The commodore in charge of Northrup's task force was asleep, probably just coming up to wakefulness confused. Merkle didn't have time to wait for orders, so she gave them. If the commodore, or the rear admiral in charge of the larger formation, wanted to countermand them later, that was up to them.
“Rear Admiral Kasagama is ordering all ships to go to evasives,” called out another com officer.
Well, good to know that my decision won't come back to haunt me in a board of inquiry, thought the heavy set blond woman. That was the least of her worries now, as she watched the screen rolling counters, at the same time realizing that they would be spearing space with lasers and particle beams.
“All fighters are to launch,” she ordered. Getting those craft into space was of paramount importance. Once they were there, and the situation had developed, they would know whether they were on defensive or offensive patrol.
“Missile launch in-system, ma'am,” called out her sensor officer. “Estimated ten thousand weapons to the port flank of the fleet. Range twelve light seconds.”
Merkle hadn't thought her heart couldn't sink further, but it did. Bad enough that the enemy was hitting the fleet out here, where it was weak. That they were also hitting the strength of the fleet at the same time indicated that they thought they had enough power to wipe out the entire force. Which meant there would be no relief for the ships out here, if they survived long enough for that to even matter.
* * *
“Battle stations, battle stations. This is not a drill.”
“What's going on?” asked Petty Officer Finn as she sat up in her bed. She hadn't been able to sleep, but the comfort of her rack had seemed the perfect place to do some reading. The chief's test was coming up, and she was determined to pass it on the first try. That wouldn't insure promotion, but failing it was a guarantee of being passed over for the current cycle.
“Get in your battle armor and report to your damage control station, Finn,” shouted the voice of the forward damage control officer, Ensign Grishan, his Gryphon accent pronounced from the stress.
She was just about to swing out of her bed when another voice stopped her.
“Prepare for emergency boost. Repeat, prepare for emergency boost in five seconds.”
Oh shit, went through her head as she fell back in her bed and ordered it to rotate through her implant. The bed moved swiftly, placing itself in the most likely orientation to cushion her, while restraints wrapped around her limbs and body.
The heavy gee forces shoved her back into the bed, hard, and the air was driven from her lungs. The cries and screams of crew came in from the corridor, people who had not been able to get to a safe place before ten gravities hit. There would be a lot of broken bones out there, even some internal injuries. Not Finn's problem. The ship medics would get to them, the worst injuries going to med bay. Her job would be to take care of the injuries to the ship.
If she didn't pass out from the pseudogravity pulling all of the blood to the back of her brain, leaving nothing to feed her reasoning centers. Or if she didn't join a cloud of spreading plasma that would be all that was left of the ship if it was hit too hard.
“Vector change,” shouted a computer voice over the intercom. In high gee it was difficult to talk, but the automatic systems were keeping everyone informed. The bed started to move, turning to adjust to the changing vector.
“Brace for impact,” continued the computer generated voice. “Brace for impact.”
“Fuck,” whispered the petty officer with what little breath she could gather. Impact could be a hammer blow that threw everything around. Or a penetration of the hull, sucking unarmored people out into space. Or the sudden blackness from which there was no return.
Vibrations came through the bulkheads and into the bed. Counter missiles flung out by accelerator tubes, close in weapon systems firing. And then the hammer blow. No vibrations this time, but a slam from the side that caused panic. Finn sure that she was dead. The bed ejected even more of the soft restraints, sealing her into a protective cocoon. Just in time to protect her from the second hammer blow, coming just over a second after the first. The lights dimmed for a second, and she lost contact with the ship's computer that was in constant touch with her implant. A couple of seconds later everything came back online. Warships were nothing if not redundant, and every power system and wifi hot spot was back and running almost instantly.
“Self diagnostic,” Finn said with slurred speech, repeating the same command mentally over her implant.
“Minor contusions and bruising throughout your body. Diagnosing a stage three concussion. Recommendation, sedation until medical personnel can see to you.”
“Belay that procedure,” she ordered. This wasn't the time to baby herself, no matter how serious the injuries. She didn't have internal bleeding, or at least not enough to worry about for the moment. “Ordering stimulant injection, along with a booster of nanites.”
“Confirmed,” answered the computer.
“And release my power armor from its cubby,” was her next order as the euphoria of drugs and nanites swept through her like a healing wave.
The wall panel nearest her bed slid to the side, revealing the storage compartment that housed her engineering armor. The suits was similar to the heavy armor used by Imperial infantry and marines, much more stout than the medium suits used by the rest of the crew. Diagnostic holos came up, placed in the three dimensional space by her implant. Everything looked good, all systems go and fully charged, as was to be expected in the self servicing cubby.
“Release me and open the suit.”
“Advise caution,” replied her mechanical mother, but the suit moved out of the cubby on its frame and opened, ready for her to mount it.
“Understood. Show priority damage points.”
A series of holos sprang into existence around her as she pulled herself out of the bed and put her feet on the floor. Finn noted that the gravity had dropped, though she still felt the vibrations of working grabber units through her feet. Meaning the ship still had power, and was boosting.
She looked over at the holo that was blinking red, her mind linking and gathering the data. Potential reactor breach. That one she would ignore, as best she could. There were plenty of people in engineering to deal with that, and more hands would just get in the way.
The second holo started blinking as she rejected the first. This one a hull breach, dozens of compartments and corridors open to space. Most of those compartments had been scoured clean of life, though there was a possibility that some people might have survived. If they were in their armor they might survive. Anyone who wasn't was surely dead, and this wasn't the time for body recovery. She rejected that holo and moved on to the next, first glancing at the overall damage schematic of the ship.
The Northrup was a mess, with more red than green showing on the holo. The port side had taken the most damage, particles and plasma burning deep into the ship. She was on the starboard side, but there were still hull breaches that reached around the curve of the hull. The fleet carrier was about the size of a battle cruiser, with less armor than the light capital ship. It wasn't meant to go into a slugging match with other ships. Its whole reason for being was to launch its fighters, recover them, then launch them again. It still had all the safety systems of a warship. Fire suppression, plasma fields, redundant systems. Its reactor and antimatter storage containers were just as heavily armored as those of a battleship. Good thing, or the ship would already be gone.
The third holo looked like a good place for her to be. Three interconnected compartments that were surrounded by vacuum, with dozens of crew, most without their suits of course, trapped in them. The diagnostic indicated that there were ten or so soft suits, and two of battle armor, in the spaces. Not enough for the people within. There were weak points in the bulkheads that might give way if the ship took even a light hit. A quick perusal found some other areas of concern, but nothing that couldn't wait, or didn't have o
ther damage control teams already assigned.
“Finn reporting in,” she sent to the local damage control center as she backed into her suit. Her arms, legs and body fit into the cushioned compartments, her head against the rear of the helmet. The probe went into the port in her neck, giving her a physical connection between her brain and the suit's computer. The open parts of the suit closed around her sealing her in, as numerous needles poked into her flesh, allowing the devices to connect to her biological systems. She grunted slightly as it made the sanitary connections that would take her wastes and recycle them. The seals shut, and the nanites in the skin welded it together, making the seams as strong as any other part of the suit.
Diagnostics came up on the HUD, everything at full power. She took a step forward, the suit moving like it was part of her.
“Agreed,” came back the reply of the damage control officer. “Good to see that you made it. I'm sending out orders to nearby personnel to join your group.”
The names and com links of nine spacers came up on her HUD, giving her command of them.
“Peters, you and Chou grab the heavy laser cutters. Yanotov, you and Shakira get some environmental bubbles. Let's get this thing done.”
If they got those two dozen odd people out of the compartments and to places where they could mate with suits, that would be more bodies to work on getting things back to working order. Though, having looked over the schematic, she didn't think anything short of a shipyard was going to get Northrup back together. If it didn't get hit again, and make all of their efforts useless.
* * *
“Incoming missiles,” shouted the voice over the intercom. “Brace for Impact.”
“What the fuck,” shouted Corporal Charles Han as he sat up in his chair. “Brace for impact.?”
The corporal was in the company ready room, looking over the new additions to his suit. He had been going over and over the schematics, getting ready to use the armor in combat. The new mods included upgraded sensors that would read the heat signatures of everything within a hundred meters, specifying whether they were Caca or not. Maybe enough to save a unit from an ambush. Maybe not, but he was willing to put in the time to make sure he had a complete understanding of how everything worked. The suit was open in front of him, ready for him to mount and examine the new systems from within.
“Emergency boost in five seconds,” called out another voice.
Han didn't need an explanation of that. In less than five seconds things were going to get very heavy around here. Anyone not in an acceleration couch, or the tanks, was going to have a very bad day. There were a couple of the couches in the bay, troopers already sitting on them. And not one tank.
The corporal had always been quick on his feet, and even when his mind reeled in panic his body start to move. Standing, turning, and backing into his suit. With a mental command the battle armor started to make the connections, the probe going into the port in the back of his neck, needles in various points piercing his flesh. The suit closed, the nanite infused skin welding it shut and making it one continuous piece of armor.
A thought went through Han's mind in a fleeting flash that the suit wouldn't save him if the ship took a direct hit from a high relativistic missile. Of course, without the suit he would have been flung into a bulkhead and suffered numerous broken bones and internal injuries.
He started to pull up the diagnostic when what felt like the hammer of the gods struck the ship. The suit left the deck, propelled by the change in inertia toward a bulkhead. Its own grabbers cut in, slowing it in its trajectory into the hard metal of the ship. It was still a hard hit, and Han felt himself grasped by the cushioning of the suit, though nothing could keep his brain from slamming against his skull. The hazy confusion of the concussion made thinking difficult, but he forced himself to stay aware enough to make sure all of the suit's systems were booted up.
“Recommend shut down of Corporal Han,” said the suit computer. “However, due to the circumstances, recommend nanite injections.”
“Do it,” gasped Han, sending the mental commands which moved the armor under his control.
The soothing warmth of the nanite injection, billions of tiny robots that went to immediate work doing spot repairs on his internal systems, most importantly the brain, flooded his body.
We survived, thought the corporal, disbelief and gratitude warring within his thoughts. He didn't know what had happened, what had hit him. His suit computer was locked out of the ship's systems, the Fleet types not wanting some dumb grunt messing with their programs. It was obvious that something big had hit them. A missile? It was also obvious that it hadn't been traveling at a killing velocity, since the ship was still here.
“Incoming missiles,” shouted a panicked voice over the intercom. “Prepare for impact.”
“All nonessential personnel,” came another voice, this one with the edge of authority. “Abandon ship. Repeat, get your asses off this ship as fast as you can.”
Han didn't need to be told twice. His suit accessed the one system on the ship he had the authority to view. The corridor outside this compartment led to an airlock about a hundred meters toward the bow. He wasn't thinking about getting aboard a shuttle or a life pod. Too many people would be trying to get into them, and the spacers would have all the advantages of knowing where to go. The suit would have to do. It could supposedly keep him alive and fed for well over a week. He was hoping it wouldn't take that long, but there were no guarantees. And he still had to make it to the outer hull and into space before the ship breached its antimatter.
Chapter Sixteen
Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories. Sun Tzu
“Incoming missiles,” said the flat computer voice. “Incoming missiles. Estimated impact in twenty-seven seconds.”
Vice Admiral Cawrast Garasra shook his feathered head at that last pronouncement. The computer system knew very well when those missiles would reach him. What it didn't know was whether or not they would generate hits. That part was up to him and his crews.
“How many?” he shouted.
“It looks to be around ten thousand, sir,” reported his tactical officer. “Electronic jamming is making it hard to get an accurate count.”
The count was close enough for his needs. That many missiles could hurt but not kill his force. How bad he was hurt depended on the skill of the defensive fire crews and systems. And, much as any commander hated to admit it, luck.
“All destroyers and cruisers are to head for their interception points,” he ordered, watching as those vessels took off at maximum acceleration well before they heard his order. He couldn't fault them on that, though he was very glad that his battleship wasn't tasked for that kind of mission. No, they were protecting his capital ships, which would do their best to protect the transports and assault ships among them. The destroyers couldn't take many hits, if even one, so they had to depend on their weapons and maneuverability to avoid being destroyed. Looking at the number of missiles coming in, boosting at fifteen thousand gravities, the admiral doubted any of them had that kind of maneuverability. The light cruisers had a little bit more survivability. Probably not enough. His couple of battle cruisers, well ahead of the main force, were better able to survive hits, though a relativistic missile would blast one of them out of space. The same was true for his battleships. Fortunately, the missiles were not traveling that fast, and his ships had been in decel for a couple of hours, getting prepared to enter the orbit of the planet some dozen hours ahead. Over the distance the missiles were traveling they would be up to at best point one light. The ships added point three seven light to that closing speed. A battleship could survive dozens of those kind of hits, even with the gigaton warheads. How combat ready those ships would be was another question.
He glanced over at the plot, his heart sinking as he saw what was left of his outer force. Only one carrier was still on the plot, at emergency boost and heading away from the enemy, a continge
nt of over forty destroyers and light cruisers taking the rear and attempting to provide missile defense. There were a trio of logistics ships, two tankers and a freighter, also on the plot, boosting at angles in an attempt to get away. Those ships were dead. The enemy would kill them, since even at emergency boost they couldn't do much more than three hundred gravities.
And what about the other three carriers? he thought, raging inside. That they were not on the plot only meant that they weren't boosting. They might still be there, heavily damaged. But the admiral doubted they were anything but plasma at this point.
“Admiral Garasra,” came a familiar voice as a holo formed in the air to the side of the system plot.
“Your Grace. I'm kind of busy here.”
“Understood. I just wanted to let you know that I have ordered the nearest force to head for your system. A scout force group. Sixteen battle cruisers and their complement of light cruisers and destroyers. They will be there in fifteen hours. So hang on.”
Garasra wasn't sure what help something fifteen hours away was going to do. And if this was all the enemy was going to send at him, he thought he could handle it.
“Understood,” said the vice admiral, turning his attention back to what was going on in his space.
The carriers and logistics ships were almost all gone. The three battleships out there were still in the fight, and from the readings they had only sustained light damage, if any. Seven light cruisers and thirty-six destroyers were still in the fight. Two of the cruisers and six destroyers were closely shadowing the damaged carrier, doing their best to ward off any attacks. Most of the rest were arrayed around the battle wagons, which were launching volleys of missiles in the direction the enemy weapons had come from. Some twenty were still far back, boosting at full speed to catch up to the other ships while taking out enemy missiles in passing.
There were no warp fighters on the plot, and the admiral feared that most had died on their ships. Even the damaged carrier wasn't launching, a bad sign. Damaged launch bays? Hits that flooded those bays with white hot plasma? Whichever it was, the fighters were not appearing, and the ship's com seemed to be out. Klassekian casualties? And he was missing a vital resource that would help him immeasurably here in the system.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 17: The Rebirth Page 17