by Daniel Gibbs
“Sir, why are you turning around?” Feldstein asked.
“Someone’s gotta stop those bombers, Lieutenant. You and everyone else get back to home plate. I’ll cover you.”
“We’re not leaving you, sir.”
“I’ve no desire to die today, Feldstein. The moment I get those bombers, I’ll push it up and perform a combat landing. In the meantime, make sure the rest of Alpha element gets back safely so that I don’t have to worry about you.”
A pregnant pause came through the commlink connection. “I understand, sir.”
“Bring them home safe. Spencer out.”
“Godspeed, sir.”
The exhortation, from a time gone by in the CDF, didn’t strike home for Justin. The only thing getting him out of the situation he was in, besides his skills, was good luck. Sometimes all we need is for the bad guys to have a run of bad luck.
With grim determination, he adjusted the flight stick and aimed directly for the group of fighters racing at him. I need to change the rules here. Justin pulled up the stores list on his Sabre. Three LIDAR-tracking missiles and four heat seekers remained. He inhaled through his nose.
“You should run back with the rest of your friends, capitalist pig,” someone said over the guard frequency in heavily accented English. “If not, we run you down.”
Justin deftly disabled the launch safeties on his heat-seeking missiles, allowing him to toggle-fire all four at the same time. He stroked the missile-launch button, and the quintuplets of death dropped from his fighter’s internal munitions bay. Each Eagle’s engine ignited, and they blasted off toward the approaching League craft.
“Come on down,” Justin said after changing the commlink frequency. “I’ll be glad to wait.” While his tone was confident, even cocky, he wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Hopefully all four warheads won’t find the same fighter.
Luck, fate, or perhaps something more was on Justin’s side. The four missiles danced around the battlespace, quickly gaining targets and beginning their terminal homing mode. Two picked the first Leaguer, while the other two locked onto his wingman. Both enemy craft exploded in orange flame. “Alpha One, splash two.”
“Spencer, what the hell are you doing out there? Get back to home plate.” The commlink’s squadron command channel erupted with the raspy voice of Major Whatley. “I don’t need any dead heroes.”
As Justin rotated his craft and lined up on the closest Leaguer, his mind was alive with how to respond to his commanding officer. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re breaking up.”
“Spencer! Don’t give me that bull—”
He turned the commlink off and took a deep breath. I’ll deal with the court-martial later. Justin had one task: stop the last two League bombers on a direct attack run toward the Zvika Greengold. Both had already loosed anti-ship missiles, which in the carrier’s weakened state—especially if they hit the right spot—could destroy the vessel.
He pressed one finger down on the afterburner initiator while holding his flight stick with the other hand. As his Sabre closed the distance, he realized he was coming in upside down, at least from his perspective. After a barrel roll, Justin was on the same plane of engagement.
Justin switched his designated target to the nearest anti-ship missile headed toward the Greengold and sent a stream of blue neutron-cannon energy at it. Trying to hit an object that small was a great challenge, but one bolt dinged the outer skin of the warhead. It exploded in a bright ball of blue fire. As the second one passed, he fired a continuous burst. Just as it was almost beyond engagement range, the missile blew up. He let out a deep sigh and pulled his fighter around.
The League bombers flashed by quickly, still heading straight for the Greengold. Justin pulled fourteen Gs as he looped around, pulse-firing the afterburner to keep his intercept speed up. The missile-lock-on tone blared, and he squeezed the launch button on a LIDAR-guided anti-fighter weapon, which dropped from the Sabre’s internal weapons bay. A moment later, it barreled off into the blackness of space. Because of the close range, it only took five seconds to slam into the enemy bomber’s aft shield and explode.
Holding down his energy-weapons firing trigger, Justin put shot after shot into the bomber’s tail section and was finally rewarded with it exploding into a million pieces. He didn’t call his kill over the commlink or even mentally acknowledge it. Like a machine, he turned his focus to the last bomber and slid his craft over to line up behind it.
The lock-on tone sounded again, its loud buzzing almost a dagger to the mind. Justin launched another LIDAR-guided anti-fighter missile, leaving him with only one left in onboard stores. He was dangerously low on munitions. If this keeps up, all I’ll have left are my neutron cannons. Despite the League bomber’s attempt to maneuver away, the friendly warhead pressed home its attack and hit the enemy’s protective shields. Again, Justin was ready, firing bolt after bolt of blue energy into its hull. Like the other craft before it, the bomber exploded in a ball of orange flames, burning against the blackness of space for a moment before it consumed all onboard oxygen.
Justin felt utterly amazed he was still alive as he stared at his HUD. Four more kills—and somehow his fighter was operational despite no support. He noted with satisfaction that the rest of Alpha element and the friendly bombers were clustered around the Greengold, ready to land. As he turned his Sabre back toward the carrier, a sixth sense came over him. The hair on the back of his head stood up. It took a moment to realize why: the remaining League fighters were directly behind him.
The inbound-missile alarm went off, filling the cockpit of Justin’s craft with a persistent beeping. Muscle memory leaped into action as he deployed several canisters of LIDAR-spoofing chaff and pulled up hard on the flight stick.
“Capitalist has trouble to fight real pilot,” came the same heavily accented Russian voice over the guard frequency. “Enjoy fake afterlife, kozyol.”
As Justin looped around, he narrowly avoided one of the enemy missiles that didn’t take the bait and go after his chaff canisters. The other one did—exploding violently but harmlessly eight hundred meters away. Too close for comfort. He flashed by the two League fighters and killed his forward thrust, using the speed he’d built up to execute a turn in heading that reversed the Sabre’s course. The g-forces from it nearly caused him to black out. But in combat, nearly was the difference between life and death.
“Where you go, pig? Come back and fight.”
Justin grinned as he kicked his engine thrust back to maximum and engaged the afterburner. It only took him a few seconds to settle into the six o’clock position of the nearby enemy craft. While his onboard LIDAR system locked on the target, he cued the transmitter on the commlink. “Hey, Leaguer. I’ve got a weather report for you.” The missile-lock tone sounded, and Justin immediately pressed the launch button. “A thousand degrees Celsius and fiery.” The weapon raced away and, thanks to the short distance, quickly entered terminal-homing mode and exploded against the fighter’s shields. All the while, he sent bolt after bolt of blue neutron energy into the hapless target. A moment later, the League craft exploded in a ball of orange.
“Just you and me, mudak.”
“What’s a mudak?” Justin asked. His Sabre pawed the vacuum as he tried to line up the last enemy. “I don’t think I’ve heard that insult before. Did you make it up just now?”
Hard laughter filled the commlink. “Russian word for testicle. It mean you, idiot. You cannot fight entire League. We sweep you aside.”
“Yeah, well, I swept your friends aside like they weren’t even there,” Justin replied. He squeezed the firing trigger for his craft’s neutron cannons, sending bolt after bolt of highly charged blue energy into the void.
A few connected with the enemy, but the opposing pilot had skill. He juked to one side and rolled away from the barrage. Then, in a flash, the League fighter pulled a one-hundred-eighty-degree Immelmann change in direction. The distance between the two craft decreased
to point-blank range as the Leaguer fired aggressively at Justin’s Sabre.
The missile-lock-on alarm sounded, causing Justin to pull back hard on his flight stick, attempting to match the Immelmann. Simultaneously, he triggered his chaff dispenser, only to find it empty. Oh shit. For a moment, panic threatened to take over inside Justin’s mind. He forced it down and hit the afterburner, trying to gain some distance on the incoming warheads—anything to give him space to work with.
It didn’t work. Both tracked his fighter flawlessly and exploded violently against the Sabre’s shields. They failed in an instant, and the loud buzz of the master alarm filled the cockpit.
“Paka paka, Terran,” the Russian pilot called harshly across the void.
Justin realized as he moved his flight stick to the right that his controls were sluggish. A glance at the internal repair diagnostic showed why: damage to the Sabre’s internal hydraulic systems and a busted thruster. His HUD showed the Leaguer lining up perfectly behind him. I was so close. Part of him demanded to know why he’d had to be a hero, especially when he’d avoided any hint of combat throughout his short military career.
“Bye-bye yourself, Leaguer.” Feldstein’s voice cut through the mental noise.
With shock followed quickly by relief, Justin stared at the sensor display as two active LIDAR-tracked missiles loosed from Feldstein’s fighter and ran into the aft shield of the enemy craft. Just like that, it exploded in a ball of flames, and he went from being dead to saved.
Justin let out a breath. “Lieutenant, thank you.” His voice shook. It took a few seconds for him to realize how close to death he’d come.
“No problem, sir. That was one hell of a show you put on. We were all cheering, but it looked like you could use some help.”
“You arrived just in time,” Justin replied. His voice broke as he spoke.
“Never out of the fight, sir.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He paused for a moment and tried to move his craft from side to side. It was still extraordinarily slow to respond to his inputs. “I think I’ve got a flight-control problem, Lieutenant. Could you come alongside and take a look?”
“Yes, sir. Can you maneuver to head back to the Greengold?”
After fighting with the controls, Justin got his Sabre pointed in the general direction of the carrier. “She’s lined up as best as I can, but fine movements are difficult.”
“Understood, sir. Give me a moment here.”
It didn’t take long for Feldstein to match speeds with him, especially considering that his afterburner was out, and Justin’s fighter was barely moving at half of its speed potential. Her Sabre came in closer, until he could see her through the cockpit window. “Sir, you’ve got some big chunks of wing missing out here, and you’re trailing vapor. Not sure what it is. Could be O2. Might be fuel.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Dammit. I can’t land in this condition on a crowded flight deck. It wasn’t even an option because of the risk to his fellow pilots and shipmates.
“Alpha One, this is Major Whatley. What is your status?”
Justin flipped his commlink to the command channel. “Heavily damaged, sir. Probably won’t be able to land. Recommend you recover all pilots and come back for me later.”
“Figure out a safe landing vector, Spencer. There won’t be a later.”
Nothing that didn’t end in a string of curse words came to Justin’s mind. He muttered, “Acknowledged, sir.”
Feldstein cut in. She’d overridden his comms channel with a private commlink. “Sir. I wanted to tell you it’s been an honor serving with you. That was… brilliant, sir.”
Justin looked out of his cockpit toward her craft and saw her hand up in salute. He brought his hand to his brow and returned the gesture. “Likewise. Thanks for saving my rear end. Hopefully I’ll get to repay you someday.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
Tehrani held on to the CO’s chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The bridge seemed to heave and bend around them. Though the shift was an optical illusion, it still generated concern. Sparks showered from the overhead behind her, and what sounded like a fuse blew. It left parts of the area in darkness, with dark shadows playing across the consoles.
“Hull integrity is at seventy-eight percent, ma’am. The Marcus Luttrell is shot full of holes. It’s time to scoop our pilots and go,” Wright said insistently.
As Tehrani opened her lips to give the order for all craft to perform a combat landing, Bryan interrupted her. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change, inbound wormhole.”
She held her breath.
“CDF signature! It’s the Conqueror, ma’am!” Bryan’s tone drifted toward unprofessional.
Tehrani had no problem forgiving the momentary lapse. “Communications, send General Rubin my compliments and request his immediate assistance.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Conn, TAO. Conqueror has extended her shields to include us and Sierra One,” Bryan called.
As he spoke, the rumbling ceased. The massive battleship swept forward, and its magnetic cannons spoke as one. Helicar-sized shells erupted from the triple-barreled turrets, sending a wave of death toward the League heavy cruisers. Simultaneously, Starbolt anti-ship missiles and neutron beams lashed out and impacted their hulls as the protective deflector screens collapsed. One ship exploded outright as a neutron beam found a fuel bunkerage or warhead magazine, while the other hung on, firing back with everything it had.
A ragged cheer lasting a few seconds went up from the enlisted soldiers on the bridge and quickly died down as it became apparent the fight was still on. The battered League heavy cruiser swung around. As it did, a fresh wave of plasma balls crashed against the overextended shields of the Conqueror.
“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two can’t take too much of this,” Bryan called. “She’s already lost more than half of her shield cohesion.”
Tehrani stared at her tactical plot momentarily. Of course they did. The farther out a deflector generator tries to project from the hull, the worse the problem gets. “Navigation, intercept course, Sierra Two. TAO, send our fast movers back at Master Six.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
A series of orders and responses followed as the bridge team worked to get the ship closer to the Conqueror and finish off the last two League vessels. On Tehrani’s display, the icons representing Alpha and Epsilon rushed toward the enemy. Additional symbols showing anti-ship missiles separated from the blue dots marking the bombers and dashed away.
“Conn, TAO. Master Five disabled.”
Again, the Conqueror’s entire weapons suite lashed in the void. Magnetic cannon shells flew out of their barrels, while blue neutron beams raked the remaining League vessel. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t fair. Cruisers weren’t designed to stand up to line battleships. But Tehrani felt no remorse as she watched the enemy ship explode into one-meter chunks.
“Conn, TAO. Master Six destroyed. All enemy contacts are down.”
Tehrani allowed herself a momentary smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Order our fighters to clean up the remaining enemy small craft.” She checked the tactical plot—only one was left. “Then get our people back aboard.”
“How’d you know?” Wright asked quietly.
“I didn’t,” Tehrani replied. “I was about to order a withdrawal.”
He nodded. “Well, a miss is as good as a mile, as my grandmother used to say.”
She thought of a famous general from the Ottoman empire—Osman Nuri. He’d held the line against Russian forces during a brief war between the two countries in the late nineteenth century on Earth. The fighting they were currently engaged in—brutal defensive actions and what seemed like a last stand—was what had made the pasha a hero. Will I go down in history the same way? Losing my command but inspiring others to fight? Tehrani forced the thoughts from her mind and focused on the task at hand. “Do we have a damage report yet?”
“Working on it, ma
’am.”
“Work faster,” Tehrani replied with a smile. “I fear we have little time before we’re thrust into the next battle.” And may Allah have mercy on our souls.
“How’s it going, sir?”
“Peachy,” Justin replied.
Feldstein was still only twenty meters away from him, flying close escort. While the enemy threat was gone, his fighter was still nearly unflyable. The autorepair system was attempting to repair the flight-control surfaces, but with so much damage, it was a herculean task.
“Any improvement in controlling your bird, sir?”
“Negative. I can steer, but it’s very sluggish.”
An unfamiliar voice broke into the conversation. “Alpha One, this is Zvika Greengold flight deck control. I show you coming in at two hundred meters per second. Slow to fifty and stand by to call the ball.”
Justin cued his mic. “Negative, Control. I don’t have enough positive control over my fighter to land. Request permission to eject and be retrieved by S and R.”
“Negative, Alpha One,” Whatley interjected. “We don’t have time for that evolution. Who knows when the next wave will show up… the Greengold needs to get scarce. I’ve ordered the flight deck to prepare for a hazard landing and clear off section three.”
“Sir, it’s too much of a risk to the ship,” Justin protested. “If my craft were to explode, it would cause secondary explosions. Leave me behind and come back later when it’s safe.”
“Stow it, Spencer. I give the orders around here, and no one, not even your sorry ass, gets left behind. Follow instructions for once in your life.”
The commlink clicked off with a noticeable sound, leaving Justin in silence. The hangar bay of the carrier grew larger in front of him. Soon, he would be able to make out the deck crew running around and other fighters taxiing around the area. Fear gnawed at him. “Feldstein, am I still trailing vapor?”
“Yes, sir.”
Justin closed his eyes. If I believed in God, now would be a good time to pray. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t think a higher being existed or even that it had created the universe. He’d long ago decided that whatever people had in life was the product of their own work, luck, and nothing more. God, if He existed, didn’t interact with lower life forms. Still, it would’ve been comforting to believe in something more. Justin tried with all his might to keep the Sabre straight and level. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Slowing to twenty-five meters per second, Control.”
