CHAPTER TWELVE

The two inhabited worlds of Sirius glimmered in the aft screen, showing themselves as two pale green points of light in the middle of the holo display of the system. Geoff jacked up the magnification level of the holo and the further of the two planets disappeared. On the far side of the holo display a nearly solid swarm of red blips were arrayed in five large clusters. Hundreds of smaller red lights, Kilrathi strike fighters and interceptors, were moving ahead, coming straight in at his own thin blue line, behind which were positioned four large blue dots. In the middle region of space between the two groups, two V wedges of small blue dots were aiming straight in at the heart of the enemy fleet.

"Strike forces crossing into Kilrathi controlled space," a voice whispered.

The Combat Information Center, buried in the heart of Concordia was almost like a tomb, encased in a double layering of durasteel, illuminated by soft diffused light and the shimmer of holo displays and flat screens. Outside a battle was raging, in here, where the decisions were being made, the cool professionalism of his staff made it seem almost like an exercise. Yet, as he spared a glance from the holo and looked around the room he could see the grim determination. After retreating through three star systems, and impotently witnessing the annihilation of the worlds he had been forced to abandon, Geoff Tolwyn had finally turned his fleet about. The Battle of Sirius had begun.

"Blue Squadron, this is Lone Wolf. Close it up. Remember, we want the big ones, nothing else, so cover your Broadswords."

"Lone Wolf, this is Round Top, read me?"

Kevin Tolwyn smiled; it was his old comrade from the Tarawa days.

"Where are you, Chamberlain?"

"Right above you in Broadsword Two off Moskva, so be sure to cover my butt, son, while I win the glory.

"With you all the way, Round Top."

Kevin tightened the grip on his joystick, his Rapier G jiggling slightly from his nervous hold on the stick. It was certainly the biggest strike group he had ever flown with, more than two hundred and fifty fighters and attack bombers launched from four carriers. The extra fifty heavy strike craft from Saratoga were missed, the carrier still half a system away with a main engine fuel pump acting up. Two hundred and eighty fighters were being held in reserve as protection for the fleet carriers and as a second strike wave.

Kevin looked down at his tactical display. Straight ahead the individual blips of enemy fighters, corvettes, frigates and destroyers had merged into a solid wall of red.

He clicked into a side band to the main fleet communications line. A real time image of Gilead, the second inhabited planet, was being transferred out to the fleet even while the battle was about to be joined.

He was past the point of rage. The planet flickered on his screen, bursts of five hundred megaton thermonuclear warheads, clad with strontium, detonating high up in the atmosphere, destroying yet another world. The image winked off, replaced by his uncle.

"This is Tolwyn. Good luck to all of you and good hunting."

The image winked off and Kevin smile. Typical Brit understatement.

The forward edge of Rapiers, Raptors, Ferrets and Hornets, running ahead of the attack wave, slammed into the opposing wall of opposition defending the Kilrathi heavy carriers

From out of the red wall dozens of blinking orange dots appeared, aiming straight in at the attack force.

"All right, Blue team, we've got incoming antimatter area strike, the strike leader announced. "Let's bring'em up."

The strike force diverted from its straight in approach, turning up at a ninety degree angle relative to the orbital plane of the Sirius system. The area bombardment missiles started to turn to follow, the range closing. The first one winked into a white hot ball, dozens more detonating, catching half a dozen fighters at the back of the strike.

The squadrons nosed back over, following the strike commander, slicing in through the explosions, and as they came out the opposite side, the Kilrathi fighters were upon them.

Kevin fought down a moment of panic. The largest action he had ever been in was at Munro, a cakewalk attack on one carrier. Even the Academy holo simulators had never been programmed to handle the number of enemy fighters now coming in on him.

It was impossible to sort out which target to lock on. Hundreds of IFFs streaked across space and within seconds dozens of ships on both sides were exploding. The Broadsword and Sabre gunners sent out sprays of shot in every direction as wing group size attack waves by the Kilrathi came in. The four light corvettes escorting the attack dropped out sprays of chaff, jammers, and flares. The first wave passed and Kevin, ashamed, realized he had not fired even a shot.

He looked up at the Broadswords he was escorting. One was gone, another turning out of formation, spinning, its port engine blown apart, its starboard engine apparently jammed at full throttle. Its crew ejected and the ship spun away, exploding seconds later.

From out of the confusion a wave of Dralthi, Krants, and Gratha, flying nearly wing tip to wing tip, came sweeping in, forward cannons firing.

"Blue three, there's our Cats. Let's break them up."

He edged his throttle forward, leaping ahead of the Broadswords, lining up on the lead Dralthi and putting a dumb fire bolt straight into the furballs' canopy, blowing the top of the enemy fighter apart. The enemy attack broke apart, three Dralthi dead, and Kevin came around, seeing that his number three man was gone. There wasn't even time to ask.

"Keep moving in, close in maneuvering scoops," the strike commander called. "We want the carriers!"

Kevin swallowed hard, passing the order on to his squadron, and he closed scoops in.

It was no longer possible to pull the tight-in maneuvers. It was going to be a straight in high speed run.

Blasts snapped around him, missiles detonating, his number five pilot ejecting from her fighter as it crumpled up in a ball of flame.

He pulled in close under the bellies of the Broadswords he was escorting.

The outer row of enemy picket ships was straight ahead and their barrage opened up, two of the escorting corvettes taking multiple hits and disappearing. As they shot through the line of Kilrathi frigates and destroyers, more than a hundred missiles were dropped by the furballs, slashing into the squadrons, the two remaining corvettes blowing out more sprays of chaff, jammers, and flares. The curtain of distractors diverted most of the missiles, but enough found their mark and more than two dozen Confederation fighters and bombers were gone.

Kevin pulled open his visor and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. His back was soaked with sweat, the suit coolant unable to evaporate it off fast enough. His mouth felt dry, as if he had swallowed a ball of cotton and he suddenly understood why Ian had developed the revolting habit of chewing on an old cigar while in a tight spot.

Straight ahead on his tactical were five large clusters of red. He no longer needed to use the screen. Even from extreme range he could already pick out a thin sliver of reflected light.

"Bombardment groups one and two, take center carrier," the strike commander announced, and Kevin could see on the comm screen that the leader's ship had been hit, smoke in the cockpit making him barely visible, "three and four carrier to port, five and six to starboard. Range nine hundred clicks, open maneuvering scoops, full reverse thrust for deceleration in ten seconds."

"Got that, Lone Wolf?"

"Straight in we go, Round Top. Make it a good one, buddy," Kevin replied.

"Nothing less will do."

"Three, two, one, decelerate!"

Kevin pulled his maneuvering scoops wide open and slammed in reverse thrust, instantly slowing his fighter, which shuddered to a near stand still less than fifty clicks out from their target.

A swarm of Kilrathi fighters closed in on them.

There was a flash of light forward off the carrier's bow and Kevin realized that someone, driven by rage, had simply tried to ram the enemy ship. Such a maneuver at full closing speed was nearly impossible to do and the fighter had deflected off the side of the carrier's heavy shields.

"I've got initial torpedo lock," Round Top announced, "and counting at thirty, twenty nine . . ." The other strike craft that Kevin was protecting joined in with their own announcements of initial lock.

They slowly drifted in towards their target and Kevin felt as if his heart were wrapped in ice. The ship was massive, more than twice the size of any carrier he had ever seen before. He could barely spare it a glance, however, as hundreds of enemy fighters swarmed in upon them.

Within seconds he had lost the rest of his squadron in the mad melee as he twisted and turned his fighter, struggling to stay alive while at the same time desperately attempting to cover the Broadswords as they hung near motionless, waiting for their torpedoes to gain full lock.

Broadsword after Broadsword disappeared in white-hot explosions. Three Krants lined in on Round Top, his countdown still echoing in Kevin's headphones as he weaved into them, crippling one with a dumb-fired flechette spray, and destroying a second with a stream of neutron bolts cutting into the fighter's engine mounts.

The third stitched a flurry of rounds across the portside gun turret of Round Top's ship, and Kevin caught a glimpse of the gunner's body shredding to pieces, his canopy bursting into shards from the strike.

"Keep them off me," Round Top shouted. "Ten seconds and counting."

The strike squadron had drifted to within eight clicks of the carrier and what appeared to be a solid wall of mass driver rounds snaked out from the ship's bow, blowing three more Broadswords apart. Kevin struggled with his stick as a shudder ran through his fighter, starboard shielding overloading and a laser hit sheered of the last meter of his wingtip.

He turned inside the laser beam, blowing out reflective chaff which temporarily blinded the laser's target lock, the beam skewing across his bow, cutting a gouge into the forward durasteel armor.

"Three, two, one, it's away!"

The fifteen surviving Broadswords out of the thirty in the strike group launched their torpedo loads. Round Top, along with half the remaining ships, were armed with the laser lock guidance and they turned upwards making sure that the laser emitters were pointed at the torpedoes.

The space between the attacking fighters and the carriers turned into an insane explosion of anti-torpedo missiles, dogfighting ships, and point defense blasts from the Kilrathi carrier.

"We've got lock, we've got holding lock," Round Top shouted.

Kevin turned his fighter to circle around Round Top and saw yet another swarm of Kilrathi fighters cutting in, dropping a wall of missiles on the surviving Broadswords.

"Round Top, evasive, evasive!"

"Can't! We still have lock, three seconds, two, one . . ."

Kevin screamed with rage as five missiles detonated across the top of his friend's Broadsword. The ship simply disappeared.

From off his portside wing he saw four torpedoes impacting on the carrier's bow. In the silence of space it seemed some how surreal, as if a holo movie was being played out. For a brief instant the carrier disappeared behind the exploding curtain of antimatter warheads. He waited for the secondary explosions to begin.

"Scratch one flattop," someone screamed on the commlink. "We've got the bastard!"

And as he waited, the carrier emerged from out of the fire. Its forward bow, and for nearly a hundred meters back, was a twisted wreckage, but the ship continued to purposefully move forward.

Making sure his gun cameras were still on, Kevin turned in towards the carrier.

Wreckage was trailing off from the bow of the ship as he raced in and he could see fires flaring inside the ruins of the forward portside launch bay. He crossed up and over the top of the carrier and then suddenly the anti-aircraft defenses of the carrier kicked back on.

She still had internal power — it was impossible after four torpedo strikes!

Jinxing to throw off the gunners, he raced down the length of the ship, passing one of the aft launch bays. He locked his camera into a laser designator and swung the designator in on the bay. On his small comm screen he caught a quick glimpse inside the ship. Another fighter was coming down the launch ramp, afterburners flaming. Internal lighting was still on and launch crews were purposefully working, some of them still picking themselves up, shaking off the after effects of the torpedo hammer blows. The image disappeared as he flashed across the stem of the ship.

He looked up and saw that more than a dozen Kilrathi fighters were streaking in to pick him off and he went into a violent spin, cutting down over the stern of the ship, his fighter bucking and shuddering as he got caught in the exhaust plume of the carrier.

He punched through into the fleet comm channel.

"White Wolf, this is Blue One. No joy, repeat, no joy, carrier still running after four torpedo hits. Catch my video transmit."

He sent the signal through and then looked at his tactical.

Space was dotted solid with red, with only an occasional blue dot. The strike force had shot its bolt and been destroyed, and the Kilrathi Fleet continued on in.

Sick at heart, Admiral Tolwyn silently watched as the action reports came in. He coughed again, wiping the tears from his eyes. The Combat Information Center was still filled with smoke, the air filtration plant still off line from the torpedo hit to Concordia.

"Message from Moskva, sir."

"Put it on man."

A young woman, blood trickling down from her forehead, appeared in the flat wavery image.

"Where's Ching?"

"Dead, sir. Last hit took out the bridge."

He nodded silently. Damn.

Sir, we have to abandon ship, all engines are dead. We're moving on inertia and one bank of maneuvering thrusters only. Secondary generators are going off line, hull integrity lost in sixty-three percent, remaining bulkhead are leaking and will rupture with one more hit."

"Get your people into the escape boats. I'll have Polowski stand by to pick up survivors."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"You fought her well, lieutenant, you fought her well."

He looked back at the action reports that streamed in across the monitors.

Two of the new carriers and one of the old ones had been hit in his strike. The old style carrier was gone, but the two new ones still appeared to be relentlessly moving forward. In return, all four of his carriers had been hit. Verdun was lost with all hands. and now Moskva was finished Leyte Gulf, which had only joined him this morning, had one bay down from a direct hit. Of the more than four hundred and eighty strike craft and bombers he had launched three hours ago, less than two hundred and twenty were still able to fly. Worst of all was the loss of Broadswords; less than a quarter had returned. Estimates of Kilrathi fighter loss stood at just over seven hundred. He knew the figure would be cut once the debriefing teams had a chance to look at all the camera footage. In short, he had lost.

He looked at the status plot boards. Only twenty-nine Broadswords and twenty modified Sabres were armed and ready for a second strike. Already the Kilrathi were sending up their next strike wave which was even stronger than their first as they shifted craft over from defensive to offensive operations. He turned back to his strategic communications officer, who was burst signal linked back to Earth.

"Latest reported position of Saratoga?"

"Still six hours twenty-one minutes short of jump point 3A."

Geoff looked back at his main nav screen. Jump Point 3A, the connecting link back from Sirius towards Earth was an hour behind him.

Saratoga would never come up in time to help repel the next attack, let alone be able to aid in a second strike.

"Signal all ships by laser link. We are withdrawing from Sirius."

His bridge crew looked around at him startled.

"We'll be swarmed under in the second strike. If I thought we had a chance of hitting them back hard enough, I'd do it. There's no sense in dying for no reason."

"What about Sirius, sir?" a helm ensign asked angrily. "Damn it, sir, that's my home."

"Son, it's finished whether we stay here and die, or leave. We need time to repair damaged planes, get Leyte's port launch bay back on line and prepare a second strike. Saratoga will nearly double our heavy strike fighter strength if we fall back on her."

The ensign looked around, realizing he had spoken way out of turn to a full admiral. He started to open his mouth again and was restrained by his section lieutenant who took him by the shoulder and turned him away.

Gilead, the smaller of the two worlds, was already flaming ruins. Sirius Prime, thirty nine million clicks to port, was now wide open and already a section of Kilrathi cruisers was turning towards it. He didn't even want to think about how many people were down there.

"Helm, turn us about. Let's get the hell out of here," he snarled.

"Recall those cruisers now!"

Prince Thrakhath turned to gaze coldly at Baron Jukaga.

"Growing soft, my good Baron?"

"Your senseless barbarism will only arouse them further. You've made your point, now spare the second planet. Show mercy and it still might weaken their will."

"Terror breeds terror, Baron."

"Terror can also breed fanaticism and hatred. Your demonstration at Warsaw did not intimidate the humans, instead it caused them to stop their internal bickering and unite. You know nothing of humans. Senseless bombardments of their civilian populations have always tended to unite them. The deliberate destruction of entire worlds with radiation will cause them to fight us tooth and nail to the death rather than surrender."

"And that s what you wanted, wasn't it, surrender?"

The Baron attempted to control his loathing and rage.

"You are a barbarian," he snapped. "We could have undermined them, let their natural weaknesses play into our hands. You have gone on a rampage and destroyed eleven of their worlds so far, and their fleet is still intact.

"We just crippled it, or weren't you watching?"

"They still have fight left in them. Remember, Prince Thrakhath, the new fleet is to serve two purposes: one to win this war, and second to prepare us for the Mantu if they should ever return. You are now gambling that fleet in your drive for vengeance on the humans."

"Not vengeance, extinction."

Sickened, the Baron turned away. He knew now that the accusations were right. Study one's enemy for too long and in the end you might come to admire them. He did not admire the humans, the very essence of his nature prevented that, but he could acknowledge them as something more than mere prey to be slaughtered. His plan, if it had been allowed to be played out, might very well have resulted in a near bloodless victory, a Confederation completely divided, lulled by peace, and then psychologically overwhelmed when the dozen new carriers appeared. It all suddenly became very clear.

"You allowed that recon ship of the humans to slip into Hari space and then allowed it to escape. You wanted the peace ended, didn't you?"

"In spite of your claims of intellect, Baron, you are often rather slow at figuring things out."

"You wanted this war to end in a blood bath. You were the one who triggered the bomb in the human headquarters.

Prince Thrakhath smiled.

"You were never a prisoner of the humans. I was. You have not lost comrades to them, I have. I shall rise to the Imperial Throne, hailed as the conqueror of the humans and winner of this war, while as for you . . ." and he leaned over, touching a button on his console.

The doors to his wardroom were flung open and four Imperial Marine guards stepped in.

"Escort the Baron to his quarters and make sure he is very comfortable."

"Are you arresting me?"

Prince Thrakhath shook his head.

"Let us say that there are certain questions to be asked of you later, once the battles are completed and I am secure in my victory."

Baron Jukaga smiled coldly.

"Don't underestimate Tolwyn and his people. They are not finished yet."

"They soon will be, Baron," and he laughed coldly as Jukaga was lead from the room.

"How are you, Geoff?"

Geoff looked up in surprise as "Big" Duke Grecko walked into his private quarters.

Geoff started to get up from his cot and Duke motioned for him to relax while he pulled a chair around and sat down across from Tolwyn.

"What the hell are you doing out here, Duke?"

"Can't keep the Marines in port when the action starts. I'm not interfering out here, Geoff, but I thought I should come out and have a look."

"You got the after action report then?"

Duke nodded glumly.

"It was relayed up to my frigate a couple of hours ago."

"I screwed up, Duke. I should have fallen back from Sirius and then held here with Saratoga joined in for the strike."

"You couldn't abandon Sirius without a fight. Civilian morale would have gone off the deep end."

"So we lose two carriers and still lose Sirius."

"At least you bloodied them."

"One old carrier destroyed, one damaged and one of their new carriers reported heavily damaged, but no kills on the new fleet. Which is what I wanted.

"We're reporting that big carrier as dead for now," Duke said quietly.

"I never liked doing that."

"Sometimes we have to, and for all practical purposes it is dead at the moment."

"So what do you want, Duke?" Geoff asked, cutting straight to the point.

"I'm ordering you to fall back on Earth."

"What? Hell, Duke, if they break our line there they'll fry Earth in a matter of minutes.

"I know, but we've been busy. By the time you pull back, Lexington and Ark Royal will be on line."

"How? The jump engines on Lex and Ark Royal were fully out for realignment, and core reactors had been dumped."

"If we're fighting inside the home system we won't need jump engines and both ships have one reactor back up and running."

"They'll be sitting ducks."

"They'd be sitting ducks in the dockyard anyhow. At least they can still launch fighters."

Though neither one said it, they both knew as well that the two additional carriers would serve as targets, forcing the Kilrathi to spread out their attack.

"Mars is the closest planet in towards the jump line," Duke continued. "We've packed every landing field there full of every damn fighter, trainer, and even civilian light craft."

"You've got to be kidding. I stripped out every good plane and pilot before I left. Put what's left into space and they'll die like flies."

Duke nodded.

"And the Kilrathi will burn up ammunition while some of our people still get in for another strike."

He knew it was better than a desperate stand out here with no hope of winning. If he stood now, it'd only delay the inevitable by maybe a day or two at most.

"Our psych analysis people tell me that even if you abandon this key jump point, Thrakhath will not spread out into the inner worlds until he completes his kill of you and Earth. The bastard hates your guts, according to psych, for too many humiliations. He wants your hide almost as much as he wants Earth. He'll follow you straight in."

"You know, Duke," Geoff said quietly, "even with the additional material and manpower, they still have us. You saw what happened to my last strike, and those boys were the finest pilots in the fleet."

"I know, Geoff, I know. But there's one more idea I sort of cooked up on my own, that might help things out."

"What?"

And as Duke told him, Admiral Tolwyn came to his feet.

"You're mad, Duke, that's senseless murder. You're bloody mad to even think of it."

"And that's why it might work," Duke said with a cold smile.

"My lord Thrakhath."

He turned to look at a holo display of his bridge captain.

"The latest report, sire."

"Go on."

"The human fleet is turning about, retreating back towards Earth."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, my lord."

That caught him slightly off guard. He had thought that Tolwyn would make his final stand here. One system past Sirius, eight jump lines diverged outward into the inner worlds of the Confederation and also back outwards towards the frontier. Control of the next system would be a major victory in and of itself. Yet he was abandoning it now without a fight. Damn him.

"Latest intelligence report?"

"Three carriers still confirmed with their Third Fleet. Intelligence is still working on their latest code but we have picked up a civilian channel reporting that a carrier left its Earth base six hours ago, and that a second carrier is moving up to join the fleet. The signal was from one of their news stations and its coding simple to break."

"The stupid fools."

"Our latest damage report?"

"Tarvakh is still contending with internal fires, all three forward launch bays are closed. Yu'ba'tuk's main shield generator is still off line and one launch bay closed."

"Secondary shielding?"

"At ninety-one percent, expected to upgrade to ninety— three within the hour."

"Fighter losses?"

"Heavy, sire. Seven eight-of-eights and two eights today. Eight eight-of-eights and five eights total."

Not good at all . The Empire could invest all it wanted on new carriers that were next to indestructible, but at the core, it still came down to having fighters that were equal to or better than the latest Confederation designs, and pilots who were trained to fly them. It had always been the weak edge. Except for the handful of Stealth fighters possessed by the Empire, fighter design and pilot training had never fully kept up with that of the humans. The emergencies of the last two years had forced them to repeatedly reach into the academies and throw half-trained cadets into action — where most of them died within a matter of days. The survivors were tough, but there were always too few.

He looked at what he had left and made his decisions.