The Honour of the Knights - Stephen J. Sweeney (mobi reader android .txt) 📗

me!” a hysterical cry came from behind. Estelle saw the woman next to her turn around, and then spring up to assist the owner of the voice. She heard those that had accompanied her to where Andrea lay, urging someone to keep calm, before all three hurried from the scene, their voices fading away down the corridor as they went.

Estelle saw none of it, her eyes focused on Andrea's face, racked with the guilt of the jealousy she had felt only hours earlier. She reached down and closed the dead woman's eyes, no longer wishing she could be in her place.

* * *

An out of breath Parks arrived at one of the flight deck's observation galleries; or at least, what remained of it. All access to the deck had been sealed off, blast doors preventing anyone from getting any closer to the source of the devastation that had crippled the carrier. Even the gallery refused to permit its occupants any idea of the destruction that lay beyond: thick blast screens covered the windows, allowing them to see no further than the inside of the room.

The smouldering remains of terminals and computer screens, as well as shattered glass covering the ground, was all that remained to suggest what the gallery's purpose may have been. Everything around Parks was charred black, the damage spreading down the approaching corridor. The doors, which usually slid open automatically as they were approached, had to be pushed apart by hand. As on the bridge, people were attending to the wounded and trying to revive others.

Kneeling down on the floor, just inside the doorway, was a woman attending to the injuries of a man, propped up against a wall. His face was quite bloody, the result of a wound somewhere on the top of his head.

“Captain,” he said upon seeing Parks enter. He pushed aside the woman's hand and attempted to get to his feet.

“As you were,” Parks said, waving him back down. Though they were injured, Parks had found that some of the carrier's crew still attempted to adhere to a certain standard of correctness. Right now, he did not want either of these two to stand and salute.

“What's the status of the flight deck?” he asked, though by the state of the observation deck he believed he already knew the answer.

“Badly damaged,” answered the man on the floor, wincing as the woman tended to his wounded head. She was now making a clumsy effort to wrap a bandage around the affected area. “There is no hope of launching fighters until it receives some extensive repairs, and that won't be before we re-establish the forcefields. The whole deck has been exposed to space. If we open it up, then we risk depressurising the entire ship.”

“Survivors? Anyone still alive down there?”

“Not a chance. If they weren't killed when that damn fighter hit, then they would have been spaced straight after. We'll have lost everyone: pilots, attendants, the OOD and the junior, technicians and munitions handlers...”

“Stay calm, man!”

“Captain!” another voice came.

Parks looked around as a man came bounding up the stairs to the remains of the observation room; it was the security officer who he had sent to fetch Andrea.

“The Red Devils are dead, sir. They were spaced during the frigate's initial attack.”

Though he knew the shock on his face was clear for all to see, Parks made no attempt to conceal it. This was news that he had not been prepared for. As it stood, the entire plan to attack and retake Dragon had been nothing short of a total disaster. Even retreating would not be possible until the engines were brought back on-line, and abandoning the ship was not an option. The evacuees would be sitting ducks in their escape pods. Prisoners would not be taken, lives would not be spared. Even without full shielding or weapon systems, they stood a much better chance of survival by remaining on the carrier and attempting to restore power, than floating around in escape pods in the middle of the battlefield.

And minutes from destruction or not, Parks would never abandon Griffin.

Regaining some of his composure, the commodore felt his shock turn to anger at his own stupidity. He turned to the man and woman on the floor next to him. “You two, once you are able, start organising an assessment of repairs needed to the flight deck. We must find a way to launch fighters. If we cannot get weapons systems or shielding back on-line then we will be totally defenceless.”

“At once, sir,” the man said.

“Come with me,” Parks said, looking at the bridge security officer. They started back to the stairways interconnecting the carrier's decks. “I want you to get as many crew members as possible to help with repairs, skilled in that field or not. The restoration of power to the engines, shields and weapon systems should be our number one priority.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, we must find a way to defend ourselves,” Parks continued. “Leviathan and Grendel's Mother will only be able to provide cover for so long against a dedicated attack on us. The ATAFs weren't on the flight deck and can still be deployed, but with the Red Devils dead, we have no-one to fly them...”

“We can fly them, sir!”

Parks spun around at the sound of the familiar voice, to see Estelle, Dodds, Enrique, Kelly, and Chaz all standing behind him; the five White Knights shining like a beacon before his eyes, against the dark of the corridor. He looked to the security guard and gave his next order without even one second's hesitation.

“Get them to the rear cargo hold.”

XIV

— The Knights' Charge —

As he stood in Griffin's rear cargo hold, Dodds was at a loss for words. The footage that he had viewed of the ATAF back on Xalan had failed to fully convey the magnificence that he now felt radiating from the craft. Even in the dim ambience of the emergency lighting, the sleek black armour of the fighters seemed to gleam with elegance.

He found himself drawn towards it, and approached to run his hand over the smooth curvature of the nose, his eyes wandering across every surface, absorbing every detail. He found it beautiful, but knew that that beauty concealed the fighter's nature. As he continued to gaze upon the craft, he began to understand how Estelle sometimes felt, striving always for moments like this. He caught the dim reflection of Enrique in the fighter's armour. The man was standing beside him, his face frozen with an equal look of reverence.

The spacious cargo hold had been quite empty when the five starfighter pilots had entered it, containing only the ATAFs and equipment necessary to handle them. It was now beginning to fill with other personnel, who had come streaming in to aid with the launch of the fighters. They buzzed around, for a time ignoring the White Knights and concentrating on what had to be done.

Dodds took little notice of them, hearing only their dim voices in the background. One was speaking to Estelle.

* * *

“Yep! Fully prepped and ready to go, Lieutenant.”

“Right, right... Dodds, Enrique, get over here,” she called to the men who were still lost in their admiration of the craft before them. There was the sound of running feet, and she looked around to see an out of breath, red-faced man come sprinting into the cargo bay, almost knocking down several others in his haste.

“Commodore Parks wants you to get these guys out there, ASAP!” he gasped to the conning officer. “Dragon just deployed fighters and unless we get these guys out there now... What the hell are those?” He was staring at the ATAFs lining the walls.

There was a loud clunking sound and the occupants of the cargo hold found themselves squinting against the glow of the carrier's restored lighting. Silence gave way to the sound of various pieces of machinery and computer system starting back up. Griffin had come alive once more.

“Okay, here's the plan,” Estelle said as her wingmates drew around her. “I will takeoff first, to get an overview of the standings and liaise with Commodore Parks. Dodds, I want you out next, followed by Kelly, Enrique, and then Chaz. Once we are out there, I will issue you all with objectives.” She looked to the ATAFs. “Just... just remember – it's like flying a TAF.”

She could hear her voice quivering ever so slightly; the anticipation of what was to come was causing her to draw breath much faster than usual. She turned to the conning officer. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she replied, signalling to others in the bay, who wheeled over a ladder so that Estelle could enter the cockpit. “Those special considerations I mentioned: we're not able to set up any sort of launch catapult down here, so you're going to have to maintain a hover whilst we rotate the inner and outer forcefields. You okay with that?”

“No problem,” said Estelle.

The conning officer looked to the other four, who nodded their understanding. Then, to Estelle, she said, “Don't boost until you're fully clear, otherwise you could cause major damage to the hold. Clear?”

“Understood,” Estelle said. She leapt up the ladder, scooped up the helmet that was nestled into the seat and slipped it over her head. Despite the ATAF evaluation program being concluded several weeks ago, the cockpit layout was still fresh in her mind. Her fingers pressed buttons and flipped switches as they had done many times before, the starfighter's systems coming on-line just as she expected. As the last notification appeared, Estelle informed the flight crew that she was ready to go. She then took up the position the conning officer had requested.

She could feel her heart beating hard, threatening once more to burst out of her chest; though now out of sheer exhilaration, rather than fear and uncertainty.

This is it, girl. This is what it has all been about, she thought to herself. Do yourself proud. Do us all proud. Looking to her side, she gave a thumbs-up to her wingmates and then faced forward as the cargo bay doors slid apart. Moments later, the forcefield rotated, the all-clear was given, and she accelerated out.

* * *

Beyond Griffin, the battle raged on. Though Grendel's Mother and Leviathan were struggling against the increased enemy presence, they had still managed to earn Griffin a reprieve. After seeing the damage their allied carrier had sustained, and the loss of stability, Meyers and Mandeep had ordered all their crew and starfighters to divide themselves between protecting all three carriers. Against the odds, their efforts were admirable, but cracks were beginning to show in their defence, the increasing swarm of enemy fighters on the verge of overcoming the allied forces. Grendel's Mother had held her position next to Griffin, Meyers taking Leviathan to stand some way in front of them.

“You're going to have to work harder to keep those fighters off us,” Meyers told the allied squadrons. “If they put either Leviathan or Grendel's Mother out of commission, then it's all over.”

“Doing our best, captain,” one of the pilots responded. “But these guys are proving tougher than expected. I've never seen Imperial pilots fly like this before!”

“That's because Imperial pilots don't fly like that!” another pilot broadcast his feelings to the entire field, the anxiety unmistakable in his voice. “I've flown against them before, and these guys... these guys are something else! Those are not Imperial pilots in those fighters!”

They were the same concerns that Meyers had heard levied by many others about the field. The skills possessed by those commanding the Imperial starfighters was truly something to behold: it was as though they were more than capable of exploiting every weakness of their opponents, whilst at the same time able to anticipate and compensate for every return attack. Their reactions were unparalleled, as if they had minutes to deal with situations that others were required to handle in seconds.

“Captain, power has been restored to Griffin,” came a voice from the bridge.

Meyers turned from where he had been watching a pair of TAFs' luckless attempts at taking down an Imperial fighter, to see that Griffin was once again back on-line. He was relieved to see that the enemy fighter that had crashed into its flight deck had not left the carrier permanently dead in the water.

“Thank God for that.” He turned to his communications officer. “Have you managed to establish contact with Commodore Parks yet?”

“Negative, sir,” the woman answered. “There is too much signal corruption to maintain a stable connection. The link keeps dropping out every few seconds. Their comms system must still be down.”

“Keep trying,” Meyers said, staring at the swarm of Imperial starfighters