Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"Operation Zeus," AKA "Operation Get Some" in Maniac's engagement book, relied upon simplicity-just the way Maniac preferred it. Enemy Rapiers would go after the Claw's bombers, whose escorts would stick with them and engage only the attackers who broke through the intercepting force. First and Sixth Squadrons served as the first wave of interceptors, which put Maniac and his comrades at the sword's tip to protect Lightning's team.

"Got about eight seconds until primary weapons range," Bishop said.

Without further ado, the order that Maniac lived to hear rattled through his headset:

"Break and attack!" cried Angel.

"Got the tail pair," Hunter said. "Bishop, you bag the one on the far side."

"Got him," the pilot responded.

The high number of fighters in the zone dictated that wing-man and wingleaders would stay close and cover each other but were still free to break off when necessary. Maniac repeatedly pushed this unwritten rule to its limits.

As the skipchatter further clogged the general frequency, Maniac glanced to his one o'clock and picked out two Rapiers bound for the lead Broadsword. He skimmed a menu of channels and dialed up the lead bomber pilot's frequency. "Hold course, Pandora. Maniac and Zarya are in to assist." Throttling up, he leaned back on the control stick and fell in behind Zarya as they tore into a forty-five-degree climb. In five seconds they would be within cannon range.

But Zarya had no intention of waiting even another second. Her neutron gun spun and spewed salvos of glittering rounds that strayed wide before drumming along the starboard shields of the fighter nearest them. Now solidly locked on, she held her bead as the enemy Rapier broke off in a sharp, corkscrewing dive and vanished from Maniac's field of view. Zarya stayed with the Rapier, plunging well below Maniac.

The other Rapier maintained course, then suddenly swooped down on the Broadsword to unleash a volley of neutron fire before Maniac could react. He pinned the throttle, lit the burners, and tore into the Pilgrim's exhaust trail. "Got this little problem," he told the enemy pilot, having locked on to the guy's operating frequency. "I'm Pilgrim intolerant. You fanatics upset my stomach and generally ruin my day. I don't like that."

No response from the Pilgrim.

Yes, the bravado had returned, and yes, it remained a weak neutralizer of the guilt. Maniac swore at himself, at his feelings, then tightened every muscle and gave himself to the machine. The smart targeting reticle appeared in his HUD, a green circle that floated just ahead of the enemy Rapier as it wheeled around to make another pass at the Broadsword.

Maniac widened his eyes and jammed down his primary weapons trigger. The rotary barrel hummed and got to work, belching out an unceasing spray that caught the enemy Rapier's canopy. Shields tossed up bursts of azure light as they strained to curtail Maniac's rounds. "Now, listen to a reading from the gospel according to Maniac."

A terrific explosion astern threw a veil of shimmering light over his fighter. Even as he cocked his head to see what the hell had happened, an alluring female whooped and shouted, "Zarya drops one! What's the delay, Lieutenant?"

Not one to have his thunder stolen, Maniac narrowed the enemy Rapier's lead to twenty meters. The other pilot leveled off, cutting through a second furball created by Sixth Squadron. Maniac ceased fire as he wove a hair-raising, torturous course through fighters and bombers crisscrossing about a quarter kilometer away from the pockmarked moon. He scarcely believed that the enemy pilot had navigated through coordinates so densely packed with other starcraft.

Raging aloud, he pulled up and out of the traffic, vowing that before the engagement ended, he would find and smoke that jock who had eluded him.

"Maniac?"

He glanced to his radar scope, speckled now with so many blips that if more popped up, the display might become a solid swirl of red and blue. He threw a toggle, and the scope zoomed in to show his wingman's position. Zarya glided at his four o'clock, about three hundred meters away. "Hold your course," he told her. "Coming down to form on your wing."

As he barreled along the outskirts of the AO, cutting through the paths of dozens of dogfights and plowing through tumbling shards of durasteel and severed pieces of twisted hydraulic line, he jolted as his missile lock alarm woke in a rapid beeping. The computer's automatic announcement chimed in over the alarm: "Warning. Enemy projectile has positive lock. Impact in nine seconds, eight…"

Speed is life, Maniac thought as he re-lit his burners and brought the Rapier up to three hundred KPS, three twenty, forty, sixty, ninety-

The right VDU showed the Tempest computer's ID on the missile, a Spiculum Image-Recognition bomb using a computer to memorize Maniac's electronic and visual signature. The damned rocket approached at velocity of 1600 KPS-his evasion would only gain him an extra second or two of life. He thumbed off a cloud of chaff but assumed the superheated fragments of wire and durasteel would do little to fool the missile's advanced guidance system. Were it a Dart Dumbfire missile, he might have a chance.

The computer reached three seconds, two…

He reached for the ejection handle.

But a powerful detonation tossed him forward. A second later, roiling flames tongued his canopy before dematerializing into the vacuum. He jerked the stick back, trying to stabilize the Rapier, and shouted, "Computer? Report!"

"Missile detonated. Range, twenty-point-two-five meters. Severe power drain to aft shields. Armor at full strength."

Flabbergasted, he laughed and tried to figure out why the rocket had prematurely detonated.

The answer came quickly as Zarya's face flickered on his right VDU. "Zarya drops missile, saves rocket jock's life. Give me a pen. I'll sign your palm."

"Zarya? Maniac?" Angel called. "We need more fire support. Come around the moon to point three-five-seven by six-two-one. Got a fresh squadron of enemy Rapiers coming in. Lay down suppressing fire and draw Lightning's people another path."

"Roger, ma'am," Maniac said exhaustedly. Be nice if he had a half-second to catch his breath. He eyed his tactical screen and tapped for the right grid. Then he brought the Rapier around in a hard turn to port, shifting the white crosshairs that marked the nav point to the center of the HUD. "En route to coordinates," he assured Angel. Zarya slipped up beside him and tilted her hel-meted head quickly from shoulder to shoulder, a dance move and in-joke that alluded to their night of swing.

By now the destroyers had already dropped behind Lyatta, and the moon wore a halo of intermittent light created by the dozens of explosions that occurred behind it.

"Zarya? Maniac? I've IDed a troopship pulling away from McDaniel," Angel informed them. "You got it. Cheddarboy and Sinatra? You take their grid."

Maniac pulled up the vessel on his tactical display, and he didn't need a detailed computer model to project its destination.

"I'm all about the killboard today," Zarya said, lancing out ahead of him.

"Guess you are," he admitted. "But now I'll stop holding back. You think I got this call sign for being shy?"

"No, I assumed that-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he cried as an enemy Rapier dove in front of his fighter and darted after Zarya. "Got one on your back! Jinx!"

"I'm outta here," said Zarya.

Where had the bastard come from? No warning had flashed on his scope. His gaze sought the tactical display then lifted as a bone-chilling salvo of neutron fire came within a meter of his starboard wing and razored into the distance. Another glance to the scope told him nothing. "They got us jammed up good!"

"I know! I know! And a three-G loop didn't shake this sucker. Gonna try kickstopping him."