The Uriel fighter was much more comfortable than Jake had anticipated. Before he woke to the wormhole emergence alarm he dreamt he was in a soft, warm mound of mattresses and cushions, a dream he wouldn't share with some of the more hardened crew members back on the Triton.
As planned, he was awake several minutes before emerging from the highly compressed wormhole, the fighter performed beautifully as a personal transport, despite the fact that he didn't have the long term cabin component installed. He was able to stretch a little, but he was still sitting in essentially the same position.
Even though he was easily in control of all aspects of the ship while simply travelling, he knew he'd wish he had brought a copilot if he ran into trouble. Controlling shield, weapons, navigation, communications and the myriad other systems would be overwhelming, despite his practice sessions in the simulations.
No one knew who Hitman was until he actually had it stencilled onto the Uriel fighter he took, but he was starting to make a name for himself in simulations, which he enjoyed far too much for the little time he could afford to spend in them. Taking the role of a fighter pilot was popular in the simulations the Triton played host to on a day to day basis. It had even become a social event, as the large holographic displays had been brought into the Pilot's Den, the bar located right in the center of the berths reserved for deck crew and pilots.
He had no idea how closely people watched for him to enter the sims until Alice had told him about it later, but in one combat simulation set in a large asteroid field there were several pilots in the Pilot's Den with their visors on trying desperately to hunt him down and destroy him before they themselves were killed by the dreaded Hitman. The whole idea that there were spectators and wagers going on with regard to his opponent's survivability gave him a big smile whenever it crossed his mind.
It wasn't hard to guess who Hitman was, really. He had been chasing down bounties for the better part of five years. Very few of the jobs he'd taken escalated to the point where he had to use lethal force, but those were the most well known ones in the end. The sims were a good contrast to the seriousness he had to place on his work. Even though all the simulations made available on the Triton somehow involved training or practice he had turned to them as a distraction after completing his Uriel fighter pilot qualification. If he was shot down one of his pilots, or wannabe pilots would have the bragging rights, but it never happened without him taking out several of his opponents first, if at all. He still wasn't the greatest shot, but his reflexes, quick thinking and ability to create opportunities and cover made him very difficult prey. When he signed on in a boarding crew or other squad based sim, his team was full in seconds, the same could be said when he signed in as a wing commander. Just as it was with Jonas Valent, he was becoming very popular in simulations and it helped him connect with his crew while it also gave him a much needed release. Memories of Minh came back often, he had even taken a few opportunities to quote some old Earth proverbs.
The tactical readings overlaid the heads up display built into his visor and he immediately set weapons to charge, increased power to shields, and fired the engines at full thrust while directing the fighter downward.
“Oh hell, there must be three battle groups in orbit!” He glanced at the communications systems and realized that there was only one clear broadcast. It was a Carthan all clear signal, everything else was nothing but static. Even the transponder signals were garbled.
The silhouette analysis showed that there was one nine kilometre vessel that looked like a carrier, several other carriers just under two kilometres in length and dozens of various warships. “They look like Regent Galactic ships,” he said to himself after selecting the menu option to mute all static with a glance at an optically sensitive menu.
He switched his tactical scanner search to start looking for solid obstacles and incoming vessels only. After one quick sweep no cover was found but there were dozens of fighters and a few ships that looked a lot like customs and law enforcement frigates on an intercept course. Their mass and energy readings told him that they were ready to fire and not lightly armoured. The nearest of them was over eleven thousand kilometres away, and they were gaining on him quickly.
“Weapons free,” he said aloud as he selected counter punch missiles and flak rounds. The targeting system immediately began to lock onto targets and as he dumped as much power into the ion engines as they could tolerate he opened fire.
The flak rounds firing off from his main cannons travelled as solid shells as they closed in on their targets then burst in all directions, sending a smattering of shrapnel into the dozens of ships moving to intercept him. One round didn't do much, but hundreds or thousands could tax their shields, interfere with exterior systems and even weaken hulls. He recognized the hammerhead shaped customs vessels amidst the fighters and gunships. They were a mainstay of the Regent Galactic defence fleet and offensive military. Just under two hundred metres long, they were heavily armed with a well protected control center near the rear of the vessel.
If half of what was closing in on him decided to open fire he knew he'd be dust. Time to think. I need somewhere to hide, I need a bargaining chip, something! The counterpunch missiles finished crossing the distance between his fighter and the enemy ships but didn't go off. Their burst of conically focused light, energy and particulate matter remained undetonated as the fires of their engines winked out and they passed between the enemy ships.
“Only one option here. Time to go! Maybe we can sneak in with the Triton.” Without a second thought he diverted energy from his engines, weapons and started charging up to create a short distance wormhole. Just as he was bringing up the navigational calculation console with his left hand a launch alert sounded.
The tactical screen was littered with hundreds of small, highly energized missiles and he knew exactly what they were. “Uriel assist,” he addressed the onboard systems; “seal all openings, power down all systems and move current data into long term storage.”
“Operations will take approximately twenty nine seconds.” The computer replied.
He glanced at the tactical display one more time before it blinked out and saw that he had seven seconds before the electromagnetic pulse bombs would be in optimal range. The only thing he could do as the systems on his fighter powered down, its engine pods flamed out and sealed, and the power plants halted the fusion reaction within before starting to cool down was activate the extra armoured layer of his vacsuit and turn off the control unit on his arm.
“I should have just stayed in bed,” he whispered to himself as he closed his eyes and just tried not to think about what over three hundred electromagnetic pulse bombs going off all at the same time would do to his framework skeletal structure.
He may have saved his eyes by closing his lids, but he still saw a flash and heard a painfully loud, sharp crack between his ears before losing conciousness.