“Releasing plasma torpedoes,” yelled out the Flag Tactical Officer, who had all of those weapons under his control.
“I hope this crazy idea works,” said the Admiral, looking at the plot of missiles traveling too fast to be more than a blur on visual.
If it does it give us another weapon in hyper warfare, thought Sean, looking at the plot with total concentration. If not, then we just become another footnote in the history of crazy ideas that didn’t work. Despite the levity of the thought Sean could feel his heart beating fast, and could feel the wetness on his palms under his gauntlets. If the idea didn’t work, then he would have even more blood on his hands. If the Universe was as he thought that would be the end of it, as he would have no time to think about his failure. And if it was as the religious folk thought, he would have an eternal afterlife to regret it. And I wonder how Jennifer is handling this? Not that the woman would know. It had been decided not to tell the civilians aboard what was going on. It would do no good in any respect.
Outside the ships over a hundred half mass torpedoes moved away from the hyperfields of their launching vessels. The following capsules that made such weapons practical propelled them at five thousand gravities while the strong magnetic field held the plasma in place, and the hyperdrive projectors were running in overdrive to keep the entire package in the hyper dimension.
At two light seconds from the ships, with the incoming missiles four seconds from striking, the following capsules injected small antimatter warheads into each plasma mass. They exploded in an instant, spewing superheated plasma out in a cloud. More than a hundred plasma clouds came together to form a barrier of million degree particles that began to lose heat immediately at a prodigious rate. Not fast enough to make a difference to the missiles that impacted the cloud at point five light. The combination of heat and kinetic impact blasted the missiles from space. Nine made it through or around the plasma field, to be taken easily by the lasers and particle beams of the spaceships.
Pieces of missile and propelled plasma continue on toward the ships at the point five light velocity of the striking missiles. The dangerous mass was four seconds travel time from the vessels, and that matter fell out of hyper in two seconds, leaving a spray of photons and very low mass particles to hit the ships, shrugged off by their electromagnetic fields.
A collective sigh of relief went through the flag bridge, and on compartments all across the force, as crews realized they were going to live.
“Great work, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, giving him a smile.
“And what happens if they fire another salvo at us?” asked the Tactical Officer.
“I don’t know,” said Sean, shrugging his shoulders. “I really don’t know.”
“We’ll just accept that we survived this one,” said the Admiral. “And they will not know for forty minutes that their missiles didn’t do their work.”
“We have more ships ahead in hyper VI,” called out the Sensor Officer.
The Admiral gave her a horrified look, and Sean knew how she felt. The Sensor Officer smiled and a mass of green icons appeared on the plot.
“They’re our ships, ma’am. Hundreds of them, heading for the enemy force.”
* * *
“Are they trying to kill us?” croaked Cornelius Walborski, laying on his bed and trying to draw breath against the four gees that pressed down on his chest. He moved his head to try to get a look at his son’s tank, but is was beyond his vision at the moment, and he couldn’t shift enough to see.
“They’re trying to save us, son,” said Preacher, who seemed to be handling the gravity much better than Walborski.
That damned augmentation, thought Walborski, looking at Preacher in the next bed. He could probably get up and run around the court area. Bastard.
“All I can tell you son is we are in a world of shit, and the navy is doing their damndest to get us out of it,” said Preacher.
“I know,” said Walborski, looking back at the ceiling and trying to get his breath back. He had seen how there were so many more people aboard, brought from other ships that would become the sacrificial goats of the task force. There had not been enough beds for all of them, and he thought of the ones that must be suffering on the floor somewhere. Or they put them in the beds of the crew, who probably won’t be getting any rest through this thing.
His opinion of the navy had gone up since he came aboard the battle cruiser. He had always known they were important to the safety of the Empire, but also imagined that most of the Fleet officers had basically lived off the public teat, never realizing that they could be called on at any time to make the ultimate sacrifice.
I’ll take the Army, thought the ex-farmer. At least there I have a little more control of my own fate.
The ship shook, from what he couldn’t tell, but he thought that it couldn’t be good. If I ever make it to an army base for training. And he worried more about his son, who didn’t have any idea what was going on around him, and might never have that chance of having a life.
* * *
“They survived the missile attack,” called out a disbelieving Tactical Officer.
“How?” asked the Admiral, standing up in his seat. “How many did the attack take out?”
“None, sir,” said the incredulous Tactical Officer.
“Impossible,” yelled the Admiral, walking to the plot and looking at the five icons that represented what was left of the force they had been chasing from Sestius. “They didn’t have enough ships to withstand that kind of an attack.”
The Admiral walked away from the holo tank and glared at the viewer that showed the red nothingness of hyperspace ahead. “They vex me, these damned inferior creatures.” He turned back to his tactical officer. “I want them blotted from the Universe. Fire two salvos at them.”
“That’s all we have left,” said the Tactical Officer, shock on his face.
“Then fire all we have at them,” said the Admiral. “I want them destroyed.” The Admiral was in a rage, as only a high ranking male of his people could be when foiled by a race that was thought to be their inferior. All races were thought to be inferior to the Cacada. And rage destroyed reason.
“Aye, my Lord,” said the Tactical Officer, tuning back to his board to fire, and command the other ships to fire.
“My Lord,” called out the Sensor Officer. “We have enemy ships in Hyper VI.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds, my Lord,” said the Sensor Officer, his eyes wide. “Two hundred, no three hundred. More.”
The Tactical Officer stopped sending commands and pulled his hands off the board.
“They have launched missiles, my lord,” said the Tactical Officer, his voice dropping low. “Thousands of them.”
* * *
“Preparing to fire, sir,” called out the Fleet Tactical Officer, landing in his seat.
“Fire according to plan Golf,” said the Admiral, taking his own seat and looking at the plot. The acceleration tanks were moving back into the floor, clearing the room of their bulk.
“Aye, sir,” called the officer, his hands working his board and sending commands to all the ships of the fleet.
The battleships were all loaded with battle cruiser missiles that fit their tubes, while the battle cruisers and heavy cruisers were using light cruiser missiles that their launch accelerators could accommodate. Now they launched missiles from the stern tubes, accelerating them away from the ships and killing some of their velocity. Six hundred missiles were fired in the first volley, then six hundred more, volley after volley until seventy-two hundred missiles were in space. As soon as each missile left its tube it started to decelerate at five thousand gravities, taking twenty minutes to get down to the velocity where they could translate into hyper VII.
They were still traveling toward the enemy at point two light as they moved into VII, reversing their acceleration at five thousand gravities toward the enemy force. They came on in twelve groups of six hundred, fa
r enough apart to prevent them from all being targeted by a swarm of defensive missiles, if the enemy had such, but all timed to arrive at the targets within less than a half minute.
* * *
“We have fifteen hundred and sixty-nine missiles coming at us, Admiral,” called out the Sensor Officer.
“And I guess the same trick won’t work again,” said Sean, his voice low so that only the Admiral could hear him.
“I think not,” said Montgomery, staring at the plot. “At least they won’t be returning to their base either. For the little bit of consolation that gives us. When will the Imperial missiles pass us?”
“In about seventeen minutes, Admiral,” said the Tactical Officer.
“And the enemy missiles will reach us, when?” asked Sean.
“Fourteen minutes, twenty-six seconds, your Majesty.”
“So we will get no aid from these missiles,” said Sean, looking down at the floor. After all we’ve gone through, with salvation so close.
“Never give up, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, patting him on the shoulder. “With your last breath shout your defiance at the enemy. That is what the Goddess put you and me here for. Always remember that, if you end in fourteen minutes, or a hundred years from now.”
The Admiral walked over to the tactical station and put her hand on the officer’s shoulder. “All weapons to cycle as fast as possible.” She looked thoughtfully at the weapons screens for a moment. “You know the drill. Just plot us the most efficient fire plan with what we have.”
“Aye, ma’am,” said the officer, fighting back his fear. “Lasers will commence firing in two minutes.”
“We probably won’t hit much at that distance,” said Montgomery, returning to her chair. “But any hit will help.”
“Any hit will help,” repeated Sean, nodding. But a good portion of almost sixteen thousand missiles would be striking them in thirteen minutes, no matter how many they picked off with lasers at range, and particle beams at the last moment.
The minutes ticked off the clock, and the crew on the bridge talked through the situation as they had been trained to do. The smell of fear was strong, almost overwhelming, but the people still went about their duties, even if those tasks really amounted to little more than gathering the information from the ship bridges that were really doing the work.
Sean watched all of this, taking it in and learning, even if the lesson would not do him a bit of good in his brief time left.
The plot showed a missile disappearing here, another there, more blowing out of space as they got closer. At three minutes ETA the lasers were taking out a missile every three seconds, a good percentage of hits against targets that were moving through space on evasive maneuvers. When they were a minute out the lasers were taking out one a second, the targets having to reduce their evasive jukes as they bore in on the targets.
“Something is wrong, Admiral,” called out the Tactical Officer. “The missiles are not acting as predicted.”
“What do you mean?” asked Montgomery, standing up.
“They should all be pinging us with tight beams,” said the officer. “And moving into their final approach patterns, with us at the center. And they are not.”
“Continue to take them under fire, Tac,” said the Admiral, looking back at Sean with a look of hope on her face.
“What is going on?” asked Sean, standing up and walking to the tactical station.
“The missiles aren’t targeting us,” said the Admiral, looking at the plot. It was apparent now that the missiles on the edge of the formation were not vectoring in, but were going to pass the Imperial force. With luck that meant there would be no hits on the force.
“Fifteen seconds,” called out the Sensor Officer, her sweat beaded face looking over at the tactical station. “Ten. Five.”
There were a couple of flares of antimatter warheads as the ships fired at the few dozen missiles that still had a shot at striking them. Sir Galahad shook from the shock waves of some missiles exploding close to the ship. And then they were past.
“Continue firing at those missiles,” said Montgomery to her Tactical Officer. The man shook his head and sent the commands to the ships. “We can at least help out the missiles that are their targets,” she said, looking over at the Emperor.
The plot showed missiles disappearing as they were hit by the ships that were now essentially pursuing them. This went on for a little over a minute, and then the enemy missiles were detonating among the incoming Imperial weapons. Space ahead was a scattering of bright pinpoints, and when it was over all the enemy missiles were gone, as well as over two thousand of the Imperial weapons. Which left over five thousand weapons still driving for the enemy force.
* * *
“We have five thousand missiles still on their way,” said the Tactical Officer, his expression a snarl as he looked up at the Admiral.
And I should have known the enemy would not send missiles at us grouped conveniently for us to take them out. “Place the ships in defensive formation,” he ordered the Tactical Officer, then turned to his Com Officer. “Launch a pair of messenger drones on a heading back to the base at Massadara. Place all data to this point aboard them, and get them off as soon as you can. Then prepare another pair to be launched just before the missiles arrive.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said the officer, turning back to his board and setting to work.
The last work they will ever do, thought the Admiral, looking around the bridge that had been his home for many years now. I should never have followed the enemy force here. I should have gone after the target that had been assigned me, and waited until the main push to forge this far into the enemy’s territory.
The Admiral walked the path around the holo plot, glancing at the almost numberless icons of the enemy missiles heading their way. He thought about his sons, all officers in the Imperial forces. He had not a thought for the many daughters he had by his numerous wives. They were nothing more than brood cows to increase the race, barely able to think beyond cooking and suckling the young, the jobs they were best suited for. Only males served in the military of the realm. All the males, from the time they were considered adults until they were no longer fit to be warriors, if they survived. Then they became the administrators of the Empire, the clerks and engineers and researchers. Before that time the many slave races needed to be kept under control, so many warriors were needed.
And I will never get to that age, he thought as the missiles moved on the plot, coming closer.
At least they will know, thought Admiral, while he watched enemy missiles disappear on the plot as his lasers struck at them. At eight seconds out the particle beams joined in, blotting more missiles from the plot.
“Firing the second pair of drones now,” called out the Com Officer, as the plot showed six seconds to missile contact. It also showed four thousand missiles still coming on.
Almost five hundred missiles continued on in hyper VII with no target to acquire, an expanding cloud of plasma fading from space behind them. They would eventually run out of power, and fall from hyperspace. The Ca’cadasans did not care.
* * *
NEW TERRAN EMPIRE EMBASSY, ELYSIUM.
The rumble of a bombardment sounded through the walls of the shelter. The Knockerman may have had only one functional warship in the system, but they were using it efficiently in the bombardment of the city, or at least any structures that might house their Brakakak enemies. And that included the embassy.
“That one was close,” said IIA Chief of Mission Gertrude Bauman as the floor shook underneath.
“Direct hit on the central capsule,” agreed General Contovy, looking over at the Ambassador. “If we were still there we would probably be picking ourselves off the floor.”
“Any penetration yet?” asked the Ambassador, noting that the High Lord Grarakakak had his head down in shame. Probably because an ally is being assaulted in his own capital.
“Probably not,” said the General
, looking down at her flat comp. “In fact, there doesn’t seem to be. The navy makes those things tough, so it’s probably going to take a really heavy round to get through its armor. If it had the inertial safeguards on a warship it probably wouldn’t even be damaged.”
The High Lord looked up at the General, then over at the Intelligence Agent. “It was very ingenious of your people to build this second shelter so far under the first.”
“You mean it was very paranoid of us, don’t you, High Lord?” said Horatio with a smile.
“It is only paranoid if they aren’t, in fact, after you,” said the High Lord.
“We have a variation of that term ourselves,” said Horatio, giving the High Lord a smile. And if we hadn’t been paranoid, where would we be now?
At the moment they were in the secondary shelter ten kilometers below the primary. It had been constructed at the same time, using the organized chaos of that project to hide this one. The lift shaft had continued down past that of the first shelter, then chambers had been excavated, with enough room for the entire embassy staff and some overflow. A meter of armor had been sprayed on the walls or ceilings of the outer chambers and hardened with nanites, while supports had reinforced the box to the point where it was almost as secure as the central capsule ten kilometers up. And, of course, a number of emergency exits had been constructed.
“And all without our knowledge,” said the High Lord, echoing the Ambassador’s thoughts.
“Our intelligence apparatus is good, High Lord,” said Gertrude, resting her face in her hands and looking over at the Brakakakian. “And that includes our counterintelligence and deception programs. Maybe not as good as yours, but still good.”
“Your intelligence apparatus is very good, young lady,” agreed the High Lord. “In some respects better than ours, despite all of our contacts with the other races of this Galactic arm. And we also have some advantages that you don’t know about.” The High Lord looked down for a moment, obviously thinking something over, and the room went silent, everyone wanting to hear what the being had to say. After a moment he looked up, clearly uncomfortable, but with an aura of resolve about him.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm Page 63