Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six

by Gibbs, Daniel

  Thank you. “Communications, get me Major Mancini.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the comms officer replied.

  A few moments later, an image of the League destroyer’s bridge appeared on the viewer. Calvin’s armor appeared singed with scorch marks covering most of its torso piece. His helmet was off, and a superficial laceration caked with dried blood was visible on his forehead. “Good to see you again, Captain,” he said, chipper as ever. “Mission accomplished. Scratch one League shipyard, and a whole mess of Leaguers.”

  Godat pursed his lips together, and they curled into a grin. “Not bad, Colonel. Causalities?”

  The last word sobered the hardened Marine’s expression. “Yeah. Eighty-two KIA. Sixty-nine seriously wounded. The rest of us… let’s just say that most of us took a round or two somewhere. We ready to go home?”

  “There’s been no communication from the Lion of Judah or any other ships in the battlegroup. Is Major Mancini there?”

  At the mention of his name, Mancini stuck his head into the picture. “Sorry, XO. Trying to make sense of this League tech for our jump back. By my mission clock, the Lion should’ve jumped out by now and be back to the rendezvous point.”

  “Same thought I had, sir,” Godat began. “I was pondering what to do when you arrived. Do you need additional medical support?”

  “I don’t think so. We already had the combat surgical team setup over here.”

  “I see, sir.” Godat shifted in his seat. “Should we start the process to dock the ships?”

  Mancini narrowed his eyes. “Yes, but… let’s keep the Marines on the captured destroyer. We’re going to go back and stick our nose into Teegarden, see what’s up.”

  Godat did a double-take and stared, mouth agape, at Mancini, as did the COB.

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Very, XO. I want to be sure something’s wrong before we start trying to limp back to Terran Coalition space.”

  “Are you serious, sir?” Godat asked. “We can’t affect that battle. Involving ourselves will get everyone on this ship killed.”

  “I realize that, XO. But, we also need to know what the hell is going on. If the Leaguers took out Cohen’s battlegroup, we still need to escape. I’ve got not only our crew to worry about, but four hundred Marines and commandos.”

  The line of reasoning made sense to Godat, and he relaxed slightly, back into his chair. “I hope you know what you’re doing, sir.”

  Mancini flashed a wicked grin. “I haven’t gotten us blown up yet, have I?”

  Abraham Cosentino—the COB—leaned down so his face would be picked up by the camera. “The way I see it, you’ve got to be a special kind of nuts to sign up for raider duty, but, sir, this takes the cake.”

  * * *

  It had been forty minutes since the new League fleet had jumped in, give or take. Not much had changed. David stared at the tactical plot like a man possessed. The Leaguer in command knows his or her business. Tight formation, overlapping fire-support coverage. No play for us that doesn’t end in our force being overwhelmed.

  Ruth turned her head, blue light from the overhead lights casting a shadow across her face. “Come up with any bright ideas yet, sir?”

  It was about time to make a choice. “The most obvious solution is to call the Audacious back and have the fighters land on her.”

  “But?”

  “But they’d have to execute a double jump. It’s risky, and I’ve gambled enough today,” David replied, his jaw set. “If this goes south, the Terran Coalition will need the only anti-matter reactor equipped fleet carrier we have.”

  “Sir,” Ruth said, her voice a whisper. “It’s already gone south.”

  “I know.” David closed his eyes for a moment, his brain continuing to churn.

  “Conn, TAO. Sir, we just got a neutrino spike, about fifty thousand kilometers off the starboard bow.”

  “Contact, Lieutenant?”

  “That’s the thing sir. Nothing is showing up on our scanners.”

  David was briefly annoyed that she’d informed him of a non-event, until it hit him suddenly: It’s the Tucson! At least, it could be. “Communications,” he began, then caught himself. “Belay that.”

  Ruth’s eyebrows shot up. “Sir?”

  “If that spike is what I think it is, we don’t want to draw attention to it, XO.”

  She pursed her lips together. “I think I missed something.”

  “Neutrino emissions signal what?”

  Her expression changed. “Oh. Yes. Lawrence drive wormhole opening. You think it’s our stealth raider?”

  “I hope to God it is, and more importantly, that he’s in a position to do some damage.” David tried not to focus on the hope he now had that a new player was on the battlefield and instead on the things he could affect. “Master Chief, ETA to the hangar being able to accept small craft?”

  “At least two hours, sir.”

  Or maybe not. “TAO, range to League interception?”

  “Forty-five minutes, best speed, sir.”

  His eyes glanced up at the tactical plot and the League ships gaining on them ever so slowly. Mentally, David prayed. God of the universe, hear my prayer. If it is Your will, please help us to safely recover our pilots, and escape our enemies this day. Amen. The countdown continued.

  * * *

  Simultaneously, on the bridge of the Ho Chi Minh, Hartford stared at the holotank in the center of his bridge. They should’ve jumped five minutes ago. But the Terrans hadn’t. No, they continued steadily on course, limping away from the approaching battlegroup as fast as their most damaged vessel would allow.

  “I don’t understand it, sir,” his tactical officer said, out of the blue. “They’re beyond the jump limit. Why are they still here?”

  Hartford stood and paced. “Zoom the plot in.” A moment later, the display complied. A tight resolution 3D projection of the Lion of Judah and her consorts filled the tank. Clustered around it were numerous small craft. CDF space superiority fighters. The bane of our existence. Then it hit him. “Tactical, scan the enemy’s forward section. What is the status of their flight deck?”

  “Damaged, sir. Our sensors can’t penetrate their shielding and armor, but there’s evidence of extensive fire damage around the hangar openings.”

  With a fierce warrior’s grin that he allowed on his face for a fraction of second, Hartford channeled an emotion he hadn’t had in years: elation. They’re trying to save their pilots. The individuality of the Terrans was always their downfall in the League’s eyes, and this time was no different. Instead of getting away after spoiling our well, they let sentimentality get in the way of victory. Finally, we’ll get our revenge on the Lion of Judah. He thought briefly of how his mentor, Admiral Seville, had clashed repeatedly with the accursed ship and its commanding officer, David Cohen. Perhaps I will finally redeem myself in his eyes. He turned back to his chair. “We’ve got them.”

  The tactical officer glanced back. “Sir?”

  “The Terrans,” he began. “The individualists that they are, they put each person above the whole. They’re trying to save a few insignificant specks, rather than the body,” Hartford continued, his tone cold. “Let all of us take heed; this is why the League will prevail.” He sat and stared forward. “Prepare our targeting scanners. I want to fire on those vessels the moment we’re inside of maximum range.”

  25

  “Conn, navigation. Wormhole emergence complete,” the Tucson’s navigator reported to a nervous control room.

  Mancini’s heart raced within his chest. Of all the crazy stunts he’d tried in his career, jumping blindly into what was most likely an active combat zone, practically on Earth’s doorstep, took the cake. He punched a button on his chair. “Sensor room, I need the plot populated immediately.”

  “Conn, sensor room. I’m working on it, skipper.”

  Red dots started popping onto the tactical plot on the review above Mancini’s head. A lot of red dots. His heart
began skipping beats. “COB, rig for ultra-quiet, now.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Cosentino replied. “Rig for ultra-quiet. Secure all external noise sources. Reduce life support to minimum level,” he barked at a nearby enlisted crewwoman, who manned an environment substation. “Shut down heat generators and use the excess heat from the reactor to maintain livable conditions.”

  A few blue dots appeared on the tactical plot. Both Mancini and Godat exhaled loudly at the same time, then shared a glance. “At least somebody’s still there, skipper,” his XO stated. “Better outcome than I was expecting.”

  “Yeah.”

  Over the next couple of minutes, the sensor picture cleared up as it took a while to detect all the ships present via passive means. Sometimes, it was an arduous process, but today, since everything in the system was firing on nearly max thrust, it was a walk in the park for the sensor room team.

  “This is weird,” Godat commented as the last blue dot blinked into place, showing the Lion of Judah and its battle group of six heavy cruisers and the Saurian battleship. “They can jump out. Why not hightail it out of here? The shipyard’s gone.”

  Mancini shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Maybe one of the ships has lost Lawrence drive capability? They’re moving a lot slower than they should, and there’s clear battle damage. Who knows what’s going on over there. TAO, load the plot up into the central board.” He stood and walked to the holotank in the middle of the control room. They were not quite in the middle of the two fleets, but closer to the League formation than the friendlies. “Hmmm.”

  Gadot joined him. “Navigator got pretty lucky dropping us in there. Any closer, and the Leaguers would have seen our wormhole, stealthy as it is.” Growler class raiders had specialized Lawrence drives that were designed explicitly to limited sensor signatures. They only worked due to the small size of the vessels.

  “Or she’s that good.”

  “Touché, sir.”

  As he stared at the plot, Mancini pondered their situation. They could try to catch up with the retreating CDF fleet, but that would give away their stealth, or they could sit tight and watch things unfold. Or we could do something else. “Navigation, superimpose our projected course on the board, along with the projected courses of both fleets.”

  Blue dotted lines appeared from the Tucson and the friendly fleet, while red lines jutted out from the League force. On the course they were currently on, they’d run into the League ships when they were still about twenty-five thousand kilometers from the CDF vessels.

  Outside of their weapons range. A gleam crept into Mancini’s eyes as he stared at the holotank. He tapped at a couple of buttons and zoomed in on the League formation. Readouts showed shield and engine status, confirming what he suspected: the enemy ships were moving at maximum thrust, with their deflectors down. All power was redirected toward speed.

  “Skipper, I know that look. You’re not seriously thinking of engaging, are you?”

  “Well,” Mancini began, then paused. He bit down on his lip. “Okay, this is a little nuts, but walk the dog with me. We’re already on an intercept course. We only need to adjust our heading by a hair. A couple of thruster bursts will do it. They’ll never see us—"

  “And their shields are down,” Godat finished. He leaned closer. “Sir, if we’re off by a millimeter, everyone on the boat dies. You realize that, right? Worse, they die for nothing because we won’t even get a shot off.”

  “It’s a risk, XO. My gut says the fleet needs help to get out of here, and we’re in a position to deliver it.”

  “Your boat, skipper.”

  Mancini glanced at him quickly. “And don’t forget it.” He smirked slightly. “Okay. Let’s do this.” He made his way back the CO’s chair and dropped into it. “General quarters, general quarters. All hands to battle stations. Set material condition one throughout the boat.” A bell rang twice, loud enough to be heard but not carry. Growler class boats didn’t have the same ear-piercing klaxon a regular ship of the line did. Everything was built for stealth. The lights in the overhead dimmed and turned blue.

  About fifteen seconds ticked away. “Conn, TAO. Condition one is set throughout the boat, sir,” Oleson intoned. “Missile room reporting anti-ship battle stations manned and ready.”

  “Navigation, plot a course that puts us right smack in the middle of that League fleet. I want point-blank range on the Alexander class battleship at its core.”

  “Sir, could you define point-blank?” the navigation officer asked as she turned her head toward him.

  “Within one thousand meters.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, and her eyes widened. “One thousand meters, sir?”

  “I’m not usually the one that repeats orders around here, Lieutenant. One thousand meters.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Tension mounted in the control room as the crew went about their orders, preparing for battle. Mancini adjusted himself in the CO’s seat and bit his lip at the same time. They’re jittery. I can’t blame them. He closed his eyes for a moment and suppressed a seed of doubt that Gadot’s words had planted. “TAO, reset all safeties on our Hunter missiles to zero meters.”

  “Uh, skipper,” Gadot started, as his red face betrayed concern. “With no range safeties, they could explode on launch or pick us up as a target.”

  “For what I’m thinking, it’s the only way to guarantee detonation.”

  Gadot was silent.

  Probably thinks I’ve gone insane. “TAO, trickle charge the energy weapon capacitor. Ensure it doesn’t gain more than two percent per thirty seconds.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Oleson replied.

  “Conn, navigation. I’ve got our course plotted, sir, and checked it twice.”

  Mancini allowed himself a grin. “Length of thruster burn?”

  “Less than twenty seconds, sir. It shouldn’t show up on their sensors unless they know what they’re looking for.”

  “Feed it to the pilot.” Mancini glanced toward the COB. God, I hope to hell this works.

  * * *

  Iskra Smirnov stared at her sensor console on the Ho Chi Minh. It had been her posting for the past few months, following a promotion to chief sensor technician. While the tactical officer handled enemy contacts, it was the sensor team's job to ensure the background clutter never made it to the officer’s console. Something’s off here. We have a sensor shadow off our starboard bow, rushing toward the ship. Yet the computer classified it as a spatial anomaly. Who am I to question the computer?

  Still, as the shadow approached, her suspicions were aroused. A frown on her face, she turned to the officer nearest her. “Comrade, I believe there is a Terran Coalition stealth vessel approaching our position.”

  The man glanced at her. “I do not see that on my console, Technician.”

  She detested how the officers always belittled the enlisted sailors' titles. Especially the French officers. “It's moving in a straight line, quickly.”

  “The computer system says it is a spatial anomaly, graviton wave. Harmless.” His response was practically sneered back at her.

  “But, comrade, the odds of it heading straight for us—”

  “Are irrelevant. The state commissioned the greatest computer system known to humankind to track enemy contacts. If it says what you see on your screen is a graviton wave, that is exactly what it is. The state is never wrong. To think otherwise is… individualistic.”

  Smirnov could feel the word “individualistic” hanging over her like a threat. A warning to stop now before she said anything else. She let her eyes fall and focused on her console. “I apologize, comrade. In my zeal to fight the Terrans, I overreacted.”

  “Of course. Carry on with vigilance, Technician.”

  That’s not a graviton wave. It’s a CDF stealth raider. Smirnov knew it to the core of her being. Well, maybe that smirk will get wiped off his face in a few minutes. It was a thought that brought her pleasure.

  * * *

  The
blue dot representing the Tucson inched closer to the cluster of red icons. Mancini found his thoughts wandering as they flew on through the void. It feels so disconnected in this control room. Like we’re playing a hologame. He pondered briefly if that was why CDF capital ships had transparent alloy “windows” on their bridges, so reality could be observed through sight instead of purely relying on computer readouts.

  “Conn, TAO. Ten thousand kilometers to Master One.”

  Gadot sucked in a breath from his chair next to CO. “All damage control teams report ready. All bulkheads secured.”

  Mancini turned his head and pursed his lips together. “Boat’s ready, crew’s ready?”

  “Aye, skipper.”

  The mass of red dots came nearer with every tick of the clock. The Tucson’s stealth coating rendered it almost invisible, at least until they started shooting. The exhaust profile of Hunter’s roaring out of the launch tubes would backlight the tiny vessel, revealing their presence to any League ship in range that cared. Minute after minute counted down.

  “Conn, TAO. Five thousand kilometers to Master One.”

  “TAO, any change in enemy profiles?” He knew Oleson would’ve called it out, but saying something seemed better to Mancini than the gnawing silence.

  “Negative, sir. On track, no sign they’ve detected us.”

  The crew had performed several deep space patrols previously, gelling as a fighting unit. There was nothing new about a sneak attack on an enemy ship, though Mancini couldn’t remember the last time a Growler had gone up against a fleet of capital class vessels by itself. Still, worry was written on the faces of most in the control room. The range continued to decrease. Four thousand, three thousand, two thousand, a thousand, then five hundred kilometers. The tension built with every centimeter. By the time they got to one hundred kilometers, beads of sweat were present on the foreheads of practically everyone present.