by Jay Allan
“Intrepid and Dauntless blasted the hell out of that ship, and now we’re going to help finish the job. There are hull breaches all over that monster…and I want every one of you to send a laser blast through one of them.”
“We’re with you, Commander.” It was Timmons again. Jamison was starting to realize he liked the brash, aggressive pilot.
Jamison adjusted his thrust, bringing his ship on a direct line for the enemy battleship. He was close now, and his screen was lit up with readings.
Damn…that thing is in bad shape.
There were plumes of energy flaring out through great rips in the hull, and its sides were scarred where whole turrets and sections had been vaporized. Its engines weren’t offline…they were mangled remnants, blasted apart by at least two direct hits and the internal explosions that had followed. But somehow there were half a dozen laser turrets undamaged, and they were continuing to fire, even as the rest of the ship seemed to be well into its death struggle. And every time those guns opened up, Dauntless took more hits.
“We’ve got to put this thing down now,” Jamison said grimly. “Pick your spots, and for God’s sake, make it count.”
He angled his own fighter in, pulling back on the throttle, adjusting his course, heading directly at the battleship looming ahead. He was close, and he was going to get a lot closer. He understood the distances involved in space combat, even at ranges normally considered point blank. But that wasn’t going to do it this time. He was going in, to knife-fighting range.
He stared straight at his screen, watching as the enemy ship grew, the projection changing from a general oval shape to an actual representation of the vessel. His gaze darted down to the range figures. Three hundred kilometers.
He kicked in his thrusters again, decelerating, bringing his fighter almost to a stop less than one hundred kilometers from the battleship. His move would normally be suicidal…the defensive turrets that were marginally effective at normal ranges could blow away a ship so close and slow-moving. But he was gambling the vessel’s point defense systems were down. It was a simple bet. If he won, he’d get a devastating shot in, one that could do some real damage, even with his fighter’s small lasers. And if he was wrong—if he lost—he would die.
Fifty kilometers.
He’d never heard of any fighter getting so close to a capital ship, other than a friendly one it was landing on. It went against all doctrine, all training. It wasn’t even supposed to be possible. But here he was. And he was going closer.
His comm unit was buzzing, but he ignored it. His pilots were trying to reach him, afraid, no doubt that he was planning to repeat the enemy pilot’s suicide run. He couldn’t argue, the idea had briefly passed through his mind. But he wasn’t suicidal, just coldly angry. He had to do this, for himself, for Captain Barron. And nothing was going to stop him.
Twenty kilometers.
He could see the enemy ship now. Not on his scanners, not some electronic reconstruction on his screen, but the actual ship itself, just outside his cockpit’s window.
He backed off on the thrust, slowing his ship further, creeping forward, as the kilometers slowly ticked away. He saw a series of explosions—actually saw them—as another of Intrepid’s salvos smashed into the stricken vessel. And still he went closer.
The ship was growing now in front of him, and as the seconds passed he could see the gaping wounds, the geysers of fluids pouring out and flash-freezing as soon as they hit space. He could see the flickering light of internal explosions and fires, boring their way through melting sections of hull before dying at they hit the vacuum of space.
He felt a wave of satisfaction as he watched the enemy ship slowly dying. He’d never been particularly vengeful, but now he imagined the crew of the battleship, consumed by the fires, blown out of giant rents in the hull…to see if cold or the vacuum killed them first.
His eyes focused on a section of hull directly ahead of him. It was the closest one to the last group of operable guns, the lasers that were still firing at Dauntless. Jamison knew the captain of that ship understood he was going to die. He was targeting Dauntless in the hope of taking one of the Confederation vessels with him. And Kyle Jamison would be damned if he was going to give him the chance.
He angled his fighter down, coming in less than a hundred meters from the battleship’s surface. His gamble seemed to be paying off. If there’d been an operable anti-fighter turret on the ship, he’d be a cloud of debris by now. Even without enemy fire, operating this close to an enemy ship was deadly dangerous.
His hands gripped the controls tightly, his sweat-coated palms sliding around on the leather-upholstered throttle. He was holding his breath, and he had to remind himself to inhale and exhale. Every centimeter of his body was tight, tense.
He saw the great tear in the enemy ship right in front of him. It was over one hundred meters across, and inside he could see a deep cross section of shattered decks. The edges were jagged, rough from where the ship had cracked open, and the armor of the hull had melted and then refrozen almost immediately.
His finger tightened, and his laser fired. Then again. And again. He could see the blasts deep inside the enemy ship as his beams impacted on the unarmored interior. He watched explosions, the previously sealed compartments blasting open, spewing air and debris—and, he suspected—crew members into space’s cold embrace.
Then he pulled back on the throttle, blasting at 2g thrust, just enough to clear the enemy ship and sail past. He was about to reach down and activate the comm, to answer the calls he’d ignored on his approach. But his eyes caught movement on his screen first. It was Timmons, his fighter less than a kilometer away, following his lead, coming in slow and steady, directly toward the battleship. And behind him, Rick Turner. And Olya Fedorov. All the pilots he’d led out on the desperate mission against the enemy bombers, nine fighters in one long, slow-moving line, coming in, picking their targets as he had, and unleashing death on the enemy behemoth.
Jamison brought his fighter around, cutting his thrust, watching as his comrades followed his lead. He was still looking a few moments later when the enemy ship rolled over, and its hull began to split right down the center. He stared with morose satisfaction as the great battleship continued its death throes, huge sections coming apart, yellow and searing hot white blasts of internal explosions pouring out through the lengthening cracks.
“We did it,” Timmons shouted over the comm. “You did it! You led us in, Commander…now take us home.”
“Form up on me,” Jamison replied. But the excitement was already fading from his voice. Home. Dauntless was home. But he doubted her bays were operational, even if Captain Barron had managed to save the ship. This had been a victory—part of one, at least—but what was the cost?
Chapter Forty
Bridge CFS Repulse
Mellas System
308 AC
“Dauntless and Intrepid both survived?” Winston sat at the head of the conference table, a stunned expression on his face.
“Yes, Admiral. Intrepid was hiding in the dust cloud when we emerged into the system. We were chasing an enemy battleship we had engaged in Corpus, but we encountered two additional Union capital ships in Arcturon.” Stockton paused, reaching out for the glass of water a steward had placed in front of him and taking a drink. He’d been picked up by a fleet rescue shuttle literally moments before his life support gave out. He was shivering from the cold and sucking the last bits of stale breath from his exhausted oxygen tanks, when they’d hauled him into the shuttle’s bay and popped his helmet. The rush of fresh air had been nirvana, a feeling he knew he would never forget.
He put the glass back down on the table. “We thought we were in for it, sir, two fresh ships bearing down on us. Then we picked up fighters coming from the dust cloud. At first, we thought they were more Union forces, but then the ID beacons came in. It was Intrepid’s entire complement, plus almost four squadrons of refugees from other ships. They hit the en
emy strike bound for Dauntless and almost wiped it out.”
“And then you destroyed the three battleships?” Winston’s tone didn’t express disbelief, at least not any overt suspicion Stockton was lying to him, but it was clear he was finding the whole thing hard to imagine.
“Yes, sir. Well, Dauntless had already taken out the first…we’d damaged it badly in Corpus. And we had the edge on the others once their fighter wings were destroyed. Dauntless and Intrepid were able to land and refit all our fighters, just about three full wings.”
“Tell us about the supply ships.” Van Striker was sitting next to Admiral Winston. Fifth Fleet’s commander had shuttled over to Repulse—without orders—as soon as he’d heard about Stockton’s rescue.
“It was a large convoy, nearly thirty ships. Dauntless and Intrepid destroyed most of them while the fighters went in and disabled and disarmed a tanker and two freighters. Then Captain Barron sent the Marines to take the vessels, and we used them to resupply.”
“Striker turned toward Winston. “That explains a lot, Admiral. Certainly why we haven’t been attacked here yet. The destruction of their expected supply convoy might have thrown a wrench into whatever logistical system they’ve been using to sustain their offensive.”
“I don’t know, Van. With all due respect to Lieutenant Stockton here, I find this entire story a little hard to grasp.”
“You don’t have to believe me, sir.” Stockton fought back a wave of anger. He didn’t particularly care for the pompous ass of an admiral who’d already lost half the fleet calling him a liar, however politely. But Winston was as lofty as officers got, and even a pilot as wild and defiant as Stockton knew when to restrain himself. He reached into the small bag attached to his belt and pulled something out. “I brought a message from Captain Barron, and scanner data on all the ships we faced.” He reached out and put a small data chip on the table, perhaps with a bit more force than he’d intended. “It also contains data on the main reason I made the trip back here. We captured a Union nav data unit. It had the dispositions of their entire fleet on it…and it mentioned a massive mobile supply base, the nexus of the Union logistics. Captains Barron and Eaton decided to move forward and try to find and destroy the base…and they sent me back to deliver this nav data while they did.”
Striker reached across the table and scooped up the data chip. “If that is true, Lieutenant, your dangerous journey—and Captain Barron’s bold decision to operate behind enemy lines—could be vital to the course of the war.” Striker didn’t seem entirely convinced, but it was clear he was closer to it than Winston. The older admiral wasn’t suspicious, not exactly, but it was obvious he was struggling with the implications.
“If Admiral Winston agrees, we will review all of this now.”
“By all means, Admiral Striker.”
“Thank you, sir.” Striker looked over at Stockton. “You’ve had a difficult time of it, Lieutenant. One of the stewards will set you up in some quarters. You must want a shower, and certainly a decent meal. Maybe even a few hours of sleep. We’ll send for you as soon as we’ve deciphered all of this. I’m sure we’ll have questions.”
“Yes, sir…I’ll admit, a shower would be nice.” He hesitated. “But, sir, with no disrespect…you’ll go through it all right away, won’t you? I left them all behind, Admiral, in enemy space. We’ve got to do something, act on that data.”
“You have my word, Lieutenant. I will review this as quickly as possible. And then we will send for you again. But for now, get some rest, some food.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Stockton got up, surprised at how much trouble he had. He was exhausted, and he was only just feeling how badly. His legs had stiffened up, and he limped as he moved toward the door. He glanced back once, taking one last look at the pair of admirals, the two men who now possessed what he’d come so far to deliver. He had no choice but to trust to their judgment now…and trust was something that came very slowly to him.
He walked through the door, nodding to the steward who was waiting in the corridor.
“Right this way, sir,” the man said.
Stockton nodded, and he followed the steward down the corridor to the lift. He was thinking of a number of things—the data he’d brought, what the admirals would do with it, even the shower that awaited him. He was thinking about Dauntless, about his comrades. Kyle, Captain Barron, Blue squadron.
And Stara. Most of all he was thinking about Stara, and what series of terrible battles she’d likely been through since he’d left.
* * *
“If you think the Confederation forces sent one shuttle into this system to lead our fighters around on a wild goose chase before self-destructing, you’re even stupider than I thought.” Hugo D’Alvert was raging, as only he could. He’d been getting a steady diet of half answers—and no answers—to his inquiries about the recent incursion, and he was fed up with it. “No,” he continued, his voice caustic. “Something else is going on, and I want to know exactly what it is. I want every cubic millimeter of this system searched. I want every capital ship to launch fighters, and I want them doing systematic sweeps of assigned sections of space. There is something else out there—or there was—and I want to know what.”
“Sir, the level of fighter operations you are proposing would further deplete our resources. Our fuel situation is…”
“Damned the fuel situation, Captain. Our supply fleet mysteriously vanishes, and then we have Confederation incursions in this system…by all accounts originating not from Mellas, where we know the enemy fleet is massed but, in all likelihood, from Ultara, which is in our rear. Where did that shuttle come from, Captain? How did it get here, and what else accompanied it? What is still out there, hiding along the periphery of this system? And why?” D’Alvert glared at the aide with withering intensity. “Until you can answer those questions, Captain, don’t waste my time with concerns I can do nothing about. We have fought the Confederation before, and they have always survived despite whatever material advantage we have brought to bear. If they are planning something, a trick or stratagem, now is the time for them to spring it. I will not be blindsided by them, as so many of my predecessors were. We cannot move forward and finish this until we know what is happening…to our supply, and with these unexplained contacts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Issue the order, Captain. I want all ships to maintain squadrons in space around the clock until we discover whatever is out there.”
“Yes, Admiral. At once, sir.” The aide snapped off a salute and hurried from the room.
D’Alvert stood where he was for a moment. Then he sat down on one of the chairs around the conference table. He was close…so close. Victory was his for the taking, a triumph that would lead him on a path to absolute power. He couldn’t allow any Confederation trickery to stop him now. He’d read accounts of the earlier wars—and he’d fought in the last one as a junior officer. One thing after another had intervened to save the Confederation. Rance Barron’s brilliant campaigns, the death of the Union’s First in the previous conflict. D’Alvert had planned too long, taken too many chances to get here to see it all lost now.
What is it? Did the enemy somehow interdict my supplies? If so, how?
He shook his head, feeling tension taking him, paranoia building inside. He had his fleet in position, the disordered enemy so close to defeat. And yet, somehow, he felt it slipping away.
How could the Confederation have gotten to that convoy? How could they have sent a shuttle here from Ultara? It makes no sense. Unless…
He slapped his hand down on the table, his thoughts moving to the rest of the Presidium, to his other admirals. Perhaps it wasn’t the Confederation at all. Could a domestic rival have intervened? He’d considered Admiral Lund to be loyal to him when he’d assigned the officer to convoy duty, but now he wondered. Was there some kind of plot in motion? Had he focused too much on the foreign enemy and relaxed his guard against those operating in
the shadows, behind his back?
He wondered who he could trust. Sabine, of course. Renault was his closest aide, and he felt real affection for her, almost as a daughter.
Which was exactly where an enemy would try to strike. What could be more effective than treachery from those closest to him? But then who can I trust?
Suchet?
The Sector Nine liaison’s name popped into his head. He didn’t know the man. He’d never even heard of him before he’d set foot on Victoire. But perhaps that was a plus. His enemies would have moved against his friends, against his allies. It was the natural place to foment treachery. Even those closest to him couldn’t be trusted. There were too many ways to suborn even unwilling traitors. Rewards, blackmail, addictions, sex, threats against family and loved ones. No, he couldn’t trust anyone in his inner circle. Not now.
Suchet had checked out. He was who he said he was, and he was here for the reasons he’d stated. But he was connected to Sector Nine as well. Having the intelligence agency on his side would be valuable, extremely so.
Perhaps…
He sat for a moment, still, staring at the wall opposite his chair. Then he decided.
His hand moved toward the comm unit, hovering above the button that would connect him to Renault’s line. But he stopped.
No, not through Sabine. Not through anyone.
He reached out to the small tablet on the table, his fingers navigating over the screen, pulling up the contact info for everyone on Victoire. There it was. Temporary channel assigned to Colonel Gregoire Suchet.
He flipped on the comm unit, entering the code by hand.
“Suchet,” came the response through the unit.
“Colonel, this is Admiral D’Alvert.” He paused, looking around the room and back toward the door. “I’d like to discuss something with you if you have time…”
