by Jay Allan
“Yes, sir.” Travis pulled out a chair and sat down.
“So, the way I see it, we have two choices. Do we attempt to reach Admiral Winston with the intelligence we have on enemy deployments, despite the immense difficulties in getting two battleships past the Union fleet?” He paused for a few seconds. The first option he’d laid out was dangerous enough, perhaps even hopeless. But the other thought forming in his head was downright insane. “Or do we move forward—to Varus—and attack this enemy supply base?”
Barron looked back and forth at his two companions, not at all surprised at their silence, or at the stunned expressions on their faces. It was one thing to discuss the difficulties, even the near impossibility, of sneaking past the enemy forces, but trying to return to the fleet, especially with the intel they now possessed, made sense at least. The idea of two battleships and a handful of escorts moving deeper into enemy-held space—and attacking some kind of phantom supply base—seemed downright insane.
“Captain…our data on the supply facility is highly speculative.” It was Travis who spoke first, just as Barron had expected. His first officer was the one best positioned to try and tell him he was crazy. But he wasn’t crazy. The desperation of his plan spawned from that of the situation. The cold truth was there weren’t any good options, at least not any that offered a substantial chance of success. Or of survival.
“Is it, Commander? I’ll admit, I can’t fathom what kind of portable installation could support a fleet the size of the Union invasion force, but we have no reason to doubt the information on the enemy nav unit. In other circumstances, I’d expect deliberate misinformation, some type of counter-intelligence designed to send us off in the wrong direction. But that would require data we were likely to intercept and I can’t imagine the Union high command anticipating what happened here. That we would attack and destroy a convoy behind the battle lines and escorted by multiple battleships?”
“What you say makes sense, Captain.” Eaton’s expression was hard, no sign of her true thoughts evident. “But what about the nav data on the enemy fleet? Doesn’t our duty require us to try and deliver it to fleet command? And this supply base…wouldn’t such an installation, if it exists, be well-defended? Could we hope to reach it and destroy it?”
“Could we hope to get back to the fleet with the nav data?” He paused, pushing back the impulse to edit their situation. He wasn’t about to discuss the near-hopelessness of their plight in front of the crew, but Eaton deserved complete honesty from him, and he’d long ago decided there was nothing he would hide from Travis. “Any choice we make is the gravest of longshots. For all we know, the fleet has been defeated again…or it has withdrawn halfway to the Core by now. Whatever path we choose, we must realize, the three of us at least, that we will likely fail.”
He let his words hang in the almost-silent room for a few seconds before he continued. “If we head back toward the fleet, and we are intercepted and destroyed, we will do nothing for the war effort. Our captured intelligence will be lost with us. If we instead move on the enemy base…even if we fail to destroy it, we may be able to cause damage or intercept additional supply ships. Our deaths will not have been for nothing.”
“It sounds like you’ve made a decision, Captain,” Travis said softly.
“I just think we should consider our options carefully.”
“Captain Barron…Tyler…both courses of action have advantages and disadvantages. It is your decision. Commander Travis and I will, of course, accept any decision you make.” Eaton paused, then she continued, “I can’t think of anyone more capable…to whose judgment I would be more willing to commit my ship and the lives of my crew.”
“Thank you, Sara…I appreciate your confidence.” His words were calm, his gratitude genuine. But inside, his gut was twisted into knots. He realized he’d wanted to discuss the matter with Eaton—and with Travis—to avoid the terrible realization that the decision was his and his alone. He was in command, and from the day he entered the Academy—no, from the day he was first old enough to understand his grandfather’s stories—he’d understood just what that meant. Some part of him had tried to avoid the terrible pressure, to turn a decision it was his obligation to make into an exercise in groupthink. But he had no right to push the responsibility off onto his subordinates. He had to make the choice. Alone.
He sat for a moment, his mind going back over the details. He’d made his choice…he’d made it in the instant Travis had come into the room and told him about the enemy base. The intelligence on Union deployments was useful data, certainly. But it didn’t change the fact that the Confederation fleet was battered and outnumbered, that even with the location of the enemy forces, Admiral Winston might not be able to stem the invasion. But if his people could somehow reach the enemy supply source and destroy it, or even damage it badly enough, it could change the course of the war. The enemy would have no choice but to retire back toward its conventional supply lines, abandoning almost a dozen occupied Confederation systems.
“The supply base then. We will go to Varus, and we will destroy whatever is there. No matter what it takes, we will find a way.” His voice was firm, assured, the old command veneer designed to inspire his officers and crew. But the two women sitting with him weren’t taken in by their commander’s false confidence. Sara Eaton was a ship’s captain herself, as accustomed as Barron at hiding her concerns and fears. And Atara Travis knew Barron better than any other living human being.
None of that mattered, though. They would do as he commanded, without hesitation. And if they could actually pull it off, against the odds…maybe, just maybe, they could change the course of the war.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Briefing Room
CFS Dauntless
Arcturon System
308 AC
“That’s insane, Commander Jamison. It would be suicide, plain and simple.” Barron stared across the table at his strike force commander. “I can’t order any pilot to throw his life away with no hope of success.”
“Sir, I don’t suggest that it is not risky…very risky. But I believe it’s possible. Commander Fritz has upgraded a stealth suite, adding some of her own improvements. She is confident she has increased its effectiveness by over one hundred percent.”
“Commander, the ability to avoid detection is far from the only obstacle to your plan. We have no idea where the fleet is, and while it may be possible to predict their line of retreat with some hope of success, we don’t know how far they have gone. There’s no way a fighter could carry enough fuel to travel through multiple systems, even if I was willing to allow one of my pilots to attempt transwarp jumps.”
“Captain, I have reviewed the plan, and I am convinced I have come up with a way to do it. There’s no chance a larger ship could sneak through the enemy forces, but I think we can make a fighter work. We strip it, remove the weapons, everything extraneous…then we pack it with extra fuel tanks. It will cut down on maneuverability, but it shouldn’t be much worse than a bomber kit. Then…”
“That might work for one transit, Commander, but the fleet has likely pulled back multiple systems.”
“Yes, sir, but we know the fleet retreated to the Gamalon system from here. They would almost certainly have gone to Ultara next, then Turas, falling back on the primary supply line. And Mellas after that.”
“I agree with your tactical observation, Commander, but there’s no way we can get a fighter to Turas from here, much less Mellas or farther.”
“We could, sir, if we sent a shuttle with it. We still have cargo shuttles rigged up for fuel transfer. We could install a class five AI in one of them and automate its operation. It could accompany the fighter, and the pilot could use it to refuel.”
“That defeats your entire purpose in sending a fighter, Commander. The stealth suite might hide a Lightning, but not a bulky fuel shuttle. We might as well send one of the escort cruisers.”
“No, sir. The pilot will stay with the
shuttle until he detects the enemy fleet. Then he will refuel one last time and send the shuttle off as a diversion. The enemy scanners are unlikely to pick up the shuttle and fighter as distinct contacts. Once the shuttle heads off in its own direction, the fighter will engage the stealth suite and disappear into the system, heading for the next transit point. It is extremely likely our fleet, or at least a detachment of picket ships will be in the adjacent system to the main Union force. Even if the fighter runs out of fuel, the pilot can transmit the data to them and then wait for rescue.”
“Or suffocation,” Barron said sourly. “Or death by freezing. Commander, you are one of the smartest and most capable officers I’ve had the privilege to command, but you’ve lost it with this scheme. Your list of assumptions for success is almost long enough to stretch back to the fleet. What if there are enemy forces between here and their main fleet? It won’t take the entire enemy battleline to intercept and destroy one fighter and a shuttle. What if our fleet has fallen back even farther than Mellas? There is a limit to range, even with a shuttle full of fuel…don’t forget, both ships will be firing their engines. And if the fighter encounters a picketing force without any friendly capital ships, there won’t be any rescue shuttles there. The pilot will be dead long before any help arrives.”
“I’m willing to take those risks, sir. I understand your concerns, but can you really argue it isn’t worth risking one man to get such valuable intelligence back to fleet command?”
Barron opened his mouth, but he closed it again without speaking. Jamison was right, and beneath his reaction to the risks and his concern for his people he realized it. He was risking everyone on Dauntless, and Intrepid too, in a desperate bid to disrupt the enemy supply line. Could he really justify refusing to let a pilot—a volunteer, he would insist on that—try to complete such an important mission?
“Very well, Commander,” he finally said, his voice somber, grim. “But I want Commander Fritz to personally prepare both the fighter and the shuttle. I know we don’t have much time, but I want her to double and triple check everything. If I’m sending someone out there, I’m damned well going to do everything possible to make sure they have what they need.”
“Yes, sir!” Jamison said, nodding his head forcefully as he did. “I will get Commander Fritz on it right away, and I will get ready to leave as soon as she is done.”
Jamison started to stand up, but he froze as Barron spoke.
“No, Commander. Not you.”
“Sir, you just said…”
“I said I would approve the mission, not that I would allow you to fly it.”
“But, sir…”
“There are no buts, Commander. You gave me all the reasons it is worth the risk of allowing a pilot to make the attempt. They all apply equally to your letting one of your people go.”
“But I meant I would go.”
“I know what you meant, and you can forget that right now. You’re my strike force commander, the ranking pilot in both ships’ fighter wings. Your place is here, commanding the squadrons, if and when we find that enemy base.”
“Captain…”
“I said forget it, Commander. I know you’d rather go yourself, but it’s out of the question. We have well over one hundred fighters, and your place is right here, commanding them.”
Jamison was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Maybe I was wrong, sir. This might be too dangerous.”
“Oh, it is that, Commander. It’s one of the most dangerous missions I’ve ever sent anyone on. But you were right. We have to take the risk. The intelligence is simply too vital to the fleet.”
“If I call for volunteers, half the wing will step forward. Hell, most of the wing.”
“You and I both know who needs to fly this mission. I’m proud of all our pilots, but putting most of them into the cockpit on this one is no different than throwing them out the airlock.”
“I know, Captain…but…”
“He’s your friend, Kyle…but you’d have expected him to be okay with your going. You know he’ll volunteer…and when he does, you have to let him go.”
Jamison stared back silently. Finally, he just nodded.
* * *
“Why you? Why is it always you who has to do something crazy? Are you the only pilot on this ship?” There was anger in Stara Sinclair’s voice, but Stockton knew it was a veneer, that fear was the true force driving her outburst.
“You know why, Stara.” Stockton wasn’t angry, though he knew he must have sounded like he was. Part of him was grateful to see her emotions for him so unmasked, but the fire inside that drove him to be the pilot he’d become was raging. He understood the mission, and its grave importance to the war effort. It was difficult, some thought impossible. He didn’t know if he could do it, but he was sure if he couldn’t, no one else could. “And you know how important it is.”
“Can’t someone else do it? Let another pilot go.”
“You know I can’t do that. What do you want me to do? Go to one of my people and tell them, I’m too afraid to fly this mission, so I want you to do it? If you think I could do that—that I would do it—you don’t really know me at all.” He regretted the last part as soon as he said it. He was determined to fly the mission, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her more than he had already.
“Maybe I don’t know you. Or maybe I know you too well. But I don’t want you to go.”
Stockton had never seen the usually cool and reserved officer so emotional. Sinclair had talked dozens of injured pilots in, directed them in safely landing their damaged fighters, and she had done it every time with a cool focus, regardless of the stress or the danger of the situation. But now she looked as though she might burst into tears.
“I know you don’t. It’s not that I want to go…I have to go. You know the situation the fleet is in, hell the entire Confederation. Maybe this data will enable Admiral Winston prepare for the next enemy attack. It could turn the tide and save thousands of our comrades. Millions, even billions of civilians. You know I have to do it.” His voice was calm, soft, utterly at odds with his usual cocky and arrogant persona.
She stood silently, staring back at him. Then she stepped forward, burying her head in his shoulder and wrapping her arms around him. “Do you really think you can do it? That you can make it all that way?”
“I do,” he lied. In his gut he figured he had one chance in three of reaching the fleet, and less than that of surviving until he could land or be rescued. But that was a chance he had to take. If he figured it at one chance in ten, or even one in twenty, he’d still have done it. But Stara didn’t need to hear any of that. It wouldn’t do her a bit of good. It wouldn’t do anybody any good.
She pulled him tightly toward her, her fingers almost digging into his back. “Please…please be careful. Just get there…and make it back here.”
“I will.” He tightened his own arms, hugging her ferociously. Then he pulled back, away from the embrace. “Go now,” he said, his words barely a whisper. “I launch in twenty minutes, and I need to get ready.”
She looked at him, her eyes glistening, but not so much as a tear escaping them. “Come back, Jake. Come back to me.”
“I always come back,” he said, reverting to his normal cockiness for an instant. Then, his tone deadly serious, he said, “Really…I know how to fly that thing, Stara, you know that. I’ll make it through.”
“Please,” she said, clearly struggling to keep her voice loud, clear. Then she turned around and walked toward the hatch. It opened as she approached, but she hesitated, for just a few seconds. Then, without another word, she walked out into the corridor, and she was gone.
Stockton took a deep breath. He already had his pressure suit on, and his helmet was resting on the table. He was ready, as ready as anyone could be for an assignment like this one. But he’d had to get her to leave. Focus would save his life over the next few days…and distraction could end it in a microsecond. He needed to prepare
himself mentally. He had to be the best he’d ever been.
But first he had something else to do. He walked over to the AI control, activating his personal log. He had to put Stara out of his mind, but first he had to leave her a message, a goodbye, in case he didn’t return as he’d promised. He had to tell her what he knew he should have long before, the thing he’d never been able to say.
He had to tell her that he loved her.
* * *
There they go.
Stockton had watched on the scanner as Dauntless slipped through the transwarp link, heading for Phillos. He’d launched six hours before, and he was halfway across the Arcturon system, less than a million kilometers from the Ultara transit point.
He smiled. He’d have bet a year’s pay that Kyle Jamison had wanted to go, that Captain Barron had intervened and insisted Dauntless’s fighter commander stay with the strike force. He and Jamison seemed almost like night and day, at least on cursory inspection, and he knew most people couldn’t understand their close friendship. He was the crazy one, and Jamison the calm, rational wing commander. But Stockton knew that wasn’t the whole story. He was far more deliberative than he allowed anyone to see…and he’d seen Jamison take breathtaking risks in battle.
They all probably think I’m here because I can’t pass on any risky mission, all except Kyle…
He wondered if deep down Stara understood. He wasn’t doing this for glory or because he thrived on danger. He was doing it because the Confederation needed this. Because he believed he could see it through, and that it could help change the course of the war.
He was afraid, of course, for himself, but even more so for Kyle and Stara and the rest of his comrades on Dauntless. His mission was singular. He was alone, and that made the danger all the move evident. But Dauntless was moving deeper into enemy-held space, seeking a fight he was far from certain she could win. And even if Captain Barron managed to destroy his target, the small task force would still be deep behind enemy lines. They faced nightmarish odds, and he had deliberately avoided trying to estimate their chances of making it back.
