Silver did not join the exodus of craft, Hanagan noticed. On the contrary, he capitalised on it, picking up two quick kills and winging a third as the airspace around him cleared out. Hanagan looked away, let him have all the glory he could stomach, it would be meaningless if the carrier went down.
But the Arcadia’s fighters had become victims of their own success. They’d driven the enemy far from the carrier and, in hindsight, perhaps the Maulers had engineered the move. As the lead Scarabs launched a variety of ordinance, the point defence weapons tracked upwards, lashing missiles out of the sky but missing one of the critical nukes that sat at the centre of it all.
And then the nuclear missile was cut in half, its fuel detonating but sparing the atomic flash. Hanagan blinked and tracked to the source. Two new flights of Snowhawks were sweeping up from the Arcadia, eight impossible ships, each bearing the insignia of the 109th Undying Squadron. Ghosts back from the dead to save their home.
But as they began to engage the enemy, he knew they were not what they appeared. They had all the enthusiasm but none of the refined skills of true fighter pilots. In a different fight, the Maulers would have devastated such sloppy opponents, but they were caught in an unforgiving crossfire between the two waves of attackers and the Arcadia’s point defence guns.
Yet as sloppy as they were, there was one pilot who was definitely not. One pilot who had bisected a nuke from extreme range and who acted as the vanguard of this new force.
“Odyssey to Constellation fighters on my 12,” the acting CAG asked. “To whom do I owe the pleasure,”
“Candlelight, 34th Logistical Squadron.”
“Walters, 35th Heavy Lift Squadron.”
“Maize, 35th Heavy Lift Squadron.”
The names continued, shuttle pilots, probe controllers, washouts and at the head of it all was a call sign few on the Arcadia had ever heard.
“Hardsix,” the very rational voice announced. “Commander of the Arcadia Air Group. Just jumping in where I saw a problem.”
Jenson.
And into the stunned silence the Captain’s voice replied, “Same as always.”
Chapter XII
Don’t try too hard to meet her
Mauler Gateship Tagged ‘Bandit-Nine-Zero’
Bryson IV Local Sector, Bryson System
28 April 2315
In the humid cell of his helmet, Commander Lyle’s breath was a deafening companion as he forced his aching legs to maintain pace. Each draw of air sounded old and haggard, and every exhalation was a hollow echo of defeat and exhaustion. The metronome of respiration consumed all other sounds, all other sounds but the bass drum thunder of the Maulers in the corridor behind them.
The Commander would have liked to say that it was discipline that kept him moving despite the burning ache in his chest, but that would have been a lie of the highest order. He had left discipline behind somewhere along with the satchel of equipment he’d dumped; what drove him now was something a good deal more primal and less familiar. He was not ‘falling back’, he was fleeing, like a rodent before a barn cat, and every time its tread sounded louder his body found more adrenalin to drive him mindlessly onward.
Fear was not a common companion for the Commander. Traditionally his place was far removed from the field, and had he the presence of mind to do so, he’d have cursed himself for coming over to the gateship. He had wanted to impress upon his protégé the value of the ship, but he had failed; Rease had left, and in the blink of an eye the ship had gone from secure and safe to overrun with Maulers.
He didn’t even notice Lieutenant Kalen shouting at him over the comm until the marine grabbed him forcibly by the shoulder, and even then, he had such momentum that it carried them both to the ground in an unceremonious heap. Before Lyle could scramble back to his feet the marine applied the weight of his exosuit to hold the Commander in place.
“Sir!” The marine repeated a lot louder than was strictly decorous. “You can’t go in there yet.”
Lyle forced himself to stop thrashing, but he couldn’t find the words to respond. Now that he had stopped running he was having trouble finding the breath that had been so loud in his ears before. His heart stampeded in his chest, seeming as though it might shatter his aging ribs at any moment.
“He’s got that trademark black-coat courage,” one of the other marines commented.
Lyle wanted to refute the claim, wanted to master himself and take command of the situation, but the moment he started to regulate his breathing, he felt the reverberation of the Maulers’ interminable footfalls growing ever closer. He’d barely clawed back at all, and he could feel himself starting to slip.
“Lieutenant,” Lyle said as evenly as he could, “lead us out.”
“Sir.”
He could see the understanding and appreciation in the marine’s eyes as he climbed back to his feet.
Trying to stave off irrationality, Lyle returned to his core training, precepts he hadn’t actively considered since the academy: OODA, observe, orient, decide, act. Starting at the beginning he scanned his surroundings. The technical staff were clustered together inside the loose ring of questionable protection provided by the marines. Besides Kalen only two marines were away from the central group, being a half dozen paces further up at a massive doorway in the side of the corridor. That passage, Lyle realised, led into the hangar.
“There’s a trio of Maulers in the hangar,” the Lieutenant said. “It’s more than we can fight, but we’re not getting to the shuttle while they’re there.” He didn’t say anything for several seconds to let that reality sink in, the sound of the Maulers behind them grew closer still. “Someone needs to lead them away. Someone needs to volunteer.”
No one had any doubt as to the prospects of such a person’s survival, if nothing else the marines never asked for a volunteer unless death was certain. For a long while it seemed like no one was going to step up and that the Maulers might come charging around the corner behind them and end the dilemma forcibly.
Then the marine who’d made the earlier comment about black coat courage stepped forward.
“I got this one,” she said.
“Alright,” the Lieutenant nodded approvingly. “Nothing fancy, get their attention and then lead them away. I’ll see you back home.”
“And I’ll see you get there.”
It took Lyle a beat to realise the two weren’t talking about the same home, and by then the young private who’d volunteered was already at the doorway. She fired three short bursts through and then bolted further up the main corridor, giving them a salute over her shoulder as she went.
“Everyone against the wall,” Kalen said. “Think invisible thoughts.”
The technical team and their remaining marine escort took what cover they could along the edge of the corridor and waited, still as statues. In an unceremonious clump, the Maulers flooded out into the corridor where another burst of gunfire from the private drew their eyes away from Kalen’s team. She was off and running again as one of the Maulers fumbled off a shot that lit the corridor with fire but somehow left her standing. Then she was out of sight and they were charging after her.
Lyle was just about to break cover when the trailing Mauler glanced up the corridor at them. The Commander felt his heart seem to stop, his throat locked up and constricted on the half-taken breath. He had all but welded himself to the wall, and the urge to keel over in a gasping cough balled up inside him.
The Mauler’s gaze, however, must have passed right over them, for their presence somehow failed to register, and the Mauler followed its comrades up the hall. As soon as it had turned away, Kalen had the squad moving again, sprinting for the entrance.
Coming through that threshold and seeing their shuttle intact and waiting was a moment that the Lyle would carry forever. Once he caught sight of the ship, of salvation, there was nothing that could have kept him from it, and his old legs almost outpaced even those of his much younger technical crew as he raced acr
oss the deck.
As the last marine came in through the hangar entrance, the corridor outside lit with the explosion of a Mauler shell.
“Onto the ship, move!” Kalen shouted, standing at the gangway to the shuttle and waving them on.
Lyle was among the first up the ramp and he manned the door controls, willing his hands to wait until the last passenger was aboard, his eyes transfixed on the entrance where the Maulers would emerge.
The Commander wasn’t the only one with a powerful motivation to be away from this death trap, and the team boarded in record time, the door folding shut just as the Lieutenant pulled his last boot in. Lyle followed him up to the cockpit and took a jump seat as the team’s two pilots strapped in and began to power up the ship.
“Kill the lights,” Kalen urged, sitting down opposite, “and skip the pre-flight checks. I doubt we’re going to have time to fix a stuck flap.”
The pilot gave him a withering look as he flicked a switch and the cabin went dark. “I know my job. Now someone get that door open.”
There was a moment of exchanged glances as the technical staff realised that, in their panic, they’d left all their portable computers behind, including the ones they needed to open the door. Their tension at the realisation was not defused by the arrival of a half dozen Maulers into the hangar, their narrow eyes peering about the deck in search of their prey.
“Nick, take the co-pilot’s station,” Lyle instructed. “Use the ship’s computer.”
Both the computer tech and the co-pilot looked like they were about to protest but then thought better of it and traded places. Lyle’s computer specialist worked quickly and quietly. His job was not an easy one: there was no way to interface the shuttles computer directly with the alien vessel. The portable computers they’d abandoned were configured to make that connection, so he worked to route through them. Even that was hampered by the shuttle’s purpose-built avionics package. Everything he did had to be run through basic operating system commands. All of it took precious time.
Meanwhile the Maulers began prowling through the hangar, spreading out to check corners and crannies in the ceiling pipe works, rather than going straight for the obvious. Eventually one of the Maulers did reach the ship, and it was just reaching out to lift the wing so it could peer under when the hangar door split and then gaped wide.
The Mauler took a swipe at the wing as the sudden rush of air lifted its feet from the deck. Its grasping fingers missed by centimetres and it disappeared quickly out into space along with a couple of its other comrades who weren’t quite quick enough to grab hold of something.
Their pilot put his hand on the throttles, but stopped when he felt Kalen’s hand on his wrist.
“Give them a moment to pass out,” the marine warned. “We’re still an easy target.”
The pilot nodded and they settled back to wait tensely as the Maulers began to realise the oxygen was rapidly abandoning the room. One pulled its way to the door they’d come in, only to find it had shut automatically. It banged on the metal with a rhythmic force that weakened blow on blow as its strength waned.
And then something struck back.
The sound was like someone had hit the ship with a hammer and the whole world shifted as though a sudden sharp earthquake split the vessel in half. The Maulers, and most of the humans, looked about in confusion but Lyle knew immediately what they’d heard. Their time was up.
“Go now!” he shouted at the pilot.
The man apparently needed no further encouragement, and he set the shuttle blasting out of the hangar while the Maulers were distracted. As soon as they got outside, the dark cockpit was lit by a brilliant flash as another nuke struck the gateship, boiling the mass that it touched and tearing away great chunks of the ship’s structure.
This was terrifying for the others, being right under the hammer of a massive nuclear strike. For the marines, even the pilots, it was among their greatest fears to be brought down by the distant and terrible artillery that warships could wield. It made a mockery of their skill, they could not fight it, they couldn’t even try.
But for Commander Lyle this was entirely different to the Maulers. Artillery was a strategic weapon and strategy was his element.
“Keep the gateship between us and the strike. Dive for the planet,” he said, feeling the old comfort of being able to see the whole picture settle over him.
The pilot looked like he might have made all manner of protests, but he didn’t; instead he pointed the nose at the planet and opened up the engines for all they had. There was no slick flying to be had, they couldn’t jink or weave against the nuclear annihilation that was rapidly consuming the gateship behind them. It was a decision, to pick the best direction and simply trust that it would either work, or it wouldn’t.
But like most of Lyle’s recommendations, it did.
Shockwaves, even those from nuclear weapons, do not like to translate across mediums. The firestorms that would have otherwise killed them, instead wasted their force on Bryson’s troposphere. The air became turbulent, and the pilot was clearly expecting their ship to come apart at any moment, but oblivion remained far behind them.
Shortly, the gateship completed its transformation into a cloud of vapour and toothpick sized fragments. The remaining missiles could no longer identify them as distinct from the planet and for a moment they simply circled like vultures. Then a ripple of smaller detonations indicated their safety fuses expiring and turning the dangerous weapons into inert wreckage.
“Well,” their pilot said as he levelled out and stabilised the shuttle, “that’s one for the scrapbook.”
****
Constellation Carrier CNS Arcadia
Unknown location, Unknown System
28 April 2315
For Tarek, space combat had become almost meditative. Certainly the high-G manoeuvres placed stresses on his body that were not normally associated with calm, but it compared well against the anxiety of peering through deck upon deck of futures in the search of some ultimate reality.
Fighting the Mauler Bugs was easy, he just had to choose his card at the opening of the engagement and follow it through. He loved flying, he always had, and peace was easy to find in the simple demands of executing each new manoeuvre the cards gave him. He knew each one would challenge him just as he knew each one was within his capabilities. There was no doubt, no regret for the past, and no fear for the future: just the joy of the art.
He operated without support because he didn’t need it. The Undying were at the top of their game today, but they were no aces, and the further he was from them the more he could control the ebb and flow of the battle. He’d known that the Maulers would lure them away from the Arcadia, and he’d capitalised on it. He’d known exactly when Edge would spot the last group of enemy fighters and that Hardsix would lead the support pilots in a desperate counter-thrust. He’d known they would succeed and everything the Maulers did just cost them more ships to Tarek’s fast dwindling supply of missiles and gun rounds.
Captain Pierman’s decision to wait longer for Commander Lyle was frustrating, but there was nothing he could do about it. Whatever hurt they suffered as a result, he knew they would come out with the forces necessary to destroy the Mauler facility. He’d returned to his work, his craft, and let the Captain lead as he saw fit.
By the time the portal closed, the third destroyer had emerged over the planet’s horizon and the majority of the Mauler fighters had pulled back towards their warships. The Arcadia’s programmers had retained control of the gate, having shored up the loose security that allowed them to seize control in the first place. They reopened the portal to a location tediously named ‘Rally Point Alpha’ and the Arcadia entered her home stretch. As she withdrew, the flight controllers put up the recall order for the air wing.
But not all of the Bugs had withdrawn, their programming had identified Tarek as an isolated, and therefore vulnerable, target. It was the same programming logic that he’d used aga
inst them throughout the battle, but two things were different now. The first was that each time he sent them packing, the Maulers decided he was a greater threat and came at him in greater odds and greater caution. The second was that he was now trying to withdraw, which was a very different type of battle to a straight up dogfight.
Softball’s voice came over the comm. “Silver, we need to get back to the carrier or we’re going to be left behind, Edge and Calibre are going to come up on you, seven o’clock low, and break up your play mates. You take the opportunity to disengage.”
“No need,” Tarek said. “Pull everyone back to the carrier, I’ll be right behind you.”
The acting squadron leader made a non-committal grunt and signed off. Edge and Calibre turned back towards the carrier.
That left Tarek to extricate himself. It was a decision he’d made because he had a card for it and, more importantly, because he knew he had some credibility to restore after the gateship had failed to materialise. Unfortunately, things didn’t pan out quite how he’d imagined, his hope for a graceful and elegant withdrawal had instead turned into a desperate flight that almost tested his confidence in the cards. He found himself jinking back and forth with such relentless frequency that he feared he might be doing himself permanent brain damage.
By the time the Maulers gave up the chase, he had to demand everything he had from the engines just to catch up with the carrier before it slipped away through the portal. Ultimately he had all the grace of a street thief scrambling away from any angry mob after being caught stealing. He could feel the bemused stares of the other pilots as he fell into formation back around the Arcadia.
But while they’d lost the gateship, they had escaped all three of the enemy’s attempts to destroy them and had reached their target more or less intact. As the Arcadia reached the gate, she deployed a pair of nuclear mines and then the ship and her fighters were through and the shimmering oily disk closed behind them.
Threshold of Victory Page 33
