“Order the flotilla to cover our back,” he added. He’d started the operation with twenty-four frigates. Now, he had eighteen, several of which had taken heavy damage. But it would be a great deal worse, he knew, when the aliens got into weapons range. “And deploy the modified nukes, both types.”
One of the brighter eggheads on Earth had speculated that the alien plasma cannons used magnetic fields to keep the bursts of superheated plasma under control. So far, duplicating the technique had proven beyond humanity’s technology, but the egghead had gone on to suggest that an EMP might successfully disrupt the containment field, causing the aliens to lose control of their weapons. There might even be an explosion, the egghead had predicted, when the containment field failed. At the very least, the EMP would cripple the alien ability to keep firing.
Ted had his doubts. Humans had been building EMP-shielding into their technology since the day they’d first realised the potentially devastating effects of an electromagnetic pulse. The first use of EMP-weapons in war had only underlined the dangers, forcing the development of countermeasures forward at terrifying speed. Surely, the aliens would have gone through their own period of using nukes… but the egghead had doubted that the aliens could shield their magnetic containment fields. Now… Ted braced himself. The concept was about to the put to the test.
“Nukes away, sir,” Farley said. Unpowered, the missiles would slip through the cloud of alien starfighters… unless they got very unlucky and actually struck an alien ship directly. “Time to detonation, seven minutes.”
Ted nodded. The alien frigates were closing in rapidly, threatening to bring their plasma weapons to bear on humanity’s frigates. No matter the sheer weight of armour wrapped about the ships, Ted knew, the human frigates were doomed if the aliens entered firing range. He wondered, absently, how long it would take the eggheads to come up with a directed energy weapon humans could use, one that worked better than point defence lasers. Even a small level of armour could provide protection against the lasers.
The display flared red, suddenly. “The enemy got a clear shot at Rio,” Farley reported. “She’s badly damaged, sir…”
Another icon flared red, then vanished. “She’s gone,” Farley said.
Ted winced. Another human frigate, a crew of thirty men and women, gone in an instant. But there was no time to mourn. A moment later, the analysts started twittering for his attention. He hesitated, then keyed the switch to hear what they had to say. They seemed to believe that the aliens had fired at extreme range, damaging Rio rather than destroying her outright. It had been the secondary damage that had killed the ship. Under the circumstances, Ted found it hard to care about the difference. The ship was still dead.
“Nukes detonating now,” Farley said, sharply. “EMPs… underway.”
“Good,” Ted said. If the EMPs failed, they'd just wasted a handful of nukes for nothing. “Let me know…”
One of the alien craft flared white on the display, then vanished. Others seemed to stagger briefly, the sensors picking up odd flickers of energy on their hulls. The remainder stepped down their drives, allowing the distance between them and their prey to widen. Ted laughed as he realised that, for once, the eggheads had got something right. The destroyed ship must have been on the verge of unleashing a full blast of plasma itself, only to lose containment as the EMP detonated.
“Deploy the second set of nukes,” Ted ordered. On the display, the alien starfighters seemed to be pulling back, sweeping empty space rather than going after human targets. It looked odd, almost as if they were giving up the chase… it took him a long moment to realise that they were looking for other nukes. “Then launch powered missiles towards the alien starfighters.”
“Aye, sir,” Farley said.
Kurt felt sweat trickling down his back as he pulled his starfighter around and fired a burst of pellets towards a retreating alien fighter. They missed; he swore venomously as warning lights blinked up on the display, reminding him that he was critically low on ammunition. The aliens, damn them, could keep firing indefinitely, but the humans needed to reload… he glanced at the shared datanet and swore again. He was by no means the only pilot who needed to reload his weapons.
“Beta, return to the hanger and rearm,” he ordered. His pilots needed a nap, a shower and some food, perhaps not in that order, but they weren't going to get it. Ark Royal had won a breathing space, yet he knew better than to think it would last long enough for anything other than a quick reloading session. “Alpha; hold position and wait.”
The fighting seemed to die down as the aliens continued their withdrawal, clearly taking the time necessary to work out what had happened to their frigate and devise countermeasures. Kurt busied himself by supervising the reloading process, then devising a potential attack pattern of his own. If nukes could strip an enemy craft of its point defence — and it looked like they could — he could use a nuke to clear the way for the bombers. But it would only work, he realised numbly, if the aliens were actually charging up their weapons when the nuke detonated. Or were their weapons always charged? The records suggested, very strongly, that the aliens could discharge plasma bursts from all over their hull.
He felt his entire body aching as he returned his fighter to the hanger, then waited impatiently as the ground crew hastily reloaded his guns. They’d drilled, time and time again, until it took no longer than five minutes to reload and prepare for a second launch, but it was always different when they were under fire. At least the aliens still seemed to be keeping their distance, although both of their formations were starting to merge into one. It didn't look as though they had a third force in position to cut the humans off…
“I'm getting too old for this shit,” he muttered. “I should have volunteered for the home defence squadrons.”
“And then you would never have your pretty uniform mussed,” Rose said, sardonically. “And all the pretty girls would know you for a coward.”
Kurt cursed — he was too tired to remember that everything he said was broadcast to the rest of the squadron — as the other pilots added their comments. Most of them seemed to agree that being assigned to a home defence squadron was the same as being sentenced to a very slow death, even though it was quite likely that the home defence squadrons would last longer. But then, there had always been a tendency to undervalue such squadrons. They might not have been assigned to carriers, but that didn't make them cowards. Hell, Kurt honestly had never met a pilot who hadn't applied to serve on a carrier. It was always more exciting than being assigned to a home defence squadron.
“You ask me, sir,” another pilot put in, “it's the same in starfighters as it is in fucking.”
Kurt rolled his eyes. “Really?”
“Of course, sir,” the pilot said. “You get into your bird and take her to heaven, twice a day.”
There was a long pause. “I seem to recall,” Rose said, sweetly, “that both of your last two girlfriends ended up together.”
“Hey,” the pilot protested.
“They must have bonded over the trauma of dating you,” Rose added. “I think they were planning to get married, the last I heard.”
Kurt smiled, although he knew there was little true humour in the situation. They knew, they all knew, that death was likely to claim them soon enough. Joking around was their way of dealing with it. But, at the end of the day, it wasn't likely to matter. He spared a thought for his children — and Molly, no matter how much they argued — and gripped his stick as the starfighter was hurled back into space. The aliens were resuming the attack.