by Allan, Jay
Dutton had been more than friend, confidante, and mentor…he’d been a restraining influence as well. Now that he was gone, Stark’s megalomania and paranoia had begun to run unchecked. Number One was a genius, but he was also insane, at least by most definitions. His plans had become unimaginably vast, dangerous enough to threaten everything – the Alliance, the colonies, the Treaty of Paris that had kept peace on Earth for over a century.
He was satisfied; his operative had done well. James had no idea what had happened. She’d be dead in two days, three at the most, apparently of natural causes. The virus was courtesy of one of the more hostile worlds man had explored, a pathogen-infested hell that had been declared off-limits by agreement of all the Powers. But Stark wasn’t one to let a storehouse of useful tools go to waste because of something as trifling as international law.
Not only was this nasty little bug untraceable, it closely resembled an Earthly disease that was transmitted among certain Cog populations by unconventional sexual activities…except this one wouldn’t respond to treatment. There would be no investigation; he was sure of that. James’ peers would want to avoid the scandal and embarrassment. They’d announce that she died of something tragic and conventional. Then they’d give her a big state funeral and forget about her.
The com buzzed again. “Number One, phase two is completed. Raj Khosla has been terminated as per your instructions.” The agent’s voice was cool, professional. Still, Stark could hear the satisfaction there too.
He should be satisfied, Stark thought…he has done excellent work. “Well done, D.” Stark’s highest-level operatives were designated sequentially by single letters. “Return to the safe house as planned.”
“Yes, sir.” The line was cut immediately. There was no room in high level black ops for social niceties, even when speaking to Number One.
Yes, Stark thought, you have done very well. A different man than Stark would have regretted what he did next, or at least appreciated the irony. But Stark was as close to emotionless as a human being could be. He fingered the small controller for a few seconds, finally depressing his hand on the small button. Three kilometers away, he knew the operative had fallen to the ground dead, his aorta ruptured by a nano-explosive implanted in his chest. When he was found, he’d have no identity, no record in the system. They’d assume he was an undocumented Cog who’d snuck into the Core from the outer slums, and they’d chuck him in the recycling system.
The operative had done a perfect job, executed his assignment flawlessly. But this mission was too important, too sensitive…too close to the start of Shadow. And Gavin Stark did not like to leave loose ends.
Chapter 7
AS Indianapolis
HP 56548 III System
Outer System
220,000,000 km past Newton Orbit
Jacobs stared at the tactical screen, totally focused on the unfolding battle. His missiles had passed through the enemy’s outer point defense zone, and the surviving weapons were making their final approach. If he’d timed his attack right, the warheads would begin detonating just as the enemy vessels entered range of his laser buoys. That one-two punch would be followed up by the fighter-bombers, which were following the missiles in, using them as a screen to divert the enemy point defense. Jacobs didn’t want his missiles shot down, but he’d damned sure rather lose a nuclear warhead than a fighter and its crew.
There were missiles heading toward his fleet too, a lot of them. But less than there might have been. Jacobs had deployed half his fighters to anti-missile runs, and they’d earned their pay and then some. Barely a third of the enemy weapons got past the fighters and the long-ranged point defense. Now Scouting Fleet’s defensive lasers and shotguns were ravaging what was left. Some of them would get through; Jacobs knew that. But not many, not enough to seriously endanger the fleet. The energy weapons would be a different story. If enough of the enemy got into firing range in fighting shape, their particle accelerators were going to be a big problem. They had double the range and power of the lasers on Jacob’s cruisers.
“Missile detonations beginning, sir.” Carp’s voice was cool and professional. Jacobs was still impressed with his young protégé. Garret may very well have promoted Carp to lieutenant commander, but he was still just 24 years old. He was a block of ice under fire; not many officers his age could handle his heavy responsibilities so expertly. “It looks like the new ECM is working well, admiral. A lot of our birds are getting through.”
That’s good news, Jacobs thought. His people were the first to test out General Sparks’ new point defense jamming system. The First Imperium was far ahead of humanity in technology, but their electronic warfare systems had been surprisingly vulnerable to those of the various human fleets. It was an advantage, a welcome one in a war where the Pact didn’t have many, and Sparks and his people were determined to press it as far as they could. Jacobs didn’t begin to understand how it functioned, but the fact that it seemed to work was a welcome realization. Alliance ships carried fewer and weaker missiles than First Imperium vessels of comparable mass…if they could get more of their ordnance through the point defense zone it would go a long way toward bridging that gap.
“I’m reading multiple close detonations.” Carp was staring at his screens, following the reports as they streamed in. “And one direct hit, sir!” His head snapped up and spun to face Jacobs.
A direct hit was a rare thing in missile duels. Targeting a moving vessel millions of miles away, dealing with point defense and evasive maneuvers, was an almost impossibly difficult task. Fleets exchanged massive volleys hoping to get their warheads close enough to cause damage from a near miss. A 500 megaton bomb put out an enormous amount of energy when it exploded, and any vessel within a few kilometers was going to take at least some damage. No ship could survive an actual hit, of course. Even a battleship was reduced to plasma by a direct contact with a warhead that size. In this case, it was only a Gremlin. Jacobs wished it had been one of the Gargoyles, but he decided he would take what he could get.
“Lieutenant Hooper, status of incoming barrage?” Jacobs knew exactly what was still heading in toward his ships, but he wanted to put his tactical support officer through her paces.
“Approximately 18.35% of enemy warheads surviving, sir.” Hooper spoke precisely, as if everything she said had been precalculated and double-checked. Which, in her case, they had been. “The shotguns are doing extremely well, sir.”
It’s a damned good thing, Jacobs thought. And they’d take out a lot more too before the missiles closed. He’d launched his volley before the enemy, and the incoming weapons were still 3-5 minutes out. Plenty of time for his point defense to whittle down the total.
“Admiral, I have updated damage assessments from our missile attack.” Carp was still hunched over his workstation as he spoke. “Two of the Gargolyes are out of action. One was destroyed outright; the other reads completely dead…no energy output at all.” He paused for an instant, reading the data as it came across his screen. “The remaining four have sustained serious to critical damage. A short pause, then: “The laser buoys are commencing fire.”
The x-ray lasers were programmed to fire at the nearest target. I should have preferenced the Gargoyles in the firing plan, Jacobs thought, scolding himself for not thinking of it sooner. With the lasers firing so soon after the missile attack, he didn’t have the luxury of reacting to the effects of his warheads. The enemy Gremlins were in the vanguard of the First Imperium flotilla, which meant they would take most of the fire from the lasers.
Jacobs was grateful he had a supply of the buoys…it was the only way an Alliance fleet could fight an energy weapons battle with the First Imperium forces and hope to win. It wasn’t just the strength of the bomb-pumped x-ray lasers…it was the ability to fire while the fleet itself stayed back, out of the range of the enemy’s particle accelerators. If we win this war, he thought, that’s going to be why. Of course every Pact officer had made a similar comment at
one time or another, about half a dozen different weapons systems and strategies.
“Reports indicate ten Gremlins destroyed or reduced to combat ineffectiveness, admiral.” Carp’s head was bobbing back and forth, reading multiple data inputs. “Major Bogdan is focusing his bombing strike on the remaining Gargoyles.”
Jacobs suppressed a little frown. He wished there’d been time to rationalize the Grand Pact’s rank structure. The RIC used army-equivalent ranks for their bomber corps, while the Alliance assigned naval designations. Major Bogdan was the rough equivalent of an Alliance commander, which made him the senior squadron leader and put him in charge of the overall strike. It wasn’t really very important, but Jacobs liked things as clear and simple as possible. Confusion and poor communication had lost more battles throughout history than every other cause combined.
“Very well.” There was a touch of concern in his voice. He wanted those Gargoyles taken out, but with his bombers targeting them exclusively, he was going to have to deal with a lot of surviving Gremlins. Bogdan was doing the right thing…Jacobs just wished the missiles and buoys had taken out more Gargoyles. “Advise Major Bogdan that I approve his target priorities.” He just couldn’t risk letting the heavier Gargoyles get into energy weapons range. He outnumbered them enough to win the battle no matter what, but his ships would be ravaged, and he simply couldn’t risk taking that much damage so early in the campaign. If the enemy had over 30 ships on patrol here, there were worse things waiting for his people down the line. “And wish the major good luck and Godspeed.”
Bogdan’s bomber cut the 4g thrust that had been pushing down on its crew and went into free fall. The Gargoyle was less than 80,000 klicks from his ship…knife fighting range in space. Coming in this close was dangerous, but Bogdan didn’t care…he was going to take this son of a bitch down, whatever he had to do. He’d double-loaded his plasma torpedo, which meant one of his three crew members was focusing almost entirely on keeping the thing from blowing while it was still in the tube.
Overpowering the plasma torpedoes wasn’t his own innovation. He’d heard that Greta Hurley had done it a few times during the battles on the Line. Hurley was a hero in the fighter jock community, worshipped by her own pilots and respected by every officer who’d ever set foot in a bomber. She’d faced the First Imperium in more than half a dozen engagements and come back every time. A lot of her crews came back too, which was something no other commander could say. Losses were heavy on her missions, no question, but they’d been far worse in every battle where she hadn’t been there to command the wings. No one had anything close to her experience facing the First Imperium. Bogdan had heard they were going to make her an admiral and put her in command of all of Grand Fleet’s wings. If the rumors were true, she would be the first officer of flag rank to lead her forces from the cockpit of a fighter-bomber – and he knew enough about her to be sure they’d never get her out of her fighter. Her legend would continue to grow, Bogdan thought with a smile. He couldn’t think of an officer who deserved it more…or anyone he’d follow more willingly into the burning fires of hell.
“Watch those torpedo readings, people.” He had three other ships with overpowered weapons in the launch tubes. The other two of his birds didn’t make it through the point defense. Losing a third of his ships already had him pissed…he didn’t want anyone getting careless now. If his people stayed focused, they could do their jobs and get out without any more losses. And Pavel Bogdan was not willing to lose any more of his crews. “Fire at will.”
His job as squadron leader done for the moment, he switched hats to gunner. Pavel Bogdan was going to take this shot himself. The Gargoyle he was facing had a significant hull breach, and he intended to place his torpedo precisely where it would hurt the most. He stared into the targeting scope, the bomber’s AI constantly updating the feed. The background noise in the cockpit gradually vanished for him as his mind tightened and focused. Bogdan was able to tune out virtually anything and concentrate on the task at hand with enormous intensity.
That didn’t lessen the stress though; it just controlled it. He felt the rivulets of sweat sliding down his neck as he adjusted the aiming data, and he could sense his heart beating in his chest like a drum. He was counting down softly to himself, allowing his intuition to guide him in tweaking the targeting computer’s firing solution. Suddenly, he knew it was time. His finger squeezed tightly, and the ship shook hard. The torpedo was away. “Execute thrust plan Zeta.” The weapon would take almost 30 seconds to reach its target, and Bogdan wasn’t about to sit around deep in the enemy point defense envelope and wait. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He winced and felt a shiver down his back as he waited for the pinprick of the acceleration couch’s med system injecting the pre-acceleration drug cocktail. Bogdan had grimly led fighter squadrons on hopeless missions and coolly ignored enemy fire so thick it seemed to fill space, but he didn’t injections, and he always dreaded waiting for the system to give him the shot.
His arm twitched as the needle finally poked into his skin, and he felt the irrational relief he always did once it was over. The compartments on his chair opened, expanding into the protective couch that would shield him from the acceleration that was coming. “Executing engine burn in five, four, three…” The artificial voice of the craft’s AI was loud, reverberating off the walls of the small cockpit. “…two…one.” Bogdan felt the pressure as his bomber’s engines fired at full thrust. The couch and drugs provided considerable protection, but 38g was unpleasant to experience no matter what was wrapped around you. He felt the increased pressure in his helmet, helping to force air into his tortured lungs. Still, he perceived his clarity fading, replaced by the strange hypnotic state so frequently experienced by spacers in high thrust situations.
He was drifting, caught between consciousness and a waking dream, but he heard the AI’s voice clearly, and he understood exactly what it was saying. “Target destroyed.”
“I said fall back again.” Jacobs’ voice was sharp…more so than he’d intended. Carp hadn’t argued with him; he’d merely passed on the concerns of Jacobs’ subordinate commanders. “Inform Squadron Captains Cleret and Mondragon that I understand exactly what I am doing, and I will take their suggestions under advisement. In the meanwhile, they are to execute the specified thrust plan without further discussion or delay.”
“Yes, sir.” Carp’s response was crisp and immediate.
Jacobs understood the thinking of his attack ship commanders, both of whom had considerably outranked him until a few months before. Suicide boat tactics were aggressive, based on speed and daring. The attack ships were considered expendable, at least in the context of major fleet operations, and their crews were audacious, always anxious to get at the enemy.
But they were far from expendable to Jacobs. Attack ships were designed to boldly charge in against larger ships, and their plasma torpedoes gave them enough punch to hurt any vessel…even a battleship. Or a First Imperium ship. But their speed and maneuverability served another purpose. They made excellent scouts, and that, Jacobs reminded himself, was the true purpose of his entire fleet. If he lost his ships fighting with an enemy picket force, he wouldn’t be able to properly execute that mission…and Garret and Compton and most of mankind’s warships would blunder forward blindly. Even if his vessels were just damaged, it would still wreak havoc with the operation. He was counting on speed, not just to get his ships into good scouting positions, but to get them out again with the intel they gathered. Battered ships operating on reduced power would be poor scouts…and easy targets.
They’d been fighting a running battle for fourteen hours, Jacobs firing a missile volley and thrusting away from the enemy. None of the rounds had been as effective as the first. The laser buoys were gone; there were replacements in the supply ships, but there was no way to reload his warships in the middle of combat. The missile barrages were scoring fewer hits too. Missiles fired from a retreating fleet had to work
against the intrinsic velocity of the launch platforms, so they couldn’t build as much speed toward the enemy. Consequently, they spent a lot more time in the point defense envelope…and took a lot more losses. Jacobs was thrusting after each launch, increasing his velocity away from the enemy, making each subsequent volley increasingly problematic.
Still, the First Imperium fleet had been worn down. There were just nine Gremlins surviving, and most of those had at least some damage. The suicide boat commanders were clamoring to go in and finish them off, but so far Jacobs had refused. Pavel Bogdan’s bombers had re-armed and flown another sortie, and Jacobs was hoping he could take out the rest of the enemy ships with this last round of missiles. His vessels had just fired the last ordnance in their magazines, so if the enemy survived, he was going to have no choice but to send in the attack ships and take the losses.
His bomber squadrons were in worse shape than he’d have liked. Bogdan had lost close to 40% of his fighters, which was actually low for two attack runs at a First Imperium fleet. But it was still close to half his strength. He had some replacement bombers in the supply ships, and Bogdan was sure at least a third of his crews had managed to eject from their destroyed craft. Given time to rescue his crews and uncase the replacement fighters, he could get his available strength close to 75% of its initial level. Not great, but it would have to do.
“Captains Cleret and Mondragon acknowledge receipt of your confirmed order, sir.” Carp had a diplomatic touch. “Confirmed” had a softer feel to it than “repeated.” Mondragon had simply accepted the command, but Carp had momentarily thought Cleret was going to continue to put up a fight. The veteran attack ship commander vented for a few seconds, but he, too, ultimately accepted his superior’s order.
Indianapolis shook as her engines fired again, and the bridge crew hunkered down as the relief of freefall was replaced with the discomfort of three gravities. The flagship’s lights dimmed as the engines roared to life. Jacobs had stayed out of energy weapon range, but he hadn’t been able to prevent his ships from taking damage from the enemy’s missiles. The Gremlins had been targeting his heavier ships, the cruisers…and they’d managed to identify the flagship, sending heavy fire its way. That was new, he thought…more lessons they’ve learned from us.