William Fortchen - Action Stations

"All fighters, all fighters, this is Concordia CIC. Enemy bombers are slowing. Believe this is in preparation for launch of torpedoes which can penetrate shields. Acquire torpedoes after launch and destroy them."

As Geoff continued into his climb he saw the bellies of four bombers straight ahead, and for the first time noticed the massive missiles that ran their entire length. An instinct told him to switch his gun cameras and surveillance gear on to continuous run. He spared a quick glance away, searched for the switches and slapped them on.

He clicked his radio.

"Tolwyn to Concordia, link on my vid and data sensor feed. Have missiles sighted."

"Copy, Tolwyn."

The missile under the bomber to his right flared to life, followed seconds later by the other three. Geoff focused on the first one while nosing over, trying to imagine an intersect point. For the first time since he had engaged the bombers he was aware that Concordia was nearby, the carrier filling his forward view. Guns on the carrier were concentrating fire forward, directly engaging the bombers. Geoff forced himself to concentrate on the missile. He opened fire, but the target was so damned small he found it impossible to lock on. The missile accelerated with incredible speed so that it snapped past his imagined intersect point seconds before he had closed. He nosed over, trying to follow, firing, his missed shots spraying against Concordia's shields. Fire from the Concordia blazed around him and another shudder ran through his fighter. Smoke billowed up into the cockpit.

He wasn't sure just where his target was now. He saw a glowing point of light, aimed at it, and held on. The missile detonated in a blue-white fireball of light and, for a gut-wrenching instant, Geoff feared that it had broken through Concordia's shields. He saw the blast wave flatten out on the outside of the carrier's shields, which glowed red hot.

He banked up hard, a violent shudder rattling his stick so that it felt as though his hands would be ripped off. Turning, he saw a second torpedo boring in. A fighter flashed past Geoff. Not truly believing what he saw, the fighter dove straight into the torpedo, and disappeared in the ensuing explosion.

The third torpedo continued on in, hitting the shield. Cursing madly, he tried to edge over to intercept… but the torpedo penetrated the shields and exploded amidships on the port side.

Concordia rolled up and over from the hammer blow, flame washing down the length of the carrier. He could see armor peeling back, and caught a momentary flash of an open deck area, exposed to the vacuum of space.

The port shield overloaded and winked off. The fourth torpedo closed in and, cursing helplessly, he waited for it to deliver the death blow. The torpedo slammed into the side of the ship, punching straight through the open wound left by the previous missile… and nothing happened.

Geoff held his breath, waiting for the explosion which never came. With the port midships shields gone, Kilrathi fighters closed in, firing off dumb fire missiles, blasting off sections of armor and gun mounts. Concordia could still die, he realized, and, struggling for control, he tried to press back in to the attack.

* * *

Prince Ratha watched, unbelieving, as the fourth torpedo failed to detonate.

"All fighters, close and destroy her!" he cried.

His lust for blood was all-consuming. He had already damaged one enemy, killed a second, and almost destroyed the third, but the enemy's plane refused to die and the wily pilot had dived straight at his carrier, pulling off at the last second, leaving Ratha exposed to the defensive batteries.

He turned to do another run on the carrier, racing down its length, firing his guns until all his energy bled off and they shut down. Furious, he pulled back, contemplating the performance of the ultimate act, a dive straight into the ship.

"My lord, we are being recalled."

A fighter darted directly in front of Ratha and then throttled back, forcing him to turn away from his suicidal intent. Ratha was tempted to fire on his wingman, but, mastering control over himself, he turned aside.

"My lord, we are being recalled."

"Damn you, clear the way! The carrier is defenseless. One more blow and it's destroyed!"

"Its shields are coming back up my lord."

Ratha looked back at Concordia and saw that his wingman was right, the unmistakable shimmer of shielding was coming back on-line.

"We can strike at it. We can bring it back down!"

"My lord, we must escort the remaining bombers back. There'll be another strike, but now we must protect our bombers."

"Damnation to the bombers, they failed!"

"Half our fighters are destroyed or damaged. We are ordered back by your father, my lord."

Breathing deeply, he realized that the recall tone had been sounding in his headset, most likely for the last several minutes.

Silently cursing his father, he turned away from the damaged carrier and locked on to the signal beam back to his ship.

It seemed that in an instant the enemy fighters were gone. Where they had gone, he wasn't sure. He scanned back and forth. It looked like a fight was still going on astern of Concordia. Checking his screen, he saw a dozen red blips, followed by three blue flashes. The smoke in his cockpit thickened, and he realized it was time to turn back as the warning alarm sounded. His damage control screen showed critical damage in half a dozen areas. The eject warning alarm sounded. Concordia was only a click off his port side, but accelerating fast. He realized that, if he ejected, chances were there would never be a pick up.

"Tolwyn to Concordia, request immediate clearance for emergency landing."

"Concordia to Tolwyn. Your display shows critical."

"Eject and get left behind Concordia? I don't think so. Request clearance."

Even as he talked, he struggled to line up on the landing bay. There was no reply and he knew the landing officer was consulting the Combat Information Center. If his landing was viewed as a threat to the carrier, he'd be ordered to eject. He held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

"Tolwyn, cleared to land, make it quick, son."

"Copy, Concordia."

He punched his landing gear down and sighed with relief when he saw three green lights.

"Tolwyn, this is landing control. No need to acknowledge. You're doing fine, a little high, bring it down, down… fine, now back off your speed, a little too fast… hold steady, hold steady… cut engines!"

Geoff felt the faint shudder of passing the airlock. A second later he touched down, hitting his brakes, which immediately failed. A small crash truck was waiting and, even as he skidded past it, a spray of white foam erupted, hosing down his fighter. He skidded down the deck, slamming into the safety nets, and then everything was still.

Stunned, he looked around as the foam sprayed over his canopy, obscuring the view. The canopy popped back, released from the outside. A crash and rescue team member was above him, concealed under a white fire-resistant hood, holding an extinguisher. He hosed down the cockpit, threw the extinguisher aside and grabbed hold of Geoff under the armpits, hoisting him up.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Geoff gasped as he was bodily pulled from the plane and then dropped down to two ground crew personnel, dressed in fire resistant gear as well. One of them threw a fire blanket over Geoff and, half carrying him, they ran across the bay, getting down behind a plastisteel shield. A medic was waiting for them as they unclipped Geoff's helmet.

"Damn it, I'm okay."

"I don't think so, sir," the medic said, pointing down to his legs. The lower half of Geoff's pressure suit was lacerated, flame scorched, and for the first time he realized that he was hurt, the pain from the burns slicing into his brain.