Legacy Fleet: Avenger (Kindle Worlds) (The First Swarm War Book 2)

by Chris Pourteau

  No, not Sam Avery, he told himself. Laz shook his head to clear it. “Squadrons, launch! Let’s give those transports some time to load up.”

  “You got it, Boss!” said Ballbreaker. “Red Squadron, form up on me.”

  When the three Swarm carriers had first lit up the edge of the sensor grid, Commodore Wheatley was dining with the captain, Laz, and a handful of Preble’s bridge officers. The conversation ran hot wondering what the hell had happened to Avenger in Sector 519. Why had she gone radio silent? Preble feared the worst.

  And no sooner had he voiced those fears than the three Swarm carriers jumped into Veracruz Sector. As the officers scrambled to get to the Bridge, Wheatley put forward the idea that perhaps they’d just gotten their answer to the question of Avenger’s fate. But Preble had refused to believe that Avery and Avenger were lost.

  Wheatley resisted at first, but Preble quickly convinced him to order Heroic’s evacuation. The outpost was no starbase—it hadn’t nearly the firepower it needed to face a formidable Swarm force. And with only Independence to defend her, Heroic would be in a lot worse shape all too soon. The enemy would slice the outpost and its defenseless transports to ribbons with those emerald lasers of theirs. Had Avenger been with them, maybe they’d have had a chance.

  Laz watched as the Indy’s fighters took to the stars two at a time. With Addie’s orphans needing a home while Invincible’s flight deck underwent repairs, plus the handful of Endeavour’s survivors, they had nearly a hundred and fifty pilots launching to shield the evacuees.

  Not enough but almost twice their regular complement.

  “Where the hell are they?” asked Chopper, Blue Squadron leader. “Why aren’t they raining death down on us yet?”

  A few titters of laughter came over comms. Laz appreciated the gallows humor. The Swarm wasn’t known for its patience. And they’d been spotted at the edge of the system almost half an hour ago. Chopper’s question was a good one. Why hadn’t they attacked yet?

  “Keep your eyes sharp,” warned Laz. “One on sensors, the other on space. They’re sneaky bastards.”

  “Transport Greyhound is away,” came the report over Heroic’s general channel. “Transport Mayberry now docking at—”

  “Turn that crap off!” ordered Laz, sparing a glance below as Greyhound cleared the outpost, red-alert lights bouncing off its hull. It had been one thing to keep tabs on evacuation procedures before the enemy was in range. Now was a different story.

  Too many people, too little time—that was Heroic’s problem. Laz knew the chaos was only beginning to unfold as military personnel and the few civilian contractors ran over each other cramming into those transports. As slow as they were loading evacuees, Laz knew in his gut all of them weren’t going to make it.

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” grumbled Little John from Gold Squadron. His deep baritone resonated through comms. “Multiple contacts, one-one-seven-mark-five.”

  Multiple contacts was the understatement of the decade. Laz’s empty sensor screen suddenly came to life with tiny dots so numerous and close together they seemed to form one big blob of enemy combatants.

  “Here they come!” yelled Captain Obvious.

  “Assman, follow me in,” said Ballbreaker. “Let’s give them someone to shoot at who can shoot back.”

  Ballbreaker and her seven X-23s peeled away from the rest of the group.

  “Chopper, take Blue Squadron up high and fly CAP,” Laz ordered. Flying eight fighters up top to provide high cover against the Swarm was a bit like deploying an umbrella in a hurricane, but they’d have to play the cards they were dealt. “All squadrons, you are cleared to engage.” Where the hell are you, Avery? “Keep your heads, people. We’re buying time here.”

  With our lives, he added silently.

  Laz winced as Ballbreaker’s war cry filled everyone’s headsets. Red Squadron throttled up, leading the rest of the Indy’s pilots into the heart of the Swarm fighters. Blue Squadron climbed high, trying to get above the enemy wave streaking toward them. Laz held position a moment longer assessing the tactical situation, then dove in behind the others.

  “Mustang, take your Invincibles and engage that cluster trying to flank us on the right,” said Laz. With their forty-seven birds, Mustang Havers and the rest of the fighters from Halsey’s ship made up a third of their number.

  “Acknowledged,” said Havers.

  “Gameboy, watch your six,” said Little John. “You’ve got three setting you up—” A bright flash ended the need for a warning. “Goddamn it, people, you can’t fly straight like that, this isn’t a flyby for your family!”

  “Ballbreaker, you’re going too far too fast,” barked Chopper from the CAP.

  The tsunami of enemy fighters was slowing down, at least in the center of their formation. They seemed to be emptying space, allowing the charging IDF pilots forward.

  “Something ain’t right,” said Ballbreaker as she scorched another cumrat. “It’s like they’re opening the front door.”

  She was damned right about that, Laz thought. The Swarm fighters were banking wide into two wings, one left and one right, while those holding the center seemed to be reversing engines. A trap.

  “Keep an eye on your sensors! They’re—all squadrons, break down! Break down! Dive! Dive! Dive!”

  The hundreds of Swarm fighters on the advancing wings swept in an arc toward one another, creating a huge circle in space around the IDF ships. Most of the Indy’s birds followed the order to dive down to escape the tightening enemy encirclement, and comms traffic was jammed with frantic squadron leaders trying to get their pilots out alive.

  “CAG, permission to pull the CAP down,” requested Chopper over the leader channel.

  Laz hesitated. They’d barely engaged and were virtually surrounded. Those transports needed time. And the tiny CAP of Chopper’s squadron was the only reaction force they had in reserve.

  “CAG!”

  “Pull it down!” yelled Laz. “Take some pressure off while we regroup.”

  To his right, flashes of light. Mustang and the other Invincibles were sweeping, diving, looping, firing. Doing all they could to keep the flank secured while their fellow pilots slipped out of the cumrat trap.

  The diving maneuver robbed the Swarm of a quick victory, and now the enemy fighters set aside their grand strategy to pair off with their IDF targets. A hundred and fifty dogfights—ships darting, lasers slicing—lit the frigid darkness of space.

  “CAG, watch your six!” shouted C-O.

  Laz’s ship rocked. He banked hard left and angled down, head swinging from side to side until he found the Swarm fighter lighting up his tail. He leaned forward on the stick and dove his X-23 into a vertical loop that threatened to remind him what he’d had for dinner. A few seconds later, and he was riding up the other side of the loop until he emerged from beneath the Swarm pilot. A pull of the trigger and the enemy was down one more ship.

  “Thanks, C-O,” breathed Laz.

  The comms were getting desperate. Voices calling for help. Pilots screaming, suddenly cut off.

  So much for regrouping.

  By the numbers, every pilot was in a fight for their life against ten Swarm opponents. Laz knew they wouldn’t last long dogfighting against those odds. He had to change the rules of the game. Had to take away the enemy’s advantage of numbers. Or the Swarm fighters would dispense with them and move on to blowing up the transports in no time.

  In the depths of space, just coming into visual range, the enemy carriers prowled forward.

  And then it came to him.

  “Ballbreaker! I want you to lead the whole wing toward that nearest Swarm carrier.”

  “Boss?”

  “You heard me. Get in as close as you can. I want the deck chief picking Swarm shit out of your manifolds. Get in so close you negate their numbers advantage.”

  If they could get in among the carriers, which seemed to have no point defenses other than the fighters themselves, they cou
ld use them as cover. Like weaving in and out of asteroids. Laz sure hoped he was right about their lack of point defenses.…

  “All squadrons, all pilots! I want you to run like hell from those fuckers! Form up by squadron on Red Leader. Use the enemy carriers as cover.” Laz switched to the channel reserved for squadron leaders. “Ballbreaker, you’re the running back. Everybody should be nosing your ass in a race to cuddle up to the lead carrier. Got me?”

  Her enthusiasm for what seemed like a suicide run made his ears hurt. “Come on, stick jockeys, follow me!” she yelled. All over the grid, IDF fighters began shaking loose from their Swarm pursuers to make a beeline for the lead Swarm ship.

  Chapter 17

  Veracruz Sector

  Bridge, ISS Independence

  Noah Preble felt helpless chained to his duty station of protecting the outpost while its personnel stuffed themselves into defenseless tin cans.

  “Comms, plug us in to the CAG’s channel. I want to hear what’s going on out there.”

  “Aye, Captain.” She flipped a switch, and the hum of meta-space briefly filled the Bridge.

  “Ballbreaker, you’re going too far too fast,” barked one of the squadron leaders. Chopper, it sounded like. On-screen, IDF pilots were flying balls-out, straight into the heart of the mass of enemy fighters. A handful against a horde.

  Preble was getting goddamned tired of being outnumbered and outgunned.

  Where the hell was Sam Avery? Not dead, he was sure of it. Not without a transmission … something.

  “Keep an eye on your sensors! They’re—all squadrons, break down! Break down! Dive! Dive! Dive!”

  Scollard sounded scared, and Preble couldn’t blame him. But as he watched the deadly ballet unfold on-screen, something about it wasn’t quite right. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. One thing that was clear, though. Scollard and his people weren’t going to last long out there.

  “Lieutenant, sit-rep. Status of Heroic’s evac?” asked Preble.

  “Transport Greyhound just lifted off, sir. Mayberry is taking on personnel. Saint Christopher is landing on the second pad.”

  “Those pilots are charging into the mouths of the guns,” observed Wheatley, standing behind the captain’s chair. He was a man who could appreciate personal sacrifice. “I wish I was with them.”

  It wasn’t clear if he referred to the pilots fighting for their lives or his own outpost personnel. But coming from Wheatley, it wasn’t false bravado. Preble knew how he felt.

  The three Swarm carriers, still out of visual range, crept forward on the tactical display in the lower right of the viewscreen. Their slow advance struck Preble as odd. Probing forces like this one, like at the Shipyards, seemed awfully subtle for the Swarm. Why were they coming on so slowly? It wasn’t for fear of a few IDF fighter squadrons, that was for damned sure.

  Something about what Wheatley had said tickled the back of Preble’s brain. Charging into the mouths of the guns. Like infantry of old, braving death as the enemy stood their ground and fired cannons loaded with canisters full of metal balls at point-blank range. The canisters made the cannons into giant shotguns that scythed through whole ranks at a time—and still the enemy infantry would walk forward, determined not to break and run.

  That’s how Scollard’s pilots struck him as they hurtled toward the Swarm. Only the enemy fighters weren’t standing in a line—they were pulling back their birds from the middle, funneling themselves around either side of the oncoming IDF formation. The farther the IDF fighters penetrated, the more the Swarm fighters pulled their center back, flowing left and right as Scollard’s people sped forward.

  Like they were making wings around them.

  “CAG, permission to pull the CAP down.” Chopper’s voice again. “CAG!”

  “Pull it down! Take some pressure off while we regroup.”

  The Swarm’s tactics suddenly became clear to Preble. Scollard had ordered his pilots to regroup, but they wouldn’t have a chance. From his vantage point orbiting Heroic, he could see what Laz couldn’t see. The Swarm had extended its fighters around the IDF pilots like the horns of a bull, encircling them right and left. And now they were turning inward, hitting the Indy’s fighters from all sides with a latticework of laser fire.

  The IDF pilots would be massacred.

  Scollard’s voice came over the CAG’s channel again. He was ordering Ballbreaker to lead a charge.

  “I don’t believe it, sir,” gasped the sensors officer. “They’re actually flying toward the carriers!”

  “Looks more like they’re flooring it,” said Wheatley admiringly.

  Preble could do with less of the commodore on his Bridge. Glory was all well and good until you started draping flags over coffins. But he thought he understood what Scollard was doing. In open space, it wouldn’t take long before the Swarm eradicated the Indy’s squadrons with their crossfire. But by charging at the carriers, Scollard’s pilots could use the enemy’s own bulky ships as cover while dogfighting their Swarm opponents.

  His fingers itched. He wanted to stand up, not sit in the damned chair. He wanted to be in the fight. But that wasn’t his mission. His mission was to hang back and guard the outpost.

  “Greyhound has q-jumped, sir.”

  “Time until Heroic is fully evacuated?” asked Preble.

  “Fifteen minutes, Captain, best guess.”

  Scollard’s people didn’t have fifteen minutes. The CAG’s channel was full of squadron leaders struggling to inflict the most damage on the Swarm while keeping their people alive. Moving closer to the carriers had pulled the Swarm fighters there with them, dismantling the trap of the bull’s horns. But they were still outgunned ten to one.

  He just couldn’t sit here and watch them be exterminated en masse.

  “Helm, plot an intercept course for that lead carrier,” said Preble. “Let’s give our birds some fire support.”

  “Captain,” began Wheatley, “you mean to leave Heroic undefended? All it’ll take is one of those carriers to end-run around the Indy while the other two keep you busy. If you can delay a few more minutes, the other transports—”

  “Commodore, our pilots don’t have a few minutes. And as soon as they’re gone, the Swarm will make short work of your transports and the whole damned base. We can delay them and buy your transports time by going on offense.”

  After a moment’s consideration and to Preble’s surprise, Wheatley nodded. “Do it, Captain.”

  “Full thrusters, Helm. Weapons, lay down fire on the enemy fighters along the fringe of that dogpile as we go in. When we get too close to our own, transfer targeting to the nearest carrier. Same strategy as before: open the cans with rail guns, cook ’em inside with lasers. Understood?”

  A chorus of aye-ayes came back to him. Preble stood up and stepped forward as Independence came alive beneath his feet. He felt her engines through the deckplates as the massive ship moved forward. The weight of fate settled into his gut, and Preble wondered if that’s what John Richards had felt as he faced a similar, superior Swarm force at the Shipyards. Without turning from the viewscreen, he said, “Comms, begin livestreaming our real-time battle report to CENTCOM.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  No hesitation there. No cursing. Just a devotion to duty.

  Hang on, Laz. Just a little bit longer.

  * * *

  The comms traffic was thinner but more desperate for that fact. Fewer voices competed for bandwidth.

  But the strategy’s working, thought Laz as he barrel-rolled out of Swarm gunsights. Enemy laser fire spotted his left wing, and he felt the sudden imbalance in his maneuverability. Another X-23 took out his attacker.

  “Scorch one cumrat. Geez, Boss, you’re supposed to be good at flying, right?” taunted Ballbreaker.

  “I see how you got your name,” he groused back. “And thanks.”

  But the strategy was working. Getting in among the big carriers had them lasting longer against the enemy than they would
have in open space, and they were leading the Swarm fighters away from their transports. At least when we’re finally all dead, it’ll take ’em longer to get back to Heroic, Laz thought sarcastically.

  A massive shadow stretched over his canopy. For a moment, he thought he’d swung too close to one of the enemy carriers. Then he saw the familiar running lights as a hail of slugs smart-targeted a handful of Swarm fighters around him. To him, the explosions shone like fireworks celebrating a holiday.

  “CAG, this is Actual,” came Noah Preble’s rock-solid voice. “Try to stay out of our firing solution, would you?”

  Laz smiled as the warship’s mag-rail guns shot death from their spinning barrels. He knew he ought to enjoy the moment while it lasted. Because it wouldn’t last long. Ask and ye shall receive, Little John had said. Okay, I’d like a miracle wherein all three Swarm ships spontaneously phase into another dimension.

  Instead, heavy green laser fire burned past him, targeting the tungsten hull of Independence. But the Indy seemed to shrug it off as she crawled forward, her mag-rails now striking the lead carrier.

  “All fighters, this is the CAG. Momma Bear has joined the fight.”

  “About time!”

  “Stow that, Chopper!” said Laz. “New mission: support the Indy by keeping those fighters off her back.” Experience told him the Swarm pilots would refocus their own mission now to protect the carriers. And their primary targets would be the Indy’s mag-rail batteries. Without those, her lasers couldn’t penetrate that damned mystery metal lining the enemy’s hull. “Prioritize the enemy squadrons targeting the Indy’s broadside batteries.”

  “So, all of them, then?”

  “Yes, Assman. All of them, then.”

  A Swarm fighter flew right into his crosshairs, and without even aiming, Laz turned it into a fireball.

  One down, a thousand to go.