“Everyone has a choice,” gruff voice replied. “It’s not usually as obvious as this.”
Turning to the first guard again, he said, “I will escape. And I won’t be alone when I do. You’re better off killing me right now. Safer, certainly.”
“Make your choice.”
“I’ll fly your ship for you. Though I can guarantee that you’re going to regret it.”
“Maybe,” she replied, glancing at her watch. “Let’s get you up to the simulators. Your first launch is in two hours.”
“Two hours?” Romano asked. “How can we learn how to fly a ship in two hours?”
“We keep it nice and simple,” she said, a smile on her face. “And we’ve found that spending too much time on the training programs is a waste. You know the principles. That will have to do.”
Chapter 5
“Ninety seconds, Commander,” Volkov’s voice barked over the intercom. “All fighters will launch as soon as we arrive. Targets as in the battle plan. Good hunting, everyone.”
“Flynn to Benedetti,” the pilot said. “You read me, Benny?”
“I’m here, Jack. Is this going to be a lecture about letting you and the others lead the way, and not risk my extremely precious ship until I’ve had a chance to launch my missile?”
“Something like that, but you’re a lot more succinct than I was going to be.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t take any unnecessary risks. As far as I’m concerned, this is a simple smash and grab, nothing more than that. A nice, neat, surgical strike.” She paused, then asked, “Do you think the Captain’s plan will work?”
“I can’t think of a better one, Lieutenant,” he replied.
“That isn’t answering my question,” she pressed. “We’re taking one hell of a risk splitting up the fleet. We’re giving the Guilders a chance to take us down a piece at a time, and...”
“What’s your idea, then?” he asked. “If it’s a good one, I’ll take us right back to Zemlya and we can execute it when the fleet returns.” He sighed, then said, “Look, I agree with you, at least to an extent. We’re taking a risk, a big one. Don’t you think the Captain knows that just as well as you do? We’re on the edge, Lieutenant, and about to slide into the abyss. Right now, any chance, no matter how slender, has to be better than simply accepting defeat. We lose Zemlya, the war’s over. Putting together any sort of alliance has been a nightmare. It’ll fall apart in an instant if we lose our headquarters. Maybe we could hold on at Lemuria for a while, but you’re dependent on interstellar trade. You’d have no choice but to come to terms with the Guild, and they know that just as well as you do.”
“Thirty seconds, people!” Volkov said.
“This plan has a chance,” Flynn continued. “And it might open the Guild up to a more vulnerable strike. If we can just weaken that offensive force, even a little, then we could sneak a not-so-metaphorical knife into their back. At any rate, if we pull this off, we’ll have our fleet assembled before the Guilders can reach Zemlya anyway, so this all might be moot.”
“We hope,” she replied. “Ready for launch.”
“Armstrong, Poulson?” Flynn asked.
“Ready for launch, sir,” Armstrong replied.
“Same here, Commander. Let me at ‘em,” Poulson added.
“Don’t be so damned eager, Ensign,” Flynn said. “There’ll be enough bad guys to go around. You’ve got my guarantee on that. We’ll get those five kills notched up for you soon enough.”
“Ten seconds,” Volkov said. “Stand by for emergence. Good hunting!”
“Roger that, Actual,” Flynn replied. “Scramble on command, people.”
He looked at his tactical view, dominating the heads-up display for want of any other information to report. Until they returned to normal space, all of this was just a projection, a simulation. The battle plan was simple enough, their target a fleet refueling depot and orbital refinery, the defenses light. It had been on their list of objectives even before the change in priorities, though now they were having to attack with a fraction of the force he would have preferred to deploy.
Benedetti had a point. One that he found hard to dismiss, at least to himself. They were pushing their luck far more than they really should, far more than was wise. Not that they had a choice. Still, something seemed wrong, warning bells ringing in his mind. He’d tried to come up with something else. Doubtless the entire senior command cadre had done likewise. None of them had managed to conjure up anything of use. They were tied to Captain Forrest’s plan, as imperfect as it was.
And he knew full well that she’d tried to come up with something better. And failed. The reality of the situation was that they were involved in a fight for their lives, against all but impossible odds and with slavery or death as the only rewards for failure.
He felt the familiar lurching feeling in his stomach, the grinding, dreadful tug that heralded his return to normal space, made far worse than normal by his position on the outside of the ship, rather than safe within the shielded, armored deck. A human could live through hyperspace exposure, at least briefly, but it was an experience that none sought to repeat.
Then, after what seemed an eternity but was in reality only a handful of seconds, the stars came back as Komarov returned to their home dimension at last, and his heads-up display streamed a wave of updates onto his screen as the sensors struggled to match reality with projection, bringing their data instantly up-to-date. Without quite realizing, he held his breath, his hand resting on the lever that would hurl the squadron into the sky, waiting for the information they needed.
Everything was as they had expected, as they had hoped. The station slowly revolved around the icy moon below, attached by a tether to the pumping facility on the surface. The station was man-tended, a small freighter wisely choosing the better part of valor and fleeing the system, racing to the safety of the gravitational threshold. He had no plans to interfere with them. More, he needed them to get away, if the Guild were to learn just what they were risking in their attempt to invade Zemlya. With a deep breath, he pulled the lever. His fighter dropped away, his engines firing, pushing him back into his couch as the acceleration built, hurling him into the battlespace.
“Picking up perimeter defenses,” Volkov said. “Swarm drones, three of them, launching from the station and moving onto intercept course. Nasty bastards. You’ll need to hit them before they can break apart, or they’ll overwhelm you easily.”
“Armstrong, Poulson, full burn, now,” Flynn ordered. “Benedetti, stay back and line up a shot. If you get this right, you ought to be able to take out both the station and the surface facility as well. That tether’s long enough to wrap around the entire moon, cause some nice earthquakes down there.” He paused, then said, “Major, warn all civilians in this system to evacuate their facilities on the double. I’d say they’ve got less than five minutes before the bad times roll.”
“We’re going to play our hand early, Commander,” Poulson said.
“We’re the good guys, Ensign, and we’re damned well going to act like it! Besides, most of the poor bastards down there probably don’t have a choice about it. We’re at war with the Guild, not a collection of maintenance technicians and shuttle jockeys. Send the message, Major!”
“Way ahead of you, Commander,” Volkov replied.
Flynn threw a control, locking his tactical systems on the approaching swarm, a smile crossing his face as he raced towards his target. His combat computers were working furiously, plotting a firing solution, his missiles armed and ready. He glanced across at his squadron status panel, nodding in satisfaction as he saw the other fighters moving into position, one on either side, both locking onto their chosen targets. Right out of the textbook.
The three fighters launched as one, six missiles racing forward from the formation, sliding smoothly into two salvos, the second ready should the f
irst fail. Flynn thumbed the control on his particle beams, ready in case the missiles flew wild, his eyes locked on the forward sensors as his deadly payload found its goal. Three missiles, three detonations, and the swarm drones detonated. He tapped a control to send the second salvo towards the floating station, their engines dying as their fuel ran out, locked into their final trajectory. Thrusters fired on the fueling platform, someone attempting to evade at the last minute, but while they might fly clear of the missile salvo, Benedetti would be able to place her warhead at point-blank range.
“You’re clear to engage, Lieutenant,” Flynn said.
“Getting contacts launching from the station,” Volkov reported. “Shuttles, I think. Three of them. Heading into orbital space.” After a second, he added, “Could get onto an attack vector potentially, if someone decides to be a hero.”
“Armstrong, Poulson, cover those fighters. As long as they stay at a safe distance from Komarov, leave them be. Otherwise, take out their engines.”
“Roger, sir, will comply,” Armstrong said, the two wingmen diving to the side, while Flynn remained on his original course, cruising towards the station, Benedetti burning furiously to catch up with him. He glanced at the countdown clock, smiling in satisfaction. Less than four minutes since they arrived in the system, and the battle was all but over. Half an hour, and they’d be on their way back to Zemlya.
“Two minutes to target,” Benedetti reported. “I have a firing solution. One nice impact, and I’ll sever the tether when I take down the station. Should make a nice, comprehensive mess.”
“Surface installation is being evacuated,” Volkov added. “Lots of activity down there. Shuttles again, heading for the far side of the planet as far as I can tell.” He paused, then said, “I’ll have my team prepare some emergency supplies. We can depot them in high orbit before we leave. Just in case they run into trouble.”
“I thought they were the enemy,” Poulson said.
“Today’s enemy is tomorrow’s friend,” Flynn replied. “We’re going to have to live with these people. Besides, I’d rather they have a reason to treat any of our people they capture humanely.”
“Romano, Tanaka?” Benedetti asked. “They’re most likely dead, Jack.”
“Not until I see the body,” he replied. A warning light flickered on his console, and he added, “Damn. New target, bearing ahead. Another swarm. Looks like they held it to the last minute.” He looked down at the trajectory plot, and added, “I think I can intercept.”
“Go for an abort,” Volkov said. “You should be able to swing around...”
“If I do that, there’s a chance it can take out Benedetti, Major. I can take it close-in with my cannons. I hope.” He reached down for the throttle, throwing his engines full-open, pulling further ahead of the bomber behind him. More warning lights flooded his console, the tactical computer doing its best to warn him of the insanity he was attempting.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on.” He watched as the planet grew larger in the viewscreen, a single green dot appearing on the display as the swarm approached visual range, growing closer, ever closer. He held his finger over the trigger, the computer projecting the best time to take the shot. He had to make his strike before the release of the swarm, and he knew it was going to be close. Too close.
He fired a half-second too-late. The fighter’s onboard computer reacted faster than he could, hurling him from his ship, the cannons firing their precious energy in wild bursts, taking a desperate chance that his ship could cover him while he ejected. His suit thrusters engaged, pushing him into the safest possible trajectory.
His fighter exploded, a ripple of shrapnel joining the cloud of drones racing towards him. To them, he was simply a target, no ability to discriminate further than that. He fired his thrusters again, spending the last of his fuel in an attempt to evade that he knew was futile. The sensors on his suit screamed warnings into his ears, the cloud growing closer by the second.
“Press the attack, Major,” he ordered, not knowing whether or not he was being heard. “Make this count.” He called up his sensors, saving one final pulse of fuel for a final attempt to evade. The drones were running dry, one after another, trajectory plots flickering from red to amber. The debris field still raced towards him, the ruins of his own fighter locked onto an intercept course. One more pulse would do it. One more pulse would throw him clear.
His lifesystem! Oxygen to last him for forty hours. His frantic fingers worked through the overrides, and as the last instant, he felt a final kick on his back, and he soared clear of the debris field. For an instant, jubilation raced through his mind, brief hope that he was going to make it after all. Then he looked at his sensors once more. Another target. Just one. A small piece of shrapnel on an intercept course. And there was nothing he could do to get out of its path.
Consciousness fled from him with an anguished scream, and all was dark.
Chapter 6
Benedetti looked down at the status panel, watching as all of the telemetry from Flynn’s fighter went dark. She glanced across at her trajectory track, her fingers dancing across the navigation computer as she frantically worked out a projected course, trying to determine just where he would end up, assuming he had managed to eject before hitting the debris cloud. The answer was not promising. Even if she somehow slipped through the clouds of shrapnel that she was about to hurl into the sky with the imminent destruction of the orbital station, he’d burn up in the atmosphere below in a handful of orbits. He’d be dead in a matter of hours, whatever happened.
For the present, she still had a job to do, and that a good friend might have died to give her a chance of completing her mission simply stiffened her resolve further than it had already been. The targeting computer began to sing, the Thunderbolt missile slung underneath her bomber readying itself for launch, homing on the target. She had to position the warhead at the perfect spot, severing the station from the tether in the moment of its destruction, sending the long, ten-thousand-mile cord twisting through space towards the surface.
It would be a precision shot, difficult under normal circumstances, but in the middle of a firefight, anti-fighter defenses on the outskirts of the station beginning to open up, it was all but impossible. Nevertheless, for Flynn, if for no other reason, she had to make it work.
Maser bolts hurtled into the sky all around her, the tracer shots visible on her scanner, the enemy doing its best to convince her to alter course, to escape and evade rather than press home the attack. She looked at her fuel gauge, watching as the levels slowly fell away, and reached for the throttle, ready to push onto a new course once she had completed the run. She could just see the station now, a tiny dot in the distance, growing larger every second. Her missile was a slow, lumbering beast, unable to evade enemy fire. She had to plant it precisely on target. There was no margin for error on this attack run.
Ten seconds to launch. Her finger rested on the launch controls, a manual backup to the computers, one that hopefully would not be necessary. There was no way that she could react faster than the tactical systems, and the launch required micro-second perfect timing to succeed. Nevertheless, she still waited, tensing for the tone that would herald a launch. At the final second, she jammed her finger on the release, a heartbeat behind the computer, and her bomber reared up as the missile roared into the sky, diving towards its target.
She had to move, and quickly. Hurling the throttle full-open, she felt the force of acceleration slam her back on her couch. No course change, no point, no need to waste the time. She simply had to be in a different part of space, rapidly. Behind her, the missile lumbered on, the enemy defenses attempting to find the track, to take the single shot that might save the station. Then, finally, they ran out of time.
Detonation.
As she sped to safety, she had a front row seat for the death of the station, watching it torn apart, tissues of fire r
acing across the deck plates as the hull armor buckled and broke, shattering into a million fragments that raced in all directions. The topmost part of the tether had been destroyed, the impact of the missile tearing it to pieces, but the long lower section remained, falling down towards the surface, long enough to wrap itself around the planet twice, the impact calculated to slam into the ground less than ten miles from the surface installation.
The world below would survive, but it would never be the same. Force Nine earthquakes, every tectonic fault giving at once, volcanoes triggered by the seismic shockwaves, the very fabric of the rock and ice blasted. Nobody could survive on the surface, and she could see a handful of shuttles racing away, trying to get clear of the atmosphere that was about to become a raging inferno. Despite everything, she hoped they made it. No-one had to die here. She’d caused a billion credits of damage, and the Guilders would feel the pain to their balance sheets far more than they would the loss of life. Just one more indictment to add to the ever-lengthening list.
“Nice shooting, Lieutenant!” Volkov yelled. “Right on target, right on time.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “You getting any signals from Jack’s transponders?”
“Nothing,” he said, his jubilation rapidly dispersing. “Not a thing.”
Glancing at her navigation computer, she replied, “Get a tanker ready to go. I’m going to need one once I complete this maneuver.”
“Don’t do it, Lieutenant,” Volkov said. “You’re not equipped for search and rescue, and you don’t have the fuel to complete the run.”
“You worry too much, Actual. I’ve got a plan. Trust me. Just have someone ready to top us up and bring me back home when I pull out the other side.” She reached down to her thrusters, turning her bomber onto a new vector, then pulled on her gloves, her fingers flexing in the stiff fabric, and locked her helmet in position. Warning lights flashed as she depressurized the cockpit, slowly releasing the atmosphere to avoid being thrown off course at the wrong moment.
Only the Brave (Lincoln's War Book 3) Page 4