War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Hit again,” Bach said. “Who would’ve thunk it?”

  “Wouldn’t be a battle otherwise!” Rizer joked, relieved to see they would beat the squad to the lighter. They got Bach up the gangway and through the side door.

  “That’s it!” called a petty officer next to the door.

  “Not quite,” Rizer said, barring his way. “We can fit two more.” He helped one more Marine aboard, a PFC.

  “Get up there, kid!” said a SSgt to another PFC as he pushed him into the ship, sacrificing himself to save a boot.

  The PO pulled down the door and slammed it shut. Standing room only, the lighter, designed to carry three dozen people in civilian clothes, held about fifty armored Marines. The overburdened ship rose slowly from the deck.

  Rizer expected to be vaporized by the thick AA fire. He doubted the transport had countermeasures. Packed in with his face to a window, he watched Camp Shaw’s last defenders valiantly stave off the final assault waves. As they lifted off for space—Rizer hesitated to call this a blast off—an explosion sounded behind the lighter.

  “Dropship down!” someone called.

  Someone else yelled, “Fuck, they hit another!”

  “Bad luck comes in threes,” Bach growled through clenched teeth.

  “Secure that shit!” Leone hissed at him.

  Bach chuckled. “Pray the rosary, Marie.”

  Tense moments later they rose out of anti-aircraft range. All the Marines’ various command nets had gone silent, save for one. The lighter went quiet as everyone listened.

  “Poseidon Actual calling Zeus. Over.” Dupaul’s voice.

  Rizer couldn’t believe it; Poseidon was the base commander’s callsign. He’s it, the last officer on post. He almost found it appropriate. No. Not even he deserves such a fate.

  “Go ahead, Poseidon Actual.”

  “Remaining dropships are clear. Initiate orbital strike on my position. Say again, initiate orbital strike on my position. It is my call. Over.”

  “Roger, Poseidon Actual,” Hella responded. “Initiating orbital strike. Godspeed.”

  No one—not even Bach—commented.

  Tears welled in Leone’s eyes.

  Rizer felt as though a snake slithered within his bowels. He wondered how many doomed Marines remained at Shaw, defending the undefendable.

  A white ball of energy lit the upper atmosphere for an eye-searing instant, then was gone. The strike had already hit Verdant when Rizer regained vision. The zone of impact expanded rapidly into a perfect circle of white destruction, a gray mushroom cloud rising from its center. Camp Shaw, Air Station Phoenix, Darmatian—all were erased from existence.

  CHAPTER 35

  Refueled and rearmed, the remnants of Raptor squadron formed up at their rally point and reported to Lieutenant Commander Kray, their new squadron commander, who as the XO had previously led Alpha Flight. Word was that Starnes had racked up three kills before dying in the atmospheric dogfight.

  Respectable, Borland thought. Go down with your guns blazing and drag along every bastard you can.

  Kray, as the most senior lieutenant commander of all the squadrons, was now also the acting wing commander after the death of Captain “Papi” Thrun, who had perished repelling the initial aerial assault on the Alliance fleet. The old man, who had been a no-nonsense CO, had been well liked and respected by everyone in the wing.

  Things aren’t looking good when you have a lieutenant commander filling a captain’s billet.

  Any thought of surviving their imminent engagement with the advancing Union fleet was an outlandish fantasy. Of Raptor’s twenty-four original fighters, a mere fourteen remained, accompanied by one sensor-jamming craft. Raptor would lead the assault on the Union fleet, concentrating on the capital ships: two carriers and two battleships. Viper squadron, composed of Ravens led by Commander Roten, would follow Raptor, both fighter squadrons clearing the path for the Devastator fighter-bombers of Trident squadron.

  Fighters and bombers aside, the Alliance fleet retained one battleship and several cruisers, some already damaged. They could only counter the Union fleet, which had initially outnumbered them by about 3-2. Now the enemy enjoyed a nearly 3-1 advantage, with no ships seriously damaged. Sixth Fleet would be annihilated if Borland and her fellow pilots allowed the Union to engage ship-to-ship. During evacuation thousands of lives rode on every shot they fired, every heartbeat they could delay the enemy.

  “We all know where we’re going, so I’ll keep this short,” Kray said on the squadron net. “When we—inbound Raven, looks like one of yours, Delta leader.”

  “Don’t start the party without me,” Walker said.

  Borland watched the approaching vessel on her scope. “Welcome back. Guess you got a new Raven.”

  He joined Delta Flight as Borland’s wingman. “Last fighter out of Phoenix, ma’am; took fire from the moment I blasted off.”

  The news didn’t surprise her. Camp Shaw had the resources and men to hold out a bit longer; Phoenix did not.

  Kray continued: “I will relay the target when we sight the fleet. We have Vigilante squadron from the Resolute sweeping in front of us, engaging fighters and defensive drones. Hopefully we only encounter a few. Most available enemy aircraft are supporting the ground invasion at the moment.

  “We are going after big game today folks, battleships. Primary objective will be the flagship Diguo. Secondary will be her sistership the Tang. We will utilize an anvil attack to split their defenses: Delta and Alpha Flights topside; Bravo and Charlie beneath. Viper will follow with the same attack pattern. Do not open fire until we get right on top of them. It is the only way our missiles will get through their countermeasures. Concentrate on the anti-aircraft batteries to clear a path for Trident’s Devastators so they can deliver the strike package. To get the bombers close enough to effectively fire their plasma torpedoes, we’ll need to wreak a lot of havoc. The jamming ship can get us into visual range; after that, we’re on our own. Remember, the enemy can jam everything but your eyes, so keep your visual scans up. Best of luck, people.”

  The Devastators had the best chance of taking down a battleship, but Borland questioned whether Raptor and Viper could provide adequate cover to get them there. They couldn’t possibly take out every AA battery, and those remaining would make short work of the slower fighter-bombers. We just need to get them in torpedo range, she realized, close enough to bypass countermeasures and shields. No one expected to survive this mission.

  Only seasoned pilots remained in Raptor. They asked no questions of their CO after the briefing. They assumed positions behind the jamming ship and flew toward the fight.

  The Union fleet in battle formation, flying in counter orbit to the Alliance, soon came into view below them. Seeing the ships on her display in advance didn’t prepare Borland for the awesome sight of two tan battleships, massive yet sleek, leading two monolithic aircraft carriers, with frigates flanking and following the capital ships in a sphere of protection. That they loomed so large from a hundred klicks away evoked foreboding in Borland. Juxtaposed to one battleship, their fighters were mere ants, with the foolish audacity to attack an elephant.

  She noted that the enemy fleet looked relatively unscathed, despite the earlier wave of guide missiles and autonomous kill vehicles sent to attack the fleet before their arrival. Only a few small plumes of flame were visible.

  Ahead to starboard, Vigilante squadron, already down a few fighters, tangled with a slightly superior force of Mantas acting as combat air patrol for the Union fleet. The jamming ship had gotten them this close, but the free ride ended when three Mantas disengaged from the fight and headed for Raptor.

  “Jig’s up, bandits inbound,” Walker commented.

  The jamming ship, its presence now superfluous, split away and took off for the Resolute.

  Senior to Commander Roten, Kray had overall command of the mission. “Remain in formation, Viper squadron. Bravo leader, ta
ke two men and bag those bandits. Escort the bombers when you finish. All others prepare to engage the flagship. Target coordinates are locked and fixed, accelerate to attack speed and divert all available power to front deflector shields.” He relayed a course toward the starboard battleship.

  Borland throttled up, gulped, more nervous than she’d ever been in the cockpit. Her kids flashed in her mind, then were forgotten just as quickly. She focused on the suicide mission. Only the next few minutes—likely the final minutes of her life—mattered.

  Here we go…

  The stars wheeled around her as her flight rolled and dived toward the fleet, coming abreast in a wedge formation. Unlike the fighters of Raptor, the enemy AA gunners had nothing to lose by opening fire at long range. Brilliant flashes of orange and yellow exploded from the ships’ guns as a hail of Union firepower rose to the meet the oncoming fighters. Raptor fighters easily avoided the first green laser bolts from thirty klicks out, but the flak intensified as they closed, threatening to drown the squadron in green.

  “Form attack groups,” Kray said.

  Borland and Delta followed Alpha and Raptor leader into the oncoming storm. Like a bell signaling the start of round one, Raptor 3-2 cried out, cut off an instant later when his fighter exploded in a fiery ball. The fight was on.

  They needed more space between aircraft to evade the brilliant bolts cutting into the formation.

  “Loosen up; we are too close!” Borland ordered, as she aggressively jockeyed her fighter from side to side, attempting to avoid the deadly projectiles and throw off the ship’s targeting computers. Her fighter shook in the barrage of flak, as fluorescent flashes exploded and dissipated against her ever-weakening deflector shield. Ballistic projectiles soon added to the volume of destructive fire as they exploded around her in a thick carpet of flying steel. Her fighter was jostled from the concussive blasts. Every flash and jolt caused her body to tense, and she could hear the occasional tinkle of shrapnel as it slipped through her deflectors and bounced off the hull. Her mind crying out in terror, she fought to keep control of the fighter and her sanity.

  A fighter exploded off to her right in a blaze of orange.

  “We just lost Raptor 3-5,” Walker reported.

  Flying through the blanket of escort frigates, enemy fire now came faster and thicker than Borland’s vision could register. Streaking neon green eclipsed the tan ships and even the darkness of space as she approached. The Raven had a flight computer override that could be engaged when human eyes and reflexes couldn’t keep up with enemy fire. Borland had never used it—few experienced pilots did—so she didn’t start now, relying instead on polished instincts and pure bullshit luck. The latter had saved her in many fights, but she could only stretch it so far.

  “This is suicide. We need to abort!” a voice cried.

  At first she thought it was her own, that she had somehow spoken on the radio. But then it registered it was Raptor 1-5 who said what every pilot was thinking.

  “Stay in formation, Jackson,” the voice of Raptor leader admonished.

  “I… I can’t,” returned a sobbing voice.

  Borland watched as 1-5’s fighter pulled up and away from the formation. As it broke ranks, a bolt of energy struck it, and the Raven disappeared in a vaporized flash. An expanding cloud of glowing debris whizzed by her canopy.

  Leading the assault, Kray appeared to have bottomless faith in his own good fortune. Pulling away from his charges, trying to make the most of a losing hand, he charged. A bolt punched through his shield and smashed into his starboard wing, followed by another that glanced off his fuselage. The third blew apart his cockpit.

  “We lost Raptor leader,” Borland said over the comms.

  She and the others evaded his spiraling wreckage as well as enemy fire, the ships beginning to loom large in the canopy. Raptor-3-4 unleashed a missile barrage that exploded harmlessly in orange flashes as the ship’s counter measures sprang to life, adding their web of cyan flashes and explosive projectiles to the storm of energy that already enveloped the ships.

  “Hold your fire! Get closer!” Borland ordered.

  “Fuck, I’m hit.” She didn’t catch the speaker.

  One of her own fell next, Raptor 4-5. Heidiger unleashed an insane war cry as his burning fighter careened out of control, streaking toward an escort frigate. A square hit might have moderately damaged the vessel, but what remained of his fighter glanced off the bow, a mere scratch.

  Her fighter jolted as residual energy from a laser bolt made it through her overworked shield and discharged in a dazzling flash as ionized particles caromed off her Raven just fore of the cockpit. Her visor automatically dimmed in microseconds to shield her eyes from the blinding glare. The hit threw her off course for a moment, but she was able to regain control as her eyes adjusted.

  The ship was only thousands of meters ahead now, as a missile lock alarm beeped in her ear. A pair of missiles leapt up toward her from a twin launcher forward of the bridge. She rolled. The countermeasures she launched fooled the missiles, allowed her to live for another second.

  Raptor squadron continued to shrink. A missile detonated against Raptor 1-3’s underside and knocked him to port, where he collided with Post’s fighter. Both fighters disintegrated into flames and debris.

  Come on, come on!

  Her shield registered at ten percent on the HUD as the massive ship filled her cockpit screen. Flashes of energy ripped past her as her ship’s targeting computer locked onto the selected targets. She pulled up as she fired two anti-ship missiles.

  The battleship’s deployed countermeasures were rendered useless at such close range. Their computerized targeting systems failed to engage her missiles in the split second before impact. Direct hits registered on both AA positions.

  Borland followed up with her particle cannons, her Raven bucking from the concussions of the missiles exploding behind her. More AA batteries fell in a series of fireballs. When the battleship’s bridge filled her cockpit view, she fired two more missiles. but adrenaline and the unbridled pandemonium of raging combat hurried her shots. The missiles missed the bridge to impact lower on the ship’s superstructure, destroying a cluster of sensor arrays and weapons emplacements, still not the critical blow she wanted.

  Shit! She released counter measures to try and confuse any targeting sensors trying to get a fix on her as she banked hard and pulled away from the ship. The remaining Raptor pilots followed suit, jinking their fighters after completing their attack runs.

  “Hold fire, Viper; close it up,” Roten commanded, cool and unrattled, as though she were leading a training exercise, though Borland noticed on scope that Joss was already down several fighters, while the Devastators in her wake had lost ships as well. “Now! Fire at will!”

  Borland divided her attention between scope and visual as Raptor squadron, now at half strength, regrouped for another pass at the battleship. Of Delta Flight, only she and Walker remained. Alpha and Charlie each had two Ravens left as well.

  “Direct fire on the bridge!” Roten said.

  Someone called, “Trident leader, catastrophic—!”

  “Watch the crossfire from that frigate!” said a Viper pilot, perhaps the man who disappeared from scope a moment later.

  “We just lost Trident 2-4!”

  Bravo leader had perished attacking the bottom side, but the three Ravens Kray had dispatched to destroy the Mantas had survived. They presently escorted the fighter-bombers on their attack run. Regrouped with Raptor, Borland watched the fight and surveyed the destruction as they wheeled around for another run. Raptor and Viper’s passes had choked the battlespace with spinning debris and frozen corpses, and several spouts of flames were visible where the ship had been hulled.

  “Come on; take that bastard down!” Walker growled, also watching the bombing run.

  The first Bravo fighter exploded well away from the battleship, erupting into a bright ball of fire before being s
nuffed out by the vacuum of space. The other two breached the ship’s defensive screen, but only one survived the attack run. The slower and less maneuverable Devastators immediately followed, a dozen fat buzzards easily blasted from the heavens. A mere four survived the attack, and only one plasma torpedo hit home, raising only a superficial fire on the ship’s surface. A small and literally pyrrhic victory at best.

  “Lookie there, ma’am,” Walker said as they brought their ships around.

  Upon seeing a frigate going up in flames near the battleship, Borland responded, “Nice!”

  The disabled craft listed as Verdant’s gravity pulled it toward the surface. That victory went to Vigilante squadron, which had finished sweeping for fighters and turned their few guns against the fleet. Down to four fighters, they nevertheless moved to engage another frigate, trying to clear a path for another attack run.

  Bad news accompanied the good. Though a handful of frigates remained with the carriers, the majority had forsaken escort duty and moved ahead to engage the Alliance fleet. The battleships followed them, moving at maximum sublight speed.

  With Raptor’s ranking officers all dead, Borland led the squadron now and assumed her new callsign. “Raptor leader calling Viper leader.”

  “Roger, Raptor leader,” Roten responded. “That you, Borland?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Relieved that Roten had survived, Borland felt apprehensive over their next move. Jocelyn, always a squadron asset, outranked Borland, who had hoped to lead the next attack. Assuming there’s going to be another attack. She glanced at Raptor’s ammo counts—all ships at half or below on heavy anti-ship missiles.

  “Not enough ammo for another attack run,” Roten said. “Head back to the Resolute for hot reload.”

  “We need to give the fleet more time for evacuation,” Borland said. “ETA to direct fleet engagement is five minutes. If we don’t disable at least one of those battleships, we won’t have any ships to return to. We need to make another attack run!”