"Break off attack," Jason called, then signaling over to Sevastopol with an angry gibe about not having suppressed all space based activity.
He swung back towards the still expanding wreckage of the Sabre, and detected two rescue transponders and called in the location.
Seething with barely suppressed rage, Jason lined up on the Tarawa and came in to land.
The flight deck was in near chaos as the ground crews raced to refuel and rearm the incoming ships for another sortie. Pulled off the launch ramp, Jason leaned back in his seat as Sparks ran the ladder up alongside the cockpit. She scrambled up and tossed him a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. Standing up he stretched and then climbed down from his craft and strode over to the ready room. As he came in the pilots looked over at him expectantly.
He took a deep breath.
"Not bad, not bad at all," he finally said, and there was a circle of grins.
He walked over to the mission board and then looked back at the situation map which was projecting a tactical image of the action on the ground. He listened to the situation report as it came in over the commlink and then turned back to the pilots.
"Third section of Blue squadron, scramble back out. Mongol, you're in charge of the section, report in to White Knight on the ground link channel, she'll give you your assignments."
"Thank you, sir!" Mongol grinned and he raced out of the room, followed by three other pilots.
Round Top came in to the room and Jason went up to him and shook his hand.
"Damned fine work, Round Top, another couple of missions and you'll be an ace."
"I was scared to death the whole time," Round Top said sheepishly.
"Good, stay scared, and just keep shooting straight."
Jason turned away, barely noticing the cup of coffee that one of the pilots put in his hand as he punched up the situation board on the holo screen to check on the status of each spacecraft. Three fighters, one recon, and one Sabre fighter/bomber were down for repairs and off the mission list.
Doomsday came into the room and angrily threw his helmet on a chair.
"They're picking up Griffin and his tail gunner right now. The kid sounded badly shaken."
"Hell it took a week to stop the shakes after my first eject," Jason said.
"His co, Jim Conklin, is dead."
Jason nodded, he had assumed that one of the crew was gone.
"That little spoiled jerk screwed it."
Jason said nothing, looking back at the status board. Kevin was on final approach for landing.
Jason walked out of the room and back out on to the flight deck. Tolwyn's fighter was pulled off the flight line and came to a stop. The canopy popped open and an exuberant pilot stood up and climbed out of his ship, joyfully slapping his ground crew chief on the back.
"I got one, I got a Drakhri," Kevin announced, coming towards Jason.
Jason said nothing, looking at Kevin coldly.
"Didn't you hear me, sir? I got a Drakhri."
"First off it was a Sartha, so get your plane recognition straight."
"I'm sorry, sir. I guess I'm just excited."
"That Sabre you were supposed to cover," Jason started, his voice cold.
"That Sartha was coming straight in on us," Kevin interrupted, "I snapped a thousand clicks ahead to meet him and the furball turned and ran back towards the moon's surface. I figured if I didn't nail him right there he'd be back up for more trouble, maybe hit some of the medevac's coming back up. So I went down and got him."
Jason said nothing in reply.
"The Sabre got back all right?" Kevin asked, his voice suddenly nervous.
"You fell for the oldest trick in the book. Lure away the escorts and then jump the bombers. Three Kilrathi sortied as soon as you were clear. They got the ship."
Kevin looked at the deck.
"The crew?"
"Remember Jim Conklin?"
"Yeah."
"Well remember him, he's dead."
"What about Griffin and Tarku?" he whispered, his head lowered.
"Rescue is picking them up."
Kevin stood silent.
"You killed Jim Conklin because you were out after glory. You wanted a kill and you disobeyed my order to stay with the cripple."
"But sir—"
"Don't 'but sir' me," Jason said softly, his voice barely raised, ground crews not twenty feet away not even aware that a major chewing out was in progress.
"I didn't get the order," Kevin said quietly.
"Let me guess, your radio was on the blink."
Kevin nodded.
"I got scorched a bit down on the planet, it was drifting in and out."
"That's bull. That line's been out there since pilots first flew and wanted to ignore an order. So don't hand that crap to me, mister."
Kevin looked at him defiantly.
"I thought I was doing the right thing."
"You're grounded, mister. I'm giving your ship to Nova, her ship got shot up."
"She can't fly worth a damn."
"I don't give a damn if she couldn't fly through the middle of the Ring Nebula with her eyes open. I'd rather have her on my wing than you," Jason snarled, raising his voice for the first time. "You're confined to quarters."
Kevin turned and stalked off, his face pale, and Jason returned to the ready room.
Doomsday came over to Jason's side.
"So what are you going to do with Tolwyn?"
"I grounded him for the duration of this mission."
"Grounded him? That damned spoiled brat should have his wings permanently clipped. We lost a Sabre because of him and a damned promising copilot."
Jason nodded.
He noticed Sparks standing to one side.
"What the hell is it now, Sparks?"
"Sir, Lone Wolf's crew chief just told me that the kid's entire bottom shielding is gone, his durasteel armor down to just twenty millimeters. He was scorching it close."
"And his radio?"
"Blown out, sir."
"Thanks Sparks, and sorry I barked."
"It's all right, sir," and again she flashed her radiant smile and went back to overseeing her crews.
Jason sighed and looked back at Doomsday.
"I think he made a judgement call, and figured that it was best to dump that Kilrathi before he got away. It's just that he guessed wrong. He disobeyed standard operating procedures in leaving a crippled plane. If nothing had happened I'd have chewed him out a little and then sent him on his way. As to the radio? Maybe it did blink out before the Sabre was lost, maybe it didn't, but you know we've all used that excuse when we were out after a kill we just didn't want to get away."
Doomsday chuckled and nodded.
"I think his killer instinct took over," Jason continued. "It's what makes us fighter pilots rather than jockeying some damned transport ship back in the rear, or teaching ground school to a bunch of pimply kids. He's got the killer instinct, and we need more like him. We've just got to break him first, rub that snobby upper crust crap out of his hide, teach him the ropes, and teach him to think with his head, rather than fly like another Maniac."
"What about Conklin?"
"War kills people," Jason said quietly. "It's another letter for me to write. But we got off light for a bunch of amateur kids. I was expecting five times as many casualties."
"I still think that kid is a spoiled brat and a royal pain in the ass."
"Oh, I fully agree," Jason replied, "but someday he just might make a damned fine fighter pilot."
"My lord Thrakhath."
He turned his chair to look at the messenger. Something was wrong; it was evident by the young warrior's face. This one could not conceal his emotions, not a good thing for a staff officer. Even in the worst of times he expected absolute calm.
"Go on then."
"We've just received this communication from Imperial Fleet Command."
The messenger placed a sheet of folded paper on Thrakhath's desk, t
he top cover of the sheet bearing the red triangle denoting that the message was top secret.
"Have you read the message?"
"I was the one who transcribed it, sire, as it came through the coding system."
"Now tell me this, Jamuka," Thrakhath said quietly, looking up at the messenger. "Did you walk or run from the communications center?"
"I walked, sire."
"You lie, you are breathing heavily."
The messenger was unable to reply.
"Consider what is now occurring aboard my ship. You are seen running, your expression one of agitation, something is therefore wrong. In your hand is a message bearing a top secret code stamp, and I am willing to venture that you carried it with the code marking face outward because you wanted others to see just how important you were, bearing a secret communication to my office. Am I not right?"
The messenger hesitated.
"Am I not right?" Thrakhath snarled.
"You are right, my lord."
"Fine. Do you now realize what is happening aboard this vessel? Already a rumor is flying that something has gone wrong, that I have received a top secret message and it bears bad news. Before this watch is finished that word will have spread to all two thousand of this crew. Rumors will become fact, speculation of what disaster has befallen our Empire will gain embellishment, morale will decline, fighting efficiency will drop."
He paused for a moment, looking down at the message.
"All because of your agitated, childlike stupidity."
Ashamed, the messenger lowered his head.
"What does the message say?"
"Perhaps you should read it, sire."
"You know its contents. I am willing to venture that the moment you leave my quarters you will be bombarded with requests concerning the contents. You will show your anxiety and, I am willing to venture, will whisper what is written on this scrap of paper to show off your importance, especially to impress some female that you wish to mate with."
"I have never spoken a word of what I transcribe," the messenger said indignantly.
"You don't need to speak; your face reveals it," Thrakhath replied, his voice cold. "Now tell me."
"Sire. A burst transmission was picked up from the planet Vukar Tag. Nine Confederation troop ships attacked the planet, escorted by two light carriers of a new design."
Thrakhath felt a cold chill but revealed nothing, his features set.
"Go on."
"The scum landed on the planet with a full strike force and destroyed the ancestral home of the Emperor's Dowager Mother. A holo image of the attack was transmitted with the message and is attached to the memo."
Thrakhath was silent, looking at the messenger.
"You have disgraced yourself by your agitated demeanor. You are to leave my presence, speak to no one, and retire to your cabin. I think you know the only alternative you now have in order to redeem your honor. Now leave me."
The messenger's eyes grew wide with astonishment and fear at what he had just been commanded to do.
"But sire—"
"You know what you need to do," Thrakhath said coldly.
"But sire, my family, I am the only son…" and his voice trailed away.
"Then don't disgrace the ending of your line by groveling," Thrakhath snapped, turning away as if the messenger no longer existed.
The young messenger attempted to compose his features and he bowed low. Walking slowly he left the room.
Thrakhath took the message and opened it. A small hologram disk was attached to the paper and he inserted it into his computer. The image was blurred, a problem with burst transmission which compressed a large amount of data into one extremely short signal in the hope of thus avoiding detection when the message was sent.
The camera operator, shooting from long distance, focused in on the ancestral home. Thrakhath felt a quick tug of pain, remembering a time so long ago, when he had gone there to visit his great-grandmother, who though already ancient in years was still spry and so full of life. She had taken him hunting in the canyons and there he had made his first kill of an Urgaka flying serpent. He smiled for an instant with the happy memory of her glowing pride in his accomplishment.
At least she was safely back at the Imperial Palace. With the start of the war her son, the Emperor, had insisted that she be moved from what might become a front line area.
He watched the image flickering on the screen. It was obvious what the damned humans were after. It was an assassination attempt, an attempt not on a warrior, but rather a cowardly attack on an old woman. They could have destroyed it all from the air and he studied the strike attack of the enemy fighters and bombers, none of which closed in on the palace. No, they wanted to do this one by hand, to desecrate and to truly make sure she was dead.
The human assault troops went in. He froze the image and enhanced the view of one of the ground assault vehicles. The crossed daggers and skull were clearly emblazoned upon the side. They had sent their best, the First Marine commando. Good troops, even a match for Imperial Guard. So they had sent their best for this defilement and he felt his anger build as he contemplated their foul smelling presence trampling through Imperial property. He unfroze the image and then stopped it again seconds later. He placed a cross hair marker on one of the humans, telling his computer to enhance the image and then cross check it against the human personnel file. Seconds later a small picture snapped on the screen with an intelligence bio briefing underneath. So their best division commander of the human assault marines was there as well. They had definitely sent their elite in, the commander taking personal charge. He unfroze the image letting it play out, watching as the commander stood with hands on hips and then appeared to laugh as the first commandos came back out, carrying their loot. The commander then walked up to the smashed gates of the palace. Prince Thrakhath watched with unbelieving horror as the filthy human relieved himself against the side of the building, the other males laughing, cheering, joining in to do the same.
"Lowborn bastards," the Prince snarled angrily.
They fled the building, most of them carrying loot, sacred family relics, ancient works of art—the filthy bastard scum—piling into their vehicles, pulling back; and then there was the flash of light.
Thrakhath lowered his head for a moment, his heart sick with rage. He struggled for control, wishing to strike out somehow. No, he had to keep control. This was done as an insult, a deliberate attempt at murder and vengeance, this was no longer war.
He looked down again at the report. Nine transports and two carriers. The report did not specify. A modification of the Concordia design perhaps? No, there would have been more air support. Smaller carriers. He'd need more data, more information before formulating a plan, they'd have to contact the hidden surveillance base and get a close-up sweep of the enemy ships. But this had to be answered. Vukar Tag had to be retaken, the trick was not just to retake it, but also to gain a bloody and fitting revenge for this act of defilement.
He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, reaching inward for calm rational thought to help guide his plan.
There was a knock on the door.
He closed the report and switched off the holo screen.
"Enter."
Another messenger stood in the doorway, features fixed with an appearance of cold detachment.
"Sire."
"What is it?"
"Jamuka was just found in his quarters."
"And?"
"He's cut his own throat. He's dead sire."
"I know."
The messenger looked puzzled and then the detached look returned.
"Bring our ship about, send an order to the entire home fleet to rendezvous at once at the Ujarka Sector."
"I will have detailed orders for the rendezvous within the hour. Also, I want a secured channel opened to the Imperial Palace. I wish to speak at once to my grandfather."
The messenger, never displaying a flicker of emotion, bowed and closed the door.
"Jump initiation sequence is on full automatic and counting at ten, nine…"
Jason looked over at the holo screen in his office as it showed a forward projection from the bow of the Tarawa. The jump hit and the screen took a second to refocus. He felt a sudden tug at his heart as they came into the Niven Sector. He didn't need a computer nav check to tell him he was back in a sector in which he had flown for hundreds of hours. A minute later the marine transport Bangor flashed into the sector several dozen clicks behind them and they both set course for the rendezvous point.
A flight of four Rapiers standing sentry at the jump point pulled a perfect fly by, breaking into a diamond pattern and rolling as they shot past Tarawa.
"Only one group of pilots can fly that well," Janice said, coming up to sit by Jason's side to watch the show.
He nodded, saying nothing.
"Any guess as to what's going on?"
Jason looked over at her, tempted to imply that he was in the know, but couldn't.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"Kind of strange. We get diverted to pull a surprise landing. The battle is still being fought and less than twelve hours after the assault they pull their top commando unit out, us along with 'em, and ship us out here, straight to our main battle task force."
"Think O'Brian knows?" Janice asked.
"Doubt it. He seemed in a real stew over it all at staff meeting, that guy is like a Centauri bear with a feather rammed up its snout when he's been kept in the dark for security reasons; acts like it's a personal affront to his dignity."
"There she is," Doomsday said quietly, and nodded back to the holoscreen, having remained silent throughout his comrades' bout of speculation.
Jason sighed as he looked at the screen. Smack in the middle was Wolfhound, sister ship of the long gone Tiger's Claw, and flagship of the Confederation's main task force under the command of Admiral Banbridge. But he paid it scant notice, for off the starboard beam of Wolfhound were two of his old homes—Gettysburg and Concordia. Concordia appeared to have picked up a few more wounds, the blast scorching dead amidships seemed like a recent addition. The ship was like an old slashed-up boxer, covered from one end to the other with scars. It'd been a long time since she had seen dry dock for repairs and a new paint job. In a lot of areas the bare durasteel was exposed to space.
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