by Shane Black
“They can outgun us, and since they’ve got a huge standoff arsenal, they don’t have to outrun us. They can just rotate fighter strikes and hope a lucky torpedo hit penetrates our anti-fighter screen,” Flynn added. “It should be noted Kingsblade and her group can outrun the Orca’s formation. The heavy carriers in Orca’s class just aren’t set up for running and gunning.”
“So the operative question becomes: Is there any way to split that force between here and Whiskey Tango?” Commander Teller asked from aboard the Spruance.
“Not likely unless we split ours,” Commander Hunter replied. “Or if they are reckless enough to send one of their capital platforms after Dunkerque and the battle station. As long as they stick together, they have the advantage at range.”
“Then perhaps we should re-consider closing range and taking them on head to head?” Jason said.
“Bold, but risky,” Harcourt replied. “Even though I doubt they would be prepared for it, and even though I estimate we could score mission kills on at least two of their missile cruisers, I’m forced to agree with Commander Hunter. The Agamemnon was one thing. Those two beasts out there are firepower-packed blocks of muscle and angry. The Kingsblade has a gigantic main battery designed for planetary assaults. She could get a half-dozen alpha strikes off in the time it would take to close range. The only ship in our formation that can take that kind of punishment is Argent, and with all due respect, that’s why yours is the last ship they’ll target.”
“So we’re back to the original plan,” Hunter began. “Go ‘round the horn and hope one of their capital formations breaks off to race through the asteroid field and try to cut us off.”
“And hope we can survive whatever they throw at us in the next fourteen hours,” Jayce concluded.
“If only we had a bigger diversion than just the Dunkerque,” Jason muttered.
Seventy-Two
“What’s your name, mister?”
Lieutenant Tixia had already dragged the technician to his feet. The alert klaxon had stopped sounding and left only the condition lights bathing the entire installation in shades of red. Yili kept her weapon pointed at him, even though he looked pale and was likely relatively harmless. Suddenly he snapped to attention.
“Corporal Roger Daysmith! Designator Kilowatt Six Zero Eight Four!”
Yili and Zony looked at each other.
“I wish to speak to a neutral representative of–!”
“Relax, corporal. You’re not a prisoner of war,” Yili interrupted.
Daysmith didn’t respond immediately, although by his manner it looked as if he were trying to figure out why two unidentified women were holding him at gunpoint. Yili and Zony retreated a few steps and conferred.
“He’s a Skywatch marine corporal and he doesn’t recognize our uniforms?” Zony whispered. Yili raised an eyebrow.
“What is going on around here?” she asked rhetorically.
“Corporal, what’s your unit and who is your commanding officer?” Yili asked.
Daysmith hesitated. “That information is on a need–”
“I asked you a question, corporal.” The tone in the engineer’s voice left no room for interpretation.
More hesitation.
“Do you not recognize my unit insignia, mister? Just what kind of Skywatch operation promotes someone who doesn’t recognize his own uniforms to corporal?”
“She’s a fleet officer, Daysmith,” Zony added. “And so am I. You don’t get a choice here. What unit are you with?”
“Second squad! Twelfth marine recon!”
“Daysmith if you want to become a prisoner of war you’re well on your way,” Yili replied. “There are three recon divisions. Your unit doesn’t exist. Tell me another story and we’ll just turn you over to Colonel Moody and see what he thinks of guys named Roger who play marine.”
“I have no duty to answer to either of you,” Daysmith sneered.
Yili advanced. “You took a shot at us, ‘corporal.’ Last chance.”
“We are Servants of the Ithis!” Daysmith whispered ominously. His hand went to his mouth. Zony grabbed his wrist, but it was too late. A vial fell from his hand and all three fell to the floor in a desperate scramble. Seconds later, all the color drained from Daysmith’s face and he stopped moving, eyes staring.
Yili slammed her fists against the floor in frustration.
“Back to square one,” Zony said absently.
Lieutenant Curtiss paused, arms around her knees as if either gathering strength or trying to recover from what she had just seen. Perhaps it was a little of both.
“At least now we know who is shooting at us.”
Seventy-Three
“No need to be apprehensive, Commander. We’re not savages.”
The slender woman reclined attractively at the Dunkerque’s conn. Her feet were propped up on the pilot’s console. The forward viewscreen showed several other ships in formation with the much larger strike cruiser. They all looked a bit worse for wear, but to a trained eye, they also looked more than a little formidable. Each was colorfully painted with an avian motif. The flagship of the squadron was built on a long since retired war frigate hull decorated like an enormous golden condor, but it had been heavily modified to the point where its visible armament was at least a match for the next larger class. Like her Captain, one could only guess at its hidden weapons. All six of its escorts also had visibly overbuilt engines.
“You like my ship? Made it myself,” the woman said with a nod to the viewscreen. “Forgive me. I’ve been impolite. Captain Cerylia L’Orleans. At your service.” She touched the brim of her hat politely.
“What is it you want, madam?” Commander Demay replied. His entire crew had been led to the bridge at rifle point. Captain L’Orleans was attended by what Demay guessed was her second in command. He didn’t speak. The expression on his face was somewhere between contentment and menace.
“I suppose the crude answer would be ‘I want this ship.’ But I’m a little harder to satisfy than that, Commander. I’ve been watching my favorite young man for some time, and I’m always intrigued when I see a Skywatch Captain do something reckless and against regulations. Sending a ship of the line roaring off into space with less than ten people aboard? Now that sounds like desperation.”
“I’m not at liberty–”
L’Orleans held up a gloved hand. “Please. I already know more about this mission than you do. I know what you’re trying to do and why. I just want to hear it from the source. Open the channel please.” Cerylia walked her heels along the edge of the pilot’s console until the chair swiveled enough to face the forward viewscreen. An instant later the face of Captain Jason Hunter appeared.
“–Dunkerque! What is the meaning of this!?” he barked.
“Well, Captain. It seems now I have two things you want,” L’Orleans purred.
“Cerylia? What the hell are you doing aboard my ship?”
“Well at this point I wouldn’t say it’s your ship. After all, you left this nice young man in command and sent him off on a very dangerous mission. Such an honest looking officer too. The least you could have done is send someone to keep him company. So I volunteered.”
“So help me, if you’ve done anything to my crew–”
“They’re right behind me, unharmed. Why do you all think I’m so bloodthirsty?” She put on a show of acting hurt. “I’m just trying to make a living. Times are tough. You know how it is.”
“We don’t have time for games, Cerylia. There’s a big fleet with very big guns coming after us. I need the Dunkerque released, or they’re going to come after you next.”
“Big fat ships commanded by big fat men?”
“The fattest.”
“Simple game, Captain. I’ll give you the gun on Barker’s Asteroid. You give me the Dunkerque. Call her missing in action.”
“You know I can’t hand over a ship of the line, Cerylia. I’d be hanged for piracy and they’d court martial my coffin.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t let them do that to you, Jason. It’s just that it’s so roomy on this bridge! I could see myself enjoying a new flagship. Think of the war paint we could decorate her with!”
“Cerylia–”
“I’m just giving you a chance to stop putting all your handsomest officers in harm’s way, Captain.”
“Alright, hypothetically. Suppose I can get you something equivalent to Dunkerque?”
“I’m listening,” Cerylia replied with a twinkle and a smile.
“First tell me how you’re going to deliver Barker’s Asteroid on your own?”
“I didn’t say I was going to do it on my own. I’ll need these strong young men to help. But let’s just say I’ve got– knowledge of that particular rock that certain battleship captains lack.”
Hunter’s eyebrow rose and he regarded the pirate captain with a combination of annoyance and resignation. “Fair enough. You get me that asteroid and I’ll arrange for the Gitairn patrols in Sector 19 to be in the wrong routes often enough for you to fill a ship or two with triluminum ore.”
“How boring.”
“You can buy two Dunkerques with a shipment of refined triluminum, Cerylia.”
“Don’t try to be sympathetic. I already have the Dunkerque, and I don’t have to go chase down a bunch of ore for it, and I don’t have to give away my secrets either!”
“At least meet me halfway, Captain. You really want to spend the next six months dodging patrol frigates? That’s going to be a lot tougher on the paint than my plan.”
L’Orleans looked askance at Hunter. “Three shiploads and not an ounce less, and you owe me one.” She folded her arms and pretended to look put-upon.
“Done.” Hunter smiled and Cerylia couldn’t help herself.
“One of these days that boyish charm isn’t going to work on me any more, Captain Hunter.” She sarcastically emphasized the rank.
“I plan to rely on it my whole career. Please relinquish command to Mister Demay and coordinate with his crew. Hunter out.”
Cerylia raised an eyebrow at Demay a moment after the viewscreen switched back to Argent’s emblem.
“That went better than expected,” Toby said with an expression somewhere between ‘recently escaped from pursuing wolves’ and ‘mute shock.’
“Only because your Captain is irresistibly delicious,” L’Orleans replied. “Any other Skywatch officer would have been left with nothing but an ion trail.”
Seventy-Four
“Possible emissions change in targets designated King Two bearing one seven eight mark ten range now closing on a one point seven delta. CIC acknowledge.”
The officer manning the Skywatch command console was literally standing at the nerve center of the Argent’s massive electronic sensor and scanner arrays. Anything that moved, emitted a signal or any kind of energy within thirty million miles of where he was standing would instantly show up on any one of more than a hundred readouts.
It wasn’t a mistake he was also standing “above” every other location aboard the ship. The Skywatch station aboard a strike battleship was more or less the control tower for all of the vessel’s flight operations. Its sister station was the Combat Information Center, which performed the same function for the vessel’s weaponry.
The coordination between Skywatch, CIC and Force Command on the bridge was what made ships in Argent’s class so formidable. They didn’t have the numbers of fighters a true carrier could muster, nor did they have the firepower of a true battleship. But they were good enough at either combat role to rarely be underestimated.
“Affirmative, Skywatch. CIC confirms. Stand by on this channel.”
The gray phone above the conn buzzed. Captain Hunter reached up and grabbed it out of its thick metal hook.
“Bridge.” He listened carefully. “Acknowledged. Maintain alert status.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “Get me an update on our flight readiness. King Two is accelerating to launch speed. Signals, raise Ajax and Minstrel on secure frequency.”
Lieutenant Velasquez performed a readiness sweep of all alert spacecraft from the flight operations station. The activity on all three of Argent’s flight decks was brisk. Two complete watch rotations were at work arming four of the flagship’s five fighter combat squadrons. Avatars representing each of the lethal little ships turned green as they were linked into the battlespace telemetry and communications network.
“Flight One prep Squadron Nine Nine Four proceeding in combat order. Jets in thirty.”
Inside the spacious flight deck, Yellowjacket fighters emblazoned with the fanciful crimson flags, swords and grinning pirates of the storied Red Buccaneers rose from their ordnance platforms one by one and turned towards their respective rail tunnels. The high-pitched whine of their atmospheric thrusters mixed with the low hum of strengthening magnetic and anti-gravity fields. Red rotating lights flashed under each fighter’s hull. Deck crews backed away to safe distances after detaching fuel and telemetry equipment.
Each fighter followed the signals from its respective “Deck Stacker,” a Skywatch term for the flight crew member tasked with directing spacecraft to and from fueling, arming, flight check and launch stations. Moments later, flight leader Harrison March’s Yellowjacket attack fighter locked into position inside the deck’s first launch tunnel. Other fighters followed, each floating into its own launcher at fifteen second intervals. It was a highly choreographed precision maneuver that put eleven heavily-armed fighters one order away from rocketing into space at 2000 MPH.
Velasquez hung up his own handset. “Flight one reports squadron nine nine four standing by to launch at your command, sir.”
Meanwhile on the starboard side of the ship on Flight Deck Three, the exact same dance was being performed by the seventeen Wildcat fighters of Argent Squadron Eighty Five, known as “Los Gatos.” All of Fighting 85‘s hulls were painted night black and decorated with silver sword blades along their lateral edges. With exactly the same precision and speed, the first twelve ships were loaded into rail launchers and ready signals were flashed to the bridge and to the Skywatch station in Argent’s “tower.”
Flight Two’s situation was a little different. The largest of Argent’s three flight decks was constructed to launch both fighters and their larger sisters the corvettes, paladins and gunships. T-Hawk Green was first in the combat readiness rotation for second watch. Because of the larger sizes of their ships, Flight Two had six heavy rail tunnels instead of the twelve smaller versions installed in the outer decks. It still meant they could put the entire 11-strong T-Hawk squadron in space in under sixty seconds if necessary. Moments after receiving the alert signal, Flight Two notified the bridge T-Hawk Green was standing by. The sharp, pointed arms of Argent’s unique weapons platforms loomed over the flight crews as they waited their turn.
Lieutenant Velasquez turned to the conn with the handset to his ear. “Flight Two is green. All decks show ready.”
“Signals, raise the Ajax.”
A few moments later, Commander Harcourt appeared on the Argent’s main screen. Behind him the tough little frigate’s bridge was alive with activity. “Ajax, Harcourt.”
“Commander, we’ve got some traveling companions standing by to assist. What is your status?” Hunter’s voice was full of confidence.
“Ajax will take the southeast picket. Minstrel will cover the front door, sir.”
“Acknowledged. T-Hawk Green will be standing by to back you up. We will have three combat space patrols on a rotating watch in the saddle. King Two is accelerating and we expect Orca to launch any moment. If any hostile fighters break range, they get one warning. Clear?”
“As a bell, sir. Ajax out.”
“Get me the Fury,” Hunter said as he picked up the armaments report for the three squadrons awaiting his launch order.
“Fury, Hunter.”
“Tell Annora I’m doing my best to match her mastery of the combat space patrol,” Jason said without look
ing up.
“I’m sure she’ll be gratified to hear it, sir. We can’t confirm any launch or hostile action from King Two, but they are closing range.”
“Agreed. I just found another ace in the hole. Either that or a joker. We’ll find out when we get to a decision. I have ETA to Uniform Tango at thirty one minutes present speed. Ajax and Minstrel are establishing a picket at five million miles and I’ve got Jacks, Cats and T-Hawks on station to back them up. What is our battlegroup status?”
“Revenge, Spruance, Constellation and Fury are 90% reconfigured for medium range missile standoff. Exeter and Rhode Island will take short range intercepts and Jefferson will float.”
“Sounds like we’ve done all we can. Now it’s just a question of who punches who the hardest.”
“We’ll have our gloves off, sir. Fury out.”
Hunter examined the tactical display for a moment, recognizing that cold icy feeling way down deep once again as he re-evaluated the strategic situation. Ultimately, the Perseus group’s only advantage was range and the lead time it provided. In every other respect they were outgunned and out-tonned. Hunter knew either task force would be a handful by itself. Together, they were way over his head. He knew it and so did his entire command.
The only chance Strike Fleet Perseus had was to get the Sentinel operational and in the fight.
Hunter grabbed the black phone. “Operations, this is the Flag. Launch all alert spacecraft!”
The Flight Boss on Port Deck One flipped two switches up and rammed his hand down on the red bar at the base of his vessel operations board. Three-foot-wide rotating white and red lights went active along the ceilings of all three flight decks at once indicating a “Tac-Signal One” combat launch. The priority net switched over and his voice sounded in every pilot’s headset and from squawk boxes inside Skywatch, CIC and the bridge.
“Spaceflight Operations Deck One to all alert spacecraft your signal is jets. I say again your signal is jets. Time out mark fifteen seconds. Victory Three Three Five your rally point is on the board and locked in. Spaceflight Operations Deck One to all alert spacecraft–”
