Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(68)
The unmanned stealth fighter makes a brutally sharp twenty-gturn under full acceleration and races back the way it came, toward the section of space where Indy started her run for the transition point. On the plot, the icon for the fighter changes in size as the electronic-warfare decoy module on the little ship pumps out megawatts of radio energy to match the ELINT signature of a frigate. To an SRA unit, the fleeing fighter would look like a much bigger ship, and hopefully the Lanky will find it worthy of pursuit.
“Lima-21 is changing course to twenty degrees starboard relative. Son of a bitch took the bait.” The tactical officer sounds almost jubilant.
“One minute to transition. Stand by, Sergeant Chistyakov.”
“Standing,” Dmitry says.
“Lima-20 is coming about! Course change for Lima-20, turning through two-seven-zero relative. He is accelerating. Ten meters per second. Thirty. Fifty.”
“Not fast enough,” Colonel Campbell says. He is staring grimly at the plot, where the second seed ship has started a ponderous 180-degree turn toward our trajectory. “Looks like size isn’t everything, huh?”
Off in the distance to our starboard, the stealth fighter is racing into the black, flashing its fake ID card, with seed ship Lima-20 in pursuit. We are racing for the doorway at top speed, sixty humans in a little alloy shell against two almost-invulnerable planet destroyers.
“Lima-20 is going for the bait, too. I don’t think he spotted us, sir.”
“Works for me,” the colonel says, jaw muscles flexing.
“Transition in thirty seconds.”
“Sergeant Chistyakov,” the XO says, just a few decibels below a shout. “Now, if you please.”
Dmitry’s fingers fly across the display in front of him. He’s using Indy’s comms suite as an amplifier for his own suit’s communications gear, sending the SRA access code with the ship’s transmitting power instead of that of his armor. Still, at this speed we will be in transmission range for only a few seconds, and if we miss our window, we’ll just coast right through the Alcubierre point and remain in local space instead of shooting off toward Fomalhaut at superluminal speed.
“Is done,” he says.
“I show positive lock on the beam,” the helmsman confirms. “Automatic transit lock enabled. Transition in fifteen seconds.”
The XO picks up the handset for the 1MC. “All hands, prepare for Alcubierre transition in minus-ten. Hang on, people.”
“Distance to Lima-20 now ninety thousand. Eighty thousand. Seventy thousand and closing.”
“Three, two, one. Engage.”
The icons on the plot wink out of existence. I feel the familiar low-level ache in my bones that sets in whenever I enter an Alcubierre transit bubble, and I’ve never welcomed the feeling until this very moment.
CHAPTER 19
NACS Indianapolis coasts back into orbit around Fomalhaut c’s moon, the colony called New Svalbard, twenty-nine days after our departure. We arrive with almost-empty deuterium tanks, 25 percent of drinking water remaining, and most of our food stores gone except for the truly unpalatable SRA rations we held back for eat-or-starve emergency chow. On the personal side of the ledger, I arrive without my fiancée, and I am missing two fingers on my left hand. I’ve also lost whatever idealism I may have had left after five years of getting fucked by the brass, and any desire to stick my neck out for anyone above the rank of colonel ever again.
“Look at this, sir,” the XO says from the holotable. Colonel Campbell walks up from the CIC hatch, where he just had a conversation with the commanding officer of the embarked SI squad, Lieutenant Shirley.
“What is it?”
Major Renner points at the plot and highlights a few of the ship icons that have popped up on our radar since we turned the bend for our orbital capture. She points out a small cluster of blue icons slightly away from the main task force.
Colonel Campbell laughs out loud. “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. The wayward carrier has returned to the fold.”
I walk over to the pit and look at the plot. The ships Major Renner pointed out are labeled “CV-233 MIDWAY,” “FF-471 TRIPOLI,” and “CG-97 LONG BEACH,” our wayward carrier task force 230.7, which tucked tail and ran when the Lankies came calling a little over two months ago.
“Amazing what empty freshwater tanks can do for one’s memory,” Major Renner says wryly. “The general remembered there was a colony moon to defend out here in the sticks.”
We’ve been in radio contact with the combined SRA/NAC task force since shortly after we shot out of the Alcubierre chute and back into the Fomalhaut system, but the presence of the Midway is a major surprise. I see it as a good sign that we are in touch with the same command crew that was in charge when we left—an ad hoc council of senior SRA and NAC commanders—which means that the wayward general in command of TF230.7 did not manage to claim authority over the entire fleet by virtue of rank.
“Regulus, Indy Actual. Request permission to come alongside one of the supply ships as soon as we’ve completed our orbital capture. We are out of everything, and Indy’s full of holes.”
“Indy Actual, this is Regulus. Permission granted. Complete orbital capture and contact Portsmouth for approach vectors. You guys look like you’ve had a journey.”