Wing Commander #07 False Color

by William R. Forstchen

  Ragark turned away, seething, to hide his look of frustration from the others. Especially Jhorrad, the peasant who must never see his Lord at a loss.

  Combat Information Center, FRLS Independence

  Near Hellhole, Hellhole System

  0730 hours (CST), 2671.019

  "Wing Commander reports all resistance on the planet has ended, Captain. Bombers are proceeding with planned strikes on the base. The carrier has broken orbit and is withdrawing in the direction of Jump Point Six . . . to Vordran, sir. Cat territory."

  Captain John Galbraith leaned forward in his command chair, full of anticipation. "Thank you, Commander Roth." He said formally to his Exec. "Instruct Commander Tolwyn to have his fighters pursue the carrier. I want it stopped.-

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Navigator, lay in a course to intercept the Guild carrier. Helm, increase to maximum acceleration. Break orbit and get us up to that ship ASAP." He turned towards Roth. "Order the bombers to complete their runs, catch up with us, and rearm. I want them ready in case Tolwyn can't finish off the pirates by himself." Actually, he intended to get a few blows in whether Tolwyn could handle the job or not. It was important that he be able to demonstrate his own vital part in this whole affair, and not let an outlander like Admiral Tolwyn's nephew claim any of the credit.

  He leaned back again, feeling satisfied. Independence had caught the pirates in the middle of disassembling their base on Hellhole and smashed through their feeble attempts at resistance. Several pirate ships had broken orbit and scattered, and in the absence of orders from Camparelli, who was in his bed today as he had been for the past week, Galbraith had ordered the rest of the battle group to split up and pursue the various fleeing vessels. Now the pirate base was under aerial bombardment and their largest surviving ship, the so-called carrier that had attacked the Goliath Project at Vaku and then escaped from Richards and his men, was running once again. Galbraith would make sure it didn't get away. That would be quite a feather in his cap when Independence returned to Landreich.

  His father's political faction would gain considerable influence as a result, perhaps even enough to finally topple Max Kruger.

  Galbraith wasn't sure where his father had obtained his intelligence information, but it had checked out one hundred percent so far. News that the pirates were operating out of a base on Hellhole had brought loud demands for naval action in the Landreich Council Hall, and the orders for Independence and her brand-new battle group to spearhead the attack had come down almost immediately. With the fighter wing brought back up to full strength, a new Marine contingent on board, and a battle group that now consisted of two cruisers, three destroyers, and a pair of stealth scouts, Independence had come roaring into the Hellhole system ready for action. The pirates had barely registered them on sensors before Tolwyn's fighters were in among their orbiting ships. The rest of the battle group had split up to pursue the smaller pirate ships attempting to reach several different jump points that lay fairly close to the planet.

  Yes, it was a textbook operation, and it could only help bolster his naval career. Perhaps when Kruger lost a vote of confidence in council some changes would be made, the outsiders relegated to their proper place and a proven commander promoted to command the supercarrier when it was finally ready to leave the Vaku system and go into action.

  Galbraith smiled, thinking of the possibilities.

  Raptor 600, VF-84 "Liberators"

  Near Jump Point Six, Hellhole System

  0752 hours (CST)

  "All right, boys and girls, let's give these bastards an idea of what it is to tangle with the Liberators!" Kevin Tolwyn matched actions to words and broke formation, rolling his heavy fighter sideways and accelerating toward the limping ship that looked even less like a carrier than it had before it had taken a string of hits in the opening round of the fighting planetside.

  The converted transport swelled as he plunged closer, a single turret offering Double-A-S fire that went wide of the mark. Tolwyn targeted the engineering section and opened fire with neutron guns and mass drivers, unleashing the full power of the heavy fighter's arsenal in a single consolidated burst. It drained his power supply quickly, but with no sign of enemy fighters around and such a poor showing from the carrier's own gunnery it was a safe enough maneuver.

  Energy sparkled and flared as the weapons met the carrier's shielding. At the last possible moment, Tolwyn pulled up to whip past the stern section at full military acceleration. The shields were still holding, so he didn't waste either of his two remaining missiles yet, but he had softened the enemy up for the next fighter, his wingman for the day's ops, Lieutenant Carlos "Venture" Ventura. The second Raptor mimicked Tolwyn's attack, but as Venture skimmed over the engineering section he released two Gladius heat-seeking missiles. The first hit the ship's shielding, but the energy released by its detonation brought the carrier's rear shields down and the second hit armor.

  "Now that's the way to let 'em know we're out here!" Ventura whooped.

  "Good shooting, Venture," Tolwyn said. "Stormy, Jazzman, you take the next run. Let 'em have it!"

  "Skipper?" That was Commander William "Willie Pete" Peterson, the CO of the Hornet squadron, the Stingers of VF-16, which had just joined the wing to replace Babcock's Flying Eyes. "I'm getting a disturbance at the jump point, but no visual. Could be something cloaked coming through . . ." He trailed off. "Holy shit! Multiple disturbances now . . . we've got company coming, skipper, and a hell of a lot of it!"

  "Camelot, Camelot, this is Lancelot," Tolwyn said, switching to the carrier's frequency. "Camelot, did you copy that? We've got ships incoming through the jump point . . ." He stopped as the first targets began registering on his screens. "My God, they're Cats. I'm reading a Cat task force, one carrier . . . no, two carriers now, plus cruisers and destroyers. Repeat, Cat task force with two carriers and supporting combat ships. What are your instructions, Camelot?"

  But there was no response from the Independence.

  Flag Bridge, KIS Klarran

  Jump Point Six, Hellhole System

  0755 hours (CST)

  Jumpshock blurred his vision and made it hard for him to concentrate, but Admiral julgar nar Ta'hal forced himself to focus on the flag bridge's tactical monitors.

  What he saw caused him to bare his fangs in an instinctive desire to rend and tear.

  His task force had pursued the Terran scout for nearly six-eights standard Kilrah hours, but the cloaked ship had led them a merry chase. At times it had been almost exhilarating, like a primal hunt for a cunning and well-camouflaged prey animal, but Julgar had been uncomfortably aware of the serious nature of his orders from Ragark. The initial instructions had been blunt: catch the Terran ship, whatever the cost, and smash it and any other apes it came into contact with. But before jumping from the Baka Kar system more detailed orders had come from Ragark in person. The Governor had been adamant about stopping the human vessel, yet he had also been determined that the Kilrathi ships should not get drawn into a major battle. Until the Vorghath was refitted Ragark needed all his combat ships intact, ready to block the expanding Landreich fleet or to carry out the initial moves of the planned invasion of the human frontier worlds. A major clash of ships at this stage would be premature, and Ragark would entertain no tolerance for failure.

  So they had followed the humans to Vordran, alerting the picket boat posted there of the cloaked ship's presence in the system. Running at maximum acceleration, they had arrived at the jump point from Vordran to Hellhole just in time to see the last stages of a skirmish between the picket boat, the escort Wexarragh, and the human vessel which had been forced to drop its cloak for an instant in order to transfer power to its jump drive. The escort had damaged the Terrans, but they had jumped anyway, switching the cloak back on as they slid into the hyperrealm for the interstellar transit to Hellhole.

  The task force had followed close on the enemy ship's heels. Julgar had almost been able to smell the chance at a kill, k
nowing the prey was damaged.

  But what awaited the Kilrathi task force on the other side of the hyperrealm was not a single badly damaged scout, but a large ship and a swarm of fighters almost on top of the jump point, and more warships identified by the computer as elements of a Landreich carrier battle group further off, out of formation but representing a potent force.

  The Imperial ships had the edge in numbers, but they were risking the possibility of a major battle . . . exactly the thing Ragark had warned against. How could Julgar carry out both sets of instructions?

  To add to his troubles, that nearest Terran ship was entirely too close to the Klarran for comfort. In his zeal for the pursuit Julgar had taken his flagship through the jump point first, rather than sending lighter ships on ahead. That put the Klarran in a dangerous position. His speed was minimal after the hyperspace transit, and it would take time to build up a substantial vector. Meanwhile the Terran ship was well within the usual defensive perimeter a battle group's destroyers and cruisers were supposed to maintain. Carriers were not intended to engage in ship to ship duels, but there was a risk here. The rest of the task force would be following, of course, but hyperspace transit arrival points were wildly variable and some of the other ships might not build up a vector that would get them to the scene of the battle for as much as an hour.

  Much could happen in an hour.

  Julgar flicked his claws in and out nervously, studying the tactical board and trying to get over the lingering effects of jumpshock. The Terran ship was like nothing in the Kilrathi warbook program. The computer was calling it a transport, but energy readings were equivalent to a destroyer or a small cruiser . . . and the long-range imaging scan made it look like some kind of pocket carrier. The fighters around it were old human designs, but time and again even older human fighters had dealt severe blows to Kilrathi fighter squadrons in actions during the decades-long war.

  His thoughts finally began to come together, and Julgar turned his seat to face his communications officer. "Establish a blanket jamming field," he said. "I want no contact between the apes here and those on the edge of our sensor range. Lord Ragark does not want the ship we are chasing to communicate with anyone else."

  "Yes, Lord Admiral," the officer responded crisply. "We will not be able to damp out tight-beam communications, my Lord. At close range they will still be able to maintain contact. It is possible there will be intermittent contact over the longer range as well, at least between the larger ships."

  "Understood. Do your best." He turned to his own console. "Captain, this is Admiral nar Ta'hal. Launch all fighters, fastest possible rotation. Crush the enemy ships nearest us as quickly as possible. Especially the scout, if you can locate it. I would suggest it will probably be attempting to rendezvous with the capital ship ahead of us."

  "Yes, Lord Admiral," the Klarran's captain responded.

  "Do not get underway from this position, Captain," he went on. "I do not wish to be drawn into closer action until we have some support from the rest of the task force. Keep the vector low until then. Pass the word to the rest of the task force as well."

  "Yes, my Lord," the captain responded.

  "And once the fighters have launched, put out a pair of Zartoths. We will be jamming enemy communications but I want to be able to extend our area of interdiction in case the apes attempt to break off."

  Julgar cut the intercom link before the captain could reply. He bared his fangs once again, this time in anticipation. A single overwhelming attack would eliminate the fugitive and anyone he communicated with here. Then the task force could disengage if they needed to . . . or, if the odds looked favorable, they could close with the other apes and defeat them as well, whatever Ragark's orders specified.

  It was a glorious day for combat.

  Flag Officer's Quarters, FRLS Independence

  Deep Space, Hellhole System

  0759 hours (CST)

  Admiral Vincent Camparelli struggled to sit upright in his bed despite the pressure in his chest and the uneven wheeze of his breath. Although ill and confined to his bed, he had been monitoring the tactical board from his bedside computer hookup and the holographic projector that occupied a table by the door. He had watched in satisfaction as the battle group had surprised and scattered the pirates, although he'd been tempted to call back the capital ships Galbraith had scattered in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. In the end, though, he'd decided against that. Galbraith knew what he was doing, and didn't need an old, sick man telling him what to do from his bed.

  He had promised himself that this would be the last cruise. No matter how much Max Kruger wanted him to stay in harness, Camparelli knew it was time for the old war-horse to go to pasture.

  The admiral had almost dozed off, until a warning alarm had signaled the appearance of new ships on the board. Awake once more, he had studied the newcomers, his chest tightening as he'd realized who they were. Cats . . . a small task force built around a pair of carriers. They had erupted almost on top of the fighters and their quarry, the makeshift pirate carrier.

  Camparelli reached for the intercom controls at his bedside. Independence was heading straight into that mess at maximum acceleration, and without any supporting destroyers or cruisers. The carrier operating alone wouldn't stand a chance against those Cats.

  He fumbled with the controls, and swore an ancient oath in the Italian dialect of Romanova, his boyhood home. His fingers weren't obeying the orders from his brain—a fine admiral he made, unable even to command his body any longer, much less his battle group—and a sharp pain was shooting up his left arm and side.

  Camparelli persevered and activated the intercom circuit, now gasping for breath. He had to get Galbraith to act . . . or Independence, maybe the entire battle group, would be lost.

  Combat Information Center, FRLS Independence

  Deep Space, Hellhole System

  0801 hours (CST)

  Galbraith stared at the tactical monitor, hardly able to comprehend the new data flowing across the screen—or the Wing Commander's words echoing in his ears. Of all the times the Cats could mount a raid . . .

  "Sir? Admiral Camparelli on the line." Roth didn't wait for Galbraith to respond. She switched the intercom on.

  The admiral's face looked pale and drawn. "Captain . . . Captain, you have to get the battle group together quickly. The other ships are too badly dispersed . . too badly dispersed . . ." The battle group commander was gasping. "Get them together . . . have to withdraw . . . Cat force too large for a stand-up fight . . ." He trailed off, still fighting for breath. "Can't . . . can't think straight, Captain. Turning over full command . . . to you." The screen went as dead as Galbraith's hopes.

  He forced himself to act. "Helm, kill our vector. We won't sail into the middle of that without some support from the rest of the battle group." He paused. "Exec, have a medical team lay down to the flag bridge and see to the Admiral. And order all ships to break off operations immediately and form on Independence ASAP."

  "Aye aye, sir," Roth replied. "Sir . . . what about Tolwyn's flight wing? He was calling for orders. Then everything went dead. Looks like jamming by the Cats. We can't recall him, and we can't even let him know our plans." Something in her tone suggested she wanted to know them herself. "The Cats have started launching fighters, and I don't know if Tolwyn's got enough planes to handle fighters from two Cat escort carriers."

  "I know," Galbraith said grimly. "But he's going to have to try. The Flight Wing has to buy us some time, keep those Cats off our backs until we reassemble the battle group and can pull back to the jump point to Landreich." He paused, swallowing. "He's a good man, Tolwyn. He'll know what he has to do."

  Raptor 500, VF-84 "Liberators"

  Near Jump Point Six, Vaku System

  0804 hours (CST)

  "It's no good, skipper," Peterson said. "The jamming's too damned thick around here. I can't raise Camelot."

  Kevin Tolwyn cursed under his breath. If a Hornet fitted out wi
th an elaborate suite of electronics and communications gear couldn't break through the static, none of them could. That left the Liberators on their own, and Kilrathi birds were already beginning to form up around their lead carrier as if organizing for an attack.

  Meanwhile he didn't know what to do. If he withdrew to the carrier he risked getting jumped halfway by the Cats . . . or, worse yet, drawing them back to Independence, where they could inflict a lot of damage before the Kilrathi capital ships came up and finished her off. But if he stayed out here his fighters, already short on missiles and fuel from the long running battle with the pirates, were likely to be overwhelmed.

  Everything depended on what the Kilrathi did.

  He turned his attention to his sensor readouts, and gave a low whistle as he took in the changing situation out there. He had forgotten about the pirates.

  In the confusion that had followed the appearance of the Cats, the battered pirate carrier had altered course. Strangely, though, it was not running away, not from the Landreich fighters, nor yet from the Cats. It had veered so that its course took it across the line of advance of the oncoming Kilrathi. In the circumstances it was an insane move . . .

  Unless they had a reason.

  Tolwyn remembered the surge of energy in the jump point that had preceded the appearance of the Cat ships. Something had come through ahead of them, unseen. A cloaked ship?

  Maybe . . and if it was a cloaked pirate, it may have contacted the carrier on a channel the Landreichers couldn't monitor, a tight-beam laser, for instance.