Allyn’s voice snapped across the squadron’s communications link. “New orders coming through! Stand by for drop!” Gray watched the tactical feed downloading into his in-head display. Three alien ships of unknown design were racing toward the carrier battlegroup almost head-on. America had been drifting for several long minutes, her drives switched off, but that had been to allow VFA–31 and VFA–51 to come back on board the carrier. He’d not been expecting a drop order for another seventy-five minutes, after the CBG passed Al–01 and engaged the enemy fleet. The appearance of those three ships, with their wickedly curved hulls, had changed the equation. “Dragonfires, PriFly. You are cleared for drop.” “Copy, PriFly. VFA–44 dropping in five… four… three… two… one… drop!” Gray’s fighter swung to face the out-is-down emptiness of the drop tube, and then he was falling, accelerated at half a gravity by the rotation of the carrier’s hab and docking bay modules.
