He eased the throttle open with his left hand, and the League craft shot forward. So far, so good. Justin rolled the fighter toward the enemy space station and increased his engine power to maximum. He glanced at a small picture of his wife and daughter—a new one to replace the last printed photo destroyed with his old Sabre. I’m getting home. Somehow. It gave him strength.
The Astute rapidly faded behind Justin. He poured on the speed, having already rehearsed his plan. If challenged, he would claim that the other fighter had been destroyed by engine failure, and his took damage in the explosion. A thousand kilometers turned into five hundred then two fifty.
Beads of sweat formed on Justin’s forehead. Okay, calm down. He took several deep breaths as the range continued to close. His heart raced, pounding so loudly that he thought it might explode. Something felt different about the situation, and it took him a minute to put his finger on it: he was alone. No backup, no one to help. Only Justin Spencer, in a captured fighter he could barely fly, against the entire League garrison. Maybe stuff like this is why people turn to God.
A red light started blinking on the League comm panel, and a rough voice speaking a language Justin didn’t understand filled the cockpit. His HUD’s integrated translation unit—a thoughtful upgrade from one of the CIS spooks—said the words in English. “You’re moving fast, comrade. Where is comrade Tikhomirov’s Yakovlev?”
I guess Tikhomirov is whoever commands the patrol. Justin took a deep breath. “His fighter malfunctioned, comrade. He ejected before it exploded.”
“Nonsense,” the Russian man replied. “Both craft you’re flying are brand new. Are you playing games? Another test the political officer put you up to?”
Okay. Maybe the pilots the Astute took out were pranksters. I can work with that. And what’s a political officer? It would’ve helped to have that piece of knowledge. “Uh, negative, not the political officer.”
“Ah, so it is a game. Who, then? Panov? Korolyov?”
Man, these guys have some weird names. Justin grinned, despite it all. He was less than thirty kilometers from the station proper, and it was just barely visible through the cockpit canopy. The speck grew with every passing moment. I hope this translator makes me sound Russian. “It wouldn’t be fun if you knew.”
A new person cut into the conversation. “Yakovlev Eight-Nine, this is Colonel Hsu. As the political officer for this command, I demand both of you cease these childish games and act as proper sailors of the League of Sol.”
Oh shit. Maybe that’s it. Perhaps he’s done now after putting the fear of whatever they fear the most in us. His heart skipped several beats.
But Justin had no such luck. Hsu returned to the commlink. “I will take both of your names for an official reeducation report.”
“Lieutenant Ibragimov, comrade Colonel,” the officer from the station control replied.
Justin froze momentarily. While he’d agreed on a Russian name to use in case of challenge, it took a second for it to come to his mind. “Lieutenant Evanoff, comrade Colonel.”
The period of silence on the commlink was oppressive.
“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, no such pilot is assigned to this outpost. Cease forward movement or be destroyed.”
I guess the cat is out of the bag. Justin tried one last gambit. “Couldn’t make out your last transmission, Control. The communication system shows damage. Please repeat.”
“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, cease forward thrust. You will be towed back to base for interrogation.”
As the political officer spoke, a new group of contacts appeared on the League fighter’s LIDAR display. They showed friendly IFFs, while the overview in Justin’s HUD designated them as the enemy. Four more craft out here brings me to a total of six hostiles, not counting the frigate. The station was less than fifteen kilometers away, but to ensure the EMP weapon hit, he would have to close to point-blank range. Less than a kilometer. Why’d I sign up for this again?
“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, if you do not cease thrust immediately, you will be destroyed. This is your final warning.”
Justin sucked in a breath and gripped the flight stick tightly. Okay, this is it. He double-checked to make sure the fighter was pointed directly toward the station and kicked on its afterburners. The League craft shot forward, doubling its speed nearly instantly. G-forces, as suppressed as they were by the onboard inertial dampening system, pressed him into the seat and made movement difficult.
The Leaguers reacted immediately, shifting their courses for a quicker intercept while painting with target-acquisition LIDAR. An alarm blared, which Justin assumed had the same function as the Sabre’s missile-lock-on warning. A few moments later, six new icons appeared on his HUD—inbound active LIDAR-tracked warheads.
It took Justin a second to remember where the chaff-dispenser control was located. He put his left hand on it while juking the craft with his right hand. The g-forces were brutal because of the turns combined with max thrust and the afterburner being at its highest setting. He used each turn to gain some distance from the missiles while keeping the station in his forward cone of movement.
“Yakovlev Eight-Nine, what are you doing?” the station controller nearly shrieked.
At the last possible moment, as four warheads closed within half a kilometer of Justin’s fighter, he triggered the chaff dispenser and pulled up hard on the flight stick. The series of explosions as the missiles took the bait nearly shook his teeth out of his skull. Justin let out a breath as he whipped the craft around and glanced at the range to the station. Three kilometers.
Red balls of plasma flashed by the cockpit’s canopy, and two enemies settled into Justin’s six o’clock position. Dammit, they’re so close to a guns solution on me. He jinked his craft to one side, attempting to throw the pair off. Two
