"Captain, the lead Whirlwind has cut her sail adrift. All three WarShips have turned onto an intercept bearing. I think they mean to engage."
"What about the Invader?"
"She's still furling her sail." Held never took his eyes off his displays. "Hey, I've got a power spike in her engineering section. I think she's trying to hot-load her jump engines. Captain, she's trying to get away."
Winslow flinched slightly at the news. If the Invader was successful in diverting power from her fusion engines to her hyperspace drives, the ship could jump outsystem before the Ranger could close to effective firing range. On the other hand, if the technicians working in the hot, cramped confines of the JumpShip's engine room weren't excessively careful, they could inflict serious damage on the fusion plant and jump drives. Whether they'd make it or not depended greatly upon the skill of the Clan ship's engine techs, and how much of a charge they'd been able to collect with their jump sail.
Winslow turned slightly, until she could see Lieutenant Commander Fontanazza, the weapons system officer, out of the corner of her right eye.
"Mr. Fontanazza, lock the White Sharks onto the Invader. We don't want her escaping."
"Yessir." The Com Guard officer's fingers flew over the weapons control panel. Like Winslow, Fontanazza was a woman. Naval tradition stretching back centuries to the blue-water navies of Terra dictated that all officers, regardless of gender, be addressed as "Mister."
"Sir," Fontanazza called as she finished her calculations. "Missile control reports that only the portside launcher will bear on the Invader."
"Very well." Winslow gritted out the words between clenched teeth. "Lock the portside Shark onto the target. Helm, come left fifteen degrees. Launch control, stand by to launch fighters. Gun crews, stand by to engage as your weapons bear.
"Mr. Held, call off range to target."
"Four-seven-zero kilometers, and closing."
"Mr. Fontanazza, fire the Shark when you've got optimum range for a good hit. Then reload and fire at will. Weapons will be free at three hundred-sixty kilometers."
* * *
"I do not care what your instruments tell you. I want those stravag drives charged, now!"
Star Captain Hector was livid. His close-cropped, white-blonde hair seemed to bristle with rage above his flashing cloud-gray eyes. It had been almost fifteen minutes since the Ursus reported the first faint traces of the electromagnetic pulse and infrared flare that accompanied an arriving JumpShip. Since that time, Hector had been railing at his engineering staff, mostly made up of free-birth technicians, pushing them to get the Winter Wind's jump drives on line. He'd had no evidence that the incoming vessels were hostile, but no ship captain worth the name liked being caught lying helpless, with half-charged engines, by an incoming ship of unknown origin and possibly hostile intent. It sometimes happened that WarShips from one Clan would declare a Trial of Possession against those belonging to another. Not often, but often enough to make a good ship captain aware of the possible threat to his vessel.
The Star Captain had been living up to his name, treating the lower-caste techs with contempt that bordered on abuse. He could not boast that he understood the workings of an Invader Class JumpShip. All he knew was that the jump drives had to be fully charged before he could attempt to take his ship outsystem. He understood that by using the Wind's jump sail, the engines would reach minimum usable charge in another five hours, but the unidentified WarShips appeared less than six hundred kilometers from the four-ship detachment. Though his vessel was not a WarShip, he ached to come to grips with the enemy. Only the understanding that he was charged with the safety of the Winter Wind's passengers and cargo tempered Hector's lust for battle.
The Winter Wind had been detailed to transport three DropShips, each carrying scores of freeborn civilians being relocated to planets within the Ghost Bears Occupation Zone. He had a few Elementals aboard, simply because Clan military doctrine required the presence of security troops on all starships, whether they be combat vessels or no. Of his three DropShips, two were troop transports. The third was a Broadsword, loaded with a Striker Star of mixed-weight OmniMechs.
Three WarShips had been detailed to protect the civilian cargo. The flagship Shining Claw, a Congress Class frigate, was the heaviest vessel in the flotilla. A pair of Whirlwind Class destroyers, the Fire Fang and the Ursus, rounded out the little fleet. A fleet that was now under attack.
"Star Captain, the nearest unknown now reads as a Lola III Class destroyer." There was a note of horror in the sensor technician's voice. "Her markings indicate that she's a Com Guard ship."
"What? Here?" Hector wheeled on the man, nearly smashing the tech into the control panel in his haste to get a look at his enemy. "It cannot be. The Inner Sphere surats have no WarShips, certainly none of that class. You must be mistaken. Check your instruments."
The image displayed on the small viewscreen gave the lie to Hector's words. The approaching vessel was still too far away for even the Wind's powerful sensors to make out her fine details. But the odd circle star with downward pointing beams painted on her forward superstructure was very clear. Hector could scarcely bring himself to admit it, but the conclusion was inescapable. The intruding starships could be nothing but an Inner Sphere invasion force.
Hector leapt back to his command console, where he mashed a button on the ship's intercom with a thickly callused thumb.
"Gun crews to their stations. Charge the point defense weapons. Elementals stand by, we may be boarded."
Any reply was lost in the sensor operator's alarmed shout.
"Star Captain, I detect fire control radar. They have locked their missiles onto us."
* * *
"Range to target, three hundred kilometers." Chief Held called from his station aboard the Ranger. Then, more sharply. "Captain, he's got his jump drives on line."
"That's it. We can't wait." Mercia Winslow whirled to face her weapons officer. "Mr. Fontanazza, confirm missile lock and shoot."
Three seconds ticked by while Fontanazza checked her instruments.
"Lock confirmed . . . missile away."
The Ranger trembled faintly as the forty-ton missile streaked from its launch tube.
For the first time in nearly two hundred years, an Inner Sphere WarShip had fired its weapons in anger.
* * *
"Launch, launch, launch! The enemy has launched a missile! The missile has acquired and is homing!"
"Weapons officer! Status of the PPCs?" Hector didn't need the panic-tinged shout from the sensor operator. He had seen the launch flare himself.
"PPCs are charged and manned, Star Captain," came the reply from behind him.
"Target the missile and fire as the weapons bear."
The Ghost Bear warrior knew that the Wind's particle projection cannons were simply larger versions of those weapons fitted to the OmniMechs in his hold. They were intended for intercepting stray asteroids and other such space debris that might puncture the relatively thin skin of the JumpShip. Compared to an asteroid, a missile was a relatively tiny object. The PPCs, in their big, clumsy turrets, stood no chance of successfully engaging the swiftly approaching missile. Still, the alternative was to simply await the shattering impact of the massive ship-killer. To sit idly, resigned to death, was not Clan-like.
"Starboard PPC firing," Crewman Adin announced from his position at weapons control. "PPC missed. Recharging."
Before Hector could respond to the calmly rendered death sentence, the White Shark missile slammed into the Wind's starboard side just abaft the bridge module. The weapon, intended to penetrate several layers of hardened armor before exploding, ripped through the Invader's thin skin, shattering hull plates as it went. Then, a fraction of a second later, the warhead detonated.
Eight thousand kilos of high explosive shredded most of the Wind's minimal armor. The JumpShip shuddered under the impact. Star Captain Hector was thrown to the deck, to the accompaniment of a sickening crunch, as his l
eft shoulder dislocated under his falling body.
"Freebirth!" Hector snarled in anger as he rolled to his feet, ignoring the fiery pain of his useless arm. "Damage report..."
The order went unfinished as a trio of heavy naval lasers drove lances of intense energy deep into the still-smoking wound left by the White Shark missile.
Again, the Wind seemed to flinch in pain and surprise. A loud metallic bang resounded through the ship.
"What in the name of Kerensky was that?" Hector screamed at the chief engineer.
The technician, a trueborn who had failed his training as an aerospace pilot, faced the fuming warrior, shock, fear, and sadness gouging deep furrows in his face.
"I am sorry, Star Captain. We have lost both our field initiator and drive controller. We cannot initiate jump sequence. The Winter Wind is dead."
"Aye," Hector said, gritting his teeth. The physical pain of his injuries meant nothing compared to the disgrace of having his ship disabled beneath him. "To all hands, stand by to repel boarders."
24
Battle Cruiser ISS Invisible Truth
Unnamed Star System
Deep Periphery
15 December 3059 1825 Hours
Morgan Hasek-Davion watched in fascination as the Invisible Truth's holotank displayed the unfolding engagement in three-dimensional real-time images. The lead vessel of the task force was barely three hundred kilometers away from the Clan Invader when the image flickered. Several tiny flashes illuminated the holographic ship's arrow-shaped profile. The alphanumeric string, which revealed little to Morgan's decidedly ground-bound intellect, shifted. A number that had been quickly increasing from eighty to one hundred suddenly flicked down to zero.
"Message from Ranger," a communications tech called out. "Captain Winslow reports enemy JumpShip engaged and disabled." The discrete Morgan had been so absorbed with had indicated the percentage to which the Invader's jump engines had been charged. The missile and laser hits had reduced that figure to zero. The ship would never jump again.
A cheer rang through the Invisible Truth's bridge. It was quickly snuffed out by Commodore Beresick.
"Silence on deck!" he snapped. "That's one kill, gentlemen. May I remind you that there are still three WarShips out there. This fight's not over."
Properly chastened, the bridge crew turned their attention back to the flickering, glowing monitors. With a "harrumph" of satisfaction, Beresick leaned close to Morgan, a thin, boyish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Truth be told," he whispered. "I wanted to cheer too."
"Me too, Commodore. Me too," Morgan said. As Beresick straightened, the proud grin vanished from his features.
"Mister Coote, message to the Haruna." The Commodore reeled off a set of instructions that were recorded, compressed, and transmitted to the Combine warship via a secure laser-based communications link. When boiled down into plain language, the message was simple. "Board and capture the Invader."
* * *
True to the motto emblazoned in both kanji and Western letters above the Haruna's main viewscreen, Captain Randolph DeMoise did "Anticipate the command." Commodore Beresick had not even finished transmitting the order to close with the crippled Clan JumpShip when the Kyushu Class frigate suddenly accelerated toward the disabled Invader.
"All batteries, stand ready," DeMoise called out. There was a ring in his voice, like the sound of a steel blade being drawn for the first time; a beautiful, joyous, deadly sound. "That JumpShip is a fat prize, and I don't think the Clanners are going to let us take her for free."
"Captain, we have an enemy destroyer moving to cut us off. The Warbook IDs it as a Whirlwind."
DeMoise checked an auxiliary monitor set into his command console. The detailed identification program provided by the Explorer Corps indicated that the vessel trying to interpose itself between the Haruna and the crippled Invader was a pre-Star League design, originally intended as a fast-attack ship. Heavily armored and well armed, it massed about a hundred thousand tons less than his Kyushu. The destroyer, with its heavy naval lasers, autocannons, and Gauss cannons, would give the lightly armed Haruna a good, tough fight. If there was a bright spot in the data flickering on the screen before him, it was the Whirlwind's absence of DropShip support. Lacking DropShips, and with berthing space for only two Stars of fighters, the destroyer couldn't throw up much of a defensive screen. The Haruna could support four DropShips and a full squadron of eighteen fighters. It would be a near thing, but DeMoise had confidence in his ship and crew.
* * *
Sixty kilometers ahead of the Haruna, and somewhat to starboard, the Ranger was making history again. After firing the shots that scored the first capital ship-to-capital ship kill of the offensive, Captain Mercia Winslow ordered the helm over thirty degrees to port. In seconds, the Ranger was arrowing directly toward the Clan WarShips.
"Captain," Lorraine Fontanazza said excitedly. Her voice held the knowledge that she had launched the attack that scored the first major kill of the campaign. "Range to the Congress, now two-eight-zero kilometers. That's inside missile range."
"Very well, Mr. Fontanazza," Winslow acknowledged. "Match generated bearings and shoot."
"Missiles locked . . . One away . . . Two away." As Fontanazza proclaimed the launch of each missile, the deck beneath Winslow's feet vibrated perceptibly from the energy necessary to propel nearly forty tons of steel and high explosives across the great distance to the target. "Missiles have acquired and are homing."
The Ranger's viewscreen gave the impression that the bridge crew was looking out through the destroyer's nose. In truth, the bridge was buried deep within the WarShip's armored hull. The viewscreen, mounted on the bridge bulkhead opposite the liftshafts, showed a tactical display generated by the ship's powerful Delta Trac-VII tracking system.
Winslow stared, almost mesmerized, as a pair of computer-generated blue arrowheads streaked toward the small red icon marking the faraway Congress. As the wedge-like symbols reached the target and merged with it, Lieutenant Held reported the hits. A moment later, he indicated that the Congress' thick nose armor had shrugged off the same amount of damage that had crippled the Invader moments before. The frigate boasted more than ten times the armored protection of the lighter JumpShip. It would take more than a pair of White Shark missiles to inflict serious harm on the massive combat vessel.
Suddenly, a new set of scarlet markers appeared alongside the Clan WarShip.
"Captain, the enemy has detached DropShips, I read both to be Union-Cs."
"Thank you, Mr. Held. Mr. Fontanazza, bring the forward laser batteries to bear on the DropShips. As soon as the missiles are reloaded, hit the Congress again." Winslow returned to her command station, where she checked a few readouts. "Mr. Held, range to target?"
"Range to Congress, now two-zero-zero kilometers. Range to DropShips, one-five-zero kilometers."
Winslow turned, gesturing sharply at a tall, impressively built officer, whose black skin and facial scars proclaimed that he had once been a noble of the Dulolur Clan of Alcor, in the Isle of Skye, before he joined the Com Guards.
"Mr. M'Basa, launch fighters."
"Aye, Captain," The Ranger's flight control officer replied. Turning to his control panel, M'Basa relayed the order in deep, booming tones. "Attention, all fighters, launch now, now, now."
* * *
Several decks below, a hardened ferro-carbide bay door split into four quarters, each of which withdrew into the ship's armored hull. No sooner had the electromagnetic clamps securing the iris port in its open position thudded into place than the cavernous launch bay was filled with the silent glare of a heavily armed GTHA-500 blasting away into the perpetual night of space. Quickly, a second Gotha fighter rocketed from the Ranger's hull, joining his wingman as he arrowed toward the onrushing Unions. In short order, four more pairs of aerospace fighters pushed high-G burns for the Clan DropShips.
"Badger, this is Too-tall," Lieutenant Donald Sandova
l shouted to his wingman. "I'm gonna cut across the lead bandit's nose. Try to convince him to sheer off."
"Right with ya, Tee-Tee." Elmer "Badger" Sarti, who had earned his nickname because of a natural white streak in his black hair, was enjoying himself immensely. He'd signed on with the Com Guards three weeks too late to take part in the cataclysmic battle for Tukayyid. With the truce now in force, he'd feared he would never get his chance to fly against the Clans.
Sandoval lit off his fighter's overthrusters, bringing the ship to full power. Diving straight for the Union-C's blunt nose, he unleashed a shattering double volley of long-range missiles. The DropShip seemed to shudder. Then, like a ring-hardened boxer shaking off the feeble slaps of an enraged child, the big spheroid vessel struck back.
Laser pulses snapped past Sandoval's left wing as he hurled the Gotha into a gut-wrenching split-S. Air hissed into the legs of his G-suit as the ship's computer fought to keep the pilot's blood in his head and chest. Only a few of the Clan DropShip's volley-fired missiles struck home, pitting the thick ferro-aluminum skin of the Gotha's long, straight wings.
As Sandoval eased his stick back, pulling the fighter out of its twisting half loop, he caught sight of Badger's fork-hulled ship pressing home an attack against the Union-C's missile-scarred nose. Faintly, against the blackness of space, Too-tall saw the actinic muzzle flare of a Gauss rifle. Sarti's Gotha trembled as the giant pellet of nickel-iron smashed into its armored belly. Missiles and laser pulses laced the fighter's fuselage and wings.
"Badger, break left!" Too-tall shouted into the commline. "I'll cover you."
Slowly, far too slowly, the damaged fighter lifted its starboard wing. Something was wrong.
"Don, I—"
Sarti never finished his panicked cry. A second glittering ball slammed into the Gotha's already broken armor. Ferro-aluminum shards flew from the gaping wound. Threads of unthinkably powerful light speared the lurching ship. The Gotha's commline circuits melted, transmitting their own destruction as an almost human scream of pain. At least that's what Sandoval told himself that heart-ripping sound had been. The ruined fighter skittered off, out of control, thick, greasy vapor trailing from gaping rents in its armor.
Twilight of the clans III: the hunters Page 24