“Absolutely!”
“Okay—you got the lead. Wing over left, take angels minus ten, select zone five, and let’s send ’em to the Promised Land.”
“Ohhh yeah!”—a paean of joy.
With a gratified smile, he followed her down.
Tag-teaming was a stalking technique that obviated the need to achieve burn-through against a target’s shields. What made this possible was a phenomenon called shield flutter: a momentary dropout as the shields dumped the energy of a missile strike or gun burst. Neutron guns produced the most flutter, but their rate of fire was too slow to exploit it. However, a second fighter, following behind on an exact trajectory and firing weaker but longer-ranged plasma cannon in precisely timed bursts, could. Since the lead fighter also masked his partner, the victim, thinking himself under attack by a single fighter and perhaps overconfident his shields, rarely knew what hit him.
It required an extraordinary degree of coordination—informed opinion held it to be the most difficult evolution two fighters could pull off—but when done right, it was as if the target had no shields at all. Huron had pioneered the technique in the last war with Geoff N’Komo (Jantony Banner and Pavel Heink had copied it once it became known), and as good as Geoff was, Kris was even better. Success depended on how quickly the two pilots were able to sync up: only rarely would they get more than four bursts before the target broke. Huron and N’Komo could sync reliably by the third burst, Banner and Heink did roughly as well, but Huron and Kris routinely synced on the second, and sometimes on the first. It was chiefly this technique that had elevated Kris into the upper reaches of the active kills list in just a few short months.
Now, these six potential victims, still coasting along unconcerned in two three-fighter vics, promised to raise her score even higher. Kris lined up on the trailer of the second vic, and Huron slid in behind her. The trick to syncing up was, perhaps ironically, music: a piece they both knew well. The leader picked it, and Kris selected one of her favorites, an old guitar-laden, acousto-optic power ballad, and cranked up the volume. The music blasting over his helmet set, Huron watched the lock indicator on his T-Synth, slaved to Kris’s through their CEC link, and tensed his finger on the trigger. It pipped, he waited two fast beats, squeezed gently and they were back in business.
Two minutes, fifty-one seconds later, Kris and Huron burst through a cloud of glowing debris and burned hard for the swarm of fighters up ahead. By now, the Doms had noticed that seven of their number had just been wiped out of the universe in what must have seemed to them an eye blink, and they were starting to react. But they were rattled, as yet uncomprehending of what had just happened to them, and their response was ragged. Streaming in to attack, they bunched up, masking each other’s fields of fire and generally stepping on their own toes.
Last mistake you lil fuckers ‘ll ever make, Kris thought as she closed on Huron’s wing and they scissored in together. They’d broken out of the tag-team for this phase, and she was taking a moment to find something else to listen to. In the lull, she could hear him humming over the burst link—a tune she thought she recognized. Then she caught a few words: “I looked over Jordan and what did I see . . .”
Z-Day +7 (0827)
LSS Bellerophon, deployed center;
Wogan’s Reef, Hydra Border Zone
As the light cruiser Avenger streaked along under maximum thrust, shedding her load of junk and firing guns with abandon, Lieutenant Anders and Captain Lewis stood together on Bellerophon’s hanger deck assessing the proceedings, with comments.
“That was lame.” Anders shook his head. The monitor had just laid down a volley that missed by mile, or even a little more. The barrage of junk seemed to be having effect: a missile salvo fired less than a minute ago had likewise crossed up on all the garbage, homing in on apparitions in the clutter. It would not last—no doubt someone in the monitor was busy tweaking the targeting algorithms even as they watched.
“Don’t get cocky.” She said it with a smile. Anders was always cocky. It was one of the things she admired about him. They were waiting between their respective assault shuttles, in the middle of the second wave. The first wave was mostly unladen birds that would set the shell game in motion. The second included herself, Anders, and Tallmadge. Anders was assigned to an ordnance-loading port on the starboard side, just forward of the hanger deck. Tallmadge was taking a small bay aft of the hanger deck, and Min had allotted to herself a maintenance hatch, port-side far aft. The third wave was the two platoons of kids, who were going to perform the role for which they had been trained—hanger assault—but not until the three senior teams had done their jobs.
They felt a mild shudder in the deck as Bellerophon let go another spread of missiles. More work for the monitor’s point-defense, and more hot debris to screen their assault. Min checked her xel and downloaded the latest TACREP. Jesse Wallace was pushing Adenauer’s battered right flank back while on the other side, the Bannermans had taken Kim Belvoir’s bait and she had them closely engaged. Now they’d have a bitch of time breaking free to support the monitor. On the plot, Bellerophon was entering their launch zone. She snapped the xel shut.
“Boots and saddles.” Unslinging her assault rifle, she checked the safety, then leaned into her shuttle and secured it in the waiting clamps. Henderson’s demolition team and Sergeant Ulloa’s section were already embarked and waiting. From behind them, Drake, his heavy weapons detail loaded into the next shuttle down the line, waved and gave her a thumbs up.
She returned both, turned back and held out her gloved hand to Anders. “See you inside, Troy.”
He gripped it. “Yes, ma’am. They might kill us—”
She squeezed his hand powerfully. “But they’ll never whip us.”
* * *
Within the CIC of Marshall Nedelin, all had been awed stillness and breath-holding for a full minute after Orlan exploded. Even the concerted attack by Admiral Wallace in the wake of the battleship’s cataclysmic destruction had an air of anticlimax about it. The battleships Jena and VanScheer were there already, engaging Wallace’s lone battleship and his quartet of battlecruisers, but the whole flank was in disarray verging on panic, as the Halith ships, forced to fight alone, were beset by adversaries taking full advantage of their superior agility and enhanced cooperative engagement capability.
On his left, the Bannermans looked to be in the fight of their life, but were holding their own.
For now. Adenauer detached four heavy cruisers and eight destroyers from CENFOR to support the beleaguered right flank, and turned to Marshall Nedelin’s commanding officer.
“Captain, I believe the hour of reckoning is upon us.” Captain DuPlessis thought the admiral sounded relieved. “Close Ardennes, best speed.”
* * *
The blown hatch spun away and a plasma blast roared past Minerva Lewis—she felt the heat through her armor from a meter away. Maybe sending her shuttle off hadn’t been the wisest move after all.
Sergeant Ulloa touched his helmet to hers. “I think they know we’re here.”
What gives you that idea? Using the shuttle to break the hatch had been a calculated risk—hoping they wouldn’t detect it with the others massing on the hanger to starboard—badly calculated in this case.
Min activated her command link and called “Warblers!” Four marines fired warblers obliquely through the hatch, bouncing them off the bulkheads like billiard balls. The devices tripped the plasma, which fired again. That should buy her minute before the defenders opened their hatch to fire seekers. “Grenades out! Wait for it. Web ready!” If they timed it right, the grenades would take out the seekers—might even catch them with the hatch open. She didn't want use the monofilament web unless she had to. Whether she had to mostly depended on how many of them there were. More than she’d reckoned on?
She tapped Henderson. “Matt, you got a read yet?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’re bunched behind the hanger deck and we have a big batch at that mai
n spline passage junction, just up ahead—looks like they’ve stripped their turrets to skeleton crews. Don’t think they’ve noticed Anders or Tallmadge yet, but they’ve got plasma rigged all around.”
Goddamned contentious bastards. “Call Anders and Tallmadge—have ’em hold for my word. Tell Gomez and Galovic they can knock at the hanger but don’t blow it until Anders gets in and clears.”
Half her plan was working—the wrong half. The monitor’s crew was concentrated on the hanger deck the way she wanted, but she hadn’t counted on them stripping their turret crews to hold the spline junctions. Instead of relying on a flexible, mobile defense scheme, which full perimeter plasma would have interfered with, they’d just gotten more people. Those turret crews needed to go back to their day jobs. If she couldn’t move them off that port spline junction, they’d catch Anders in a crossfire when he boarded, no matter what else she did. And between the Doms holding this end and the plasma, she couldn’t do that from here. They needed another way in.
“Matt, we need us a new door. Find me a garbage chute, a thermal port, any damn thing”—her exchange with Anders about quarter-galleys came strongly to mind—“and fast.” She keyed up a link to Bellerophon. “I’m gonna see if I can’t get us a little help here.”
* * *
“How’s it holdin’, Kell?” Captain Lewis’s voice crackled dimly on her private channel. “You down to soup cans yet?”
“Not quite—one box launcher left, three torpedoes, and the surge guns still have some life.”
“Think you could do something to piss them off a bit? We’ve unzipped our fly here. They got full-perimeter plasma rigged and released their turret crews to repel boarders. I need them to be thinking about somethin’ else for a few minutes—y’know, stay occupied—while I find a new way in. Or I’m afraid we may have wasted a trip.” A brief crackling pause. “Those bites you gave ’em are stinging, by the way. Nice work that.”
McKenzie smiled in spite of herself. “Buttering me up, Min? The only way I have to keep them occupied is to let their two-footers come aboard.”
“Just a flyby and a little salute to get their attention? They’re tender here. With those crews taking after us, maybe you catch ’em with their drawers low.”
“Min, you want me to take them under fire with your people outside?”
“Well, I’d like you to be a little careful about it! I already got a haircut this week.”
Kell sighed, tagged her exec and directed him to open a line to Avenger. “See what we can do.”
“Appreciate it, Kell.”
“Just keep your people the hell away from the port side.”
“Will do that. Lewis out.”
Very likely—done and out. “Bellerophon out.”
* * *
No one could ever say that Captain Kellyn McKenzie lacked guts. With Avenger taking station behind her—the light cruiser was down energy mounts and only six rounds per gun—they dropped away from the group and boosted towards the monitor. Coming down under max thrust and dumping all the countermeasures she had left, McKenzie fired the rest of her missiles and her remaining torpedoes. The torps weren’t even locked—the monitor’s ECM prevented it—but she fired them on dead bearing anyway, rigged with contact fuses.
The monitor’s point defense swatted down the missiles, its huge port-side turrets got off a couple of late and hasty salvos, bracketing her with 24-inch rounds—Min was right that neither their accuracy nor rate of fire were up to par—but two torps got through, slamming into the monitor just aft of the forward turret where the previous assault had created a weak spot, and blowing a five-meter hole in the armored hull. It was far from fatal, not even that serious, but it did disrupt the monitor’s port-side fire control and, more importantly, damaged the forward turret’s ammo hoists, taking it out of action.
In the pause while monitor’s crew switched the aft turret to local control, and before the main turret could realign itself, Avenger cut across the monitor’s bow, emptying her railguns and playing on the main turret with her energy mounts, while Bellerophon shot past to lay alongside the behemoth at point-blank range, taking it under fire with her 6-inch surge guns. The compact 3-ring railguns were short-range weapons and inaccurate compared to long guns, but they could hit hard for their size and moreover they could be fired very, very fast.
Bellerophon mounted six of these little smashers along her waist, and McKenzie crowded in so close that the monitor’s remaining port-side turret would not bear and poured 6-inch shells into the shattered area around hull breach at a truly astonishing rate for over a full minute. But the monitor’s scarred main turret could just bear, and with Avenger on the run, the behemoth finally reacted to the little carrier clawing at its vitals, swinging the turret towards the pest and firing a full salvo.
McKenzie anticipated the move, broke contact and rolled Bellerophon keel-up. Two of the massive 24-inch railgun rounds still holed her amidships. They did not detonate on the carrier’s lightly armored hull, but they dismounted three railguns, created a horrendous shower of splinters and cut some control lines aft. Bellerophon shot away at full emergency power, the crew feverishly patching the holes and running new lines, as the monitor fired another salvo after her, one glancing harmlessly off her keel and the others passing close aboard.
* * *
“Captain, I think we got something here,” Henderson said, tapping Min’s shoulder. He linked his scanner to her visor display. “I think Belle made us a door.”
“I think you’re right,” Min agreed, exultant. “Sergeant, get your section flying. Matt, you and your people come with me. Drake, stay here and keep an eye on those bastards. Make ’em think we’re still looking for a way in here. I’ll invite you over as soon as we know what’s what.”
“A-firm, Captain.”
“And don’t go sticking your neck out—I’m gonna need every one of you later. Much as I hate to admit it.” The defenders had tried one round of seekers so far, and seemed to be holding tight now.
“Understood, ma’am”—with a leer. “Crimson forever.” Drake had been a four-star athlete in college; that was the first part of his team’s motto.
“Roll tide,” Min completed it as they shook hands. She shifted her rifle to hand and signaled the others. “Let’s go.”
Gliding through the blasted aperture, keeping well clear of the razor-sharp edges of the shattered crysteel that glittered in their helmet lights, Min paused to survey their surroundings. The forward magazines were twenty-five meters dead ahead, the intervening spaces devastated by Bellerophon’s fire. She saw how close the carrier had come to breaching those magazines.
What a fireworks display that would have been, she thought, before returning her attention to their more immediate concerns. There was an intact bulkhead fifteen meters in front of them and to the left, where it looked like there had been a maintenance space or an equipment locker. There was small hatch, still intact, in a bulkhead adjoining it at right angles, and debris swirled aimlessly through the space between the two.
On the other side of the first bulkhead was the junction of the outermost gundeck passageway and a traverse passage. Going outboard, this connected to an ordnance-loading port, the complement of the one Anders was waiting to breach on the starboard side. Going inwards, it connected to the magazines up ahead, and beyond them, to the port-side spline passageway’s main junction. From there, she could reach the main-deck central junction and the weapons control spaces.
Before attempting that, she’d have to link up with Drake. Taking the spline junction should allow that: it would put her behind the defenders in this part of the ship, and they oughta be able to make short work of them. If Tallmadge and Anders could break in at the same time, they could move on the central junction. Once they took that— and if the kids could get a hold of the hanger deck—they’d have a real chance.
But first things first. It was likely the Doms were defending this junction right here. She tapped Henderson on
the shoulder and indicated the bulkhead. “Gimme a read on the other side of that.”
Henderson attached his sensors to the metal and scrutinized them for a few seconds. He touched his helmet to hers. “Two squads and maybe a few extras. Call it a coupla dozen plus change.”
Twenty-six or more against her fifteen. She’d faced worse. The more interesting question was if they could do this without alerting the rest of the monitor.
“Can you burn it?” That would be much quieter than blowing it, and it was unlikely they would have armored bulkheads in this part of the ship.
“Oh, yeah. Piece o’ cake.”
“Alright. Get ready.” She motioned her people to gather in a circle and activated her command channel. “Okay, people, this is where we get up close and personal. We’re gonna keep this a nice, private little get-together, so I don’t want any firing in there. Sergeant, when we kick in that bulkhead, lay down just enough EMI to blanket the compartment.” That would lock down anything with an arming or firing circuit, along with comms, and they’d have to operate their suit thrusters manually. All of which made the marines grin behind their visors.
“Now there’s plenty in there for everyone, so I don’t wanna hear any complaints about somebody getting left out.” Hoarse chucking at that. “Any famous last words?”
No one had any.
“Very good. Sling rifles, pull knives, and wait for the word.”
As her section complied and Henderson ran his wire along the bulkhead in the shape of a large, oblong double door, Min called up her private circuit and pinged Anders and Tallmadge. When they acknowledged, she spoke rapidly.
“In a minute, we’re gonna do some breaking and entering. Tallmadge, wait thirty seconds and blow your hatch. Anders, wait another thirty and blow yours. Both of you, have your birds lay down ten seconds of cover fire and—”
Lieutenant Drake appeared on her private circuit, blurry and harsh with static at the power setting they were using. “Captain, looks like they’ve pulled back here. It’s clear as far as I can see.”
The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set Page 102