“No danger of that, Supreme Lord. With your permission, we will not be going into the system. We will, however, be sending wormhole launches at them.”
The ambush force had two wormholes, one aboard the stealth ship and one configured as a gate. The stealth ship was currently out of the battle. Mrastaran was not willing to risk the few ships of that class for little return. It had already accounted for several of the enemy ships, possibly the three carriers. The gate was being used much as he had used them on the other front, though the masses of the missile swarms would be lighter.
“Keep me informed, Lokasure. I have another battle to watch.”
The holos faded, replaced by another pair, as another male admiral made his report. There were actually four ambushes occurring at near the same time. Mrastaran had hoped for simultaneous attacks, but things didn't work that way across space. The fleets weren't moving on the same time frame. Some were almost to their target planets, while one was just starting to move into the system. Mrastaran thought that a fifth ambush might have to be canceled, since those ships would have to get warning before they were in the proper position for the kill. He could still attack, but that ambushing force would probably be lost. Not an outcome he desired. Still, four ravaged fleets for little enemy return was a more than satisfactory outcome.
Dismissing the last reporting admiral, Mrastaran pulled up an area plot and pondered the next targets. These ambushes would be triggered by other fleets, the ones engaged now given a break. If the enemy started assuming his orders of battle he would be able to pull more surprises on them. Confusion to the enemy was a toast used in the enemy military, and he wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment. Confusion to the enemy could only benefit his plans.
* * *
“We have another launch, from port,” called out the fleet tactical officer.
When is this going to end, thought Admiral Garasra, sitting up in his seat. First an attack from port, then one from starboard about two minutes later. Now this one, from port again. Could he expect another from starboard. And how long would this go on.
The enemy had hurt his force. He had lost four battleships, a battle cruiser, three transports and over two dozen cruisers and destroyers. So far he was holding up well, and the second attack had actually done less damage than the first. That was due to all the ships being at battle stations, ready on the trigger. And re-purposing the wormhole launchers to send groups of counters into the enemy swarms. He wondered when the enemy would realize that letting his ships get closer before they revealed themselves with launches would be a better strategy. They still had to launch within fifteen light minutes of the main fleet, else the forward scouts pick them up with active sensors.
“Keep the starboard screens in position,” he ordered, sure that there would be another from that quarter soon after this one was taken care of.
“Another launch, sir. From above.”
That was alarming, and the perfect launch to make all of his screens respond.
“Starboard screens are to boost up to take care of that one. If one come in from below, the port screen will react.”
When would the next one come in, and from what direction? And counters were becoming a concern. Each incoming launch was taking four or five counter volleys. Warships carried a large number of the defensive missiles, and numerous launchers. Still, it wasn't intended that they could take on hour after hour of attacks without running dry.
“The rearmost wormhole equipped battleships are to start taking counters in through their portals,” he ordered, second guessing himself at the same time. “They are to be shuttled over to the other ships by every available craft.”
It would be a tedious process, and one that would probably not keep up with the expenditure. But it would delay his ships running dry, or so he hoped.
“I think we have another concern, Admiral,” said the chief of staff, reporting in from the battleship CIC. “We know they launched from a wormhole in the outer system. Possibly a pair. And I think we will have missiles entering engagement range with us soon.”
“Good point,” said Garasra, looking over at the plot and deciding on the course change he wanted. “In thirty seconds I want all ships to execute this vector change. Down and to port. That will force them to change vectors on the way in.”
The greatest danger of a wormhole launch, along with the velocity of the missiles, was their tendency to be invisible most of the way in, giving the target little time to react. But if the target moved from its expected position the missiles would have to change vectors from quite a ways out, giving them away.
The admiral thought that the days of forging into a system in a straight line were done. From now on ships would have to zig zag in transit, increasing the time to reach their destination even more. More tactics to slow down the advance of the allied fleets. Tactics the alliance would be forced to acknowledge.
* * *
“Just hold on in there and we'll have you out,” said Marcia Finn over the com.
“We have people in here without suits,” replied the person she thought of as the spokesman for the compartment. “And a lot of injured who can't move on their own.”
The spacer hadn't identified themselves, and she hadn't asked. If she was given an order that didn't make sense she would find out who that command was coming from. If they outranked her, a definite possibility, she would refer them to her commander. Who would assuredly back her up. After all, she was the expert here on damage control and rescue operations.
“I know that,” she replied, waving the two ratings over who were carrying the portable airlock. “Now let me get to work.”
The man on the other side of the com remained silent, for which she was thankful. Pulling up a schematic of the bulkhead, highlighting the actual structure, she used a laser pointer and highlighted where she wanted the end of the airlock to go. The ratings moved it into place and she moved in to lend a hand. The end in place she activated the resident nanites, waiting a moment for them to seal the lock to the bulkhead. That done she extended the lock out to it full three meter length, the other end pushing up against the opposite bulkhead. It too locked into place. The few struts locked, the tough plastic fabric pulling taut . She pulled the hatch around till it was facing her, then locked it in place as well. Pulling it open, she stepped into the lock and marked with laser light where she wanted the hatch into the compartment to be.
“I hope they're keeping the reactor under control,” said one of the ratings. “Be sad to waste time on a rescue only to have all of us go up in plasma.”
“Not our worry,” said Finn, though she cringed inside at the thought. “This is our battle now, and we need to pay attention to detail. One of you make sure we have medics here when I get this thing open.
“To the people in the compartment,” she said, switching back to the common rescue circuit of the ship. “Can you see the light of the laser marker.”
“We see it,” answered the spokesman.
“Use that as a marker to stay clear. We're starting the cut.”
She made sure the hatch behind her was closed, then activated the air tank she had carried in. When the lock was up to an operational pressure she signaled for one of the ratings to begin cutting. That spacer took the laser cutter and started to work on the bulkhead, carefully adjusting the depth so that the bleed through was shallow, lest some idiot in the compartment not follow her instructions and stand too close.
More spacers in engineering armor came hurrying into the corridor, carrying a number of rescue suits, including some cylinders meant to move the injured. Along with them was a trained corpsman. More advanced medical care would have to wait until they made it to med bay.
“I'm through,” said the spacer with the torch. “Now cutting up and around.”
The bulkhead was made of strong alloy, though without the armor of the outer hull. The laser torch made short work of it, a reminder of how fast a ship borne laser could burn through things after p
enetrating the hull. Sparks flew, metal flowed, and the cut worked its way around until it met up with the beginning of the slice. With a swift kick of her suit foot Finn sent the cut piece into the chamber to hit the floor.
“Wait,” she ordered as people started heading toward her. “I need to get this hatch in place.”
The people inside, especially those outside of suits, looked confused, but they stopped in their tracks. Finn pulled the next hatch open, converting it from a small square to a one by two meter frame. She inserted it into the cut, it filling out and forming a tight seal, then activated the nanites to weld it into place. The soft hatch appeared in the center. Touching the panel to the right side caused the hatch to fold open, and Finn walked into the room.
“We're going to take four people out who are already in suits,” she said, pointing at a couple of the people prepared for vacuum. “Then we will move rescue suits and evacuation cylinders in to get those not protected out.”
“The injured should go first,” said the man who had been communicating with her prior.
“We need to get some of you out, open the lock, and get the rescue equipment in.”
“But..”
“No arguments, Lieutenant,” she replied in a forceful tone, recognizing the insignia on his suit. “I am in charge of this operation. If you want, I can get the captain involved.”
She wasn't sure if the captain had time to get involved, but invoking the name of the highest authority on the ship was the best she could do.
The officer went silent, but he joined the other three they were going to get off first. Soon they were in the lock and Finn had closed the hatch. She could see them through the transparent covering, nodding to herself as they opened the other hatch after evacuating the air, then filing out. Another of her people stepped in, turning to grab a rack of rescue suits, then four of the evacuation cylinders. The rating closed the outer hatch, reinflated the lock, and Finn pressed the tab to open the inner.
There were seven injured laying on the deck, all with inflatable casts over at least one arm or leg. Finn didn't want to move them until the medic gave them a once over, so she threw the eight rescue suits on the floor and waited for the first eight to get to them to put them on. She moved four into the hatch and resealed it.
“Incoming missiles,” chimed over her com. “Prepare for impact.”
Christ. Not again. But it was going to keep happening, again and again, until they had finally escaped, or had been blown out of space. She knew for a fact that she didn't want to be captured, and took comfort in the fact that the captain wouldn't want that either.
* * *
“That was the last of them, ma'am,” called out the tactical officer.
Merkle looked at a plot that was free of incoming missiles, for the moment, while some of the missiles from the battleships, those that hadn't detonated close to the enemy weapons, were still on the way out. What it wasn't free of were enemy ships, boosting at full power, slowly closing the distance. And surely they would launch another volley, soon.
“I have a count on the enemy vessels, ma'am,” said the sensor officer, wiping the sweat from her brow, her helmet visor open.
Everyone's anxious, thought the captain, stifling a laugh at the silly notion. The bridge was cool, but anxiety produced its own heat. She had just received the report that the flag bridge was gone, Commodor Hough with it, which meant she was in charge of the whole force. Not how she had wanted to achieve higher command, but there it was.
“Give it to me.”
“Twenty of their superbattleships. Thirty-three cruisers. The rest are scouts, one hundred and three, no one hundred and five of them.”
That wouldn't have been an overwhelming force for the main fleet. To her reduced force, it was like a sure doom was on their tails.
“Do we have any open hangars?”
“The damage control teams are still working on the ones with fighters, ma'am,” said a crestfallen officer.
“What about the others?”
“Hangars four and seven are open, ma'am. But they have no intact fighters.”
“What about warp missiles? Are there any in the hangars. Reloads for the fighters.”
“Why, yes ma'am,” said the tactical officer, a look of confusion on his face. “But we have no launching platforms.”
“Could you set them adrift in space, aimed at the enemy? Then trigger them remotely?”
“Well, I think so,” said the suddenly elated officer. “We have two hundred in each hangar, ready reloads for the fighters. And eight hundred more in the central magazines.”
“Get all you can into space, I know that won't include those in the magazines, but you can get them moved and ready to fire. And go ahead and set up our own wormhole as a launch platform. Might as well use it to send more relativistic missiles at them.”
“Yes, ma'am. Will do.”
She wasn't sure how much good this was going to do her, but anything added to her firepower was welcome.
* * *
“We have warp missiles on the plot,” called out the tactical officer. “Four hundred of them.”
That would mean a hundred of their fighters, thought Admiral Lokasure, eyes opening wide in surprise. A carrier like that only holds a hundred and twenty of so, and with the damage they took, they couldn't have that many functional.
“Any tracks on their fighters?”
“No, my Lord. They... My Lord, we have incoming missiles. A hundred and twenty of them, coming in at point nine five light.”
Just wonderful, thought the admiral. He had enough ships to handle them, though he was sure to lose some ships to both types of missiles. Hopefully only scouts. He intended to totally destroy the enemy force, and bring the most ships possible back to serve the Emperor.
“Starting counter fire,” called out the tactical officer. The battleship shuddered as it started cycling counters, putting out a wave that would thin out the enemy missiles, leaving the rest for the lasers. But what about the warp missiles”
“Are we ready with the warp lances?”
“All the ships with them are getting them powered up,” called out the tactical officer, turning his attention away from the targeting holos for a moment.
Lokasure glared at the younger male, his expression making the officer cringe in fear. He kept his tongue in check for the moment, though he was tempted to order an immediate execution. But as the Emperor said, dead warriors learned nothing, and he was sure from the flush of the male's face that he would never make that same mistake.
The admiral wished that he had some warp fighters of his own, but Mrastaran was hording the new production for some reason, some major operation he was counting on their numbers for. Great for the future, but Lokasure thought he could really use them now, if only in an antimissile role.
The relativistic missiles were falling off the plot, but it was apparent that some were going to get through. Maybe a dozen out of the sixty, and most of those would fall from to the laser batteries. The warp missiles were moving through the counter fire as if it didn't exist, their speed and evasive maneuvers making it almost impossible for the defensive weapons to engage. A few hit, really just luck. They were moving too fast for the lasers to handle. A chance hit lasting microseconds would not get through the warps bubbles surrounding the missiles, and those were really the only type of hit they could expect.
A scout flashed on the plot, then disappeared, hit by a fast moving missile that converted it to plasma. Then another, then a cruiser. The remaining six missiles all flared as their brains decided they weren't about to make a hit, and went for the proximity damage.
Now the only threat were the warp missiles, none of which carried a true ship killer warhead, and by their lack of momentum they could do little more than tear through the hull in a narrow hole so their warhead could go off under the armor. Still, twelve scouts stopped boosting, only their momentum still carrying them forward. A cruiser took two hits, with the same result, and
one of his battleships was hit as well, though its damage was minor.
“Send another volley at them,” he ordered, his rage at his losses bubbling within. “And keep firing until they're gone. I want them dead and us out of here.”
* * *
Han had never thought he could feel both bored and terrified at the same time, but here he was. There was nothing to do except keep boosting in what he hoped was a good direction, while scared out of his wits that something would suddenly appear to take him out. Of course, nothing would ever appear. Things out here moved too fast. He wouldn't know he was hit. Just one second there, a microsecond later, gone. Han didn't really believe in an afterlife, and of course he couldn't really believe that the universe would continue without him.
“Forty minutes till schedule electromagnetic field drop,” said the suit's computer.
Another problem. When the field dropped he was going to fry in the radiation storm all around him. He was still getting a harmful dose, between the neutrons the field couldn't stop and the leakage of gamma radiation through his suit armor. Of course he could leave the field up until he ran out of power, and then drift through space taking the full brunt of radiation while the suit grew cold. A choice between radiation poisoning and hypothermia. That last would probably be the easiest way to go, and in fact, if he did freeze, he might come out of it if he was picked up and given treatment. Not that he expected that to happen.
Checking his com suite he was gratified to see that he was still sending out a distress signal. That was great, except all the ships in the area might just be too busy to come to the rescue of a single infantryman. If they even picked up his signal with all the static that had to be flooding this region of space.
“Picking up missile launch ahead,” called out the suit's computer.
The suit didn't have the capabilities of a ship, and whatever it was picking up was a fuzzy return. Still, it could tell there were weapons out there, if not the total number, and that they were heading in his general direction. He wouldn't see them pass, they would be moving too fast. He wouldn't feel them in passing, since there was no atmosphere to move with them. If they were, one passing close by would pull him along in a fierce tumble. Ham definitely wouldn't feel one if it hit him. He would be dead in what had to be record time.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 17: The Rebirth Page 19