by Jay Allan
He angled the controls again…then again, changing his vector and velocity wildly, almost randomly, in an effort to shake the enemy weapon.
He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, the stress of battle, tight throughout his body. He’d been in combat many times, but he’d rarely had so much trouble evading an enemy’s missile. The fighter that had launched it had managed to get in close, its velocity higher than his own, adding to the missile’s acceleration.
That’s a good pilot…I hope they’re not all this capable…
He moved the throttle again, hard. He could see the enemy missile closing. It was still on his tail. He looked at the chronometer. Two minutes, thirty seconds. Alliance missiles had less than three minutes of fuel at maximum acceleration, but he realized he had no idea about the Confed weapons. It they were similar, he would escape from its lock. But if the Confeds somehow managed to pack more fuel into their missiles…
A tingling raced through his body, every nerve, every cell alive. He felt the adrenaline flowing through his blood, bringing a rush beyond even that of the stim he’d taken before engaging. His hand angled one way and then the next on the throttle, his mind racing. But nothing he did shook the deadly weapon on his tail, and the warhead continued to close.
Three minutes…and it’s still accelerating…
He’d have escaped an Alliance missile by now. Once the weapon ran out of fuel, its velocity and vector would be set…and all he’d have to do is move out of its path. But the Confed weapon was still coming, matching his every directional change.
He felt the sweat pouring down his neck now, his back, the slick wetness under the skintight pressure suit. He sucked the pressurized air from his mask, hungrily, greedily. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, a drumbeat growing more rapid with each passing second.
His mind filled with recollections, maneuvers and tactics he was taught during his days at the Academy so many years before. And newer memories too, battles he’d fought, tricks he’d invented on the fly, the moves that had saved his life more times than he could easily recount…and had sent twenty-three of his enemies to hell.
He pulled back hard on the throttle, spinning his small craft, drastically changing the angle of his thrust. It was a bold maneuver, but its effect on his overall vector would be slowed by his existing velocity. Still, it was an unexpected move, as random a turn as he could throw at the missile’s AI. The weapon’s guidance system would adjust, there was no question of that. But if he confused it enough, he could gain a few seconds, and seconds would be the difference between life and death.
It was a game…a deadly game about time. If he could outlast the missile’s fuel supply, he would escape. But he was at three minutes, thirty seconds, and the weapon was still blasting at full, still reacting to his every attempt to escape. He glanced down at the screen, looking for other bogies. There was nothing. His flight from the missile had pulled him from the main battle area. That was good news, at least. The missile was enough to worry about. The last thing he needed was another enemy fighter on his tail.
He swung the throttle hard again, spinning the tiny craft in an almost random direction. His eyes were locked on the missile’s icon on the display. It overshot, took perhaps three seconds to match his maneuver. It didn’t seem like much, but he’d just bought himself more time.
Four minutes. Fuck…these missiles have one hell of a range…
He thought of his squadrons, imagining the losses they would suffer facing the superior Confederation weapons. All of their maneuvers and training were based on evading missiles for three minutes. But hitting that mark wouldn’t save them here.
Four minutes, thirty…
The missile was gaining. It wouldn’t be long now. Junus figured he could last another thirty seconds, maybe forty-five. If the missile’s fuel lasted longer than that, he was a dead man. He’d imagined this moment before, many times. But now he realized he’d never really thought about it, never believed the day would come. His pilot’s bravado had always been there, but now he felt it slipping away, pouring off like water from a melting block of ice.
Five minutes…
The missile was right on his tail, barely five hundred kilometers back.
His hand was sweatsoaked, slipping around on the throttle. He could feel death coming, like a shadow looming over him, blocking the light. He had seconds left to live. He felt an urge to yield, to surrender to the inevitable. But veteran Alliance pilots did not yield. Defiance filled him. He might be defeated, but he would never surrender. He would fight to the last.
He jerked the throttle hard again, a move so abrupt, the force dampeners couldn’t respond quickly enough. Twenty g’s of force slammed into him, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest as one of his ribs snapped from the pressure.
He gasped painfully for oxygen, even the pressurized feed inadequate to force the flow of air into his tortured lungs. And with each rasping, desperate breath, the broken rib hurt like fire. But it didn’t matter. In a few seconds it would all be over.
Wait…
His eyes snapped down to the display. The missile hadn’t matched his last maneuver. It was continuing on its previous course.
Out of fuel!
He released the throttle, and the thrust vanished, the crushing pressure replaced by the relief of free fall. He breathed hard, deep, ignoring the agony in his chest.
He was in pain, his heart still pounding. But he was alive. And there was a battle raging. His people needed him. His eyes were focused on the display, and he gasped softly. Two-thirds of the enemy force had engaged, and a massive dogfight was underway. He was shocked at what he saw. His people were hard-pressed, ten fighters already destroyed. It looked like the enemy had suffered similar casualties, but that parity came to him as a terrible shock. He’d expected the Confeds to be better than the intelligence reports made them out to be, but even his most pessimistic projections had assumed a considerable advantage to his squadrons in losses inflicted versus losses sustained. He couldn’t afford a bloody stalemate…his force had to defeat the enemy fighters, especially since two more of his squadrons were fitted for anti-ship attacks, waiting. They would be sitting ducks if the interceptors failed to turn back the enemy.
But things were even worse than that. A third of the enemy force had moved off, and now they were maneuvering around his flank.
“Stupid fool,” he spat to himself. “You move too far forward and get yourself in trouble…then you take your eyes off the battle.” He flipped on his com unit. “Darkwind leader, this is Force Leader. Deploy your squadron to the right of the formation, intercept enemy forces moving against the flank.”
“Force Leader, this is Darkwind Leader. Acknowledged. We’re on our way. Out.”
Junus stared down at the display. The fight was raging, and his people were hard pressed in multiple areas. The fighters on both sides were moving at very low velocities, which allowed rapid course changes, placing an emphasis on pilot skill. That should have given Junus’s people the edge, but his eyes were telling him otherwise. It was a true dogfight, with both forces locked together, fighters slashing in and out of enemy formations, firing their missiles and then diving in for attack runs with lasers.
Junus had seen many battles, but he’d never encountered an enemy as effective as the Confeds were proving to be. Their fighters were better, faster, and he suspected longer-ranged as well. He’d discovered the superiority of their missiles firsthand. Alliance forces weren’t supposed to allow technical differences to interfere their tactics or their pursuit of victory. They were a warrior race, and no enemy gadgets could overcome their invincible fury. So went the mantra.
But these Confed pilots are good…
He stopped short of thinking, “as good as we are.” That would be a hard thing for an Alliance officer to accept, almost a sacrilege. But there was no arguing that his force had lost more birds than the enemy so far.
Except in the center…
The
Confeds were pressing forward against his forces everywhere…everywhere except in the center of their formation. Their fighters there had suffered badly, and the survivors were being forced back.
That is the place to press. Darkwind will secure the flank. But the enemy center is the route to victory.
He pulled the throttle to the side, bringing his fighter around, facing toward the very midpoint of the battle. Then he took a deep breath, and he pulled back hard, feeling the g-forces slam into him as his engines fired at full power. There was pain, his chest felt on fire, but he ignored it. He’d seen the route to victory, and there was no place for anything else. Not now.
* * *
Olya “Lynx” Federov sat in the cockpit of her fighter. The Lightning-class attack craft that formed the mainstay of the Confederation’s fighter corps were sleek and powerful. The pilots of the fleet almost universally loved the design, save for one factor. The cockpits were too small, too cramped. But Federov didn’t care. She was slight in build, barely forty-five kilograms, and not much taller than a meter and a half. Her body was lithe, flexible. She’d wanted to be a dancer when she was younger, until she’d seen a squadron of fighters putting on a show on the vid. Flight had captured her imagination that day, and her life became a relentless pursuit of a slot at the Academy, one which saw success three days after her nineteenth birthday, when she received her billet in the following year’s class.
That had been almost twelve years earlier, and Federov had long since given up her cadet’s circlets, first for an ensign’s insignia and then for lieutenant’s bars. She’d served six years as a second lieutenant, and then she’d gotten her promotion to first grade…and the command of a squadron on Dauntless, arriving on the same shuttle as the battleship’s new commander. She and Captain Barron had spent the trip in conversation, and by the time they had docked, Federov hoped she had given the famous officer reason for confidence in his new squadron leader. She was certain she’d developed that trust herself in Dauntless’s captain. Tyler Barron wasn’t boastful, but there was something about the simple, calm confidence he exuded that created almost instant trust.
Federov was a dedicated officer on her own account, but she felt an added burden on Dauntless, the need to never let Captain Barron down. And since the probes around Santis and its moons started banging away with their active scanners, her instincts were on fire. There was more here than orbiting sensors. She was sure of that.
“Red nine and Red ten…begin your orbit and report.”
“Red leader, this is Red nine. We are approaching the planet. We should enter in…” There was a pause, one that made Federov’s stomach twist into a tight knot. “Red leader, we’re getting other contacts. It looks like some kind of satellites…wait, we’re getting an energy spike…”
“Get out of there, Red nine. Now!”
“More laser buoys, Red leader. We’re…” His voice was replaced by static.
“Red nine, report.”
Damn.
“Red nine…report.”
“Red ten here, Leader. The laser buoys have opened fire on us. They got Red nine, Lieutenant.”
Federov felt her hands balling into fists. “Get out of there, Red ten. Now.” She wasn’t going to lose another pilot, not needlessly. The laser buoys were primarily anti-ship weapons, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t target fighters, at least at very short range. As Red nine had just proven.
“Yes, Leader. I’m on my way.”
“How the hell did we not detect those farther out?”
“I don’t know, Leader. They’re fuzzy on my display…they must have some kind of stealth capability.”
Federov toggled her com unit, switching to the squadron-wide frequency. “Red two, Red three…Red six, Red seven, exert extreme caution. We have found active laser buoys in orbit around Santis.” She had no idea if there were more weapons orbiting the moons, but she was gaining respect for whoever they were facing in this struggle. She’d pretty much assumed it was the Alliance, just as almost everyone else had, though she knew little about that mysterious power. The fuzzy information she had suggested an almost totally militarized society. That was bad enough, but now she was thinking about the officer in charge, about the series of traps they had encountered. She had great confidence in Captain Barron…but now she was also beginning to wonder if he was facing his equal in this contest.
“Red leader, this is Red two. Active mode probes confirmed around moon number one.” A pause. “Detecting energy readings now.” Another second, perhaps two, passed. “Laser buoys confirmed, Lieutenant. Executing evasive maneuvers now.”
Federov shook her head. The planet and a moon. Both moons, she realized. She hadn’t gotten the report yet, but she had no doubt there were weapons in orbit around both Lyra and Assul.
She flipped the com again. “Red leader to Dauntless. Red leader to Dauntless. I need to speak with Captain Barron immediately.” She was half a million kilometers from the mother ship. It took nearly two seconds for her signal to reach Dauntless, and as long for any reply to travel back to her. It wasn’t a long time, not by any reasonable measure, but sitting in her cockpit staring out at Santis, it seemed like forever.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Federov could tell as soon as she heard Barron’s voice that something else was going on.
“Sir, we’ve encountered laser buoys in orbit around Santis and both moons. Also, a string of probes in all three locations running active scans. Request permission to engage and destroy.”
“Negative, Lieutenant. Leave the buoys for now. All other squadrons are currently engaged with enemy fighters. Return to base at once to refuel and rearm.” A short pause. “And hurry.”
Federov felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Here she was with her people, out scouting when the rest of Dauntless’s fighters were in battle.
“Yes, Captain. At once.” She flipped back to the main frequency. “Attention, Red squadron. We have been ordered to abort the current mission and return to base as quickly as possible. Form up on me in thirty seconds, and prepare for maximum thrust.”
She reached out to her console, flipping a row of switches, sending maximum power to her engines. She looked down at symbols the on the display, watching her fighters maneuvering into formation. Her eyes froze for a moment, fixed on the empty spot. Red nine’s position.
No time for that now…
She waited, watching the numbers count down on the chronometer. Ten seconds. Five.
Her hand tightened around the throttle…and then she pulled back, blasting forward at full thrust. Back to Dauntless. Back to join the fight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Interplanetary Space
Between Krillus IV and Krillus V
307 AC
“All right!” Stockton’s finger was still on the firing stud, his lasers blasting away. But the enemy was gone, nothing left but a cloud of expanding plasma. “That’s three!”
Somewhere below the surface, “Raptor” Stockton was as scared as anyone in battle facing the prospect of death. But three kills later, his blood was up, his cockiness and bravado fully in charge. Stockton was the stylized ideal of a fighter pilot, skilled, deadly, relentless…and for all practicality, fearless. But he was also an officer, a squadron commander, and he was responsible for fourteen other pilots.
Twelve, he thought, grim reality forcing its way through his aura of invincibility. Two of his birds were gone. One of the pilots might have had time to eject. Blue four had been crippled before the final shot came in and vaporized the fighter. But Hendricks was dead for sure. Blue seven had strayed too far from his wingman, and he’d gotten in a nasty head to head fight, alone and too far from any support. Hendricks had been a good pilot, and he’d handled his fighter well…his enemy had simply been better. The shot that wrecked his ship had obliterated the cockpit. Stockton doubted his pilot had even had time to realize what was happening. He certainly hadn’t been able to eject.
“Keep up the
pressure, Blues. The Greens are hurting bad. We’ve got to hit these bastards hard in the flank before they wipe out our center.”
Stockton had never seen—never even heard of—a fighter battle as intense and sustained as this one. Typically, squadrons came at each other at high velocities, launching missiles and conducting passing strafing runs at each other before overshooting and decelerating to reform for another run. But Dauntless’s fighters and the enemy were locked in a death struggle, and neither side showed any signs of backing down. Exhausted fuel supplies and dwindling power cells would eventually force one or both sides to withdraw.
Assuming there’s anyone left by then…
“Blue three, Blue four…on me. We’re driving through.” His eyes darted down to the screen, to the cluster of dots sitting motionless behind the main battle area.
“Acknowledged, Lieutenant.”
“With you, Lieutenant.”
Those birds are armed for anti-ship strikes. Have to be…or they would have committed them by now…
“Blue Ten, Eleven, Fourteen…with us. The rest of you, hold off that reserve squadron.”
The enemy had sent a dozen birds against Blue squadron, and they were almost in position. Stockton knew he was being aggressive, even reckless. But if he could get to those anti-ship squadrons…they’d be almost defenseless, cumbersome and loaded down with plasma ordnance intended for Dauntless.
Still, splitting the squadron was a wild gamble. The fighters left behind would be outnumbered two to one by the enemy reserves. And the six ships making a run for the rear enemy squadrons had a long way to go, past a lot of opposing fighters. He was also betting the lives of Green squadron’s survivors. The enemy might react to the danger posed to its anti-ship squadrons, pulling back its forces in the center to chase his own birds. But if they didn’t, the Greens were as good as dead, outnumbered and outclassed, with no help coming. At least none soon enough.