“I'll try and keep the insanity within safe limits,” he said. “Good luck.”
“And to you.”
With one last smile, he turned and raced into the hangar deck, a technician tossing him a flight helmet as he made for his fighter, a gleaming silver arrow resting on an elevator airlock, the fiery steed that would take him into battle. The Deck Officer, Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo, was leaning inside the cockpit, wrapping up the pre-flight checks, and flashed him a thumbs'-up as he approached.
“She's all ready, Pavel,” he said. “Systems checked, flight data loaded, missiles armed and ready. Try not to mess up the paintwork too much.”
“Will do, Art,” Salazar replied, dropping into the cockpit. “Keep the home fires burning.” Sliding on a headset as the cockpit canopy dropped into position, he said, “Fighter Leader to Squadron. Prepare for scramble on my signal. As soon as we clear the ship, drop into double arrowhead formation. With any luck, we shouldn't have to worry about the enemy fighters.”
“Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Marshall's voice barked. “We're laying our mines, Pavel, and they've just launched in response. Nine fighters in the air.”
“Nine?” Salazar said. “That's all?”
“My thoughts exactly. They could be saving something for an unpleasant surprise when you get closer. Watch yourself, Lieutenant.” There was a pause, and he added, “We'll be releasing you in sixty seconds. Alamo will be four minutes behind you on the attack run. Make it hurt. Out.”
Resting his hands on the controls, Salazar felt the familiar lurch as the fighter dropped into the elevator airlock, the upper hatch slamming shut above him as the atmosphere inside leeched away, ready for their release into battle. Course computations flashed into view on his heads-up display, Scott feeding him information from the bridge, and he glanced quickly across at his master status monitor, checking that the rest of the squadron was receiving the same data.
A normal fighter pilot only had to watch out for his own ship. A flight leader had three to worry about, but he had seven, and in a very real sense, he was flying all of them. Back home, they were working on a way of removing humans from the cockpit once and for all, drone operators flown by remote. Change was coming, but the pilot's lobby was strong enough to keep it at bay for a while longer, and he intended to enjoy it while he could.
“Squadron scramble!” Scott's voice barked, and the lower hatch opened. Salazar's fighter was flung clear of the ship by the centrifugal force of the ship's rotation, his engine firing to hurl him onto course for the enemy ship. His sensor display winked into life, data streaming in, and he invested a few seconds to examine the tactical updates, now that battle was bare moments away.
Everything seemed to be going as expected, at least after a fashion. Alamo had deployed the decoy defense satellites, their thrusters guiding them sluggishly into position, giving the enemy fighters a chance to catch them. Nine interceptors were in the air, launched from Waldheim, on vectors that would ensure that at the least, they would play no significant part in the battle that was to come. In a few moments, they'd learn whether they'd obtained the tactical advantage they were looking for, or whether they'd given General Estrada the means to wreak a terrible vengeance on Alamo and her crew.
“Two minutes to contact, people,” Salazar said. “Red Three, tighten up. You're drifting out of position. We've got to hold formation until we get to range.”
“Roger, Leader,” the young pilot replied.
“Remember, weapons and engines. You heard the Captain. Hurt the bastards.”
He flicked on his targeting computer, his fighter now close enough for his sensors to work at maximum resolution, running his eyes over the surface of the ship. They'd repaired the damage inflicted on them at Dante, though the scars were clearly visible along the hull. He looked down at the oxygen reservoir, a tempting target, but a futile one. An easy patch, and they had all the time in the universe to resupply. They didn't need to send them out of control for a few minutes, but knock them out of the fight for good.
It had to be the engines. The cluster at the rear of the ship, still burning at maximum. If he was on target, he'd start a cascade failure, and even if he wasn't, it would be tough to repair while under drive. Slow them down for long enough to rearm and return to the fray. A quick glance at the squadron status monitor showed that most of the pilots had come to the same conclusion, though Murphy was aiming up, towards the primary sensor dish at the front of the ship. Risky, as they'd have lots of time to intercept, but a big payoff if she pressed her attack home. After a brief pause, he stabbed the button to confirm the squadron's target selection, then settled down to wait out the remaining seconds until battle commenced.
“Sixty seconds to contact. Break and attack at ten. Hold your missiles to minimum range, and make sure to provide target redundancy. Watch for the laser cannon. I think they'll save it for Alamo, but keep to random walk anyway. Remember that your only safety comes by not being in the way of the blast. Leader out.”
He'd gone over all of that during the briefing, of course, but that still didn't prevent him from pressing the point once again. Back on Alamo, he knew that McCormack was going through a special brand of agony, watching her pilots go into battle without her for the second time, and anything he could do to reassure her was worthwhile.
Up ahead, Waldheim loomed. He spared a second to look at the long-range sensors, smiling as he saw the enemy fighters setting up for their attack run. Three minutes from now, they'd be wiped out, if all went well. The question of the missing fighters still nagged at him, and he looked again at the display. Anything up to seven more fighters could be ready to launch, a force sufficient to rival his attack formation. Though if they were there, they were leaving it until the last minute, the last second, to commit to an intercept.
“Fighter Leader to Alamo,” he said. “Any sign of activity from Waldheim's launch bays?”
“Negative, Pavel,” Marshall replied. “I don't understand it either. Maybe they're holding off to hit us on a later pass. Maybe we were incorrect in our estimates, or they sustained damage somewhere else that we don't know about. Proceed with the attack, but with caution. If you need to switch to full defensive fire, do it.”
“Roger that, Alamo. Understood.” Tapping a switch, he glanced up at the countdown clock, and continued, “Fighter Leader to Squadron. Break and attack. Watch for enemy fighters. And for God's sake, don't fly straight for more than a second, or you're dead.”
Taking his own advice, he set his thrusters into a wild pattern of pulses, hurling him from side to side, his trajectory plot twisting out of control as he ramped his acceleration as high as he dared, enough that the edges of his vision began to blur as the thrust took hold. In his wake, the rest of the squadron danced through the sky, waiting for Waldheim to unleash the devastating laser pulse that in all probability would kill one of them. It never came.
He could just make out the target, a pinpoint of light hovering over the magnificent blue and green of the world below, gradually resolving into a shape as he closed on his prey. A light winked on, and he snapped to the display, nodding in relief. Ten missiles, heading their way, but on a trajectory that suggested they were more interested in defense than attack. General Estrada was hoping to ride through their fire, ready to strike Alamo once they'd passed through the fighter screen. That was the only explanation that made sense.
Somehow, though, it didn't quite ring true. Though for the present, that didn't matter. He reached down to a control, and tapped a button, his fighter rocking back as a trio of missiles raced forward, surging towards the target. Pulling down a panel, he started frantically working the electronic warfare systems, letting his fighter fly itself on the escape vector while he guided the missiles in, butting heads with the enemy sysop as he fought to scramble the systems of the incoming warheads. It was a war of attrition, with the vast power of Waldheim's network agai
nst the limited systems at his disposal. Power against time.
One by one, the missiles winked out, spinning out of control as their guidance systems were corrupted, self-destructing to prevent them being suborned by the enemy. Harper, back on Alamo, was waging the same war with the enemy missiles, and thirty tracks rapidly faded to nine, six against three, as the hackers did their work.
Then a brief flash, just for an instant, as the two salvos raced past each other, six of the missiles ending in the fire of mutual destruction. Three left, all racing towards their preselected targets, as Waldheim squirmed to avoid impact. Salazar watched, powerless to intervene, as the trio of missiles hit home, explosions tearing into the side of the mighty battleship.
“Full speed,” he said. “Our battle's over, people. Race for home, and loop around the planet to link up with Alamo on the far side. Good work, people. Damned good work.”
He looked at the damage reports rushing in, estimates from Alamo's sensor team on the effect of the three impacts, and frowned. One of his had made it home, just forward of his intended target, slamming into a thruster complex and the aft communications array. Another had harmlessly slammed into the armor, causing a hull breach in what appeared to be a storage unit, only a thin trace of atmosphere leaking into space. The third, Murphy's, had found its mark, and the forward sensor complex was now a burned-out mass of twisted metal, fragments raining back onto the hull in a series of blacked gouges. One out of three had managed significant damage, at the cost of eighteen warheads.
“Fighter Leader to Alamo. Attack run complete. Returning to base.”
“Roger, Leader,” the vaguely disappointed voice of Marshall replied. “Good work.”
Nodding, Salazar closed the channel, focusing his sensors to watch the remainder of the battle unfold behind him. The most important question still hung in the air.
Where the hell were the rest of the enemy fighters?
Chapter 9
“The squadron has completed their sweep,” Scott said. “They're heading around the far side of the planet. I estimate they'll make contact with us in twenty-one minutes.”
“Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “Status of enemy fighters?”
“Closing on target, setting up for a conventional attack run. Just as we expected. By the book.”
Turning from the engineering station, Francis said, “We didn't do anything like as much damage as we wanted, sir. This is going to get tougher.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “And if they've still got half a dozen fighters in reserve, we'll be outmatched. Recommend mission abort.”
“Negative,” Marshall said. “We're committed to the attack, Lieutenant. Scott, I want you to throw everything you've got at them. Full offensive spread. Harper, I need you riding the electronic warfare station. You and our point-defense cannons are going to be the only thing keeping their missiles away.”
“I'll hold missile fire until the last second, sir,” Scott said. “We'll lose a chance at a second salvo, but I don't want to give them the chance to shoot our birds down.”
“Let's hope the enemy don't come up with the same idea,” a gloomy Francis replied.
Marshall watched the screen, leaning forward in his chair with a hunter's smile on his face, waiting for Alamo to enter combat range. Waldheim was still sliding towards them, everything going exactly to the manual. If he was right, in about thirty seconds, the strategic situation would be changing radically to favor his ship. If he was wrong, they'd likely be nothing more than scattered debris in a matter of minutes.
“First detonation!” Ballard said. “Second, third… It's a cascade, sir!”
“Enemy fighters wiped out, Captain,” Scott said, a triumphant smile on her face. “Clean sweep. They never had a chance. And no sign that any of the pilots managed to bail out in time.”
“That ought to give the bastards something to think about,” Marshall said. “Ballard, throw every sensor you've got at Waldheim. Likely they'll be altering course at any moment. Quesada, execute random walk. They'll be saving their laser pulse for us, and we must make sure they don't come anywhere close to connecting.”
“Will do, sir,” the ebullient helmsman replied, his hands racing across his controls with a flourish. Alamo spun on her axis, sliding from left to right as the ship entered combat range, eight targets immediately snapping onto the tactical display as the enemy battleship released its first salvo of missiles. Harper burst into life, pounding at her controls as she began her private war with her counterpart on Waldheim, working to bring down the incoming salvo.
“Sub-Lieutenant,” Scott said, turning to the helm. “I need a line-of-sight in five seconds.”
“Bringing her round,” the helmsman replied, and Alamo danced to his silent tune as she slid through space, gliding around until her nose, and the deadly laser cannon within it, pointed towards the enemy vessel. The lights flickered for a moment, Scott throwing all the power she could gather into one titanic pulse of energy that slammed into the enemy ship, ripping through the hull. She frowned for a second, then turned to Fitzroy.
“Damage projection?”
“Secondary oxygen reservoir, auxiliary reactor, hendecaspace drive, ma'am,” the engineer reported. “They've got a good helmsman. At the last second he managed a ninety-degree turn. If we'd been on target, you'd have ripped into their combat fabricator and main reactor.”
“Any damage is good damage,” Marshall said. “Harper, progress?”
“I can talk or work, but not both,” the hacker replied, hair dropping over her eyes as she frantically worked, images and text flashing up onto her screen faster than she could read it, her hands operating on instinct as she cracked into the enemy network. Two of the incoming missiles vanished from the screen, tumbling end over end before their auto-destruct systems kicked in, but that still left six bearing down upon them.
“Captain, are you sure you want to go full offensive?” Francis asked. “We could still shoot them down, get through this attack run and set up for a second. Right now...”
“We need a conclusive strike, Lieutenant, or all of this is for nothing.”
“Firing in fifteen seconds,” Scott said, her fingers poised over the firing controls. “They'll be in the air for five. Point-defense cannons are armed and ready as soon as the enemy salvo gets within range.”
“Got another one!” Harper said, waving a fist into the air before returning to her station. Marshall turned back to the strategic display, knowing there was nothing he could do other than wait and watch, and trust that his people knew what they were doing. A fourth missile vanished from the display, and Scott hastily retracted Alamo's radiators, barely cool enough for the mechanism to engage, protecting them from the attack that was heading their way.
The ship rocked back as Scott launched Alamo's missiles, six targets flashing onto the display, racing past the incoming salvo before the enemy gunner could make a move to stop them. The rhythmic pounding of the point-defense guns burst into life, pounding rocks into space all around the ship in an effort to bring the incoming missiles down, their targets ducking and weaving in a bid to sneak through their defensive perimeter.
“All hands, brace for impact!” Francis said, leaning into a microphone, and the angry wail of a missile strike ripped through the hull, red lights flashing onto the status board as the damage reports began to flood in. “Two hits, sir.”
“Where, Fitzroy?”
“Aft sensors, long-range communications, sir,” the engineer said. “Chief Santiago is on the case, projections coming in a few minutes. No sign of hull breaches, but we've got some micro-fractures.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “Could have been a lot worse, sir. As far as I can figure, we only actually had one strike. The second was caught by the guns a second too late, and we got a shrapnel burst on the sensor pickups.”
“Our salvo has hit, sir!” Scott said. �
��Seven impacts amidships, and I'm picking up signs of hull breaches. We've caught their fighter bays, and three of their missile tubes.” Nodding, she added, “Surface damage only, sir, but we've significantly reduced their combat potential.”
“Let's see if we've got General Estrada in the mood for a conversation,” Marshall said. “Bowman, hail Waldheim, and tell them that I am willing to discuss a ceasefire.”
“Aye, sir,” the technician replied, all eyes upon him as the two ships flashed past each other, heading onto a trajectory that would see them meet up again in thirty minutes, with a long enough window of opportunity to guarantee that their next encounter would be their last. Marshall couldn't believe that Estrada wouldn't come to terms now. They'd been bested in every fight with Alamo, had suffered enough damage that they'd be hours, maybe days repairing it, and if they had held back some fighters, the hits to their launch bays would rule them out of any part of the battle.
“Signal coming in, sir,” Bowman said, eyes widening in surprise. “I have General Estrada for you, Captain.”
“Enemy ship has retracted radiators, sir,” Ballard added. “And closed their remaining launch tubes. They appear to be standing down from battle stations.”
The starfield flickered out, replaced by a view of a cavernous command center, General Estrada standing at the heart of his bridge in a rumpled flight suit, stark contrast to the pristine Colonel Cruz at his side, wearing a fresh dress uniform. Behind the two command officers, technicians raced around, red lights and warning alarms declaring the damage that the enemy ship had taken.
“We'll finish you on the next pass,” Cruz said, earning a sharp glance from Estrada.
“If it comes to that,” the General said. “I understand that you are willing to discuss terms.”
“For a ceasefire,” Marshall replied. “Nothing more than that, unless you wish to offer your surrender.”
“We will never yield!” Cruz said.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars Page 8
