by Allan, Jay
“Thank you, sir. We should be underway within twenty minutes.” His voice sounded almost apologetic. Jacobs cut the line, wishing there was a way for him to tell his subordinate he realized it took longer to get the Europan ships ready for full thrust…and he knew it wasn’t Mondragon’s fault. But some things were best left unspoken.
“All units are to conduct immediate reactor and engine diagnostics.” Mondragon snapped out the order even before his acceleration couch had completely retracted. He looked over, seeing his tactical officer sitting hunched at his station, holding his head in his hands. It wasn’t easy to jump right into action after a long stretch in the couches, but now wasn’t the time for lackluster effort. “Now, Lieutenant Tomasino! If you need a stimulant, have the AI administer one, but get yourself together.”
“Yes, sir.” Tomasino’s voice was weak, throaty. “Relaying your orders now.”
Mondragon sighed hard. It was going to be the same on all of his ships. Not all, he reminded himself - he had a few Alliance and Caliphate craft in his group. It didn’t matter - there was a least-common denominator effect in task group operations. He could give the toughest tasks to his best ships, but his overall capabilities were more affected by the worst ships, not the best. His father had been fond of the phrase, “A chain is only as strong as its weakest link,” and Mondragon had found the adage to be very true in military operations.
His ships had accelerated at full power through the X1 system, trying to reach the warp gate as quickly as possible. Admiral Jacobs - and Admiral Compton, still fighting back in Sigma 4 – wanted a report on the new system, already designated X2, as soon as possible. He’d had his ships switch over to deceleration at various intervals, spacing out the task force into several lines with differing velocities. The ships in the vanguard had the highest velocity – they were tasked to plunge deep into the system, launching probes and scanning at full power. The ships farther back, traveling at lower velocities would execute vector changes, scouting out laterally from the warp gate’s location. The rearmost ships, which included his own Faucon, had decelerated the most. They would remain closer to the warp gate, serving as a communications link with the forces still in the X1 system. Mondragon had initially placed Faucon in the lead group, but Jacobs had expressly ordered him to remain close to the warp gate.
“I’m receiving acknowledgements, sir.” Tomasino sounded more alert, not back to normal yet, but better.
Mondragon swore under his breath. He’d always known the Europan attack ships lagged badly in performance benchmarks, but it really started to frustrate him now that he saw up close how the Alliance and Caliphate vessels operated. He stared down at his screen, scanning the ship statuses. Just as he thought. The Alliance and Caliphate ships – and the CAC ones too – had all acknowledged his orders, and they were well into their diagnostic routines. Half the Europan vessels hadn’t even responded yet.
“All units are to launch probes immediately.” Mondragon’s voice was sharp brittle. He was seething at the performance of the lagging ships. “Any captain who has not commenced engine diagnostics and launched a probe in three minutes will be removed from command, effective immediately.” He’d had it.
Tomasino looked stunned. He hesitated, just a second, and he blurted out a shaky, “Yes, sir.”
Europan forces weren’t used to the kind of pressure Mondragon was applying, but he didn’t give a shit. Watching admirals like Jacobs and Compton in action had seriously affected him, and he intended to demand the same kind of performance from his own people, and if he had to chuck a few officers out the airlock to make the lesson stick, so be it. He smiled as he felt Faucon shake; she had launched her own probe in less than a minute. His people never would have managed that a few weeks before.
“All units have acknowledged the order to perform diagnostic testing, sir.” Tomasino still sounded shaken. He wasn’t used to relentless pressure and threats of draconian punishments, not even from Mondragon. But there was a new Francisco Mondragon in the command chair, one who had seen the standards of performance it was possible to achieve.
“Very well, lieutenant.” Mondragon glanced at the chronometer. “Status of probe launches? One minute, fifteen seconds remaining.” He leaned back in his chair and fought to hold back a smile. He was actually enjoying this.
“Compiling now, sir…19 confirmed launches so far.”
Not good, he thought. He had 11 Alliance and Caliphate ships, and he knew without checking they had already launched. That left 8, and he’d have bet 4 of them were the CAC vessels attached to his command.
“Updated report, sir…24 launches.” Tomasino was staring at the screen, watching the launch reports come in. “We’re up to…” He snapped his head around, just as Faucon’s alarms went off. “Multiple scanner contacts, captain.” He looked back, eyes focused on his display. “We have 7 contacts inbound from deeper in the system, sir.” He paused, and then he continued, his voice sharp and clear. “They’re First Imperium Gremlins, captain. Confirmed.”
Chapter 14
Landing Bay Alpha – AS Midway
Sigma 4 System
28,000,000 kilometers from Sigma 4 II
Terrance Compton stood next to the inner airlock, watching the fire control crews coat Greta Hurley’s ship with fire-retardant foam. Commander Wilder had brought the ship in hot, with damage to the stabilizers and empty compressed gas tanks for the maneuvering jets. The landing had been one of the most impressive bits of piloting Compton had ever seen. The bomber would never fly again, but the cockpit was more or less intact. The foam was really just a precaution.
The bomber’s crew had managed to restore communications, but not before the attack was over. Hurley had planned her operation well. Even without her direct supervision, her wings destroyed all of the antimatter-powered platforms. Once all the railguns were taken out, the remaining squadrons assaulted the orbital fortresses, inflicting considerable damage on several of them.
Casualties had been high, mostly during the earlier approach, when the railguns raked her formations. The strike force had lost 202 fighters, though almost 50 crews had managed to eject. Their lifepods would keep them alive for several days, but the fleet was going to have to advance into the enemy’s firing range to recover them. Nearly 100 of the returning bombers had damage, ranging from Greta’s shattered craft to units needing only minor fixes.
Compton watched as Hurley’s crew climbed out of the bomber’s hatch, the landing bay personnel helping each of them into a small ship’s car. It didn’t look like anyone was seriously injured, but Compton had ordered them all taken to sickbay to get checked out. He smiled as he saw Wilder climb out of the stricken bomber. It was just like Hurley, he thought, to insist on being the last one out. He wondered how much of a fight Commander Wilder put up before he gave in to superior pigheadedness.
“Open.” The airlock door slid aside at Compton’s command, and he stepped into the inner chamber. “Close outer door.” The hatch behind him slid shut with a soft whoosh. “Open inner door.”
“The landing bay is subject to Condition Orange protocols, Admiral Compton. There are hazardous operations currently underway.” The voice of the AI was crisp and professional.
Compton snorted. “The day I cower from a damaged fighter already covered in foam is the day I light myself on fire.”
“Self-immolation in neither necessary nor recommended, admiral.” Sometimes Compton had trouble telling whether the AIs were messing with him or not. The personality modules had the capacity for humor, but he got the feeling they were programmed to act more formally with higher ranked personnel. He felt they usually took anything he said literally, even when he was clearing joking. The navy tended to keep its virtual assistants a little more straight-laced than the Marine units, but he was sure they were even more so with flag officers. “I was merely suggesting that you wait until the area is stabilized before entering.”
“Open the door.” Compton was tired of sparring with
a machine. “Now.”
The hatch slid open. The noise was the first thing that hit Compton. The airlock was soundproof, but the bay itself was an ear-splitting cacophony. There were alarms going off, technicians shouting, all sorts of loud equipment performing one task or another.
He walked across the deck toward the stricken fighter. He passed two techs who stared dumbstruck for an instant before snapping to attention. The fleet admiral was an infrequent visitor to the landing bay.
“Don’t let me interfere with your work, gentlemen. At ease.” He walked up toward Hurley, who was waving one arm and giving the crew chief a series of instructions Compton couldn’t hear over the din. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned and walked in his direction.
“Admiral. Welcome to the landing bay, sir.” She stopped a little over a meter from Compton and snapped to attention.
“Yes, yes.” He gestured with his hand, waving off her formality. “Relax, Greta. You’re part of the admiralty now. We try not to torture each other with that crap any more than necessary.”
“Yes, sir.” She stood a bit less rigidly, perhaps, though it would still be a respectable effort at attention for most spacers. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Compton took a deep breath. “First, I want say I’m very happy to see you more or less intact, Greta. You gave us quite a worry there for a while.”
“Thank you, sir. It was a little dicey for a while, but Commander Wilder is one hell of a pilot.”
“Yes he is.” Compton smiled. “Why else do you think Admiral Garret sent him here to fly you around?”
“I appreciate the admiral’s concern, sir.” Hurley was frustrated, but she was trying hard to hide it. “I’m perfectly capable of flying my own fighter, sir. And that would free up Commander Wilder to take over one of the wings.”
“Give it up, admiral.” Compton’s grin widened. “Even I can’t order that. Not without being grossly insubordinate.” He paused for a few seconds. “And I don’t violate Augustus Garret’s orders lightly.”
She’d been ready to put up a fight, but all the air deflated from her. Garret was the last word, not just the overall commander, but a legend in the navy. No one argued with Augustus Garret. Rumor had it that Compton had once or twice, but no one else would ever dare. “Understood, sir.”
“You’re the least expendable person in this fleet, Greta.”
She stared back at him, a doubtful expression on her face. “You’re too kind, sir.”
“I’m quite serious. Admiral Garret could replace me. General Gilson could replace Erik Cain…as much as anyone can.” He smiled when he thought of someone stepping into Cain’s shoes. He and Erik had become close friends, but he’d be damned if he could truly figure out what made the stubborn jarhead tick. He looked right at Hurley, his eyes finding hers. “But your experience with fighter-bomber tactics against the First Imperium is unmatched. And fighters are the one weapon the enemy doesn’t seem to possess. They have no truly effective counter.”
“Until now, sir.” Her voice was grim.
“Yes, these new weapons are a concern. But they are likely a specialized system, deployed to protect their worlds from missile attacks. We’ve seen no evidence of a mobile version.” He cleared his throat. “And, with any luck, your people just blew away all of them in this system.”
“Yes, sir.” She forced a tiny grin. Her people did well, and she was proud of them. “The wings did a great job. Even with me out of the mix.”
Compton tried to imagine Greta Hurley trapped with no com, unable to reach her people in battle. Maybe, he thought, I should give Commander Wilder and his people some sort of decoration for being trapped in there with her for four hours. He caught the laugh before it came out. It would have been difficult at best to explain the humor. “Your people performed brilliantly…and your plan was flawless.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Compton frowned. “I’m sorry, Greta, but I’m going to have to send your people right back out there.”
Hurley stared back into Compton’s eyes. “What do you need us to do, sir?”
Her unquestioning readiness almost made it worse for him. He hated taking a unit that had suffered 30% casualties in six hours of sustained operations and sending it back out with no rest. Her crews would barely have time to grab a quick meal while their ships were refueled and re-armed, and they’d be out again, back in the fight.
“Captain Duke’s attack ships hit the enemy pretty hard. They’re on the far side of the First Imperium fleet, decelerating to turn about and make a second attack run.”
“That’s excellent news, sir.” She nodded. “I’ve never met Captain Duke, but I’ve heard good things about him.”
“The bad news is he lost 20 ships.” Compton spoke softly, grimly. “I can’t hold the fleet back and let him attack the entire enemy force alone again. But I have no idea how many antimatter-armed missiles the enemy has.” He sighed loudly. “Greta, I need your people to run anti-missile missions. We need to do everything possible to intercept as many of them as we can. They could gut the fleet with antimatter ordnance if we’re not careful.”
Hurley nodded again. “Yes, sir. I understand.” She snapped back to attention. “You can count on us, admiral. We’ll blast those missiles to oblivion.”
“And Greta…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I don’t want any of your hotshots getting too close on their attack runs. These aren’t nukes…they’re antimatter warheads. When you hit them they’re gonna blow, and those are some big explosions.” He stared right at her. “Do you understand me, Admiral Hurley?”
She stood rigidly at attention and snapped back a sharp reply. “Yes, sir. I understand. I will make certain the squadrons are cautious, sir.”
Neither one of them believed her.
Compton watched the wall of incoming missiles on his monitor. They were still outside his point defense envelope, but they weren’t out of reach of Greta Hurley’s fighters. Her squadrons were heading right at the incoming barrage, extending the fleet’s missile defense range considerably. Compton knew he had to destroy most of the approaching weapons. If those were all antimatter warheads, the volley could do catastrophic damage to the fleet if it got through intact.
They’re probably not all antimatter-armed, he thought, with more hope than conviction. The enemy ships had fired half their externally mounted missiles at John Duke’s attack ships, and the incoming strike consisted of both externally and internally carried ordnance. He’d never seen the enemy carry antimatter warheads in their internal magazines…the risk of a containment breach was just too great. But he had no way of knowing for sure. The First Imperium ships were manned by robots, so perhaps they had a different set of considerations. They could very well choose to take the risk to provide their modest fleet with more firepower. Simply because they hadn’t done it before didn’t mean they couldn’t.
He had more to worry about than the enemy fleet, though. The orbital fortresses had all launched missiles as well. No human fleet had ever faced enemy fixed defenses before, and Compton had no idea what to expect. For all he knew, the massive volley launched by the forts was 100% antimatter-armed. He couldn’t take the risk…he had to use everything he could to take out the missiles.
For about the hundredth time since he’d left Sandoval, Compton was thankful he had Greta Hurley in the fold. She wasn’t only the closest thing the Pact had to an expert on fighter strikes against enemy ships – she had also pioneered the use of fighter-bombers in an anti-missile role.
He watched on the monitors as her fighters closed with the missiles. Before entering range, they dropped a line of point defense buoys. Recently upgraded by Tom Sparks and his research team, the tiny platforms were basically portable shotguns, towed into range by the attacking fighters.
Compton’s plan was to keep the missiles under sustained, layered attack. First, the fighters would launch a strafing run, targeting the warheads with their light
lasers. Compton wished Hurley’s fighters could make a second run through the volley, but there was no way they could decelerate, turn, and catch the missiles. Not in time.
After the fighter attack, the missiles would pass into the effective range of the shotgun buoys…all before entering what would normally be considered the point defense zone.
Compton was confident in the plan, but he was worried about the fighters. Shooting down missiles should be a relatively safe mission for them, but the antimatter weapons were dangerous. Intercepting a nuclear warhead didn’t cause an atomic explosion; the mechanism itself was simply destroyed. An antimatter bomb was different. Most of its inner workings were there to keep it from exploding. It appeared the enemy employed something not enormously different from the magnetic bottles used in Alliance fusion reactors to trap supercooled stockpiles of antimatter. Although they had a familiarity with the principles employed, Tom Sparks and Friederich Hofstader had been unable to replicate the system. Damaging or destroying the fragile units in any way knocked out the containment, causing the antimatter to annihilate instantly.
A 3-10 gigaton explosion was no joke, and fighters lacked the protection of capital ships, cruisers…even suicide boats. Hurley’s pilots would try to get close to get the best shot, but if they went too far they risked destroying themselves along with their targets. Compton had instructed them to exert caution, but fighter pilots were even crazier than suicide boat crews, and he was far from confident they’d obey.
“We’re going in, admiral.” Hurley’s voice came through his com. She sounded completely different than she had on the landing bay…totally focused…cold, feral.
“Good luck, Admiral Hurley.” Compton leaned back and watched his display. The fighters had to get through the enemy formation before the buoys started firing…or they’d be caught in the middle of the detonations. Compton sighed. He was worried about his people, but there was no one he’d rather have in charge than Greta Hurley, especially when razor-sharp timing and precision were needed.