by Chris James
He stopped speaking as another crew member at a different station called out, in a determined female voice: “SkyWatcher zero-one-seven confirmed destroyed. Multiple contacts now emerging from south/southeast. Distance one thousand kilometres and closing in a straight line.”
Powell resumed: “But an attack on this convoy seems to be developing rapidly, Sir.”
The somnolent response came back: “Andy, take care of it till I get up there. I need ninety seconds.”
“Yes, Sir,” Powell replied. He pointed at one of the bridge crew he knew had a non-combat responsibility and barked: “You, rating. Strong, hot coffee, NATO-standard, on this command station within ninety seconds.”
“Aye, Sir!” came the emphatic response as a young man on the bridge hurried away.
The crew member at another station called out: “Over three hundred confirmed contacts.”
“Battle stations,” Powell called out. He took in a deep breath and addressed the George Washington’s super artificial intelligence: “Chester, all known data to the central command station. What is the current status?”
The green shapes in the hologram that denoted the convoy shrivelled down to almost microscopic size, and then moved off to the far left of the central command station. At the other extreme, there appeared red dots that grew into straight lines as the gender-neutral voice of the ship’s super AI spoke: “Tracking three hundred and twenty hostile ACAs approaching at a unified Mach nine-point-two at all altitudes.”
Powell whistled through his teeth at the range of altitudes the attacking machines were spread over, from as low as one hundred metres above the ocean waves to the highest wing of thirty-two ACAs at fifteen thousand metres. He instructed: “Calculate their most likely point and shape of dispersal, and talk to the other ships to arrange optimum defence. Your priority is to protect the merchant vessels, got that?”
“Acknowledged,” the super AI replied.
The rating returned grasping a cup from which wisps of steam wafted, and at the same time Captain Mitch Taylor entered the bridge in silence.
Powell knew all of the crew were aware that the Captain disdained fuss, so unlike some other ships, no one announced Taylor’s arrival.
The Captain took the cup from the rating, drew in a deep breath that expanded his broad chest, and barked: “Chester? Three hundred and twenty what are inbound? And that number is too small—where are the other waves of attackers? A month ago, the Med and Arabian fleets were destroyed by thousands of them.” He took a gulp of coffee and sighed in satisfaction.
The super AI replied: “All incoming targets identified as Blackswans—”
Powell spoke over the computer: “That’s a total of one thousand, six hundred Spiders where just one will be enough to sink any of those merchantmen.”
Chester continued: “Targets will be in weapons’ range in seven minutes and in the immediate battle space in eight minutes.”
Captain Taylor stared at the central command station, watching the three hundred lines of red light as they proceeded inexorably towards the convoy. He took another gulp of coffee and rubbed the stubble on his face with a palm. He glanced at Powell and said: “You really believe that they think three hundred and twenty of those things will be enough?”
“Sorry, Sir,” Powell replied over the noise, “but that is not our first concern.”
The Captain chuckled and drained the coffee. He stuck the empty cup out in his hand and barked: “Another,” and suppressed a belch.
The same junior rating hurried over, took the cup, and disappeared.
Taylor spoke to Powell, raising his voice above the klaxon and nodding at the display: “What do you think, soften the heading?”
Powell agreed with his Captain, thinking that this attack shared many similarities with a training exercise, apart from beginning when the Captain was at rest.
Taylor said: “Chester? Adjust our heading a few degrees to what you calculate is optimum. It’s obvious we should present portside weapons to begin with. And shut the klaxon off now.”
The noise stopped at once and the super AI said: “All weapons will be available to counter the expected multiple-axes attacks.”
Taylor raised an eyebrow and then instructed: “Open comms to all ships in the convoy.”
“Acknowledged. The request will be fulfilled in twenty to thirty seconds.”
A weapons officer from a monitoring station called out: “Captain, request permission to raise the PeaceMakers.”
“Granted,” Taylor replied at once. “Put ’em up top and wait for my command.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Taylor lowered his voice and said to his colleague: “Andy, I still don’t believe this is the whole attack.”
Another voice called out: “Port-side Pulsars open and charged.”
Powell’s eyes did not waver from the holographic display over the central command station as the digits in the countdown continued marking time to the instant when the attack would begin. He said: “I think we’re gonna know real soon… Assuming we survive the next seven minutes.”
Chester announced: “Captain, comms to all ships in the convoy are established. Proceed when ready.”
Powell looked at the Captain and saw him steel himself before beginning: “Attention, all ships. As you can see, in a few moments we will engage the enemy. Last week, the first relief convoy crossed the Atlantic without interference. I think we should consider ourselves flattered that the Mad Mullah in Tehran has decided we are worthy of his attentions. To all of you merchantmen, know that the Navy will do everything to protect you. Most of you have onboard Pulsars controlled by my ship’s super AI. This will give you the best chance of making it through this contact unscathed. However, be advised that, should the situation require it, I will release control to individual vessels, as the US Department of Defense agreed prior to this convoy sailing.
“To all of my fellow captains and their crews: this is what we have been trained for, it is what we joined the United States Navy for, and, unlike the events of a month ago, now we have many new advantages to work in our favour. I believe these advantages will make the difference. Taylor out.” The Captain tapped a small square on the station in front of him.
Powell eyed the Captain as Taylor took a step back and folded his arms. Powell said: “All PeaceMaker wings on deck, Sir.”
Taylor nodded, “Get them airborne.”
“Sir.” Powell felt the tension on the ship build. All of them knew what had happened in the Mediterranean Sea and the Arabian Gulf, but the crew also knew of the hard-won developments NATO had made since then. Powell felt certain each man and woman on the George Washington asked him or herself if these developments would make any difference, some difference, or all the difference.
Chester’s voice filled the bridge: “Captain, all weapons’ systems are standing by. PeaceMakers are gaining altitude and have been placed under SkyWatcher direction. Hostiles will be in range in thirty-one seconds. Do you require an audible countdown?”
“Christ, Andy,” Taylor muttered in a low voice, “sometimes I wonder why we’re even on this ship.” He lifted his head and announced: “Weapons free. Fire to automatic. No audible countdown.”
“Here we go,” Powell said, more to himself.
The holographic image of the fleet, now including white lines tracing the increasing height of the PeaceMakers that had recently left the George Washington’s upper deck, drifted back to the centre of the command station as the red traces denoting the approaching hostile ACAs closed in. The rating returned with a refilled cup of coffee for the Captain.
The ‘In Range’ countdown reached zero and the red lines bloomed out for their attack. Powell’s confidence increased that these three-hundred-and-twenty Blackswans constituted the entire attack. He’d studied the destruction of the Mediterranean and Arabian fleets, and had realised that the enemy ACAs went at those ships in a straight line because thousands were following behind them, and they had no need to do anything tactical
.
“Pretty,” Taylor observed as the enemy forces attacked. The Blackswans at sea level split up, the outer ACAs flanking around to pincer the entire convoy. Those at higher altitudes changed to similar headings, diving as they did so, while the highest Blackswans abruptly dived straight down. Powell had to concede that from a geometric point of view, the image of the convoy being enveloped in the cloud of attacking enemy ACAs was indeed beautiful. The George Washington’s PeaceMakers accelerated to engage the enemy’s machines at the higher altitudes, while the ship-bound Pulsar lasers opened fire on the ACAs approaching at lower levels.
Chester spoke: “All US Navy ships now engaged; merchant vessel weapons providing support.”
Powell reflected how all of the people on the bridge might as well be thousands of miles from the battle for all the impact their presence had on the ship’s ability to defend itself. He struggled to imagine that just a few feet away, on the other side of the hull, Pulsar laser cannons clicked out their shots, RIM surface-to-air missiles streaked from the ship into the grey, overcast sky, and NATO PeaceMakers took on the vastly better-protected Blackswans. Over the central command station, the white lines of light denoting NATO ordnance drew swiftly together to meet the enemy, and in each individual conflict, the white line vanished and the red continued towards the ships.
Powell glanced at the data and a flash of hope sparked inside him. Among the lists of figures that fluctuated as the battle wore on and Chester made its recalculations, a percentage figure denoted the anticipated proportion of the convoy they could expect to be destroyed. In the moments since the size of the attacking force had been known, this number had hovered around fifty percent. Now, despite the enemy burning up defending NATO munitions at a frightening rate, the number crept lower.
Captain Taylor said to him: “I see it as well, Andy. Some of us might actually survive this.”
Powell acknowledged his Captain’s observation, and then Taylor asked the super AI: “How well is the coherence-length variation working?”
Chester replied: “It has reduced the effectiveness of the enemy’s shielding by between sixty and seventy-one percent.”
“Captain,” Powell said, “why can’t the enemy’s super AI just counteract the coherence length variation?”
“Because it’s random,” Taylor replied without taking his eyes off the display. “The enemy is reduced to guessing; of course super AI never just guesses, it makes billions of calculations every instant to try and estimate the right frequency to adjust the shielding on its ACAs, but the real pisser is that it just can’t.”
“Simple but effective,” Powell observed.
“No matter the tech, Andy, the best advances in warfare always are—Chester, what’s up with the Mustin and Ross?”
The ship’s super AI replied: “The available margins to prevent those destroyers from damage or destruction are narrowing.”
Taylor raised an eyebrow, “Due to?”
“The on-going conflict is too dynamic to sustain a response.”
Powell felt his heartrate increase as the number of enemy ACAs in the battle space kept dropping; more than half of them had been destroyed. Even though the Mustin and Ross were fighting off Blackswans that had reached to within two thousand yards, still after several minutes no Caliphate ACA had breached any ship’s defences.
“Damn, look,” Taylor said.
“Novel,” Powell replied as the holographic image showed that some Blackswans had dispatched their Spiders directly into the sea to attack the convoy from underneath the waves. To compensate, the NATO super AI reassigned hundreds of missiles from the US Navy ships and PeaceMakers to intercept them. Incredulity increased inside Powell as Chester coordinated all of these missiles to hit the underwater Spiders repeatedly, often at distances of mere feet, to ensure they were destroyed before they could reach a ship.
The percentage figure denoting the anticipated proportion of the convoy they could expect to be destroyed dropped to less than five percent. All of the ACAs and missiles in the sky around the convoy flew ever-more complex and G-force-defying courses as the super artificial intelligences on both sides of the battle fought to outsmart each other, considering trillions of options in millionths of seconds. Chunks of red-hot scrap metal rained down from above, some clattering on the ships’ hulls, and disappeared under the waves.
After two more minutes, fewer than ten Blackswans remained to threaten the convoy. Powell reined in his hope lest the patience of the maritime gods be tested too far. All of the George Washington’s PeaceMakers were gone, but the US Navy ships’ Pulsar lasers continued firing shots that burned through the enemy’s shielding fast enough to prevent it gaining an advantage.
Chester spoke: “Captain, we have insufficient missiles. If the enemy sends more Spiders to attack under the water, the Pulsar cannons will not be able to—”
“Oh no,” Powell said. On the display, the image of the USS Ross shuddered when a single Spider reached her keel and detonated. She wallowed in the moderate swell before rolling under the waves, portside first.
“How soon can you divert other ships to pick up survivors, Chester?” Taylor asked.
“The on-going conflict is too dynamic to sustain a response.”
“Damn you,” Taylor muttered.
“Captain,” Powell said, “it’s almost over.”
Seconds later, the ship’s super AI announced: “All enemy ACAs have been destroyed. The battle space is now secure.”
“What about survivors from the Ross?” Taylor demanded.
Chester replied: “The Mustin is on site picking them up; the Stockdale and Carney will be on site in less than two minutes.”
Powell asked: “Any sign of further enemy ACAs?”
“Negative.”
“Assess the probability of further attacks. If we’ve used all of our missiles and they send more Spiders under the water, we could be in big trouble.”
The ship’s super AI answered: “Another attack is highly unlikely. Based on the enemy’s tactics to date in all theatres, it has most probably decided that the tactical cost is not worth the strategic gain.”
Taylor scoffed and said to Powell: “So, he thinks we’re not worth so much effort after all, huh?”
Powell realised a flaw in his own considerations. He said: “After this skirmish, we have priority missile coverage from Europe, so I guess maybe we’re not really that exposed?”
Taylor responded: “Unless the enemy is planning some kind of strategic multi-axes offensive?”
“That ain’t what he said in public. It’s been real quiet on the mainland for a while now,” Powell said as he watched the Captain drain his coffee.
Taylor said: “Chester?”
“Yes, Captain Taylor?”
“Tell us again: what is the current condition of the battle space?”
Chester answered: “The battle space is now secure. There is no risk to the convoy.”
The Captain smiled and said to Powell: “Hell, I didn’t expect to hear that, to be honest.”
Powell smiled and nodded his agreement.
Taylor ordered: “Stand down battle stations. Well done, everyone.”
Powell sensed relief wash through the bridge like a summer breeze of fresh air. His eye alighted on the junior rating at the monitoring station, who now sat with his head in his hands. Powell strolled over to him and asked: “You okay, sailor?”
The young man looked up and responded: “Aye, Sir, absolutely.”
Powell saw the relief and terror and shock in the rating’s eyes. It reminded Powell of similar emotions he himself had felt twenty years earlier, when Chinese ACAs had attacked his ship on a pirate-clearing patrol in the Pacific. Powell nodded in understanding and said to the young man: “This is an important day. For the first time since this damn war began, we now know it’s possible to get attacked by the Caliphate… and survive.”
Chapter 45
02.21 Thursday 13 April 2062
DELIRIUM
THREATENED TO overwhelm the Englishman as he staggered through the diplomatic compound in Beijing, certain only that his apartment in the English Section was about five hundred metres ahead, in the building on his left. Through his drug-addled drunkenness, he knew why the Third Caliph had paused, he knew how long that pause would last, and he knew, he finally knew, that the Chinese had lost control of the Third Caliph and in result the New Persian Caliphate.
“God, I need a piss,” he said to himself, feeling the urge as he looked around at the lawns and mature trees on either side of the gravel path. He did not notice the figure trailing him. He burped and muttered: “Better not. If one those slit-eyed bastards catches me, I’ll be in the shit.”
He stumbled on, concentrating on making sure one leg kept going in front of the other, remembering times past, when he was a student at Cambridge University, out with his friends. He didn’t have to worry then, he could piss whenever and wherever he felt like it. He recalled he and his friends stumbling along Cambridge high street and shouting into the night that it was the inalienable right of every free-born Englishman to be able to piss with absolute freedom. “And not have to be on the lookout for slitty-eyed bastards, even if they were the centre of the fucking universe.”
He stopped and his body wavered for a moment. He felt movement in his stomach but could not be sure from which end any contents might be ejected. The chill of a certain wetness in his underwear made him recall the previous hour inside Marshall Zhou’s suite and inside his body. “Shit,” he said aloud, remembering, “did I do that bastard again?”
He hiccoughed and then tried to force the trapped air out from his diaphragm, but broke wind instead. He found this funny. He giggled. The giggle turned into a laugh. The exertion of laughing caused him to break wind again, a loud, ripping noise that echoed off the trees in the still night air. His laughter increased and he fell over at the base of a tree. He looked up at the starless black sky, still laughing, and noted how shadows seemed to move from right to left for a second, then revert to where they had been and move right-to-left again.