by Jay Allan
In his own mind, he’d held firmly to his sanity, however, to a clear distinction between legend and fact. He was a skilled pilot, perhaps, one with a reasonable claim to the title so readily given to him by those around him…the best in the fleet. But he’d almost met his match more than once, and his ego, while not immune to a bit of puffery here and there, had never clouded his realization that luck had saved him more than once.
Against Jovi Grachus, certainly. The Alliance ace had been as good as he was, or damned close…and that had been flying an Alliance fighter that was two decades behind his Lightning in technology. If they’d met on equal terms…he was far from sure he’d be there, leading the thousands of fighters, the countless squadrons forming up, or still launching as battleships emerged from the transit point.
Maybe she would be here, remembering the day she’d killed me. He was always aware of how easily things could switch, how the slightest change rippled through reality.
It was all pointless, though, he knew that well enough. She was dead, and he was there, more than five thousand pilots looking to him for leadership, and some—the rookies especially—nearly worshipping him as a deity, following him as though he led them to paradise and not, far more likely, to a lonely death in the frozen reaches of space.
His eyes moved to his scanners, watching as the returning fighters from the advance guard moved onto the screen. He saw Alicia Covington’s ship, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know Covington all that well, at least he hadn’t before she’d become one of the unofficial group he dubbed his Four Horsemen, but he’d come to respect her skill and courage. She held her own in the august company of the other three Horsemen, and if the Confederation managed to retake Megara, he was sure she would play her part in that victory.
As we all will.
It was no more than fact. If all of his people didn’t do their part, and especially the veteran aces he counted on to lead the others, there would be no victory in Olyus, no reclamation of Megara. There would only be defeat, certain and final.
His hand tightened around the throttle, and he increased his thrust, slowly, gradually, giving his still-forming wings a chance to match his maneuver. His eyes were still on the screen, his initial excitement at seeing Covington’s ship dulled by the thinness of the waves behind her. Stockton didn’t have numbers yet, the retiring squadrons weren’t all close enough for that kind of data, but his experience gave him an estimate he knew would at least be close.
Covington had perhaps eighty percent of her ships left in formation. Not all of the missing ships were lost, of course. Some were likely cripples, falling behind the main formation as they limped back to their mother ships…and with a massive wave of newly arrived fighters coming on and stopping cold any enemy pursuit, they’d have a good chance of making it back
But he knew a lot of the missing pilots were dead. Dead or floating in space, kept alive for a while by survival gear, desperately hoping their comrades pushed the enemy back quickly enough for the retrieval boats to come and get them.
Before they froze or suffocated.
Covington’s people had done all he could have expected of them, and now it was time for him to follow up on what she’d started…and to finish the battleships of the forward Hegemony formation. They were damaged, battered…and Stockton had no intention of allowing any of them to escape.
Not one.
“Warrior…blast your wings forward, full thrust, around the starboard side of the enemy formation. I want you on their line of retreat, at least 250,000 kilometers behind. We’ll hit them from the front…and you and your people pick off any survivors who run.” He paused, and he could feel the anger and bitterness he felt toward the enemy growing, turning his tone caustic. “None of them escape…do you understand me. Not one of them.”
“I understand you, Raptor. Consider it done.” Dirk Timmons’s reply was, if anything, colder and more malevolent. ‘Warrior’ Timmons was the one pilot in the Alliance’s entire order of battle who could challenge Stockton’s skill, and that made him the natural go to for the most important jobs.
Like making sure not a single battleship escaped to join the main enemy fleet.
I do, old friend, I do. That’s why I’m sending you…
* * *
Barron stood in front of his chair on Dauntless’s bridge, rigid like a statue, watching the battle unfolding in the 3D immensity of the flagship’s main display. The fleet was still shaking down into formation, ships still pouring through the transit point. And, in front of his newly-arrived ships, the battle line of Sara Eaton’s advance guard, ten battleships—twelve had transited with her—battered, some with gaping wounds in their hulls, fighting an intense firefight with eight Hegemony dreadnoughts. Eaton’s ships were formed up around her flagship, the sparkling new Renown, fresh from Craydon’s own shipyards.
Well, it had been sparkling, before Eaton had transited, and gone toe to toe with the Hegemony line.
The fight had clearly been vicious, possibly even a straight up match, which had to be a surprise to the enemy. The enhanced primaries were living up to expectations, at least from the four ships that still seemed to have operational main batteries. The days of immense Hegemony range advantages were past, at least when the newest Confederation ships—and the four biggest from the Alliance—were in the fight.
Covington’s bombers, spent now and heading back to their launch platforms, had exacted their price as well, and only three Hegemony vessels appeared to have railguns still firing. Barron’s eyes moved along the row of red spheres, and then he looked toward his own workstation, as the AI scrolled damage assessments.
Barron realized immediately, the enemy positioning had favored his forces, to an extent. The forward enemy division had claimed a price against the advance guard, but it had also given his oncoming formations the chance to overwhelm it, to destroy those ships before meaningful support could make it across the system.
He wondered if it had been pride, hubris, the expectation that the battleships’ railguns would cut down any transiting ships before they could close and engage. That was a strategy that might have made sense…before the fleet had been upgraded to enhanced primaries.
Barron had wondered if the increased risk of malfunction, or even critical systems failure was too high a price to pay for the longer-ranged batteries, but now he had no doubt. He’d been right to insist the upgrades be installed in every ship that could take them. There would be failures, certainly, perhaps even some that cost him ships…and crews. But he had no doubt which way the scales would drop in the end.
He could hear the whine of the battleship’s primaries charging, much louder than it had been before. He’d given the order for the battleships of the fleet’s first wave, the ones with enhanced batteries capable of targeting the enemy forces at the current range, to open fire when ready. He’d almost ordered the primaries charged before the ships jumped, but the enhanced weapons were dangerously overpowered as it was…risking carrying that kind of load through the transit point seemed downright insane.
Now, he sat and waited, and tried to keep himself from watching the small display tracking Dauntless’s charging status. He’d promised himself he would leave the running of the flagship itself to Atara. She was Dauntless’s captain now, and that was that.
His job was commanding the fleet, and however strange that seemed, however much his mind struggled to grasp how that had come to be, he knew what he had to do. He’d never had any choice about who he was, who he would be. He’d been destined for the navy since the day he’d been born, and every path in his life had led to the command he now held, the position that had once been his grandfather’s.
His father hadn’t lived to reach such lofty heights, but despite the many dangers he’d faced, Tyler had survived. He’d survived to do his duty, to lead his spacers to victory.
Or to defeat and death.
He felt his hands tighten, forming two fists at his side, as determination pour
ed out from the depths of his mind. He felt almost as though his grandfather was there, on Dauntless’s bridge, giving him strength, keeping his focus where it had to be.
No…not defeat. We are not going to lose this battle…or this war. I will do what has to be done, Grandfather, as you once did. We will prevail.
Even as he felt the raw defiance strengthening him, he heard the louder, higher pitched sound…Dauntless’s primaries firing.
The fight was on.
He turned, and he looked around the bridge, at the officers tensely hunched over their workstations, focused, dedicated. He was proud of them all…and determined that they, some of them, at least, would make it through to enjoy the fruits of peace.
But, at that moment, he had only one thought screaming in his mind.
Up now, and to arms.
Chapter Thirty
CFS Tarsus
Inner Kuiper Belt
Venga System
Year 320 AC
“Stanton, I don’t care what it takes…you’ve got to get your people back onboard faster.” Sonya Eaton understood the ramifications of what she was saying. She knew pushing the Lightnings so far beyond their standard specs, especially with mostly inexperienced pilots at the controls, was dangerous, that it would likely result in more lost ships…more of her people dead.
But she also knew she had no choice. There were no good options. She’d managed to keep her ships between the Hegemony convoy and the transit point leading toward Olyus…somehow. Stanton’s relentless attacks had been no small part of that, and luck, too, perhaps…but even her slow-moving escort carriers were positioned so they could make the jump, and get to the last system between the enemy battleships and Megara.
But there was no time to waste. None.
Her fleet had to get through the point before those battleships were in range to fire. She knew, before the running fight was finished, she’d have to close with her ships, that it would take everything her force and her people had if they were going to slow the enemy enough, hold them back while Barron and the main fleet fought their desperate battle at Megara. But it was too soon now, far too soon, to risk her launch platforms, or the frigates that gave her the only real ship to ship combat potential she had.
If she handled things just right, if she made the jump and got her ships in position, she just might get two more bomber strikes in before she had to close with the rest of her fleet. The more damage the enemy battleships took from the fighter attacks, the better chance the rest of her ships had of doing some damage to the leviathans before being blasted to bits themselves. The future wasn’t looking very bright, not for any of her people, but they had a job to do. She knew what that was…and she was going to see it done.
“Captain…I’m pushing them as far as I dare. If I drive them any harder…I could lose half the wing.”
“And, if you don’t, you’ll all be stuck here when the carriers transit.” Eaton understood Hayes’s reluctance, but she didn’t have time for it, and her impatience was on display in her raw tone. “How many of your people do you think can pull off a transit point jump in a Lightning? And, if I don’t send the carriers through, in twenty minutes at most, you’re not going to have any place at all to land…on this side or the other side of the point. So, stop arguing with me, and just get it done!”
She turned abruptly toward Bart Tarleton’s station. “Commander…I need precise calculations on just how long we can stay here and still make it through the point in time.”
“Yes, Captain.” The officer turned, and his hands moved over the keyboard and controls. Eaton had a good idea of the timing—she’d been thinking about it almost nonstop for an hour—but she wanted an exact figure. She couldn’t risk letting the enemy into range of her ships, not before the bombers had a chance to soften up those battleships a little more…or until she was out of chances to launch new strikes and had nothing left to lose.
Except her ships and their crews…which she’d more or less accepted were doomed. The fight wasn’t about survival, not for most of her people…it was about dying for something, rather than for nothing.
“Nineteen minutes, Captain. That’s with a ten percent safety margin. “Just under twenty-one without.”
She looked back at the display, her mind running the same calculations over and over again. It was going to be close, damned close, even if Hayes pushed his people to their absolute limits…and that ‘safety factor’ of two minutes mostly had to do with the lack of exact data on Hegemony weapons ranges. If she waited past nineteen, she risked being fired upon, losing ships.
She felt a shiver at the thought of what a single railgun hit would do to one of her lightly-armored escort carriers. Even a glancing blow would obliterate any vessel in her fleet. She knew she should leave at nineteen on the dot, but the thought of leaving bombers behind weighed heavily on her. Twenty-one…that was cutting it too close.
“We’re transiting in twenty minutes, Commander. I want all ships ready to go, reactors at full and engines ready.” She paused for a few seconds. “All landing bays will close thirty seconds before transit. Any bombers not landed by then…” She didn’t finish.
She didn’t have to. Everybody knew.
* * *
“Keep those engines at full power, all of you. We’re almost out of time.” Hayes had done all he could to drive his terrified pilots on their desperate race to catch up with the carriers. Every ship in the formation was flying without any safeties, their reactors and engines all operating well past the redline. That was difficult enough for an experienced pilot, but Hayes’s squadrons were full of rookies.
They were doing better than he’d dared expect, better than anyone had likely hoped…but there had still been losses. Two ships had been destroyed outright, their rectors overloading. One had gone critical, and the fighter had disappeared in a massive burst of thermonuclear fury. The other had simply killed its pilot with a massive radiation leak, at least a thousand times the lethal level.
Both of those had gone quickly, at least. The ones digging at Hayes, driving the growing urge to bring his ship about and fly back toward the approaching enemy, were the six ships whose engines had simply failed under the strain. Three of them were completely offline, the fighters zipping in a straight line at unchangeable velocities. The other three were operating at severely reduced thrust levels.
All six of them were as good as dead. He’d hoped one of the degraded but still functional Lightnings might make it in time, but its thrust had dropped off since the initial malfunction, and there was no way it was going to make it before the fleet transited…or even before the pursuing enemy ships caught it, and blasted it to dust.
“Have those approach plans ready. You’ve got your landing sequences, and the bays are ready and waiting.” The ships at the head of the formation were coming in as he spoke, the first ones beginning to land. He had his squadrons coming in a tight order, which was another risk for the makeshift bays of the escort carriers and his rookie pilots. He’d been hesitant to move things at such a breakneck pace, especially since the converted freighters had neither the equipment nor the flight crews of a proper battleship’s landing bays. But there was no time to spare, and perhaps not enough even to get all his people back.
He watched his screen as the first ships went in. He held his breath as the first wave landed, and then the second. The escort carriers had only a single bay each, and that meant, with such small gaps between landings, one bomber losing it could shut an entire ship down, even risk disabling the carrier overall. The escort units were poorly outfitted in every way, armor, damage control, fire suppression. A bad enough fighter crash in the bay could cripple one of the ships outright.
But no one crashed. His rookies were performing well, and he felt pride in watching them. No one lost it on the final approach, no one hesitated or threw off the landing sequence. Better than half his ships were in when his eyes caught the timer on his screen.
One minute…the carriers wo
uld be moving out in one minute. The fighters could continue to land while the carriers engaged their engines, but that was a step up in difficulty. All he could do was hope his people continued to perform, that they found it in themselves to do what they had to do.
There was another problem. His mind raced, factoring in the landings on the accelerating carriers. Even if his pilots executed perfectly, if they didn’t lose a beat…they still weren’t all going to make it.
He almost hit the comm, one last effort to convince Captain Eaton to wait…but then he saw the Hegemony battleships looming from behind, far too close for comfort. If anything, he realized, Eaton had waited too long. She had to send her carriers through the point, and now.
He’d just have to do what he could with the twenty or so ships that would be left behind. He’d read about fighters making transits, he even knew a few pilots who’d done it, and one, Admiral Stockton himself, who’d successfully completed countless such trips. But he also knew they were difficult and dangerous…and that many capable pilots had died attempting such jumps.
None of that really mattered. He wasn’t going to get all his people landed before the carriers transited, and that meant he had two choices. Stay and fight, twenty fighters with empty bomb bays against the entire Hegemony fleet.
Or, plunge into the transit point after the carriers…and find some way to make it through, and bring his people along with him.
Those are two shitty alternatives…but there was no real choice to be made.
He tapped his throttle, sliding his ship out of the course directly toward the carriers, and on a line to the transit point. There were eighteen birds behind him. He was willing to bet the ones in front could make it before the carriers jumped.
He leaned down and activated the comm unit, setting the channel to the three squadrons behind him. “Okay, Hawkwinds, Skyflyers, Battlecats…let me give it to you straight. We’re not going to make it to the carriers, not before they transit…so I want everybody tight on me. Stay close, and follow the nav directions I send you, and whatever you do, keep your shit together. You panic and you’re going to die. It’s that simple.” He paused and took a deep breath. “We’re going right through the point, and we’re going to land on the carriers on the other side.”