Battlecruiser Alamo: Operation Damocles Page 24

 “You don't have to do this.”

   “Operations orders require the whole squadron,” Mallory said.

   “To hell with that,” he replied, turning to her. “I could do this mission with half the squadron if I had to, and we're already a man down.”

   The older of the two, O'Brien, he vaguely recalled, said, “Sir, we don't want to be sitting back and watching while the squadron goes out to fight.” She looked up at him, a forced smile on her face, young enough that she should be worrying about college, not planning on flying out to war.

   “That, and you want to miss out on a little action before the end of the war,” Poole said, shaking her head in disgust. “You damn rooks are all the same.”

   “Weren't you, three years ago?” Conway asked, raising an eyebrow. “You feel the same way, Vasquez?”

   “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I do.”

   “Then who am I to stop you,” he said. “Report to the flight deck.” They smiled, and he added, “Don't get any crazy ideas out there, though. You stick to me like glue, keep your eyes open, and stay in reserve unless you have to fight. With a little luck, this will all be over in an hour and we can get back in time for lunch. I expect to see you both at the table. Understood?”

   “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

   “Good.” Turning around, he said, “Ken, get everyone loaded up. I'll be down in a minute.”

   “Aye, sir.”

   The squadron filed out of the room, leaving Conway alone with his wife. He walked over to the monitor, the man still droning about the progress of the peace talks, an endless stream of meaningless verbiage designed to distract the viewer from the absence of actual news.

   “Six weeks,” he said, shaking his head. “They've been working on the final agreement for six damn weeks. What's taking them so long?”

   “Peace takes time,” she replied, draping her hand on his shoulder. “Neither side wants to concede anything. Even if all the hard talking is over.”

   “What do I care about a few scattered rocks at Wolf 359, or some mining outpost on Mercury? I want this war done, Kat. I want to go home, and I want to see our daughter again.”

   “Don't you think I want that as well?”

   He looked at her, a smile on his face, and said, “I want that for both of us. God knows we've earned some leave time.”

   “I'm staying in the Fleet,” she replied, growing stern.

   “We both are,” he said. “That doesn't mean I don't want two or three months for us. Some time we can actually spend together as a family. After all of this, I think we deserve that much.” He shook his head, and added, “You watch those communicators like a hawk, Kat. If we get the news, I'll be back before you can say abort.”

   “Don't worry, I will.” She moved away, paused, and turned. “Be careful out there, Jack. I don't want to lose you, not now. Not when we're so close to the end.”

   “I'm coming back,” he replied. “Depend on that.” As he stepped to the door, he added, “Keep an eye on Dirk, will you? Find him something to do in Operations during the strike. I don't want him moping around the ready room by himself.”

   “I'm still picking up your strays, am I?” she said with a smile.

   “You knew what you were getting into when you married me,” he said, moving close. He held her in his arms for a long moment, gazing into her eyes, and added, “Don't worry. I'm coming back.”

   “I know. I'll try and have some good news waiting for you.”

   After a final kiss, the two of them parted, Conway jogging down the corridor towards the hangar deck, weaving through the crowds of technicians milling around the station. As he slid through the double doors, the squadron was lined up at the far end of the room, in front of a table with twelve glasses and a pitcher. At the head was a tall, balding dark-skinned man, beaming a smile at him, wearing a flight suit. His old flight instructor, Moses Sullivan, the holy terror of the Academy. And a very old friend.

   “Someone told me you needed an extra pilot.”

   “Mo, you made it at last!”

   He shrugged, and said, “Thought I'd get a little action before the end. I got out of that damn training job and pulled a few strings.”

   Looking around, Conway said, “You can take Dirk's place on my wing.”

   “Someone needs to keep you out of trouble,” a husky voice said. He turned to see the imposing figure of Ginger Cruz, deck chief, walking towards him, a bottle of vodka in hand. The smile on her face was disconcerting, but everyone was in the same mood today. Moving to the glasses, she poured a precise single measure in each of them. “All systems go, sir.”

   “Thanks, Chief,” he said.

   “Don't scratch…,” she began.

   “The paintwork,” the pilots replied, all but the rookies, in practiced chorus.

   Stepping over to the table, Conway took the first glass, swirled the liquid around, and waited for the others to collect theirs. He turned to face the fighters, and raised his drink in salute, praying that he would be making this toast for the last time.

   “Good hunting,” he said, turning back to the table and pouring his glass into the jug. One after another, the rest of the pilots did the same, until only Vasquez was left, frowning at his drink, a baffled expression on his face.

   “Pour it in, lad,” Sullivan said. “You'll have it when you get back.”

   Shaking his head, he did as directed, and Conway smiled. He'd felt the same puzzlement on his first flight, when his squadron leader had led the pilots in the toast. Twelve single shots poured into the jug, to be shared out equally on the return, among the survivors. Far too often, he'd ended up with a double at the end of the mission. One last gift of the dead to their comrades.

   “Saddle up,” he said, walking over to his fighter, the rest of the squadron fanning out to their respective craft. Dropping the lower hatch, he climbed inside, patting the outer hull for luck as always, and snuggled into his couch. Cruz had done her usual fine job with the pre-flight checks, every system ready for launch, the mission orders and navigational plots already loaded into the system.

   “Squadron Leader to Guidance,” he said, sliding on his headset. “Requesting launch clearance.”

   “Roger,” the calm voice of Lieutenant Meredith Dixon, the squadron's Mission Operations Officer, replied. “Clearance on request.”

   His wife's voice cut in, saying, “Good luck, 25th, and be careful. We'll have a party waiting for you when you get home.”

   “Save the first dance for me,” he replied. “Initiating launch sequence.”

   As one, the fighters dropped through the deck, the elevator airlocks opening up, sliding them out into the cold darkness of space beyond. He quickly flicked switches, working his controls, making sure all systems were ready for the battle, concentrating harder than normal on his checklist. Too many distractions today. He glanced across at the squadron status board, and frowned.

   “Come on, people, let's get moving. I know you've got other things on your mind, but blot them out. I don't need you distracted by a lot of politicians.”

   “Roger,” Poole said. “Keep it together, Red Flight.”

   Conway's fighter dropped free, floating in space outside the station while its brethren followed, thrusters pulsing to move them into the correct formation. As one, the engines roared, kicking them onto their interception trajectory, and after a quick glance to make sure the navigation systems were working properly, he settled back to look over the tactical display, planning the strike.

   The curse of all space warfare was that there was no such thing as stealth. Twelve fighters roaring towards their target was impossible to conceal, and the enemy would have an easy twenty minutes to prepare a defense. Misdirection had to replace stealth, a strategic sleight-of-hand that kept the enemy guessing about potential targets.

   In this case, the tanker was a good choice. Cruising in betwe
en stations, as far as it ever would be from the UN defense perimeter. Normally, there would be an escort, but the other two squadrons had been running decoy missions earlier, feinting attacks to draw the defending fighters away. They'd find out soon whether or not it had worked.

   As he watched, a cluster of dots appeared on the screen, ranging out of Aldrin Station on an intercept course. His fingers danced across the navigation controls as he plotted their course, working out their window of opportunity for a strike. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice was clamoring for him to take the chance to call an abort. No one would question it, not today. Not with the war as good as won.

   When the console finished its work, calculating that the fighters would be unable to intercept until the tanker had already been destroyed, his squadron on his way home, he felt a pang of disappointment. More than a hundred times before, he'd led his people out on missions like this one, and superficially, it was the same. At the back of his mind, he knew it was different. Everyone was thinking ahead to the future, to what they would do after the War. Most of them would be out of the Fleet in a matter of weeks, able to pick their lives back up where they had been forced to leave off.

   “Sullivan to Conway.”

   “Conway here,” he said. “What's up?”

   “Oh, I thought you'd want to talk for a moment. We're on laser-tightbeam, so no one else can hear us.” He paused, and added, “You need a distraction, Jack. I can always tell.”

   “Mind-reader,” he replied. “This is as simple a mission as I've ever seen. Run in, drop our birds, burn for home.”

   “We all know...”

   “There's no such thing as a textbook mission,” Conway interrupted. “Which means we'll be careful, but there's no point dwelling on what might go wrong either. We'll handle it, or we'll run for home.”

   “I'm glad you remember some that crap I tried to teach you.”

   “Some of it had to stick.”

   Sullivan chuckled, then added, “I hate this part. Just coasting through space, letting the computers do their thing. Three minutes of terror and an hour of boredom.”

   “Old Major Marcel used to bring a book with him. Said it calmed him down.” He paused, then said, “I miss that old bastard.”

   “I know,” he replied. “We've lost too many friends along the way. Now come on, let's change the topic. How's that kid of yours?”

   “Fine. Still with Kat's folks, back at Syrtis. We're going to put in for shore-side postings for our next tour, have a chance to spend some time together for a few years.”

   “And after that?”

   “Mike Gordon thinks I should be able to get into a training command without any trouble. Not as exciting as this, but I can handle a bit of nice relaxing boredom. And I'll still get to fly fighters, as well as go home every night.” He smiled, then added, “Kat's the ambitious one, not me. She's got her eye on a ship command, maybe a battlecruiser. Give her a few years, she'll do it, as well.”

   “I'm still surprised you're both staying in the Fleet.”

   “Someone's got to watch the moat,” he replied. “I've been doing this too long, Mo. It's all I know. Kat feels the same way. What about you?”

   “I'm a twenty-year man, Jack, you know that. I reckon they'll have to drag my corpse out of the cockpit. Or out from behind the desk, if I get unlucky.”

   A chime sounded in Conway's cockpit, and he said, “Four minutes to contact. Better get the troops ready. And thanks, Mo. I needed that.”

   “My pleasure.”

   Switching channels, he said, “Leader to Squadron. Target in two hundred and thirty seconds. I want a salvo fire from all fighters, one missile each, at extreme range. Close in for a second shot if needed, but once that tanker goes up, don't wait for the word, just run for home. We've got enemy fighters incoming, so we can't wait around too long. Ken, you take point. Mo, you're in the rear.”

   “I get all the fun, boss,” Alvarez said.

   Glancing at his sensor display, Conway added, “O'Brien, stay behind me. You and Vasquez move into arrowhead formation. Keep a close watch for enemy fighters.”

   “Aye, sir,” she replied. “But we'll get plenty of warning...”

   “We hope,” he snapped. “You want to be an old pilot, not a bold pilot. Keep the risks to a minimum.”

   He watched as the squadron moved into the attack formation, a distorted wing sweeping through space, the two rookies sliding into his wake. Most of them had flown with him for months, years. They all knew what they were doing, their instincts sharpened by hundreds of flight hours. Most of them should have been relieved long ago, sent back home to recover, but they'd never had enough pilots to allow themselves that luxury. At least they'd be able to get some rest soon, once the politicians had finished their work.

   Thirty seconds to firing range, and he fired up his missile guidance system, locking on for an attack, targeting the tanker's engines. Even if it wasn't destroyed, sending it tumbling out of control would be as big a problem for the enemy.

   Then, with seconds to go, a dozen new lights appeared on the screen, a compartment underneath the tanker opening up and disgorging enemy fighters, a squadron to match his own.

   There was no time to run, no time to evade, no time for anything. No matter what they did, they'd be in the firing line for the next two hundred seconds, an eternity in fighter combat.

   “Leader to Squadron. Bandits dead ahead. Break and attack. Tally Ho!”

   Twelve missiles lanced forward as one, racing towards the approaching fighters, one brief advantage at their disposal. A quick glance at the sensor display confirmed what he had suspected. This had been a trap from the beginning, an ambush. Now they had to fight their way out of it. Two of the enemy fighters died in that first attack, a brief smile flashing across his face, but the board lit up with a host of new trajectory tracks as they launched their counter-strike, more leaping up from the fake tanker to join the fray.

   “Countermeasures!” Poole yelled. “Watch your countermeasures!”

   “Lambert, you've got three on you!” Alvarez said. “Take evasive action, now!”

   “Watch it, O'Brien, there's a pair on your tail!” Vasquez yelled, dancing with panic. “Drift across, I'll try and get them!”

   “Damn it, Scott, you've got one locked on!”

   The channels were full of chatter as the fight devolved into a series of brawls. Warning lights flashed on, missile tracks locking onto his tail, but he coolly ignored them as he fired his second warhead, catching a two-second lock on an enemy interceptor that passed in front of him. Kicking his engines to full, he dived for the tanker, smiling with satisfaction as he saw Poole, Sullivan and Vasquez try the same trick. He looked around for O'Brien, about to order her to follow, and cold realization hit him.

   One of his fighters had vanished from the sensor display. The record showed two missiles slamming into her midsection eight seconds ago, no chance to evade or dodge. Less than ten seconds, and he was already down one pilot. As he pressed his attack, swinging low towards the tanker, unleashing every countermeasures program he had at the pursuing missiles, he watched two more of his people die in front of him, Teddy Lee ramming into a warhead, and Poole losing the race for the tanker. For two years the three of them had flown together, and they died on the last day of the war.

   “Keep loose,” he said, ducking over the tanker as the two missiles on his tail slammed into it, unable to pull out in time. As bad as it was for his squadron, the enemy were faring worse, down to seven fighters. He saw Alvarez ahead of him, a missile on his tail, closing fast, and quickly locked on with his remaining warhead, sending it racing towards the deadly target.

   “Help's on the way, Ken,” he said. “Keep clear for ten seconds.”

   “Dive, Jack!” Sullivan yelled, and he turned to see a fighter swinging in behind him. He slammed on his thruster controls, slowing down just enough
to spoil the targeting solution, a missile sliding ahead and harmlessly tumbling into space.

   “I can't get ahead!” Alvarez yelled. “Jack, I can't shake him!”

   “Three more seconds,” Conway said, but it was no good. His friend ran out of time, and died in a flash of flame. The screen was rapidly clearing, only eight fighters remaining on the board, four on each side. Along with debris that could only have come from escape pods, smashed into rubble. Deliberate kills, one final atrocity for the road. A dark knot of hate flowed inside, and he turned towards the crippled tanker, out-gassing from numerous hull breaches, locking on for a collision course.

   Behind him, Sullivan, somehow still alive, led Vasquez and Lambert in a final strike pass, their last missiles racing away. Conway caught them with his targeting system, guiding them in to their target with grim precision. The tanker finally cracked into fragments as the superstructure crumpled, and shrapnel rained down all around them.

   “Break for home,” he said. “We're on the outward curve. Move it.”

   They'd finished their pass, and finally were running back for home, leaving the few scattered enemy fighters in their wake. He let Vasquez and Lambert take the lead, shaking his head at the survival of the rookie when so many other experienced pilots had died. That kid had earned his drink, after all.

   “They're still coming!” Lambert yelled, as two of the enemy fighters turned, burning their engines at maximum. The warbook showed them as being out of missiles, unarmed, and it only took him a second to realize what they were doing. A pair of dots flashed onto the display as the enemy pilots ejected, turning their fighters into missiles in their own right.

   “Full thrust!” he yelled. “Maximum boost, now!”

   “I can't shake him!” Vasquez yelled. Conway fired his engines, surging forward, trying to get between the unmanned pilot and the survivors of his squadron, but there was nothing he could do. The two empty fighters found their targets, leaving only Sullivan and Conway, serenely drifting through space towards home.

   “To hell with this,” he said, rattling the controls on his navigation computer. The second squadron was closing rapidly, and he could still lock on for an intercept.