Action Stations w-6

by William R Fortchen

  His screen showed a thin screen of fighters moving forward to intercept. The hunting would be good. He picked the lead group and headed straight for them.

  "Head-on attack coming in, go through them!" Vance said. The tone of his voice had changed, Geoff noted. There had been an excited and angry edge to it a moment before, but now it took on a dead, flat calm. No matter how frightful the situation, Geoff realized, Vance's training had completely taken over, and he was functioning now as an efficient, emotionless, killing machine.

  Geoff saw a formation of four Kilrathi fighters spread out into a line-abreast formation. Something in the back of his mind told him that this was, most likely, the first combat encounter ever between Confederation and Kilrathi carrier planes. Neither side quite knew the doctrine, the training, of the other. Everything was up for grabs now.

  The lead fighter opened fire with lasers, the range a bit too far. They closed at what Geoff felt was a frightening speed that all but insured a head-on collision. Vance opened up with his lasers, and Geoff pressed the firing button on his stick… but the fighters were already past them! At what he felt was the same instant, something rocked his ship, forward and starboard shields flashing red. He hadn't even seen the shots that hit him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the four Kilrathi fighters break into a climbing turn, one of them trailing a streak of fire.

  "Keep on the bombers," Vance announced. Geoff looked over again and saw that the number two slot in their section of four was empty. What was his name? Andrews, Anders? He had simply disappeared. Looking back again, he thought he saw an expanding fireball. A shadow swept over Geoff's cockpit and, startled, he looked back to see that Vance's starboard wing was directly over his cockpit. He pushed his nose down and banked to the right, yo-yoing out of position before finally slipping back into his slot. In the brief instant he was out of formation, the bombers loomed up before him. Vance opened up, but before Geoff could even fire a shot they were past and then banking into a hard turn to the right.

  A stream of bolts slammed into Geoff's stern and, as they banked around, he saw that two of the tail gunners were zeroed in on him. He jinked slightly, trying to throw them off as his stern shield indicator began to glow from yellow to red. A mass driver round popped through, durasteel peeling back. He jinked again, the stream of shots going wide.

  "Three of the fighters are bearing in 090, positive 40," Vance announced. "Keep on the bombers."

  They came out of their turn, lined up, and charged in on the bombers, which were now lined up in a row. Vance opened up, aiming for the middle of the group. Geoff tried to line up the bomber in his sights, his opening shots going wide. He could see flashes of fire coming back but he ignored them, focusing on the target. Vance's shots continued to hammer across the top of the bomber, shards of armor flashing off as the rounds punched through the shield. Geoff tried to focus his own rounds in on the same spot, but went wide of the mark. The bomber loomed up, filling his screen, and he sensed more than saw Vance pull out in a tight, spinning turn. Geoff tried to hang onto Vance's wing. There was a flash of another bomber appearing. He fired, shots finally hitting something at last, then the target disappeared.

  Everything was happening far faster than he could fully comprehend. He knew he should check shield levels, energy levels for weapons, damage control, position on Vance's wing, position of the bombers, position of the closing fighters, position of the carrier. He tried to stay focused simply on Vance, knowing that if he was to survive it would be by following the lead of someone far more experienced than himself.

  They swept up into what was once called an Immelmann back on Earth, and again lined up on the bombers. A stream of light erupted from behind and Geoff caught a flashing red light on his screen, showing that an enemy fighter was hanging on his six o'clock position.

  The bombers were straight ahead. Again Vance lined up on the one they had hammered before. At the same instant another section of fighters from Concordia swept in for a head-on attack and their target disappeared in a shower of debris. Geoff focused on the next one in line and squeezed the trigger, his fire intersecting the stream of rounds from Vance.

  The starboard wing of the bomber sheared off and the target spun out of control. At the same instant a hammer blow struck Geoff from behind.

  * * *

  Prince Ratha lined up on his target, furious that the three fighters had managed to turn inside of him and position themselves for a second attack. His target kept bobbing and weaving erratically and he wondered, was it remarkable skill, or was it, rather, the flying of someone who did not know yet how to fly?

  He closed to near point-blank range and finally opened up, his very first shot slamming into his opponents shield. He held the trigger down, switching to mass driver rounds, fearing that if he used lasers their instantaneous speed might hit the bombers straight ahead, while the slower rounds would miss the bombers completely by the time they arrived where the planes had been.

  He could see the flashes of his enemy's shields, surprised that the tiny fighter could take so much punishment; an equal number of hits on his own ship would have destroyed it.

  The middle bomber in the group disappeared as a second enemy section raced through the line, while his own target raised his sights and started to tear into the next bomber in line.

  Ratha continued to fire, swearing vehemently, expecting the target to disintegrate, yet still the shields held.

  Finally bright flashes erupted, showing that the shields had folded and he was now tearing into armor. Directly ahead he saw another bomber die. Momentarily diverted by the sight of the explosion, he did not see his target jerk abruptly into a vertical climb.

  Pulling back on his stick, Geoff broke out of formation. "On my tail, Vance, breaking up!"

  "Try and reform, I'm staying on the bombers." Geoff looked back over his shoulder, surprised to see that his tormentor was not behind him. The warning chime of shield overload beeped in his headset and he suddenly realized it had, in fact, been sounding for several seconds.

  Still climbing away from the fight he continued to scan for the Cat fighter on his tail. His six position cleared, he pushed the stick forward and caught a flash of Vance finishing his run and banking over to his left, two fighters on his tail. Vance's number three was trailing a stream of fire as one of the fighters closed in to point-blank range.

  Geoff continued to nose over, realizing that his inertial dampening had blinked off, power diverting to restore shields. Pulling four negative g's, he felt as though his stomach was about to explode out his mouth. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He lined up on the two enemy fighters just as number three exploded. Both of the Cats flew through the debris and started to line up on Vance, who was continuing to turn for another sweep on the bombers.

  Geoff lined his sights up on the fighter to his left, and opened fire. The first shots were just astern and he pulled up slightly, then bore straight in. The stream of fire from his guns intersected just aft of the cockpit. Shields sparkled, flashed and, to his amazement, the ship disintegrated. He suddenly realized that he was going straight in and tried to turn. There was another jolting blow as his fighter slammed through the debris, forward shields shorting out.

  "One still on your tail, Vance!" Geoff cried as he hurtled down and out of the fight.

  "Thanks, Tolwyn. Now, form up."

  Geoff, feeling a flicker of resentment, yanked back hard on his stick, the sensation of his stomach coming out of his mouth replaced in an instant by the feeling that it was now buried in the soles of his feet.

  "All fighters, all fighters, this is Concordia CIC. Enemy bombers are slowing. Believe this is in preparation for launch of torpedoes which can penetrate shields. Acquire torpedoes after launch and destroy them."

  As Geoff continued into his climb he saw the bellies of four bombers straight ahead, and for the first time noticed the massive missiles that ran their entire length. An instinct told him to switch his gun cameras and surveilla
nce gear on to continuous run. He spared a quick glance away, searched for the switches and slapped them on.

  He clicked his radio.

  "Tolwyn to Concordia, link on my vid and data sensor feed. Have missiles sighted."

  "Copy, Tolwyn."

  The missile under the bomber to his right flared to life, followed seconds later by the other three. Geoff focused on the first one while nosing over, trying to imagine an intersect point. For the first time since he had engaged the bombers he was aware that Concordia was nearby, the carrier filling his forward view. Guns on the carrier were concentrating fire forward, directly engaging the bombers. Geoff forced himself to concentrate on the missile. He opened fire, but the target was so damned small he found it impossible to lock on. The missile accelerated with incredible speed so that it snapped past his imagined intersect point seconds before he had closed. He nosed over, trying to follow, firing, his missed shots spraying against Concordia's shields. Fire from the Concordia blazed around him and another shudder ran through his fighter. Smoke billowed up into the cockpit.

  He wasn't sure just where his target was now. He saw a glowing point of light, aimed at it, and held on. The missile detonated in a blue-white fireball of light and, for a gut-wrenching instant, Geoff feared that it had broken through Concordia's shields. He saw the blast wave flatten out on the outside of the carrier's shields, which glowed red hot.

  He banked up hard, a violent shudder rattling his stick so that it felt as though his hands would be ripped off. Turning, he saw a second torpedo boring in. A fighter flashed past Geoff. Not truly believing what he saw, the fighter dove straight into the torpedo, and disappeared in the ensuing explosion.

  The third torpedo continued on in, hitting the shield. Cursing madly, he tried to edge over to intercept… but the torpedo penetrated the shields and exploded amidships on the port side.

  Concordia rolled up and over from the hammer blow, flame washing down the length of the carrier. He could see armor peeling back, and caught a momentary flash of an open deck area, exposed to the vacuum of space.

  The port shield overloaded and winked off. The fourth torpedo closed in and, cursing helplessly, he waited for it to deliver the death blow. The torpedo slammed into the side of the ship, punching straight through the open wound left by the previous missile… and nothing happened.

  Geoff held his breath, waiting for the explosion which never came. With the port midships shields gone, Kilrathi fighters closed in, firing off dumb fire missiles, blasting off sections of armor and gun mounts. Concordia could still die, he realized, and, struggling for control, he tried to press back in to the attack.

  * * *

  Prince Ratha watched, unbelieving, as the fourth torpedo failed to detonate.

  "All fighters, close and destroy her!" he cried.

  His lust for blood was all-consuming. He had already damaged one enemy, killed a second, and almost destroyed the third, but the enemy's plane refused to die and the wily pilot had dived straight at his carrier, pulling off at the last second, leaving Ratha exposed to the defensive batteries.

  He turned to do another run on the carrier, racing down its length, firing his guns until all his energy bled off and they shut down. Furious, he pulled back, contemplating the performance of the ultimate act, a dive straight into the ship.

  "My lord, we are being recalled."

  A fighter darted directly in front of Ratha and then throttled back, forcing him to turn away from his suicidal intent. Ratha was tempted to fire on his wingman, but, mastering control over himself, he turned aside.

  "My lord, we are being recalled."

  "Damn you, clear the way! The carrier is defenseless. One more blow and it's destroyed!"

  "Its shields are coming back up my lord."

  Ratha looked back at Concordia and saw that his wingman was right, the unmistakable shimmer of shielding was coming back on-line.

  "We can strike at it. We can bring it back down!"

  "My lord, we must escort the remaining bombers back. There'll be another strike, but now we must protect our bombers."

  "Damnation to the bombers, they failed!"

  "Half our fighters are destroyed or damaged. We are ordered back by your father, my lord."

  Breathing deeply, he realized that the recall tone had been sounding in his headset, most likely for the last several minutes.

  Silently cursing his father, he turned away from the damaged carrier and locked on to the signal beam back to his ship.

  It seemed that in an instant the enemy fighters were gone. Where they had gone, he wasn't sure. He scanned back and forth. It looked like a fight was still going on astern of Concordia. Checking his screen, he saw a dozen red blips, followed by three blue flashes. The smoke in his cockpit thickened, and he realized it was time to turn back as the warning alarm sounded. His damage control screen showed critical damage in half a dozen areas. The eject warning alarm sounded. Concordia was only a click off his port side, but accelerating fast. He realized that, if he ejected, chances were there would never be a pick up.

  "Tolwyn to Concordia, request immediate clearance for emergency landing."

  "Concordia to Tolwyn. Your display shows critical."

  "Eject and get left behind Concordia? I don't think so. Request clearance."

  Even as he talked, he struggled to line up on the landing bay. There was no reply and he knew the landing officer was consulting the Combat Information Center. If his landing was viewed as a threat to the carrier, he'd be ordered to eject. He held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

  "Tolwyn, cleared to land, make it quick, son."

  "Copy, Concordia."

  He punched his landing gear down and sighed with relief when he saw three green lights.

  "Tolwyn, this is landing control. No need to acknowledge. You're doing fine, a little high, bring it down, down… fine, now back off your speed, a little too fast… hold steady, hold steady… cut engines!"

  Geoff felt the faint shudder of passing the airlock. A second later he touched down, hitting his brakes, which immediately failed. A small crash truck was waiting and, even as he skidded past it, a spray of white foam erupted, hosing down his fighter. He skidded down the deck, slamming into the safety nets, and then everything was still.

  Stunned, he looked around as the foam sprayed over his canopy, obscuring the view. The canopy popped back, released from the outside. A crash and rescue team member was above him, concealed under a white fire-resistant hood, holding an extinguisher. He hosed down the cockpit, threw the extinguisher aside and grabbed hold of Geoff under the armpits, hoisting him up.

  "I'm okay, I'm okay," Geoff gasped as he was bodily pulled from the plane and then dropped down to two ground crew personnel, dressed in fire resistant gear as well. One of them threw a fire blanket over Geoff and, half carrying him, they ran across the bay, getting down behind a plastisteel shield. A medic was waiting for them as they unclipped Geoff's helmet.

  "Damn it, I'm okay."

  "I don't think so, sir," the medic said, pointing down to his legs. The lower half of Geoff's pressure suit was lacerated, flame scorched, and for the first time he realized that he was hurt, the pain from the burns slicing into his brain.

  He looked back at his ship and was stunned. Most of the upper aft section was gone, scorched wires hanging out, durasteel armor peeled back like crumpled tinfoil. Smoke was cascading out of the plane. A tractor with an extended boom arm latched onto the back of the fighter and pulled it clear of the safety net. A warning light flashed on the far bulkhead. The crash crew, still spraying the fighter with fire retardant, scrambled back as an airlock field formed around the bulkhead, which then slid back to reveal open space on the other side. The tractor pushed the fighter through the airlock, gave it a sharp blow and disconnected from the fighter, which tumbled out into space and disappeared from view.

  "Well, Tolwyn, you just blew off an even fifty million," one of the rescue personnel announced calmly as he stood back up a
nd prepared to greet the next fighter coming in.

  "How's the pain, ensign?" the medic asked.

  "I can handle it. I want another fighter, so don't give me anything now."

  "Guess someone upstairs likes you, ensign. I heard the communications. Didn't you know you couldn't eject?" and he pointed again to the torn space suit.

  Geoff numbly shook his head.

  "The data board showed your fighter was set to cook off. If it had let go once you landed it could have wiped this whole deck. I'll tell you sir, everyone here was crapping when you came through the airlock. Anyhow, the word came down from the top to bring you in."

  "I want to get back into the fight," Geoff announced, trying to block out the surge of pain.

  "Thanks for nailing that torpedo. There's an inferno down on decks ten through thirteen, port side. If we'd taken another hit, that would have been it."

  Geoff was surprised that word of his lucky shot was already known by the crew.

  Geoff looked away from the burns blistering his legs while the medic gingerly peeled the burned and tattered fragments of his flight suit off. The landing bay area had obviously taken damage. The paint on the inner bulkhead wall had peeled off, the metal underneath discolored from a fire that he sensed was still raging on the other side as wisps of smoke curled off the wall. The air was thick with acrid smoke. Half a dozen forms were stretched out on the deck, covered in blankets, blood oozing from several of them. A chaplain was kneeling by a bloodied crew chief, holding her hands and, with a shock of horror, Geoff realized that the crew chiefs legs were missing. Even as he watched, the chaplain leaned over and gently closed the chiefs eyes, then stood up and went to the next wounded man.

  Another fighter came in. As it touched down the nose gear collapsed, a shower of sparks spraying out. The fighter lurched to a stop as the crash crew closed in. The canopy popped open and Geoff smiled at the sight of Vance climbing out. Geoff was momentarily diverted by a stab of pain as the medic, using a pair of tweezers, plucked a piece of durasteel out of his calf. Vance tossed his helmet to the crew chief and came up to Tolwyn, kneeling down by his side, sparing a quick glance at his legs and grimacing.