Wing Commander #07 False Color

by William R. Forstchen

  "Look at your warbook, you dumb Dane," she flared.

  "Those are reading as Broadsword heavy fighters . . ." "Confederation fighters?" That was Bondarevsky, back in Primary Flight Control. 'What are twenty obsolete Terran fighters doing out here?"

  "Beats the hell out of me, Captain," she replied. "What I want to know is what the hell I'm supposed to do about them? Do I wave, ignore them, or spit?"

  There was a long moment of silence before Bondarevsky replied. "They're not Confederation Navy. Broadswords are out of service except with Reserve Wings. And they're not Landreichers, unless somebody's forgotten to update our own warbook files." He hesitated again. "Your ROE is to consider them potentially hostile, but engage only if fired upon. Repeat, fire only if they fire first. I'm launching the Alert Five birds and putting the rest of the Wing on scramble now. Just in case."

  "Thanks a lot," she said sourly. Fire if fired on, indeed . . . as if two Hornets could fight off twenty Broadswords under any circumstances.

  "The bandits are accelerating," Viking reported, sounding cool and professional. Whatever his personal shortcomings might be, he was all business in a crisis. "I make their vector an intercept with Karga."

  She checked her navicomp. "Confirmed. You copy that, Kennel?"

  "Roger. Break off and pull back to join the rest of the patrol. Stay close to the boat and we'll give you support from the laser turrets."

  "Two bandits breaking formation!" Viking broke in. "They're coming after us!"

  "Break formation!" Babcock ordered. "We can outrun them!"

  The Broadswords opened fire . . .

  Primary Flight Control, FRLS Karga

  Orbiting Vaku VII, Vaku System

  1500 hours (CST)

  'We are under fire. Repeat, we are under fire!"

  Bondarevsky turned from the communications console. "Why aren't those Raptors up yet?" he snapped.

  "First one's launching now," Boss Marchand replied evenly. "How do you want to handle the rest of the deployment? It'll take time to get the other birds from the Eyes and the Eights up and prepped. They've already started their maintenance rotations . . ."

  'What's the status on the Kilrathi planes?" Bondarevsky asked. They had scheduled a practice launch of the recovered Imperial fighters for later in the day, the first flight for the pilots who had been taking simulator training these last two weeks.

  Marchand didn't even hesitate. "The Strakhas were scheduled first up," she said. "They're ready to go, Five minutes to get the first two up on the flight deck and ready for launch. After that . . . call it four more every three minutes. The Dralthis and the Vaktoths will take a little longer."

  "Do it," he ordered. "Scramble the Strakha squadron! And make sure one of the first two is one-zero-zero." "You're taking her out yourself, sir?" Marchand asked. "Yeah." Bondarevsky was already heading for the door. "You think I'd send those people out there to fight in ships they've never handled before without going out there myself?"

  Marchand gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Some would," she said curtly. Then, "Good luck, skipper."

  Combat Information Center, FRLS Karga

  Orbiting Vaku VII, Vaku System

  1502 hours (CST)

  "One minute to the ring field, Captain."

  Tolwyn clenched the arms of his chair and watched as the forward viewer began to grow hazing from the gradual thickening of multi-hued ice dust. Somewhere up ahead a small swarm of hostile fighters was bearing down on his ship, but he was helpless to fight them for the moment. Blind and unable to change course, Karga could only ride out whatever was coming at them. The patrol fighters wouldn't be able to stop the attackers, and the rest of Bondarevsky's planes would take time to launch. The enemy, whoever they were, would get at least one punch in before Karga cleared the ring field and the Flight Wing went into action.

  After that, though, they'd be fighting an even battle. Or so he hoped.

  "Captain, Durendal and Caliburn are moving to support us, but it will be at least ten minutes before they can get into the game." That was Richards, calling on the private line from the flag bridge. "I've ordered Xenophon to keep station with the Carnegie and the City of Cashel. I know it isn't likely, but I don't think it's a good idea to leave them open to attack. It looks like we're on our own for now."

  Tolwyn gave a tight nod. "Looks that way, Admiral," he responded. "We'll keep them busy until the tin cans can get here, don't you worry." lie turned from the intercom screen. "Deniken! Are your weapons on-line?" "All laser turrets ready, sir," he said. "Point defense off-line until we get the sensors up again." He sounded apologetic.

  "Stay on top of it." He glanced at Kittani. "Get Damage Control ready, Exec. And alert Doctor Manning that she may be getting some casualties down there." Tolwyn didn't like to think about that. Sick Bay was still not up to anything like ConFleet standards, and Manning could be handling combat injuries under appallingly primitive conditions down there if the carrier took any serious damage.

  "Aye aye, sir," Kittani replied.

  "Engineering, this is CIC. Will your shields keep on holding, Mr. Graham, or should I order Sindri to go back on-line?"

  "Won't matter much one way or the other, Captain," Graham responded, sounding harried. "Sindri's shields might stop a mosquito—if it wasn't too mad. I'd say we've a better chance with our own. They might not be able to take a whole lot of pounding, but they're better than what the tender could put out . . . while they last."

  "The shield generators have priority, Engineer," Tolwyn said grimly. "I don't care if you have to splice wires together by hand. I want those shields to stay up. Understood?"

  "We'll do our best," Graham said.

  "Entering the ring field," Clancy announced.

  "Get ready, people . . ."

  "Targets! Targets! Targets!" Deniken chanted. "Just came up on the screens. They're close . . ."

  The effective range of the sensors in this mess of ice was barely a kilometer. The enemy fighters were right on top of them.

  "Incoming fire," Kittani said. "Beams and missiles!" Tolwyn braced himself, ready for the worst.

  Broadsword 206, Guild Squadron "Raider-One"

  Near Vaku VII, Vaku System

  1504 hours (CST)

  "Firing!" Winston Drake hit the trigger to release a full salvo of beam weapons, then followed up with a pair of salvaged Kilrathi Image Recognition missiles. According to the mission profile the pilots had gone over during the outward voyage, the target ship would have only minimal shield power available, and a rapid string of laser hits would weaken the force fields long enough to allow the missiles to penetrate. Each of the privateer fighters in the two Broadsword squadrons would make an identical run, and the cumulative damage from so many tightly-packed attacks was sure to overload the target's capacity to protect itself and destroy the target completely.

  That was the plan . . . direct and simple. But his sensors were giving him a different story from the predicted profile. The attack wasn't going anything like the computer simulations they'd run back on the Bonadventure.

  The beams were striking the intended target area, but the shields were absorbing them easily. And the two missiles detonated harmlessly, their hellish energies barely causing a ripple in the force field.

  "Damn!" he said aloud. "Damn it, those shields are stronger than they're supposed to be!"

  "Continue your run," Zachary Banfeld ordered. "If it takes a little more effort to bring the shields down, so be it. Just knock out that tender!"

  Bridge, FRLS Sindri

  Docked with FRLS Karga, Vaku System

  1504 hours (CST)

  "Those bastards are targeting us!" Dickerson added a few more colorful comments.

  "Calm down, Captain," Tolwyn said over the commlink. "What's your status?"

  "If we hadn't been letting you run your own field, we'd already be debris," Dickerson said harshly. "As it

  is, we're draining power fast. Our generators weren't built to cycle fast en
ough for combat conditions. We've got lots of reserve power, but we're losing ground."

  "This is Richards," the battle group commander cut in. "Captain, cut loose your grapnels and get under way. With our fighters joining the part and the carrier clearing the ring system 1 think we can keep the bastards occupied while you make good an escape. If you stick where you are, one of them could get through and take you out.'

  "But, Admiral, if your generators go down . . ." "Never mind that! This is not what your crew signed on for. Get them clear!"

  "Aye aye, sir," he said reluctantly. Dickerson wanted no part of a battle, but he felt guilty at leaving the carrier to fend for itself. He'd been monitoring the same instruments Graham was watching from the carrier's engineering decks. Karga could replenish her shield reserves far more quickly than Sindri could, but the generators weren't balanced properly. Sooner or later the strain of maintaining them at full power would cause the whole system to collapse, and the supercarrier would be wide open to whatever the hostiles sent her way.

  And if the shields were knocked out for a prolonged period, radiation would do all the killing the enemy needed.

  But he had the admiral's orders . . . and the lives of his own people to think about. "Mr. Kaine, cut us loose," he told his first officer. He glanced at the empty pilot's chair. Clancy was on his own. Luckily they wouldn't need his fine touch for the kind of maneuvering they were about to perform. "You take the helm, Kaine. Get us the hell out of here!"

  Broadsword 206, Guild Squadron "Raider-One"

  Near Vaku VII, Vaku System

  1506 hours (CST)

  The carrier was clearing the ring system by the time Drake killed his original attack vector and swung around for a second run. He was cursing under his breath as he locked in the target coordinates. The first bombardment was supposed to have penetrated the shields and destroyed the tender perched on the back of the carrier's looming superstructure. That would have spelled victory then and there.

  Now the privateers would have to go back in against an opponent ready for them. They wouldn't have the advantages of obscured sensors and masked point defense weapons. And the sensors showed fighters had started launching from the starboard flight deck of the ungainly Kilrathi ship. That would complicate things.

  But even though the Landreichers had been working on that monster for months now, Drake had seen the pitting and scarring along the carrier's hull. A ship that badly damaged couldn't put up much of a fight, not against two squadrons of determined men willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.

  He lined up his targeting reticule on the tender, then cursed as it lifted clear of the ship and accelerated outward. His sensors showed the carrier still had shields up. That explained the unexpected strength of the tender's shielding, then. The carrier didn't need the tender's support any longer.

  Drake followed the tender. His orders were to destroy it, and destroy it he would, attached or separated. Putting the tender out of action would still leave the carrier at their mercy if they could batter down her shields as well.

  He lined up his shot and opened fire with everything he had. . . .

  Hornet 100, VF-12 "Flying Eyes"

  Near Vaku VII, Vaku System

  1506 hours (CST)

  "I've got one on my six! Give me some help!"

  Babcock scowled and accelerated as Jensson's desperate call crackled in her headphones. Retreating toward the safety of the carrier had proved to be no safety at all, not with those Broadswords circling and swooping in like birds of prey stooping low over their victim. Most were concentrating on attacking the tender, but the attackers didn't pass up a chance to take a shot at the Hornets if they came in range.

  Viking's Hornet was being pursued by one of the Broadswords. Both ships were plunging straight in towards the carrier, rolling from side to side as the enemy pilot tried to match Jensson's evasive maneuvers. Viking's acceleration curve was all wrong, far too slow, and Babcock caught a glimpse of twisted metal along the rear of the port side wing. He'd taken a hit, then, and now he'd lost the one advantage of a light fighter over a heavy one—speed.

  "Keep them guessing, Viking, while I get into position," she said coolly, dropping her fighter behind the Broadsword and arming her heat-seeking missiles. The target reticule seemed to take forever to center on the Broadsword, and Babcock remembered again how she'd wished she could have strapped on her own plane today instead of this one.

  Then the diamond on her HUD display glowed red to indicate a target lock, and Babcock opened fire with both laser cannons and both heat seekers, a single powerful strike. She hoped it would at least get the other pilot's attention.

  But even as she fired, the Broadsword was opening up as well. Beams stabbed at the weakened rear shielding of Viking's Hornet, and moments later missiles detonated. It was small consolation to see her own missiles batter right through the Broadsword's shields and rip through a weak spot in the armor around the main engine . . . not when Viking's Hornet disappeared in an expanding cloud of debris at almost the same instant.

  Babcock swore. She hadn't liked Eric Jensson, but he had been one of her pilots. Now he was gone.

  The threat tone sounded in her ear. Another Broadsword had decided to join the party to help the one she had just crippled. And it had just acquired a target lock on her fighter.

  She rammed the throttle full forward on her main engine, and prayed she could out-fly this new menace before she joined Viking in whatever Valhalla dead fighter jocks ended up in.

  Strakha 800

  Near Vaku WI, Vaku System

  1508 hours (CST)

  Acceleration pushed Bondarevsky back into his seat as the Kilrathi fighter leapt from the deck, hurled clear by a powerful linear accelerator catapult. Internal gravity compensators absorbed most of the g-force, but not quite all, and for a moment Bondarevsky reveled in the feel of it. Too much time had gone by since he'd made his last catapult launch.

  There wasn't time to think about it, though. Clear of the flight deck, he cut in his main engine and pushed the throttle forward to full military power. The Strakha was handling remarkably like the simulator version he'd flown time and again since Christmas. Maybe, just maybe, the squadron's training time would count for something out here after all.

  "Strakha Eight-zero-zero, good shot! Good shot!" he called, setting course toward the nearest of the enemy fighters.

  "Strakha Eight-zero-niner, good shot," he heard just seconds later. It was Harper, who'd insisted on flying as his wingman. Boss Marchand must have been cycling the catapult faster than ConFleet safety regulations would ever have allowed, rushing to get the Kilrathi fighters into the battle before the Hornets and Raptors were overwhelmed.

  "Bard, this is Bear," he said crisply. "Go to stealth mode."

  "Copy," Harper responded, all his banter gone, replaced by a cold, professional manner. "Engaging." Bondarevsky flipped a switch, and to all intents and purposes the Strakha fighter vanished.

  Kilrathi stealth technology still wasn't fully understood in human circles even yet, despite having been studied and adapted for use in the latest ConFleet ships, from Excalibur fighters up to recon ships like the old Bannockburn that James Taggart had commanded out here in the Landreich during the Free Corps campaign. The twin generators mounted under the fighter's ventral fin created an area of distortion that bent most radiation, right up through the visible spectrum, right around the hull. A small amount was allowed to leak through—otherwise the pilot would be as blind to the outside universe as his enemies were to him—but the narrow band opening was constantly remodulated by a random computer program so that it took a lucky observer to spot a cloaked ship. But it also took a lot of power, and a Strakha couldn't stay cloaked very long under combat power requirements.

  Right now, though, Bondarevsky was glad to be in the cockpit of a Strakha. These unexpected and unknown enemies had pounced on the carrier with little warning. He intended the counterstroke to return the favor.

&nb
sp; Up ahead, his sensor display had picked out a hot and heavy engagement between a Broadsword and a

  Hornet that was weaving and dodging for all it was worth. Bondarevsky increased his acceleration. "Bard," he said. "We've got a furball at zero-three-one by zero-four-four. Let's see if they like gate crashers at their party."

  "Right with you," Harper replied.

  The Broadsword was losing ground as the Hornet accelerated away, using the full advantage of speed and maneuverability, but despite the opening range the Broadsword pilot was keeping up a heavy assault with lasers. Some of them were scoring hits. The Hornet's shields and armor weren't likely to hold long against the heavier, more modern fighter's firepower.

  But the Strakha was newer and heavier than the Broadsword. Bondarevsky smiled coldly as he started his attack run. powering up his meson guns as the Strakha hurtle' toward the pursuer. As the range closed he cut the stealth generators. It took several seconds for the fighter to decloak, and during that time he couldn't fire his weapons. But he'd timed the maneuver almost perfectly. The Broadsword was looming close ahead when the veil of energy shimmered around the Strakha and it became fully visible again. The targeting reticule on his HUD flashed orange, and Bondarevsky hit the trigger.

  Both meson guns opened fire at close range, battering through the Broadsword's shields and peeling away armor in a fury of raw energy. For good measure Bondarevsky launched a ConFleet-issue Pilum FF missile. It struck the weakened Broadsword and detonated in a brilliant fireball.

  "Never thought I'd be glad to see a Cat fighter turn up like that," Babe Babcock said. "Whoever you are, drinks are on me when we get back to the barn."