Starfighter (Strike Commander Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   Following her gaze, he saw a pair of fighters lined up, facing a hatch large enough to allow them to fly though. He glanced at his datapad again. They were just beneath one of the deepest craters on the asteroid, a spot in perpetual shadow that would be perfect to hide a secret launch system.

   She stepped towards the nearest fighter, and said, “Ready to go. I guess they must have been preparing to launch.”

   With practiced expertise, he climbed up to the cockpit and started throwing switches, running a cable to his communicator. “Mark Eleven Spearfish. Short-range, but very fast.”

   “You've flown them?”

   “For a while, before my squadron switched over to Vulcans. They're good for base defense, but not much else.” Looking around, he added, “I suppose that's exactly the requirement for this place.”

   “Churchill to Conway. Come in, please!” his communicator urgently barked.

   “Conway here, Mo. What's the story?”

   “About time. I've been trying to call you for three minutes. The surviving staff of that secret base you're skulking in have evacuated...”

   “Yeah, I'd worked that out,” he interrupted. We've found a hidden fighter bay, two Spearfish interceptors ready for launch. You'd better get a shuttle over here. I'd bet that someone will be jumping into the system to pick them up in a matter of minutes.”

   “Be glad I'm not taking you up on that, because you'd owe me money as well. Morgan found the bodies of Beowulf's crew, stored in a cavern. We've got a positive shuttle trace...”

   “Damn,” he said, looking at the fighters, a swirl of emotions flooding over him. He hadn't stepped into a fighter since the War, the memories of his last mission still strong, all those years later. Bennett looked at him expectantly, already climbing into the nearest ship, poised to enter the cockpit.

   Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Pull the specifications on the Swordfish. Can they...”

   “I have, and they can intercept if you leave at once. We've got a lock into the base control systems now, and McGuire thinks he can open the doors at your location. Just to make you feel safe, you're standing in the middle of a vehicular airlock right now.”

   “Come on, Jack,” Bennett said. “We've got to move.”

   Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the faces of his friends, as though they had been burned into his soul. Almost every night, he played that last battle over again, and again, and again. Looking up at the fighters, it was almost too much to bear, but he couldn't let them escape. He couldn't let them win.

   “Let's do it,” he said, racing over to the other fighter, while Bennett climbed in. “You checked out on one of these babies?”

   “I've sat in a cockpit before,” she replied. “Churchill, this is Red Two. Switching over on-board systems to your navigational control. I need a vector for fastest-line intercept, no regard for return. Over.”

   “Who...”

   “Do as she says, Mo,” Conway replied. “I guess that makes me Red Leader.” He threw a series of switches, memories flooding back into his mind. “Same for me, and clear me for launch. You'd better warn Tabby that she's about to get more blips on her screen.”

   “I already heard, you crazy bastard,” the dockmaster replied. “Watch yourself out there. You owe me far too much money to die today. I can't send the bailiffs to Hell.”

   “Funny, I thought they lived there,” he said. “Go for launch, Churchill. Let's get this over with.”

   “Activating launch sequence,” Sullivan replied, and the rear doors slammed shut as the outer hatch slid open, the cold darkness of space beyond. The cockpit seals flashed green, and the last traces of the pre-launch countdown concluded. He felt a slight jolt, his fighter pushed forward by a launch catapult, and the cavern disappeared on all sides, leaving him floating free, the other fighter beside him.

   “Red Two, we're relying on our hand communicators, so stay within three thousand kilometers at all times,” he ordered. “Form on my wing, and stand by for full thrust. Arms check?”

   “Two Hammerhead missiles, ready to go,” she replied. “More than enough for the job.”

   “No such thing as overkill,” Conway said. “Implementing course.”

   The powerful engines roared, pressing him hard against the unfamiliar couch, a feeling both terrifying and exhilarating as he recalled all the battles he had fought in fighters like this, more than a decade ago. If he glanced to his side, he could almost see the rest of his old squadron flying alongside, and perhaps, in spirit, they were.

   “Two minutes to contact,” he said. “Churchill, signal that shuttle, and see if they're in a mood to surrender. Then get in touch with Vlad, and have him move that pack of reinforcements he wasn't going to tell us about into a shuttle. We want to take Beowulf intact if we can.”

   “Blake must already have moved some people over,” Sullivan replied. “They're on a course to take them towards the hendecaspace point, slow enough that the shuttle should be coming alongside in a matter of minutes.”

   “Match vectors,” he ordered. “Try a warning shot to convince them that we're serious.”

   “Red Two to Red Leader,” Bennett said. “This is looking too damn easy.”

   Glancing at his scanner, he replied, “My guess is that in about thirty seconds, everything's going to get a lot more complicated.” Throwing switches to enhance his view of the retreating Beowulf, he set the fighter for an attack run on the shuttle, though something inside him suggested he'd be unable to execute it.

   “New contacts,” he said with a sigh. “Three targets departing Beowulf on intercept course.”

   “How…,” Bennett asked.

   “Let's just say I've seen this trick pulled before,” he replied. “They're vectoring towards Churchill. Mo, have you got them?”

   “Locked on, and I've got a firing solution on the lead fighter,” he said. “Can't do anything about the other one. Estimate range to contact in ninety seconds.”

   “We can't get both of them,” Bennett said.

   “Not much of a choice,” he replied. “Stay on my tail. We're going hunting.”

   Swinging the ship around, he locked in a new course, bearing directly for the enemy fighters. For a heartbeat, he was back at Proxima again, watching the UN squadron racing away from the tanker, and it took an effort to wrestle himself back to reality. He had to focus on the task at hand, could not afford any distraction, not even for a moment.

   Reaching down, he threw a switch and enabled the emergency afterburner, warning alarms flooding the console as he pushed the vessel past normal maximum hull stress. He'd flown these birds often enough to know what they could actually do, against what the manual claimed, and if the opposition he was facing here was equal to the fake Espatier he'd found on the asteroid, he was confident that he had the advantage.

   “One on one,” he said, bringing the targeting computer on-line. “McGuire, you there?” There was no response, and he repeated, “McGuire?”

   “I'm back, boss,” the hacker said. “Relax, I'm on the case. Running shotgun on your systems right now, all looks sweet to me.”

   “Make sure it stays that way, and don't forget Red Two. Speaking of which...”

   “I'm set for the one on the left,” she said with a smile.”

   “I'll take them on the right. Tally ho!”

   “What?”

   “Where the hell did you learn to fly? Break and attack, then, damn it!” Tapping the thruster, he sent the fighter diving to the left, homing in on his target ahead. If they were able to finish this fight quickly, they might still have a chance to take out the shuttle. Precisely on time, four new tracks appeared on his screen, all three of the enemy fighters launching their first missile, Churchill matching their attack.

   He quickly glanced to watch Bennett pressing her attack, sliding onto course with practiced skill, and locked his missile on
to his target. With a singing tone, he fired, the fighter rocking back as the missile raced away. A half-second later, he fired the second one, a two-warhead barrage that was certain to find its target.

   “Bit wasteful,” Bennett said.

   “No such thing as overkill, remember,” he said, watching as she fired a single missile. The enemy fighters broke their formation, scattering in all directions in an attempt to evade, but two quick flashes of light demonstrated the futility of their action, he and Bennett finishing off their targets. Only two missiles remained in the air, Churchill's first shot tracking in towards the incoming enemy warhead, defense triumphing over attack.

   He looked down, glancing at the sensor display, and quickly tapped out a sequence of keys on the navigation computer, setting up for a final attack run on the shuttle. He couldn't destroy it himself, but Bennett still had one missile left. Enough to potentially scare them into surrender or shoot them down. Tapping a control to send the projection over to the other fighter, he swung around and guided his ship towards the target.

   “That's cutting it tight, Red Leader,” she said, moving to follow.

   “Always is. Go full burn, and don't worry about the safety warnings. The engineers didn't know what they were talking about. Churchill, follow as fast as you can.”

   “Roger, Leader, but we're not going to be able to catch that shuttle before it docks. Probably not before it leaves the system.”

   “You never know unless you try. Conway out.”

   Leader. The word rattled around inside his head. It had been a very long time since he'd used that call sign, not since his last dogfight. Somehow it still fit, even after all these years. He watched the course tracks diverge, glancing across to look at the remaining fighter, expecting to see it shifting onto its own return vector. Even at full acceleration, the pilot would struggle to get back to Beowulf before the transport was forced to jump.

   Something was wrong. Instead of trying for a return, it was arcing around towards them, setting up for an attack run on Bennett's fighter. He cursed, then reduced his speed, turning just as the expected missile launched, diving right toward her.

   “Press your run,” he said. “I'll hold this bastard off you.”

   He dropped back, allowing Bennett to accelerate away while he moved to engage the missile. Churchill was still out of range, and though she was moving forward faster than a vessel of her type had any right to, she wasn't going to play a role in this fight. Dropping down his countermeasures menu, he looked through the host of options, frowning for a moment. This fighter might be old, but the software was state-of-the-art, and he was a decade out of date.

   Hoping that the classic tricks would still work, he moved to the programs he recognized, setting up to confuse the missile's targeting system. The enemy fighter swung around, moving onto a course towards the shuttle, rather than the transport. Someone smart was at the controls. That trick wouldn't save the fighter, but the shuttle had enough fuel to push to the rendezvous, unless Bennett could spoil the party.

   “Crap, crap, crap!” McGuire yelled. “Someone's locked me out!”

   All the on-board systems died, fading to nothing, the displays winking out one after another, leaving Conway in total darkness. He pulled out his datapad, trying to get a feed from Churchill's sensors, and shook his head as he saw the missile tracking towards him, diving closer and closer. It had abandoned Bennett, going for the easy kill. At least he'd managed to do that right.

   Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he hung in his cockpit, waiting for death. All of this had seemed so simple, and in a sense, it had been. A very simple trap, and one that he had dived into without a second thought. As the missile locked on for its final burn, he relaxed, a smile creeping across his face. Perhaps this was how he was meant to go out, a fate he had undeservedly cheated all those years ago, finally about to catch up with him.

   His communicator chirped, and Bennett said, “Hang on! This is going to be close!”

   The datapad updated, picking up a new feed with fresh data, and he saw the other fighter diving towards him, another missile launching as he watched. At a guess, the two missiles would collide with his fighter right in the middle of the impact area, and he reached up for a pack of hull patches, pulling the first one free, looking around and waiting for the first piece of debris to strike.

   A loud series of reports on the hull told him that the missiles had collided, and he felt the fighter start to spin around, an impact somewhere aft rupturing one of the tanks. As rapidly as they had faded, the systems came back up, damage reports streaming down the side of the screen, warnings that the vessel was no longer capable of moving under its own power. The sensor display slid back into view, the resolution now far lower from the damage on the hull, showing what he'd feared. The shuttle had made its link-up with Beowulf, and fled the system.

   “Churchill to Red Leader!”

   “I hear you, Mo,” he said. “Get a shuttle out here to pick me up. I think we can claim these two birds as salvage.”

   “Thank you is traditional,” Bennett said.

   “For letting that shuttle get away?” he asked. “I was expendable.”

   “Like hell.”

   “She's right,” Sullivan said. “There'll be another time.” He paused, then added, “Dixon's on the way to tow you in. Red Two, I'll give you a vector into our landing bay. McGuire wants to take a long look at your systems.”

   “Not on the first date,” she replied. Conway smiled, despite himself. She sounded like a fighter pilot, at any rate.

   Looking around the cockpit, he was beginning to feel like one again. Despite everything, it felt good.

  Chapter 9

   This time, Vlad's Bar was under the overt protection of a dozen guards, any pretense at covert security lost as a select group sat around the central table. Vlad and Bennett sat at one end of the table, an empty chair next to them, opposite Conway, Morgan and Sullivan. Conway glanced at the earnest Morgan, looking down at her datapad, and shook his head. Somehow, it already felt like she was part of his crew, even after only a few days.

   Fontaine walked into the room, the guards not daring to interfere with her progress, and sat down at the head of the table next to Vlad, the bartender's offer of a drink being met with a withering stare.

   “My station was attacked. I'd like to know what the hell is going on, and get some sort of explanation as to why I shouldn't throw you all out.” Turning to Vlad, she said, “Don't try and pull any sort of rank. I could get a consortium together to throw you out before I could say parasite. Watch me.”

   “It's really quite simple, my dear,” he replied. “A rogue faction in the Triplanetary Confederation has decided to set itself up in the antique business, with a special focus on the collection of alien artifacts. For some reason, they are opting to remove the competition by force, rather than through diplomatic negotiation.” Folding his hands together, he added, “I think all of us have a vested interest in seeing that this faction is disbanded with dispatch.”

   “Just like that,” Fontaine said, shaking her head. “You want to go to war with one of the largest interstellar governments, and you think I'm going to let this station be the battleground?”

   “You don't have a choice, Tabby,” Conway said, earning a laser-like glare. “They know where this station is. The secret's out, and we're all going to have to live with the consequences.”

   “Besides,” Sullivan added, “I don't think we're talking about the entire government. All the evidence suggests a small faction, some sort of covert conspiracy.” Sliding a datapad onto the table, he continued, “We know of three ships so far...”

   “Three too many,” Fontaine said.

   “Only one of which is an actual warship, and that a small gunboat. Hermes was an auxiliary, militarized without any official sanction, and Beowulf is just a civilian transport, and not a large one at that.”


   Nodding, Bennett said, “The DNA tests came back on the crewmen we recovered.”

   “About that,” Conway said. “What are you going to do with the prisoners?”

   “Keep them under guard, and hope that it deters any direct attack on this station,” Vlad said. “For the moment, that's all we can do. I've questioned all of them myself, and none of them are willing to talk.” Shaking his head, he said, “Someone's got them scared.”

   Glancing at Vlad, Bennett resumed, “Only about half of the bodies were listed as Triplanetary crewmen. Several were listed as citizens of the United Nations, as well as a single woman from the Lunar Republic.” Scanning her datapad, she added, “All of those we identified have disciplinary problems, poor performance evaluations. Someone's put together a group of people with nothing left to lose.”

   “How sure are you of those reports?” Sullivan asked.

   “Certain,” Vlad replied. “I procured them myself. You can be certain that they are accurate.”

   “As for the two commanders in question,” Bennett said, “Blake was passed over for promotion to Lieutenant-Captain last year, and made a lot of noise at the time about it. Enough to guarantee that he'll never get a major posting again. Dexter is a similar story, albeit a quieter one. Both of them have reasonable combat records, but neither are anything special.”

   “We need to find the connection between the two…,” Conway began, before spotting Bennett's smile. “Go on, Cassie.”

   “Both commanders were appointed by Counter-Admiral Knight, and served under her during her tour as Captain of Theseus.” He smiled, then added, “Which, I should note, conducted some of the first surveys of the systems beyond this station, five years ago.”

   A flash of red passed across Morgan's face, and she said, “She was the one who authorized the research program. And pulled me out of college for it, as well as a lot of other people.”

   Frowning, Vlad asked, “That seems strange. Don't take this the wrong way, but surely there must be more qualified specialists available. Were all the scientific staff in uniform?”