Interceptor (Strike Commander Book 2)

by Richard Tongue

   The doctor nodded, visibly relieved at the non-violent solution, and moved to inject the prisoner with a sedative while Morgan sat down at the communications console, Sokolov resting his rifle by his side as he fired up the sensor controls.

   “Knock them out,” Morgan ordered, turning to him. “Do anything you can. We've got to make sure the fighters have a clear run at the target, or the whole mission fails.”

   “I can do it,” he replied, “but as soon as I start, every alarm in the place will go off.”

   “They're almost certainly already on the way here,” she replied with a smile. “I don't think one more siren will make much difference. Make a mess for me.”

   “Yes, ma'am,” he replied, turning to his console with a smile on his face.

   “Morgan to Churchill,” she said, working her controls, trying to find the right frequency.

   “Looks like the battle's started,” Medina said, looking at the main screen. Morgan turned to see Churchill escorted by a pair of fighters, ranging in towards the base, with clouds of debris scattered all across orbital space. There was no sign of the heavier bombers, and with a sickening feeling in her heart, she feared that the attack had ended before it had begun. Four of the enemy fighters were still in the air, curving in ahead of the carrier, ready to make a last stand.

   “This is going to take a few minutes,” Sokolov said. “They're fighting me. Someone outside, out with the systems.” He cursed, and said, “They're working overrides, Ensign. I'm going to lose control in a matter of seconds.”

   “Morgan to Churchill,” she repeated. “Come in, at once! Urgent!” She looked up at the sensor display again, wondering what damage the ship had suffered in the battle, whether there was any chance of victory remaining at all. “Morgan to Churchill on emergency frequency. Come in, damn it!”

   “We're being jammed,” Sokolov said. “There's no way to break through, not without giving up everything I'm doing here.” His eyes locked back onto his console, and he added, “Whoever is at the other end is good, damned good.” With a quick swipe, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, and added, “We're on a stalemate, for the moment.”

   “Company's coming,” Medina said.

   “Take over this,” Morgan replied. “Keep trying to punch a signal through. We've got to know what is happening out there. Sokolov, hold onto those sensors whatever you do. Don't let them get back control.”

   Risking a quick glance, he said, “Ensign, I can't work miracles. I can hold them off for five minutes, maybe, while they rig a manual bypass. Then every control in this room goes dead.”

   “Noted,” she said, rolling into cover behind the machine gun, a bullet flying past her, smashing into the wall, missing her by inches. She settled into position and fired an experimental burst, hot cartridges flying through the air around her as bolts of death raced towards the enemy, sending the traitor sprawling into cover. Larson was there, behind the corner, a pistol in his hand and murder in his eyes.

   “You can't win!” he yelled. “Your ships are scattered, ours are intact, and I can shut down life support in the whole station as soon as I want. You can either die gasping for a last breath of air or die with a bullet in the gut. Which will it be?”

   “If I go down I'm taking you bastards with me,” she replied, trying for a shot. She looked across at her ammunition, far less than she'd hoped. Maybe enough for a dozen quick bursts. She glanced behind her for a second, then placed her rifle beside the gun, another few shots there.

   One of the traitors dared to dance out of cover, paying for his foolish bravery with his life as he collapsed to the ground, his twitching corpse spilling blood onto the wall while Larson looked on, grim-faced, pistol still in his hand. Then another figure fell from the corner, and Morgan fired on instinct, realizing an instant late that they'd simply thrown the spacesuit out into the corridor, a mass of cover that another thug managed to take advantage of, ducking into position to cover the machine gun. She tried a third burst of fire, but all she did was reduce the fabric to ribbons, the traitor firing a shot that caught her in the foot, a gasp of pain escaping from her mouth.

   “You can't win!” Larson yelled. “The next one goes through your head!”

   Reaching for her rifle with one hand, the pain rushing over her in waves of anguish, she leveled a shot at Larson, the bullet bouncing off the wall just short of him, sending him back into safety. At least she wasn't going to have to look at his evil face for a moment.

   “Signal, Ensign! From Churchill!” Medina yelled, tossing her a headset. Putting it on cost her a fourth burst, the renegades taking advantage of her brief inattention. A third of her ammunition spent in half a minute. Based on that, they'd be charging her position in a couple of minutes, and there wouldn't be a damn thing she could do about it.

   “Ensign, this is Mallory,” a voice replied. “What's the story?”

   “If you're going to make your strike, you'd better get on with it, Captain. We've got about four minutes of control over the local sensor network before they override what we've done, and we're under heavy attack here. I don't know how much longer we can hold.” She paused, firing a fifth burst that felled the latest traitor to dare the corridor, a man who dropped to the ground, clutching the ruins of his leg with his arm as he screamed in agony. “They've got the prisoners on the landing field, intending to use them as human shields. Keep away from the shuttles.”

   “Understood, Ensign,” Mallory said. “We're starting our attack run, and the reinforcements will be right behind them. You've only got to hold on for three minutes, and all of this will be over.”

   “We'll do our best, Captain. One way or another, we'll give you the time you need.” A figure ducked around the corridor, and when she held her fire, stepped around, pistol at the ready. A rattle of flame from the barrel of the gun forced him back.

   “Just hang in there, Ensign. Good luck.”

   “Good hunting, Churchill. Send the bastards back to Hell.”

   She glanced at her ammunition, now half-gone, and felt a jab in her leg as Medina ducked out to inject a painkiller, the agony from her foot reduced to a dull throb as she waited for the next attack.

  Chapter 18

   Conway sat in his fighter, waiting for the countdown clock to run down. He looked around the cavernous storage bay of the freighter they were hiding in, hanging to the outer hull, the inner plating carefully removed. A group of technicians raced to the hatch, heading for their waiting shuttle on the far side of the ship.

   Taking a deep breath, he threw a series of switches to bring his internal systems online, his sensors switching from passive to active and his engines rising to full power, a series of clicks and whines as the monitors rattled off a series of status reports, text scrolling down his heads-up display as a trajectory plot towards their target appeared. The latest tactical information from Churchill slotted into the database, and a smile crept across his face as he settled down for launch.

   “Zharkova to Conway,” the conscripted technician said. “Say the word and we'll let you fly.”

   “Roger that, Sub-Lieutenant. Hit the button and get the hell out of here.”

   “Will do. Good hunting, Captain.”

   He tensed for the launch. No elevator airlock this time, but a series of explosive bolts that were carefully positioned to break the outer hull into its component plates, the force of decompression finishing the job and hurling them clear of the ship, the three fighters rolling around, the skeleton of the freighter exposed to view as he tumbled into position. With the flick of a switch, he fired his thrusters to stabilize him, the starfield leveling out as his navigational computer guided him in towards the target, the enemy base now centered on his screen.

   At the same time as their launch, a wave of missiles raced from the ship, rushing towards the surface, easy prey for countermeasures and unlikely to hit anything important at this extreme range, but a c
over that might buy then a few additional seconds of grace before the enemy reacted to the new threat heading towards them.

   “Here we go, gentlemen,” he said. “Start your engines!”

   With a loud roar, his fighter accelerated towards its target, leaving the decoy freighter behind as they dived towards their goal, a series of trajectory updates flashing onto his screen as the navigational computer made second-to-second corrections to bring them in. He glanced at the sensor screen, watching as the escape shuttle raced from the freighter, smiling as he saw them diving for Churchill rather than the surface, determined to have a role in the battle that was to come.

   Four fighters on the screen, coming around the far side of the planet towards them, but they weren't going to reach them in time to stop them making their attack run. The missile emplacements were a greater fear, and he glanced down at the deployment, eight warheads pointed at the squadron, more than enough firepower to tear them to pieces.

   “Eighty seconds to target,” Conway said, looking down at the dull blue fragment of ice and rock beneath them, a series of lights marking the base below. Behind them, Churchill slid into position, accompanied by the fuel-starved interceptors remaining in escort position. There was nothing they could do about the base, though. That was down to the assault team.

   “Mallory to Conway,” his speaker barked. “Tactical update, and it's a big one. There are two shuttles positioned on the landing strip, right by the dome, and our latest information is that they hold all the prisoners taken by the traitors. Whatever you do, you've got to keep clear of them.” She paused, and added, “Morgan reports that she can guarantee you another sixty seconds, ninety at the outside. You've got to press your attack by then.”

   “Understood,” he replied, a smile crossing across his face. “We're starting our attack run. Vector for the incoming fighters. If my readings are right, we're going to be rising right into them once we climb back to orbit.”

   “Way ahead of you,” she said. “You focus on the base. We'll handle the rest.” There was a pause, and she added, “Angel's on her way with the reinforcements, forty seconds behind you. Morgan won't be able to wait any longer for help.”

   Conway sighed, looking at the small ship moving from Churchill, and shook his head. Under normal circumstances, there was no way a shuttle launch would be authorized until the sky was clear of enemy ships. One more piece on the table that would be sacrificed if they failed. If even one missile emplacement remained intact, everyone on board that shuttle was as good as dead. Doubtless Angel knew that, and hand insisted on going anyway.

   He'd taken the lead himself, riding into the fire first at the head of his flight, two old friends behind him, pilots he knew as well as anyone could know another, all of them able to anticipate each other's moves, almost read each other's thoughts as they dived towards the base. He flicked a switch, bringing up the targeting computer, his fighter linking electronically with the rest of the flight to select the appropriate attack strategy, making sure there was no duplication of effort.

   Keeping his hands on the controls, he tapped the thrusters to ease them in, guiding his fighter down towards the base, the engine dying as it settled onto trajectory. Speed was no longer a factor, but precision was, and he watched as the settlement drew closer and closer. All of this would be over in an instant, the fragment of rock flashing by almost before he realized it, but he still looked out for it, watching for the fighters up ahead, knowing that they still had a gauntlet to run before they reached safety.

   “Away!” he yelled, as two of his missiles fired, dropping away from his fighter, the others releasing theirs an instant later. His engine roared again as he dived clear, a smile creeping across his face as he saw the missiles closing on their targets, sweeping into a wide formation of their own to rain down death upon the emplacements below.

   An instant before contact, a series of lights appeared on the screen, and his face fell. Eight launches, a complete salvo, all of them heading up in their direction. They'd lost their race, if only by a heartbeat, and the enemy had got a final chance to take them down. Up to this point, the traitors could still salvage the situation. Destroying Churchill's attack wing would end the carrier's chance of an offensive strike, and with the traitors in possession of the alien city, all of this would be for nothing.

   “Two for each of us,” Xylander said, “and two for the shuttle.”

   “None for the shuttle,” Conway replied. “To hell with the enemy fighters. We'll worry about them later. Drop the last of your birds and punch for full burn.”

   “Full thrust,” Sullivan said, and the three engines roared as one, driving the ships into the void, the remaining missiles dropping away to intercept the warheads ranging towards the shuttle, sacrificing their last protection to save their comrades.

   “Green Leader to Red Leader,” Bennett said. “We're on the way.”

   “Not if your fuel reserves are as low as I think they are,” he replied. “Escort the shuttle down to the surface, and see if you can knock out a couple of those missiles. Then head back to the barn. Kat, are you there?”

   Informality was the first casualty of this battle, and she replied, “I'm on the line, Jack. We're at full thrust, and...”

   “To hell with that. Pick up the interceptors once the shuttle has made it to the surface, then head away, out of the battle area.” He smiled, and said, “Remember our agreement. When fighters are up, I'm in charge.”

   “You'll be killed,” she said, bluntly.

   “Better men that this have tried and failed,” he replied. “Don't worry, I've got a plan. Just get that shuttle down and rescue the prisoners. That's an order.”

   She sighed, then said, “You're at your most annoying when you are right. Watch your back.”

   A trio of flashes lit up on the screen, six missiles colliding in an orgy of mutual destruction, giving the shuttle a clear run to the target. He tapped to bring up an image of the surface, smiling at the wreckage of the missile emplacements around the dome. Both shuttles were battered, shrapnel raining down all around them, but they still seemed to be essentially intact.

   “Precision bombing, Jack,” Xylander said. “What's this plan of yours?”

   “Alter course two-one-zero,” he said, guiding his fighter on a direct line with the incoming enemy craft. “Ramming speed.”

   “This doesn't sound like much of a plan,” Sullivan replied. “By my reckoning, that just means we're going to be hit by two sets of missiles at once.”

   “Now you're catching on,” he said. “They'll throw everything they've got at us, right? Twelve missiles, seventeen in total. Once they've fired that shot, they'll be nothing left. The battle is over, one way or another, after this pass.”

   “Just between the three of us, I'd rather hoped to attend the victory celebrations,” Xylander said. “I already tried hacking into the fighters, and I don't think that's going to work. We're too far away for McBride to work his magic, either.”

   “That's fine,” he said. “I want those missiles on our tail.” He reached down to his navigation computer, and said, “Maintain the collision course, and standby for a last-second evasive pulse from the thrusters, star-burst formation.”

   “Oh, Christ,” Sullivan said. “I just worked out what you're planning.” With a deep sigh, he said, “I'm switching all sensor inputs to my fighter. Spread out a little. We're going to need the most precise course calculation in history if this is going to work.”

   “I don't get it,” Xylander said.

   “Fratricide,” Conway replied. “All those missiles are going to be coming together into a very small piece of sky, and we've just got to make sure we're not there when they meet. Hold your course.”

   He looked down at the sensor display, watching as the missiles closed in from the rear, gradually eating up the distance between them despite all the best efforts of the engines. There was no point t
o evasive action, not now. At the last moment, the last second, they'd need to throw in every trick they knew, and he dropped down the control panel for his physical countermeasures, ready to purge the whole system out just before impact.

   “Fifty seconds,” Sullivan said. “Assuming they launch at optimum time.”

   “Roger,” he said. “You can both bail out. I'll handle it here.”

   “Are you abandoning ship?” Xylander asked.

   “Someone has to stay behind if this is going to work. That doesn't mean we all have to take the risk.”

   “All for one and one for all,” Sullivan said. “We're going to see this out together. And incidentally, forty seconds.”

   “Just thought you'd want to know,” Mallory added, breaking into the channel. “The shuttle is down and the boarding team is cutting their way through the airlock now. Bennett and Fernandez are on their way back to rearm, just in case we get a surprise.”

   “Thanks,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. Up ahead, the enemy fighters loomed, desperate pilots knowing they had nothing left to lose, that they had nowhere to land and that the only destiny they faced was a firing squad. Under those circumstances, revenge was the only possible reward they could reap from their treachery, and they were going to take it if they could.

   Flicking a switch to complete the effect, Conway said, “Red Leader to approaching bandits. Surrender now, and I'll guarantee you safe passage back to Mars for trial.”

   “To the devil with that,” a bitter voice replied, her words spitting venom. “We're going to end you, Captain, if we have to die ourselves doing it.”

   A smile crossing his face, he said, “You are more than welcome to try. Conway out.”

   Less than half a minute left, and if this plan was to work, they had to open fire at some time in the next five seconds. He counted on furious rage to overwhelm tactical instincts, and the flash of new trajectory plots on the screen confirmed that his assessment of the situation had been correct. Twelve more missiles headed their way, the five at the rear advancing more slowly as their fuel ran out.