Fleet Action (wc-3) William Forstchen (fox in socks read aloud .txt) 📖

The squadrons nosed back over, following the strike commander, slicing in through the explosions, and as they came out the opposite side, the Kilrathi fighters were upon them.

Kevin fought down a moment of panic. The largest action he had ever been in was at Munro, a cakewalk attack on one carrier. Even the Academy holo simulators had never been programmed to handle the number of enemy fighters now coming in on him.

It was impossible to sort out which target to lock on. Hundreds of IFFs streaked across space and within seconds dozens of ships on both sides were exploding. The Broadsword and Sabre gunners sent out sprays of shot in every direction as wing group size attack waves by the Kilrathi came in. The four light corvettes escorting the attack dropped out sprays of chaff, jammers, and flares. The first wave passed and Kevin, ashamed, realized he had not fired even a shot.

He looked up at the Broadswords he was escorting. One was gone, another turning out of formation, spinning, its port engine blown apart, its starboard engine apparently jammed at full throttle. Its crew ejected and the ship spun away, exploding seconds later.

From out of the confusion a wave of Dralthi, Krants, and Gratha, flying nearly wing tip to wing tip, came sweeping in, forward cannons firing.

"Blue three, there's our Cats. Let's break them up."

He edged his throttle forward, leaping ahead of the Broadswords, lining up on the lead Dralthi and putting a dumb fire bolt straight into the furballs' canopy, blowing the top of the enemy fighter apart. The enemy attack broke apart, three Dralthi dead, and Kevin came around, seeing that his number three man was gone. There wasn't even time to ask.

"Keep moving in, close in maneuvering scoops," the strike commander called. "We want the carriers!"

Kevin swallowed hard, passing the order on to his squadron, and he closed scoops in.

It was no longer possible to pull the tight-in maneuvers. It was going to be a straight in high speed run.

Blasts snapped around him, missiles detonating, his number five pilot ejecting from her fighter as it crumpled up in a ball of flame.

He pulled in close under the bellies of the Broadswords he was escorting.

The outer row of enemy picket ships was straight ahead and their barrage opened up, two of the escorting corvettes taking multiple hits and disappearing. As they shot through the line of Kilrathi frigates and destroyers, more than a hundred missiles were dropped by the furballs, slashing into the squadrons, the two remaining corvettes blowing out more sprays of chaff, jammers, and flares. The curtain of distractors diverted most of the missiles, but enough found their mark and more than two dozen Confederation fighters and bombers were gone.

Kevin pulled open his visor and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. His back was soaked with sweat, the suit coolant unable to evaporate it off fast enough. His mouth felt dry, as if he had swallowed a ball of cotton and he suddenly understood why Ian had developed the revolting habit of chewing on an old cigar while in a tight spot.

Straight ahead on his tactical were five large clusters of red. He no longer needed to use the screen. Even from extreme range he could already pick out a thin sliver of reflected light.

"Bombardment groups one and two, take center carrier," the strike commander announced, and Kevin could see on the comm screen that the leader's ship had been hit, smoke in the cockpit making him barely visible, "three and four carrier to port, five and six to starboard. Range nine hundred clicks, open maneuvering scoops, full reverse thrust for deceleration in ten seconds."

"Got that, Lone Wolf?"

"Straight in we go, Round Top. Make it a good one, buddy," Kevin replied.

"Nothing less will do."

"Three, two, one, decelerate!"

Kevin pulled his maneuvering scoops wide open and slammed in reverse thrust, instantly slowing his fighter, which shuddered to a near stand still less than fifty clicks out from their target.

A swarm of Kilrathi fighters closed in on them.

There was a flash of light forward off the carrier's bow and Kevin realized that someone, driven by rage, had simply tried to ram the enemy ship. Such a maneuver at full closing speed was nearly impossible to do and the fighter had deflected off the side of the carrier's heavy shields.

"I've got initial torpedo lock," Round Top announced, "and counting at thirty, twenty nine . . ." The other strike craft that Kevin was protecting joined in with their own announcements of initial lock.

They slowly drifted in towards their target and Kevin felt as if his heart were wrapped in ice. The ship was massive, more than twice the size of any carrier he had ever seen before. He could barely spare it a glance, however, as hundreds of enemy fighters swarmed in upon them.

Within seconds he had lost the rest of his squadron in the mad melee as he twisted and turned his fighter, struggling to stay alive while at the same time desperately attempting to cover the Broadswords as they hung near motionless, waiting for their torpedoes to gain full lock.

Broadsword after Broadsword disappeared in white-hot explosions. Three Krants lined in on Round Top, his countdown still echoing in Kevin's headphones as he weaved into them, crippling one with a dumb-fired flechette spray, and destroying a second with a stream of neutron bolts cutting into the fighter's engine mounts.

The third stitched a flurry of rounds across the portside gun turret of Round Top's ship, and Kevin caught a glimpse of the gunner's body shredding to pieces, his canopy bursting into shards from the strike.

"Keep them off me," Round Top shouted. "Ten seconds and counting."

The strike squadron had drifted to within eight clicks of the carrier and what appeared to be a solid wall of mass driver rounds snaked out from the ship's bow, blowing three more Broadswords apart. Kevin struggled with his stick as a shudder ran through his fighter,