by M S Murdock
OOOOO
In Salvation III’s docking bay, twenty-two Kraits waited. Silent, patient, ready for whatever their humans planned, they had no doubts. Their computers told them their capabilities. They knew to the last decimal point what speed was their maximum effort, the ratio of maneuverability to that speed, and the effectiveness of their weapons.
Theirs was the ultimate confidence of the unknowing logical mind divorced from the reality of human error. Malfunction was not within their vocabulary. They did not know what it, was to break down. They were children in their supreme confidence. Eighteen of the craft waited for the morrow serenely, in peaceful ignorance of the enormity of the task they faced.
Chapter 22
Buck Rogers sent his ship toward the menacing bulk of Hauberk like a shooting star. His spirits were high, and it showed in the verve with which his ship moved. Behind him came the rest of the flight, six other ships following their leader like well-behaved chicks trailing a mother hen. To starboard and fifty kilometers back from the last of his flight came the rest of the wing, six ships led by Washington.
“Close up, Eagle Leader,” said Buck.
“Roger, Rebel One.” Washington’s flight was moving before he finished speaking.
“Hauberk in sensor range. Estimated time of arrival, one minute.” Hauberk blinked ominously on Buck’s scanner, but it was an impersonal threat. The structure Buck saw in the distance, all bright angles and dramatic shadows, made a more personal statement. It was a mangled collage of shapes, following no orderly design, for Hauberk had grown over centuries to its present monolithic size. Inside the jumble of random shapes were the computers that held Earth in chains.
As the ships drew nearer, the station filled their ports, then overwhelmed the ships. It no longer was possible to see more than one or two walls of the thing, decorated with the markings of the RAM subsidiaries that had contributed to their construction.
“Coming up on shields in point five,” said Buck. “Meet you on the other side.”
“Affirmative, Rebel One.” Washington’s flight broke from the formation, arcing around the station in the opposite direction.
“Strike ten,” said Buck, and the ships following him altered their positions so they flew in a diamond of four, with Buck the leader, over the two remaining ships, inside the diamond. It was one of several formations the pilots had rehearsed furiously for the past few days.
“Here we are,” said Buck. “Prepare to fire.” The formation turned, flying parallel to the station, the two tandem vessels in the middle targeting Hauberk’s shields. “Commence firing.”
The two ships sent pulsing laser charges into Hauberk’s shields in a trajectory to the rear of their flight path. It was well they did, for the lasers hit the shields with a splatter of broken energy before the shields swallowed them. “Strike five,” said Buck, and the two ships moved to the outside of the formation. Two ships on the sides of the wedge dropped down to the tandem spot, and the previous vessels took their places on the outside.
“On target, Rebel One,” said Wright. “Damage report, zero.”
“Let’s hit her again,” said Buck, and the flight turned and began a second run.
OOOOO
“Sir! We’re being fired upon!”
“What?” The incredulity in Seaforian’s voice was not feigned. “Firing on Hauberk?”
“Yes, sir.” Hauptman’s round face was aghast. “According to visuals, they’ve started a second run, and they’ve got good ships, too.”
“Good ships?” Seaforian’s voice was hard with sudden interest. “What kind of good ships?”
“Some small fighter I’ve never seen before. They’re fast, immune to radar, and their lasers are draining pockets in the shield-nothing we can’t handle, but that kind of firepower isn’t usual in a fighter.”
Seaforian glared at Hauptman. The man quailed before his look, even though there was considerable distance and a computer linkage between control and Seaforian’s quarters. “Let’s see them,” said Seaforian. “On the big screen. Then I want you to get computer readings on them.”
The sight of Buck’s flight strafing Hauberk’s shields met Seaforian’s eyes as Hauptman replied, “I have already done that, sir. The ships do not match any of our vessels. They seem to be RAM design.”
Seaforian narrowed his eyes as he watched the ships descend on his territory like birds of prey. He knew what they were, and the knowledge made his Martian blood simmer. Before him flew Warhead’s experimental design, the ships destined for his own fighter wing and now turned against him by thieves. He was not worried about their ability to damage the station-nothing could do that-but the affront to his pride was unbearable. “Hauptman, scramble the wing. I want it launched in one minute. Call the four patrol ships in, once the wing launches, and refuel them. I want those ships blasted out of space. Run a communications channel to me. I want contact with the wing.”
“Yes, sir!” Hauptman reached to the top of his control panel and pulled a lever unused in the station’s history, except for drills. As the lever locked down, the lights went red, and the battle station’s klaxon blared through the corridors.
RAM pilots hit the hallway running, some not entirely dressed. They burst into the docking area and stumbled over flight technicians trying to clear cable away from the ships. The last line was barely retracted when the launch lock rumbled and began to open. A RAM pilot fired his engines, and the rumble made the dock vibrate. One by one his comrades followed suit. A spurt of their thrusters lifted the ships from the deck, and the vibration ceased.
“Let’s go!” said the flight leader, and the wing began the speed launch it had practiced so often. This time it was for real.
OOOOO
Buck finished his second run at Hauberk’s shields as Washington and his flight careened around the station. The two groups joined and became a wedge, with Buck at its apex. “How’d it go, Eagle Leader?” asked Buck.
“Unconfirmed. Target contacted, no opposition.”
“Did you see any signs of activity?”
“Affirmative, Rebel One.” Washington chuckled. “Two RAM fighters flipped their wings at us, but they were inside the shields and couldn’t fire without damaging their own protection.” Washington hesitated. “My scanners show bandits, one o’clock low.”
“I see them, Eagle Leader. They’re still inside the shields. Let’s shake ’em up!”
Buck sent his ship down, the wedge close on his tail, and made a run at the fighters. They were massed inside the shields, three blood-red lines. Their cylindrical shapes reminded Buck of bullets, and the old-fashioned pistol strapped to his thigh was suddenly heavy. With its shields fully operational; Hauberk could not use its artillery, nor could its fighters make contact. Buck sent a blast from his lasers into the shields in front of the RAM ships. His wing followed suit, but as the last ship fired, away, something happened.
“Eagle Leader, this is Eagle Ten. My lasers just punched through. I say again, my lasers just punched through.”
“Hear that, Rebel One?” asked Washington, and his voice was light.
“We’ve got ’em!” called Buck. “Strike six!”
The wedge formation split again, half of the ships following Buck and half following Washington. “Here they come!” said Washington as the RAM fighters shot toward them.
The station had opened a window, dropping the shields long enough for the ships to get through. Rickenbacker’s shot had given NEO enough warning to meet the fighters head-on, instead of starting the conflict with RAM on its tail.
Buck touched the channel controls on his communications system, opening up another line. “Come and get us'” he said.
“With pleasure.” The voice at the other end of the link belonged to Hauberk flight leader Briggs, a man who had spent most of his career on milk runs like Hauberk, and who welcomed some real action. He responded quickly-too quickly-to Buck’s challenge. The first line of RAM fighters ran straight at
Buck’s wedge, intending to overfly and strafe it.
Buck saw them coming and yelled, “Dive! Rear shields on full.”
The NEO ships hit thrusters and went straight down. The ships’ sterns made considerably smaller targets, but a gyro shell would still find them. As the RAM fighters came on, their lasers flashing, Buck realized their commander was overconfident. “You must be NEO,” said Briggs.
“The first thing you do is turn tail.”
“We’re NEO, all right,” said Buck as the lasers drove into the shields. They were absorbed, but he knew the shields were draining. “Eagles One and Two,” he said, “on my order, go to strike three--now!”
Two of the NEO ships powered straight down, then swung back up in a tight arc. Two of the RAM ships started to follow them.
“No!” said Briggs. “They’re trying to break us up,”
“You’ve got it,” said Wright-Eagle One-as he sent his lasers into the shields of the nearest RAM ship. The pulse was concentrated, a full-strength dose of the Krait’s guns.
“I’m burning!” cried the pilot. “Get him off!”
Buck smiled. He now had confirmation Hauberk’s fighters had inferior shielding.
“Hold on, Thirty-one,” said Briggs. “Forty-three, hit him.”
A RAM fighter pulled out of formation and headed for Wright, who still was pounding away at Thirty-one’s shields. Earhart-Eagle Two-dove on the second RAM fighter, sending her lasers directly into his forward viewport. The ship’s shields absorbed the energy, but not without damage.
“I’m blind!” said the pilot as the white light seared the shields over his vision.
“Pull up!” ordered Briggs, sending his pilot directly into Earhart’s path.
She evaded his drive, then turned as three of the RAM fighters targeted her. Her shields felt the impact of their lasers as she pulled away. Wright still had his guns trained on the RAM fighter, but he was under heavy attack from the rest of the wing.
“My wing, strike three-now!” said Buck, and his flight split and arced back to help their companions. The fight now was one-on-one, RAM’s lines broken into fragmented units. Buck hoped this would put the odds on NEO’s side, for its pilots were used to working alone. Initiative was their biggest asset, while RAM’s superbly trained wing knew only blind obedience to a higher source.
OOOOO
Seaforian watched the battle from the comfort of his quarters. He knew Hauberk’s fighters were outdated compared to the experimental craft they were facing, but he banked on superior training and strategy to end the conflict quickly. It was clear that his hopes were not to be.
He reached a lean hand over to his terminal keyboard and activated the communications link Hauptman had patched into his quarters. “Briggs!” he said.
Briggs nearly jumped out of his craft at the sound of Seaforian’s voice, but he managed to reply as he shot under one of the NEO ships. “Yes, sir.”
“I want those ships. I don’t care what it takes. Either destroy or capture them. All of them.”
“I copy, sir,” Briggs answered as a NEO ship sent a laser charge into his rear shields. He answered with a cloud of chaff, and the next shot fragmented.
“It might interest you to know,” said Seaforian, “the ships you are facing were intended for your use. They were stolen by these upstarts. Are you going to, let NEO rabble best you with your own weapons?”
“I hadn’t planned on it, sir,” answered Briggs as he evaded Earhart’s strafing run. “But I’m running out of defenses. Those things are hot.”
“I don’t want to hear excuses,” said Seaforian. “I want results. Get them!”
“Good luck!” said Buck, diving on Briggs and interrupting the conversation.
“Who was that?” asked Seaforian sharply.
“NEO commander,” replied Briggs through Clenched teeth.
“Upstart‘.” said Seaforian.
“You bet,” responded Buck.
Chapter 23
Eagles Eight and Nine, break off . . . now!” Wilma Deering’s voice crackled over the communications link, sending Yaeger and Nungesser on a scorching run past Earth’s outer atmosphere. The probabilities of detection were good, but it no longer mattered. She and the remaining three pilots would be in and out before anything but a freak shot could catch them. Besides, the Krait was a faster ship than anything RAM had, with the possible exception of private pleasure craft.
She watched the two ships disappear over the horizon, headed for their target. Her own was coming up over her port bow. “Close up, Eagle Seven,” she told her wingman, Bishop. “We make contact in point three.”
“I see it, Rebel Two,” responded Bishop, pushing his ship closer to hers.
“I’ll hit it with the forward lasers. According to the schematics, it doesn’t have shields worth mentioning, just enough to deflect small meteorites. If our intelligence is wrong, and I don’t take it out, back me up.”
“Affirmative, Colonel.”
The two ships adjusted their course, aiming for a pinpoint of white light. It was a satellite the size of a beach ball. Its silver metallic surface was studded with antennae, like a dandelion gone to seed. Wilma activated her forward lasers, targeting the sphere. The computer locked on to its coordinates as Bishop’s voice echoed in her ear.
“Bandits, Colonel, twelve o’clock low.”
Wilma kept her eyes on the targeting computer, waiting for it to tell her she was within range of the satellite. “Hang on, Bishop,” she said. “I’ve almost got it.”
The ships below were a flight of three Terrine dragonflies. They couldn’t take the altitude Wilma and Bishop were maintaining, but their gyro launchers were not daunted by distance.
“They’re targeting us, Rebel Two. The only thing they’ve got that can reach us is a gyro shell.”
Wilma was within strike range. She punched the lasers, and the deadly pulses of energy shot toward the satellite. For a moment she thought the shields were going to hold, but as Wilma pulled up, the satellite exploded. “Gyro shells on target, Colonel.” Bishop’s voice penetrated her elation. “Let’s outrun them, Eagle Seven.”
“Can we?”
“No time like the present to find out,” she replied as a shell programmed for her ship closed on its tail. “Let’s see what the little lady will do.” She rammed the throttle home, and the Krait shot forward like a startled thoroughbred.
Bishop followed, sticking to his position at Wilma’s side. The gyro shells also altered their course, their mini-targeting computers nosing out the two fleeing fighters.
“Chaff launched,” said Bishop.
A cloud of golden dust bloomed in their wake. The gyro shells flew straight into it. One shell lurched, then fell away, but its sibling continued on.
“One’s still with us,” said Bishop.
“Let’s see which of us it’s after,” said Wilma. She sent her ship away from Bishop, one eye on her scanners. The gyro shell plugged forward, doggedly pursuing her wingman. “It seems to like you, Bishop.”
“I’d just as soon it didn’t follow me home.”
“I copy,” replied Wilma.
She fell in behind the shell, sighted it through the computer, and fired. The shell exploded harmlessly, and she heard Bishop let his breath out. “Take it easy,” she said. “It never would have caught us.”
“I’m not so sure. Besides, that was only a Terrine shell. A fighter’s gyros are something else again.”
“Granted,” said Wilma. She checked her timer.
“We’ve got forty minutes to rendezvous.”
“ETA for Eagles Eight and Nine?”
“Approximately fifteen minutes. We’ll make the intersection point for them in twelve minutes.”
“By the way, Colonel, . . . thanks.”
“My pleasure, Bishop.”
OOOOO
“Supervisor Hauptman!”
Technician Croncane’s panic erupted in his voice. Hauptman made his own tone fl
at to pull the man back on track. “Yes, Croncane?”
“We have lost Orb One!”
“Get it back,” replied Hauptman calmly.
“Sir, you don’t understand. I’ve tried. It’s not responding.”
Hauptman left his station and hunched over Croncane’s bank of viewers. Three of them were black. “What happened?”
“It just died. One moment I had the usual visuals from the other side of Earth, then there was nothing.”
“Run a clear tape through. It may be we’ve built up some transmission residue that’s killing the channel.”
Croncane sent the command through his keyboard, but the three screens remained blank. Hauptman stared at the offending squares of black, trying to think of a reason for the interrupted picture. As he watched, three more screens died.
“That’s Orb Two! Sir, this is exactly what happened before!”
Hauptman shoved Croncane out of his seat and ran quick fingers over the monitor keyboard. The dark screens glared back at him. He coded in auxiliary power, but there was no change. Finally he sat back. “There’s only one conclusion I can draw,” he said slowly.
“Yes, sir?”
“We’ve lost them.”
“Sir?”
“Get me Seaforian.” Hauptman did not want to talk to the station director. Somehow it was easier if he did not set up the link himself.
“Well, Hauptman? I hope this is important,” said Seaforian shortly.
Hauptman could hear the sounds of battle coming through over Seaforian’s patched-in communications link. “I’m afraid it is, sir.”
“Well?”
“Sir, I have to report we’ve lost the satellites."
“The what?”
“Orbs One and Two. The satellites. The ones that cover the other side of the planet.”
“Switch to back-ups.”