by Jay Allan
Losses…if we can’t thin out that strike we might all be lost…
There were still too many bombers coming. If he’d kept back a CSP, he’d have another line of defense.
If you held back a CSP, your forward squadrons would have been overwhelmed. There were just too many enemy fighters…
Jamison’s squadrons were chasing the bombing strike. They’d been forced to decelerate and reverse their vectors after their initial attack run, so they were behind. But Barron’s strike force commander and his people were pouring it on, blasting at full power and closing that gap. Barron figured it was a coin toss as to whether they’d get there in time to attack before the bombers launched their torpedoes. But it was a dead certainty, Jamison and his pilots would be almost out of fuel and in desperate need of open landing platforms. Another reason he had to keep the bays functional. Somehow.
* * *
“Nice one, Condor. Best shooting I’ve seen in a long time!” Rick Turner knew he was exaggerating a bit. The shot had been a good one, nothing more. But he was in over his head, somehow trying to take the place of “Raptor” Stockton as Blue leader, and he was doing everything he could think of to inspire his pilots.
Blue squadron was Dauntless’s elite formation, but Turner knew the force he led wasn’t the same one he’d served with for over a year. It wasn’t the same one that had gone into the deadly fight against Invictus out on the Rim. That crack force had suffered significant losses, and many of those holes had been filled with replacements, transferred garrison pilots, and now, even a few strays from the fighting in Arcturon. It was still an effective force, and the veterans were stronger and more experienced for their recent struggles, but overall, the Blue squadron surrounding him had more weaknesses than its predecessor.
Then there was Stockton. The Blues’ regular commander tended to be popular everywhere he went, a confident pilot, a good storyteller…everything that made him someone easy to get along with. But his pilots, the people who knew him best…they didn’t just like him, they revered him. They’d watched him in battle, a terrifying force all on his own, released on the helpless enemy. And they’d seen him taking terrible risks, putting himself on the line to help one of his pilots, doing everything imaginable to get as many of them back to the bay as possible. Blue squadron without Stockton was still a powerful formation, but it went into battle without its heart and soul, and as much as he tried, Turner knew he could never replace what they had lost.
Not lost…Raptor will be back…
He didn’t know if he really believed that, but right now he had to. His people needed his best, and he couldn’t give that if he was devastated over Stockton’s loss. He wasn’t sure if he was fooling himself or not. The mission had seemed like a hopeless one, but then, he couldn’t imagine Raptor failing at anything either.
We’re not coming back from this one anyway…
Turner understood why the Blues had been sent to intercept the enemy assault force. They were the only squadron capable of delaying four times their number of fighters long enough for Jamison and the other squadrons to hit the Union bombers. And they had done it. Their initial attack had been so aggressive, so relentlessly deadly, they had compelled all four incoming squadrons to engage them. They’d held their own for a long time, the wingman-based tactics Stockton had taught them paying dividends as their enemies surrounded them. But now the impetus of the initial assault had waned, and the enemy squadrons had regained some level of organization. They were launching coordinated attack runs now, and despite the difference in experience between the two forces, they were starting to inflict losses.
The mission was complete, Jamison’s fighters off pursuing the remnants of the bombing force. But the Blues were hopelessly intermixed with the enemy formations. Turner wanted to sound the withdrawal, to lead his people back to Dauntless…but he knew it was impossible. The enemy had used their numbers in a surprisingly effective manner, and they had practically englobed his force. His fighters were being attacked from every direction, and a retreat now would turn almost instantly into a slaughter. And he’d see every pilot of Blue squadron die in battle before he’d watch them butchered like fleeing sheep.
He pressed down on the firing control, loosing a bolt from his deadly lasers. The enemy fighter a thousand kilometers in front of him blinked off his screen. Another kill. His people had inflicted heavy losses on their enemies…but not enough to alter the deadly force ratio in effect. The Blues could inflict four kills for every one of their own taken down and still lose ground.
Turner’s eyes caught something on the display, an approaching formation. For an instant he felt a wave of despair. Another force of enemy fighters would eliminate whatever infinitesimal chance his people had. But then he saw the direction of the approach…and the AI updated the screen, labeling the approaching fighters.
Red Eagle squadron. Timmons…
Turner lost his focus, just for a second. Dirk Timmons was Stockton’s great rival, and that made him persona non grata in Blue squadron. But here he was, at the head of his squadron and racing to pull the Blues out of the fire.
He felt an instant of resentment, but he pushed it back against it. Rivalries were one thing, dislike between pilots also…but right now they were all Confederation warriors. And the real enemy was before them.
His comm crackled to life. “Blue leader, this is Red Eagle leader…we’re inbound. At your location in one minute. Hang on until then, Blues. Damned fine job chewing up those enemy squadrons…thanks for leaving something for us.”
Turner was surprised at the tone of Timmons’s message, and he felt shame for the flash of resentment. “Red Eagle leader, this is Blue leader. You are most welcome. Thanks for the assist.”
He gritted his teeth, staring at the screen with renewed ferocity. They had a chance now. He knew the Red Eagles were good…not as good as Blue squadron, of course, but pretty damned good nevertheless. It was time to show these Union pukes how to fly.
* * *
Barron watched as the cloud of enemy bombers moved forward. They would enter the outer limits of Dauntless’s defensive perimeter in a few minutes. The battleship’s laser turrets outranged the attackers’ plasma torpedoes, but not by a lot. That was one reason capital ships were so dependent on their own fighters for defense. Dauntless’s grid of anti-fighter guns was formidable, but her gunners would have two minutes, perhaps three, to inflict their damage. Then the bombers would launch their torpedoes, and the lasers would switch their targeting priorities, trying to destroy the small, far harder to target, warheads before they converted to plasmas.
Jamison’s fighters were coming up behind the bombers. They were going to make it into range just in time, the result of his strike force commander’s herculean efforts, and those of the pilots he commanded. But they would still be pretty far out, their shots difficult ones. They weren’t going to get them all, but any bomber they took out could be the one that scored a critical hit on one of the battleships.
Barron had almost become accustomed to the feeling of battle, the tension, the tightness in his stomach. He ignored it all, focusing with iron discipline on the scanners and readouts feeding him information. His ship needed him, and he would do whatever he possibly could to bring her through this fight…and into the next one.
“All defensive batteries are authorized to fire at will as soon as targets enter range. Laser turrets have top priority for energy allocation.”
“Yes, sir.” Travis turned around and relayed Barron’s order.
A moment later, he heard a familiar hum, faint, distant. One of the batteries opening fire. Within a few seconds, all of Dauntless’s point defense guns were active. A bomber vanished from the display. Then another, this one on Intrepid’s section of the line.
Barron’s eyes moved to a faint red line on the display, the AI’s estimate of the enemy’s maximum launch range. The tiny dots representing the fighters moved steadily forward toward that deadly border. Two more disap
peared, victims of the battleships’ defensive fire.
Thirty seconds…then they’ll start launching torpedoes…
The bombing strike moved forward, into the teeth of Dauntless’s fire. But just before they entered range, Jamison’s fighters opened fire.
Barron watched as four squadrons of Confederation interceptors fired almost as one, their lasers tearing into the enemy formation from the rear. The shots were long, desperate attempts to score hits against all odds. Many of them missed. Most. But some hit, and combined with the fire from the battleships, they began to take a toll.
Bombers were winking out all across the line, ships that had traveled halfway across the system to attack the battleships falling short by a matter of seconds. Barron felt a wave of excitement as more and more of the enemy ships vanished. But then he saw a line of dots, smaller than the icons representing the fighters, indeed, barely visible in the display. Torpedoes. His people had shot down more than half of the attacking bombers, but the rest were launching their own attacks now.
Dauntless’s bridge was almost silent. Every officer there understood what was happening. The laser turrets had taken their toll, and Jamison’s fighters had ravaged the attacking force. But now that was over. The batteries might take out a torpedo or two as they approached, but most of the incoming warheads would survive, and when they got close enough, they would covert to pure energy, removing any hope of interception.
“I want the engine room ready for evasive maneuvers, Commander.” Once the torpedoes converted, they would lose their ability to change vectors. That would give Dauntless a window for maneuver, and a final chance to evade the deadly weapons.
“Engine room standing by, sir.”
Barron stared at the display intently, focusing on the incoming torpedoes, ignoring everything else save those horrendous warheads moving toward his ship. Coordinates ran through his thoughts, thrust levels…but he couldn’t issue the orders before the torpedoes turned to plasmas.
His eyes were fixed on the display tank, each second passing like some tiny eternity, time seeming to slow until it was almost unbearable. But still, he concentrated. Then, one of the dots grew larger, the AI’s way of marking a conversion. Another after that, then more until all fourteen incoming warheads had turned to searing hot balls of plasma, moving directly toward the two ships on ballistic headings.
“Full thrust, forward…three seconds,” he snapped into his comm unit. Time was of the essence, and there was no time for the formal nonsense of issuing orders through Travis.
“Acknowledged,” came the reply. An instant later everyone on Dauntless’s bridge was slammed back into their chairs, 10g of thrust hitting them too fast for the dampeners to intervene. Barron figured there’d be some injuries, muscle pulls and maybe a broken rib or two, but every torpedo he could evade saved lives.
“Bring us around to 320.098.003…thrust at 4g for six seconds.” Barron’s eyes were darting all across the display, his mind making snap decisions, his mouth spitting out the instructions without a second thought. There was no time to waste. Even with his best efforts, his ship wasn’t going to escape from all the approaching weapons.
He watched as three of the torpedoes went by, evaded by his quick actions. But another three were heading directly for Dauntless, and he knew even as he started to issue the orders it was too late.
“Bring us to…” Dauntless shook hard, once…and then two more times in rapid succession, all three torpedoes slamming into her amidships. Barron had no idea yet what damage his ship had taken, though the hits all seemed solid. But his mind was still focused on the remaining torpedoes.
“Bring us to 123.111.234, 6g thrust for ten seconds.” But this time there was no reply, not for a few seconds. Dauntless didn’t move. Then: “Captain, the engines are offline. I don’t think the damage is critical. We’re working on it now.”
“Very well.” It might not be critical, but right now even a loose power lead could be the difference between survival and destruction. Barron watched, horrified, as three more plasmas slammed into his ship.
The bridge went dark, all except for the red battlestations lamps and their local battery power. The display projection was gone, the tank black, empty. A few seconds later the lights came back, dimmer than usual, as Dauntless’s reserve power came online.
“Damage report,” Barron snapped into his comm unit. He wasn’t even sure the communications systems were functioning, and he was relieved when Fritz’s voice replied.
“It’s bad, sir…but not as critical as it seems. I think both reactors are fine, but the power distribution system is a mess. The thrust damage is minor. A leak on the main fuel line caused the AI to scrag the engines. I’ll have it back online in less than five minutes.”
Barron felt a wave of relief. He wasn’t sure he should be happy at the extent of the damage his ship had suffered, but he’d expected worse, and in battle, such things were definitely relative.
“All right, Fritzie…you know your priorities. We need power to the weapons systems.”
“Yes, sir. I think the primaries are fine. As soon as I can get the energy transmission back online, they should be good to go.”
Barron hesitated, just for a second. “The launch bays?”
“I don’t know yet, sir. Sorry. But I don’t think they’re a disaster. I’m pretty sure we can keep beta bay open, at least. Alpha is reporting heavier damage.”
“Okay, Fritzie…get to it. You know what to do.” He cut the line.
The workstations were all back online, though the energy-hogging holographic main display was still dark, replaced by a large two-dimensional projection.
He looked over toward Travis. “Anything from Intrepid, Commander?” He’d forced himself to forget about Dauntless’s companion. There hadn’t been a thing he could do to help Intrepid, not while she was evading incoming torpedoes. He knew the battleship was in the capable hands of Sara Eaton, and he’d left her alone to do her job.
“Yes, sir. Captain Eaton reports that Intrepid’s engines are at half thrust, but her people have already effected repairs. And her landing bays are fully operational. Her primaries are offline, but she expects to have them back up within half an hour.”
Barron nodded. Eaton’s ship had gotten off lightly, at least by comparison to Dauntless. He paused for a few seconds, then he asked the question he dreaded the most. “Casualties?”
“We have thirty-one dead, sir, mostly in the outer compartments where the last three torpedoes hit. Sickbay reports twenty-seven wounded, but Dr. Stewart says they expect that number to rise significantly as more cases are brought in.”
“Intrepid?”
“Captain Eaton reports eleven dead and forty-one wounded.”
Barron sighed softly. He wasn’t sure if it bothered him more that over forty spacers had just died…or that more than anything else, he felt relief. Relief that it wasn’t worse.
“Sir, Captain Eaton reports that she will be bringing her engines back online in…”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“Captain Eaton is to…no, put her on my line.” Barron’s eyes were fixed on a spot on the 2D display, a red oval marking the location of the enemy battleship. The oval that was moving directly toward his ships.
“Captain Barron?”
“Sara, listen to me. I want you to keep your engines offline. I want you to keep your power output suppressed. Repair everything you can, but don’t activate anything.”
“Yes, sir…” There was confusion in her voice.
“Look at your display, Sara…at the enemy battleship. They think we’re crippled, and they’re moving forward so they can hit us and finish us off. I want them to think we’re both in critical shape. Maybe we can lure them in. We’ve got a better chance if we can fight the battleship and the station separately.”
“Yes, sir.” It was clear she understood perfectly now. “Should I jettison some wreckage as well? We’ve got plenty of it.”
> “Absolutely. And keep your power output at minimal levels. Anything we can do to make it look like both ships are shot to hell.” His mind drifted back to the fight at Santis. He’d used a similar strategy to lure Captain Rigellus in. And if it worked on an officer of Katrine Rigellus’s skill, he was sure the commander of that massive Union battlewagon would fall for it.
“Yes, Captain.”
“And, Sara…make sure your damage control crews have those primaries back online by the time that monster gets here. What’s the point of setting up a trap if you’ve got nothing to spring on the enemy?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Interplanetary Space
Approaching Mellas Transwarp Link
Turas System
308 AC
“Who the hell is this pilot?”
“Identity unknown. Best estimate from scanning data suggests the fighter launched from the Union battleship Montmirail, the lead ship of the class, mounting…”
“Enough,” Stockton growled. He’d been talking to himself, and he really wasn’t interested in a lecture from his AI. Not now. He’d cleared the enemy formations, and he was on a dead line for the transwarp link. He was ripping along at one hell of a velocity, and he had no fuel left—none—to decelerate. So, if the fleet was in Mellas, one of the capital ships could send out a rescue shuttle to match course and velocity with him. And if the Confederation forces weren’t there, he’d tear off into the system’s fringe awfully fast. He’d only live for about an hour or so of that, but his frozen corpse would keep going, more or less forever. Unless his vector led into a planet or a star or a comet…
If, that is, he got out of Turas. He’d been sure he’d managed that, but then he realized he still had one bird on his tail. He couldn’t understand why his hunter hadn’t fired a missile yet. With no fuel for evasive maneuvers, he was a sitting duck. But his adversary seemed to be closing to laser range. It was a break, he knew, but he couldn’t understand…and that was making him nervous.