09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Yes, sir,” Cathy said.

  David studied the display for a long moment, considering the situation. The Foxes had to be trying to sneak up on Vixen and engage the task force before it could react. There couldn't be any other explanation, unless Cathy had made a mistake. And that meant ...

  “Communications, send a priority-one signal to Admiral Naiser,” he ordered. “Inform him that we have unwelcome visitors.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Raleigh said.

  “Helm, prepare to adjust course,” David added. Darwin was cloaked, but they’d be exposed as soon as they sent the signal. “Keep us close enough to shadow them.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  David settled back into his command chair. Admiral Naiser had been right. The Foxes were coming to liberate their homeworld and drive away the human interlopers ...

  An alarm sounded. “They just swept us,” Cathy snapped. “Active sensor sweep!”

  They must have given up on sneaking around, David thought. A human might have hesitated in hopes of breaking contact.

  “Drop the cloak,” he snapped. On the display, brilliant red icons were snapping into existence. “Helm, reverse course ...”

  “Enemy starfighters inbound,” Cathy said. “Captain ...”

  “Alert the task force that I do not expect to be able to avoid engagement,” David ordered, bleakly. Darwin was far too close to the enemy fleet to escape. In hindsight, perhaps he should have ... he gritted his teeth, dismissing the thought. Getting the word out took priority, even if it risked his ship. “And then bring us around. Prepare to engage.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  ***

  Susan jerked awake as alarms howled through the battleship. She sat upright, hurled herself out of bed and slapped her wristcom while reaching for her trousers. “Report!”

  “Darwin detected an incoming enemy fleet before being overwhelmed and destroyed,” Mason reported. “They’ll be on us in thirty minutes.”

  “Understood,” Susan said. She'd hoped for more time. “I’m on my way.”

  She briefly considered a shower, but she doubted she had time to wash properly. Instead, she pulled her trousers on, then hastily buttoned up her uniform shirt before grabbing her jacket and heading for the hatch. Her instructors at the academy would have had a lot of sarcastic things to say about her appearance, she was sure, but they weren't the ones facing a large enemy fleet. She pulled her jacket on as she hurried down the corridor, passing a pair of marines as the ship rushed to battlestations. Maybe she did look unkempt. It hardly mattered when the ship was going to war.

  “Captain,” Mason said, as she stepped through the hatch and onto the bridge. A low rumble echoed through the hull as the drives came up to full power. “Admiral Naiser has ordered us to prepare to leave orbit on attack vector.”

  As planned, Susan reminded herself. We don’t want to get caught against the planet itself.

  “I have the bridge,” she said, sitting down. “Status report?”

  “All departments report ready,” Mason said. “The fleet is gearing up to leave orbit now.”

  “Take us out with them,” Susan ordered. “Long-range sensor report?”

  “Twelve battleships, four fleet carriers and at least seventy smaller ships,” Charlotte reported, grimly. “They’re flying in such close formation that I don’t have a solid lock on all of their smaller units ...”

  Susan’s blood ran cold. Twelve battleships, four fleet carriers ... this was no raid, but a cold-blooded attempt to destroy the task force. But then, she’d expected no less. The Foxes knew they had to crush the task force, preferably before it tore the system’s industrial base to shreds. They must have departed the front shortly after the task force tore through ES-18, she decided after a moment. The enemy planners must have hoped they could reinforce their homeworld before it was too late.

  It was too late, she thought. But now ...

  “Coordinate the datanet links with the remainder of the fleet,” Susan ordered. “And be ready to move out on command.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said.

  “Tactical combat links engaged,” Jean added. “We have primary, secondary and tertiary links up and running.”

  “Very good,” Susan said. It was going to be a battering match, one the humans might well lose. But they’d take one hell of a bite out of the enemy ships before they died. “Stand by to deploy ECM drones.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jean said.

  Mason snorted. “The beancounters will throw a fit.”

  Susan had to smile, feeling a flicker of gallows humour. Sure, the beancounters would throw a fit about the expenditure, if there was anyone left to hear it. If there wasn't ... well, battleships were far more expensive than even the most advanced ECM drones. And they took longer to build too. She would prefer to be lectured for wasting His Majesty’s Government’s valuable property than being blown away, along with her ship. It was unlikely they’d do more than moan at her, loudly. A court martial would require the bureaucrats to explain to a captain’s board precisely why the ECM drones were considered more important than a battleship. It wouldn't go well for them.

  “Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said. “The task force is to leave orbit.”

  “Take us out,” Susan ordered.

  “Revised time to contact,” Jean put in, as the fleet moved out of orbit. “Thirteen minutes at current velocity.”

  God help the people on the ground, Susan thought. They’re practically on their own now.

  She glanced at Mason. “Deploy damage control teams, as planned,” she ordered. “And then ready the ship for close-quarter combat.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said.

  Susan gritted her teeth. This was it, the final engagement. One way or the other, it was going to be the last. And then ...

  “Receiving updated targeting information,” Jean said. “The freighter crews are moving into position now.”

  “Very good,” Susan said. “Hold course and speed.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said.

  ***

  “Well,” Prince Henry said. “It seems that we were right.”

  “Barely,” John muttered. “They must have pulled their reserves right off the front.”

  He stroked his chin, feeling stubble against his fingers. It was possible the Foxes had held back their main force for some inscrutable alien reason, but they couldn't be that alien. Only a complete madman would risk letting an alien fleet hold position in their most valuable star system indefinitely. John’s contingency plans would ensure the destruction of most of the industrial base, even if the task force was smashed to rubble. No, they’d yanked forces back from the front ...

  And that gives Admiral Stirling a chance to give them hell, he thought. Either they gave chase or they merely took the opportunity to recover the occupied star systems ...

  He pushed the thought out of his head. There was no way to know what had happened, no way to be sure how much of the plan had actually worked. They'd done their bit - they’d forced the enemy to cope with a second front - and now they had to hold out until the end.

  “Twelve battleships,” he said. It was possible that their estimates of the enemy’s industrial potential were way out, but twelve battleships was a significant force by any standards. “And they sent them here.”

  “They’re desperate,” Prince Henry said.

  “Perhaps,” John said. “Send the challenge.”

  He looked at Commander Jackson Regal. “Signal the fleet,” he ordered. “Missile pods are to be deployed on my command.”

  “Aye, sir,” Regal said.

  “And starfighters are to be launched as planned,” John added. There was no point in trying to be clever, not now. Half his starfighters would attack while the other half would defend, keeping the enemy off balance as much as possible. “And warn the fleet that there will be no retreat.”

  He leaned forward, studying the red icons as they advanced towards hi
m in a ponderous mass of death and destruction. There was enough firepower in the enemy fleet to do real damage to Earth or Tadpole Prime, no matter how heavily they were defended. Hell, it had been sheer - and costly - luck that HMAS Darwin had detected the enemy starships before they could get into weapons range. John had been careful to keep his ships ready for combat, but no naval force could hope to remain on full alert indefinitely. Exhaustion would have worn his men out a long time before the enemy put in an appearance.

  “They haven't responded,” Henry said.

  “I think I can understand what they’re saying,” John said, wryly. “Oh yeah? Make us.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Henry said. “They need to be battered into submission.”

  Playground stuff, John thought. He’d grown up in a rough area, where disputes between schoolchildren had been settled with fists rather than reasoned discourse. The social hierarchy had been based on strength, not decency or popularity. They haven't really grown up.

  But was that such a bad thing? Schoolyard fights had ended with bumps and bruises, not broken bones or dead bodies. He’d never fought to the death, not until he’d joined the navy; he’d never killed a man with his bare hands. But ... he shook his head. It was bad. If one was strong, one held all the cards; if one was weak, one bent over and took it. As a child, he’d disliked the teachers who were supposed to be in control; as an adult, he couldn't help feeling sorry for them. They were caught between the need to maintain discipline and the need for a quiet life. The Foxes were shaped by their biology ...

  He shook his head as the timer reached zero. “Signal the carriers,” he ordered. “All starfighters are to launch. I say again, all starfighters are to launch.”

  ***

  “Go, go, go!”

  Flying Officer Mahubala Choudhury braced herself as the starfighter rocketed down the launch shaft and into interplanetary space. The craft’s drives came online a second later, shoving her away from the giant supercarrier and out towards the alien fleet. They were already launching their own starfighters, an immense swarm of craft that threatened to overwhelm the human ships. She couldn't help noticing that the Allies were outnumbered two-to-one.

  Her radio crackled. “So,” Flying Officer Jonny Roberson said. “Drink and dinner tonight?”

  Mahubala rolled her eyes. English pilots were the worst, as far as she could tell, although she had to admit that American pilots came a close second. Jonny Roberson hadn't been partnered with her for more than five minutes before he’d started trying to lure her into bed. Perhaps English pilots were allowed to do whatever they liked, as long as they put their lives on the line every day, but Indian pilots didn't have so much freedom. She had to be chaste if she wanted the men to respect her, even though they spent half their time chasing girls ...

  Maybe it’s just a male thing, she thought. Although their female flyers are just as bad.

  “Stay in formation,” she ordered, as the enemy starfighters drew closer. “And watch my back.”

  “I’d pay money to watch your back,” Roberson said. “You look great in your shipsuit.”

  “It could cost you your life,” Mahubala said, dryly. The enemy starfighters were breaking up, half boosting onwards to engage the fleet, the other half slowing to engage the human starfighters. The odds were improving, slightly. “Engage tactical computers on my mark ... mark.”

  She keyed the firing switch as the enemy starfighters came into range, firing madly. They clearly had more faith in their plasma cannons than she did, although a decade of intensive research and development had reduced the problem of overheating plasma confinement chambers. She saw an enemy starfighter explode as she took a shot at it, then yanked her craft to one side as another enemy pilot sought revenge for the death of his friend. Roberson picked him off a second later, covering her back. She allowed herself to feel appreciation for as long as she dared - about half a second - and then swung into another set of evasive patterns. Flying a predictable pattern in the middle of a fight was asking to get killed.

  “The bombers are punching through,” the wing commander said. “All units, form up and cover them.”

  Mahubala nodded to herself. The bombers were blasting towards the enemy ships, trying to leave the enemy starfighters in the dust. Naturally, the starfighter pilots had different ideas and were giving chase ... she picked off a careless flyer, then cursed under her breath as she saw a brother flyer die. Raman had been rude and unpleasant to her ever since she’d boarded the carrier - she had no idea what was wrong with him - but he knew how to fly. His death was a bad omen.

  The enemy battleships opened fire as the bombers closed in, filling space with bolt after bolt of supercharged plasma. Their firing was essentially random, but they were firing so many blasts that it hardly mattered. A dozen bombers died as they closed to engagement range, four more died even as they fired their torpedoes. She had the satisfaction of watching an enemy carrier stagger under their fire a heartbeat before two more of her fellow pilots died in flames. An instant later, the enemy carrier followed them into death.

  “Scratch one flattop,” an American voice jeered. “We got her!”

  Barely, Mahubala thought. And they still have far more fighters than us.

  She gritted her teeth as the fighters wheeled around to escape the enemy ships. There was no point in remaining close now the bombers had spent their missiles. She had to escort them back to the carriers to rearm before it was too late. The rest of the starfighters fell in with her, a mixture of craft from five different nations. Thankfully, weeks of exercises - and real combat - had smoothed out the edges ...

  “Here they come,” Roberson said.

  “Stand by,” Mahubala ordered.

  The enemy starfighters fell on their formation like hawks on starlings. Standard practice was to ignore the bombers that had expended their missiles, but the enemy didn't seem to have read the manual. But then, there just weren't enough bombers to force them to divert their attention to covering their ships. She cursed as two more bombers exploded, then shot madly at an enemy pilot who evaded her blasts with mocking ease. Roberson got him a moment later.

  “Hey, you want to have a competition?” Roberson asked. “Winner ...”

  His voice cut off, abruptly. Mahubala barely had a second to register his death before his killer tried to pick her off too. She threw the starfighter into a crazy spin, then fired back madly in the hopes of scaring her attacker off. But it was too late.

  An instant later, there was a wave of heat and pain ...

  ... And then nothing.

  ***

  “The starfighters have taken heavy losses,” Regal said.

  “Order them to continue the attack,” John said. He wasn't too surprised. The enemy had outnumbered his flyers from the start. “Are the missile pods deployed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Regal said. “They’re in position.”

  John nodded. There would be complaints, he was sure, about expending so many missiles in a single engagement, particularly as most of them would be wasted. But anyone who wasn't a barmy bureaucratic beancounter would understand. The task force was on a death ride now, he knew, and damned be he who first said enough. Besides, unless they got very lucky, escape was no longer a possibility.

  “Fire the missile pods,” he ordered.

  The enemy had placed free-floating missiles in space to augment their forces. He hadn't known which vector the enemy would choose, but he had prepped the freighters to offload their pods into deep space and fire them on command. Thousands of missiles flickered to life and roared towards the enemy, a barrage right out of a bad simulation or a worse movie. It might have been his imagination, but the enemy ships had seemed to flinch as the missiles launched. So many missiles meant that some - perhaps many - would get through.

  “They’re recalling their starfighters,” Regal reported.

  “They’ll be using them to take down some of the missiles,” Prince Henry put in.

  John nodded, conc
ealing his irritation. As a former starfighter pilot, he was quite familiar with the tactic. And it would work too, despite the ECM drones and other tricks crammed into the barrage. The enemy would significantly weaken his punch before it reached its targets. But they couldn't stop it, he told himself firmly. Some of the missiles would definitely get through.

  “Order our starfighters to give chase,” he said. It would put a hell of a lot of strain on his remaining pilots, but there was no time to do anything else. “Don’t give them a chance to adapt.”

  He paused. “And signal all ships,” he added. The missiles were finding their targets now, clumping up as they surged onwards. “The battleline will advance to engage the enemy.”