Cameron started to retort when a bright flash blinded his left side. The Phoenix bucked violently starboard. His head smacked against the canopy. A sharp ringing in his ears drowned out the world. He saw stars. Alarms warbled. The ship twirled, riding the concussion wave for a moment before Cameron regained his senses enough to wrestle back control.
George’s voice was muffled. “You motherfuckers!”
Everything slowed to a crawl and then, suddenly, sped right back up.
Cameron saw he was facing directly toward the heart of the battle. Thousands of warships swarmed the larger vessels, lighting up the darkness of space with an endless rain of fire. A bolt of red streaked past the cockpit and blinded Cameron. When he looked up again, he saw George racing after two Y-fighters with guns blazing. Outside the cockpit, fiery debris drifted through space. A piece of matte-black metal floated by, trailing glowing embers.
Along the side it read “W-9.”
Ensign McLane was gone.
Ice water ran through Cameron’s veins. He pressed his right foot down hard, activating the afterburner. Pure hydrogen flooded the engine, rocketing the fighter forward. Missiles rained out from the wings, tracking targets down with discrimination and removing them from the field. His right hand gripped the yoke tight, finger pressed hard against the trigger. His Krakens barked and rattled, tracer rounds chasing each target.
“George,” Cameron said. “I’m coming up on your five. Break left.” The Phoenix carved a path through the sudden sea of broken ships, hull denting slightly with each impact. “We need to rejoin the Fleet.” His heart caught in his throat and Cameron realized he’d never been more terrified in his life. He started his combat breaths, willing his body to stop shaking and focusing on simple tasks. Flip the target switch. Activate lock. Fire four and six. Die, you sonofabitch.
George loosed a Harpy and pulled back on the throttle. The missile connected and blew the alien craft into pieces. “Cam, Fleet’s already here.”
The war raged all around them. They were no longer on the outskirts of the battle; they were at its very core. Fleet fighter squadrons battled with the nimble Y-shaped craft, aided in small part by the silver saucers. The sleek, silver saucers weaved in and out of debris fields and line formations, searching for the opportune shot.
Heavy destroyers launched huge Hull Reduction warheads at the opposing side. The thirty-foot missiles bore deep into the center of the alien frigates, trailing an explosive cloud. When they detonated, the HRs ripped the hull apart like a can opener. The TFC Stalingrad held at the rear of the formation, a smoldering hole punched straight through her main engine compartment while her escort slugged it out nearby. Valley Forge had arrived at the center of the fray, firing main guns at the battleships while building a cloud of flak to disrupt the enemy craft. Every few minutes, her monster 50s would loose two huge slugs toward the nearest capital ship, punching building-sized holes into their black frames.
Midway, looming over the battlefield, fired surgical shots from her five-meter-long guns into the enemy carrier. The hive-shaped warship shuddered with each ten-ton round, explosions racking the deteriorating body. A missile frigate placed itself between the flagship and Midway, only to disintegrate when the projectile rammed straight through its hull.
“Cam, a little help here.”
Cameron snapped back into the fight. He dropped his throttle, letting George and his tail come into view. The Y-fighter banked hard left, trying to evade Cameron’s fire. Before he could lock on, the ship slammed into what remained of an alien destroyer, smearing itself along the battered metal surface.
“What the hell?” The alien craft hadn’t tried to swerve or change direction at all. Cameron shook his head clear and turned back to the fight at hand. They’d found a sweet spot in the battlefield, away from the main effort. Cameron sucked on his water line, taking mouthfuls of the solution down with each sip. He tasted copper. “George, I need a minute.”
“Take your time,” he replied. “War’s not going anywhere.”
Cam’s hands moved in a blur, snapping switches and flipping toggles. His computer ran an immediate diagnostic and battle update, gauging fuel and ammunition consumption in a few seconds. Satisfied with the feedback, Cameron reset the system and took watch while his wingman did the same. He silently willed George to move faster. Every second they stood still, the chance of an attack increased. After what seemed like ages, George’s collision lights flashed, and he moved out.
“Cam?”
“Yeah?” He could hear the strain in his friend’s voice.
“What are we gonna do about McLane?”
Cameron touched his face and his fingers felt syrupy blood. “Focus on the fight. I’ll write the letter.”
“He had a sister.”
“I know.”
George was silent for a minute. “We met his dad at the family event last year.”
“I know,” Cameron said softly. But nothing inside him felt calm. Guilt rolled his stomach like a snowball, growing bigger and faster with each moment. You fucking idiot. You just let him die. The what-if’s came faster than expected, spinning his brain in circles. And then, as suddenly as the fear arrived, it was gone. There was still work to do, and he was in charge. “Get on my six and keep me covered. Fangs out.”
Together with George, he raced toward Savanna to rejoin with the rest of SP. The frigate loosed the rest of its payload of warheads at the stream of incoming ships. Having pushed too far forward of the main battle line, Savanna sat unprotected and vulnerable and the enemy made all haste to capitalize. Squadrons of alien bombers, hideous crab-shaped machines, unloaded a relentless bombardment onto the stranded and crippled battleship.
“Come on, George,” Cameron said, hitting his afterburner. “She won’t take much more of this.” He activated a signal beacon to all friendly fighters. “Wolfpack, on my position. It’s hunting season.”
Toronto, Canada
Jonah Blightman stared at the monitor, watching the incredible events unfold. A news orbiter struggled to keep up with the action. Ships from every side burst and crumbled on screen, spilling debris onto the battlefield. Every time a human vessel took a hit, the news anchor would immediately speculate about the loss of life.
“What you’re seeing now is the Savanna, one of our frigates. The warship normally carries a crew of six hundred. We have Andrea Lautner, wife of Lieutenant Edward Lautner, who is currently fighting for his life in the skies over Earth.”
Jonah turned the sound down and focused his attention on a warm lager to his right. He hadn’t felt this good in years. “Brooks,” he shouted.
The bartender waddled over. He was by and large the fattest person Jonah had ever seen, but he was jovial and, most importantly, a sympathizer.
“Whaddaya need, Jonah?”
“A round for the bar. On me.” He slapped down a wad of bills and raised his beer. “To our brave soldiers in the sky. May the gods watch over them.” The crowded bar cheered and raised their own drinks. Jonah drained his glass and gestured for a refill. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around.
Victor, his second-in-command, stood at attention. He carried a large tablet and a barely concealed pistol under his overcoat. Numerous craters on his face made him a hard man to miss. “Sir, the operation just passed phase three.”
Jonah pumped his fists. “Yes. I loved phase three. That was a personal favorite of mine. Sorry to see it go, but glad it’s done.”
“You’re drunk,” Victor muttered.
“Yes, just a hair. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but there’s some pretty exciting news on TV. For once.”
“I don’t see how this affects