by John Bowers
Landon spoke quietly to his AI as he drifted farther from the base, giving his fighters time to exit the hangar and form up behind him. They would fly in three wedge formations; it would take an hour or more to reach the scene of the ambush, and by the time they got there, Landon would have a formation on each wing, several hundred miles apart. Any threat to the rescue operation would be detected and engaged before it could close — at least in theory. The ResQMed, a box-like medical ship manufactured by Lincoln Enterprises, would fly with the center formation.
"You alert back there, Lieutenant?" Landon asked over the intercom.
"Alert, Major. I just hope they saved a few of the bastards for us."
"Be careful what you hope for," he replied grimly. "You just might get it."
She didn't reply, but she hoped so. Goddess Sophia, she hoped so!
* * *
The asteroid field was distracting as hell. Billions of pieces of rock — from gravel to boulders to rocks the size of a house — floated lazily in all directions, occluding Ladar and creating an obstacle to speed. The Lincoln fighters proceeded at a steady pace in spite of that, their AC shields protecting them from damage. Occasionally the AI fired a steering jet to avoid a larger object. The shields sparked lightly each time something touched them, and Onja found it almost hypnotic as she watched on her screens.
As they approached the ambush site, her pulse quickened. She'd been keeping up with events and knew the Sirians had been successful at somehow masking their presence, even in the face of passive Ladar. So the fact that her screens displayed nothing threatening was little comfort.
Then something blinked on her board and she heard a beep. She tuned her equipment and listened intently.
"I'm getting a beacon, Major," she said breathlessly. "Bearing zero one four, offset three five one negative, range one zero four miles." She should have picked it up much farther away, she reflected, but if EMP had fried the damaged fighter's circuits, it would be operating on battery power. Rescue beacons always operated at low power in order to keep broadcasting as long as possible; such emissions could be detected from close range, but at any distance only the sophisticated equipment aboard larger vessels could hear them.
"That's it," Landon said easily. "ETA thirty seconds. Keep alert."
They arrived on station moments later; Landon fired retro power to stop, and the ResQMed headed for the wreck. Onja didn't see the damaged fighter, but continued scanning space in all directions. Five more wrecks were out here somewhere, though they could have drifted several thousand miles since the ambush. The idea was to find them all, but at the moment she wasn't picking up any more distress beacons. She heard Landon talking to the Med over inter-ship radio, a weak signal that carried only a few miles. She could see the fighters in her section through her optics, but the other sections were too far away. Nothing else was visible either visually or electronically, except millions of pieces of rock.
"Okay," Landon told her a few minutes later, "the ResQMed says no survivors aboard that one. Let's look for the others."
It took a painful two hours to locate the next one, and again no survivors were found. The next two were close together, and this time they struck pay dirt — two men from the Med were able to pull a pilot and two gunners out of the wrecks, all of them injured, but alive. Onja wondered if Christine Liebau was among them. She continued to search the sky.…
"Jesus Christ! Major, I see Sirians! At least a dozen — no, fifteen, no, eighteen! Bearing three four two, offset zero one six! They're heading straight for us! Let's go get 'em!"
Landon sounded at once puzzled and frustrated.
"Nothing there, Lieutenant! I'm not picking up a blessed thing!"
"No, sir, they're not on Ladar! I see them! I'm looking at them with optics! I can't tell their speed, but their range is about ten thousand miles. And they're coming fast!"
Landon was silent for a long heartbeat.
"Are you sure, Lieutenant?" She heard the uncertainty in his voice.
"Yes, goddammit! Sorry, sir, but yes! It looks like a full squadron!"
She punched buttons on her console, locking the enemy's position into her targeting equipment. Then she issued the first combat order of her life.
"Input: shields up, full EMP block; execute!"
* * *
Robert Landon had a decision to make, and little time in which to make it. The girl in his gun turret might be the hottest student ever to qualify in training, but she was still green as grass. His own threat screens showed nothing, yet she was adamant that the enemy was closing. He didn't have optical equipment, so couldn't judge for himself if what she was seeing was accurate. What he did know was that the enemy had been repeatedly successful in ambushing his fighters without being detected.
For long seconds he sat undecided. Then he realized he had little real choice; he'd cleared her to fly in the face of Hinds's objections, so did he trust her or didn't he?
"Give me those coordinates again," he said.
She repeated them a little breathlessly. "They're a couple of degrees above the Plane of the Ecliptic, Major," she added, "in clear space."
Well, that was something. If he had to maneuver — and he would — he wouldn't have to worry as much about the garbage floating about in the Belt. The downside was that it gave the enemy a clear shot, with nothing for him to hide behind.
Landon chinned his throat mike. He was still on low-freq inter-ship.
"All sections, Lone Wolf. Enemy squadron sighted on optical …" He gave coordinates and range. "We're going to engage. Do not fire until ordered. Wing sections, do not converge until you have the enemy flanked. Let's go get 'em."
Landon began a steady acceleration toward the still invisible enemy, his wingmen following suit. He continued to watch for Ladar signatures, but saw nothing. His own Ladar was in passive mode, so maybe they wouldn't pick him up, either — unless they already had.
* * *
Onja watched the Sirians (or Vegans — she had no way to tell) as Landon accelerated to clear the top of the Belt. The section on their left wing was also moving, far enough out of position to avoid detection, yet close enough to support her. She could see all eighteen enemy ships still on course, as if out for a training exercise. She prayed she could get close enough to fire the first shot.
Her arsenal was loaded. In addition to her twin lasers, her main battery consisted of torpedoes. She carried four pairs of Yin-Yangs and eight standard torps. The Yin-Yangs were a marvel, and the best hope of most fighter crews in open-space combat; they fired in pairs, one falling behind as the other accelerated toward the enemy. They had a habit of changing course several times before reaching their target, confusing enemy gunners as to their intentions. At the last moment, the Yin would drive straight toward the target and explode a few miles short, releasing a powerful, directed electro-magnetic pulse (EMP) that fried the target's shield generators. With shields down, the target was then vulnerable to the Yang, which carried the main warhead.
Onja had never used them, of course, but they worked like magic in the simulator. She'd talked to a few gunners since arriving at 131, but so far none had been able to use them effectively. She hoped to change that.
"Input:" Onja said suddenly. "Shields down, execute."
"What the hell are you doing!" Landon sputtered in surprise.
"They haven't spotted us, Major. Their shields are down, too."
"Well, good for them! You want to give them equal opportunity?"
"No, sir. But shields emit radiation, and they will detect us if we leave them up. I recommend you order the wingmen to drop theirs, too. We'll get the first shot, then raise them again. It won't matter then, because once we shoot, they'll know we're here."
Onja's blue eyes were glued to her optics, blood thundered through her veins. It all made perfect sense to her.
"Range six thousand," she reported. "Major, ask our wingmen to drop their shields, please."
"I don't think so, Lieut
enant. In fact …"
"Range fifty-eight hundred," she said, ignoring him. "They'll be detecting us any minute, Major. Sir, please trust me on this!"
He didn't respond immediately.
"Range fifty-six hundred."
The GalaxyFighter's ion drive whined steadily as the Asteroid Belt fell away behind. Onja's tongue traced across her lips. She offered a silent prayer to Sophia.
"Range fifty-five hundred. They haven't spotted us yet."
Her fingers began flipping toggles, arming her weapons. She selected two pairs of Yin-Yangs and set them on standby. She watched the tiny numerals spinning in her optics, her breath coming faster. Her threat board was still clear. Maximum optimal range was five thousand miles, and she was closing on fifty-four hundred. As the numerals spiraled downward she took a deep breath, let half of it out, and gripped her laser control.
* * *
Landon felt a rising sense of alarm, as if things were happening beyond his control. This whole thing felt wrong, somehow; he'd engaged the Sirians twice before, both times at close range with asteroids all around him. This was different, and scary. His gunner sounded very sure of herself, but she'd never done this before, so was he making a mistake by trusting her?
What if Hinds was right?
Landon almost jumped as a laser beam flashed above him, streaking out across space toward the enemy he couldn't see. It flashed again, then again.
"Goddammit!" he shouted. "What the fuck're you doing!"
The laser flashed a fourth time, then he heard his gunner issuing orders to the AI.
"Input! Shields up, full Ladar sweep, execute! They've seen us, Major! Full power! Let's get the rest of them!"
He heard the turret whining.
For a dumb five seconds he could hardly believe his eyes. His Ladar went to full power and his HH was suddenly alive with enemy signatures. He counted fourteen, and saw ghosts of four others that looked as if they'd been destroyed.
"Range forty-nine hundred! Let's go, Major! Let's go, let's go, let's go!"
"Jesus!" he grunted. "All sections, Lone Wolf — activate full Ladar! Fire at will!"
He went to full thrust, his wingmen following.
* * *
Capt. Nakamichi had been right, all those months ago at Travis. Onja had mastered aerial combat at Travis, but at Luna 1 had learned that none of it mattered when fighting in space. With no atmosphere for the control surfaces, a fighter's mobility was extremely limited, and therefore vulnerable. You didn't turn away easily when the enemy fired at you; turning meant bone-jarring acceleration in another direction, usually ten G's or more, and it took time to get out of the path of incoming ordnance. Speeds were so high you rarely, if ever, saw the enemy at all and, as in the ancient art of jousting, once you passed him he was gone. You usually got one pass, and if anyone was left on either side, it took time to reverse course and re-engage.
Onja had no intention of letting the enemy get past her.
As Landon poured on power and she felt her weight increase, she unlimbered her torpedoes. The first pair of Yin-Yangs rattled out of her tubes and sped on their way, twisting and winding toward the enemy. Ten seconds later she released the next pair, aiming them at the other side of the enemy formation.
The shield generator whined, and she saw sparks on her screen as enemy lasers bounced off the shields. Torpedoes would be headed in her direction, but she was ready for them.
Range forty-four hundred.
She watched the enemy fighters closely on her optics. According to her training, the Sirians hadn't perfected their shield technology; they had to drop shields briefly when using their lasers. With both hands on her laser controls, she gently worked her crosshairs, keeping half a dozen targets within millimeters of the center. She saw a flash, and with the sensitivity of a surgeon, nudged her crosshairs in time to return fire. The Sirian flashed and blossomed, and a second later she hit another one. That was six for sure.
Only twelve left.
* * *
Landon felt terribly vulnerable. It was twelve against eighteen, but his flight of four was the enemy's primary target. The fighters on his flanks might finish off the enemy, but the odds were good that his section would be smashed before they got within range.
Still, he had cause for hope. Against all logical expectation, his gunner had quickly knocked out six of the enemy, making the odds exactly even. No matter how it ended, that was more Sirians than the fighters of 131 had killed in a single engagement since the war started. Maybe she really was as good as she claimed.
"Incoming, Major. I've got nine torpedoes on my screen, ETA two minutes."
Well, that was no surprise. The Sirians would've launched the minute they detected him. There was nothing he could do about it, of course. You couldn't maneuver away from torpedoes, and even if you tried, it would happen so slowly they could easily adjust and take you out. Landon felt sweat slide down inside the collar of his pressure suit.
Through his cockpit window he saw something flash in the distance. Immediately his radiation sensors began to register, and he realized it was one of the Yins, delivering an EMP strike to the Sirians. Four seconds later a weaker flash followed — the Yang. On his HH, another Sirian fighter turned into a fragmented graphic. Seven down.
The range was just over four thousand miles. His wingmen were launching now. Another brilliant EMP flash, followed by a weaker explosive strike, signaled the death of an eighth Sirian.
"Torpedoes, ETA one minute." Onja sounded deadly calm, as if giving him a weather report. "Stand by for countermeasures."
The shields would hold against a standard torpedo warhead, but each hit would weaken them. Too many hits would bring them down and ruin your whole day. Nine inbound torps against four fighters — depending on how they were targeted, all four ships in his section might survive, but if too many went after the same fighter, someone was going to die.
Thankfully, shields weren't the only defense.
* * *
Onja's body felt electric as adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream. Far from leaving her weak and trembling, it served to steady her nerves, focusing her concentration, sharpening her mind. While waiting for the enemy torpedoes to come within range, she checked the enemy fighters again and saw that most were now operating without shields. The Yins had done their job; the Sirians had been too close together, allowing a single EMP blast to affect several fighters.
She had only seconds to spare before the torpedoes arrived, but quickly pumped out four laser shots, and saw three more Sirians fragment on her screen.
"Attent!" the AI squawked, "enemy torpedoes, ETA thirty seconds!"
Onja released the laser handles and concentrated on her optics again, quickly focusing on the torpedoes under magnification. They were short, stubby weapons, nothing elegant about them, coming at her in a staggered wave. Several were heading toward her wingmen, but at least three were coming straight in. She hoped they weren't EMPs, but some probably were.
"Input:" she said breathlessly, "activate countermeasures. Execute!"
The GalaxyFighter's AI reacted immediately. From eight different nodes embedded in the wings and fuselage, invisible waves of electromagnetic energy beamed toward the torpedoes. Two erupted almost at once, brilliant but harmless flashes several hundred miles short of their target. The third, apparently shielded, punched through the energy beams until it was within fifty miles of the GF, then it flashed a brilliant nuclear blossom.
EMP!
The shields sagged under the overload, but held, generating barely twenty percent of normal. The EMP block had saved the fighter's electronics, but they wouldn't survive another one. The other fighters in her section were also using countermeasures, and in the space of half a minute, premature torpedoes turned the blackness of space into a light show. Then it was over.
Almost.
The Sirians were changing course slightly, spreading out to prevent further damage due to bunching. But it was too late for that; Ca
pt. Washington's section on the extreme right had flanked them and now poured laser and torpedo fire into their ranks. Only seven Sirians had survived to this point, but they were flanked and naked. They continued to return fire, but in less than a minute the last Sirian was destroyed.
* * *
The ResQMed entered the hangar bay first. A medical team waited to receive the wounded. Only four survivors had been found, three of them injured, and within moments they were all safely inside the asteroid base.
Landon brought his fighters in by sections, waiting until they were all inside before landing himself. He still couldn't grasp what had just happened, though the ramifications could be serious. It was the biggest victory AB-131 had ever scored, and he hadn't lost a single ship. But if the Sirians had already been aware that the Federation had a base in the vicinity, surely they would now double their efforts to find it. He wasn't afraid of a fight, but he needed more ships.
Just minutes after the patrol arrived, another headed out. Watching for the enemy was now more important than ever.
* * *
Onja crawled out of her gun turret and let the ship handler help her to the deck. She was tired but exhilarated; her blood was still pounding, as if she needed more action. It had felt good to, finally, strike back at the enemy. Surely this was what she was born to do, and she already longed for another shot at the bastards.
As the fighter crews passed through the airlock, they were unprepared for what awaited them. The observation deck above the entrance was crowded with cheering people; pilots, gunners, off-duty base personnel; in total more than two hundred people were packed in, cheering afresh each time the airlock opened. Onja tugged off her helmet and stared up at them, her blue eyes incredulous. But the ovation was infectious, and in moments she was smiling and waving along with the rest of the fighter crews.
