“Fighters coming in from Cygnus,” Hudson calmly reported. “Standard attack pattern. Estimated missile launch in thirty seconds.”
“Contact Duval. Tell him we need a second pass to distract the enemy fighters. Felix, get the point-defense guns redirected, but keep watching for the escape pods. We can take a few hits on the hull if we have to. They can't.”
“On it, Commander,” Rojek said, swinging the defense turrets around to intercept the approaching fighters, the wave of projectiles from the mass driver cannons getting dangerously close to the remaining escape pods as the defensive spread of particle beams thinned out. Then, with a loud report, Polaris' main guns opened up, finally able to get a clear shot at the enemy ship ahead, their defense systems forced into life as the two waves of projectiles surged past each other, pounding into the enemy ship.
“Hits, sir!” Rojek reported. “Forward section of Cygnus! I think we've got their long-range sensors, primary heat exchanger. We're making a mess, sir.” He paused, then added, “Canopus has opened fire! Ninety seconds early. I owe their engineer a drink. He's pushed her engines faster than I thought possible.”
“Been a few upgrades in the last couple of decades,” Hudson replied. “Enemy fighters are moving off, sir. Breaking away from their attack pattern.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Have our fighters form up on Squadron Leader Kani. Felix, maintain firing rate.” Turning to Sokolov, he added, “Contact Cygnus, and...”
“They're hailing us, sir,” the technician said. “Patching you through.”
“Cease fire, for God's sake!” a panicked voice said. “We surrender!”
“Do it, Felix,” Curtis replied. “Contact Canopus and have them hold their fire, but maintain a firing solution until further notice.”
“That isn't Commander Guerrero,” Hudson said. “I don't recognize the voice.”
“Specialist Bergman, sir, and I'm alone on the bridge. The senior staff left a few minutes ago, headed down to the hangar deck.”
Nodding, Strickland said, “Getting fighter launches from Cygnus, sir. Six birds, moving to join the main formation. They've timed it well. Our people will struggle to intercept.”
“You've got to, sir!” Bergman yelled. “They're going to destroy Sinaloa Station.”
“Scorched Earth,” Curtis said, grimacing. “If they can't have it, nor can we. There are fifty thousand people on that station, Spaceman. Are you sure about this?”
“The attack projections are still on my screen, Commander. We need medical and rescue teams urgently. Hundreds of casualties...”
“Help is on the way,” Curtis said. “Felix, go grab anyone you can and get over there. Hudson, take over Tactical.” Tapping a control, he said, “Polaris Actual to all ships. Intercept Cygnus fighter formation at all costs.” Looking up at the screen, he added, “If you don't, then Sinaloa Station dies in eight minutes.”
Chapter 23
Kani looked across at his status board, the remaining pilots in his squadron assembling into a formation born of desperation. The trajectory plot lined up with the incoming fighters, ranging in towards Sinaloa Station, but as hard as he worked with his navigation computer, he couldn't conjure a course that would get them to their targets in time. Their missiles were gone, only their shorter-ranged particle cannons remaining, and they wouldn't be enough to do the job.
“Duval to Kani,” an unfamiliar voice said. “You're the crazy bastard who led the attack on the cruisers, right?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Got any great ideas about this one? My watch says that Sinaloa Station goes up in seven minutes, and the leading echelons of my formation can't be there for nine. Unless you've done some real work to those old war birds of yours, you're no better off.”
Kani frowned, then replied, “Forty seconds slow.” He paused, looked across at his panel, and said, “Wait one. I think I'm getting an idea.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“Maybe.” He reached across to his controls, bringing up the structural charts of the fighters, skimming over the rated performance under high stress. Under normal circumstances, his idea would take weeks to prepare, requiring countless simulations and training flights. They had a couple of minutes before it would all be too late. Reaching across to the controls, he found a frequency that could reach all the fighters moving into formation behind him, knowing that every pilot among them was about to have serious doubts about his sanity. Almost as serious as those he himself possessed.
“Grey Leader to all fighters,” he began. “Listen up. We can't catch the enemy fighters before they reach Sinaloa Station unless we can increase the thrust of our fighters way over normal limits, and all of us are short enough on fuel to limit our options.” He paused, then said, “So we're going to have to convert our birds to two-stage rockets. Everyone dock with their wingman, make sure you've got a tight seal, then fire your engines at maximum thrust, transferring fuel from wingman to wing leader. It'll be a short life and a merry one for the engines, and it'll probably knock everyone in both fighters cold, but at least it'll give us a chance. When the wingman runs out of fuel, he detaches, and lets the wing leader finish the burn. Make sure you watch your trajectories. Other than that, I'll see you on the other side.”
“Keller to...”
“That's an order, Pilot,” he replied. “Stand by for docking and fuel transfer.”
“Wing Leader to Fighters,” Duval added. “You heard the Squadron Leader. Red, Green and Yellow Squadrons, prepare for docking. The rest follow up as fast as you can. I want to make sure we have a reserve when all of this goes wrong. Canopus, we're going to need rescue shuttles as soon as you can spare them.”
“Roger that,” Schmidt said. “Happy hunting, people.”
Kani slid across on his thrusters, moving towards Keller rapidly enough to set off a succession of proximity alarms, rolling to match for docking. All fighters could transfer fuel and energy to each other, a safety feature that dated back to the earliest days of space combat, but he'd never heard of two fighters firing their engines while locked together. According to the book, the maneuver was borderline to say the least, but if they didn't make the attempt, they'd drift past the remains of Sinaloa Station in a little under eight minutes. And the cold grave of fifty thousand people. He wasn't going to let that happen. Not on his watch.
“Hard dock,” he said. “Switching flight control over to me.” He paused, checked his screen, then said, “Keller, time to bail out. A shuttle from either Polaris or Canopus will be along presently to pick you up. There's no point both of us taking the risk on this run.”
“Leader, I...”
“That's a direct order, Keller. Get the hell out of here on the double. No protests.” He started throwing controls, disabling safety systems as he began preparations for the ride of his life. Glancing across with satisfaction at the sensor display, he watched his wingman drift clear of the fighter. Kani reached across for the throttle, using his other hand to complete the final stages of the override sequence. There was no doubt about it. This was going to be the ride of his life.
His hand hovered over the controls for a second, hesitation rushing through him. He glanced up at the sensors, watching as the enemy formation moved ahead of him, death for Sinaloa Station and those on board unless he could find a way to stop them. Already, he could see shuttles and escape pods racing away, desperate to find a safe space to hide from the devastation rushing their way. There was no choice. He pushed the levers full forward, and settled back in his couch as the roaring acceleration began.
Immediately, his vision began to blur, heavy weights pushing on his chest, making every breath a battle. His hands clamped down on his controls, but he knew that his computer was the one in the drivers' seat, not him. It was enough of an effort for him to plot his course, to keep his fighter on trajectory. Behind him, Voronova and Montgomery lit
their engines, following seconds later, Montgomery managing an extra burst of speed in a desperate bid to catch up.
The formation from Canopus was more cautious, but half a minute later, eighteen more fighters were racing in their direction, a second wave that would perhaps get a single good shot in before running out of time. A brief explosion flickered across the screen, and he cursed under his breath. He'd known that this maneuver was marginal at best, and one of Duval's pilots had just proven that the hard way.
Five more minutes in the burn, and every second was an agony he struggled to endure. Warning lights flickered across his control panel, his monitor systems warning of the extreme stresses he was placing on his fighter. It would take days to repair the damage he was causing with this maneuver, but the fighter only had to stay in one piece for a little while longer. Once they'd dealt with the formation from Cygnus, his part of the battle would be won.
He struggled to reach a control, bringing up a projection of the enemy formation. Fifteen fighters in all, with twelve more heading in another direction, unpowered. Presumably a large portion of the squadron had balked at the idea of launching an unprovoked attack on a civilian station that was still at least nominally under control. Belatedly, Sinaloa had realized the danger they were facing, the distress channels filled with screaming cries for help, a host of small craft racing in all directions. Not that it would do any good. Any escape pods would be wrecked by the debris cloud that the destruction of the station would create. A shuttle, with a good pilot, might make it to the surface, but after that, there would be nowhere left for them to go.
This system was totally dependent on the resources of Sinaloa Station, the green ribbon of the hydroponic bays wrapped around its hull, the vast carniculture vats in the lower levels. Food for the million inhabitants of this station. If it was destroyed, the other settlements and outposts might live for a few weeks, months at the most, but without a relief effort that would stretch the Federation Fleet to its limits, their fates would be sealed.
He already knew the Fleet wouldn't intervene. This system was being quarantined, its population destroyed as an example to others. One more piece of proof that the Federation was ready to collapse. If a government could only maintain power by the exercise of fear, then it was one step away from revolution.
Three minutes to go. There was no point even trying for any sort of formation, no ability to complete even the most basic maneuver. Just one long burn to hurl him towards his target. Another burst of flame erupted through space to his rear, this time preceded by a small contact on the sensor display racing away at high speed, the pilot able to clear his cockpit in time, now destined to hurtle through space for hours before a rescue shuttle could pick him up.
With an effort, he reached down to the release control, ready to arm the explosive bolts that would detach the second fighter, the fuel he was leeching all but gone. According to his trajectory computer, he'd just managed enough speed for a single, quick pass, but the battle would be over in seconds. Then another long wait for a tanker, trapped in high orbit over Coronado. Assuming they won the battle, of course. Failure would mean capture, then death. He reached with his tongue to the artificial tooth at the back of his mouth. A single thought would kill him, wipe his brain clear of any incriminating engrams. A last resort, perhaps, but a strangely comforting one.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled the release lever, and the second fighter dropped away, the last drops of fuel sending it spiraling away. Almost as he expected, there was an explosion behind him, the stresses on the hull too much for the fighter he had used as a booster stage. A quick glance at the damage monitor confirmed that he was clear of the debris field. Behind him, two more explosions heralded the successful separation of Voronova and Montgomery, moving onto his wings in a clumsy vestige of an attack formation.
The enemy fighters were playing their strike perfectly, keeping low and under the defense satellites until the final second. They'd be wiped out after they completed their strike, but there was nowhere for them to land in any case.
Kani breathed more easily as the acceleration dropped, now running only on a single engine, and he reached across to his thrusters, making careful adjustments to his course. The strike would be a matter of computer control, and he quickly programmed the attack computer for the run, ready to take out as many enemy fighters as possible. He waited for his opponent to break formation, send ships off trajectory to defend the others, but they all held their course, locked in.
He glanced behind him, cursing. Most of Duval's pilots had been too slow, had kept their acceleration lower than he'd dared. Only Duval himself and one other would be on target in time to do any good, and five against fifteen was a fight they couldn't hope to win, even with the best flying they could muster. Grimacing, he reached down to his tactical controls, looking at the enemy formation, trying to find a weak spot. All of them were flying together, keeping their attack run tight. If he'd had missiles, he'd be able to bring down half a dozen of them. With forty seconds to go, they still lazily drifted towards their target, evidently willing to accept the destruction of some of their number in order to press home their attack on the station.
There was something strange about the formation, something that didn't seem to fit. One fighter was low, dropping away, as though the pilot had changed his mind at the final moment. Realization hit Kani like a thunderbolt. Guerrero hadn't been able to convince anyone else to support her. The rest of the fighters were being flown by remote, from her fighter, doing nothing other than matching her move for move. Controlling one fighter was a tough enough challenge for a pilot, but fifteen would be impossible unless the flight profile was kept as simple as possible.
“Grey Leader to all fighters,” he said. “Go for the target I'm highlighting right now on your tactical display. Ignore the rest. Kill that one, and we win. Kani out.” Hoping that the others would obey his orders, knowing that there was no time for debate or argument, he reached for the targeting computer, his fingers dancing across the controls as he frantically altered his attack profile, swinging around to bring his fighter towards his new target.
He had seconds to spare, knew that he couldn't make his attack run perfect, and as he disabled the discriminator on his particle beams, something inside him knew that he was too late. His fighter swung around, missing the target by meters, Guerrero's fighter sailing serenely on. Montgomery was next, wildly diving in, but his burst was off by even more, not even requiring a modest course correction.
Then came Voronova, followed closely by one of Duval's pilots, the two of them swooping past on either side, bursting bolts of death onto the target. A single bolt hit home, catching the outer hull, just too far out to be effective. One shot left. Just Duval, the veteran pilot almost imperceptibly reducing his speed in a bid to catch his prey, giving himself the seconds he needed to make his attack count.
Guerrero died in the exploded ruins of her fighter, and Duval fired his thrusters to spin his ship in a victory roll as he soared past the station. The rest of the enemy formation continued remorselessly on, and for a frantic heartbeat, Kani thought that he might have been wrong, that he might have misjudged the attack. The fourteen remaining fighters moved into weapons range, still homing on Sinaloa, and flew past without incident, their deadly payloads still safe, fuel expended, no longer a threat. Somehow, despite everything, they were on the brink of victory.
Chapter 24
Cordova sprinted down the concourse, rifle in hand, crowds of cheering civilians gathering to celebrate their first taste of freedom in fifty years. This was what she had been fighting for, to liberate the oppressed masses of the Federation, but somehow, the victory felt hollow. She looked at the stains on the floor as she rushed past, where moments ago the bodies of her friends, her comrades, had lain. Deep inside her, as never before, she felt she should have been among them.
This wasn't the first time she'd led friends into battle, seen
them die, but the slaughter at the elevator had been something new. Normally, she specialized in covert infiltration, creeping silently into secure installations for sabotage or intelligence-gathering. Full-scale war was different. Brutally different. And she wasn't sure she knew how to cope with that. There was blood on her hands, and there was no way she could see to wipe them clean.
She could hear the sounds of battle up ahead, the loyalist ColSec forces mobilizing for a last stand somewhere in the lower levels. One more fight before they could truly claim a victory. Voices rattled across the tactical network, hastily issued commands to guide the rebel forces into position, Saxon increasingly deferring to Morgan as the battle raged on.
“Cordova, you read me?” Saxon said.
“I'm here. Where do you want me?”
“Sub-Level Three. Concentration of enemy forces near one of the life support relays. I get the idea they're planning to use it as trade goods. We're going to get there first. Elevator's waiting for you now. I'll met you at Terminus Five. Out.”
Turning to the elevator, Cordova raced inside, ducking around an old woman waving the old banner of the North American Republic, banned for decades, the faded fabric a precious relic that had been hoarded in secret until this day. The doors slammed shut, and she held her rifle at the ready, waiting for them to open again. As the elevator sped down the shaft, she reached across to the wall monitor, bringing up a plan of the area. A T-Junction with a long, uncluttered corridor running all the way to the life support systems. Perfect for an ambush, and with plenty of fragile equipment they didn't dare risk damaging. Not to mention that they were dangerously close to the outer hull.
She reached into her pocket, fumbling for a diamond tranq clip, the razor-sharp bullets the only chance she had of penetrating the riot gear her opponents would be wielding. She couldn't even risk shaped charges, not in this area. As the doors slid open, she took one final glance at the layout, smiling as she spotted her approach path. An airlock, half-way down the corridor, rigged for remote operation. The plan of the last ColSec force probably involved using it to escape.
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