“You got him,” she said. “Next time, just take the damn shot and cut the talking.”
“I wanted him to know who killed him.”
“And you almost died for the privilege.”
Glancing at her watch, Morgan said, “Seven minutes and counting. If we're going to get out of here, we're going to have to make it quick.” Behind them, the shuttle roared, blasting clear of the surface on a tower of fire as it raced for orbit. She wondered for a second whether the two guards had made it. Likely she'd never know.
Angel tugged a suit from the nearby locker, tossing it over to her as she began to put hers on. She ignored the normal start-up checklist, stabbing override controls to bring the systems online as rapidly as she could, amber warning lights flashing across her heads-up display. At least this time she wouldn't be living in the suit for a week. Either she'd be off this planet in half an hour, heading home to Churchill, or she'd never leave.
Home. That was a strange thought. At some point, somewhere in the last couple of weeks, that ship had come to feel more like home than anywhere else she'd ever known.
Glancing across at Angel, she stepped towards the airlock, but her friend shook her head, reaching for the override control on the airtight doors. She grimaced for a second as a warning klaxon sounded. This would finish anyone who had been left behind, but if they weren't sealed in a spacesuit by now, they wouldn't have a chance anyway.
The two of them stepped through the hole, racing over the landing pad towards the ridge beyond. Whoever constructed the base had placed it at the bottom of a crater, the ruins a mile away, covered in ice on the horizon, shimmering in the starlight. It was one of the most amazing sights she had ever seen, but she had no time to appreciate it now. They had to gain distance, and quickly.
On the far side of the crater, she could see figures moving, the first evacuees from the base. All around her, others made their escape, scattering in all directions. Some of them were charging for the ridge, hoping to use it as a shield to protect themselves from the blast, others trying for the jagged fissures cracked into the ice, trenches that would provide greater protection at the risk of being buried alive.
Slipping and sliding on the treacherous ground, they made their way onward in quick bounds, jagged chunks of ice racing up towards them, perpetually threatening to send them tumbling, careful steps required to navigate through. The base fell away to the rear, but the ticking bomb at the heart of it remained, a chime in her suit warning her that there were only five minutes left until detonation. Another figure made its way out of a side airlock, sprinting as fast as she, but she knew he couldn't make it, that he'd left it too late to make his escape, that he couldn't outrun the death that awaited him when the warheads exploded.
Even they had pushed it to the last possible second, and the ridge line still looked impossibly far away, a few figures sliding over it to safety. To her right, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Angel stumble, sliding back, and she turned to help her back to her feet, despite her friend attempting to wave her away, urging her to push on regardless.
“We get out together,” she said, “or not at all.”
“Damn fool,” Angel replied, pushing on. The pair resumed their sprint across the terrain, Morgan's heart pounding from the exertion as they pushed their way along. One of the fissures was ahead, and she could see a helmet light below, a figure cowering in the darkness. It was too close, not even a kilometer from the base.
“Come with us,” she said. “You'll be killed.”
“No!” the garbled voice replied. “I'll die if I say up there.”
“No time to argue,” Angel said, leaping across the fissure in one bound. Doubling her speed, Morgan followed her, just clearing the crevasse, knees buckling as she reached the far side. With a last glance back at the doomed figure behind them, the race began again, only three minutes left before the missiles exploded.
Always assuming the countdown was an honest one. Blake might have rigged the device to go off early, to confound any attempt to disarm it. At any second, a wave of shrapnel could lance through the air, slashing their suits in a million places, leaving twitching corpses in its wake. She redoubled her pace, Angel a step ahead as they raced for the ridge, now finally growing closer.
Almost before she realized it, they had reached it, scrambling hand over hand to drag themselves up the slippery face, pushing from foothold to foothold as they desperately clawed for safety. As she slid over the top, she saw more figures running from the base, sprinting for safety, as a blinding light flashed and the whole world seemed to erupt in flame.
On instinct, she dropped down, a five meter fall that left her winded, and sent warning alarms running through her suit, but all of that was blotted out by the rage of the wind, the explosion that sent a tower of flame and smoke rising into the sky, an endless roar that grew and grew, the screams of the dying echoing across the communications network.
No one out there could have survived. Stars seemed to fly overhead, debris thrown clear of the dome, shattered metal falling all around her, burning craters into the ice. Angel lay by her side, panting for breath, as finally the wave of thunder rolled away, dulling to a low roar, and she dared to push herself up to her feet, looking down at the pinhole leak on her side where she had fallen on a rock, slamming a patch over it with practiced ease.
“You with me?” Angel asked, and she nodded, looking around. A few other figures were moving, scattered all across this side of the ridge line, maybe a dozen people struggling to get to their feet. She looked at the wall, the debris still showering down on all sides, and started to clamber up, Angel looking at her as though she had lost her mind. Peering over the top, she saw the devastation beyond.
Where the base had once been, a crater had formed, the ice melting in an instant as the heat of the explosion faded, the surface cracked and pitted. Shattered metal was all around, embedded in the rocks and the ice, thrown clear of the blast with unstoppable force. Looking back for the fissure they had jumped, trying to find the man who wouldn't run, they couldn't see him. It was almost as if he'd never been there at all.
Over to the side, a pair of figures moved, one of them waving its arm, and she dropped back down to the ground below, this time carefully easing herself down the rocks.
“My God, you made it,” Mallory said, shaking her head. “I figured you'd had it.”
“Five more seconds and we'd have been trapped in that nightmare,” Angel said. “There were a lot of people behind us.”
“What's the count?” Morgan asked, and Mallory looked down at her feet.
“Fourteen here, sixteen on the shuttle,” she said. “There might be a couple of others on the far side of the ridge, but I think that's going to be the final figure. Anyone who wasn't close to an airlock never had a chance.” She shook her head with a sigh, and added, “Add another twenty people to the butcher's bill, Ensign. And that's just my people, not Blake's. I hope to hell it was worth it.”
“So do I,” she replied. “I guess we'll find out soon enough.”
“What was so damned important?” Mallory asked. “What was all of this for?”
“I wish I knew, Sub-Lieutenant,” she replied. “Hopefully that data you rescued will tell us.” Glancing out at the ruins, now casualties of their second war, she said, “We're following a trail laid ten thousand years ago, and we've no way of knowing what lies at the end of it.”
“If it helps, we got Blake,” Angel added.
Turning to her, Mallory said, “No, that doesn't help. Do you think I care about that bastard more than I care about the people who died today? There are twenty people who aren't going to be going back to their families, and someday I'm going to have to explain to them what their loved ones died for. So no, I don't give a damn about anyone's revenge.” Shaking her head, she walked over to the far wall, and added, “The shuttle's coming back down as soon as it
's unloaded. In ten minutes, we'll be off this rock for good. I don't care if I never see it again.” Tossing a datarod to her, she said, “Here's your data. I hope it's everything you hoped.” Turning to look at the base, she added, “It was far too damned expensive.” She walked away, leaving the two of them alone.
Morgan snatched it from the air, turning it over and over in her hand before sliding into her pocket, trudging after the withdrawing officer, Angel by her side. A piece of debris slammed into the ground, just ahead of her, and she shook her head.
“It wouldn't have made any difference,” Angel said. “We did the best we could, and thirty people are alive because we tried, Nicky. That isn't nothing.”
“It wasn't enough,” she said, shaking her head.
Grabbing her by the shoulder, her friend replied, “Wait a damn minute. Don't blame yourself for this. We both know who was responsible, and we know that he paid the price. We've got bigger problems to worry about, trust me.” Looking up at the sky, she added, “Somewhere up there, there's a dogfight going on, and we'd better hope Jack wins, or the odds of that shuttle making it to the surface are zero. And even if we get away from here, we'll have the whole damn Fleet on our tail, trying to bring us down. First Karnak, now this? The brass back home will be screaming.”
“You're a great comfort,” she replied, forcing a smile.
“That's what I'm here for,” Angel said. “To keep you well-motivated. Now come on. We've got work to do.”
“Yeah,” she said, looking back at the column of smoke for a moment, before turning to follow her friend.
Chapter 15
Conway looked across at his squadron, four shapes lancing through space behind him, as the formation coasted towards the enemy formation ahead. Gorgon was the greater threat, three missile tubes on a ship built for combat, and would be their primary target, the combat computers gathering more data with every second to fine-tune the attack. Glancing at his sensor display, he smiled as he saw the shuttle sliding down to the surface, ready to pick up the rest of the survivors. At least something was going according to plan today.
The curse of space combat was time. Too much time to think while waiting for the moment of decision, too little time to do anything other than react once they were in the firing line. Anxious thoughts danced in and out of his mind, worries about the fighting ahead, memories of battles fought long-ago with friends now dead.
Looking around, he could almost be back at Proxima, and it was hard to push away the ghosts of that time. Sullivan, Xylander, Dixon on the screen, they could be making for a United Nations transport, on one of a hundred interdiction runs. Never had he imagined he'd be launching an attack on his own ships, on vessels flying the Triplanetary flag. Even now, after everything that had happened, it still seemed unbelievable, but cold reality was sinking in.
In a matter of moments, they'd be launching their strike, missiles crossing each other, and the odds of all of them coming home were remote. Five glasses had been poured into that jug back on the flight deck, but someone was going to miss the toast at the end of the battle. The odds against them were too great, five fighters against two warships, even if one of them was a converted civilian craft.
Below, the planet slowly revolved, showing a wide, endless, shining sea beneath him. Long ago, other starships had warred in these heavens, fighting an incomprehensible war that had destroyed the civilization below, wiping almost all traces of the inhabitants of the planet from existence, only shattered, twisted ruins remaining. Now he was fighting his own war, and in ten thousand years from now, perhaps some alien archaeologist would come across the remains of this battle, some shattered piece of debris, and wonder what had happened here.
“Two minutes to target,” he said, flicking on his communicator. “I'll take the first pass. We're trying for the engine and power systems first.” Glancing at his sensor display again, he spotted a course change from the two ships, and shook his head. “Looks like Gorgon's making a run for Churchill. If we don't bring her down, we're not going to have anywhere to land.”
“The Carrier's Curse,” Sullivan said. “Roger that, Leader. I'm right behind you.”
“Salvo fire, all at once, as soon as the last fighter enters range,” Conway added. “McGuire, you awake?”
“How could I get to sleep with all the yapping on the comm channels?” the hacker replied. “I've got you covered, boss. Get your birds in the air, and I'll see they all come home to roost.”
“Thanks. I think.” Shaking his head, he replied, “Hopefully one salvo will do the job. If it doesn't, then fire everything you've got, whenever you get a chance.” With a sigh, he continued, “Go for offensive only. Don't use your missiles for defensive fire. If someone gets a lock on you, hit your e-war systems and prey. We've got to knock this ship out, and we're only going to get one shot. Understood?”
“Roger, Leader,” Xylander said. “Usual drill.”
Cutting in, Cruz said, “The transfer shuttle is standing by with Finch at the helm. If any of you run into trouble, there's at least an even chance we'll be able to get you.”
“Finch?” Conway asked. “Who the hell is he?”
“New friend. I'll introduce you later.”
“Ninety seconds to target,” he said. “Combat computers on. Watch for surprises. I'm damn sure they've got something up their sleeve other than their arms. Anything from other fighters to point-defense systems.”
“Relax, Jack,” Bennett said. “We've got this. Piece of cake.”
“Say that again after the battle,” Sullivan replied.
“Change to target aspect,” Dixon said.
“Yeah, I got it,” Conway answered, looking at the sensor display. Gorgon was feinting around, abandoning its attack on Churchill, angling right at the incoming fighters. The plan made sense. Should the fighters be knocked out, the carrier would have no choice but to flee. On their current trajectory, they made a tempting target.
Running his hand over the navigation controls, he plotted a new trajectory. The fighters had all the advantage in terms of agility, more than enough to dance around the gunship to safety. Even Churchill could probably get out of the way in time, but that would leave the remaining survivors stranded on the surface at the dubious mercy of the traitors.
With the rescued survivors, he had sixty people on Churchill. He could place all of them beyond risk, but the price would be the fourteen people stranded on the surface. Including Morgan, Angel and Kat. He paused, trying to recall her face, and shook his head. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter who was down there, that he'd have gone in anyway, that the Service didn't leave any of its people behind. Maybe after a while, he might even believe it.
“Thirty seconds to contact,” he said. “Watch for incoming missiles. Stay in formation until first launch, then scatter. I'll see you back at the barn.” A smile spreading across his face, he added, “Tally Ho!”
The fighters moved as one, five pilots with one mind, one goal, swooping in towards the sleek gunship beyond. He admired the approaching vessel, the most advanced craft the Triplanetary Confederation had yet produced, just out of the shipyards. While he was flying a fighter that had been designed when he was still in school, built before he knew how to shave.
He settled down in his couch, waiting for the action to begin, the combat computer ready to fire. The first act of the battle would be on automatic, a launch synchronized to the microsecond, but the next phase would be down to him. And to the commander of the enemy ship, up ahead. He looked beyond at Hermes, now angling away, curving off as though it might be planning to make a break for the hendecaspace point. Someone over there wasn't confident of victory, that much was certain.
A green light flashed on, an understated alert that he had reached firing range. Gorgon just sat there, waiting, letting his squadron make the first move, and a couple of seconds later, they did. The fighter rocked ba
ck as the second missile of three raced forwards, running away from him, a trajectory track snapping into position on its course to the gunboat. Four more tracks appeared, the squadron's salvo ranging out towards the enemy.
Predictably, three missiles raced forward to meet their five, the squadron computers responding at once to change the approach vector, sliding in along an unexpected trajectory to envelop the gunboat. For an instant, the rogue missiles swung around, attempting to find a way to stop all of the damage to their vessel, but they quickly gave up and moved to focus on the fighters instead, diving towards Xylander's craft.
“They've had the same damn idea!” Xylander said. “Launching defensive missile.”
“Get into the atmosphere, Dirk!” Sullivan said. “Run a skip over the top, and you'll lose them in the burn.”
“Doing it,” he replied. “See you later!”
One of the fighters broke formation, slowing down to lower its altitude, diving towards the safety of atmosphere. Theoretically, the Vulcan fighter was capable of operating close-in to a planet, but the designers only had the faint wisps of Mars in mind, not the dense clouds below. It would take the touch of an expert to guide a fighter in on a safe trajectory and have any chance of pulling back out again.
Fortunately, Xylander took the three missiles with him, but a second later, Gorgon launched a second salvo, this time racing towards Dixon. Wasting no time, she ramped up her acceleration as high as it could go, recklessly burning her engines in a bid to outrun the missiles. Conway shook his head, knowing that she couldn't succeed, that the greater acceleration of the incoming warheads would overwhelm her, but he quickly realized what she had in mind as a second contact appeared on the scope.
“Cruz, get that buddy of yours in the air,” he said. “Mel's bailed out.”
“I'm on it,” she replied. “Press your attack run. We're all cheering you on.” There was a brief pause, and she added, “Shuttle's on the way back up now. Five minutes to landing.”
Starfighter (Strike Commander Book 1) Page 17
