view looking aft from inside the landing bay, the wide entrance curving upward slightly in a gentle smile, the aft end of the carrier extending back into space from overhead, the stars beyond gently swinging in a slow circle around the carrier’s vanishing point as the hab module continued to rotate. Numbers at the top left of the screen, in green, showed Collins’ approach velocity—282 mps. A second number counted down the seconds to trap: six … five … four …
And then Collins’ gravfighter was there, appearing out of the night as if by magic, hurtling through the landing deck’s maw and slowing abruptly as it entered the compartment’s tangleweb field. The fighter vanished off the side of the screen almost immediately, but a green light winked on above the viewall, signaling a successful trap.
Thirty seconds more to Spaas’ arrival.
She could hear the voice of America’s LSO-AI, a machine intelligence tasked with coordinating incoming fighters with the moving landing deck. LSO was an ancient term going back to the era of seaborne aircraft carriers four centuries before—an acronym for landing signals officer. The job was no longer held by humans; machines were far faster and more precise. Since the LSO-AI was actually handling the incoming gravfighter’s controls, the voice was for the benefit of human observers.
“Vector left … vector left … stabilize … vector left …”
The “vector left” was the LSO attempting to fire the fighter’s starboard thrusters, to match its incoming vector with the seven-meter-per-second rotation of the landing bay. The numerals on the screen were red, showing an approach velocity of 348 mps, too fast, too fast, as the countdown dwindled from seven … to six …
“Gravfighter outside safe approach parameters,” the LSO announced, the voice cold and unemotional. The green light above the opening flashed red.
Allyn’s heart was pounding. Oh, God, no …
“Abort,” the LSO voice continued, impassive, “abort … abort …”
Spaas’ Starhawk appeared, but too far to the left, much too far to the left, and coming in too fast. His ship was dead; he couldn’t abort, couldn’t fire a ventral singularity to warp his course into a vector that would miss the rotating landing bay and the underside of America’s huge cap beyond.
The incoming fighter almost made it. …
Spaas’ gravfighter clipped the trailing edge of the entranceway. Sparks erupted, and then the Starhawk’s starboard side disintegrated in peeling, fragmenting metal. The port side flipped into an out-of-control tumble, vanishing off the right side of the screen. The light above the bay flashed red.
Allyn could feel the ship crews around her sag as Spaas died—no one could have survived such a crash. They sagged, they turned away. She heard someone nearby mutter, “Shit …”
Allyn said nothing. Gripping her helmet tightly, she turned away and started walking toward the recovery deck elevators.
She had a report to file, a debriefing to endure.
She felt exhausted and bruised, and every step dragged at her like death.
Squadron Ready Room
TC/USNA CVS America
Outbound, Eta Boötis System
2022 hours, TFT
Gray stared at the ready room repeater screen, unable to tear his eyes away. It was one thing when a squadron mate bought it in a clean, silent flash of light out in space, quite another when you watched them zorch in for a trap and miss the sweet spot by a matter of scant meters.
He didn’t like Spaas. In fact, he’d detested the guy—an arrogant bully, a womanizer, as much the elitist hypocrite as his partner, Collins.
He’d still been family.
Numb, Gray ran through the members of the Dragonfires, startled to realize that where twelve had launched from the America out in the local Kuiper Belt early yesterday morning, only four, counting himself, were left. Sixty-six percent casualties was devastating for any military unit; when the unit was as small as a squadron to begin with, with members practically living in one another’s pockets, the sense of family was keener still … even when you couldn’t stand the bastards.
He wondered if the Dragonfires would be disbanded, the survivors sent as replacements to other squadrons.
The hell with it, He found he didn’t care right now one way or another, didn’t care about anything.
But an audio alarm caught his attention, and he switched the display screen to tactical.
God. That was all they needed now. The Turusch battlefleet was emerging from behind Eta Boötis, swinging past the planet and accelerating toward the retreating carrier battlegroup. The rest of the Black Lightnings were still trapping in Bays One and Three, and it would be several more minutes before America could resume acceleration.
Things were about to get damned tight.
CIC, TC/USNA CVS America
Outbound, Eta Boötis System
2023 hours, TFT
“Lead elements of the enemy fleet now at eighty-two thousand kilometers, Admiral,” Hughes reported, her voice as matter-of-fact, as coldly professional as any AI’s.
“How long until the last of the fighters gets aboard?” Koenig demanded.
“Two more coming in at Bay One, three at Bay Two. Make it one minute twenty.”
Koening considered this. Over a minute until the America could accelerate. How close would the enemy fleet get?
Given their known acceleration capabilities, it looked like the battlegroup would be able to escape … just. The enemy might pursue them out of the system, but a running stern chase was pretty futile, especially when the fleeing vessels would be jigging and changing acceleration routes from moment to moment in order to throw off the enemy’s targeting computers.
“Comm! Make to Spirit of Confederation,” he said. “Have them lay down a barrage astern. See if they can discourage those Trash jokers.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The view of the stars projected on the CIC viewalls darkened, returned, darkened again.
“Enemy has opened fire, Admiral,” Hughes pointed out. “KK projectiles and particle beams.”
“Right. Any damage?”
“Shields are holding, Admiral.” A pause. “Cruiser Montreal reports damage to targeting sensors and primary fire control.”
In the tactical display, the green icon representing the Spirit of Confederation was slowly turning, rotating ninety degrees until she was traveling sideways, her port broadside facing the enemy.
As on board the America, Confederation’s primary weapon ran along much of her kilometer-length
