Stockton had never seen—never even heard of—a fighter battle as intense and sustained as this one. Typically, squadrons came at each other at high velocities, launching missiles and conducting passing strafing runs at each other before overshooting and decelerating to reform for another run. But Dauntless’s fighters and the enemy were locked in a death struggle, and neither side showed any signs of backing down. Exhausted fuel supplies and dwindling power cells would eventually force one or both sides to withdraw.

Assuming there’s anyone left by then…

“Blue three, Blue four…on me. We’re driving through.” His eyes darted down to the screen, to the cluster of dots sitting motionless behind the main battle area.

“Acknowledged, Lieutenant.”

“With you, Lieutenant.”

Those birds are armed for anti-ship strikes. Have to be…or they would have committed them by now…

“Blue Ten, Eleven, Fourteen…with us. The rest of you, hold off that reserve squadron.”

The enemy had sent a dozen birds against Blue squadron, and they were almost in position. Stockton knew he was being aggressive, even reckless. But if he could get to those anti-ship squadrons…they’d be almost defenseless, cumbersome and loaded down with plasma ordnance intended for Dauntless.

Still, splitting the squadron was a wild gamble. The fighters left behind would be outnumbered two to one by the enemy reserves. And the six ships making a run for the rear enemy squadrons had a long way to go, past a lot of opposing fighters. He was also betting the lives of Green squadron’s survivors. The enemy might react to the danger posed to its anti-ship squadrons, pulling back its forces in the center to chase his own birds. But if they didn’t, the Greens were as good as dead, outnumbered and outclassed, with no help coming. At least none soon enough.

Kyle…

Kyle “Thunder” Jamison was more than just Dauntless’s strike force commander, and Stockton’s immediate superior officer. He was Stockton’s closest friend, even a brother. And his maneuver would leave Jamison alone with half a dozen raw pilots facing the brunt of the enemy attack.

He felt the temptation to cancel his orders, to come around and head toward the center, to come to Green squadron’s rescue. But he pushed it aside. The twenty-four fighters to the enemy rear could inflict enormous damage on Dauntless. And if there was one bit of training, of mantra, driven into every pilot’s head, it was that the mothership comes first. If he pressed on, maybe—just maybe—he could hurt the enemy force before it had a chance to hit Dauntless.

Thunder can take care of himself…