Just not British though, Geoff thought, shaking his head. After all, he was a damned good opponent.
As he passed the Cat he raised his hand in a salute, slightly disappointed the Cat had not saluted in return.
"Sixty seconds, hurry it up!"
He lined up, remembering that Vance was behind him. If he screwed up his landing, Vance would be stuck as well.
"Tolwyn, this is recovery, no need to reply. You're coming in hot, reverse thrust, bring her down, bring your speed down, too high, too high… get your gear down."
Geoff struggled to keep up with the orders, popping his gear down, pushing stick forward, pulling thrust back.
"Too low now… bring her up… still too fast… bring her up… bring her…"
His landing gear clipped the edge of the ramp as he slammed through the airlock, his fighter slapped down onto the deck in a shower of sparks. He could feel the back of the fighter snapping, the controls in his hands going slack.
The safety net seemed to be racing up. He slammed into it, his vision blurring. A second later the canopy was yet again covered in foam, followed by someone pulling the outside release hatch. A hooded crash and rescue man towered above him, spraying the cockpit down with foam and then yanking him out. As they dragged him back from the plane he saw a ripple of flame venting around the wings as a ruptured hydrogen tank let go. A blizzard of foam engulfed the plane.
"Fifteen seconds," a voice boomed over the deck PA. "Prepare for jump."
"Vance!"
Geoff struggled to stand up, breaking free from the rescue personnel. A fighter came through the airlock, touching down gently, and turned to skid past the wreckage of Geoff's plane.
"Those not secured, lie down now! Five, four, three…"
Geoff sprawled himself out on the deck. The star field outside the airlock shifted in color. He caught a momentary glimpse of North Carolina, fire wreathing its belly and starboard forward section. The star field shifted into red, the stars turning into receding streaks of light.
Cursing, Prince Ratha watched as the Concordia seemed to stretch out into a long streak of light, then disappeared in a sparkle of light. He could not understand these humans. He was dead, he should be dead, and yet the fool had waved to him and left him. It was a humiliation beyond bearing, that a foe had bested him thus and then did not deliver the coup, and instead had mockingly waved.
A hatred for the humans he had never believed possible before filled his soul. Having killed three of their fighters, he should have been able to return as a hero, his talons painted red when he was presented to his grandfather, wearing the clasp of the red claw with honor… yet in his heart there would be no honor. He had been defeated and then left to live.
There was but one thing left to do. Grabbing hold of his helmet latch, he tore it open, the air venting out of his suit. Strange, how silent death was in space, he thought.
The deck seemed to fall away underneath him, there was the momentary disorientation and wave of nausea. It felt as thought the deck then slammed back up, knocking the breath out of him. The star field outside the airlock came back into focus, but was different.
"Jump successful," the PA announced.
Geoff staggered back to his feet and stood, numb with shock and pain. He could feel explosions rippling through the ship. For a brief instant artificial grav winked off, came back on, and then seemed to hover at a reduced level so that Geoff felt as if he would float off the deck. Another explosion slammed through the carrier, lights winking off, emergency battle lamps turning on in the gloom.
The crash crew continued to hose down his fighter as he witnessed yet another plane he had flown being dragged to the side airlock and ejected out into space.
"Well, sir, that's another fifty million," one of his rescuers announced. Slapping him on the back, the three men who had dragged him out went over to help with the cleanup.
"Sir, you are to report to sick bay at once."
He looked over at the medic.
"You've had it, sir. Now get to sick bay."
"In a moment," Geoff whispered.
Vance slipped out of his plane and came up to Geoff, shaking his head.
"You know, they usually ground a guy who dings a fighter like that."
Geoff looked at him, unable to reply. It felt like the action was playing out in his mind again, strangely, at two different speeds. There were flash memories going by at high speed, and then frozen moments-the Kilrathi assault troops tumbling into vacuum, Hawkins going kamikaze, the exec of Masada and his defiant cry, McAuliffe burning.
He tried to speak, but couldn't. Vance was staring at him.
"I know, Geoff, I know," Vance whispered, resting his hand on Geoff's shoulder.
Behind Vance, Geoff saw a sparkle of light. It was the North Carolina coming through, still on fire, but intact. He knew it was probably dumping mines like mad, standard retreat doctrine. It'd be hours before the Cats could clear the entry point, and even then they'd have to send light ships through first to clear the mines on the opposite side.
"Thanks, Vance," Geoff whispered.
"Same here, buddy. Welcome to the club."
"Yeah, thanks."
Together they turned and started for debriefing.
* * *
Commander Winston Turner slumped wearily in his chair and closed his eyes. Another explosion rocked the ship and he hung on, watching the damage control board as yet another section flashed yellow, indicating a hull breach. The damage control officer looked back at Turner.
"Sir, we'll hold her for the moment, but primary engines are going to be lost. I think we'll lose jump engine control as well, sir. She's dying."
Turner nodded wearily.
"How much time do we have?"
"Six, maybe eight hours tops."
"If they come through in pursuit, can we still fight?"
The bridge crew looked over at Turner, defiance in their eyes as if he had insulted them by even implying the ship couldn't fight.
"We'll go down fighting, sir."
"Fine, get ready for another launch, then."
He looked back at the rear display screen as North Carolina, with one escort, came through the jump. A ripple of a cheer swept the CIC. Remarkable, he thought.
He looked over at Valeri.
"We lost, yet they cheer," he said softly.
"We lost, sir, but we sure as hell kicked them on the way out. They'll think twice about pursuit."
Pursuit. Pursuit, retreat, and when would it end? The worst defeat in the history of the fleet. And yet, he felt something else, a defiance. He could hear that in those around him. If they had simply run, what would the feeling be now? The fact that we had turned, even in defeat, and struck back, maybe that was something. Maybe it would be something for Dayan, for the families of all the others, that we still fought back.
Third Marine. Maybe we've brought them enough time to marshal a return strike. He doubted that. Dayan had sent a ship up to jump point Delta to go through, then reemerge later in the day, deploying signal simulators to try and bluff the Cats into thinking another attack was coming through. It was a hackneyed old trick, but he doubted if it would change anything now.
He looked up at the chronometer. It'd been fifteen minutes since North Carolina had jumped. No hot pursuit. If they were going to come on, they'd have to do it slowly, worry about mines. No, they'd hold back for the moment.
"Val, make sure the log notes time we broke off engagement."
"It's done, sir."
"We'll deploy out here, wait to see if they come in hot pursuit. If they don't come on, we'll send a frigate back through the jump point for a look around. Damage control, see if you can contain things. If not, give us enough warning so we can abandon ship."