Call to Arms: Blood on the Stars II

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, Bryan, I understand completely. No need to explain.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been trying to integrate the new personnel, but…well, Captain, it hasn’t been easy. I was going to feed them into what remains of our existing units, but if I do that, they’ll outnumber our…I mean the original personnel…so much that any unit integrity will be lost.”

  “We’re heading toward the front, Bryan, and while I expect we’ll end up in battle soon, it will probably be as part of a major fleet action. Which means, except in the extremely unlikely event that someone tries to board us, your Marines probably won’t be directly engaged. That should give you some time to shake things out. Keep a core of our existing squads intact, with at least half of their strength from old Dauntless personnel. That should be a good chunk of one company—you can add a couple of squads of the replacements to bring it up to strength. The other company will be entirely made up of former Archellia garrison forces. I know they were drawn from different units, but try to keep them as close to their original organization as possible.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “If we do need your Marines, I’m counting on you, Bryan. I know it’s painful to think about the losses we suffered, but you did an amazing job on Santis. From what I saw of Alliance naval personnel and pilots, I suspect their ground forces were no easy foe. Yet your people prevailed, despite being outnumbered.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Barron had already said much the same thing to Rogan more than once, but he could see his Marine commander was still punishing himself. He sensed a whiff of hypocrisy in his own behavior. He was trying to explain why the Marine losses weren’t Rogan’s fault, yet he was still beating himself up over Dauntless’s casualties, spacers and Marines both. He understood the inconsistency, but he ignored it, deciding that wallowing in guilt was a command prerogative.

  “Just do your best with them, Bryan. And let me know if you need anything.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” The Marine sat restlessly, looking back at Barron tentatively.

  “Dismissed, Captain,” Barron said, realizing after a second what the Marine was waiting for.

  “Yes, sir.” Rogan stood up, snapping into the rigid posture he seemed to find more comfortable than any other, at least in the exalted presence of Dauntless’s captain. The he saluted and turned on his heels, marching out of the room.

  Barron waited until the Marine was gone. Then he turned toward Travis. “What do you think, Atara? I have tremendous confidence in Bryan—and in Kyle Jamison as well—but both the Marines and the fighter wing were shattered out at Santis. I think the garrison forces take a little more grief than they deserve…but they’re not a match for the men and women we lost. And if anything, we’re probably going into a worse fight the one we had before. You know as well as I do, if they’re censoring things as widely as it appears, the real situation is even worse than what we were told.”

  He glanced down at his desk, at the small tablet that held the orders Admiral Lowery had given him. His expression was a somber one, his thoughts not really on the orders but rather on the great gaps in Dauntless’s roster, the crowd of new faces in the ship’s corridors. He’d been diving into his duties, obsessing over every decision. But he was troubled, and for all the outward appearance that Dauntless’s captain was at the top of his game, he wondered how he would react when he had to lead his people into battle again.

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Ty. But I don’t see anything we can do about it. We’ve got the pilots we’ve got, and the Marines too.” She hesitated. “Maybe when there’s a problem you can’t solve, you just do what you can and then move on. It’s pointless to worry about what you can’t change. I think both Captain Rogan and Commander Jamison understand the situation, and they’re both talented, reliable officers. Now comes the ‘move on’ part. I’d like to see you worry more about making sure we have what we really need to come through the next fight…our captain.” She paused before continuing.

  “Ty, you’ve got to let it go. I know you’re hurting, but you did everything you could at Santis. You won the victory, even though we were outmatched and taken by surprise. Yes, our losses were high, but if you hadn’t been Dauntless’s captain, we’d all be dead. I believe that…completely. So, cut the self-flagellation and lay off yourself for a while. And if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the men and women on this ship. Give them their captain back…at the top of his game. You owe them—us—that much.”

  Barron looked back at his first officer—and closest friend. There was a lot to admire about Atara Travis, but none of it was as impressive to him as her ability to give it to him right between the eyes when he needed it. He’d done his duty since returning from Santis, but he hadn’t been the same officer who had won that brutal fight. Terrorizing engineers to speed repairs was one thing, but Travis’s words had shaken loose the black shadow that had been festering deep in his mind. How would he react when he had to lead his people into battle again? When he had to send some of them to die?

  “I know you’re right, Atara. But…”

  “No buts, Ty.” Interrupting the captain was frowned upon in the Confederation navy, but it was clear Travis didn’t care, not right now. And instead of being angry or offended, Barron burst out laughing.

  “When you retire from active duty, maybe you can teach a class at the Academy on the proper control and chastisement of ship commanders.”

  Travis smiled. “Well, they need it sometimes.”

  The two shared a laugh, and Barron realized it was his first in a long time. “I know you’re right, Atara. It’s just difficult. For all my rank and years of service, that was my first real battle. Intellectually, I knew it would be terrible, but the reality was beyond what I’d imagined.”

  “It was for me too, Ty. And for all of the crew. They—we—need you now. Perhaps it’s a cruel obligation of command, but you have to set the example, help them all through their own fears and loss.” She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “And I know you can do it.”

  Barron smiled back at his first officer. “Thanks, Atara. I guess if the captain’s got to set the example for the crew, the first officer’s job is to set it for the captain.”

  She nodded. “And you know I love my job, Ty. So, pull yourself together, and we’ll face whatever comes our way side by side.”

  Chapter Seven

  CFS Repulse

  Arcturon System

  Just Inside the System Oort Cloud

  308 AC

  “Yeah! Another one…that makes five.” Timmons was excited, his blood lust almost completely in control now as he gunned down yet another enemy bomber. His squadron had escorted Repulse’s strike force in its assault against the enemy advance guard, but that fight was over now, the target force of battleships virtually destroyed. It had been a great victory, but Timmons still wasn’t sated. He’d requested permission for his Red Eagles to break off from escort duty as the attack squadrons headed back toward their base ships to refuel and rearm, and he’d received permission, along with Aires’s Direwolves, to attack the enemy bombers now returning to their own launch platforms.

  “Take it easy, Warrior…these bombers are easy pickings, but their interceptors are coming up now too. They’ll be tougher targets.”

  “Bring ’em on, Mustang. I don’t care how they’re fitted out…we’ll blow ’em away no matter what.”

  “Okay, Warrior, that’s great. But watch your fuel status. Mine’s looking like shit. We’re going to have to break off soon no matter what.”

  “Roger that, Mustang.” Timmons glanced down at his gauges, confirming what he already knew. He had ten minutes, maybe fifteen if he was careful with his thrusters, and then he’d have to break off. And he suspected some of his pilots were even worse off.

  He had a nagging feeling digging at him too. The strike against the enemy battleships had been too successful, one wave of attacks destroying or disabling ten capital ships. The kills had come too easily. The Union fo
rces had practically abandoned their defensive efforts, leaving only a token force of interceptors to screen their advance guard. Timmons knew the grand tactics of fleet combat weren’t his domain, but he was edgy nevertheless. Something was going on. If his brain wasn’t telling him that, the pit in his stomach was.

  He fired his lasers, and he felt the familiar excitement as another enemy bomber vanished from his display. He couldn’t see it, of course. Fighter battles were close-ranged affairs compared to capital ship duels, but his victim was still hundreds of kilometers away.

  He pulled back on the throttle, accelerating, bringing his bird around to track another target. It was an interceptor this time, and as soon as he angled toward the fighter, it launched into its own evasive maneuvers.

  Timmons’s hand moved to the side, by instinct as much as deliberate thought. As with most pilots in Confederation service, his battle experience before the war had been extremely limited. He’d been considered a gifted pilot since his days at the Academy, but it was only over the last couple months that he’d seen heavy combat. He’d adapted well, handling the stress and fear, and racking up an impressive record since the Union forces had streamed across the border. He knew not all pilots had. Some that had been considered highly skilled had found themselves overwhelmed, unable to remain focused in the massive dogfights that had characterized the fighting so far. And those who could not adapt had died. Even his own Red Eagles had seen their share of losses, and only half the pilots he’d started with on day one were still there.

  Timmons stayed with his target, his hand moving back and forth, matching the enemy bird’s maneuvers. He knew he had the edge, even beyond piloting skill. The Union interceptors had escorted their bombers all the way to the Confederation battle line. They had traveled farther than his people had, and the Union fighters had slightly less operational range. That meant his enemy couldn’t sustain the wild evasive maneuvers that were keeping him alive.

  Timmons hadn’t fired yet. His energy reserves were low, and he wasn’t about to waste it on wild shots at long range. He stared at the display, adjusting his course, closing steadily, relentlessly.

  He knew he had to break off in another few minutes. It was more than his own fuel status…he had his squadron to think about. He’d ordered them to break formation, to pick and choose their own targets. But now it was almost time to lead them home. His losses had been mercifully light, a fact he confirmed with another quick glance to the small screen on his control panel. Two ships lost…and at least one of the pilots had managed to eject before his ship was destroyed. All casualties hurt, but Timmons and his squadron had been in almost non-stop combat since the war began. Losses had become almost routine.

  He tried not to think of the pilots who’d been killed. That wasn’t the way in the fighter corps, at least not among Repulse’s six squadrons. The dead were gone—you drank a toast to them in the officer’s club after the battle, maybe told a story or two about their exploits…and then you forgot they existed. The next morning, they were gone, ancient history. It was war, total and brutal, and there was no place for weakness.

  He knew people outside the fighter service considered it a harsh custom, but as far as Timmons was concerned, none of them had any idea how many more pilots would die if they climbed into their birds distracted, thinking about lost friends. No, as far as he was concerned, it was how it had to be. He wasn’t about to trade a living, breathing pilot for memories of one already dead.

  Still, it was hard to ignore the damage his squadron had taken, the slots taken up by replacements. Some of those new pilots were blooded now, veterans of the terrible fights along the frontier. Others were raw, including two who’d launched as Red Eagles for the first time today.

  One, he reminded himself. Davis Clarkson had been one of his rookies…and now he was one of his casualties, the one who hadn’t ejected. Clarkson had one of those rounds of drinks coming in his honor…before the name his comrades had fleetingly remembered was forgotten. And then another fresh face from the Academy would take his place.

  Until we run out of them too. How long can we fight like this before there’s nothing left?

  Timmons stared intently ahead, lining up his shot. He only had four or five blasts left in his laser cannons…and he was already pushing the line on calling the withdrawal. But he stayed focused, deadly. It was inconceivable to him to let his prey escape, even as his fuel gauges screamed for him to return to Repulse.

  He took a deep breath…and he fired. A miss. Then again. A hit!

  The enemy fighter winked off the screen, and Timmons felt the burst of energy he always did after a kill. At least some version of it. After so much battle, so many dead, was the intensity waning? Was he losing the taste for it all?

  He shook his head, driving away the distracting thoughts. He wasn’t out here to think. He was out here to kill enemy fighters…and to lead his squadron. To get as many of them back alive as he could.

  “Red Eagles, break off contact…return to base.”

  He watched the display, confirming that his pilots were following his orders, that none of them were in trouble. Then he angled the throttle and blasted off, back toward Repulse.

  * * *

  “Captain Riley reports the last of Repulse’s fighters have landed, sir. They are commencing reloading and rearming operations now. We’re receiving word from the rest of the battle line as well, sir. All squadrons should be recovered within three minutes.”

  “Very well,” Winston replied. His line was moving forward, heading toward the enemy battleships. He was edgy, but despite the nagging concerns working on the edges of his mind, he was feeling a bit of optimism. The battle was going well. The ten ships of the Union advance guard were gone, destroyed or blasted to scrap. Perhaps he had finally managed to turn around two months of nonstop defeat and retreat. Now it was time to finish the battle, to stop the enemy invasion here and now.

  “All fighters are to remain in current configurations. All captains are to combine formations where necessary to create effective combat units.” Winston knew his squadrons had taken considerable losses, but the Union forces had suffered far greater casualties. He’d been tempted to arm more fighters for anti-ship strikes, but converting birds outfitted as interceptors to bombers was a time-consuming process. And he wanted his fighters back in space as quickly as possible.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Winston’s eyes fixed on the wall of small lights in the display, the Union line moving toward his. He was still troubled by the relative ease with which his forces had smashed the enemy advance guard, but the facts didn’t lie. Twenty percent of the enemy’s capital ships were gone, before the two battle lines had exchanged so much as a shot. The Union’s numerical advantage had mostly vanished with those ten battleships, and now Winston’s fleet faced a far more manageable forty to thirty-five matchup. Granted, the rest of the Union line was fresh, untouched by his attack squadrons, while many of his own ships were moving into battle with varying degrees of damage. But, still, it was the best odds his people had seen since the massive enemy fleets had poured across the border, and he was determined to see it through. He would fight here, to the end. His people had fallen back for the last time. Here he had drawn the line.

  “Captain Riley reports that his people will have two squadrons ready for launch in fifteen minutes, sir. He wants permission to launch in waves.”

  Winston didn’t answer, not immediately. He didn’t like the idea of sending his squadrons out piecemeal…but holding back fully-armed fighters didn’t appeal to him much more.

  “Projected time until the fleet enters firing range?”

  “Twenty-one minutes, Admiral.” Beltran paused, his eyes darting to his screen reflexively to double check the data he’d just reported. “Assuming both we and the enemy maintain current velocities.”

  Winston stifled a sigh. Getting all his fighters into space before the fleets engaged was going to be tight. “Advise Captain Riley that he is
authorized to launch all squadrons as they are ready. My orders to all vessels. Launch squadrons as soon as they are rearmed and refueled.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Beltran turned toward his comm unit, flipping it to the fleetwide channel. “Fleet order: All squadrons are to launch when ready.”

  Winston sat, staring straight forward. A moment later he felt the slight vibration, one of Repulse’s catapults launching fighters into space, then again, one every few seconds. His flagship’s squadrons were heading back into the storm, at least those the launch bay crews had managed to refit.

  His pilots had done well in their first sortie. They had savaged the enemy advance guard and destroyed hundreds of opposing fighters. But the real battle was about to begin, and he had to ask more of them. He knew they would be tired now, their sharpness worn away by the hours they had already spent in combat. And he was also aware that fatigue would claim lives, that pilots who would have survived a first mission would die now, the victims of slightly slowed reflexes, of minds struggling with exhaustion.

  “Captain Riley reports Direwolf, Red Eagle, and White Tiger squadrons launched. Thirty-seven total fighters.”

  “Very well.” Winston nodded. The interceptors. The rest of Repulse’s birds were rigged for anti-ship operations. Bombers took longer to turn around in the bays, and Captain Riley’s people had clearly emphasized rearming the craft outfitted for dogfighting. It made sense, as long as they got the bombers out in time.

  Riley knows that…do your job, and let him do his…

  “Eight minutes to weapons range, Admiral.”

  “All ships are to activate primary batteries and stand by for the command to commence firing.” The Confederation primaries were particle accelerators, at least on thirty-one of Winston’s thirty-five capital ships. The weapons were long-ranged and deadly, one of the Confederation’s greatest advantages in equipment and technology. But they were also fragile and highly subject to breakdown. It had been a running—and often heated—debate over the past decade as to whether the fleet was best served by the powerful weapons, or if the more durable x-ray lasers that had served two generations of Confederation warships were the better choice.