Call to Arms: Blood on the Stars II

by Jay Allan

  The Union missiles were inferior to the Confederation weapons, with significantly less range and endurance. But Stockton still had to evade for at least two minutes, and with three separate warheads, he had to take care that escaping from one didn’t put him into the path of another.

  His eyes darted to his screens, even as he raced to escape from the missiles. He had twenty-one other pilots, and they were all his responsibility. He knew they weren’t all going to make it—a fact that hit home when one of them vanished from the display, a victim of a missile the pilot couldn’t evade.

  Damn.

  He swung around again, angling his thrust, responding to the missiles’ pursuit. One of the weapons had already lost its lock, and the second one had exhausted its fuel far short of his position. But the third one had stuck with him, stubbornly matching his every evasive maneuver.

  He reached down next to his seat, his fingers feeling around for the switch he knew was there. He slipped his finger under the lever and pulled it, releasing the safeties on his thruster. He needed more power, even if he risked blowing out his entire reactor. That would be bad, but no worse than getting picked off by the missile still closing on his tail.

  He blasted hard, feeling 12g of thrust slam into him. He gasped for breath, struggling to fight off the blackness, just for a few seconds. It was hard to concentrate, but he held on, counting down in his head. Then he released the throttle and felt a wave of relief as weightlessness replaced the crushing pressure. He’d gotten the distance he needed, and he watched as the missile’s thrusters died and the weapon continued on its final trajectory. He tapped his throttle a bit to the starboard, moving him comfortably away from the weapon’s course.

  He inhaled deeply, fighting off the tension. He hadn’t expected to be so sorely tested by the enemy missile attack. A quick look at his screens confirmed his fears. Four of his fighters were gone, and worse, he couldn’t detect a single escape pod.

  There was no time to think about that now. There were enemy fighters to destroy, and some of them were already pushing through, trying to break out toward the bombers.

  And Jake “Raptor” Stockton had no intention of letting that happen.

  * * *

  “The forward line is engaged, Admiral.”

  Striker heard Jaravick’s words, but his attention was on the display, on watching the very vessels his aide was referencing. He’d ordered the eleven ships with operational primary batteries to the vanguard, and now they were firing, their deadly particle accelerators lancing out, striking the enemy battleships facing them.

  The enemy’s maneuvers had been sluggish, unimaginative. He’d have guessed their commander was one of limited ability, but he knew better. He’d read Confederation Intelligence’s report on Hugo D’Alvert, and he’d studied the Union admiral’s actions in the war to date. According to the dossiers Holsten had provided, D’Alvert was almost a pure sociopath in human interactions…but no one could call him an unskilled admiral.

  So, why are you just sitting there?

  Striker knew what he thought, what he hoped. But he was reluctant to let himself believe the Union forces were that low on fuel.

  The lights on the flag bridge dimmed for a second. Fortitude was one of the eleven ships with operational primaries, and Striker had rejected all suggestions that the flagship hang back from the forward line. The Confederation was in a struggle for its life, the fleet was making its stand. He would be nowhere, he’d declared angrily, but in the thick of the fight, just as Admiral Barron had been years before.

  His hand clenched unconsciously into a fist as he saw Fortitude’s shot on the display, the particle beams slamming into an enemy vessel amidships. Low on fuel or not, the Union forces still outnumbered him badly, and he knew his people needed every hit they could get.

  “Activity at the transwarp link sir. Something is coming in from Gamalon.”

  A cold feeling took Striker’s stomach. The intelligence Lieutenant Stockton had brought hadn’t shown any enemy forces within supporting distance, but he’d been concerned nevertheless, too cautious to completely believe the Union nav data. He’d bet his people could take out the larger, but poorly-supplied Union fleet. Just. But if enemy reserves were moving forward, he knew his people were finished. He could order a withdrawal, and the enemy’s fuel status might even allow most of his ships to escape. But then a reinforced Union fleet would be right behind him…and new ships would probably bring fresh supplies with them.

  He was angry with himself for allowing his ego to convince him he could handle this level of command. He’d let himself dream of saving the Confederation…now he would go down in history as the man who lost it all. His only saving grace that there would be no history, at least none the Union censors didn’t write.

  “Admiral…” There was something in Jaravick’s voice, a sound that pushed aside his normal hoarse growl in favor of something more…optimistic. “…we’re picking up ID beacons from the ships at the transwarp. They’re ours. It’s Dauntless and Intrepid, sir. And they’re both launching fighters.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  CFS Dauntless

  Ultara System

  308 AC

  “All squadrons launched, Captain. Intrepid reports the same.” Travis was nailed to her chair, her hands outstretched over her workstation, her eyes locked on her screens.

  Barron had expected his people to face an almost impossible journey to get back home, an insurmountable effort to get past the enemy fleet. But instead, his people had transited into the middle of a battle, a big one…obviously a major fleet action.

  They were still on the far side of the enemy formation, and Barron knew that beyond the risk of battle, his people still faced an uphill fight to survive. But even if they were to die here, it was far preferable to do it helping the fleet win this fight. Helping them turn back the Union onslaught.

  “Advise Intrepid we will be increasing thrust to 6g, Commander. Set our course…directly toward the nearest section of the enemy line.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Barron knew the fight his people faced. They’d come a hair’s breadth from destruction in Varus, and then they’d chased a squadron of Union escort ships all the way back to Arcturon, before catching up and destroying them. Now they were going back into battle.

  “I want primaries charged and ready to fire as soon as we enter range.”

  “Yes, sir. All gunnery stations report ready.”

  “Get me Commander Fritz.”

  A few seconds later: “On your line, sir.”

  “Fritzie, give it to me straight…are these systems going to hold up?”

  “Yes, sir, at least until we start taking hits. We made good use of the time it took to get here, Captain. I’m not saying she doesn’t need time in spacedock for some real repairs, but we’re a lot less fragile than we were in Varus.”

  “You’re a treasure, Fritzie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Neither do I, Captain…neither do I.”

  “Have your people ready, Fritzie, because we’re heading right into the shit again.”

  “Where else would they be, sir? Where else would we be?”

  “Good luck down there, Fritzie.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  “Captain,” Travis said, “entering primary range in ten seconds.”

  Barron just nodded. Back into battle.

  * * *

  “On me…we’ve got to hit that wave of fighters, and we’ve got to do it now.” Lefebrve was already bringing her ship around, and she swore under her breath at the sluggishness of the pilots under her command. The battle in Turas had been a holocaust, and she’d lost half her people there. She liked to think those that remained were seasoned for the exposure to such a terrible fight, but she suspected stunned was closer to the mark. Fear had taken hold, its cold hand gripping their spines. They’d launched, of course. An open display of cowardice in the Union was a ticket to the airlock. But their figh
ting spirit was gone.

  “Let’s move it!” she screamed, anything to wake them from the funk they’d all been in. They had half loads of fuel, and that was the last the fleet had to give them. They had to make this fight count. It was the only chance they’d get.

  She knew she didn’t have the fuel to burn, but she pushed her engines close to maximum thrust anyway. Most of her people were falling behind, but a few—likely the best ones, and certainly the bravest—were coming close to keeping up. It didn’t matter anymore, not really. Beneath the bravado, and the coldblooded focus on her job, she knew this was her last mission. She didn’t have enough fuel to fight a battle and return to base, so that meant this was a one-way trip. And she intended to make it count.

  Her eyes locked on her screen, watching the wave of fighters coming at her. It looked like two Confed battleships had transited into the system, right in the rear of the fleet. It wasn’t a large force, but their position was dangerous. The line ships didn’t have the fuel to come about to face the new invaders, so her people had been sent to buy time. Somehow.

  She’d already fired her missiles, so there was nothing to do but push forward to laser range. She glanced down at her fuel readings. Not good. But crawling forward through the enemy’s missile range wouldn’t have been any better.

  She punched in her turbos, accelerating to the side, trying to sweep around the flank of the enemy formation. A few of her pilots followed her, but most were blundering forward, serving themselves up as targets for the Confeds. Her stomach tensed, and she ached to help them…but there was nothing to do. She had to get around the interceptors and take down as many enemy bombers as she could. The battleships were always the priority.

  The pressure of her thrust pushed her back hard into her seat, but she kept it up until her course brought her around the end of the Confed formation. She could see the enemy pilots, some of them at least, reacting, blasting toward her position. But she was going to get to the bombers first. Her, and two maybe three of her people.

  She’d have two minutes, she figured, maybe three…and then the enemy interceptors would react, and she’d be overwhelmed. But every bomber she could take down in that time was a plasma torpedo that wouldn’t hit one of the battleships. Every one she stopped could save dozens of lives, even hundreds. And that kind of math was appealing. It made it easier to face the near certainty that she wasn’t coming back from this mission.

  * * *

  “Let’s go, Blues…follow me. Red Eagles and Direwolves too. We’ve got to cover the bombers, now! We’re already too late, so let’s not waste any more time.” Jamison had watched the Union fighters slipping around the flank, but he hadn’t taken it seriously at first. He was used to facing overwhelming Union numbers, but now he realized too late that he was up against a capable tactician this time…and one hell of a pilot as well. “Yellows and Black Helms, hold the line here. Don’t let any more groups break off.”

  He kicked in his thrusters, gulping a breath as the g forces pounded into him. He had no time to waste. He was already late. Whoever that pilot was, he was damned good. And the thought of a flyer that skilled attacking the almost defenseless bombers made Jamison’s blood run cold.

  He’d had been a little shaky when he’d first launched, but his chops had come back quickly. He’d been moments from death in Varus, down to the last breaths of air when the rescue shuttle had plucked him out of space. He’d been sure he was dead, absolutely convinced. But, against all odds, Dauntless and Intrepid had managed to destroy the station. He’d heard the plan had come from Commander Fritz, that she had identified a weakness in the design. He had intended to find her and thank her when he got back to Dauntless, but she’d been busy around the clock on repairs, and he hadn’t seen her anywhere. Every place he’d gone he been told, “she was just here.” or “she’s down at Reactor A.” And, of course, when he went there they told her she’d just left for somewhere else.

  “We’re with you, Thunder.” Charles Aires was one of a minority of pilots with a calm demeanor. His friend Timmons had often spoken of him in jest, calling him a robot…but Jamison knew Warrior respected Aires’s abilities, and he took Warrior’s opinion very seriously, at least when it came to judging piloting skill.

  “Roger that, Mustang. I think your people are actually closest. But be careful, that Union ship is being flown by somebody who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Got it, Thunder. Don’t worry…we’ll take care of him.”

  Jamison didn’t like the sound of that. He knew a large number of pilots who tended to be a little wild, and a few downright crazy ones like Timmons and Stockton, but he’d run into a lesser number of the stone cold killer type, men and women who considered comparisons to computers to be compliments. “Ice” Krill had been one of those. But Jamison never seen one of the latter lose his cool edge without disaster resulting. War could wear a man down, he knew, and the tightly wound types like Aires were sometimes susceptible to it. But it usually got them killed.

  “Mustang, wait up a few seconds. I can be up there in less than a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute, Thunder. You said it yourself. We’ll hit them hard…don’t you worry about that.”

  Jamison opened his mouth, but no words came out. He had a bad feeling, but that wasn’t justification to allow the enemy an extra minute loose among the bombers. Finally, he just said, “Be careful, Mustang. That pilot’s dangerous.”

  “I’m always careful, sir.”

  Jamison frowned. The Red Eagles were even farther back. If anyone was going to get up there and support the Direwolves, it was him. He pulled back the rest of the way on the throttle, maxing out his thrust.

  * * *

  Lefebrve fired, then again…two lasers blasts, and two bombers destroyed. The cumbersome ships were trying to flee, but her throttle was like an extension of her arm, and she whipped her ship around, firing in multiple directions as her vector took her right through the heart of the strike force.

  Her wingmen were there too, and each had a kill of their own. All together, her attack had taken out six bombers, cutting a wide swatch through the enemy formation. She wanted to decelerate, to come about and launch a second run, but there were enemy interceptors inbound, and she could see they would get to her first.

  “We’ve got visitors,” she said into her comm. She’d always been a cool customer, but now her calm was almost eerie. She’d never felt as much one with her fighter, and it had never been more effortless to target her shots, to put the deadly laser blasts exactly where she wanted them.

  She fired her thrusters again, adjusting her vector, setting herself up to face the attackers coming in. She was outnumbered, badly, but at least they were coming in waves. If she could take enough of them down, maybe the rest would break off.

  No…these are veterans. I can tell by the way they fly. I may kill a few, but then they’re going to get me.

  The thought was almost clinical, as if it had already happened, as though she were reviewing the details of her own death, like some flight instructor narrating a training video.

  Her fingers closed around her firing stud. The deadly lasers fired again, and they claimed another victim. She held her thrust, her turbos burning through the last reserves of her fuel as it brought her course around, directly toward the new attackers. She fired again, and a second interceptor exploded. There were half a dozen ships left in the squadron coming at her…and then one of her wingman hit another. A few seconds later, one of the enemy ships fired, and she lost one of her companions.

  Her eyes locked on that blip on her screen, marking the ship that had fired the killing shot. He was skilled, she could see that watching his maneuvers.

  That’s got to be the squadron leader.

  She adjusted her vector, bringing her fighter to the side, around the enemy interceptor. Her eyes darted back and forth to her fuel readings. Her maneuver would use up most of the rest of what she had, but she was going to do it anyway. Her plan
relied on deception. She was heading right toward another enemy fighter, one deployed farther back, giving every indication she was bypassing the lead bird, that she was making a mistake, leaving herself exposed.

  She waited, watching, as focused as she’d ever been in the cockpit. For an instant, she thought her adversary wasn’t going to take the bait. But then the energy readings shot up as the Confed fighter blasted its engines, its vector coming around, moving right toward her.

  She smiled. I have you now…

  * * *

  “Mustang!”

  Jamison heard Timmons’s voice on the comm, a frantic scream that echoed through his cockpit.

  “Get out of there, Chuck…now! Blast your thrust!”

  Jamison saw it too, the trap…and the Union fighter moving to spring it. But it looked like Aires was blind to it. The Union pilot, the one that had captured Jamison’s attention, was luring the Direwolves’ leader in. It was brilliant, hard to detect, but a trap nevertheless. Aires should have seen it, but he didn’t. He was too focused on saving the bombers from taking any more losses.

  “I’m fine, Warrior.” Aires’s voice was calm, unconcerned. Then, a few seconds later: “Shit.”

  Jamison gritted his teeth against the pain as he continued at full thrust. He had to get there…he had to save Aires. But even as he jammed his throttle back full, he knew he wasn’t going to make it.

  “Shit…shit…”

  “Get out of there, Mustang,” Timmons screamed, his frantic voice reverberating in Jamison’s cockpit as it blasted out of the comm. “Now!” But it was too late.