Blood on the Stars Collection 1 Page 18

  Junus was a Patrician and an experienced pilot, the veteran of a dozen battles. He’d been hand-picked by Commander Vennius to lead Invictus’s six squadrons. He’d been a typical pilot of the fighter forces in his youth, all aggression and arrogance with a constant need to prove himself fearless. But he’d seen enough death around him—and almost died himself several times—and now he was cooler, wiser, his thoughts more tactical, less emotional. He suspected that was one reason Vennius had chosen him for the post. The relationship between the Commander-Maximus and Commander Rigellus was well known, and Vennius had spared no effort to ensure that his informal daughter had the best the Alliance had to offer.

  Junus didn’t resent his assignment, though. He liked Commander Rigellus. He’d long been an admirer of her career from afar, and her daring assault on the enemy pulsar cannon at Heliopolis had only increased his esteem. He’d jumped at the opportunity to serve on her new command, though he’d had mixed feelings about the mission itself. The fighter pilot in him, the cockiness and senseless courage that still remained, was thrilled to be on the vanguard of a new invasion. But the commander, the man who’d lost so many pilots in the Alliance’s constant wars…that part of him was apprehensive, both about the mission itself, and the war that success would surely bring.

  None of that mattered, though. It wasn’t his place to pass judgment on the high command’s orders. Duty came first. It was the way, and he was no more able to meaningfully question his orders than Kat Rigellus was herself. Junus knew officers such as the two of them could nurse their doubts, even their disagreements with the directives they were given. But neither could ever—would ever—speak of such thoughts, nor allow them to influence their decisions. And they certainly would never let their subordinates to see anything but total confidence in their demeanors.

  He twisted his body, trying to get comfortable. The Talons were a bit larger than the old Rippers, but little of that extra space ended up in the cockpit. He’d never noticed how cramped the space was when he was a young pilot, but now his legs ached, half a dozen old wounds taking their toll on an aging warrior.

  He lurched to the side, taking some of the weight off his aching left leg. Then he glanced down at the small display on the console. The array of neatly aligned dots told him what he needed to know. His squadrons were formed up perfectly, a testament to the Alliance’s high standards of training…and perhaps to the fact that Commander Vennius had scoured the fleet for veteran pilots to transfer to Invictus’s squadrons. Junus had never seen so many ace pilots assigned to one ship before. There wasn’t a man or woman in his force that hadn’t seen at least two or three battles, and many could match his own dozen. The elite of the Alliance’s fighter corps was here, and he was determined to see them live up to their reputation.

  He looked down at the throttle, unused for now as he allowed the AI to pilot his bird. There were notches on the side, carved roughly into the otherwise smooth steel. Twenty-three of them, one for each enemy fighter he had destroyed, and enough to rank him in the Alliance’s top tier of aces. It was a vanity, he realized, to mark his kills like that, and even a greater one to transfer the notches to his new ship. But he’d done it anyway, as he suspected most of his people had. You could sometimes teach a pilot wisdom and patience, but you could never completely take the bravado away.

  And if you could, you’d take his soul with it. And then he would be useless…

  He stared down at his com unit. It was utterly silent. No chatter, no status reports. The orders were clear. Total radio silence until he was sure the enemy had detected his fighters.

  Which will be soon anyway…

  He glanced down at the positional display. His squadrons were almost halfway to Santis, close enough for the enemy’s active scanners to pick them up. It was only a matter of time.

  What would happen then was the real question. His birds were moving at high velocity. They’d been accelerating steadily since Invictus’s catapults had launched them, and now they were moving at roughly one point five percent of lightspeed. He had a decision to make—Commander Rigellus had given him two options. Hit the enemy at high speed, making one blindingly-quick strafing run, or decelerate as his birds approached, slowing down to engage and destroy any fighters the enemy launched, followed by a sustained attack against the enemy vessel.

  Junus wouldn’t make that decision, though, he knew. Not really. The Confeds would. If they were slow to respond—as all the intel reports suggested they would be—he would sustain his velocity and try to reach the enemy battleship before it could deploy its defensive fighters. A strike like that could be devastating, even though his squadrons would get only a single pass.

  If, however, the enemy was able to get its full complement of fighters into space, he would slow his fighters on the final approach. He would begin a protracted dogfight, one in which his people would destroy or drive way the enemy fighters. He didn’t expect the Confeds to be a pushover, as the high command did, but neither did he think they could stand up to his veteran squadrons. And once he’d stripped the battleship of its fighters, his second wave, equipped for an anti-ship strike, would go in and pound the giant vessel. He knew his people didn’t have to destroy the enemy; his purpose was to damage the vessel, weaken it so Invictus could finish the job. Still, he couldn’t help but think of the glory of the kill, to hold out some prospect of his birds winning the victory on their own.

  He heard an alarm bell going off, the warning that enemy launches had been detected. His eyes dropped to the display, waiting, watching as the AI assimilated incoming scanner data and updated the screen. It looked like one squadron launching, in addition to the one the Confeds had already sent into planetary orbit.

  His hands moved to the com unit, his fingers moving lightly over the headset. The enemy launch could mean they had detected his strike force. But only one squadron? He hesitated, trying to decide if it was time to break the silence.

  No, wait. More than one squadron. Two, at least. Possibly a third.

  There was little doubt. The Confeds had located his fighters.

  “Attention all squadrons, initiate active scanners. Close to attack formations.”

  His eyes were locked on the screen, watching the Confed fighters shake out into battle array. They moved smartly, crisply. Indeed, they reminded him of his own squadrons. They were heading right toward his force, moving slowly, positioning themselves to intercept his attack.

  This is not what we were told to expect…

  He watched, waiting for signs of disorder, for a ragged formation. But the Confed fighters were positioned perfectly, far enough from their mother ship to engage the assault force before it entered range, but moving slowly enough to quickly change course, to fight a protracted battle. Exactly how he would have formed up in their position.

  He hesitated for a few more seconds. Then he sighed softly. He couldn’t blow past these fighters—he had to destroy them. They were too good, too much of a danger if they were allowed to operate freely.

  He reached down, grabbed the headset and pulled it on. He pressed the button for the main channel. “All fighters are to cut acceleration on my mark and begin full deceleration.” He paused for a few seconds, and then he added simply, “Mark.”

  He flipped off the AI piloting system, and he punched at the nav controls, cutting engine thrust. He felt the crushing weight lifted, replaced by the relief of free fall. Then he grabbed the throttle, turning it hard to the right, engaging the positioning jets to re-angle his ship. He punched at the thrust controls again and the oppressive force returned. It felt the same as it had, but his ship’s engines were now blasting along the opposite vector, slowing his velocity as they did. A glance at the display and a quick calculation told him what he already knew. His birds would be almost at a dead stop when they engaged the enemy, ready to maneuver and fight it out.

  He closed his eyes, his lips moving slowly, almost silently, repeating the words of an old Palatian proverb. It was his
good luck charm, one he recited every time he went into battle. Most fighter pilots had a superstition or a good luck charm of some kind. It all defied logic, and yet it made sense too. Anything that put his mind at rest, created confidence—even if it was baseless—was worthwhile. An unfocused, distracted pilot was a dead pilot.

  “All squadrons, perform final checks and arm all weapons. Gold Dagger, Red Banner, and Darkwind, you are in the lead. Once we engage, you are to stay on those enemy fighters. Black Fist and Hydra, you are to form up behind the leading squadrons and prepare to execute strikes against the enemy battleship.”

  He took a deep breath, feeling the pressurized mask force oxygen into his aching lungs. It was time.

  “For the Alliance,” he said into the com unit, his voice firm, hard. “To victory.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Excerpt from “A Pilot of the Late War,” by Kevin “Striker” Grierson

  Death is my wingman. He is always nearby, following me, shadowing my every move. I cannot shake him, and no evasive maneuver will break his lock on me. I cannot defeat him, no pilot can, so I have befriended him. I do not try to escape from him anymore. He will come for me in his own time…and until then, I will blast every enemy with the guts to show himself in front of me.

  Interplanetary Space

  Between Krillus IV and Krillus V

  307 AC

  “Alright, Blue squadron, you know what we’re here for. You’ve trained for this day, you’ve flown millions of kilometers…all to bring you to this moment. These are invaders, enemies. If we let them get through us, they will attack Dauntless, they will bring death and destruction to our mothership and our comrades. And they will do it because we let them do it. I say never! They shall not pass.” Jake Stockton was strapped in his fighter, his hand gripped tightly around the throttle. He could see the mass of fighters on his scanner’s display, coming on in two waves. The first was less than five hundred thousand kilometers from the Confederation forces…almost engaged.

  Blue Squadron was on the left, with Yellow on the right and the inexperienced pilots of Green squadron in the center, their flanks covered by their more experienced comrades. Stockton had a reputation as one of the best pilots in the service, but he suspected the Alliance forces—if they were indeed from the Alliance—had more combat experience. He wasn’t going to let that make a difference, no matter what he had to do. But it was still on his mind.

  “Raptor, Thunder here. I want your people to accelerate. Try to get around the flank of the enemy formation.” Stockton nodded as he listened to Kyle Jamison’s orders. Dauntless’s strike force commander went by his call sign in combat, as all Confederation fighter jocks did. It was tradition mostly, but it also ensured that the enemy wasn’t given easy information about ranks and command structures. If they were going to pick off the commanders, they would have to find them some other way than listening in on comm frequencies for mentions of rank.

  “Thunder, roger that.” He moved his hand to the com unit, his finger hesitating over the channel selector. “And good fortune to you, Thunder. Happy hunting!”

  “And to you, Raptor. Thunder out.”

  Stockton moved his finger, switching the com over to the Blue squadron line. “All birds, prepare to engage thrusters, one quarter power. We’re heading for the enemy’s flank. And wingmen, remember to stay tight with your leaders. These aren’t pirates or renegades out there. We’re facing veteran pilots, sure as hell, and if you let your guards down, they’ll blow you to atoms.”

  He grabbed the throttle and moved it slowly, angling his fighter and then blasting the engines. He felt the pressure, but at one-quarter thrust, the dampeners quickly adjusted. He looked down at the display, watching the Blues move with him, their formation almost as perfect as it had been. He was proud, and he felt a wave of satisfaction. But there was another thought there as well, a darker one. The realization that he was, in all likelihood, about to lose some of his pilots.

  Blue squadron had become like a family, and the thought of watching his brothers and sisters die suddenly hit him. Stockton was the epitome of the apparently fearless pilot, but he’d found that his ability to seemingly ignore the danger of his own death didn’t transfer to those under his command.

  This is war. It’s one thing to think about it, to prepare for it…but quite another to face it.

  He reached down, his fingers flipping a series of levers, arming his weapons.

  This is it. Your entire life has led you to this moment…

  * * *

  “Gold Dagger, Red Banner…engage. Darkwind in support.”

  Junus nudged his throttle, pressing on the thruster control as he angled his bird toward the enemy. Regulations stated that the force commander should be positioned behind the attacking squadrons, but that was one of the few rules widely ignored in Alliance service. No officer who’d come up in the fighter force could obey such a covenant, not without disgrace. And Ellian Junus, for all his accumulated wisdom and experience, was still a fighter pilot at heart, still subject to the same callings.

  He stared straight ahead. There were two enemy fighters moving toward his ship. He put his finger on the top of the three firing buttons on his throttle. His weapons were all armed and ready, and he watched as the enemy closed.

  His threat detectors whined, the high-pitched signal telling him one of the enemy fighters had launched a missile at him. He waited, counting softly under his breath, eyes on the range readings. Then he pressed the small stud, and he felt his fighter buck as his own missile launched.

  Then he pulled the throttle back hard, angling it to the side, gasping for oxygen as his dampeners struggled to partially negate the crushing g-forces. He’d launched his weapon…now his attention was completely focused on getting away from the missile coming at him.

  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. If 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 throt
tle, 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.