“Nice shooting, Lieutenant,” Singh said. “Greengold out.”
Justin pondered for a moment how he was still alive. He’d already taken out several League craft, adding to his running total of over ten. I’m not even that good of a pilot. Perhaps the Leaguers were simply worse pilots. Another wave of bombers launched from the heavy cruisers along with a few fighters. He glanced at the HUD and realized they were closely escorting the larger craft. Whoever’s in charge over there apparently learned their lesson. It would make interdicting the next group that much harder.
“I’m all for a target-rich environment, but this is getting ridiculous,” Feldstein said. “How many bombers can they hold in those cruisers, anyway?”
“As many as we can blow up.” Mateus chortled. “What do you Americans say? Bring it on.”
Chuckles from all four pilots filled the channel before Justin spoke. “I read four fighters. They appear to be headed right for us.” He paused as he tagged the craft as priority targets. “Alpha Three and Four will engage the bombers. Feldstein, you’re with me. We’ll splash the fast movers and join in to mop up the others. Questions?”
“None, sir,” Adeoye replied.
The Sabres belonging to Mateus and Adeoye sped away on a direct intercept course with the incoming bomber wave, while Justin adjusted his heading slightly to give himself a better attack profile on the rapidly closing enemy fighters. Both sides exchanged active LIDAR-guided missiles, which the superior CDF electronic warfare capabilities spoofed. Justin didn’t see what happened to Feldstein’s warhead, but his hit its target.
Feldstein rolled off to engage one of the four bandits, while Justin tried to spin out and match the maneuvering of the damaged League craft. He initiated a series of scissors moves, swapping places several times and trading ineffective energy-weapons fire with the enemy fighter. Justin was so engrossed in the twisting and turning of the tail chase that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the missile alarm sounded. A quick glance at the HUD showed two warheads inbound.
“Look out, Spencer. You’ve got two fighters on your tail,” Feldstein called. “I’ll be there as soon as I erase this idiot in front of me from the universe.”
Justin twisted his flight stick to the right, rolling away from the inbound threats while simultaneously releasing multiple balls of high-tech LIDAR spoofing chaff. One missile struck a decoy and exploded, while the other tracked him move for move. At the last second, he tried a high-G maneuver, pulling up relative to how his fighter was pointed and engaged the afterburner. It wasn’t enough—the explosion and impact threw Justin forward as the Sabre’s shields absorbed most of the blast. But not everything—the master alarm sounded, its piercing drone insistent of attention. Damage indicators in his HUD sprang up around his left engine. I have to do something now to change the battlefield, or I’m going to die. Fear crept up inside of him, supercharging his senses. “This is Alpha One declaring an emergency.”
Streams of red plasma balls shot by the transparent cockpit canopy of Justin’s fighter. Dread built up within him as he juked from one side to the other, trying to avoid being blown up. He recalled the words of one of his flight instructors, warning him never to let the enemy penetrate his OODA—Observe, Orient, Decide, and Act—loop. The only thing that would even the odds was to take out one of the pursuing fighters. There’s no way to do that with them locked on my six.
Justin made a quick decision and pulled back hard on the flight stick. His Sabre responded immediately, even with engine damage. G-forces climbed rapidly and brought physical pain as he swiftly turned toward his former pursuers. Combat tactics called for avoiding head-to-head slugging matches at all costs, but it was not the time for timidity.
Justin toggled his heat-seeking missiles to double fire. He only had four in total. This had damn well better work. Unlike LIDAR-tracked missiles, the heat seekers didn’t need a lock. He stroked the firing button. “Alpha One, fox two.”
A bright plume of flame accelerated away from his fighter as Justin held down the trigger for his miniature neutron cannons, sending bolt after bolt of blue energy at the enemy fighter he’d lined up with. Plasma balls found his forward shields and whittled them away, ten percent at a time. He’d briefly questioned the logic of his decision before both warheads impacted on the unlucky Leaguer, who didn’t maneuver away. Rewarded with an orange fireball, he breathed a sigh of relief as the remaining fighter streaked by.
“Alpha Two, splash one! I’m on the way, Spencer. Hang on.”
“Roger, Alpha Two. I got one too. Auto repair unit is online, and I’m reengaging the enemy.”
“I could use some help over here,” Mateus said. “These Leaguer bombers are tough.”
“Got any dumb-fire rockets?” Justin asked.
“Negative, sir.”
“Then switch to neutron cannons and close in. It's not worth wasting your Vultures on them.”
“Wilco.”
The HUD flashed with a message that Justin’s engines had been repaired—as much as they would be by the auto-repair unit. He toggled the thrust up to maximum and set off toward the nearest fighter. The faster he could eliminate them, the faster he could help his fellows in splashing the enemy bombers. As he ran the proper engagement tactics through his mind, he had a thought that seemed out of place: This is fun, in some bizarre way. But another portion of his brain chided him. People are dying out here.
10
“Conn, TAO. Forward shields at sixteen percent,” Bryan called. “Forward deflector generator is overheating and close to failure. Sierra One is taking hull damage.”
While the bridge was a seemingly carefully coordinated level of chaos, Tehrani was the eye of the storm. She stared at the tactical display.
