Looking away from the View Screens, the First Admiral was pleased to see the technicians, operators and Staff Officers scurrying busily around the room focussed solely on their duties. What had been a nightmare of tension, silence and anxiety only a few moments before was now a frenzied hive of action, purpose, activity and noise.
“Sir,” a Senior Communications Officer interrupted his thought, without a trace of nervousness, “Third Admiral Bettayam requests permission to launch the Task Force”
“My compliments to the Third Admiral; tell him to hold his station until Third Admiral Lotharian is fully engaged with the Pritern fleet at his position. Third Admiral Bettayam shall be receiving his attack instructions shortly; he is not to attack until the word is given, and please, emphasise that,” the First Admiral responded calmly moving back to the War Table.
Turning his attention back to the View Screens, the First Admiral silently cursed Argun Bettayam for an eager hot-headed fool. Privately, he hoped that the wayward Third Admiral had not returned to his old, dangerous and insubordinate ways. Bettayam had been given his second chance. Next time, it would be a court-martial, and a possible execution, for Argun Bettayam.
Chapter 3
Out towards the advancing Traing fleet, aboard the Crusader-class gunship Lionheart, First Crusader Squadron Commander Nerla Daelstar was calm, relaxed and ready to go. She had practiced and rehearsed her mission hundreds of times in her mind, looking for the flaws and designing contingencies as they arose. She had driven her ships and crews to the limits of their endurance; rehearsing, practicing and perfecting their allotted tasks. This was the most important mission of the battle and Nerla was not about to disappoint the First Admiral. She had caught his attention with her courage and skill, and her career had prospered because of it. If she carried this mission off successfully, then there would be decorations, commendations and more importantly for the ambitious Nerla Daelstar, more promotion.
Nerla was tall, extremely thin and long-limbed; the classic shape for a Mittabray soldier. Her pale green skin stretched tautly over her sharp angular face, which was uncharacteristic in Mittabray females. Mittabray females tended to be heavier and rounder in physique than the males of the species. However, Nerla, scorned the traditions of Mittabray fashion and formality, and kept herself at the peak of fitness. Beneath her tightly cropped dark brown hair, shone a pair of sharp red eyes; a legacy from her part-Hovvian father. Below those eyes was a broad flat Mittabray nose; whilst, across her nose, running from one of her two small flat ears to the other, were three narrow ridges of dark green skin.
On the lower left sleeve of her green uniform overall she carried the two narrow gold stripes and circled “1” numeral of a First Squadron Commander. The First Crusader Squadron was the elite, the best of the best, of the Crusader crews aboard the Supercarrier. Membership in this elite unit was a highly sought after posting, but, with the honour and status came the risks and dangers. The First Squadrons were always the first into battle, got the most dangerous jobs, and suffered the highest casualties.
“Code word ‘Nimrod’ received, ma’am,” the young, yet battle-seasoned Communications Technician aboard the Lionheart announced from the Voice-Comms console just behind the Command Chair.
“Acknowledged,” responded Nerla Daelstar trying to sound professional and calm.
Her body was as tense and taut as a steel spring, as her white-knuckled hands grasped the arms of the Command Chair tightly.
“Make response ‘Artemis’ to the Carrier” she provided the correct acknowledgement code known only to the flotilla commander, “and code word ‘Hermes’ to the Squadron”, she now passed the much awaited order to her Gunship Commanders.
“Here we go,” Nerla thought to herself, eager to get the mission under way. She too had been infected with the tension and anxiety of waiting for the operation to begin.
Now, she was relieved and excited to be back in action. It was a funny thing, she considered, only when she was in action did she feel the excitement and the thrill of life. It was only really when she was flirting with death that she felt truly alive. The Lionheart was carrying the new experimental battle shielding, which she hoped would stand up to the stress of combat. In her prayers to her ancestors that morning, the devout Nerla had made her peace with them, as she had always done, prior to battle. Having trusted her spirit to the care of her ancestors, she now trusted her life, and the lives of her crew, to the Crusader class gunship called Lionheart. She loved this small squat, ugly looking gunship that The Fleet, in its infinite wisdom, had given into her charge. It was not a pretty vessel. It did not have the grace and streamlining of the single-seated Eagle fighter or the twin-seated Scout reconnaissance craft. In fact, to Nerla, and most of The Fleet Officer Corps, the Crusader class reminded them of a very large square-sided Dialathan Toad set on top of two huge Thrust Engines. That was where the comparison ended for Nerla. Unlike the peaceful vegetarian toad, the Crusader gunship was a heavily-armed brute killer with sharp teeth and a savage bite.
“Squadron acknowledging ‘Perseus’, ma’am,” the Comms Tech answered, almost absent-mindedly, as he calmly marshalled the information from the voice channels as expertly and professionally as a technician with ten years more experience than he actually had.
“Navigator, you have your course, speed: standard one-quarter vector ahead,” Nerla ordered, feeling relieved to be falling into the comfort and routines of action.
“Aye, ma’am, one-quarter vector ahead,” the Navigator, seated in The Pit, as the crew described the circular Navigation and Drive turret located above them in the roof of the vessel, responded.
Smoothly, the Lionheart moved away from its Waiting Station close to the Fleet Supercarrier Bellerophon, followed closely like a mother goose by her gaggle of two hundred and fifty heavily armed goslings.
“Time to intercept?” she asked the Weapons and Tactical Officer at the console to her left.
“At present speed and attitude, sixteen minutes to contact, ma’am” the WATO responded.
“Very well, Navigator; let’s go and get this party started then!” Nerla ordered, eagerly, and led her flotilla into the fray.
Chapter 4
About the same time as Nerla Daelstar was taking Lionheart and the bait flotilla out towards the Traing, Third Admiral Jarral Lotharian calmly sat in the War Room of her own flagship, the Fleet Supercarrier Leonidas. She had just finished setting out final instructions to her subordinates for the imminent clash with the Pritern Fleet, as they cruised towards the intercept point. The First Admiral had made it quite plain to her that this was to be a holding action. For Jarral Lotharian, this was the kind of action she enjoyed.
Jarral Lotharian hailed from the planet Voltarn, and was the daughter of a family whose military tradition stretched back for over fifty generations. Of medium height, Jarral had the straight dark hair of the Voltar; which starting to grey, she kept long, but tied at the back of her head. Her eyes were a piercing blue set against her smooth olive skin. A thin-hooked nose perched above a dark, thin-lipped mouth gave Jarral an expression of stern severity that belied her generally optimistic and cheerful personality. She was a solid Third Admiral, who some said lacked imagination. The First Admiral, who had more than once expressed confidence in her abilities, had seen that she was an individual whose talents far exceeded the prowess she had chosen to show in her career so far. Many in the Fleet saw Lotharian as a plodder, very level-headed, defensively-minded and no appetite for attack. The First Admiral saw her from an entirely different perspective. From his perspective, Lotharian was cool and calm in a crisis. She was able to read a situation quickly and had the courage and quiet self-confidence to take charge of events.
Sitting in the War Room of the Leonidas, Jarral Lotharian calmly viewed the Pritern Fleet as it held its position in space in front of the Fourth Alliance Fleet. Like two wary animals, the two fleets viewed each other across the chasm of space. The three hundred and fifty strong All
iance fleet scorned its traditional defensive formation and adopted a circular formation. Jarral needed to bring every pulsar-cannon to bear on the Pritern in the forthcoming battle, and, fortunately, her Scout and Explorer cordon indicated that there was no danger to her rear or flanks.
The four hundred Pritern vessels had approached in their traditional “flying wedge” formation; like a large “V” before launching their complement of single-seat fighters. Almost twenty-two thousand dart-like Pritern fighters, with their three swept-back fins, were now heading her way. Jarral Lotharian was not afraid. Jarral had supreme confidence in the new battle shielding that had been issued to the larger Alliance vessels. Calmly, Jarral watched on the View Screen as the five great “V” formations of Pritern fighters started heading towards the Alliance Fleet.
The atmosphere in the Tactical Operations Room was quiet and subdued. Jarral’s calm confidence, and stern stare, would keep even the most skittish Technicians or Officers at their posts. Any doubts about the battle shielding were being kept under wraps, as they went about their duties. The Eagles, Scouts and Crusaders were now in their appointed places, their weapons tied to the Senior WATO’s main tactical computer.
“Activate the War Table, please” Jarral said to the Technician who sat at a console next to the View Screens. Her voice sounded calm, and showed no hint of any nervousness or self-doubt, Jarral was pleased to note to herself.
An instant later, the War Room was plunged into darkness, and the three-dimensional image of the battle ground sprung into life from the hundreds of ultra high-definition image-generators embedded in the heavily illuminated table. The table was roughly five metres feet long, three metres wide and could project a three-dimensional image up to two metres from the table surface. From here, data fed in, from a host of sources, could give her an up to date view of the battle as and when it happened.
It took a few moments for Jarral’s eyes to acclimatise to the darkened room and harshly lit War Table.
On the table before her the positions of both fleets appeared in animated miniature scale.
To her left, the Alliance fleet in its circular formation, ships side-on to the enemy to bring all weapons to bear, with the Eagles and Crusaders in their formation blocks, also facing the enemy. In the centre of the front line was the flagship Leonidas. The Leonidas was the largest of the blue icons in this Alliance flotilla. To the far right of the War Table, the white Pritern mother-ships in their famous “V” formation far outnumbered the numerically puny Alliance force. The Pritern mother-ships looked like the circular, domed spinning tops that Voltar children would play with. Jarral knew that these were not toys, and that each of these Pritern vessels could carry hundreds of their Dart fighters.
In fact, between the two fleets, Jarral could already clearly see these Dart fighters swarming towards her pitifully small command. They too swept forwards in their great “V” formations, confident of victory against this insolent, puny Alliance flotilla. There were five waves of Dart fighters, stepped like a staircase so that they would press home their attacks within roughly twenty seconds of each other.
“Time to intercept?” she asked the Senior WATO, who was obscured by darkness.
“Nine minutes, Admiral,” the seemingly disembodied male voice responded.
“Do you have a firing solution?” she asked, almost distractedly, concentrating on the advancing white Pritern darts.
“Yes, Admiral, I would recommend that we commence firing at Contact minus one minute fifteen seconds,” the Senior WATO responded.
“Cutting it rather close aren’t we?” Jarral asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
One minute fifteen seconds was less than one hundred kilometres from the Alliance line, which had made Jarral gasp quietly.
“For our first salvo bursts, it shows predicted casualties in the first wave would be on the order of seventy percent, Admiral, forty percent in the second wave and almost ten percent in the third wave,” the WATO replied calmly.
The Main Tactical Computer had calculated that the optimum moment to open fire which would cause the greatest damage whilst leaving time to prevent the Alliance forces from being overrun by the more numerical Pritern. It was cold, simple mathematical logic that would decide the exact moment when thousands of brave Pritern pilots would die in the cold, airless vacuum of space.
Jarral quickly did the arithmetic in her head; that would be almost a quarter of the attacking force in the first ten seconds of combat. She had seen formations break and run having sustained fewer losses, but, these were Pritern. Their pride and obstinacy would push them forward against the Alliance’s pulsar-cannons. She understood that their political situation was desperate, and that they were playing for the highest of stakes. The Pritern would continue their attack, and Jarral’s pulsar-cannons would blow them to oblivion.
“Very well,” Jarral responded to the Senior WATO, “make sure the gunners and pilots are aware,” she added, “Senior Flight Tactical,” she continued with her orders.
“Yes, Admiral,” a female voice sounded from the darkness.
“Make sure those Eagles keep station within the battle shielding,” Jarral indicated a group of twenty Alliance fighters who had strayed from their designated positions.
In their eagerness to come to grips with the enemy, they had drifted ahead of the battle shielding that was meant to protect them from the incoming Pritern weapons. Almost unconsciously, as she had spoken, she had highlighted the errant fighters with a yellow circle generated through the pistol grip remote control in her right hand.
“Yes, Admiral,” the female voice responded slightly nervously.
Third Admiral Lotharian was known as a tough taskmaster and the Senior Flight Officer did not want to perform badly in this battle.
“Keep those Crusaders in line,” Jarral added, “They are not to envelop or attack the enemy mother ships when we stamp out these fighters. We need to leave them a retreat path.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the female voice responded, silently cursing the Crusader squadron commanders.
“Comms Intelligence?” Jarral called next.
“Ma’am,” the stern gruff male voice of the Senior Communications Intelligence Officer replied from the darkness.
“Standard procedure for enemy signals, once we start firing close down their Comms, especially the mother ships. It is absolutely imperative that they don’t contact their Traing friends once the shooting starts,” Jarral indicated and emphasised the most important factor of his part of the operation.
“Yes, Ma’am,” the gruff voice responded well aware of how important his role was in this fight.
“Very well,” Jarral continued, “Let’s have our brand new battle shielding up, and make signal to all ranks,” Jarral thought for a moment and opened the Crew Intercomm, “The people of Maltor and our comrades-in-arms are depending on us today. Follow your orders, do your duty and we will prevail once again. The Fourth Fleet shall always prevail,” she added the Fleet’s motto to her pre-battle message.
It was not, she considered, one of her finest speeches, but it would suffice to keep her subordinates focussed on the job at hand. There were to be no heroics or glorious sweeping attacks on this day. It was a containment action, a hard-nosed professional job with no frills or drama.
“Admiral, one minute to firing point,” the WATO announced from the darkness, drawing Jarral’s attention back to the War Table image.
“Very well, calculate the final firing solution,” Jarral ordered.
Jarral Lotharian, in her own mind, absolutely refused to acknowledge the possibility of defeat. She was utterly convinced that the battle shielding would hold, even if some of her senior commanders were not as sure of its effectiveness. She was just running through the battle plan for the hundredth time in her mind when a voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Admiral, ten seconds to firing,” the Senior WATO intoned flatly from the darkness, no trace of emotion in his voice.
Th
e first of the small white Dart images was closing in on the red zone highlighted on the War Table. The following waves were keeping the same steady professional formation as their spearhead squadrons.
“WATO, in your own time, commence firing,” Jarral, dragged from her own personal thoughts, gave the order to open the battle.
Calmly, the Senior WATO counted down the seconds to opening fire whilst Jarral watched the first waves of miniature white Pritern fighters enter the red zone.
With her arms folded across her chest and her left hand over her mouth, Jarral focussed on the advancing first wave of fighters. At the moment the symbols crossed the red line on her War Table, the Senior WATO gave the order to open fire.
With the push of one blue button, the fifteen-thousand pulsar-cannons of the entire Fourth Fleet sent a deadly hail of white-hot pulsar-bolts slashing down range.
Within seconds they had begun to smash into the dart-shaped, white hulls of the targeted Pritern fighter craft; blowing them to pieces in deadly fireballs of deep red flame.
On her War Table, Jarral saw hundreds of the Pritern fighters simply vanish. She was well aware that out on the battlefield the Pritern fighters would be exploding in the deep red-flamed death-blooms that were the lot of fallen fighter pilots. The first ten seconds would be crucial, she understood; hit them hard early to shake their confidence. When their comrades start dying around them, they will think about the possibility of their own deaths, Jarral knew.
Out on the battlefield, the first Alliance pulsar-bolts were still smashing into the initial wave of Pritern fighters, and starting to find their way through to the second wave. The great white-hot hail of whooshing death tore great gaps in the Pritern first wave as they drove onwards to meet their enemy. The clever, the lucky and the brave tried to jink and weave their way through the rain of death, but, to no avail. The concentrated rapid-fire from the Alliance gun line was simply too powerful. In avoiding one oncoming pulsar-bolt, some pilots inadvertently flew their craft into the path of another, resulting in instant destruction and death. The goddess of battle was a capricious creature, indeed.
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