by James Evans
31
“The basic problem,” said Vice Admiral Staines as he sat in his command chair, “is that we’re so damned short of resources.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he stared at a tactical plan of the planet and the enemy fleet.
HMS Iron Duke had a small contingent of combat drones, twelve all told in various configurations. Albion carried another six, making eighteen in total, all basically missile delivery platforms or anti-fighter craft fitted with short-range cannons. None of them were suitable for the type of ship-to-ship combat that Staines’s plan anticipated.
“But we’re not here to destroy the enemy,” Staines said to the bridge in general, elaborating on his plan, “we just want to take their ships and kill their crews, so it’s less about what we’ve got and more about how we use it.”
He pulled up a live feed from the micro-drones that were shadowing the enemy fleet. They had named the three enemy vessels Moscow, Omsk and Bratsk. Staines had never heard of Bratsk but he had asked the bridge crew for names and those were the ones they had picked. Midshipmen Washman and Barnaby seemed to find the name Bratsk amusing, for some obscure reason. Well, if it improved morale then it was fine with him.
Staines stared at the feed. They were outnumbered and outgunned, but Warden’s assessment of the Deathless ground troops was not complimentary. If the crews of their warships were similarly inexperienced, there was a chance this plan could work.
“This plan is risky and relies on our enemy’s relative inexperience in space combat,” continued Staines, “but we know very little about them and they might spot our trap.”
It had been several years since Vice Admiral Staines had commanded ships in combat and that had been against a handful of small pirate vessels. Today’s situation was far more serious with a lot more at stake.
“We’re ready, Admiral,” came a message from Warden.
“Understood. Happy hunting, Lieutenant.” Staines signalled Midshipman Washman. “Let’s get started. Get us in position, prepare to launch the pods in sixty seconds.”
“Aye, sir,” said Washman, sounding the manoeuvre klaxon and triggering the timer on the first engine burn, “three-second low-power burn, firing in fifteen seconds.”
They watched the timer countdown to zero and then felt the acceleration as the ship adjusted its position relative to the planet.
“Burn successful, ready to launch pods,” announced Washman. Staines looked at his monitors, checking that all was in order, then he nodded to his executive officer, Lieutenant-Commander Cohen.
“Launch pods,” said Cohen, “standby for the second manoeuvre, ten-second mid-power burn followed by thirty-second high-power. Mark!”
Washman hit the control and the burn began again, much stronger and longer this time. After ten seconds there was a brief pause as the attitude thrusters reoriented the ship then the main engines fired. This time they all felt the pain, pushed into their seats by the acceleration.
“Burn successful, new orbit and direction achieved. We’re at ninety-eight percent of the target velocity, two-second correction on low-power in fifteen seconds,” announced Cohen. There was a pause and then another brief burst of acceleration. “Orbit achieved, engines at standby.”
“Good, thank you, gentlemen,” said Staines. “Let’s put the forward view on the main monitors and see what might lie ahead.”
The monitor switched to show a tactical view of the space ahead of Iron Duke. The boarding pods and the garbage pods that Staines had ordered to be jettisoned at the same time were picked out in bright blue, their trajectories shown in dotted blue lines. The current orbits of the three enemy vessels were shown in red with Iron Duke’s in green, a great looping swirl far outside the orbits of the other ships.
“That looks good,” said Staines. Littering the orbit of inhabited planets with material that would normally be recycled was very bad practice but, from a distance, the garbage and boarding pods looked similar enough that an incautious enemy might ignore them completely.
Relying on your opponent’s incompetence was a gamble, a big one. But it wasn’t Staines’s only move and now it was time for the next one.
“Ready weapons, Mr Cohen, everything we have. Target the lead ship,” said Staines, “prepare to fire on my command.”
This was the part of the plan about which Warden had expressed concern, since it presented a high risk to Iron Duke and her crew. Staines had pointed out that the men and women under his command were honour-bound to face danger in the performance of their duties and that, in this case, the Marines’ safety was vital to the plan’s success.
Warden wasn’t at all happy and he had frowned deeply as Staines had outlined the plan. Warden had objected but didn’t have a better suggestion, and as Staines was the vice admiral around here, he had concluded that it was his call and had politely, but firmly, made sure the junior officers understood that.
“The boarding action is our best bet,” Staines had said, “so our concern is to maximise the likelihood of success.” They had all agreed that the enemy would find a troop of irate Marines far more difficult to handle than any torpedo or railgun attack.
"Sir? Even when they come around the planet, they’ll be too far away for our weapons to be effective. An attack would leave us horribly exposed,” hissed Cohen.
“Yes, XO, but that’s the idea. We’ll fire early, expose ourselves, and make them focus on Iron Duke.” He realised that he should probably have included the XO in the briefing and made a mental note not to exclude him again, however green he was. “If we were looking to defeat them with conventional torpedoes and railgun ablation, we would lurk out of sight and hope they didn’t spot us. As it is, we don’t want to destroy their ships.”
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand.”
Staines hid his frustration. The XO was young and hadn't seen combat yet. This was his first command position and he wasn't seeing the bigger picture.
“The Marines will capture the enemy ships, Cohen. We’re only here to distract the enemy.”
Cohen nodded, and it looked like he now understood.
Staines had discussed the options with Bonneville. They had done all they could to protect the colony, but after Captain Atticus and General Bonneville had explained their concerns about the potential population and economy of the Deathless, they had agreed that their priority was to gain intelligence. They needed to know more about the Deathless.
“And if you can capture a ship while you’re at it, Will,” Bonneville had said, “that would make life rather easier.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Staines had said, a little testily, but the general had been right. If they captured even one ship, especially a warship, it would be a significant coup. They could grow clones to crew it and have naval personnel deployed in little more than a week – far faster than conventional reinforcements might reach them.
Staines had requested reinforcements, as had General Bonneville, who was pressing the case for a significant commitment of warships with his counterparts at the admiralty right now. But Staines knew where the closest ships were and even those would take a long time to reach New Bristol, too long to make a difference to this encounter.
No, they had to take the fight to the enemy and capture their ships, not simply destroy them. If the boarding action failed and the Marines couldn’t scuttle the vessels, Staines would switch tactics and engage in straight up ship-to-ship combat.
But Staines wasn’t confident they could win that sort of action if all three Deathless vessels were still operational. His enemy had three ships, and they could only guess at their configuration. The sheer size of Moscow suggested it was an important capital ship, at least equivalent to a destroyer and very much more capable than his frigate.
The two smaller ships, Omsk and Bratsk, were harder to read. They were similar in size to his own support ships but that didn’t tell them very much.
The biggest difference between their fleets was that the Deathl
ess were following a long-established plan. They were in control, they had established a sizeable colony in a short timeframe and they had built an impressive military outpost.
Then the monitors flashed a warning; Moscow was coming around the planet, its support ships somewhere behind.
“Enemy in sight, sir,” reported Cohen, somewhat redundantly.
“Very good, XO. Sound the combat alarm, prepare to fire the forward railguns.”
The tactical map now showed the curved path of HMS Iron Duke as it looped around the planet and away from the boarding pods. The enemy was just over fifteen thousand kilometres away and closing fast.
“Seven hundred and fifty seconds to closest approach,” said Washman.
“Begin firing, Lieutenant Ross,” said Staines, eyes locked on the tactical display.
“Projectiles away,” said Ross. There was a pause as the ships hurtled towards each other and a burst of railgun rounds shot across the intervening space.
“Enemy counter-measures deployed, sir,” reported Ross, “it looks like they will be effective.” Staines nodded as the tactical map updated to show the various projectiles and their trajectories.
“Keep it up, Lieutenant,” said Staines, “let them know that we mean business.” Ross and his team of ratings kept the fire coming, as per the plan.
They all watched the tactical screen as it updated to show the railgun projectiles and the enemy’s counter-measures. They waited, watching to see if they had provoked any further action.
“Six hundred seconds to closest approach,” said Washman.
“Five hundred seconds until boarding pod engine firing,” reported Carruthers.
And now there was nothing to do but wait as the ships’ positions closed at over twenty kilometres per second.
“Sixty seconds to pod engine firing,” said Washman.
“Ready counter-measures,” said Staines, “and prepare to fire again.”
“Sound the high-G alarm,” said Cohen, “begin attitude adjustment.”
“Three-second low-power attitude burn beginning now,” said Washman as the klaxon sounded.
“Target all three ships, fire railguns, fire missiles,” said Staines.
“Firing now,” said Ross, issuing orders.
“Incoming fire, reaction engine missiles,” said Midshipman Kelly, her voice calm and measured, “launching counter-measures.”
“Pod engines firing,” said Carruthers, “ten seconds to impact.”
“Five seconds to high-power main engines burn,” said Washman
The alarm klaxon sounded again.
“Impact alert,” said Cohen, “brace, brace.”
There was a dull bang as something struck the outer hull. Then the main engines fired and Iron Duke began to move, heading out of orbit and following Albion and Discovery, who were already running for the darkness of deep space.
“Hull breach, sealing compartments, damage unknown,” reported Cohen, reading off his monitors as they flashed red.
“Enemy firing again, high-velocity rounds and more reaction-engine missiles,” said Kelly, “deploying counter-measures.”
Staines watched as his crew’s training came to the fore and they acted as a team, countering the enemy attacks and launching their own, smoothly working to negate or avoid the incoming threats.
And then they were through, and the ships’ relative orbits carried the combatants away from each other.
Iron Duke’s main engines shut down.
“Burn successful,” said Washman, “velocity thirty kilometres per second relative to the enemy, firing window closing in three, two, one.”
“Well done, people,” said Staines, unclipping from his chair, “now let’s get the damage under control and prepare for the next pass.”
“Forty-five minutes till the new orbit presents our next firing window,” reported Ross.
Staines nodded grimly. The pods were beyond his help for three-quarters of an hour. It was up to the boarding parties now.
32
“Prepare to launch,” came the voice, “ten seconds.”
Warden flexed his fingers as he sat in the boarding pod, re-familiarising himself to the feel of the power armour. It felt like years since he had last worn such a suit; it might have been only a few months but it had definitely been on a training exercise.
This one was a newer model, both in terms of design and date of manufacture. He’d had to pull the protective film from the HUD and tap his way through a pointless end-user license agreement before the suit would boot up and give him control. The power packs were fully charged, the weapons lubricated and loaded, the operating system patched and updated; he was good to go.
Warden looked around his troop. They were all suited, some running final checks on each other’s rigs, their weapons stowed beside them. At the back of the pod, ten colonists sat in environment suits that would protect them against vacuum, overlaid with body armour. All the colonists, even the children, had to learn how to put on, maintain and work in an environment suit in case they had to deal with problems with local conditions or in the event they needed to be taken aboard ship. They weren’t powered or suitable for long exposure to hard vacuum, but they were simple to use and well-suited to this sort of boarding action.
“Launching,” said the voice, and the pod shot out of its tube, pressing the occupants against their restraints, “short burns to adjust attitude, ten seconds.” The steering jets fired, orienting the pods in preparation for their final approach. “Manoeuvres complete, main burn in seven hundred seconds.”
Warden took a deep breath and closed his eyes, running through his knowledge of the pod’s systems. When they reached the ship, the pod would latch on, magnetically if possible but otherwise by mechanical means. A malleable ring, not dissimilar in feel to a latex glove, though the material wasn’t remotely the same, would press forward from the outer rim of the pod and form a seal, into which expanding foam sealant would be sprayed. The boarding team would then choose when to activate the cutting lasers mounted on the pod to cut a large hole in the side of the ship.
“Three hundred seconds,” said the voice.
Five minutes, thought Warden before his mind drifted back to the mechanics of the boarding action.
If the foam sealant failed or the area on the other side of the hull wasn’t pressurized or the seal wasn’t tight, everything would get a good deal more difficult. Breaking through internal doors was bad enough at the best of times, but if the enemy started sealing sections to close off atmosphere leaks, they could have real problems.
“Sixty seconds,” said the voice, and Warden looked around again at his troop. They were completely dependent on their pilot identifying the correct portion of the target ship to latch on to. It would be educated guesswork, at best.
“And you’ll have to do it without weapons, obviously,” Staines had said when he had outlined the plan, “because it’s a stealth-approach and we won’t be anywhere near you when your engines fire.”
So they were going in hot, possibly under fire but certainly in a zone where the enemy would be shooting.
Warden looked across the bay at Ten, who was snoring loudly despite having a cloned nose designed to be free from such defects. Nobody else in the pod was relaxed enough to sleep as they made the long, slow approach to the enemy ship. He’d wake up once the pilot fired the engines to accelerate them into Moscow, though.
Milton sent him a message showing Iron Duke’s updated decoy route. He wasn’t an expert on the matter, but it looked pretty hairy to him and the slightly wide-eyed expression on Milton’s face suggested she was of the same mind.
Not that it made any difference. They were committed now, so either the plan would work or it wouldn’t. If the enemy ships changed course or spotted the pods, they would be sitting ducks. Or, perhaps more appropriately, the Marines would be the sardines in a giant, defenceless can just waiting to be opened by a single well-placed shot.
Warden grimaced at the thou
ght. He didn’t like the lack of control but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Ten seconds to engine burn, get ready to rock and roll,” said the pilot, “and the best of luck to you all.”
Warden counted down under his breath, eyes closed as he waited.
“Brace for impact,” said the pilot, a moment before a huge bang reverberated through the boarding pod and the passengers were slammed against their seats.
Warden let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. The pod had clamped itself to the hull of the Deathless ship, and now the malleable outer ring was being pressed against Moscow’s outer skin. His HUD told him that the sealant was being applied, then confirmed that the cutters had begun their work.
“Stand ready,” he ordered, reading his HUD, “thirty seconds to breach.”
The troop stood and readied their weapons, checking their gear one last time and making sure their power armour was configured to withstand a sudden loss of atmosphere, should everything go completely pear-shaped.
Warden sidled down the tight confines of the pod to check on the militia.
“Are you ready, Sergeant Adams? This could get sticky.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, we’re ready,” Adams said. In his thin environment suit and light body armour, he looked small and flimsy next to Warden’s power armour. The militia seemed nervous, as well they might, but they were impressively calm. The fighting on the surface had given them a great deal more confidence and the prospect of holding the breach against an enemy force didn’t seem to disturb them.
“Good, you’ll be fine. Just stick to cover and make sure no one can outflank us. We should hold most of their attention but let me know if you have more than you can handle, understood?”
“Understood, Lieutenant.”
He checked the countdown on the boarding pod feed in his HUD.
“Ten seconds to go, folks.”
The Marines collectively brought their weapons to bear. The front ranks were taken by Corporal Green and the other ogre clones in their hulking suits of power armour. They would take less damage from incoming fire than the rest of the troop, so they had been chosen to lead the breach. Warden had all the ogre clones on his team. Hayes and Carruthers had been keen to have ogres as well, but they had all agreed with the vice admiral’s assessment that Moscow had to be their priority and the main focus of their efforts.