by Daniel Gibbs
Bryan turned around after a few seconds. “She’s on a direct collision course with Master One, ma’am.”
Yes. The flagship. That would make sense. A shiver went down Tehrani’s spine. Irvine had gone after the enemy dreadnought at the center of their formation, but it had decimated her attack force. The destroyer must’ve been disabled in that attack. And now a group of brave men and women plan to finish the job, no matter the cost.
“Conn, Communications. Flash traffic from General Irvine. She requests any vessels able to provide cover fire for Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight do so immediately.”
Tehrani made eye contact with Singh. “Send to commander, CSV Salamis… Godspeed, and may Allah take you into paradise.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Conn, TAO. LIDAR effects… aspect change, new Lawrence drive wormholes opening.” Bryan’s tone changed to one of surprise. “Terran Coalition signature but not CDF. They look like armed merchant vessels, ma’am. New contacts are heading toward the nearest enemy vessels and powering up their weapons.”
“God help ’em. Freighters, I don’t care how up-gunned they are, aren’t designed for fleet combat,” Wright whispered. “That takes some guts.”
“Too many heroes,” Tehrani replied softly. “May we remember them.”
“I’ll settle for God helping us blow these assholes to hell.” Wright crossed his arms. “Apologies for the language, ma’am.”
For once, Tehrani couldn’t agree more. The battle continued.
15
Amid a stream of blue neutron cannon bolts, the League fighter directly ahead of Justin’s craft exploded in a bright-orange ball of flame. Debris no bigger than a standard tablet spread out and, as he zoomed through the cloud, smacked into his Sabre. It sounded like a heavy rain coming down on an alloy roof. Justin scanned his HUD, searching for his next target. It had been like that the entire battle, one tail-turning dogfight after another. “Alpha One, splash one bandit.”
“Alpha Two, splash one,” Feldstein called. She’d broken off to engage a flight of League heavy bombers, and all the Alpha-element pilots were using the dumb-fire-rocket trick first discovered by Adeoye—which was great, at least while the pods lasted.
The personal victories couldn’t mask the overall situation of the fleet, however. Justin kept fighting like a man possessed, but it did little to alter the battle on a large scale. Ship after ship from the CDF side either exploded or was forced to jump out on an emergency basis—a risky proposition even a few minutes inside the Lawrence limit. The unlucky ones blew up anyway during the jump attempts.
In the distance, a single friendly contact accelerated blindly toward the League fleet—Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight. The vessel seemed to be in a sweet spot, too far away from the enemy escorts for them to catch up and too close for the massive battleship at the center of the formation to engage.
“Now, that takes some balls,” Whatley said.
“I wouldn’t want to be the commander of that destroyer,” Justin replied quietly. “There has to be a better way. A way to win and get to go home.”
“Not always, son. If you were watching carefully, you’d know Cohen ordered his crew to abandon ship. Pay attention, because that’s how a real officer deals with things like what we’re facing.”
The ultimate sacrifice. Justin, in the heat of the moment only a few hours before, had been willing to make it. But something was different about staging a last stand against the enemy and the inevitable death from ramming another warship. At least in his mind, Justin was still in control, even when fighting that last stand against incredible odds. He told himself that to make it feel better.
Another enemy fighter wandered into range of his forward HUD, and he rocked his Sabre toward it. “Alpha One, engaging hostile LIDAR spike, heading zero-eight-two, range fifty kilometers.”
As Justin hit his afterburner control and raced forward, Mateus fell into formation off his starboard side. The closer they got, the better resolution his fighter’s onboard sensor suite got, and what had initially appeared to be one fighter turned out to be a group of four. “Alpha Four, watch yourself. We’re outnumbered two to one.”
“Target-rich environment, Lieutenant,” Mateus crowed. “Just like I like it.”
“So you keep saying,” Justin mumbled.
The missile reticule on his HUD changed color, indicating that they were close enough to get a solid lock-on. After a few seconds, the tone buzzed. “Alpha One, fox three,” he called while simultaneously pressing the launch button. A Vulture raced away from his Sabre in target-acquisition mode. It took a moment for the warhead to track and explode against the lead enemy’s shields. Following up with a barrage of neutron cannon bolts, he assumed another quick victory was on the horizon.
But the Leaguer pilots were made of slightly sterner stuff. All four broke sharply, scattering their formation. A few of Justin’s shots hit, but most sailed wide of the target. The first enemy fighter reduced his forward momentum and squeezed off a barrage of red energy bolts, and Justin’s craft overshot.
Justin rocked his flight stick and accelerated, turning out of the incoming fire and reversing his course with a pitchback maneuver. The other pilot was completely surprised and fell behind. Justin let out a breath and glanced at Mateus’s position on his HUD. Another enemy craft was matching her move for move as she attempted a high-speed scissors attack. The dots exchanged places several times, but the hostile was obviously gaining position on her.
“Lieutenant, he’s almost got you. Break left and pull out. I’ll swing over and run him down.”
“Oh no, you don’t, Spencer. I will not be denied this kill,” she replied.
As she was speaking, the Leaguer matched her turn and cut his speed. He settled behind her six o’clock and fired his energy weapons repeatedly, scoring multiple hits on Mateus’s shields. The pilot followed up with a dual heat-seeking missile launch. Despite her best effort, both warheads exploded near her Sabre.
“This is Alpha Four declaring an emergency!” Mateus practically shouted. “Master alarm… my reactor is going critical. I’m punching out.” After a burst of static, silence followed.
On Justin’s HUD, the icon representing Alpha Four blinked out of existence. “Mateus, can you hear me? Mateus?” He paused and sucked in a breath. “Mateus?” Dammit. She’s gone. He hoped against hope that the escape pod had gotten far enough away before the reactor went hypercritical. A moment of sadness was replaced by rage as he rotated his Sabre—just in time to see the enemy pilot performing a barrel roll, presumably in celebration of his kill. We’ll see about that, you son of a bitch. Justin kicked the afterburners up and quickly did the mental geometry required to calculate his course to intercept. He caught the craft as it looped around and loosed a barrage of blue neutron-cannon shots. “Alpha One, guns, guns, guns.”
Several bolts connected with their target, creating bright-red shield effects on the enemy fighter before it rolled away. Justin followed the craft, pitching down and slowing his forward speed. In the back of his brain, something reminded him that sacrificing speed in a multi-fighter combat situation was a bad idea. He paid it no heed and pressed on. As Justin veered in and out of his Sabre’s firing arc, he squeezed the trigger, sending more fire toward the Leaguer. The few that hit urged him onward to more. Tighter and tighter he turned, losing more speed as he fought to stay on the aft of the enemy craft, who adopted what a CDF pilot would call a guns-D strategy of wild course changes.
In the midst of it all, the missile-alert tone sounded. Justin scanned his HUD, and his eyes widened with shock. Two heat-seeking missiles were less than five hundred meters away, and right behind them, three League fighters streaked toward him. Oh shit.
“Conn, TAO. Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six is coming about. She’s locked onto us, ma’am.”
Tehrani gripped the armrests of the CO’s chair as she pondered Bryan’s report. The League heavy cruiser had taken a firing pass on the Conqueror and
broken off presumably to recharge its shields and was in their face, flinging plasma balls at every friendly vessel in range. “Has Sierra Ninety-Six engaged?”
“Not yet, ma’am,” Bryan replied quickly.
“Communications, request Sierra Ninety-Six redirect all fire to Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Singh said. A moment later, he looked over his console at her. “Message delivered. Flash traffic from commander, CSV Conqueror—will launch an alpha strike in thirty seconds.”
Thirty seconds until all hell rains down on the enemy. Tehrani grinned fiercely. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six. I want you to target their weakest armor points and aim for the hangar bay. We’ll wait to shoot until the Conqueror works her magic. Clear?”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Wright leaned in and whispered into her ear, “You realize CDF CONOPS is the carriers stay out of the fighting, right?” While he delivered the words with a calm smile, he had an edge to his voice.
“Of course. They also don’t cover a situation like this,” Tehrani replied.
“Our shields are down to thirty-two percent, skipper.”
“Ask me what’s really on your mind, Benjamin.” She hoped the use of his first name would defuse any tension.
“What’s your plan B?”
“Emergency Lawrence drive jump out, with as many of our fighters as can make it back in sixty seconds.”
Wright’s face turned pale. “That’s it?”
“That’s all there is. Just like last time.”
He nodded and pursed his lips. “I know you’re right. But God…”
“What’s the old saw, XO? War is hell.” Tehrani turned her attention back to the tactical plot above her head. The CDF ships—those that hadn’t been destroyed already—maintained a cohesive battle line and gamely engaged the advancing enemy forces. But they were up against so many League vessels. For every one they neutralized, four more took its place, like an onrushing tsunami. The rate of loss they’re taking… why do they do it? For that matter, why is this so-called League of Sol even here? What has the Terran Coalition possibly done to them to justify an all-out sneak attack? She vaguely recalled bits of information from history lessons in school about communist empires on old Earth that had conquered only for the sake of trying to take over the world. I guess some things never change.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Sierra Ninety-Six. She’s preparing an alpha strike, ma’am. I show all magnetic-cannon turrets ready to fire along with her neutron beams.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Confirm firing solution on Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am. I’m targeting its hangar bay as instructed.”
A group of four fast-moving blue dots labeled Delta veered toward the enemy heavy cruiser on Tehrani’s monitor. They were Mauler-class bombers. Martin appeared to be timing his attack to match up with the Conqueror’s. How quickly we’re all turning into veterans. She stole a glance at the icon for the CSV Salamis. It continued to accelerate, its course unchanged—straight at the League flagship.
“Conn, TAO. Sierra Ninety-Six is prosecuting the target.”
The Conqueror—battered, with its armor plating burned and melted—was like a prizefighter that didn’t know when to quit. Her weapons blazed defiance as blue neutron beams erupted from her hull and connected with the League vessel. Coupled with a volley of a dozen missiles and thirty magnetic-cannon shells, the impacts rained down on its protective shields. At some point during the bombardment, the shields failed, and hits landed on the armor plating of the cruiser.
“TAO, match bearings, shoot, neutron beams.” Tehrani leaned forward as she spoke. The timing had to be perfect.
Twin blue energy beams shot out of the Greengold and lanced through the hangar bay of the enemy ship. A small series of explosions blossomed around the hull nearest to the hangar. One after the other, the bursts of orange-and-blue flames grew until the stern of the vessel blew clean off.
“Conn, TAO. Master Four Hundred Twenty-Six neutralized.”
“Nice shooting, Lieutenant. What’s coming in next?”
“Three more destroyers, ma’am, designated—”
“TAO?” Tehrani prodded.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight is on terminal approach. She’s less than fifty kilometers from Master One.”
Tehrani quickly brought up the tactical plot and zoomed in to the area around the League flagship. The screen was impersonal, an antiseptic display of blue and red dots, with relevant information such as speed and heading. She imagined that the enemy was flinging everything they could at the destroyer, which was little more than a speck among giants. The bravery shown by Major Cohen, a man she only knew by name, was awe-inspiring. To ride into the face of certain death took incredible guts. Or balls, as I’m sure the master chief would say. As the kilometers closed in the blink of an eye, Tehrani mouthed a prayer in Arabic, asking Allah to watch over the souls of Cohen and his crew and guide them into heaven. The blue icon representing the Salamis merged with the red graphic that represented Master One.
“Conn, TAO. Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight… destroyed.” Bryan’s voice sank, then it rose again. “Aspect change, Master One. Multiple explosions, ma’am. Debris separating. She’s disabled! Repeat, enemy flagship disabled!”
Hope was a fickle thing. Sometimes it manifested as grim determination to press on and at other times as ebullient optimism. On the bridge of the Zvika Greengold, it was a bit of both. The enlisted personnel and several senior officers let out a series of cheers. Bryan high-fived Mitzner. A raucous chant of “CDF! CDF! CDF!” broke out and was taken up by most of the crew.
“As you were! Maintain proper bridge protocol!” the master chief rasped.
“TAO,” Tehrani said as the chant stopped, “status of the enemy fleet?”
“Slowing their advance, ma’am. Some vessels appear to be ceasing forward movement.”
But most continued. The battle was far from over. Tehrani set her jaw. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four Hundred Twenty-Eight.” Their target was the nearest enemy vessel to them—a destroyer.
“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”
“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.” Even with their brilliant victory over the flagship, the fight ahead would be brutal. Without the promised nation-state reinforcements, she still saw no way to win. But she pushed the depressing thought down and went back to work.
Justin pulled up hard on his flight stick, dropping a trail of flares. The flares ignited almost instantly and attempted to decoy the incoming missiles with their five thousand degrees Celsius burn temperature. He killed his Sabre’s afterburner, hoping to cool his engine exhaust just enough for the enemy warheads to take the bait. One overshot and exploded violently, close enough that it shook his craft and jostled Justin. The second slammed into his weakened aft shields, knocking them down to five percent effective strength.
Red bolts of energy streaked by the cockpit canopy, putting a fine point on how bad a predicament Justin was in. His OODA loop was so compromised it hadn’t even registered to call for help yet. “Alpha One to any friendly fighters, my wingman is down, and I’ve got three bandits on my tail.” He jammed the throttle back to max thrust and engaged the afterburner. “Repeat, any friendly fighters. Mayday! Mayday!” Beads of sweat dripped down Justin’s forehead.
“Spencer, this is the CAG. Execute guns-D and keep those bastards guessing.”
“Roger that, Major,” Justin replied. Immediately, he launched his craft into a wild series of random twists and turns, accelerating and decelerating and doing his best to avoid the massive volume of fire directed toward him. After no fewer than twenty dodges, one of the red dots directly behind him disappeared, and for a split second, he saw a faint orange glow in the canopy reflection.
“CAG, splash one,” Whatley said calmly. The man sounded
like he was merely giving a to-go order for his lunch. “Spencer, break right, ten degrees declination.”
Justin was well aware his life wasn’t in his hands at the moment. He sucked in a breath and rocked the flight stick as instructed, pulsing his afterburner simultaneously. To his surprise, Whatley overshot him, then things got weird. The major’s Sabre turned a full one hundred eighty degrees, still flying forward. Blue bolt after blue bolt erupted from its neutron cannons, and both pursuing League fighters were caught unaware. The first one blew apart into centimeter-sized chunks, while the second attempted to avoid. It lasted a few seconds longer than the other before it, too, exploded.
“CAG, splash two.”
“Uh. T-Thank y-you, sir. How’d you do that?”
“You did read the flight manual, right, Lieutenant?”
“Uh. Yes, sir,” Justin replied sheepishly.
“There’s a little-noticed feature these Sabres have… you can disengage your inertial damping system and use the station-keeping thrusters to turn your bird. It’s quite a shock to anyone not expecting it.”
Justin vaguely remembered seeing someone do that in a demonstration flight once. And that’s why Whatley gets paid the big bucks. He scanned his HUD. The remaining League fighter was headed straight for him. “We’ve got company, Major.”
“I see it, kid. That one’s all yours. Took out your wingman, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
