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fighters were getting in some good strikes, but the scoutships were faring less well; the formation had broken, and they were no longer mutually-supporting their countermeasure systems.
     “Kelso, get us back into sync,” he yelled.
     “Trying, sir,” the helmsman said, struggling with his controls.
     “Still got two incoming, getting very close,” Caine warned.
     “All hands,” Cunningham said, slapping a control on his chair, “Brace for impact!”
     Despite all his experience, Marshall could never quite get accustomed to the terrible shock of a missile impact on the ship he was riding; the two missi les slammed amidships, sending the lights flickering as the systems struggled to compensate for the damage to the power grid. On the viewscreen, the stars began to tumble as the ship drifted out of control, Kelso muttering in frustration at his unresponsive board.
     “It’s bad, Danny,” Cunningham said, looking at his status indicators. “I think we’re sitting this one out.”
     “Sensor resolution’s low,” the technician said. “I’ll try to clear it.”
     “Do what you can. I’d at least like to see what the hell is going on.”
     “We’re getting a lot of jamming,” Caine said. “I can’t get a clear channel to the rest of the squadron.”
     “If you get a chance, tell Gorski that he’s got the command. Any chance of a shuttle?”
     “Not through all that, you don’t,” Cunningham said. “Gorski can handle it.”
     While Cunningham and his crew started the slow process of putting the pieces back together, the battle began to ebb past them. The remaining scoutships, Dragon and Griffon, pushed ahead in an attempt to co-ordinate with the fighters to get a strike on to their target, but it was an uneven struggle and they knew it; another salvo began to range in on Griffon, threatening to take the squadron down to a single ship.
     Gilgamesh seemed to be faring better against its prey; the Triplanetary battlecruiser had evidently made more progress with its repairs than its Cabal equivalent, and the damage to the latter was beginning to seriously show, rips in its outer hull and outgassing from the current engagement adding to the problem.
     Caine stood up, walking to his side, and said, “Nothing I can do at the moment.”
     “That bad?”
     “Tactical systems have failed. Lower priority than life-support and power distribution.”
     He turned, frowning, and said, “We’ve got that much damage to the linkages?”
     “It was all held together with duct tape after the last battle. All the repair crews focused on the battlecruisers.” She gestured at Thermopylae, still hanging alone at the rear of the formation, and said, “What the hell does Frank think he’s doing back there anyway?”
     “Once this battle is over, he’d better have some damn significant problems or he’ll be walking home. He’s leaving the rest of us hanging.”
     As he finished speaking, the image that represented Thermopylae began to move, and Caine said, “Maybe he heard you.”
     “Thermopylae on course for us, Captain,” the sensor officer said, shaking his head. “Direct intercept trajectory, termination in two minutes, fifteen seconds.”
     “Maybe he’s going to give us a hand?”
     Turning to the communications station, Marshall asked, “Any signal from him?”
     “Nothing, sir.”
     “Look at Griffon!” the sensor technician said, pointing at his monitor. He’d managed to get a full-magnification shot of the stricken scoutship, and she was tumbling end over end, completely out of control, a cluster of bodies drifting around her hull. “Three hits, a coordinated strike. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
     Shaking his head, Marshall said, “Get me Thermopylae now, dammit, and I don’t care if you need to use smoke signals. We’ve got to get that second battlecruiser into the fight. And try and contact Dragon, tell them to pull out and see