Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars Book 8)

by Jay Allan

  Black Dawn

  Blood on the Stars VIII

  By Jay Allan

  Copyright 2018 Jay Allan Books Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One

  Excerpt from the Log of Captain Jake Stockton

  Two months. Two months of endless fighting, of sortie after sortie, with little rest in between. That is what my people have been through…and that is what lies ahead of them, as far as I can see. At least as long as any of us are left to fly.

  I would resent Admiral Barron leaving the fleet, heading back to the Confederation while we remained here to fight, and probably die…if I hadn’t seen his eyes that day we forced him to go. It took nothing less than the combined threats of all his senior officers to mutiny to get him to leave, to accept that his duty lay on Megara right now, and not in this endless bloody void with the rest of us.

  It would do us no good to have Admiral Barron here, to know that he would just die along with the rest of us, far from home and to no purpose. Barron has a chance to rally the Confederation, to prepare our comrades to face what is almost certainly coming, a darkness from the deepest reaches of space, a hell they are utterly unprepared to endure. In that hope, lies something for us as well, for if we must die, I would see it mean something. I would know in my final moments that we expend the last of our strength buying time for our comrades to defeat this enemy.

  My pilots have earned their keep. There can be no question of that. The enemy ships are too strong for our battle line to face, their numbers too great. But the enemy doesn’t have fighters…and that has cleared the way for my squadrons to bomb their ships again and again. The lack of interceptors does not mean they have no defenses, however, and they have quickly adapted their point defense batteries to an anti-fighter role. The fixed guns are no substitute for their own fighter squadrons, but they have taken a steady toll on my wings. I had selected the cream of the fighter corps for the White Fleet…and now, half of those are gone. We have done all we could to rebuild our numbers, raided the transport ships for replacement fighters, and patched together every battered bird that could still be coaxed to fly.

  We have also raided every quarter of the fleet for personnel with flight experience, however slight that may be. These efforts have allowed me to keep my numbers up, for now, but the average quality, both of pilots and craft, is steadily declining. Each battered, patched up old ship in the place of a shiny new Lightning, each green, half-trained pilot replacing a lost ace, reduces our combat power…and brings us closer to the moment when we will no longer be able to hold the enemy back.

  Interplanetary Space

  Unknown System 18

  12,000,000 Kilometers from Inner Gas Giant

  Year 316 AC

  “Watch the patterns on those defensive batteries. These bastards’ aim is getting better, but their fire configurations are a dead giveaway, if you watch for them.” Jake Stockton’s voice was raw as he shouted into the comm, repeating the warning for the third or fourth time, with increasing frustration at the seeming inability of his pilots to exert the caution he was demanding.

  The irony of his attitude wasn’t completely lost on him. “Raptor” Stockton had been the wildest, most reckless pilot the Confederation fighter service had ever known…and one of the best, too. But rank and responsibility had caught up with him, as had age. Jacked up, over the top maneuvers didn’t just put him at risk anymore…the danger extended to hundreds of his pilots, and that was a heavier burden than he could endure.

  “Keep your eyes open, and anticipate where they’re going to fire next. You can see it coming if you try.” He could feel the hoarseness of his parched throat as he forced the words out. He’d been in the cockpit for almost eighteen hours, and while that wasn’t anywhere close to his record jammed into a fighter, it was a damned long time under sustained combat conditions. He was tired, and worn down, and he didn’t like to repeat himself, much less more than once…but his pilots were still blundering into recognizable defensive fire patterns. They were getting themselves killed.

  Needlessly.

  “I’ve got the patterns, Raptor…you’re right, they’re not that hard to pick out. It looks like they’ve got three different sequences going.”

  Stockton almost winced when he heard the first voice to respond…especially when it turned out to be the only clear answer he got.

  Olya “Lynx” Federov was absolutely the last pilot in the strike force he was worried about. Federov was one of his oldest friends, and also one of the few pilots to make it through the war with the Union in one piece. The fighter corps had paid more than its share—far more—for the victory in that last conflict…if the weak, simpering end to that struggle could be called victory. Stockton still had a sour taste in his mouth that all the sacrifices made by so many of his comrades had been thrown away.

  None of that mattered now, of course. The Union had just given up its primacy as the greatest danger facing the Confederation. Even if no one back in Union or Confederation space knew that yet.

  It was a massive break that the Hegemony didn’t seem to have any fighters or other small craft—an advantage Stockton knew wouldn’t last long. The last months of sustained fighting had left little doubt in his mind that this new enemy was more dangerous than the last one.

  A lot more dangerous.

  The White Fleet had been tasked with an exploratory mission, but all it had managed to find was another war. From what Stockton had seen so far, he was willing to bet his pilots—and the rest of the fleet—would be missing their old enemies before long.

  “That’s right, Lynx…and the rest of you, pay Goddamned attention to what Commander Federov is saying, so you don’t get blasted to radioactive bits. Normally, I wouldn’t care if you lost focus and got yourselves blown to hell, because that would set an example for your comrades of what not to do. But the nearest replacements for those shiny new Lightnings are a hell of a long way from here.” Not that many of those Lightnings are all that shiny or new by now…

  Stockton knew he was being hard on his people, but he’d always found that going easy on them was a good way to end up with dead fighter pilots. It didn’t take more than a fraction of a second’s misstep to get into real trouble, regardless of skill levels. Every pilot’s match was out there waiting for him somewhere, and Stockton didn’t have to think farther than Dirk Timmons to remind himself of that.

  “Warrior” Timmons had been his rival as the best pilot in the fleet…but the day he’d met the Alliance ace, Jovi Grachus, in battle, she’d been just that little bit better. Timmons had been lucky that day…if ending up burned over most of his body and minus both legs instead of dead could somehow be characterized as good fortune.

  Stockton tapped his throttle and blasted his ship back toward the enemy formation. He watched as the small cluster of icons representing the flight of resupply shuttles receded behind his newly rearmed ship. The shuttles represented a combined effort. He’d come up with the idea of refitting fighters from the small craft, and he’d sketched out the basics…then Anya Fritz had somehow made the engineering work. The process was cumbersome, and it would never have worked against an enemy that fielded its own fighters…but he and his squadrons had made it work against the Hegemony, at least after a fashion.

  The shuttles allowed his bombers to refuel and rearm without returning to their motherships…and that meant not only faster turnaround times, it also allowed Commodore Eaton to keep her battleships out of range of the deadly enemy main guns while the fighters engaged the fleet’s pursuers. The White Fleet, or what was left of it, didn’t have the numbers or supplies for a straight up fight against its Hegemony pursuers,
so any way to hold the enemy back and sustain the running pursuit was the clear strategy to pursue.

  However hard it was on the squadrons.

  Stockton’s eyes darted down to the screen on his main panel. He still had hundreds of spent fighters stacked up, waiting to connect to the shuttles, but there were almost two dozen squadrons ready to go back in, their fuel tanks topped off and fresh plasma torpedoes in their bomb bays. That meant it was time to lead in another attack before the enemy could regroup and move in on Admiral Eaton and the battle line.

  “All right…all resupplied squadrons, form up on me. We’re going back in.” He gripped the throttle tightly, his arm tensing as he started to slide the control back and feed thrust into his engines. Then, he paused, and he leaned toward the comm unit.

  “And whatever the hell you do, keep your eyes on those fire patterns…”

  * * *

  “Captain Stockton reports his primary strike force has refueled and rearmed. He requests permission to reengage the enemy.”

  Sara Eaton was still getting used to her sister acting as her aide. The two had been close enough as children, but there had been a lot of years since then, over which they’d seen each other only two or three times. It wasn’t lack of desire, nor any animosity that had kept them apart, but two active naval careers didn’t mesh well with a normal family life.

  “Yes…send them back in.” Eaton had to force out the words. She knew how long her pilots had been out there, and while she’d never flown a fighter, she could only imagine how cramped a cockpit got after twelve hours.

  Or fifteen…or more…

  And that didn’t take into account the stress and danger. The inevitable fact was that the harder she drove them, the more worn they would get…and the more of them would die because of fatigue and lost sharpness.

  That hadn’t been as much a problem in her past battles. Fighters needed to land and resupply between missions, and that had always given pilots a chance to stretch their legs, grab a sandwich, maybe even find a quiet place to close their eyes for an hour. But the logistics shuttles allowed just that kind of extended flight mission, as fighters resupplied two or three times before actually returning to their mother ships. It was a clumsy, complicated routine that barely worked…but in the fleet’s current precarious situation, “barely” was enough.

  “Yes, Commodore.”

  Sara listened as her sister relayed the command. The signal would take several minutes to reach the squadrons…and she was also aware that by the time Stockton’s wings got back into the fight, they would be all that was left in the system of the Confederation forces. Resupplying by shuttles wasn’t the only change the squadrons were dealing with on this campaign.

  A quick glance at the display confirmed that her lead ships were less than twenty minutes from transit, and that meant the White Fleet would be completely through the gate within forty minutes.

  Except for the fighter squadrons.

  Stockton’s people would have to break off after they hit the enemy fleet, and race like hell toward the transit point. If all went perfectly, they’d get there before the disordered Hegemony forces and with enough time to get through and land on the waiting motherships…before the fleet located the next exit transit point and moved on.

  Eaton couldn’t remember the last time everything had gone perfectly.

  Flying a fighter through a transit point and making it to the other side was no one’s idea of a pleasant or easy task. The heavy shielding that protected ship crews from the strange effects of alien space was not something a small fighter could carry, and that meant the pilots had to hang onto their focus—and their sanity—through their own force of will. It was not a challenge all of them would survive.

  She turned and looked down at the roster of Stockton’s squadrons. The fighters had been battling almost non-stop for the nearly two months since Tyler Barron had taken Dauntless, Fortiter, and a handful of other ships on a mad dash back to the Confederation. Barron was bringing back the warning that the White Fleet had found a deadly new enemy, one that was a threat not only to the Confederation, but probably to the entire Rim Sector. Eaton’s mission was starkly clear…to survive if she could, but more importantly, to lead the pursuing enemy into uncharted space, away from Dauntless and its few companion vessels. To buy the Confederation time to prepare for what was likely coming.

  Assuming Barron could get the politicians and others to listen…to truly listen and understand the magnitude of the impending danger. Not just the Confederation leaders, but those in the Alliance…and even the Union. Old enemies would have to stand beside each other as allies. Eaton didn’t have any real data on the strength of the Hegemony, but her gut told her it was going to take everything the Rim had to have any kind of chance of turning back this new threat.

  Eaton liked to think she could get her people, the fleet she’d inherited, through the challenges they all faced, but when she tried to think it through in rational terms, she just couldn’t see how. Deep down, she believed they were all doomed, that any success would have to be measured in buying time for their comrades.

  Sara Eaton had faced death before, and she’d escaped its grasp more than once. She wasn’t ready to give up… at least not yet. There was nothing more important than gaining that time that Tyler Barron needed.

  Chapter Two

  Report from Agent Marieles to Citizen Villieneuve

  I have refrained from reporting for several months, as I did not want to take any inordinate risks so close to the launch of Black Dawn. Now, however, I must take the chance. The operation is almost ready. I am projecting zero hour in just a matter of days, and while this message cannot possibly reach you in that time, I decided you had to know we had begun.

  I have all pieces in place now, and things have gone better than I could possibly have expected. While I have found only a moderate amount of outright disloyalty among the Confederation political and bureaucratic classes, the corruption and infighting among them has exceeded all expectations. I have been able to manipulate power-hungry functionaries and long-simmering resentments to create the level of disorder and confusion required.

  I must confess that, when you initially sent me here, I considered the mission all but impossible. Now, however, I am considerably more optimistic. I even believe we have some chance of gaining outright control over Confederation governmental operations through the proxies I have put into place, at least for a limited time. Even if we fall short of that goal, it is likely—very likely—that Confederation military and political operations will be thrown into uncontrolled chaos for the foreseeable future, allowing you to take whatever steps you have planned to take advantage of such conditions…and position the Union for the next conflict.

  Troyus City

  Planet Megara, Olyus III

  Year 316 AC

  “Our investigative reports have continued to uncover extensive instances of corruption at almost every level of government and the military. Trillions of credits budgeted to pay for weapons and supplies for our brave spacers and soldiers, have been diverted instead into the pockets of industrial profiteers, and their allies in the government.”

  Marieles stood quietly off-set, watching the reporter speak into the camera. The audience numbered in the billions on Megara alone, and almost beyond count once the transmission was disseminated over the transit point comm network to the ITN affiliates on the more than one hundred twenty inhabited worlds of the Confederation.

  “Our network teams have been repeatedly harassed and threatened by agents of both the government and the private interests involved in the misdeeds we have uncovered—even attacked in the streets and beaten when trying to gain information. But the Interstellar Truth Network has no intention of allowing these powerful and corrupt forces to prevent us from bringing you the truth. Whatever the cost.”

  Marieles had to hold back a smile as the reporter reached up and put her hand on the gauze pad affixed to the side of her head. That particu
lar prop was a phony, but it was true that half a dozen ITN reporters had been attacked over the past week. Marieles knew that for sure, both because she’d seen the results—mostly contusions, with a couple broken bones—and also because the assailants had been on her own payroll. It had taken every resource Villieneuve could get to her to complete the takeover of ITN, and now she was determined to make the most of it.

  A few battered reporters were useful props to display on the air, though the attacks had also served to fire up the vast majority of the ITN staff that wasn’t in on her plan. That didn’t surprise her, but what had come as a bit of a shock was how quickly ITN had jumped aboard her largely manufactured crisis with a level of unbridled groupthink. She now had the entire massive operation, the second largest network in the Confederation behind its rival CIN, under her thumb in a way that had exceeded her most fervent hopes.

  She had always been a manipulator, even before she’d ended up in a career in espionage, but it still amazed her how easily people could allow themselves to be led. She’d come to Megara because she hadn’t felt she’d had any choice except to accept Villieneuve’s assignment, but she’d been pessimistic about making any real progress. Now, she was excitedly counting the remaining hours until she put the plan into full operation…and she was expecting some level of success.

  “So, stay tuned to our updates, on your vids and on the information nets. The ITN team is at work, and we will bring you the truth, all of it, no matter how upsetting or disturbing it may be.” A short pause. “You have my personal promise on that. Raina Maren, reporting from the main studio in Troyus City.” The reporter stood stone still, staring into the camera with a look so earnest, Marieles couldn’t imagine any viewer not believing every word the woman had just told them.