by Jay Allan
But that was impossible. If he turned and ran, he would fly right into the blocking force, which had been moving toward his fleet, and was already almost hallway across the system. If he turned and ran and engaged them, the forces his ships were currently fighting would follow, and they would slam into the rear of his fleet. If he stayed, continued the fight in place, the blocking force would complete their journey across the system and attack from the rear.
Either way, his forces would be bracketed, surrounded. If the enemy kept pouring more ships into the system, it would be even worse, even more quickly. His fleet would be completely englobed.
Breaking off, making a run for it, meant almost certain death.
But so did staying where he was.
Barron glanced over at Atara, and her return gaze confirmed that she understood the situation exactly as he did. His move against the pursuing force had been out of the box thinking, but now he had nothing. Tactics, courage, resolve…they all played a role in combat outcomes. But there was a point when mathematics took control, became the absolute arbiter of battle.
Things were close to that point, if not there already. He wondered if he’d made a mistake, if he should have allowed his people to break formation and make a mad dash for home. His experience and understanding of the tactical situation told him only a small fraction would have made it, but now he would fight the final, fateful stages of the battle far across the system, nowhere close to an escape route.
Barron had commanded in his share of desperate situations, but he had never been so mentally exhausted, so utterly without any idea of what to do next.
“Admiral…” There was something in Atara’s voice. Surprise? Certainly. But something else, too. Was it hope? What could she have possibly seen to drive away the black curtain of despair?
“What is it?”
“We’re picking something up, sir. I think it’s…”
* * *
Reg Griffin’s laughter echoed off the canopy of her fighter. It was a caustic, bitter display, an outpouring of vengeance and hatred…and a way of saluting her comrade. Olya Federov had led the bombers in, and she’d gotten through the enemy’s defenses with more than three quarters of her ships still in formation. That was partly because of how stretched out the of enemy fleet was, but her evasive maneuvers had been nothing short of brilliant. He survivors plunged through the final layer of enemy point defense, losing another five percent of their number to the hyper-accurate beams, and then they planted their plasma torpedoes directly into the guts of the Highborn ships.
They were targeting the carriers, just as the forward battle line units were doing. It was a gamble, one that ran counter to normal doctrine, but the fact that the Highborn not only possessed fighters, but had them in massive numbers, had turned everything on its head. Reg had no idea how many launch platforms were with the enemy fleet, but she didn’t have to have an exact count to know taking them out was a good thing.
Perhaps her people could maintain their superiority. Denying the enemy squadrons a place to land was an effective strategy. It didn’t matter how good they were, or how advanced their ships were. If they couldn’t refuel and rearm, they were finished.
We might be able to refit and relaunch…and keep the pressure on. Perhaps she could even fit out more of her ships as bombers.
Or Olya or whoever else might do that…if I’m not there…
Reg was excited to see her wings performing so well…but she was losing hope of leading them out herself for any second assault.
She was fighting fiercely, better she believed, than she ever had. But it wasn’t enough. It was close to what she needed. But close in a one on one dogfight was just about the most useless thing imaginable. Dying because one was a half second behind an adversary or missed by twenty meters, didn’t change the reality of being dead.
She still couldn’t understand how a Highborn pilot had gotten so good, so quickly, but such thoughts were rapidly leaving her mind, chased out by more primal sensations, like despair and fear. She’d just dodged a pair of shots that had almost finished things, including one deadly lance of laser energy that had come less than twenty meters from her ship. She was still hyperventilating from that one, and she knew the more rattled she became, the less effective she was. Fear was beginning to do her enemy’s work for him.
She tightened her hand on the controls, and she grasped in her mind for any way to control fear, to refocus her thoughts on the fight at hand. She was at a disadvantage, she couldn’t deny that…but it wasn’t over yet.
You can win this battle, dammit. Just stay on it, don’t give up…
But such things were easier said than done, and she wrestled fiercely on the brink of despair. She was a veteran, and that strength prevailed…barely. She still wasn’t convinced she could win, but she was damned sure going to keep trying.
If her opponent wanted her to stop, he would have to finish her, and if he gave her any opening at all, that was just what she was going to do it him.
* * *
“We’re definitely picking up additional contacts, Admiral…besides the enemy blocking force. Behind them, on the far side, toward our exit transit point.” Atara was trying hard not to sound confused, but Barron knew her too well to be fooled. She had no more idea what was happening than he did. The idea of more Highborn ships, beyond the two vast forces already bracketing his fleet, was horrifying enough. But the last place the Highborn would be coming from was through that point. Striker was only a few transits beyond, and even with the outposts gone, he’d placed enough pickets there to get warning to Clint Winters if any enemy forces tried to push through.
Barron remembered his words with Winters, just before the fleet set out. He’d been determined then, and he’d meant every word he’d said. But he wondered if he had been wrong, if Colossus and the rest of the ships at Striker, including, he suspected, the new antimatter-powered Excalibur would have made a difference. Had he consigned his fleet to destruction, and all his people to death?
“We’re picking up beacons now, Admiral.” Atara was suddenly excited, and the doubt had mostly vanished from her tone. “They’re Confederation signals…and Hegemony ones. And Palatian, too!.” She looked across the bridge, and their eyes connected. “They’re ours, Admiral. I don’t know how, but those ships are ours!”
Barron felt a rush of emotions, confusion, then clarity…and a flash of anger that quickly faded. Suddenly he understood. Clint Winters had disobeyed his orders. He had led the ships at Striker forward after the fleet. That was insane, foolish, reckless. How far would he have gone, how deep into enemy territory, if he hadn’t run into Barron’s people back in Bata Telvara. But his anger couldn’t get any traction. The Sledgehammer had disobeyed his orders…but his comrade and second-in-command also given him—and his spacers and his fleet—a chance, at escape at least, if not at victory. And he wasn’t going to throw it away.
He felt renewed vigor, and the hopelessness that had begun to take hold was suddenly gone.
Chapter Forty-One
CFS Excalibur
Beta Telvara System
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Get me more thrust. All ships, push reactors. We’ve got to catch those bastards.” Clint Winters was snapping out orders, some of them containing language that would have been frowned upon in the Academy. But the Sledgehammer had a reputation for firing out commands that were both loud and dirty, and he was living up to his own legend in every way as he led the relief force forward.
He’d expected to engage the enemy almost immediately. Andi’s description of the Highborn locations had been precise, and if he knew one thing about his friend, it was that he could take every word she uttered as incontrovertible fact. But, of course, Andi had come through the system over a week before, and ships could change locations at any time.
That hadn’t made much sense at first. A position astride the transit point seemed the perfect place to lay in wait, the ideal spot for trap
ping Barron’s retreating fleet.
Then, the long range scans came in, and with them, complete clarity. Barron’s ships weren’t somewhere deeper in Occupied Space, making their way back to Beta Telvara. They were in that very system already, on the other side from where Winter’s ships had just entered…and they were in the middle of a fierce struggle with Highborn forces that had pursued them.
Winters might have hesitated, wondering what had happened, but he knew Tyler Barron too well for that. His friend had spotted the enemy trap, and instead of racing across the system and making a run for it—just what the enemy had wanted—he’d turned about and hit his pursuers as they transited. It was bold, daring, decisive.
It was Tyler Barron.
And it was perfect. Barron had made his decision alone, a desperate attempt to find a way take on the two enemy forces individually. But now, Winters’s fleet was going to engage the blocking force. There were still a lot of Highborn in the system, and even with everything the Pact could muster present, it was going to be a hard and deadly fight.
But at least there was a chance, if not of victory, of escape.
“Admiral, Commodore Eaton advises that she can increase Colossus’s acceleration to 90g.”
Winters turned, and he nodded. “Have her increase to 90g. And, let’s get Excalibur up to 75g, at least. Those are antimatter reactors down there, so let’s see what the hell they can do.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
He could hear the hesitation in the officer’s voice, and he understood. He was violating every tactical principle in the book. It made no sense sending his most powerful ship ahead alone, while he followed in the second strongest, leaving the rest of the fleet strung out behind.
But it made less sense to allow the Highborn blocking force to reach Barron’s fleet before he could engage them. He’d come to rescue Barron’s people…not to watch them outflanked and destroyed while he looked on helplessly. If he could get close enough before the Highborn made it across the system, he might force them to turn and deploy to face his attack.
That would be hard on Excalibur and Colossus, and on the Hegemony battleships that would be next in line behind them. But the rest of the fleet would be coming up next.
“Gunnery stations…prepare to open fire.” The Highborn had the range advantage over every ship in the Pact fleet…save two.
The two that were advancing at the forefront of Winters’s force.
Colossus’s massive old imperial batteries were a match for anything the enemy had…and while Excalibur’s main guns were untested in combat, the specs were clear that they could fire on targets almost as far out as the Highborn ships could.
And the railguns on the Hegemony battleships just behind weren’t that much shorter ranged.
“All gunnery stations report ready to fire on your command.” A few seconds went by. “Admiral, scanners are picking up energy readings from Colossus. They’ve commenced firing, sir!”
Winters smiled, and he nodded, a barely perceptible move, and one acknowledging Sonya Eaton’s skill and preparedness. Winters had mourned the loss of Sonya’s older sister, Sara, as had the rest of the fleet. The elder Eaton had been one of the navy’s most popular officers, and one of its most capable. But her sister was rapidly filling her shoes, and when Tyler Barron had given her Colossus, he’d put her in charge of the single most powerful war machine any of the Pact powers possessed.
And she had never given him reason to regret his choice.
Winters watched as the scanners updated Colossus’s shots. Damage assessments began to scroll down the display as two of the massive weapons scored hits, and a dense cloud of radiation spewed out from the forward Highborn ship.
Winters felt his hands clench, and he pumped his fist in silent congratulations. Then his eyes saw as the distance to the lead targets ticked down, into Excalibur’s range.
“All batteries…open fire.”
* * *
Stockton could feel the excitement and exhilaration that only came to him in battle, when he was fighting a worthy opponent. When he was on the verge of victory.
And he hated himself for it.
It was Reg Griffin out there, he was almost sure of that. He recognized her fighting style, the things he’d taught her, and those personal touches she’d brought with her. She was, in many ways, his greatest student, and she’d come close to equaling her teacher’s ability.
Close…but not quite.
Combat was never a sure thing. Reg Griffin was perfectly capable of killing Stockton, but he figured he had at least four chances in five of defeating his adversary.
His friend.
He felt an urgency to finish the battle, to kill Reg, so he could attend to his wings, to the problems that had been mounting all the while he’d fought his duel with his old protege. Casualties were far beyond the most pessimistic projections, courtesy more than anything of Admiral Barron’s unorthodox move to turn about on the pursuing force. He hadn’t expected his wings to be outnumbered for so long, but he realized he should have. He’d fought with Tyler Barron for two decades, and he cursed himself for underestimating the Confederation admiral.
And deeper down, he felt the warmth of a smile. Well done, Admiral…
It was also clear the Pact bombers, and even the advance elements of their battleline, were all targeting the carriers. He was losing launch platforms faster even than fighters, and finding his people someplace to land was rapidly becoming a major concern.
The targeting priorities were as daring a move on Barron’s part as his course reversal. It posed a dire threat to the Highborn wings, at least the most forward ones…but the bill would come due when the undamaged Highborn battleships were able to mass sufficient strength to start tearing apart the Pact battleships from outside their opponents’ ranges.
But the fighters, and where to land them…that was his problem.
Land them in the center of the damned sun…I will lead them there myself…
But his thoughts of sabotaging the wings were as impotent as they had been for four years, and he knew he would do everything possible to safely land the squadrons, and lead them out again against his old comrades.
First, he would kill Reg Griffin, and in doing so, he would not only betray a friend, he would allow the best chance he’d had in four years of escaping into the arms of death slip by.
It was time. He could feel it. He understood it in his mind.
And he made one last, desperate effort—ultimately futile—to stop himself, to keep his hand from the controls. Even to delay, to make a mistake, give Reg an opening. To no avail. The Collar was as securely in control as ever.
His eyes narrowed, focused on his target. He felt the predator’s thrill at an impending kill, and he despised himself as the high flooded over him. He was going to kill his old comrade, his friend.
And to his utter disgust, he was going to enjoy it.
His ship banked hard, and his hand closed around the throttle, his finger tightening on the firing stud.
* * *
“Admiral…request authorization to bring the bomber wings in immediately. If we can get everyone docked quickly enough, we might be able to get out in time to hit the force moving on the rear of the fleet.”
Tyler Barron listened to Olya Federov on the comm, but his attention was split. He was still checking the scanner reports, trying to piece together just what kind of relief force had arrived.
Trying to decide what he should do. Should he press forward harder, do as much damage as possible to the enemy fleet still transiting in? Or should he pull back, make a run across the system…and just maybe, trap the enemy’s would be blocking force between the two Pact fleets? There wouldn’t be time to fight that out, to take full advantage of the positioning…not with so many ships coming through that would almost certainly follow him. But he was sure he and Winters could give the blocking force one hell of a beating.
“Yes, Olya…get all your people back onboard. As quic
kly as possible.” Barron knew the evasive maneuvers of the fleet’s line ships would make landing operations difficult. He also knew he had the best officer in known space to direct it all. Stara Sinclair had brought thousands of fighters back into the bays, even while their mother ships were locked in their own desperate battles. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, even, at least not by the book. But Barron had seen her do it. More than once.
“Atara, the bombers are coming in. Alert all ships, and advise that Commodore Sinclair will be directing landing ops.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Barron nodded, and he leaned back, wrestling with the next decision he had to make. Reg Griffin’s fighters were taking great advantage of their temporary numerical advantage. But if he was going to break off, he had to get them back aboard. He was already too late, and every passing moment only worsened the problem.
But if he was going to keep up the pressure on the enemy fleet as it transited, he wanted those fighters out there. The enemy would be at a tremendous disadvantage as it continued to launch additional wings piecemeal, as their carriers arrived. Pulling the fighters back would give away a chance to hurt the enemy even more than he had already.
Leaving them out there risked being compelled to abandon them entirely when he decided to make a run for it. That was something he couldn’t allow.
“Atara, get Reg Griffin on the line. We’ve got to pull back the entire strike force.”
“Yes, Admiral.” A few seconds later: “No response from Admiral Griffin, sir. I’ve got Dirk Timmons.”
Barron tried his best not to imagine the worst about Reg. Too many people were counting on him just then to allow a moment to worry about a friend. “Warrior, this is Admiral Barron. We can’t reach Admiral Griffin. I need you to take command of the interceptor wings, and prepare to break off and return to base. Olya Federov is landing the bombers right now. Stay in the fight for fifteen minutes more, and then get the hell back here, as fast as you can!”