Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars Book 5)

by Jay Allan

  Stockton’s bird was out of fuel, at least according to his readouts. But he’d long known the designers of the Lightning fighters had built in a bit of a reserve that didn’t register on the gauges. He understood the rationale, but he wasn’t a fan of such measures. He wanted to know exactly where he was in terms of resources, but considering the psychology of the typical fighter pilot—himself included—he couldn’t argue with the logic of leaving a little something there.

  Of course, we all know it’s there, so we plan for it. Just like now.

  He hoped he’d saved enough of it this time. From the looks of the bay, the last thing Dauntless needed right now was another uncontrolled landing in the bay.

  He felt a shiver between his shoulders, and he tried to push the thought away. He’d crashed in this bay before, and he’d come as close to dying in the searing flames as a man could and still live. The pain had been indescribable—even his memories and nightmares failed to do it justice. But the worst thing, the recollection that had come closest to costing him his sanity, had been the smell. Burning flesh was never a pleasant odor, but to lie there, writhing in agony, knowing it was your own body searing, charring…

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was no time for this now. The retrieval boat was right behind him. He’d stayed with Timmons, protecting his comrade’s shattered ship with the last of his fighter’s resources. Now, they were almost back, both of them.

  He started straight ahead, choosing his spot to land. It would be tight…but he could manage it. As long as I have ten more seconds of fuel…

  He tapped the throttle slightly, and then began pushing forward, decelerating. He was glad no one was grading the landing…it was likely to be less elegant than usual.

  He felt the fighter slowing, dropping…saw the deck ahead of him. His eye caught the remains of another fighter, cracked open, partially charred. He wondered if the pilot had survived that landing. His gut told him it was fifty-fifty.

  His ship glided in slowly, even gracefully, his fuel holding out until his landing gears hit the deck. The landing was, if not soft, not rough either. He felt a flush of near-panic just before he came in, the last vestige of the emotional scars that terrible crash had caused. But, he pushed it aside almost the instant he felt it, and now he let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, just for a few seconds.

  He opened his cockpit and climbed out onto his fighter. Two of the flight techs were pushing the ladder up to his bird, and after waiting a few seconds, he scrambled down, watching as the retrieval boat came in, the shattered wreck of Timmons’s fighter clamped to its grappling arm.

  Stockton’s face went white. The ship was worse than he’d imagined. Far worse. There was less than half of it left, and the front and back both ended in mangled webs of twisted metal. He was amazed now, looking at the remains, that Timmons was alive. He wouldn’t have thought any pilot could have survived in that ship.

  He saw the crew scrambling out of the retrieval boat…and the urgency in their motions. Then he heard the shout, even as a group of white-clad medics rushed toward the ship. “We need a trauma team here…now!”

  He cursed his own ignorance. Timmons hadn’t said a word about being wounded…and Stockton hadn’t considered it any further. But now it was clear his comrade was injured…badly.

  He remembered that day, when he had been the subject of the frantic calls for medical aid. He remembered the panicked cries of the flight crews, or at least he thought he did. Much of what remained in his mind now was hazy, uncertain, more vague twinges of fear than clear recollections.

  Now, he was watching his comrade, almost as though he was floating over his own crash, looking down as Dauntless’s flight staff pulled his own, mostly dead body from the ruins of his ship.

  He raced across the deck, toward the remains of Timmons’s ship. One of the med techs tried to hold him back. He could hear the words, but they had no meaning. “Sir, please…stay back…” All he could really hear was the sound, the sick popping in his ears, his own flesh burning, charring, dripping off his body.

  He could see Timmons, still in the cockpit of his fighter. He looked okay. At least he wasn’t immersed in flames, as Stockton had been.

  He felt a surge of hope, that maybe Timmons was only lightly wounded. But there were flight crew and medical staff all around, and their shouts and body language told the real story.

  Stockton stood and watched, and then, for an instant, he made eye contact. He could see the agony in Timmons’s expression through the opening in his helmet, but also, somehow, through the pain and fear, a brief smile. He knew it immediately for what it was. A thank you, a salute between rivals…adversaries of a sort, now become true friends. Stockton nodded in return. Then he winced as Timmons screamed in pain. One of the med techs gave the wounded pilot an injection.

  Stockton lost track of time, standing there, frozen, watching as a half a dozen people struggled to free Timmons from the twisted wreckage of his fighter. He stared as they worked, as sparks flew around the plasma torch, the crews cutting through the blackened metal of the cockpit.

  He was still watching minutes later, when they started to pull Timmons out, slowly, carefully.

  When his friend’s body came out. What was left of it, at least.

  Stockton stood in the middle of Dauntless’s savaged landing bay, his breath stilled, eyes fixed, staring in horror at the bloody, legless clump of flesh that was all that remained of Dirk Timmons.

  * * *

  “Commander…Illustrious reports thrust up to twenty percent. She’s got one landing bay open, and she’s managed to recover thirty-one fighters.” Travis’s voice was hoarse, gravely. Dauntless’s bridge crew had been on duty for thirty hours straight, and the fatigue was beginning to show. Barron had ordered everyone to take a dose of stims, but he’d held back from authorizing a second, except for the damage control parties. As much as his people needed the boost, he knew the fight wasn’t over, and his combat officer, gunners, pilot…they had to be ready when the next assault came.

  “We’ve managed to land all our own fighters, sir, and we’ve got eleven of Illustrious’s too. Flight control is working to refit the squadrons, but damage is heavy, and progress is slow.”

  “I need better data than that. Get me Commander Sinclair.”

  A few seconds later: “On your line.”

  “Commander, I’m getting vague reports up here…not what I usually expect from you.” He kept his tone even, not too aggressive. Stara Sinclair was a good officer, and she’d done wonders running flight operations since he’d bumped her up to the top control job. He couldn’t imagine the chaos she was dealing with right now, but that didn’t change the fact that he needed to know when he would have fighters ready to launch.

  “My apologies, sir.” He could hardly hear her over the noise in the background. “I’m following up on that now…we’ll have the Eagles ready to go in twenty minutes, sir.” There was a hitch in her voice, one Barron understood all too well. The Eagles were Warrior’s squadron, and news of Dirk Timmons’s injuries had spread like wildfire through the ship.

  “Where are you, Commander? I can barely hear you.”

  “I’m on Alpha deck, sir. I had to leave flight control…our internal comm lines there are down. I couldn’t stay on top of things at my station.” A short pause. “I’m sorry, sir…I should have requested permis…”

  “None of that, Commander. Stay on top of your duty, however you have to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Twenty minutes…” Barron didn’t like having his ship naked, unable to launch even a single fighter. But he could only imagine the herculean efforts it had taken for Sinclair to get even one of his top squadrons rearmed. Still, though they were veterans all, he wondered how the Eagles would perform without their commander. He worried, for a few seconds, if they might be distracted, but then he came to a different conclusion…and he almost pitied any enemies who got in their path. Those pilots would be out t
o avenge their leader. The more Barron thought about it, the more convinced he became. “Well done, Commander,” he finally said, realizing she had done yeoman’s work keeping things moving down there. “What’s the status on the rest of the strike force?”

  “It’s hard to be precise, sir. We’ve got a lot of damage down here…and more up the line. We’re having trouble getting reloads from the holds, and we’re down to a single fuel line from the reserves.”

  “Your best estimate, Commander.” Sinclair was fastidious by nature, precise. He knew she hated guessing, but he needed something.

  “I think we can have Blue squadron ready an hour later, maybe an hour and a half. The Eagles took all the supplies we had on the deck, and we’re waiting to get more missiles and fuel up here. I’m afraid the internal cargo hauling systems are all out of operation. We’ve got crews manually carrying reloads up from deep storage.”

  “What if we launch without missiles? Can you shave any time from that?”

  “Maybe, sir…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be vague. It depends on whether that fuel line holds out. Commander Fritz has it restricted to half capacity. It runs through some damaged sections, and one blowout could shut us down, not to mention feed some nasty fires.”

  “Do what you can, Commander.” He looked at the display. Tulus’s ships—plus the three of Mellus’s that had managed to escape into Tarantum with him, were managing to stay ahead of their pursuers. But he had to keep the way open behind them…and despite his inability to find any motherships or refueling stations in the clouds around the Porea transit point, he had a feeling in his gut he hadn’t seen the last of those enemy fighters. “Do what you can,” he repeated, feeling far too helpless as he did.

  * * *

  “This is taking too long.” Grachus extended her right leg, as far as she could, at least, in the cramped confines of her cockpit. She’d just taken another dose of stimulant, which helped her alertness, but made her even more fidgety. She’d been in the cockpit for days now, and it was starting to get to her. She could only imagine how her pilots were dealing with it.

  “My apologies, Commander, but few of our people have ever conducted a refueling operation like this, certainly not under field conditions.” She heard the officer’s words over her comm, and she couldn’t argue with the logic of what he said. But she didn’t care. All that mattered to her was launching another strike, before Dauntless and the other enemy ships managed to escape from the trap.

  “Yes, Optiomagis, I understand…but we are Alliance warriors, are we not? The way is the way. We have no time for excuses.”

  “Commander, I do understand, but if we push your pilots too hard, we’re going to have accidents…fatalities.”

  “And you think no one will die in this battle? That no one has already? I don’t care about the risk, Optiomagis.” She paused, feeling her hands ball up into frustrated fists. She could feel Dauntless slipping away.

  She’d ordered the tankers to begin refueling fighters as they arrived. Many of her squadrons had been hopelessly intermixed, and it would have taken hours more to reorganize them. Some ships had refueled and rearmed, while others from the same squadrons were still waiting in the queue. Ideally, she’d launch her attack with a crisp, reordered formation, but that wasn’t going to happen. Her people would go in—now—but they would be one big mob, bits and pieces of squadrons intermixed, mostly interceptors, but a few refit bombers thrown in as well.

  “Faster, Optiomagis. Work faster.” She cut the line, switching on the channel to all her squadrons. “All rearmed fighters…we’re going in now. There’s no time for anything fancy…no plans at all. We just go in, like the warriors we are, and hit as many of those ships as we can. If we can slow them all down enough, the fleet can close and finish this here and now. You all know what you must do, and why we are here. The way is the way. All ships…follow me.”

  She pulled back on the throttle, her body thrown back into the cushioned chair as her refueled fighter blasted out at full thrust. It was time to finish this.

  * * *

  “All right, Eagles…mount up.” Kyle Jamison stood in the center of the launch bay, with Stara Sinclair standing to his side. “Commander Sinclair’s people have you cleared for launch.” Jamison didn’t like sending out one of his squadrons alone, but Dauntless’s scanners had already picked up the incoming Alliance fighters. With any luck, Sinclair would have Blue squadron out in time to join the Eagles before the renewed fight everyone knew was coming. But at least this way he’d have some interceptors out there. Dauntless was surprisingly operational for the amount of damage she’d taken, but Jamison was enough of a veteran to realize how fragile that status could be.

  “We’ve got an extra fighter, Commander.” Sinclair turned toward him as she spoke. “I didn’t think we’d get it repaired on time, but Chief Evans and his people managed it somehow.”

  “I’ll take it.” The words came from the direction of the lift. Jake Stockton was walking across the deck, his face white as a sheet.

  “You just come from sickbay?”

  “Yes.” Stockton’s eyes met his friend’s. “He’s bad, Kyle. He’s lost his legs for sure…and Doc Weldon’s not even sure he’s going to make it.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake.” Jamison shook his head and dropped his gaze momentarily toward the deck.

  “I’ll take the Eagles out, Kyle.”

  “Jake, that’s crazy…you’re…you need a few minutes. You’ve got to calm down.” Stara Sinclair’s usual controlled tone was a bit shaky.

  “Calm down? Calm down? Do you think that’s what we need here, Stara? Calm?” Stockton was agitated, and Jamison knew his words were coming out harsher than he’d intended. Especially toward Sinclair. There weren’t many officers or spacers on Dauntless who didn’t know that Sinclair and Stockton were lovers.

  “She’s right, Jake. The Blues are coming up right behind the Eagles…and they’ll need their leader. I’ll take out the Eagles. You stay here and bring the Blues after.”

  “But you’ve got the whole strike force to worry about.”

  “There’s not much I can do sitting around here waiting for Stara and her people to get these birds refit. You bring the Blues up, and when you get there, I’ll leave you both squadrons, and I’ll head back to meet up with the rest of the strike force.” Jamison had been thinking about taking the Eagles out himself anyway, and he had no intention of letting his friend go back into the fight in his current state.

  “Kyle…”

  “It’s done.” He paused. “And, Jake…you had nothing to do with what happened to Warrior. We all know the risks, every time we climb into the cockpit. He wouldn’t have made it back without you.”

  Stockton nodded, not looking entirely convinced.

  Jamison turned back toward Sinclair. “Power up all launch tubes, Stara. We’re going in three minutes.” He reached to the side, where a spacer was handing him a helmet. He nodded toward Sinclair and again to Stockton. “I’ll see you out there, buddy.” Then he turned and jogged across the deck, toward the single empty fighter at the end of a row of manned and ready craft.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Interplanetary Space

  Tarantum System

  Year 311 AC

  “All right, we’ve got Confed fighters coming in. Let’s get ready…” Grachus almost said “Dragons,” but she held her words. She wasn’t leading the Dragons now. She was at the head of thirty-odd fighters drawn from a dozen squadrons, including by her count, exactly two of her Red Dragons. But they were all Alliance warriors, and they were all her responsibility, as were the forty more strung out through the space between the battle zone and the refueling area and the sixty plus still jockeying for position around the tankers. Those ships would come up in small clumps, joining the fight a dozen or half-dozen at a time. She just hoped it would be soon enough.

  There were eleven Confed fighters on her screen, coming right from Dauntless. Another half dozen or so had launched
from the other Confederation battleship, but those were still milling around, clumsily working themselves into a formation. The ships from Dauntless were in perfect order, and they were heading right toward her people. That’s a crack squadron.

  She checked her tracer. Nothing. That didn’t mean her mysterious adversary—Stockton, she reminded herself—wasn’t out there. Refitting and refueling a ship could easily shake the trace, not to mention the possibility that he’d switched to another ship, one undamaged or ready to go. But her gut told her he hadn’t re-emerged yet.

  That was no cause to relax. Dauntless’s fighter wing was full of veteran pilots, men and women who could take on her people on even terms, or worse. But if she had time without Stockton out hunting her people, she intended to use it.

  She outnumbered the approaching fighters, almost three to one. But that was misleading. None of her birds had missiles…and the ships launching from the battleship almost certainly did. Five of her ships were bombers, all her makeshift logistics operation had managed to rearm. They were useless in a dogfight—worse than useless, since they needed to be protected. They were a threat to the enemy battleships, but she knew five wouldn’t be enough, certainly not to penetrate Dauntless’s veteran-manned defenses.

  Maybe the other one…

  Grachus was obsessed with destroying Dauntless, with claiming vengeance for Kat. But her duty was clear. If she could take down either of the Confed battleships, she knew she had to do it…even if it meant directing her attack at Dauntless’s companion vessel instead of her primary target.

  Her eyes shifted back to the cluster of dots moving toward her formation. “Ships 307, 405, 771…” She rattled off a list of a dozen fighters, pulling the IDs from her display. She listed the ships closest to her own, without regard for rank or experience. “You’re Force A. On me. All bombers…and all other interceptors, you’re Force B. You are to attack the Confederation battleship at 092.322.205 immediately.” The target ship’s squadrons were green, she’d realized that in the previous fight. And they were launching slowly, clearly dealing with significant damage in the bays. Her five bombers weren’t much of an assault force, but if they could plant one or two of their torpedoes in that vessel, it just might be enough.