June 2251

The Confederate Star Ship Mountain View, Tarbos high orbit

The Mountain View’s hangar bay was truly cavernous, but it wasn’t hard for Lieutenant Commander Andrea Crider to find her personal A-66 attack fighter.  Her squadron, VS-66, Hunter Squadron, was assigned to the parking area nearest the starboard forward elevator.  As Squadron Executive Officer, her bird was second closest to the hangar bay doors, next to the Commander’s bird.

The fighter was stubby, short, and humpbacked in profile, a laminate polysteel bubble canopy enhancing the profile.  Stub wings with hard points for Shrike missiles stuck out to the sides, and a 30mm rotary cannon hung under the bulbous nose, which was home to a powerful search and fire-control radar.  The whole thing was built around an enormous ion drive, capable of pushing the fighter to a good half a C.  The A-66 was a tactical craft, and any beauty it possessed existed only in the eyes of its pilots.  But Lieutenant Commander Crider did find the bird beautiful.

VS-66’s birds were painted dark gray with blood-red stripes on the stub wings.  Crider’s bird had her call-sign, “Angel,” painted on the right side of the fuselage below the canopy.  She was just climbing the crew ladder to the cockpit when she heard that call-sign shouted out behind her.

“Angel!”  She turned on the ladder to see her wingman, Lieutenant Junior Grade Horace Hamilton, who by the accident of his first name was tagged with a call sign that was all too obvious.

“What’s up, Horse?”

“VS-42 wants to have a bet on today’s flight exercise,” the gangly youth called.

Crider took her flight helmet off, ruffling her short strawberry-blonde hair with one hand.  “What’s the bet?”

“Case of Scotch.  From Earth.  Seems that there’s a shipment of twelve-year old single malt in from Earth on the last supply freighter.”

“Oh, geez, that won’t be expensive, will it?”

“Figure five hundred bucks, maybe a little over.”

“Great.  Is your LCS system checked out, Horse?” she asked, referring to the Laser Combat Simulation system installed now on her squadron’s birds – and on VS-42’s as well.

“Perfect, Angel.  One hundred percent.”  Horse, confident in his skill, was grinning broadly.

“All right, then.  Tell ‘em they’re on.”  Crider put her helmet back on.  “Let’s saddle up.”

Four birds from each squadron were scheduled for this morning’s combat exercise.  The frigate CSS Ian Mac Vie would serve as the target; VS-66 was to simulate an attack run, against the defenders from VS-42.

Andrea Crider climbed into her fighter and strapped in tight.  Plugging her helmet’s leads into the control panel, she snapped on her ship-to-ship comm system as she activated the fighter’s computer and flight control systems.  On the deck to her left front, the Chief Petty Officer who served as her Crew Chief – and who really ‘owned’ the fighter – shot her a thumbs-up.  Crider toggled her ship-to-ship.  “Hunter Flight, this is Hunter Lead.  Report, over.”

“Hunter Two, ready to fly,” Horse called back.

“Angel, Three is primed and ready.” 

“Four, ready to fly.”

“Mountain View Flight Control, Hunter Flight requesting departure clearance.”

The terse answer came back in Crider’s headphones.  “Hunter Lead, you are cleared for departure on Runway One.  Set transponder code one-four-seven.”

“Roger that, Flight Control.  Hunter Flight is rolling.”

Advancing the throttle gave Lieutenant Commander Crider the familiar kick in the back she had grown so fond of as her A-66 shot forward, her wingman’s fighter tucked in ten meters off her starboard wing.  Hunter Three and Four shot off just behind them, the flight of four clearing the runway and racing out the open hangar doors.  The force field over the front of the hangar bay shimmered for a moment as the fighters shot through.

“Hunter Flight,” Crider called, “Close up tight.  Follow me up.  We’re going a few thousand kilometers sunward, to get the light behind us.  The Ian Mac Vie will be trying to hide in a low orbit.  We aren’t going to let them get away with it.”

“Roger that, Hunter Lead.”

The four fighters stayed on full thrust, riding the tips of blue spears of energy from their ion drives.  Turning on their internal gyros, they angled towards Tarbos’ sun.

Behind them, the four fighters of VS-42 rocketed out of the Mountain View’s hangar and angled downward towards Tarbos.

“Two thousand kilometers, Lead,” Hunter Three called.

“Good enough.  Three, Four, go five hundred meters negative.  Horse, stay on my wing.  Turn in now.”

Crider lit up her search radar, knowing that doing so would invite an attack, relying on the speed and maneuverability of the A-66 to avoid it.  “Radiating now.  Heads up, Hunter Flight.”

Three returns showed up: the Mountain View, and three hundred kilometers away the Reuben James, another frigate doing escort duty on the carrier.  And a few thousand meters to the left, and a thousand meters closer to the surface, another ship appeared:

“There’s the Ian Mac Vie.  All right, Three, Four, arm Shrikes and start your run.  Two and I will cover you.  Heads up for fighters.”

The A-66’s control panel beeped suddenly.  “Fire control radar warning; it’s from the target.  Evasive Pattern Three, people.  Let’s hit it.”  Three and Four peeled off, diving after the frigate. 

“I’m getting radar hits, Angel.  Jammers activated.”

“Loosen up some, Horse.  They’ll focus on Three and Four in a second.”

“Yeah.  I’m showing the Ian Mac Vie trying for a lock on Four.  They’ve got a lock – no, Four broke it.”

A sudden screech in Crider’s headphones made her blood run cold.  “Horse, break left!”

“MISSILE GUIDANCE RADAR LOCK,” Crider’s onboard computer calmly warned.  “I know,” she groused, looping her fighter over.  “RADAR LOCK LOST.”

Two pale blue shapes shot past; it was two fighters from VS-42.  Crider pulled a five-gee turn to follow.  “Horse, you with me?”

“Got you, Angel.  There’s two more to your two o’clock high, going after Three and Four.”

“I see ‘em.  Horse, you take those two.  I’m going after Frick and Frack here.  Break off now!”

Horse spun his fighter away.  “Angel, watch your six.”

“You got it, Horse.  I’m on one of them now.”

Spinning in on the other fighter’s tail, Andrea Crider called out “Fox Three!” and hit her the ‘guns’ button on her stick.  If the attack had been for-real, a stream of depleted uranium slugs would have lanced out from her 30mm cannon, shattering the ‘enemy’ fighter into a cloud of wreckage.  But since this was an exercise, the button instead sent a burst from the infrared laser slaved to the main weapons hard point under her fuselage.  The IR laser hit the VS-42 ship squarely, activating the combat damage simulator.  The ‘enemy’ fighter’s engine died, and the gyros locked, sending the ship spinning out of control.  “That’s one!” Angel hooted.

Screeeeeeee!  Her threat receiver screamed a warning as a scattered burst of laser fire struck her fighter a glancing blow.  “YOUR STARBOARD STUB WING IS DAMAGED,” the computer intoned.  “THERE IS AN ENEMY FIGHTER ATTEMPTING MISSILE LOCK TO YOUR SIX O’CLOCK.”

“Gee, you think?”  Crider slammed her fighter left, right, looped and spun, but the pilot from VS-42 matched her moves. 

“MISSILE LAUNCH WARNING.”

Crider slammed her throttle back into full reverse, gasping as she pulled a full eight negative gees.  Her seat straps cut into her viciously as her vision went red for long moments.  Dimly, she saw the other fighter flash past, his drive flaring into reverse as he tried to stop in time.

“Too late, sucker.  Fox three, Fox three for a kill!”  Slamming her throttle forward, she hit her guns switch and ‘killed’ the other fighter.

“Horse, I’m clear,” she called.  “Where are you?”

“Three kilometers to your three o’clock and low,” Horse called.  “I could use a hand here, Angel.”

“On my way.  Where’s Three and Four?”

“Tangled up with one of their own, Angel.  Hound is trying to keep one off of Sleaze so she can launch on the frigate.”

“All right, I’m coming in hot on your nine, high.  Heads up, Horse.”

“I’m taking hits, Angel.”

The pilot from VS-42 was concentrating too hard on his quarry.  Crider closed, lining up her target optically, shouted “Fox three” and hit ‘guns’ for a kill.

“You’re clear, Horse.  How you doing?”

“Partial drive failure, weapons are down.  I’m done, Angel.”

“Hit your SAR beacon and stand by.  Sleaze, Hound, I’ve got you on radar.  Talk to me.”

“Angel!”  Lieutenant Elizabeth Fitzsimons, ‘Sleaze,’ called.  “He’s on my six, he’s on my six!”  A burst of static was followed by a hoot of triumph on the open channel.  “One of yours down, Angel,” the VS-42 pilot called.

“Where are your buddies, asshole?”

“What?”

Crider dove after the one remaining VS-42 fighter, her search radar emitting.  “TARGET LOCK,” her computer announced as a red circle appeared on her heads-up display. 

“Fox One,” Crider called.  She hit her missile launch button.

Instead of launching a missile, a tight-beam transmission shot from her fighter to the VS-42 fighter.  The two onboard computers compared range, trajectory, and velocity data, and in less time than it would have taken for the Shrike to actually have covered the distance, the ‘enemy’ fighter’s computer decided that the missile was lethal. 

“Damn it, Angel!”  The VS-42 pilot slammed his fists on his suddenly inactive controls as Angel’s fighter flashed past, rolling slowly, her laughter percolating over the open channel.  “That’s a case of Scotch you owe us, dickhead!”  Her voice rang with triumph.  “Hound, you with me?”

“Coming in on your wing now, Angel.”

“Let’s go get that frigate.”

The Ian Mac Vie wasn’t about to make herself an easy target.  Showing up as ghostly white trails in her heads-up, harmless IR laser fire simulated far more deadly particle beam projectors as they played in sweeps and arcs across space.

“Weave!” Crider called.  The two fighters began looping and weaving in a wild corkscrew pattern.  It was two thousand meters to Shrike range.

“Damn it!  I’ve lost primary gyros!” Hound called.

“Use your thrusters.  Drop in to my seven o’clock.”

One thousand meters. 

“YOUR CANOPY IS DAMAGED.  ACTIVATE EMERGENCY SUIT SEALS.”  Crider dropped her face shield, sealed it, went to suit pressure.

Five hundred meters.

“Angel, I’m hit again, my port wing is gone.”

“Stay with me, Hound, you hear?  You stay with me!”

Two hundred meters.  One hundred.

“Range!  Fox One, Fox One!”

“Fox One,” Hound screamed into his mike.  Three simulated Shrikes were racing for the frigate now, as the ghostly traces of laser fire continued…

…and suddenly stopped.

“God damn it,” a new voice came over the channel.  “You just killed my ship.  Who’s flying lead out there?”

“Ian Mac Vie, this is Hunter Lead.  Beers are on you tonight!”  Laughter sounded from several different transmitters.

On the Ian Mac Vie’s Bridge, Commander Minoru Tosaki stood looking at lights flashing red on the several control stations around the compartment.  “Damn fighter jocks.”  He grinned at his Bridge staff.  “Well, people, looks like we’re going to have to run some extra fire control drills the next few days.”

“Hunter Flight, Jockey Flight, Ian Mac Vie,” a new voice called.  “Exercise is concluded.  Hunter Flight, Jockey Flight, return to the carrier at once for debrief.”  On all the ‘killed’ and ‘damaged’ fighters and on the frigate, systems suddenly flashed back to life.

“Good job, Hunter Flight.  Form up on me.  Let’s go home.”

“And collect our Scotch, Angel.  Don’t forget that,” Horse added helpfully.

Near New Albion

Sliding invisibly through space, a pair of cloaked Grugell frigates took up positions near the system’s Jupiter-type gas giant, counting on the mass of the planet to mask them from any sensors.  On command, the sensor suites of both ships began tracking radio transmissions and tracking ship traffic.  Burst transmissions relayed the data to a massive Colonization ship, parked in deep space a quarter-parsec away, guarded by two cruisers.

Group Commander Gorbamatchik IX watched as the data from his frigates began to arrive.  The humans had a substantial population on the planet, numbering in the tens of thousands, but there appeared to be no military ships in orbit, and little if any armed forces on the planet itself.  “An easy game,” Gorbamatchik remarked to his SubCommander, Itschtistk IV.  “We’ll watch carefully for some time.  Once Group Commander Tortallastik has disabled their Fleet, we’ll move on the planet unopposed.”

Less than half a light year away, Group Commander Tortallastik III was assembling a considerable force of ships to do exactly that.

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.