by Andrew Keith
"Antelope, Gray Skull. Copy that. Can you patch through a video signal?"
"Affirmative, Gray Skull. Stand by." There was a long pause. Then one of the monitors on Rodland's comm panel it up. At first it was fuzzy, then Drake started applying magnification to his long-range telescopes. Suddenly an image sprang out from the blackness.
Ullestad had the same image on his monitors. "Wait a minute, skipper!" he said. He tapped the keypad in front of him. "Warbook's got a new estimate . . . that's a Leopard CV! See the fighter bay doors?"
"Fighters," Rodland said, tight-lipped. The standard Leopard Class DropShip carried a lance of BattleMechs or a small contingent of troops, but the CV variant was specifically designed to carry aerospace fighters. "That's no damned boarding party."
"That cuts our safety margin," Rischel said. Fighters capable of six gees of acceleration could coast longer at the ship's current speed and then use that higher acceleration curve to brake, getting them to the Gray Skull well ahead of their mother ship. They'd probably launch when the DropShip hit the midpoint and turned to start decelerating.
Rodland's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. "Antelope, we're making that target as a CV type. Do you concur?"
"Affirmative on that idee, Gray Skull," Drake said, sounding unconcerned. "Doesn't look good, Captain." The communications channel cut off abruptly.
No, it didn't. And they were fast running out of options. Rodland didn't want to cut and run if he could avoid it. With his reputation, another unordered retreat would be the end of his career. But the alternative didn't look too good either just now.
"Sir ..." The sensor technician sounded perplexed. "Sir, I'm reading an aspect change on Antelope. Her delta-vee is changing. ..."
The symbols on the tactical display were changing subtly as the computer, compensating for time lag, tried to predict the velocity and course of the DropShip as she unexpectedly changed her thrust. Rodland stared at the screen in dawning recognition.
And horror. There was only one thing that change of course could mean.
"God damn," Ullestad said softly. "Drake's no match for a CV and a fighter squadron."
"No, but he can sure throw a glitch into their battle plans," Rodland said. "Let's hope to hell it's worth the cost."
12
Deep Space
Glengarry System, Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
"Range, twelve thousand kilometers, closing."
Lieutenant John Drake checked his status board and nodded approval. They were as ready as they would ever be.
The Antelope was a Gazelle Class DropShip, designed to transport a company of armored vehicles and attached troops. Today she had been pressed into more mundane service, transporting a mixed batch of cargo the Gray Skull had brought in on her last run from Lyons. But in any role she wasn't entirely without teeth. Drake hoped his ship could give a good account of herself.
A part of him was protesting that this was no part of a DropShip captain's duty, that right now he should be withdrawing at top acceleration. That was the accepted role of a DropShip, especially one running empty. Life was cheap, but technology wasn't. Save the hardware for a later fight.
But Drake owed his life and position to the Gray Death Legion. His father had commanded the Antelope before him as a part of a Kurita armored regiment stationed along the Rasalhague frontier. When the Clans came, the Antelope had been damaged in action and barely escaped by docking to a merchant JumpShip fleeing the hostilities. They had come out in the Sudeten system, Federated Commonwealth territory and where a Kurita vessel would have been fair game. It was bad enough for a ship belonging to the Federated Commonwealth's hereditary enemy to risk showing up within F-C territory, but the Gray Death Legion had been waging a long-running feud with the Kuritas ever since the sneak attack on Trellwan that had killed Grayson Carlyle's father.
The Antelope had crashed on Sudeten, killing Drake's father, but Grayson Carlyle had not been hostile. Instead he'd given Drake the option of repairing—and keeping—his ship in exchange for assistance in the Legion's evacuation effort. The Clans had just beaten them, and Sudeten would be the Gray Death's homeworld no more. Another man would probably have commandeered the stricken DropShip, but not Carlyle. Drake had been with the Legion ever since.
And today, at last, the time had come to repay his debt.
"Incoming message from Gray Skull, sir," the Antelope's chief commtech reported. "Captain Rodland."
"Transfer to my panel here," Drake ordered. Inwardly he cursed the interruption. He needed to stay focused, and explaining himself to the JumpShip captain was a distraction he didn't need right now.
"Drake, what the hell are you playing at?" Rodland demanded as his features filled the monitor.
"Gray Skull, you guys need time," Drake said carefully. "Time for the orders HQ promised to send us, and time for you to get ready to jump. I might be able to buy you what you need. All I've got to do is slow them down a little. If they start messing around with their acceleration curve to get at us, it'll play havoc with their timetable."
"One DropShip won't last long against a whole damned fleet, Drake," the JumpShip captain protested. "Hell, if they launch their fighters they'll outclass you even without help from the rest of that bunch. Call it off, man! Before it's too late!"
Drake shook his head. "No can do, Gray Skull. Let me do what we both know I've got to." He paused. "Check your tactical board, Captain. Nothing I could do would get me docked with you before these bastards are right on top of you. So I'm in deep trouble either way. Best thing now is to make sure we're the only ones."
There was a long silence on the other end. Drake could picture Rodland running simulations on his tac board, but e already knew what the computer would say. He'd always been able to outguess a tactical situation even without computer assistance: This one he'd summed up the moment he'd seen the distinctive Leopard-CV configuration in the telescopic image.
Then Rodland's face was back on his screen, features grim. "Computer says you're right. But you can't just throw your lives away."
"We'll see. Maybe we'll hand 'em a surprise or two." Fat chance, Drake added silently, but he wasn't about to admit to any doubts now. "I'll try to buy you as much time as possible. Antelope, out."
He signaled to the commtech to cut the channel and then turned his full attention back to the tactical display. It was a simple task, really. All he had to do was get the enemy captain's attention. ...
Every motion, every movement was a strain under three gravities of acceleration, and aboard the Free Skye Drop-Ship Merkur, Weltallkommandant Otto Jaeger moved his hands over the control board with exaggerated care. It would be too easy to drag a stray digit across the wrong pressure pad, and every space officer knew that speed had to take second place to caution in high-grav situations like this one.
He punched up the sensor-array repeater screen and studied the pattern of lines and symbols that interrupted the region of deep space around the DropShip.
"Do you have him, sir?" the sensor technician asked, sounding worried.
Jaeger studied the red trace that represented the hostile ship moving under power straight toward the Merkur. "I've got him," he acknowledged. "Looks to me like a Gazelle Class. He's not seriously thinking of attacking, is he?"
"Looks like it, Captain," the exec responded.
"Suicide," Jaeger pronounced. The Gazelle was actually bigger and better armed than his command, but not when you added the Merkur's contingent of fighters to the balance. No one in his right mind would try to pit an ordinary transport DropShip against a fighter carrier with a full complement of fighters. Unless . . .
"Intelligence data, *' Jaeger snapped. "What do they have on the Gray Death's space assets?"
"Only one Gazelle Class listed, Captain Drake," the exec replied promptly. "She's the Antelope. Standard configuration as of two months ago. No indication they've done any conversions or modifications since then."
J
aeger stared thoughtfully at the monitor. "That man is either very brave or very stupid," he said, almost to himself. "All he can do is delay us."
"Perhaps that's all they want, sir."
"Well, the sooner we deal with him the sooner we can deal with the JumpShip. Order the fighters to launch. Handle him. And quickly."
"Aye aye, Captain," the exec acknowledged.
Jaeger contemplated the sensor display and smiled coldly. The opposition was badly mistaken if they thought they could win with delaying tactics. This was one fight that would be over in short order.
* * *
"And five! Four . . . three . . . two ..."
In the cockpit of his Lucifer, Weltalleutnant Sean Ferguson gripped the control stick with both hands and braced himself as the countdown ticked off the seconds. A few minutes earlier he'd been complaining at the inaction. Now he felt a cold chill settling in his gut as he thought about the order to launch. This would be no simulation, no quiet practice fight. This was the real thing. . . .
"Launch!"
Acceleration slammed him back into his contoured cockpit seat as the fighter bay catapult flung his aerospace fighter into the void. Ferguson had only the briefest glimpse of the Merkur's elongated hull rushing past. Then the carrier DropShip was out of sight astern.
He counted off the prescribed number of seconds before cutting in his engines. The DropShip had maintained acceleration throughout the launch operation, so that the delta-vee values of mother ship and fighter were diverging moment by moment. Once the larger craft was clear of danger from the fighter's engines, Ferguson could go to powered flight.
"Red Squadron, this is Red One," Hobart's voice crackled in his headset. "Set your navputers to take a CAT feed from Red Mother."
Ferguson's fingers played over the console beside his left leg. The cockpit displays shifted as the feed started. The Merkur mounted a far more sophisticated array of sensors than any fighter could carry, and her computer was bigger, faster, and smarter. Using unjammable tight-beam laser links coordinated by computers on both the fighters and the mother ship, it was possible for the ships of Red Squadron to use those superior command and control facilities to good advantage. Of course, if things got dicey and the tight-beam links went down, he'd have to rely on his own instruments, but for now all six ships of Red Squadron would be working in tightly coordinated harmony.
"Red Three," he reported. "Link established. Showing one hostile, range ten thousand, closing."
"That's confirmed, Shadowcat," Hobart said a moment later. "All Reds, close up and alter course to intercept the hostile. Standard diamond formation."
"Red Three, aye," Ferguson acknowledged. He moved the stick with smooth precision, marvelling at how ordinary it all seemed. It was just like a drill after all.
Except for the fact that the hostile target out there was real—and in a matter of minutes so would be the missiles and beams coming at them.
13
Deep Space
Glengarry System, Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
"Fighters! Fighters! Fighters!" the Antelope's weapons officer chanted. "Target is launching fighters."
"What does the Warbook make of them?" Captain Drake demanded.
His exec, Linda Fowler, was quick to respond. "They're Lucifers. Sixty-five tons, an LRM and seven lasers for armament."
Drake pursed his lips. "Well, I guess medium fighters are better than heavies."
"If you ignore their speed and maneuverability," Fowler countered grimly.
He ignored the comment. DropShips weren't supposed to engage in space battles voluntarily, and six medium fighters would pose a serious threat even under the best of combat situations. The Antelope's weapons and armor were more than a match for any mere fighter, but they were designed for self-defense and as support for troops during a landing operation, not for a standup fight. Aerospace fighters designed specifically for interception work could fly rings around a DropShip.
Anyway, just engaging the Lucifers wouldn't accomplish much. He might destroy one or two of them, but that wouldn't change the basic situation. Meanwhile the Leopard-CV was maintaining its heading and speed, closing on Rodland's Gray Skull. The only way to buy Rodland the time he'd need to wait for the orders promised from the Gray Death commanders on Glengarry was to distract that DropShip.
Drake's eyes roamed over the sensor display and the ship's status monitor. There really was no choice but one. "Helm, start random variations on the acceleration curve," he said at last. "Weapons Officer, power up the PPCs and prepare to engage."
"Target, Skipper?" Takashi Akiyama glanced over his shoulder, a quizzical expression on his fine-boned face. "Or do we stick with CTA?"
He shook his head. This time they wouldn't turn the weaponry over to computer fire control. The computer threat-assessment program was effective in most cases, but it made its judgments based on narrow tactical considerations. A longer view was needed here.
"Override computer fire control," he ordered. "We want you to concentrate everything on the Leopard. Helm, maintain a direct course toward that ship. Match maneuvers, but close up the range." That wouldn't be easy, with both ships using random thrust variations to fool each other's targeting systems, but they didn't have to get close enough to board. All they had to do was present a sufficient threat.
Startled gasps from around the bridge greeted his orders. "The CV isn't the threat," he heard someone say aloud.
"Our job is to keep the bastards tied up for a while," he told them bluntly. "We do that best by harassing the mother ship."
"Aye aye, Skipper," Linda Fowler said for all of them. She knew as well as he did what the decision would mean.
* * *
"Allmachtiger Gott! The DropShip is still on intercept with us!"
Aboard the Free Skye DropShip Merkur, Weltallkommandant Jaeger turned in his chair to study the enemy ship's tactical plot. The ship's vector data had not really changed, except for the minor fluctuations of random drive-variation to throw off targeting systems. With six fighters closing rapidly on the ship, it took guts for the enemy captain to maintain such a single-minded attack posture.
A brave man, indeed, this DropShip captain. A pity he would have to be killed . . .
"Flight Control!" he rasped. "Order Red Squadron to close the range and attack."
"Missile launch from the target," the sensor technician reported. "Incoming missiles! Incoming missiles!"
"Point defense!" the exec snapped.
The weapons officer responded with a crisp "Aye, aye," and bent over his board. Bursts of thousands of high-velocity slugs probed the void around the Merkur, searching for the streaking warheads locked on to the carrier DropShip.
"Two . . . three . . . five warheads neutralized," the sensor tech reported. "Still . . . twelve incoming."
"Brace for impact! Damage control parties, stand by!"
Jaeger could feel the rippling detonation of the swarm of LRMs against the ship's armored hull. The Merkur seemed to shudder under the attack, and Jaeger's fingers dug into the arms of his acceleration couch. "Report damage!" he ordered sharply.
"Reports coming in now, sir," the exec replied. "All decks secure. They scoured away some armor, but nothing serious. No breaches."
"Main comm array is out. Switching to secondaries," the communications station keeper reported a moment later.
"Minor damage to Number Three laser turret," the weapons officer added. "The weaponry still reads nominal, but the turret mechanism's showing an amber light."
"Damage control has it," the exec said. "I've got a team on the way."
"Good," Jaeger said, pleased at the crew's smooth responses. That first salvo hadn't been anything more than a test of the Merkur's reactions, and worse would surely follow if the enemy captain had even half the brains Jaeger suspected. Still, he was confident his crew could handle anything a Gazelle Class ship could throw at him.
And meanwhile the fighters were, coming into r
ange too. That would settle this fight.
* * *
"Missiles incoming! Range five hundred, closing!" shouted the Antelope's weapons officer.
"Brace for impact!" Drake ordered. "And maintain your fire on the Leopard!"
An instant later the Gray Death DropShip seemed to stagger as the enemy missiles detonated along the Antelope's stern. The bridge lights faded for a moment, then came back up. At the same time a string of red warning indicators glowed bright on Drake's status console.
"Six ... no, seven hits, skipper," Fowler reported. "All to the stern section. Engines are redlining, and we have a pressure drop in the upper drive room, port side. Containment doors are in place."
"We can't take much more of this," Drake said, sick at the thought of what he was doing to his father's beloved Antelope—and to the nine crewmen who trusted in him as captain.
"PPC hit on the Leopard!" the weapons officer exulted. "Bastard felt that one, guaranteed!"
"How much time have we bought for Rodland?" Drake asked. He'd lost track of time ever since the first Lucifer had crossed the DropShip's stern and opened fire.
"Twelve minutes, skipper," the exec told him. "More, really. We've shot their whole maneuver profile to hell. Once they finish us off they'll have a lot of delta-vee to make up." Linda Fowler's voice was even. It was as if she had already accepted death as the only possible outcome.
And she was right, of course. The DropShip was well armored and heavily armed, but the enemy fighters had the advantages of speed and maneuverability, and each time they closed to the attack they ran up more damage to the DropShip's hull armor without suffering any themselves. As long as Drake ignored them in favor of the mother ship, they could keep up those unanswered attacks. It was only a matter of time before the Lucifers finally finished off the Antelope.
Drake slammed his fist down on the chair arm. "If we're going out, let's do it in style," he said harshly. "Lieutenant, I want every gram of thrust you can squeeze out of those engines. I don't care if you have to go back there and hold them together with your hands!" Drake looked at the pilot. "Helm, alter your delta-vee again. I want a collision course with the Leopard."
