“Alright, Blue squadron, you know what we’re here for. You’ve trained for this day, you’ve flown millions of kilometers…all to bring you to this moment. These are invaders, enemies. If we let them get through us, they will attack Dauntless, they will bring death and destruction to our mothership and our comrades. And they will do it because we let them do it. I say never! They shall not pass.” Jake Stockton was strapped in his fighter, his hand gripped tightly around the throttle. He could see the mass of fighters on his scanner’s display, coming on in two waves. The first was less than five hundred thousand kilometers from the Confederation forces…almost engaged.

Blue Squadron was on the left, with Yellow on the right and the inexperienced pilots of Green squadron in the center, their flanks covered by their more experienced comrades. Stockton had a reputation as one of the best pilots in the service, but he suspected the Alliance forces—if they were indeed from the Alliance—had more combat experience. He wasn’t going to let that make a difference, no matter what he had to do. But it was still on his mind.

“Raptor, Thunder here. I want your people to accelerate. Try to get around the flank of the enemy formation.” Stockton nodded as he listened to Kyle Jamison’s orders. Dauntless’s strike force commander went by his call sign in combat, as all Confederation fighter jocks did. It was tradition mostly, but it also ensured that the enemy wasn’t given easy information about ranks and command structures. If they were going to pick off the commanders, they would have to find them some other way than listening in on comm frequencies for mentions of rank.

“Thunder, roger that.” He moved his hand to the com unit, his finger hesitating over the channel selector. “And good fortune to you, Thunder. Happy hunting!”

“And to you, Raptor. Thunder out.”

Stockton moved his finger, switching the com over to the Blue squadron line. “All birds, prepare to engage thrusters, one quarter power. We’re heading for the enemy’s flank. And wingmen, remember to stay tight with your leaders. These aren’t pirates or renegades out there. We’re facing veteran pilots, sure as hell, and if you let your guards down, they’ll blow you to atoms.”

He grabbed the throttle and moved it slowly, angling his fighter and then blasting the engines. He felt the pressure, but at one-quarter thrust, the dampeners quickly adjusted. He looked down at the display, watching the Blues move with him, their formation almost as perfect as it had been. He was proud, and he felt a wave of satisfaction. But there was another thought there as well, a darker one. The realization that he was, in all likelihood, about to lose some of his pilots.