Issue In Doubt

by David Sherman

  He’d long since given the order for his starships to take evasive action, maneuvering in patterns of random movement; he knew it was a feeble attempt to trick the oncoming missiles into missing them, but it was better than nothing. Starships, particularly the transports and support vessels of a gator navy, don’t maneuver very nimbly. Feeble or not, the maneuvering might save some of his ships—and the troops they carried.

  His mouth was dry, but he stood erect, hands clasped in the small of his back, head held high, expression neutral. He didn’t look like a man facing imminent death. Next to him, he barely heard General Lyman murmuring; likely prayers to whatever god he might believe in.

  On the main display two icons, representing Landing Platform, Shuttle, LPS8 Phillips Head and the logistics support ship Richmond merged, then shattered into pieces scattering away.

  There goes several hundred sailors and an army brigade, Callaghan thought grimly.

  The Phillips Head and the Richmond hadn’t been hit by enemy fire; they’d collided with each other.

  Lyman emitted a groan and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Seconds later, the oncoming enemy weapons began impacting the starships of his flotilla. Callaghan didn’t look away from the main display; he owed the officers and men of ARG17 and VII Corps that much respect. He saw four missiles strike the amphibious landing ferry Yorktown, breaking her in two. He watched two missiles hit the amphibious landing dock Saratoga, not death-dealing hits, but certainly crippling. The Grandar Bay was staggered by one hit. The escort carrier Kidd was pummeled by three missiles; Callaghan wondered if she would be able to retrieve her Meteor pilots—if any of them had survived. He only saw one missile strike the Kandahar, but she exploded—the missile must have found its way to the power plant.

  There were hits on more of the starships of ARG 17, but Callaghan didn’t see them. He spent his last seconds standing at attention as he watched five missiles close on the Peleliu.

  Rear Admiral Callaghan died with his eyes open. Lieutenant General Lyman opened his eyes in time to die the same way.

  Troop Compartment A-43-P, NAUS Juno Beach, ARG17

  Before the now-hear-this message even finished its first go-through, Second Lieutenant Theodore W. Greig bolted from the officers mess and raced, twisting side to side to avoid collisions with sailors and soldiers going in the opposite direction in the narrow passageways, to the compartment where his platoon was quartered on the amphibious assault ship.

  “Sergeant Quinn,” he huffed into his comm unit, “where are you? I’m heading for the platoon.”

  “I’m almost there, LT. I already put out a call for everyone to report in.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “Hey, it’s what a platoon sergeant does.”

  “The good ones, anyway.” Greig snapped his comm off and twisted past a last few sailors before he reached the door to his platoon’s compartment and headed in. A glance showed him that Quinn had just arrived, and only two or three of his soldiers weren’t present.

  “‘Toon, a-ten-hut!” Quinn bellowed when the officer entered.

  Greig gave his men a few seconds to come to their feet and begin moving into the posture of attention before shouting, “At ease!” He turned and stepped aside at the sound of thudding footsteps in the passageway behind himself, just in time to dodge two soldiers who grabbed the doorway combing and spun into the compartment.

  “Is that everybody?” he asked.

  Quinn had already called for a squad leaders’ report. In seconds, he had it. “Second platoon, all present and accounted for,” he barked.

  Greig nodded. “Good,” he said, then took a couple of seconds to organize his thoughts. “As you just heard on the Juno Beach’s PA system, the fleet is under attack. That’s this fleet, including the ship we’re on. There are two fleets, the troop transfer fleet we’re in, and a warship fleet. The warships are fighting off the attackers. But, if history’s any indication, some of the attackers are going to be successful.” He paused to let that sink in. “What this means in practical terms, is the Juno Beach might get hit, maybe even destroyed.” He had to raise his hands and voice to quell the tumult that rose.

  Quinn’s roars of “Knock it off and listen up!” probably had more to do with the sudden silence than the lieutenant’s shout.

  “Yes,” Greig snapped. “That means we could all get killed before we even make planetfall. But—” He again had to call for quiet. “But it doesn’t mean that we will get killed. First, because the enemy might not hit this ship. Second, because there are stasis stations available. We are going to one. All of second platoon. If the Juno Beach gets hit, even destroyed, we’ll be safe until we get rescued and brought out of stasis. If we don’t get hit at all, we’re still safe and alive until someone releases us from stasis.

  Sergeant Quinn and I know where the nearest stasis station is. We are going to take you there now and we are all going into stasis. We’ll be out of the way of the ship’s crew, and we’ll be safe in case the Juno Beach gets hit. You’ve all been through a stasis drill, so you know how it’s done. Squad leaders, get your troops together, and follow Sergeant Quinn.” He nodded at his platoon sergeant. “Lead the way.”

  Second platoon of Alpha Troop, First of the Seventh Mounted Infantry, 10th Brigade, headed to the nearest stasis station, which was close enough that the lead soldier entered it before the last soldier left the platoon’s compartment.

  It took less than fifteen minutes for the twenty-four troops of the platoon to get into the individual units, hooked up, and checked by their squad leaders. Greig and Quinn checked the squad leaders.

  Before they got into their units, Quinn asked, “LT., did the captain tell all the platoon commanders to head for stasis?”

  Greig looked his platoon sergeant in the eye and said quietly, “You can’t get in trouble for what you don’t know. Remember that, just in case I’m wrong.”

  NAUS Durango, Admiral’s Bridge

  “If it pleases Captain Huse, I would like to speak with him,” Rear Admiral James Avery said into his comm. Task Force 8 belonged to Avery, but the Durango belonged to Huse, and his position must be acknowledged.

  “Huse here, Admiral,” the captain’s voice came back seconds later.

  “Captain,” Avery said, calling him by his rank rather than his given name as he normally would to make totally clear that he was giving orders, “thanks for getting back to me so quickly.” As if there was any doubt that a captain wouldn’t answer an admiral’s call as fast as possible. “Those bogeys attacking the ARG came from Mini Mouse. Fleet CAC has identified their points of origin. I want you to maneuver into a position where you can continue giving cover to the planetside Marines, and simultaneously fire on the moon. Have your CAC coordinate with mine.” The Durango’s Combat Action Center directed the ship’s fight; the Fleet CAC coordinated the fight of two or more of the fleet’s ships. “I’m sending the Scott to attack the identified locations from where the enemy launched its missiles. When you are in position, I will send further orders to Durango and Scott to coordinate your attacks.

  “Questions?”

  “Negative, sir. I will inform the admiral the instant I am in position.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Avery broke the connection, and settled back to watch developments.

  NAUS Durango, Bridge

  “Comm,” Huse said to Lieutenant Commander George F. Davis, his communications officer, “get me CAC.”

  “CAC, aye, sir,” Davis answered.

  Seconds later; “CAC, Lieutenant Hudner, sir.”

  “Mr. Hudner, has Fleet CAC given you the locations on Mini Mouse the enemy fired from?”

  “Yes, sir. They are coming in now.”

  “Good man. The admiral is about to order a counterattack. Make a priority list with coordinates for bombardment, and send it to me instantly. Remember, we have to maintain cover for the Marines planetside.”

  “Aye aye. sir, you will have it immediately.”

/>   NAUS Durango, Admiral’s Bridge

  While Huse was giving orders to his CAC, Avery was in communication with Captain William R. Rush, skipper of the Scott. The Scott and the Durango were two of the most powerful warships in the NAU Navy, and the most powerful in TF8.

  It took several seconds longer for Rush to answer Avery’s call than it had Huse, during which time the plot arrived from the CAC. But Huse was on the same starship as Avery, while Rush on the Scott was more than 100,000 kilometers distant; in space, distance equals time.

  “Scott Actual here, Sir.” Rush’s voice when it came was clear and crisp. Identifying himself by position rather than name indicated that he anticipated that he was about to receive action orders.

  “Scott Actual, I believe that you are in a position from which you can launch Kestrel strikes on Mini Mouse.”

  Seconds later Rush replied, “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  “Be advised, the Durango is maneuvering into position to strike targets on Mini Mouse. When she is in position, I will give orders to the two of you to coordinate your attacks. In the meantime, launch your squadrons and have them take up parking orbits on the limb of Mini Mouse, where they will wait for orders to strike at these targets which have been identified by Fleet CAC.” He pressed a “transmit” button to send the plot to the Scott.

  “Sir, Scott maneuveringto launch Kestrels.

  “Launch as soon as you are ready, Scott.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Combat Action Center, NAUS Durango, in orbit around Troy

  Mini Mouse’s rotation had moved the likely launch sites identified by fleet CAC from opposite Troy to halfway to its limb. Troy had likewise rotated but, with a longer rotation period, not as far around its axis. The Durango moved far enough to fire on the moon that was still out of sight beyond the edge of Troy, while staying where she could give the Marines on the ground fire support should they need it.

  Lieutenant Thomas Hudner and his crew in the Durango’s CAC watched over their computers while they calculated firing solutions for the ship’s weapons to hit the probable locations of the alien launch sites. It would be nearly impossible for ballistic weapons to make the strikes, but simple for the Durango’s—once it was in position. Right now, it was covering the Marines planetside.

  “Got it!” Senior Chief Petty Officer Francis Edward Ormsbee exclaimed.

  “Show me, Francis Edward,” Hudner said, stepping to the man everybody from petty officer first class on up called “Francis Edward.”

  “Ya see, Mr. T—” Ormsbee called everybody except Captain Huse and the admiral whatever he wanted to. “—we got the jarheads covered right there,” he pointed at a group of lines on the schematic he’d just put together, “an’ the mizzuls came from there. We can hit ’em from where we are.” He looked at his division commander. “Don’cha think ya oughtta tell the skipper?”

  “Well now, Francis Edward, I think that might be a good idea. A very good idea indeed.”

  Hudner notified Captain Huse, who in turn informed Admiral Avery, and two minutes later, the Durango fired a barrage of missiles programmed to loop around the side of the side of the planet and then swing past the limb of Mini Mouse, to impact at four locations on the moon’s far side.

  Four AV16(E) Kestrels followed behind to get visual confirmation of the strikes.

  VSFA 132, “Piranha” squadron off NAUS Scott, En Route from Parking Orbit to Target

  “Nibblers, Nibblers, all Nibblers, this is Big Teeth. Answer up,” Lieutenant Commander Georgia Street said into her squadron circuit. “Verify that you have your strike coordinates and path programmed into your comps.”

  She watched as her board lit up with replies. All four of the squadron’s four fighter-attack craft divisions were properly aligned to bombard their assigned targets, each division coming in from a different direction. Scatter-Blast cluster bombs fired by sixteen craft from two thousand meters altitude. The divisions would loose their loads at ten-second intervals. The Blasters were set to go off one hundred meters above the surface, scattering their munitions over a ten-by-ten-kilometer area, shredding the camouflage coverings to confetti, churning the regolith all the way to the bedrock like a brutally plowed field. If anything was still under the camouflage, it would be obliterated. As soon as their bombs dropped, the AV16C Kestrels’ flight paths called for them to shoot into a vertical arabesques, designed to allow them to avoid both each other and the debris blasting up from the surface with margins of safety.

  “We aren’t going to have much time on our approach,” Street continued in a pep-talk tone, “but Piranha squadron is the best in the Navy, and that means nobody can do this job better. So let’s get this thing done!”

  Not much time indeed. They were speeding around Mini Mouse at close to Mach 4—not that “Mach” meant much of anything in the moon’s almost non-existent atmosphere, but it was a convenient term to use to measure velocity—at two thousand meters altitude. When the target came in sight they’d have sixty-three seconds to the fire-and-climb point; sixty-three seconds to lock onto the target and blast it. Nobody, of course, knew what—if any—defenses the launch sites had. But those defenses, if they existed, would have very little time to realize they were under attack, aim, and fire. Unless they had an early warning system, in which case they’d be ready before the Piranhas crossed the visual horizon. If they had an early warning system, Piranha squadron would have to go to Plan B—and would surely have losses.

  Mini Mouse had begun life as a dwarf planet, captured by Troy during the system’s early childhood. As such it had an iron core, unlike Dumbo, Troy’s other moon, that had been torn from the planet’s crust during system formation. Even though it was smaller than Earth’s moon, the iron core gave Mini Mouse a slightly higher gravity, about .2 G. The gravity aided the Scott’s squadrons in approaching their targets from below the horizon. Despite possible problems, the approach looked like it was going to be a milk run.

  Then the first division was visible over the target’s horizon.

  VSFA 132, “Piranha” Squadron, Approaching Target

  Defensive weapons, similar to the Beanbags used by the NAUS for missile defense, began throwing up a wall of tiny pellets for the Kestrels to run into. But by the time they did, the range-to-target was so short, and the Kestrels’ velocities so great, that the munitions didn’t have enough time to fully deploy before the attacking craft were past them. Other weapons opened up, rapidly firing off slugs that could pulverize a fighter if one ran into enough of them. Again, the first division was too close, and the slugs missed, allowing all four Kestrels to fire their munitions, some of which knocked out some of the defensive weapons.

  But the other three divisions were ten, twenty, and thirty seconds behind, and the surviving alien defenses were now alerted.

  “Big Mouth, Piranha Seven, something hit me!” That was Ensign Charles H. Hammann, the third pilot in the second division.

  Street’s display showed Hammann’s fighter craft climbing, but flashing red in a sequence that told her that it was not only damaged but out of its carefully calculated arabesque as well.

  Another icon began flashing red and stopped moving. It was Piranha 14, piloted by third division’s Ensign Daniel Sullivan. It was down, and Street wasn’t receiving vitals—that indicated that Sullivan was likely dead.

  Two icons from division four turned red, but Street didn’t bother checking to see who they were, she was too busy doing a damage assessment of the target.

  The defensive weapons had ceased fire. Street had no way of knowing whether that was because they were all destroyed, because they were out of munitions, or because the weapons couldn’t fire that close to vertical. As seen in the view from her tail camera, even with the clouds of debris from division four’s Scatter Blasts still expanding, the target area looked like it was thoroughly chewed up. There was no satellite image to check against.

  It didn’t matter either way; VSFA 132 didn’t have any Scatter-Blast
s for a second run.

  “Nibblers, Nibblers, all Nibblers, this is Big Teeth,” Street said into her squadron circuit. “We’ve done all we can for now. Let’s head for home.” She cleared her throat before adding, “Downed Nibblers, hang in there. Rescue will be on its way as soon as possible. Maybe they’re on their way even now. I’ve noted and sent in your positions, so SAR will be able to head for your location even before they have a lock on you. Big Teeth out.”

  She checked Piranha Seven’s icon. It still displayed a wobbly path, but the Kestrel was still rising, and was keeping up with the rest of the squadron. Her squadron still had three Kestrels down and out of communication; she didn’t know if the pilots were alive and well—except for Piranha Seven, whose lack of vitals indicated he was dead—or if they were in imminent danger of being captured.

  Command Center, 1st Marine Combat Force, Outside Millerton

  “Admiral,” Lieutenant General Harold Bauer said to the image on his comm once Avery had described the situation and said what he wanted from the Marines, “you get your SAR craft to me and I’ll give you the security you need.”

  “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, General.” Rear Admiral Avery’s reply came seconds later. He was in his CAC on board the Durango in orbit. “Just remember, the SAR Pegasus craft can’t carry a large force.”

  “I’m well aware of the space limitations of the Pegasus. One squad should be more than adequate for each mission, and won’t overly tax the crafts’ systems.”

  “Give me the coordinates of the platoon you’re assigning to the mission, I’ll have the Pegasuses land at its location.”

  Bauer shook his head. “I’m not assigning one platoon to the mission, but one squad from each regiment.

  Avery arched an eyebrow at that. “Are you trying to prevent one platoon from absorbing too many casualties?”