He looked over at the display. The data was old, he knew, and somewhat of an estimation. But he saw the situation clearly enough. The enemy force was heading directly for Dauntless. There was a cluster of his fighters hot on their tail, but he couldn’t tell if they would reach the strike force before it was able to launch.

And if they get in range intact, we’ll never shoot that many birds down quickly enough. They’ll get through the defenses, and…

He remembered his grandfather’s tales, stories of massive fighter strikes devastating capital ships. He’d taken a grave risk leaving Dauntless with no combat space patrol. That had paid off in terms of the fighter battle still raging. But now the cost of having numbers in the dogfight was coming due.

He slapped his hand down on the com unit. “Fritzie, I want you to send a team of your best people down to the launch bay alpha immediately. They are to help Chief Evans refit Red squadron.”

“Captain…yes, sir.” Fritz sounded like she might argue, some version of “my people are engineers, not fighter support techs.” But Barron suspected the seriousness in his voice had deflected any argument.

“And Fritzie…we need to get the Reds refit and back in the launch bays in about ten minutes, or your people are going to have a shit ton of damage to deal with. I need everything you can spare. I realize that will leave damage control understaffed, at least for a while…but there’s no alternative.”

“Understood, sir. I’m on it now. Fritz out.”

*   *   *

“Shit.”

Stockton was cursing to himself. It was pointless, he knew, but he did it anyway.

“Shit.”

He stared straight at his display, watching the cloud of dots in front of him heading directly toward Dauntless. He’d taken a gamble, left half his squadron to withstand double their number so he could move against the enemy’s reserve squadrons, the two dozen craft outfitted for attack runs against Dauntless. But the enemy blasted forward before he could engage, escaping from his attack and heading straight through the gap where Green squadron had been. He and four of his pilots were in hot pursuit, straining their engines to the breaking point, trying to catch up before the enemy ships were able to launch their torpedo salvoes.

His eyes caught movement on the short-ranged display, three small dots, moving toward his small group of fighters.

His com crackled to life. “Raptor…Thunder here…form up on me. We’ve got to hit those bombers.”

Stockton allowed himself a little smile, and he felt a small wave of relief. Commander Jamison was alive…and he had two Green squadron pilots with him. Stockton hadn’t been sure any of the inexperienced pilots had survived.

“Thunder…damn, it’s good to hear your voice.”