Fleet Action (wc-3) by William Forstchen (100 books to read in a lifetime txt) 📕

The first incoming missile closed in. Ian nosed over hard and then banked back up, the missile jinxing down to follow and then shooting past. The second and third missiles, momentarily thrown off by his attempts at jamming, regained lock but missed as well due to the same maneuver. Ian felt the sweat streaking down the small of his back. His own bolt was leaping forward, guiding straight in.

There was a brilliant flash of light as bright as the sun and then darkness. It took Ian a second to realize that his own missile was still a dozen clicks away. The Kilrathi had self-destructed with a small matter/antimatter warhead, vaporizing himself and his ship. Now there would never he any evidence at all of the violation of the armistice since a missile hit tended to leave a lot of wreckage behind which could be evaluated later.

Watching the ship, he momentarily forgot what was now behind him, and suddenly a high undulating warble sounded in his headphones. One of the IFFs had turned around, regained lock and was closing straight in.

He punched hard over, aiming straight back towards the moon, popping out chaff and a noise maker. He turned his transponder off completely, slamming off all energy sources.

The damn thing kept closing, following his every turn and then a high energy ping sounded.

What the hell was this?

"Combat control, combat control!"

"Control here."

"Kilrathi seem to have new prototype weapon. It's ignoring chaff and noise maker. It registered first as an IFF missile but the damn thing must have a smart weapon program that continues to recognize its target once locked," Ian shouted, realizing that even if he bought it, it was essential that his friends knew exactly why and learned from it. It was part of the training and it was loyalty as well.

He had no tail gunner to pop the missile at the last second, or wingman to peel it off his back, or the mad confusion of a hundred fighters and ships filling space with metal and energy. He was naked and alone, the IFF following remorselessly, like a cold deadly shark that could kill without thinking or feeling.

He skimmed down over the moon's airless surface, weaving a low sharp turn into a narrow canyon and the missile impacted against the side of cliff behind him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and then a second warble kicked in, showing that another of the missiles had regained lock as well.

Damn!

The missile was above him, streaking down. He blew his remaining chaff and the missile streaked straight through and closed. He was boxed in.

The warble climbed in tone and then plateaued on a high spine-tingling pitch, the warning of an unavoidable impact.

He yanked his stick back hard, popping up off the moon's surface, then reached between his legs, grabbing hold of the ejector D ring and pulled, even as the explosion engulfed him.

"I think we know why we are here," Baron Jukaga said, his voice quiet, low pitched, his mane lying nearly flat so as to show neither dominance nor submission.

"It is the fault of the hrai of Vak," Qar'ka Baron of the Qarg clan hissed, springing to his feet and pointing accusingly across the table.

"Low born scum," Vak snarled in reply, reaching for the claw dagger at his belt.

"Silence!" Jukaga roared. "Damn all of you, I want silence! and his golden red mane bristled up.

The two stopped and turned, fixing the Baron with hate-filled eyes.

"Jukaga, either one of us could cut your guts out and spill them on the floor for the rats to eat," Vak said coldly. "You of the Ki'ra hrai are weaklings compared to either the Qarg the Ragitagha, or any of the other families."

"And if you did," Jukaga replied smoothly, "then you truly would have civil war and the humans would finish up with what was left."

"Sit down," Baron Ka'ta of the Kurutak clan hissed, "Baron Jukaga is right. Let us listen to him first."

Jukaga nodded his thanks to Ka'ta. At least he knew that the Ka'ta out of all the eight families of the Empire was solidly behind him. It was almost amusing. The Kurutak, along with the Sihkag, had always been viewed as the lowest of the eight, their blood never considered as thick. It was almost a guarantee that when approached by his own clan, the ancient family of Ki'ra, that the Kurutak would grovel over the honor of being treated as equals. It was a mistake the Kiranka, the clan or hrai of the Emperor, never realized in their treatment of those residing in the royal palace. In public, of course, the positions of dominance and submission were closely observed during audiences and open ritual, but in private, it was something else, especially when all the other families viewed the Emperor's line as no better than their own.

"This petty feud between the clan of Vak and that of the Qarg is to stop here and now," Jukaga announced. "It is a disgrace that royal blood has been spilled like this in feuds within the confines of the Imperial Palace. Five of the Qarg have died in duels and five of the Ragitagha. It is enough and it is finished."

Vak started to open his mouth and Jukaga extended his paw, talons retracted in a sign of peace.

"It is enough," he said quietly.

"You are not the Emperor," Vak replied, "you have not the power to order me or Qar'ka to stop," and he looked across the table at Qar'ka, whom only a moment ago he would have gladly knifed, for support.

Qar'ka nodded his head in agreement.

The Baron inwardly sighed. The fools, could they not see the weakness revealed in that simple statement? It was something he had learned in his years of study and it had come to him with a crystal clarity. The wars against other races, the ritual of Sivar, were designed above all else as a civilizing factor to the race of the Kilrathi, to quite simply keep them from