Aggressor (Strike Commander Book 3)

by Richard Tongue

   “A plebe?” Jack replied. “How does a plebe end up stuck out here? This has to be something to do with Intelligence, Kathy. Nothing else makes sense.” He shook his head, and said, “I'm about three minutes from target. I'll be switching over to a private channel, now. The guys know what they're doing. They don't need me for the attack, and I'm going to have to focus. If anything changes, you can contact me, but that's all.”

   “Jack...”

   “Bennett can handle the coordination for the strike as well as I can. Maybe better.” Tapping a control, he continued, “I'm switching tactical control to her now. She'll get the word in a second. All understood?”

   “Jack,” she said, with a deep sigh, “If our roles were reversed, I'd be making the same call. You know that, right?”

   “Sure,” he replied. “First contact with enemy forces in thirty seconds. Going to get a bit busy now. Watch the skies, and good luck. Red Leader out.” He hit another button, closing the communications channel, just leaving the emergency command line open. “Goodbye, Kathy.”

   Green Flight had engaged the enemy ahead, a full salvo of missiles racing towards the target to cause maximum confusion. This wasn't a battle they could win in any conventional sense, just a hit and run operation. All of the fighters, even Churchill itself, were expendable if he could get that single missile home.

   Doubt and guilt weighed down upon him in equal measure. He'd seen friends die, had ordered them to their death, knowing that there was no way they could come back, and finally the burden had broken him, shattered him into pieces that even now he struggled to pull back together again. He tried to push his thoughts away, tried to focus on the mission, on the task he had to do, no matter what the cost.

   She'd joined the Fleet. Wore the same uniform he did. Knew that she might be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice one day. And none of that made a damn bit of difference. She was his daughter, and his every instinct was to abort the mission, run for the station and try and rescue her, get her back to safety. He tried to find rationalizations, that they could gather intelligence, maybe even go with Sullivan's idea of using the array to find the information they needed, but he knew at his core that they were only excuses, an attempt to avoid what he was going to have to do.

   A red light winked on his panel, a missile heading in his direction from one of the approaching satellites, and he reached across to his electronic warfare controls, trying to infiltrate the warhead's arming sequence, McGuire locked onto his panel to add his particular brand of cybernetic mayhem to the mix. One last favor from an old friend, as the missile detonated well short of the target.

   The station was more impressive than it had ever looked on the schematic display, a feat of engineering that would have been unimaginable a decade ago. Even now, it was a triumph for the Construction Corps, and it seemed a tragedy that it would have to be destroyed. Over to the side, he saw Xylander spinning away, moving to take out one of the missile satellites, and Sullivan on the left was flying behind him, riding shotgun, waiting for any surprises.

   He stretched out his hand to the combat computer, ready to fire the missile should the automated systems somehow miss their mark. Unlikely, yes, but with only a single opportunity to find his target, he didn't dare take any risk. One last look up at the sensor displays caused him an instant of heartbreak as he watched one of the interceptors destroyed, an echo that might be a space-suited figure tumbling free at the last second. One of his pilots, probably killed. Someone's child dead in space, lost forever.

   A tear trickled down his cheek as he tapped the control, and the fighter rocked back as his full missile load-out raced towards the station. By now, someone on Churchill would have noticed that he wasn't pulling out of the dive as had been planned, was instead pushing his attack. Sullivan hung a second longer than he should before breaking away, and his communications light started to urgently flash, his wingman trying to contact him.

   He didn't have anything to say. In less than a minute, he'd see the station tumbling to pieces before him, and would die in the debris field that he would create. He just hoped that Clarke would find a way out of the nightmare before the end. Shaking his head, he smiled, wondering how a first-year cadet had managed to get himself involved in all of this. Likely he'd never know.

   His smile faded as a new contact appeared on the screen, something detaching from the station, nothing that the fighter's warbook recognized. Urgently tapping the controls, he tried to get a close look with his sensors, tried to get a look at what was coming, but before he could get a lock, the object broke up into four, all of them far too familiar. Missiles. Mark Twenty-One, the latest experimental design, all of them with shaped charges for close-range detonation. Built specifically to reduce any damage from proximity explosion.

   There was no time for thought, and one look at the sensor display convinced him that any attempt to evade was hopeless, that his missile spread had no chance of reaching its target. With a regretful sigh, he tapped a button, and a gap broke free in the top of his cockpit, sending him hurtling into the void, his flight suit sealing as the vacuum bit home.

   “I'm sorry, old friend,” he said, getting one final look at his fighter, the faithful companion through a hundred dogfights, smashed into pieces by one of the missiles. The force of the atmosphere in his cockpit had thrown him well clear, but the flight suit had no thruster pack, only intended for emergency use, so he had no means of altering his trajectory. In an instant, he flew past the station, away from the battle, out into free space.

   “Jack to Churchill, come in,” he said, trying his suit communicator. A roar of static was his only reply, jamming from the station, assuming it wasn't a side effect of the experimental work they were doing. “Captain Conway to any station. Come in.”

   By a miracle, there was a reply. “Cadet Clarke here, sir.”

   “Clarke, contact Churchill. Get an SAR shuttle out to me on the double. Did you get to an escape pod?”

   “Negative, sir. We were about to, but we saw that pod launch, and figured they'd worked out some sort of countermeasure.”

   “They?” he asked. “Never mind.” He looked up at the sensor repeater on his heads-up display, and said, “Forget the SAR. They're going to beat Churchill to the punch. Pass this message, and make sure they get it loud and clear. No effort is to be spared to destroy that station. No attempt to rescue me or anyone else. That facility must be destroyed, regardless of the cost. Do you understand?”

   “Yes, sir.” Static began to build, and the voice faded away. A dot was racing towards him from the station, the familiar lines of the search and rescue craft, though far from the welcoming sight it would be under any other circumstances. He slowly tumbled, over and over, catching glimpses of the huge antenna array as it receded into the distance.

   On Churchill, they'd be scrambling to salvage something from the mess. He'd had one shot, and he'd failed. Somehow, Kathy was going to have to pick up the pieces.

   The proximity alarm began to ring in his ears, the SAR shuttle closing for contact, a dark shape moving up behind him. A blinding light flashed into his eyes as the airlock opened, a suited figure pushing out towards him, reaching for the manual controls on his suit. Jack struggled, trying to get away, but his assailant had the thruster pack to stabilize him, and finally he caught the control he was looking for, and Jack felt himself suffocating, fading into unconsciousness.

   It seemed like hours later that he felt himself waking, lying on a hard floor, his ex-wife looking down over him. Something was wrong, and he struggled to focus, reaching out to push himself to his feet.

   “Kathy? How the hell did you pull off a rescue?” He coughed, then said, “Give me a hand.” Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he finally realized who his companion was.

   “Dad?” his daughter asked. “Is that you?”

  Chapter 8

   Mallory rose from her chair, watching as the
enemy SAR shuttle snatched Jack from the sky, none of Churchill's rescue ships close enough to do anything to stop them. The tactical situation had collapsed from hopeful to desperate in a matter of seconds, Knight's forces rallying to counter their attack with a strike of their own.

   “Theseus coming around the planet towards us, Captain,” Finch said. “Estimate intercept in eight minutes, thirty-two seconds.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Enemy fighter squadron has formed into battle line and is closing for a strike two and a half minutes earlier. On current vector, our interceptors cannot block them without running out of fuel.”

   “They don't have enough missiles anyway,” McGuire said, his hands a blur as they danced across the controls. “We're being outmatched on the electronic warfare front as well. I'm good, better than anything they've got, but they've got a hell of a lot more to throw around than I do. I think they've got a quantum computer over there.” His eyes widened, and he added, “Don't assume anything we put in the sky will stay there for long.”

   Her eyes stayed locked on the screen, trying to analyze the situation and form a battle plan. If they'd succeeded in destroying the station, they'd have had all the cover they needed to get away, the cloud of debris dominating the battlespace providing the enemy with far more urgent things to deal with. She had to find a place to hide, and all she could think of was the halo of asteroids orbiting the system.

   “Clayton, get us into the outer halo, maximum acceleration, course at your discretion. Tell Chief Cruz that we're going to need all the acceleration you can get. Finch, I want a firing solution on Theseus as soon as you can work it out, and program the missiles for shotgun fire. Nothing that anyone can interfere with.”

   “Captain, the odds of hitting the target at...”

   “We're not going to win this battle, Lieutenant. Survival is victory, at least for now. McGuire, do anything you can to cause them problems. You say you're the best hacker in the galaxy? Now's the time you prove it. Buy me time to get Churchill to safety.”

   “Course computed for the halo, Captain,” Clayton said. “Executing now.” The engines roared, lights dancing across the status monitor as the ship pushed herself beyond her limits, straining to reach the maximum theoretical acceleration as it swung towards safety. Mallory looked at the board, still shaking her head.

   “Green Leader to Churchill Actual,” Bennett said. “We're in a position to intercept to attacking fighter formation. There's nothing we can do about Theseus, but I think we might be able to make a mess of their strike. Request permission to engage.”

   “Wait a minute,” Morgan replied, turning from her station. “Cass, you've got two missiles between you, and nowhere near enough fuel to make it back.” She paused, then said, “Not to mention that Hadrian's already gone west.”

   “Nguyen and I figure we can still hold them up, long enough to give you a chance. Damn it, Churchill, you're going to have to live through a couple of strikes from Theseus, but if those fighters make their attack run, we're not going to have anywhere to land anyway! If we're going to go down anyway, we might as well do it giving you a chance to avenge us.”

   With a sigh, Mallory replied, “Permission granted, but don't make this a suicide run. Bail out at the last minute, and we'll try and vector SAR to pick you up.”

   “We'll do our best. I don't have a death wish, I promise you. Green Leader out.”

   Turning to Morgan, Mallory said, “Get Sullivan and Xylander back at once before they get any similar ideas. They're out of ordnance anyway, and they'd struggle to get on an attack vector. They can link up with us when we get to the halo.”

   “Yes, Captain,” Morgan replied, looking at the screen. “Damn, I thought we had this won.”

   “We all did,” Mallory said. “Now we've got to pick up the pieces.” Turning back to the helm, she tapped a control said, “Cruz, we're going to need more acceleration.”

   “We've nothing left,” she replied. “I'm having trouble riding her this hot. If I push her too far we'll lose the power distribution network. I'm running her on manual as it is.”

   “More speed or we die, Chief. You choose. Bridge out.” Mallory looked up at the sensor display, watching helplessly as Bennett and Nguyen set up their attack run, locking onto the heart of the enemy fighter formation. With only two missiles, there was little chance of destroying the figures, but they could stall them for long enough that they'd prevent the force getting into combat range. She glanced down at her console, and shook her head. A twenty-one missile salvo, if that force managed an attack run. Enough to bring down a capital ship, and certainly to reduce Churchill to scrap metal.

   “Maximum acceleration,” Clayton said, her face a mask of frustration, a bead of sweat running down the side of her face. She moved from one control to another, trying to keep the ship stable to make everything balance. One slip, and they'd start to tumble, and it would all be over. Up ahead, the asteroid halo beckoned, a million tumbling rocks that would provide at least a measure of safety.

   Theseus was still rising towards them, closing the range at maximum speed. Churchill could never outpace her in straight flight, but her approach vector was far from parallel. They'd have enough time to exchange two missile salvos, and then they'd be out of range. Assuming they survived the duel. Long before Theseus could come around for another pass, Churchill would have reached safety.

   “Captain,” Morgan said, quietly. “Green Flight will be making contact with the enemy in thirty seconds. Red Flight estimates docking in fifteen minutes, assuming...”

   “Assuming we're able to make the rendezvous,” Mallory completed. “Thank you, Ensign.”

   Bennett might have been an intelligence agent first, a fighter pilot second, but she had set up her attack with consummate skill, diving into the heart of the enemy formation, unleashing her missiles as soon as she entered combat range to give them something else to worry about. Both remaining interceptors darted back and forth, confusing the enemy, giving them no choice but to scatter to avoid destruction.

   “Contacts,” Finch said. “Six missiles, heading for Green Flight, running true.”

   “McGuire…,” Mallory said.

   “I know, I know, I'm trying, damn it! They've got a thousand times the processing power we do!” His hands danced across the controls on his console as the hacker fought a grim battle with his rival, David against Goliath as he tried to work a miracle while the trajectories maintained their silent track, the enemy missiles diving for their interceptors.

   It wasn't enough. Could never have been enough, not even in their wildest hopes. Just before impact, one of the interceptors released a figure, tumbling clear, but the target disappeared in the blast wave seconds later, the missiles finding their targets and ripping the ships into pieces.

   “Loss of signal,” Morgan said, shaking her head. “Enemy fighter formation will now be unable to enter combat range with Churchill before running out of fuel.” She glanced up at her display, and said, “They're heading for Theseus, Captain. Estimated docking in thirty-one minutes.”

   An eternity. Long after the fighting would be over. Mallory looked at the screen, watching as the fighters scattered, one of them caught by Mallory's single retaliatory shot at the last minute, a final bit of vengeance that brought a brief smile to her face, before being replace with a sad scowl. These people wore the same uniform that she did, were supposed to be on the same side. None of this was supposed to happen. Already three people had died, probably four. How many more?

   “Theseus will be in firing range in four minutes minus, Captain,” Finch said. “For about fifty seconds. Do I have permission to fire at discretion?” He paused, then said, “Captain?”

   Nodding, Mallory replied, “Fire at will, Finch. Just make sure they count. McGuire...”

   “Yeah,” the dazed hacker said, his hands frozen on his controls. “Ten more seconds, and I'd have had them. Despite everything.
Just ten more seconds.” He shook his head, suddenly looking his age, and continued, “I'll focus on our firewall. They're already trying a hack, but I think I can throw them off.”

   Looking up from her screen, Morgan said, “Enemy SAR shuttle is closing on Green Flight's debris field.” She sighed, then continued, “They'll be there long before we could get anyone on target.”

   “So if there is a survivor, they're going to be captured.” Looking around the room, Mallory saw defeated faces, and for the first time in her life, didn't know how to reassure them. “Focus, people. We've still got a job to do. Ensign, I want all of our surviving craft back on board as fast as possible. Keep an eye on Red Flight, just in case our friends out there decide to try and do something. It would be nice to come out of this with some of our fighter screen left.”

   “Aye, Captain,” she replied, looking across at her. They'd been enemies since Mallory had arrived on board, but now there was only sympathy in her eyes.

   “Three minutes to intercept,” Finch said. A thin smile crossed his face, and he said, “Short voice-only message, Captain. Calling on us to surrender.”

   “Not in this lifetime,” Mallory replied. “Clayton, while Theseus is in firing range, don't bother with random walk. Concentrate on making sure that any impacts are in non-critical areas. And if there's any way you can reduce the time in the danger area, do it.”

   “Working, Captain, but I don't think I can get it under forty-nine seconds unless my counterpart makes a mistake, and so far he's been matching me move for move.”

   Nodding in reply, she looked up at the status board, then checked each station, confirming what she already knew, that her bridge crew was as ready as they could possibly be for the hell that was about to rain down upon them. Half military and half civilian, all of them worked together in a crisis, and aside from the color of the jumpsuits, there was no difference between them.