Center of Gravity (46 page)

His fighter’s sensors noted the firing of
America
’s two railguns. A powerful surge of magnetic fields grabbed at the ferrous components of Gray’s Starhawk and threatened to put him into a helpless tumble. His AI, still in control, recovered. Through his palm implant, Gray ordered the AI to begin increasing the distance from
America
. The carrier would begin decelerating again very soon, and it would be best to put some distance between his fighter and that vast black wall in front of him.

More Toads were coming in fast. Gray accelerated to meet them, leaving the shelter of the carrier’s wake. He opened up with his KK cannon, rolling as he hurtled past, and the Toad came apart in fragmenting pieces.

“Dragon Nine!” he screamed over the tactical channel!
“Kill! . . .”

Ryan

VFA–96

Alphekka System

2019 hours, TFT

Ryan flinched as Lieutenant Forrester’s fighter flared to port like a tiny sun gone nova and vanished, speared by a gigajoule bolt of laser fire that burned through his energy screens and hull shielding and turned the arrogant, risty fighter into a brief-burning cloud of expanding plasma and debris. Pieces of hull metal struck Ryan’s Starhawk with a sound like a fistful of rocks hurled against sheet metal, clattering through the tiny ship’s interior. Her Starhawk lurched and trembled, but remained intact. A quick check of her damage-control panel showed that she was still in one piece.

She left the overall control of her fighter under her AI. Her sky was filled with incoming targets—Toad fighters and missiles and hurtling bits of debris. Things were happening far too swiftly for her to determine which potential targets posed the greatest threat, or to direct the SG–92 to aim, track, or fire. She
was
able to single out one Toad that had slipped through
America
’s inner point defenses and tell her AI to take it down. Her Starhawk dropped onto the enemy ship’s tail as it hurtled scant meters above
America
’s aft hull, headed for the turning hab modules forward. A precisely targeted proton beam devoured the Toad from behind, sending a spray of hot fragments cascading more or less harmlessly into the aft side of the carrier’s shield cap.

Seconds later, the Confederation fleet emerged from the far side of the Turusch defensive sphere, still firing with devastating, computer-guided precision at every target within range. The Turusch continued to lash back, following the intruders out of the sphere, but the sheer savagery of the human strike had rattled Turusch gunners and swept away a large percentage of their targeting sensors.

By the time the CBG passed the factory, nine Starhawks had been destroyed, and there were only fourteen left out of all four squadrons.

CIC, TC/USNA CVS
America

Alphekka System

2021 hours, TFT

Admiral Koenig was watching the CIC’s viewalls during close passage. There’d been little to see during the Al–01 close engagement, an instant’s blip of light, followed by darkness and unmoving stars.

“We’re bringing the ship back around on a normal heading, Admiral,” Captain Buchanan said over the com link with the bridge.

“Very well.”

He took a moment to study the after-combat telemetry, as the ship AIs correlated and compiled combat statistics. It could have been worse… a
lot
worse. Casualties were high among the fighters that had been outside, but he’d expected that. Three capital ships—
Tehuantepec
,
Drummond
, and
Reasoner
—had been destroyed, though there were still personnel alive on board the
Reasoner
. The
Lewis
would be attempting to grapple with the hulk and get them off.

The tallies coming through on the enemy fleet were a lot more vague. There’d been forty-three enemy capital ships in that battlespace. The savage human attack had destroyed or damaged perhaps half of them. How many were destroyed and how many were damaged but still in the fight was unknown.

“Commander Craig. What’s the range to the nearest group of enemy ships other than the ones at Al–01?”

“Fifty-one light minutes, sir. And an hour twenty to the next nearest beyond that.”

“No movement from either of them?”

“No, sir.”

There likely would not be, either, until the EM wavefront bearing the outcome of the close passage crawled out to meet them, and the images of their response crawled back. They were probably waiting to see what CBG–18 would do next before committing themselves.

Fleet combat tended to be a drawn-out affair.

By any standards, the close passage of Al–01 had been a victory, with the human forces scoring hits at a seven-to-one ratio over the enemy. Koenig’s ruse, letting the Agletsch pass on disinformation to pull the enemy ships out of position, had worked better than he’d dared hope. CBG–18 was still badly outnumbered, however, if you counted all of the other Sh’daar ships remaining in the Alphekka system. And Koenig needed to decide
now
what he was going to do about it.

A shudder ran through
America
’s deck.

And then another… and then yet another.

It took him a moment to realize what was happening. Chunks of debris, probably meteoric bits of rock, had struck
America
’s shield cap. Her gravitic shields had diverted most of the impact, but enough had leaked through to cause a slight change in velocity. Field dampers had absorbed the excess force—if they hadn’t, any personnel not strapped down would have been slammed into the ship’s forward bulkheads at a velocity equal to that by which
America
had just been slowed—but the impacts had still sent ripples through the ship’s structure.

They were entering the main body of the protoplanetary disk.

“Shields to maximum!” Buchanan yelled. “All personnel, strap down! This is going to get rough!”

Koenig needed to make a crucial decision within the next several hours.

Where fighters could throw out artificial singularities to one side or the other to pull the fighter into a tight, free-fall turn, capital ships were far more restricted in their maneuverability. Like fighters, they could project maneuvering singularities to their sides. Most of them, the larger vessels like
America
and the two Marine carriers, could not make a turn without risking serious damage from tidal forces. Their sheer lengths required that they make turns only at relatively low velocities… no more than a few tens of kilometers per second. The smallest of them, the frigates, each some two hundred meters in length, had more leeway, and could turn at higher velocities, but they could rarely exercise their maneuverability in combat. Frigates would not last long against larger enemy combatants, and generally stayed with the main fleet in a scouting or anti-fighter role.

The only way the battlegroup could reverse course—the only way they could return to the space factory and resume the battle—was to resume deceleration at five hundred gravities, slow to zero relative velocity, then begin accelerating back once more.

At five hundred gravities, it would take another 106 minutes to slow, then reverse course, by which time they would have traveled almost an AU beyond the Al–01 factory. The return trip, accelerating half of the way, then decelerating to match Al–01’s orbital velocity around its suns, would take another two and a half hours.

It would take almost four and a half hours, total, to return to the factory and resume the battle, so demanded the cold and unyielding dictates of the laws of physics.

On the other hand, he could order the CBG to begin accelerating instead. In a bit under fifteen hours they would reach 99.9 percent of the speed of light, at which point they could drop into Alcubierre Drive and slip into the safety of metaspace.

Close passage of Al–01 had expended a lot of the battlegroup’s available munitions.
That
would be an issue as well.

Five hours in or fifteen hours out. Either way, the other enemy ships in the system would wait to ascertain what CBG–18 was doing—attacking or retreating—and then begin closing in from every direction. Koenig saw no way to avoid another major battle, and expendables were already running tight.

One thing was clear. If he elected to get out of Dodge, he would lose some more pilots. Telemetry from the remnants of the four squadrons showed several of the ships were damaged. They might not be able to catch up with the fleet, might not be able to weather a passage of the protoplanetary disk in pursuit.

Besides, there was still that one streaker lost in the
Remington
scrap earlier, Rafferty, and the crew of the SAR tug sent to get her.
And
Lieutenant Schiere, who might still be alive somewhere out there in the emptiness.

If they retreated, they would lose everything won so far. If they returned to finish it, they might still lose… but at least there would be a chance of retrieving the MIA pilots.

“CAG?” he said, deciding.

“Yes, Admiral!”

“Commence immediate launch of all remaining fighter squadrons, please. Pass the word to the Marine carriers to launch as well. We’re going back, and the fighters will lead the way.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral.”

“How long to get all of
America
’s fighters spaceborne?”

“Ten minutes, Captain. We only have four squadrons remaining, and three of them are loaded, set and ready for drop in bays one, two, and three.”

Was there a hint of recrimination there?

Koenig chose not to notice if there was. “Once the fresh squadrons are away, bring in the fighters that are out there now.”
Those that are still alive 
. . .

“
Yes
, sir.”

“Captain Buchanan?”

“Sir.”

“As soon as we have those fighters back on board, you may resume deceleration. Plan for turnover in two hours, and a return to Al–01.”

“
Yes
, sir!”

There was no cheering in the CIC, but he sensed a change, a lightening of spirits. Tensions had run high before and during the close passage. Now, though, they simply wanted to finish what they’d begun.

And to do that, they would have to return.

Another faint shudder rippled through
America
’s hull.

Gray

VFA–44

Alphekka System

2022 hours, TFT

“Orders coming through, people,” Allyn said. “We’re going back. They’re getting set to launch the Rattlers, the Tigers, and the Reapers now, and the Impactors will follow as soon as they’re loaded into the bays.”

Gray had expected as much. There were only the four fighters left in VFA–44—himself, Commander Allyn, Ben Donovan, and Collins. All the rest were dead, and the realization had left Gray feeling lost, a little stunned. Perhaps Koenig would order the handful of surviving fighters back on board.

“Heads up! We have incoming!”

Gray pulled his Starhawk into a tight turn, slipping once again out from behind the comforting shadow of
America
’s shield cap. Koenig might be about to bring them back on board, but until he gave that order, Gray and the others were still on CSP. The enemy had finally pulled himself together and dispatched a flight of Toad fighters to pursue the CBG. The remnants of the four CSP squadrons would have to hold them off until fresh fighters could be launched.

He accelerated with the others to thirty thousand gravities, pushing hard enough to wipe out his shared vector with the fleet through the protoplanetary disk and begin piling on velocity in the opposite direction, back toward Al–01.

It was fourteen fighters against fifty, impossible odds.

But the Toads would know they’d been in a fight.

“Hey, Prim?” The voice coming over his com link was familiar. The transmitter was identified on his display as Impact Seven. “That was a brilliant maneuver you pulled back there with the Remington. I, ah, just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t think he knew anyone in the Impactors. “Who is this?”

“Frank Carstairs. We spent a fun evening ashore last month, at a joint called Sarnelli’s. With the bugs, remember?”

He did. He’d forgotten that Carstairs was one of the Impactors. VFA–31, he saw, was down to just five ships.

“I remember. I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Well,
that
might not be the case for much longer…”