by Brian Smith
Costello looked up as his chief of staff and his intel chief clomped over to his workstation in their magboots. “Admiral,” they began. “We’d like to amend the operations plan a bit.”
“How so?”
“We’re concerned about Night’s Minnow. She could be anywhere, and if OURANIA decides to use her as a kamikaze, we’re the logical target. I’d like to assign fighters to seed remote lidar and radar buoys to provide coverage as wide as possible. Based on his observations of enemy movements, RADM Branch doesn’t believe that the smaller ships with Federov drives have the reactor power to move at more than about ten percent of c. We want to try to put a constellation around us that’ll give enough warning to maneuver or engage if she barrels in on us. Olvia Marthis and the other two commercial torchships may or may not pose a similar threat, but we need to establish a defensive perimeter.”
“Do we have enough buoys to do the trick?” Costello asked. “And what about the networking it would require to use them?”
“Well, the enemy is blind as a bat around here right now, except for optical imagers at Hyperion. Optics from Titan’s surface are a no-go: you can’t see through that soup. We’ve taken out everything in the sky except those ships themselves. We figure that in order for OURANIA to hack something, it has to know it’s there first. We feel we’re okay on this one. Worst-case scenario: it hacks a lidar set and we get bushwhacked, which is right where we are right now with no extended sensor constellation. As for numbers, we don’t really have enough buoys of our own, but we will when Invincible rejoins us.”
“Hmm,” Costello frowned. “It keeps coming back to Invincible, doesn’t it? We need her back here, along with her embarked assets. Any word on her torch relight?”
The chief of staff scowled. “She can put on about 0.7-g and that’s it. Are you rethinking using Vanguard?”
“Could Reuben James do it instead?”
“Negative, sir. She’s too small for her drive field to envelop Invincible. Vanguard is only just barely big enough for it to work. We looked into that when the idea first came up.”
The chief of staff looked thoughtful. “You know, admiral, this whole thing with the Federov drive is so new that we aren’t seeing all the possibilities yet. Vanguard could make it back to Terra from here in less than eight hours. If she can tow Invincible, she could ferry Wasp or America the same way. We could have either or both of them right here with us in a day or two. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
Costello laughed. “It sure would. I fired a message back to 3rd Fleet a few hours ago, floating that very idea. They feel the defensive cordon around Terra is too thin already. They said no way.”
“You already thought of it?” the intel officer blurted.
Costello shot him a wicked grin. “That’s why I’m the admiral, son,” he chuckled. “Check the message log if you don’t believe me.”
The intel officer blushed and shut up.
“Invincible is ours, though,” Costello said. “Let’s get her back here. Give Vanguard the go-ahead to go fetch her, and Invincible’s escorts can start back as well, under a conventional hard-burn.”
The chief of staff fairly sprang into action. “The order is already drafted, admiral. I’ll send it soonest.”
“Very well. And in the meantime, let’s start putting boots on Titan. All this uncertainty has us walking on eggshells. That ends now—I want to wrap this up.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Task Force 50.5
USS Reuben James
Up-Well of Saturn
Jim Ford sipped at another cup of joe; he’d lost track of how much coffee he’d had in the past forty-eight hours, as well as how many times he’d shot himself with stimulants from his body’s internal pumps. He hadn’t had more than a few catnaps, and it wasn’t until a rating appeared in CDC to pass around a plate of roast-beef sandwiches that his stomach finally howled in protest at its recent neglect.
He took a sandwich with muttered thanks and wolfed it down in about three bites without tasting a thing—his entire focus was on the screen, which showed Vanguard moving into position to hard-dock herself to Invincible. The latter’s tender and frigate escorts were already well away, accelerating back toward Saturn and Calypso Depot on hard-burns that would leave them critically low on reaction mass when they arrived. If this worked the way the engineers said it should, Invincible would already be there, conducting operations long before they arrived.
For no reason Ford could explain, the hackles on the back of his neck went up when he saw two of the highest-value units in TF50 nestling together in a moment of vulnerability. On pure instinct, he keyed his circuit to the bridge.
“XO, this is the captain. Sound general quarters. Prepare for action close aboard.”
LT Gordon acknowledged the order, and the subsequent trill of the bosun’s pipe and the general alarm were almost perfunctory—the ship was already at Condition II, with almost everyone at battle stations. Hatches were confirmed secured, any unsealed crew members sealed their suits back up, and the frigate was depressurized from bow to stern.
Ford reflected that it still felt odd to him to be sitting in a full-g field with the ship essentially holding station with units on free-fall trajectories. Odd, but not unwelcome. “TAO,” he ordered, “maximum-range lidar sweeps in all directions. Batteries are released. You’re weapons free until further advised.”
Yoon was a little confused. “Going active to maximum range. I don’t understand, skipper. Scope’s clear.”
“Give it a minute,” Ford said cryptically. “XO, captain. Pass the conn to the pilot with orders to maneuver immediately to unmask batteries if necessary.”
“Aye, aye, captain. Smell a rat?”
“The sight of those two docking up . . . It just seems like we’ve had this moment before, doesn’t it?”
No smart remarks or canned replies issued from Gordon this time. “Yes, it does, captain. We’re ready up here.”
“Signals, send the following to Vanguard via maser lamp: ‘Recommend you delay completing hard-dock for five minutes.’”
“Signal sent and acknowledged. No reply,” signals reported a minute later.
Even if we could use the ship’s AI and normal networks, this is all too slow now, Ford reflected to himself. The Federov drive rendered their sensors inadequate—they didn’t offer enough warning time for a hostile contact approaching at ten or twenty percent of light speed and not showing a telltale like a torch plume. In time, those velocities would get even faster still. The notion of a separate bridge and CDC seemed cumbersome and crippling as well.
When the war’s over, the whole fleet is going to be obsolete anyway. We’re going to need a big paradigm shift, going forward, he thought. In his spare time—if he ever had any again—he needed to devote some serious thought to these issues and write up some recommendations.
“TAO! Lidar cont— Shit! She’s right on us!”
“Hit her!” Ford barked, even as Yoon was issuing the same order.
***
The former Barsoom Traders torchship Olvia Marthis approached at 0.15 c; she was on them almost as fast as she passed into detection range. She decelerated smoothly and easily using her Federov drive, approaching from directly astern Invincible and from underneath at a shallow angle. Then she came to a relative dead stop directly forward of the Royal Navy command ship.
Three things happened almost at once: The first was that she precessed just slightly to line up as she ignited her torch at full power, using her Federov drive as a counter to keep from accelerating away. The second was that Vanguard, fortunately, had heeded Ford’s warning: Vanguard translated sideways with her own Federov drive at high speed as soon as Olvia Marthis appeared, carrying her clear of danger as the torchship’s fusion plume enveloped Invincible in a stream of star-hot plasma. The third was that Reuben James fired both her railgun and her particle-beam turrets almost simultaneously—the reaction time was impressive, given that everythin
g was carried out manually.
The tungsten rounds blew Olvia Marthis cleanly in two almost directly amidships, while twin particle beams lanced into her engineering plant, killing her reactors within a few seconds of her sudden appearance.
Unfortunately, those few seconds were all it took. When the commercial torchship’s fusion plume flickered out, HMS Invincible was a glowing mass of slagged alloy, streaked with splits in her hull and radiating blistering heat. There was no question of survivors; the atmosphere inside the hull had superheated and ignited almost instantaneously, killing every living thing on the ship. Her melting hull had split under the sudden interior overpressure and vented brief jets of flaming gas into the plasma stream of the torch plume.
Invincible was a total loss, and it was doubtful her crew even realized what hit them.
***
“What the blazes just happened?” RADM Branch roared from flag plot.
On Vanguard’s bridge, Captain Bryan Winters was pale and shaken. The signal from Reuben James had gone from ship to ship, not ship to flag. Winters had received it first and ordered a halt to the docking maneuver until he could confer with the flag—the commercial torchship had appeared out of nowhere before he could so much as key the circuit.
Fortunately, his pilot already had the conn for the docking maneuver. When she found herself staring straight up the ass-end of a torch bell that looked bigger than a planet, she didn’t wait for orders from anyone—not the watch officer, the captain, or the bloody admiral. One thing she’d learned in her career as a helmsman was that you never sat in the lee of a torch bell, no matter how benign the circumstances—and these circumstances were far from benign.
She moved the ship and saved them all.
The rest was finished even before Winters could order the crew to action stations.
***
“Any other lidar contacts?” Ford asked.
“Negative, scope’s clear,” the somber report came back.
“Look at her,” someone breathed softly. In the dimly lit vacuum-sealed CDC, Ford could see telltale shudders that told him a few of his people were weeping at their stations. The entire complement of Invincible was gone, with some U.S. Navy personnel perishing alongside her Commonwealth crew: some of Hornet’s fighter squadrons had found shelter with Invincible.
Ford just felt cold inside—cold and brittle. But at the same time proud of his crew for their fast reactions and clean shooting. He’d also just learned something—something he hadn’t realized was possible. He mentally filed away the information for later.
“OOD, captain. Secure from GQ. Set Condition II.”
“Secure GQ. Set Condition II,” XO Gordon replied from the bridge.
It was less than a minute before Ford felt outside air pressure acting against his battle suit, pressing in gently and reassuringly. He unsealed his helmet faceplate and opened it, taking a breath of the cool, machine-scented air of the CDC. Another fight, and against all odds they were still here.
“Captain, I have Vanguard Actual for you—private circuit.”
“Patch him through,” Ford ordered. “Reuben James Actual,” he reported a moment later.
“This is Bryan Winters. I say, are you prescient, or what?”
“Not prescient enough, sir. How are your people?”
“Shaken but alive, thanks to you! I just wanted to express my appreciation for your quick thinking. You make me feel like a bloody fool! I owe you a case of scotch, captain. Thank you!”
“I just wish we could have fired fast enough to save Invincible. Reuben James out,” he added, killing the circuit.
It might be a breach of etiquette to cut off a more senior captain, but Ford was frustrated and angry over the loss of Invincible, and he was well aware that he’d saved Vanguard. Winters didn’t try to call him back.
“Signal from flag,” his communications watchstander reported a minute later. “Form line astern, stand by to receive keplers. The squadron is returning to Saturn.”
“Acknowledge the signal,” Ford replied, reaching for his coffee bulb. The contents of the sealed container had frozen solid while the CDC was depressurized—it was as hard as a baseball. “Let’s get some fresh joe going as well,” he added wearily.
July 21, 2094 (Terran Calendar)
Task Force 50
VMF-52
Titan
“Cajun’s down!” Skate Hess called frantically.
McClain cursed and pulled harder, trying to force the Moray through the turn by sheer willpower. In Titan’s thick atmosphere, the fighters were somewhat hamstrung by aerodynamic rules that dug into their performance parameters. He caught sight of a smaller, slightly nimbler drone flashing across his nose and slightly below him, from left to right. His brain had to put together everything it was seeing: the Moray’s attitude, the attitude of the drone, the horizon line. . . . He was fighting in virtual “clear cockpit” with an AR overlay of his critical instrumentation; it was pitch black on Titan’s night side out there, just like always. And as always there wasn’t much in the way of computer assist, combat networking, or sensor fusion happening right now. It was old-school out here, but they were managing to hold their own.
His brain told him that the bandit was climbing in the near-vertical, and he checked himself. No, it’s diving! he corrected himself a heartbeat later.
He increased his roll and pulled harder, trying to put his particle cannon in the firing envelope and waiting for his lidar to autolock on the bandit. Somewhere behind him, his wingman was shouting at him to cut thrust—he was pitching down at Titan’s surface and would accelerate straight into the ground if he didn’t watch it.
McClain cut thrust just as the lidar locked on; the wily drone rolled and pitched up, vanishing underneath him. He started to mimic the maneuver and then noticed his altitude—what was left of it.
No time! he winced, aborting his own roll and pulling out instead.
McClain used the RCS thrusters to help force the Moray’s tail down and her nose up, and throttled up his torch as soon as he had a smidgen of thrust vector that would take him up instead of down. His pursuit of the drone was foiled completely—the little bastard had almost flown him right into Titan’s surface.
A cold sweat broke out all over him when he realized how close he’d gotten to the ground—his proximity-warning system was fairly shrieking at him. His next worry was that the drone was probably already converting on him, going for the kill.
Fortunately, that was why fighters flew in pairs: Recinto had his six. Particle-beam fire split through the air, missing the drone but throwing off its attack and sending it on the defensive. The AI controlling the drone was top-shelf, more than a match for any single human pilot in terms of decision speed and reaction time, but against three-to-one odds in thick atmo it was having a tougher time.
The drone’s defensive maneuver got it clear of Bulldog Two, leaving the two Morays momentarily in a neutral stalemate vis-à-vis their opponent.
Unfortunately for the enemy, Skate Hess was coming down like a meteor, terrible in her rage over having just lost her wingman. She had the range and the angle and opened up with a sustained burst that blew the drone to scrap and sent a heap of metal junk plowing into the moon’s surface below.
“Splash that bitch!” she growled, pulling out of her death-dive. “Anyone see if Cajun ejected?”
“Got a beacon, at least,” Recinto replied.
“Good shooting. Get down there and check on her, Skate,” McClain ordered. “Bulldog Eight, join on Skate to form a section. Everyone else regroup. Dogstar, Bulldog Lead for bogey dope.”
“You’re clean,” Ashburn’s voice crackled over the radio. “VF-143 is reporting no further enemy spaceplane or drone activity over Chusuk, either. I think that’s finally the last of them.”
“Status of surface battery at tertiary target?” McClain asked.
He was referring to the coordinates of Bill Campbell’s old data archive, where the Dogstar had spot
ted the threat particle-beam turret a couple of days prior. There was currently a ground assault underway to try to take the site intact; VMF-52 was the team’s air support, but they’d been unexpectedly engaged by a four-ship division of AI-drone fighters en route to the target. After their combat loss over Calypso, and now Cajun, they were down to six fighters.
“Third Platoon reports that the turret itself is neutralized, but advises caution. They’re advancing on the site now, reporting groundfire and requesting air support.” There was a slight pause, and then a chuckle came from Ashburn over the radio. “The platoon sergeant is reporting that with the snooper upgrade those synths pretty much glow in the dark. Happy hunting.”
“Bulldogs Five and Eight are checking on a downed pilot—I’m pressing to the objective area with four shooters. I’ll check in with the forward air controller when we have line-of-sight communications. Thanks for the relay, Dogstar.”
“No worries,” Ashburn replied. “Recommend you stay well clear of Janus Station until further notice,” he added. “The main event is about to begin. All right, people. Listen up,” he said, abandoning standard terminology at the start of his transmission. “All units in Task Force 50, this is Dogstar One. All surface-based heavy-particle-beam emplacements are confirmed neutralized. Repeat, all heavy-particle-beam emplacements are confirmed neutralized. All units be advised that surface combat drones and possible light air defenses may remain in play. Authentication Charlie Fox one Delta five one. Dogstar will be off the net while we make orbit to relay to Calypso. Dogstar One, out.”