Interceptor (Strike Commander Book 2)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Appendix A: The Triplanetary Confederation

  Appendix B: Triplanetary Rank Structure

  Appendix C: Further Reading...

  INTERCEPTOR

  Richard Tongue

  Copyright © 2016 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: August 2016

  Cover By Keith Draws, 3D starship models by Jason Archer.

  With thanks to Ellen Clarke and Rene Douville

  All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

  Chapter 1

   Lieutenant-Captain Jack Conway walked onto the bridge of his ship, the Covert Carrier Churchill, shaking his head for the hundredth time at the transformation that had taken place over the last month. Under his command it had been a tramp freighter, a decommissioned fighter tender from the Interplanetary War taken into civilian service, perpetually behind on her maintenance schedule and struggling to make a living out on the frontiers of known space.

   All of that had changed when he and his crew had stumbled into a conspiracy at the highest levels of the Triplanetary Confederation. Framed for treason and murder, they'd been forced to join forces with a rogue intelligence agent, one with sufficient connections of his own to provide a complete overhaul, bringing the ship back to the cutting-edge of technology. Every bridge console had been ripped out and replaced, dull chromium and flickering readouts replaced with touch-pads and holographic displays. Somehow, it just wasn't the same.

   Even his crew looked different, wearing the uniforms of the Triplanetary Fleet, all of them brought back into the military they had fought for during the war, long years ago. Moses Sullivan, his old friend and flight instructor, sat at the Flight Engineering station at the rear, with Meredith Dixon riding the communications and sensor console, and Max McGuire working his magic at the electronic warfare suite.

   And his ex-wife, Lieutenant-Captain Kathryn Mallory sat in the command chair.

   That had been the strangest part of this mission, thus far. To say that they had divorced on bad terms would be an understatement, and aside from the requirements of duty, they hadn't exchanged more than half a dozen words since she came on board his ship. Just enough to work out a division of responsibilities that suited them both. He commanded both the mission and the fighter squadron resting in the launch bay, another gift from their new benefactor. She commanded the ship, and he had to admit she had rare talent in that role. The tactical officer and navigator had come on board with her, survivors from the attack on her station by their shared enemies.

   “How are we doing?” he asked, moving in behind the command chair.

   “Emergence in three minutes,” she replied. “I've ordered all hands to alert stations.”

   Raising an eyebrow, he said, “We're supposed to be on a covert mission...”

   “Relax, boss,” McGuire languidly answered. “Everything's sealed nice and tight. No one will know that we're baring our teeth unless we have to bite them.”

   “I hope so,” he said.

   Reaching down for a datapad, Mallory replied, “All sensors are ready to begin a full sweep of the system as soon as we leave hendecaspace, and Ensign Morgan is standing by in the astrogation suite to analyze the data. If the Stygians ever reached this system, we should know about it soon.”

   Turning from her station, Dixon said, “We've been here half a dozen times, and I've never heard anyone talk about alien artifacts before. This system has been occupied since before the War, and I'd have thought someone would have noticed.” Looking at the viewscreen, she added, “I still think we're on a wild goose chase.”

   “Maybe, but it's the best lead we've got,” he replied.

   “One crank writes a book, and we go shooting off to the far side of the frontier,” Dixon said, shaking her head. “All Petrov's ever discovered is the fastest way to make a credit.”

   “Two minutes to emergence,” Clayton, the recently commissioned helmsman replied. A few months ago she'd been at the Academy, dreaming of adventures in the wild depths of space. Now she was wanted for mutiny and murder like the rest of them, framed for crimes they hadn't committed.

   Somewhere in the depths of space was the Stygian homeworld, lost among the stars, and the conspiracy that had massacred the crews of two Triplanetary stations was willing to do anything to find it first. No matter what their secret was, Conway and his crew had to beat them too it. Even if it cost all of them their lives.

   “All stations report,” Mallory said, glancing down at her status panel.

   “Tactical systems ready,” Acting Lieutenant Finch replied. Another officer who seemed far too young for his job. Conway looked across at him, shaking his head. Most of his crew had served together, had known each other for years, and were fighting for their lives before Finch had even been born. Still, Mallory was convinced that he was the best choice for the job, and that would do for him. For the moment.

   “Helm systems ready,” Clayton added. Conway had fewer qualms about her, even if she was still less experience. Though he'd hate to admit it, flying was a young man's game, and if he was in the Fleet for real, he'd have been grounded more than a decade ago.

   “Engineering station ready,” Sullivan said.

   “Sensors and communications systems ready,” Dixon said, running her hands across her controls. “I've set up a full-spectrum passive scan of the system, with the data from Abydos and Karnak built in. If there is anything out here, we'll find it.”

   All eyes were on McGuire, and after a moment, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Hell, I'm ready. You need to ask?”

   “Thirty seconds,” Clayton said.

   “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant. You have the call.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” she replied. “I have the call.”

   With a blinding blue flash, Churchill emerged from the dimensional tear to return to normal space, the stars appearing on the viewscreen with comforting familiarity. No matter that humans had been traveling through hendecaspace for a century, it still felt wrong, somehow. As though they were violating a law that should never be broken.

   At the heart of the view were the billowing green clouds of Yukon, the only inhabited planet in the system, surrounded by a shining purple ring, the relic of the destruction of its innermost moon scant millions of years ago. Even without the commercial interests on the world, the place would be popular just for the view.

   “Multiple targets in-system,” Dixon said. “We're getting a lot of activity in orbit. A Rhodan-class freighter hanging over the colony, and a dozen shuttles are moving back and forth. Communications chatter is spiking, but no one's called us yet.”

   “That's odd,” Conway said. “Local traffic control is usually red-hot.”

   Tapping a control, Dixon replied, “I can't raise them at all. No signal. Not even the navigational beacon.” She paused, then added, “I'm getting the freighter, though.”

   “Put the
n through,” Mallory said, sitting back in her chair. “Someone might know what's going on here.”

   The image switched to a view of desolation, a smashed control center that had obviously been the site of a recent battle, consoles and systems smashed and trickles of smoke rising to the ceiling. A dead body was hunched at the rear of the room, slumped against the wall, pistol danging from his hand. Standing in front of the pickup was a tall, thin man with a ragged mustache, a gleaming smile on his face.

   “Two ships in one day,” he said, shaking his head. “I am Julian Dubois, and I am the Director of, shall we say, the Harpooners. I suggest you take a long look at the condition of this ship, and if you wish to avoid a similar fate, that you surrender to my forces at once.” Glancing to his right, he added, “I have already ordered by strike forces to launch. If you give in, I will guarantee your crew safe passage to the surface. Resist, and I cannot be answerable to the consequences.”

   Mallory glanced at Conway, who started to make for the door, and replied, “There's only one answer I can give to such a gracious invitation, Director.”

   “And that is?”

   “Battle Stations.” Turning to Dixon, she said, “Get that bastard off my screen.”

   “Yes, ma'am,” Dixon replied, a smile on her face, as she broke the channel. Conway raced through the door, jogging down the corridor towards the hangar bay with a chorus of sirens ringing all around him as he made his way to his fighter. Sullivan sprinted after him, racing to catch up, still wearing his headset from the bridge.

   “Just like old times,” he replied with a toothy grin, panting for breath as he raced for his cockpit.

   The double doors of the launch deck were already open for them, the rest of the squadron already heading for their ships. Churchill carried two types of fighters, the Spearfish interceptors, long and sleek, fast and deadly, and the slower, heavier Vulcan fighter-bombers, designed for long-range patrol and attacks on larger targets.

   Chief Cruz walked over to him, shook her head, and said, “Everything's ready, boss. All planes have completed pre-flight, armament loaded and checked.” She glanced at the two youngest members of the squadron, over at the rear, and said, “You nervous about the rooks?”

   “They've got to get their first taste of battle sometime,” he replied. “Now is as good a time as any, I guess.” He glanced at the two flight-suited figures, Fernandez and Sterling, both of them just out of the Academy. On paper, they were both fine pilots, but until they'd been in action, how they would perform for real was anyone's guess. He'd placed them in the Spearfish flight, in the interceptors. They needed the faster reflexes anyway, and if they were lucky, they'd miss the brunt of the fighting. The Vulcans would be bearing the brunt of the battle.

   “Now hear this,” Finch's voice said, echoing from the ceiling speaker. “Enemy forces have launched four fighters on direct intercept course. Squadron Scramble.”

   “You heard the man,” Conway said, climbing into his cockpit, giving the fighter a friendly pat on the flank as he settled down into his chair. “Mount your horses, and let's get out of here.” He looked to the left and right, Sullivan sliding into his fighter, and his other wingman, Dirk Xylander, into his. To the rear, Lieutenant-Major Bennett, another officer on loan from Intelligence, watched her charges as they prepared for battle, flashing him an annoyed glance as her cockpit locked shut.

   “Cruel to leave her with the rookies, skipper,” Xylander said.

   “You'd rather have the job?” he replied. “Red Leader to Churchill Tactical. Request launch clearance.”

   “Confirmed, Red Leader,” Finch replied. “Clearance on request. Good hunting.”

   “Thank you, Churchill.” He threw a pair of switches, and his fighter started to slide down, passing through the double hatches of the elevator airlock on its way out of the ship, the rest of the squadron following a second behind. Lights flashed on his control console as the on-board systems completed their last diagnostic check, data washing over his display as he glanced. He knew the launch routine by heart, throwing switches and pressing controls by rote, just as he had in the War.

   As the lower hatch dropped, the fighter was tossed free of the ship, the same centrifugal force that provided their artificial gravity giving him a gentle kick to send him on his way. For a second, the stars seemed to tumble, before the automatic stabilizers fired in a rhythmic pattern to bring him back into formation.

   While he waited for the others to join him, he called up his tactical display. The enemy were playing it carefully, four fighters approaching in attack formation. Old Corsairs, appropriately enough, a United Nations design that had been cutting-edge when he fought them during the war. The captured transport loomed ahead, a trio of shuttles flying away, making for the safety of the belt. Dubois might talk a good game, but he didn't seem to want to face the battle for himself.

   “Strike Commander to Squadron,” he said. “Red Group will take the lead on advance intercept. Green Group to fill in any gaps.”

   “Green Leader...” Bennett began.

   “Your ships are faster, but they don't have the range. I want you to fly defensive, just in case any of them get through.” Left unspoken was their mutual desire to keep the inexperienced pilots out of the fight if possible. Sooner or later, they'd have to be blooded, but perhaps not today. “Red Group, form on me, arrowhead formation. Let's go get them.”

   As one, the engines of the three Vulcans burned, throwing them onto an intercept trajectory with the approaching fighters. He glanced across the comparative schematics, his computer throwing them up as though reading his mind. Three against four wasn't ideal, but it was nine missiles against eight when he compared their weapon load-outs. As far as he could tell, none of the incoming fighters had been modified. Looking down at his missile controls, he smiled. While he'd resisted any attempts to modernize his fighter, he'd been happy to take the latest, most advanced missiles Triplanetary Intelligence could provide. Unless he was mistaken, he and his squadron would have the advantage.

   “Two minutes to combat range,” he said. “Six missile salvo at fifteen seconds plus, then fire at will to finish them off. We know this song, people. I expect you all to get the words right. Leader Out.”

   He settled back in his couch, tapping instructions into the targeting computer, watching the display as beams of laser light danced between the ships, pulses of information to ensure that their strike was precisely targeted, that everything happened at the right moment. Space combat consisted of long stretches of boredom punctuated by seconds of adrenaline-fueled terror, and this battle would be no exception.

   Looking out at the starfield, he started to remember past battles, more than a decade ago when he flew this very fighter into action, in battles all across this part of the galaxy. He'd thought that those days were behind him, that he'd never sit in a cockpit again, and the one part of their current nightmare that gave him any consolation at all was that he'd been proved wrong about that. No matter the circumstances, this felt right, somehow, in a way he couldn't define.

   Turning to the rear view, he watched as Bennett corralled her pilots into position, setting themselves up to pick up anything that broke through their attack. Nine against eight suggested at least the possibility that three of the fighters would get through the defensive screen, but an unarmed fighter was helpless, vulnerable. They'd break, and run for home. Wherever that might be.

   “Red Leader to Churchill,” he said. “We got any idea where these bastards came from?”

   “Somewhere in the rings,” Finch replied. “We're trying to narrow it down right now.”

   “We'll worry about that later,” Mallory added. “Keep your head in the game, Red Leader.”

   Flicking the channel closed with the snap of a switch, he shook his head and sighed in frustration. Less than sixty seconds to firing range, and the enemy fighters were still holding their formation. An inexperienced
commander, by appearances. If he'd been leading the strike, the incoming fighters would be scattered all across the sky, closing from so many vectors that they could get some use out of their numerical superiority. As it was, they were squandering their one advantage. Not that he was complaining.

   “Firing range!” he said, and four new targets tracked onto the screen, confirming his assessment of their abilities. Only an inexperienced pilot fired at maximum range. With only two missiles apiece, giving the enemy enough time to react was a mistake that would cost them dearly. A glance at his countermeasures control brought a smile to his face. McGuire was already at work cracking into the control systems of the incoming warheads, sowing as much confusion as he could into the mix.

   A light flashed on, and his ship rocked back as two of his missiles raced away, joining their counterparts from the rest of the squadron to form a wave of destruction sweeping towards the enemy craft. Immediately, two of the fighters launched their remaining missiles, locking them onto the approaching salvo before turning and breaking for home, desperately spilling their velocity while their braver counterparts pressed their attack.

   “Tally-ho, Tally-ho,” he said. “Break and attack.”

   “Roger that, Leader,” Sullivan said with relish, arcing to the right with Xylander to take one of the remaining ships. Conway glanced at the two that were retreating and shook his head. Better to let them run back to their base, giving Churchill an easy time in tracking them down. He swung his fighter across at the single remaining target, still attempting its attack run, and ranged in towards it, readying his remaining missile for attack.

   Now far behind, the Spearfish flight began to accelerate, racing into position to intercept the two approaching fighters, should they get through, but Conway had no intention of allowing the last of his prey to attack. He heard a triumphant shout from Xylander, his missile crashing into his target, bringing the pirate's flight to an explosive end.