by Jay Allan
Damn.
Stockton was pulling every maneuver he could, but his enemy was still hanging tight. His ego was part of what had always made him the best, the source of the confidence that allowed him to fly the way he did. It wasn’t in him to admit he’d met a pilot as good as he was, much less one better, but it was getting harder to avoid that conclusion.
He jerked the throttle hard and then cut the engines, hitting the positioning thrusters to swing his ship around. It was a dangerous move, he knew, one that made him an easier target. But it would be unexpected, and in fighter combat, surprising an enemy was everything.
He squeezed his fingers hard, gritting his teeth as his cockpit reverberated with the whine of his laser cannons. He fired again, and again. Close! As close as his enemy’s shot had come to his ship. But he’d missed, just as his foe had.
He felt the urge to stay where he was, to keep shooting, but he was already pushing his luck. He angled his controls again and blasted at nearly full thrust, as a burst of enemy laser fire ripped through the space his ship had just occupied. He gasped for breath against the g forces as he pushed to full power, changing his vector slightly every second, or even half second. Stockton had always been almost one with his fighter, his stomach cast iron against even the wildest maneuvers, but he could feel the unease in his gut as the wild gyrations made the bile rise up to the back of his throat.
Stay focused, Raptor.
He was in the toughest fight of his life, and he knew it. The cool confidence that dominated everything he did was long gone, and now all he could feel was the coldness…and the grim focus that would save his life.
If anything could…
Then, his comm came to life.
“Raptor, hang on…I’m on the way.”
Dirk Timmons’s voice was clear and crisp on Stockton’s comm, but he could hear the tension in his comrade’s voice. Timmons and Stockton had long been rivals, arguably the two best pilots in the Confederation service. And two men who’d, for many years, detested each other.
War and shared sacrifice had gone a long way to erasing years of bad feeling, and the two men had become, if not exactly friends, at least something close to that. But enough of the rivalry remained to make Timmons the last person Stockton wanted rushing to save him, and the feeling of relief that greeted the Timmons’s words told him just how scared he was.
“Roger that, Warrior. I’ll be here.” I hope.
Stockton moved his arm forward and to the port, cutting his thrust and angling his vector yet again. He’d been surrendering the initiative to his adversary, but now the realization that Timmons was rushing to his aid poked at his pride, and he felt a wave of aggression. He was the top ace in the Confederation fleet. No Alliance pilot was going to take him down. No way.
He brought his ship around, firing a burst with his lasers. More near misses before his target reacted, lurching away from his assault. His eyes were trained on the Alliance ship, but now his enemy was pulling back.
Running?
He couldn’t believe the enemy he’d faced for the last twenty minutes was suddenly fleeing the battle. Low on fuel, maybe? No, if that squadron was escorting those bombers…
The bombers!
His eyes shot down to the display. The assault force was heading right for Dauntless. Yellow squadron was moving to intercept, but they were going to be late. All along the line, the Alliance ships were moving back, trying to coax the Confed squadrons to pursue, and move farther from Dauntless and the wave of bombers heading toward her.
“Blue squadron, cease pursuit. All fighters, come about and pursue those bombers. Now!”
You damned fool! You let those interceptors hang you up. All the while, they were just opening a lane for that assault force.
Stockton was angry, with himself mostly. Not only had his flying been matched—he wasn’t ready to acknowledge he might have been outflown, not yet at least—but he’d been hoodwinked too. Dauntless’s entire strike force was out of position to intercept the incoming attack.
He slipped his hand down to the side of his chair, opening the cover that enclosed his override controls. He flipped the switches, ignoring the warnings from the AI as he increased his reactor’s output to one hundred ten percent.
He felt the increased power as the g forces slammed him back even harder into his acceleration couch. It was more than discomfort now. It was pain. But he didn’t care. It took his enemy by surprise, and he managed to break completely free. He’d let himself be suckered into a battle when his main job had been to protect Dauntless. He’d be damned now if he was going to let those bombers get through, at least not without doing everything he could. Taking any risk necessary.
“Blues, switch off those safeties. We need velocity now.” Stockton was one who frequently took heavy risks, but he was far less likely to order his pilots to follow his lead. More often than not, he was trying to stop them from emulating him. But Dauntless was on the line now, and every bomber that delivered its plasma torpedo payload would tear into her hull, kill her crew.
“Roger that, Leader.”
“We’re with you, Raptor.”
The responses came in one after the other, every one of his pilots snapping back their answers without delay.
Everyone who is still here.
He’d lost four pilots in the fight, and more than one of his people were flying a damaged bird right now. They’d drawn blood too, but a stalemate was the best Stockton could convince himself the battle had been, and in the back of his mind he suspected something worse. His Blues had been bested…and that was intolerable.
He flipped the comm to Jamison’s direct channel. “Thunder…those bombers…”
“I know, Raptor. The interceptors tied us up, pulled us off course.”
“They pulled on over on us, Thunder.” Stockton didn’t find it easy to admit he’d been bested, but the realization was sinking in.
“Do what you can, Raptor. We’ve got to get at least some of those bombers.”
“We’re inbound, Kyle. One ten on the reactors.”
There was a short pause, and Stockton half expected Jamison to order his people back to normal energy levels. But the next words came across on the main comm line, and Jamison’s voice was stone cold as he uttered them.
“All squadrons…go to one hundred ten on your reactors. We’ve got to get those bombers. Whatever it takes.”
Stockton felt a chill inside. Kyle Jamison was his best friend, closer than a brother, but the two men were very different. Where he was cocky, sometimes arrogant, Jamison was like a rock, steady, unshakeable. “Thunder” Jamison didn’t order his squadrons to engage in reckless maneuvers. At least not until now.
The Blues were the best Dauntless had…but ordering the rest of the wings to cut their safeties too was dangerous. Stockton took a deep breath, as he looked down at the display. He moved the center of reference, pushing it back, farther behind. He had a hunch…and a second later he realized he was right.
The Alliance fighters had reversed course again. They were following his people. The Blues would get a few shots at the enemy bombers—if they were lucky—but then the enemy interceptors would be on them again.
He stared at the dots on the screen for a few more seconds, one question running through his mind again and again as his eyes focused on the tiny dot he knew was his recent opponent’s ship.
Who the hell are you?
Chapter Five
Athenae System
80,000 Kilometers from CFS Dauntless
Year 311 AC
“Bombers entering range of our defensive batteries, Commodore. They’re moving at 0.012c. We’ll have roughly three minutes before they reach launch range.”
Barron nodded, and then he said, “All batteries, open fire.” He knew his order would shut down Dauntless’s primaries. The massive particle accelerators sucked up almost every watt of power the big ship could generate, effectively shutting down all other weapons systems.
Barron could see the status indicators, showing his orders being obeyed. The small anti-fighter batteries didn’t make any sound, at least none that could be heard all the way inside the ship, on her well-protected bridge. But that didn’t make them any less deadly. He watched as the first enemy bomber vanished, and then a second. But there were nearly thirty left, even after the Yellows had attacked, taking down a respectable eight of the attacking craft.
Dauntless’s Yellow squadron had been the closest, best positioned to intercept, but she was also the ship’s most junior at present, with most of its veteran personnel transferred to Blue and Scarlet Eagle squadrons to replace losses. The Yellows had been a crack unit once, when Tillis “Ice” Krill had been their commander, an ace pilot who’d made it his business to drive his pilots until they were almost a match for Stockton’s Blues. “Almost” to anyone except Krill, who’d insisted to anyone who would listen that his people were every bit the equals of Blue squadron.
Krill had been one of the losses at Santis, and in the years since, the squadron had gradually declined in the hierarchy of Dauntless’s strike force. They were more than respectable by the standards of the fleet at large, but they were Barron’ last choice as a final stand against an approaching torpedo attack.
Maybe the final stand…
His eyes were on the display. The AI had declared that none of Dauntless’s other squadrons would reach the bombers in time to intercept. But Barron could see the Blues closing fast. He rechecked the calculations. They were right. Then he realized, Stockton and his people were accelerating beyond their maximum thrust capacities, overloading their reactors. It was a dangerous move, downright reckless and forbidden by navy regs. But he’d never been happier to see his brilliant rogue pilot showing his flagrant disregard for rules.
Come on, Raptor…
Dauntless could endure a moderate torpedo attack, but if Stockton and his Blues didn’t get some of those assault ships, his beloved vessel was going to get pounded badly…and a critical hit or two could mean…
He watched the scanners again. The bombers were ninety seconds from launching their torpedoes. The defensive batteries had gotten seven so far: three destroyed outright, four more damaged and forced to veer off. But that wasn’t enough…and ninety seconds more of fire wasn’t going to make it enough.
His eyes moved to the large display. The battleships Dauntless had been facing were both heavily damaged. One was immobile, a cripple drifting in space. The other was accelerating, at maybe one-third power, pulling away. With the primaries out of action, the enemy would be out of range right around the time the enemy bombers launched. That, at least, was a break. If he’d had to worry about closing battleships as well as bombers, things could get ugly fast.
“Commander Travis, starboard secondaries are to open fire. As many batteries as power supply allows.”
“Yes, sir.” A few second later. “Seven batteries firing, sir.”
Barron knew the range was long for his secondary guns, that the fleeing enemy would likely escape, but he had to try something. Anything was better than staring at the approaching wall of bombers, knowing he had already done everything he could. When the ships launched their warheads and converted them to fixed-course plasmas, he would order evasive maneuvers, but with that many weapons in space, some were going to hit, no matter what he did. Too many.
“One minute to projected torpedo launch, sir.” Then, perhaps ten seconds later: “Blue squadron, sir. They’re engaging!” Atara Travis rarely showed emotion, at least not on the bridge during combat. But even Dauntless’s stoic executive officer was clearly surprised that “Raptor” Stockton and his squadron had reached the bombers in time. They didn’t have long, and some of the attackers would almost certainly get through. But if they could get enough…
“C’mon, Jake,” Barron muttered softly, only to himself. “You can do this.”
* * *
“Let’s go, Blues. These bombers handle like pigs, and everybody who bags one gets a drink on me. Take down two, and I’ll drink you under the table.” Stockton’s encouragement was more bluster than reality. He’d be happy to buy his people rounds for their kills, but despite his occasional bluster to the contrary, he wasn’t really much of a drinker. Blue squadron had at least half a dozen pilots who could put him away at the officer’s club without even trying.
He grinned as he heard the acknowledgements, and the healthy chatter on the main channel. The Blues had suffered, and the less his people thought of their dead friends now, the better. They still had work to do. There would be time later for mourning and remembrance.
And Zucker and Tobias are still back there. He’d lost two ships to reactor overloads, but in both cases, the units scragged before going critical. His pilots were still out there, zipping through space unable to decelerate or change course. They’d be okay; the rescue boats would retrieve them. At least, they would if the battle was won. If Dauntless had to retreat, the cold reality was that she’d have to abandon most of her ditched pilots. If there was one thing every man and woman in the fighter corps knew from the first days at flight school, it was that capital ships were more important than fighters. If it was the mothership or you, well, you were shit out of luck.
Barron was a ship commander who’d pushed that rule to the limit before, taking risks most captains wouldn’t to save his pilots. But in the end, he would do what had to be done to save Dauntless. Whatever it cost him personally.
Stockton was bringing his ship around, coming up behind a pair of bombers. The two craft were close to each other, at least by the standards of space combat, just over one thousand kilometers. One was farther forward, perhaps four hundred kilometers.
He targeted the first ship, opening fire almost as soon as he entered range. A hit! The tiny icon on his screen hovered there for a few seconds, and then it winked out, leaving nothing but blackness behind.
That’s one…
Stockton was already changing course slightly, bringing the second target into his sights. He fired. Close, but the bomber managed to evade at the last instant. He stared intently, tapping the throttle, adjusting his vector slightly. The bomber pilot was highly skilled, Stockton didn’t doubt that, but the heavily-laded craft was ungainly to fly. It was only a matter of time before he took the target down, he knew, but time was something in very short supply right now.
He fired again, a sustained blast, one lance of concentrated light after another ripping out, across the twelve thousand kilometers to his target. One of the shots hit, a glancing blow, but it only took a few seconds for Stockton to realize he’d knocked out the ship’s engines. He’d have moved on to another target, but the attack ship was still on a vector toward Dauntless. Stockton knew the shot would be a hard one for the Alliance pilot, that hitting the battleship would be difficult without engine power. But he couldn’t take the chance, not where Dauntless was concerned. The ship was his home, and everybody who meant a damned thing to him was onboard. Commodore Barron, Commander Travis…Stara.
He looked at the small symbol on his screen, his stare frozen, like death. He might have let the enemy pilot escape in other circumstances, but now he knew what he had to do. It was almost too easy. Without its engine, the bomber couldn’t evade. A first-year cadet could have scored a hit. The deadliest pilot in the Confederation navy could hardly miss.
And he didn’t. The first blast was a direct hit, and the ship disappeared immediately from his screen. He felt the urge to go after another, but a quick glance told him it was too late. Fourteen bombers had completed their runs, and they had all launched. His first impulse was to hunt them down, destroy them before they could return to their base ships. But he had something more important to do. The Alliance interceptors were coming up behind his Blues, and a quick look at the data on his screen confirmed that they were overloading their own reactors, as his people had done.
Who are you? He thought about this enemy, about the relentlessness and skill being directed at his peop
le. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he clicked on the comm. “All right, Blues, we’ve done all we can here, but our work’s not done.” He paused, his eyes dropping to check his fuel status. He already knew it wasn’t good, and a quick glance confirmed that it sucked. But theirs can’t be much better…actually, it’s probably worse…
He sighed. “Let’s go,” he said into the comm, wondering if these Alliance pilots were as suicidal as some of the ones he’d faced at Santis.
His focus was total, his attitude grim.
Yes. He was sure they’d be as crazy as those he’d fought at Santis…and, if anything, even more dangerous…
* * *
Grachus watched as the plasma torpedoes streaked across her screen toward Dauntless. She’d expected more of the attack ships to get through, but the Confed interceptors her people had fought had proven their skill yet again, closing despite the fact that she’d lured them out of support range. They’d taken a terrible risk to get back there, but they’d pulled it off. All she could do was hope fourteen torpedoes was enough.
Enough to destroy that accursed battleship and her commander. To avenge Kat.
She cut her own thrust now, altering her course slightly, moving toward the Confed squadron that was already in position. She’d hoped to take the survivors by surprise, but they were too good for that. There was no easy way to win this fight, not against this enemy. Her people would have to do it the hard way, and she knew they would pay in blood.
“Dragons, attack. We take this squadron down, and we do it now.” She checked her display. The other enemy wings were closing, but she had parity in numbers for at least a few minutes. And she intended to make the most of that time.