Arnet acknowledged, though Mako knew the order was futile. The Mantas would finish them on their next pass.
Yet it never came.
As the fighters regrouped, a laser cannon bolt struck one in the rear, blasting through the shield and causing severe engine damage. They continued on their course away from the ship and back toward the bulk of the Union fleet, their flight leader deciding further attack runs weren’t worth the risk. Even if they hadn’t destroyed their target, they had caused damage enough to call their mission successful. The Astoria was clearly disabled, and Verdant’s gravity would finish her off.
Lights flickered on the bridge when the emergency reactor kicked in. It provided only enough power to keep life support functioning and provide minimal lighting. They drifted dead in a lazy orbit around Verdant.
Mako called engineering for a status report.
“Two men injured, sir, but the fire is mostly contained,” Arnet reported. “I’ve sealed off oxygen to the area.”
The defense officer reported twelve sailors dead and three wounded. Medical teams had been dispatched, and sickbay stood by to treat the victims.
“Orbit decaying, sir,” Downing said. “ETA to atmospheric entry five hours and six minutes.”
Mako stood. “XO, you have the bridge. Launch the dropship and have them try to get clear of this jamming. Continue efforts to establish comm with the fleet and Phoenix. Status reports every ten minutes. Send me a complete damage assessment asap. I’ll be in engineering.”
Downing nodded. “Good luck, sir.” Grave officers and staff echoed Downing’s sentiment.
“We could all use a bit of that right now. Stay vigilant, people.”
We may go down today, Mako thought as he entered the lift. But damned if it’ll be because of this.
***
No preparation, no warning, no briefing—just the raucous, annoying o-ooga of the scramble klaxon wailing over and over again. Emerging from the ready room, Sandra Borland dashed down the hall and saw Lieutenant Commander Kray, the squadron XO, standing before a large status display. Though technically the same rank, he was considered senior due to holding a command billet.
“What’s the word?” she asked as she approached.
“TAOC shows dozens of bogies entering the atmosphere. Hope you got your game face on Vixen; it is an all squadrons scramble.” the officer replied. “They will brief us in the air,” he barked over his shoulder, his words swallowed by the klaxon.
A Union invasion force.
Sweating buckets, she sprinted past fighters parked in the underground hangar at Phoenix, bound for her own bird. Chaotic shouts and calls of good luck were barely audible over the whining engines of taxiing Ravens. A groundcrew bot in a yellow vest waved two orange batons dramatically toward the hangar exit.
Commander Starnes, who would lead his squadron into battle, blasted off first in a deafening roar of engines, leaving a draft of ionized heat in his wake. Though Starnes hadn’t flown more than half a dozen missions since Borland’s arrival, he’d scored several kills in his younger days. Borland thought it appropriate that he take the lead. He might rack up some more victories if his flying skills matched his passive-aggressive demeanor.
Starnes’ wingman blasted off next. Walker, her wingman, would follow. Borland gave him a quick wave as he hovered his Raven. He blasted off two seconds later.
She dashed around the nose of her own Raven, which sat idling on the permacrete hover pad, engines warm. Ignoring the groundcrew bot standing by, she scaled the ladder and jumped into the cockpit. She buckled in and donned her helmet while the bot pulled the ladder back. The canopy dropped, locking solidly into place.
Another bot stood with batons crossed before her fighter, ordering her to hold, as a Raven piloted by Ensign Azzi, a member of her flight, idled past. He had arrived from flight school only three days before and had zero combat experience. Welcome to the majors, kid.
The rest of her flight were more seasoned. Lieutenant Bailey had one kill from the Silex campaign. Lieutenant JGs Post and Heidiger had no dogfight kills, but they’d flown many air support missions on Verdant. Both were damned good pilots. I might have worse to work with. Like Crawford, the other COs tasked with supplying pilots for the Verdant campaign had given up only their expendables—the unproven, the boots, the screw-ups. I know which class I belong to. Her hands flew over the controls as she performed a stripped-down pre-flight check.
The bot motioned Borland forth. She fell into line behind two fighters that took off in rapid succession, only five seconds between launches. When the signal came, she pushed the throttles forward, felt the vibration of the powerful engines, and blasted forward. The thrust plastered her into her chair as she roared out of the hangar and climbed into a brilliant, cloudless sky.
“All call signs, this is Lighthouse 1, Contact. Eighteen kilometers. Reports of multiple bogies, Angels 3. Descending toward the deck west of your position. Be advised of heavy electronic interference. Turn to heading two-six-five. Your signal is buster to intercept. I say again, your signal is buster.”
As she climbed to form up with the squadron, her scopes became a pixelated mess of gibberish. Great, jamming drones. Fortunately, the tower had already provided vectors.
Even at low altitude, she made out the tan and green Union ships in the distance to the west, several tub-like vessels that slowly descended to disgorge troops and materials. Manta fighters, tiny dashes at this distance, swarmed and darted around the transports, occasionally diving to strafe or bomb Marine positions. Another wave of transports rapidly descended from the upper atmosphere, their contrails visible from the ground.
“Raptor leaders, assemble flights and report in,” Starnes ordered.
Borland had formed up with her flight, having found them already airborne. It bothered her that they had beaten her into the air. I need to PT more often. “Delta Flight standing by,” she reported.
Starnes led the way west, briefing them as they went. “This is the real deal, folks. What you see before you is one element of a massive Union landing force. The fleet is responding but has yet to engage. The enemy has jamming drones airborne; expect comm and sensor interference. I’ll lead Alpha Flight against the drones. Bravo will concentrate on the fighters. Charlie and Delta, fight your way through and take out every transport you can. This is a must win, for all of us as well as the Marines on the ground. Keep your—”
Comm died, cutting his transmission. “Great,” Borland muttered. Fortunately, her flight had already assembled into two formations of three Ravens, Bailey commanded one while she led Walker and Azzi. Walker could stay with her, no comm necessary, but Azzi would probably get lost in the coming fracas. With too many inexperienced pilots, Alpha Flight needed to take out the drones in a hurry.
Out in front, Alpha Flight broke into two formations as they closed in on the edge of the enemy formation, the jamming craft coming into view below them. Starnes broke down and right, opened fire on one of the spherical jamming drones. It countered with laser fire. He rolled to evade the shots, took down the drone’s weak defense shield, and scored a hit, all before he passed. His wingman finished it off in an orange ball of fire.
Alpha Flight peeled off in search of the next drone. Comm and scopes resumed function, at least for the moment. Just in time too, since a Union fighter squadron, klicks away just moments before, moved in on Raptor squadron, closing fast.
She saw the swarm of fighters ahead, initially dots in the sky, enlarging into sleek tan shapes. They closed with frightening speed. Three seconds from contact she felt the tension increase in her body, her heart hammering in her chest as adrenaline coursed through her veins.
“Here we go; they’ll try a head on pass,” Borland called. She increased to full engine power and directed remaining energy to her front deflector shields.
Union pilots were typically less well trained than Alliance crews and tended to fly their Mantas more recklessly, o
ften relying on frontal assaults. The slower Mantas couldn’t catch a Raven flying full-out, though they were great at slipping behind them in the chaos of battle, their agile maneuverability and smaller profile a deadly asset.
Borland had seen it all before and got a fresh eyeful when Bravo fighters engaged the first flight of Mantas head-on. An enemy fighter exploded, a bright burning ball; the victorious Navy pilot veered off at the last second to avoid the debris. A Bravo Raven took a glancing laser blast, its shields shunting aside most of the energy, as it careened out of formation briefly before the pilot righted the bird.
Charlie and Delta entered the fray—madness, the largest dogfight she’d ever seen. As if on cue, comm and scopes went down again. A group of rapidly moving objects caught her eye, as she spotted a formation of Mantas flying above the maelstrom unmolested.
“Raptor 4-2, tally eight bandits at two o’clock high. I’ll take the leader.”
“Copy 4-1, engaging.” replied Bailey.
As they arced upward, the Mantas took note, turning and diving toward them. The fighters closed at blinding speed.
She sighted in on the lead Manta. Unable to get a radar lock due to all the interference, she beat its pilot to the trigger and opened up with a burst from the particle beam cannons as it dove toward her. The enemy countered with cannon fire of its own that she rolled to avoid, the dazzling pulses of energy streaking underneath her.
Both pilots missed.
The remaining enemy fighters split up as they wheeled through their formation.
“Raptor 4-3, 4-6, I’m engaging. I’m pushing to the one breaking right.” Borland said to her wingmen.
“Copy, I got one on the left. Watch his wingman 4-6; he is coming around.” Walker replied.
Borland banked hard to the right, rolling her Raven onto a wingtip, feeling her pressure-suit tighten to counter the mounting g’s, straining to look back and maintain a visual on the enemy fighter as she pulled the aircraft around. Her brain now ticked in thousandths of seconds, dissecting enemy movements even as she tried to predict the next one.
The more maneuverable enemy fighter completed its turn first. As she closed on the Manta, the enemy’s bolts blazed just over her canopy, blooming like hells-flowers against her shield. The Manta filled her windscreen, and with a thought she launched a missile through her helmet aiming system at the last instant, near point blank range. The explosion tore the Manta in half. She narrowly avoided one of its burning chunks as she streaked past, tiny pieces of debris streaking flames against her shields.
“Raptor 4-6, splash one!”
A shockwave from astern knocked her fighter off course to the left. She checked her rear display, saw the fireball and debris from an exploding Raven. ENS AZZI KIA. Her initial sense of triumph at her kill melted away to form a knot in her stomach as she lost yet another pilot.
“We just lost Raptor 4-6.” Borland radioed. Grave news yet not surprising.
Flying without sensors, she got a visual on a damaged Manta slightly below her. One of its engines trailed a faint line of black smoke. She launched an infrared missile just as the enemy pilot launched flares, her missile flew harmlessly past, seeking the stronger heat source. The Manta went into a tight turn leaving a trail of condensation behind it, a maneuver that threatened to slam the door on her next kill. She jammed the stick hard right, stomped on the rudder control, and got her gunsight slightly ahead of the craft. Holding her fire, she waited until the target lock alert chimed in her ear.
Her burst of particle cannon fire struck the Manta just behind the cockpit. The concentrated proton beams transferred megajoules of thermal and kinetic energy across the Manta’s stern, destroying one engine and damaging the other. In the rearview display, Borland watched the Manta’s pointed nose drop. The canopy popped, and the pilot ejected just before his ship went streaking toward the surface like a comet.
An alarm blared in a low but frantic wail, signifying enemy missile lock. Borland jettisoned flares and broke left simultaneously, chopping the throttle and yanking back hard on the stick, pulling herself into a tight turn. She felt her pressure-suit tighten around her as she pulled several g’s past what the inertial dampeners could compensate.
Without veering from its initial trajectory the missile slid past her, streaking towards the horizon until it found a new target or ran out fuel.
Escaping the missile, with scopes still down, she found herself sweating profusely. Fuck! Where is he? She frantically scanned around her, a cold fear gripping her until she saw the glint of the enemy fighter behind her. It was turning to follow her, maneuvering to get inside her heat cone, ideally poised for the kill.
She hauled back on the stick, slammed the throttles forward savagely, putting the Raven on its tail as she tried climbing away, hoping her faster bird could gain some distance on the Manta during ascension. Particle beam shots overloaded her deflector shield and passed beneath her, centimeters from raking her fuselage. The lock alarm sounded again; she took evasive action, rolling the aircraft hard to left and dropping the nose as she prepared to launch more flares.
The Manta exploded in her rearview camera, falling prey to one of her wingmen.
“Raptor 4-4, splash one! Splash one!”
“Good kill, 4-4.” She radioed to Post as he flew past.
Too fucking close! She felt the knot in her stomach twist as sweat accumulated inside the pressure-suit.
Comm and scopes returned. All of Borland’s flight except Azzi survived the initial engagement. The four fighters leveled off and reformed, flanking their flight leader. Bravo Flight and three birds from Charlie had several Mantas tied up in a dogfight to the east. That left only a handful of enemy fighters between her and the transports. Their shields would likely be down, all of their power dedicated to keeping the massive ships stabilized in the atmosphere as they slowed from their rapid descent to the surface.
Sitting ducks.
Sensors detected three Mantas climbing to engage them from the northwest. “Raptor 4-5, engage those bandits.”
Comm squelched as Bailey and his charges broke off to deal with the fighters.
“4-3, you’re with me; let’s hit those transports.”
“Copy, 4-1. I’m with you.” Walker responded, falling in behind and to the right of Borland.
“Let’s drop in, Walker. Death from above, front shields up.” She pulled back the stick and raised the Raven’s nose, watching the altimeter tick off the altitude as they climbed.
“Roger that, 4-1.”
“Raptor leaders, we could use some backup; we’re outgunned!” Starnes shouted. The course to his flight’s location appeared on her display.
Shit! Borland weighed her options as she climbed. She hated to leave fellow pilots, particularly her CO, in the lurch. But her mission was clear: attack the transports. This invasion needed to be stopped, stymied at least. Her life and those of her comrades were expendable.
“Raptor leader, Raptor 3-1. Three birds on the way, sir!” Charlie’s flight leader said.
The onus off her, Borland leveled off above a trio of descending transports on landing approach. Perfect! She rolled left, shifting power to her front shield as she dove. With gravity assisting her momentum, she could expend the additional shield energy without sacrificing speed.
“Watch it, 4-5! One on your tail.”
“I’m hit! 4-2 losing power.”
“Punch out, 4-2! Eject! Eject!”
Borland stole a glance out the canopy, watching a fighter she presumed to be Bailey’s plunge toward the ground like a flaming lawn dart.
LT BAILEY KIA. The text stung Borland, but she didn’t have time to mourn his passing. She hoped that Post and Heidiger could handle the Mantas without him, else her attack on the transports would be short lived.
Two of the transports banked away from the lead ship, taking evasive action.
“Stay on the lead transport. Four missiles on my order. I’ll draw
their flares.” Four seconds from contact, she fired two missiles. The missiles slid out and away from their internal rotary racks and streaked toward their target. The transport immediately launched all of its countermeasures, a titanic display of fireworks shooting in several directions that drew both of her missiles.
God dammit! She hadn’t expected the exaggerated response. I should have known. It made sense; the transport was at its most vulnerable. The lingering heat of flares and explosions would likely draw Walker’s missiles as well. “Disregard, switching to cannons.”
Bolts flashed from the wing root cannons as Borland fired on the ship’s stern, the blue-white streaks punching through the hull. As she pulled out of her twisting dive, the transport’s defensive laser cannon batteries responded, three bolts buffeting her fighter and knocking her fore shield to 30%.
But the transport was committed and couldn’t divert power to its shields.
Borland and Walker stitched her topside from stern to bow with another long bursts of particle cannon fire. The white-hot beams vaporized chunks of the hull, secondary explosions tossing up sparks. The ship listed slightly to port. Though burning, the transport still hovered after their pass.
They won’t survive the next one. She banked to right and began to climb.
“I’m hit!” Walker announced as they cleared the ship. “Port engine. I’m losing power. Sorry, I gotta bug out!”
Borland gritted her teeth. Fuck me! “Copy, 4-3. Get another fighter and get back out here!”
“Fuck!” Walker growled as he peeled off.
She didn’t expect to see him again; his smoking engine and reduced speed made him easy prey. She slammed the throttles forward and hauled back on the stick to loop around for her next pass.
“Raptor squadron, proceed to rendezvous point, over.” The order came from Starnes’ XO, Lieutenant Commander Kray.
If her CO had perished, she had missed the notification. Probably damaged. The rally point location appeared on her display.
Are you fucking joking? It was in space. From the apex of her loop, she gazed longingly downward at the crippled transport, nearly landed, just waiting to be blown to hell. I should!
War's Edge- Dead Heroes Page 39