Clean Sweep
Chapter 4
Pilot’s Lounge
TCS Tennessee River
Delius System
“I told you she’d be here,” Candy said as she and Pershing passed into Tennessee River’s flight lounge. Normally, her voice would hold so much more triumph for being correct, but not in the case of a depressed pilot.
Pershing could see that Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Pearl “Express” Shasta was one depressed pilot. If ship regulations permitted it, and Supply Officers stocked it, Express might have foregone the bottle of rum in favor of a whole barrel. Alcohol was a universal panacea for what ailed you. Candy was not as worried as Pershing. She was worried, but experience taught her that booze helped numb the pain of loss. She was at Second Enyo, and a lot of good pilots died in that battle. She lost so many friends and comrades in the past couple of years, that one more did not even phase her.
This was not the same with Pershing. He knew he should feel something more at the loss of Loki, but he did not. True, Loki was a fellow pilot, and Pershing did not like to lose any comrade. However, Loki was more an acquaintance than a friend. Candy was the only real friend he had in the squad. He confided in her his confused feelings. Instead of loss, he was more relieved that somebody else was killed. That line of thought brought carried great guilt.
Candy dismissed the idea outright. She told him to get use to it, and that was nothing to feel guilty about. Survivors’ Guilt, as the psychs called it, claimed almost as many pilots as the Cats. There was nothing he could do about it. Life and death in the cockpit were nothing but dumb luck. Even the best of pilots could be killed should he be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or make the wrong move. After setting him straight, Candy decided they should go find Express, and try to correct her flight plan.
Express was quiet and withdrawn at the memorial service. All the rookie pilots were on some level or another. The veterans took it in stride, just another price to pay to the Reaper. Kali gave her speech, which Pershing found her to be depressingly adept. How many times had she spoken her words at the loss of a pilot? The fact that Tenn required five replacement pilots for Tenn’Court A alone, spoke volumes. He heard most of the missing pilots were transferred to form the nucleus of flight wings on the new carriers coming on line.
She was not the only pilot relaxing in the lounge, but by far the loneliest. More than a few of the pilots greeted Candy, with Ghost trying to get her into a card game, one he was in the process of winning. Ghost was one of the older pilots, closing in on thirty years. That made the blonde giant, far more a Viking than the deceased Loki, ancient by wartime standards. Only the squadron’s second-in-command, Quan “Snake Eyes” Mihn, was older. He even had a couple of years on Kali. This was not proof of displeasure of the fleet’s brass, but rather a late enlistment date. Ghost was twenty-five when he entered flight school.
Candy decided her time could be better spent wasting her salary, and brushed off Ghost. Standing above Express, she asked, “Is this seat taken?”
Express looked up, her brown eyes puffy. “Help yourself, ma’am.”
Candy did just that. Pershing took the seat opposite of Express from Candy. Express wore her brown hair regulation length, not going past her neck. She had a pretty face, one of those girl-next-door about which the male personnel of Tenn often spoke. Her frame was smaller, more slighter that Candy. As far as Pershing knew, none made any move on her. Of course, Pershing did not know nearly as far as he would like.
“How you holding up?” Candy asked. Pershing was content to let her do the talking. He was never any good with words. That, and Candy had more experience in dealing with death.
“I’ll live,” Express said, smiling faintly at her own gallows humor. After the memorial service, Express headed for the lounge, determined to drown her sorrows. “I’m not sure how. I’ll have to do some thinking about that.”
Candy frowned. “Looks more like you’re doing some drinking about it.” Pershing rubbed his brow at her words. Candy sure had a gift to say the right thing at the wrong time. Express did not object to her scrutiny. Instead, she took another sip of her drink. Pershing could not tell what it was, a mix of some sorts. At least it did not smell like that God-awful burnt wood stuff that Ghost drank.
“You’ve lost wingmen, haven’t you?” she asked Candy.
Candy would not admit or deny it. Instead, she said, “I’ve lost squad mates and comrades, yes.”
Express did not seem to notice the non-answer. “How do you deal with it?” She pretty much ignored Pershing, which was not surprising. He was use to being ignored. He had spent a good portion of his life on Port Hadland being ignored by those around him. Fitting in was never a strong suit for him. This had nothing– or at least not much to do with the current situation. Pershing never lost a wingman, and only one squad mate. Candy knew far more about the loss of war than either of the rookies.
“Getting totally drunk was a usual start,” Candy said with a wry smile. “That’s not the same as drinking yourself silly. We usually all get drunk together, and move on the next morning. Drinking alone is not a good sign.”
“Is that all?” Express asked, not finding much an answer in Candy’s words.
Candy shrugged. “Not much you can do. It’s all just luck. He was shot up and you weren’t. It’s not your fault he’s dead, and it will do nobody any good blaming yourself.”
Express shook her head. “If I could have gotten him out of his fighter–“
Candy slapped her palm down on the table, loud enough to disrupt other conversations in the lounge. Disrupt them only for a moment. “That’s nonsense! You had nothing to do with his crash. Loki came in too high. I don’t know if his controls were malfunctioning or if he just misjudged. We won’t know until the techs comb every millimeter of the flight recorder.” Candy paused and shook her own head. She still thought him a fool for not ditching along side the carrier.
“Stupid war,” she growled, looking at the stars upon the smart wall. All the other pilots who heard her agreed, with varying strengths to their oaths.
Pershing felt useless here. He never liked to feel useless. He might not be any good with words, but he had to do something. “It could have been just as easily me and Monkey who were jumped. I could have flown back shot to pieces.”
Express considered his words. “What would you have done?”
It was a good question, and one he did not have an answer. At least a completely honest one. He saw the look in Candy’s eyes. “Come along side the Tenn and ejected. I tried a stunt like Loki and Candy would have killed me. Even if I was already dead.”
“Especially if you were dead!” Candy shot back. If anybody could manage that feat, it would be Candy. Pershing had no doubt in his mind.
“You two sure get along well,” Express noted with a wan smile.
Pershing shrugged as to say it were nothing, at the same instant Candy shrugged. That sent a snort of laughter through Express. A positive sign, though a short-lived one. “I wish I got on as well with my wingman.” Like all other rookies, Express was first teamed up with a veteran pilot. In her case it was the dour Snake-Eyes. “I wonder if he’ll even want to fly with me anymore.”
Candy rolled her eyes. She heard this kind of self-pity before. She might even have engaged in it, though she would be the last to admit it. “Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to cut it.”
Pershing cut in before she could launch into an in-depth lecture. “I’ll fly with you.” The look on Candy’s face said it all. Pershing just broke an ancient rule of the armed forces; never volunteer.
“You’re a brave man,” Express said with a bit of a surprise. She was totally convinced the pilots would avoid her like some new pathogen.
“Think about it,” Pershing said, as much to placate Candy as Express. “Mailman and Express, with that sort of combination, what could possibly go wrong?”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beta Patrol
Delius System
It was not until his third patrol with Express did something finally go wrong. Eight somethings at that. Neither pilot was pleased to see a full squadron of Kilrathi fighters headed their way. “The Cats are out in force,” he said, beaming his words over to Express’s fighter. They were out in too much force. This was no simple patrol. It looked more like they were flying point. Not only that, the Kilrathi were also headed in the general direction of the Task Force.
To see so many fighters was hardly a surprise. T.F. 37's destination was Delius Station after all, and the Kilrathi were not about to leave their big starbase of the system without eyes. The station orbited the gas giant Delius V. Pershing could make out the planet some light-minutes ahead. They were still sufficiently distant that it was a bright light and not a discernable orb.
“Eight fighters is hardly a force,” Express told him. Her mood had warmed since Loki’s death. She had yet to put it completely behind her, but at least she no longer blamed herself. She was also correct. Eight fighters against a carrier task force would not be much of a fight. Pershing saw the first glitters of something large on his sensor readout.
“There’s more,” he said gravely as he realized the true dimensions of the incoming object. It had to be a cruiser, at the very least. He would have to wait until it grew closer to discern any smaller objects accompanying it. He was about to point out such a discovery warranted breaking radio silence, especially since the enemy was headed in their general direction, when his sensors began to fluctuate.
“We’re being jammed,” Express sounded the alarm a split second before Pershing fully comprehended the situation. The jamming was so powerful, it even interfered with the laser link between fighters. It was not the standard EM jamming; lasers were strong enough to slice through that.
Pershing grumbled at his readouts. Matters could never be simple, could they? All he had to do was sound the alarm and the Task Force would know what was ahead. Instead of pushing a button, he would now have to get out of jamming range for even a proper sensor reading. Pershing quickly reviewed sensor logs, trying to spot any immediate differences in the oncoming fighter. Eight Dralthi, a fighter that looked the cross between a pancake and throwing star. The design might have been laughable, if not for the razor-sharp edges the Kilrathi favored in design.
One of them must have a jamming device. He hoped only one of them did. “Express, head back to base and start transmitting as loud as possible once you’ve cleared the jamming. I’ll try to keep them busy.”
Her response was immediate. “Absolutely not! I’m not about to lose another wingman.”
Pershing found her sense of honor to be most inappropriate at the moment. “If we both die, then the Task Force won’t know about the Cats until they’re close enough to return a signal.”
Express’s guilt tromped Pershing’s sound logic. “Forget it, Mailman. We’ll make it out of here together or not at all.”
“Now you’re just being stubborn,” Pershing snapped.
“No, I’m not,” Express said with exaggerated patience. “How many of those fighters can be jamming us? I’m betting one. We just have to knock it out–“
”Is that all?” Pershing could not believe they were arguing over the issue.
“Can we talk about this later? The Cats aren’t going to wait for us to resolve our differences.” That was an undeniable truth. The Kilrathi were not waiting for an answer.
All eight of the Dralthi dropped to combat speed and dove in once it was clear the Scimitars were not going to run. Even if they did turn around and dart back to the Tenn, the Cats would only accelerate, keeping them in jamming range. Besides, cruising speed made maneuvering difficult, and energy weapons traveled far faster than 3 PSL.
Pershing and Express stuck close together, offering a far harder target than separate. The Cats were predators, and like lions, they would pick off their victims one-by-one if they scattered. They also had the habit of attacking the weakest target first. Pershing could not even fake technical difficulties, for not all eight will jump him.
Pershing and Express shot straight into the Kilrathi formation, opening up on the Cats with pulse cannons. Pershing fired off all three of his FF missiles as did Express. If they were extremely lucky, it would knock out the jammer. If. If they were lucky to begin with, the Cats would not have brought along a jammer. At the moment, Pershing hoped to survive this fly-by. The Kilrathi broke formation, attempting to evade the missiles. Two of the Cats had sense enough to fire their own FF missiles.
Pershing yanked back on his controls, bringing his fighter into a steep dive. Express stuck to his wing. “Break right and deploy decoys!” Pershing ordered as he through his fighter into a tight left turn, stringing out half a dozen loud transponders. All the Cat missiles homed in and detonated against the decoys, lighting up the space behind him. Other miniature suns flared into life as fusion warheads detonated against Kilrathi decoys. One blast outshone the rest as a missile found its target. Pershing briefly wondered if he or Express killed that fighter, only to decide it was something the flight recorders could straighten out later.
To his dismay, the Cat killed did not carry the jammer. He quickly surveyed what little information his sensors could provide as Express rejoined his wing. The Cats were scattered for the moment, offering the perfect chance to escape. Or at least it would have been, if not three of the Cats were sharp on the ball. Were one of them carrying the jammer? Pershing considered as he toggled his firing controls over to the two IR missiles on his wings. Image Recognition was a lot harder to shake than Friend-or-Foe.
No, he decided neither of them could carry the jammer. A Terran squadron would have the jammer with the most experienced pilot, but the Cats did not think that way. Their most experienced pilots would be the ones on the front line. The junior most pilot would be stuck with the responsibility, since the Cats would consider him more a liability than an asset. Pershing tracked the fighters, checking for the two keeping their distance.
“Express, you spot that fighter in the middle of this chaos?” Pershing asked her as he jinked to avoid incoming pulse fire. Plasma did not quite travel light-speed, but it was still plenty fast to kill anybody not paying attention. A few shots skimmed his dorsal shielding.
“I see two of them,” she replied, not really taking in the puzzle. Her mind focused more on staying alive.
“They aren’t doing anything,” he told her. “They have to be the jammers. I’m going to take them out, and I’ll need you to cover me.” No point in telling her to charge in while he tangoed with the fighter surrounding them. She refused to abandon him, fine. She would just have to settle for protecting him.
“Lead the way,” she said, falling back to cover his attack.
Pershing locked on to both fighters, with one IR missile each. Even as he rapidly approached, he could not tell the difference between the two. He could not, but the AI within the missiles would notice the tiniest change. It was a reason why they could not be preprogrammed with enemy ships in advance. All a Kilrathi would have to do is place a boom on the end of a wing to fool the software. Instead, he had to stay on his target for over a second. It was not as long as an ASM run, but still long enough for a Cat to come up from behind and kill him.
Were the ships really different? He was starting to have a split second’s worth of doubt. If he was wrong, he might kill both fighters but would be out of missiles. It was only luck that he and Express were not killed in the first pass, and dumb luck had a way of running out. Pershing forced himself to look on the bright side. He might be dead, but at least he would have more kills than Monkey.
The instant the lock chimed, he stabbed down on the fire button. Both missiles leapt from his wings and dove in towards the Dralthi. One of the Cat fighters fought hard to evade the missile. Even if he managed, IR missiles retained their target data and would strive to kill until they ran out of fuel. The other pilot reacted slower, and was not as lucky in evading instant death. He must have been a rookie pilot, not that different from Pershing.
Not that different, except now one was more alive than the other. The missile struck the fighter from above, nearly on top of the cockpit. Even if the Cats had ejection seats, he would not have cleared the fusion reaction fast enough to prevent vaporization. As soon as light from explosion reached him, the EM waves of the jammer ended. Pershing guessed correctly, the pilot was a rookie and had the jamming device. He did not know if the Cats carried a spare.
He was not about to wait and see. After he checked his sensor and confirmed the incoming ships, Pershing switched his transmitter to omni-directional, not wanting to risk a comm laser missing its target. “Beta Patrol to Tennessee River, we have incoming Kilrathi ships, a cruiser task force at the minimum—“
Chapter 4
Pilot’s Lounge
TCS Tennessee River
Delius System
“I told you she’d be here,” Candy said as she and Pershing passed into Tennessee River’s flight lounge. Normally, her voice would hold so much more triumph for being correct, but not in the case of a depressed pilot.
Pershing could see that Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Pearl “Express” Shasta was one depressed pilot. If ship regulations permitted it, and Supply Officers stocked it, Express might have foregone the bottle of rum in favor of a whole barrel. Alcohol was a universal panacea for what ailed you. Candy was not as worried as Pershing. She was worried, but experience taught her that booze helped numb the pain of loss. She was at Second Enyo, and a lot of good pilots died in that battle. She lost so many friends and comrades in the past couple of years, that one more did not even phase her.
This was not the same with Pershing. He knew he should feel something more at the loss of Loki, but he did not. True, Loki was a fellow pilot, and Pershing did not like to lose any comrade. However, Loki was more an acquaintance than a friend. Candy was the only real friend he had in the squad. He confided in her his confused feelings. Instead of loss, he was more relieved that somebody else was killed. That line of thought brought carried great guilt.
Candy dismissed the idea outright. She told him to get use to it, and that was nothing to feel guilty about. Survivors’ Guilt, as the psychs called it, claimed almost as many pilots as the Cats. There was nothing he could do about it. Life and death in the cockpit were nothing but dumb luck. Even the best of pilots could be killed should he be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or make the wrong move. After setting him straight, Candy decided they should go find Express, and try to correct her flight plan.
Express was quiet and withdrawn at the memorial service. All the rookie pilots were on some level or another. The veterans took it in stride, just another price to pay to the Reaper. Kali gave her speech, which Pershing found her to be depressingly adept. How many times had she spoken her words at the loss of a pilot? The fact that Tenn required five replacement pilots for Tenn’Court A alone, spoke volumes. He heard most of the missing pilots were transferred to form the nucleus of flight wings on the new carriers coming on line.
She was not the only pilot relaxing in the lounge, but by far the loneliest. More than a few of the pilots greeted Candy, with Ghost trying to get her into a card game, one he was in the process of winning. Ghost was one of the older pilots, closing in on thirty years. That made the blonde giant, far more a Viking than the deceased Loki, ancient by wartime standards. Only the squadron’s second-in-command, Quan “Snake Eyes” Mihn, was older. He even had a couple of years on Kali. This was not proof of displeasure of the fleet’s brass, but rather a late enlistment date. Ghost was twenty-five when he entered flight school.
Candy decided her time could be better spent wasting her salary, and brushed off Ghost. Standing above Express, she asked, “Is this seat taken?”
Express looked up, her brown eyes puffy. “Help yourself, ma’am.”
Candy did just that. Pershing took the seat opposite of Express from Candy. Express wore her brown hair regulation length, not going past her neck. She had a pretty face, one of those girl-next-door about which the male personnel of Tenn often spoke. Her frame was smaller, more slighter that Candy. As far as Pershing knew, none made any move on her. Of course, Pershing did not know nearly as far as he would like.
“How you holding up?” Candy asked. Pershing was content to let her do the talking. He was never any good with words. That, and Candy had more experience in dealing with death.
“I’ll live,” Express said, smiling faintly at her own gallows humor. After the memorial service, Express headed for the lounge, determined to drown her sorrows. “I’m not sure how. I’ll have to do some thinking about that.”
Candy frowned. “Looks more like you’re doing some drinking about it.” Pershing rubbed his brow at her words. Candy sure had a gift to say the right thing at the wrong time. Express did not object to her scrutiny. Instead, she took another sip of her drink. Pershing could not tell what it was, a mix of some sorts. At least it did not smell like that God-awful burnt wood stuff that Ghost drank.
“You’ve lost wingmen, haven’t you?” she asked Candy.
Candy would not admit or deny it. Instead, she said, “I’ve lost squad mates and comrades, yes.”
Express did not seem to notice the non-answer. “How do you deal with it?” She pretty much ignored Pershing, which was not surprising. He was use to being ignored. He had spent a good portion of his life on Port Hadland being ignored by those around him. Fitting in was never a strong suit for him. This had nothing– or at least not much to do with the current situation. Pershing never lost a wingman, and only one squad mate. Candy knew far more about the loss of war than either of the rookies.
“Getting totally drunk was a usual start,” Candy said with a wry smile. “That’s not the same as drinking yourself silly. We usually all get drunk together, and move on the next morning. Drinking alone is not a good sign.”
“Is that all?” Express asked, not finding much an answer in Candy’s words.
Candy shrugged. “Not much you can do. It’s all just luck. He was shot up and you weren’t. It’s not your fault he’s dead, and it will do nobody any good blaming yourself.”
Express shook her head. “If I could have gotten him out of his fighter–“
Candy slapped her palm down on the table, loud enough to disrupt other conversations in the lounge. Disrupt them only for a moment. “That’s nonsense! You had nothing to do with his crash. Loki came in too high. I don’t know if his controls were malfunctioning or if he just misjudged. We won’t know until the techs comb every millimeter of the flight recorder.” Candy paused and shook her own head. She still thought him a fool for not ditching along side the carrier.
“Stupid war,” she growled, looking at the stars upon the smart wall. All the other pilots who heard her agreed, with varying strengths to their oaths.
Pershing felt useless here. He never liked to feel useless. He might not be any good with words, but he had to do something. “It could have been just as easily me and Monkey who were jumped. I could have flown back shot to pieces.”
Express considered his words. “What would you have done?”
It was a good question, and one he did not have an answer. At least a completely honest one. He saw the look in Candy’s eyes. “Come along side the Tenn and ejected. I tried a stunt like Loki and Candy would have killed me. Even if I was already dead.”
“Especially if you were dead!” Candy shot back. If anybody could manage that feat, it would be Candy. Pershing had no doubt in his mind.
“You two sure get along well,” Express noted with a wan smile.
Pershing shrugged as to say it were nothing, at the same instant Candy shrugged. That sent a snort of laughter through Express. A positive sign, though a short-lived one. “I wish I got on as well with my wingman.” Like all other rookies, Express was first teamed up with a veteran pilot. In her case it was the dour Snake-Eyes. “I wonder if he’ll even want to fly with me anymore.”
Candy rolled her eyes. She heard this kind of self-pity before. She might even have engaged in it, though she would be the last to admit it. “Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to cut it.”
Pershing cut in before she could launch into an in-depth lecture. “I’ll fly with you.” The look on Candy’s face said it all. Pershing just broke an ancient rule of the armed forces; never volunteer.
“You’re a brave man,” Express said with a bit of a surprise. She was totally convinced the pilots would avoid her like some new pathogen.
“Think about it,” Pershing said, as much to placate Candy as Express. “Mailman and Express, with that sort of combination, what could possibly go wrong?”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beta Patrol
Delius System
It was not until his third patrol with Express did something finally go wrong. Eight somethings at that. Neither pilot was pleased to see a full squadron of Kilrathi fighters headed their way. “The Cats are out in force,” he said, beaming his words over to Express’s fighter. They were out in too much force. This was no simple patrol. It looked more like they were flying point. Not only that, the Kilrathi were also headed in the general direction of the Task Force.
To see so many fighters was hardly a surprise. T.F. 37's destination was Delius Station after all, and the Kilrathi were not about to leave their big starbase of the system without eyes. The station orbited the gas giant Delius V. Pershing could make out the planet some light-minutes ahead. They were still sufficiently distant that it was a bright light and not a discernable orb.
“Eight fighters is hardly a force,” Express told him. Her mood had warmed since Loki’s death. She had yet to put it completely behind her, but at least she no longer blamed herself. She was also correct. Eight fighters against a carrier task force would not be much of a fight. Pershing saw the first glitters of something large on his sensor readout.
“There’s more,” he said gravely as he realized the true dimensions of the incoming object. It had to be a cruiser, at the very least. He would have to wait until it grew closer to discern any smaller objects accompanying it. He was about to point out such a discovery warranted breaking radio silence, especially since the enemy was headed in their general direction, when his sensors began to fluctuate.
“We’re being jammed,” Express sounded the alarm a split second before Pershing fully comprehended the situation. The jamming was so powerful, it even interfered with the laser link between fighters. It was not the standard EM jamming; lasers were strong enough to slice through that.
Pershing grumbled at his readouts. Matters could never be simple, could they? All he had to do was sound the alarm and the Task Force would know what was ahead. Instead of pushing a button, he would now have to get out of jamming range for even a proper sensor reading. Pershing quickly reviewed sensor logs, trying to spot any immediate differences in the oncoming fighter. Eight Dralthi, a fighter that looked the cross between a pancake and throwing star. The design might have been laughable, if not for the razor-sharp edges the Kilrathi favored in design.
One of them must have a jamming device. He hoped only one of them did. “Express, head back to base and start transmitting as loud as possible once you’ve cleared the jamming. I’ll try to keep them busy.”
Her response was immediate. “Absolutely not! I’m not about to lose another wingman.”
Pershing found her sense of honor to be most inappropriate at the moment. “If we both die, then the Task Force won’t know about the Cats until they’re close enough to return a signal.”
Express’s guilt tromped Pershing’s sound logic. “Forget it, Mailman. We’ll make it out of here together or not at all.”
“Now you’re just being stubborn,” Pershing snapped.
“No, I’m not,” Express said with exaggerated patience. “How many of those fighters can be jamming us? I’m betting one. We just have to knock it out–“
”Is that all?” Pershing could not believe they were arguing over the issue.
“Can we talk about this later? The Cats aren’t going to wait for us to resolve our differences.” That was an undeniable truth. The Kilrathi were not waiting for an answer.
All eight of the Dralthi dropped to combat speed and dove in once it was clear the Scimitars were not going to run. Even if they did turn around and dart back to the Tenn, the Cats would only accelerate, keeping them in jamming range. Besides, cruising speed made maneuvering difficult, and energy weapons traveled far faster than 3 PSL.
Pershing and Express stuck close together, offering a far harder target than separate. The Cats were predators, and like lions, they would pick off their victims one-by-one if they scattered. They also had the habit of attacking the weakest target first. Pershing could not even fake technical difficulties, for not all eight will jump him.
Pershing and Express shot straight into the Kilrathi formation, opening up on the Cats with pulse cannons. Pershing fired off all three of his FF missiles as did Express. If they were extremely lucky, it would knock out the jammer. If. If they were lucky to begin with, the Cats would not have brought along a jammer. At the moment, Pershing hoped to survive this fly-by. The Kilrathi broke formation, attempting to evade the missiles. Two of the Cats had sense enough to fire their own FF missiles.
Pershing yanked back on his controls, bringing his fighter into a steep dive. Express stuck to his wing. “Break right and deploy decoys!” Pershing ordered as he through his fighter into a tight left turn, stringing out half a dozen loud transponders. All the Cat missiles homed in and detonated against the decoys, lighting up the space behind him. Other miniature suns flared into life as fusion warheads detonated against Kilrathi decoys. One blast outshone the rest as a missile found its target. Pershing briefly wondered if he or Express killed that fighter, only to decide it was something the flight recorders could straighten out later.
To his dismay, the Cat killed did not carry the jammer. He quickly surveyed what little information his sensors could provide as Express rejoined his wing. The Cats were scattered for the moment, offering the perfect chance to escape. Or at least it would have been, if not three of the Cats were sharp on the ball. Were one of them carrying the jammer? Pershing considered as he toggled his firing controls over to the two IR missiles on his wings. Image Recognition was a lot harder to shake than Friend-or-Foe.
No, he decided neither of them could carry the jammer. A Terran squadron would have the jammer with the most experienced pilot, but the Cats did not think that way. Their most experienced pilots would be the ones on the front line. The junior most pilot would be stuck with the responsibility, since the Cats would consider him more a liability than an asset. Pershing tracked the fighters, checking for the two keeping their distance.
“Express, you spot that fighter in the middle of this chaos?” Pershing asked her as he jinked to avoid incoming pulse fire. Plasma did not quite travel light-speed, but it was still plenty fast to kill anybody not paying attention. A few shots skimmed his dorsal shielding.
“I see two of them,” she replied, not really taking in the puzzle. Her mind focused more on staying alive.
“They aren’t doing anything,” he told her. “They have to be the jammers. I’m going to take them out, and I’ll need you to cover me.” No point in telling her to charge in while he tangoed with the fighter surrounding them. She refused to abandon him, fine. She would just have to settle for protecting him.
“Lead the way,” she said, falling back to cover his attack.
Pershing locked on to both fighters, with one IR missile each. Even as he rapidly approached, he could not tell the difference between the two. He could not, but the AI within the missiles would notice the tiniest change. It was a reason why they could not be preprogrammed with enemy ships in advance. All a Kilrathi would have to do is place a boom on the end of a wing to fool the software. Instead, he had to stay on his target for over a second. It was not as long as an ASM run, but still long enough for a Cat to come up from behind and kill him.
Were the ships really different? He was starting to have a split second’s worth of doubt. If he was wrong, he might kill both fighters but would be out of missiles. It was only luck that he and Express were not killed in the first pass, and dumb luck had a way of running out. Pershing forced himself to look on the bright side. He might be dead, but at least he would have more kills than Monkey.
The instant the lock chimed, he stabbed down on the fire button. Both missiles leapt from his wings and dove in towards the Dralthi. One of the Cat fighters fought hard to evade the missile. Even if he managed, IR missiles retained their target data and would strive to kill until they ran out of fuel. The other pilot reacted slower, and was not as lucky in evading instant death. He must have been a rookie pilot, not that different from Pershing.
Not that different, except now one was more alive than the other. The missile struck the fighter from above, nearly on top of the cockpit. Even if the Cats had ejection seats, he would not have cleared the fusion reaction fast enough to prevent vaporization. As soon as light from explosion reached him, the EM waves of the jammer ended. Pershing guessed correctly, the pilot was a rookie and had the jamming device. He did not know if the Cats carried a spare.
He was not about to wait and see. After he checked his sensor and confirmed the incoming ships, Pershing switched his transmitter to omni-directional, not wanting to risk a comm laser missing its target. “Beta Patrol to Tennessee River, we have incoming Kilrathi ships, a cruiser task force at the minimum—“