The tech officer sent across Olafsen’s subspace, and Catarina read it with growing concern. There wasn’t a huge amount of info in the short message, but it appeared that he’d caught a small ship carrying an Apex princess and had reason to believe there might be more. He was requesting assistance in searching the Damascus System to verify that it was clear of enemies.
McGowan’s video message finally arrived. The other captain stood stiffly and, Catarina thought, a little shiftily, as he wasn’t making direct eye contact with the camera. Guilty of something. She wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“With apologies, Vargus, I’m afraid the news from this Viking fellow has thrown our battle plans into disarray. We must not allow any of these small Apex ships to escape. I’ll send you what I can, but some of my swiftest ships are needed in Damascus.”
“Oh yeah?” Capp said. “And what would that be? Let me guess, it ain’t gonna be Peerless coming to our aid, is it?”
Catarina paused the recording during Capp’s outburst, then started it up again with a sigh.
“That means my corvettes and cruisers, Vargus. Plus a couple of war junks for their searching capabilities. You’ll have to make do with support vessels and the general’s sloops. I’m fortunate to find myself close to a jump point into Damascus, so with any luck, I will return for mop-up action.” He cleared his throat. “Oh, and I share your sentiment. Um, Godspeed, Captain Vargus.”
Catarina didn’t stop the muttered curses and other rude remarks directed at McGowan as the video message ended. Lomelí, normally quietly about her job at the defense grid computer, seemed especially enraged, and spat out a string of angry words in Ladino. Science Officer Brockett was on the bridge, and he merely stood in place, shaking his head in obvious disgust.
“If you will allow me to make an observation,” Nyb Pim said when the hubbub had died down. “Captain McGowan at least appears to feel guilty about his cowardice.”
This brought a fresh round of shouting and recriminations.
Catarina raised her voice. “Enough. Everyone settle down. Please. Back to your stations.”
She checked her console. Longshanks had docked and was being escorted from his away pod toward the lift. He’d be here shortly.
“I’m inclined to give McGowan a pass this time.”
“You can’t be serious, Cap’n,” Capp said. “He’s running from the battlefield again. We’re gonna be slaughtered.”
“That’s enough of that sort of talk, Lieutenant,” Catarina said sharply. “We are not going to be slaughtered. And Olafsen is right, and so is McGowan. If there are more runaways, we’ve got to stop them. Otherwise, we’ve accomplished nothing. An escaping princess is dangerous, whether she’s on a harvester ship, a spear, or even an escape pod.”
“Yeah, but look,” Capp said, pointing to the main screen, which was showing McGowan’s forces reorganizing. “How we gonna win without all them ships?”
A full third of McGowan’s force was peeling away, and it was the most powerful third, too. Two war junks, plus eight cruisers and seven corvettes—the muscle of his fleet—abandoning Catarina on the eve of battle. What was left was hardly insignificant, but without the heavier warships, looked more like a task force without a flagship than a fleet. The harvester could plow through them if it decided to retreat.
The door to the lift opened, and Longshanks ducked to get through the doorway and onto the bridge, followed by a second Scandian, whom Catarina didn’t recognize.
Longshanks wore his eye patch, and swiveled his head to meet Catarina’s gaze with his good eye. “This McGowan,” he began haltingly, his accent as thick as ever. “He not fight? Olafsen not fight, too?”
“Bad news travels fast,” Catarina said.
“Olafsen is Longshanks’s half-brother,” the other Scandian said. His English was accented, but clear. “Longshanks knew there was bad news even before your man here told him.”
This last bit came with a hooked thumb toward Barker, who had joined the two Scandians on the lift and emerged behind the others, scowling until his bushy eyebrows came nearly together.
“How did you know already?” Catarina asked Barker.
“Someone shared the video down to the gunnery, and then it took about two seconds to run the length of the ship and probably the fleet. You know how people are.”
The door to the lift opened again, and Enrique Da Rosa stepped out. Da Rosa was Catarina’s former first mate, and the acting captain of Orient Tiger, her old ship. They communicated with some frequency, but she hadn’t seen him face-to-face in months. His bald patch had grown, and he’d thickened more around the middle; apparently navy food agreed with him.
Da Rosa was frowning, as if he, too, had heard the bad news, but he brightened when he saw her and let out an appreciative whistle as he took in the bridge.
“So this is it, eh? No wonder you abandoned your old friends for these Albion scoundrels.”
She gave him a half-smile in acknowledgment, then turned serious again.
“All right, the lot of you, into the war room. Capp, Nyb Pim, you’ll join us.”
#
Longshanks’s translator was another of the Knutesen brothers, or maybe it was a cousin, of which there were apparently an endless supply. No hard feelings, apparently, even after what Olafsen and Longshanks had done to one of his relatives in the Viborg battle.
Knutesen was smaller than most Scandians, and clean shaven. He carried that same meat, onions, beer, and cigar smell as Longshanks, though, and the two of them lent a pungent odor to the war room as the council settled into place.
To add to the smell, Da Rosa pulled out a pipe and lit it, which drew envious looks from Olafsen and Knutesen. Da Rosa pulled out a tobacco pouch, but neither of the Scandians had thought to bring pipes, and he seemed disinclined to share his. Catarina called for an ensign to fetch two pipes, figuring that happy Vikings were more likely to be compliant Vikings. They were soon swimming in a haze of pipe smoke as all three men puffed away.
Catarina brought up a stylized vision of a battlefield on the war room viewscreen, with her ships clustered according to type, and the harvester and its hunter-killer packs off to one side.
“I’m not going to talk about McGowan, so forget that he and his missing ships even exist. We’re going to figure out how to win this battle with the forces we’ve already got, and those we’re likely to get later.”
She tapped the console to manipulate the ships, bringing the harvester to the center, but leaving its support ships behind. Then she ringed the enemy battleship with cruisers, corvettes, and destroyers, placed the star wolves to one side, and put her three missile frigates to the rear, protected by an assortment of other navy, Hroom, and mercenary ships.
“This is what I’d do without the hunter-killer packs. We could hammer the harvester from a distance, and more than match its long-range firepower, but we’ve seen how it can absorb blows. So I’d bring the fleet muscle up front, then charge in with the star wolves once we’d engaged the guns. Longshanks would find one soft spot—well, as soft as can be found—and tear a hole in it.”
Knutesen translated this for Longshanks, who slammed a fist on the table. “Yes!”
“Once we had battered the harvester enough, I’d send in the torpedo boats with the last of our nuclear torpedoes, and hopefully finish the job. The star wolves would protect the boats from fire.”
Knutesen translated this, too, and nodded at Longshanks’s response.
“We like this plan,” Knutesen said. “It gives us plenty of danger and glory.”
“That’s what I would do. But the harvester isn’t alone. Look what happens if we try this.” She moved the ten lances and spears to the rear of the allied fleet. “We can’t hold back the hunter-killer packs because they can jump right into our formation. They’ll maul our frigates, and then come up on the rest of us from behind.”
“What about me?” Da Rosa said, pointing to Orient Tiger’s position on the sc
reen. “I am not just sitting here doing nothing, I am ready to defend the missile ships, yes? Pussycat, too, and the schooners.”
“You think you can hold off eight lances and two spears with your mercenary force?”
“There are Hroom and war junks, too.”
“Not enough of them. A lance is at least as powerful as a destroyer, and a spear is the match of an Aggressor-class cruiser.”
Longshanks said something to his companion, who nodded.
“So send back your cruisers and destroyers to guard the frigates,” Knutesen said. “We have enough star wolves to settle the score, and we Scandians are not afraid to die.”
No, they were not afraid to die, and they were not afraid to venture off on their own, either, when they thought another fight looked more enticing. She couldn’t simply place them at the back of the battlefield and expect them to maintain discipline.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked the two Scandians. “How would you like a drink?”
She got on the com to the young ensign who’d brought in the pipes. “Bring up a couple of tankards of ale, will you? The good stuff for the officers, not that swill they serve in the mess. And be quick about it—these Vikings are thirsty.”
Knutesen translated, and Longshanks licked his lips.
“I need something up front that can fire torpedoes and missiles,” Catarina said. “But I also need to protect my missile frigates.”
Longshanks flipped up his eye patch to expose his empty eye socket. It was rather gruesome looking, but she refused to look away.
“You have . . . eh . . . problem with pummel guns?” he asked in his broken English. “They smash harvester. Smash him good.”
“Problem? Who said I have a problem? Your pummel guns are going to rip our enemies to shreds. Just that some of the enemies will be spears and lances.”
The two Scandians grunted. It was out in the open now. She was going to send some of them back to guard the rear of the fleet, and it was dawning on them that this was a secondary fight. They began to argue in Scandian.
Capp leaned over and whispered in Catarina’s ear. “You know, Cap’n, if only we could cross McGowan with these Viking blokes, we’d have a hell of a warrior, wouldn’t we? Instead, we got someone who wants his ship all spotless-like, and another sort who smell like they been sleeping in the skins of their enemies.”
Catarina couldn’t stop the laugh before it came out in an embarrassing snort. Longshanks and Knutesen glared, but she was saved by the arrival of an ensign carrying two large tankards of ale, which he set in front of the two men. That settled them right down.
Capp and Barker eyed the tankards with thirsty expressions of their own.
“Only for the guests?” Capp asked.
“Stay sharp, Lieutenant.”
“I know, I know.”
Longshanks set down his tankard and wiped foam from his beard with the back of his hand. He said something to Knutesen.
“All right, we’re agreed,” Knutesen said. “But if the chance comes, we will find our glory.”
“You’ll have all the glory of the fleet once we destroy the harvester,” Catarina said. “It will be a shared victory no matter who fights and who waits in reserve.”
“That is the sort of thing a marauder captain says to the boy working in waste disposal who never fires a gun,” Knutesen said. “And every young fool knows that glory only comes to those who fight and die.”
“But you’ll obey orders? That’s all I need to know.”
“Yes,” Longshanks said with a grunt. “Orders, yes. Fight if can.”
Was that an affirmative? Or was he still hedging? Probably the best she was going to get.
Da Rosa had been following this exchange with a half-smirk as he puffed away, clearly enjoying seeing his old comrade in arms struggle to pin down the Scandians.
“I’m a mercenary at heart,” Da Rosa said, “and more than happy to sit back and let other people suffer the blows while I share in the loot.”
“Words of a coward,” Knutesen growled.
Da Rosa gave the Scandian a dismissive flick of the hand. “Words of a man who should have died five times over, but is still alive.” He nodded at Catarina. “Move the star wolves back to guard the frigates, Vargus, and you’ll see my concern,” Da Rosa said.
Catarina manipulated her map to place half of the star wolves up against the missile frigates, and slid the two Apex hunter-killer packs back, as well.
“That’s what? Ten star wolves still up front?” Da Rosa asked. “Too weak to help us stop the harvester.”
Knutesen, surprisingly, didn’t find this statement offensive. He consulted with Longshanks, who grumbled his agreement.
“The mercenary is right,” Knutesen declared. “You’ll never stop the harvester with only ten wolves.”
“After the beating that other harvester absorbed at New Mars,” Da Rosa said, “we must assume it will take everything we’ve got to knock this one out. If we suffer heavy losses, not even the arrival of McGowan’s rump fleet will be deciding.”
Catarina asked for opinions from the others at the table. Nyb Pim declined to weigh in, but Capp and Barker both agreed with Da Rosa and the Scandians. The only way to defeat the harvester was to concentrate the fleet’s firepower and ignore the spears and lances.
“This is the same harvester that broke out of Persia,” Barker added. “Smashed right through Tolvern’s fleet and escaped. But when I asked Smythe to send me an assessment of the ship’s weaknesses, the places in the hull that had suffered serious damage, so that I could target those areas, he couldn’t find anything worth mentioning.”
“Tolvern must’ve hit him somewhere,” Capp protested. “That’s Blackbeard we’re talking about. And a whole bloody fleet, too.”
“I’m only saying what the scans show,” Barker said.
Catarina didn’t need to hear any more. She was convinced.
“Forget everything I said before. New plan. We’re going to surprise the hunter-killer packs and wipe them out first. Then, when they’re gone, a full-scale assault on the harvester ship.”
Knutesen and Longshanks leaped to their feet, shouting and pumping fists. The others only shared worried looks. Anyway, the Scandians were bluffing; as Catarina studied them, she swore she saw a note of tension in their expressions, heard tightness in their shouts.
They may be aggressive and eager, may express confidence, but there was another emotion barely concealed beneath the surface. Fear. The very same emotion that gripped the others sitting at the war room table.
And in less than three hours, they would face those fears head-on.
Chapter Ten
HMS Blackbeard was only twenty million miles from the planet when the enemy began to move. Tolvern’s invasion of the Persia System had been so audacious, charging in for an attack so soon after the Apex harvester broke out of quarantine, that the aliens had apparently been caught unprepared.
But that wasn’t the same thing as saying the planet was unprotected. Spears and lances began to lift up from the surface or peel away from the orbital fortress attached to the space elevator. More enemy warships came into focus patrolling near Persia’s single large moon.
Tolvern paced the bridge, looking up as the data appeared and was represented visually on the screen.
“What about harvesters?”
“None that I can see, Captain,” Oglethorpe said.
He tapped at the console, and the viewscreen shifted about, showing first the moon, and then the orbital fortress attached to the space elevator. The fortress was blurry, its resolution imprecise at this distance.
“Pieces of a ship. Anything being constructed atop the elevator?”
“Nope, nothing.”
“Surely, we can’t be that lucky,” she said. “But if we’re right that a harvester can’t lift itself out of the gravity well, and it’s too big to be hauled up on the elevator except in pieces, that means that the buzzards aren’t even midway through constr
uction of a new ship.”
“We got a chance, don’t we?” Manx said.
“More than a chance. We can win this thing.”
The enemy ships arrayed against them were strong enough to mount a challenge, and she still had to slip Stratsky through and smash the lifting capability of the space elevator, but once she did, the enemy fleet was grounded. No more harvesters would rise from the surface to terrorize them. Ever.
Then what? Hold her fleet in orbit until the rest of the allied fleets arrived to join her in bombarding the alien facilities on the surface. When they arrived, they’d land marines and raiders to finish the job.
“Beginning initial deceleration,” Clyde announced.
“Give orders to the fleet,” Tolvern said. “I want the destroyers out front. None of them held back.”
Manx made the call. The fleet had been traveling in a defensive formation designed to protect the most vulnerable ships from the sudden appearance of enemies in their midst, but now began to break into two separate elements.
The first, smaller force, held the swiftest ships in her fleet, the fastest out of the blocks. Her five remaining destroyers and three corvettes would travel as a single force, a counterpart to the hunter-killer packs gathering to oppose them. They were tasked with chasing after and engaging the enemy ships, and charging back into the fight if those ships tried to jump in and fight Blackbeard or the frigates.
The second force had everything else: Blackbeard and the two smaller cruisers, Champion and Triumph, plus five torpedo boats, two missile frigates, three sloops of war, and two Singaporean war junks. Finally, the striker wing, with falcons now launching from Blackbeard. The torpedo boats and falcons would mount the final attack that would take Stratsky’s nuclear-tipped payload and blast it into the orbital fortress.
“Four hunter-killer packs,” Oglethorpe announced.
“Is that the final count?”
“So far as I can tell. Two of them are missing spears.”
“So we’re facing sixteen lances and two spears,” Tolvern said. “We can take them. Call Fox, I want Nineveh in the lead.”
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