by Jay Allan
He glanced over at his first officer. “Commander Travis, are we ready?”
“Yes, Captain. All systems report one hundred percent operational. Both reactors are functioning normally. Commander Fritz is awaiting your command to activate the engines.”
“Very well.” His eyes moved to the right, to another station. “Lieutenant Darrow, please request authorization from Archellia base for Dauntless to depart.”
“Yes, Captain.” Darrow leaned forward, transmitting his request. A few seconds later, he turned back toward the command station and said, “Dauntless is authorized to leave, sir.”
Barron nodded approvingly. He had rescued the communications officer from undeserved disgrace, from the misfortune of having served under the only captain in Confederation service ever to turn traitor. The taint of his superior’s treason had smeared Darrow with suspicion, all of it without any basis whatsoever in fact. The injustice of it had disgusted Barron, and he’d specifically requested Darrow for his own crew, not only giving the wrongfully-tarnished officer a job, but also throwing the Barron protective umbrella around him. But it was only at Santis, he realized now, seeing Darrow’s utter dedication to duty, that the doubts he himself had subconsciously harbored had been entirely dispelled.
“Commander Travis, bring us out of space dock, if you please. Thrust at one-quarter of one percent.”
“Yes, Captain.” Travis turned to her station and relayed the command. A few seconds later, Dauntless shook as the station’s locking bolts released.
Barron watched on the main screen as his ship floated slowly away from the docking cradles and then turned, positioning its main engines to exert the thrust that would push Dauntless clear of the station. It wasn’t the first time he’d sat at his command post and watched his massive warship leaving port. But it still felt new, exciting. His entire career had been a journey to this command, and for all the fear, and the trepidation about going back to war, he knew he was right where he belonged.
He watched his people at work at their stations, the smooth efficiency of Dauntless’s operations, and a smile slipped out onto his lips. He was proud of these people, all of them. And he almost felt sorry for the enemy.
Almost.
Chapter Three
CFS Repulse
Arcturon System
Just Inside the System Oort Cloud
308 AC
The tension was thick on Repulse’s flag bridge as the men and women, among the best the Confederation had to offer, prepared for battle. There was a noisy hum, the combined sound of almost two dozen officers and spacers speaking into headsets, shouting orders and reports back and forth, banging away on keyboards. The Confederation’s flagship was about to move forward, into battle.
Admiral Arthur Winston sat in his chair, projecting an image of confidence personified. The gray-haired, steely-eyed officer seemed almost like a statue, a representation of some ancient god of war, without doubt or fear. But it was all an illusion, and it was taking everything Winston had in him to maintain. His stomach was twisted into knots, his back and hands were clammy with nervous sweat. Winston was scared, as terrified as the rawest recruit deep in the bowels of his massive flagship. He was a hardened veteran, accustomed to battle, but now he knew there was more at stake than his own life and the lives of those he commanded. He carried nothing less than the future of the Confederation with him into the fight, perhaps its very survival.
The war that had so long been expected had finally begun, and for all their preparation and readiness, the Confederation fleets had gotten the worst of it. Everywhere on the contested front, Union forces poured into Confederation space, more numerous than expected…more ships, more ground forces. The intelligence reports on enemy strength had proven to be wholly inaccurate, and the men and women of the Confederation’s navy faced overwhelming odds everywhere. They had done all they could—fighting savagely, falling back, selling their lives dearly. But nothing had stopped the vicious Union onslaught. And now Winston had drawn a line at Arcturon. Here the retreat would end. Here the massed fleet would make its stand.
Winston was the navy’s senior combat commander, a member of the dwindling old guard of officers who had served under Rance Barron, the hero who had led the Confederation back from the brink of ruin almost half a century earlier. Winston had been green then, one of Barron’s cadre of young aides, and he’d cut his teeth in the battles that had saved the Confederation. Now he was old—too old, he feared—and he felt almost as if he’d come full circle. After the disastrous first months of the war, it was almost as if he had traveled back in time, that once again he stood alongside Admiral Barron, fighting to save the Confederation from ruin. But this time he was more than a junior officer following a commander he idolized; this time he was in command, and he suddenly understood the true weight of the pressure his mentor had borne.
“All fleet units report ready for action, Admiral.” The officer’s voice was firm, but Winston knew it was as much a façade as his own grim confidence. Isaiah Beltran was Winston’s senior aide, a captain who’d given up his command to stand alongside his admiral, to help direct the largest military formation the Confederation had ever deployed.
“Very well, Captain.” Winston paused, staring at the massive tank in the center of the flag bridge. Hundreds of floating specs of light represented his forces, and those of the enemy. He dug down, drawing courage from that mysterious place deep inside that was its wellspring.
Here I am, Admiral Barron…what you made me, sitting here trying to fill your shoes…
“The fleet will advance. All units engage thrust at 4g.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Winston listened as his aide repeated the command, sending the orders to the various task forces and sub-units of the great armada. A moment later he felt the thrust on him, four times his weight pushing him back into his cushioned chair.
First Fleet was an immense force. Its three dozen battleships held more than fifteen hundred fighters, and they were backed by over one hundred support vessels. It was the greatest concentration of military might Winston had ever seen…except for the one it was facing.
The array of Union ships displayed in the tank was sobering, almost fifty ships of the line, backed by clusters of support units. Winston didn’t know precisely how many fighters all those motherships carried, but it was a good bet his pilots were going to be badly outnumbered. And when that battle line advanced to firing range and its primaries opened up, the amount of destructive force that would be directed at his ships was almost incalculable. His people would give it back, every bit of it and more. One on one, he had no doubt his Confederation spacers could defeat their enemy, but outnumbered as they were, he knew the battle would be a near run thing. And a costly one too.
“Our lead elements are within five hundred thousand kilometers of the enemy vanguard, Admiral.”
“Very well, Captain. Bring the fleet to battlestations.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Beltran tapped the side of his headset, activating the fleetwide comm. “All vessels to battlestations. Alert status red.”
The aide stared down at the large board in front of him, his eyes fixed for perhaps ten seconds. “All ships confirm, sir. The fleet is at red alert.”
Winston nodded. He sat unmoving, almost like a statue, staring at the tank for another half minute. Then he snapped his head up and looked toward Beltran. “All battleships are to scramble fighters, Captain. I want launch operations begun in three minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Beltran turned back to his station. “Fleet order…scramble all fighters.”
Winston had already sent out his pre-battle instructions. His capital ships had been instructed to deploy their fighters in accordance with standard procedures. One-third of the birds had been equipped as bombers and tasked with closing on the enemy battleships and conducting attack runs. The other two-thirds had been armed as interceptors, half assigned to protect the strike force and the other half deployed to com
bat space patrol, defending the motherships against enemy fighter attacks. It was a conservative formation, right out of the book.
He’d considered something bolder, more daring. Perhaps sending half or more of the fighters at the enemy capital ships. But in the end, he’d decided to play it straight. This battle was crucially important. If his forces were victorious, if they held here, the Union invasion would be blunted, and the battered Confederation forces would have time to recover and reorganize. But if he lost in Arcturon…
This is not what Rance Barron would have done.
Winston’s old commander had utilized an almost constant series of unpredictable tactics. Barron had led the revolt against the old high command, a reaction to the aged officers and hidebound procedures that had almost lost the Confederation.
I am an aged officer now. Rance was younger when he won his glory in the second war. He died early in the third, before he had to fight as an old man…
Winston had considered some aggressive plans, even a few that seemed borderline crazy. But he’d decided in the end to rely on the skill and dedication of the Confederation crews and not on wild and risky maneuvers. His people faced half again their numbers, but Winston was willing to gamble they could overcome that. His confidence said his people were that much better than their enemies, and he’d bet the battle on that.
His eyes glanced down to the screen to the side of his workstation. It displayed a small network of local systems centering on Arcturon. He’d chosen the place for his stand carefully. Arcturon was along the line of advance of the main Union fleet, and he had to defeat that force to blunt the enemy invasion. There were three other transwarp lines in the system. Two led deep into Confederation space. They lay behind his fleet, and they were the primary reason he’d made his stand at Arcturon. The other line led to Copernika, and from there to Ghallus, where Admiral Marionberg and her Second Fleet were deployed in a blocking maneuver, to protect Winston’s flank.
“Range to enemy vanguard, four hundred thousand kilometers, Admiral. All vessels report ready to launch fighters.”
Winston took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. Then he said, softly, “Launch all fighters.”
* * *
“I’ve got the spot picked out on my throttle, Mustang. There’s room for at least half a dozen more marks, and I’m looking to get them all today.” Dirk Timmons was cocky, as usual. The commander of Repulse’s elite squadron, he and his people had seen a lot of combat time over the past few months. A lot. Enough for him to score ten kills, which placed him in the top three of the fleet—a fact he’d been only too willing to share with his shipmates. At least, to those he outranked or managed to trap long enough to tell the story again.
“Just make sure no Union pilot’s carving one for you, Warrior…or whatever they do to celebrate a kill.” Charles “Mustang” Aires, Chuck to his comrades when he wasn’t in the cockpit, was Timmons’s rival in Repulse’s strike force, and his friend. The two men had different personalities, but they were the closest of friends, and two of the deadliest pilots ever to climb into a strikefighter. Aires wasn’t far behind his comrade, with eight kills of his own, though the styles of the two men couldn’t have been more different. Aires was meticulous, cautious…he flew his bird almost like a computer. Timmons, on the other hand, at least as far as everyone who knew him would attest, was crazy, as certifiably insane as they came.
“Never happen, Mustang. Never happen. Those Union pukes haven’t bred the pilot who can take me.”
“Maybe not, but what about the two pilots? Or the ten? I’m serious, Warrior, watch yourself. We’re outnumbered here, probably by a good bit. So be cool, man. Don’t get yourself shot to pieces.”
“You either, buddy. The drinks are on me when we get back to base. Now let’s earn our pay…two hundred eleven credits a month doesn’t grow on trees, you know. The Confederation’s expecting a return on its investment.” Timmons let out a bloodthirsty howl, and then he closed the line. Aires shook his head, fighting back a laugh. Warrior was like a brother to him, and he worried about his friend—that his luck, and his unquestioned skill, would fail him one day and his crazy antics would get him killed.
He reached out, switching the com to his squadron’s frequency. “Okay, Direwolves, it’s almost time. We’re covering the strike force, and that means no crazy, jacked up moves. Stay in tight, and keep those enemy birds away from the bombers.”
His eyes dropped to his scanner display. It was covered with small dots, so many that they were clustered together in a cloud, defying his attempts to count them. Fortunately, his AI had done the job for him. There were almost two dozen squadrons deployed to escort the bomber strikes, and six of them, ninety birds, were with his group. But he still figured they’d be facing almost double their number of enemy interceptors. And despite Timmons’s confidence, Aires knew well enough that the Union ships were as good as his own. He forced a tiny smile.
Even if their pilots aren’t…
He leaned forward, flipping a series of switches. The first two armed his missiles, a loud clicking sound confirming the safeties were off, the warheads ready. The other four controls triggered high-pitched whines as his quad lasers powered up. He was ready.
“Okay, Direwolves…we’ve got our coverage area, and nobody gets through, you got that?”
A rough chorus of acknowledgements and yessirs rang out on the channel.
“Then let’s go…break!”
Aires snapped his mask across his face and moved his throttle to the right, pulling back, feeding thrust into his engines. He felt the pressure as the force of acceleration slammed into him. His pressure suit provided some relief, and his facemask forced air into his aching lungs, partially countering the feeling of nearly ten times his body weight pressing against his chest.
“Switch to local display,” he said to his AI, struggling to force the words out. There was no point in staring at the long-range scans. He’d seen enough of the huge masses of fighters heading toward the Confederation fleet. Now he was interested in enemies that were closer. Enemies he could kill.
“Local display active,” the eerily calm voice replied as his screen morphed into the tactical readout. There were a dozen enemy contacts, two of them almost in range.
Here they come…
He nudged the throttle, bringing his fighter right at the closest enemy. The incoming fighters were coming straight on, their formation rigid, just like a bunch of rookies right out of flight school.
His eyes focused on the closest fighter, and another just beyond it. If his course was just right, he might be able to scrag them both with his missiles.
His eyes narrowed, focused on the targeting screen. He tapped his controls again…then one more time, adjusting his course slightly, coming in at his adversary on a direct line. His hand tightened around the throttle, his finger ready, closing slowly over the firing stud. He watched the range count down. Under fifty thousand klicks now, close enough for one of his missiles. But he held firm, allowed his ship to close. Forty thousand kilometers.
The enemy fighter fired its own missile. He could see the incoming warhead, heading right for his ship. But still he held his course. Twenty thousand. Then he pressed hard, hearing the loud click as the missile disengaged from his bracket and took off toward the enemy fighter. He nudged the control to the side, angling his bird toward the second target…and then he launched his other missile.
He whipped his hand hard to the side as soon as the second weapon cleared its cradle. He pulled back on the control as far as he could, blasting his fighter at full thrust, stifling a grunt as the massive g-forces slammed into him. He angled the throttle, and then again, changing the vector of his thrust wildly, randomly. According to intel reports, Union missiles only carried enough fuel for one hundred fifty seconds of active thrust. Once that was expended, the weapons would continue on a straight-line course, unable to match his evasive maneuvers. They would be useless then, unless a fighter had the ap
pallingly bad luck to wander right into the flight path of one.
His eyes darted to the display, checking quickly on his own missiles. The weapons were moving directly toward the enemy fighters. The pilots were trying to escape, but their moves were too late, too slow. Aires felt a wave of excitement as he realized he had the Union pilots, the first one for sure. An instant later his scanners confirmed the kill.
Yes!
Aires was far calmer than his friend Timmons, more deliberative. But those terms were relative, especially where pilots were concerned, and the kill filled him with as much excitement as it would have any other fighter jock. Then he felt another wave of satisfaction as the second target winked out of existence.
Stay cool, Mustang…you’ve still got to break free of this missile…or you’re going to be some cherry’s first—and last—kill.
He pushed the throttle forward hard, cutting his thrust to almost nothing. Then he moved it to the side and pulled back, firing up the engines again. He looked back at the display, watching as the enemy missile overshot him and began to try to decelerate to reacquire him. But it was too late. He watched the countdown clock move past one hundred thirty seconds. The missile had less than half a minute’s fuel left, far too little to bring itself around and make another attack run.
He glanced back at the display, looking first for any threats, enemy birds that had targeted him. But there was nothing. The Union fighters were mostly ignoring the Confederation interceptors. They were pushing right through toward the bombers, ignoring the losses they were taking.
Damn.
“Direwolves, let’s tighten up and come around toward coordinates 280.120.310. These bastards are after our bombers, and we can’t let them through.”
He gripped the throttle again, his hand tight around the worn leather covering the control. Then he brought his bird around, his eyes fixed on the dozens of enemy fighters heading right for the strike force.