by Jay Allan
But he was going to find out.
His fighters were crammed together, at least in the terms applying to space combat. Actually, not one of his ships was less than ten kilometers from another. The concentration, and the number of warheads he intended to hurl at each of the chosen targets, was unprecedented. It was a formation that would have been impossible if his forces had faced enemy fighters…but that was the one advantage the White Fleet had in this fight. And “Raptor” Stockton was the man to make the most of it.
He checked off as the acknowledgements came in. He’d reordered the strike force, combining shattered squadrons to create units that were full strength, or nearly so…and then he’d organized his craft into fifteen makeshift wings, each tasked with attacking a single enemy battleship.
He hadn’t targeted just any enemy ships, either…he’d picked the fifteen biggest, the ones he knew had heavy railguns. He wasn’t sure how many his people could take out in a single assault, or how many of the enemy’s primary guns they could disable, but he had the targets in his mind.
Fifteen.
Every last stinking one of them.
He wasn’t sure there were no other railguns in the Hegemony fleet. In fact, he suspected there almost certainly were. His audacious attack was the best way he could think of to knock out the maximum amount of enemy firepower. Taking out most of the enemy railguns wouldn’t equalize the technology or firepower of the two sides. It wouldn’t even give the White Fleet a fighting chance in the battle, but it would be the closest he could come to achieving that goal.
He’d taken his fourteen most experienced veterans, and he’d placed each in command of a wing. The fifteenth he commanded himself. That last force had been cobbled together from what remained of the old Dauntless’s strike force—Blue squadron, his first command, and the other units he’d led after Kyle Jamison’s death…including his old friend and rival’s Scarlet Eagles.
He’d had to add other squadrons to the mix as well. Far too few of the old Dauntless’s pilots had survived the ship’s final battles…and yet Stockton could see them all in his mind—and his heart—men and women who’d fought at his side, and who had fallen, in so many battles he could hardly keep track of them all.
He’d made one other change, after his close call of some week’s before. He’d appointed an official second in command, Olya Federov. She was the clear choice. Apart from kill rates and years of service, she was, in his mind, the best pilot and, more importantly, the most capable leader, he had. She hadn’t had to lead the squadrons out during his brief incapacity, nothing more than routine patrols, but now that he considered it, he had no doubt she could have handled any crisis that had arisen, perhaps every bit as well as he could. He’d always walked a thin line balancing ego and skill. He was a talented and experienced pilot, but no amount of pure capability could have made him do the insane things he’d had to do. But he had to admit that Olya was up to the challenge of replacing him if it came to that.
He glanced at the scan, at the circles representing the ships of the fleet. The vagaries of transit point geography had played a vicious trick on the fleet, turning its heroic run across a vast gulf of empty space into a route back, almost directly toward the Confederation. The fleet couldn’t go any farther, not without leading the enemy home. Not unless they wiped out the Hegemony forces on their tails.
Even at his craziest, Stockton knew that was impossible.
His eyes shifted to the cloud of tiny dots moving steadily away from the fleet, closer to the Hegemony ships lined up along the top of the screen. He looked over at the range display, checking the time until his forces would reach engagement range. Even before he saw the numbers, his gut had done the calculation for him…and hit the target almost exactly.
Sixteen minutes.
He checked the formations of his wings, snapping out a few navigational orders to shift the squadrons until they were exactly where he wanted them. When he was finished, he checked again.
Eight minutes thirty seconds.
He was ready. His people were ready, as they always were. But one thing was different this time. His desperate flight back to Repulse, his crash landing and narrow escape from death, had stripped him of the veneer of casual invincibility in which he’d cloaked himself since Dauntless had left the fleet.
Stockton was leading his ships into battle. And for the first time, he knew that he might—probably would—die.
* * *
“All ships, commence navigation plan Sigma.” Sonya Eaton repeated her sister’s orders, directing the ships of the fleet to activate their engines and move toward the approaching enemy ships. Concepts like “approaching” were somewhat relative, of course. The White Fleet was still moving toward the destination system at considerable velocity, and the enemy’s approach was the result of its own higher speed gradually reducing the distance between the two forces. Eaton’s orders would result in greater thrust applied to deceleration, reducing the fleet’s velocity and increasing the relative rate of approach of the Hegemony forces.
The fleet had been running since the very instant Dauntless had left to return to the Confederation with its warning. But as far as Sara Eaton was concerned, the time for running was over. She couldn’t flee anymore, not without leading the enemy closer to Confederation space. And that she would never do.
“All ships acknowledge, Admiral.” Sonya Eaton turned and looked back at the admiral. The navy had always discouraged close relatives serving together, and certainly in a direct commander-subordinate situation, but the fleet had come well beyond any normal situation, and Tyler Barron himself had approved the younger Eaton’s transfer from a position as his aide to the same role under her sister.
“Very well, Commander.” Sara Eaton’s voice was cold, hard. She was a veteran commander, one who had seen some of the worst fighting the Union War had produced. But there was something different now—something that had been present in all her earlier fights, no matter how desperate, that was gone now. Hope.
Eaton knew this would be the fleet’s last battle. It had to be. There was nowhere to go. Her only escape route would be a betrayal of the entire Confederation. She knew the enemy would likely explore the systems beyond after the fleet was destroyed…but, with any luck, it would take them considerable time to find the correct path. Hopefully that time would be enough for Barron to rally the Confederation. To get ready to meet the coming danger.
“All battleships…I want primaries charged and ready to fire the instant we enter range.” The Confederation primaries were deadly weapons, and they could badly damage even the advanced Hegemony ships. They were long-ranged weapons, but she knew her ships would have to pass through the fire of the enemy’s railguns before they would be able to shoot…and not all of her vessels would make it through that deadly assault, not with their fragile primaries still online.
She could feel the thrust from Repulse’s engines, not the g-forces exactly—the ship’s dampeners were fully adjusting for that—but she’d always been able to pick up the artificiality of the force offsets that hid the thrust pressures, mostly because they always made her just a little bit nauseous.
She’d ordered the fleet forward, moving up right on the heels of her fighter strike. She wanted to enter the range of the enemy’s railguns the instant after Stockton’s fighters had gone in…and knocked out as many as they could. She didn’t want to give the Hegemony time to make any repairs, recover from any disorder. Her line would hit theirs right after the squadrons…and then they would fight.
They would fight until the end.
* * *
Stockton brought his fighter around, adjusting his angle of attack to match the target ship’s thrust. He’d never seen anything he could characterize as fear or nervousness in the enemy, not until now. It was clear the giant battleship was trying to evade the incoming fighter assault, and the slight taste of weakness inflamed Stockton’s inner predator.
“Stay with me,” he snapped into the comm.
He was set to the wing channel, and right now, his focus was on the seventy-three ships lined up behind his own. He commanded the entire strike force, but he’d given his orders, and he’d resolved to trust the fourteen men and women he had placed in charge of those unit, pilots with whom he’d fought countless battles. They deserved his trust, and he was going to give it to them.
“We’re not letting them get away.” Stockton knew that was easier said than done. The Hegemony ships had tremendous thrust capacities, not enough, perhaps, to escape from a perfectly-executed fighter attack…but damned close. There wasn’t any room for carelessness or mistakes.
Stockton looked back at the screen, his eyes focusing on the small numbers next to the glowing red circle. The enemy’s thrust output and vector.
He tapped the controls again, adjusting his course slightly, and then he cranked his thrust up almost to full power. The enemy captain had performed well, his evasive maneuvers well planned and executed. Against most adversaries, he might very well have succeeded in moving his ship away from the incoming attack. But the Hegemony officer wasn’t facing just any commander, and against Jake Stockton, his brilliant maneuver had been just a touch too late.
Stockton watched as his ship responded to his actions, almost flawlessly. The formation wiggled slightly, a few seconds’ delay before his people adapted to his abrupt moves, and then it tightened again…no more than two minutes from launch.
The fighters were already well within conventional range, but Stockton wasn’t leading a normal assault. Throughout the running fight from system to system, he’d led his people to ranges so close they were previously unheard of…and this attack would be no different.
“Hold those torpedoes, all of you. No one fires outside one thousand kilometers…and any of you who hold to under three hundred, I’ll polish your boots when we get back.”
Three hundred kilometers was a nearly impossible range for ships traveling at such high velocity, but there wasn’t much chance of anybody making it back to the fleet anyway. He wasn’t likely to do much polishing, however brilliantly his people performed.
He could hear the banter on the wing’s channel, the boasts of pilots, the friendly taunts of just how each one wanted his boots done. Whatever the chances were that he’d have to pay up, Stockton had accomplished what he wanted. What he needed. His pilots were ready.
He turned his attention to the screen, and the ship looming up ahead of him. He wanted to check the other scans, see how his other fourteen wings were fairing…but that was a luxury he knew he couldn’t afford. There was nothing he could do to help any of them now.
He brought his ship around, adjusting his vector slightly every few seconds to match the increasingly frantic evasive maneuvers of the Hegemony vessel. For all the dire grimness of the situation, a smile slipped onto his face as he watched his enemy become more and more desperate. As huge as the enemy ship was, he knew his wing had enough firepower to destroy it…as long as they all stayed focused and planted their bombs just the way they had planned.
He was close now, less than three thousand kilometers. He’d lost eight ships so far to the enemy’s defensive fire. That was a light toll, especially for an attack at such intensely close range, but it hurt nevertheless. They all hurt.
He tried to imagine what an enemy combat space patrol would have done to seventy unescorted bombers closing to such range. It almost defied comprehension, and he suspected no more than a few of his people would have made it to the designated launch point.
Instead of the more than sixty that were with him as he closed the final distance. Two more of his vessels vanished from the screen—and he himself barely dodged an incoming shot—but he realized the wing had made it intact. It was time to launch.
He adjusted his targeting one last time, and he brought his ship in below five hundred kilometers. He almost fired, but after his challenge to his people, he knew he had to launch from below three hundred. He’d blurted out the figure almost without thinking about it, and now he wondered, if it was even possible. Or, at least, possible without slamming into the target right after the torpedo was launched.
He didn’t have time to think about it for more than a fraction of a second. His eyes were dead on the target, his hands moving almost robotically. His shot would be a combination of mathematics, experience, focus…and gut feel. He felt his finger tightening. The resistance of the trigger gave way, and his ship shook with the release of the torpedo.
It took every bit of his veteran discipline to ignore the shot he’d just made, to focus instead on getting his ship the hell out of there. He pulled the controls hard, blasting every bit of thrust his fighter had to offer…and for some portion of that instant, he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it.
Then he saw the blackness of open space ahead of him. He’d cleared the enemy battleship by seven hundred meters, and the sweat pouring down his back, and from his hairline onto his face, was a testament to just how close he’d come to turning himself into a deadly projectile.
He took a ragged breath, and he struggled to regain his composure, to push away the trembling that had taken his arms and legs. He’d survived by a fraction of a second. How much of a fraction, he didn’t know.
He didn’t want to know.
It seemed like an eternity before he was back in total control, though he knew in reality it was only a few seconds. Then he turned toward the targeting display, confirming what he’d somehow known already in his gut.
He’d planted the torpedo right into the center of the enemy ship. He’d launched at two hundred-twenty-nine kilometers. He looked again, double checking that astonishing range, almost certainly the closest ever for such an attack. Then he looked at the scanning display, concerned for an instant he had been too close, that the torpedo hadn’t had time to convert to a plasma before it impacted. But the damage readings coming in removed any doubt.
Even as the realization sunk in that he’d scored a direct hit, he saw the rest of his ships coming in. They’d all followed him in to the insane range, or close to it, and another seven had fallen to enemy defensive fire at such short distances. But the rest began to launch.
Most of them fired at ranges from seven hundred to one thousand, but more than one followed Stockton’s lead, clearly gunning for the boot polishing and the glory that would go along with it.
Stockton watched as he brought his ship around, counting off…and ultimately reaching six pairs of boots that would be waiting for him back on Repulse. He smiled, hoping against hope that he had the chance to clean those boots, and the pilots who own them the chance to wear them again.
He should have had seven pairs to polish…but the last attacking ship came in just a bit too fast, held on an instant too long. The pilot had clearly been out to beat Stockton’s two hundred-twenty-nine kilometers…and he had done just that, closing to two hundred-eighteen.
But he’d paid dearly for those eleven kilometers, and he’d missed his pullout, slamming into the enemy ship at a velocity of better than eight hundred kilometers per second, and adding even more impact to his heroic assault.
Chapter Twenty
AFS Fortiter
Approaching Planet Palatia, Astara II
Year 67 (316 AC)
Cilian Globus sat quietly on his chair in the center of Fortiter’s command center. The battleship’s bridge was a fairly cramped space by comparison to the seemingly immense volumes devoted to the bridges and control rooms of the Confederation’s vessels. The Palatians considered themselves a warrior race, and their ships of war were spartan affairs, with as little mass as possible devoted to comfort and other frivolities.
Despite the generally cramped nature of the ship, Globus, as a Commander-Altum, the supreme leader of a battle fleet, had his own private retreat. An office of sorts, or perhaps a space better described as a private study. It was just off the bridge, in almost the same spot the Confeds put their—considerably larger—versions of the same thing. Globus wanted to be there,
he longed for the quiet, the solitude…but he also knew his place was to be seen by his officers. They, too, were officers of the Alliance, each sworn to the same standards of duty and perseverance as he was, but they had all seen the Hegemony forces, and they were not fools. They understood the magnitude of the White Fleet’s discovery…and the conflict it likely portended. Even for men and women sworn to Palatian standards, there was bound to be doubt. Even fear.
The struggle was likely to come upon the Confederation first, that power’s misfortune in terms of interstellar geography. But Globus had no illusions of where the Alliance would stand if the Confeds were defeated, and he didn’t think many of his officers did either.
Globus was a man of honor, and as far as he was concerned, he had promised Tyler Barron he would fight at his side in the coming struggle. If the Alliance failed to come to the Confederation’s aid, Globus would resign his commissions and take his place at Barron’s side as a volunteer…cleaning compartments of radioactive waste if that was the only way he could contribute. But Globus didn’t think that would happen. Vian Tulus was the Alliance’s Imperator, and a man who owed his very position to Confederation assistance. He considered Tyler Barron a blood brother.
The Alliance wasn’t an autocracy, of course, and the decision to rally to the Confeds’ aid wasn’t Tulus’s alone. Nevertheless, the Imperator carried great weight, and it would take a significant bloc of the greatest families to successfully oppose him. Globus didn’t doubt the Alliance would side with its allies in the end. He was just concerned about how quickly that could happen.
The Alliance had fought a terrible civil war, one that had ravaged its fleet and its warrior classes…and the survivors had fought alongside the Confeds against the Union, losing yet more ships in the last battle against the Pulsar. The Palatians were devoted almost entirely to martial strength, but Globus knew the fleet was in as parlous a state as it had seen in half a century, and the massive efforts to rebuild were far from complete. Not many Palatians would argue to stay out of the coming war…but Globus was afraid more than a few would lobby to move slowly, to wait while new ships rolled off the assembly lines and fresh spacers graduated from the academies.