting the simulated enemy. The drones joined in, and within moments, the icon representing the bomber disappeared—a hard kill.
“Impressive shooting, Colonel,” Hume said through the commlink. “How about we go one on one?”
“Of course, Major,” Amir replied, grinning from ear to ear in his helmet. He loved to dogfight, vastly preferring that method of engagement over beyond visual range—BVR—combat. Tracking Hume’s bomber was easy—as it was the only other small craft in space. Ignoring the AI enemies present in his HUD, he effortlessly tracked his quarry and ended up on the bomber’s aft.
Unlike the AIs, Hume was a human pilot and knew his business both from the perspective of a fighter and bomber flier. He utilized the advantages of his craft, slowing the speed of the engagement down and engaging Amir in a series of interlocking scissors maneuvers. They traded positions and fire for a total of four turns before Hume did something unexpected: he put all three drones into attack mode and sent them at the pursuing Phantom.
Amir was temporarily surprised by the action. He triggered his drones to defensive mode as a countermeasure but was a few seconds too late. Multiple simulated mini-neutron emitter hits stabbed at the shields of his fighter before he twisted the flight stick around to turn quickly in space. He decoupled the thruster controls to allow his craft full movement, and even though it maintained forward speed, it now pointed backward, relative to his thrust direction. Simulated outgoing fire took out two of the enemy drones. “Impressive tactics,” he commented into his commlink.
“I’m glad you approve, sir,” Hume replied.
The master lock-on alarm sounded in Amir’s cockpit, causing him to scan the local sensor net to quickly find Hume’s bomber, which had settled into his “six o’clock” position—directly aft. One, two, three, then four heat-seeking missiles launched from it, headed straight for his Phantom. Amir twisted his flight stick again and deployed simulated flares that spoofed two of the incoming warheads. Two got through—the flight computer flashed, indicating his craft was a causality. As it slowly throttled down, the lumbering bomber came up alongside. “You tricked me.”
Hume laughed through the commlink. “Misdirection, sir. You always preach it.”
“My lunch misdirected itself into my helmet’s faceplate with those wild turns,” Kenneth interjected.
Both pilots laughed loudly before Amir spoke. “Ah, you haven’t spent enough time turning and burning, Mister Lowe. We’ll take you back out, any time you’d like.”
“Thanks,” was the weak reply.
“Major, head back to the Lion. I think we’ve got enough data to crunch.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Amir overrode the shutdown of his craft and accelerated gently back toward the vessel they lived on. Excellent new weapon systems. May Allah guide my hands to use them wisely and for His glory.
* * *
CSV Lion of Judah
Near Gliese 832
December 12th, 2462
“I’m going to venture a guess this is the closest anyone in the Coalition Defense Force has been to Earth in a really long time,” Hammond said from the navigation station.
David stared forward out of the transparent alloy windows at the front of the bridge. Despite the closeness to Earth, they weren’t running at battle stations. The lights remained white and bright. “Navigation, confirm distance to Gliese 832.”
“Three light-years, sir. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and unless the League now has the power of God, it’d be impossible for them to see us.”
“Leaguers with the power of God? I don’t think so. Satan, on the other hand?” Master Chief Tinetariro mused. “That I could see.”
There was a smattering of snickers from the officers and enlisted crewmembers within earshot that heard her.
“Conn, TAO. Sensors continue to show all clear, except Sierra contacts.”
Our ragtag fleet of nine ships. Well, ten, counting the one on the hangar deck. “Only sixteen light-years from Earth. I wonder what it’s like, the cradle from which we came,” David said, not addressing anyone in particular. “Maybe we’ll find out someday. Time to get this show on the road.” He punched a button on his chair’s arm. “Cohen to Boss.” His call was to the Lion’s “Air Boss,�
�� the officer in charge of the flight deck.
“This is the Boss. Go ahead, sir.”
“Stand by to launch CSV Tucson.”
“Aye aye, sir. Ready to have that hunk of metal off my deck.”
David grinned. “Cohen out.” He glanced toward Hammond. “Thrusters to station keeping. Communications, signal Major Mancini he’s go for launch.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Taylor called out from across the bridge.
For a few minutes, nothing happened. While David’s view afforded him a good look downward toward the flight deck and recovery ramps, it was at more of a forty-five-degree angle. Then the bow of the stealth raider started to emerge from the hangar. It was another ten minutes before it was entirely past the space doors and engaged its thrusters, moving clear of the massive warship.
“Conn, communications. I’ve got Major Mancini for you, sir, tight beam transmission.”
“On my viewer, Lieutenant,” David replied, directing his gaze upward toward his personal viewing screen.
A few moments later, Mancini’s face appeared on it. “General Cohen, we’re free to navigate and ready to begin our mission. We’ll move to EMCON condition alpha as soon as this transmission ends.”
“Agreed, Major. Be careful. You’re going into the mouth of the beast. We’ve been over the briefings; you know what needs to be done. Get the intel, bring it home, and above all, don’t get caught.”
“Understood, sir,” Mancini replied, his jaw set.
He appears ready to get on with it. Good man. “Good luck, and Godspeed. We’ll see you in twenty-four hours.”
“Godspeed, General.”
Mancini’s face disappeared from the viewer, and David rested his head back on his seat. “Master Chief, set EMCON condition alpha throughout the ship. Communications, signal the fleet to engage the same on a tight beam transmission before securing your console for any outgoing signals.”
They both replied in the affirmative in short order.
David was left to his thoughts, staring out the alloy window again. I do wish Aibek was still here. His counsel was wise, but more than that, it’s like half of me isn’t here. The same way I felt when Sheila wasn’t here, but at least I’ll see him again soon. Doubt, always present, rose to the surface. Unless you get him killed like you got her killed, trying to take out a few more Leaguers. He shoved the bitter thought down with a prayer and focused his thoughts on something positive.
9
CSV Tucson
Gliese 832 System – Inner Belt
December 13th, 2462
Cramped. That was the operative description of the stealth raider. Even more so after an additional month in space, with yet another month to go before heading home. Mancini stared ahead, taking in the status readout from the ship’s integrated monitoring system. They’d just exited a wormhole jump, about twenty hours out from Gliese’s outermost planet.
“Conn, navigation. Reduced power jump completed, drive systems secure.”
“COB,” Mancini began. “Rig for ultra-quiet.”
“Rig for ultra-quiet, aye-aye, sir,” Cosentino replied. “Secure all non-essential machinery.”
A purple strobe light—the silent indicator for the crew to move to ultra-quiet—started flashing. Over the next few minutes, numerous computer screens were shut down, stations deactivated, and a few personnel left the control room. Standard procedure was to shut down everything they could to avoid detection. Even the soldiers on board were confined to their bunks in various parts of the boat.
“TAO, populate the board with known contacts once the sensor room confirms.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Mancini sat back in his chair and glanced at his XO. “Twenty-three hours at ultra-quiet is gonna suck.”
Godat laughed, the sound coming from his belly. “Quite right about that, skipper.”
And so it went. That was the thing about stealth raider duty. Long periods of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror—usually associated with the enemy discovering the boat’s position. The watch periods came and went, with Mancini timing it so he was wide awake and ready to go on the final leg of their journey. They’d come in on a parabolic approach, taking care to avoid League sensor stations and patrol ships.
“Conn, sensor room,” Mancini called into his chair mounted intercom microphone.
“Sensor room here, skipper,” the voice of Petty Officer VanDyke replied. He was the top passive sensor technician on the boat.
“Any additional contacts?”
“None except what’s on the board, sir.”
“Keep me apprised. Conn out.”
Mancini took a sip of coffee out of his mug and studied the tactical plot above his chair. “XO, what do you make of those defense stations? There’s three of them, but they don’t appear to be in even alignment.”
“I see it. Looks like more than enough room for us to slip in.”
“It could also be a trap.”
Cosentino snickered behind them. “Probably a bunch of lazy-ass Leaguers who couldn’t get their committee on whatever to agree to moving the stations to the right distance to be effective.”
Muted laughter swept the control room, and even in the senior officers joined in. “Valid point, COB,” Mancini said as he smirked and shook his head. “Okay, people, look alive. Pilot, make thrust for thirty percent of top speed and disengage inertial dampers.”
“Make thrust for thirty percent of top speed, aye aye, sir,” the pilot answered.
Mancini felt himself press back tightly into the CO’s chair as the ship moved forward steadily, its speed increasing. Without the inertial damping system, there was nothing to slow them down when the drive cut off. Faster and faster the raider went. All the while, he made mental calculations on when to cut the engines. The trick was to get enough speed to get in and out quickly, while not so much they found themselves detected by the League sensor nets. After fifteen minutes, it was time. “Pilot, zero thrust, station keeping only.”
“Zero thrust, station keeping only, aye aye, sir.”
Every command regarding speed and direction of the boat was repeated back. It had been a staple of the raider service since its inception. No errors. Ever. “Conn, sensor room.”
“Sensor room, conn, go ahead, sir,” VanDyke replied through the speaker.
“Target all passive arrays port toward Master One; we’ll be making our pass in about thirty minutes,” Mancini said, one eye still on the tactical display.
“Aye aye, sir.”
The Tucson swept onward, past oblivious League stations and stray transports transiting in and out of Gliese. A countdown clock in the control room reminded everyone of how long they had to go until maximum approach to the shipyard. Twenty minutes, then fifteen, ten, and finally five.
Godat grumbled under his breath. “I don’t know about you, skipper, but I’m starting to sweat this. We haven’t so much as seen a standard League customs craft out here.”
“Don’t jinx us, XO,” Mancini replied, cracking a grin despite the stress. “Navigation, confirm egress course and display on my monitor.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
A moment later, a map of the system showing their relative position with an overlay of the Tucson’s projected course appeared on the screen above him. So far, so good. Mancini studied it, but the truth of the matter was no further action would be required until they got beyond the known League sensor envelope and were able to jump out.
“Conn, sensor room,” VanDyke’s voice cut in from the speaker on his chair.
“Sensor room, go ahead.”
“Passive deep span of Master One complete, sir. Shifting focus to the rest of the system and orbital defenses.”
“Understood. Any change in enemy contacts, relative bearing, and speed?”
“Negative, sir.”
Mancini knew already there hadn’t been. My plot hasn’t changed, and VanDyke would’ve alerted the control room immediately. Still, he gained some comf
ort from the rote repetition of CDF process and procedure. Now all they had to do was maintain ultra-quiet for another twenty-three hours and exit the system—piece of cake.
* * *
League of Sol Orbital Defense Base - Alpha
Near Gliese 832
December 14th, 2462
Spit-shined boots clacked down the passageway of one of three orbital stations over Gliese 832, belonging to Admiral Alec Hartford. Wearing a pressed gray and black uniform, he was in the middle of conducting a weekly tour of each base. After being benched for two years for his failures against the Terran Coalition, he’d recently been put in charge of an Orion spur patrol fleet. So far away from the pinnacle of my career. But still a chance to rise again. He rounded a corner to see a maintenance crew examining a defective light in the overhead. At his approach, they stiffened and came to attention.
“Admiral on deck!” one of the sailors announced.
Hartford approached and ticked off a few seconds. “As you were.” His accent was decidedly British, a product of his upbringing in the colony world of New Anglia.
The four young men relaxed into parade rest.
“What are you working on here?” Hartford asked, staring at the one wearing the stripes of a petty officer.
“Admiral, sir, we’re working on a repair request for a malfunctioning light.”
“I can see that,” Hartford replied with a thin smile. “But why are four of you here at the same time? It would appear to me, one works while the other three do nothing. Tell me, is this how a member of society should act?”
Glances were exchanged between the sailors. Fear appeared in their eyes, while two of them began to shake. “No, Admiral,” one of the men said.
“Then see to it you work efficiently, and do not waste the time society has given us.”
“Yes, sir, Admiral!”
Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six Page 10
