"Cover our ship, cover our ship!"
Geoff winged back over, following Hawkins as they dove on the three remaining bombers. Geoff lined up on his target, ignoring the incoming fire from the top turret gunner that slammed into his forward screen. He heard the shriek of durasteel peeling back, the impacts blinding him. He continued to bore in, draining off the last of his lasers and, almost by instinct, broke right, narrowly missing the bombers wing.
"Concordia to blue and green. Data indicates remaining bomber about to launch weapons."
Geoff continued through his turn, a fighter dropping in on his six and opening up. He looked back up and saw only two bombers left, not sure if one was the one he had been attacking or another.
"Torpedo released and inbound!" The cry was from combat control.
Over his shoulder, Geoff saw the weapon boring in on Concordia. He held his breath as the torpedo struck amidships and detonated. The carrier shook like a rat in the mouth of a terrier, sections of hull peeling back, explosions detonating inside the ship… but it held together.
"Second one about to launch!"
"I'm on the bomber, rest of you chaps head for the barn." It was Hawkins, and Geoff saw his fighter streaking in, trailing a stream of fire… and a second later slamming straight into the remaining bomber, slicing it in half.
"All sections, final recall, final recall. Jump in two minutes, fifteen seconds!"
Geoff dodged and weaved, trying to throw the fighter off, but it hung doggedly to his tail, lining up a few shots before Geoff dodged, reacquiring him and putting a few more in. Inexorably, his shield power continued to drain.
"Jump in two minutes and counting."
Geoff looked back over his shoulder, and the fighter was still there. Overhead he caught a flash of light and looked up to see a hammer blow slamming into the belly of North Carolina. Another shudder ran through his fighter, and at that instant he felt a cold sense that it was over, that he would continue to circle with the Cat on his tail.
The Cat closed in and he leveled out, holding steady… and then slammed his throttles off. The Cat skimmed over his canopy, the fighter inverted so that he caught a quick flash of the pilot wearing a purple helmet.
The Cat dropped into his sights even as it started to pivot, spinning on its axis to point backwards so it could fire straight into his destroyed forward shield. He fired a volley, several shots slammed out… and the guns shut down, energy drained.
As if watching in slow motion he saw the Cat turning, throwing on reverse thrust, lining up for the killing shot. Another fighter swept past Geoff, firing a concentrated salvo straight into the enemy fighter, shearing off a wing. The Kilrathi fighter broke up, the pilot ejecting.
"All right, Tolwyn, enough heroics. You first, we've got ninety seconds!"
Vance circled in around Geoff as he pointed his fighter towards Concordia's landing bay.
"You two are the last," the launch and recovery officer announced. "Now get the hell in, we've got seventy seconds!"
Geoff nudged in his power, suddenly remembering that this was only the second time he had ever attempted a landing in a Wildcat. As he angled in towards the carrier he saw his opponent, still strapped to his chair, tumbling slowly end over end. A darker instinct told him to divert just for a second and try to fire a shot in… it would be one less Cat pilot to worry about later.
Just not British though, Geoff thought, shaking his head. After all, he was a damned good opponent.
As he passed the Cat he raised his hand in a salute, slightly disappointed the Cat had not saluted in return.
"Sixty seconds, hurry it up!"
He lined up, remembering that Vance was behind him. If he screwed up his landing, Vance would be stuck as well.
"Tolwyn, this is recovery, no need to reply. You're coming in hot, reverse thrust, bring her down, bring your speed down, too high, too high… get your gear down."
Geoff struggled to keep up with the orders, popping his gear down, pushing stick forward, pulling thrust back.
"Too low now… bring her up… still too fast… bring her up… bring her…"
His landing gear clipped the edge of the ramp as he slammed through the airlock, his fighter slapped down onto the deck in a shower of sparks. He could feel the back of the fighter snapping, the controls in his hands going slack.
The safety net seemed to be racing up. He slammed into it, his vision blurring. A second later the canopy was yet again covered in foam, followed by someone pulling the outside release hatch. A hooded crash and rescue man towered above him, spraying the cockpit down with foam and then yanking him out. As they dragged him back from the plane he saw a ripple of flame venting around the wings as a ruptured hydrogen tank let go. A blizzard of foam engulfed the plane.
"Fifteen seconds," a voice boomed over the deck PA. "Prepare for jump."
"Vance!"
Geoff struggled to stand up, breaking free from the rescue personnel. A fighter came through the airlock, touching down gently, and turned to skid past the wreckage of Geoff's plane.
"Those not secured, lie down now! Five, four, three…"
Geoff sprawled himself out on the deck. The star field outside the airlock shifted in color. He caught a momentary glimpse of North Carolina, fire wreathing its belly and starboard forward section. The star field shifted into red, the stars turning into receding streaks of light.
Cursing, Prince Ratha watched as the Concordia seemed to stretch out into a long streak of light, then disappeared in a sparkle of light. He could not understand these humans. He was dead, he should be dead, and yet the fool had waved to him and left him. It was a humiliation beyond bearing, that a foe had bested him thus and then did not deliver the coup, and instead had mockingly waved.
A hatred for the humans he had never believed possible before filled his soul. Having killed three of their fighters, he should have been able to return as a hero, his talons painted red when he was presented to his grandfather, wearing the clasp of the red claw with honor… yet in his heart there would be no honor. He had been defeated and then left to live.
There was but one thing left to do. Grabbing hold of his helmet latch, he tore it open, the air venting out of his suit. Strange, how silent death was in space, he thought.
The deck seemed to fall away underneath him, there was the momentary disorientation and wave of nausea. It felt as thought the deck then slammed back up, knocking the breath out of him. The star field outside the airlock came back into focus, but was different.
"Jump successful," the PA announced.
Geoff staggered back to his feet and stood, numb with shock and pain. He could feel explosions rippling through the ship. For a brief instant artificial grav winked off, came back on, and then seemed to hover at a reduced level so that Geoff felt as if he would float off the deck. Another explosion slammed through the carrier, lights winking off, emergency battle lamps turning on in the gloom.
The crash crew continued to hose down his fighter as he witnessed yet another plane he had flown being dragged to the side airlock and ejected out into space.
"Well, sir, that's another fifty million," one of his rescuers announced. Slapping him on the back, the three men who had dragged him out went over to help with the cleanup.
"Sir, you are to report to sick bay at once."
He looked over at the medic.
"You've had it, sir. Now get to sick bay."
"In a moment," Geoff whispered.
Vance slipped out of his plane and came up to Geoff, shaking his head.
"You know, they usually ground a guy who dings a fighter like that."
Geoff looked at him, unable to reply. It felt like the action was playing out in his mind again, strangely, at two different speeds. There were flash memories going by at high speed, and then frozen moments-the Kilrathi assault troops tumbling into vacuum, Hawkins going kamikaze, the exec of Masada and his defiant cry, McAuliffe burning.
He tried to speak, but couldn't. Vance was
staring at him.
"I know, Geoff, I know," Vance whispered, resting his hand on Geoff's shoulder.
Behind Vance, Geoff saw a sparkle of light. It was the North Carolina coming through, still on fire, but intact. He knew it was probably dumping mines like mad, standard retreat doctrine. It'd be hours before the Cats could clear the entry point, and even then they'd have to send light ships through first to clear the mines on the opposite side.
"Thanks, Vance," Geoff whispered.
"Same here, buddy. Welcome to the club."
"Yeah, thanks."
Together they turned and started for debriefing.
* * *
Commander Winston Turner slumped wearily in his chair and closed his eyes. Another explosion rocked the ship and he hung on, watching the damage control board as yet another section flashed yellow, indicating a hull breach. The damage control officer looked back at Turner.
"Sir, we'll hold her for the moment, but primary engines are going to be lost. I think we'll lose jump engine control as well, sir. She's dying."
Turner nodded wearily.
"How much time do we have?"
"Six, maybe eight hours tops."
"If they come through in pursuit, can we still fight?"
The bridge crew looked over at Turner, defiance in their eyes as if he had insulted them by even implying the ship couldn't fight.
"We'll go down fighting, sir."
"Fine, get ready for another launch, then."
He looked back at the rear display screen as North Carolina, with one escort, came through the jump. A ripple of a cheer swept the CIC. Remarkable, he thought.
He looked over at Valeri.
"We lost, yet they cheer," he said softly.
"We lost, sir, but we sure as hell kicked them on the way out. They'll think twice about pursuit."
Pursuit. Pursuit, retreat, and when would it end? The worst defeat in the history of the fleet. And yet, he felt something else, a defiance. He could hear that in those around him. If they had simply run, what would the feeling be now? The fact that we had turned, even in defeat, and struck back, maybe that was something. Maybe it would be something for Dayan, for the families of all the others, that we still fought back.
Third Marine. Maybe we've brought them enough time to marshal a return strike. He doubted that. Dayan had sent a ship up to jump point Delta to go through, then reemerge later in the day, deploying signal simulators to try and bluff the Cats into thinking another attack was coming through. It was a hackneyed old trick, but he doubted if it would change anything now.
He looked up at the chronometer. It'd been fifteen minutes since North Carolina had jumped. No hot pursuit. If they were going to come on, they'd have to do it slowly, worry about mines. No, they'd hold back for the moment.
"Val, make sure the log notes time we broke off engagement."
"It's done, sir."
"We'll deploy out here, wait to see if they come in hot pursuit. If they don't come on, we'll send a frigate back through the jump point for a look around. Damage control, see if you can contain things. If not, give us enough warning so we can abandon ship."
Sighing, he settled back in his chair. "Val, could you give me a couple of minutes?"
"Sure, sir, relax."
Commander Winston Turner settled back in the chair and closed his eyes. In less than a minute he was fast asleep.
Bitter with rage, Crown Prince Gilkarg stalked out of the briefing room, retired to his private chambers, and slammed the door.
A burst signal had just arrived from Kilrah. Furious, he wished he had followed through on his earlier wish to simply disconnect the communications system on his ship and then say it was battle damage. But it was too late now, the signal had been received and acknowledged. If only it had taken another hour, he would already be committed, crossing into the next system in pursuit of a beaten foe with three battleships and three carriers while the rest of the fleet mopped up resistance on MeAuliffe.
The signal from their jump point leading towards the inner worlds was an obvious fake, a mere bluff to indicate that a phantom fleet was preparing to jump through on the flank while he attempted a direct pursuit.
But all that was finished. Nargth, the base-born scum, had sent a dispatch to the Emperor with casualty reports and details of the enemy counterstrike against the landing force, and now the reply had come.
His father had ordered a retreat, declaring that the fleet must be preserved and that the base at McAuliffe was no longer worth the expenditure of Imperial blood.
Damn it all, the senile old fool! Damn it all. He had just taken victory and thrown it away out of fear. Nargth's declaration that the warriors of the Confederation attacked with zaga, the warrior spirit, had been the wrong choice of words. Yes, indeed it might be true, but it had swayed his father. Six legions destroyed. To lose the other four now might very well place the balance of Imperial power in jeopardy. His proud plan that the Imperial clan lead the attack to take McAuliffe had never been calculated with an honest realization of just how many casualties they might take.
Though it was hard to admit, even Gilkarg found that he had to concede that the humans and their allies had fought with fanatical bravery. The few units which had actually made it to the planet's surface were taking horrific casualties from the Confederation Marines, and even now were being evacuated.
But to pull out of the system they had all but won? Though the Emperor promised that the fleet would return once repairs had been made and new troops brought in from the other clans, Gilkarg knew that the opportunity to bring the war to a swift and final conclusion had just been thrown away. The Confederation would have the time to take a breath, to rearm itself, to fortify its inner worlds. We will seize the outer edge, but the chance to delve straight in and deliver the final, crushing blow has been lost.
Vids from his fighters showed that a torpedo had slammed into Concordia, and another one into the other carrier which escaped, the torpedoes failing to detonate. The humans were undoubtedly tearing them apart right now, learning how they worked to disrupt shields. The surprise would be lost.
There was the report, as well, of the betrayal of information. A report had already been intercepted that the Confederation was in possession of the ceremonial decree announcing war. It was undoubtedly the information transferred by the unknown agent to the intel team that had infiltrated in.
Unknown… he smiled. The blame would be laid at the proper doorstep soon enough.
We have won the most glorious victory in the history of the Empire, his father had said even as he threw the fruits of that victory away… and yet, in his heart, he feared that they had created a war that might last for a generation.
"My lord?"
He looked up at the screen, ready to roar out an angry command for his aide to leave him alone.
"My lord, I beg leave to interrupt and to offer my own blood in this moment of sorrow."
The ritual words caused Gilkarg to fall silent.
"Go on."
"Your son, my lord. He is dead. We've recovered his body."
Gilkarg nodded slowly, unable to speak.
"My lord, he died a warrior. He committed self death, my lord, after his fighter was destroyed and the enemy ship escaped. His honor is great, my lord, as is yours."
Gilkarg turned away from the screen.
Self death. Damn it all. There was no need for the foolish cub to kill himself. Glory enough in the fight. But there was no other way, there was only the way of the clan, of the hunt, and he had failed. Failed because of Nargth, because of his own grandfather.
There was still Thrakhath though. In the years to come, he will be the heir. But Ratha, Ratha was dead.
Drawing his dagger, Gilkarg drew the blade across his forehead so that the blood flowed in mourning, mourning for all that had been lost rather than won.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fawcett's World
Captain Hans Kruger of the Landreich militia climbed bac
k out of the wreckage of what the Landreich called a frigate, but in actuality was nothing more than an aging transport with guns welded on. Hoisting a survival pack and two assault rifles, he slid down the side of the smoking wreckage.
The Cats had smashed all the outer worlds of the Landreich into rubble, but they had been held in front of the Hell Hole, with one of their battleships disabled and three cruisers destroyed. The price, that was something he didn't even want to think about now. It was hard to admit that he had actually grown fond of Blucher during the short time he had served under his command.
He shifted his gaze up as a flight of birds, crying shrilly, took wing. The triple canopy of jungle overhead had been torn wide open by his crash landing. That, and the plume of smoke, were most likely visible for miles. It was time to get a move on, because the Cats would most certainly be closing in to check it out.
"Well, Kruger, you sure as hell ruined this ship."
His exec, a girl who had claimed to be a former ship's engineer with, of all companies, the Sam consortium, appeared out of the jungle.
He laughed at the thought. If ever there was a place where those bastards would never get to him, it was here. He was two jump points inside the Empire, nailed raiding a Cat base at some place called Fawcett's World that was supposedly garrisoned by an entire division of Imperial marines. If the Sarns still wanted him, they'd have to get through the Cat marines first.
"You know, Kruger, that was pretty dumb, coming into the atmosphere of this place to try and shoot it up."
"Elaine, we trashed it, didn't we?"
"Yeah, and they got us too."
"Goes with the territory."
"Anyone else alive in there?" she asked.
"We're it."
"Could be interesting," she said with the slightest of smiles.
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