Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars Book 5)

by Jay Allan

  Stockton had watched with a certain interest he tried his best to hide, but he’d barely heard the last bit at all. He had been walking across the flight deck when his eyes caught the small scanner screen on the wall, and he stopped dead. He saw two ships fighting, a Confederation Lightning and an Alliance Palatine. The small label next to the Confed ship identified it as “Thunder.” Kyle.

  The enemy ship had no designation beyond RA1—Red Alliance 1—but Stockton felt his stomach go cold as he watched the fighter’s wild maneuvers. Jamison was a great pilot, the master in almost any combat he entered. But Stockton could see his friend was in trouble now, the enemy fixed on his tail, chasing him down despite his repeated attempts to break free.

  Stockton turned and started to run toward his fighter, images of Timmons’s brush with death thick in his eyes. “I’m launching, Briggs,” he shouted to his flight tech, as he leapt from the deck, reaching out and grabbing hold of the small ladder that led to the cockpit. His grip slipped and he swung around, almost falling back down, but then he climbed up, whipping his legs into the opening.

  “Commander, we still have to do your preflight checks. And your missiles haven’t been loaded. We need another fifteen minutes, sir.” Briggs stood below the fighter, looking up with his hands in the air.

  “No time, Briggs. Just get the hell out of the way, and make sure no one is behind me…’cause I’m going now no matter what.”

  Even as he finished what he was saying, Stara Sinclair’s voice same through his comm. “Blue Leader…you’re not cleared to launch yet.”

  Stockton ignored the words, though they came from both his flight control officer and his lover. His hands moved over his fighter’s controls, activating the systems and, with a last look to make sure Briggs had sought shelter, he fired up the engines.

  “Jake, what’s wrong? What is it?” Sinclair’s usual professional tone had failed, replaced by undisguised concern.

  “I’ve got to go now, Stara.” Then: “I’m sorry.”

  He flipped the row of activator switches on the dashboard, and he gripped the throttle tightly.

  Stara was still talking, her urgency increasing with each word. But he wasn’t listening.

  I’m coming, Kyle…

  He closed his eyes for an instant…and then he stared straight ahead and hit the launch control.

  * * *

  “Shit.” Jamison cursed under his breath, bringing his throttle around, increasing the thrust he demanded from his straining engines. Kyle Jamison was one of Dauntless’s best, if not quite the natural pilot his friend Jake Stockton was. He was an ace half a dozen times over, and one of the coolest customers every to fly the Lightning fighter. But now he was in trouble.

  He’d targeted the Alliance pilot—seemingly the leader of the small group engaging the Eagles—with his missiles the instant his scanners had determined his adversary had no such weapons. And now that pilot was coming for blood.

  He angled the controls again, taking a deep breath as he saw how quickly his foe had responded to his last move. Responded…or read my mind?

  He pulled back on the throttle, maxing out his thrust, and he swung the control to the port, changing his vector yet again. Laser blasts started to go by…right through the space he’d occupied a second or two before. All right, he thought grimly. You’re good. Let’s see how good.

  He hit his positioning jets, swinging his fighter around, even as he hit his turbos and decelerated at full. His fingers closed around the firing stud, his lasers blasting out…into the open space alongside his target. The enemy fighter had pulled its own maneuver, a rapid response to his. He shook his head, amazed at the sharpness of his enemy’s action. Then, he felt something, a coldness running through him, and he jerked his hand to the side…just in time. A pair of laser blasts tore by, no more than a hundred meters from his ship.

  His hands were clammy, his normal calm failing him for once. Jamison had commanded Dauntless’s entire strike force for more than five years, and that of the entire expeditionary force for six months. He was coldly rational in the cockpit, a man who addressed every aspect of flying, of fighter combat, with the same dispassionate excellence. Until now.

  Stockton’s pilot…

  Jake Stockton had been telling everyone who would listen about an Alliance ace, a pilot he’d fought to a draw during the convoy raid a month before. Jamison had discussed it with his friend, but he also knew Stockton liked a good story. A few embellishments never hurt a tale worth telling.

  But now he began to realize Stockton had been deadly serious. Jamison came about abruptly, again just a second or two ahead of the volley his enemy directed his way. He was staring hard at the screen, wracking his mind for the right moves.

  His eyes flashed to the side, checking on the rest of the squadron. The battle was a sharp one, brutal, with losses on both sides. His people had the upper hand, courtesy of the missile attack, if nothing else. But the enemy reinforcements were coming into range, and he knew the Eagles would be in trouble.

  I’m in trouble.

  He tried to let his instincts take over. This pilot was too good to evade with logical tactics. He needed randomness, surprise. He had to break away from this pursuer, turn the tables. This pilot would finish him if he exposed his back, stayed on the defensive. The only way to survive this fight was to take the offensive…destroy his enemy before his enemy destroyed him.

  He tried one wild move after another, one crazy, unpredictable change of course. But no matter what he did, his enemy was still there, clinging to him, matching his every maneuver.

  He was slick with sweat. It was fear, he knew that well enough. He was losing confidence. The belief that he could win this fight was slipping away. And he knew once he lost that, he’d be dead soon after.

  Then his comm crackled. “Thunder?”

  Jake…

  “Raptor, what the hell? You shouldn’t be out here yet.” His eyes on the scanner confirmed what he’d guessed. Blue squadron was nowhere to be seen. Only a single Confederation ship, heading toward him at full thrust.

  “Yeah, well bust me down to a one stripe spacer if you want, but first I’ve got something to do.”

  “I’ll have to do that. You’ve been a discipline problem for a long time now.” Then: “Thanks, man. I really need your help.”

  “Hang in there, Thunder. I’m on my way.”

  Jamison adjusted his course again, staying just barely ahead of his pursuer. My hunter…

  Help was on the way. He just had to hold out.

  He swerved to the side again, just evading another shot from his enemy.

  If I can. Hurry, Raptor…

  * * *

  Grachus gasped for breath as her high g maneuver slammed her hard back into her seat. This Confed pilot was good. No, more than good, he was crack, an ace. But she was almost sure it wasn’t Stockton.

  There was something missing, a certain innate brilliance…or perhaps it was just semi-controlled craziness. As good as this pilot was, she’d managed to stay on him despite his every attempt to break free. It hadn’t been easy, and he’d almost gotten away several times—and once, he’d nearly turned the tables and come a hair’s breadth from taking her out. But now, she knew, she had the upper hand. She’d studied his tactics, familiarized herself with his moves. He was cagey, skilled…but he was a touch less unpredictable than Stockton.

  She came about again, matching her quarry’ every move, slowly—so agonizingly slowly—closing the range between them. She needed to get closer. It would take extraordinary luck to hit a pilot this good at such long range. Grachus didn’t depend on luck—she relied on skill, experience…and patience. Which meant she had to get closer.

  Time was on her side. Her people had been roughly handled by the single squadron Dauntless had launched, but even now, as she chased their obvious commander, her second wave was reaching the battle area. Dauntless could launch more ships at any moment—she was far from privy to the happenings on her
flight decks—but until she did, the tide would turn in her peoples’ favor.

  She shifted her controls again, cutting the thrust a bit, giving her target a little room. The closer she got, the tighter her reactions had to be. Rushing things only increased the risk level, and there was no reason she had to…

  Her eyes darted to the side and froze. Another fighter. One. Just launched from Dauntless.

  She looked at her main display and then back to the longer-range scanner. Still only one. She waited, checking back again and again, at least five or six times. But there was only one fighter.

  Could it be?

  She knew she was jumping to conclusions. She checked the tracer, but the result said, “inconclusive.” That was to be expected. The ID lock had been unlikely to hold through a landing and refit.

  Her mind raced, trying to figure out why a single fighter would launch. A scout? No, that doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps one ship launched and then a malfunction shut down the tubes? That’s better, but I still don’t buy it.

  She stayed focused on her target, but concerns about that newly launched fighter threatened to break down her single-minded intensity. Whoever it was, the ship was coming right toward her.

  She looked back at the target in front of her. She’d had plenty of time…but not anymore. If that was Stockton back there, coming at her, she had to be finished with this fight before he got there. He’d finish her off almost immediately if he caught her tied down in another battle.

  She hit the thrust again, trying to ignore the discomfort. There was no time for that. No time for anything except victory.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she fired. Then again, angling her shot vector each time. Her blasts went wide, but they were getting closer, bracketing her enemy.

  She would finish this now. She had no choice.

  * * *

  Jamison swung his throttle back and forth wildly. He could feel himself slipping, his moves going from controlled chaos to near panic. He knew with each step he took from stone cold control, his chances of victory—of escape—slipped away, but he couldn’t stop it. He was tired, his head pounded. His body was drenched, and his legs were shaking. No one would ever call Kyle Jamison a coward, but he had to admit to himself, he’d never been so scared in his life.

  He’d been in tough fights before, faced two or three opponents at the same time, but this enemy was something else entirely. If the battle had been more than a duel between a dozen fighters on a side, things might have been different. But he was alone right now. It was a one-on-one struggle here, at least until Stockton arrived.

  A one-on-one matchup Jamison realized he couldn’t win.

  He tried to stay focused, to put his faith in the cool, analytical approach to flying that had made him so deadly. But his resolve was shaken. The fear he kept bottled up deep within had escaped.

  He checked the scanner. Stockton was coming on as quickly as he could, but it was still going to be several minutes. He jerked his hand again, moving the throttle to the port, changing his ship’s thrust angle yet again. Another evasive maneuver, and another few seconds of survival. But his enemy was still there, relentless, getting closer with each passing second.

  “Raptor…” He paused, breathing heavily into the comm unit before he continued. “If this…doesn’t…” Another hesitation. “I need you to look after the squadrons. We’ve got a hell of a fight ahead of us here.”

  “Cut that shit right now, Thunder. Keep your mind on your ship and the one following you. That’s all.”

  “I mean it, Raptor. If I don’t make it, I already told Commodore Barron you’re my pick to take my…”

  “Stay focused!” Stockton’s words were a roar, a command from subordinate to superior, but mostly from friend to friend. “You’re going to make it, buddy. Just stay with me…”

  But Jamison heard the doubt in his friend’s voice. The fear.

  * * *

  You’re out of time. You have to finish this…now.

  Grachus would have had great respect for her opponent…she did, in fact, save for the hatred she felt for all those who’d played a part in Kat’s death. She didn’t know this pilot had been at Santis, of course, but he was good. Very good. A veteran for sure, and probably one who’d served aboard Dauntless for some time.

  She checked the display again, watching the other fighter, the one she was sure was Jake Stockton. He was coming for her, she knew that much. It will save me the trouble of coming for him.

  She tried to put Stockton out of her mind, let herself slip into the almost trancelike state she adopted in battle. It was intellect and intuition, combining to make her as deadly as she could be.

  Her target made a series of wild moves, last-ditch attempts to escape, but she managed to match them all. She was closer now, and her laser blasts were coming within meters of her target. She had worked the fight, pursued relentlessly, anticipated her enemy’s moves. It had been a textbook hunt, though the skill of her adversary had made it long, difficult…and in a few instances, very dangerous. But she could feel the victory now.

  You have a minute, maybe. By then, if you’re still tied up here, Stockton will be on your tail. Then it will be all over.

  She altered her thrust, matching her target’s move. Then she took a deep breath. Reaction wasn’t going to get it done. She had to be more aggressive. She had to guess where her opponent would be.

  There were all sorts of standard maneuvers, things the training manuals told you to do in situations like this. But she was facing a crack ace here, and nothing he did would come from the “book.”

  She pursued for another few seconds, working her way steadily closer. Then, she saw it, an instant before it happened. The move she somehow knew her opponent would make. It was what she would have done.

  Her arm moved, almost without conscious thought, angling her engines, nudging forward on the thrust. Her fingers tightened, closing slowly around the firing stud. A shot—close, no more than two meters off. Then another. Just to the other side.

  She fired again, her eyes locked with all the intensity she could muster.

  It took her scanners a fraction of a second to evaluate the result of her shot and report back, so the AI could update her screen. That instant of time seemed to stretch into a sort of eternity, her eyes moist, her forehead soaked with sweat.

  She was still staring at the screen when the blip representing the enemy fighter vanished.

  * * *

  “Noooo!” The scream was raw, primal. Stockton had been looking right at his screen when the final shot hit Jamison’s ship. For an instant, Stockton grasped at whatever he could. Perhaps Jamison’s ship was just damaged. Maybe his friend had managed to eject. But as he stared at the screen in the seconds after that fateful shot, there was nothing. No ship, no pod, no signals on his comm. Suddenly, coldly, he knew.

  Kyle Jamison was dead.

  Stockton had always been a man who showed his emotions. Self-assured—many said cocky—he tended to react to things with fiery anger and roaring invective. But after his first stunned outburst, there was nothing but quiet. And the icy cold of a rage deeper and more consuming than any screaming fit.

  His hand tightened on the throttle, and his eyes zeroed in on the enemy ship on his scanner. He’d come to save his friend, but he had failed. Now, he had only one purpose, a single thought consuming every corner of his mind and soul.

  Vengeance.

  He’d already been determined to destroy this enemy, but that had been a rational focus, a goal based on eliminating a danger to his comrades and their cause. Now it was personal, in a way he’d never felt before. Kyle Jamison was the brother he’d never had, his oldest friend. The two had been almost telepathically connected, each seeming to know just what the other needed. They’d faced seemingly endless dangers together, and each had known the day could—likely would—come when one of them lost that last fight. But that knowledge had still not prepared him for what he now felt. Or, perhaps, what he didn�
�t feel. The pain wasn’t there yet, not really. Nor the memories of a friend now gone. There was only the need to kill this pilot, a gaping frozen pit inside him, demanding vengeance.

  Stockton had always been cold-blooded in combat, able to set aside things like fear and pity in the maelstrom of battle, but what he felt now was new. It would have scared him to death…if he cared enough right now to recognize fear.

  He pulled back on the throttle, heading directly toward his enemy. He could see the blip moving, reacting to his approach. For an instant, he thought his deadly adversary was going to run for it…and if that was the case, he was ready to pursue, however far, into whatever dark and danger. But the Alliance fighter was coming about to engage him.

  Yes, come to me. You and I have business to finish…

  Stockton’s fingers were white from the tightness of his fist on the throttle. His eyes were wide, glossy, sparkling like a madman’s. Right now, he didn’t care about the war, didn’t care about Dauntless or the other ships of the fleet. Even Stara had been forced from his mind, banished into the recesses along with every vestige of Jake Stockton the man. There was nothing left but a shadow of who he had been, a cold avatar of death with no thought save that of taking its enemy.

  “It’s time for you to die,” he muttered, his tone thick with hatred. Or for me to die.

  Or both of us…

  He knew in that instant, if the price of destroying this enemy and avenging Kyle was his own death, he would pay it in an instant. He could accept his own destruction…in a way, he’d been prepared for it for years. But he could not allow this enemy to live, no matter what. He would destroy this Alliance pilot.

  Whatever the cost.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Interplanetary Space

  Tarantum System