Floating on anti-gravity, Torn Dado nudged the throttle, thrusters gently easing them from light into darkness, the spread of stars greeting them.
“We’re clear,” announced Mac, watching the station retreat in the rear turret camera, “light this candle.”
■ ■ ■
Deep Star’s landing pad dropped away as the Revenge rose above it, the station shrinking below her, a stunning blue and green marble set into a sea of sparkling stars off to her left. Rotating toward Veloria, the Reaper’s silhouette became visible as she lit her engines and accelerated away from the station.
“All gun crews reporting in, Commander, maintaining yellow alert.”
“Very good,” replied Brian. “Helm, follow Mr. Dado down toward the surface,” he commanded, tabbing through status screens. “Is our visitor secure and comfortable?”
“Aye, Sir.”
Raulya rotated in her seat, “Commander, the Reaper is inquiring on a course of action if we encounter a patrol.”
“We want to avoid contact if at all possible, but he knows the stakes… Tell Tornado to do whatever he has to do - I am convinced these are not Velorian pilots…” Brian rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, “If we are to completely believe Ms. Sans; Ragnaar commandeered her ship from Resurrection Station and without revealing why or where they were headed, brought her here and left to head to the surface… And she is so enamored with him, she decided to wait aboard her ship on the Deep Star for his return.”
“Sounds like Ragnaar was pouring on the charm,” joked Raulya, looking back over her shoulder.
“Psh,” he snorted, “guys with dogs always get the girls…”
■ ■ ■
Cheriska listened carefully, her comm mic open, “Is he snoring?” she asked quietly.
“Sounds like it,” whispered Jack.
“Can’t believe he’s so claustrophobic,” commented Sam.
“Oh, I don’t know,” observed Jack, “I think everybody can feel that panic if the conditions are right. Hasn’t it ever hit you?”
“You learn how to get over that shit real quick sitting in the back of an overcrowded armored transport, sweating your ass off, listening to incoming clatter on the hull like hail, hoping to hell some asshole out there with some shoulder-fired ordnance doesn’t turn you and your guys into soup…”
A spike of fear jumped up Cheriska’s spine, quickening her heartrate, “I think we have a problem people, there’s a patrol coming right up at us…”
“I thought you said this thing was nearly invisible, Cheriska?”
“They are headed at us, but there’s no indication they’ve actually seen us… Yet.”
“Can you alter course? Can you outrun them?”
Cheriska leaned forward ever so slightly, the nose of the Goshawk dropping a couple of degrees to angle under the Velorian Cyclones, “Just a few degrees… No, can’t outrun…” She could feel her pulse in her hands, her face flushing. Long tense moments ticked by, her entire body jangling with adrenalin as they closed at nearly twice her speed. They flashed past above her, only a handful of miles away. She let out a ragged sigh as she released her vice-grip on the flight handles - they hadn’t seen her…
The comm chirp in her helmet made her start, “Unidentified craft, this is Velorian Patrol Five, where are you going? What is your flight plan?”
Cheriska’s breath caught in her throat. Fuuuck. She activated the external transmitter and keyed her mic, “Patrol Five, this is Cheriska Skye, I’m taking parts orders down to a couple of the ranchers and farmers for their equipment…”
“Do you have clearance for this particular run?”
Cheriska felt a flash of anger, “Clearance from who, exactly? You people closed the ASP to traffic, remember? And if these parts don’t get delivered, they can’t farm crops and you guys don’t eat. I assume you like to eat…?”
“Be sure to stay out of designated ASP airspace, Cheriska Skye, or you will be shot down. Patrol Five, clear.”
“Hmm,” she grunted, turning off the external transmitter, “I had no plans to, but now I might have to take a peek, just to see what you people are doing down there…”
■ ■ ■
“ARC system on.” Ensign Torn Dado flipped the switch and as the Reaper visually dissolved, he broke right on a thirty-five-degree angle to swing wide on the incoming patrol flight that was vectoring in on him. “All weapons hot.” He backed off the throttle dropping their emissions signature.
“Weapons hot,” confirmed Draza Mac. “Solid data link to mama - they see what we see.”
“Copy that.”
“We’ve got another intercept, Skipper; two birds, port side horizontal at two-hundred-sixty-degrees, low vertical at two-hundred-thirty-degrees…”
“Got ‘em. They’re going to be about five minutes too late for their friends,” he flicked the safety off his gun trigger, watching the pipper track the lead Cyclone, the turret following his eyes. “Open broadcast,” he announced, switching channels and keying his mic. “Velorian Cyclones, this is UFW Reaper One, your actions are hostile, break off or I will shoot you down.”
His comm pipped in his ear nearly instantly, “This is restricted space, Reaper. The UFW is not welcome here. Go back to the station…”
“We’re locked! He’s got us locked!” chattered Mac, “Decoys ready!”
“Pop only on a launch, Mac…” Torn Dado put the Reaper in a slide, “He’s using his ordnance to see us, he doesn’t know how to use his sensors properly – he might as well be blind. Launch on a wide oblique angle with an activation delay…”
“Copy,” Draza Mac quickly set the program parameters for the decoys, which would make them appear, where the Reaper wasn’t. “Missile launch! Missile launch! Deploying decoy…”
Torn Dado could feel the vibration of the decoy gear leaving the launch port in the fuselage, the rack mechanically reloading another in its place. He leaned the Reaper over, pulling on the flight stick, sweeping away from the decoy, reducing the throttle as he rolled back, curling in toward the closest Cyclone, the gunsight pipper crossing the target. A quick squeeze on the trigger, the chain feed of the Gauss Guns clacking nine-inch hardened steel spikes into the Gauss Coil magnet-fired chambers, white-hot streaks flashing across the darkness.
A bright flash momentarily flickered off the inside of the cockpit as the decoy fired magnetic chaff in the path of the incoming missile, causing detonation.
Torn Dado leaned on the flight stick, breaking off his engagement, “Dammit,” he hissed, “my shots were a mile wide of target…”
“Hold on…” Draza Mac’s fingers danced across his keyboard pulling up another screen, replaying the gun camera footage, simultaneously watching for any other alerts. “Looks like your lead pipper is out of timing with your gun turret…”
“Can you fix it?”
“No can do, it needs to be in a bay... Must be from Lisa’s collision. The turret must have been affected too…”
“What the hellion do I do?”
“Shut off the lead prediction system. Aim manually with the standard gunsight…”
■ ■ ■
“The Reaper has come in contact with a patrol… he is being forced to engage…”
Brian was well aware of Torn Dado’s skills, he only wished he wasn’t flying without a wingman for support, “Go get ‘em Tornado,” he muttered under his breath.
“Commander, sensors detect traffic coming from the Cariloon gate. Course heading; direct to Veloria.”
“Type?”
“She’s big. No ship profile in the database, no identity ping, no registry number. Tii is the only identifier.”
Brian shook his head, “No idea what that’s even supposed to mean. This just keeps getting worse and w…”
“Gate event off the starboard beam!”
“Red alert! Full shields!” Brian punched the only red button on his console, the klaxon sounding ship-wide, the warning lights flashing from yell
ow to red. “Gunners prepare to engage on my order! Identify that target, Lieutenant!” Brian tabbed to the Revenge’s ordnance screen, selecting a Valkyrie ship-to-ship missile…
“Database shows her as a fast cargo ship. Neutral ping, no markings.” The retreating kaleidoscope of colors washed off of her, revealing a pale gray, relatively smooth and featureless, hull. Disrupting those smooth lines, sections of the hull opened, turrets swinging into action, a main turret at the top, rising up and one at the bottom, dropping down out of the hull.
Raulya broadcast an open hail, “Unidentified ship, this is the UFW Revenge…”
Brian’s finger hovered over the Valkyrie’s launch button, keying his comm, “Dammit Lieutenant - identify that target! Gunners prepare to…”
“She’s launching fighters!”
■ ■ ■
The ARC system off, shields up, Torn Dado wrestled with the Reaper’s controls, trying to make the interceptor do something it wasn’t truly designed to do; dogfight. “No offense,” he grunted, throwing her into a corkscrew, crimson streaks passing a wingtip, “but I wish this was a Lancia, or even a Cyclone…”
Mac grit his teeth against the G forces, the Reaper’s gyro working hard to dampen the effect, his suit squeezing him tightly, “You apologizing to me or the ship?” he wheezed, lining up the rear turret's gun pipper.
Torn Dado leaned the Reaper over on edge, curling her in the opposite direction, creating a little distance, “Either - both… Thinking out loud.”
“She does fast best,” offered Mac, squeezing his trigger, the rear turret spitting bright magenta streaks at the pursuing Cyclone, the guns chattering a quick, zunk-zunk-zunk-zunk, the targeting computer registering hits, its shields flaring before it broke off its chase. “We need separation, Skipper. Open her up…”
“Running gets you shot in the back…” grunted Torn Dado.
“Front, side, back - a difference without a distinction. We’re going to be in this four-to-one any minute, Skipper. Then you won’t have the option!”
“When you’re surrounded, you attack…” commented Torn Dado mechanically, flicking his ordnance selection screen, selecting a pair of radar guided missiles. “Turning into the approaching flight,” he narrated, “turret locked to the nose, lead system off…”
“Oh joy; a two-to-one head-on pass,” snarked Mac, “always a winning choice.”
Torn Dado slid the Reaper from side to side, “Sorry Mac, no time to pull over and let you out… Just keep the other two off my ass…”
“This is a gun turret, not a fucking magic wand,” complained Mac. “Missile launch! Popping decoy! Break. Break!”
Torn Dado had the pipper hovering over the nose of lead Cyclone, watching the closing distance, his finger touching the smooth surface of the trigger, his thumb resting on the launch button for the missile locked on the wingman, “Not yet… almost there…”
“Oh hellion! We’ve got two more bogies - coming up fast!” Draza Mac manually pulled his visor down, sealing it, “Six-to-one…” he whispered, squeezing the trigger. “Lovely.”
“Uh-huh…” Torn Dado’s vision seemed ultra-focused, everything razor-sharp, his nerves tingling, the sensor growl steady and the double diamond target box pulsing, the word shoot underneath it, hot magenta streaks passing the cockpit over his right wing, his thumb mashing the launch button, “Fox Three. Fox Three away!” The long-range missile was flung free of the rack which deployed and retracted back into the hull in less than two seconds, a white streak quickly disappearing, becoming no more than a bright dot. Pressing the trigger as he rolled to the left, the chain feed of the Gauss Guns clacking steadily, producing a wide sweep of fire across the path of the lead cyclone. Not waiting for confirmed results, the Ensign grit his teeth and hammered the throttle, cutting away at nearly ninety degrees.
Draza Mac was busy tracking and firing at the two trailing Cyclones who were taking turns making gun runs on the tail of the Reaper, crimson streaks chasing him, criss-crossing, passing him. “Missile launch! Missile launch! GODS, there’s four or five of them! All tracking in our direction!” he grunted. It took all of his strength to control the turret and thumb the launch button under the G forces. “Decoys out…!” he wheezed, his vision narrowing.
■ ■ ■
On the dark side of Veloria, Cheriska dropped the Goshawk out of the high clouds. The pair of Warthog fighters, twenty-thousand-feet below her, in a slow climb off the surface, cast a beefy sensor signature over the open water - a stark difference from her own - the unique makeup of her hull; remarkably energy absorbent. With a small shift in her weight, the Goshawk gently angled away, maintaining her altitude until she determined there was sufficient separation.
“Where are we?” asked Jack, unable to check his MOBIUS in the confines of his pod.
“We’re descending over the Tropic Ocean between Imperia and Capria just off the Caprian coast…” replied Cheriska. Adjusting her position, the Goshawk rolling upside down before the nose dropped toward the surface, the wings folding back as it continued its roll, orienting in a steep dive like a hawk descending on its prey, tail straight out.
The effect was like dropping off the top of a rollercoaster and Steele recognized the familiar feeling, “Whoa, what are we doing?”
“Heading for the deck and the Imperian coastline.”
Eyes closed, Jack let his senses open, reaching out, extending his consciousness trying to touch upon anyone or anything that was familiar, but whether it was a lack of focus or lack of practice, he could reach no further than those already around him.
■ ■ ■
His heartbeat in his ears, Brian Carter’s finger, having hovered for what seemed an eternity, descended toward the Valkyrie’s launch button, adrenalin high, his body on pins and needles.
“Hold fire!” Raulya spun in her seat, “HOLD FIRE! It’s the Perseus!”
■ ■ ■
Torn Dado was weaving the Reaper in a rolling scissors pattern, looking for an opportune gap large enough to split-S and exit. “Fox Three solid - Tango down…”
“Copy. Gaining two new entries in fifteen-seconds. We still have two spikes closing and I’m running out of decoys, Skipper…”
“Keep shooting Mac.”
“Shields are down to thirty percent - drag 'em back to momma, we need cover...”
“Momma's got her own troubles...”
“These are next-gen birds, Skipper, I’m a little under-gunned, I can’t push their shields down far enough to reach through…”
Torn Dado kicked his right rudder pedal, firing maneuvering thrusters, as crimson streaks flashed past the left side of the cockpit. “You need a mercury gatling back there…”
“Sure, I’ll get right on that.”
“If you hit him before I cut inside him, I can take him out…”
Draza Mac mashed the decoy release, “Two spikes imminent - break hard!”
Torn Dado cranked the stick over, kicking the left pedal, pulling hard, shoving the throttle to make the cut, allowing Mac's decoy to distance itself from the Reaper.
A blinding white flash lit the cockpit from behind, a shockwave lifting the tail, making the ship shudder, debris spreading out behind them. Fighting to maintain attitude, he checked his readouts, searching for damage, “Was that a hit? Are we hit?”
“Tango down!”
Torn Dado rolled the Reaper in the opposite direction, “Nice job!”
“Wasn't me - that Cyclone just disappeared!” Draza Mac swept the turret in an arc, spotting a second Cyclone weaving through the debris field, someone, or something, close behind. “Skip, what's a P-57?”
■ ■ ■
Cheriska Skye shifted her body and hands, the Goshawk unfolding its wings, dropping its tail like an airbrake, the instant deceleration felt as a jolt to the passengers in the pods. “Shit...”
“What the hell was that?” snapped Steele.
“We have company...”
“What kind of compan
y?”
“The wrong kind… Liger Dart fighters - three of them, not sure where they came from...”
“Liger Darts?” interrupted Steele. “Those are mercenary fighters…”
“Yeah,” nodded Cheriska, “Mercenaries, FreeRangers, Renegades, Outlaws, Pirates…”
“Friends of yours?”
“None of my friends are trying to kill me…” she retorted, shifting her weight forward, the Goshawk’s wings folding back again, the nose dropping toward the surface of the planet, tail back, falling like an arrow. “Hold on… this might get a little…” she passed through the mercenary formation in a flash, nothing more than a blur, the Liger Darts scattering in surprise. “Tight.” Her little finger flicked a chaff release, a stream of magnetic micro-confetti blooming out behind her, hanging in the atmosphere, attracted to and clinging to anything that passed through it. It would take some time before the mercenaries could clear their sensors of the clutter.
Dropping past the six-thousand-foot Imperian mountain ridge into the valley below, Cheriska flared the wings and tail of the Goshawk, to the dismay of her passengers, levelling off at a mere five-hundred feet above the valley floor, weaving through the landscape, the sky above them lightening as she headed North toward the Imperial city.
The ship’s Twilight System allowed her to see the mountains, the valley and its features in near daylight clarity, the tops of the trees below, passing under her in a smear of color as she allowed the Goshawk to gently sink lower. A sudden flurry of leaves washing over the nose and canopy put an immediate stop to her descent, though her first reaction was one of disbelief - she was still at least a hundred feet above their tallest reach. A repeat occurrence came with an audible addition of something washing across the belly of the Goshawk, prompted her to re-examine her instruments and sensor readouts.
Resurrection Page 48