by Jay Allan
Chapter Nineteen
CFS Dauntless
Arcturon System
308 AC
“That was some pretty fancy shooting over there, Captain. Please pass on my respects and congratulations to your gunners.” Tyler Barron’s voice was cheerful, his words sincere. Though he knew he’d have enjoyed the killing shot as much as any captain, he was glad Eaton’s people had scored the final blow. He suspected she was still punishing herself because her ship had survived when so many Confederation vessels and spacers had died. He didn’t have the slightest doubt she had done the only thing she could do, nor did he have any recriminations whatsoever about her conduct, but he also knew the most brutally vicious critic was the one hiding inside an officer’s own head.
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your words, and my crew will as well.” She sounded truly grateful, and perhaps a bit surprised. Barron understood. Capital ship captains could be touchy creatures. The job required a certain amount of ego, and he could imagine all sorts of foolish rivalries over battle honors. But Barron had tasted enough of glory—and its cost—out on the Rim. He would fight this war, because the Confederation needed him, because the enemy would destroy his way of life and enslave his people if he didn’t…but the only honor he wanted was peace.
The sounds of Dauntless’s secondary guns rattled in the background. Barron hadn’t wasted any time turning his weapons on the enemy escort vessels. Astara and Cambria had been holding off three times their number of enemy frigates, and they were battered, in need of backup. The two small ships had done their duty, freeing the battleships to engage their opposing numbers. Now it was time to repay the debt. And even Dauntless’s secondary weapons were powerful enough to obliterate the escort ships with just a few shots.
“Things seem to be in hand here, Captain.” Barron was looking at the display even as he spoke with Eaton over the comm. Another enemy escort winked out of existence. There were only two left, and he knew they wouldn’t last long. “We need to discuss what we will do next.”
“I believe that’s your decision, Captain Barron. You’re in command.”
Barron had checked the dates of their respective commissions, but he’d been hesitant to assert his authority over Eaton and her people. He had a deep respect for what they had been through, and he hadn’t wanted to risk bad feelings, especially since he hadn’t even been part of her chain of command. But he knew a force could only have one commander, and Eaton had opened the door.
“Thank you, Captain. But commission dates notwithstanding, I would value your input and opinions.”
“Thank you, sir.” It was the first time she had addressed him as “sir.” He suspected she was signaling him that she had no issue with serving under his command.
“That’s clearly a Union supply convoy.” Barron flashed his eyes back to the display, his eyes darting to the far end, closer to the Phillos transit point. There were twenty-four vessels, freighters and tankers. He suspected the ships were armed, but he doubted any of them had a beam hot enough to threaten capital ships like Dauntless and Intrepid.
“I agree, Captain.”
“I can’t think of any way we can aid the war effort more than by disrupting the enemy’s supply. We have to destroy those ships. Before they can decelerate and head back toward the Phillos transwarp link.”
“Yes, sir! I agree completely.” Eaton paused. “Captain, Intrepid is short of many supplies…and we’re down to fifty percent fuel stocks. Union supplies might not be a great match, but they’re better than nothing.”
“That’s good thinking, Captain. With the escorting forces gone, we should be able to capture a couple of those ships. As long as nothing else shows up.” Barron paused. Dauntless could use a resupply almost as badly as Intrepid. But he knew an enemy task force could come through one of the transit points at any time. Indeed, it was almost certain that one eventually would. This convoy was due somewhere, and when it didn’t show, someone would come looking for it.
“Okay, let’s do it,” he finally said. “But I want to destroy most of those ships first. If enemy reinforcements show up, I want to know we interrupted their supply, at least, even if we didn’t have time to grab some fuel and ordnance for ourselves.”
“Agreed. I suggest we pick out a tanker and two freighters…and blast everything else to atoms.” There was a savage sound to her voice. Barron knew that tone, and he understood the feelings behind it. He’d felt them out at Santis.
“Agreed, Captain. As soon as we’ve retrieved all our fighters, we’ll accelerate toward the convoy. We should be able to reach them before they can reverse their vectors and escape…and if we drive the bay crews hard enough, the fighters will be ready to launch again by then.”
“Captain Barron…can you take a couple of my extra squadrons? Our bays were so jam packed before, it’s a miracle we got a whole strike out. But it’s going to slow us badly if we have to handle so many fighters again.”
“Of course, Captain.” Barron had almost forgotten how many orphaned squadrons Eaton had taken aboard her ship. “Send half your strays our way. We’ll find room for them.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’ll send you the ones closest to your position.”
“Very well, Captain.” Barron’s tone darkened, turning downright feral. “And then we’ll do something about all those Union supplies.”
* * *
“Look, Stara…I know you care about me. I care about you too.” Stockton knew he felt more than that for her…but “care” was the strongest word he was able to force from his lips. His feelings were new ground for him—very new ground—but it was more than just that. He knew how much of a risk he took every time he climbed into the cockpit, and with the way the war was going, the chances of both of them surviving the next few months, let alone years, seemed pretty small. The day some Union pilot finally brought him down would be a hard one for her, and he wasn’t about to make her pain worse with lofty proclamations of love and of futures together.
“If you care about me, you’ll stop acting like an absolute lunatic in your fighter. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Stara Sinclair was Stockton’s opposite in many ways, circumspect, calm, calculating. But the two shared the same emotional coldness, and he suspected she could no more tell him openly that she loved him than he could tell her.
“Stara, you have to understand. I fly the way I fly. A lot of it is instinct. If a pilot takes time to think something through, nine times out of ten he’s too late. That’s how you end up getting blasted to plasma.” He knew she doubted his words, that she suspected he would say anything to satisfy her…and he acknowledged to himself that he probably would. But what he was telling her now was the absolute truth. Pilots had different styles, and the surest way to get one killed was to try to change him. But he had no idea how to make her understand that.
She had been walking briskly down the corridor, with Stockton following behind, but then she stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “I know you, Jake. I’ve watched you in that damned thing for over a year now. I’ve stared at the screen as you tried to land an out of fuel fighter, and when the recovery shuttle brought you back in after you had to ditch. I’ve felt my stomach in my throat too many times, wondering if I’ll see you alive again. It’s just too hard…”
He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her toward him, kissing her abruptly. Then he leaned back, staring into her eyes. “I don’t want to die, Stara. I want to come back, and never more than now, when I know you’re waiting here for me. But if I don’t do my best out there, I’m endangering you…and the captain and the rest of the crew. What if the bomber I let slip by is the one that cripples the ship? What if Dauntless is destroyed because the squadrons don’t do their jobs?”
She didn’t respond. She just stood there looking back at him. He could see her eyes glistening, but he knew her well enough to be sure she wouldn’t let a tear fall. “I understand all that,” she finally said, her voice soft, the anger gone. “But i
t’s still hard. You have to understand that.”
“I do understand. I really do. But, I don’t care how hard it is. I don’t want to lose…” His voice trailed off. There were noises down the corridor, someone coming. The last thing either he or Stara needed was a lot of gossip on the ship about their new romance, though deep down he suspected it was too late to maintain the veil of secrecy.
Stockton shut up, listening as the voices approached. “Hopefully the quartermaster can help. I’ve been wearing this uniform for what, four days now?”
“Closer to five by now. Occupational hazard of having your mothership bolt while you’re still thousands of klicks away, fighting the enemy.” There was a touch of anger in the voices coming down the corridor. And familiarity…at least one of them.
Stockton turned abruptly and stared at the two men approaching. He knew instantly who he was looking at, but he still had trouble believing it.
“Timmons,” he said, his voice deadpan. “Dirk Timmons.”
The two men stopped abruptly. “Well, if it isn’t the famous Raptor. I thought I’d heard you were on Dauntless.” The man had a wary smile on his face.
Stockton forced himself to match the expression. “Warrior. I thought you were on the flagship. What were you doing on Intrepid?”
“Repulse bugged out from the battle.” It sounded like Timmons was trying to hide the bitterness in his tone, but Stockton heard it loud and clear. He and Timmons had gone through flight school together, and to say they’d been rivals was a massive understatement. But he couldn’t argue with the pilot’s resentment. He wouldn’t have been very happy if Dauntless had fled a battle, leaving his squadron behind.
“From what I hear, there wasn’t much choice,” Stockton said, admitting to himself as he did that the argument would get nowhere with him if the roles had been reversed.
“Yeah, that’s what I hear too.” Timmons and Stockton exchanged intense gazes.
Stockton had never liked the other pilot, a feeling he knew Timmons returned. He’d found the man gratingly annoying since the two had been first year cadets, and peoples’ insistence on telling him how similar the two of them were had only increased his animosity. He’d gotten into half a dozen fights in the Academy with other cadets who’d picked the wrong time to question his dislike by pointing out the supposed ways he and Timmons were alike.
“So, they transferred you over to Dauntless?” Stockton asked, not trying very hard to hide his disdain.
“Yeah, it was pretty crowded over there. I guess they split the extra fighter load.”
Stockton just nodded. They couldn’t have kept you over there…
“I’m Stara Sinclair, by the way. Deputy launch control officer.” Stara stepped to the side, moving out from behind Stockton.
“It’s a pleasure, Lieutenant,” Timmons said. His tone of voice, utterly different from that he’d used when speaking to Stockton, triggered an angry response. It took everything Stockton had to unclench his fists…and to keep himself from giving the cocky pilot the beat down he’d owed him for ten years.
“And I’m Lieutenant Charles Aires. My call sign is Mustang, but shipboard most people call me Chuck.”
“Welcome to Dauntless, Chuck, Dirk…or, should I say Mustang and Warrior? After all, most of our interaction will be when you’re in your fighters.”
Timmons nodded, almost a shallow bow. “I certainly hope that’s not the only place we’ll see each other, Lieutenant. That would be a terrible waste.”
“Come on, Stara…we’ve got to go.” Stockton turned and reached out, taking her hand. “Dirk, Chuck,” he said, his voice frigid. Then he walked down the corridor, back the way he and Stara had come, since Timmons and Aires had been heading the way they had been going. Stara followed behind, trying to hide the amusement in her expression.
When they had turned the corner and moved out of sight, she let out a small laugh. “Not your favorite person, I guess?”
“No,” he said simply, not offering any other details.
“That’s strange, Jake…because the two of you seem so…”
“Don’t say it.” He let go of her hand and continued on down the hall, his pace quickening.
She laughed. “Jake…Jake, come on.” She followed him down the corridor, trying to get him to stop. But she couldn’t stop laughing.
* * *
“I know you’ve got more fighters than normal to deal with, Chief, but you’ve got extra personnel too. The captain sent you two dozen technicians from Commander Fritz’s teams.” Jamison was careful to moderate his tone – Nick Evans was technically outranked by every pilot in the strike force, but he was also a grizzled career navy veteran, the undisputed master of Dauntless’s fighter bays. Evans was a big man, physically imposing, but it was more than that. He was a firestorm of barely-bottled rage, who ruled over his team of maintenance technicians with an iron hand. But he was a creature of habit, with his own way of doing things, and he rarely deviated from that course. He was struggling to handle the extra fighters stashed in virtually every open space in the bay…and he’d had more than one unfortunate encounter with pilots from other battleships, ones who were unfamiliar with the specific rhythms of Dauntless’s bays.
“Commander, we’re moving as fast as we can. We’ve got these fighters stacked up everywhere. They’re in the way, and we’ve got to move the torpedoes and supplies farther.” Evans was uncharacteristically unnerved, his voice no longer quite the imperious sonic boom everyone on the ship had become used to hearing.
Jamison, as the commander of Dauntless’s entire fighter wing, had always exerted at least a moderate level of control and dominance over Evans, though he was ashamed to admit, even to himself, how difficult he had sometimes found it to stand up to the terrifying chief. He’d have stood toe to toe with Evans if there had been no choice, but liked to think of himself as a tactician who could rely on manipulation instead of brute force.
“Perhaps I should ask the Captain to send Commander Fritz down here with more of her people.” He flashed a glance up to the big chief’s eyes.
“You don’t need to do that, sir.” Evan’s voice was sour, as if he’d tasted something bad. “My people will get the job done.”
Jamison felt a laugh struggling to burst out, but he held it in check, his eyes locked on Evans’s. “Are you sure, Chief? Because I’m sure the captain will approve my request.” Jamison watched as the chief squirmed. Anya Fritz was a diminutive woman, a third of a meter shorter than Evans and less than half his weight, but she was the one person on Dauntless who could match the chief in sheer unrelenting ferocity…even exceed him. Captain Barron had sent Fritz down to take command of the launch bays during the climax of the battle out at Santis…and Nick Evans had met his match. Fritz had enough energy, drive, and bottled rage to at least equal the chief—and she had a lieutenant-commander’s rank to back it up. For the first time anyone on Dauntless could recall, Evans had been put into his place as Fritz seized total control of the bays. It was something the bay techs still spoke of with great amusement, at least when they were sure Evans was nowhere nearby.
“No, Commander. We can handle it…no problem.” For the first time he could recall, Evan’s voice had almost a pleading sound to it.
“Twenty minutes, Chief…not one minute more.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll have the whole strike force ready to launch on time. You have my word.”
“Very well, Chief. Get it done.” He felt a wave of sympathy for Evans’s people, knowing they would bear the brunt of the chief’s anger and tension. But there was no way around that. He wanted those fighters ready.
He turned and walked across the open floor of the bay, toward the pilots’ prep area. He’d sent them all to get something to eat, but they should be back by now. He’d dressed down Evans, done all he could to make sure the fighters themselves were ready to go. Now, it was his turn to prepare. He had to make some sense out of the crazy combination of partial squadrons he had…and turn
them into a tightly-organized strike force.
That wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter Twenty
CFS Dauntless
Arcturon System
308 AC
“We go in suited up, and we stay that way, even if we think the pressurization is intact.” Bryan Rogan looked out at his Marines. There were two hundred and one of them, not counting himself. He suspected there had been more than a few groans among the assembled fighters, but the Marines were in their pressure suits with their helmets snapped shut. Rogan would only hear them if they activated their microphones and spoke to him over the comm. He was grateful for that arrangement. If he’d heard the complaints he’d have had to come down on those making them. This way, he could just pretend they had cheerfully accepted the order.
Marines were technically naval troops, trained to fight shipboard actions as well as ground combats. But there weren’t many boarding actions, certainly not in the large general engagements of a war like the one going on, and Rogan’s people were no different than Marines throughout the Confederation service in despising pressure suits and bottled air. They preferred to fight in just their body armor, but Rogan wasn’t about to lose Marines because an airlock blew out or a compartment lost life support. He hated the tight, uncomfortable pressure suits as much as anyone in the bay, but he hated seeing his Marines killed more.
Rogan had seen the images of pre-Cataclysmic soldiers, clad from head to toe in great suits of powered armor, looking more like robots than men and women. He couldn’t imagine the firepower and endurance of soldiers so equipped—or how uncomfortable those ancient suits must have been. But post-Cataclysmic technology wasn’t even close to developing the miniaturization and nanotechnology required to build true powered armor, so the best he could do for his Marines was to make sure they wouldn’t suffocate or die from the effects of sudden depressurization.
