War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  Silence dominated the radio until Joss replied, “Copy that; we’ll make one more run.”

  “I volunteer to lead, ma’am.”

  “Negative, Borland, I’ll take the lead.”

  Shit… She had been dreading that response. Jocelyn had a great career going and an intact family to go home to. And the leader rarely survives. If I were in her position, would I sacrifice myself so readily? But Borland wasn’t in charge, so she shoved the pointless thought aside. “Roger that, ma’am. We’ll cover you. Let’s do this!”

  “Form it up, Viper. Raptor follows, ahead of Trident. Remember, we gotta get in close. This is a knife fight, people. If you can’t peep in their starports, you’re too far out.”

  “Get through this, Joss. You still owe me lunch.”

  “Count on it, Sandra Bee.”

  Roten led the wedge of Viper squadron to the battleship in a high-speed dive from astern, attacking along the ship’s axis where the AA batteries were thinnest. Not thin enough. They threw everything they had at Jocelyn and Viper, putting up a wall of green energy beams and exploding flak that destroyed three of her Ravens before she’d closed to with two kilometers of the ship. The other four penetrated the ship’s perimeter defenses as Raptor fell under withering fire. Ironically a following bomber went down before any of Raptor’s fighters. Bravo’s lone fighter fell next, laser fire blasting it to flaming oblivion.

  Roten lost two more fighters, but her attack run raised a second, larger fire topside on the Diguo.

  Put ’em there! Borland’s hand seemed to react on the flight stick ahead of her brain as she dodged laser fire from half a dozen defense batteries. “Get some missiles into that fire, Walker!”

  “On it!”

  “I’m hit.” Raptor 1-7’s sparking fighter, spun out of control away from the ship, breaking apart.

  Battleship and fighters launched countermeasures almost simultaneously. Borland led Raptor into the thick of the fireworks, her fighter buffeted by exploding flak and energy bolts as she plunged toward the ship. She launched a brace of missiles that homed in on the fire like flies to a summer picnic. Walker followed her lead.

  A Charlie fighter loosed another missile just before taking a hit. It gyrated out of control toward the battleship. Missile and fighter both impacted the ship, adding to the destruction and chaos aboard the vessel.

  Immediately after launching missiles, Borland started strafing the vast length of the ship, but she and her squadron rapidly abandoned the attack to avoid flying through a fountain of sparks and flaming shrapnel, as a dazzling rainbow of secondary explosions rippled through the ship.

  Borland momentarily lost control when a shock wave hit her from below—a concussion from a massive explosion within the battleship. A sparking, expanding fireball filled her rearview cameras as she slid away from the ship. Whatever they’d hit, perhaps a stockpile of missiles in the magazine, blasted the ship into two uneven pieces, leaving a river of sparking fragments and sailors sucked into the dark abyss. She couldn’t help shouting her adulation.

  “Bullseye!” whooped the Devastator pilot who had launched the coup de grace.

  Borland and the remaining Raptor fighters followed Viper to attack the other battleship. Raptor had lost three fighters on the second run. Only one Trident fighter-bomber had been destroyed.

  “Anvil on that battleship!” Roten ordered, the best possible call: Viper would hit it from the bottom, Raptor from above.

  Borland’s countermeasures had run low; one more launch would exhaust them. She adjusted her power-sapped shield, rolled, and dove toward the battleship, spearheading Raptor squadron on its final run.

  The once perfect formation of the Union battlefleet was a scatter of ships, looking like tan billiard balls after an opening break, as captains took evasive maneuvers to avoid the shattered remains of the battleship and fend off further attack from the swarming fighters.

  Aware of the Diguo’s fate, the crew aboard the Tang took no chances, opening up immediately with an enormous barrage of missiles and laser cannon fire. Borland attempted to evade the green goblets that floated up at her and threatened to overtake her. The lock alarm screamed, the only sound in her ears, drowning out the cries of doomed pilots vaporized by fire. A shock of terror surged through her as a missile detonated at her nose in a brilliant flash. She couldn’t react in time to avoid flying through the fireball.

  Borland punched through the other side, shaken but undamaged, the onrushing battleship laying before her now amongst a storm of electrons and ruby explosions. A second pair of missiles homed in, rushing up at her, forcing her to launch the last of her countermeasures, which caused the missiles to deviate from her path. Shield power had dropped to five percent, not enough to withstand the next missile climbing up to meet her.

  Fuck it. She would never get close enough to launch her final two missiles. A sensation of helplessness filled her body, realizing that her death might be a pointless sacrifice. Beads of sweat ran down her body, and her hands trembled despite her death grip on the controls. She waited. The alarm increased to a wail in the final moments of her life. The final missile closed in with frightening speed. She fired the particle cannons, prayed for a lucky shot that might detonate it, unable to get the proper lead.

  The missile slid up and threatened to merge with her ship, her only chance a radical change of direction at the last possible second. As she dropped the worthless shield to increase speed and take evasive action, a friendly fighter crossed directly in front of her path. She only glimpsed it before the missile took it. No time to react, she flew straight through the cloud of destruction. Wreckage dinged off her hull, but she came through unscathed.

  LT WALKER KIA.

  She had no time to mourn or honor his sacrifice. On top of the battleship now, it filled her vision. She fired her last two missiles and then raked the battleship’s topside with a blaze of particle beams, scoring hits all around. As she pulled up and acutely away, she checked her six. The receding battleship burned in four different places, and a series of powerful secondary explosions danced along its center axis. It lagged back from the frigates, unable to keep pace, practically a sitting duck now.

  Too bad we don’t have the missiles to finish her. Even damaged and slowed, the battleship might still make it around Verdant in time to engage Sixth Fleet.

  She thought of Walker and his selfless bravery. His death might save thousands. Even so, it was the epitome of piss-poor consolation.

  Jocelyn Roten cackled a victor’s laugh. “We did it, Sandra!”

  Borland pushed the stick forward and dropped to rendezvous with her. With a laugh of relief she asked, “Was there ever a doubt?”

  “Not on my—” Her words died when her fighter blew apart before Borland’s eyes.

  Borland reacted without thought, breaking right and up, already firing cannons. Beams of energy pumped from her fighter’s quadruple cannons in steady succession. The first Manta, which had taken out Jocelyn, flew right into her opening shots, three direct hits that destroyed the fighter and any elation its pilot might have felt over his last kill.

  Three other Mantas darted out of the stars and engaged the other fighters.

  “Bandits coming in!” an anonymous pilot announced.

  Keeping her cannons hot, she rolled her fighter to the right and fired a burst at the following Manta. Shots high, she cursed herself for missing. She had been too quick, too eager to make the kill. Fighting back tears, she calmed and forced herself to focus. Pilots died from thinking about their mistakes.

  She peeled off and broke high right. The Manta cut sharply to give chase. Behind her it fell into optimal firing position, well within all of its weapons’ effective ranges. Without countermeasures, a single missile could be her death sentence.

  Another burning object in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. It’s my only chance! She dove, stomped the rudder pedal, and veered hard left, straight toward half of a
flaming battleship, which tumbled slowly through space, dragged inexorably downward to Verdant. Escape pods lit from the hulk like a swarm of pissed-off hornets.

  The Manta opened fire with laser cannons, every bolt a green comet streaking past as she evaded them until they stopped. Maybe he’s out of missiles. She rolled the Raven, trying to avoid another hail of deadly streaks.

  The enemy must have read her mind, for her missile lock alarm sounded. She saw the missile on her display, sliding past the range rings toward her. Less than three seconds from the burning hulk, the missile greedily swallowed the distance between them. The lock alarm rose to a crescendo. Her HUD counted down estimated time to impact, even as the blazing wreckage filled her canopy.

  With impact imminent from two directions, she chopped the throttles, and pulled back the stick, and zoomed into a high-g turn around the burning hulk. Following the destroyed ship’s spin, the Raven shuddered as she wrenched back on the stick, bleeding off inertia.

  Her ship’s inertial dampeners couldn’t keep up with the intense g-force building within her body. She clenched against the invisible weight threatening to crush her, grunting with exertion. Her vision narrowed dangerously, as she screamed into her helmet. Her flight suit constricted on her ballooning legs until they felt ready to burst. A buzzer sounded within the cockpit and warning lights on her dash flashed as the craft neared maximum tolerances. A red 29 flashed on her HUD; it blended in, then disappeared when Borland’s entire field of vision reddened. She almost lost consciousness yet retained the presence of mind to keep the stick pulled back as she broke thirty g’s. She barely registered the missile had exploded on the wreckage, unable to adjust course in time to follow her.

  What do I…? What now? Groggy, close to blacking out, she knew she couldn’t continue the turn. It’s enough. Has to be. She eased the stick forward and felt her head clearing as she leveled out.

  The Manta. She saw it on her display. He’d flown over the hulk instead of beneath, causing him to overshoot her position, now he turned back for another run at her.

  Beat him! She jammed the throttles forward and banked right with a suddenness that banged her helmet into the canopy. Her fighter surged forward, thrusting her back into the seat as she jerked the nose around. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she estimated the enemy’s course and turn radius. She hauled back on the stick to get her cannons ahead of him.

  He was going to out-turn her.

  Shit shit! She fired a cannon burst. Only one shot hit home. The rest of the blue-white streaks passed harmlessly by the fighter’s stern as it zipped past. Her lone hit raised sparks from one of its engines, which flamed out an instant later.

  Now able to out-turn the weakened Manta, Borland adjusted course, closed rapidly, and fired a long burst as the enemy fighter grew in her view. Scraps of fuselage flew from the ship, followed by tendrils of fire that grew instantaneously into an expanding sphere of superhot gas.

  The explosion rocked her Raven to port.

  No time to alter course, she flew straight through the expanding debris field, flinching when glittering pieces of the Manta glanced off her canopy. A rapid check of her instruments told her that her fighter was ok. She flew on, no time to ponder how she had survived when so many others had perished.

  “Raptor, Viper, report in,” she said wearily to the four green dots remaining on her scope, since Jocelyn’s death left her as the senior officer. Four pilots reported: two Raptor, two Viper. At least they had destroyed the three remaining Mantas. The remnants of Trident squadron had already departed for the Resolute. “Return to the fleet. Proceed to rendezvous point.”

  She punched in the coordinates to return to the ship and lay back in her seat. She stared out into the field of stars, feeling spent, weak, her body still shaking. Just to speak had taken a herculean effort.

  Recovered some, Borland’s apprehension built as she led the way around Verdant. The news could have been worse, she realized, as she consulted her display. Two of the eight Union frigates had vanished from scope; four more blinked, the ships damaged. Several Alliance cruisers had also been destroyed however. Almost the entire fleet limped to some degree.

  Coming in at a higher orbit, she got a visual on the battle. An Alliance cruiser stationed well ahead of the fleet engaged three enemy frigates, one afire. The friendly ship scored hits with a cannon volley, destroying the bridge of an enemy vessel, which turned nose toward Verdant. As the crew prepared to abandon ship, it ceased firing.

  The Alliance cruiser then took a withering round of hits from the remaining two ships and vaporized in a massive, kaleidoscopic explosion.

  Further away, the Alliance battleship Deliverance destroyed another frigate with a hail of laser bolts and railgun fired slugs. It still faced two more. Severely damaged, flames shot from the colossal ship in at least three spots, as damage control crews tried to save her. A few damaged Alliance cruisers moved in to aid Deliverance. Exchanging deadly volleys of fire, emerald and crimson ropes of energy danced between the ships.

  Another frigate was blasted apart in a circular cloud of white and orange that lit up the adjacent ships before dissipating, falling prey to Deliverance.

  If the remainder of her squadrons had any ammo, Borland would have ordered an attack on the Union group, but her toothless flight could only flee to the Resolute, positioned at the rear of the formation. Soot blackened swaths along her hull showed where fires had been extinguished.

  A taut chain of Condors and lighters extended from the upper atmosphere up to the Resolute. Not all of the ground forces would be rescued, she knew, but many would make it before the fleet jumped to hyperspace. Her squadron’s efforts had bought some precious time, but soon the rest of the Union fleet would bring its superior firepower to bear, then Union fighters would switch from ground support to naval attack.

  The remaining fleet had to reach hyperspace before that moment.

  Five hundred klicks from home, Borland received the anticipated message on her HUD: FLEET PREPARE TO JUMP T-MINUS 5:00. The countdown began: 4:59… 4:58…

  She couldn’t believe, after somehow surviving the fiercest, most harrowing battle of her career, she might be left behind by the fleet. If her flight were abandoned, their chances of survival would be almost nil. Even with a full load of fuel they couldn’t escape the Tantus System; the Raven was not an interstellar craft.

  “Dammit! Get out in front of me, all of you. I’ll land last.”

  Borland had a dread vision of floating in the void of space, running out of oxygen; then another of living in the Verdant jungle like an animal for years on end, awaiting a rescue that would never come.

  She accepted neither fate. Then you’d better fucking make it.

  “Expedite landings,” she told her charges. “Do not wait for clearance.”

  “Ma’am,” said one of the Viper pilots, “the tractor beam can only handle—”

  “Then fly in and park your-damn-self! You wanna get left behind? We don’t have time to sweat regulations!”

  The HUD countdown to jump confirmed her statement: 3:45… 3:44…

  CHAPTER 36

  General Hella gave Admiral Erskin the order: “Initiate orbital strike.”

  She might have sobbed from frustration and failure had her crew and fleet not needed unshakable leadership, or the appearance thereof, to survive the next few minutes. Instead she checked her emotions and kept her bearing. Scopes inside the combat information center showed the remaining Union frigates approaching fast, having abandoned their escort role. Those she might have held off for a time, but she hadn’t enough fighters left to counter the Mantas that would arrive any moment. She’d sent three fighter squadrons to attack the capital ships; only five Ravens were returning.

  The number 85, which flashed on the holo-screen at her right hand, concerned her most at the moment. It represented the percentage of surviving Alliance forces evacuated from Verdant. It flipped to 87. She relayed Hella’s or
der to Rear Admiral Hubbard, commander of the Deliverance, and tried not to think of how many lives that thirteen percent of the ground forces represented.

  Though locked in combat with Union frigates, Deliverance sent the orbital strike seconds later.

  Erskin had studied naval battles from ancient times to the present since enrolling at the Academy, all in preparation for this moment. All for naught. How can I be in command yet still be so helpless? She refocused on the battle unfolding before her eyes, the frigates closing unopposed.

  A friendly ship entered her scope, not on course to rejoin the fleet. The Astoria! She checked the ship’s operational status. Mako had gotten her sub-light engines back online, though the jump drive was irreparably damaged. Erskin planned on jumping to hyperspace when the last dropship unloaded, mere minutes from now. He can dock with us; we’ll evacuate her crew in a hurry.

  “Contact the Astoria. Order her to rejoin the fleet and dock with the Resolute.” She tried to make sense of Mako’s present course, and suddenly her heart dropped. No! No, he can’t be doing that.

  “Ma’am, the Astoria is not responding to your order.”

  “Get Commander Mako on screen, now.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  She watched the Astoria proceed to its rendezvous with doom. Kyle, don’t do this!

  But then she remembered: Kyle Mako was every inch his father’s son.

  ***

  Mako’s tacit disobedience in ignoring Erskin’s order, even for a good cause, vexed him to no end. Disobeying a rational order from any commander would have needled him; gaffing off Erskin, a second mother to him, downright hurt. But her order is not rational under these circumstances. She believed it to be, but he recognized the impracticality of it.

  “Sir, the Resolute has taken over our communications,” said Lieutenant Commander Downing. “Stand by to address Admiral Erskin on screen.”

  Mako stood, still wearing his pressure suit minus the helmet.

  Erskin appeared on the bridge screen moments later. Though her expression was neutral, her green eyes betrayed annoyance and also worry. “Commander Mako, did you not receive orders to dock with the Resolute?”