by John Bowers
The skid stopped only when ground fire blew off the landing gear. The Lincoln lander collapsed onto its belly and sat shuddering under conflicting thrust from its jets.
"That's it! Everybody get the fuck out! Go! Go! Go!"
Deafened by the volume of fire outside, Rico scrambled to his feet. The deck was awash with blood from dozens of casualties, but the survivors somehow made their way to the rear exits. The starboard ramp had buckled and was jammed; Star Marines in full combat gear slammed into each other in the narrow passage, blocking all movement. Men continued to fall as bullets ripped through the fuselage. Rico felt a rising panic as the smell of blood and sweat overwhelmed him; the little ship was shaking like a wet dog, the screaming jets pushing it forward and back.
“Get to the other side!” Capt. Connor bellowed. “Back up, goddammit! Use the portside ramp! Move it! Move it!”
Somehow, over the shouts and the panic, Connor’s voice pierced the consciousness of the trapped men, and they began to separate. Men fell back, looking for the access hatch to the port side, but the lights had gone out and few found it.
The starboard engine, already burning, exploded. Flame and fragments boiled through the front of the ship, adding to the confusion, but the lander shifted under the blast, and the starboard ramp suddenly popped open. Men saw daylight and, moving in an undulating wave, boiled out the side of the ship, tumbling to the ground the best way they could. Rico hit the ground and rolled, catching a lungful of relatively fresh air. Above him, the Lincoln lander was almost completely engulfed in flame, though Star Marines were still pouring out like pills spilled from a bottle.
“Goddamn thing’s gonna blow again!” someone shouted. “Those fuel tanks – we gotta move!”
Rico looked around, his heart pounding in his ears. Ships still dropped out of the sky in the face of heavy ASC fire, other ships burned on the runways; every which way he looked he saw bodies. Bullets chewed the tarplast all around him, snapping like a Colorado hailstorm. Directly in front of him, at least ninety yards away, were the hangars and repair shops. The wrecked lander blocked his view of the terminal and parking lots, where the heaviest fire seemed to be coming from.
The portside engine exploded, washing him with choking heat. He glanced around and saw the lander shuddering backward, now pushed only by the nose nacelles, which were still firing reverse thrust. Over a hundred men hugged the ground, stunned into inaction, and Rico realized most of them would be barbecued when the fuel tanks cooked off.
“Delta Company!” he shouted, “Follow me!”
A Vow to Sophia
"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, Lieutenant. 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!"
The Fighter Queen
"Attent!" the AI blurted in her helmet. "Enemy fighters inbound from two seven zero, offset one seven eight."
Onja's heart pounded. Those coordinates were from outside Vegan orbital space! She quickly dialed them up on her target holos and felt her blood chill. At least fifty fighters were approaching the string of transports that had just parked. The transports, unarmed and helpless, were fully loaded with fresh troops; four destroyers guarded them, but fifty fighters could overcome those odds in a hurry.
"Tommy! Set intercept course! We've got to try to head them off!"
"Got it, Major."
"Triple One, Fighter Queen. Lock and load! We're going to intercept the Sirians. Squawk your transponders so the destroyers know you're friendly. The mission is to cover the transports, so don't go chasing off on individual combat! Remember 131!"
Next she contacted Bush and reported her intentions to Col. Hinds. Then she had no more time to think.
The destroyers were already engaging the strike force, their heavy lasers cutting through the Sirians' shields, but the enemy pilots were using some creative tactics to avoid the lasers. As Tommy Royal led the 111 into battle, half a dozen Sirians had already evaded the destroyer screen and were lining up the transports.
Onja picked them up on her optics and gave Tommy a new heading. The Sirians were more than five thousand miles out, but the range was closing fast. The problem was, the PulsarFighter was loaded with ground-support weapons. Grav bombs and cruise missiles were useless in this scenario. She did have four Baby-Lance ship killers, but they wouldn't penetrate shields, and autocannon was useless at this range. What she really needed was a full load of Yin-Yangs, which used electro-magnetic pulse (EMP) to kill an enemy's shields before finishing it off with a standard warhead — but she had none of those either.
All she had was her laser, a sharp eye, a steady hand …
… and a design flaw in Sirian fighter technology.
Even before the war started, the engineers at Lincoln Enterprises had developed a method to fire a laser through the shields, leaving the fighter protected even as it fired. The Sirians still hadn't figure
d that one out, and it gave Onja her only hope of stopping the six Sirians approaching the transports; they would have to drop their shields before they fired.
But it required exact timing.
"Help me, Sophia!" she whispered as she gazed unblinking at her target.
The only way to target the laser at such extreme range was visually; the Ladar sweep clearly showed the battle in progress, but Onja couldn't watch it and her optics at the same time. But she'd learned, from years of experience and scores of battles, that a shielded ship seemed to glimmer slightly; when the shields dropped the glimmer faded. The ships up ahead, bombarded by radiation from Vega prime, were glimmering.
"Input: call off target range continuous. Execute."
"Target range fifty-four hundred, fifty-two hundred, forty-nine hundred —"
Onja listened tautly, her eyes beginning to burn as she refused to blink. The range was falling steadily; she could see all six fighters in her field of view. Her target cursor was floating over the nearest one …
The third fighter ceased to glimmer. Onja nudged the cursor and fired, sending a blue streak of light across five thousand miles of space. The Sirian fighter flashed and faded, and she felt a rush of relief. But it was too soon to relax.
The nearest fighter dropped shields, and she fired again. Got him! She released a puff of breath to bleed off tension.
"Range forty-one hundred, thirty-nine hundred …"
Two fighters dropped shields at once, on opposite sides of her field of view. She quickly nailed the first one, but the second fired on a transport before she could get him. She felt a surge of despair, wondering how much damage he'd done to his target.
"They're changing course, Major!" Tommy shouted in her headset. "Two fighters inbound! Closure rate three thousand knots per minute!"
