“Alter course,” she ordered, coldly. “And continue firing.”
She considered, briefly, a number of possible options. Commodore Jameson could send a destroyer to alert Admiral Delacroix ... but what could Admiral Delacroix do? His fleet carriers had been two hours from the tramline. God alone knew where they were now. Even if the admiral had reversed course at once, there was no way his ships would arrive in time to make a difference. Abigail hoped, grimly, that Admiral Delacroix had succeeded in smashing the alien fleet carrier. It would make the aliens pay, just a little, for what they'd done to the refugees.
Another shudder ran through her ship. “Direct hit, lower flight deck,” Poddy snapped, as an alarm started to howl. “We’ve got a hull breach!”
“Get a repair crew down there now,” Abigail ordered. There were torpedoes stored down there. If the aliens scored a direct hit, the resulting explosion would reduce her ship to free-floating atoms. “And see if they need to shift the ammunition!”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Course set,” Anson reported. “I don’t think we can get away from them!”
“It might buy us some more time,” Abigail said, although she knew it would only be a few more seconds. The warships could outrun the fleet carrier, but not the freighters. “We might as well make them work for their victory.”
On the display, the second wave of alien starfighters was already closing. She’d hoped there’d come a time when the aliens needed to return to their carrier to refuel. It was clear, now, that the aliens had more than enough starfighters to maintain a constant pressure. She couldn't understand why they hadn't simply massed their forces for a single, overwhelmingly powerful attack. Hadn't they known where the flotilla was going to appear? They must have tracked the flotilla to the tramline ...
They might have assumed that they wouldn't get the coordinates right, she told herself. Or they might have figured the fleet carriers would be coming too.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. If she’d been planning the ambush, it would have been churlish to complain that it hadn't been a complete success. It had come very close to succeeding in the first blow and ... and it was still going to succeed. There was no way to evade the enemy, not unless the fleet carriers turned up in the nick of time. And she doubted that would happen. Admiral Delacroix had no reason to assume the flotilla had run into trouble. He would probably have decided, if he’d bothered to think about it, that the aliens would prefer to concentrate their forces against his ships, rather than a handful of harmless freighters and their escorts. And he might well have been right.
Not that it matters, she thought. They found a target - us - and attacked anyway.
“They’re falling back,” Poddy reported. She sounded relieved, even though she had to know that it was just a brief pause in the storm. “Captain?”
“Tell the damage control teams to work as quickly as possible,” Abigail said. The aliens hadn’t managed to land a knockout punch, but they’d weakened the armour plating badly. She hoped they didn't know just how close they’d come to exposing her drive section. A handful of hits would be enough to cripple or destroy her ship. “We need that armour reinforced.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Abigail nodded. The first wave of alien starfighters was pulling back, but the second wave was still inbound. They’d messed up the timing a little, part of her mind noted ... she cursed herself under her breath. It was wishful thinking, more or less. The aliens had messed up the timing ... so what? They were still on the verge of obliterating the entire flotilla.
Commodore Jameson’s face appeared in the display. “The warships will cover the freighters as they retreat,” he said. “We’ll make our stand here.”
Abigail swallowed, hard. “Sir ... they’ll kill your ships.”
“It’ll buy you time,” Jameson said. “Get as far from them as possible ...”
Wishful thinking, Abigail thought, grimly. She understood his thinking, but it was fatally flawed. There was no hope of survival. We’re stronger together.
She was almost disappointed in him, even though she had to admit it was brave. Space was a three-dimensional environment. The aliens would have no trouble evading the warships, if they wanted to press the offensive against the freighters ... and if they smashed the warships first, they probably wouldn't have any problem taking out the freighters afterwards. Jameson was gambling that the aliens would need some time to obliterate his ships, but she knew he was clutching at straws.
“We need to stay together,” she told him. “You can't stop them for long.”
“We have to try,” Commodore Jameson said. His voice was resolved. “Take command of the freighters and ...”
He broke off. Abigail blinked in surprise, then turned to stare at the display. A stream of red icons was descending on Commodore Jameson’s ship, firing plasma bolts into her hull with savage intensity. Abigail opened her mouth, although she had no idea what she wanted to say, then closed it as Commodore Jameson’s face vanished from the display.
“Captain,” Poddy said. “Commodore Jameson ...”
“I saw,” Abigail said, grimly. She wanted to believe that it was a communications malfunction, but she knew better. There was no hope that anyone had survived the ship’s final moments. “He’s gone.”
“And you’re in command,” Anson said. “What are your orders, Commodore?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“Commodore Jameson is dead.”
Alan barely heard the report. The battle had dissolved into a dogfight, with every one of the original squadrons broken and shattered beyond repair. Starfighter pilots flew with whatever wingmen they could find, trying to stay together long enough to cover the escort carriers so their fellows could rearm. Two of the carriers had even lost the ability to launch and recover fighters, leaving their starfighters dependent on the other starships. There wasn’t even time to transfer their supplies from a disabled ship to one that could still use them.
“Stay together,” he snapped. His guns were running out of pellets. He’d have to go back to Haddock soon, just to rearm. “Don’t give them a chance to reform!”
He forced himself to consider the overall situation as he led the charge at the nearest alien formation. Commodore Jameson’s death meant that command had devolved on Abigail, unless one of the regular naval officers decided to usurp it for himself. Alan hoped they’d have more sense, although it was unlikely to matter. Lord Nelson himself couldn't bring victory out of near-total defeat. The damage was mounting up rapidly and, when the aliens launched their final push, the flotilla would be annihilated.
An alien pilot snapped off a shot at him, then darted out of his range before he could fire back. Alan cursed, then fired on another alien ship. The alien pilot was sharp enough to evade the pellets before spinning round to fire a hail of plasma bolts in response. Alan cursed again, ducking and dodging as the aliens fell back. It looked as though they were massing for another strike or, perhaps, trying to lure the human starfighters away from their carriers.
Or both, he thought. We leave them alone, we give them time to mass; we go after them, they can streak past us and attack the carriers.
Alan thought, fast. He had no idea how long it would take the alien carrier to refuel three or four squadrons of starfighters, but if they were anything like their human counterparts it wouldn't take very long at all. Perhaps that was why the aliens were massing ... they were waiting for the rest of their starfighters before launching a final assault. Or ... his thoughts started to go in circles. Why weren't they just putting an end to it?
He snapped out orders, sending half the starfighters back to be rearmed while grouping the remainder into makeshift squadrons. It wasn't very well organised, but he had a feeling it was unlikely to matter. The enemy ships weren't going to let them live long enough to get home and explain themselves to the Admiralty. Besides, it wasn't as if the Admiralty could do any better. The original formations had been shot to he
ll. Whitehead, as far as he knew, was the only squadron commander still alive.
His earpiece crackled. “All ships will continue along present course,” Abigail ordered. It didn’t sound as though someone had disputed her authority, thank goodness. The last thing they needed was a dispute over who was in command while the entire formation was on the verge of destruction. “We will attempt to evade contact until the fleet carriers arrive.”
Alan shook his head, sadly. Abigail was too experienced a spacer, even if she wasn't a naval officer, to believe that Admiral Delacroix would arrive in time to save them from total destruction. She was probably trying to reassure her subordinates, although Alan doubted there was any point. Her senior officers would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the situation was hopeless. If they’d been fighting the Russians or the Chinese, someone who could actually talk to the flotilla, Alan would have advised Abigail to surrender. But the aliens wouldn't accept a surrender ...
You’d think they wouldn’t want to waste time killing us, Alan thought.
He shook his head. Terrorists and fanatical insurgents on Earth rarely surrendered. They knew they’d be spending the rest of their lives at a work camp in Antarctica, if they lasted that long. It wasn't uncommon for terrorists and insurgents to be put in front of a wall and shot, without any particular oversight. The Great Powers might have a series of treaties to regulate minor conflicts - and prevent big ones - but they saw no reason to pretend that the lesser powers and rogue states were equals. And those who chose to wage war by barbaric means could not be allowed to reap the rewards of their actions.
Maybe the aliens don’t surrender, so they can’t understand why we would want to, he wondered. Or maybe ...
“You need to rearm, sir,” Whitehead said. “I suggest you hurry.”
Alan nodded to himself. “Take command of the remaining squadrons,” he ordered, as he set course back to Haddock. “I’ll be back out as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
The aliens were still pulling back and waiting, either for the humans to make a move or - more likely - for their reinforcements to arrive. Alan cursed them, again. They knew they had the flotilla. Why were they fucking around when they could close in for the kill? But then, Admiral Delacroix was on the other side of the tramline. Perhaps they were being careful about expending too many starfighters. Not having enough firepower to smash two fleet carriers would be embarrassing.
And Admiral Delacroix might be dead, Alan thought. He remembered New Russia and shuddered, helplessly. The other alien fleet carrier might be mopping up right now.
He pushed the thought into the back of his mind as he approached Haddock. It was easy to pick out the scarring on her hull, places where enemy plasma bolts had slapped against her armour. One of them was far too close to the flight deck for comfort. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped in his starfighter as the starship disintegrated around him, although common sense told him that it wouldn't matter if he was inside or outside the fighter. He’d be killed either way.
“Rearm my ship,” he ordered, as soon as he’d landed. “And get me an energy drink.”
We can take more drugs, he told himself. It isn't as if we’re going to live long enough to deal with the aftermath ...
His earpiece bleeped. “Report to the CIC at once,” Bennett said. “I say again ...”
“I heard you,” Alan snapped. He unstrapped himself, muttering curses under his breath. “I need to be out there.”
“This is more important,” Bennett said. “Report to the CIC, immediately.”
***
Abigail had never wanted fleet command. It wasn't something she’d had any reason to expect, even though her family controlled a number of freighters. Her uncle had been a firm believer in independent operations and she’d picked it up from him. Now ... she was in command of a battered fleet and she didn't have the slightest idea what to do, besides bunching up and hoping they could hold out long enough for Admiral Delacroix to arrive.
A fool’s hope, she told herself, grimly.
The reports flashed up in front of her, a liturgy of death and destruction. Half the starfighters were gone, along with their pilots; one of the escort carriers had been destroyed, with another rendered effectively useless. Two more freighters had been blasted out of space, along with their human cargo. Abigail had seen horror - she’d been one of the first responders when Travis Asteroid had suffered a near-complete breakdown - but the slow destruction of the flotilla was beyond her experience. They needed time: time to make repairs, time to transfer weapons and spare parts from the cripples to the fighting ships, time ... she shook her head, grimly. She was deluding herself. There was no hope of survival as long as the aliens kept pressing the offensive.
And they will keep pressing the offensive, she thought. They have a perfect chance to wipe out a number of ships for minimal cost ... why would they not take it?
“Captain,” Poddy said. “Warlock and Tolkien are requesting orders.”
“Tell them to stay in formation,” Abigail said. She’d expected trouble, but the commanders of the two destroyers had accepted her authority without demur. She wouldn't have minded if they’d unseated her, if they’d had a way to get the flotilla out. But they were as helpless as herself. “Tell them ...”
I should tell them to run, she considered. The rest of the flotilla is doomed, but we might be able to save a couple of ships.
She tapped her console, bringing up the display. A handful of alien starfighters were massing near the flotilla, but the remainder were nowhere to be seen. She checked the records, concerned that the aliens might be sneaking around under their sensor masks, and confirmed that most of the alien starfighters had gone back to refuel or rearm or whatever the aliens did on their fleet carriers. It wouldn't be long before they resumed the offensive. She couldn't help thinking that the only reason the aliens had given the human ships a breathing space was because they were sure there was nothing the humans could do to take advantage of it.
Unless the remainder of the task force makes a sudden appearance, she thought. But ...
It was wishful thinking, she reminded herself. They were on their own. Admiral Delacroix was not going to make a sudden appearance. Nor was there any hope of reinforcements arriving from Aquitaine. Admiral Delacroix had practically stripped the base of every mobile unit in the system, intent on giving his task force as much firepower as possible. She couldn't fault the impulse, but now ...
A thought struck her. They’ll keep attacking us as long as we’re here to attack ...
“Poddy,” she said, slowly. “Com Warlock and Tolkien. Ask their commanding officers if they have ECM drones.”
“Aye, Captain,” Poddy said.
“The aliens won’t be fooled if we show them a pair of fleet carriers,” Anson said. “And I don’t think we can lure them away ...”
“We shall see,” Abigail said. An idea was slowly forming in her mind. “Give me a moment to reorganise the flotilla.”
She started tapping commands into her console, wishing - for the first time - that she had a staff to handle such matters. It wasn't something she should have to handle herself, not when she was expected to command the flotilla. But there was no choice. She talked fast, isolating the ships that were practically cripples. It wasn't many, but it would have to do.
“They’ve got seven ECM drones between them,” Poddy reported. “They want to know what you have in mind.”
“Something desperate,” Abigail said. “Inform Tolkien’s commanding officer” - she kicked herself mentally for not having memorised the man’s name - “that he is now in command of half the flotilla. We’ll call it Flotilla Two. I want him to prepare to take his ships into silent running, as soon as I give the order.”
Anson glanced at her and frowned. “I think Warlock’s CO has seniority.”
Abigail shrugged. Maybe the navy would put Captain Young ahead of HMS Tolkien’s commanding officer, but Young had creeped her o
ut. She’d only met him once, but the impression had refused to fade. He hadn't done anything to her, yet ... her gut told her that Captain Young was dangerous. Besides, he was almost suspiciously handsome. She wouldn't have let Poddy anywhere near him, not without a personal combat suit and an armed bodyguard.
“They can argue it later,” she said. “I want to strip Flotilla One of everyone who isn't absolutely essential to keeping the ships running for the next hour or so. That includes the engineers and damage control teams as well as the starfighter pilots and crew.”
Anson coughed. “Mum? What are we doing?”
The Cruel Stars Page 39
