Fleet Action wc-3

by William R. Forstchen

  "Iannn!"

  The high pitched voice was unmistakable and startled he looked around, and then noticed a shadow cross over him. He looked up and saw a Firekka hovering overhead.

  "K'Kai, how the hell are you!"

  K'Kai, folding her wings, landed beside him and moved up close, pecked him lightly on the head and around the back of his neck in what he now knew was a grooming which served as the Firekka equivalent of a handshake. Overjoyed at seeing an old friend he threw his arms around her.

  "Last time I saw you was when your niece told the Confederation to go to hell."

  K'Kai clicked her beak and he knew that it was the Firekka equivalent of an expression of pride.

  "That speech was hers alone, a fine accomplishment for not much more than a hatchling."

  "How goes it on Firekka?"

  "A lot of harassing raids, skirmishes, ships disappearing, not really outright war, but definitely not peace." She cocked her head and looked at him closely, an act which he always found a bit disturbing when an eyeball the size of an orange aimed in straight at him.

  "So you're part of this Landreich colonial fleet?" she asked.

  "That's what I'm here for, and you?"

  "Sent as a representative."

  "Well, I think we're late," and he motioned for her to follow along.

  They finally gained the shade of a broad veranda and he drew a breath of relief. Two guards stood at the door and again it struck him how different the colonials were. The men looked sharp enough, with standard M-48 laser rifles on their shoulders. But the uniforms looked like they'd seen better days, the tan coveralls faded from sun and washing, top collars unbuttoned in the dry desert heat. They lacked the spit and polish of fleet Marine guards and he found it appealing.

  Both looked with open curiosity at K'Kai.

  "Firekka, they make the best drink in the universe, ," Ian announced, and the guards grinned weakly.

  "I take it this is headquarters?"

  "This is the place."

  "Well, I'm here to see Kruger."

  A sergeant stepped out from inside the doorway, took their papers and IDs, then handed them back.

  "Down the hall, you can't miss it."

  Ian opened the door for K'Kai and followed her in. At least the place had cooling, but it seemed to be barely working. He strode down the open corridor which angled down below the surface, K'Kai at his side. They turned through a double set of blast doors and into the situation room which was packed nearly to overflowing. They were stopped by what he assumed was a security officer, though it was hard to tell by the uniform. He checked their IDs once again and then marked off his and K'Kai's name on a list.

  Ian immediately recognized more than one of those present: Jason and Doomsday, who had flown down the day before from Tarawa, were in the back corner engaged in what was obviously a heated conversation with several colonial pilots. Sparks, waving a hand computer unit, was shouting at whom he guessed was a supply officer, who in turn was shouting back with equal vigor, and hunched over a table up in the front was a tall gaunt man with sun scorched features and dark eyes. He glanced up at Ian and his gaze seemed to pierce right through him and then, as if he didn't even exist, the man looked back down at a shelf of printouts.

  "Say, that's Kruger himself," Ian whispered

  K'Kai bobbed her head.

  Technically Kruger was a wanted felon within Confederation territory, having once hijacked his fleet destroyer, which he was in command of, during the early days of the war, when through "strategic necessity," the old C-in-C ConFleet had decided to abandon the Landreich system in the face of a Kilrathi offensive. Using the ship and an assortment of scrounged up freighters and smuggler craft he fought the battle of the Hell Hole, stopping a Kilrathi attack into this sector and according to legend chased them back through twelve jumps.

  His own ship was blown out from under him on the last jump through by a Kilrathi ambush and Kruger, with the remaining members of his crew, survived for three years on a planet inside the Kilrathi system, driving the locals nearly insane with his commando style raiding until being picked up by a freebooter who took them back to the Landreich. In the interim, ConFleet had tried him in absentia and found him guilty of mutiny and hijacking of a Confederation warship, a capital offense in time of war. He was hailed, however, as a returning hero by the colonials and elected president of the Landreich system within the year. The election made matters somewhat complicated, presenting the Confederation with the unique problem of having a felon serving as an elected member of the planetary senate and thus being immune from arrest and trial.

  Max Kruger had a hell of a reputation and was viewed either as a genius improviser of small unit irregular tactics or a barbarian. In Ian's opinion, he was both. The colonials definitely fought their wars with the Kilrathi, and at times with each other, using cast-off equipment, shoestring budgets, and a hell of a lot of guts. They also fought it with a cold ferocity that rarely asked for or expected quarter. For Kruger there was only one rule of war, ultimate victory.

  "Everything back aboard Tarawa OK? '

  Ian turned and smiled as Jason came up to join him.

  "Another hundred crew members signed in last night off a transport that ran out from Sirius. We've got eight more pilots and four Ferrets that were strapped to the transports hull."

  "Is that all, we were promised twenty."

  "They had some problems getting the four, the peace commission kicked up a royal stink. We're lucky we got what we did."

  "It figures," Jason sighed. "That commission really screwed us up."

  "What do you mean?"

  That report that we'd have ten squadrons of Rapiers and Sabres, well forget it."

  "What the hell happened?"

  "The shipment was blocked by the commission. Seems that the Kilrathi ambassador caught wind of the deal, screamed holy hell, and the Baron even got into it, threatening to end all peace negotiations if the ships were allowed to leave Earth system. Rodham, of course, caved in. The three transports, loaded down with fighters and spare parts were blocked from leaving moon orbit. So now we've got to scrounge up whatever we can find around here."

  "We ve got five escort carriers, and a grand total of twenty-nine fighters and that's it, not counting the stuff the locals have."

  More people crowded into the room behind Ian so that he, Jason, and K'Kai were gradually shoved to the back of the room.

  "Andrews, everybody here yet?" the gaunt man asked, looking over at the guard at the door.

  "Near about."

  Well, damn it, we can't wait, let's get started then."

  The gaunt man moved up to a small podium.

  "For those of you Confed people who don't know it, I'm General Kruger."

  Ian looked around the room and saw the outright admiration on the faces of the men and women wearing the hodgepodge of jumpsuits, assault trousers and vests, and coveralls that passed for colonial guards uniforms.

  "First off, I welcome all you white and blue suits into the service of the Landreich," Kruger began. "As already agreed upon, all ships that the Landreich has purchased," and with that there was a ripple of laughter from the colonial personnel, have been incorporated into our fleet. You will, however, still have your own chain of command, answering to Admiral Tolwyn."

  For the first time Ian realized that Tolwyn was in the room, his nephew by his side. Tolwyn stepped out from a back corner of the meeting hall and raised his hand in acknowledgment. It seemed strange to Ian to see the Admiral not in standard fleet uniform, but in the khaki of a Landreich officer.

  Just how the hell did he get out here so fast? Ian wondered, what with Jason's ship arriving only last night into orbit above Landreich.

  "Those of you in colonial forces that are assigned aboard former Confed ships will take orders from the duly appointed commander of that ship."

  A low groan went up from the colonial personnel in the room.

  We've got to coordinate this effort,"
Kruger snapped, "so no complaints."

  "Any questions?"

  The colonial officers looked at each other, mumbled a bit and said nothing.

  Kruger nodded towards Tolwyn, who came up to the front of the room.

  "Well, I'm glad to see that most of you at least made it out here.

  "First off . . ." and Tolwyn was interrupted by the sharp spine tingling wail of a klaxon.

  The room went quiet as Kruger raced to a monitor, leaned over it, and then turned back.

  "Any pilots with strike craft please man them immediately."

  Ian pushed his way out of the room, a stream of colonial pilots pushing around him, Jason, Kevin, and Doomsday falling in at his side.

  They ran up the corridor and out into the blazing heat, scattering towards hangars, the high wail of sirens echoing against the surrounding hills. The ground crew, which had so lazily come out to meet Ian when he landed, were moving with a cool precision, unchocking the wheels, the crew chief inside the cockpit, the engine already up and whining, four crew members lifting two missiles up onto the Sabre's wing pylons. Ian ran to the ladder, one of the ground crew tossing him his helmet which he snapped on, the chief coming down the ladder and clearing it just as Ian leaped on to the third rung and scrambled up, the chief now behind him. Ian saw Jason and Doomsday running past, heading for the Ferrets they had flown down from Tarawa.

  "Engine green, nav system loaded by combat control, all weapons green with two radar trackers loaded, emergency eject armed and ready, good luck, sir!" the chief shouted, even as he reached over and helped buckle Ian's safety harness on, cinching the shoulder straps tight.

  This is Hunter in Sabre 239A ready," Ian announced to the control tower.

  "Will advise, Hunter, ground chief will signal your clearance," the ground control officer snapped and then switched off.

  Ian gave a thumbs-up as the chief slid down the ladder and the canopy snapped shut, the green light of airtight lock flashing on. The chief was now out in front of Ian's fighter, hands held high over his head with fists crossed, signaling that the taxi ramp was not yet cleared. The Ferret with the light corvette engine he admired earlier bolted straight out of its hangar to his right, not even bothering to go for the runway and not needing one anyhow as it pitched its nose back, and within fifty yards stood on its tail, flame slamming off the concrete taxiway as it screamed straight up into the sky, riding a column of fire.

  To his left he saw the armored bunker which contained the surface to space missiles peel open, the silver tips of half a dozen Sprints pointing straight up.

  "Hunter cleared for takeoff, once lifted depart angle nine zero," the control officer's voice crackled in his headset and he grinned with the order to go for a full burn vertical ascent into space.

  The crew chief uncrossed his arms and leaped to the side of the Sabre, crouched, and pointed forward. Ian released his brakes, slammed in full afterburners and all aft maneuvering thrusters. The Sabre leaped forward and within seconds he was up past a hundred and ninety clicks an hour. He yanked back on his stick, pulling it into his gut, the nose lifted up and he was off.

  Ian toggled up his landing gear as his Sabre pointed straight up into the red sky, the altimeter spinning. Inertial dampening didn't work all that well inside the gravity well of a planet and he started to breathe in short convulsive grunts as the Gs built up. He knew his sonic boom was blasting out across the landscape but it was almost silent inside the cockpit except for the teeth-rattling rumble of the twin Tangent-class engines burning white hot behind him. He punched through the thin clouds and the color of the sky shifted, turning from a deeper red into violet, the first stars starting to appear. He looked to his left to see the curvature of the world and what looked like another Ferret rising up to close on his port wing.

  "Combat information, this is Hunter, what's the trade today?"

  "Forward scouts report detecting an ionized trail emerging from Jump Point Beta 233. There have been weak radar detects and one laser scan lock indicating a fighter of Kilrathi Stealth design is approaching. Patrol grid is already fed into your auto-nav. If you encounter unknown you are cleared to shoot to kill without warning."

  "Just what I wanted to hear," Ian replied as he locked in on the auto nav system and released his controls, the autopilot taking over. Cleared into space, and with fuel scoops closed he continued to accelerate so that within minutes the full sphere of the Hell Hole hung in space behind him.

  The attempt to ship fighters to the Landreich was known by the Kilrathi thanks to the peace commission and a scouting attempt had to be expected. At least the colonials didn't fool around with diplomatic niceties, Ian thought. If someone violated their space in a suspicious manner they were taken out, no questions asked

  He scanned the comm channels, listening in as pilots tersely called out their check points and the search spread outward. The frustrating part of it was that unless they had some really good luck, they could very well pass right over a Stealth and not even know it. The mere fact that the Empire was sneaking a very precious and rare fighter into this sector meant that they had a good idea of what was going on.

  He heard a call of a brief contact by Doomsday and then two more by colonial pilots, in each case the Stealth was lost. Punching into his nav computer he checked the three sightings and then overlaid the points into a map of the system.

  "Combat control, request break of my standard sweep, wish to investigate region around coordinates 233 by ADF."

  "Will advise," and the link clicked off.

  A moment later it crackled back to life.

  "This is Kruger, good thinking, Hunter; proceed at your discretion.

  Grinning, he broke off the auto nav, opened his fuel and maneuvering scoops, and turned. The coded coordinate was the location, at the moment, of the Hell Hole system's largest planet, a gas giant named Thor. The three brief sightings roughly matched a standard Kilrathi evasive maneuver called the reverse claw, and it pointed towards Thor, which would be an excellent place to hide out until the patrols simmered down.

  Punching in the new nav coordinates, Ian closed his fuel scoops and within minutes was up over three thousand clicks a second and climbing. Thor was nearly twenty million clicks away and he settled back, nearly dozing off as the Sabre closed, half listening to the commlink chatter as the scrambled forces continued to prowl for the needle in a very big haystack.

  Approaching within a million clicks of Thor he finally started into reverse thrust, extending his fuel scoops to create drag. The stray hydrogen atoms found in space impacted on the energy field surrounding his ship and were then swept into the fuel tank. Each strike slowed him down by an ever so minute fraction, which built up with each passing second.

  He started a close scan of his instruments, knowing that any sweep radar was next to useless.

  "Now where would I go," he whispered, as if he could almost he heard by his opponent and he felt that prickly uneasy feeling, knowing that some how the Kilrathi was near. He had learned never to discount "the gut feeling." Any fighter pilot who did not believe in the instinctive feel usually didn't live very long.

  Too close into Thor, he reasoned, and the passage of the ship would be noticeable as a disturbance in the intense magnetic fields. If he went into the atmosphere he'd kick up the soup and really give himself away. The one advantage of chasing a Stealth, Ian knew, was that he was just as blind, running on scan shut down, otherwise he'd be given away. He spared a quick look at the map of the system. Two moons, one nearly the size of Earth's, the other half the size.

  Get into the lee of the orbit of the moon is what I'd do, Ian thought, blocking direct approach from one entire side, hide out and then wait for the patrols to give up before a final run in on the recon sweep.

  But which one? If he had had a coin on him he would have flipped it. Ian shrugged his shoulders and started for the smaller of the two, shutting down all scanning systems. He maneuvered so as to approach the moon from the forward sid
e relative to its orbital direction. He throttled back and then came in a mere hundred clicks above the surface, crossing up over the pole and moving down the other side.

  Ian punched up a full high intensity burst scan, diverting nearly all ship's power into radar. If there was anyone within a million clicks the radar burst would damn near rattle the fillings out of his head, Ian thought, suddenly wondering if the Kilrathi even had fillings. He waited, watching his screen. The trick was that, even if it didn't detect a Stealth, it just might panic the pilot into thinking that he had actually been found.

  There! Just under two thousand clicks away. Damn, he had found the needle!

  A faint echo blipped on his screen, the computer working to gain a lock, narrowing the radar beam down and firing off another pulse, this one concentrating nearly all the energy of the previous pulse into a narrow cone. It was enough energy to fry out every circuit on an unshielded vessel a hundred thousand clicks away.

  The second burst hit, painting the enemy ship clearly on his screen at a range of eight hundred clicks. The target acquisition computer, upgraded to handle Stealths, threw a laser lock on the ship. The lock hung on and held as the pilot fired up to full throttle and went into evasive.

  "Combat control, this is Hunter. Got him! One Kilrathi Stealth, on his tail and closing."

  A high pitched whine suddenly cut in on his headset. The Kilrathi had dumped three missiles which Ian's computer told him were IFFs. Ian countered by punching in an IFF scramble. In a full running fleet engagement such an act could be suicide because the moment his transponder switched there was still no guarantee that the enemy missile which had already gained lock would veer away. On the other hand, everything else flying around, either human or computer guided, would assume that he was not on the same side and act accordingly — but out here it was a safe maneuver.