Dauntless (Blood on the Stars Book 6)

by Jay Allan

  He waited for the signal to travel to the flagship and back. He’d been moving away from the main fleet, and Temeraire was getting close to the one light minute limit Bourbonne had placed on him.

  He glanced around the bridge. His people had come to trust him, he was sure of that. But he wondered how many of them were thinking their captain was crazy. The patterns in the dust clouds were slight…but they were consistent. He might have written off his earlier suspicions if he hadn’t confirmed them again and again, at least minimally…and right on a course toward the pulsar.

  “Captain Turenne, we are about to fight the largest and most significant battle of the war. I indulged your suspicions, but you have found nothing but more displaced dust. I repeat now what I said earlier. There are many potential causes for that, all far likelier than some invisible Confederation warship.”

  Turenne sighed softly. Bourbonne’s tone left little room for argument. Still, he had to try.

  “Admiral, if you will not dispatch additional ships now, at least allow Temeraire to close and try to obtain better scanning data.”

  He turned toward Maramont’s station, putting his hand over the comm as he waited for his signal to reach the flagship and return with Bourbonne’s answer. “Plot an intercept course based on our most recent readings and projections, Commander.”

  He could see Maramont hesitating. Executing that course would be a violation of Bourbonne’s orders…unless Turenne could somehow convince the skeptical admiral to change his mind. “Yes, sir,” the officer finally replied nervously.

  “Negative, Captain.” Bourbonne’s voice blared through the bridge speakers. Turenne was regretting that he hadn’t taken the comm privately, on his headset. “You are to return to your position in the battle line, at once. Understood?”

  Turenne sat utterly still for a moment. Then, he turned his head and looked around the bridge. His people were definitely loyal to him, but he was far from certain they would go along with what he’d decided to do. The penalties for insubordination in the Union were severe, and a crew that followed a rogue captain would be punished almost as severely as their rogue leader.

  He paused, the words he planned to utter stuck for an instant on his lips. Then: “I’m sorry, Admiral. Your transmission was garbled. Please retransmit. Pending further instruction, we are proceeding on an intercept course toward contact A-0.”

  He cut the line.

  The bridge was silent, not a sound save for the distant hum of the engines. He could feel the eyes of the crew boring into him, hear each of their nearly silent breaths. He’d spoken impulsively to the admiral, and now, for a moment, he almost regretted it. But he knew there was something out there. Something dangerous. He was doing his duty, even though his disobedience to orders. It was the right thing to do, he decided…though none of that would matter if the crew didn’t stand with him.

  There was only one way to find out. “Is that intercept course ready, Commander?” He spoke calmly, as evenly as he could manage through the turmoil in his head.

  There was a pause, long, torturous. Turenne sat in his chair, waiting for his first officer to order the guards to arrest him. But nothing happened. Finally, Maramont said, “Course laid in, Captain.” He turned and looked toward the command chair, and he gave Turenne one sharp nod.

  “Very well, Commander,” Turenne said, trying not to let the relief he felt show in his tone. “Execute.”

  “Yes, sir. Intercept course…executing.”

  Turenne sat in his chair, wincing slightly as the blast of acceleration hit, and then exhaling as the dampeners absorbed most of the force. The bridge was still quiet, none of the normal chatter between officers. But then, gradually, Turenne could almost feel them all turning back to their workstations, the near silence slowly giving way to the normal sounds of fingers on keyboards and the like.

  “Captain, we’re receiving a transmission from the flagship, sir.”

  Turenne felt his insides freeze. It was hardly unexpected, but he still didn’t know what he was going to say. And then, he didn’t have to.

  “I’m afraid it’s garbled, sir. Must be some radioactives in these dust clouds interfering with the comm. I’ll instruct them to retransmit.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Turenne turned toward his first officer and nodded, a silent acknowledgement of his loyalty…and a sincere thanks.

  He turned back toward the small screen at his station. Temeraire was blasting at nearly full thrust, on a vector that was his best guess at in intercept for…whatever it was he was tracking. Time wasn’t on his side, especially not now. Bourbonne had to be livid…and Gaston Villieneuve was with the fleet as well.

  Bourbonne wouldn’t take insubordination lightly. Turenne knew the admiral was likely to lock him away for twenty years. Union prisons were not pleasant places, and the chance of surviving a hitch that long was something like one in three. But Gaston Villieneuve wouldn’t waste time with court martials and prison terms. As likely or not, if he got involved, he’d just have Turenne thrown out the airlock with no ceremony at all.

  * * *

  “Squadron leaders, you’ve all got your assignments. Screening forces are to tie up their birds, keep them off the asses of the bombing groups. Blue squadron, Scarlet Eagles, you’re with me. We’re going right in with the bombers, and we’re going to keep any strays from interfering with the attack run.” Stockton had his hands on his fighter’s controls as his eyes panned over his screens, checking the large formation behind him. He had one hundred-six fighters, including his own, a number that still didn’t quite compute. Dauntless had been built to carry up to sixty, and she’d managed as many as seventy-six when she’d taken aboard strays after the Battle of Arcturon, but he still didn’t know how Chief Evans and Commander Fritz had crammed so many birds into Dauntless’s crowded bays.

  Not only fit, but launched. The whole operation had taken somewhat longer than usual, and there had been some confusion among the squadrons, but all things considered, things had gone surprisingly well, and he was at the head of the largest strike force ever launched by a single Confederation battleship.

  More than enough to take out one middling Union ship…

  He listened as the squadron commanders acknowledged, frowning as Grachus’s voice joined the others. He still wasn’t happy to have her in his command, but he’d done all he could to get rid of her, without success, so now there was no choice but to make the best of it. And, he had to admit, as irksome as he found having her part of his wing, she was good…and he suspected her hand-picked squadron was a force to be reckoned with.

  “We all know what we’ve got to do, so let’s get it done.” His eyes were fixed on the symbol on his scanner, the only enemy ship even remotely in range. There were clusters of small dots, scattered around the target vessel now. The Union ship was launching its fighter squadrons in response to the appearance of Dauntless’s birds, and as Stockton stared and counted, he realized his guess on numbers had been spot on. Forty-eight fighters.

  He was still too far out for intensive scanning results, but he was going on the assumption they were all outfitted as interceptors. Dauntless was still hidden, and almost outside of attack range, and the captain of that ship had to be alarmed at the size of the strike force heading his way.

  Stockton had fought countless battles in his years of service to Barron and Dauntless, and most of those had been against long odds, much like this desperate mission to destroy the pulsar. But, for once, his people had the numbers. If he couldn’t take out one Union battleship with over a hundred fighters…

  “Commander Stockton, this is flight control.” It was Stara’s voice, and he knew immediately, something was wrong. The mere fact that she was breaking radio silence would have told him that much, but her tone pushed it over the edge.

  “Dauntless strike force leader here.”

  “Jake, we’re picking up readings from around the pulsar. Fighter launches.” She paused. “They must have some kind of
fighter bases nearby.”

  Damn. Stockton cursed himself for his momentary optimism about numbers. And for carelessness. They’d had shit for intel on this mission. Why hadn’t he anticipated the enemy would have some kind of fighter force positioned around the pulsar?

  “How many?” It was the first question that popped into his mind.

  “Too many, Raptor.” A different voice this time. Timmons. “We’ve got five squadrons confirmed, and it looks like more coming.”

  Every curse word he’d ever heard in all the dive bars in every frontier base in the Confederation flooded into his mind. “We can intercept on the way back from the strike.” Without missiles and low on fuel…

  “Negative, Raptor. They’ll get to you just as you’re engaging. And, we can’t take the chance that they can track Dauntless. You have to split your forces.”

  There goes the advantage in numbers…

  “Roger that, Control.” Stockton slammed his fist against the arm of his seat. He was angry, frustrated, but he knew what he had to do.

  The signal from Dauntless was gone, radio silence clearly resumed. He suspected the ship would make another course change, an attempt to undo any damage the transmission had done to its stealth, and to further confuse any fighter squadrons heading her way. That meant he wouldn’t know where to find her. No doubt, Dauntless would contact him when his people were on the way back, but there was no telling how much extra fuel his squadrons would burn with no reliable return route to base.

  He flipped his comm to the main channel. “Listen up, we’ve got a change of plans. Dauntless picked up enemy fighters near the pulsar.” We were damned fools for not expecting that…the pulsar can protect itself from capital ships, but if fighters got through the outer defense grid…

  “We’re splitting up…” His mind was racing, trying to decide what to do with his squadrons. He knew what he should do, but he just wasn’t sure he could bring himself to give the order.

  Jovi Grachus was the best pilot in the force after him—or maybe, just the best—and her oversized squadron had the cream of the Alliance fighter corps. Anybody but her…

  Olya Federov was the only other choice—but her Reds were outfitted as bombers, and she was leading the strike against the enemy battleship. Damn.

  “Commander Grachus,” he said, using every bit of discipline he possessed to keep the emotion from his voice. “You will take your squadron—and Yellow and Green squadrons—and you will move toward the pulsar and intercept the enemy fighters deployed there.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a touch of surprise evident in her tone, but clearly, she too was trying to keep her emotions under control.

  “Your first priority is to protect Dauntless, Commander. Covering our flank here is number two. If it comes to a choice…”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Go. Yellow and Green leaders, you’re under Commander Grachus’s command.” Each word cut at him like a knife.

  Stockton cut the comm and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long exhale. He felt guilt, the pressure of the loss and anger he felt over Kyle Jamison’s death. But he also knew, without a doubt, that Jamison himself would have told him to do exactly what he’d just done.

  That should have made him feel better, but it didn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  Union Year 217 (313 AC)

  “Yes, Minister Villieneuve, we’re tracking over one hundred Confederation fighters.” Turenne felt like he was going to throw up. He’d spent the past several minutes listening to Gaston Villieneuve, a man who carried a title no less terrifying that the Director of Sector Nine, castigate him for ignoring Bourbonne’s commands. Turenne had stood by his “garbled message” story, but, unsurprisingly, Villieneuve had been having none of it.

  Until the scanners picked up the Confederation fighters. They’d come from nowhere, seemingly. One moment, there were no scanner contacts, nothing save the minor disturbances in the dust concentrations. Then fighters began appearing, one squadron after another, heading right for Temeraire.

  Turenne had waved to Maramont, even as he stood on the comm, Villieneuve’s enraged yells replaced by silence. The first officer understood the silent command, and Temeraire’s scanners were focused on that one area of space, with every watt of power the battleship could put behind them.

  “Scanner data, Captain?” Villieneuve’s anger was gone, replaced by a hard urgency.

  “Scanning now, sir.” Turenne looked across the bridge, but Maramont shook his head. “Nothing yet, Minister Villieneuve.” Turenne looked down at his workstation’s screen. “Bases Rouge and Vert appear to have picked up the Confederation force was well, sir. They are launching fighters now.” The two bases orbited the planet closest to the pulsar’s location. They’d been intended as a last-ditch defense against any remnants of a desperate enemy fighter assault that penetrated the battle line. But now they were reacting to an unexpected—and far closer—threat.

  Turenne tried to ignore the sweat pouring down his back in rivulets as he waited for his message to reach the flagship and for Villieneuve’s response to return. The tension had faded slightly, at least the direct fear of Villieneuve. He’d been about thirty seconds, he suspected, from seeing whether Maramont would have obeyed an order to shoot him and take command, but the appearance of Confed fighters not only validated his earlier concerns, they represented a far greater urgency than disciplining a single officer.

  “The fighter bases are under your command from this moment forward, Captain Turenne. I am sending additional battleships to your location, but until they arrive you are responsible for the defense of the pulsar. Whatever the Confeds have out there, you are to find and destroy it. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Turenne didn’t know what else to say. He’d been trying to find the Confeds for hours, and the sudden appearance of the fighter squadrons was the first real verification he’d had that he wasn’t chasing his own imagination. “I will…” He almost said, ‘do my best,’ but he caught himself, and he said, “…find whatever is out here, sir.”

  He stared out at the display. His own fighters were finishing their launch operations. He’d felt a burst of near-panic when he saw how many enemy ships were coming at Temeraire, but then he saw the Confed forces split into two groups. The fighters from the stations. Of course. The squadrons Vert and Rouge launched would reach Temeraire about the same time as the enemy strike force.

  He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath and trying to focus. Temeraire had a better chance of surviving the incoming assault now that half the enemy’s strength had been diverted. Still, it would be a nasty fight. He had no idea who these fighters were or how they’d gotten there, but his gut told him they were the Confederation’s best…and that meant even the reduced force coming in was a grave threat.

  “Alert Status One, Commander. Battle stations.

  * * *

  “All right, Blues…Eagles, with me. We’re going to open up the way for the bombers to get through.” Stockton felt at home in the cockpit, going into battle once again. But there was still something there, bothering him. He hated Jovi Grachus, and yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. For all he blamed her for Kyle Jamison’s death, he couldn’t help but see how much like his lost friend she was. And, to the extent he could allow himself to see it, how similar she was to him in some ways as well.

  He struggled to bring his focus back to his own cockpit. His strike force had a much tougher fight on its hands now that he’d detached half his numbers…and two-thirds of his interceptors. Blue and Scarlet Eagle squadrons were Dauntless’s best, the top outfits in the whole fleet—and he’d have words with anyone who challenged him on that—but he knew neither one was what it once had been. Among the Blues lost in Dauntless’s many battles were Corinne “Talon” Steele and Rick “Typhoon” Turner, two of the best pilots he’d ever known, and comrades he’d been proud to call friends.
The Eagles had suffered no less than their Blue counterparts, and the loss of “Warrior” Timmons to a desk job in launch control had cut the head and the heart out of the squadron.

  “The bombers are right behind us, so you know what that means. Any interceptors that get past us are going to slam right into them. We need that strike force to get through unscathed. We’ve got to take down this enemy battleship.” His people knew everything he was telling them, but he did it anyway. Then, he turned away from the comm and gripped his ship’s controls.

  The lead wave of enemy interceptors was just entering range. They were too far for lasers still, but a well-placed missile could score a hit. Still, he held back. He only had two of the heavy weapons, and he was determined to take down an enemy fighter with each…and that meant closing.

  He could see some of the Union fighters had already launched their long-range ordnance. The Union fighter corps was vastly inferior to its Confederation counterpart, but something didn’t look quite right. The ships heading toward him were in a tight formation. They looked almost like Confederation squadrons. They maneuvered sharply, and they were coming on at full acceleration. He knew just what they planned to do. They’d do one pass with his interceptors, and then they would streak past, right into the bomber squadrons.

  “They’re looking to whip past us,” he said into the comm. It was a bold maneuver, one that would leave the Union fighters at a disadvantage…but only for a short time. The whole thing was something Stockton might have done in their situation, but not at all the kind of daring move he expected from Union squadrons. “Decelerate hard…we’re going to take them at as close to a dead stop as we can, and then we’re going to spin around and blast at full after them.” The Union ships would have a big momentum advantage once they cleared the killing zone Stockton’s fighters would set up for them, but the Blues and Eagles would be coming from behind, picking up some extra time to fire into the dead zones of the Union ships.