B009NFP2OW EBOK

by Douglas, Ian

  What Gray was counting on was the sheer difficulty in targeting incoming ships moving at near-c. Even for technologically advanced cultures like the Sh’daar and their clients, tracking incoming targets that were only scant seconds behind the light revealing their presence was a monumental task, requiring high-precision optical systems, tremendous computing power, and a great deal of luck. The easiest way to deal with an incoming fleet, actually, was to spread “O-mines,” drifting obstacles, in the ships’ paths—bits of debris, KK projectiles, even BB-sized pellets. With the ships moving at near-c, and the obstacles drifting into their paths at normal orbital speeds, the release of energy when they collided was astonishing. Clouds of sand worked particularly well . . . the origin of Gray’s nickname, his handle.

  The problem was that you had to know exactly where the target was going to be and make certain the obstacle was there at the same instant; even an exploded cargo ship full of sand rapidly dispersed when its cargo was sprayed across distances of more than a few tens of kilometers, and aiming the thing like a giant shotgun was more a matter of guesswork than precision. It was even tougher when the oncoming ships were jinking left-right, up-down, and giving the targeting networks electronic migraines.

  The Slan had not demonstrated any particular proficiency in targeting high-velocity warships as they passed.

  And Gray was counting on that to preserve his command during an Osiris fly-by.

  But a great deal depended on just where the enemy forces were placed when the USNA ships arrived, and how many of them there were.

  “Captain, this is Comm.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sir . . . a message drone just dropped out of metaspace twenty-three light minutes away, bearing one-one-five by zero-three-nine. The message is coded for us, sir. From the Joint Chiefs, and Mars.”

  “Let me see it.” Something from the Joint Chiefs was essentially from President Koenig himself. And having it come from HQMILCOM Mars made it doubly serious.

  “Message decoding, sir.”

  In Gray’s mind, the message came up in print.

  TO: Radm Jason Steiger, CO USNA CONTINGENT/CBG-40

  FROM: JCS AND CO/USNAMILCOM, MARS

  RE: Orders

  DATE/TIME: 14 November 2424/2340h

  PRIORITY MOST URGENT

  1. Confederation military forces have initiated hostilities against USNA base Tsiolkovsky on Luna and against periphery areas of the continental USNA. Initial actions successful but further attacks expected momentarily. It must be assumed that a state of civil war now exists within the Terran Confederation, and specifically involving USNA military forces against Confederation forces, particularly those of Pan-Europe.

  2. All USNA military vessels are hereby required and directed to return to Earth synchorbit at earliest opportunity.

  3. Use utmost caution in dealing with non-USNA Confederation vessels in the task force. Non-USNA vessels should be considered hostile. Assume orders from Geneva direct Delattre to seize or destroy USNA vessels CBG-40.

  4. Use best judgment in disentangling forces, and in breaking off in the face of enemy forces.

  This is a mess, Jas. Watch your back.

  SIGNED (1): Cutwaller, ADM, CO/USNAMILCOM, MARS

  SIGNED (2): Armitage, ADM, JCS

  MESSAGE ENDS

  Damn. The message had been dispatched before news of Steiger’s death had reached Earth. That personal message tagged on at the end made the dry recitation of orders unusually piquant. Eugene Armitage, the commander of the Joint Chiefs, Gray remembered, had been both a personal friend and a mentor of sorts to Jason Steiger.

  Even with faster-than-light travel, interstellar military operations were dominated by one factor—the sheer, mind-numbing vastness of the empty space between star systems. Fleet commanders had an extraordinary degree of freedom—and responsibility to go with it—in their operations. Gone were the days when the president and command-staff level officers could micromanage a battle via satellite from halfway around the world.

  But the communication lag between CBG-40 and Earth had just dropped a nasty piece of hot shrapnel into Gray’s lap. He’d broken off from the rest of the Confederation fleet—or, to be fair, they’d broken away from him—so at least that wasn’t an issue. But the battle group was now minutes away from transitioning to Alcubierre Drive for a twelve-hour jump to 70 Ophiuchi. A strict interpretation of these new orders would require him to abandon the Osiris fly-by and return immediately to Earth.

  That was not quite as simple an issue as it seemed, however. To reset onto a Sol-bound flight path, they would have to decelerate, come about to align with the fourth-magnitude speck of light in the sky that was Sol, then accelerate back up to near-c in order to engage the Alcubierre Drive. Either that, or they would have to make the jump away from 36 Ophiuchi, re-emerge, acquire Sol, then accelerate again. Either way, they might lose another day.

  And the message from Armitage had been sent before Earth knew about the looming threat of an attack from Osiris.

  “Comm,” Gray said.

  “Comm here, sir.”

  “Is the update transmission loaded and ready to dispatch?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Send it now.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Gray had recorded his intent to re-deploy to Osiris and attempt to cripple the Sh’daar forces being readied there for a strike against Earth. He’d not been requesting permission; his decision to launch the drone just before dropping into the unreachable darkness of metaspace under Alcubierre Drive had underscored that fact. By the time Earth learned of his intention, he would already be at Osiris engaging the enemy.

  At least Earth would know where CBG-40 had gone, and would be able to reach him with subsequent drones at Osiris.

  “Should I acknowledge receipt of that last communication, sir?”

  Gray thought about this. He was tempted to say no. It would be easy enough to claim he’d deployed to 70 Oph before the order from Earth even reached him. Had the message drone emerged just a little farther away, the radio broadcast would not have reached the fleet before it had dropped into metaspace.

  But . . . no. He might end up court-martialed for what in fact was direct disobedience of orders, but so far as Gray was concerned the greater threat to Earth was the gathering Sh’daar strike force, not political squabbles at home. He would play this one straight, and let the folks back on Earth know exactly where he was going and what he was doing.

  Even if he was doing it before they could tell him not to.

  Operating out here on the edge of damn-all, far from the oversight of command staffs and presidential advisors did absolute wonders for your sense of perspective.

  “Acknowledge,” he said. Moments later, the drone accelerated off into darkness.

  And minutes after that, America and the other ships of CBG-40 flashed over into Alcubierre Drive.

  Osiris lay twelve hours ahead.

  Executive Office, USNA

  Columbus, District of Columbia

  United States of North America

  1325 hours, EST

  “Mr. President,” the office AI whispered in his mind, “you must evacuate. The elevator is waiting for you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Koenig said, irritably. “Just a moment . . .”

  “The situation display is being repeated in the bunker, sir. You can continue your work there.”

  “I know, damn it. Just give me a minute.”

  His human aides and a couple of Secret Service agents were standing in his office, waiting for him, but he ignored them as he was ignoring the nagging voice of the AI secretary. A translucent display field hung suspended above his desk, showing planets and planetary orbits, and the arcing curves of incoming ships. So far, most of the incoming vessels were small stuff—destroyers, gunboats, the North Indian light cruis
er Godavari—but five heavies had rounded the sun moments before and were clearly vectoring on Earth. Other ships—the carriers and other heavy capital ships—were expected soon. He was watching HQMILCOM deploying its meager assets to block the approach paths of the Confederation Fleet’s main body.

  Things were about to get very interesting.

  “Mr. President,” Marcus Whitney said, almost pleading. “We need to get to the basement now!”

  “All right! All right!”

  He switched off the display and rose from his seat. The Secret Service fell into step with him as he strode across the holographic carpet display, his aides scrambling to keep up in his wake. Through the outer offices and past the security station, the Executive Tower’s main emergency elevator was located down the passageway, still within the security suite. More agents waited at the elevator, holding it for him.

  The secure bunker was located almost 2 kilometers below the Freedom Concourse in the heart of downtown Columbus, at the bottom of a high-speed maglev descent through the center of the Executive Tower and into the facility known as the PRESCO, the presidential secure complex. Privately, the people working in the Executive Tower simply called it the Basement. It housed the offices of the Joint Chiefs and most of the Earthside USNA Military Command complex, as well as the Situation Room and secure communications facilities that linked the office of the President with both civilian and military USNA assets across the solar system.

  The underground base had been hardened to withstand—it was believed—a one-hundred-megaton nuclear explosion at the surface.

  “Welcome to the Basement, Mr. President,” his first secretary, John Casey, said as the facility’s armored outer doors slid aside and he walked in. “We have a possible hostile strike force ten million kilometers out.”

  “I know.” He’d been tracking those five Pan-European ships for the past hour as they’d skimmed past the sun and dropped into an intercept course with Earth, traveling at ten percent c. A week ago, those five vessels had been reported at the Confederation military base at Circe, at Epsilon Indi some twelve light years from Sol. Geneva had called them back to Sol, evidently to take part in this attack.

  They’d been planning this for a long time.

  “Analyses of their flight path suggests a weapons strike somewhere in North America.”

  “I know. Pittsburgh, Missouri and Amazon are vectoring to cut them off,” Koenig replied. “Burke and Spruance are still an hour away. What about the Jones?”

  The frigate John Paul Jones was in space dock at Quito Synchorbital, undergoing a long-needed refit. Earlier that morning, her skipper—Don McCluskey—had reported that he might be able to get his ship clear of the dock and into action if he could take it slow. The aging frigate still had a gaping construction hole in her side, and was in no shape for high-G maneuvers.

  “Captain McCluskey reports he’s still trying to get past the grudge list.”

  “Tell him to boost with his painters dangling if he has to,” Koenig growled. “But get the hell out there!”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Koenig walked to the workstation maintained for him and for the military chief of staff. Admiral Armitage stood up and stepped out of the circular cockpit. “Keeping the chair warm for you, Mr. President.”

  “Thanks, Gene.” He looked up, scanning the floor-to-ceiling projection hanging in front of one wall, some fifty meters wide. Those Pan-European ships were a lot closer now. “How long before those hostiles launch?”

  “Any second now, sir. Depends on how close they want to get.”

  The Pittsburgh, Koenig noted, was vectoring toward the lead enemy ship, which was perhaps half a million kilometers in advance of the others. According to the data tag hanging beside the enemy vessel’s icon, she was the Ognevoy, a Russian strike cruiser. Her name reportedly meant “Curtain of Fire,” and she’d been designed with planetary bombardment in mind.

  The two High Guard sentinels, Missouri and Amazon, were vectoring toward the main body of incoming hostiles. Koenig winced. Those two were heavily outclassed, the equivalent of a pair of frigates facing the heavy cruisers Montcalm and Brahmaputra, the destroyer Kondor, and a second planetary bombardment ship, the Estremadura.

  Against firepower like that, the sentinel ships didn’t stand a chance.

  Other ships were on the way in, but nothing else could arrive in time to block those five Confederation ships. There were reports of confused fighting elsewhere—on Mars, on Luna, even in Synchorbit; the civil war was spreading wildly, and out of control.

  Pittsburgh launched on the Ognevoy, a volley of red pinpoints leaping from the icon marking the USNA ship toward the red bombardment vessel. The Russian ship’s point defenses opened up, wiping most of the shipkillers out, but then the remaining missiles began detonating in rapid succession, the fireballs swelling in the Ognevoy’s path. The Russian passed through one of the expanding clouds.

  “Hit,” an AI said aloud. “Major damage to the Ognevoy. . . .”

  Several people in the bunker cheered, but Armitage silenced them with a sharp “As you were! We’re not out of this yet. . . .”

  Montcalm and Kondor were exchanging fire now with the Amazon. A high-energy laser clawed at Montcalm’s forward shield, causing some damage, but two powerful electron beams snapped out from the Pan-European vessels and caught the Amazon amidships. There was a brief, bright flare of light, and then the forward half of the sentinel ship was drifting free, slowly tumbling, as a cloud of debris spread out from astern.

  “Hit on the Amazon,” the AI reported. “Telemetry indicates terminal damage. Crew fatalities estimated at one hundred percent.”

  Damn . . .

  Nuclear warheads from the Missouri detonated alongside the Kondor, which disintegrated in a cloud of sparkling fragments. Pittsburgh was altering her course, now, to intercept the main body of Confederation vessels. Both the Montcalm and the Brahmaputra were concentrating their fire now on the Missouri, now, and in moments the remaining sentinel vessel was drifting powerless and helpless, her drive modules riddled at long range by beams from the more powerful Confederation cruisers. The Pittsburgh released a spread of VG-44c ship-killers, then opened up with her own spinal-mount particle weapon, damaging both enemy vessels, but not in time to save the Missouri. Pittsburgh took a railgun hit . . . and then another. The cruisers altered course slightly, closing on her. . . .

  The Estremadura, the Spanish bombardment ship bringing up the rear of the Confederation squadron, loosed three warheads the size of Velociraptor fighters twenty seconds before taking a hit from one of the ’Burgh’s Fer-de-lance killers. Pittsburgh saw the launch and altered course, trying for an intercept, but she was badly positioned, too far off the enemy missiles’ track to get a shot.

  “Three space-to-ground warheads inbound,” the AI announced with maddening calm. “Analysis of their track suggests they are targeting the east-central reaches of North America between Chicago and the Washington Periphery.”

  That was an enormous area, a thousand kilometers across. Chances were good, however, that at least one of those warheads was targeting Columbus, smack in the center of the target area . . . and possibly all three of them were, for insurance.

  They want to decapitate us, Koenig thought. Take out the government. A couple of seconds later he realized that they were after him. The computer-generated graphics on the wall in front of him had the look and feel of a movie or a complex game. It was unpleasantly easy to forget how deadly that game was.

  Pittsburgh fired, trying to hit the warheads, but she was too far. Brahmaputra and Montcalm concentrated their fire on the Pittsburgh, as Estremadura fired a second volley.

  “Three more space-to-ground bombardment rounds fired,” the AI said. “Probable impact in east-central North America.”

  Pittsburgh was breaking off, badly damaged. There was nothing in the sk
y now between Earth and those incoming rounds.

  And then another green icon drifted into view, positioning itself in front of those incoming salvos. It was the John Paul Jones, just launched from spacedock at Quito Synchorbital, limping, but her weapons batteries coming on-line. She fired, and two of the warheads vanished.

  Both Montcalm and Brahmaputra shifted their fire from the crippled Pittsburgh to the Jones. The Jones ignored the fire and continued concentrating on the incoming rounds. Koenig found himself clenching his fists so tightly that the nails bit flesh.

  “Forty-five seconds to impact,” the AI announced.

  The Jones hit another warhead, one in the second salvo. The survivor in the first salvo was past the destroyer now, hurtling toward Earth at over 30,000 kilometers per second.

  “Have those warheads been analyzed?” Koenig asked. “What are they throwing at us?”

  “We’re not getting radiation, Mr. President,” Armitage told him, “so it’s probably not nukes. Smart money’s on nano-D warheads.”

  Nanotechnic disassemblers, packed into a warhead and used as a weapon, the one weapon that could eat through hundreds of meters of blast shielding as easily as through loose earth. Not good. . . .

  “Nano-Ds are banned under the Geneva Protocols.”

  “Maybe Roettgen hasn’t read them. Or else she’s damned desperate.”

  The Geneva Protocols of 2150, drawn up in the aftermath of Wormwood Fall, formally banned the use of hyperdestructive weapons on Earth—including near-c impactors, asteroid impacts, thermonukes of over one megaton, and, once they became available on a city-wrecking scale, nano-disassemblers.

  Of course, there was no international agreement as to just how to punish a rogue state that used such weapons. Nor did the Sh’daar or their client races care anything about human treaties. But the Geneva Protocols were at the very heart of the Pax Confeoderata. For Roettgen to go this far in her power grab was astonishing, given that other member-states of the Confederation, especially North India and several of the Pan-Europe states, would condemn her for doing so.