by Grover Young
Da' Bus’s plasma guns spat at the group that sneaked in from the edge of the 'wave' of meteoroids, leaving only wreckage behind. Vectoring hard, he fired another burst at a second drone as the squadron of Copperheads entered the twisting, swirling fight.
A recipient of the Air Force’s Eagle enhancement program, his reflexes, perception and coordination were second to very few. A short squirt of plasma crisped a drone's missile streaking his way, while he rolled crazily to avoid its next attack. Viffing about so he was briefly flying backwards, he nailed it, causing the rest of its missiles to explode. Pelted with debris, he flipped his Copperhead to turn its armored belly to the blast. It would not do to crack his canopy. That would not be good.
“Please Lord,” seeing more drones avoiding their man made meteoroid storm's 'wave', he muttered a short prayer, “we need a little help here.”
Second Space Battle for Earth
USS Henry M. Jackson SSBN The Scoop
“Retract the aerospike and run out the guns, XO,” Captain Truck Tucker ordered with a shake of his head, “Never thought I would be giving that command.”
“Never say never, Captain,” his executive officer grinned back.
“Outer doors are open,” Chief O'Hana reported, “Guns are run out and are reading in the green.”
The Ohio class only had four torpedo tubes, which was fine for a submarine. It wasn't so good for a space-craft that needed those guns not only for offense, but for defense as well. Some streamlining was still desirable, since it greatly increased the speed they could fly without revving the drive, which decreased the effectiveness of that effect that kept the g-forces bearable. Keeping the guns in the tubes added almost a good 100 miles per hour to their speed at least till they got out of the atmosphere. The aerospike too, was a device normally used on their missiles to help reduce drag, but worked just fine for the 'Scoop' too, even if it did interfere with the guns field of fire when extended. However, it was a cobbled together compromise until more purpose built ships like the Enterprise, the flagship, could be constructed.
“Signal from the Flagship!” a rating sounded off as he kept watch, using a digital camera keeping a sharp eye out for the command ships' orders.
“Concentrate missile and fire support Quadrant Sierra Four,” he continued.
“Acknowledge receipt,” the Captain shook his head again over how the Navy had taken a great step backwards. What was next? Raise the sails? “The Scoop is complying.”
“That would be here,” Chuck Green, their astronaut adviser pointed at the place on the chart and globe that showed the relative positions.
Sparing a glance for the computer monitor, it agreed. Ever since the Tweeties raped the internet, it was always a good idea to confirm what the computers were displaying when you had no choice but to use them.
The Combat Information Center, CIC, had highlighted the quadrant which the Big E had designated as their happy hunting ground. In the nearer adjacent area, there was a squadron of the Air Forces' new toy, Copperheads, holding down the flank. It was downright gratifying to see something built by Earth kick alien ass. However, they were being slowly overwhelmed as more fresh drones entered the fight from Sierra Four. The Scoop's job was to close the 'door'.
“Uploading firing coordinates to weapons now,” the missile tech replied, “Estimated completion in three minutes.”
“Very good,” the Captain acknowledged, “bring us about, Helm. Weapons control, fire when you have confirmed your targets.”
Switching views on his own display, he saw a Russian Oscar class SSGN, and an American LA class SSN launching their missiles as well. The Russian boat carried double the dozen missiles of the American boat, but still they had found that was lacking for a space warcraft. That was one of the many reasons that Earth had lost its first space fleet battle.
The Scoop, being a converted SSBN, was huge for a submarine if smaller than the Russian Typhoons and their replacements the Borei class. The guided missile conversion turned her 24 ballistic missile bays into 22 carrying six each of the smaller Thunderbolt missiles for a total of 154. That was almost the number carried by the whole fleet in the last battle and enough to put a hurt on just about anyone.
“Targets acquired and confirmed!” Chief O'Hana at Fire Control sang out.
“Light them up, Chief,” Captain Tucker commanded.
The lights didn't even have the decency to dim. Being energy weapons the plasma cannons had no recoil nor made any sound. Unlike those first converted boats that had weapons scavenged from the Tweety's robots, Earth had learned that equipping warships with what amounted to infantry and aircraft weapons was a fool's gambit. The new generation of converted boats had the biggest, heaviest plasma cannons that they could build and still fit in the torpedo tubes. They had the latest collimators and all the other improvements scientists had discovered.
“Targets destroyed!” The Chief failed to conceal his glee, “Re-targeting guns.”
“Missiles prepped!” Fire control reported, “Ready for launch.”
“Double check target area for friendlies,” Truck Tucker ordered. With so much crap flying all over the place, with damn limited communications, it was nearly unavoidable that friendly fire would happen. He was going to be as careful as he could that it wasn't the Scoop.
“Watch reports the area is clear, Captain,” his EXO said, looking over the ratings shoulders.
“Plan Delta,” he ordered. “Fire!”
“Plan Delta, Firing missiles, aye!” Weapons Control acknowledged.
Unlike the 'guns', the Scoop gave a slight tremble as twenty Thunderbolt missiles launched. Perhaps they were smaller than tridents, but they weren't small by any means, being deliberately the size of the Tomahawk missiles they replaced.
“Go to continuous fire on the guns, Chief,” the Captain ordered, “Weapons, ready another flight of missiles Plan Alpha. Let's be ready to pick off the spares.”
The Scoop's missiles were on target. Maybe they weren't carrying anywhere near as large a payload as a Trident, nor did they have the velocity imparted by the long constant boost, but they still carried a half ton payload. To make up those differences, each Thunderbolt carried six Mako smart submuntions. The short ranged high-velocity missiles deployed as the primary bus looked for targets.
Once again, it was a matter of humanity being inventive. Using the same technology the Sha'leians used for their own missiles, the sensors were much better than anything mankind had invented before the invasion. However, it was also much cruder and bigger than the seekers in the aliens much sleeker and smaller weapons.
That was why each Mako was connected to and wire-guided by the Thunderbolt's 'bus'. Once a target was locked on, it was attacked from six different angles. The drone's self-defense programs were good, but not even they could cover that large of an area simultaneously. The usual result was four failed attacks, but with the last two Makos overwhelming the drone and achieving a kill.
It was gross overkill, using a weapon the size of a cruise missile to kill something as small as a drone 'aircraft' sized opponent, but if it takes a hammer to kill, to do the job, then by Gawd, you used a hammer!
Confronted by 120 smart Mako submunitions, and The Scoops direct plasma cannon fire, the hole the drones had found was slammed shut. The Copperheads finished off the rest of their foes
“Captain!” Communications reported, “Flag sends, 'Well done'. Engage new targets, Quadrant Hotel Seven.”
“Cease fire, Chief. Helm, bring us about to course 170, down-bubble 10 degrees.” Truck ignored the NASA man' head shake at his use of submariner terminology.
As the heavenly skies of Earth were contested with fire and iron, the Scoop turned to pursue other enemies. Neither 'boat' nor captain was aware that one of their previous foes had only been grievously wounded and not killed. Badly wounded, with its sensors and communications gear obscured with molten Orichalcum from the Mako, it'd almost killed, Drone 72129 blindly shot across the battle a
rea in the best loose cannon tradition.
The fields of fire and the Pantheon boarding teams' trajectories had been carefully laid out. Not wanting to catch them in the battle's crossfire was the primary reason, but also not to tip their hand that the real objective of the second space battle of Earth was the alien air support drones. Along with creating the perfect diversion, it gave the ground forces an edge to take the battle to the aliens with the advantage of having control of the skies.
However, no matter how good or careful the plan, shit will happen in the chaos that is war. Drone 72129 careened right into Pantheon Boarding Team Thebes. Two of Prometheus's Children were killed at once while the other four were thrown willy-nilly into space where another died of their injuries. The remaining three survivors, being fortunate enough that one could fly and determined to complete their mission, continued to their objective. It wasn't as if they had a lot of other choices, given the situation being in the middle of a huge space-battle, with limited life support and knowing if they activated their beacons, the aliens were just as likely to find them as the good guys. So they went on, behind schedule and hurt from their injuries as well as the pain of losing their team mates and friends, they went on.
Sol system
Third planet from the sun
Sha'leian vessel
Boarding Party Sparta
With more than a little sigh of relief, I stepped into the Sha'leian ship. My crazed, spiked meat-thermometer idea for a pressure gauge worked like a charm. Weyland was able to equalize the pressure without a hitch. The only truly worrying part of the boarding itself was waiting for a sign that our other assault teams had made it and were in position. The second, Team Athens, had checked in right on time sending us the correct flashing light code. Thebes, the third team, had not.
Those minutes we waited for any signs of our missing comrades seemed liked hours. We didn't dare delay too long because that increased the chances of us being found, but once we boarded, all pretense would be gone. Anyone still approaching would be in deep shit when the Sha'leians became aware of our plan. Earth had found out the hard way about the effectiveness of their starship weaponry shooting down missiles, fighters and our crude spaceships. What they would do to people didn't bear thinking about.
This operation only gave us just so much time that we could wait. In a manner of speaking, we had already beaten one hell of a set of long odds. Not one, but two Pantheon teams had made it to our objective. Most didn't think any of us had a chance to make it even this far.
However, that was good. Instead of being outnumbered an estimated twenty to one, we were only at ten to one. That was much better, although no one knew how to even begin figuring the probabilities of us taking a warship where we had only a vague idea of the layout. Educated guesses would take us only so far. Audaciousness, daring and more than a little foolhardiness would have to suffice for the rest.
Talos touched the inner lock, commanding it to open just like he had the outer. He was our secret weapon. While he had that bio-metal skin like that X-Men character Colossus, his real power was to control machines. Unfortunately, it only worked by his touch and stopped working the instant contact was broken.
He couldn't do things like order one of their computers to reprogram themselves or other things that would've been really useful, but what he could do was amazing enough.
We were in.
It was almost comical how all six of us tumbled out of the lock. One of the selection criteria for the boarding parties was being under six feet tall. Most Tweeties appeared to be only about five-foot-five. So yes, I'd changed back to Kingfisher and it was a good thing, too. Even with me being below average male height, I had to be careful of the ceiling, or the 'overhead', as I'm told was the nautical term.
However, I was wondering if anything even vaguely naval applied to this vessel. First of all was the color. In the Navy, everything was painted gray or so it seemed to my mean green army eyes.
The interior of the Sha'leian ship was this bright shade of violet. Maybe it wasn't purple, but trust me the violet was bad enough. It'd been one of the science guys' guesses since they suspected the aliens saw in the Ultraviolet spectrum. However, besides being just a little visually jarring, it wasn't an issue, except with the possible problem of their signage and warnings being invisible to us. Okay, that should be most of us.
“I'm getting repeating alarm like flashes,” Nott reported as we unclipped our safety lines. “Looks like they know we're here.”
Our Mistress of the Night's eyes had no problem with UV or just about anything else in the visual spectrum. Neither would Halcyon for that matter, but seven foot golden women in five foot something corridors just wasn't very practical.
The other surprise we had was the deck layout. Instead of parallel with the length like on a naval ship, their decks were perpendicular to that axis like platforms going up a tree. That was why we tumbled inside like the Keystone cops. We were oriented all wrong as well as packed in tight so we all could fit. So, rather than going forward like had been previously agreed with Team Athens, we were instead going 'up' to where we suspected their 'bridge' was located, while they were going 'down' to engineering.
Talos, our team leader and boarding specialist, glared at the 'hatches' in the overhead and the deck. Needless to say, yes, our unwanted Guest's ride did have all the extras like on-board gravity. If only because of our own experiments with their quantum engines, we knew they could be tweaked to give the sensation of gravity. However, having to climb upwards to advance to our objective was going to be one serious royal pain.
“Well, shit!” he cursed, “this is going to throw all of our preparation and training out the window.”
However, never let it be said that SEAL's were indecisive.
“Weyland, Bes,” he ordered, “cover the hatches. Artemis, Nott you two have the overhead and deck hatches. Kingfisher, over here.”
“Were there any clues about this?” Talos asked, his eyes taking in every detail.
“None,” I shook my head, “perhaps it was misinterpretation on our part since a central 'core' was mentioned in more than one story.”
I pointed at the curved bulkhead that was the most inner portion of this ship.
“I'm guessing that's what they were talking about.” Closing my eyes I visualized what it had to look like, “It's like a spine or tree trunk running down the center of this barge.”
“We frakked up,” I summarized, bitterly, “assumptions making an ass of you and me.”
“Your group wasn't the only one trying to get useful intel data out of what, for all practical purposes, are romantic fiction. However, right now, mission first,” Talos directed, “recriminations later.”
“Those indentations look like what they use for ladder rungs,” I nodded my agreement with his assessment of blame, “Their bird-like feet probably lets them climb those as easy as we do stairs.”
Our team leader tested the grip of the 'rungs' and evaluated how hard it was going to be climbing. This was complicated by the iris style hatches. There were no handholds or grips near the edge. To pull ourselves up, we would have to open the hatch first for something to hold onto, which meant losing vital time and exposing ourselves to whoever was on top.
All of this examination only took moments, and which was all the time Talos needed to adapt our tactics.
“Can you still fly?” he asked, which wasn't a dumb question. Given the weirdness of how our powers worked, stranger things had happened.
“Yes,” I tucked my legs into the lotus position, just hanging in the air, “not a problem.”
“Good!” he gestured Bes over, “Here's the plan. You'll boost Bes up through the overhead hatch as Halcyon. You're much tougher that way, and although we don't know the thickness between decks, your effectiveness shouldn't be comprised, even if you have to fight on your knees since you can fly.”
“As long as nobody makes a crack about 'dwarf throwing' I'm good,” Bes glared at the
two of us even as he evaluated the top and bottom hatches.
I could see he was trying to get a feel for what to expect. At the same time, I had my own orders. Pressing my Q-Box button, all seven foot of me was floating cross-legged in the, if not confined, it was 'tight' space. Staying in the Lotus position kept my long legs from getting in the way.
Lowering myself to the deck, Bes nimbly got onto my shoulders. It didn't take a genius to see what he was thinking. Just maybe I'd stopped going spastic about most of the 'girl' stuff, but that did not mean I liked some of the 'attention' I got.
“Hey,” I warned, “as long as there's no mention of the 'View up here', you won't hear a word from me about dwarfs except with the greatest respect.”
I think I heard him muttering something about being short, but not bloody blind.
“What was that?” I asked, crouching down preparing to stand.
“I said, I'm ready,” Bes coughed.
“Oh, all righty then,” smiling, I set myself like a runner in the blocks.
Talos took his whips from their holsters. Well, really not classical whips, but they were really more like bicycle chains with swivels and other doodads that let him use his power through them. They doubled his reach and were deadly as hell, given Weyland had hammered it out of that alien alloy everyone seemed to be calling orichalcum.
The damn stuff was about impossible to work after it'd 'cured' but it could be done. As a matter of fact, I was suspecting he was the one Sheila had commissioned to make my locket. However, Talos' whips were anything but jewelry. The damn multi-jointed construction had razor like blades that could pop out as if it already wasn't enough like a chain saw. On the other hand, he could also delicately pick up a glass of water and drink using them, too.
He wasn't the only one Weyland had crafted weaponry for either. Artemis carried so many of these finger length throwing blades, I think they very effectively doubled as armor.
Bes had a pair of knuckle dusters made from the same stuff, while Nott was wearing these articulated gauntlet vambrace-like glove things that protected her hands and lower arms. Her specialty wasn't hand to hand fighting, so our friendly blacksmith instead provided her with protection. But just in case she did have to defend herself, they made as formidable a set of hand to hand weapons as Bes's brass knuckles, and yet were so finely made they barely hindered her at all.