“Order our starfighters to prepare to launch,” Ted ordered. “Go active; ramp up our own sensors as much as possible. There’s no point in trying to hide any longer.”
“I guess we poked the hornet’s nest,” Fitzwilliam said, from the CIC. “Mass drivers are unlikely to score hits at this range.”
Ted nodded. The alien ships were accelerating forwards, but they were also altering their courses randomly, making it impossible to predict their location in time to fire at them with the mass drivers. Besides, with a swarm of starfighters covering their asses, it was unlikely that any projectiles would get through and do some real damage. Shotgunning them might have an effect, but not enough to make the expenditure worthwhile.
“The newcomers are also on their way,” Farley noted. “They’re pulling quite a high clip.”
“Fast buggers,” Fitzwilliam’s voice said. “I don’t think we could match them.”
“True,” Ted agreed. The alien carriers didn't seem to have a better acceleration rate that a modern human carrier — which still gave them an edge over Ark Royal — but the alien battlecruisers definitely had the highest acceleration rate ever recorded. It would be tricky for a human ship to match it, at least without heavy reengineering. But it was clear that they were going to have to do just that, sooner rather than later. “Calculate prospective intercept vectors.”
He ran through them in his head, then checked them against the computer. The larger alien ships were unlikely to run them down until they crossed the tramline, but the smaller fighters would definitely try to slow them down. Even if they hadn't improved their weaponry, Ted knew he couldn't rule out the prospect of a lucky shot… or, for that matter, the simple destruction of his ship’s ability to shoot back. Once they’d stripped Ark Royal of her defences, they would allow the bigger ships to catch up and blow his carrier apart.
“Enemy fighters will enter intercept range in ten minutes,” Farley warned.
And if they had mass drivers, they would have used them by now, Ted told himself. He hoped, desperately, that he was right. A single direct hit with a mass driver would smash his ship like an eggshell.
“Launch fighters at the seven minute mark,” Ted ordered. That should give his pilots enough time to launch and get into intercept position. “Hold the bombers for the moment.”
Silently, he cursed the decision not to build any more Ark Royal-class carriers… or even makeshift escort carriers. He didn't have the starfighters to cover both his hull and escort the bombers to their targets, while the aliens — with their multirole fighters — had no trouble doing both. Maybe he should have pleaded with the Admiralty to assign additional modern carriers to the flotilla… but he knew they would have refused. The modern carriers, once the queens of space, were now too vulnerable to be easily risked.
“Aye, sir,” Farley said. “Fighters are primed now.”
“Use one of the drones to try to raise the planet,” Ted ordered. If the Russians had any form of passive sensors left in orbit — or even simple ground-based telescopes — they'd know that someone was attacking the occupation force. And there was definitely no point in trying to hide now. “Transmit the pre-recorded message and wait for a reply.”
Until the drone is destroyed, he thought, absently. The planners might not have realised it, but the moment the drone started transmitting its signal, the aliens would know precisely where it was lurking. They’d send a starfighter to vaporise it within minutes. But at least the Russians on the ground, assuming they still have a radio receiver, would know that they weren't alone.
But they’d also know that the human raiders had retreated.
He shook his head, absently. There was no alternative. The Russians would know, at least, that the rest of human space remained free… and that the aliens were far from invincible. And they would have hope…
To an unprepared civilian, the tactical display was a indecipherable mixture of red and green lights, dancing around in seemingly random patterns. The fact that most of his fellow reporters couldn't understand what they were seeing, Marcus Yang suspected, was all that was stopping them from panicking. Marcus, who could read it, could tell that a formidable alien force was giving chase, bent on destroying the imprudent carrier that had given them a bloody nose.
He settled back, watching — with some private amusement — the reactions shown by his fellow reporters. Barbie seemed shocked at the carnage, even though it was minuscule compared to the Battle of New Russia. No, the first Battle of New Russia, he corrected himself. One way or another, this was definitely the second. Other reporters seemed almost pleased. They knew that humanity hitting back would make for high ratings… assuming, of course, they survived the experience.
Barbie looked over at him, her too-wide eyes disturbingly inhuman in the darkened compartment. “What is happening now?”
Marcus hesitated, then made a deliberate decision to be kind. “We’re withdrawing from the system,” he said, which was true enough. If, of course, a few of the details — such as an onrushing alien fleet — were left out. “You’ll have time to file your story soon enough.”
Barbie gave him a pitiful glare. “How can you be so calm?”
Marcus shrugged. “Whatever happens, happens,” he said. Being an embed in ground forces had taught him that bullets, IEDs and mortar shells were no respecters of press credentials. Nor were insurgents, as a general rule, and they tended to be savvy enough to check which reporters they’d kidnapped before deciding what to do with them. Some reporters had been released with exclusive interviews, others had been brutally raped, tortured and then murdered. “There's nothing I can do about it, so why worry?”
He smiled at her. The display kept them curiously disconnected from reality, but that would change when the aliens started hammering at Ark Royal’s hull. And they would, he was sure; this time, the aliens had enough firepower to just punch their way through the carrier’s defenders.
“You may as well relax too,” he added. “There’s nothing you can do to help or hinder operations.”
“Launch fighters,” Ted ordered.
“Aye, sir,” Farley said. He pressed a switch on his console. “Fighters launching, now.”
Kurt winced as the starfighter rocketed out the launch tube and into open space, followed rapidly by the rest of his pilots. Ahead of them, one cluster of alien fighters rested on the tramline; behind them, a colossal cloud of alien starfighters was catching up rapidly with the flotilla. There were so many of them that the sensors seemed to be having problems picking individual starfighters out of the cloud. Kurt had never seen so many starfighters outside exercises and flying displays for the King’s birthday.
“Wonderful,” Rose said. She sounded better, now they were in open space with an enemy force bearing down on them. They could take their frustration out on the enemy pilots. “I make it twenty enemy fighters each. We’ll all be aces by the time this is done.”
“True,” Kurt agreed. “Alpha and Beta squadrons; break up the enemy formation. Delta and Gamma, mind the carrier.”
The starfighters rocketed forwards, slipping past the frigates moving into intercept positions. Kurt scowled at them, hoping and praying that the IFF systems worked perfectly, even though he feared they wouldn’t. It was bad enough with British systems alone, but when several other nations were involved… he gritted his teeth. In hindsight, the strongest argument against there being any foreknowledge of the alien attack was that there had been no attempt to ensure that all human technology was compatible.