by Jay Allan
He’d known equipment failure was one of the greatest dangers he would face on his trip. The Lightning fighters were designed for short missions. They were intended to endure the stresses of combat and return within a few hours for a refit and systems check. No fighter had ever gone a fraction the distance his had, nor remained in constant service for so many consecutive hours. Hours? Hell, days…
He checked his other readouts. Everything else was on the green. Whatever was wrong—if anything was wrong—it was in the stealth unit.
Great, the one thing in this ship I know nothing about.
Like most experienced pilots, Stockton had some ability to do makeshift repairs to his fighter. Combat was hard on ships, and rejiggering a damaged system could be the difference between life and death. But the stealth device was a mystery to him. It might as well have been some ancient artifact dug up on a planet in the Badlands. And that readout was definitely wobbling. In fact, he was sure it was getting worse, even as he watched it.
He his eyes darted to his display. The enemy had no ships right at the transit point.
No, you don’t want to discourage transit from Mellas…you’d love it if Admiral Winston came though and attacked you…
But his route to the transwarp link took him fairly close to several enemy battleships. And if his stealth unit kicked out, there was a good chance he’d show up on their active scans.
Shit.
He tried to think of options. But there was nothing he could do. Kicking in his engines would only make him easier to spot, and any course change was a terrible gamble. There was no way to be sure he’d be able to reestablish a vector toward the jump point before his fuel gave out. And if he couldn’t get out of Turas, it didn’t really matter much how and where he died.
He looked back to the display. He was moving toward one of the enemy battleships, approaching the point where he’d come closest. He stared back at the stealth system indicator. Its wobble was still increasing. “You couldn’t have picked a worse time to pull this shit…”
Almost as if in response, the gauge dropped to zero. Stockton ignored the tightness in his gut, his mind focusing instantly on the situation, as he looked down the row of readouts on the stealth suite. All dead.
“With all due respect, Commander Fritz,” he muttered, “you can take your orders and…” He reached out, poking at the controls, bringing up more readouts. The entire system was offline. He couldn’t tell if it wasn’t getting power…or if the unit itself had failed.
He looked over at his fuel readings. He still had some, not much, but certainly enough to power the stealth system. He checked the reactor readings. Green. The ECM unit was getting power.
Great.
He might have jury-rigged a solution to a severed power line, but he had no idea how this magic box Fritz had put together worked, and no idea what to do.
He looked up at the screen. He was getting close to the transwarp link…but not close enough. The enemy had plenty of time to react to him.
Plenty of time.
* * *
D’Alvert walked down the short hallway and onto the flag bridge. He’d been spending most of his time in his office, door closed, brooding over the situation—and his next move. But he wanted his people to see him now. Sitting in the Turas system and waiting was sapping the fleet’s momentum, the morale boost its string of initial victories had created slowly fading away.
“Status?” he asked as he moved to his chair and sat down.
“The enemy shuttle evaded pursuit for a considerable time, sir, and when our fighters finally had it trapped, it self-destructed.” Renault’s report was crisp, professional. She was the only one on Victoire who could tell D’Alvert things the admiral didn’t want to hear without sounding obsequious.
D’Alvert frowned. He’d wanted that ship intact, but he wasn’t at all surprised at what had happened. “I want to know where that shuttle came from…and how it ended up in the middle of this system without any of our fleet units detecting it.” He knew it wasn’t an answer he was likely to get. With the ship gone, his people had precious little to go on. But he was frustrated, and they were going to feel that too.
“Yes, sir. All analysis sections are working on it now.”
“Any other Confederation incursions at the transit point?”
“No, sir. Not since the last one twelve hours ago.” A short pause. “I would have informed you immediately, Admiral.”
The Confeds had been sending escort ships through the transwarp link for days now. They were scouts, obviously, attempts by the enemy to keep tabs on his fleet and detect any signs he was preparing to move forward into Mellas. But he wondered if there was more to them than just that.
Arthur Winston wasn’t a brilliant tactician, certainly nothing like Rance Barron had been, but the old veteran no doubt had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Is he trying to tell me something? He’s showing us he’s still in Mellas, certainly. Is he feigning strength, trying to intimidate us? Perhaps…
D’Alvert was still trying to decide whether to move forward or not. He still had the advantage, even without a resupply before the battle. At least he thought he did…
“Captain Renault, I want a squadron of escort cruisers sent through the transwarp point. I want to confirm exactly what the Confeds have in Mellas.”
“Yes, sir. At once.”
D’Alvert leaned back. “And I want all capital ships on the periphery of the fleet to launch fighters. We had one mystery Confed ship pop up in the middle of this system…and I want to know if there are any more out there.”
* * *
Stockton leaned back in his seat, trying any way he could to stretch or work out the tightness atrophying every one of his muscles. People had told him he was born to be behind the controls of a fighter, but no one had every suggested he spend every moment there. He’d worked for a few minutes trying to figure out the stealth unit before he’d given up. As far as he could see, the damned thing worked by some kind of magic.
Magic that has given out on me.
He reached down to his side, digging around in the small bag stuffed under his seat. He hadn’t brought much, just the pistol he always carried, and the small charm that accompanied him on every combat mission. It was a platinum pendant, but small, worth only a moderate amount. He’d won it in a poker game in his first week at the Academy—an unsanctioned activity that could have gotten him a dozen demerits if he’d been caught. He hadn’t thought much about it until the man he’d won it from was killed a week later in a training accident. Pilots were a superstitious lot, and Stockton was no different. He’d never flown again without the thing, and it had become a good luck charm of sorts.
He kept fishing around, finally getting his hands on a small tablet. He pulled it from the bag and turned it on, flipping his thumb to the side, scrolling from one page to the next. He stopped when a small image appeared, a woman with dark brown, almost black, hair. The pain, the discomfort, the fear…they all subsided for a moment, though they were replaced by a quiet sadness. He thought of all the time he’d wasted, the months he and Stara had served on Dauntless before either had admitted any feelings for the other. He still hadn’t admitted anything, not really. Not the way he wished he had, in person instead of via a cowardly letter she’d only see if he didn’t return. Now, without his stealth unit, he knew there was a damned good chance she’d end up with that final note.
He’d volunteered for the mission because it was vital, because it was worth the risk. Of everyone on Dauntless—and that included that blowhard Warrior—he’d realized he had the best chance. But in this case, perhaps “best” meant almost none as opposed to absolutely none. The odds were, he was going to die in this fighter, and he would never see Stara Sinclair again.
“Detecting launches from several nearby enemy battleships.”
The AI’s voice grabbed his attention, and he reached out for his controls, bringing up his tactical display. “They’re launching
all right.” For an instant, he told himself they could be normal patrols, that the launches weren’t proof that he’d been spotted. But they he saw the thrust vectors of the closest fighters. A direct intercept course.
Damn.
He felt the adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream, his aching muscles primed for action. His hand reached out for the throttle as the warrior inside prepared for battle. But he didn’t have any weapons. There would be no fight, hopeless or otherwise. All he could do was run for it.
He looked at the display, at the distance and the speed of the enemy fighters. They were going to cut him off before he got to the transit point, no question. Unless he did something.
Do I change vector, and risk not being able to get back on line for the jump? Or do I burn the rest of my fuel and hope to outrun these bastards?
Fleeing like a terrified animal went against every instinct that made Stockton who he was. But he knew it was the right choice now. He pulled back hard on the throttle, feeling 12g of force slam into him hard. He’d shut down the dampeners, and everything else extraneous that used fuel. It made sense, but 12g was a lot of pressure to absorb with no relief. He struggled to suck in even tiny breaths of air, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.
He fought to stay conscious, even as his vision closed in, becoming a narrow tunnel, and then going totally black. He strained to focus, pouring his waning strength into holding the throttle in place. He needed every meter per second of velocity he could get, and even that might not be enough.
C’mon, baby…just a little bit more…
He could feel his consciousness slipping away, but somehow he clung to it grimly. He was lost, confused, but he was still aware, at least to some extent. And his hand was still tight on the throttle, squeezing every bit of acceleration his straining fighter could produce.
And then it was gone, the pressure, the pain. He gasped for air, and his lungs filled, easily, effortlessly. Freefall was a relief, though as his focus slowly returned he realized what it meant. He was out of fuel.
He checked his vector. Yes, it looked right. He’d enter the transwarp link…assuming he got there. His eyes darted to the tactical display. He’d done himself some good, pushed his fighter well out in front of his pursuers. There was one squadron that might get to him. He wasn’t sure. Whatever happened, it was going to be close…
* * *
Aurore Lefebrve sat in front of her display. Her eyes were fixed, unmoving, focused on the small icon in the center of the screen. She’d thought the target was going to escape. It had been accelerating at more than 12g, heading straight for the transwarp point. But now it had cut its thrust completely. Was it some kind of deception, a trap? Or was the ship disabled, out of fuel?
She pulled back on her throttle, increasing her own acceleration. Union fighters couldn’t match the 12-13g the Confed Lightnings could pull, but she figured her own 10.5g could be just enough. She might not catch her enemy…but she’d get a few shots off. And that should be enough.
Lefebrve’s stature had risen steadily since the war had begun, until she’d become one of the most renowned pilots in the service. The Union fighter corps had somewhat of an inferiority complex, the result of the clearly greater skill of their Confed adversaries. The enemy had dozens of aces, and more than a few pilots that had achieved near-celebrity status as they racked up kills. That was far rarer in the Union navy, and Lefebrve was one of a select few. She’d gained rapid advancement in rank as a result of her mounting number of victories. She’d been the youngest squadron leader in Union history, and now, she’d repeated that feat with her early advancement to wing commander.
None of that really mattered to her. She was insular, a loner. She didn’t crave comforts, not beyond her basic needs. Her life was flying her fighter, and becoming the best at what she did. It was all she cared about, and she let nothing interfere with her pursuit of it. Not political ambitions, not personal relationships. Nothing.
Lefebrve knew the Union she fought for was corrupt, that most of its people lived in misery and despair. That might have bothered her if she took the time to think about it, but she doubted things were different anywhere else. She didn’t necessarily believe all the propaganda she’d heard about the Confederation, but if even half of it was true, her enemies were worse even than her own side.
She stared at the target on her screen, holding her focus despite the crushing pressure slamming into her. The dampeners on her fighter were small, and of typical shoddy Union manufacture. They only did so much to alleviate the strain of high g acceleration. But the effective 5g or 6g she was feeling was a big improvement over the raw 10.5g her engines were producing. It was the difference between being awake and uncomfortable, and passing out in the cockpit.
She held the throttle firmly, her fingers tense, tightening around the firing stud. It was reflex, her instinct telling her it was time to launch one of her missiles. But she didn’t have any. Her fighter hadn’t been prepped for launch when the orders came in. The launch command had been a surprise. Somehow the Confed fighter had just appeared in the middle of the system. She figured someone had screwed up, and she knew enough about the Union service to guess that whoever it was would pay a bitter price. Now it fell to her people to clean up the mess.
She’d sent the duty squadron out immediately, but then she’d ordered the crew chief to get her own bird ready too. She was responsible for all of Montmirail’s fighter squadrons, but right now only one of them was in combat…and that was where she belonged. They’d managed to get her ship fueled and ready for launch, but there hadn’t been time to load the hardpoints with missiles.
She could see on her scanner that the others were falling behind. Not too far, but enough to allow the enemy to escape. She had an urge to get on the comm, to berate them all for their slow reactions, their inability to match her maneuvers. But there was no point. The under-trained Union squadrons had suffered terribly in the war to date. Fewer than one-third of the pre-war pilots were still with their fighters, and the replacements that filled the empty slots were even less prepared than their predecessors had been. There were a few exceptions, of course, but none on Montmirail. Lefebrve had inherited a ravaged fighter wing, one that had lost over eighty percent of its starting effectives. The ranks had been filled with raw replacements, and she knew she had a difficult task ahead of her trying to turn them into an effective force. But right now, she had her target, and that was all she cared about.
She let her head ease back into the cushioned rest on her chair. She’d never held her turbos at max power for so long before. But there was no choice, not if she was going to catch her prey.
And that was something she was determined to do, whatever it took.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bridge
CFS Dauntless
Varus System
308 AC
“I want gunnery stations ready. Priority power to the point defense array.” Barron had watched Kyle Jamison’s interceptors gut the bomber force, taking out over eighty of the enemy craft. It was a victory of epic proportions, a success greater than any he’d dared hope for. But it still left forty-three bombers heading right for Dauntless and Intrepid.
“Yes, sir,” Travis replied.
“And advise Commander Fritz I expect miracles from her people. However hard those bombers hit us, we’ve got an enemy battleship still to deal with…and we’ve got to destroy that station, whatever it takes.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Barron wasn’t surprised that the station was well defended. In fact, he knew he was lucky if there was only one capital ship escort. But the sheer number of enemy fighters had taken him off guard, and he still had no clear idea what fixed defenses the facility itself mounted. One thing was certain, though. Unless he could bring his battleships through that bomber attack in at least reasonable condition, the fight here was as good as over. The supply convoy Dauntless and Intrepid had destroyed might have bought the fleet some time,
but he didn’t have to look farther than his scanner to see that two dozen massive freighters and tankers were docked, no doubt loading up and preparing to move toward the front. Unless he could stop them.
“Commander, bring us within ten thousand kilometers of Intrepid. I want our defense networks connected.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron wasn’t sure how much that would help, but if one of Dauntless’s guns could pick off a bomber heading for Intrepid, or the reverse, it was worth the effort.
Barron reached down and tapped his comm unit. He knew he’d just had Travis relay orders to Commander Fritz, but he wanted to talk to her himself.
“Fritzie?”
“Yes, Captain. I’ve got the entire engineering staff on alert. I’ve positioned teams near the reactors and at all major power junctions.”
“That’s good, Fritzie.” He paused. “I’m worried about the bays too. We’re going to have to turn around a lot of fighters after the bombers go through…and you know as well as I do how vulnerable they are.”
“I have standby crews ready at both bays, sir. I’m not sure what else we can do.”
“I want the fuel storage moved back, Fritzie. We can’t feed any fires down there if we get hit.”
“Captain, I don’t know how we can get that done in time.”
“Then get some of it done, Fritzie. Anything will help. Conscript the science teams, the galley crew…anybody who doesn’t have a vital combat role. But do what you can.”
“Yes, Captain. I’m on it.”
“And whatever happens, I want the fuel lines between the bay tanks and the main storage cut. I know that will slow us on the refit, but getting the bays blasted to slag will hurt even more. And I want fire retardant foam everywhere down there. Let’s get ahead of this.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“Do your best, Fritzie.” He cut the line. His head darted back and forth as he checked on his bridge crew with something like fatherly concern. He’d led his people in battle before, and he’d watched some of them die. Now he was consumed with doing whatever he could to ensure they were ready to face what was coming and minimize the losses he knew they would take.
