by Jay Allan
It was hard for him to believe even a Union admiral would sacrifice ten line battleships just to blunt his bombing strike. But that was exactly what he’d just seen unfold.
No, not just to blunt our strike…
The incoming enemy attack was moving into range of his own Confederation line and, courtesy of the enemy’s vastly reinforced escort squadrons, it was arriving far more intact than he’d expected.
They sacrificed their advance guard so they could hit us harder…
“All ships activate anti-fighter defenses.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Combat space patrol…advance and engage enemy bombers.” Winston had ordered a portion of his fighters held back in reserve—again, a “by the book” maneuver—but his CSP was woefully inadequate to face what was coming…especially since there was still a phalanx of enemy interceptors in the lead of the approaching formation.
He watched the cloud of tiny icons in the display moving toward his ships, and the much sparser cluster of his own CSP units. He felt the urge to recall the rest of his interceptors, but he held back. There was no point. Those squadrons were far too distant to intervene before the enemy bombers launched their attack. His own bombing strike might be expending itself on some kind of enemy decoys, but he was already committed to his course of action there.
His CSP fighters moved forward, accelerating hard, trying to hit the enemy attack before the bombers were able to launch their torpedoes. It was a hopeless effort. There were too many enemy interceptors still screening the assault force. Winston knew that, and he was certain his pilots did too. But that hadn’t stopped him from ordering them into the fight. And it hadn’t prevented them from following that command.
Winston stifled a sigh. He’d long known war was coming, and he’d been just as sure he would have the top command when it did, but now he felt out of place, unprepared. He’d always prided himself on his devotion to duty, but he’d never wanted to run as badly as he did now. He wasn’t hopeless of winning the battle, quite the contrary…his forces had a good chance. But watching his bombers continue to savage the enemy advance guard, he came to appreciate the brutal ruthlessness of the Union. It was sobering, and it triggered something deep within, a primal fear of an enemy so utterly indifferent to the loss of human life. Even total victory in this war would be almost unimaginably costly. Defeat was unthinkable.
“CSP engaging.” Beltran’s tone suggested the aide had come to many of the same conclusions.
He watched as the Confederation fighters hurled themselves at the enemy strike force with unbridled fury. The pilots, too, realized what was at stake, and they ripped into the defensive screen of interceptors. The defenders were outnumbered, but they had one advantage. They were fresh, and they still had their missiles. They used them to devastating effect, and it seemed that hardly a warhead failed to find a target. Whole Union squadrons seemed to vanish from the display as the Confed pilots drove forward, relentlessly moving toward the approaching bombers.
Winston saw his wings moving directly ahead, leaving enemy interceptors on both flanks. His fighters could have defeated the Union escorts in a protracted dogfight, he was fairly certain of that. But they knew their primary mission was to hit the bombers—even if that meant flying into a trap, allowing the surviving enemy escorts to close in behind them.
He’d been a warrior for decades, for his entire adult life. But he was still taken aback by displays of selfless courage like the one he was witnessing now. His pilots sliced into the bomber squadrons, racking up kills. They weren’t going to get them all. They weren’t even going to destroy most of them. But every one of the enemy destroyed was one less to ravage the Confederation battleships.
Repulse’s bridge was almost silent, every eye on the display or on workstation screens, focused on the epic fighter duel. Dozens of enemy bombers were destroyed or disabled. Hundreds. But hundreds more pushed forward.
The surviving attackers moved into range of the battleships’ defensive batteries. On thirty-six capital ships—and on dozens of smaller escort vessels—laser turrets opened up, rapid bursts targeting the incoming bombers. More enemy ships were destroyed, but the strike force kept coming, moving closer. A handful of interceptors had come about, following after the bombers, taking down a few more of the strike craft, but most of his surviving fighters were trapped in a dogfight as the bombing group’s interceptor escorts closed in from their flanks.
Winston stared at the cloud of enemy craft, definitely thinned out from what it had been, but still substantial. His own people had almost finished off the ten ships of the Union’s advance guard, but the rest of the enemy battle line was untouched. If the Confederation capital ships could come through the bombing runs with minimal damage, it would be close to an even match. The Union ships still had numbers, but Confederation skill and élan could make up for the modest difference. But getting through the approaching strike without extensive damage seemed an unlikely prospect.
His hands moved subconsciously to his chest, checking that his harness was attached. He looked around the flag bridge, his eyes passing over his people, double-checking that they too were belted in, like some grandfather looking over his grandchildren. He realized it was an odd thing for a fleet admiral to do, but he valued his staff, and he wasn’t about to lose anyone to something as profoundly stupid as getting thrown from a chair into a bulkhead. Besides, it gave him something to think about besides the battle…and the barrage about to overtake his ships.
“Detecting multiple torpedo launches, Admiral. All across the line.”
“Very well.” Winston sat still, like a statue hewn from the hardest marble. “Switch interdictive fire to torpedoes.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Winston knew it wouldn’t make much of a difference. It was hard to target a ship as small as a fighter at anything but the closest of point blank ranges, and it was even more difficult to lock onto a single torpedo. But it was the last chance to stop some of those shots from closing, and every torpedo his weapons destroyed was one less that could tear into his ships and kill his people. His gunners would only have a brief opportunity. Once the reactions triggered inside the warheads, converting the mechanisms to balls of super-heated plasma, even that small chance would be gone.
He watched his screen, feeling a wave of excitement as he saw reports of hits scroll down the side. His gunners were earning their keep, their accuracy almost uncanny. At least thirty of the incoming weapons were destroyed. But then he saw the tiny symbols in the display changing color, the torpedoes converting to pure energy.
“Laser batteries cease firing at torpedoes. Retarget back to bombers. And all ships, conduct evasive maneuvers, now!” He’d expected the enemy attack craft to break off after they’d launched their primary weapons, but the fighters were still coming on, preparing to conduct strafing runs on his battleships. It was an aggressive strategy, one likely to result in high casualties among the fighters. But it would also give the attackers a chance to close on the capital ships hardest hit by the torpedoes…and maybe push a few over the edge.
His eyes darted to the larger display. His interceptors were still locked in their death struggle with the enemy’s. It was a massive dogfight, with losses high on both sides. His people were slowly clawing their way to winning the engagement, but they were still outnumbered, and unless the enemy broke off, there was no way most of his birds would get back in time. He had a few birds from the CSP and his ship’s laser turrets, but that was all.
“All laser batteries targeting bombers, sir,” Beltran said. “All ships executing evasive maneuvers.” Then a few second later he added, “Lead torpedoes entering impact range…now.”
Winston inhaled deeply. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then his screen lit up, reports of torpedo hits coming in from the ships of the fleet. At first, it looked like the enemy barrage was hitting with deadly accuracy, one superheated plasma after another slamming into his ships. But then the frequency d
ropped off, dozens of the deadly weapons zipping by, no longer able, in their pure energy form, to adjust their courses in response to his vessels’ evasive maneuvers.
He could hear his communications officers fielding damage reports from across the fleet. He knew Beltran would filter the raw data, relaying only the most severe to him, but he glanced down at his own screen anyway. Excalibur, Galaxy, Illustrious, Renown…all hit. Indefatigable and Warspite, hit multiple times, reporting extensive damage to primary systems. And Dominion…
“Admiral, we’re getting a Code Black transmission from Dominion.”
Winston went cold. Code Black was the signal that a ship faced imminent destruction. He’d known his fleet would take losses, that the massive battle to stop the Union invasion would carry a terrible cost. But Dominion was the first, and his mind recalled her stats. Forty-eight fighters, seven hundred ninety-four crew. Captain Becca Klein commanding. He’d known Klein for ten years. She was a good commander…and a friend.
Perhaps they’ll be able to evac…
“Dominion’s gone, Admiral.” Beltran’s words hit him hard. His eyes were still focused on the display, where the blue sphere representing the battleship had just winked out of existence.
Winston heard more damage reports coming in…and then Repulse shook hard, throwing him forward with considerable force. He felt the straps of his harness digging into his chest, and then he snapped back hard into his seat. He winced in pain, but he knew immediately he wasn’t injured, not really. His flagship was another matter.
Flag Captain Riley was off in Repulse’s main bridge, and Winston knew the operation of the ship was that capable officer’s responsibility. An admiral in charge of a task force might also command his own vessel, but Winston was responsible for the largest Confederation fleet ever assembled. Dozens of ships and almost fifty thousand spacers served at his command. It just wasn’t feasible to wear Repulse’s captain’s hat too.
“Captain Riley reports moderate damage to port side systems, Admiral. Two secondary batteries knocked out, structural integrity lost in several outer compartments…but both reactors are functioning at one hundred percent, and there is no damage to the engines or landing bays.”
Winston felt a wave of relief. Things could have been a lot worse. Still, he suspected there were casualties, in the compromised compartments and in the damaged laser turrets…and probably some fatalities in the mix.
No point in dwelling on that. They aren’t the first to die today, and they won’t be the last.
He stared at his screen, his eyes fixed on the damage reports. Most of his battleships were still combat-ready. And his own bombers had obliterated the enemy advance guard—six ships destroyed outright, and the other four badly damaged, bleeding air and fluids into space. Decoys or not, that was ten less line ships ready to fight his own. It was time to decide the issue.
“Captain Beltran, issue a fleet order. The battle line will advance. All ships accelerate at 6g.”
Chapter Six
CFS Dauntless
Orianus System
En Route to Arcturon
308 AC
“I need your help, Jake. I know how you feel about these Rim garrison pilots. I know how everybody feels about them. But they’re what we’ve got, and we’re damned lucky to have them.” Jamison paused. “You know as well as anyone the losses we took at Santis.”
“Yes, I know. And those were friends, Kyle, comrades. These garrison jockeys are rejects, the bottom of the barrel after fleet command got its pickings. Not one of them has seen a shot fired in anger.” Jake Stockton was generally considered Dauntless’s best pilot, in fact universally so since his rival—and now he’d realized too late, his friend—Tillis Krill had been killed in action. Krill had saved Stockton’s life, and lost his own in the process.
It was something Jamison knew had been difficult for his cocky ace to accept. Stockton had been subdued for weeks after the battle, acting very unlike himself. But now he seemed back to his bombastic norm. Seemed…Jamison wasn’t sure his friend had really recovered from what had happened out on the Rim.
“And how much action had you seen before Santis, Jake? Who’d you shoot at before those Alliance pilots? A few pirates and renegades? You’re good, I’ll give you that, but sometimes you’re an arrogant ass.”
Stockton looked like he was going to hurl back a spirited response, but he hesitated. Then he said softly, “That may be true, Kyle, but you were with me out there. I’m not saying the Union jocks are going to be a match for those Alliance devils…but you know what’s going to happen to these lap dogs. We might as well shoot them in the heads now. It would be a mercy.”
“That’s why I need your help. We’re heading into another fight. We have to get them ready.”
Stockton snorted. “You’re asking for miracles, Kyle.”
“Yes, Jake…maybe that’s what I’m asking for. But what options are there? Like it or not, we lost more than half our people at Santis. Those garrison pilots are going to be our comrades, our wingmen…and if they get blown away, it’ll be that many more enemy birds on your ass.” He paused. “And whatever you think of their skills, do you really want to watch them die?”
“No,” Stockton replied sullenly. “That’s why they shouldn’t be here.”
“Well, that wasn’t your decision. It wasn’t mine either, or even theirs. But it was the right one. The fleet’s not doing well, Jake…and my gut tells me things are worse off than we’ve been told. Those pilots are here because they’re needed. Because the Confederation needs everyone right now. So, you can quit bitching about the fact that they’re inexperienced or poorly trained or whatever…and you can help me whip them into shape.” His eyes bored into Stockton’s. “Or you can watch them die and know that you didn’t try to help them out.”
“All right, all right…I understand. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to teach your new Blues how to fight. You know there was a day not all that long ago that even Jake “Thunder” Stockton didn’t know how to fly. Somebody taught him…and he turned out to be pretty damned good at it. Maybe he can pay that forward.”
Stockton nodded, a smile forcing its way onto his face. “Okay, you made your point. I’ll do what I can.”
“I want you to take the new Yellows too. Typhoon is a good man, but I had to move him up to squadron command far too soon. I think he’ll handle himself well enough in action, but I’d like to see a more experienced hand trying to teach his new pilots a thing or two.”
Stockton’s smile slipped off his face. He stood for a moment, silent, thoughtful. Lieutenant Rick “Typhoon” Turner had been one of his own Blues, until Jamison had transferred him to command Yellow Squadron…replacing the dead Tillis “Ice” Krill. There was no question he had unresolved feelings about Krill’s death, and he suspected he’d have a reckoning with himself at some point. But now wasn’t the time.
He returned Jamison’s gaze. “Rick will do fine, Kyle. He’s a good man.” He paused. “Ice would have approved.”
Jamison nodded slowly. “Yes, I think he would have. But give Rick a hand anyway. You’re the best we’ve got, and whatever you can get across to these replacements could save some lives.”
“All right. I’ll do my best. But I can’t make any promises.”
“Your best is all I ask, old friend. It’s all any of us have to give.”
* * *
“Captain Rogan, come in and have a seat.” Barron looked over at the Marine standing just inside the door at attention. He gestured toward a vacant guest chair facing his desk. “At ease, Captain, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Rogan’s body shifted slightly, but Barron had to stifle a laugh. If the Marine officer thought his slightly less than ramrod straight posture constituted “at ease,” Barron decided he’d play along.
“Hello, Captain.” Atara Travis was already sitting in one of the chairs in front of Barron’s desk, and she turned around to face the new arrival.
“Bryan, I understand your code of conduct, and I appreciate the respect you show in my presence, but I like a certain amount of informality, especially with my top officers. I’d appreciate if you could try to relax, just a bit. At least when it’s just the senior personnel present.”
“Yes, sir,” the Marine replied crisply.
“No, Bryan…that’s not an order. Just try.”
Barron caught Travis smiling, and he flashed her a scolding glance. Bryan Rogan had been having a rough time since the fighting at Santis. He’d lost almost two-thirds of Dauntless’s already understrength Marine contingent there, and the fact that he’d beaten a force twice as large hadn’t seemed to lessen the blame he’d placed on himself for his dead Marines.
“Yes, Captain.” The big Marine’s voice was softer, more informal. Barron suspected it was an acting job, but you had to start somewhere.
“Bryan, I wanted to talk to you about the contingent.” Dauntless’s forty or so surviving Marines had been reinforced by one hundred sixty-two drawn from the Archellia garrison. The reinforcements outnumbered Dauntless’s original cadre four to one, but Barron knew the survivors of the battle on Santis were in every way still the heart and soul of the force.
“It’s difficult, Captain. Our people were always close, but the…battle…really forged them into a tight unit. You understand, sir…when a force suffers losses like…”