by Daniel Gibbs
“TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Eleven.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”
“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
The damaged pirate vessel took the twin blue beams in stride and rotated at the last moment to present an undamaged shield arc. Return fire in the form of plasma balls and anti-ship missiles lashed out at the Greengold. While the Luttrell had taken damage, the enemy had clearly saved most of their punishment for the escort carrier.
On Tehrani’s monitor, the deflector-strength indicator dropped like a stone for both their forward and port arcs. She stared in alarm as hits on their armor registered.
“Hull damage, deck seven, section A three-one-six,” Wright said. The bridge lights blinked. “We lost a power coupling amidships.”
“Navigation, roll the ship and present our ventral shield to the enemy,” Tehrani barked.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
In combat, much like life, timing was everything. Sentinel Ohmedov’s timing was impeccable. His four vessels, which were barely bigger than in-system patrol boats, raced into the fray. Plasma weaponry came alive and raked the already-damaged pirate corvette from bow to stern with energy bolts. While it tried to maneuver away, the volume of fire was too much to avoid.
“Conn, TAO. Master Eleven’s taken heavy damage, ma’am. She’s drifting.”
Tehrani let out a sigh of relief, and her eyes flicked to the next target.
Not to be outdone, the pirate corvettes immediately reprioritized their targeting. While military-grade deflectors could absorb incredible amounts of damage before failure, civilian models could not. Some megacorps took the extra step of procuring better equipment for their security forces, but apparently not this one. Under a barrage of plasma shots, one security vessel exploded outright, while two others took significant damage.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, remaining enemy contacts. They’re pulling back, ma’am. Master One is moving forward to meet them and charging its weapons.”
To finish us off. Tehrani stared at her tactical plot. “XO, signal the CAG. We may have to pull out quickly,” she said quietly. “Then plot how long for the civilian ships to reach the Lawrence limit and whether the pirates can intercept them before they get there.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Aside from the Battle of Canaan, Gabriel Whatley had never seen so many enemy craft—and that suited him just fine. What didn’t suit him was how poorly the Greengold’s wing was performing. The pirates had an edge over them, thanks to fielding more heavy fighters than their wing carried. If Whatley could’ve put sixty seconds into observing the battlefield as a whole, he might’ve come up with something approaching a plan. But he was in an all-out furball, with nearly fifty small craft dueling it out in life-and-death struggles. The little situational awareness he had from the HUD told him the enemy was massing its corvettes along with their ace in the hole: the modified bulk hauler. Which means a knockout blow is incoming. Not if I can help it.
A blue icon disappeared from his HUD—another friendly fighter destroyed. Whatley checked his squadron-status view quickly to find it was a Sabre from the Red Tails. Lieutenant Decker. Deciding whoever had killed one of his pilots wasn’t getting away with it, Whatley spent a moment trying to determine which pirate craft had taken him out.
Incoming splatters of plasma fire streaked by Whatley’s cockpit and slammed into the thin shields of his Sabre while the single pirate fighter they’d come from rocketed past him. He rotated his craft to the left, turning into the six o’clock position of the enemy. All right, jackass. Let’s see how you like being on the receiving end. The moment he’d lined up the hostile, Whatley sent the welcoming committee: dozens of neutron-cannon bolts.
Tunnel vision affected the best pilots. In the heat of battle, Whatley only had one thing on his mind, and that was killing the enemy in front of him—a rookie mistake. He’d coached many a youngster on why it was so dangerous. But emotion was powerful, causing even the most rational of combatants to take irrational actions. Whatley overlooked the second pirate craft falling in behind him until the missile-lock-on warning buzzed.
Shit. The enemy in front of him had lost its aft shielding, and Whatley was locked into a nearly perfect guns solution. “Alpha Two, where the hell are you? I’ve got a bandit on my six, and he’s about to light me up.”
“A little busy over here, sir,” Feldstein replied. “Engaging a hostile.”
Whatley bit off a nasty response as he sent another wave of neutron bolts into the back of the enemy while maneuvering to avoid incoming fire from the hostile behind him. I don’t know what Spencer’s rules are, but I expect my wingman to stick to me like glue. “Get your ass over here, Lieutenant.”
Dozens of plasma balls flashed by the canopy as Whatley continued to doggedly engage the fighter to his front, and a final stream of neutron bolts hit one of its exhaust manifolds. A chain reaction ensued, blasting the craft into fine debris. But Whatley had no time to savor the victory, as his HUD flashed a red warning light that he had an inbound heat-seeking missile coming directly toward him.
Flares dropped out of the aft dispenser on Whatley’s fighter as he broke away and hit the afterburner. Come on. Come on, old girl. Don’t let me down now!
The bandit on his tail matched every movement, as did the heat-seeker. Resorting to increasingly wild course changes, Whatley did everything in his power to make the incoming miss, but it wasn’t enough. First the warhead exploded against the shields of his Sabre. The impact pitched his craft to the side, and he struggled to maintain control as energy weapons hit his aft. “Mayday. Mayday. Alpha One declaring an emergency.”
The master alarm sounded. Whatley glanced at the display to see a warning sign from his port engine. It showed two hundred degrees above normal and continued to rise. Is this how I go out? Well, it’s been a damn good run, and at least I got that last bastard. Wrenching the flight stick to the right and pulling up, Whatley went into guns-D, but whoever was flying the hostile craft was good. They kept pace and flung dozens of plasma balls at his Sabre.
The jig was up, and it was only a matter of time. After briefly considering his options, including ejecting, Whatley decided to try a high-risk maneuver of stopping on a dime and forcing the pirate behind him to overshoot. Which, if my engine weren’t heading toward a blowout, wouldn’t be a bad idea. He gave himself a one-in-ten chance of survival.
Whatley’s Sabre suddenly fishtailed wildly to the left side. The onboard computer classified it as a blast wave, and it took him a moment to realize the hostile on his six was gone, and its icon had disappeared. Somebody must’ve taken him out. Damn. That was too close. “Feldstein, nice shooting. I’m still gonna PT your ass when we get back to home plate.”
“Uh, wasn’t me, sir.”
Puzzled, Whatley adjusted his commlink channel to the entire Alpha element. “Whoever got that guy, thanks. I owe you one.”
“Wasn’t me, CAG,” Mateus replied.
“Nor I, sir,” Adeoye said. “Must’ve been someone else.”
Whatley’s hand shook ever so slightly as he gripped the flight stick. He sucked in a breath, knowing how close he’d come to death. Forcing himself to snap out of it, Whatley disengaged the damaged thruster and ensured the automated repair system was functioning.
“Epsilon One to Alpha One. Sorry I cut it so close there, sir.”
Justin Spencer’s voice was instantly recognizable, but Whatley felt dumbfounded to hear it. How’d he get here? Damn, Spencer really does have nine lives.
21
“Spencer, what the hell are you doing here?” Whatley’s voice was shakier than Justin had ever heard out of the bombastic CAG.
“Saving your ass, sir.”
Chuckles from various pilots filled the channel.
When they died out, Justin continued, “The nebula was a trap. I don’t know if they saw us coming or what, but I got jumped. After defeating the en
emy, I spoke to Lieutenant Singh. It sounded like you guys needed my services.”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, Captain. I can still make you run laps.” Whatley’s voice had little trace of the snark normally in it.
Justin scanned his HUD, looking for a new target, and found no shortage of them. Pirate small craft zoomed about the battlespace, and they held superiority in terms of numbers. Clusters of fighters from the Greengold were engaged in pitched dogfights, and it appeared the Mauler bombers had been decimated yet again. “If I make it back to the flight deck, I’d be delighted to get some exercise, sir. In the meanwhile, what’s the play?”
Whatley snickered. “Stay alive until the colonel figures out how to beat these bastards. Not sure if you noticed, but the nebula was probably safer.”
The CAG had a point, as always. Justin studied the sensor map on his HUD and was shocked to see at least six CDF pilot rescue beacons. One frigate was missing, and the second had a good bit of damage to its outer hull, as did the Marcus Luttrell. I had it easy. As he stared at the augmented-reality display, several icons belonging to the pirate corvettes started moving on a course for the remaining frigate, the CSV Ernest Evans.
“Black Hogs are going in,” Green announced. “We’ll try to even up the odds a bit.”
“That’s a negative, Lieutenant. Those corvettes have wickedly accurate point defense. I’m not throwing your lives away on a suicide run,” Whatley replied.
“With respect, sir, the Boars can handle it.” Green’s voice held a no-nonsense tone. “The Greengold’s escorts won’t survive another pass. All we have to do is take out a couple of turrets and scatter them.” She paused. “If our hotshot Sabre pilots can’t handle the heat, we’ll do it ourselves.”
Justin’s eyebrows rose. Nobody calls out the CAG like that. It might’ve been fun to listen to if they weren’t in a life-or-death situation.
Silence came over the commlink channel. Finally, Whatley spoke. “Okay. What the hell… going out in a blaze of glory has always been my preferred way to depart the universe. If we make it back, I’m assigning you to swab the hangar deck, Lieutenant.”
“You’re on, sir,” Green replied cockily.
“Count Alpha in,” Justin said on the open line. “We’ll fly overwatch.”
“Remember who gives the orders, Spencer,” Whatley replied. “Reconfigure yourself to Alpha One. I’ll slide into Epsilon One.”
“Wilco, sir.” Justin grinned as he rotated his Ghost toward the small group of Boars that barreled toward the first pirate vessel in the attack wave. The depleted fighters on both sides closed their formations, and Justin counted the cost yet again. Six Maulers, two Sabres, three Boars. My God. He felt a pang of guilt for not being there for the majority of the fight, as if he’d let his brothers and sisters down. A quick check of his craft’s internal stores told him he had two heat seekers and four LIDAR trackers left. Not a whole heck of a lot.
Magnetic-cannon rounds, neutron beams, plasma charges, and muonic pulses lit up the void in a vivid blue, red, and purple display. As Justin weaved through the exchange of weaponry, he almost forgot they were in a pitched battle for their lives—until the missile-lock-on tone sounded again. The HUD-integrated scanner showed two LIDAR trackers coming at his Ghost from below him and to the left. He wrenched the flight stick to the right, and his Ghost rolled away as he sent multiple blasts of chaff into the void.
“Alpha Two, fox three,” Feldstein called out. “Three bandits engaged.”
Avoiding the incoming, Justin reversed his turn and found a pirate craft bearing straight down on him. Squeezing the integrated trigger for his Ghost’s neutron cannons, Justin blasted away at the enemy. Both his and the fighter’s forward shields took significant beatings, but he obtained a hard lock on the hostile at the last second. Another button press, and two LIDAR-tracking missiles zoomed into the void.
Several seconds later, both connected with the heavy pirate fighter and erased it from space. “Alpha One, splash one,” Justin said as he rotated back around, pawing the vacuum and searching for a new target.
Meanwhile, Green and the Black Hogs had engaged one of the corvettes. Not so much avoiding point defense as absorbing it, the squat fighters unloaded streams of neutron-cannon bolts, anti-ship missiles, and dumb-fire rockets into the hapless vessel. Two turrets exploded, reducing the outgoing volume of fire from the ship considerably.
Still, the CDF warships had taken a beating. Justin was in awe of how many holes the Marcus Luttrell had in it, yet she fought on. Atmosphere must be trailing out of ten separate hull breaches. Never out of the fight, indeed. But they held.
Aided by the two remaining security vessels, the corvettes broke off after shifting their attacks to the Greengold and pummeling her damaged port side once again. Tehrani’s acting like a smaller boxer going up against a heavyweight. The tactics would only work for so long, because something had to give sooner or later.
The Ernest Evans slowly dropped out of formation, turning away from the battle on a course that would take her to the Lawrence limit and away from the pirates. Justin despaired, for as they lost vessels, it meant the enemy could concentrate even more on the ones left.
As if reading Justin’s mind and everyone else’s, Whatley’s gruff voice came over the commlink. “Nice flying, people. Now recharge your shields, and we’ll take another run at these bastards. Remember—fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”
The invocation of their battle cry stirred Justin’s warrior spirit. “No matter the odds!” he thundered into the commlink. With a glance at the picture of his family, Justin marked his next target.
On the bridge of the Zvika Greengold, the lights suddenly dimmed and nearly blinked out. Tehrani glanced at Wright in alarm as she grabbed the sides of her chair to steady herself. “Damage report, XO.”
“Another power coupling amidships, ma’am. We’re still taking hull damage.” He pulled up a screen showing several areas blinking red and touched them. “These guys are good. They’re focusing on our weakest links.”
Tehrani set her jaw. “I’m not running from a pack of pirates.”
Wright smirked. “Won’t even bother to argue.”
“Good. You can learn new things.”
“I’ve got Hodges trying to reroute power into the port deflector generator. Even if he can do it, we’re running out of options.”
Her XO’s words registered, and he was right. She stared at the tactical plot. Two of the megacorp security vessels had been destroyed by the pirate corvettes and another disabled. The Marcus Luttrell was leaking atmosphere in a dozen places but living up to its motto—Never out of the fight. She was still flinging defiance into the void in the form of neutron beams and magnetic-cannon shells. The carrier is the key.
“TAO, what’s the location of the Astute?”
“Not sure, ma’am,” Bryan replied. “She’s engaged maximum stealth and EMCON.”
“Whatcha thinking?” Wright asked.
Tehrani smoothed her uniform, an unconscious tic she had when unsettled. “We need a knock-out blow on Master One. If it's off the board, the small craft and corvettes are suddenly outnumbered. They’d surrender or jump out. Either way, we win.”
“I’m not sure what we have left that can engage in a straight-up slugging match with the carrier and its remaining escorts,” Wright observed quietly. “Unless there’s something I’m not seeing, ma’am.”
“If the Astute could take out their shields, we might have a chance to send the remaining bombers at Master One.” Tehrani left off how it would likely be a one-way trip for many of the pilots.
Wright pursed his lips. “Worth a shot.”
“TAO, designate Master One as the battlegroup’s primary target. Tag that specifically for the Astute.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Before Tehrani could open her mouth to give further orders, Singh spoke. “Conn, Communications. Captain Spencer has jumped in, ma’am.”
“Well,
perhaps he can put the fancy stealth fighter he’s flying to good use,” Tehrani said to Wright.
“Hey, it’s nice when things start coming together.” Wright gave a toothy grin. “I’ll let the CAG know what we’ve got in mind.”
The corvettes had apparently had enough punishment at the hands of Battlegroup Z. They’d retreated to the carrier and taken up flanking positions around the converted bulk hauler. As she studied the plot, Tehrani cursed whoever was in charge of the enemy. It would’ve been far simpler if the smaller ships had kept up their attacks.
Without warning, all hell broke loose. The Astute fired eight Starbolt missiles from its tubes at point-blank range. Plasma and muonic weapons crisscrossed the void as the stealth raider’s engine signature became visible. As it rocketed away from the carrier, the eight anti-ship warheads homed in on the massive vessel.
While the escorting corvettes were in position to intercept the inbound missiles, at the crucial moment, they split their attention between trying to destroy the Astute and shooting down the Starbolts. That critical error led to neither objective being accomplished. Two inbound missiles were shot down as the stealth raider limped away in the hail of energy-weapons fire. Another slammed into the damaged side of a corvette, causing more destruction. The rest found their target: the pirate carrier.
Bright-white flashes of light bathed the battlespace as five fusion warheads spent themselves against the enemy vessel's energy shields.
When the glow faded, Tehrani noted with satisfaction that the bulk hauler's port, ventral, and aft shielding had collapsed. “It’ll have to be enough,” she mused.
“Ma’am?”
“Task every remaining bomber to attack the port side of Master One, XO. The lives of everyone in this solar system depend on their success.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Wright replied.
Tehrani hoped they had a little more magic left in the tank between Whatley and Spencer. Barring that, she started plotting a retreat strategy to save what was left of their battlegroup. May Allah have mercy on us all. As if everything else weren’t enough, a group of bombers broke off from the main pirate attack force and barreled toward the Greengold’s damaged sections. “Navigation, rotate the ship. Do not let the incoming fast movers get hits on the unshielded sections.”
