Wing Commander (№3) - Fleet Action

"Demo team reporting, sir. How's it up ahead?"

"As far as we're getting son."

"Only three levels down, sir. Can't we get one more?"

Duke looked at the young woman who had been on point.

She shook her head

"Then it's right here, son," and as he spoke the survivors of the demo team and the platoon escorting them came up, pushing a steel crate, maneuvering it with null gravity handles.

"Open her up," Duke said quietly, and the team lowered it down, popping the lid open.

Duke looked at the detonator for the thermonuclear warhead.

"All right, now get the hell out of here. I'm giving you five minutes," and he reached over, first arming the device and then turning the timer on.

The demo team looked at him and grinned

"Let's go, sir."

"I'll be along in a minute," Duke said quietly.

The surviving corporal of the team hesitated.

"That's my job, sir."

"I'm not going to play hero, son. Now get the lead out of your butt and that's an order. I'll be along shortly."

The Marine looked at him, hesitating. A thin smile creased his features. He saluted and then turned, heading back down the corridor, leading his team with him.

Duke settled back against the wall and sighed. He simply couldn't admit that he was played out and exhausted. Perhaps the president was right, he had never really recovered from his wounds taken at Vukar. He should have stayed at his desk rather than running off to play commando. Since someone did have to stay behind, just in case the Cats got through and knew how to disarm the weapon, it might as well be him.

"You all right, sir?"

He looked up. It was the young woman who had been on point.

"Marine, get the hell out of here."

"Like hell, sir," she said quietly. "I'll hold point." He smiled sadly.

"I thought you might want some company," and her voice was almost childlike.

"What's your name, Marine?"

"Jenny McCrae, sir."

"That's my girl's name too," he said, a fatherly tone evident in his voice. "She's with the Fourth Marine."

He didn't want to think about that now. She was somewhere in the assault.

"I know, sir, we went through boot together. She was awfully proud of you."

"Really? I wondered. I haven't seen her in years. Her mother and I . . ."

"I know, sir. It's all right though."

They heard the door down the corridor burst open a thundering roar filling the corridor. He looked down at the chronometer ticking off on the bomb. A minute forty-five to go. The squad just might have made it back by now and gotten off.

I'll give them a few more seconds.

The first Cat turned the corridor and Jenny dropped him. And then a swarm of them came on. He started to slam his fist down on the firing button when a solid blow knocked him off his feet, slamming him against the bulkhead. He tried to get back up, barely seeing the Kilrathi Imperial Guard trooper closing in on him from behind.

The Cat fired again, stitching a burst across his chest and the world started to go warm and hazy.

He looked up and saw Jenny standing over him. She looked like his daughter, or was it his wife, or mother — filled with gentleness.

She looked at him, a smile lighting her innocent face, and then her fist slammed down on the ignitor.

Kevin Tolwyn flung his hand over his visor as a sun ignited before him.

They got it!

He knew he was getting dosed but he didn't care. Not now. The entire top forward half of the carrier was engulfed in the fireball, the lower and aft parts of the ship tumbling down from the shock of the explosion. The rest of the ship appeared to hold together for a brief instant and then fractured open, the engine cells igniting, the fireball racing outward. Another flash detonated to his right followed by half a dozen more. He guessed that two of them were cruisers, the others, he wasn't sure of.

But two more of them were heavy carriers! The glare of the explosions filled space across hundreds of cubic kilometers. His dose meter clicked off, beeping an alarm. He didn't care. He just didn't care anymore. They had finished the bastards.

He closed his eyes, feeling at peace.

Stunned, Prince Thrakhath turned his fighter around, looking back at his flagship as it blew apart, a dozen clicks behind him.

He knew that those on the deck had thought him a coward for leaving the ship, seeing through his excuse that he was going to personally lead the next wave into battle.

Well, they were dead now and he was still alive.

His heart filled with mad rage as more detonations let go, two more of his prized ships disappearing, and he howled with insane fury.

The explosions died away. He scanned through his tactical.

He still had one old carrier and Craxtha intact.

He punched into Craxtha's main channel and called in the commander of the ship obviously startled.

"We feared you were dead, my lord."

"I was off ship, preparing to lead the next strike."

"Sivar be praised. She guided you thus, my lord."

"The status of your ship?"

"She is fully operational, my lord. We repelled all boarders — my fighters stopped them long before they closed."

He could detect the pride in the commander, as if he were saying that the other ships were lost through negligence.

"Yes, of course, praise to Sivar. Order all heavy strike fighters from all ships to land on your carrier and rearm immediately for a killing strike on the enemy fleet. We will still win this action."

The commander hesitated.

"We have reports of an incoming strike of enemy destroyers, my lord. And besides, you are talking about turning around over five hundred strike craft on this one ship

"Your ship is designed to handle that. Now pass the order. Let the remaining fighters and our escorts block the destroyers."

"As you command, my lord."

Thrakhath turned his fighter in towards Craxtha, which within minutes was surrounded by swarms of fighters who were lining up for recovery on the six launch bays.

Thrakhath cut into the front of the landing pattern and came in, touching down in the forward portside landing bay.

Inside the hangar deck was mass confusion, the bay crammed from one end to the other with fighters. Fuel lines were snaked across the deck, armaments lockers were open and torpedoes were being hoisted out. Crews struggled with long energy cables, hooking them into ships, recharging neutron guns, batteries, and shielding systems.

There was no semblance of order: pilots and ship crews from the other three heavy carriers milled about, most of them in obvious shock at the sudden reversal.

Thrakhath stepped out of his fighter and instantly the deck went silent.

"Keep working," he snarled. "We will still finish the scum before this day is done."

He felt the ship start to heel over, the starfield outside the entry lock shifting. He could imagine the confusion this sudden maneuver was causing with the hundred or more fighters and strike craft still lined up for recovery. Angrily, he strode across the deck into the launch officer's operations office.

"Put the bridge on," he thundered.

"What are you doing up there?" he shouted. "We need to get these fighters in as soon as possible and turned around."

"Five destroyers have broken through the inner screen and are coming straight in on us."

"Enemy carrier turning away, sir.

"Keep on closing," Mike said calmly.

He looked over at his helm officer and smiled.

"Just like the Battle of Leyte Gulf," Mike said.

"I was thinking that," the helm replied "One of my illustrious ancestors commanded a cruiser there. We should have won that day."

Mike nodded.

"Torpedo room."

"Torpedo room, sir."

"Have lock yet?"

"Twenty-two seconds and counting, sir."

Mike looked back up at his tactical. Of the twelve destroyers in his squadron only four were left. There was a flash of light on his main visual and he realized he was down to three.

"Hell of a day to be a destroyer skipper," and then he focused back on the enemy carrier, a dozen clicks ahead as it turned hard over, now presenting a full amidships shot and then started to present its stern.

A swarm of Kilrathi fighters shot in, stitching his destroyer with everything they still had. Four of them elected to simply come straight in, one of them kamikaziing through the shield as it struggled to recover from the repeated hammer blows. The kamikaze hit just aft of the bridge, blowing into the center of the ship, knocking Mike to the deck. Decompression alarms sounded off, the damage control board sparkling with red lights.

"Torpedo room."

"Twelve and counting, sir. What the hell happened back there?"

"Never mind, just get those birds launched."

Another string of fighters swooped in, concentrating on the bow of the ship.

"We've lost lock, sir. Torpedo guidance control off line."

"Damn it!"

To his right, Roger Young launched its torpedoes just before blowing. The spread of a dozen rounds leaped forward

"Helm, follow those torpedoes in," Mike shouted, and then he reached over, punching the abandon ship alarm.

"This is the captain speaking. If you wanna see your families again, you've got thirty seconds to get to the escape pods and the hell off this ship!"

He looked over at his helm and fire control officers.

"I hate to ask this of you two."

"It's all right, sir," the helm officer said. "This time the family wants to be on the winning side."

Mike looked at the rest of his team.

"You heard me, get the hell off this ship."

They hesitated.

"Damn it, you fools. You've got something to live for, now move it," and he grabbed hold of his damage control officer and pushed her towards the door.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, torn.

"For God's sake, Elaine, you've got kids back home. Now move it!"

She struggled to hold back the tears and then, turning, ran down the corridor to the nearest escape pod, the rest following.

"Helm, follow those torpedoes in."

Aye, sir.

Mike stood, watching the screen, ignoring the fighters that swarmed around his ship. A staccato series of hammer blows blew the main generator off line, dim emergency battle lamps coming back on. All but two of the torpedoes launched by Young were gone as well.

"Torpedo room, still with me?"

"Still here, sir. Figured we should hang around for the fun.

"Get ready for blind fire. Set fuses at point one seconds!"

"Point one seconds, sir?"

"Shut up and do it!"

"Point one seconds, sir, and we'll see you in hell."

"Helm, do your job right. Bring us in on the landing bay an instant after Young's birds hit."

The helm officer grinned as he delicately worked the controls, weaving the destroyer in, as it came up directly astern of the enemy carrier.

The carrier's point defenses tore into his ship and he felt her dying, letting go.

"Helm, full speed ahead now!"

He felt the final surge of his ship thundering under his feet.

"Torpedo room, ready, ready, fire!"

The one surviving torpedo from Roger Young hit the carrier's aft starboard launch bay and blew, distorting the phase shielding. An instant later a dozen more torpedoes fired at point blank range detonated.

The last thing Mike Polowski saw were his own torpedoes blowing less than fifty meters ahead of his own ship. He thought of the warm hills of his now dead world and smiled as the blast wave blew his ship apart. The forward momentum of what had been the aft end of his destroyer, however, continued on, even as it died, adding its thousand tons of mass into the detonating firestorm of the torpedoes impacting against the carrier's overloaded shields. Most of the mass was repelled away, but the aft end of the ship, engines still pulsing, even as the ship ahead of it vaporized, continued onward, driving through the shattered hull, pushing before it fragments of bulkheads, decking, and those few still on board. The engine mounts, made of solid durasteel, were all that was left a hundredth of a second later as they impacted through the landing bay's airlock. Several dozen tons of molten durasteel blew into the vast hangar bay, vaporizing flesh, cutting into fuel lines, igniting ammunition, and ripping open the hundred and three fighters being readied for launch.

The entire bay exploded in a white-hot fireball of destruction.

Prince Thrakhath staggered through the wreckage and onto Craxtha's main bridge. The room was choked with smoke, half the bridge crew dead or wounded, open fires still licking out of shattered equipment. The ship's commander was dead, slumped in his chair, the top of his head gone.

"Who's in command here?"

The crew looked at him, stunned.

"I think I am now, sir," and Thrakhath saw the green tabs of damage control on the officer's collar.

"Can you save her?"

"We've lost two aft bays, my lord," the officer reported. "The explosion started in starboard aft bay, then leaped through an open access elevator to topside bay."

"Why was it open?"

"The commander ordered it. They were out of torpedoes in the lower bay. We were shifting them down from above."

Thrakhath looked back at the commander and silently cursed. If he were still alive, he would have him executed on the spot for such stupidity.

"Two of our main engines are gone as well, sir. We're lucky the main fuel cells didn't go up. I'm purging out the three cells closest to the fire right now. I've also ordered all armaments in the aft topside bay dumped overboard"

"Do that and we have to run with scoops full open!" Thrakhath roared. "We'll lose whatever offensive capability we have left. With half our remaining armaments gone, we're finished!"

"Sire, if you don't like what I'm doing then execute me and do it yourself," the officer snapped. "We're lucky to be alive as is. If we don't purge those cells now they'll blow. It's an inferno back there."

Thrakhath stood silently, looking over at the flickering display on the damage board and finally lowered his head.

"Tell me what we can still do."

"We still have more than five hundred of our best fighters out there, my lord. They have no offensive strike capability left; they're mostly light fighters. I think it's time we landed them, my lord, to get our pilots back. We won't have enough room for them, so the craft will have to be dumped overboard as fast as we recover them."

Thrakhath looked up at him, unable to speak.

"It's time to go home, my lord. We've done all we can do today. One more hit and we ll lose this ship as well. We've got to save our pilots now, my lord. There'll be over a thousand of them on board here. They'll still give us victory once we've repaired this ship, and the rest of the new carriers come on line."

Thrakhath looked around the bridge. He knew the young officer was right. He had to save his pilots; he had lost too many already.

The only satisfaction left now was the fact that within a matter of minutes the cruiser squadron would close on Earth. At least with Earth destroyed, this would still be a victory.

"Launch fighters now!"

Jason Bondarevsky leaned forward in his chair, wishing now more than ever to be back in a fighter.

The first fighter, piloted by Doomsday, cleared the bay.

The blue-green home of his race filled the forward screen.

The run in from jump point 12Y, the line leading back towards the Landreich, had been with scoops fully closed. Kruger had even committed the ultimate madness of doing the final jump at full speed. A third of the fleet had missed the Jump point completely, forcing them to decelerate, turn around and come back in. They were now several hours behind. They were the lucky ones. Two frigates had only achieved partial jump, hitting the point as fast as they did. Part of the two frigates had come through, the other part had simply continued on back in the last system. The crews never knew what hit them, their molecules spread between Alpha Centuri and Earth.

The maneuver, however, had gained them precious time, and moving at a good fraction of the speed of light they had closed from the jump point to Earth in under three hours.

They were too late for the main battle, but the threat closing in on Earth was all too obvious and Kruger had ordered them in to head it off.

He could only hope that they would be there in time.

Baron Jukaga watched as the three escort carriers came up over the northern pole of the planet, a spread of fighters leaping ahead of them.

He had but one cruiser left with him, seven falling to the inner defense line. The other two cruisers had turned to bombard the naval yards of the Earth's satellite, the bright flashes of explosions tearing through the military bases and construction yards spread out on its barren airless surface and in orbit above it, smashing dozens of ships of the fleet including the carriers still caught in drydock. Both were destroyed by point defenses but they had successfully smashed a military target — an action which, at least for the moment, had filled him with pride.

That, at least, he approved of. It was a target worthy of being hit, a fitting vengeance for the raid on the moon of Kilrah.

He stood silently behind the cruiser's captain, ignoring the Imperial Marines standing to either side as his guards.

"We'll only have time for one pass," the commander said quietly, looking up at the tactical display in rage. They had detected the small fleet of escort carriers and destroyers only minutes before, the enemy ships coming from the direction of another jump point at full speed with scoops closed.

"We have first target solutions and locks," the captain announced. "After our first hit and destruction of their defensive centers, we drop the thermonuclears."

"First wave, antimatter warheads ready for firing."

The commander grinned, looking over at his weapons control officer.

"For the glory of Kilrah, the Emperor, and the Empire. Fire!"

Baron Jukaga watched as the first weapons leaped forward, tracking downward, racing in towards the North American continent and Northern Europe.

"Incoming fighters!"

"No!"

Doomsday screamed with impotent rage as he saw the heavy antimatter rockets streak away.

A light screen of enemy fighters, launched from the cruisers, moved to intercept, and with a wild frenzy Doomsday slashed into them, killing them with a mad insane glee, while behind him, four modified Sabres lined up for the first torpedo launch.

The torpedoes leaped out, tracking in on the first cruiser, and seconds later detonated. Kruger's fighters swarmed in, slamming the cruiser, which appeared for a second to collapse in on itself before bursting asunder. The comm link was filled with mad screams of hatred and rage as the strike team turned towards the other cruiser.

Down in the Earth's atmosphere Doomsday could see pinpoint winks of light as point defense systems fought to knock down the incoming wave of more than a hundred missiles. And then there was a flash of light over the center of the North American continent. It looked like Chicago going up, followed seconds later by a dozen more: Pittsburgh, Boston, Miami, Quebec, then across in Northern Europe: Amsterdam, Berlin, Stockholm, Constantinople and Paris. Other flashes detonated over the primary control center; for Earth's American and European space defenses at Omaha, Rio, Tripoli, and Kiev.

He started to close towards the next cruiser, knowing in his heart that it would be too late.

"We have incoming, still closing."

The commander looked up at his tactical screen and could see that within less than a minute he would be under attack.

"First strike report?"

"Primary strategic defense centers over target areas destroyed, ground to space anti-missile defensive system seriously damaged except for point defenses."

"Second weapons load," the commander announced with a cold glee. "Prepare thermonuclear strontium clad weapons for air bursts."

He looked back at the Baron.

"We might not have the pleasure of first pounding their cities to rubble, but we'll poison them all anyhow. In a month their world will be a charnel house."

"And you call this victory," the Baron hissed. "May Sivar spit on you."

"No, I call it revenge," the commander said coldly and he turned away.

Behind him he heard the cold laughter of his guards who stepped forward to look at the screen.

"Weapons ready for launch."

The commander held up his hand, talons extended.

Baron Jukaga lunged forward, grabbing at the commander's holster and pulled out his pistol. The commander turned, wide-eyed, even as Jukaga brought the gun up, jamming it up under the commander's jaw and squeezed the trigger. The laser burst streaked through his head, the top of his skull erupting a boiling mass pouring out.

The Marine guard to his left started to turn, startled, and Jukaga dropped him in turn. He then swung about, killing the weapons officer, the blast knocking him backwards and away from the firing switch.

A stunning blow knocked Jukaga to the deck, and he realized with an almost detached emotion that he could no longer feel his legs. The shot must have severed my spinal cord, he thought, even as he brought his gun up, toppling the other guard over.

Jukaga lay back, wide-eyed, looking at the rest of the bridge crew. One of them tried to lunge for the firing panel and he dropped him and then two more. The two surviving bridge crew members stood still.

"You filthy traitor, Sivar will roast you in hell forever," one of them hissed.

Jukaga laughed softly. It was all such a wonderful joke, he realized. Just what was a traitor to a traitor, and who exactly had he betrayed? It was an interesting logic question to be certain.

He looked up at the main visual screen.

Earth actually did look beautiful; in a sense far more beautiful than Kilrah.

And then the explosion of the impacting torpedoes washed over him.

Stunned, Prince Thrakhath sat alone in the wardroom of the Craxtha's now dead commander.

The long range opticals showed the end of the drama. Their moon bases were totally shattered, but that was not the ultimate prize. Less than three eights antimatter warheads had hit Earth. The final wave of thermonuclears had never been launched.

He looked at the status reports of his losses. But one more carrier here and we could still press through to victory. But one more carrier.

All the if's started to play out in his mind. If only he had waited but five eights more days, he would have had his sixth ship, but Jukaga had to be contended with.

He looked back at the visual, glad at least that Jukaga was dead.

Another explosion shuddered through the ship and he held his breath, waiting. The explosion rumbled away.

A piping call sounded and he connected into the bridge. It was his chief navigation officer.

"Go on."

"Sir, your orders. With the engine speed we now have, we'll only be able to make it to the next jump point with less than four eights of minutes to spare ahead of those new ships coming up from Earth orbit."

Thrakhath nodded silently. They had at least crippled the human fleet: three of their five carriers gone, the third exploding only minutes ago, at least three more smashed at the moon base along with the construction yards and several eights of other ships. Nearly two eights of their major cities were now smoldering ruins. He could still pull back, his one remaining older carrier covering him, repair the damage sustained on his two surviving heavy carriers. His precious pilots would be brought back as well to fly once more off the new carriers still coming on line. If he stayed now, chances were good that they would finish this carrier off, and everything would be lost, including himself.

He looked back at the screen.

"Order the fleet to retreat," he hesitated. "The battle is over.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Geoff Tolwyn, in spite of his exhaustion, forced a smile as the shuttle craft door swung open. He walked forward, extending his hand as President Kruger, followed by Jason, Paladin, Doomsday and Richards, stepped down.

Kruger hesitated ever so briefly and then took Geoff's hand.

"Damn it all, Kruger, thank you."

"I'm rather surprised myself that I did it," Kruger said. "It was your young commodore there who just kept badgering me until finally, to shut him up, I said all right."

Geoff looked at the group and though he was afraid to ask he had to.

"Ian?"

Jason shook his head.

Geoff sighed and then came up to shake Jason's hand.

"How are you doing, sir?" Jason asked.

"A terrible day, Jason."

Jason hesitated and then finally asked.

"Kevin?"

"Missing in action," Geoff said quietly.

"He might still turn up, sir."

Geoff nodded, unable to reply.

Jason looked around at the smoke-filled flight deck.

"Looks like it was kind of rough here."

Geoff couldn't even reply. He had lost three carriers, Lexington finally succumbing to internal explosions, and over seventy percent of his pilots. First reports indicated that the Marines had suffered over ninety percent casualties. Duke Grecko was confirmed as dead, his landing craft crew telling what happened. As for the civilian pilots, their casualties were almost at one hundred percent. The primary bases on the moon were all gone, as were the drydock yards and three carriers hangared there. The casualties on Earth, he didn't even want to think about that. The only bright spot was that for some reason the Cats had not launched a wave of strontium clad thermonukes. England had been spared as well, though it seemed at the moment to be an almost selfish thing to think about.

Geoff led his guests down to his wardroom and without even asking, pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch, six tumblers and poured out six very stiff drinks, draining the bottle dry.

"To our comrades," he said quietly, and they silently drank the toast.

Geoff settled back in his chair and looked around.

"If this is victory," Geoff finally said, "I sure as hell would hate to see defeat."

"You stopped the bloody Cats at least, sir," Jason replied. "Hell, three of their super carriers blown apart, more than half their best pilots gone, forty other ships crippled. I heard the report coming in that they're dumping fighters off their carrier as they retreat, not even enough room to haul them all out."

Geoff nodded, fighting an exhaustion that had all but robbed him of any ability to do anything beyond sitting in silence and staring.

"I heard about Polowski, sir," Doomsday said.

Geoff looked over at him. When he had ordered Mike in, he knew in his heart that Polowski would get his revenge and die doing it. If the Cats had miscalculated anything, it was that. They had pushed the intimidation a notch too far, and rather than terrorize it had aroused every pilot, spacer, and Marine in the fleet to a willingness to die rather than submit. He suspected that Jukaga had realized that but it was obvious that Thrakhath never would.

The war had changed, changed far from anything that either side had ever anticipated. The manipulation of the human desire for peace had backfired, their collective rage turning the enemy back, though at best it was a Pyrrhic victory.

The Cats still had seven more heavy carriers close to completion. If they came on again, he dreaded to think what would happen. They had shot their bolt in turning back the attack. Perhaps the new dreadnought-class battleship under construction on the far side of the Confederation might reverse that, but in his heart he doubted if it would be ready in time to repulse the next attack.

All he could be certain of now was the fact that those who had survived this attack would stand united to the end. He could even see that in the eyes of Kruger, who, upon seeing him, lifted his glass in a salute.

"To the Confederation Fleet," Kruger said.

"And to comrades gone," Paladin replied softly.

"Admiral Tolwyn."

Geoff looked over at the comm screen, dreading that it was yet another battle report stating that the Kilrathi had turned about and were coming back.

"The Kilrathi?" he blurted out.

"Their carriers have already jumped through in retreat, sir, still trailing abandoned fighters. Cruisers are now jumping out as well. Picket squadrons are reporting no further action."

He let out an audible sigh of relief. The battle was really over.

"Admiral, sir, you're wanted on the port flight deck."

"Why?"

"Don't know, sir. Launch officer requested your presence, that's all."

"On my way."

Geoff stood up, his knees suddenly weak and Jason rose from his chair coming up to his side.

"I'll go down with you, sir."

Geoff smiled a thanks and looked back at his guests.

"There's another bottle in the cabinet. Finish it off," he said quietly.

"Best advice I've had in weeks, "Doomsday replied even as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the chewed on remains of the cigar Ian had given him.

"Geoff, for heaven's sake," Kruger interjected, "would you order him to get rid of that god-awful cigar? It's enough to turn my stomach."