silent, some obviously frightened, all of them filled with a grim determination. He felt he could have made a bit more of an emotional appeal, but knew that was nothing but crap. Everyone of them knew that this was no ordinary battle. If this one was lost the Kilrathi would be above Earth within hours.
Kevin came past him, helmet tucked under his arm. His nephew slowed, looking at him out of the comer of his eye.
The hell with protocol, Geoff thought as he stepped forward and put his hands on Kevin's shoulders.
'I've never been prouder of you, Kev. Now take care of yourself.'
Kevin looked at him, his eyes bright.
'It's an honor to be with you today, sir,' he said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. Geoff let go of him and the boy followed the stream of pilots out the door.
'Launch all fighters. Let us finish this hunt.'
Prince Thrakhath turned away from the screen, a tingle of excitement coursing through him as the fighter launch klaxon sounded through the ship.
Before him stood the Baron.
'You do not look thrilled about our impending victory, Baron.'
Baron Jukaga merely snarled, looking at the Prince defiantly.
'I have one final little assignment for you, Baron.'
'Go on then, what is it?'
And as Thrakhath told him the Baron's eyes went wide with shock and rage.
'It is useless, senseless. The Emperor ordered you to preserve the planet for the next Sivar.'
'There are a hundred other worlds to choose from once this is done. A squad of Imperial Marines will now escort you to your ship, Baron.'
Baron Jukaga looked coldly at the Prince and then spat on the floor.
Prince Thrakhath merely laughed in reply as Baron Jukaga was escorted from the room.
'My lord, there are significantly more ships than intelligence indicated.'
Thrakhath looked back at the main screen and ordered the forward picket ships to send back enhanced optical scan. He waited for the visuals to be returned, watching the display of the two fleets being deployed. More and more blips of enemy ships were appearing, moving out from behind other ships which had been masking them. He had his suspicions as to what the new ships were and did not feel overly worried. One of the advantages of having had an embassy team on Earth was the ability to conduct reconnaissance. It was made even better by the fact that their own Foreign Minister had become a traitor. Too bad she was under arrest.
'They're civilian ships, my lord. Numerous light craft, personal ships, light business ships of corvette size, shuttle craft, and civilian interplanet transports.'
Thrakhath nodded.
'They're throwing everything in as a screen to waste our weapons on. Order the outer wave of fighters to ignore them and to concentrate on the incoming Broadswords and Sabres. Once their offensive capability has been smashed we can turn our attention to this chaff they throw out and destroy them.'
'We're also detecting Marine assault and landing ships, my lord.'
Thrakhath stirred, ordering that this new sighting be highlighted on the main display. Several hundred of the blips started to blink bright yellow.
What were they up to?
'A diversionary effort, my lord?'
He looked over at his chief tactical officer.
He still had over seventeen hundred fighters at his disposal, almost all of them already launched and moving towards position. The first offensive strike wave was already committed, four hundred strike craft moving out past the outer line of picket ships with four eights of corvettes and light frigates in escort. Long range Confederation patrols were already moving to intercept, a pitiful six eights of fighters.
He was holding back over a thousand craft, assuming a more defensive posture than in the last battle. One of his carriers was gone, another slightly damaged. He would absorb and totally destroy the offensive strike, eliminating the final threat. Then he would smash through with a totally annihilating second strike, smashing whatever was left of the enemy fleet. They could no longer retreat and regroup, they would have to stand and die.
But the Marines? What were they for? To draw fire, obviously, while the last of the Broadswords went in.
'Still concentrate on the Broadswords,' he said. 'Then we slaughter the rest.'
Kevin tried to purge the anguish, to block it out. His friends, his comrades were dying. Flickers of light filled space straight ahead and to starboard a hundred and fifty clicks away. The Broadsword strike was going in. His tactical screen traced the attack. The first wave of Broadswords, what few were left, was slowing, hovering. Going through the agonizing thirty second countdown to launch. And one after another their transponders winked off, the blue blips replaced by brief flashes of light and then disappearing.
He switched to strike two's main comm channel.
'Ten seconds, nine, keep them off, keep them off. . .'
'I can't eject, I can't get out, oh God I'm burning . . .'
'Six on your tail, Maria, break, break . . .'
'Yellow three, torpedo lock failed, am . . .'
The signals became fewer, space ahead flashing with hundreds of points of light.
The second wave, going towards the carriers, was straight ahead, slashing into the storm of defense. A hundred Kilrathi fighters were now hitting into his own attack column and ships were dying, but the main blow had not hit yet.
'Blue One, we've got company coming.'
Kevin tore his attention away from the dying attack and saw a wave of fifty fighters coming in from above and slashing into the column behind him. He held course, looking over his shoulder.
Nearly a thousand craft were spread out around him. Off his port quarter he saw a civilian transplanet liner trying an evasive and disappear in an explosion after a single burst of neutron bolts from a light fighter.
It was suicide and he had to harden his heart to the realization that was precisely what the pilots flying the civilian craft had signed on for. They were nothing more than sitting ducks, unshielded, totally defenseless. Having been given pressure suits and rescue transponders, the pilots were told to bail out if things got too hot. But they were serving their purpose. The first waves of Kilrathi fighters, wading into the hundreds of targets, had become drunk with the thrill of killing. He watched as a flight of Krants shot right through a line of Marine transports, not even bothering to fire, racing ahead to smash a cruiser size liner, a dozen fighters tearing into the defenseless ship until it split apart. And each fighter that took thirty seconds to line up and fire on a useless ship was one less fighter engaged in the real fight, while the hidden weapon drew even closer.
'My lord, we might have a tactical analysis on what they are doing.'
Thrakhath looked over at his tactical officer.
Even as the officer started to offer his analysis the truth of what he was saying sunk in.
All fighters strike them now! Strike them now. Order all carriers into full evasive!'
'Here we go! All ships pick your targets. If you can't get to a carrier, nail a cruiser. Charge!'
General Duke Grecko leaned forward, looking over the shoulder of his assault craft pilot. A recorded charge blared on the assault craft's loud speaker and Grecko grinned with delight.
Behind him, in the aft personnel bay, a hundred assault troops cheered, thumping the butts of their laser rifles on the floor of the ship.
Space around him was pure chaos. Hundreds of Kilrathi fighters were swarming in, escort ships moving to intersect the attack. Dozens of ships and assault craft were vaporizing every second in the slaughter, so that he thought for an instant that his plan was exactly what Geoff, and for that matter everyone else from the President on down, had declared it to be: pure suicide.
The only advantage he could now see in being head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was that he didn't have to convince anyone — he simply had to give the order, and then go.
A civilian liner twisted in front of him, blocking the rush of three incoming Dralthi, diverting their shots. His own pilot dived under the liner as it exploded and then lined back up on their target.
