Second Earth (22 page)

  
Melissa Graves,
short of breath from running through more corridors than she could count,
arrived in the hangar area just as Shawn’s fighter was about to launch.

  
At the same moment
she’d entered the hangar, the pulse wave fully overtook the interceptor, then
instantly reversed its course just as the
Rhea
’s
launch computer released the craft from its proverbial anchor. The result was
instantaneous. The wave, assisted by the fighter’s engines, pushed at the stern
of the Maelstrom in a flash of brilliant light, rocketing the craft to
impossible speeds as it barreled down the launch tube. The Maelstrom didn’t
offer a single shudder as it slid along the tube and was ejected into the void.

  
The rush of air
from the wave tousled Melissa’s hair, and she had to hold the majority of it
back as she watched the fighter depart.

  
“Shawn Kestrel,”
she said quietly to the now-empty space. “You’d better take care of yourself
and come back alive.”

  
Once clear of the
Rhea
, Shawn turned the fighter to port,
quickly reveling in the freedom of open space once more. The celebration was
short-lived. Just as he finished his turn, he watched as two Seminole fighters
burst into flames under the onslaught from four of the alien fighters. Their
debris pelted the side of his craft, causing no apparent damage. Shawn pushed
his fighter full forward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the
unusual-looking forms that sped past his canopy.

  
Shawn watched out
his canopy as the two forces engaged once another, and in the chaos that ensued
he realized with abhorrence that war had once again come to the Beta
Quadrant.
 

  
S
hawn
brought the nose of his fighter up to get a clearer visual of the combat area.
In front of him he could see the swarm of fighters—both friend and foe—pulsing
and flowing around one another in the silent dance that was space combat. He
quickly touched the matrix display to his left, bringing up his midrange radar
and sensor output. He wanted to link up with the rest of his squadron, but he
feared it might be difficult as he rapidly neared the fray.

  
On the screen
before him was a highlighted blue circle, about twelve inches in diameter,
which showed each of the craft in a fifty-mile radius around his fighter. None
of the enemy craft had made it behind his position, which was now just over
halfway between the
Rhea
and the
still-unidentified enemy carrier.

  
Is the alien vessel a carrier?
he asked
himself. It had given the outward appearance of a cruiser, or perhaps a large
destroyer. But that was before it had released its own protective screen of
fighters. Shawn looked at the screen, watching what seemed like evenly matched
forces battle it out in the vacuum of space, high above the blue-white gem
known as Second Earth.

  
I wonder if the intruder has committed all
its forces as the Rhea has, or is it still holding another attack wing in
reserve inside its bulk?
There was no way to know for
certain. In any event, Shawn knew he could only deal with what was in front of
him. The rest would come as it may.

  
He gripped the
control stick with his right hand, conscious of the way the handle’s non-slip
surface felt through his black glove. His grip wasn’t too tight, as a rookie
might hold it; nor was it too loose, the sure sign of overconfidence in a
machine that was, after all, built by fallible beings. The air inside the
cockpit was a comfortable sixty-eight degrees, which afforded him the ability
to keep the transparent blast shield of his helmet in the upright position. In
the event he would need to eject, or jettison the forward half of the ship’s
fuselage, his mask would instantly fold down to protect him.

  
Shawn’s left hand
hovered over the T-shaped throttle control, not at all dissimilar to ancient
airplanes or their more modern relatives that many planet-dwellers still seemed
to enjoy as a pastime. He slid the handle back toward him, reveling in the
near-silent thrust the ion drivers provided. His thoughts again drifted back to
the early lighter than air craft and their now-primitive methods of propulsion.
Long gone were the clunky, noisy, fossil-fuel-driven reciprocating engines of
the past. Modern enthusiasts appreciated the peace and quiet of magnetic
induction drive if they yearned for a propeller to haul them aloft. Shawn much
preferred the ion drive of his Maelstrom; a highly modified but very similar
system to the one that propelled his one true love, his
Sylvia’s Delight
. No…no fighter could ever take her place in his
heart. However, this wasn’t the time or place for his beautifully worn-down,
somewhat temperamental but highly reliable Mark-IV transport. This was a time
for fighters, when he needed the speed and maneuverability that only an
interceptor could provide.
D
would
still be there waiting for him, assuming the carrier was still there when this
was all over.

  
The radar display
in front of him pivoted as his craft banked slightly to starboard, and in the
field of multi-colored icons representing the various squadrons from the
Rhea
, the familiar glowing yellow glyphs
that represented his Rippers came into view. The first craft he saw was
Ripper-Two, Raven’s craft. Shawn reached for the glyph on the screen and tapped
it, opening a secure communications channel with his executive officer.

  
“Raven, this is
Hawk. I have you on my scope at two miles.”

  
“Stand by,
Skipper,” she said.

  
On his radar, Shawn
noticed a red blip representing an enemy craft just in front of her ship. He
watched as Roslyn unleashed a short-range missile that gracefully obliterated
the craft. A half-second later her voice came back over the tactical
communications network.

  
“Glad you could
make it out here, boss,” she said with obvious delight. “What on Third Earth
took you so long?”

  
“I got held up by
some paperwork. Status report, Commander?”

  
“Not good,” her
voice was crestfallen. “We…we lost Satellite about three minutes ago. Weasel is
down, but not out. He’s limping back to the carrier now—and under extreme
protest, I might add.”

  
Combat pilots had
little time to mourn the loss of their friends while they were still engaged in
the fighting. That was reserved for later—if there was to be a later. Shawn
made no exception to that age-old rule at this time. “Understood. What about the
rest of the space wing?”

  
“The ELINTs of the
Star Kings have been cut in half, so the Discoverers are pulling double-duty to
get us as much intel as they can manage. Our electronic jamming force has been
knocked in half. We lost half the Sparks and most of the Shockers in the first
few seconds, not that their efforts were all that effective.”

  
Shawn knew that her
remarked carried no insult intended for their fallen comrades. It simply meant
that this new enemy was somehow immune to their current way of deploying
electronic countermeasures. Still, to hear of the loss of dozens of craft and
even more good officers, he became even more resolute. He swore he would not
let those pilots have fallen in vain.

  
“Can you give me
any more on that?”

  
“It’s strange,
Skipper. It’s like the countermeasures had no effect on the enemy craft at all.
They don’t seem to be susceptible to conventional electromagnetic jamming of
any kind.”

  
“That doesn’t seem
possible,” Shawn said, right before an explosion lit up his port side. He
looked out of the cockpit a moment too late, unable to determine if it were
friend or foe that had been the cause of the short-lived fireball. “What about
the rest of the interceptors?”

  
“The Hunters, the
Golden Suns…what’s left of the Black Lions and the rest? We’re all just holding
our own at this point. These enemy fighters are nimble and deadly fast, but not
unstoppable.”

  
“Any noticeable
weak points?”

  
“Their dorsal side
appears to be the least armored. Short-range cannons can do the trick in just a
few shots, assuming you can get one of the bastards to show his belly for
longer than five seconds. I’ll link up with your onboard computer and send you
what we have so far.”

  
In the top left
corner of Shawn’s tactical screen, an image indicated that he was receiving
data from Raven’s fighter. A moment later, the blue circle of the radar shrunk
to half its normal size, slid itself into the top left corner of the HUD, and
was replaced by the three dimensional image of one of the enemy fighters.

  
It was unlike
anything Shawn had ever seen before. It had a loose delta-wing configuration,
with long tips expanding out from what could be called wingtips. There was
another protrusion extending from the top aft of the craft, and another—twice
as large as the one on the top—pointing down and aft from the craft’s belly. It
looked like the skeleton of some enormous, multi-tailed bat. Considering this
was Sector Command’s first encounter with this design, the onboard computer had
seen fit to classify the craft as an Alpha—the generic term for anything it
couldn’t immediately discern.

  
The Alpha was
instantly replaced by the image of a Beta, a similar-looking fighter, but with
the inclusion of a wide scoop-like protrusion under the bottom center of the
fuselage. Based on combat data, the computer had identified this mouth-like
structure as a multi-tubed missile launcher.

  
After studying the
two images for a moment longer, Shawn spoke into the communications receiver.
“All we’ve seen are these two kinds, these Alphas and Betas?” he asked Raven.

  
“Those two have
been plenty of trouble, Skipper,” Roslyn replied emphatically. “Considering
we’re still in the process of figuring out their maneuvering capabilities, we
don’t need any more visitors.”

  
“Understood,” Shawn
heartily agreed.

  
“Orders, sir?”
Raven asked, effectively turning control of the squadron over to Kestrel.

  
A plan was forming
in his mind. Whether or not it would succeeded, however, was a different matter
entirely. “Hail the rest of the Rippers and have them form up on my wing.”

  
“Strength in
numbers?” she asked.

  
“You got it. I want
to form a spearhead and get in deep. If we can penetrate far enough inside, we
may be able to flank them and let the rest of the fighter wing pick them off.”
Shawn studied the three-dimensional image of Roslyn’s face hanging above the
centermost screen before him. She looked relieved to be turning over command of
the squadron.

  
“Yes, sir,” she
replied. “I’ll call them in now.”

  
“Move in just a
little closer,” Shawn said to the image of Lieutenant Jefferies.

  
The Brain looked
nervous as he made infinitesimal adjustments to his course. “If I get any
closer I’ll be inside your cockpit, sir.”

  
Shawn watched on
his radar monitor as Jefferies moved into the exact position he wanted him to
be in, just to his aft and on his port side. Likewise, Drake had moved into a
similar position behind Jefferies. Close on Shawn’s starboard aft quadrant was
Raven, with Jerry Santorum behind her. The five ships formed a tight wedge
shape, with Bagpipes McAllister trailing behind Kestrel and between Drake and
Nova.

  
“All right Skipper,
we’re in position,” Raven said with conviction. “And I’ll bet we’re the
prettiest group out here, so now what?”

  
“Now we punch a
hole in that defensive line,” Shawn replied, referring to the wall of Alpha and
Beta fighters that were keeping a buffer between the Unified Sector Command
forces and the enormous intruder beyond. “Is everyone ready?”

  
Shawn got
affirmation from everyone in the squadron except for Clarissa. She was having a
problem locking down a power drain in her starboard engine, but promised Shawn
that it shouldn’t affect their run against the enemy. He advised her to watch
the drain and, if it got too severe, to return to the
Rhea
for repairs. After she reluctantly agreed, Shawn could have
sworn he’d heard her say, “Like hell I will,” but it was too faint to
accurately discern from whom it had really come. He initiated the command and
control procedure in his maneuvering computer, taking limited control of the
entire squadron’s movements. While each of the pilots could have easily
disengaged from the system in an instant, it was imperative that one ship
control the group’s maneuvers when they were this close together. One minor
mistake or jerk of the flight stick would send any of the fighters into
another, and the results would surely be fatal.

  
“All right,
Rippers. Let’s get in there and make some trouble.” Shawn gripped the throttle
control with his left hand, holding onto the flight stick just as forcefully.
He quickly slid the throttle full-forward, the ion drives in the rear of the
fighter responding instantly to his command. He checked his screen to make sure
the computer was accurately controlling the other fighters and, when he was
assured they were right where they needed to be, he pressed the flashing red
button on the side of the throttle’s T-handle. A jet of supercharged plasma
injected itself directly into the ion drive, and gave Shawn and his squadron a
amplified burst of speed as they headed into the clash of enemy fighters.

  
Raven and Drake
were the first to open fire as Shawn concentrated on the split-second maneuvers
that would keep them all alive. Each of his wing mates scored hits with their
short-range lasers, Raven’s target disintegrating in a hail of blue-white bolts
of energy while Drake’s target spun wildly out of control after taking a direct
hit to its forward fuselage. It careened and then contacted another Alpha as
both neatly exploded. Nova and The Brain fired next, followed by Bagpipes. Of
those three, Clarissa was the only one to score a kill, with both Santorum and
Jefferies’ shots causing their respective targets to disengage from the combat
area.

  
Shawn saw another
dozen enemy fighters just forward of his squadron’s position, with another five
slightly closer and coming around behind them. The five enemy Alphas came in
hot, their green weapons blazing for a split second before each of them was
neatly knocked out of existence by a barrage of missiles. Through the expanding
fireball and shrapnel remains of the Alphas, a pair of Maelstroms sailed over
and past Shawn’s group at full speed. Shawn didn’t need his sensors to tell him
what his eyes noticed during the brief seconds the two squadrons were within
arm’s reach of one another—the bright red skull emblazoned on the glossy black
vertical tails: the Red Skulls, the only other squadron on board the
Rhea
to have the same experimental
fighters.