by Jay Allan
The assignment had taken him by surprise. No, more of a soul-shaking, staggering, utter shock. By all accounts, Jamison was “Raptor” Stockton’s best friend. And Timmons and Stockton had no love for each other. But Raptor was away, off on a mission that was likely to be his last, and that left Jamison looking for a stand in for the job he’d almost certainly have given his friend. Timmons was impressed that the wing commander had risen above the prejudices Stockton’s enmity might have created in another man.
His eyes moved over his control panel, stopping when they reached the main display. There it was, a large, oblong cloud, well over one hundred tiny dots, so closely spaced he could hardly tell them apart. The enemy interceptors. And not far from them another cluster of tiny circles, somewhat less dense, but still numerous—his squadrons.
“Okay, here we go. Use your missiles well, all of you…and watch out for theirs!” He watched as the range on his scanner ticked down. “Break,” he shouted, and he swung his throttle hard to the side, angling his thrust and moving toward a small group of Union fighters.
He flew right at the enemy, throwing caution to the wind. There was no time for elegant maneuvers, no room for long dances with selected targets. If his people didn’t blast a hole in the interceptor screen, Jamison’s squadrons wouldn’t get through. And if they didn’t get to those oncoming bombers, Dauntless and Intrepid were likely to be battered wrecks by the time the assault was over, if not dissipating clouds of plasma. A direct frontal attack would be more costly, and it would yield some of the advantage his more experienced pilots had over the enemy, but the primary goal—the only important one—was to protect the battleships.
He angled his fighter slightly, refining his targeting. Then he launched his first missile. After a quick adjustment, he released the second. He watched for a few seconds, as his targets tried to evade the weapons. Their responses were slow, cumbersome…Timmons knew his missiles would hit home.
He saw the enemy formations as they moved toward his squadrons, lining up for the fight to come. They were no match for his people, at least one on one. But the odds were almost two to one.
He could see on his scanners as his fighters launched their missiles all across the line. The deadly weapons were finding their targets, cutting down the enemy ships. He opened fire with his lasers, taking down another target, pushing on deeper, carving out a hole for Jamison’s birds to slip through.
Their command is green too…they should be in a much deeper formation.
“Thunder, these guys are in a shallow line…we’re almost through already. Suggest you bring your squadrons up now, before they have a chance to close in from the flanks.”
“Roger that, Warrior. We’re on our way.”
Timmons switched his comm to the Direwolves command channel. “Mustang, these bastards are going to try to close in from the ends when Thunder leads his wing through. Take the Longswords and Yellows with your people and hit them on the port side. I’ll take the other squadrons and go to the starboard. We’ll create two walls, and buy Thunder the time he needs to get through. And keep your velocities down…you can’t let any of these bastards past you, so make sure you can come about quickly enough to hit them again before they do.”
“Understood, Warrior.” A short pause. “Good luck, my old friend.”
“And to you, Mustang. Take care of yourself.”
He reached down and punched up the selected squadron channels. “All right, listen up…we’re swinging around to the starboard, and we’re going to widen this hole and give Thunder and his squadrons plenty of room to get through. Max velocity, three thousand meters per second. We’ve got to be able to reverse our vectors and go after any enemy birds that get by us before they can hit Thunder’s force in the flanks and rear. Squadron leaders, acknowledge.”
He listened as each squadron commander sounded off. Blue squadron was the last one, the slight delay more likely the cause of resentment at being placed under his command, he figured, than any sluggishness on the part of Dauntless’s elite formation. He didn’t hold it against them. He doubted his Red Eagles would have felt any different if they’d been placed under Stockton.
He fired his lasers, and another enemy ship vanished. All along the line he could see the once-dense cloud of dots thinning as his fighters gunned down their enemies. But numbers were telling too, and their kills did not go unanswered. He’d lost two Red Eagles so far, and not one of his squadrons was unblooded. But they were holding their formations well, and attacking the enemy with savage intensity. They knew what was at stake, and they would do their duty. Timmons didn’t have the slightest doubt about that.
* * *
Sara Eaton sat on Intrepid’s bridge, watching the fighter battle unfold. It seemed like a rout at first, the Confederation squadrons tearing into the less experienced Union pilots with unrestrained savagery. But slowly, mathematics asserted itself. The Confederation pilots killed two, three, even four of the enemy for every one that they lost. But they started outnumbered, and before long their own casualties mounted.
She winced as she saw another fighter disappear, one of hers. The Longswords had been hard hit, losing six of the thirteen effectives they’d sent into the fight. The other squadrons had fared a bit better, and they had absolutely savaged the Union first line, taking out over eighty interceptors and sending the rest into headlong flight, followed closely by the victorious Confederation squadrons.
Now it was Commander Jamison’s turn. His fighters closed with the approaching enemy bombers. He’d assigned more of the strike force to Timmons than he’d retained for himself. That had impressed Eaton, and she’d agreed completely with his tactics. He’d kept the job of keeping the bombers away from the battleships, but he’d recognized that the fight against the interceptors was the more dangerous engagement, requiring whatever strength he could make available. Timmons had lived up to any expectations Jamison might have had when he’d placed him in command. His forces had shattered the enemy’s first line.
Now if Jamison can just…
Her thought cut off as her eyes caught movement on the display. A blip on the scanners, coming around from behind the gas giant. Her stomach sank, accepting the realization perhaps a second before her mind caught up. An enemy battleship, a big one. And it was launching fighters.
“Get me Dauntless,” she snapped, leaning over and holding her hand over her comm unit.
“Captain Barron on your line.”
“Captain…”
“I see it, Sara. It’s a big son of a bitch too. And those fighters are going to hit Jamison’s squadrons just as they’re fully engaged with the bombers.”
“Timmons’s people will never get there in time…not in any numbers.” She paused. “Captain, if Jamison’s fighters don’t break off they’ll be sitting ducks.”
“They can’t break off, Sara…you know that. If all those fighters get through…”
The line was silent for a few seconds, before Barron continued, “I have to split up Jamison’s forces, have him detach some kind of screen to try to hold off those interceptors. We can’t let the bombers get through at full strength. It’s going to be bad enough anyway.”
“Agreed, Captain.”
Barron cut the line abruptly, no doubt to contact Jamison. She agreed splitting the force was the only alternative, but that didn’t change the fact that they just didn’t have enough fighters out there.
Whatever happened in the next thirty minutes, she had a feeling Intrepid was going to take a hard pounding. She looked over toward Nordstrom’s station. “Commander, get me Commander Merton. I think it’s time we got the damage control crews in position.”
* * *
“Yes, Captain…understood.” Jamison knew Barron was right, that there wasn’t a choice. But he hated the idea with a raging passion.
“See to it, Commander.” Barron’s response followed a brief pause, perhaps an extra second and a half while Jamison’s comm signal traveled to Dauntless, and the res
ponse made its way back. “And Kyle, there’s no choice, so don’t beat yourself up over it. You know Raptor would be the first one to lead the Blues in if he was here.”
The mention of his friend was like a sharp stab to his chest. The crisis had torn his mind from Stockton, at least for a few minutes. Now the prospect of sending his friend’s Blues on a suicide mission loomed in front of him. And whatever he would have done, he’s not here.
He flipped the comm to the Blue squadron channel. “Typhoon, do you see what’s coming?”
“Yeah, Commander. I’ve got ’em on my scanner. Looks like four squadrons, maybe five.”
“That’s my read. Rick…we’ve got to hold them back, delay them at least, or they’ll hit us just as we’re fully engaged with the bombers.”
“A job for Blue squadron, sir?” He sounded cheerful for a man being sent to buy time, likely with his life and with the lives of his people.
“I don’t think anyone else can do the job, Rick. I’m damned sure if the Blues can’t, no one can.”
“You know that, sir. Don’t worry…we’ll see it done. Just worry about those bombers…and leave these interlopers to us.” Jamison thought he heard the slightest edge of fear in Turner’s voice, but if he did it wasn’t much. Rick Turner was a hardcore Blue, a member of the squadron who traced his lineage as far back as Stockton himself.
“Take care of yourself, Rick.” Jamison meant the comment sincerely, but he regretted it as soon as he said it. He was sending Blue squadron into a hopeless fight, and Turner was enough of a veteran—and a realist—to know that. The chances of any of them coming back seemed slim.
“Don’t worry about us, Commander. Blue squadron’s got your back.” And with that, the veteran pilot cut the line. A few seconds later he could see the Blues moving off at full thrust, heading to cut off an assault wave more than four times their number.
Forgive me, Raptor…
* * *
Timmons squeezed his finger tight again, loosing another deadly bolt from his lasers. The enemy fighter vanished, his fifth kill of the battle. His people had done their jobs, and done them well at that. The Union interceptor force was gutted, two thirds of its ships gone, the others scattered and fleeing in wild disarray.
Like any job well done, the victory had claimed its cost. Two dozen of his fighters had been destroyed, and the pain of the loss was only partially blunted by the fact that at least half had managed to eject. With any luck, the rescue shuttles could retrieve most of them before their life support ran out.
He slid his finger across his screen, moving the area displayed. The fight against the bombers was going well. Jamison’s squadrons had smashed into the lumbering strike force, and they had gunned down several dozen of the cumbersome craft. But something was wrong. There were too few Confederation fighters there. He stared for a few seconds, confused. Then he realized. Blue squadron was gone.
For an instant, he felt a wave of panic, a worry that the Blues had been wiped out. But then he realized that wasn’t possible, certainly not against a line of bombers. But where were they?
“Thunder…Warrior here. Enemy interceptors routed. My forces are pursuing survivors.”
“Well done, Warrior. After you mop up, get your people back to base for refit.”
“Commander…where is Blue squad…” His voice trailed off as he finally found Stockton’s fighters on his screen…and a massive wave of enemy ships heading directly toward them.
“Commander, request permission to…”
“Negative, Warrior. You’d never get there in time. You’ll just burn up your fuel.”
“Commander…”
“I said no, Lieutenant.”
“But, sir…let me take the Red Eagles. The other squadrons can handle the enemy strays, and that’s enough ships to get back for refit.” The line was silent for few seconds, and then Timmons added, “Please, sir…you can’t let the Blues face that many fighters by themselves. We can get there in time, I know it.” He was determined to go whether Jamison approved it or not, but he decided to leave that part out.
“All right, Lieutenant…but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you and Raptor don’t get along. You’re both a colossal pain in the ass.”
“Thank you, sir.” He cut the line, switching to the Red Eagles channel. “Listen up, Eagles. The Blues are out there facing off against another wave of enemy fighters. They’re outnumbered and outgunned, but we’re going to do something about that. Kick your engines up to one ten percent, and follow me.”
He pulled back hard on the throttle, snapping off a command to his AI to override the safeties. He needed every g of thrust he could get if he was going to make it there in time.
And not getting there wasn’t an option.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Interplanetary Space
Approaching Mellas Transwarp Link
Turas System
308 AC
Stockton had watched the drama unfolding on his screen, at least the limited view he was getting on his passive scanners. The stealth suite that Commander Fritz had installed mostly prevented external sensors from picking up his fighter, but he found it also interfered somewhat with his own scans. None of that mattered, not really. The shuttle was out of his hands, though he supposed the longer its controlling AI evaded the enemy pursuers, the better it was for him. He was on a line for the Mellas transit point, his vector true, his engines shut down. He’d just make it to Mellas, as long as nothing went wrong.
He stared down at the small device Fritz had attached to his dashboard. It was the controller for the stealth system. He could still remember her standing in the launch bay staring at him with those cold, unforgiving eyes. “Don’t touch this, Lieutenant,” she had said. “Don’t even look at it if you don’t have to.” It was good advice—though he suspected Commander Fritz had thought of it more as an order than counsel—but now his eyes caught something that troubled him. He didn’t know much about the device, or the systems it controlled, but one of the gauges looked funny to him. The readings were bouncing around erratically…and every other time his eyes had wandered over, they had been stable.
Don’t do this to me…not now…
He’d known equipment failure was one of the greatest dangers he would face on his trip. The Lightning fighters were designed for short missions. They were intended to endure the stresses of combat and return within a few hours for a refit and systems check. No fighter had ever gone a fraction the distance his had, nor remained in constant service for so many consecutive hours. Hours? Hell, days…
He checked his other readouts. Everything else was on the green. Whatever was wrong—if anything was wrong—it was in the stealth unit.
Great, the one thing in this ship I know nothing about.
Like most experienced pilots, Stockton had some ability to do makeshift repairs to his fighter. Combat was hard on ships, and rejiggering a damaged system could be the difference between life and death. But the stealth device was a mystery to him. It might as well have been some ancient artifact dug up on a planet in the Badlands. And that readout was definitely wobbling. In fact, he was sure it was getting worse, even as he watched it.
His eyes darted to his display. The enemy had no ships right at the transit point.
No, you don’t want to discourage transit from Mellas…you’d love it if Admiral Winston came though and attacked you…
But his route to the transwarp link took him fairly close to several enemy battleships. And if his stealth unit kicked out, there was a good chance he’d show up on their active scans.
Shit.
He tried to think of options. But there was nothing he could do. Kicking in his engines would only make him easier to spot, and any course change was a terrible gamble. There was no way to be sure he’d be able to reestablish a vector toward the jump point before his fuel gave out. And if he couldn’t get out of Turas, it didn’t really matter much how and where he died.
He looked back
to the display. He was moving toward one of the enemy battleships, approaching the point where he’d come closest. He stared back at the stealth system indicator. Its wobble was still increasing. “You couldn’t have picked a worse time to pull this shit…”
Almost as if in response, the gauge dropped to zero. Stockton ignored the tightness in his gut, his mind focusing instantly on the situation, as he looked down the row of readouts on the stealth suite. All dead.
“With all due respect, Commander Fritz,” he muttered, “you can take your orders and…” He reached out, poking at the controls, bringing up more readouts. The entire system was offline. He couldn’t tell if it wasn’t getting power…or if the unit itself had failed.
He looked over at his fuel readings. He still had some, not much, but certainly enough to power the stealth system. He checked the reactor readings. Green. The ECM unit was getting power.
Great.
He might have jury-rigged a solution to a severed power line, but he had no idea how this magic box Fritz had put together worked, and no idea what to do.
He looked up at the screen. He was getting close to the transwarp link…but not close enough. The enemy had plenty of time to react to him.
Plenty of time.
* * *
D’Alvert walked down the short hallway and onto the flag bridge. He’d been spending most of his time in his office, door closed, brooding over the situation—and his next move. But he wanted his people to see him now. Sitting in the Turas system and waiting was sapping the fleet’s momentum, the morale boost its string of initial victories had created slowly fading away.
“Status?” he asked as he moved to his chair and sat down.
“The enemy shuttle evaded pursuit for a considerable time, sir, and when our fighters finally had it trapped, it self-destructed.” Renault’s report was crisp, professional. She was the only one on Victoire who could tell D’Alvert things the admiral didn’t want to hear without sounding obsequious.
