Supplanted

Our extended patrol duty was uneventful until just near its Admiral-ly delayed end. Wilson’s World was not so quiet.

One lazy mid-morning during yet another dull active duty hour, the order came over the com. “Battle stations! All pilots to their ships! Scramble! Scramble! Enemy ships in the Gamma sector!” It’s amazing how you get used to inactivity so quickly; I mean, previous patrols before this nonsense about peace had battles two – three times a week. . . and twice on Sundays. The result was that my fellow pilots in the ready room actually looked surprised that the war was still with us. I was surprised that it took our enemy this long to attack us.

I was in my fighter, launched and ready for action moments after hearing the announcement. The ship around me was a blur. Since there is no G force in space, the attack launch felt like little more than stepping off a bottom stair. I and my fellow fighter pilots were out in less than a minute looking for enemy ships to destroy.

Our search for them didn’t take us long. An entire fleet of enemy carriers was there to greet us at the outer reaches of the Gamma system, flying full rockets straight at us. I counted sixteen ships before my attention was diverted to their incoming fighters.

Enemy fighters look a lot like flying saucers from ancient descriptions. (I say that not knowing what ancient flying saucers actually look like, but in the hopes that my future readers will know.) They are flat and wide when viewed head on, with an opaque bubble on top that is the pilot’s seat – and our primary targeting objective - but round and perfect targets when seen from above or below. Fighter pilots, such as I, are trained to outmaneuver our enemy so that we can shoot them out of space by approaching them from above or below and blasting the pilot out of his seat. This is what we were now doing. Our fighters engaged the enemy who outnumbered us eighty to one by my estimation. The dog fights, as they are called, (I don’t know why), between fighters are brief and decisive.

I’ve met the enemy in battle many times before, but never like this. It seemed effortless to outmaneuver them and even easier to target the pilots and eliminate them. I had my pick of a dozen or more ships in my sights after my first barrel roll and dive. I’d shot out three of them on my first pass, when I came around for my next attack from the opposite side, the enemy were in such a state of confusion that picking them off was as easy as a turkey shoot. (Whatever a “turkey shoot” is; I’ve only seen giant chickens, and they’re easy to shoot, but tough to kill; just like our enemy, so I sort of understand half of the cliché.)

I watched, as I have always done, broken enemy ships flash out of existence as their pilots undoubtedly activated their auto-destructs. Flying through the debris left by a destroyed enemy ship is not a concern as our ships are made of the hardest materials known to Earth science and may, therefore, crash through space flotsam without incurring severe damage. I did notice, however, that not all of the defeated enemy ships detonated immediately. This was odd; and circumstances were about to get odder.

I shot out twenty five enemy ships before I noticed that their carriers had moved on and left the fighters behind; this was an odd tactic, even for an enemy without pity. The remaining enemy fighters were now scattered all over space. Some of them just seemed to sit and wait for us to kill them. I was able to conserve my salt covered ammunition by firing short bursts aimed at the precise center of each enemy fighter; that way I could surgically eliminate more enemy pilots without having to dock on the carrier and reload.

Each enemy ship broke apart quickly as I fired, and burst apart shortly after. It is almost mesmerizing to watch as the force of the ammunition, combined with the force of escaping atmosphere and the presumed self destruct activation, create an almost artistic symmetry of wreckage as the lack of gravity and other limiting forces cause each small piece of the destroyed ship to streak away at mathematically equivalent directional intervals and pass out into space in a silent ballet of disintegration. If it weren’t for the death and loss, it would almost be beautiful. I suspect some of our more gung ho pilots think it’s beautiful, but for staggeringly different reasons.

I eventually returned to the Wild Man after a short but effective sortie personally confused, but with more than one hundred kills to add to my resume. (126 to be exact; mostly “sitting ducks”; whatever a duck is. Some day I must research these fowl cliché references. Pun intended.)

It wasn’t necessary for me to return to the battle, all of my fellow pilots had already docked and reloaded and were back out there finishing off the many stragglers that were still left; plus, with the enemy carriers in full retreat and no threat of reinforcements, we could concentrate on what was happening on Wilson’s World. It was back aboard ship that I learned the full extent of the enemy’s treachery. Once we had all realized it, we recalled all of our fighters and sped back home as quickly as possible.

Our extra ten days in space proved to be our salvation; while we were out during what would have been our turn around time, the enemy had attacked Wilson’s World in force. Seventy two of our carriers were either totally destroyed or irreparably damaged; most of them while they were still on the ground. Of the two carriers that were in orbit, one had been shot down and crashed just outside of the Capital City, while the other now drifted slowly and helplessly away from the planet, abandoned by what was left of its crew. It was suspected that they never even got to fire a shot. More than ten thousand pilots had lost their lives in space. The total number of civilian casualties and the soldiers on the ground is too sickening to relate.

Four other carriers were on limited patrol duty during this time. Of the four, two were never heard from again. The other two had managed to get back to Wilson’s World in time to engage some of the invading enemy. Their kill to loss ratio was impressive, but their ineffectiveness against superior numbers was pitiful. Much of their success was due to the enemy’s preoccupation with planetary demolition. Our soldiers did their best; their best wasn’t enough to save our world from near obliteration.

Kaletown suffered the least amount of damage. Only half the city had been leveled. Their reprieve came in the form of our carrier streaking full throttle back to base to join the battle. We assume that the enemy mistook our unexpected return as the deployment of reinforcements that they were either unable or unwilling to engage. By the time we had arrived, the battle was over. We’d lost. A dozen or so carriers, including the General’s flagship, remained in the system; most were limping about in space. Twenty five hundred fighters with pilots guarded them erratically. Nine civilian ships hid amongst the military melee. The Wild Man joined a devastated and demoralized fragment of a once mighty fleet. The Freedom Fighters were, effectively, no more.

Admiral Bowen took a supply shuttle to the command carrier. I accompanied him. We met with a greatly shaken up General Josten in his command ready room.

“They were infiltrating our territory during our turn around down time,” the General babbled as he paced. “We were getting ready to welcome them as friends, and this is how we’re rewarded: a sneak attack. All the time we were cutting our patrols, they were massing for an assault. Peace talks my ass!

“And our sector is the only lucky one,” he continued. “Apparently they’ve hit every human target as far back as the Alpha system. This was an attempt to eradicate our species in one fell swoop. I don’t know what our next step is, but my personal desire is a payback mission; as massive and totally destructive as we can muster. I want them to know that the human race is not going to roll over and play dead. I want to hurt them, I want an offensive, and I want it now!”

“That will have to wait, General.” The interruption came from SGM Gamble. “Right now we have several hundred rescue missions to perform.”

All attention was turned to the senior NCO. “When the remaining carrier commanders get here, I have a list of survivors who need assistance in evacuating the most heavily hit sectors. We’re still receiving reports of requests for extraction.”

“Sergeant Major,” First Lieutenant LaTourno interjected. “We will await our orders from Earth Central Command . . .”

“Balderdash!” the General raged. I admired his momentary restraint. “It was those brainless jackasses at Central Command who ordered these idiotic reductions in defensive readiness in the first place. I command this regiment, Lieutenant; what’s left of it, and we are going to render aid and support to our displaced people as soon as possible and regardless of what sector we have to brave to do it. We will rendezvous all recovered space craft here at Wilson’s World and regroup. I will have my counterattack and I will have it within the next few days. Have I made myself crystal clear?”

A resounding “Yes, sir!” from everyone on board echoed the new resolve. We would counterattack our enemy as soon as every available ship, pilot and supply was amassed at Wilson’s World. It didn’t even occur to any one of us that such an action could end the viability of the human race.

The other carrier commanders were not long in joining us. Of those that remained, seven had survived the assault in operational condition. The General promoted half a dozen seconds in command to Admirals and held a very quick briefing as to our current situation. I will not divulge the details of that meeting; suffice it to say that our nineteen remaining viable carriers had a long list of chores to perform before the war at hand could be rejoined.

The carriers Enterprise and Charlemagne were to go to the Alpha sector to collect survivors. The Pittsburgh, Cain, London and Patriot were sent to the Epsilon sector. All others were to begin readying for the rendezvous here in the Gamma sector.

The Wild Man, since it was the most primed for battle, was to be sent alone to the most uncertain war zone to search for survivors. The Delta quadrant of the Beta sector had been the hardest hit. The three planetary systems there had followed the new orders for patrolling to the letter. It had reportedly cost them every carrier they had; the last report having been cut off after the radio ensign who made it had relayed the staggering losses to whomever she hoped was listening. The war room map of that area was nothing but static projected on the wall; as was the map of the Epsilon sector, who we hadn’t heard from at all. We would be flying blindly into a combat zone that would most likely yield us a handful of ships at best; mostly composed of civilian vessels and escape pods, few if any military additions; and, quite possibly, an enemy ambush or two. Contact with the billions of people living there had been lost entirely, and not one of us believed we’d be finding many survivors.

It would be a good two weeks before I or any of my shipmates would see our homes again, and then only for a brief goodbye. For now, we had a job to do.

Entry 6a

Delta quadrant, Beta sector

We arrived at our destination one day after the end of the battle.

The once bustling tri-planet system of Delta Zeta had been reduced to rubble. None of the three worlds settled by humans had been spared from the total devastation delivered by our enemy. Our enemy had employed a new tactic in its attempts to obliterate the human race: they would quickly strike the defensive carriers with fighters to prevent them from doing their job of defending the system, then carpet bomb the planet’s surfaces from space. It was a tactic they had begun but not finished on Wilson’s World; we would see its awesome effectiveness on DZ 3.

When we arrived at DZ 3, the planet was dead. Our scans for human life forms showed none to be alive. Some wounded livestock and a few stray dogs were all that remained on the once vital agricultural planet and its former five hundred million inhabitants. Bomb craters covered the entire surface of the planet. It was decided that a planetary excursion to search for survivors was unnecessary. We proceeded on to DZ 2, also known as New Eden, to assess the damages there. We left the over half a billion bodies on DZ 3 to rot in the sun. What else could we do?

New Eden had suffered an identical fate. We did; however, rendezvous with six civilian ships that had managed to escape the attack. The surviving ships consisted of three luxury starliners, one garbage barge, one max sized cargo ship and one casino. The starliners were frighteningly low on provisions. The passengers and crews of the surviving ships reported to us that they had been scavenging the wastes of Delta Zetas 1 through 3 for the past two days and that there was nothing useful left to salvage. Their reports on what happened to DZ 1 were horrible to hear. I will edit the most distasteful and upsetting information as it was told to us in a briefing aboard the Wild Man with the captains of the refugee ships.

“DZ 1 tried to surrender,” the Captain of the starliner Beau Reve told us between fits of anguish. “They were merciless . . . bombed everything . . . shot down anything that tried to escape. Those who evacuated from DZ 2 and 3 went to DZ 1. The enemy allowed it; just so they could finish everyone off at once. . . practically herded them there.”

“What happened to their defense carriers?” Admiral Bowen wanted to know. He was trying very hard to repress the anger in his voice.

“They all went to the aid of the outer planets,” the starliner captain explained, “the ones that weren’t already destroyed on the ground. The fleet on DZ 3 never saw them coming . . . never had a chance. Most of DZ 2’s vanguard was shot down while taking off. Very few defense carriers were left to take part in the battle. I can’t tell you how many were already on patrol, but it wasn’t many.

“By the time the space battle was over, there wasn’t a carrier in the system to oppose the enemy. We only made it out alive because our three starliners were on a deep space tourism cruise to a nearby system.1 We got wind of the attack by interstellar distress radio. We chose to return here only because we thought it was safe . . . since the enemy had destroyed everything and left. They didn’t know we were away, and we sure didn’t let them know that we were coming back.” His details of the final planet’s extermination were broadcast ship wide. It made the warriors of the Wild Man angry and bloodthirsty, but our thirst for vengeance would have to wait.

The flight recorder from the carrier Columbia – the last carrier to be destroyed in space - had been recovered from the derelict and was brought into the meeting room. It chronicled the demise of the planetary defense forces. Apparently, DZ 1 had little more than an hour’s warning from DZ 3 about the attack; DZ 2 had less than half that. The innermost planet was able to launch all of its seventy eight carriers and sent them all to engage the enemy. The enemy met the carriers between DZ 1 and 2. The colony forces were overwhelmed. Although the enemy suffered tremendous losses, the fight was to the last man, and they had more ships than we did. In the end, we estimate that our forces achieved at least a twenty to one kill ratio; yet, the enemy still had hundreds of ships left to finish the job after our comrades had been eliminated.

News of the extraordinary numbers that our enemy had used to facilitate this attack made even the most gung ho of us stop a moment in awe and think about our proposed counterattack in more rational terms. We were still in favor of it, just less convinced of its possibilities for success.

“We have two more solar systems to search and rescue before returning to Wilson’s World,” Admiral Bowen told the survivors. “A fighter escort will take you to our rendezvous point. We will stock your liners with as much food and fresh water as we can spare. The garbage scow and the cargo ship will come with us to the Delphi and August Moon colonies to assist with our search and rescue missions.”

“Don’t bother,” the scow Captain argued. “If they took the same pounding that we did, they’ll all be dead before you get there.”

Admiral Bowen did not register the emotion on his face, but it could be heard in his voice; especially the volume level of it. “If you choose to forgo this mission, Captain, I will replace you at your command and commandeer your ship in order to complete my assignment. You are free to cower in the hold of the most accommodating starliner that’s willing to take you, and you can rot there for all I care. But we will save everyone and everything that we can. We leave for Delphi in one hour. Be ready or be gone!” The impromptu meeting of ship’s captains broke up without another word.

Flight Commander DeFalco took command of the garbage scow. Our three ships were refueled with as much as we could find, and we burned full rockets to get to Delphi in less than eight hours.

By now the prospects of finding survivors was less than zero. Our morale had also taken a staggering hit. It was beginning to look to us as if our counterattack would indeed be the last hurrah of the human race.

Entry 6b

Delphi

The situation at Delphi was just as grim, but with more survivors. This world had somehow gotten a brief warning as to the advance of our enemy, and its carriers had managed a somewhat effective defense. Four full carriers were still on guard when we arrived; the rest were scrap. They were hesitant to leave their colony and its two million survivors2 unprotected for only the slim promise of an ill advised counterattack that they felt was doomed to failure. But we managed to salvage enough ships and passenger space aboard them to transport every human and animal survivor back to Wilson’s World with the four carriers as escorts. It would be slow traveling, but they would get back safely.

It took the entire day and one hundred percent of our human resources to effect the salvage operations, but we were eventually successful in gutting the planet of anything useful. The scow and the max freighter went with the Delphi survivors back to base fully loaded with people and salvage.

The enemy had suffered what appeared to be their second defeat of this coordinated attack here in this system. They had destroyed as much as they could, exhausted their ammunition, and then left as unexpectedly as they had come. The mysterious circumstances surrounding their actions deepened with every report that came to us from the survivors. I was given the honor of compiling this data in the hopes that it would be beneficial to our counterattack.

With the Delphi survivors well on their way, our attentions were turned to the refugees from August Moon. Word had gotten to that final sector that search and rescue operations were under way. As a result, the surviving humans and their salvaged materials were able to meet us at Delphi before another day had ended. The reports from the surviving carrier commanders were bleak.

“We were taken completely by surprise,” Colonel Tucker related. He had been in command of the Rough Riders battalion stationed in the Beta sector. “If not for some pretty ingenious attack formations, we’d all be toast right now.”

Admiral Bowen jumped at the first ray of hope he had heard in over a week, “That is good news! Whose tactical wizardry do we owe this lone victory to, and how do we get him or her back to Wilson’s World to spearhead our counterattack?”

The Colonel didn’t seem too happy to respond. “The officer in question was Lieutenant Commander Marisa Burburan. She rallied our troops and led a successful counter attack that saved two thirds of the planet from suffering the same fate as Delta Zeta. Unfortunately, she perished aboard the carrier Ticonderoga late in the battle. She died with honor, and we owe her our miserable surviving lives.”

The room of officers bowed their collective heads to remember their fallen comrade. But the matters at hand would not allow prolonged commiserating. The Admiral still wanted to know what strategy the late great Lieutenant Commander had employed. The Colonel said he didn’t have the specifics, he could only relate his part in the operation.

“Well, somebody had better find me a flight recorder, or a communications officer, or a tactical officer that does know the specifics,” Ben Bowen ordered, almost in vain. “I don’t intend to allow this vital information to slip through our fingers now that we have a glimmer of a hope in Hell of succeeding in our counter offensive. I want every available soldier to get busy finding us that tactical advantage; even if it has to be dredged from the remains of the colony sewage system!”

In less than an hour, a blind stroke of luck put us in possession of the very thing which could turn our fortunes around in this war. A lower level ensign had taken it upon himself to chronicle what he thought were his last moments on his personal video recorder. That recorder had been aimed out of a porthole at the roiling battle outside. Additionally, the communications link in his quarters had broadcast enough of a description of the battle over the loudspeaker for the recorder to pick up and for me to be able to formulate a scenario of what had happened.

With this data we flew full rockets back to Wilson’s World. A remnant force from August Moon led by six damaged carriers brought over eight thousand ships full of refugees in our wake. They would be joining us at the rendezvous point in about a week. We felt that it was imperative that we get back to the Freedom Fighters ASAP with our new found tactical hope.

I was privileged to be the one asked to detail the tactical data in order to present it to the General upon our return. What stuck out as being odd to me was that our enemy seemed to be employing a method once called Kamikaze in the old Earth war records. Their superior numbers seemed to have been swelled by inferiorly trained pilots and gunners. It was little wonder that our carriers had mounted very effective defenses when they were able. Only the force that invaded Delta Zeta seemed to have been composed of more capable enemy pilots. This was a bit of information that would prove more than a little revealing.

Another of my observations concerned the behaviors of the enemy bombers. Although their carpet bombing tactic was devastating, it was far from well thought out. It seemed to me that the bombers were the most disorganized arm of the enemy attack fleet. Their attack formations were sloppy, and their need to go over their target areas repeatedly to achieve the completeness of their assignment made them look like one legged line dancers trying to do the two step.

From what I was able to piece together from the eye witness accounts and the jumble of recorded data, the bombers were held far back of the enemy fighters and carriers during the beginning of the battle. Only when stiff resistance had been thoroughly subdued did any bombing begin, and then only in the most disorganized fashion.

It also turned out that destroying the enemy bombers was a simple task. I witnessed several successful solo attacks by our fighters on their bombers. The hulls of the enemy ships were apparently very thin and their interiors were probably over-packed with explosives. A single fighter was able to completely destroy a bomber with one strafing pass. The enemy bombers also disintegrated completely when destroyed, blowing up into innumerable pieces and sometimes taking others beside them with them. This habit of near total disintegration of the destroyed bombers was also why we couldn’t distinguish their remains on the planet’s surfaces from the craters that they made from orbit.

This new information about the unpreparedness of our enemy along with the shoddy construction and poor performance of their new ships would be very useful to our attack plans. Now all I had to do was survive the trip back to the Gamma sector. At half rockets, because of our low fuel situation, we would be back at the rendezvous point in six days.

One final question plagued me, why didn’t the enemy regroup its capable fighters and finish us off? I would have to ponder that in private much later; I didn’t want to worry myself to death.