End Run

by William R. Forstchen

  "Strike Group Alpha, follow my lead."

  "With you, Doomsday," Kevin replied.

  "Stay close to me, Lone Wolf, and don't break away."

  Kevin sensed the dislike and rebuke in Doomsday's voice but let it pass, though he was tempted to cut loose with a couple of choice words.

  Funny, it all seemed so strange now. This was never how he figured it would all end up—there had never been any challenge before. He felt his thoughts racing, aware that it was triggered in part by the adrenaline coursing through him. A swarm of memories floated through, the pampered world he had once known, the all-so-correct schools, the luxury vacations, the summer home in Scotland, Eton, and then Cambridge, all of it so correctly arranged by his mother and his dead father's family. The hardships of the war were outside his understanding, the shortages, even the rationing which his mother's family could so easily work around, what with so many of them properly placed in top positions in the government and in the military procurement industry.

  His uncle? A strange duck in the family waters. The severe, reticent uncle who would come home on rare trips back to Earth, looking around with disdain, a disdain intensified by the fawning of hangers-on who wanted to meet the famous admiral.

  As for the military, there was no real way to avoid it; after all the Tolwyns had all done their bit going back for fifty generations. It was part of the family tradition. It had killed his father in a training accident when he was an instructor at the Academy. His mother wanted to make sure there wouldn't be any such risks to himself.

  He thought of his mother and her horrified reaction when he had insisted upon flight school, turning on her sternness and then the tears, pointing out how the Vice Minister of Armaments wanted a military attache in his office, and with such a posting, there would be no reason to miss the theater season, or a chance to choose the right young lady from the proper family in London.

  How the path weaves and changes, Kevin thought. Because I wanted to fly, to be like my father, I'm now getting set to die in this godforsaken corner of the universe, in a battle no one will ever hear of. He checked his instrument array, watching the growing spread of red blips, the thoughts still racing.

  Mother and the family had made the most of his going to flight school, even arranging a holo station interview and magazine articles to show how even the best of families were doing their bit for the war effort, while quietly arranging that he would never get anywhere near to where there might be some real danger. That was still the mystery though. This mission had been in the planning for months, so why was he assigned to Tarawa? Was it vengeance on the part of a political rival to the family, an accident, or even done innocently, mother pulling some strings, believing that the ship would never see action, and after his tour of duty he could report back to headquarters, do his bit, and reach admiral without ever having to hear a shot fired?

  He'd never know—and he didn't give a damn. He banked slightly to look down at Doomsday's ship a hundred meters below and then straightened back out again.

  There was something about these people he had never experienced before in his entire life. They didn't give a good damn who he was; out here on the edge the name was meaningless. There were only the quick and the dead, the comrades you could trust to risk everything to pull you out, and those who weren't worth a damn. He could now see that for nearly all of his twenty-two years, he had not been worth a damn. He thought of Jason, only three years older than himself, a wing commander, his ascent based upon nothing more than ability and moral strength—and now he was an acting captain. He knew that even if Jason had hated and despised him, he still would have put his life on the line to save him.

  He had finally come to realize that the only thing that counted was whether you could be relied upon or not. He had suddenly found that he wanted the approval of the other pilots in the ready room, not the sucking-up approval when he had first arrived aboard Tarawa and treated all of them to free meals and endless free drinks at their last port of call. That was crap. He wanted instead the steady-eyed look of understanding, and especially from Jason.

  Jason had given him the chance to change it all, even after his mistake. The mistake… again he looked down at Doomsday's Sabre and then straight ahead. Jim Conklin had been an amiable sort from some back hill farming town in America, not the type he would have ever invited to the club if they had met only half a year ago. And now Jim was dead. Jason was right; he should have stayed close, and forgotten about the kill. He had even heard Jason's orders to turn back, just before the radio winked out, never knowing until afterwards that Jim and the tail gunner were about to die.

  Never again, never again, Kevin thought to himself.

  "Tarawa control." It was Doomsday.

  Kevin looked down at his commlink visual.

  "Tarawa control here."

  "We're going for the carrier," Doomsday said.

  Kevin felt his gut tighten up. A cruiser, two destroyers, and a host of fighters were between them and that target. (Never again, indeed. Never anything.)

  And yet if that were the case he would die with him and not regret it in the slightest.

  This was where he wanted to be.

  "Strike Force Alpha, good luck," and it was Jason on the line.

  "Always figured I'd wind up in a fix like this, Tarawa, now get the hell out of here."

  Doomsday chuckled softly.

  "All right Alpha, suck it up and stick to me like glue."

  Kevin nudged his throttle up a notch, edging forward of the strike force, arming his IFF missiles. Kilrathi fighters, spread out in a screen in front of their task force, started to turn on an intersect line with the attack, while more than fifty of them continued straight on in, passing twenty clicks to Kevin's port side, afterburners flashing, moving to attack Tarawa and Intrepid.

  The radio started to crackle as Round Top passed out orders to the screen of six Ferrets, two Rapiers, and two Sabres which were marshaling to form a defensive screen.

  "Strike Alpha switch to commlink 2282."

  Kevin turned the dial to the proper channel which eliminated the chatter from the defensive squadron.

  The first Drakhri dived in, executing a brilliant roll and loop, followed by a section of three more fighters. Kevin banked around hard, turning up for a side approach and then pulling over, following the last Drakhri in. The enemy fighter broke off from its attack, banking out and away. He ignored him, closing in on the third fighter in line which broke as well when a salvo of neutron bolts slammed into its stern. The first two fighters continued on in against the Sabres.

  "Sabres break left," Doomsday called, and the four ships banked hard, the Drakhri slashing down through empty space. Cleared of the Sabres, Kevin unleashed an IFF and pulled back up on his stick, breaking off the pursuit to cut back upwards for top cover on the fighter-bombers.

  "Good work, Lone Wolf," Doomsday clicked, and then he was off the screen again.

  "With you, Doomsday," Kevin replied.

  The Drakhri fighters, more than a score of them, set up a regular attack pattern, sections of four breaking in on the group, one striking from above, another from either flank or astern, while others maneuvered for position.

  "Line on the lead destroyer, activate torpedo lock then break it off at ten kilometers and roll in on a heading for the carrier!" Doomsday called.

  The group turned, following their leader, except for one Rapier that disintegrated in a burst of light.

  The enemy fighters continued to harry the flanks, pulling tight circles at the edge of the group, leaving the front open as the Destroyer's long-range lasers opened up, and with the range closing were joined by the ship's neutron and mass driver guns.

  A direct hit nailed the second Sabre in the formation, a curtain of debris flaring out. In the momentary confusion a Drakhri dived into the group, and Kevin followed him in, unloading an IFF at point-blank range, the missile slamming into the enemy ship's engine. He thundered through the debris, watching hi
s shields wink down.

  He circled back out, meeting two more fighters head-on and within seconds scored his second kill of the day with a quickly toggled dumb fire bolt that impacted on the enemy fighter's cockpit.

  "Break, break!" Doomsday shouted, and the attack swerved off from the enemy destroyer and banked hard around, dropping to a direct line up on the enemy carrier a thousand kilometers away.

  "Forty seconds," Doomsday cried, "get early lock, and run 'em in, too many fighters to slow down for standard launch."

  The turn away from the destroyer momentarily threw off the Kilrathi defense, but even though the outer wave was now astern, the enemy still had fifteen fighters positioned directly in front of their carrier, which now sortied up to meet the threat.

  Seconds later another Sabre disintegrated, caught by a volley of missiles which intersected the formation from both sides, the doomed pilot banking away from one shot and thus turning straight in on the other.

  Two Sabres were now left and Kevin was shocked to hear Doomsday singing what he could only surmise was a mournful death chant.

  "Twenty seconds, initiate lock!"

  Kevin heard the high-pitched whine of the torpedo guidance systems kicking on even as he broke to starboard to throw an enemy fighter off his tail. A Drakhri was directly in front of him, racing away from the Sabres. He fought down the temptation to gain an easy kill, flipped over, and dived back towards the Sabres, winging a Sartha which broke off from a line up on Doomsday's tail and fled.

  "Ten seconds to torpedo launch; hold it steady."

  The two Sabres flew a straight line in, not deviating in the slightest from their course, the enemy carrier now clearly visible. The first proximity mine was passed, the weapon gaining a lock and moving to strike the attacking Sabres, Kevin bursting the weapon with a well-aimed particle cannon shot.

  A spread of missiles started to track in, launched by a light destroyer which was providing point coverage for the enemy ship.

  "Hold it steady, hold it steady!" Doomsday shouted.

  Doomsday's wingman disappeared in flames, an instant later his own ship was flipped over by a near burst, his torpedoes firing off on a wild trajectory.

  "Doomsday!"

  "Damn! Torpedoes auto fired, damn it!" Doomsday shouted, even as his ship continued to spiral down and away.

  Kevin winged over, following him, turning to threaten a Drakhri which sensed an easy kill, but backed off in an evasive turn as Kevin fired off his last remaining IFF.

  "Lost my copilot, we're in trouble here!"

  "Head back for Tarawa, I'm with you!" Kevin shouted, "just fly the damn thing, don't worry about anything else."

  "Damn it, go for the carrier!"

  "With what, my fists? Not till I get you back home; now fly damn it!"

  Kevin looked back over his shoulder, wanting to slide down lower in his seat as the incoming missile alarm blinked on his screen. He popped off his chaff while maneuvering at the same time to avoid a mine. The missile turned and streaked away. "Blue two, you with me?"

  There was no response and Doomsday was the only friendly blip on his screen. He saw Doomsday start to turn as if attempting to regain an attack position on the carrier.

  "Damn it, Doomsday. If you want to die, make it worth something. Your ship won't get within a hundred clicks of that carrier before they rip you apart. Now head back to Tarawa and trade your junker in on something that can still fly and fight!"

  Doomsday's image flashed on the commscreen, his cabin filled with smoke.

  "All right Wolf, help me get home."

  "With you all the way, Doomsday, with you all the way. Let's just hope we've got a ship to go home to."

  Jason stood transfixed, watching the screen, listening to the battle reports coming in. Damn, to be stuck here on the bridge when I should be out there.

  "Tarawa, this is Grierson."

  "Go ahead."

  "Alpha Strike's wiped out, two survivors breaking off. Head over the top of the asteroid field; there's a bit of a hole there in the Kilrathi defenses, you might have an open run. Get your pups back in; there won't be any carrier on your table for lunch today."

  Jason nodded dejectedly.

  "All right Intrepid, follow me up."

  "I'll be along shortly."

  "Grierson, what the hell are you doing?"

  "What the hell do you think? Covering my carrier; now get a move on, son."

  "Helm, bring us over to clear the asteroid belt."

  "We've got ten more Gratha fighter bombers coming up out of the asteroid field," combat information shouted.

  Jason turned to look at the tactical display as the blips emerged out of the clutter of the asteroid debris field.

  "Seven torpedoes are out and running, coming straight down our throats!"

  "Where's our combat cover?"

  "Still astern and engaged sir!"

  Jason turned to look out from the bridge. Beyond the forward airlock he could see the enemy fighter bombers breaking to turn away.

  Point defense keyed up, the forward laser guns setting out a rapid fire staccato of bursts. A torpedo detonated ten thousand meters forward. The mass driver guns cannibalized from the Kilrathi base kicked in, the recoil shuddering through the ship and the second torpedo exploded. Four more exploded in rapid succession.

  "Five seconds to impact. One torpedo's got a definite lock."

  Jason wanted to cover his ears, to drown out the high-pitched shriek of the torpedo guidance system coming in through the combat information audio link.

  "Three seconds."

  "Brace yourselves."

  The blow slammed him to the deck and then back up. The bridge went dark, and he felt himself floating as the artificial gravity generator shorted out. Jason waited, instinctively holding his breath, expecting the hull to split, spilling him into the vacuum of space.

  Emergency battle lamps snapped on and then he slammed back down on the deck as the gravity generator kicked back in. A deep hollow booming echoed through the ship, sounding as if the Tarawa were being pounded by a giant's hammer.

  "Damage control. This is forward turret," cried the voice edged with hysteria. "We've taken a direct hit to the forward bow. We're sheering off!"

  Jason staggered back up to his feet and looked out the forward airlock.

  "Merciful God," he gasped.

  The forward twenty meters of the armored bow was peeling back. A fiberoptic communication line to the bow was still intact and the screams of the crew trapped forward echoed on the bridge. The bow continued to tear back and a howling shriek echoed through the ship as the durasteel frame buckled and finally snapped. The bow tumbled off. For a brief instant Jason saw a body tumbling end over end, floating out of the bow into the vacuum of space. The bow disappeared astern. What was left of the forward part of the ship was flame-scorched and blackened. The minigun crews outside of the airlock were gone, the position torn apart by the spray of shrapnel.

  Jason scrambled back up to the bridge and looked over at damage control.

  "Chief, are we holding?"

  "We shouldn't be, but the third bulkhead back from the bow seems intact. One airlock is compromised; we're leaking a hell of a lot of air though. I've got crews heading there now to shore it up."

  "For heaven's sake how?" Jason asked.

  The chief looked back at him.

  "The armor bow was an add on for the forward turret; remember this was designed as a transport, and additional positions were simply welded on," he hesitated for a moment. "Plus we added those reinforcements in late yesterday. Lucky for us."

  "How many crew in that turret?"

  "Thirty-five, sir. At least it was quick."

  Another series of shudders ran through the ship as combat information called in the latest strike information, half a dozen fighters strafing, hoping to break down what was left of the phase shielding, which was down to eight percent. A bolt slammed against the forward airlock and for a fraction of a second the lock f
ailed. A mass driver round slashed down the length of the deck, impacting on the far wall of the hangar, sending out an explosive shower of shrapnel, cycling down ground crews that were working feverishly to turn the last few fighters around. The fuel tank of a Ferret cooked off with an explosive roar, sweeping the deck in a fireball. Fire alarms wailed and the fire control system kicked on, spraying down the deck with a blizzard of white foam. The pilot, still inside the Ferret, was struggling to get out of the exploding ship when the ejector seat detonated, slamming him into the ceiling of the hangar.

  Jason stood on the bridge, barely aware that the plastiglass shield that separated him from the flight deck was hit by the shrapnel. Cracks raced across the shield. It disintegrated, cascading back into the bridge in a shower of broken fragments. The bridge crew struggled to sweep the broken fragments off their instruments, several cutting their hands in the process.

  Another mass driver bolt penetrated the forward airlock, the Kilrathi fighter appearing to hover directly in front of the Tarawa. The round impacted close to where the last had hit, and punched through the wall, slashing into the interior of the ship. The Kilrathi fighter opened up with a full salvo, a stream of rounds pouring in, the forward airlock shimmering, phasing in and out, air rushing out with a hurricane force as the airlock pulsed on and off, the rounds smashing through the aft wall of the hangar deck, shrapnel shrieking. The deck was a nightmare of explosions. A blast of flame blew through the bridge and Jason ducked down, covering his face with his hands, feeling the hair on his head and eyebrows curling and burning from the heat. The wave of fire pulsed down. Instrument panels exploded, electrical fires snapping out of control panels.

  The bridge went dark for a moment and then the emergency lighting came back up, the room filled with dark acrid smoke.

  Coughing, Jason turned to shout an order to the combat control officer to order a fighter in for protection. But the woman was gone, her headless corpse lying on the floor of the bridge. Everything was disintegrating into smoke, fire, and confusion.