found the target, he loosed a single missile, a medium-range ship-to-ship Harpy. It tore through space and pierced the alien craft beneath the engine. The Y-fighter burst into three flaming chunks, spewing a nebula of red fuel. Cameron drove through the debris, pinwheeling to knock loose bits of slag. “At least they go down easy.”
“Like a Luna girl.” George opened on the fighters with his twin Kraken gauss cannons. Compressed tungsten ripped into a fleeing vessel, rupturing the ammunition beneath the cockpit. Its back blew out and the ship drifted away, gutted and dead. The enemy destroyed, Cameron and George led their crippled wingman toward their own front. McLane’s Phoenix was chewed up but still flying. Every few seconds a pinch of fuel would hit the burning wing and flash out, rocking the entire body. George dropped back to watch for more aliens, but they seemed to have turned attention on the larger frigates and destroyers.
“How you holding up?” George asked.
McLane checked his instruments. “It’ll keep, I hope. I lost port jets completely, so no right turns until we get back.” He chuckled. “Chief’s gonna take this one out of my ass.”
George scoffed. “How many birds have you lost?”
“Lost? None. I’ve broken three.”
“Pittance,” George said. “Lieutenant Davis over there, war hero that he is, has totaled seven of Sector’s decaying fleet.”
McLane seemed shocked. Cameron was flying alongside and could see the expression register on the young man’s face. “What the hell are you doing to them?”
“Riding ’em hard, and putting ’em away wet.” Cameron grinned. It was something his dad always said, though he only had a vague idea what it meant. He struggled to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. He hoped his wingmen didn’t hear the staccato in his voice. “I’m just stress-testing the girl.” He bit down on his water line so hard his jaw hurt.
George cracked up and drifted off course. He caught himself and corrected, but he was still red-faced and teary-eyed. He realized, after a moment, that the tears weren’t stopping on their own. He wiped at his face with a gloved palm. “The last time, Chief Webb said he was going to make Cameron build his new ship out of the old ones.” Something winked on his computer, grabbing his attention.
Cameron started to retort when a bright flash blinded his left side. The Phoenix bucked violently starboard. His head smacked against the canopy. A sharp ringing in his ears drowned out the world. He saw stars. Alarms warbled. The ship twirled, riding the concussion wave for a moment before Cameron regained his senses enough to wrestle back control.
George’s voice was muffled. “You motherfuckers!”
Everything slowed to a crawl and then, suddenly, sped right back up.
Cameron saw he was facing directly toward the heart of the battle. Thousands of warships swarmed the larger vessels, lighting up the darkness of space with an endless rain of fire. A bolt of red streaked past the cockpit and blinded Cameron. When he looked up again, he saw George racing after two Y-fighters with guns blazing. Outside the cockpit, fiery debris drifted through space. A piece of matte-black metal floated by, trailing glowing embers.
Along the side it read “W-9.”
Ensign McLane was gone.
Ice water ran through Cameron’s veins. He pressed his right foot down hard, activating the afterburner. Pure hydrogen flooded the engine, rocketing the fighter forward. Missiles rained out from the wings, tracking targets down with discrimination and removing them from the field. His right hand gripped the yoke tight, finger pressed hard against the trigger. His Krakens barked and rattled, tracer rounds chasing each target.
“George,” Cameron said. “I’m coming up on your five. Break left.” The Phoenix carved a path through the sudden sea of broken ships, hull denting slightly with each impact. “We need to rejoin the Fleet.” His heart caught in his throat and Cameron realized he’d never been more terrified in his life. He started his combat breaths, willing his body to stop shaking and focusing on simple tasks. Flip the target switch. Activate lock. Fire four and six. Die, you sonofabitch.
George loosed a Harpy and pulled back on the throttle. The missile connected and blew the alien craft into pieces. “Cam, Fleet’s already here.”
The war raged all around them. They were no longer on the outskirts of the battle; they were at its very core. Fleet fighter squadrons battled with the nimble Y-shaped craft, aided in small part by the silver saucers. The sleek, silver saucers weaved in and out of debris fields and line formations, searching for the opportune shot.
Heavy destroyers launched huge Hull Reduction warheads at the opposing side. The thirty-foot missiles bore deep into the center of the alien frigates, trailing an explosive cloud. When they detonated, the HRs ripped the hull apart like a can opener. The TFC Stalingrad held at the rear of the formation, a smoldering hole punched straight through her main engine compartment while her escort slugged it out nearby. Valley Forge had arrived at the center of the fray, firing main guns at the battleships while building a cloud of flak to disrupt the enemy craft. Every few minutes, her monster 50s would loose two huge slugs toward the nearest capital ship, punching building-sized holes into their black frames.
Midway, looming over the battlefield, fired surgical shots from her five-meter-long guns into the enemy carrier. The hive-shaped warship shuddered with each ten-ton round, explosions racking the deteriorating body. A missile frigate placed itself between the flagship and Midway, only to disintegrate when the projectile rammed straight through its hull.
“Cam, a little help here.”
Cameron snapped back into the fight. He dropped his throttle, letting George and his tail come into view. The Y-fighter banked hard left, trying to evade Cameron’s fire. Before he could lock on, the ship slammed into what remained of an alien destroyer, smearing itself along the battered metal surface.
“What the hell?” The alien craft hadn’t tried to swerve or change direction at all. Cameron shook his head clear and turned back to the fight at hand. They’d found a sweet spot in the battlefield, away from the main effort. Cameron sucked on his water line, taking mouthfuls of the solution down with each sip. He tasted copper. “George, I need a minute.”
“Take your time,” he replied. “War’s not going anywhere.”
Cam’s hands moved in a blur, snapping switches and flipping toggles. His computer ran an immediate diagnostic and battle update, gauging fuel and ammunition consumption in a few seconds. Satisfied with the feedback, Cameron reset the system and took watch while his wingman did the same. He silently willed George to move faster. Every second they stood still, the chance of an attack increased. After what seemed like ages, George’s collision lights flashed, and he moved out.
“Cam?”
“Yeah?” He could hear the strain in his friend’s voice.
“What are we gonna do about McLane?”
Cameron touched his face and his fingers felt syrupy blood. “Focus on the fight. I’ll write the letter.”
“He had a sister.”
“I know.”
George was silent for a minute. “We met his dad at the family event last year.”
“I know,”
