Starfighter (Strike Commander Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

   At least there was some good news, even if his squadron was down from five to three within seconds of them entering firing range. Despite everything, McGuire's hand reached out from Churchill to guide their missiles in, blocking all attempts at electronic subversion. Shaking his head at the old hacker's skill, he swung around with his fighter, watching as the blows struck home, five missiles catching the scout at the same time, rending holes in her hull. The abrupt escape of atmosphere tossed it to one side, setting it spinning, and he saw the ship's helmsman desperately attempting to change course, trying to bring his ship back under control.

   It was futile. Bennett's final missile saw to that, unleashed at point-blank range as they soared past, sliding nimbly into the exposed bowels of the ship, the superstructure finally cracking as the gunship broke in two, the halves tumbling through the void, bodies and debris spilling out into space. A few escape pods drifted clear of the wreckage, distress beacons pinging their siren call, and he quickly glanced to make sure they were in a safe orbit. They could wait, for a while.

   “Good shooting, Jack!” Cruz said. “We're clear! Hermes is heading for the hendecaspace point.”

   Shaking his head, Conway said, “The job's not done yet.”

   Elation on the bridge faded as Cruz replied, “What do you mean?”

   “We're not going to let that ship go. With the information it's carrying, it'll give Knight and the rest of her minions all the advantages they need. We need to stop them.”

   “Churchill can't make it in time.”

   “That's what the fighters are for. Bennett, turn around and head back to the barn. I want you to escort the shuttle in.”

   “Negative,” she replied. “I know I'm out of missiles, but I can...”

   “Damn it, Bennett, that's an order! Go home!”

   She paused, then said, “Yes, sir. Turning for home. Good hunting.”

   Sullivan formed up on his wing as they burned their engines at full, running around to chase the retreating freighter. Conway looked back at his sensor display as his computer fine-turned their approach vector, watching Bennett drift to the ascending shuttle, and Xylander complete his maneuver in the atmosphere, the missiles caught in the gravity well, unable to pursue him.

   “Remind you of anything?” Sullivan asked. “Feels like only yesterday we were doing this at Proxima.”

   “I know what you mean,” he replied. “Five minutes to contact. We're only going to make one shot at this...”

   “So we go to collision course, release at point-blank range, and slam away at the final second. Or as close to it as we dare.”

   “Mind-reader.”

   With a faint chuckle, he said, “I've been doing this since you were a kid. If I haven't learned the drill by now, I'm never going to.” His fighter drifted a little to the right, and he quickly corrected with a trace of the thruster. “Little bit of debris. Getting dangerous up here.”

   “More so for them,” Conway said, switching frequencies. “Major Conway to Hermes. I order you to surrender your vessel. Reply at once.” Only static answered him. “Conway to Hermes. If you do not surrender immediately and return to parking orbit, I will be forced to destroy you.”

   “No reply?” Sullivan asked. “Not a surprise. We're going to have to do this the hard way.”

   Glancing at his display, he replied, “Two missiles isn't much to knock out a ship like this. You go for the engines, I'll try for the hendecaspace drive. With a little luck, we should be able to disable him at least.” He paused, then frowned, “Why are they running?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Why are they running to that egress point, Mo?” His fingers rattled over his navigation computer, and he said, “They'd have had a straight run on the escape vector, out towards the inner planet. We'd never have been able to intercept them, and I wouldn't even have tried with Churchill. They'd have had a hell of a head-start.”

   “Maybe they were hoping to retrieve more people from the surface, or they assumed that Gorgon would wipe us out. They've lost their commander, remember.”

   “That doesn't mean he didn't plan the battle first. I wouldn't have just assumed victory, and I don't think he would have, either.” He closed his eyes, then tapped a control, and said, “Cruz, how long before that shuttle gets on-board?”

   “Ninety seconds, skipper,” she replied.

   “As soon as they're on-board, make for the far hendecaspace point on Dirk's escape vector.” He glanced at the tactical display, and added, “You should be able to pick him up, and retrieve Mel as well.”

   “I think so,” she said. “What's the rush?”

   “There are enemy reinforcements on the way, and unless I'm missing my bet, they'll be on us in less than three minutes.”

   “Three minutes?” she replied. “How...”

   “They'll have known when we would jump into the system,” he replied. “Blake could have set it up with Beowulf. There's a two-star flag officer commanding this operation, and I'm damn sure that she'll have more resources than a couple of transports and a scout to throw into the fight. If we live through the battle, they've failed, and they know it.”

   Sullivan paused, then said, “It fits. Just about, but it fits. Preparing to abort.”

   “Negative,” Conway said. “We're going to press our attack. You get their engine, and be damn sure to make that strike count. McGuire, I need you watching over us again.”

   “Sure, skipper. I don't have anything else to do at the moment,” the hacker replied.

   “Jack, even if we had a full missile load, we're in no shape for a fight.”

   “We've got a much bigger missile at our disposal if we can aim it right,” he said, a smile creeping on his face. “Get that shot to target, Mo. Nothing else matters now. As soon as you launch, turn away and burn for Churchill with everything you've got.”

   He paused, and said, “Damn, Jack, are you...”

   “Now you're catching on!” he said, setting up his attack. The freighter lumbered on, as though willing to ignore the approaching craft, more proof that they had help coming in a matter of moments. He could see the battle plan in his head as though he had designed it himself. Hermes drives for the egress point, timing its approach to draw the fighters towards the relief, and bottling the carrier in the system, leaving it open to destruction at will.

   In the worst case, if he was wrong, then disabling Hermes would give them time for a second strike, but something inside him told him that he wasn't wrong. His sensor panel flashed blue, and a thin smile crossed his face. The proof had arrived.

   “Dimensional instability, right in front of you!” Cruz yelled. “It's major, sir! Multiple ships coming into the system.”

   “Thirty seconds to contact,” he said, coolly. “Tally Ho!”

   “Turn back!” Cruz said. “You can still get clear in time!”

   “Fifteen seconds to contact,” he replied. “Mo, you set?”

   “Armed and ready, boss.”

   At the same instant, the missiles raced away from the fighters, the navigation computers kicking their engines to maximum acceleration, throwing them onto an escape trajectory. With a blinding flash, a pair of ships appeared in the system, Beowulf just ahead of a capital ship, one of the old Gilgamesh-class battlecruisers.

   Electronic gibberish filled the screen as the newly-arrived enemy e-war teams began their work, and Hermes began to turn, trying to get away, but before it could make any progress, the two missiles slammed into her aft section, silencing her engines and knocking out her hendecaspace drive. She was stranded here, on a collision course that couldn't be altered in time.

   Beowulf's helmsmen did everything possible to change his course, engines burning hotter than ever the designer intended, thrusters firing in a crazy pattern, trying to buy time, but Conway hadn't given him a chance. Escape pods spilled from both ships an instant before
the inevitable happened, Hermes crashing into Beowulf, a brief ball of flame followed by an expending sphere of debris, Theseus struggling to get out of the way, herself sustaining damage to her outer hull as it crashed into the remnants of the two ships.

   As the fighters raced away, heading to their appointment with Churchill, he looked back at the scene unfolding behind them, unable to speak. There were no words for this. The lumbering battlecruiser drifted to the side, a brief burst of atmosphere leaking into space from a collision with a large piece of debris.

   “Conway to Sullivan. Report status.”

   “All green,” he replied. “More than I can say for those poor bastards back there.”

   “Churchill to Red Flight,” Cruz said. “Shuttle will be docking in ten seconds, and we'll be on our way. I'm transmitting our course to you now. Come on back.”

   “Roger that, Churchill,” he replied. “We're on our way.”

   “Jack,” Sullivan said. “Better take a look at your scanner.”

   New targets appeared on the screen, a trio of fighters racing after them. Whirlwinds, the latest and most advanced design in the fleet. He quickly glanced at the trajectory plot, and nodded. He and Sullivan would be back on board in time, but there was no way that Churchill could escape a single pass by the approaching flight. Despite all their hopes, it looked like this wasn't over yet, after all.

   As he looked at the expanding debris field again, he shook his head. Even if they went down now, this was a battle Admiral Knight wasn't going to forget in a hurry.

   “Form on me, Mo,” he said. “Full acceleration. Let's go home. Hopefully we can come up with a proper welcome for our guests.”

  Chapter 16

   The shuttle smoothly slid up to the hangar deck, and as Mallory stepped out, she felt Churchill's engines begin to surge, a loud rumble the ship began to accelerate, speeding away from the planet. She glanced across at Morgan, who returned a puzzled look, then stepped across to Finch, climbing out of his own shuttle with a familiar brunette following him.

   Shaking her head, Dixon said, “I never thought I'd see you again.”

   “Likewise,” she replied. “What's going on?”

   One of the technicians turned to her, and said, “We've got fighters incoming from Theseus.”

   Mallory and Dixon exchanged looks, and she asked, “Where's the bridge?”

   “Forward,” Dixon replied. “Let's go.”

   Leading the way, Mallory raced along the unfamiliar corridors, Finch, Dixon and Morgan following, sprinting around the curve of the ship. She looked around at the condition of the transport, shaking her head. Old equipment left stacked by the walls, toolkits strewn everywhere, malfunctioning light fittings flickering on and off. There was a strange tang in the air, the sign of a life-support unit on its last legs.

   Sliding through the doors, she almost ran into Cruz, blocking the threshold. Glancing past her at the tactical display on the viewscreen, she saw two waves of fighters heading towards them, three chasing two, with another sliding in from the planet, closing to dock. After a moment, the deck chief stepped back, and Mallory moved into the room, looking at the empty stations.

   “Where is everyone?” she asked.

   “Out fighting for their lives. Our lives.”

   Dixon slid past, moving to the helm. After scanning the consoles, she reported, “They're closer than we thought. The fighters will be on us ninety-two seconds after Jack and Mo get back. We won't have time to rearm.” Glancing at a control, she added, “The battlecruiser's following. It can't catch us, but I'm sure those fighters will make knocking out our drive their top priority.”

   “We've got to gain speed,” Cruz said. “I'm going down to the engine room, see if I can nurse some more acceleration out of the old beast.”

   Mallory stepped forward, looking at the screen, the trajectory tracks interlaced, and a faint smile came to her face. She looked back at Finch and Morgan, standing at the door, and Cruz paused before leaving.

   “I guess you have the deck, Kat,” Cruz said. “Don't mess up.”

   As Cruz left the room, Mallory said, “Finch, take Tactical. Morgan, can you handle the sensors?”

   “I think so, ma'am.”

   “Then do so. Dixon, change course, two-one-zero by one-niner-five.”

   “What? We're on a carefully calculated trajectory, and that will send us right into the moon!”

   “I know what I'm doing, Lieutenant. Do as I order.”

   Dixon turned to her, looking into her eyes, doubt all over her face, but after a second's hesitation, she replied, “Aye, ma'am. Initiating course change.”

   “Finch, pass our new trajectory to our fighters, tell them to catch up as fast as they can. They're not going to want to miss this ride. Morgan, focus all scanning equipment ahead. I want a detailed topographical analysis of the moon.”

   “Better hurry,” Dixon added. “We're going to be crashing into it in a hundred and seventy seconds if this goes wrong.”

   “Working,” Morgan said, and Mallory stepped back, looking around the room. The e-war station was empty, but as she moved over to it, a disheveled old man wearing a battered flight suit stumbled out of a side door, a gleam in his eyes, and dropped himself at the vacant console.

   “You in charge now?” he asked, looking up.”

   “Yes,” she replied.

   “Same song, different words,” he said. “Don't worry, I'll make a mess of those Whirlwinds for you. Lazy bastards back home made a real mess of the firewall on those babies. Piece of cake.”

   “Just buy me some time,” she replied. “That's all we'll need.” Stepping over to the helm, she looked at the moon ahead, now filling the viewscreen, and asked, “How are you doing, Lieutenant?”

   “I haven't been a Lieutenant in a decade,” Dixon said. “Stop calling me that.”

   “Sorry. Force of habit. Now answer the question.”

   “Damn, you haven't changed, have you,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, we're still on a collision course with the moon, and the enemy fighters are still closing rapidly. The prospects of our imminent destruction are increasing by the moment. That suit?”

   “Feel free to change your course to take us clear of the surface. Maximum altitude, five hundred meters.”

   All eyes turned to her, and Dixon replied, “You mean five thousand, right.”

   “Five hundred meters. Lower if you can.” Looking past her at the screen, she added, “I led an expedition there a few months ago. We had a hell of a time finding somewhere to land. Lots of jagged mountains, craters, plenty of fun for anyone trying to chase us.”

   “I've got a provisional course plot,” Morgan said, turning from the station. “Emphasis on provisional. The resolution isn't good enough at that range. You're going to have to eyeball it, Mel.”

   “At that speed?” she asked.

   “Our fighters are coming on board now,” Finch said, shaking his head. “Don't expect too much out of me here, ma'am. I've got one missile tube and a guidance control system old enough to be in a museum.”

   “Get a bird into the air as soon as you get a chance. Defensive fire only.” Looking at the screen, she added, “We're not going to win any battles today. I'll settle for living through this one.”

   She watched as the moon grew closer and closer on the screen, every detail exposed as the magnification increased, warning alarms sounding all around as the ship urged them to change course, to get away from the surface. Dixon's hands fumbled across the controls as she twisted the trajectory plot, trying to find a safe course through the mountains, red flashes lighting the board as more data came in, new obstacles for them to fly past.

   Behind them, the traitor fighters ranged towards their target, only a handful of seconds away from locking on. Both she and Dixon knew that it wasn't just going to be a question of dodging the terrain, but using it to shield th
emselves from attack. Glancing back at the tactical display, she spotted a ray of hope. This would be the only pass the fighters could manage. A combination of the fearsome acceleration and the gravity boost from the moon would throw them too far ahead of Theseus for their pursuers to ever catch up. They'd be on their tail all the way to the hendecaspace point, five days distant, but short of throwing insults, there was nothing else they could do. One way or another, this fight would be over in minutes.

   The door slid open, Conway stepping through ahead of Sullivan, his eyes wide as he looked at the display. He turned to her, a smile on his face, then moved over to the helm.

   “I'll take it, Mel,” he said. “Keep an eye on the engineering console. And call Dirk. We're going to need him to fine-tune the course once we're on an escape vector.”

   He settled into the chair, the controls sliding to his preferred settings, and started to rattle though course changes, guiding the ship boldly towards the moon. She stepped up to stand behind him, glancing down at his board, watching him work.

   “This was your idea?” he asked.

   “It seemed like the thing to do.”

   “You're just as crazy as ever,” he replied, “and thank God for that. We're past the point of no return. This is going to be fun.”

   “Engineering to Bridge,” the overhead speaker barked. “You're at full thrust now, and I've given all the fine-tuning on the thrusters I can manage. Don't scratch the paint.”

   “Relax, Chief, I'm in the chair,” Conway said.

   “Great. A crazy man at the helm and a crazy woman running the ship. You aren't paying me enough for this, Jack.”

   “Where else are you going to have a ride like this?” he replied. The ship was arcing up now, skimming in low over the surface, the fighters pulling back a little, waiting to see if they were crazy enough to follow up the plan. Conway guided the ship down again, shutting down the alarms with a sweep of his hand, and silence filled the bridge, only the occasional noise from the sensor console as it picked up new contacts.