“Five minutes.”
“We’ve replaced a coward with a gung-ho maniac, just great.” Then he slowly started to grin.
More ships came in, and Jason watched the landings, nodding an agreement when the deck officer marked two of the fighters off as unfit to fly and had them pulled to the far corner of the hangar where repair crews swarmed over them. A Ferret, with a wing completely sheered off came in, trailing a tangle of wires which hooked into the side of the airlock, spinning the craft around. Jason groaned as the ship broke apart, parts spraying down the deck.
The deck officer leaped from the command room, racing across the deck, screaming for crew members to manhandle the wreckage out of the way and within a minute the next fighter came in, slipping within inches of the Ferret’s shattered cockpit where an emergency rescue crew was hosing the ruins down with fire retardant, and pulling the unconscious pilot out.
The last ship landed and Doomsday returned to his craft, ready for launch.
Jason punched up the ship’s intercom.
“All hands,” and he hesitated for a moment, “this is the captain speaking.
“Intrepid reports inbound fighters, fifty plus, less than fifteen minutes away and closing. Nine capital ships are five minutes behind them, two Fralthra cruisers, four Ralatha destroyers, two corvettes, and one heavy carrier. We should run for it right now, but there are still four platoons of marines down on the moon, getting set to blow half a dozen damned carriers and lord knows what other equipment from here to hell where it belongs. We’re giving those people five more minutes because this ship does not leave its people behind. Engine room, get ready to pour on the fire when I give the word. Keep up the good work, people, and the Empire will learn to cover its butt and crawl away when they hear the name Tarawa.”
He clicked off the intercom and suddenly felt foolish for having delivered what he felt was a hackneyed speech. From the corner of his eye he saw that his make due bridge staff were grinning and nodding their heads with approval. Embarrassed, he turned away to watch the forward monitor screen which was filled with the image of the moon.
“Merritt, you with me?”
“Copy that Tarawa. We are lifting off now.”
“Starlight, you on them for air support?”
“Four ferrets and one fighter lined up above them.”
“A and B craft will be up first, C landing craft under Major Svetlana Ivanova will follow us out. We’ve had some unexpected resistance down here trying to get out.”
“Major?” Jason asked.
“Hell, we’re all getting battlefield promotions out here today,” Merritt said. “I figured I’d toss a couple around as well. Company C’s top hand is down, knocked out, and she’s got the job now.”
Even as he spoke Jason could hear that Merritt was caught up in the middle of a firefight as he loaded the last of his grunts on board.
Jason looked over at the short range radar scan and saw the first blue blip come off the surface, followed a half minute later by the second.
“Come on, damn it, move it, move it!” Grierson snarled. “Those fighters are kicking in afterburners; they’ll be here in less than five.”
“Get three Sabres out there and then clear the deck for landing craft recovery,” Jason ordered, trying to keep his voice calm and businesslike.
Doomsday slammed down the launch ramp, and the crews pushed the second craft into line, sending it out less than thirty seconds later.
The rear sweeping short range scan, which had survived the kamikaze hit, started to turn red on the outer limit of search; the enemy wave was closing in.
“Merritt, move it, damn it,” Jason said softly, still trying to force an outward appearance of calm.
“We’re shoveling coal into the engines as fast as we can, Tarawa.”
“C Company lifting off now!” Svetlana called and Jason breathed a sigh of relief.
The first landing craft, coming off the surface at full throttle, came within visual range, afterburner flame rippling behind it.
An alarm started to ping on the combat information board and for a second Jason thought that the incoming fighters were already trying to achieve missile lock, even though they were still thousands of kilometers out. And then he saw the threat display, a red box snapping to life on the moon’s surface below.
“Svetlana, take evasive!”
“Outbound heat seekers,” Starlight shouted, launching suppressive fire.
“Svetlana, shut engines down. Blow chaff!”
Four missiles streaked up, converging in on the landing craft which was just within visual range. Jason shouted for the petty officer running the display to jack up magnification. He felt helpless; as captain of a carrier he was reduced to simply watching a life-and-death struggle being played out on the holo screen.
The landing craft turned, a shower of chaff and heat flares blowing out the stern. The first missile closed and detonated half a click astern, the second and third disappearing into the fireball and detonating as well. Jason breathed a sigh of relief and then the fourth missile emerged from out of the explosion. The missile closed.
“No!” Jason screamed, grabbing hold of the side of the console as if by sheer force of will he could somehow turn the missile aside. It detonated just astern of the landing craft.
“Tarawa, Tarawa, we’re hit and going in!” Her voice was strangely detached and calm as her image appeared on the screen.
Sickened, Jason watched as the landing craft, trailing fire, started to spiral back down to the planet’s surface.
“First landing craft clearing airlock door,” and he looked up to see Merritt’s craft coming in, touching down hard, the sides of the ship fire-scorched from the intense battle down on the planet’s surface.
Before the craft had even skidded to a stop a side hatch was opened and Merritt jumped out, running up to the control room, pushing his way in, dropping his helmet on the floor.
“Svetlana, try and gain orbit!” Jason shouted.
“No joy on that, Tarawa, we’re going down, only one engine still good.” Behind her, he could see the pilot struggling with the controls, the copilot of the landing craft slumped over in his seat, the back of his head a bloody mass. The ground rushed up and then the image snapped off.
“They’ve impacted next to one of the carrier hangers,” the combat information officer shouted.
“Landing craft C, landing craft C, do you copy?” Jason shouted.
A crackling hiss filled the air and then a voice drifted through on the static, the visual image barely discernable.
“Tarawa, we’re still with you; we’ve touched down, many casualties on board.”
“Thank God,” Jason sighed and he looked over at Merritt.
“Tarawa, it’s time to leave this neighborhood,” Grierson announced, coming online. “Do you copy on that? The rear screen is red with incoming!”
Jason felt as if his heart had suddenly gone to ice.
He looked at the situation board, the holo displays and monitors. Tarawa was seriously wounded, but she still had four hundred and fifty aboard and, as the second landing craft came in, more than a hundred marines. On a side monitor the computer had zeroed in on the crashed landing craft, reading out injuries as reported by the individual marine’s life-support systems. Thirty-five of them were still alive, including Svetlana.
“The Confederation doesn’t leave its people behind, not while I’m in command,” a voice whispered in his memory. “I’ll do what it takes to get you back,” and he felt as if Tolwyn were standing beside him.