End Run

by William R. Forstchen

  "Tractor beam on now!" the navigation officer shouted.

  Jason felt the shudder run through the ship. The tractor system was never designed for this, the idea being cooked up by Jim Bane, an old navigation petty officer. If the carrier used the beam on a fighter for recovery the mass differential between the fighter and carrier would be such that for ever meter the carrier might be moved towards the fighter, the fighter would be pulled in several kilometers. Now the beam was aimed straight at Kilrah, pulling the Tarawa straight in towards the planet; however, due to the ship's forward velocity it actually wouldn't go straight in, but rather loop in a slingshot around Kilrah, and, if all the calculations were correct, aiming them straight at their intended jump point. If it worked this would alter maneuvering tactics and close-in tactics forever!

  They skimmed over the northern pole of the planet, fifty kilometers above the outer atmosphere, the planet's gravitational field bending their trajectory even further into a slingshot.

  In less than ten seconds Kilrah was a hundred thousand kilometers astern.

  "Damn," Jason sighed, "what a ride."

  The bridge went silent as everyone turned to look at the navigation officer.

  She continued to lean over her plot board, watching as the computer fed in the data, tracing out the line as Tarawa and its lone escort curved down and away out of the equatorial line of the Kilrah solar system.

  She finally gave a sigh of relief and looked up with a grin.

  "It worked, sir," she said, her voice shaking. "We are on-line up to jump point F-One. Will arrive in seven hours and thirty-two minutes. Will have a fuel reserve of two point three percent after deceleration to achieve jump."

  Jason turned and looked over at combat information.

  "Not a single ship has even emerged from the other side of Kilrah. Estimate a five million plus kilometer lead on them."

  "People, we just might live till tomorrow," Jason said with a smile. "Stand down from battle stations, let's get some rest."

  A round of self-congratulations went through the bridge and as he looked out on the flight deck he saw crew members and marines slapping each other on the back.

  There was one problem though: jump point F-One took them out on a side track run and not closer to home, but it was the only one they could run to using Kilrah as a slingshot. The enemy carrier at Kilrah could elect to pursue or could take a jump into a parallel system, blocking their escape. And beyond that, there was still no word as to what else might be out there. He was in the dark and the entire Kilrathi Empire would be mobilizing to hunt them down. They had managed to run, but they were no closer to home, and there was no place to hide.

  "He's good, damned good," Prince Thrakhath thought, unable to prevent at least a brief moment of admiration for whomever it was that commanded the human fleet. The diversion, and he now realized that that had been the intent, of the two ships loaded with atomic mines, had momentarily scattered his defense, allowing them to run straight through while losing but one escort ship. They had never intended suicide at all and he realized that he had made the fatal mistake of not viewing the tactical situation from a human perspective. An opportunity to shatter part of Earth, even at the expense of one's own life, would win undying glory for those who sacrificed themselves. He found it almost inconceivable that they had not taken such a course and curiously found himself feeling almost insulted that the humans would not be willing to trade their lives for a chance to strike a blow at the home of the Kilrathi race.

  As he studied the plot boards he realized that though the maneuver to run was brilliantly executed it was also an exercise in futility. The jump point they were taking was a single track line, going into a system with only a single jump point beyond it; the next system had but a single jump point exit as well. It was not until the system after that, that there were several jump points, one of which would lead back towards Confederation space. They had simply run into a cul de sac. The carrier Karu could be positioned to cover one of the exits. By following the more direct path he could arrive to cover the same exiting system in only three jumps to the four that the humans would need. Either their navigators were not aware of this, or they were simply trying to run the game out and cling to an extra day of life. It would have been more honorable to die here and destroy part of Kilrah. For a moment he actually felt a twinge of regret that the humans had not taken such a course. For after all was not the Emperor responsible for the fiasco, and it would not have been just the Emperor who died but thousands of the court sycophants as well. It could have produced an interesting result. The death of court hangers-on and bureaucrats would have been a pleasure to witness.

  "Astronavigator, signal to the Karu that the humans have taken the Vuwarg jump. They are to block the jump line from Baragh to Rushta. Carrier Torg to move to block the jump point from Baragh to Xsar. We will close the line from Baragh to Lushkag. Signal the same to the Emperor. Have at least thirty reserve fighter craft from the palace guard on Kilrah to sortie and rendezvous with us to replenish our losses. We leave to jump from this system within two hours."

  He turned to look at his staff.

  "Let's finish this affair. The court historians can then practice their usual craft of lying and embellish it into a great victory rather than a miserable hunt."

  CHAPTER XI

  Jason Bondarevsky realized that physically he was at the end of his rope. He looked into the mirror, trying to still the shaking of his hand as he finished shaving. The image that looked back at him was disturbing. His features were pale, eyes dark rimmed and bloodshot. Not since the beginning of the raid had he found a moment to hit the exercise room, a strict requirement for all pilots in order to stay in top physical shape. If he were in charge of anyone who looked like himself, he'd have sent him to sick bay, and ordered a stretch of R&R along with a couple of sessions with the psychological officer.

  The nightmares just would not go away—the image of the fireball rushing in to smash the marine landing craft, Svetlana, ghostlike, turning to look at him as the flames swept in. Beside her, Janice and all the others whom he had lost.

  He closed his eyes, nicking himself with the old-style razor.

  The cold flash of pain from the cut startled him, and cursing, he took his towel and dabbed the wound. He took the small cup of water, which was all that was allowed for shaving due to water rationing, and tried to clean the rest of the soap off.

  There was a knock at the door.

  "Sir, Captain Grierson has landed. Colonel Merritt's already in the briefing room."

  "Right there."

  He wiped the last bit of soap off his face, and put on the now thoroughly wrinkled and stained uniform. The laundry room was an empty burned-out shell and all the crew had long since given up trying to look clean.

  Jason looked back in the mirror one more time, forcing himself to achieve a certain look of confidence and he stepped out into the corridor. A work crew came to attention and he motioned for them to stand at ease as he squeezed past the welders.

  "How's it going, Chief?"

  "We're welding a durasteel brace in on that cracked keel spar, sir. It's a tough job getting at her though."

  Jason looked down into the hole torn into the deck flooring. Flood lamps illuminated the work crew who were squatting on either side of the cracked beam, maneuvering sections of durasteel into place using hand held null gravity units. The chief was hunched over a portable holo display, which was loaded with the ship's blueprints, and pointed out the damaged section highlighted in red.

  "Hell, sir, by the time we get home we'll be able to skip the dry dock and just keep right on going."

  "Keep it up, Chief," and Jason patted him on the shoulder and continued on.

  It felt strange to order men like the chief around, old-line fleet lifers who were in the service before he was even born. The man was pulling off nothing short of a minor miracle. Tarawa, after the hit, in any normal situation, should have been sent back into a rear area d
ry dock to either be scrapped or taken apart and rebuilt. Such work usually went from the outside in. The chief was doing it backwards, taking apart sections of the ship to get at the damage. Areas of the ship not essential for survival, such as crew quarters, were being stripped for parts, especially the precious durasteel, and then were sealed off and pumped down to conserve on air. The chief was also adding in some modifications of his own, and now with O'Brian dead, he didn't hesitate to point out criticisms in the ship's design, spiced with a choice selection of expletives aimed at fleet headquarters. Yet if anyone dared to agree and denounce the Tarawa, the chief and most of his crew would have to be restrained from pummelling the person who dared to so insult "the old girl."

  Two days ago, on their sweep through the second system after Kilrah, they had encountered a minor Kilrathi orbital base and taken it out in a sharp attack led by Grierson, several Sabres, and a company of marines. Like carrion flies the damage control team had scrambled aboard the base, climbed over the still warm bodies of the Kilrathi and in under an hour stripped it of anything useful, pulling up sections of durasteel, emergency air canisters, a light shuttle craft, and then going so far as to cut out half a dozen of the base's mass driver mini guns, which were now being welded to the ship just forward of the landing airlock for point defense. The volunteer gun crews would have to go EVA to get to the open turrets but their additional firepower might make the difference.

  Jason stepped out of the corridor and went across the hangar bay. Sparks was directing a double team of ground crews that were taking apart three Rapiers which had been condemned as unfit for further service, stripping out the good parts from each, and attempting to get one flyable craft out of what was left.

  Any armor left over was immediately sent to the repair crews which were now using it to reinforce the forward bulkheads just aft of the armored gun bow, a section which the chief had declared to be a weak point.

  Jason gained the bridge and went over to the combat information officer on watch.

  "Still the same, sir. Intrepid reports two cruisers and four destroyers six hours behind us. They're scanning and have a lock on us," she said quietly, without taking a second to look up from the screen.

  "Our next jump point?"

  "Still looks clean."

  He looked over at the nav officer on watch.

  "Two hours and twenty eight minutes to jump point."

  Jason nodded and went into the wardroom.

  The men in the room came to attention and Jason smiled.

  He realized that technically Grierson should now be in charge of this fleet; he was after all the senior officer. After the heat of action at Kilrah he had offered to turn it all over to him, but Grierson refused, claiming that Jason was doing well enough, that he was after all in charge of the largest ship in the fleet, and that as a destroyer officer he had no experience whatsoever with carriers. Jason had laughed at that, since until Kilrah the biggest craft he had ever run was a Broadsword. Grierson was a rarity; there were far too many officers who, qualified or not, would have shouldered him aside and taken control. Though technically in control of the two-ship fleet, Jason knew that in a pinch he would defer to whatever this older officer had to say.

  "Those buggers still behind us?" Merritt asked.

  Jason nodded.

  "Just shepherding us along," Grierson replied.

  "Making sure we go straight in to the next jump," Jason replied.

  He looked around the room.

  "Any suggestions?"

  "I still think we should come about, go back in, and have a show down with those scum," Merritt stated.

  Jason shook his head emphatically.

  "Those are heavy cruisers. Each of them carries a squadron of fighters on board. That'll be at least thirty to thirty-five against our twenty. Our torpedo supply is just about used up; we've got enough for one more action and then we're out. Both of our ships are hurt. They'll eat us alive."

  "At least we could take one cruiser down," Merritt said. "We're being run into the snare like rats trapped in an alleyway. I think it's kind of obvious that they must be racing ahead through a parallel jump line to position themselves in the next system."

  Jason nodded and looked around the room.

  "Look, our own nav information for this sector is sketchy at best," Grierson said. "Maybe this is the shortest route out. We do know that there's a jump point in the next system that will take us to the Jugara System. Once at Jugara we hook into that long jump which takes us damned near to Confederation lines. So let's not get to pessimistic here."

  "Oh come on, Grierson," Merritt said wearily. "Don't you think they know that? Hell, it's their damned system. It'll be blocked by at least one carrier, maybe more. Here we're worried about facing thirty-five fighters, and I tell you that if we push ahead we'll be facing a major capital ship with a hundred and fifty fighters and bombers on board."

  "The key question is," Jason interjected, "do the Kilrathi have a shorter route to the next jump point than the one we've taken?"

  "I think we can assume so," Grierson replied. "Otherwise that carrier we faced at Kilrah would be dogging our heels right now."

  "It's also possible that those two ships we launched at Kilrah caught the carrier in the blast," Grierson continued. "That's something we don't know since the planet masked our view."

  "That's a long-shot assumption," Jason replied. "Damn, it'd be nice to believe that, but in my old line of work we never were allowed to count a kill unless gun cameras got it, or we had a witness, and that's the way I'm going to play it now."

  "So what's the game plan, Jason?" Grierson asked, and Jason suppressed a smile of thanks.

  "We head for the jump point, go through, and make a run to the Jugara jump point. We can't go back towards Kilrah. Those cruisers would chew us apart. Even if we did defeat them, at best we'd come out crippled, with our ammunition supply depleted."

  "And if we find a carrier on the other side of this jump, we're all dead meat," Merritt said.

  Jason nodded.

  "But we're not a hundred percent sure that the carriers will be there."

  "And your gut feeling?" Grierson asked.

  There was no sense in lying.

  "They'll be waiting for us."

  Merritt threw up his hands in exasperation.

  "Just great."

  Jason nodded slowly.

  "Look, the moment we all heard about this mission we knew that we were dead meat, thrown away as a diversion. Damn it all, I'd give a couple of really important parts of my anatomy right now to know what really happened at Vukar. I guess we won't. We've done a hell of a lot of butt kicking though in our own right, with six carriers smashed on the ground thanks to the marines."

  Merritt nodded a thanks and Jason forced the nightmare thought away.

  "If we turn back we're a hundred percent sure we're cooked. If we run ahead, there's a chance, just a small one, but there is a chance the way might not yet be blocked. Every second is precious. I'm going to run for that chance."

  "And if you're wrong?"

  "We'll die game," Jason said quietly. "If we find a carrier there, we go to flank speed, launch our fighters. We'll try to evade and fight a way through to the next jump. If we can't and it becomes obvious that we're finished, I intend to bore straight in. They won't be expecting that. They might take us down, but by God if Doomsday and his Sabres or Intrepid can get a torpedo lock on that carrier we'll rip it apart. When we launch our last torpedoes I want a carrier in our sights and not just some second rate cruiser. If need be I'll send the crew to the escape pods and ram him. We're going to take at least one more down with us."

  "So that's it?" Merritt asked.

  "Hell, what more do you want?" Grierson said with a grin.

  "Jump transition in ten seconds…"

  Jason settled back and silently prayed. He looked around at his bridge staff, and beyond the plastiglass windows to the launch deck. His fighters were all manned, standard proced
ure for jumping into any unsecured sector, ground crews waiting expectantly.

  "They've fought so hard, so damned hard Lord, let 'em make it," Jason whispered.

  There was a snap of light and he closed his eyes, waiting.

  There were several seconds of silence and then the reports started to fly.

  "Nav computer confirms correct alignment and jump."

  "We have contact," combat information shouted. "Bogeys, repeat many bogeys bearing 021, positive three degrees, range one hundred and ten thousand clicks, closing at two eight zero clicks a second."

  "Get me Grierson on the laser link."

  The screen clicked on.

  "You see them?"

  "A hell of a lot of traffic out there."

  "How's your long-range scan?"

  "One carrier confirmed, parked on the edge of an asteroid belt. She's deployed out a belt of mines forward. One other carrier on the far side of the system, wait, we've got another just coming through on jump transit, on the far side of the system, but she's hours out from here."

  "I'm also picking up indications of another jump in progress on the jump point leading back to Jugara, but it's blocked by the asteroids and heavy jamming."

  Jason nodded.

  "So what are you going to do?" Grierson asked quietly.

  Jason swallowed hard.

  "Engage the carrier. If we can get past, we'll run for Jugara."

  Grierson smiled.

  "I'll see you on the other side, son," and the screen flickered off.

  "Launch all fighters," Jason said quietly.

  "Confederation ship has just come through and is accelerating, moving straight at us."

  Prince Thrakhath nodded.

  "He has warrior spirit. It will be the death of him. Launch all reserve fighters."

  Kevin Tolwyn, breathing hard, leaned back in his seat. The catapult slammed his Rapier down the length of the deck and he kicked on afterburners as soon as the airlock was cleared, aiming straight ahead.

  Pulling out at a hundred kilometers he circled back around, letting the first Sabre go straight past; the second Sabre followed and finally the third and fourth. He banked up high, checking his nav screen, watching as two other Rapiers sortied out to form the rest of the escort. The strike group formed up and then started forward.