“We’ll be at our destination in three hours,” Anson said. “Unless you want to redline the drive ...”
“Bad idea,” Abigail said, flatly. They’d been assured that the compensators could handle the acceleration, but one failure and everyone onboard would be smashed against the nearest bulkhead. There were plenty of redundancies worked into the system, yet it wasn't something she was inclined to test. “Keep us moving safely, please.”
She leaned back in her chair and forced herself to relax. It wasn't easy. They were moving at a speed most groundpounders would have found unimaginable, yet they were crawling along compared to a warship - or a starfighter. HMAS Melbourne could give Haddock a few hours start and still overhaul her before she reached safety. It was hard to believe the aliens couldn't catch them either, which meant ...
We’ll be a magnet for trouble, she thought. And as long as we soak up missiles aimed at the bigger ships, the Admiralty won’t care.
“Captain,” Drakopoulos said. His face appeared in front of her. “The drives appear to be living up to their promises.”
“Very good,” Abigail said. She sat upright, crossly. “And the power cores?”
“They appear to be working at an acceptable level,” Drakopoulos said. He didn't sound particularly pleased. “But you know my concerns.”
Abigail nodded, curtly. A rule of thumb - a very basic rule of thumb - was never to rely on anything the crew couldn’t fix if it broke. Fixing a fusion core onboard ship was a nightmare, but being stranded in interstellar space would be worse. But the latest generation of fusion cores were designed to be impossible to repair, at least without specialised - and extremely expensive - tools. Drakopoulos had objected, strongly, to having them installed on the starship. If the navy hadn't had her by the short hairs, Abigail would have objected too.
“We can rely on batteries long enough to get us back to safety,” she said. That wouldn't be pleasant - everything would have to be cut back to the bare minimum - but it was the only way to stay alive. “Make sure the power cells remain charged.”
“Aye, Captain,” Drakopoulos said.
His face vanished. Abigail sighed and reached for her datapad, bringing up the raw data. The newer systems all appeared to be operating according to projections, something that worried her more than she cared to admit. Nothing was perfect, not even military-grade starship components. Experience told her that something was going to fail, sooner rather than later. And when it did, it would fail at the worst possible time.
Maybe we’ll stress-test them later, she thought. That might tell us something useful.
The display changed as Haddock approached the convoy. It was an impressive sight, even though the cynical part of Abigail’s mind insisted that another word for convoy was target. Forty freighters, five other escort carriers and a trio of warships ... perhaps they were enough to beat off an alien attack, perhaps not. She couldn't help wondering if sneaking the freighters through individually would be a better idea. Hiding the freighters in the interstellar void would make them immensely difficult to detect.
“We’re being hailed,” Poddy said. “On screen?”
“Yes, please,” Abigail said.
She straightened, reluctantly, when a middle-aged man in military uniform materialised in front of her. His uniform was similar to the Royal Navy’s, but different enough to make it clear that it wasn't the same navy. His brown hair was barely visible under a peaked cap ...
“Captain Harrison,” the man said. He had an odd accent, one she couldn't place. “I am Commodore Banks, Leo Banks. Thank you for joining us.”
“You’re most welcome,” Abigail said. “Where do you want us?”
“My staff will send you the details,” Banks informed her. “I just wished to welcome you personally.”
They exchanged a few more pieces of small-talk before Banks withdrew, closing the connection. Abigail wasn't sure if she should be flattered or concerned that Banks had called her personally. It wasn't as if they had any real connection, after all. But then, she wasn't a naval officer by career. Banks might have thought it would be better to be polite to her rather than risk causing offense.
Which makes him more or less unique, she thought, wryly. Every other military officer I’ve met has been rather full of himself.
“Captain,” Poddy said. She glanced back, indicating her console. “I’ve received our orders.”
Abigail stood and peered over Poddy’s shoulder. Haddock had been assigned to a position at the rear of the formation, covering the other Workhorses. She wondered, absently, if someone thought they were meant to be a Q-Ship, then dismissed the thought. Haddock could no longer pass for a harmless freighter. The starfighter launching tube was a direct giveaway.
And the weapons and sensor blisters on our hull, she told herself. Even from a distance, Haddock no longer looked harmless. And our power signature is different too.
“Take us into formation,” she ordered, shortly. Thankfully, they weren't expected to follow a perfect formation. Banks had a working brain, if nothing else. Freighters - and converted carriers - were hardly designed to turn on a dime. “And then inform the XO of our updated orders.”
“I can take them in person,” Anson said. “He told me I could use the simulators while the pilots were outside the ship.”
Abigail frowned. She didn't want Anson and Alan to become friendly. And yet, she had no way to stop it without revealing far too much. Hopefully, a few hours in the simulators would convince Anson that he didn’t want to be a starfighter pilot. It wasn't as if he was flying a worker bee or orbital shuttle. A starfighter would be far less forgiving of mistakes.
And if he does want to join after all, she told herself, he can go to the training centre instead of learning here.
“Sure,” she said. “But wait until we’re in position.”
Chapter Eleven
It was impossible to tell, with the naked eye, that the convoy had entered the Terra Nova System. The stars were still unblinking, glaring down at the tiny humans who had dared to enter their domain. There was no visible difference between one system and the next, not as far as anyone could tell. Alan felt as though he was completely alone in infinite space.
He peered out of the starfighter’s cockpit, futilely looking for the other fighters - and the convoy. It was useless, of course. A starship - even a fleet carrier - was little more than a speck of dust on an interplanetary scale. He wouldn't see the ships with the naked eye until he was far too close for comfort. Even knife-range starfighter combat was fought with instruments rather than anything else. He wouldn't even see the enemy starfighter that killed him, if it got into firing range ...
Assuming they have starfighters, he thought. He’d read all the speculations - but, in the end, they were just speculations. The aliens might have starfighters or they might have gone down a whole different route. Battleships instead of starfighters, perhaps. Or something so alien that humanity had never thought of it. There are too many unknowns in this business ...
His intercom crackled. “Sir, ready for some fun?”
Greene, Alan thought. The younger man had been a minor problem over the last few days, but thankfully he seemed to be shaping up as the convoy moved away from Earth. That was a relief. Alan would have hated to lock Greene in his cabin until they returned home. If he wasn't such a good flyer, he would have been discharged long ago.
“Ready,” he said. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the controls. It had been so long since he’d flown a real starfighter, but it was like riding a bicycle. Once you got the hang of it - and took a number of tumbles - you never quite forgot. Thankfully, he’d had a few days in the simulators before taking a real starfighter out into space. “Switching to practice mode ... now.”
A red light appeared on his display, a warning that he’d be firing harmless laser pulses rather than flechette rounds. He checked and double-checked, just to make absolutely sure. There had been enough vague sensor contacts over t
he last week to make him reluctant to send his pilots out without the ability to shoot back at whatever they encountered, even though he wasn't inclined to believe that the aliens had already reached Terra Nova. But there was no way to be entirely sure. If half the unexplained sensor contacts were real, the aliens had already infested the human sphere.
And they could have crawled through the tramlines long before reaching Vera Cruz, he thought, as he kicked up the drive. They might have been watching us for a long time.
Ice ran down his spine. Interplanetary space was vast, easily large enough to hide an entire fleet of alien scouts as long as they were careful. The aliens could have sneaked a fleet of battleships through the tramlines and attacked Earth, right at the start. They would have caught the human race completely by surprise. But they hadn't ... what did that mean? Had they attacked Vera Cruz without realising that they were dealing with a spacefaring race ...?
“Let’s go, sir,” Greene said. “Attack Pattern Omega?”
“Herring Squadron, form up on me,” Alan ordered. “And go!”
He felt his lips curve into a smile as the starfighters picked up speed, falling into a formation that looked like organised chaos. A civilian would see it as nothing more than randomised flying, but it was far more than that. Computers handled most point defence weapons, these days, and computers were very good at picking out patterns. A starfighter that flew on a predictable trajectory was dead, the moment it strayed into range. The formation might look bad, but it would keep its pilots alive. It wasn't as though they were putting on a show for the King’s birthday.
And they’d be keeping us out of sight if they did, he reminded himself. The Red Arrows would be putting on that show.
The enemy starfighters moved away from the convoy, spreading out to intercept the incoming starfighters. Alan switched his weapons to automatic, trusting the computers to take shots at targets of opportunity while he concentrated on flying. New alerts popped up in his display as the enemy starfighters converged, opening fire with savage intensity. They had good reason to try to break up his formation, he knew. They could kill his entire squadron and still lose, if they lost their carrier too. Starfighter life support wouldn't last anything like long enough for the starfighters to reach Terra Nova.
And in a real battle we might be in the midst of some unexplored star system, he thought. An enemy starfighter snapped past him, evading his shot with practiced ease. There might be nowhere to go.
“Stay focused on the objective,” he ordered, curtly. The pilots were getting drawn into dogfights, trying to win their spurs rather than complete their attack runs. “Don’t let them lure you away.”
He winced as the death toll started to mount. Starfighters were fragile. A single hit was almost always enough to destroy them, although there were vague tales of pilots who ejected just in time and survived long enough to be picked up. Alan had practiced bailouts, when he’d been in training, but his instructors had warned that the odds of survival were very low indeed. There was no point in forcing his pilots to bail out in the middle of a practice mission ...
“Got him,” Greene carolled. “Bart owes me a drink tonight!”
“Yes,” Alan said. He checked the exercise results as the two sides grew apart, the brief engagement over in a matter of moments. The timer insisted they’d been skirmishing for ten minutes, but Alan didn't believe it. “And they also managed to protect their carrier.”
He shook his head in annoyance. The pilots were all hotshots - they wouldn't have been allowed to graduate if they weren't hotshots - but they weren’t a team. Not yet. Too many of them had tried to rack up their kills, rather than take out the actual target. They’d need to do more exercises, he told himself. Mike Whitehead would have to force them to keep their eyes on the prize.
And Greene and his fellows don’t make that easy, Alan reflected. They’re more interested in personal glory than anything else.
“Form up on me,” he ordered, curtly. “We’ll reset the exercise. Kipper can have a go at attacking the carrier instead.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wing Commander Marc Savage said. “We look forward to getting those drinks back.”
Alan snorted to himself. There were no drinks on the ship - nothing alcoholic, at least. If someone had set up a still - and it was practically a tradition - it was very well hidden. His warnings and bloodcurdling threats had apparently been taken to heart ... he cursed under his breath as he zoomed back into position. For all his harsh words and promises of dire retribution, he’d still managed to get drunk with Abigail. There were words for commanding officers who didn't practice what they preached. None of them were pleasant.
He opened his sensors, checking the entire convoy. Commodore Banks had been surprisingly understanding, under the circumstances. All of the escort carriers were practicing hard, although it would be a while before they were ready for actual war games. Alan hoped that time would come soon. Practicing attack runs on Haddock was growing tedious, even for him. The chance to engage someone new, someone unpredictable, couldn't be missed.
It isn't as if we’re going to be engaging the enemy carriers ourselves, he thought. They’ll keep us on milk runs until the end of the war.
The part of him that had been a hotshot pilot - still was, in many ways - thought that was dreadfully unfair. No one became a starfighter pilot without a thirst for glory, without the urge to paint the hull with as many enemy silhouettes as possible. The certain knowledge that they’d never see real combat - not unless they were very unlucky - burned at him. He and his squadrons would never have a chance for real glory ...
He shook his head in annoyance. Haddock wasn't designed for fleet operations. Her only role in the line of battle was to provide a single flight deck ... if she didn't soak up a handful of missiles instead. Alan shrugged, dispassionately. Haddock couldn't pass for a fleet carrier ... and if she did, somehow, it wouldn't last. The enemy would throw everything, up to and including the kitchen sink, at a ship that couldn't hope to survive. Haddock would be vaporised by the missiles and that would be the end.
And every other pilot in the fleet has a better record than you, his thoughts mocked him, sardonically. They didn't kill their wives ...
“All right,” he said, as they fell into formation. “Let’s go.”
He tensed as Kipper Squadron roared down on their position. Like it or not, they were confined to escort duties for the foreseeable future ... and they had to practice, just to make sure they were ready for a real attack. And yet, half of his pilots were still too intent on personal glory. Greene allowed himself to be pulled out of formation, just long enough for two enemy starfighters to sneak past him and fall into an attack run. If they’d been carrying torpedoes, Alan noted, they would have had a very good chance at taking out the carrier.
A real fleet carrier might soak up the hits, Alan thought, making a mental note to berate Greene later. But an escort carrier doesn't have a chance.
He keyed his console. “Well, gentlemen,” he said. “Our ride home appears to be nothing more than a cloud of expanding dust. We’re all dead.”
“Sucks to be you, I guess,” Flight Lieutenant Patsy Govan said. “And now we’re going to run ...”
“Coward,” Greene said.
“As you were,” Alan said, before the banter could turn into a real argument. “Herring Squadron will be buying the drinks, when we actually go on leave.”
“Blast,” Greene said. “Hey, sir. Is there any prospect of shore leave on New Russia?”
“I have no idea,” Alan said, curtly. He rather doubted it. The escort carrier crews wouldn’t be on the top of the list for shore leave, if there was a list. It was far more likely that they’d simply be turned around and ordered to escort another convoy home. “Return to the barn, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll go over the engagement this evening.”
He turned the starfighter slowly, wishing he could remain outside the ship. It hadn’t been easy to put himself on the flight roster, not
when Bennett had clearly been suspicious of his motivations. But then, he had had a good reason to go flying. He needed to understand what his pilots could - and couldn’t - do before it was too late. It had been too long since he'd flown a starfighter for himself.
But at least I remembered how to fly, he told himself. And I can go out again, later.
He peered forward, straining his eyes as a faint flicker of light slowly became the escort carrier. He’d never really understood why the designers had given the starfighters cockpits - there was no way he could land on the carrier without using his instruments - but he had to admit there was something reassuring about being able to see his mothership with the naked eye. Space was his home - he hadn't realised how much he’d miss it until he’d been thrown into jail - but it was also utterly lethal. The vacuum would kill him, if he popped open the cockpit. A single mistake could get them all killed.
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