“Sound off,” he ordered, as the remaining pilots docked. He listened as, one by one, they confirmed they were docked to the ship’s hull. “And now we wait. Maintain radio silence.”
He sucked in his breath. If they were lucky, if everything had gone according to plan, the aliens wouldn't have seen them docking with the escort carrier. They’d see the carrier as carrying nothing more than its onboard fighters, half of which were currently taking part in the attempt to force the alien starfighters to fight. And that was what the Admiral was counting on.
His starfighter shivered, slightly, as Blackburn fell out of formation and headed towards the rear of the flotilla. A frigate moved towards it, then apparently changed its mind – or had it changed by the Admiral. Kurt hoped the aliens believed Blackburn to be heading back to Earth, back down the series of tramlines. They had to view the carrier as a tempting target, he knew. He would certainly have considered it a prime target ...
And now we wait, he thought, as the carrier kept moving. And pray.
***
“The aliens have broken contact,” Janelle reported. “Our starfighters are requesting orders.”
“Tell them to return to the flotilla,” Ted ordered. The aliens would have a free shot at Blackburn – or so it would seem. But what if they refused to take the bait? “And then tell Blackburn to continue with her operation until Simon Says otherwise.”
“Aye, sir,” Janelle said. There was a long pause as the starfighters rocketed back towards the carrier. “The aliens are filtering back again.”
And what, Ted asked his unknown counterpart silently, are you thinking? Are you interested in taking a free shot at a makeshift carrier or are you more concerned with monitoring the flotilla?
“I’m picking up nineteen alien fighters watching us, but a number seem to be headed towards Blackburn,” Janelle said, carefully. “I can't get a precise figure on just how many of them there are, sir.”
“Then launch two more probes towards their point of origin,” Ted ordered. He cursed under his breath. The beancounters would make a terrible fuss when they realised just how many probes he’d fired off in less than a day. But it was easier to replace probes, no matter how expensive they were, than pilots. “They have to have a carrier nearby.”
He glanced at the ship’s status board and cursed again. The crew were well-trained and very experienced, after two deep-penetration missions into alien space, but it was clear that tiredness was already beginning to bite. Captain Fitzwilliam was rotating crew through sleep machines as much as possible, yet they didn't dare reduce their number of active crewmembers below a certain level. It would end badly.
We need to slap them back, he thought. And convince them to keep their distance.
***
Twenty-two fighters, Kurt thought, as the alien starfighters flashed towards Blackburn. It was clear they intended to blow the escort carrier away in the first attack, then return to harassing Ark Royal. But they were in for a nasty surprise, he told himself firmly. If they kept coming in at that speed, they wouldn't be able to escape before his pilots tore into them.
He counted down the seconds, then triggered his starfighter’s drives, pushing the ship away from the escort carrier. The aliens seemed to flinch as the remainder of his squadron followed him, but it was definitely too late to escape. Space filled with plasma bursts as the humans opened fire, lashing the aliens back from the carrier and blowing seven alien craft out of space before they even had a chance to fire back. And then the aliens returned fire.
“Keep evading,” he snapped, throwing radio silence to the winds. There was no point in trying to hide any longer. “Don’t give them a chance to draw a bead on you!”
His starfighter spun, then blew another alien fighter into vapour. But the aliens had recovered now and picked off two human fighters in quick succession. Kurt cursed under his breath, knowing that losses would be fairly even from this point until the inexperience of his pilots made itself felt. An alien pilot drew a bead on him, then lost contact as another human pilot blew him into dust. And then the aliens were suddenly retreating at high speed, leaving the humans behind.
Odd, Kurt thought. They must be closer to their sources of replenishment than us.
He scowled at the thought. It would take weeks to get replacement starfighters to Ark Royal, assuming the Royal Navy or anyone else had starfighters to send. He assumed the aliens had bases far closer to the flotilla; hell, they might well have some starfighters assigned to Target One or Target Two they could call on. But instead ... the aliens were definitely worried about losses. It was interesting, to say the least, and indicative of something. He just wished he knew what.
“Simon Says Blackburn is to return to the flotilla,” the Admiral ordered. “I say again, Simon Says Blackburn is to return to the flotilla.”
Kurt nodded. Simon Says was an old trick, one used when there was a good chance the enemy was listening in on allied communications. Using it against the aliens seemed pointless, if only because the aliens couldn't understand human words. But the diplomats had been making progress, he reminded himself. The hostile aliens might have made more progress if they’d had human prisoners to work with, just like Prince Henry. And they might have been less reluctant to use torture to force the prisoners to talk.
He set his starfighter to return to Ark Royal and concentrated on monitoring the remainder of the battle. It looked as though the aliens had fallen back completely, but it was difficult to be sure. They might just have other ships shadowing the carrier ...
“Await orders,” a new voice said, as they returned to the flotilla. “We may have found something interesting.”
“Understood,” Kurt said. The enemy carrier? Or what? “We will hold position and wait.”
***
Ted leaned forward, fascinated despite himself. “What the hell is that?”
“The analysts think it’s an in-flight refuelling craft,” Janelle said. “The pre-space militaries used to use something like it for jet fighters. I don’t think anyone ever considered using it for starfighters, not until now.”
“Clever,” Ted said. “Very clever.”
He shook his head in amused disbelief. The alien craft wasn't much larger than a standard shuttle, which was partly why it hadn't been detected until one of the probes had gotten lucky. But it was clearly capable of carrying enough power cells and life support packs to allow the alien starfighters to recycle and return to the battle without needing to go through a massive carrier. He had to admire the ingenuity of the concept. The aliens had developed a way of deploying starfighters away from planetary bases without a carrier.
But it was also an opportunity. No matter how fast they flew, the alien starfighters were more than nine hours from the closest inhabited world in the system. Without that tanker, he told himself, they would never get home.
“Pass the word to the starfighters,” he ordered. “I want that thing taken out.”
“Aye, sir,” Janelle said.
***
Kurt lifted his eyebrows in surprise as his orders popped up on the display. The aliens had come up with something new – no, not entirely new, but certainly a new adaption of an older concept. And if it could be taken out, the battle might be won without further ado. He relayed his orders to the rest of the squadron, then yanked his starfighter around and raced towards the alien tanker. The remaining pilots followed in his wake.
“Switch to random fire,” he ordered, as the alien starfighters rose up to bar his way. The tanker didn't seem to be anything like as manoeuvrable as an assault shuttle, let alone a starfighter. It's only real defence was remaining undetected. “Don’t let them lure you into a dogfight.”
A quick glance at the scope told him that two pilots had ignored his orders, but the remainder held firm behind him as they blasted through the alien formation and closed in rapidly on the tanker. It tried to alter course, then open fire with weapons of its own, but it was futile. Kurt pushed down on the tr
igger and watched with unholy glee as the tanker exploded into a colossal fireball, which faded rapidly in the inky darkness of space. Behind him, the aliens reversed course and threw themselves back towards the carrier. They had to know they didn’t have a hope of survival, he realised, so they were determined to inflict what damage they could in their remaining hour of life.
“Pursuit course,” he ordered. He wasn't that worried about the Old Lady, but the frigates and escort carriers were at serious risk. As, he reminded himself sharply, was the alien starship from the Peace Faction. “Take the bastards out!”
But he already knew it might be too late.
***
“Enemy starfighters closing on attack vector,” Farley reported. “CSP is moving to engage.”
“Activate point defence,” James ordered, sharply. The aliens looked more intent on ramming his ship than trying to strafe her with plasma fire. But then, they had good reason to know that strafing Ark Royal was a waste of time. Unless they blew off her weapons and sensor blisters ... he shook his head. There was no time to waste thinking about the potential dangers. “And fire as soon as the aliens come into range.”
The alien craft swooped down on Ark Royal, then scattered. Three plunged directly towards the carrier, two picked off before they could slam into the hull; the third rammed the hull directly, only to inflict nothing more than a scar. The remaining starfighters headed towards the smaller ships, despite the growing hail of point defence. One of them slammed into Bolton and the escort carrier vanished in a tearing explosion. The final alien starfighters changed course and headed towards the fleet transport. But it was too late. The CSP overwhelmed and destroyed them short of their target.
“HMS Bolton confirmed destroyed,” Farley said, quietly. “No lifepods; I say again, no lifepods.”
James winced. He’d seen too many people die since the war had begun. Very few of them had had a chance to escape into the lifepods before their ships exploded. Prince Henry had really been incredibly lucky. But at least Bolton was replaceable. She'd only carried fifty crewmen, not counting her pilots. The Royal Navy had had a dozen more conversions under way when the flotilla had departed the Sol System.
“Launch a final shell of recon drones, then stand down,” he ordered. “Recall all but one of the starfighter squadrons; designate the remaining squadron as CSP. Recycle one squadron to replace the CSP as soon as possible.”
“Aye, sir,” Farley said.
James let out a long breath. “Commander Williams, you have the bridge,” he said. “Inform me if anything changes.”
“Aye, Captain,” Commander Williams said. “I have the bridge.”
James nodded, then strode towards the hatch to his office. He needed a rest, urgently. And so did the Admiral. But nagging the Admiral wasn't his job.
But you should ask him to rest anyway, he thought, as he stepped through the hatch. He needs his sleep too.
***
“It does look as though the War Faction has determined that the other factions are committing treason,” Ambassador Melbourne said. “What else explains attacks that will widen the war?”
Henry shrugged. Ambassador Melbourne wasn't as bad as some of the ambassadors he’d had to deal with, thankfully. But then, the Ambassador knew Henry had done a considerable amount of legwork in organising the first true diplomatic meeting between humans and aliens. He wasn't just a useless Prince to the Ambassador.
“So it would seem,” he said. He paused. “You know, I never thought to ask. What do they call themselves?”
“Something we cannot even begin to pronounce,” Ambassador Melbourne told him. “We did ask them, but we don’t have a proper translation for the answer. We’re still arguing if we should call them something in Latin, perhaps ‘intelligent fishes.’”
Henry shrugged, again. He knew no Latin.
“But others think that would be offensive,” Ambassador Melbourne added. “They don’t seem to think the way we do, but they might object to being called fishes.”
“They have more in common with frogs,” Henry said. “But I suppose the French would be pissed if we called them frogs.”
Ambassador Melbourne nodded, bluntly.
“I think you didn't come here to talk to me about naming conventions,” he said, shortly. “It is nice to talk to you, Your Highness, but I don’t have time for a long chat. What do you want?”
You to be polite, Henry thought, although it was hard to blame the Ambassador. Henry had interrupted a meeting with the Ambassador’s aides, just to make his request. As reasonable as the Ambassador was, interrupting him could not have gone down well.
“I believe you will have packed a few hampers,” he said, remembering his first diplomatic mission. “Please can I borrow one?”
Ambassador Melbourne’s eyes narrowed. “Can I ask why?”
“I’d prefer not,” Henry said. “But I would be prepared to offer my endorsement in the future.”
The Ambassador studied him for a long moment. Henry was powerless, formally, and he would have little power even if he took the Throne. But he would have a great deal of informal influence, if he saw fit to use it properly. The Ambassador would be able to call in the debt one day.
“Very well,” Ambassador Melbourne said, finally. “But I would advise you to be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” Henry lied. “Have it delivered to my cabin at the end of the day.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It had been years since Henry had seen a full-sized hamper, even one designed for a handful of people rather than a full diplomatic party. Setting it up on his own had been a headache, but it wasn't as though he was short of time. His only real official duty was monitoring the diplomatic talks and offering his insights, such as they were. Trained researchers seemed to have already moved ahead, thanks to computer assistance, of where he’d been when they’d returned to the Old Lady.
He looked up as he heard the door chime. “Come,” he called. “It’s open.”
The hatch hissed open, revealing Janelle. She started into the room ... and then stopped and stared in disbelief. Henry had set up the table with knives, forks, plates and glasses from the hamper, each one worth more than a midshipwoman would see in a year. The cold meats and bread in the centre of the table, surrounded by sauces and spices, were just the icing on the cake.
“... Henry?”
Henry rose to his feet, suddenly very nervous. It had seemed a good idea, even a great idea, when he'd first had it, but now ... he honestly wasn't sure if it had been a good idea after all. They’d first met and courted in the heat of battle, with the certainty of death hanging over their heads, and now ... she’d thought him dead and a liar and ... what if she laughed in his face or slapped him again?
“I thought we needed a proper dinner,” he said. He waved a hand to indicate the table and the glowing candles he’d placed around the compartment. “What do you think?”
Janelle stared at him, then shook her head in amused disbelief. “Where did you get the food?”
“There’s always a diplomatic hamper or two dozen wherever the diplomats go,” Henry said, as he motioned for her to take one of the seats. “They always have the best food, intended for the diplomat and his counterpart to share while bonding – or perhaps doing some secret negotiation. I just asked for one.”
Janelle sat down. “And you want to share it with me?”
Henry swallowed. This wasn't going according to plan.
“I wanted us to have a proper dinner,” he said. “And a proper chat. We haven't really had time for it since we reunited, have we?”
“No,” Janelle said. He could see the doubt in her eyes warring with something else. Guilt, perhaps. There wasn’t much food on the table, but it was of higher quality than anything else on the ship. The mess served slop by comparison. “Henry ...”
“Please, eat,” Henry said. He took a piece of bread, buttered it expertly, then reached for a chunk of chicken. “This is all goin
g to a good cause.”
Janelle hesitated, then took a piece of bread for herself. They munched in companionable silence for several minutes, trying out the different slices of chicken, pork and beef with their respective toppings. It was a very diplomatic meal, Henry knew, as he swallowed a piece of beef with horseradish sauce. The diners could take whatever they wanted, add whatever seasoning they wanted to try and eat. There would be no row over badly chosen dishes.
He put down his final piece of bread with some satisfaction, then poured them both a glass of rose water. It had been a surprise to discover that there was no alcohol in the hamper, but perhaps that was for the best. Alcohol might have made them both act badly.
“There's rarely very much in these hampers,” he explained, as she took her glass. “The idea is to show off the very top-class foods, rather than try to negotiate when the other side is stuffed to bursting. It isn't an easy balance to strike.”
Ark Royal 3: The Trafalgar Gambit Page 25