Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars Book 8)

by Jay Allan

  Or until they opened fire on Dauntless…or the reverse.

  He could see Barron’s ship moving in, heading almost directly toward the other ships. If Dauntless wasn’t attacking, it damned sure looked like she was. He could see the waiting ships reacting, too, accelerating forward and engaging in evasive maneuvers. He had rough mass totals now. There were six ships facing Dauntless, but none had the mass of a battleship. Dauntless would outrange them, and there wasn’t a doubt in Heaton’s mind, Tyler Barron would use his primaries like a virtuoso playing a violin. The cruisers would move to their own range as quickly as possible, but Dauntless’s guns would take their toll first.

  But Barron wasn’t going to escape. Not with fleets coming at him from two sides. Heaton knew the gifted admiral would try to finish off the cruisers first, before he could get his own ships into range. He also knew Barron just might pull it off…but not without taking damage. And Heaton had no intention of leaving Dauntless unmolested while his ships moved into range. He’d been concerned at first about Dauntless’s legendary fighter squadrons, but Barron hadn’t launched so much as a single ship over the entire time Heaton had been in pursuit. He’d come to believe Dauntless didn’t have her fighters aboard.

  But Titania had hers.

  His squadrons were made up mostly of rookies, no match for Dauntless’s veterans. But if Barron truly didn’t have his fighters or his pilots…

  “Commander, bring us to red alert. Scramble all fighter squadrons and prepare to launch. All fighters are to move toward Dauntless at maximum speed and engage at once.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Just Outside Port Royal City

  Planet Dannith, Ventica III

  Year 316 AC

  Steven Blanth stood on a grassy hill, a pleasant spot in the highlands that he knew would turn into a slice of hell if enemy forces landed. There was no doubt in Blanth’s mind the invaders would come right at Dannith’s capital. Port Royal City and its surroundings contained most of the planet’s industry and close to two-thirds of its population. If the capital fell, there would be little chance to hold the planet save, perhaps, for some sporadic resistance from the wilderness areas.

  Blanth wore his body armor, and he carried his full complement of weapons, too. He knew he’d get warning from orbit before any enemy forces could land—giving him plenty of time to don his battle gear—but he needed his people at peak readiness, and he’d decided to set the example himself. The Marines of Peterson’s division were deployed in their assigned places, every unit at full battle readiness, as he was himself. But the motley assortment of garrison units and part-time militia were restless, disordered and shaken in far too many cases by paralyzing fear. He suspected they would firm up a bit if the enemy did begin to initiate landings…it was a strange reality of battle that, especially for inexperienced soldiers, the waiting could be far more difficult to endure than the actual fighting, when survival instincts took over.

  And the cold reality that they were fighting for spouses and children and friends and family would set in, creating a form of courage where there had been none before.

  Blanth was a veteran, and his discipline was in charge of his actions. Still, he couldn’t help but think about the strange set of circumstances that had put him where he was, taken a company commander and placed him in command of the defense force of an entire planet. Dannith’s military had its own officers, of course, including a fair number of generals, but they were mostly political appointees with no combat experience. Blanth benefited from the effect of Tyler Barron’s immense reputation, and, though not without some tension and negotiation, he’d managed to get the Dannith force commanders to do just what he wanted.

  Fear is a great motivator, even stronger than arrogance, at least in the shadow of death…

  Blanth had done all he could, labored tirelessly, worn the hat of a diplomat as well as that of a teacher, in addition to his own as a combat Marine. He’d done all Barron had entrusted him to do, and he believed the admiral would have been pleased with him.

  But he suspected it wasn’t enough. That was part analysis and part feeling…along with a not inconsiderable recollection of Barron’s tone when he’d given the Marine his orders. Tyler Barron had been afraid…and nothing scared the hell out of Steve Blanth more than that.

  * * *

  “Nice shooting, third wing!” Covington brought her fighter around, following the course taken by her second wing. She was angling for an approach at the battered battleship the forty-eight attacking fighters had left behind, but now, her eyes were on her scanner. She watched as the damage reports streamed in from the vessel third wing had assaulted…and then as the massive ship vanished in a cataclysmic blast of raw energy and hard radiation.

  The four squadrons in the victorious wing had closed to the shortest ranges of any of her formations, a few of their vessels coming in under a thousand kilometers before they’d launched their plasma torpedoes…and the wing as a whole had scored an astonishing hit rate, almost forty percent, as torpedo after torpedo slammed into the massive ship.

  It was clear to Covington that the enemy had never faced a weapon like the plasma torpedoes. Their defensive batteries seemed designed to intercept missiles or some other kind of physical weapon, and they worked fairly well against fighters. But the plasma torpedoes converted to pure energy on their way to the target, and while the enemy seemed to have more than enough thrust to conduct effective evasive maneuvers, they seemed dumbfounded as to how to avoid the deadly torpedoes.

  She knew that wouldn’t last. If the Confederation did indeed face a long and deadly war with—whoever these people were—the enemy would quickly adapt, and fighter hit rates would plummet. Casualties would escalate, too, though the effort to close to such short ranges had already jacked up the number of fighters hit. Her three wings had devastated their targets, but altogether, the one hundred forty-four fighters had lost eighteen of their number. Some of those had managed to eject, but no matter how she tried to imagine the battle proceeding, she couldn’t come up with a scenario allowing rescue boats to arrive in time to save any of them.

  She checked her own range, and her eyes froze on the display, watching as she slipped under two thousand kilometers. Her torpedo was armed and ready, and she could launch at any time. She was far below what had been long been considered point-blank range, but without enemy fighters to worry about, she was pushing it to the limit. She didn’t just want to hit the enemy ship…she wanted to deliver her missile right into its weakest spot, and area of its hull scarred with great gashes and riddled by secondary explosions. If she could put the torpedo right where she planned, she just might manage to repeat third wing’s feat, and push the battered enemy ship over the edge.

  She knew she shouldn’t be risking herself so recklessly. She was the strike force commander, and hundreds of pilots were looking to her for leadership. But she knew Admiral Winters needed everything the fighters could give, and she also wanted to set an example for the rookie wings even then moving toward their targets. She intended to come in closer…much closer.

  The range dipped down to fifteen hundred, and it continued to drop. The defensive fire was heavy now, both because she was so close, and because she was the only ship attacking. The thought that every defensive battery remaining on the battleship was targeting her Lightning struck her suddenly, and she could feel the sweat all over. She had a reputation as a disciplined pilot, but in the barely controlled fighter corps, that was most definitely a relative term.

  Her ship was bouncing around wildly as she put all she had into evasive maneuvers. The enemy would almost certainly get better at targeting, she realized, but now, as dangerous as the laser blasts all around her were, she was confident she could avoid them.

  Reasonably confident.

  Her range had dropped below one thousand kilometers. She had never been so close to any enemy ship, and the defensive fire was all around now, so thick it felt almost like she could reach out and to
uch a passing beam. She’d imagined going even closer, but now she realized she was pushing too hard, and in an instant, she pressed the firing stud, sending her torpedo off toward its target. The warhead triggered the reaction that converted its entire mass to plasma almost instantly, an automatic function at such a short range…and seconds later, it slammed hard into the enemy ship.

  But Covington wasn’t watching when it did. As soon as she’d fired, her eyes had darted up…and she’d seen the massive ship growing rapidly in front of her. Her course had been right toward the battleship, and now she pulled back on the throttle, pulling her tiny craft up and over the giant ship ahead. A quick check of her instruments showed her she had cleared the enemy by over one hundred kilometers, a hair’s breadth by the standards of space battle, but not as close a call as she’d imagined at first.

  She took a few deep breaths, struggling to restore the calm she was known for…and then she checked the scanner logs. She’d hit the enemy, there was no question of that. But had she planted the torpedo right where she’d needed to?

  She could see the damage assessments coming in, more internal explosions, energy levels dropping until the battleship’s thrusters cut out entirely. The ship was crippled, or close to it…but as she watched and waited, she could feel her excitement fading away. She’d hurt the already wounded ship, badly enough to take it out of the battle. But she felt only disappointment when the vessel didn’t lose containment, when no massive thermonuclear blast lit up on her scanners.

  It shouldn’t matter. Tactically, she’d likely attained as much as total destruction would have, but Covington as far as she was concerned, the Confederation was at war again, and this time, not against a neighbor like the Union, but against an enemy from far away. An enemy who had crossed a vast void to bring war and death to a peaceful nation.

  The rage she’d felt during the Union War was back, hotter and stronger than ever. She wanted to defeat this new enemy, certainly, but now she realized she wanted more.

  She wanted to kill them. Every last one of them who came to the Confederation.

  Who invaded her home.

  * * *

  “Your people did a remarkable job, Commander. All fighters are to return to base at once.” Clint Winters paused, then he added, “Redirect all squadrons to the orbital stations, Commander.” Winters knew his squadrons had done well, better than he’d dared to hope. He also knew it hadn’t been enough to save his battleships. He’d never faced the Hegemony in battle, but he had an idea what to expect from Barron’s notes…and his meager three capital ships weren’t going to get the job done, even supported by cruisers, escorts, and Dannith’s orbital platforms. The forts were large—not by the standards of Grimaldi, of course, but Dannith’s position as a frontier world had gained it added funding for expanded defenses over the years. The planet had the tonnage in orbit, and the stations were well-armed, but the crews were raw, untested in combat, and Winters doubted they could make up for the immense superiority of the enemy forces.

  He knew his only chance was to inflict as much damage as possible, to see if the enemy would break off if their losses were too high. He wasn’t optimistic about that either. Barron had suggested the enemy was highly tolerant of casualties.

  “We’re on the way, Admiral. Unless…” Covington’s voice sounded tentative, and Winters knew exactly what his strike force commander was going to say, even before the words came from her mouth. “…we launch strafing runs with lasers.”

  “Negative, Commander. Your people would be killed for no gain.” Winters had considered the very same thing, and as difficult an order as it would have been to give, he might have done it…if his pilots were all veterans. But the vast majority of them were green garrison pilots, and while they had performed well enough with their torpedo runs—despite suffering fairly heavy losses—he couldn’t imagine any of them were up to precision laser attacks. Anything except the most perfectly-place shots would be ineffectual against the enemy’s massive capital ships. He knew he faced a desperate fight, and he figured his squadrons might get one more strike in if he could hold the enemy back from the orbital platforms long enough. He didn’t think they would all get back out, but there was a good chance some of them would…and he knew Covington would preference the veteran formations.

  “Yes, Admiral. Directing all units toward the fortresses now, sir.”

  Winters cut the line, and then he stared across the bridge toward his primary aide. “Commander…the fleet will engage thrusters. Twenty percent power to the engines, and full evasive maneuvers once we close to five hundred thousand kilometers.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Winters had intended to stay where he was, engage the enemy forces alongside the orbital forts…but now he had reconsidered. The fighters were his best weapon, and the more time he could give them to land and refit, the more damage they could inflict. He wasn’t going to make a mad charge at the enemy, but maybe he could delay them for a short time.

  “All ships report ready for thrust, Admiral.”

  “Engage,” Winters said grimly. “I want primaries armed and charged before we enter firing range.” Winters knew the enemy would fire first, at least any of those approaching ships that still had working railguns. Barron had been quite clear that the fearsome weapons outranged even Confederation primaries…and that they were harder hitting, too. But the fighters had concentrated on the largest enemy ships, and there was no question in his mind they had knocked out some of the powerful guns.

  He adjusted himself slightly as he felt the thrust engaging. Constitution was one of the Confederation’s newest class of battleships, and her dampening systems were state of the art. The crushing pressure Winters remembered so well from his earlier days was gone, replaced with a vague sense of discomfort as the offsetting force synced up with the engine output. It was actually relatively comfortable, even at full thrust…at least until aggressive evasive maneuvers began, and the system fell to playing catchup to the constant, rapidly cycling vector changes.

  “All ships report battle ready, Admiral. All battleships acknowledge primaries online and armed.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Winters leaned back in his chair, taking a breath as he watched Constitution’s velocity increase on the main screen and the range to the enemy decline. It was down to four hundred fifty thousand kilometers, and still dropping.

  His eyes darted to the side, to the edge of the display showing Covington’s squadrons. They were on their way toward the platforms, coming in rapidly. He guessed she’d be landing fighters in fifteen minutes, and that the entire strike force would be aboard the orbital bases in less than an hour.

  Winters was far from sure he could hold the enemy back for an hour, especially if the approaching ships were determined to reach the platforms as quickly as possible, and ignore the damage his small fleet could inflict.

  The enemy was decelerating as they approached the planet. The battle would be fought at low velocities, as the attackers slowed to engage the planet. There would be little maneuver, and few opportunities for elegant tactics. Planetary assaults and defenses tended to be slugging matches, toe to toe exchanges with brutal losses on both sides. Winters knew he couldn’t change that. He’d settle for getting some of Covington’s fighters back out to make one more strike at the enemy as they engaged the fortresses and whatever was left of his ships. He didn’t know if he had any chance at all, but that wasn’t going to stop him from throwing everything he had at the enemy.

  “Range, four hundred thousand kilometers.” His aide’s voice was loud, clear, the announcement intended for all present on the bridge.

  Winters took a deep breath. He could fire his primaries at just under two hundred thousand kilometers. That was long range, and the hit rate wouldn’t be good…but he intended to open up as quickly as possible. His ships would be taking incoming fire, too, even before that mark, and he wanted to get whatever he could from his main guns before he lost them.

  He
inhaled deeply, watching as the range counted down steadily. After two years of peace, what seemed now like the merest respite, he was back at war.

  Back at what he did best.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  CFS Dauntless

  75,000,000 Kilometers from Primary

  Delphi System

  Year 316 AC

  “Fire!” Barron felt the rush of adrenalin he usually did as Dauntless let loose with its devastating primaries…and seconds later the scanners showed a direct hit. But, it quickly dissipated as unfocused battle instincts faded away, replaced by the renewed realization that he was firing on Confederation ships.

  By the time the damage assessments began to flow in, he was as morose as he was satisfied. Two of the primaries had taken one of the approaching cruisers directly amidships, and while he was still waiting for the AI’s final estimates, he had a good idea just how badly that shot had hurt the smaller vessel. The cruiser was crippled or close to it, and it was a virtual certainty he had just killed Confederation spacers.

  Worse, he had fired first. Part of him had wanted to wait for the oncoming ships to shoot, to eradicate any possible doubt that they had come to attack Dauntless, that his people were only defending themselves. But, that hadn’t been an option. Range was his greatest advantage over the force he’d turned to face, and if he’d given it up, whatever chance he had in the fight would be gone. If he didn’t knock out two, or more likely three, of the approaching cruisers before they could move into their own range and open fire, he’d never get through the fight, not in any condition to face Titania and her escorts.

  Not that he had much chance of defeating both forces coming at him no matter what he did.

  He’d tried to raise the incoming ships several times, almost begging whoever was in command to answer…and expressly stating that if he didn’t get a response he would assume they were hostile and open fire. He’d given them every warning, and he didn’t have any serious doubts they were closing to attack, but it had still been one of the most difficult commands he’d ever issued…and he suspected no less so for his gunners to obey.