by Daniel Gibbs
His motivation was pure, and the argument resonated. But it clashed with duty, and duty won. “No. Our pilots could turn the tide or hold the line until the reinforcements arrive. We’re going.”
“You’re the skipper,” Wright said, his mouth in a tight line. “Promise me you won’t sacrifice the crew in a needless gesture.”
“Never.”
“Thank you.”
Tehrani shifted her gaze back toward the front of the bridge and the darkness of space. Allah help us all. She cleared her throat. “Communications, get me 1MC.”
“Tied in, ma’am,” Singh reported.
She stared at the mic built into her chair. “Attention all hands, this is Colonel Tehrani. General quarters. General quarters. This is not a drill. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. Set condition one throughout the ship.” She paused. “The fleet has called for help, and the CSV Zvika Greengold will answer the call. I know the last twenty-four hours have been hell for all of us. I do not take this action lightly, but it’s what we all signed up for when we raised our hands and took the oath. Do your duty. Fight hard. Fight well. Make me proud. Tehrani out.”
The lights on the bridge turned blue and dimmed as the general-quarters klaxon tolled. A moment later, Bryan turned around. “Conn, TAO. Condition one set throughout the ship.”
Tehrani nodded. “Energize our shields. Charge the energy-weapons capacitor. Navigation, plot a Lawrence drive jump to the fleet’s projected location ten minutes from now.” She punched another button on the CO’s chair. “Major Whatley, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, ma’am. I’m on my way to the hangar deck now.”
“I want everything we’ve got ready to launch in ten minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tehrani out.”
All that remained was to wait. The next ten minutes were an eternity.
With the general-quarters klaxon still ringing in his ears, Justin rushed into the flight bay, helmet in hand. Pandemonium was all around him as crew chiefs, munitions techs, and maintenance team members rushed about, performing last checks on the thirty-one combat spacecraft left on the Zvika Greengold. Resolutely, he trudged toward his Sabre. Pockmarked and charred in several places but still operational, it sat like a chariot of old, waiting to carry him into battle. It looks about like I feel.
“Attention on deck!”
Justin turned to see Major Whatley standing at the front of the flight line, holding a portable public-address amplifier in his hand.
“Pilots, front and center!” Whatley’s voice reverberated off the alloy walls of the hangar and caused everyone to turn toward him.
The rest of the pilot cadre formed into neat rows. Justin joined them and came to attention.
“As you were,” Whatley began in his gruff tone. The major appeared worried, with dark rings under his eyes. “I’m not here to sugarcoat this, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve been called on because the fleet is close to being overwhelmed. We’re going up against extreme odds.” He paused. “I know most of you young’uns don’t remember, but I’ve been CDF for fifteen years. My father was CDF for thirty years. He fought the Saurians in both wars. He told me stories about going into battle, outnumbered three to one in fighters that didn’t even have shields. He and his pilots told each other they were going to fight the good fight, no matter the odds. They believed God was at their side and would guarantee victory.”
Justin glanced around to those on his right and left. Worried faces greeted him.
“That’s what we’re going to do today. In a few minutes, the Zvika Greengold will drop out of her Lawrence drive wormhole, and we’re all launching—including me. We’ll stand together, fight together, and prevail together. I know you’re reservists, and we weren’t prepared for this. But all of you”—Whatley made eye contact with Justin—“have performed superbly. In every engagement so far, our air wing has acquitted itself better than it had any right to. It’s an honor to fly alongside and lead you. So, men and women of the Greengold’s flight wing… man your craft! Fight like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t if we fail.” His voice rose. “Fight the good fight, no matter the odds!”
Out of nowhere, the entire company shouted, “No matter the odds!” The tumult shook the deck plating.
“Now, get out there and kick those Leaguer bastards back to Earth, where they belong! Dismissed!” Whatley yelled, and they all took off running.
Justin dodged several crew chiefs then slid to a stop next to his Sabre.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he whirled around to see Whatley.
“Lieutenant, I want to shake the hand of a brave man.”
For a moment, Justin froze, then he took Whatley’s hand, gripping it firmly. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve been rough on you, perhaps undeservedly. You’ve done well and fought bravely. Good luck out there, and Godspeed.”
As Whatley turned to go, Justin said, “Sir, wait. You were right. I joined for the wrong reasons.” He bit his lip. “But I’m fighting for the right ones now.”
“I know.” He held up a finger. “Don’t think for a minute this means I’m easing up on you.”
“Of course not, sir,” Justin replied with a grin.
“Mount up, son. Give ’em hell.”
Justin slotted his helmet into the O-ring at the neck of his flight suit and climbed the small ladder leading to the cockpit. Once he’d slid down into the seat, he looked over the side and gave a thumbs-up.
The crew chief returned the gesture and triggered the sequence to seal the cockpit’s windows while Whatley watched.
Out of the corner of Justin’s eye, he caught Whatley saluting him. He quickly turned and snapped off a salute of his own. A wave of emotion washed over him as he realized how much the respect of the older officer meant. As the major stalked off, Justin started his preflight checklist. Halfway through, he stopped and pulled out the small paper photo of Michelle and his daughter he’d printed earlier in the day and affixed it to an uncovered portion of his flight controls, in a position that didn’t obstruct any instruments. This is what I’m fighting for.
While the pilots readied for battle, Tehrani sat in the CO’s chair, bathed in blue light from the overhead and counting down the minutes and seconds till they jumped. Additional damage-control teams along with additional watchstanders had reported to the bridge several minutes ago, answering the call for battle stations. They had little left to do but wait.
“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive charge completed,” Mitzner called.
Tehrani sucked in a breath and turned to Wright. “Ready?”
“I think the proper answer is ‘Yeah, it’s what we trained for.’ But I’d be lying if I said I ever thought we’d be in another war within my lifetime.” Wright forced a smile. “Just our luck.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Major,” Tehrani replied. Her eyes went back to the small monitor above her head. “Navigation, reconfirm jump coordinates.”
“Triple-checked, ma’am. We’re ready to go.”
“Navigation, engage Lawrence drive.”
The lights dimmed as the FTL system drew massive amounts of power from the Greengold’s energy-distribution system. Directly ahead of them, an artificial wormhole whirled into being. Its coloration changed by the second from green to blue to red and every color in between.
“Conn, Navigation. Wormhole stable, ma’am.”
“Take us in,” Tehrani replied as she exhaled. “Best speed.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
The wormhole appeared to grow as they approached, an optical illusion of the swirling vortex. The Zvika Greengold crossed the event horizon and, not more than a second later, appeared on the other side. Disruption from the transit disabled sensors and shields, something that vexed all known users of the Lawrence drive, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Conn, TAO. Sensors online. Transit complete. Within five thousand kilometers of target,”
Bryan said. “We’re slightly behind the CDF battle line and roughly a thousand kilometers from the flagship.”
“Navigation,” Tehrani said as she leaned forward, “intercept course, Sierra Seventy-Eight.” The icon indicated a battleship-class vessel, and it had a lot of League small craft around it. After a few seconds, the IFF transponder identified the ship as the CSV Conqueror. She grinned. It’s only right that we ride to their rescue once more after they saved us.
“Course set, ma’am.”
“Max thrust.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Mitzner replied. “Ion engines still answer at fifty percent of nominal output.” There was a great deal of fear in her voice.
“Keep trying for more, Lieutenant,” Tehrani said. “As the engineers make repairs, the thrust potential should go up. If not, we’ll make do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tehrani sat back in her seat, glancing between the tactical plot and the watchstanders around her. Some quick mental arithmetic told her it was time to get their fighters in space. She punched the intercom button on the CO’s chair, linking into Whatley’s Sabre. “Major, this is Colonel Tehrani.”
“Go ahead, ma’am.”
“Readiness status?”
“All my pilots are strapped in and awaiting launch orders.”
“You’re cleared to launch, Major. Godspeed and good hunting.” The use of the old terminology, for some reason, felt comforting to Tehrani.
“Acknowledged. Same to you, Colonel.”
14
With his preflight checks completed, Justin adjusted inside the Sabre’s cockpit. They were minutes or perhaps only seconds away from combat. He’d checked, rechecked, and triple-checked every aspect of his craft. All weapons hardpoints were full, and all systems were go. He had nothing left to do except wait.
“Anyone know who Zvika Greengold was, anyway?” Mateus asked.
Justin welcomed the distraction. “Didn’t you read the introduction email from the ship’s automated greeter when we reported aboard?” he replied.
“Nah, I was too busy getting ready to smoke all of you in our final flight tryouts.”
Snickers filled the commlink.
“Zvika Greengold was an Israeli tank commander during a war on Earth,” Feldstein interjected.
“More than that,” Justin replied. “What I read said he took on hundreds of enemy armored vehicles with one tank. He fought for days with little support and was burned over thirty percent of his body. Historians credit him with nearly single-handedly saving the Jewish state.”
“That fits somehow,” Adeoye said, “as we have repeatedly gone up against superior forces and won.”
Justin pondered Adeoye’s words. What’s in a name? Perhaps the knowledge they served on a ship named after a man who’d performed heroic deeds made them all want to live up to his example.
A quick burst of acceleration from the carrier cut the conversation short. This is it. The knowledge that they were riding into an emergency in which everything hung in the balance wasn’t lost on him. What’s that my dad used to say? “We’re playing for all the marbles.”
“All fighters, launch, launch, launch!” Whatley thundered.
The forcefields protecting the hangar bay snapped off, and Justin jammed the throttle on his Sabre to maximum thrust. Pitching forward, the craft zoomed out of the flight deck and into space. Behind him, the rest of Alpha element followed along with the rest of their squadron. The stream of fighters and bombers exiting the carrier was a sight he’d never seen before. Typical flight operations limited launches to four to eight small craft at a time and never over twelve.
Justin gripped his flight stick tightly as he took in the scene before him. Hundreds of capital ships arrayed in line formations were battling it out. Crisscrossing beams of blue streaked across the blackness of the void, while thousands of red plasma balls answered them. Plumes of exhaust from large missiles could barely be seen, and tiny orange explosions dotted the sky. It took him a moment to process the explosions as fighters and bombers in their death throes. Hopefully more of them than ours.
Whatley’s voice broke through Justin’s thoughts. “All Greengold squadrons, this is Major Whatley. The CSV Conqueror—our old friend—is getting lit up by League bombers, bearing zero-two-eight. Engage max thrust and afterburners. Red Tails, you have the lead.”
“Acknowledged, sir,” Justin replied. He slid his craft to the heading indicated and toggled the afterburner. “Alpha, keep up. Beta and Gamma, maintain formation. Alpha and Beta will engage hostile bombers. Gamma—your objective is the League fighters. Good hunting!”
The Sabre rocketed forward, and he slammed back in his seat. Ugh. I think they forgot to fix my inertial dampers. It certainly felt as if there was a bit more weight on his chest than the maneuver would typically cause.
Flying through the void of space with the battle raging all around him was surreal. Justin almost felt as if he were in a simulator. A friendly destroyer exploded off his port side, sending waves of flame and debris into the path of his fighter. As he juked around it, two League ships blew up simultaneously. Grimly determined to add his own charges to the butcher’s bill, Justin pressed on.
“Spencer, watch your HUD,” Whatley cautioned. “A squadron of Leaguers is headed straight for you.”
“Aye, sir,” Justin said. His eyes went to the HUD, and sure enough, a cluster of red dots was inbound. “Red Tails, tally ho. Bandits at twelve o’clock high.”
The enemy fighters were coming in from above the Z plane his squadron was on, and he pitched up slightly to line them up head-on.
“Reinforce shields forward, stand by for max range, and engage. We’ll take one pass and break through to our actual target—the bombers.”
As the range continued to close, Justin reflected on how calm he felt. There he was, flying into the mouth of hell, yet he felt as cool as a cucumber. I wonder if this makes me a veteran.
With a wry grin, he settled onto the leading League craft. The missile-lock-on tone buzzed. “Alpha One, fox three.” Two LIDAR active-tracking missiles dropped from the internal weapons bay and zoomed away from his Sabre. He’d toggled the dual-fire option on, remembering from previous engagements that it took two direct hits to kill one of the fast-moving enemies. A few moments later, he was rewarded with a minor explosion.
“Alpha element engaged! Press through them, people. Gamma, cover our six. Next stop is those bombers.” He used the HUD’s interface to highlight a group of three craft on an attack run toward the Conqueror, labeled as Sierra Two Hundred Thirty-Six on the display.
The battle raged around Alpha element but not directly with it. As Justin pressed on with the other three fighters in a tight finger-four formation, his Sabre’s sensors detected multiple anti-ship missiles launched from the bombers they were racing toward. At the range they were at, neither he nor the other pilots could do anything to intervene. All three warheads hit the Conqueror, impacting brightly on its shields and generating an EMP wave.
Fusion warheads, most likely. He cued his commlink. “Max afterburners. We’ve got to get to intercept range.”
“Roger. Wilco,” Feldstein replied.
“Save me a few, Spencer,” Mateus said with a snicker. “I can’t have you running up the kill score on me.”
Justin couldn’t help but laugh. Her single-minded focus on destroying Leaguers at least put things into perspective. Once his afterburner ran out of charge, he kept pulsing it, pushing the device to its limit. The split second that the targeting reticle turned green, he held down the trigger for his fighter’s neutron cannons. “Alpha One, guns, guns, guns!”
Toggling the ordnance selector, Justin armed the dumb-fire rockets and added them to the fusillade. Several hits later, the enemy bomber exploded. “Alpha One, splash one.” With a slight roll, he slid behind the nearest enemy and opened fire once more.
“I said to save one for me, Spencer.” Mateus chortled. “Alpha Four, splash one!”
The bomber directly in front of Justin exploded as he took his finger off the firing trigger, and he pulled up relative to the explosion to avoid a rapidly expanding fireball and debris field. “Alpha One, splash two!”
He looped his Sabre back around and checked the HUD. More enemy fighters and bombers were already clearing their respective hangar bays, while the dozens of capital ships he could see exchanged directed-energy weapons fire. Blue and red shield effects lit up the void, bathing everything in an eerie glow. The result was almost beautiful. Justin picked a new target and designated the unlucky fighter as a priority intercept for the rest of Alpha element. The four craft turned as one and accelerated into the thick of the fight.
“Conn, TAO. Sierra One Hundred Fifty-Eight destroyed,” Bryan reported. The bridge shook from plasma-ball impacts, as the Leaguers had found them almost as soon as the damaged carrier emerged from its Lawrence drive wormhole. That was also the third friendly vessel blown up in the last sixty seconds.
Tehrani stared at the tactical plot. She could do precious little to change the outcome of the battle. Her pilots were committed, and the lack of anti-ship weaponry on the Greengold was telling. The nearest enemy ship in range was a small frigate, and it was being pummeled by bombers as well as the Conqueror’s magnetic cannons. Might as well help see those bastards off. “TAO, firing-point procedures, Master Six Hundred Seventy-Three. Forward neutron beams.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. Firing solutions set.”
“Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
Two blue spears shot out of the Zvika Greengold’s bow, crossed the void at the speed of light, and slammed into the hull of the enemy frigate. In one side and out the other, they cut through its brittle hull like a hot knife through butter. Moments later, the vessel exploded in a chain reaction of orange-and-blue flames that quickly vanished in the darkness of space.
Out of the corner of Tehrani’s eye, a blue dot marked as disabled and very close to the center of the League fleet started moving. At first, she thought it was an optical illusion or a sensor echo. She zoomed in the plot to see the icon labeled as the CSV Salamis. The info box attached to it proclaimed Major Levi Cohen as the commanding officer. A reservist. Lots of those in action today. By Allah, that ship dates back to the Saurian Wars. She realized they must’ve pulled it out of the emergency-reserve mothball fleet. What could the old destroyer possibly accomplish? “TAO, can you ascertain the course for Sierra One Hundred Sixty-Eight?”