by David Weber
But in its destruction, Second Fleet's screen had done its job. The LACs which survived the exchange were a broken force, streaming through and past Tourville's surviving superdreadnoughts so rapidly not even the Shrikes had time to inflict significant damage on such massively armored targets. Not without numbers they no longer had.
* * *
"I've got the preliminary figures, Boss," Molly DeLaney said. Her expression and hoarse voice showed the strain they were all under, Tourville thought, and nodded for her to continue without ever taking his own attention from the plot.
"It looks like only about two hundred of their LACs got away," his chief of staff said. "The wall's energy weapons managed to nail most of the others as they crossed our vector."
"Thank you," Tourville said, and closed his eyes briefly.
My God, he thought. I came into this thinking I knew what the casualties were going to be like, but I didn't. Neither did Tom Theisman, really. No one could have projected this kind of carnage, because no one's had any experience, even now, with this kind of fight. Both sides are so far outside our standard operational doctrines that we're in virtually unknown territory. Podnaughts aren't supposed to close head on until they get into mutual suicide range. And we're not supposed to let LACs get that close to our starships. Our wall is supposed to be able to kill them before they ever get to us. But I didn't have the missiles left to do it, and they whipped through our engagement window so quickly our energy weapons couldn't stop them in time, either.
He opened his eyes again, looking back into the plot. In a galaxy where indecisive maneuvers had been the norm for so many centuries, two decades-even two decades like the ones which had begun at Hancock Station-simply hadn't been enough to prepare anyone for this.
But the galaxy had better get used to it, he thought grimly. Because one thing he knew; the lethal genies were out of the bottle, and no one was going to get them back inside it.
"Any new orders, Sir?" DeLaney asked, and he shook his head.
"No."
* * *
"Hyper footprint at two-point-three-six million kilometers!" Commander Zucker barked. "Many footprints!"
Oliver Diamato's head whipped around as the erupting footprints speckled the plot. There were eighteen of them, and he swore with silent, vicious venom as they sparkled like curses in the display.
Whoever had taken the Sherman as his intended target had come in far closer than most of the others, but all of them showed remarkably good astrogation for such a short jump. Then the vector readouts came up, and he swore again. From their headings, and especially from their velocity numbers, they'd obviously managed to hyper out of the Junction without his ever noticing, then come back in after building their velocity in hyper, so the jump wasn't quite a short as he'd thought it was.
Not that he had much time to think about it.
"Missile launch!" Zucker said. "Many missiles, incom-!"
Diamato's mouth had opened before the ops officer spoke, and his order chopped off the end of Zucker's announcement.
"All units, Code Zebra!" he barked.
RHNS William T. Sherman blinked into hyper less than three seconds before HMS Nike's missiles would have detonated. Two of Diamato's other battlecruisers were less fortunate, a bit slower off the mark. They took hits-RHNS Count Maresuke Nogi lost most of her after impeller ring-but they, too, managed to escape into hyper.
Diamato breathed a sigh of relief when he realized all his units had gotten out. But however relieved he was by their survival, the fact remained that he'd been driven off his station. Frustratingly incomplete as his observations had been, his had been the only eyes located to watch the Junction at all for Second Fleet.
* * *
"Admiral Diamato's been forced to fall back to the Alpha Rendezvous, Sir," Lieutenant Eisenberg reported.
"Damn," Molly DeLaney murmured, but Tourville only shrugged.
"It was bound to happen sooner or later, Molly. On the other hand, it may actually be good news."
"Good news, Sir?"
"Well, they didn't bother to send through screening units to chase him off before, because they were too busy bringing in their wallers. If they've sent in battlecruisers and cruisers now, it probably confirms that they've already got all their capital ships through the Junction. In which case, this-" he nodded at the oncoming rash of scarlet icons, already well inside their theoretical MDM range of his own battered survivors "-probably is all we've got to deal with."
"With all due respect, Sir, 'this' is quite enough for me."
"For all of us, Molly. For all of us."
Tourville considered the plot for several more seconds, then looked back at Eisenberg.
"Ace, message to MacArthur. 'Stand by to execute Paul Revere.'"
"Aye, Sir."
* * *
"Any change in his heading, Judson?" Admiral Kuzak asked.
"No, Ma'am. He's maintaining exactly the same heading and acceleration," Commander Latrell replied.
"What the hell does he think he's doing, Ma'am?" Captain Smithson asked quietly, and Kuzak shrugged in irritation.
"Damned if I know," she acknowledged frankly. "Maybe he just figures he's still got the firepower to take us. After all, he's still got a hundred and eighteen wallers, and we've only got fifty-five, even with Duchess Harrington's orphans."
"But he's had the crap hammered out of him, Ma'am," Smithson objected. "The recon platforms indicate he's got heavy battle damage to at least half his survivors, and his acceleration rate would be proof enough of that, even without the platforms' reports. So say he's got the equivalent of eighty wallers' combat power-which is generous, I'd say-and they're still Peep SD(P)s. We don't have as many units as Home Fleet had, but all of ours are Medusas or Harringtons. Not only that, but he's got to have used up a lot of ammo. Hell, he didn't fire a single MDM at the LACs, and you saw what they did to his screen. His magazines have to be close to empty."
"So if his situation is so desperate," Judson Latrell asked, "why didn't he abandon the rest of his ships with impeller damage and run for it at a higher acceleration rate in the first place?"
"I suppose the answer to that depends at least in part on exactly what their actual objective is," Kuzak said.
She glanced at the master plot. Twenty-six minutes had passed since Third Fleet had translated back into normal-space. It was hard to believe that barely two hours ago, Home Fleet and all of its units had been safely in orbit around Sphinx. Now they were gone, reduced to spreading patterns of wreckage, and her own command was accelerating steadily towards battle with their killers at 6.01 KPS2. Her base velocity was up to almost ten thousand kilometers per second, she'd traveled the next best thing to eight million kilometers into the RZ, and the range to Second Fleet was coming down to right on sixty million kilometers. Which meant, of course, that they were already in her range, just as she was in theirs.
"Whatever they're up to," she said grimly, "I think you've got a point about their ammunition supply, Jerry. In which case, they aren't going to be hitting us with any more of those monster salvos. And it also means they haven't got enough birds left to waste them firing at long range, with their hit probabilities. We, on the other hand, have full magazines."
"You want to open fire now, Ma'am?" Commander Latrell asked, but she shook her head.
"Not just yet. In fact, not until they do." Her thin smile was cold. "Every kilometer the range drops increases our accuracy by a few thousandths of a percent. As long as they're willing not to shoot, so am I."
"They'll be coming into range of Sphinx in another ten minutes or so, Ma'am," Smithson said quietly.
"A good point." She nodded. "But that means the defense pods deployed around Sphinx are going to be coming into range of them, too, and the system reconnaissance platforms are going to give the defense pods very good accuracy."
"But there aren't many of them," Smithson said.
"No. In fact, they've got a lot less than we do," Kuzak agreed. Sh
e considered numbers and ranges, then turned to Communications.
"Franklin, contact Admiral Caparelli. Tell him I recommend that the Sphinx defenses not fire on these people unless and until they launch against Sphinx."
"Yes, Ma'am," Lieutenant Bradshaw replied.
"Are you sure about that, Ma'am?" Smithson asked. Kuzak looked at him, and he looked back levelly. After all, one of a chief of staff's jobs was to play devil's advocate. "If they're going to bombard the planet, letting them get the first launch off unopposed is likely to cost us," he pointed out.
"But if they aren't prepared to bombard the planet and the orbital defenses open fire, they may go ahead and return it," Kuzak responded. "As you've just pointed out, they've been hammered hard. If Sphinx starts punching missiles at them, they're likely to shoot back in self-defense. On the other hand, if the planet doesn't fire on them, they're probably going to reserve their fire for us, since we're obviously a much greater threat. Under the circumstances, I think it's worth risking letting them have one launch against the defenses, now that they're all on-line."
"Yes, Ma'am."
* * *
"No change in their dispositions, Your Grace," Andrea Jaruwalski reported, and Honor frowned.
"What is it, Your Grace?" a voice asked, and she looked up at her com display. Rafe Cardones looked back at her from it.
"What's what, Rafe?"
"That frown," her flag captain said. "I've seen it before. What's bothering you?"
"Besides the fact that somewhere around a million people have already been killed this fine afternoon, you mean?"
Cardones winced slightly, but he also shook his head.
"That's not what I meant, Ma'am, and you know it."
"Yes, I suppose I do," she agreed.
She reached up to stroke Nimitz's ears, and the 'cat pressed back against her hand, purr buzzing as his mind-glow caressed hers in reply. She treasured that small moment of unqualified support and love, clinging to its warmth against her cold, bleak awareness of so much death and devastation. Then she looked back at Cardones.
"I just can't escape the feeling that there's a shoe somewhere we haven't seen yet," she said slowly. "I know there's not a vector available to them which would let them avoid both Sphinx's envelope and Admiral Kuzak's. Under those circumstances, I guess it's not too surprising they're simply holding their course. What else can they do?"
"Not much, Your Grace," Mercedes Brigham said, when Honor paused. "From where I sit, it looks like they're screwed. The bastards hurt us badly enough, first, but they're in too deep to get out now."
"That's what's bothering me," Honor said slowly. "They didn't have to come in this way. They could have come in more slowly, left themselves a broader menu of maneuver options. Why did they simply come charging straight in towards Sphinx?"
"They didn't," Brigham pointed out. "They cut the angle on the limit and the zone so they could angle back out if they had to."
"No, Mercedes." Cardones shook his head on Honor's display. "I see what she means. It's the acceleration rate, isn't it, Your Grace?"
"That's exactly what it is," Honor agreed. "They can't have known exactly what was going to happen when they ran into Home Fleet, but they had to have known they'd almost certainly be intercepted well short of the planet and hammered. But by charging in at such a high acceleration when they didn't have to, they built up a vector they couldn't possibly overcome before whatever we brought through from Trevor's Star hit them, as well. That's not like Theisman. He should have left his commander on the spot more freedom of maneuver, should have tried to protect his units from getting caught in this sort of trap."
"Then why didn't he?" Brigham frowned as she followed Honor's logic.
"I thought at first it probably did indicate they were going to try some sort of a two-pronged operation," Honor said. "Go ahead and hit us in Manticore, figuring we'd have to pull off of Trevor's Star to defend the home system, and then hit San Martin when we uncovered it. In that case, they might have hoped to catch us with Third Fleet and Eighth Fleet between two separate offensives, unable to respond adequately to either."
"Now that's an ugly thought, Your Grace," Brigham murmured.
"But that's not like Theisman, either," Honor pointed out. "He understands the KISS principle, and in their initial attacks, 'Operation Thunderbolt,' he planned each of his operations independently of one another. They all tied together into one overall design, but he was careful to avoid any attempt to coordinate widely dispersed fleets or require them to go after objectives in mutual support. The entire offensive was very carefully coordinated, except for the decision to send Tourville all the way to Marsh, but the success of any one operation didn't depend on the success of any other simultaneous operation."
"And hitting both Trevor's Star and Manticore would" Brigham nodded.
"It certainly would," Honor agreed. "And they wouldn't have any way to communicate with one another, so if either attack force screwed up its timing, it might blow the entire operation by alerting us early. It's still possible that that's what they're going to do, which is the main reason I still don't want to lock down the Trevor's Star terminus with a mass transit, but I don't think it's what's coming.
"But if they don't have something like that in mind, I'm at a loss to understand exactly what they're doing. According to ONI's estimate of their current fleet strength, this is a huge percentage of their total wall of battle, and they've rammed it straight into the teeth of our defenses on a vector which makes it impossible for them to avoid action with Third Fleet. That's what I don't like about it. It's stupid... and one thing Thomas Theisman isn't, is stupid."
* * *
"Boss, with all due respect," Molly Delaney said, "I think it's time."
"No, do you really?" Lester Tourville replied, his tone so dry that DeLaney looked up in surprise. Then, almost against her will, she chuckled.
It wasn't a very loud chuckle, but it sounded that way on Guerriere's tense, silent flag deck. Heads came up all around the deck, eyes turned towards the chief of staff, and Tourville smiled. He could almost literally feel their astonishment that he could make even the smallest joke at a moment like this. And then he felt that same astonishment breaking at least a little of the taut fear and anxiety which had enveloped all of them as he continued to hold off on Paul Revere, continued to wait. They knew the Beatrice Bravo ops plan as well as he did, and they had to be wondering what the hell he was waiting for.
Which was fair enough. A part of him wondered what he was waiting for, as well.
He looked at the plot. The Manticoran response from Trevor's Star had been accelerating in-system for almost fifty minutes. It's velocity was up to just over eighteen thousand kilometers and it had traveled roughly 27,045,000 kilometers. The range to Second Fleet was falling rapidly towards thirty-three million kilometers, and he was frankly astonished that they hadn't already opened fire. Yet still that nagging little doubt, that voice of instinct, told him to wait.
He looked at a secondary plot, frozen with the last tactical data Oliver Diamato had been able to download before being forced off the Junction. He considered it for two or three seconds, careful to conceal his own mental frown lest it undo the beneficial consequences of DeLaney's chuckle.
You've got to get off the credit piece, Lester, he told himself. You've already waited as long as you can; Molly's right about that. If Eighth Fleet were coming, it should already be here. And you can't justify holding off forever 'just in case' it turns up. Because whether it's coming or not, you can't let the people you know about get any closer.
"All right, Ace," he said in a calm, confident voice. "Send MacArthur the execute signal."
* * *
"Captain Higgins! We have the execute signal from Guerriere!"
"Maneuvering," Captain Edward Higgins said almost instantly, his voice sharp, "execute Paul Revere."
"Aye, Sir!" his astrogator replied, and the battlecruiser RHNS Douglas MacArthur, which had n
ever accelerated in-system with the rest of Second Fleet's doomed screen, translated smoothly into hyper.
* * *
"I think we're just about ready to open the ball, whether they want to or not," Theodosia Kuzak told Commander Latrell. "How do our firing solutions look?"
"I think the old saying about fish in a barrel comes to mind, Ma'am," Latrell replied.
"Good. In that case-"
"Hyper footprint!" one of Latrell's ratings barked suddenly. "Hyper footprint at four-one-point-seven million kilometers, bearing one-eight-zero by one-seven-six!" He paused a second, then looked up, his face white. "Many point sources, Sir! It looks like at least ninety ships of the wall."
* * *