“By what right…,” the older pilot began.
“Shut up, Mitch!” the young pilot said. “At least he's doing something useful! Jack Carter, here, mister, and I'm with you.”
“Call me Win,” Kani replied with a smile. “Anyone else who wants to live through this battle, come onto my vector. I'll arrange new tactical instructions in a minute.” He paused, then said, “I used to do this for a living. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.”
Mitch, chastened, said, “I didn't know we had any actual fighter pilots in the Reserve.”
“Technically, you don't,” he replied. “It's a long story, but I wasn't going to ignore a planetary defense alert when there were fighters sitting on the field.” Reaching down to the navigational computer, he said, “We're going to try something. Anyone here ever done a skip before?” The silence was damning, and he cursed the planetary defense controller who had sent up a collection of barely trained pilots to their deaths. “Engage course change, thirteen degrees down angle. Get it right, and you'll come in behind the rebels and give them a little surprise.”
“Confirm,” one of the pilots said. “My system...”
“The trajectory plotters on these birds are conservative as hell. Trust me, it'll work.”
He looked at the course again, nodding in satisfaction. In around three minutes, they'd realize that they were on a trajectory that would take them safely back to the surface, with no chance of pulling out. The fighters would be stuck out in the middle of nowhere, but these pilots had no business taking part in a firefight. Taking them into battle would be murder, even if he was on their side. One by one, the pilots committed to the new course, all but Carter.
“Angel Three to Win,” Carter said. “What are you up to?”
“They don't belong in a battle. Neither do you. Head home.”
“Repeat question. Why?”
Checking that the other pilots were past the point of no return, Kani flicked on his targeting controls, and said, “I'm an officer in the rebel fleet. Squadron Leader Winston Kani, wing leader of the Starcruiser Polaris.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “I meant what I said when I told you that I didn't think the squadron had any business taking part in a dogfight, especially against odds that high. None of you would have lasted for sixty seconds in a battle.”
There was a pause, and Carter said, “I guess I've missed my window to make it down.” He paused, then said, “I can't let you do this, Squadron Leader.”
Hurling his fighter to the side, Kani replied, “Don't do this, Pilot. I've got ten years in the cockpit and half a dozen kills to my name. I don't want you to be number seven. You've got enough speed to make low orbit. You'll live through this.” He paused, then said, “Damn it, those bastards down there sent you up here to die!”
“No,” he said. “They sent me up here to defend my world from attack.”
Kani brought up the targeting display, throwing controls to lock onto the approaching fighter. Carter knew his stuff, more than a normal shuttle jockey should, but he was faster, sharper, better trained. Still anxious to avoid battle, Kani threw his throttle back, letting Carter take the lead, but the enemy pilot matched his move, spinning in an attempt to draw bead on him. Two dots appeared on the sensor display, missiles racing into the sky.
By the book, Kani should have launched his own missiles to match the incoming warheads, played a defensive game that would have guaranteed his survival. Instead, his hand danced across his firing controls, setting up a series of pinpoint maneuvers that sent his fighter spiraling through the sky, his particle beams lancing out to detonate the missiles as they approached. The first detonated at a safe distance, a brief flash in the sky, but the second dodged his first blast, then his second, then his third, reaching closer and closer as his fighter danced desperately through the sky, trying to find his target. Warning lights flashed on the display, the computer flickering instructions to launch a defensive missile, anything to protect itself and its pilot.
With less than a second to spare, his fourth blast found its target. Kani looked for Carter, now ahead of him, using the advantage of acceleration to control the battle, trying at least to force his opponent out of the sky, to an uncertain landing back on Hyperborea. Kani still wasn't going to waste a missile, but he flicked on his targeting computer again, lining up for a precisely targeted shot. He'd only have a single change, knowing that Carter would be shooting back, but for what he had in mind, he only needed a low-power impact. He squeezed the trigger, nimbly catching the enemy fighter's sensor array.
“Carter, I know you can hear me,” he said. “You're blind. Out of the battle. It was a nice try, but you've had it.” He tapped a control, his thrusters sending him weaving to the side, and added, “I've already altered course. Time to bail out. Someone will pick you up once the fighting is over. You have my word as a Commonwealth officer.” He paused, then added, “It really was damned close. Kani out.”
He looked across at his readouts, frowning at the dire news flooding into his systems. Takeoff from Hyperborea had used far more fuel than he'd have liked, even with the booster assistance, and the brief skirmish with Carter had robbed him of even more. Throwing a control, he watched with satisfaction as a small object tumbled from Carter's fighter, the pilot finally deciding to take the better part of valor and withdraw from the battle.
Switching to long-range sensors, he quickly examined the battlespace, spotted Canopus moving towards an outer moon, a pair of enemy ships behind it attempting to shuffle into an intercept course, and another ship, an auxiliary cruiser, racing for the gravitational threshold with what appeared to be the whole enemy fleet on their tale. Fighters swarmed through the sky like angry hornets, and he finally reached for the communications controls, looking for the rebel combat frequency.
His fingers struggled with the unfamiliar equipment, trying to remember his training in obsolete systems, brief bursts of noise flashing through his cockpit as he danced from one network to another. Shaking his head, he turned back to the scanner, zooming in on the approaching rebel formation, trying to focus on the wing leader's fighter with his comm laser, straightening out his course to give himself an easier shot.
“Squadron Leader Kani to Commander Duval,” he said. “Squadron Leader Kani to Commander Duval. Phil, do you read me?”
“Win?” Duval asked. “What the hell brings you out here? I thought the plan...”
“Never mind the plan,” Kani replied. “You think I'm going to sit down on the deck while there's a firefight going on up here? I'm lower on fuel than I'd like, but I'm on something at least close to your trajectory, and I've got two missiles that say I've got an invite to your party.”
“Not that I'm not trusting, but...”
“Day password is Ortega, command password is Spindle, and mission password is Utility.”
“Voice-print match,” Duval said. “I'll take the help. Swing around to the rear of the formation and take rear guard. If anything catches us by surprise, I'll need you to rally reserves to cover us. Given Admiral Yoshira's reputation, I'd say that's damn near a certainty. What's happening down on the surface?”
“Full-scale revolt. Major Cordova's handling it.”
“How the…” he began. “Never mind. Tell me when this is over. I'm going to make one fast pass of the orbital stations on this side of the planet, then see what the situation is once we're through. I don't want to loiter for long, in case whoever is commanding those fighters decides that we're not playing some sort of elaborate bluff.”
“Roger,” he replied, altering course. “Coming onto your rear. One question. Where the hell is Polaris?”
“Two minutes late and counting. If they don't arrive soon, we're dead.”
Chapter 20
“Where the hell are they?” Mike asked, looking up at the sensor screen, at the empty sector of space where Polaris had been due to arrive with wh
atever force they had gathered together. Turning to the rear, he said, “Walensky, break communications silence. Contact Polaris, and find out when they mean to keep their appointment.”
Moving to his side, Petrova said, “We might have to think about pulling out of the system. The odds aren't getting better. From her current position, Castro can reach the threshold.”
“Sure, but we'd have to leave their fighters behind. Probably some of ours as well. Even if we could make contact with them without coming under attack, we'd never be able to get six squadrons on board. And what about the rebels on the surface? You saw the broadcasts. Ten thousand people are marching the streets, demanding freedom. Right now the authorities are holding back. You think the Federation won't make an example of them if we leave? They'd bomb every labor camp from orbit, just to be sure.” Shaking his head, he replied, “We're committed. We've just got to find a way to beat the odds.” Turning to the left, he asked, “Any good news for me, Lieutenant?”
Schmidt looked up from her panel, and replied, “A little. The two ships up ahead aren't going to be able to catch us quickly. Too slow to start accelerating. Meaning they're only going to have a single pass.” She glanced across, smiled, and said, “And now the leading auxiliary cruisers in the man formation are tailing off. Making for the defense platforms.”
“Good,” Mike replied, nodding in approval. “Tell Commander Duval that they're now his primary target, but that he's to shoot to disable, not to kill, and hold back as much ordnance as possible.” Looking up at the screen, he continued, “That'll almost certainly get those fighters off our tail. We're not going to be a threat to their precious facilities for a while.”
“Two minutes to the moon, sir,” Kenyon said, her attention totally focused on the helm. “Not too late to change our lowest approach, Commander. We're at eight hundred and ten meters now.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Maintain course. Just make sure we don't slam into a mountain. We've got up-to-date topographical charts of the surface. Use them.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied with an understandable sigh. Mike could sympathize. He was asking her to perform a nearly impossible task, to complete a regulation-smashing close approach with a planetary-scale body while coming under attack from enemy ships, and attempting to use the gravity swing to put them on a precisely calculated course. He'd never have been able to pull of a turn like that himself, but Kenyon was one of the best helmsmen in the Fleet. Rebel and Federation. If anyone could do it, she could.
“No contact from Polaris, sir,” the communications technician said. “I have Major Cordova for you, though, from a surface station.”
“What the hell are you using to pick up messages, Spaceman? An Ouija board?” Hammond asked. “It's got to be a Federation trick.”
“Administrator Petrov is with her, sir, and I've verified his identity,” the technician protested. “I don't think this is a deception, Commander. I'm picking up gunfire in the background.”
“Put her on,” Mike said. Tapping a control, he began, “This is Canopus Actual. To whom am I speaking.”
“Major Cordova, and if you want details on how I came back from the dead, you'll have to ask Saxon when she arrives. We've been tracking your progress on our long-range sensors, and we've got enough power to feed in telemetry data.” A low rumble came from the background, an explosion somewhere in the distance. “There's fighting all through the city. Right now we're holed up in the broadcasting station, but we're in no immediate danger. I think you're the ones taking the risks upstairs.” She paused, then added, “Everything we're hearing down here suggests that Hyperborea is ours if you can win the battle in orbit. Most of ColSec has switched sides.”
“That's good news, Major. Hold the fort down there.” Mike paused, then asked, “In case things don't work out, do you have any way of getting off the surface?”
“Not a chance, Commander. Not to worry, though. Dying didn't hurt that much the first time. Maybe I can get used to it. Good luck. Hyperborea out.”
“Sixty seconds to closest approach,” Kenyon reported. “Getting more details about the enemy ships now, sir. Looks like the Starcruiser Sirius and the Auxiliary Cruiser Hoxha. They're on the move, but much too slowly to do any good.” Glancing across at a panel, she added, “Forty-five seconds to firing, Commander.”
Nodding, Mike replied, “Keep it tight, Lieutenant. And don't wait for any orders from me. Do what you have to do to make this maneuver work.”
“Understood, sir,” she said.
“Preparing full offensive/defensive barrage,” Schmidt replied. “Odd, sir. They haven't launched any of their fighters yet. They should have four squadrons between them, and we don't have anything much that can stop them.” Looking at her readouts, she continued, “And the initial fighter screen is hanging back.”
“Yoshida-san's being cautious,” Mike mused. “He knows we have reinforcements coming, but he isn't completely sure where. This way, no matter where Polaris enters the system, he's covered. Fighters in one direction, cruisers in another, and either can form a second wave if needed.” Looking back at the sensor display, he said, “Anything?”
“Not sure,” the technician reported. “Wait one.”
“I can't, Spaceman!” he replied. “Even if it is just your best guess, give it to me.”
“There's increasing levels of instability, Commander, but it doesn't match anything I've seen before in the Federation Fleet.” Turning to him, she added, “And big, sir. Too big for a single ship. This may be additional reinforcements for Admiral Yoshida's forces.”
“Five Starcruisers and three Auxiliaries aren't enough?” Petrova replied. “Not to mention the one Polaris brought down on her first visit.” She snapped her fingers, and said, “The damage they did! Three squadrons out of the fight! I'd bet that they had to raid them from their reserves. If the battle had gone as he wanted, they might have evaded contact.” Turning to him, she said, “That means two things, sir. That he doesn't have the support back home that he'd like, and that he doesn't trust Sirius. I recommend concentrating all offensive fire on Hoxha.”
“Do it, Schmidt,” Mike replied with a nod. “And see if you can signal Sirius. Who's her commanding officer?”
“According to the records, Meg Bishop,” Schmidt said. “I used to serve with her. By-the-book, old school. Lots of time on the frontier, decent combat experience.” She looked up, and added, “I agree with Lieutenant Petrova. She'd be at the heart of the formation if Admiral Yoshida trusted her.”
“Twenty seconds to closest approach,” Kenyon said, as the crimson moon rose towards them, Canopus swooping down to its jagged, crumbled surface, skimming through the vestigial traces of atmosphere as it raced into the flyby. Rocks flashed past as she made second-by-second adjustments, guiding the ship smoothly over the landscape, swinging from side to side to dodge obstructions and evade the expected attack.
“Energy spike from the enemy ships!” Schmidt said. “Hoxha's going for our hull, Sirius for our drive units.” From overhead, the familiar pounding of the defensive turrets burst into life as they flashed through the battlespace, waves of fire ripping from Canopus to form a particle shield above them, blocking the kinetic projectiles before they could make an impact.
“Sirius is trying to cripple us, not kill us,” Petrova said. “Interesting.”
“I guess Meg's not in a bloodthirsty mood today,” Mike replied, watching as the fire patterns on the screen danced back and forth, sweeping in and out as the rival gun crews worked to strike their foes, pulses of flame rippling through space as the desperate battle raged. Then, as suddenly as the firefight had begun, it ended, Canopus soaring around the far side of the moon on the predicted intercept course with the cruiser squadron ahead. Behind them, Sirius and Hoxha raced to chase them down, but they'd left their move too late. For the present, Canopus was safe. Though given their ultimate destination, that safety
would be all too brief.
“Good work, Lieutenant,” Mike said, rising to his feet. “Time to intercept?”
“Eight minutes, nine seconds, sir,” Kenyon said.
“What's the status on that interference?”
“Nothing new, sir,” Schmidt reported. “It could be a sensor ghost. There's a lot of jamming going on in the deep system, and there's been a lot of warp activity in the area lately, capital ships moving about. Sometimes it can create an ongoing ripple effect.” Turning to Mike, she said, “We can't count on that being anything we can use, Commander.”
“Agreed,” he said with a sigh, reaching for a control. “All decks, this is the Commander. In about eight minutes, we will be engaging a far superior force.” He looked up at the sensor display, watching as the enemy fighter squadrons broke into independent formations, half a hundred of them heading his way. “Four Starcruisers to our one. We've done everything we can do to reduce the odds, and we've taken them about as far as we can go.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “In my judgment, the odds of Canopus living through this attack are remote. With that in mind, all non-essential personnel are to proceed to the hangar deck and evacuate the ship at once. I repeat. All non-essential personnel are to evacuate. If you depart within five minutes, you'll be able to make it down to Hyperborea without risk of intercept.”
Looking around the bridge, he continued, “I have every expectation that our reinforcements will be here soon, and that we will do sufficient damage to the enemy forces to allow Polaris to win a victory, but I do not believe that Canopus will be here to see it. All of you have performed magnificently, beyond anything that I had any right to ask you, but this ship's journeys are over. No heroics, people. All those not on the Red List, get going with my thanks, and my blessing. That is all.” Flicking a switch, he added, “That includes Amber and Green rated bridge personnel, people. Lieutenant Hammond, you will proceed to hangar deck and assume command of the survivors. Liaise with Commander Duval to watch your back in case of enemy attack.”
Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword Page 14