DREADNOUGHT 2165 by A.D. Bloom

has
blessed us with an opportunity to halt the alien counter-offensive
before it starts and we must now pursue that as our primary mission. Should
this alien spearhead arrive in our home system before Earth forces
can reposition, then it could break through current defenses and
strike at Earth itself. We cannot allow this. If the fleet can be
warned of this alien armada forming upon its doorstep, then there
is still time to maneuver our forces and trap it. Tipperary will breach
space and return through the Altair-Barnard Transit to warn the
fleet. Hardway and her air group will remain and delay the Squidies. Prepare
to vent atmo for combat. That is all."
    *****
    By the time the AGC called out to
Lancer 3-3 and 3-4, every pilot in the 133rd strained at the leash. Just sitting in their cockpits and
looking out at the ringed planet didn't provide enough for their
brains to chew on.
    The synthetic hormone Dirty made and dosed
them with had driven Jordo's brain to a level of hyper-awareness
and concentration he'd never experienced before, but all he could
do with it sitting in that damn bay was look out at the alien
warships rising from the planet's pole. He pictured flying his
Bitzer right through the Squidies' armada. He could almost see the
perfect path. It twisted through the alien cruisers' fields of fire
and looped 'round their long hulls like a ribbon or a thread.
    "This is AGC Bolo. Lancer 3-3 and Lancer 3-4
launch for close air support on the Dreadnought."
    "What about the rest of us?" Dirty said, "We gotta
go!"
    "They're serving up the best pilots
first." That was Hardy's explanation. He was Lancer 3-3 and he
blasted out of the bay with a combat woodie and Lancer 3-4, aka
Shotz on his wing. Jordo and the rest of the Lancers watched with
envy as the pair turned on their jets and hooked over Hardway's topside and passed out of
sight.
    "Hardy and Shotz?" Paladin griped on
private comms, "Why the hell do they get to go?"
    Dirty said, "They shoulda ' sent me an' Holdout."
    Holdout jiggered her Bitzer from side to
side on its maneuvering jets so fast that the maintenance crew
pointed at her through the launch bay's viewports. "Stop showing
off," Jordo told her. "The redsuits are watching."
    "Probably betting how long it's going to
take her to slam into my 151," Paladin said.
    "I ain't gonna' mess this up," Holdout said.
"And you know it."
    Ten seconds later, Bolo came back on comms.
"All junks, all remaining fighters launch. Scramble, scramble.
Torpedo Flight 3 and Gunnery 6 form up with the Lancers. Together,
your callsign is now Banjo. Repeat: TF3... G6.., and 133rd, you are
now callsign Banjo. Acknowledge."
    " Malta and TF3 acknowledge."
    " Flippy and GF6 acknowledge."
    "Lancer 1-1 acknowledges."
    "All Banjo elements will escort the
breaching ship, Tipperary , to
location Alpha where she will exit the Altair system. From there, Banjo junks will accompany Tipperary and warn the
fleet. The 133rd will proceed on the original mission to provide
air support for our people on the face of the Dreadnought. Your dedicated channel is six-nine, but don't expect to be
able to cut through the Squidies' jamming unless you're right on
top of each other. Hardway's going to blast a hole for you to escape. After that, you'll
be on your own."
    The junk flights chattered in the
background as Jordo thumbed squadron comms, "Lancers, we are
finally cleared to launch. Turn two hundred meters out and make
for Tipperary. Go Go GO!"
They blasted out past the 50-meter junks slowly launching from the
adjoining bays, and Jordo said, "Hit the big red buttons, Lancers.
Put those Bitzers in war-mode."
    "I never get used to this part," Paladin
said from Jordo's 4 o'clock.
    "You're gonna love it today," Dirty said as
she swung in next to him. She said something else, too, but Jordo
didn't hear it after he hit the button and enabled the pulse-pinch.
The inertial negation system energized its coils and when it did,
it felt like every cell in his body moved with