by Daniel Gibbs
While the single-seat fighters bobbed and weaved amongst one another, angling for any advantage, the Marcus Luttrell opened up with every weapon in its arsenal on the nearest League frigate—Master Three. Magnetic-cannon rounds flashed in the void along with a full brace of anti-ship missiles and blue neutron beams. The colors lit up the blackness around Justin’s Sabre and bathed the cockpit in an eerie hue.
“Our mates over there are going to take out those buggers before we can get to them.” Martin said with faux annoyance. “And to think I got out of bed early for this.”
“I think we’ll have plenty of targets,” Mateus replied.
Justin couldn’t help but join in the banter. “Yeah, here we are, taking the League out one fighter at a time, while the bombers get to knock out five hundred at once.”
“But we still get looked down on by the rest of you. How’s that work, mate?” Martin chortled. “Bombers get no respect.”
As Justin turned his craft, he slashed back toward the enemy formation, which was down to three fighters thanks to the attentions of his wingmen. He lined up the nearest enemy and squeezed the firing trigger the moment he heard the missile tone. “Alpha One, Fox three.” The LIDAR-tracking warhead dropped out of his Sabre’s internal stores bay and raced away. Simultaneously, he sent bolt after bolt of neutron-cannon fire at the unlucky Leaguer. They connected, and coupled with the impact of the Vulture, it was enough to destroy the opposing pilot.
The work of defeating the fighter escorts, while necessary, masked a more significant problem. No matter how many of the single-seat craft Justin and his fellows downed, more always came. And when that Rand gets here in a few minutes, there’s going to be a lot of dead merchant spacers in this convoy. With the sobering thought rattling around in his brain, Justin picked another target and engaged his afterburners.
“Conn, TAO. Master Three shields have failed. She’s turning away and accelerating.”
Tehrani scanned the tactical plot and grinned wolfishly. The enemy frigate had taken a gamble by staging a high-speed firing run on one of the freighters on the convoy’s outer sphere—a bet they were about to lose. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Three.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”
“Coordinate with Sierra One for a time on target attack. I want them to match up with us perfectly.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied. A moment later, he turned around. “Time on target confirmed, ma’am.”
“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
First, the Marcus Lutrell—Sierra One—let loose all the mag-cannon turrets she could to bear on the fleeing vessel. As the destroyer added its neutron beams to the fray, so did the Zvika Greengold. Bright-blue spears of death erupted from the carrier’s bow and bored through the League ship’s brittle hull. Explosions blossomed across its surface, while crew close enough to the escape pods made use of them. The final death blow came from the Marcus Lutrell. Several large anti-ship missiles with fusion warheads exploded within the doomed frigate’s exposed bowels. They hit something big, either the primary reactor or a missile magazine, and blew up in a massive fireball. The shockwave destroyed many of the escape pods before they got far enough away, leaving chunks less than a meter across in its wake.
“Scratch another Leaguer escort,” Wright said quietly. “If I were keeping score, I’d say we’d have quite a few kill marks on our hull.”
Despite everything going on around her, Tehrani chuckled. “Only fighters get kill markings, Major.”
“Maybe we should get that regulation changed.”
Too focused on the tactical plot and the ongoing battle to answer, Tehrani zoomed in on the four up-armed freighters she’d deployed on the Leaguers’ attack vector. “Signal Captain Shikoba, now’s the time. Have them target Master Two.”
Wright nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”
A few moments later, the ships altered course. A collection of weaponry—purple plasma cannons, xasers, and even projectile-based point-defense turrets—fired on an unsuspecting enemy frigate. It had already taken significant deflector damage, and the unexpected barrage hammered them down. The red shield effects disappeared, and merchant-vessel fire hit home against the Leaguer’s hull.
“TAO, designate Master Two as the primary target,” Tehrani barked. The Zvika Greengold was out of arc, so she couldn’t send her weapons into the fray. “Immediately.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.
On the tactical plot, the Marcus Luttrell arced back around and accelerated toward Master Two. Magnetic-cannon shells spat from its turrets along with bright-blue neutron beams. They raked the enemy vessel from bow to stern and neatly sliced off a portion of the hull superstructure near what appeared to be the bridge or command center. One of the Mauler bombers from Gamma element got off an anti-ship missile, which avoided all point-defense fire the frigate could throw at it. A moment later, the warhead blew up in a flash of blinding light. The enemy ship broke in two, atmosphere trailing both sections, while secondary explosions spread.
“Damn. Those League ships blow up real good,” Wright commented.
“We’re taking candy from a baby right now, XO,” Tehrani replied tightly. “That will change the moment Master Four gets into weapons range.”
The remaining League frigate began another attack run. Its forward cannons flung red balls of superheated plasma at the freighter with the weakest shields, while red beams lashed out. The friendly vessel’s deflectors failed, and one of the beams pierced the hull, going clear through the ship and out the other side.
Tehrani saw it happen on her tactical plot, and her eyes flashed. “TAO, can you obtain a firing solution on Master One?”
“Negative, ma’am. She’s too far away, and Sierra Sixteen is blocking our shot.”
While Tehrani ran different tactical scenarios through her mind—complicated by the Marcus Luttrell being out of position for an intercept—one of the freighters turned tightly out of formation and accelerated toward the enemy vessel.
“What the heck does he think he’s doing?” Wright asked with a grumble. “Civilians can’t take on warships.”
“This one thinks he can, apparently,” Tehrani replied dryly. “What’s the make of that ship? I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“Holden-Nagata Mk II. Sweet little freighters. Fast for their class too,” Wright’s said with admiration.
“You seem to know a lot about civilian ships, XO.” Tehrani flashed a smile. “I didn’t realize it was a hobby of yours.”
“Oh, I figured I’d get a job as a freighter captain once I finished my stint in the CDF. You know me… born spacer.”
Tehrani addressed Singh, “Communications, warn that ship off. Order them back into formation.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” The Sikh lieutenant paused. “Ma’am, they sent a text-only message back. ‘We’ve got this.’”
Wright snickered. “Well, they’ve got balls. I’ll give them that.”
Tehrani barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She didn’t care for the expression, but it had seemingly survived for centuries. “I don’t want more dead heroes.”
Her comment sobered Wright. He frowned. “Me either, Colonel.”
The squat little freighter, meanwhile, fired its forward plasma cannons. A stream of purple energy issued from it, and most of the shots hit home against the League frigate. The warship didn’t even bother to maneuver away. It absorbed everything the civilian ship threw at it and kept churning out waves of missiles, red beams, and plasma balls. Impact after impact severely weakened the freighter’s shields, but it pressed on. At the last moment, it assumed a direct intercept vector—the bow of the civilian vessel pointed directly amidships of the enemy frigate.
“What the hell are they doing?” Wright stared at the plot. He spoke into the intercom on his chair. “Get the freighter out of there! They look like they’re going to ram—”
“No,” Te
hrani blurted out. “Look.” She pointed at the plot as the sensor scan showed the freighter’s shape morphing. A retractable door opened on the ventral side of the ship, revealing a short barrel. “Is that what I think it is?”
Wright stared. “Son of a… They’ve got a cruiser-sized neutron beam on a spinal mount.”
As he spoke, a giant blue beam shot out of the freighter. It slammed into the League warship’s shields and pierced them like a hot knife through butter. A split second later, the beam exploded out of the other side of the frigate. Explosions blossomed across the frigate’s surface, and the ship blew apart.
“They got lucky and hit the reactor,” Wright said in disbelief. “Okay, I’ve seen it all now.”
“Conn, Communications. A text message from the freighter. They ask if we will refrain from reporting on their weaponry. Apparently, they lack the necessary permits.”
A ripple of nervous laughter swept over the bridge, and Tehrani joined in. “The permits for having military neutron beams on a civilian ship don’t exist. Tell them thanks for the assist, and we won’t be entering their capabilities into our log.”
“Five minutes until the Rand is in range,” Wright said.
His comment instantly deflated the bridge crew. Tehrani could almost feel their morale drop.
“And still forty minutes, give or take, until we can jump safely?”
Wright nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s the highest probability of exotic particle release if we jump now?”
“One moment, Colonel.” Wright bent over his screen, pulling up engineering details from several ships, thanks to their interlinked tactical network. “Hmmm. Fifty percent on roughly half the ships in the convoy.” He stared at her. “If we went off pure statistics, we’d lose at least ten ships. More, if they had bad luck.”
Tehrani made a face. The cost was too high for her to justify an emergency jump. “Estimation to when we could make a jump and lose one to two vessels?”
“Uh…” Wright’s expression turned grim. “Twenty-five minutes, give or take, ma’am.”
“Then we hang on for at least twenty-five minutes.”
Before Tehrani could open her mouth to issue new orders, Bryan cut in. “Conn, TAO. Inbound wormhole, League signature.” He scanned a different screen. “Cobra-class destroyer, designated as Master Five. It emerged within firing range, ma’am.” As if to underscore his point, the ship shook from a barrage of weapons fire.
When it rains, it pours. Tehrani set her jaw. “Navigation, intercept course for Master Five. TAO, designate Master Five as the primary target for our battlegroup.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Bryan replied.
Staring at the plot, Tehrani despaired. She was nearly out of tricks, and time was against them. The only thing left to do was fight as long and as hard as possible. And hope for a miracle. The thought of jumping with as many freighters as possible was never far from the front of her mind, but it seemed like the coward’s way out. Still, I may be forced to abandon some of them to save the rest. But she didn’t want to face that eventuality.
9
“This is Beta Three declaring an emergency. Master alarm is lit, reactor fai—”
Justin winced. He glanced at the squadron-readiness view on his HUD and saw a bright-red dot next to Lieutenant Felder’s name. No transponder came from his suit, and the system rated the Sabre as a total loss. Another dead pilot.
Around Justin, the battle raged. Feldstein was engaged in a tail chase with a League fighter, while he’d sent Mateus and Adeoye to screen the bombers from another enemy force. All in all, it was barely controlled chaos.
Red plasma balls streaked by Justin’s cockpit canopy, and he tracked down their source quickly. A single League craft had settled into his six o’clock while he was distracted by the at-large combat picture. Justin yanked his flight stick back, pulling what would’ve amounted to fourteen Gs if his Sabre’s inertial damping systems weren’t functioning at peak capacity. In a matter of seconds, he’d looped around and passed the enemy fighter. Whoever was flying the League craft wasn’t an exceptionally well-trained pilot, because they failed to alter course, and Justin finished the tight loop and ended up on the Leaguer’s tail.
“Alpha One, fox two,” he called while simultaneously launching two heat-seeking missiles.
Both warheads raced away from Justin’s Sabre and accelerated to full attack speed. The League fighter did little to evade, and both hit home, blowing the enemy craft apart in a cloud of super-fine dust.
“Alpha One, splash one.” The “hard kill” call was something Justin had become used to making. His mind flashed back to sixty days ago when he’d never engaged a hostile target, much less snuffed out another human being’s life.
But he had no time to ponder such things, as the next wave of League fighters launched out of Master Four’s launch bay. How many of these damn things do they have, anyway? It seemed to him as if they were facing a never-ending wave of enemies. While the Leaguers lacked quality, they made up for it in sheer quantity.
Justin was close enough to the heavy cruiser that its point-defense systems took long-range potshots at him. He made several juking turns as he checked Feldstein’s status. She was still tangled up in a furball, and the rest of Alpha was providing close support to the Boar element, which in turn was attacking Master Five, the last destroyer that had jumped in.
Blue neutron beams slashed through the blackness of the void, crisscrossing with red beams and superheated plasma balls. Both the Zvika Greengold and the Marcus Luttrell were closely engaging the League destroyer that had successfully jumped into the middle of the freighter convoy. While both ships gamely engaged the enemy, the Leaguers weaved through and around civilian vessels, peppering them with weapons fire.
As much as Justin wanted to peel away and join the fight against the capital ship, his task was to keep knocking down the incoming fighters. Maybe one of these days, I’ll transfer to a bomber squadron. It’d be interesting to be the one delivering heavy ordnance. The missile lock-on buzzed, making Justin focus on the LIDAR display in his HUD. Three enemy warheads were heading straight for him. He briefly pondered the wildly differing skill levels of the pilots they faced. Whoever the latest group was seemed to know their business.
Justin triggered his chaff dispenser and sent a wave of sensor-obscuring decoys into the void while choosing an enemy fighter to engage. Because of the extreme quantity differential, he avoided a head-on engagement and instead loosed a Vulture at the craft outside the League formation.
“Alpha One, watch your location. You’re too close to Master Four,” Whatley said.
“Roger, Major,” Justin replied tightly. A glance at the master overlay in his HUD showed the danger. This is going to be close. With his right hand steady on the flight stick, Justin angled his craft around, deftly avoiding the cruiser’s point-defense kill zone and sliding into the enemy fighter’s six o’clock position. He loosed a flurry of neutron cannon bolts into its aft shields, severely weakening them and scoring several hits on its hull.
The League craft weren’t content to sit still and let Justin finish them off one by one. The formation shifted as a unit, protecting the damaged fighter as much as possible. They turned back to his Sabre and executed a high-speed firing pass that left Justin’s forward shields greatly diminished and approaching failure.
I need to change this up. Justin reached deep into his bag of tricks and decided to try a trick he’d seen Major Whatley perform. He decoupled the thrusters from the inertial damping system and waited for the right moment, allowing all three fighters chasing him to settle into a stable pursuit course. With a grin, Justin pivoted his Sabre around and fired a long stream of blue neutron energy. His first target was caught entirely unaware and exploded after a multitude of shots hit its hull.
The other two enemy fighters attempted to veer off. Justin sent two Eagle heat-seeking missiles after the closest craft and turned his attention to the third wi
th another fusillade of neutron-cannon bolts. The Leaguer’s shields quickly failed, and four hits to its hull later, it blew apart in a brief orange explosion. Feeling good about his use of a precision tactic he’d only seen employed once before, Justin resynched his thrusters and enabled the inertial damping system.
But Justin forgot the other threat: the Rand-class heavy cruiser off the starboard side of his Sabre. In combat, a person tended to narrow their focus onto a specific danger or set of hazards closest to them—and that tendency typically led to disaster. As powerful point-defense fire erupted around his craft, Justin immediately focused on the threat the cruiser posed. The shield arc facing the enemy collapsed with one hit. He tightened his grip on the flight stick and wrenched it to one side, going into a series of maneuvers known as guns-D. They were a last-ditch effort to avoid overwhelming fire with wild and random course changes.
“Spencer, I told you to watch out. Break to a minimum distance of two kilometers from that cruiser now,” Whatley barked.
“I’m trying, Major,” Justin replied through gritted teeth. Even with the outstanding protection of his Sabre’s inertial damping systems, by whipping through the twists and turns, he was generating significant g-forces and stress on his body.
“Try harder.”
Justin grumbled, “If it’s so damn easy, why aren’t you out here doing it?”
He started to breathe a sigh of relief as he cleared one kilometer from the enemy vessel. But that relief turned to fear as his fighter rocked to one side. Another hit. While the plasma ball caught him on a different shield arc, it did far more damage than the last one. Red lights lit up across his HUD, indicating internal system damage. The flight stick suddenly became untethered from the movement of his craft. He wrenched it to one side, but the Sabre rocketed onward in a straight line. “This is Alpha One declaring an emergency. I have total loss of flight-surface control.”
