Then a signal came in from Eyes-Four, and he grunted in surprise. At first glance, it looked like the WGCs had come in without adequate escort—the majority of the rigs were obviously equipped for a direct attack on the cruisers, with loadouts of railguns, heavy plasma cannon, and missiles. His CTRs could easily tear through those rigs—despite the handful of recon-style WGCs that were coming in along with them—and he started to smile at the apparent good fortune.
Before Gabe could signal the good news to the flagship, however, another type of rig appeared on his screen. His breath froze in his throat. The rig was big, larger than even the MSSRs had been. Layers of thick armor coated the beast of a war machine, and it had a blunt, skull-shaped helmet with twin sensor units that glowed green. Each of the rigs was equipped in a slightly different way—one carried a heavy railgun mounted on one shoulder and another had been outfitted with multiple missile packages meant for rig interception—but they all carried the black, undeniably deadly Executioner Mark 4, the best plasma rifle the Directorate’s money could buy. A single shot from an X IV would cut through an escort craft’s armor; what it would do to a rig would be indescribable.
Gabe cleared his throat. “Eyes-Four, confirm triple S escorts for the WGCs.”
He waited with understandable trepidation for the response, and Eyes-Four came back with the information he’d been waiting for. “Triple S units confirmed. Reading six units with each squadron of WGCs.”
Gabe wrestled with that sudden threat. There were probably a dozen WGC heavy types out there with each group, which would be more than enough to seriously damage the fleet. He had to commit to an intercept, and they would have to trust in the Lord that the SSS units wouldn’t stop the CTRs cold. “Angels, look alive. We’ve got plenty to do, and the Directorate’s not going to make it easy on us today.”
He got answers back from the other squadrons and settled in for the flight to intercept. The distance between the cruisers was narrowing, and he could see at least five major warships out ahead of him. Gabe hoped that the Concord and the cruisers with her would be enough to take them on, but he found himself doubting that fact. While he worried over it, the AWORs of Pillars Squadron swept up high to try to pass over the dogfight that he expected to start shortly.
The two forces of rigs closed quickly, and Gabe felt his breath start to come quicker. He settled his sights over the nearest rig—a WGC loaded down with heavy missiles, likely meant to follow up on the strikes by another rig against a cruiser—and waited for the range to drop.
His target juked as soon as the sights went green—obviously the details of the CTR’s weapon range had been circulated by the rest of the Directorate pilots. The dodge meant that Gabe’s first two shots went wide, but then he tracked his rifle out ahead of the WGC and fired again. The WGC tried another dodge, jerking the rig up and above the line of bolts. It nearly succeeded in avoiding all of them, but one burst caught it in the leg just above its right knee. The impact sent it twisting in an uncontrolled twirl. Gabe fixed his sights on the WGC’s torso and put three more bursts into its chest, setting off an explosion.
Then Gabe turned to his next target, a WGC with its rifle fixed on another CTR. He settled on the other rig with a targeting reticle that burned green, and opened fire at near point-blank range. The WGC had no time to dodge; three blasts slammed into shoulder, chest, and hip before Gabe’s passing volley swept clear, and it blew up in a spectacular cloud of flame and debris as Gabe rolled past it.
The rest of the battle had become a madhouse of explosions, missiles, and plasma fire. He heard others of his squadron calling out over the communications net, and his gut tightened in fear as he absorbed some of the words.
“Angel-Four, pull up! You have one on you—”
“Four here, I’m clear. Get out of there, Seven.”
“Angel-One-Five, I’ve got—” A burst of static, followed by the light of a dying rig.
“Get him, One-Three! I’m hung up here.”
Gabe dodged to the side as plasma burned back toward him. A WGC, possibly looking for revenge, had rolled to face him, and its heavy plasma cannon burped thick streams of superheated gas. He had just started to bring his own rifle in line when Allen, having maneuvered through the madness with him, fired his missiles. One of them got a solid lock on the WGC and the projectile ripped the rig’s right arm from its socket, sending the rest of the thing spinning away.
“Careful, Lead. We’ve got a lot going on in here.”
“I know.” Gabe decelerated sharply, and Allen swung his rig into line beside him. “Get back in there. We’ve got to take them all out!”
Susan watched the AWORs close with their targets. None of the SSS units changed course to pursue them, which meant they had a chance at approaching the enemy cruisers without being intercepted. If the heavy-assault rigs managed to do enough damage to the enemy cruisers, perhaps it would be enough to make the Directorate break off their attack, and the fleet would live to see another day. She leaned forward as the distance shrank.
As the AWORs began to form up for their attack runs, the enemy shifted positions. The cruisers slid out a little wider from each other, exposing their flanks and opening gaps in their previously tight formation. For an instant, Susan froze in surprise. She hadn’t expected the Directorate captains to expose their flanks so willingly, not when they needed their plasma cannon to sweep away attacking rig units. Then she saw what they were doing, and she slammed her hand on the console. “Command to AWOR squadrons. Watch for escort craft! They’re luring you in for a countercharge!”
Her warning reached the Wayfarer rigs a hair’s breadth before the Directorate escort craft shot through the openings left by the larger ships. Unlike the older, snub-nosed Samar-class craft in the Wayfarer forces, these Pike-class escorts were sleek and deadly. Each one sported four Grade 5 plasma cannon, and their narrow hulls swam through space with lethal grace. Their speed and angle of attack told Susan that she’d seen the tactic too late, and she sat back in horror as they opened fire.
The formations of AWOR rigs shattered before that wave of heavy firepower. Those rigs that hadn’t managed to break off their futile attack quickly enough were swamped by plasma fire; explosions bloomed as the heavy weapons rigs began to take casualties. A few rigs that had evaded destruction unleashed the explosive power of their railguns, sending a few high-velocity projectiles back at the Directorate craft. None made contact with the escort craft, though a few AWORs managed to score hits with their heavy plasma rifles.
Unfortunately, the Pike-class craft carried enough shielding to shrug aside those bursts of plasma. They continued forward, their plasma cannon still hurling spears of plasma at the fleeing AWORs. More of the heavy-attack rigs fell victim to those shots, and Susan forced herself to push past her shock. She hit a control. “Escort craft, push forward! Cover the AWORs.”
The smaller ships of the fleet charged immediately. Their rough, battered forms contrasted sharply with the more modern Directorate craft, but that made their plasma cannon and particle lances no less deadly. As they closed with the Directorate ships, the Samar-class ships began to fire at long range, drawing the fire of their opposite numbers. The exchange of fire distracted the Directorate escorts long enough for the AWORs to slip safely back behind the defensive lines of the cruisers. Explosions burst off the shields of the smaller craft as they dueled with one another, and Susan activated another control.
“Command to cruisers. I want missile fire on the enemy escorts. Escort craft, prepare to dive on my mark. Fire!”
Gabe heard Susan’s orders in a corner of his mind. The desperate fight against the Directorate rigs was not going well. No matter how many WGCs died, there always seemed to be more swarming in, firing at the screen of CTRs blocking their path. He’d already lost count of how many he’d put down, and they were still coming, while the SSS rigs escorting them picked off his friends and squadron mates at every opportunity.
Then the enemy suddenly pull
ed back, and Gabe shouted orders to his pilots. “Don’t pursue! They might be leading us into a trap.”
Then Gabe heard his pilots cheer, and he turned to see what they were looking at. A wave of missiles swept out from the Wayfarer fleet. They passed Wayfarer ships and rigs and shot toward the enemy escort craft. The Directorate ships saw the projectiles coming and immediately pulled back. Their slender hulls pivoted as they swung back toward the relative safety of the main formations, abandoning their assault.
Even as those ships retreated, the Wayfarer escorts dove toward Gabe’s position. Their plasma cannon lashed out at the retreating Directorate rigs. Gabe saw two WGCs explode, though he didn’t see any of the cursed SSS units go down. He signaled the nearest of the escorts. “Angel-One to Hammer. Thanks for the backup.”
“Glad to help, Angel-One.”
Then Gabe heard Susan’s voice over the command circuit again, still somehow projecting that same calm. “Command to escort craft, you are to pull back immediately. Stay out of the range of those cruisers.”
Gabe spun back around to see the enemy cruisers looming closer over the battlefield. Their plasma cannon blazed to life, tracking the missiles that were chasing their smaller craft. Explosions blossomed as the missiles died, and then the cannon started to track out toward the escorts on the Wayfarer side. Their rigs, no longer threatened by Susan’s escorts, now boiled back toward his pilots as well—and even as he charged into the fray, Gabe heard an alarm ring through his interface which told him that the Directorate had yet another surprise of their own on the way.
Susan watched the tangle of glowing lights that represented the renewed rig battle. Red lights were vanishing, but they were taking far too many of the green lights with them. She could hear the faint noise of screams and cries from the rig watchstander’s station, but she forced herself to ignore them and turn to the rest of the battle. The enemy was coming with more than just rigs this time, and she would need to be ready.
Then a signal came in, and she stiffened as she heard Gabriel’s voice. “Angel-One to Command. We have missiles incoming! Unable to intercept. Recommend that Paladin’s flights take them.”
She steadied her nerves, despite her relief that he was still alive. “Confirmed, Angel-One. We’re ready for them.”
The missile salvoes streaked in toward her ships, and the plasma cannon on the cruisers lashed out in response. Missiles exploded as those plasma cannon made contact. This time her ships were not dispersed in formation to reach cascade, and their cannon had clear lines of fire to deal with the projectiles. Blast waves flared, but the remainder of the salvoes came on, and she glanced at her rig watchstander. “Instruct Paladin Flights Two and Three to intercept the remaining missiles. I want all of them dead.”
Her officer nodded, and Susan could hear the orders being relayed. The twelve rigs of Paladin Squadron—those that hadn’t gone with the squadron commander to the Penance—accelerated toward their targets. The rigs scattered into intercept vectors, and their plasma rifles flashed as they tried to finish what their larger allies had started.
Even as they did so, Susan noted that the Directorate had started to push through Gabriel’s desperate defense. A handful of WGCs had pulled away from the dogfight, though they were nowhere near enough to stage a direct attack on her cruisers. She assumed that they were scouts positioning themselves to coordinate a follow-up missile attack. As the last of the initial salvo died, she nodded. “Direct the Paladin CTRs to intercept those scouts, if possible, and order the RSRs to begin Contingency Gamma. I want it in place within the next ten minutes.”
The response came back immediately, and she continued to watch as the enemy ships drew closer, prowling in like wolves for wounded prey.
Gabe shouted in dismay as Angel-Five died, a plasma bolt searing through the CTR’s legs and burning into its torso. He turned his gun on the man’s killer, and found a monster in his sights.
The SSS danced aside as he poured plasma fire in its direction. For its bulk, it moved with deceptive ease, and it brought the deadly rifle in its hands up to track him. In desperation, Gabe launched his missiles, sending the projectiles swinging into pursuit while he continued firing. Something had to be able to kill these things.
His target continued to avoid the plasma fire, but the missiles were another matter. It was weighed down with an advanced sensor unit; anything with that much mass couldn’t get away from a missile so easily. Instead, it spared a moment to put a plasma burst through one projectile, detonating it with chilling accuracy. Gabe shouted in triumph as the other missile juked past a similar bolt and burrowed in to impact.
Then the SSS smashed it aside with one thick-fingered fist. An explosion engulfed the rig in a wash of energy and devastation, but the SSS emerged from the blast intact. The sensor array on its shoulders had fragmented somewhat and bits of the array floated free as the rig continued forward, but the monster’s armor appeared barely scorched.
Gabe didn’t give it time to recover. He centered his sights again and pulled the trigger on his rifle, hoping plasma could do what the missile hadn’t. Plasma bursts bracketed the SSS; either the missile had managed to do some damage after all, or the pilots wasn’t as worried about the CTR’s weaponry. Either way, Gabe scored half a dozen hits, but the SSS shrugged them aside and began to lift its rifle.
He saw his end in that weapon’s muzzle, but then Allen dove in from the side with a war cry of his own. Angel-Two’s Simo Hayha rifle blazed, and the plasma bursts finally struck something vital. Nothing on the SSS itself, but the gun in its hands was not nearly as well protected. A plasma burst struck it flat on the barrel and it half exploded out of the SSS’s hands, spinning off through space before it detonated.
Gabe cleared his communication’s signal. “Angel-Lead to Two. Good shooting! Now let’s burn this guy the rest of the way.”
“Confirmed, Lead. Coming back around to yo—”
Allen’s signal cut off with an abrupt squeal of electronics, and Gabe jerked in shock. He watched his wingman’s rig stiffen up. Then it tumbled, out of control and limp. Another SSS swept past it, the thick bulge of an electronic warfare suite in its non-gun hand. Gabe’s memory flashed back to the fight against Bennett Securities, when the RSRs had scored similar kills against the mercenaries by frying their BCIs and leaving them to drift, helpless in the void.
And then the SSS turned his rifle on Allen and fired a single, casual shot through the dead rig’s torso.
Gabe screamed and targeted the SSS, firing shots that exploded futilely against its armor. The SSS turned on him, but the EW gear in its hand exploded when Gabe hit it with a plasma burst. He was at point-blank range, gun still blazing, when the SSS threw the useless weapon aside and jolted toward him in a nightmarish spurt of acceleration. They closed on each other as plasma flared against the dark rig’s armor.
Then the SSS fired its own plasma rifle, and Gabe felt a searing burst of pain. The bolt had caught him in the left shoulder. It melted a hole straight through his equipment, and a second shot blew his right leg off at the hip. Gabe tumbled past the SSS, still fighting to bring his rifle on target. He could barely see through the pain. A third bolt split his rifle like cordwood, and the blast of its failing power cells knocked him out of the fight and into the void.
He caught barely a glimpse of the SSS raising its gun in a kind of salute before everything went dark.
Susan closed her eyes as the Heritage exploded.
Its shields had been taken down in a barrage of plasma cannon fire. Particle cannon from the nearest Trojan-class cruiser tore into its front armor, worsening the frigate’s damage. Then a trio of missiles shot in from the side, guided by a WGC stationed below. A CTR killed one of them, and the Heritage had managed to knock a second down with its own guns.
The third had been more than enough. The Heritage had been engulfed by the initial blast, and now secondary explosions were tearing the ship apart. By the time those aftershocks faded, the frigate was b
eyond saving—and she was not the only one.
The Redemption was nearly as bad—her shields had failed just as a pair of WGCs armed with railguns had struck. The cruiser was intact, but most of her guns were silent, and her tetherdrive was starting to fade. Her companion cruiser, the Salvation, had taken damage directly to her drives, and had actually fallen out of formation for a few drastic moments. The Deliverance had been hit by enough fire that her bow was a tangled wreck, and the Foundry was reporting heavy casualties throughout its engineering sections. Much longer, and there would not be a fleet left to save.
She opened her eyes and settled her gaze on her display. The RSRs of the Eyes of Judgment Squadron had done their duty well, but the fleet still had to reach the assigned point for her plans to work. Susan watched the blinking umbrella of beacons sweep toward her fleeing vessels. Her ships were almost there; she just had a little further to go—
“Angel-Lead is down! Repeat, Angel-Lead is down!”
Susan heard that panicked shout come across the communications net and felt a sharp stab of grief twist through her. She held out some fragile hope that the signal was in error, that Gabriel would answer the call himself and correct it, but she heard nothing and realized that battle had claimed him at last.
Yet she had no time for grief now. Not when the rest of her people were depending on her to get them out of the trap. Susan yanked her attention away from the portion of the battle where her rigs were fighting—were dying—and focused on the glittering beacons laid by the RSR squadron ahead of the fleet’s course. The first of her ships were passing through that screen now, as if it was some sort of ephemeral net. As the ships continued to exchange fire with their foes, she touched her controls and strove to keep her loss from her voice.
“Command to all rigs, break off contact with the enemy on my signal and go silent. All ships, prepare for preplanned course change and blackout conditions, also on my mark. RSRs, stand ready for Contingency Gamma in three, two, one …” Susan paused as the last of her ships cleared that speckled area and then spoke one sharp word. “Now.”
Broken Halo (Wayfarers) Page 17
