by Jay Allan
Chapter Forty-Nine
CFS Repulse
275,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion
Venga System
Year 317 AC
The Battle of Ulion – Phase Four
“Get that fighter ready…now!” Olya Federov was standing on the flight deck, shouting with an intensity—and a focused rage—that had every tech in sight running for cover. Federov had always had a controlled demeanor, a coolness, even under circumstances that turned most of her fellow pilots into something half supernova and half Nordoran Death Cat. But, her calmness was shattered, and all she could feel was anger and urgency. She’d never been forced to eject, not in all the years and battles in which she’d flown countless missions. Until this fight. Until the Hegemony. And, she was going to make them pay.
Federov had always projected an image without the overbearing ego that seemed almost mandated to every ace pilot in the fleet, but now it was clear to her—if it hadn’t been before, she wasn’t really sure—that she had it too, and she’d just hid it well. She was infuriated at being shot out of her fighter, and worse, at being separated from her pilots, who were well into their second attack run. Without her.
And, by all accounts, they’d encountered enemy escorts that were far more effective than any seen before. He pilots were fighting their way through that, and dozens were dying…and she was standing on Repulse’s flight deck.
“I said now…I swear to God, if I have to get my pistol…” She moved toward the fighter closest to her before she realized it wasn’t her old ship. That was gone, left a crippled hulk in space…along with the small sidearm stashed inside. She turned and looked around, and then she grabbed a section of replacement conduit. It wasn’t the weapon her pistol was, but it was nearly a meter of solid reinforced steal…and, by God, if someone didn’t get the ship next to her ready to launch, she was going to use it.
“Olya…” The voice was Stara Sinclair’s, and the shout had come from halfway across the open deck. Federov turned and looked over at her friend, and she waved her hand, a gesture for Stara to stay out of it. That was impossible, of course, since Stara commanded the entire flight deck, including the terrified techs cowering behind whatever nearby structures blocked Federov’s view of them.
“Stara…if you’re going to get involved, order these techs of yours to get their asses in gear…”
“Olya, calm down for a minute.” Stara had been almost at a dead run, but now she stumbled to a stop about two meters from the crazed pilot. “Just wait…were you discharged from sickbay already?”
“More or less,” Federov grumbled. She considered it a discharge, though she suspected the medical technician who’d tried to stop her might have a differing viewpoint. Federov hadn’t actually used the multipurpose injector she’d held to the woman’s throat, but she had kicked her hard in the knee, and left her behind, writhing in what she had to image was considerable pain.
No foul…there wouldn’t be any permanent damage, and she’d apologize later. First, she had business to deal with.
“Olya…what are you going to do all alone out there? Wait for the wings to get back, at least, and go out with the next strike.” Stara paused. “Think. This isn’t like you, not at all. I’ve usually got my hands full with problem children in the strike force, but you’re the one I always counted on to act rationally.”
“They shot me down, Stara…” The emotion Federov had been holding back began to pour out. “I never had to eject before…”
Stara sighed softly. “Stara…almost every veteran pilot has ejected. Jake has done it four or five times. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Federov looked up at Stara. “My people are out there without me…because I let those bastards blast my fighter out from under me.”
“Olya…your people are just glad you got rescued. They thought they’d lost you. I sent the communique myself when the rescue boat confirmed they’d retrieved you. And, the strike force is on the way back already. If you take off now, you won’t be ready to go out with them when they launch again.”
Federov heard the logic in Stara’s words, but it was still a fight to calm herself. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll wait.” She looked down at the deck, and when her eyes drifted back up, they were watery with barely restrained tears. “Those escorts, Stara…they had to go through them without me. The losses…”
Stara nodded gently. “I know, Olya. But, go back to sickbay…please. Get yourself cleared before the squadrons get back. You can’t change what’s already happened, but from the look of things, your people are going to have to go back out there, probably more than once. You have to pull things together, set the example for your wings, be ready to lead them out again.”
Federov looked up at Stara, struggling to hold back the tears. Finally, she just nodded, and then she turned and walked toward the lift. She’d wanted to say something—she wasn’t sure what, exactly—but she felt like if she uttered a word, she’d lose her fading control and the tears would come. She didn’t want to make a scene, not in front of Stara. Not in front of anyone.
So, she hustled across the deck and got into the lift…just before the tears began to flow.
* * *
Stockton was staring at his screen in near disbelief. The strike force was heading back to the fleet. The assault on the enemy battle line had been devastating, with five battleships destroyed outright, and as many as ten more sufficiently damaged to knock out their railguns. That was a good result, perhaps better than he’d had any right to expect, but it still left the enemy fleet strong, with a second—and a third— untouched line moving forward even as Stockton’s fighters raced back to their mother ships.
It was those vessels, Commodore Eaton’s battleships, that had him transfixed.
And horrified.
The battle group was supposed to be falling back, positioning itself out of range, even as the advancing enemy moved within strike distance of the squadrons from Admiral Winters’s force. The idea was to fight as much of the battle with the bombers, while keeping the fleet’s warships out of range. Any battle line engagement was to come only after multiple bombing runs, against an armada of battered and exhausted enemy battlewagons…but, Eaton’s ships were moving forward now, accelerating at better than 8g toward the…
Toward the line of escorts…
Stockton understood immediately. Eaton had watched his people push through the escorts, saw the losses they’d taken. She was closing on the smaller vessels, her battleships ready to blast them to plasma. That plan would work, he was sure of it. By all accounts, the escorts had sacrificed all their larger guns to mount a greater complement of point defense batteries. The Confederation weaponry, both primaries and secondaries, would obliterate the small ships, before any of them were in range to return fire. The line of escorts would be destroyed, or at least scattered, clearing the way for Stockton’s fighters to return to their launch platforms unmolested.
But, Eaton’s ships would be heading right for the enemy battle line at high velocity. Even if she wiped out the escorts and decelerated immediately, it was still no better than a coin toss that she’d be able to pull back before the enemy’s remaining railguns, at least, opened fire. Even if her ships were able to pull back in time, they would be much closer to the enemy line, and the Hegemony ships had higher thrust capacities. Distance and positioning had been Eaton’s advantage in the planned exchange, but she was sacrificing both now.
She is sacrificing it to save us from those escorts…
His plan, his orders, had been clear. Return to base as quickly as possible to refit for another sortie. But, now, Stockton knew he had something else to do first.
“All wings, adjust course and follow me. We’ve got to hit those escorts, and we’ve got to hit them hard. The fleet’s coming in, planning to take them out for us…but, if they do, they’ll be in too close. The commodore will never be able to pull back in time. I know you’re all down to just lasers, but those things aren’t battleship
s, they’re frigates, or something similar. You are the best, the most elite, veteran pilots I’ve ever led.” That was a bit of a lie, but a harmless one. His strike teams were very good, he just guessed they didn’t measure up quite to the level of the killing machine that had been Dauntless’s early war squadrons. “You all know the pecking order. The battleships are at the top, the last to be sacrificed, and we’re at the bottom. If we’re going to win this war, we need to protect our base ships…and that means cutting into these escorts. I know those ships have a lot of firepower, but they caught us by surprise on the way out…and that’s not the case now. Plus, they’ll be watching the battleships moving in on them, and probably trying to get away from that attack. So, let’s go in fast and hard, keeping those evasive maneuvers going every second…and let’s cut through with one hell of a series of strafing runs.” He paused, and his face twisted into an angry frown, his voice lowering to an ominous growl. “The way I look at it, we owe these bastards something…and it’s repayment time.”
Stockton cut the line, and he tightened his grip on the throttle. Then, he pulled back hard, hearing the engines whine as they blasted at full power, and the g forces slammed into him, pushing him deep into the cushions of his seat.
* * *
“What the hell are they doing?” Sara Eaton had jumped up from her chair, and now she was staring down at the 3D display that dominated Repulse’s bridge. The fighter squadrons had been on a course back, one that would have allowed them to avoid the enemy escorts…but now they had changed their vectors. They were heading right for the small enemy ships.
Stockton saw us coming forward. He’s trying to get there first, to try and damage them with lasers so we don’t have to advance so close to the enemy battle line. She felt a flush of anger at the pilot’s efforts to thwart her plans…and a stronger wave of admiration for the risk the pilots were taking in an effort to protect the battleships.
It’s what’s been beaten into their heads since their first Academy days. The base ships are the most important, and had to be protected at all costs.
Eaton appreciated the dedication of the squadrons, but she wasn’t going to let them sacrifice themselves needlessly. Stockton was the best strike force commander the Confederation had, maybe that it had ever had, but he still wasn’t going to wipe out those escorts with nothing but lasers, especially when his fighters were outfitted with the clumsy bomber kits.
She reached down toward the comm, about to order him to pull back. But, she hesitated. She knew Stockton well. Too well. The maverick pilot would very likely disobey, and right now, she didn’t need the discord in the fleet. They were fighting an unwinnable battle, but somehow the fleet’s morale was still strong. A scene of the commodore and her strike force commander arguing over orders on the open comm wasn’t going to do any of them any favors.
“Commander…fleet order. All ships increase engines to flank.” She looked around the bridge, locking eyes with her sister for just an instant, but long enough to see the younger Eaton understood what she was doing and agreed completely. “We’re going in hard, and I want every battery firing the instant it’s in range.”
“Yes, Commodore. Roger that.” Fuller turned toward his station, activating his comm unit. “All ships, increase acceleration to flank. Advance and engage with all batteries as soon as they are in range.”
Eaton looked ahead at the display, a frozen glare on her face. She might not be able to stop Stockton from coming in, but she could get her own ships there sooner. It would only make it that much harder to pull back and avoid the enemy battle line, but she decided she’d worry about that later.
* * *
“What the hell is going on up there?” Clint Winters sat in his chair, hunched over forward, pointing with his arm toward the images of Eaton’s line.
“They’re accelerating, sir…toward the escorts. And, the returning fighters are doing the same thing from the other direction. They should engage at about the same time, Admiral.”
“Send a message to Commodore Eaton. She is to…” Winters’s voice trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the display. Eaton wasn’t violating his orders, not exactly, but she was running roughshod over their spirit.
She was right. She couldn’t abandon her squadrons, let them endure the fire of those escorts again.
And, he couldn’t abandon her.
“Order the strike force to accelerate at full thrust and engage the enemy forward battle line.” Stockton and his veterans had pounded the lead Hegemony battleships hard, and now his fighters and Eaton’s battleships were attacking the escorts. That left an opening for the less experienced squadrons from the Ulion defense forces to slip through without facing the deadly small ships. They could hit the battleships hard, right on the heels of Stockton’s second, devastating assault.
And, his battleships would be right behind them. Just maybe, the combined fighter attacks would knock out enough of the railguns, at least until the second and third enemy lines advanced into range. It was a chance to fight it out with the battleships, and just maybe to do some real hard to the Hegemony forces.
“The battle line will accelerate forward at flank. Course directly toward the enemy battleships.”
Winters knew on some level what he was doing was a mistake, that he was risking his entire fleet. But, Eaton’s ships were already deep in, and he wasn’t prepared to abandon them, no matter what the risk.
Besides, he was tired of running. The enemy had chased him from the border to the very Core of the Confederation. The campaign had been one retreat after another, one dancing, careful battle followed by the next…an unending cascade of frustration and loss. He was ready to get in close now, and kill some Hegemony spacers. And, for all the risks, all the terrible danger, he was ready to bet his spacers were, too.
“Bring us in, Commander. Let’s show the Hegemony what a real fight looks like.”
Chapter Fifty
The Promenade
Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III
Year 317 AC
Andi Lafarge walked down the Promenade. Troyus City’s main retail and entertainment center was a seemingly endless series of shops, restaurants, hotels. Its stunning architecture was a testament to the beauty of Troyus, at least its inner districts, where the rich and politically connected lived. There were hundreds of people, no thousands, wandering all around, shopping, heading off for early dinners, or just browsing the wares displayed in a thousand windows along the wide and pedestrian-clogged street.
The whole spectacle made her tense, her shoulder blades feeling as though they were closing together, her guts tied up in one giant, unfathomable knot.
She’d been lurking in the outer districts now for weeks, hiding in alleys, sleeping in abandoned warehouses. She’d become one of the destitute homeless who inhabited Troyus’s worst outer neighborhoods, and she’d spent so long in the dank and damp filth of the streets, she’d almost lost her sense of who she was, of how to endure the crowds, the endless, penetrating eyes looking in her direction from all around.
She was dirty. Where she’d been, there were no washing facilities, no laundries, no fresh clothes or anything of the sort. She’d lived like one of the destitute and forgotten, and now she looked like one of them, too. Smelled like one.
She’d done what she could when her clues pointed back toward Troyus’s center, stolen some clothes, tried to cover up her disheveled look as well as she could manage, but she’d still noticed some stares, the unrelenting gaze of disapproval she suspected was part of everyday life for the forgotten detritus of human existence, those she’d lived among now for the better part of a month. Those she’d ignored herself so many times in the past, without so much as a thought about what sequence of misfortune had led them to such dire straits.
She’d endured her time in the slums, where she’d tracked Lille, uncovered one of his safe houses, even killed a contact of his…a bit of overzealousness in her interrogation rather than a deliberate act. None of
it was new to her. She’d been born into such a violent and destitute neighborhood, and she’d spent her youth digging through garbage for something to eat. The Outer District held no surprises for her. Indeed, it was a good measure less dirty and violent than her old home.
It was transitioning into the government zones that shook her. She’d spent her share of time among the rich and powerful, indeed, she was one of the Confederation’s wealthiest herself now, but she found the stark change, from people searching for scraps of food, to over-dressed and mostly useless government functionaries falling all over each other to eat in the ‘right’ places and shop for the momentarily fashionable clothes required to flit about Troyus’s elite circles. The whole sordid display sickened her, but she didn’t have time to think of such things. She had one purpose. She was hunting a man, and she finally had a trail, one that hadn’t gone stone cold by the time she’d set out to follow it. Ricard Lille had emerged from his hiding place, also somewhere among society’s lowest levels, and moved out into the open. She had prepared for this moment, planned, waited.
Now, it was time.
Her hand dropped to her side, a quick check to confirm what she already knew…that her small, undetectable pistol was still where she’d placed it, just under her left armpit. She’d been nervous at first, concerned that she would only have two shots. Lille was a wily target, and, perhaps worse, he was hunting her just as she was hunting him, but she’d finally made peace with the size of the tiny magazine.
It was simple. She just couldn’t miss.
She’d been stalking Lille, as he’d been stalking her…but now, the assassin seemed to be on another trail. It was an opportunity, a chance to track the assassin while he was distracted…but she was also worried. Had she missed something? Was Lille leading her into some kind of trap?