William Fortchen - Action Stations

"They're not fleeing, they're coming back," Gilkarg whispered.

"Yes, my Lord."

Interesting. Suicidal, two carriers against his five, two battleships against eight, and even greater odds with the smaller ships. Suicidal. Excellent, there would be no lengthy stern chase across half a dozen systems. They could not stand by and watch their base fall. And yet, disturbing in a vague way. It was a gesture he himself would make, rather than retreat and admit defeat. The humans and their allies were degenerate, why would they come back when fleeing was the only logical choice? It violated, as well, the Ninth Maxim, "always reinforce triumph, learn to back away from defeat."

"Our strike forces?"

"My lord, nearly two thirds are currently engaged down on the planet, or refitting for another strike."

"Closing time for their fleet?"

"They'll have to clear the force of destroyers shadowing them. Four hours, my lord, if they close with scoops closed."

Gilkarg looked at the plot board. Damn it all, should I send the next strike in to insure that the landing sites are neutralized, or start to refit?

"Hail from Admiral Nargth."

Gilkarg looked up at the screen.

"My Prince. I assume you've seen that they're coming back."

"Yes, Admiral. Nothing to worry about. We'll meet them far forward."

"I need my landing forces protected. The arrival of their additional forces is disturbing."

"We outnumber them in total firepower by better than six to one now."

"So why are they coming back?"

"Madness."

"I ask that you continue the bombardment with your next strike wave. There'll be time enough to refit and meet them."

Gilkarg hesitated. It would be better to start moving his carriers now, rather than delay the additional two hours or more it would take to send the next strike down and recover it.

"You said we outnumber them six to one in fire power. My attack must go in now, and the Emperor will not be pleased if yet another legion is lost to their ground fire."

Though that mistake was Nargth's, Gilkarg nodded in agreement.

"We'll launch the next attack, then move to destroy the rest of their fleet. We should be able to recover all strike craft in two hours, and have time to move out against them."

The pilots for the next strike were filing in and, spotting Tolwyn, Turner went up to the ensign.

"You don't have to do this, Geoff. You're listed as down."

"If you were in my boots, sir, what would you do? Hell, it was only a couple of frags."

"Second-degree burns, a dozen durasteel fragments and part of a rudder pedal dug out of your legs, Tolwyn. Now, get the hell back to sick bay."

"I've been out of the fight for over a day, sir. There's a hell of a lot of people out on damage control or at their battle stations in worse shape than I am, sir. I'm going."

Turner looked at him closely, trying to judge whether he should ground the boy. He'd done his part. Sheer dumb luck he was still alive. Again sentiment. My heart telling me to order the boy off-line, save his life, but we need every pilot we can get for this counterstrike.

"How's the pain?"

"Hurt's like hell, but I tossed the pills they brought me so I'm clear. Don't worry." He forced a smile. "I can handle it."

"All right, then," Turner said wearily and patted him on the shoulder.

Vance Richards, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, came in last and Turner broke away from Geoff, motioning for him to sit down.

"How is it out there?"

"Well, sir, their destroyers didn't expect us to come blowing straight through with scoops closed. We lost two more fighters, but the road's wide open to McAuliffe."

"How many missions have you flown since yesterday?"

"Six, sir."

"You should be off the board on this one, Richards."

Vance smiled and shook his bead. "This is the big one, sir. I hate to tell you this to your face, but I'll simply disobey. We've got more fighters than pilots, and you'll need every one you've got for this crazy stunt."

Turner nodded sadly.

"Just do me a favor," he said, lowering his voice. "Keep an eye on Geoff. The kid barely survived it yesterday. I should ground him, but I can't."

"I'll try, sir."

Turner walked up to the front of the room and scanned the assembled pilots. Twenty-three were left, half a dozen of them obviously wounded.

"This will be short and sweet. You start launch in seven minutes. For once we have more planes than pilots so, those of you with damaged craft, your crew chiefs will take you to your new ones. This is an all-fighter strike from Concordia, bomber pilots, you'll be in Wildcats. Ark Royal's bombers will provide the strike power. Their mission will be to strike against the closest carrier. Combat Information is currently showing all their carriers are moving away from McAuliffe to intercept."

"Now, here's the tough part. Just before hitting the carrier you will break off, head for McAuliffe, loop the planet and nail the transports and landing craft. Once the bombers strike their carrier, Ark Royal's fighters will form the second wave and loop in after you. Remember, that is the real main target in this attack. The only hope Third Marine has of holding the planet is our dumping their assault landing craft before they hit the surface. You'll only have time for one sweep. You can't slow down, you'll need all the velocity you have to loop back out and make it to the rendezvous point, so it's a straight in and then out strike. Toggle all your missiles into your computer and let it do the acquisition and firing. You just handle your guns.

"Continue your loop and get back for the hookup with this ship. It's going to be tight, but you can do it. Your nav computers will be loaded with the trajectory down. Let your autopilots handle the final approach on the planet and then the run back out."

"Sir, that's one hell of a mission," one of the pilots said, and there was an obvious question in his voice about the orders coming from a commander they had never fought under.

"I know it's a tall one, lieutenant. Here's why. The Lord willing, we'll take down one, maybe two carriers. But we want to strike a psychological blow as well. The assault troops are the pampered elite of the royal family. Remember that as you go in and start frying their hairy asses. You will be killing Cats who the damn Emperor considers to be kin. Bluntly speaking, this strike is to give him the middle finger. It will make him think twice and it will show him we plan to fight as hard and as dirty as he does. That strike will kick him even harder than dumping a carrier."

Turner lowered his head.

"Prudence dictates that we just get the hell outta here and save the carriers. But that means leaving a lot of damn good marines to die. If we can smash the transports and landing craft, it just might make them stop dead in their tracks. We've got a few surprises in store on this one, but the main thing I need to count on, lieutenant, is you pilots. There's no sense in handing you a bunch of crap. Some of you, maybe most of you, won't make it back. Hell, there might not even be a carrier to come back to. But it will send one hell of a clear message to the other side that we are not going to take their shit, then turn tail and run. What we do here might very well stop them cold and give everyone back home the time needed to marshal our forces and prepare for the struggle to come."

There was a harsh bitterness to his voice. The lieutenant stood silent for a moment, many of the other pilots looking at him, as if expecting a decision. He finally nodded.

"Fine, let's go kill the bastards."

"Sir, what the hell good will fighters be against what's out there?" a pilot asked from the back of the crowd.

"We've got to hit back. We've got to show that there's still some fight in us, to make them think twice before pushing further in." He hesitated. "The bridge crews on the frigates Masada and Hermes have volunteered to ram their targets."