Blue squadron had become like a family, and the thought of watching his brothers and sisters die suddenly hit him. Stockton was the epitome of the apparently fearless pilot, but he’d found that his ability to seemingly ignore the danger of his own death didn’t transfer to those under his command.

This is war. It’s one thing to think about it, to prepare for it…but quite another to face it.

He reached down, his fingers flipping a series of levers, arming his weapons.

This is it. Your entire life has led you to this moment…

*   *   *

“Gold Dagger, Red Banner…engage. Darkwind in support.”

Junus nudged his throttle, pressing on the thruster control as he angled his bird toward the enemy. Regulations stated that the force commander should be positioned behind the attacking squadrons, but that was one of the few rules widely ignored in Alliance service. No officer who’d come up in the fighter force could obey such a covenant, not without disgrace. And Ellian Junus, for all his accumulated wisdom and experience, was still a fighter pilot at heart, still subject to the same callings.

He stared straight ahead. There were two enemy fighters moving toward his ship. He put his finger on the top of the three firing buttons on his throttle. His weapons were all armed and ready, and he watched as the enemy closed.

His threat detectors whined, the high-pitched signal telling him one of the enemy fighters had launched a missile at him. He waited, counting softly under his breath, eyes on the range readings. Then he pressed the small stud, and he felt his fighter buck as his own missile launched.

Then he pulled the throttle back hard, angling it to the side, gasping for oxygen as his dampeners struggled to partially negate the crushing g-forces. He’d launched his weapon…now his attention was completely focused on getting away from the missile coming at him.

He angled the controls again…then again, changing his vector and velocity wildly, almost randomly, in an effort to shake the enemy weapon.

He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, the stress of battle, tight throughout his body. He’d been in combat many times, but he’d rarely had so much trouble evading an enemy’s missile. The fighter that had launched it had managed to get in close, its velocity higher than his own, adding to the missile’s acceleration.

That’s a good pilot…I hope they’re not all this capable…

He moved the throttle again, hard. He could see the enemy missile closing. It was still on his tail. He looked at the chronometer. Two minutes, thirty seconds. Alliance missiles had less than three minutes of fuel at maximum acceleration, but he realized he had no idea about the Confed weapons. It they were similar, he would escape from its lock. But if the Confeds somehow managed to pack more fuel into their missiles…