“Looks like we’re going to be late to the party,” said Joker.
“A fighter pilot is never late,” said Guano. “Nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she means to.”
The three of them laughed.
“That’s my joke,” said Flatline, sounding vaguely offended. “It’s meant to be about gunners.”
Guano adjusted the gain on her targeting radar, locking up Skunk-1. The front of it opened up, and like some kind of beast, it began belching fighters out into space. “Tally,” she called, “bandits, one o’clock low. We got fighters.”
“Guns check,” said Roadie. “Everyone clear your throats. Might as well aim it at that skunk.”
She dipped her nose, aligning her ship to the alien cap ship, and gently squeezed the trigger on her guns, sending a short burst out into space. “All good here,” she said.
Roadie fired too. Then Joker. They were ready.
“Ready to get our ace?” said Flatline.
“Always,” said Guano, her voice pitching up in excitement. “Let’s frag these bastards!”
“Light up those contacts with your long-range missiles,” said Roadie. “Mark your targets and knock ‘em down.”
She did so, tapping buttons on her console with one hand and flying with the other. She selected one, two, three, four of the closest alien fighters and, with as many presses of her button, fired off all of her long-range missiles. “Fox three,” she called, like a mantra. “Fox three, fox three, fox three…”
Four little streams flew out, splitting off as their targets tried to evade. The missiles disappeared inside the swarm, detonating against things she couldn’t possibly see.
The ship’s computer would tell her if they were kills, but she knew—she just knew—that she’d gotten two more, and become an Ace.
Flatline exalted behind her. “Nailed ‘em,” he shouted. “Great shooting!”
It was, too. Her missiles were perfectly timed, as close together as possible so as to confuse any defenses they might have, but far enough apart that they wouldn’t strike each other. She drank in the feeling, the rush, the energy flowing through her. No fears. No worries. Only a desire to get in close to those fighters and blast them to atoms. It was like electricity.
And then, just as quickly as it arrived, the feeling vanished, being replaced with something else. A strange calm. Like a trance, a tranquil embrace that washed over her, dissolving all her fears, uncertainties, and doubts.
She stared at the massive innumerable rush of incoming fighters that threatened to wash over the three of them like a tidal wave, and she felt nothing but calm.
“Ready to close to heat-seeker range,” she said, her voice strangely airy. “Let’s get in there.”
“All craft, break and engage,” said Roadie, pitching his nose up.
She pitched her ship down, then up again, splitting to attack from below. With no more long-range missiles, she switched to heat-seekers, and then to guns. Way, way out of effective range, she gently squeezed the trigger.
“Guns, guns, guns.”
“Whoa!” shouted Flatline. “Hey, Guano, relax—we’re way too far away for those rounds to…” The rounds splashed into the alien swarm, little tiny flashes, pinpricks of light at that distance, as they raked a streak of fire across all of them. “…hit.”
Flatline twisted in his seat, looking around at her. “Holy hell, that was a nice shot! I think you nailed, like, four of them!”
Not enough to kill all the ones she hit, but several of them broke away from the fight, belching smoke and debris, so that was something. She tilted her ship up, rolled over, and spun as the alien horde descended. Guano pushed her left foot on the rudder, tilting her ship, narrowly avoiding a red stream of fire that streaked past their cockpit by meters.
It was like listening to Celtic music while being stoned. So smooth, so easy, everything a gentle motion, everything a deliberate action, her decisions planned out six moves in advance. A total lack of adrenaline. She’d felt more excited idly watching baseball games at home.
“You okay?” shouted Flatline, swinging his turret around and firing a stream of rounds at a pair of fighters, the rounds flying wide.
“Totally fine,” she said, keeping the ship steady so Flatline could shoot.
Another burst from him shattered one of the fighters into a billion tiny pieces, and the other one—damaged by one of Guano’s earlier bursts—broke in half. Flatline gave each half a half-second burst, then Guano swung the nose of her ship around, squeezing off a missile without even a proper lock. “Fox two.”
The missile flew about thirty meters, then an alien fighter she hadn’t even seen flew up in front of her nose, perfectly smashing into the missile, destroying it in a huge flash of energy.
Then she saw the main capital ship, the leading ship with its mass driver, moving to the front of the alien fleet, its weapon ready and aimed at the Midway, the ship surrounded by an endless swarm of fighters.
“Shit’s about to get real,” said Flatline.
Guano took a shallow breath and let it out slowly. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Bridge
USS Midway
“Hamilton,” said Mattis, pressing on his earpiece with his finger so hard it hurt. “Ready forward gun batteries. Revere, likewise. On my mark. Three, two, one, mark.”
All three ships fired at once, a barrage of shells that flew out like an angry swarm, impacting against the shield of the nearest light cruiser. Several shells slipped through the shields, splashing against the hull and carving out great chunks of the enemy ship, but it wasn’t enough.
“Repeat,” he said, and the guns spoke again.
“Sir,” said Lynch, “the Spearway and the Able are completing their Z-space translations in three, two, one…” Twin flashes lit up the various monitors on the bridge, bathing the whole room in light that quickly faded. Two new frigates, their guns firing the moment they entered real space. “They’re in the fight.”
Good. It evened the odds a little. Another barrage of enemy fire struck their front; two of the alien light cruisers were moving around them, like the pincers of a giant crab. A much more aggressive stance than they’d previously seen. This time, the aliens were playing for keeps.
“Target the port skunk with our broadside guns,” he said. “Maintain all other weapons fire on skunk alpha. We’re starting to crack that ship’s shield, let’s keep it up. I want that ship burning before we switch targets, but I also don’t want to get flanked.”
“Aye aye, Admiral,” said Commander Pitt. “Let’s frighten away the port ship with some torpedoes. Maybe they’ll know what happened with their friend.”
Good plan. “Make it happen,” said Mattis, settling into his chair, doing his absolute best to project an atmosphere of command. Morale was important. Impressions, a critical part of that.
Helm moved the Midway, shifting it to port, trying to avoid the flank. The ship twisted, aligning its nose to the enemy ship, and fired a pair of torpedoes.
“Torpedoes away,” said Lynch. “Ten seconds till impact.”
More than enough time for the enemy to reposition their shield, but hopefully it would distract them for a little while…
…and it did not.
The alien light cruiser didn’t change its heading at all, continuing to move implacably up beside them, its nose still pointed at the Midway. The torpedoes struck home, blue flashes of light absorbing the blinding detonation of the twin warheads.
“No effect, Admiral.” Commander Pitt folded his hands behind him. “I’m afraid we’re being caught in a pincer.”
Probably the oldest tactic in the book that wasn’t a frontal assault. Attacking from two sides would increase their surface area, making them easier to hit, and the armor was softer there. And all the while they couldn’t effectively bring their torpedoes to bear unless they presented their rear to one, which would make things even worse.
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br /> It wasn’t only the alien ships that had minimal armor toward the rear.
He couldn’t focus entirely on the pincer, though. The battle raged around them. Their strike craft met hostile strike craft, and kill reports started to flow in. The two signals merged, becoming a dogfight in the middle of space.
And then Mattis saw the enemy flagship moving forward, into the gap, toward the front of the fleet, its mass driver loaded and charging.
“Admiral, they’re about to fire,” said Lynch. “They must have pre-charged!”
Of course they would have. They knew they were being pursued, just as the humans knew their course.
“Options,” said Mattis, practically shouting the word. “Can we avoid it?”
“Not at this range,” said Lynch. “But we’re executing an emergency maneuver. We might be able to turn it into a glancing blow, especially if we angle our armor, increase the chance of a deflection.”
That would be enough, hopefully. Midway heaved as she moved, trying, almost pathetically, to avoid the blast—
A white flash. Mattis shielded his eyes instinctively.
But a second later, the flash faded. A ship had dropped out of Z-space, interposing itself between the hostile cap ship and the Midway. Steam poured from its engines, and it looked liked it had been flogged for days, almost to the point of overheating, but its massive bulk obscured their enemy completely.
“This is the HMS Somerset,” came the voice of Captain Salt, its small single cannon spitting shells defiantly at the enemy. “Late, but in earnest! We are engaging the enemy. For King and Country.”
Mattis could hardly imagine the faces of the enemy on the other ship as this massive, squat, ugly transport appeared right in front of them, firing away with their little pop-gun. The event must have shocked them so much they didn’t fire, giving the Midway precious seconds to move out of the way, hidden from view by the bulk of the cargo hauler.
“Captain Salt?” asked Mattis, scarcely believing it. “What the hell? How did you get here?”
“It’s a long story,” said Salt, the sound of wailing alarms in the background of her ship. “In short, the crew and I decided that it would be bad form to miss this engagement, so we took our reactor off containment and pushed the old girl a little harder.”
Without their reactor being contained, she and all of her crew would have already received a lethal dose of radiation poisoning. A dozen full servlets or more, and increasing by the hour. She must have been in agony, throwing up and with uncontrollable shaking, tortured by the knowledge they were walking corpses, but her voice was cool and in control.
Mattis resolved never to doubt English courage. “Very good,” was all he could say. “Maintain effective weapons fire. I think you being so close to their ship is spooking them.”
“Confirmed,” said Salt, hiding a faint cough. “Weapons, maintain fire, target their mass driver!”
A searing yellow light stole his attention. The Spearway took a hit to its port side, and flames burst from the hull. He could do nothing to help them. The ship continued to return fire, but several of its guns were now silent. Able moved in closer to her sister ship, guns spitting fire, but that ship, too, bled atmosphere through several holes in her hull.
The frigates were hurting. The Alexander Hamilton and the Paul Revere had been largely spared so far, presumably because of their proximity to the Midway, but that protection would only last so long.
Waves of red fire came in from both sides as the two light cruisers continued their bombardments, their flanking maneuver complete. Mattis had to ignore them for now. “Frigates, fire another barrage against the primary skunk. All guns. Let’s crack this egg so we can break the pincer.”
Another heavy volley of fire came out, focused on the very front of the light cruiser directly in front of them. The fire overwhelmed the shields, and a stream of rounds found their way inside, igniting fires within the ship and blasting its insides, leaving a scorched hole, unshielded and vulnerable.
“Torpedoes away,” said Lynch, and this time the missiles flew true, spearing into the ship one after the other, burrowing in deep before bursting, blinding flashes combining into one, and when it cleared, the ship was no more.
“Target destroyed,” said Commander Pitt. But they had no time to celebrate. Red streaks tapped a staccato beat on both sides of their hull.
“Sir,” said Lynch, pointing at his monitor. “We have a problem.”
“Go,” said Mattis. As though they didn’t already have enough.
“The alien cap ship,” said Lynch, “it’s charging up again!”
“To fire on the Somerset?” asked Mattis, guessing the likely target.
“No, sir,” said Lynch, his voice trailing off, eyes fixed on the display. “They’re turning toward Ganymede.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird
16 kilometers from the USS Midway
She was one with the universe. Or something. Or maybe she was having a stroke. But whatever was happening to her, Guano almost felt time slow down around her, the whirling storm of fighters seeming to be a fairly predictable cloud, drifting along. She aligned one with her guns and, with barely a breath on the fire button, blew it to shreds.
“Nice shooting,” said Flatline, his rear gun chattering away as he swung his quad barrels from side to side, “real nice!”
“Seems like I’m getting the hang of this,” she said, spinning the craft inverted and pulling the stick gently back into her stomach. The Warbird looped, coming back around, and she neatly dodged the debris of her previous kill. Almost. A piece struck the outer edge of her port wing, bouncing off with an audible ting.
Well, not even her weird battle trance was perfect.
The alien cap ship was there, its mass driver radiating energy. It was aiming at some ship she didn’t recognize, except by its type. Standard Royal Navy cargo ship, Mark VIII. York class. What the hell was that doing there?
It was right in front of the enemy cap ship. Physically blocking its mass-driver launch port, as though it might sacrifice itself to protect the Midway. Brave, but that was only one shot.
Then the cap ship began to turn, and she knew, suddenly and without error, what its target was.
Guano opened the throttle, racing toward the massive sphere that was Jupiter, the acceleration crushing her into her seat. “Flatline,” she said, her voice weirdly calm, “the enemy capital ship is preparing to fire on Ganymede. We have to get closer to it. We gotta ignore these fighters and plug that bastard in the engines, just like we did with the other ship.”
“Are you crazy?” asked Flatline, but there was an edge of rhetoricalness to it. “No, it’s okay. I know you are. Just…” He whined loudly. “Don’t get me shot again, okay? I hate getting shot!”
She raced toward the cap ship, her craft’s exhaust trailing a silver line across space, an arrow heading straight toward their biggest, and most heavily defended, enemy. As the massive ship turned its rear toward them, she fingered the trigger on her guns, but knew that—at that extreme range—it would take minutes for the shells to arrive. Pointless, even with her newfound zen. Without radar-guided missiles, there wasn’t anything she could do at that range.
Heat seekers? Not enough range. The rocket motors would burn out before they got close and, if her ship continued to accelerate as it did, she would actually overtake them—possibly risking being struck by her own missiles. Semi-active radar-guided? Too weak. Could never hurt a cap ship.
Calmly, methodically, she worked through all the plans in her head and came up with nothing.
All she could do was watch despairingly, her hand gripping the throttle, as the cap ship fired toward the surface of Ganymede.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Bridge
USS Midway
The aliens were turning to attack Ganymede. He couldn’t let them do that.
“Lynch,” said Mattis, a sudden decision made. �
��On my authority, position the ship between the hostile cap ship and Ganymede.”
His helpless face told him it was a pointless decision. “We can’t, sir. Our sublight engines will never get us there fast enough, and our Z-drive isn’t powered. It’ll take too long to charge.”
Dammit. Dammit. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn…
“Admiral,” said Salt over the line, “we have an idea. The Somerset is in ideal ramming position. We’re slow, sir, but we’re heavy. We can throw ourselves at them.”
He could scarcely imagine the courage that would require. Conditions aboard that ship would have to be wretched. Hot, irradiated, reeking of puke and coolant. Half her crew would have been fried by now, or more, even with the most powerful anti-radiation meds.
Maybe, in this case, it was a mercy.
“Do what you need to,” said Mattis through gritted teeth. “And get your ass to an escape pod. You’ve done enough.”
“Ships this old don’t have an autopilot,” she said, stifling another wracking, pained, wet cough.
“The inertia will be enough,” he said. “Just set a course and go. That’s an order.”
“Sorry, Admiral,” said Salt, over the perfectly clear connection. “You’re breaking up. Missed that last part…”
“Sir,” said Lynch. “An alternative. The Somerset could possibly maneuver itself and block the shot to Ganymede. But it would require precision piloting, up to the last second, and…nobody would be getting off that ship.”
“Then no,” said Mattis, snapping at him. The injustice of it appalled him. Salt may already be dead, but her bravery, her loyalty, was admirable. She shouldn’t die like that. “Not unless there’s an evacuation plan for the crew.”
Lynch’s answer was, then, silence.
He’d made his choice. There was nothing more he could do for Ganymede. Nothing anyone could do.
Mattis fixed his eyes on his monitor as the alien ship fired.
The Last War: Book 1 of The Last War Series Page 19