Call to Arms: Blood on the Stars II

by Jay Allan

  “Fritzie, I need that power available when I call for it. We’re running out of time.” Barron’s eyes were on his screen as he spoke, watching the enemy battleship moving steadily forward toward his two vessels. He’d been sure his plan would work, convinced the enemy would do anything to protect the supply base. The Union ship couldn’t risk any stray shots at the station, not if there was any choice. But Barron’s stratagem would only work if Dauntless was ready for the fight when it came, and right now, his ship was still on severely limited power, both its primary and secondary batteries inoperative.

  “I know, sir. We’ve replaced over a hundred kilometers of power lines and conduits. Those torpedoes hit us hard, and just because they didn’t rip the guts out of any main systems doesn’t mean that damage is easy to fix.”

  “Listen to me, Fritzie…there’s no one I’d rather have down there than you, but if we’re not ready by the time that thing gets into range, we’re sunk.” Barron knew Intrepid was in better shape than his ship, but the enemy battleship outmassed either of the Confederation vessels, and it was untouched. Dauntless and Intrepid had been through hell, multiple battles followed by patchwork repairs. And the three small escort ships that formed the rest of his fleet didn’t have enough power to make the difference. If both his battleships could lure the enemy into range and surprise them with their combined primaries, they had a chance to win a quick fight, one that might let them vanquish the Union battleship without taking more critical damage themselves. If they couldn’t pull off that joint attack, Dauntless and Intrepid might still win the battle, but both ships would almost certainly be too crippled to take on the station itself. And that was all that mattered. It was why they were here.

  “I understand, sir. We’ll get it done…somehow.” Fritz’s coolness in battle was legendary, among Dauntless’s crew and throughout the fleet. But now, the engineer sounded like she’d been pushed to the edge of her endurance. Barron knew Fritz drove herself relentlessly, and her people too. He felt guilty about riding her…but he still did it. There was no choice. He needed that power. He needed those weapons.

  “Twenty-two minutes, Fritzie. That’s all we’ve got. All you’ve got.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Barron cut the line. Then he jumped up from his chair and walked across the bridge, stopping in front of the main display tank. “Okay, let’s not waste this time. I want all gun crews tracking that ship. I want firing solutions updated every two minutes. Commander Fritz will get us the power we need, I’m sure of that…but I’ll hang the gun crew that misses when we open up.” The words sounded foreign to him. Barron didn’t feel like himself, not when he said things like that. He wasn’t a tyrant, he didn’t lead his people with threats. But he understood what was at stake here. He understood it all too clearly. If his people could destroy that base, the Union offensive would be stalled. It might even collapse for lack of supply. If they failed, if the enemy could send another convoy forward, the Confederation itself could be in jeopardy.

  He knew things were worse at the front than the reports suggested, that the fleet was on its last legs. Nothing as large as the Confederation died in an instant, of course, but there was a tipping point…enough ships destroyed, planets occupied…a level from which he knew his people couldn’t come back. And he suspected they were far closer to that terrible moment that anyone wanted to acknowledge.

  His grandfather had stared into just such an abyss, and he’d acted. He’d reached out and grabbed power, rallied a battered and demoralized fleet, and he’d saved the Confederation. The histories and legends don’t recount Rance Barron threatening politicians, intimidating war profiteers under the guns of his ships, executing deserters and cowards. But Tyler was coming to realize now that his grandfather must have done such things, and more. The Confederation had made a foolish error, allowing its enemy to escape so lightly at the end of the third war, and its troops were now paying the price for it. Barron didn’t compare himself with his ancestor, but he realized he was at a similar point. He couldn’t save the Confederation, he didn’t have the power. But maybe he could give it another chance. And the stress of it all was killing him, making him into something he didn’t like very much.

  How did you handle it, Grandfather? How did you endure so much pressure on your shoulders?

  He’d known Rance Barron as a grandparent, a pleasant man who’d enjoyed spending time with his family, having dinner with friends. How did the man he remembered so fondly turn into the pillar of solid steel he must have been in battle? How did he mercilessly dispatch not only his foreign enemies, but also those on his own side who hindered his cause?

  Barron looked around the bridge, at the eyes staring back, the looks on the faces of his officers as they perceived what he had become. In that moment, he’d have sacrificed any of them, accepted any cost, including the total destruction of Dauntless and Intrepid. Anything. Whatever it took to destroy that station.

  * * *

  “It’s going to be a last-minute thing, Sara. Commander Fritz thinks she’s got the lines and leads patched together, but we can’t know for sure until we power up. And if I fire up the reactor too soon, they’re going to know we’re in better shape than they think we are.”

  “Are you sure you should be flash-starting those reactors, Tyler? Ours check out pretty well, but it sounds like yours are being held together with tape and maybe a little chewing gum.”

  “No choice, Sara.” And the answer is no…we shouldn’t be flash starting them. But we’re going to do it anyway.

  “Maybe we should open fire first…give your people time for a more controlled restart.”

  “No, you can see the readings on that thing as well as I can. Almost five million tons, untouched. The thing looks like it just rolled out of the damned shipyard. Both of us have to hit it, and we have to make it count. Otherwise we’re either going to lose, or we’re going to be commanding two floating piles of debris by the time we win.”

  “I’m still worried about those reactors of yours.”

  “You’re in good company. Commander Fritz agrees with you. It’s a good thing I have more faith in her abilities than she does, isn’t it?”

  Eaton appreciated Barron’s attempt at levity, and she suspected it was as much a stress control mechanism for him as anything else. But she was still worried. If Dauntless’s reactors went super-critical, the results of a flash start could be disastrous.

  The enemy battleship had paused to pick up the remnants of its shattered fighter squadrons, but since then it had been moving directly toward the two apparently crippled Confederation vessels. Barron had done everything he could think of to support the impression that the fighter attack had both ships at death’s door…ejecting debris and bursts of fluid and gasses, maintaining minimal power levels. Even the three escort vessels were playing their parts, positioning themselves to the front, like loyal pets prepared to defend wounded masters to the death.

  “You’re the boss, sir.” Eaton wasn’t sure what she would do if the roles were reversed. She understood Barron’s plan, and it was brilliant, daring. But she just wasn’t sure she could have taken the risk.

  “We’ll be fine, Sara. We’ve got about ten minutes. Let’s use it well. Check over your repairs, your firing solutions. In about twelve minutes, we’ll know if we pulled it off.” The line went dead.

  Eaton sat for a moment, silent, staring off across the bridge. Then she looked down at her screen, rechecking the firing coordinates she’d calculated herself. Barron had been right so far about one thing…the Union commander was being careless. He clearly believed the two Confederation ships were badly battered, that they were no threat, and certainly not at the long range of their primary batteries. He hadn’t even altered his approach vector…and if that ship continued to move forward with an unchanged course and velocity, it was going to greatly simplify her targeting.

  “Commander Nordstrom, I want the primaries crews to conduct another practice run. Full comput
er simulation.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She’d had her people go through three of the dry runs already, but there was time for one more. Besides, she’d rather have them going through the motions and chattering about how many times she made them do it than sitting in silence, thinking about the consequences of missing.

  “Get me Commander Merton.”

  “On your line, Captain.”

  “Are you ready down there, Doug?”

  “We’re all set, Captain. I’ve got double crews on both reactors. We’ll be powering up reactor A and doing a full crash restart on B. Everything’s been checked and rechecked. We’ll be fine.”

  “How about the primaries?”

  “We’ve been trickle charging them from reactor A, Captain, minimal power generation. They’ll be ready to go in less than four minutes…and I’d wager everything I’ve got there’s no way they picked it up.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She didn’t know, of course, but Eaton suspected the enemy would have changed his approach if he even suspected he was facing functional Confederation primaries.

  “We had to steal power from virtually all ship’s systems. If we take significant damage, it’s going to hamper the early control efforts.

  “Very well. There’s nothing to be done about that…so let’s hit them hard before they can do the same to us.” Her eyes darted to her display, checking the chronometer. “Enemy projected to enter range in four minutes, thirty seconds. That’s your countdown clock, Doug.”

  “Understood, Captain. You should have full power within ten seconds of that mark.”

  “Good luck, Doug.”

  “Thank you, Captain. The same to you…and all of us.”

  She cut the line, watching as the enemy ship continued to close. She was counting under her breath, down to three minutes. Then Nordstrom turned abruptly. “Captain, we’re picking up launch activity.”

  She snapped her head down, focusing on her screen. The reports from the squadrons had made it clear they’d had to let the enemy survivors escape or they’d risk running out of fuel. Now, those ships were coming back, refit, and she hoped the timing didn’t portend disaster. The enemy ship was close for a launch, very close. She doubted that was deliberate strategy…more likely just the time it took to rearm and refuel their fighters. But if those birds were fitted out as bombers, and they advanced at full thrust from so close, she’d have…nine minutes, she estimated quickly. Nine minutes before a wave of plasma torpedoes came ripping toward the two battleships.

  She reached down to her comm unit, keying up Dauntless’s channel.

  “I see them,” Barron said before she could get a word out. “There’s nothing we can do. My bays are a mess. It’s a miracle we managed to land the fighters at all. I may not be able to get anyone out in time. If you’ve got any interceptors ready to go, get them set to launch. But not until we’ve opened fire.”

  “Sir, how can I launch while we’re firing primaries?” Tactical doctrine was clear. Fighters were to launch before ships entered firing range.

  “Damn the book, Captain. If your crews can get anything ready to go, get them out between shots, while your guns are recharging.”

  “Yes, sir.” She felt a surge of nausea. Eaton liked to think she was a good officer, but she wasn’t as comfortable being a maverick as Barron seemed to be. Deserting the fleet, engaging in one unorthodox tactic after another, it was all too much for her.

  “Commander Nordstrom, do we have any fighters ready to launch?”

  Nordstrom leaned over his workstation, flipping through status reports. “The Longswords have six ships refueled and ready. Launch control says we might have two more in ten minutes.”

  “Very well, Commander. I want those six ships manned and in the tubes. They are to launch ten seconds after we fire the primaries.”

  “Yes, Captain. Ten seconds.”

  She turned and looked back at her display. The enemy ship was still moving forward. Its velocity and vector had changed slightly from the launch of the fighters. It wasn’t a major change, but it was enough to force her to redo the firing solution.

  “Damn,” she muttered under her breath. Her eyes darted to the countdown timer as her fingers moved over the screen, making the updates as quickly as she could. She wasn’t trusting this targeting to anyone but herself.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bridge

  CFS Dauntless

  Varus System

  308 AC

  “I need a status report, Lieutenant. Now.” Barron was hunched over the comm, speaking with launch control.

  “The bays are still inoperable, sir,” Sinclair replied. “I don’t even know how we managed to land the fighters, but we can’t get supplies through to the ships. The fuel lines are all cut, and the rail system from the cargo hold is a twisted piece of junk.”

  “I don’t need excuses, Lieutenant. I need to know when you will be ready to launch fighters. And how many.” He knew he was being unfair to Sinclair. Her people—and Chief Evans and his crews down in the bays—had performed miracles bringing the depleted squadrons back onboard, but now they had one hell of a mess to clean up. And he’d pulled almost all Fritzie’s engineers away, down to the reactors and the power transmission lines. But none of that mattered. He needed fighters, and Sinclair and Chief Evans were just going to have to figure out how to get him some.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. We’re doing everything we can, but…” She paused. “Four, Captain. I think we can get four fighters out of alpha bay in ten minutes, but they’ll launch without missiles. That’ll use up what little we have stockpiled close to the bay…and it’ll be all we can do for at least an hour, maybe more.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant, four will have to do. I want our best pilots in those ships…I don’t care if you have to draft every squadron commander to do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Forget this ten minutes nonsense. You’ve got five. I want those birds ready to launch immediately after we fire the primaries.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Barron out.”

  “Primary batteries report ready to fire,” Travis said as soon as he cut the line to Sinclair. “We finally managed to get them a full charge, but we’ll need the reactors on near optimal output to power them up again.”

  “Understood, Commander.” He could hear the almost brutal severity of his tone, and he regretted it…but that didn’t change anything. He was cold, his blood like ice. He was going to destroy that enemy battleship, no matter what he had to do…and then he was going to take out that station, if he had to dismantle it himself bit by bit. He was still the man who loved his crew, who looked over them with paternal pride. But some things were more important than survival. And, right now, nothing mattered. Nothing except destroying that station. That meant he had to take out this battleship first.

  “Two minutes to firing range.” Travis spoke slowly, clearly. She was her usual controlled self, but Barron suspected that inside she was feeling the same thing he was. Travis was as smart as they came, and she knew as well as Barron how important it was to destroy that station, and the sacrifices he was prepared to make to see it done.

  He almost called up the gun crews, but he hesitated with his hand over the comm. Then he set it down. His people were good, the best. They didn’t need him riding them right before they took their shot. Badgering them now would make him feel better, perhaps, but it would do nothing to help them hit the target. Distraction could only hurt his cause now.

  “One minute.”

  Barron sat stone still, silent, wondering just how long it could possibly take for a single minute to pass.

  “Thirty seconds. Commander Fritz reports all system ready for emergency reactor power up procedure.”

  “Very well, Commander. She is to proceed.”

  Barron counted down in his head. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten.

  “Rea
ctor restart now.”

  Nothing happened. At least nothing Barron could see on the bridge. There was no sound, no vibrations under his feet, so signs of anything happening. But then, a few seconds later, the lights brightened as fresh power flooded into them.

  Barron felt a wave of relief. He had enormous faith in Fritz, but he also knew he’d given her a difficult and dangerous job, and that regardless of the skill and capability of his engineer, there had been a very real chance of a disastrous outcome. And even more likelihood that the reactors would just scrag again immediately.

  “Entering range, Captain.”

  “Primaries…fire.”

  There was a pause. Barron knew it was no more than a few seconds, but for as long as he remembered that moment, it seemed like an eternity had passed. Then he heard the familiar whine, and the almost metal on metal shriek…the sound of Dauntless’s massive primaries firing.

  His stomach tightened, twisting in knots as he waited to see if his guns had hit their target. Suddenly, Travis spun around, and as soon as he saw her face he knew.

  Yes!

  “Two direct hits, Captain.” A short pause. “No, four, sir. Both of Intrepid’s guns hit as well.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Barron’s voice was cool, calm, but inside he was screaming with excitement. “Recharge primaries…and advise Commander Fritz, seconds count.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His trap had worked. The enemy had blundered in, his course and velocity fixed, making himself a perfect target. The captain of that battleship had believed the Confederation craft were crippled, helpless…and he’d been lazy, careless. Arrogance…it was so often the weak spot. Remember that…lest you end up in your enemy’s shoes one day…

  The 3D display reactivated with the resumption of normal power, and Barron stared at the enemy ship, a large red oval floating off to the side of tank. The damage assessments were still coming in, but it was clear the vessel still had thrust capacity. Its vector was changing slowly, as it accelerated toward Dauntless and Intrepid.