said. “Sorry. I was just . . . well, waiting for Nedd to make a wisecrack. I guess that’s still my instinct. Here, I can calculate the distance for you exactly.” A light flashed on our comm console. “Hey, Cobb. How far away is that fight?”
“About fifty klicks,” Cobb said. “Stay put, cadets. Victory Flight is almost up from the caverns, and they’ll relieve you once they come in.” His light flipped off.
“Great calculations there, Amphi,” FM said to Arturo.
“I consider it a mark of true intelligence to realize when someone else has already done your work for you,” he said. “That would make a good saying, right, Quirk? Will you use that one sometime?”
“Uh . . . bless your stars.”
“This isn’t fair,” Hurl said. “We should be fighting. We’re hardly cadets anymore, and I’m tired of simulations. Right, Spin?”
Off in the distance, flashes of light marked where men and women were dying. Losing friends, like I had.
I hated that this creeping, insidious worry had somehow infiltrated my heart. This hesitance, this fear. It was stronger today, probably because I was tired. Maybe if I could get out into the fight, I could prove myself . . . to myself.
“Yeah, Hurl’s right,” I answered. “We should be killing Krell, not killing time.”
“We do as we’re ordered.” Jorgen said. “And we don’t debate with our commanders. I find it remarkable how you can claim to hardly be cadets anymore, when you have yet to grasp something so fundamental as command structure.”
I bit my lip, then felt my face go warm with embarrassment. He was right. Stupid Jerkface.
I forced myself to wait for our replacements. They’d be one of the reserve flights, hangared—starfighters and all—down in the deep caverns. It was a careful balance; we couldn’t risk a blast wiping out the entire DDF by destroying Alta. But any ships we didn’t keep on immediate call took time to retrieve via the vehicle elevators.
Eventually, Cobb’s line flashed back on. I stifled a sigh. Truth be told, we weren’t in any shape to fight today—not after that long spent training. I prepared myself to turn and go back.
“Krell squadron,” Cobb said. “Eight ships.”
What?
“At heading 125-111-1000,” Cobb continued. “One of our scouting pairs caught them sneaking in at low altitude. Flight-leader, your backup is still five to ten away. You’ll need to engage.”
Engage.
“Understood, Flight Command,” Jorgen said.
“These are standard Krell interceptors, best the scouts could tell,” Cobb said. “Admiral’s orders are for you to get close, visually confirm that there isn’t a bomber among them. Then destroy or drive back any fighters.
“AA guns will wait on standby; shooting into combat is a good way to get our own people killed. But if you can IMP any fighters that escape you, the small AA guns should be able to handle them. And if you can lure any enemy high enough, the large gun might be able to pick them off.” Cobb paused. “I’m patching your ships into the general battle chatter. Good luck, cadets. Listen to your flightleader; remember your training. This one is for real.”
The light clicked off.
“Finally!” Hurl said.
“I want a wide sweep formation,” Jorgen said to us. “You heard the heading. 125-111-1000. This is going to be close to the ground. Watch your relative elevation. Let’s move!”
We fell into a wide formation, in wingmate pairs. Me and Hurl, Jorgen and Arturo, FM and Kimmalyn. We sped through the gap between the two peaks, rounding to the east, along the indicated heading. We caught the visuals almost immediately—eight Krell ships flying in a U shape.
“We’re yours, flightleader,” a woman’s voice said on the general channel. “Val-class. Ranger Seven, callsign: Cloak.”
“Ranger Eight, callsign: Underscore,” a male voice added.
Val-class. Those would be the two scout ships; I couldn’t pick them out yet, but they’d join the fight with us.
My fatigue melted away in the face of my excitement. It was happening. A real fight. Not an accidental engagement, but actual orders to bring down an enemy squadron.
“Thanks for your help, scouts,” Jorgen said. “We’re ordered to get visual confirmation on the status of a bomber among these fellows. Ranger pair, I want you to coordinate that to Flight Command. My Pocos will run a scatter formation and try to break the enemy apart into individuals. Focus your attention on making sure we’ve identified each ship.”
“Confirmed,” Cloak said.
“All right, team,” Jorgen said. “Overburn to Mag-3, then once we engage, drop to dogfighting speeds. Free-for-all, take what you can, and watch your wingmate.” He breathed out. “Stars