First Comes Duty (The Hope Island Chronicles Book 2) (42 page)

“Specify.”

“Alternating energy spikes. Attempting to locate.”

The computer could give only rough coordinates, but it provided a starting point. Far off in the distance, a shape formed. An E-boat perhaps? Fighters, he had to keep an eye out for the fighter escort.

“If only I had decent readings, I could—” 

He smacked his forehead with the flat side of his palm.

“Stupid, stupid. You can’t scan them, right? So, genius, they can’t scan you. At least not yet.”

Coasting on momentum maintained with gentle surges from his stern mag plating, he closed with the object. One E-boat, sitting in orbit, weapons pointing to a spot on the far northwest of the main continent. The Attenborough mining facility.

From the endless briefings aboard
Insolent
, he determined from its configuration that it was a top-of-the-line Jackal-class E-boat. Unlike the smooth, rounded shape of a monitor, the Jackal’s lines were sharp, angular, the hull roughly rectangular, yet fully capable of deflecting sensor scans. The dullness of her gunmetal grey hull added to her stealth capability. The FOO’s words came back to him. “If you encounter an empirical presence, beware. They’ve been fighting their wars for over twenty years, so you’ll be flying against combat-hardened professionals, not headhunters. Remember your training.”

Where were the other two E-boats? And the fighters. Where were the fighters? Surely battle-hardened Pruessen professionals wouldn’t keep their fighter element aboard. Then again, with Barrington’s forces out of the way, they were not expecting opposition. Nathan scanned the surrounding space with the only reliable source left to him: the ever-dependable Mark One eyeball. Nothing.

He closed to within missile range of the inert enemy boat. With stealthy adjustments, he maneuvered directly astern. Still no reaction.
Could her sensors have been fried by the EMP?

Locking on, he fired twin beams into her starboard engine. As she heeled over, Nathan hit her port engine. Her stern pulsars struck out in blind rage. Nathan fired two SR missiles into her damaged port engine, then dropped below the dangerous pulsar fire. One missile, hit by enemy fire, blew apart; the other hit. Only a small, short-ranged missile, with a paltry quarter-tonne nuclear warhead. With her stern shields damaged, the explosion tore through her starboard quarter. Nathan grinned, then gaped as she disappeared in a brief gout of flames.

“Yeah,” he shouted, while pounding his console.

A chain reaction? An overload to her reactor? A lucky shot? It didn’t matter to Nathan. One down, two to go.

Rather than relying on his boat’s unreliable sensors, he reached out with his Prep. Following his sense of danger, he located boat two, hovering above the McClennon mining site. This one had more foresight than her deceased sister. Her fighter element flew top-cover for their mother ship. Cutting engine thrust, he coasted toward the boat on momentum, using only small bursts from his stern mag plating to maintain inertia against the resistance. With her systems probably fried, he could get close enough to her to attack. But as soon as he fired a weapon, he would have the entire enemy squadron to deal with. The first time, luck had been on his side. However, in a contest of six on one, the one usually lost.

As he closed the range to the enemy boat, Nathan rubbed the bump above his right eyebrow, working the problem. Their mission was to rob this planet blind, then nuke it back to the stone age. With entry into Cimmerian orbit now blocked, the robbing part had been removed from the equation. That left phase two. So why wasn’t Cimmeria choking on nuclear fallout? Nathan recalled the lessons in tactics from fighter training school. Monitor pilots were trained to work in concert with one another as a coordinated strike group. Monitor Corps doctrine also insisted that boat jockeys be individual exponents of tactics and general mayhem, capable of independent decision making as the circumstances warranted.

Imperial naval doctrine differed radically. A hierarchy of command dominated their thinking, and had done so during two wars. No individual shenanigans, but a firm, unyielding belief in the power of the command structure. Any trace of individualism could be grounds for court martial at best or the ministrations of the dreaded Human Resource Service at worst.  

So they waited … for what? For someone to tell them what to do? For someone to tell them to nuke Cimmeria? Who? Where? What ship gave the attack order, and why hadn’t it been given?

Nathan shook his head. “Fuck this. Just kill them all. Problem solved.”

A spark of movement from astern. A fighter broke from its circular patrol pattern, heading in his direction. A fighter pilot’s instincts, perhaps?

“SMC, see if you can tie into the enemy comms.”

“I shall attempt to do so, but not a high probability exists … wait.”

Through his earpiece Nathan heard the enemy chatter. It was encoded, so he couldn’t understand what they said, but he perceived nuances. A fairly relaxed tone, a good sign. The approaching fighter did not appear to be anything more than curious. 

Until he came close enough to get a good look at the unusual design of Nathan’s fighter. Frenzied cries erupted as every fighter turned toward him.

Now the shit’s hit the shields.

Two missiles streaked from the enemy fighter. The missiles were small, fast, nearly impossible to hit.

Then, a familiar pop between his ears.
Ah, so there you are.

Nathan shot the two missiles out of space with ease. He fired a sustained burst of pulsar beams into the enemy’s cockpit. They tore through the front shield, turning the pilot into a bloody pulp.  

The other five fighters now had a clear idea of his location. Knack or not, five on one were lousy odds. Two fighters repositioned to attack from astern, two from his forward port quarter. The fifth had disappeared. Nathan closed with the nearest fighter and fired two missiles. The enemy pilot was no fool and powered away, the missiles missing him by a comfortable margin.

Nathan could sense the other two closing to missile range. He pushed the yoke forward, diving toward the planet.

“Target lock. Two missiles inbound. Acquisition confirmed, five seconds to impact.”

“SMC, two-second WCM burst on my mark. Mark!”

With the wave of weapons countermeasures scrambling the missile’s guidance system, Nathan took a seven-gee turn to starboard, continuing his headlong plunge toward the planet’s hard deck. 

Two of the enemy fighters formed up, in rapid pursuit: the leader and his wing man. One broke from the formation, closing rapidly, while the other fell back. Nathan pitched his boat about in a manic attempt to keep him from locking on. This pilot did not fall for his tricks. An instant before he fired his pulsars, Nathan broke hard to port. The deadly beams came so close, he could swear he felt them passing.

Entering the upper ionosphere should give him some small respite. The scattered ionization would scramble their sensors. For a short time. It worked both ways. Nathan’s instruments showed nothing but background hissing. He increased his descent rate. The fighter shook against the resistance, but obeyed his commands. The interference began to clear as he broke through to the dull blueness of the upper atmosphere. His back still ached, but not acutely. Continuing to dive, he scanned the surrounding sky for pursuit.

There, off to port, one of them. Where was—

His back flared.

“Two missiles, inbound. Impact in six seconds.”

A hurried shot without lock-on. Nathan sped toward the nearest enemy. No time for talking. Nathan hit the WCM, and rolled onto his roof. The missiles sped past, close enough to make his proximity alarms squeal. Coming out of the crazy roll, he took a hurried shot at the fighter. The angle was wrong, the beams glancing off his armor. But it got his attention. The enemy went ballistic, fearing a follow-up of missiles. Over his shoulder, Nathan saw the enemy passing through low cloud cover. Closing.

This prick is getting on my nerves.

The pursuit continued, the experienced pilot, Nathan designated T — as in trouble — emulating his every desperate maneuver. The other one covered T on his starboard side. Nathan designated him the ugly sister.

Another missile missed him by the slightest of margins. Sweat ran down his back. Then the clouds parted to reveal the ocean.

“SMC, configure for atmosphere.”

While it confirmed, he dropped onto the deck, skimming across the briny water. At a height of less than ten meters, his supersonic wake created a trailing edge of fine spray that should, he hoped, scramble the pursuing fighters’ sensors just enough to prevent a positive lock-on. The J-class fighters were, after all, designed for combat within a vacuum environment.

No more missiles lit his displays. T stayed with him, matching every move, anticipating every desperate ploy to escape. Nathan could not hope to hold him off forever. With his boat rigged for atmosphere, he should have an advantage over the Jackal.

Damn, the bastard’s good. An ace, perhaps? 

The mainland rushed to meet him: a familiar stretch of the lower southern continent. The Kamora streaked into the broad, green valley, his nemesis closing rapidly.

His EW sensors screamed as two missiles locked on to him. The frantic beeping dwindled into silence.

“Acquisition lost.”

A quick glance to port showed the missiles plowing into the side of a ravine.

To either side of the jungle-covered valley, high escarpments dominated. In the far distance, on the right, a jagged outcrop angled out from the cliff face. Nathan pointed his nose to it. T stayed with him. The pull from the huge lump of coltak could be felt from four clicks away.

A hurried shot passed overhead.

“That’s it, come closer, you shit stain.”

Almost on top of the outcrop, the coltak influence was no longer subtle. Nathan pulled back and to port, engaging starboard thrusters for good measure. He cleared the danger zone and breathed a sigh of relief. Until a bolt of pulsar fire glanced off his port dorsal armor. T had read his mind again. An explosion from astern indicated that the ugly sister had not read the same signs.

Down the length of the valley he repeated the exercise. Each time, T stayed with him. However, he showed greater caution, dropping back a little with each surprise. T could not employ his missiles, and had backed out of pulsar range.

The valley began to narrow; soon its protection would be gone. Worse still, he would be over a populated area.

Nathan pulled back on the yoke, taking the Kamora into a steep vertical ascent. T stayed with him and began closing the distance. Leaving the dull skies behind, Nathan reentered the ionosphere and its redeeming blanket of cover. Cutting power to his engines, he dropped onto his back and fell toward the planet. As he fell blindly through the soup, multiple possibilities ran through his mind.

Would the enemy follow him, or change direction to outflank him? If he followed, Nathan might have a chance. If he didn’t … more ifs. Through the interference his scanners detected a weak reading. Possibly engine output? There, dead ahead — a grey shape forming, on a direct course. He fired, beams ripping through the gloom. Returning fire raked his boat. Nathan maintained course and fired. So did his opponent. Nathan reengaged engines and fired a missile. Without proper acquisition, it had little chance of hitting his opponent but it might make him blink. The missile passed closer to the enemy than he expected. T blinked, slewing his fighter away from the danger, exposing his keel. Nathan followed his path, firing into the exposed belly.  Pieces broke away from T’s keel as his pulsars raked it. T disappeared into the gloom, trailing vapor and debris. Had he dealt the enemy a mortal blow, or just winged him? Nathan had larger issues. Coming about, he sped back into orbit.

***

Nathan maneuvered through a small asteroid field, using it as cover. Danger ahead. He spotted two enemy fighters in the distance. His back screamed and he banked wildly to starboard. Pulsar beams tore into his Kamora. His fighter trembled as if being shaken within the jaws of a Delosian wolf.

“Shields down on aft quarter. Remaining shields at twenty-seven percent.”

Nathan fired at the lead fighter, his pulsars deflecting off his canopy, then turned sharply as he sensed the third fighter firing at his unprotected stern. A shot glanced off his hull, and another came close to an exposed engine. The three Jackals formed up and closed in to finish him off. Nathan’s early-warning sensors screamed as all three Jackals locked their missiles on to him.

From dead ahead, four missiles streaked toward him. Reading his League IFF frequency, they deviated around him, striking two of the pursuing fighters. 

“Eee-ha.” A scream over his comm. “Relax, Nathan, the cavalry’s here.”

Lucky. Somehow he had gotten the second prototype off Cimmeria. 

Nathan rotated through his axis, charging at the two damaged Jackals while Lucky chased down the third. With the improved odds, Nathan caught up with the fighters, limping toward the safety of their mother ship. Their ability to fight back had been ripped from them by Lucky’s missiles. Weapons gone, shields disabled, they were helpless. Nathan closed the distance and locked his weapons on to them.

If they make it back to their boat, they’ll report there’s two of us.

He licked his dry lips.

One Jackal lowered his undercarriage: the universal sign of surrender. Nathan’s jaw ached. Over his earpiece they pleaded for mercy. An image of his family’s horrid death flashed into his mind. He came about, leaving only scattered debris to mark the enemy’s end.

It’s not murder if they’re Pruessens.

“SMC, time to restore aft shields?”

“Shield blisters fourteen through twenty-one destroyed. You will need to return to Cimmeria for repairs.”

“Very well, route power from all stern blisters to forward shields. Time to restoration of remaining shields?”

“Fourteen minutes, at current power usage.”

Nathan throttled back and wiped sweat from his face with the back of his shirt sleeve. No sign of Lucky or the other Jackal.