End Run

  End Run

  Wing Commander

  Book II

  William R. Forstchen

  &

  Christopher Stasheff

  CONTENT

  DEDICATION

  PART I: MILK RUN

  PART II: END RUN

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  DEDICATION

  For Lt. General "Jimmie" Doolittle, who did the end run first. Thank you, Godspeed, and safe journey.

  PART I:

  MILK RUN

  By Christopher Stasheff

  "Viking at two o'clock!" As an afterthought, the duty officer hit the "battle stations" alarm. The klaxon quacked feebly throughout the ship—well, most of it, anyhow. At least, they heard it in the wardroom.

  "Oh, yes sir, right away, sir!" Flip leaped up jogging, knees punching high in parody as he headed for his gun turret.

  Jolie watched him go as she ground out her cigarette under a smoking lamp that no longer quite cleared the atmosphere. She heaved a sigh. "Flip he's called, and flip he is. Come on, Harry—get cannonized."

  "I'll leave that for the Kilrathi, if you don't mind." Harry rose from the seat across from her. "I just shoot 'em, I don't catch 'em." I hope, he added silently, the old familiar fear chilling his core. "Have fun in the tail gun." He took one last drag, then rolled the coal carefully off his cigarette, blew out the last of the smoke, and tucked it away for future reference. He leaped into a run, jogging toward his gun turret.

  On the bridge, Captain Harcourt asked, "What's it look like, Billy?"

  "Private enterprise, Captain," the lookout answered.

  Harcourt grunted. They had all had more than enough experience with the lightly armed, privately owned raiders who kept appearing out of uncharted jump points to raid the Confederation colonies along the edge of the war zone. At least, they thought their jump points were uncharted—but after two years on picket duty, the crew of the Venture-class Corvette Johnny Greene knew where all three of them were, so well that everyone on the crew could recite the coordinates in their sleep—and frequently did.

  They didn't get very excited about the Vikings any more.

  To an outsider, the crew might have appeared to be anything from informal to slapdash, but they worked together smoothly and efficiently, affecting a boredom that they almost always really felt—except when one of the privately-owned raiders showed up for a quick try at easy meat. Then the appearance of boredom masked the old, familiar fear of violent death. There was always the chance that one of the Vikings might be a match for the Johnny Greene, always the chance that a jump point might disgorge something bigger.

  "All battle stations green, Captain," Lieutenant Janice Grounder reported.

  Billy killed the klaxon, what there was of it.

  "Right, Number One. Set course for intercept."

  "Already on it, Captain. Skoal," answered Morlock Barnes, the astrogator.

  Harcourt settled back in his acceleration chair, satisfied, surveying the bridge—pools of light in a chamber of gloom, each pool with a person huddled over a console. The atmosphere was quiet, feeling something like a neighborhood library—if a library had the underlying tension of a life-or-death fight. It was a nice, cozy place for four people.

  Unfortunately, they had five in it.

  Harcourt looked for something out of order. He had a lot to choose from; the room was a monument of ingenuity, with every screen illuminated by a clip-light, the backlighting having burned out months before. In front of Grounder, who doubled as helm, were two gyroscopes with extended axes, very obviously cobbled out of bits and pieces of metal. Mounted at right angles in universal gimbals, they were substitutes for the attitude gauges, which had burned out even sooner than the screen lights. The helm itself still responded well, but only because Coriander, the damage control officer, had gone EVA and replaced the thrust tube that had been shot off by a Viking six months before. She had used the casing of a dud missile that, fortunately, they had been able to reclaim from the wreckage of the raider at which it had been aimed.

  It was ironic that because the missile hadn't fired, the ship had still been intact to be captured after Flip and Harry had shot off its thrust tubes. The Kilrathi had tried to escape in rescue pods, and were now comfortably interned on the surface of the planet they had tried to raid. Of course, they were doing hard labor, helping to strengthen the planet's defenses, but that was one of the fortunes of war. The flip side was that their ship had furnished a surprising number of spare parts that had helped keep the Johnny Greene moving. For example, other Venture-class Corvettes did not have tail guns.

  The dud missile had also furnished a computer lock-on, which Coriander had jury-rigged to aim Harry's laser cannon, his own aiming computer having melted down during a particularly heavy engagement. Flip aimed his laser cannon with the lock-on from the Kilrathi missile that their own dud had sheared in half on its way through the Viking's side.

  They no longer noticed the stink in the air, the aroma of bodies that were washed too seldom—the water purifier was still functioning, sometimes—and the air regeneration system had interesting green growths here and there, plus filters that were nearly clogged.

  The occasional Kilrathi raider did, at least, relieve the boredom. Never mind the fact that every single one of them could be killed—not very probably, because the Kilrathi were very much more lightly armed than the Johnny Greene. They were desperate fighters, though, and there was no way of telling when one of them might get it right.

  Never mind that, indeed—and Harcourt tried not to. They had all grown so used to the routine that the others were pretty good at ignoring the danger, too—or, at least, pretending.

  "Retract scoops," Harcourt ordered. "Full thrust."

  "Full thrust," the intercom confirmed. CPO Lorraine Hasker was in the midsection of the ship with her own console, monitoring the health of the engines that were her babies—even if two of them were cuckoos in her nest.

  The ship accelerated—surprisingly, much faster than it was supposed to be able to. Coriander had made a few modifications of her own. If they kept it up for any length of time, the engines would burn out—providing they didn't shake the ship apart first; the two original engines weren't quite in tune any more, and the Kilrathi add-ons weren't exactly balanced. But they wouldn't need to keep up that speed for long.

  The Kilrathi apparently hadn't been expecting either the Johnny Greene or its speed; they changed course, paralleling the Confederation ship's vector, and shot away, accelerating at maximum thrust.

  "He's running," Billy reported.

  "Don't they always." It wasn't quite boring, Harcourt considered—at least it was action. But they always followed the same pattern. "You'd think the blighters would tell each other what happened when they tried any given maneuver. They could at least spread the word that it doesn't work."

  "How?" said Grounder. "None of them ever make it back."

  "Well, that's true," Harcourt allowed. "But there must be thousands of them doing this all along the front. Some of them must get back."

  "Maybe the other ones don't try to run," Grounder suggested helpfully, "like that first one we fought. Remember? They charged us."

  "Yes, and their engines have been coming in handy ever since." Harcourt looked over at CPO Coriander. "Nice job, Chief. Don't know how you ever managed to tie them in with our control system."

  "I didn't," Coriander answered, "quite."
>
  "Good enough for me," Grounder said. "They roar when I push the stick."

  "Thanks, Lieutenant—but we'll need everything we've got," Coriander said. "The bastards keep chipping away at us. Every one we blow up, takes a little bit of us with it."

  "We're at maximum velocity," Grounder reported. "Estimate two minutes till we're in range."

  "You think they'd look up the specs on a Venture-class Corvette," Coriander sighed.

  "They did, Chief, but you weren't on the chart," Billy called over.

  That, Harcourt reflected, was nothing but the unvarnished truth. A corvette was a very uneasy compromise; it sacrificed the agility of a fighter-bomber for not as much firepower as a destroyer. But if you couldn't afford to put a destroyer out on guard duty, a corvette was better then nothing. And, he reflected, if you're losing the war and running short of ships and men, you have to keep that corvette on station for two years in a row, without leave or refitting.

  Better than nothing? Maybe—but not much. At least, not enough to give its crew any feeling of security.

  Under circumstances like that, you either went crazy and tore each other apart, or you became extremely close. The crew of the Johnny Greene hadn't torn each other apart—yet.

  It never occurred to Harcourt that he might have had something to do with that.

  "Viking is turning," Billy reported.

  Harcourt nodded, gazing at the illuminated grid of the battle display in front of him in frustration. light, it had—lines, it had. Blips, it had none. The hit they had taken eighteen months before had knocked out the relay circuit from the battle computer. Billy could see where the foe was, but nobody else could. They just had to trust him.

  They did.

  Still, the battle display did lighten the gloom of the bridge nicely.

  Harcourt felt the tension building. "Now we'll see if this Viking can think of anything new and different."

  "How many things can you do in a space dogfight?" Grounder countered.

  "Come now, Lieutenant!" Harcourt reproved. "You show a singular lack of imagination. Now, if I were him, I would…"

  "He's diving!" Billy cried.

  Suddenly, Harcourt ached to be able to see, but the display in front of him stayed stubbornly featureless. He glared at the direct-vision port, but it showed only careless stars.

  One of them was moving—but they were still too far away for the Kilrathi to show as a silhouette.

  "He knows we don't have any armament underneath," Harcourt said. "He's going to try to come up under us and shoot off our belly armor."

  "Well, at least it's something new," Grounder said—but there was a tremor of trepidation in her voice.

  Harcourt hit "all stations" on the intercom. "Everybody stand by! We're going to flip!"

  "I already did," the senior gunner answered.

  "Yes, Flip, and we've all decided to join you. Now, hold tight—you're going to be hanging upside down relative to where you are now."

  "So?" Jolie's voice replied succinctly. "We'll just think of it as, we're upside down now, and we're going to be right side up!"

  With artificial gravity holding them down to their seats, it didn't really matter—but they all knew the unpleasant sensation that a roll could produce, gravity or no gravity, because Coriolis force is Coriolis force and fluid is fluid, especially if it's in the inner ear, telling you that you're rolling, no matter what the seat of your pants says.

  Harcourt watched Grounder's two gyros in their universal mounts as the blue poles swung around and down to point at the console itself. Blue was up, red was down—and right now, down was up, so Harcourt knew they were upside down. At least, they were inverted in relation to how they had been a couple of minutes ago.

  "Viking above us," Billy sang out.

  "What's the range?"

  "Five hundred kilometers," he answered, "closing at a klick a second."

  "Taking his time, isn't he?"

  "Hey, he wasn't expecting to see our top."

  "Close enough," Harcourt decided. "Fire!"

  The ship bucked as the two cannon fired, a quarter-second out of phase—one of the other little things that had gone wrong, and really should have taken them into repair dock.

  Flip yodelled with glee, and, "He's hit," Harry decided.

  "We got his tail," Billy reported, gaze glued to his screen.

  "I never see any action," Jolie grumbled over the intercom.

  "You will now," Billy told her. "He's rolling over and coming up behind. He still wants to get at our underside."

  "I know how he feels," she griped.

  "See if you can't fry him a little on the way," Harcourt suggested.

  The skin of the ship delivered a muffled 'whumpf' to them—the sound of the mass driver discharge, conducted through the hull. Then Jolie's voice on the intercom, disgusted: "Damn! Missed!"

  "No, you didn't," Billy countered "You winged him on an attitude control tube… Wait! Missiles! He's firing!"

  "Return fire!" Harcourt snapped.

  "But he's not in range! We've only got two missiles left!"

  "If we're not in range, he's not! Number One! Evasive action!"

  "Aye, aye!" Grounder grinned, and the gyroscopes whined as they began to weave up, down, and cross-ways in some very interesting combinations.

  It didn't work.

  "His missile's locked on," Billy reported, "and we're flying into it!"

  Grounder said, "We should come up behind it before it gets to us."

  "Not even at top acceleration!" Coriander called out. "I keep telling you! Missiles are faster than ships!"

  "Even with two extra engines?"

  "Even with ten extra engines! Pull out of it, Grounder! Give Jolie her chance!"

  Grounder looked up pleadingly at the captain, but Harcourt shook his head. "No time to experiment, Lieutenant."

  "Oh, all right!" Grounder huffed, and the gyro slowly rotated.

  "Closing!" Billy yelped. "Three hundred kilometers! Two fifty! Two hundred!"

  "Fire, Jolie," Harcourt advised.

  The hull delivered the 'whumpf' again.

  The sudden glow from the screen illuminated Billy's face. "Got him!" he whooped. "Nice shooting, Jolie! Now he doesn't have any tail!"

  "Still bored?" Harcourt asked.

  "No, not for the moment," she admitted.

  "He's got to pull out now," Coriander said. "Got to steer with his nose thrusters, and run."

  "No, he doesn't," Harcourt said. "He's Kilrathi."

  "Still coming." Billy's voice was low and tense. "Wobbled a bit, but he's still coming."

  "He's crazy! Jolie could shoot him into shrapnel!"

  "Then he'll die trying," Harcourt said grimly, "or we will. Now give him our missile."

  "Now?" Billy squawked. "He's flying straight toward us, Captain!"

  "Then it will hit all the harder."

  "Our last two!" Coriander wailed.

  "That's what they're for, Chief. Launch Missile One."

  Grounder hit a pressure patch. "One away."

  "So is his," Billy called.

  "Evasive action!" Harcourt snapped.

  Grounder's gyros whined and described crazy loops with their poles as she swooped upward, then swung from side to side as the ship corkscrewed back toward the raider. The Kilrathi missile, not yet locked on, went blithely on its way…

  Straight toward the Greene's missile.

  "They're going to lock on each other!" Coriander wailed.

  "Line up on that ship and give them our last one," Harcourt ordered.

  "No, wait!" Billy shouted. "Theirs did lock on our ship! It's coming straight toward us!"

  "Well, good," Harcourt sighed. "Then ours might still lock onto them."

  "It did," Billy reported. "Now, how do we get rid of theirs?"

  "Flip! Harry!" Harcourt called. "A silver florin for the one who gets it first!"

  "Mine!" Flip caroled, and, "What's a florin?" Harry asked, as the ship shuddered with
the out-of-phase double blast again.

  Once more, Billy's face glowed orange. "Got it!"

  "My florin," Flip said immediately.

  "What are you talking about?" Harry demanded. "That was my shot! Any dunce could see it!"

  "I'm not just any dunce…"

  "Okay, okay," Harcourt sighed, "a florin for each of you. What about our missile, Bil…"

  Then he saw the yellow glow on Billy's face and sighed with happiness. "Ah. Score!"

  "Hit," Billy confirmed. "The whole raider. Gone."

  For a moment, depression seized Harcourt. A dozen lives, maybe more, snuffed out in a moment… brave men, probably, or at least bold creatures…

  Then the whole ship shuddered, and the dull sound of an explosion echoed through the hull.

  "Sorry, Captain, I couldn't see it closing!" Billy cried. "The glare from the raider going up…"

  "They launched one more just before they died," Harcourt snapped. "Sound off by stations!"

  "Sentry here!" Billy called.

  "Astrogator here!"

  "Damage Control working!"

  "First Officer here."

  "Gun Turret One here!"

  "Gun Turret Two!"

  "Tail Gunner here!"

  "Engineer alive and feisty!"

  Harcourt exhaled with relief. "We're all okay, then. How's the ship, Chief?" And, with a hint of anticipation: "Is it something essential?"

  "Yeah, you could say that." Coriander was studying her board. "It's the oxygen fusion reactor."

  A cheer rattled the intercom and blasted off the bridge walls.

  "A hit, a palpable hit!" Grounder sang.

  "O2 generation is shot!" Flip whooped.

  "Can't stay on picket duty now!" Lorraine warbled.

  "Gotta go to repair base." Coriander nodded with full conviction. "Can't stay out in space now, Captain. We're stuck with the oxygen we've got in the system already. Sure, we can recycle it for two weeks, maybe a month—but after that, we're dead. Nope, gotta go to base."

  "What a pity," Harcourt sighed. "Only two years on station. And here I thought we'd set a new record. Oh, well, I suppose we'll have to console ourselves with R & R."

  His mind filled with visions of supple bodies, low lights, soft music, wine, real food…