Hero of the Republic: (The Parasite Initiative, Book 1)

by Britt Ringel

  Despite the panache of their launch, the fighters seemed discontent with a mere missile attack. Only three symbols began rotations that would point them back to their carriers. The remaining one hundred sixty-three fighters continued headlong toward the Hollaran aggressors. Twist found himself admiring the sheer ferocity of the pilots. They mean to break up that attack, one way or another.

  He continued to watch, captivated by the time-lagged drama unfolding near the two fighter formations. Six minutes after witnessing the Brevic AFM launch, the Hollaran attack craft jettisoned their anti-ship missiles just 3.4lm short of their launch range to Task Group 2.2 and oriented toward the approaching threats. When Lochaber’s sensors confirmed the Hollaran fighters had discarded their deadly but cumbersome ordnance, Twist raised a fist in triumph. They were safe, for the moment.

  The Hollaran fighters began a series of evasive, high-G maneuvers to thwart the missiles tracking them. When the horde of Brevic AFMs finally arrived, it blew through the Hollaran squadron like a bitter wind. Where there were once one hundred seventy-two red semi-circles, only seventy-four remained a heartbeat later. Two minutes after the missile slaughter, the Hollaran and Brevic fighter formations merged.

  Twist’s tactical plot devolved into lagged, skittish anarchy. Half-circles of both colors skipped and staggered to different locations inside the whirling dogfight as Lochaber’s sensors were taxed beyond their limits. The chaos of over two hundred writhing shuttles turning in desperate bids to line up laser shots overwhelmed the Brevic sensor equipment. Twist did his best to interpret the fits of information updating spasmodically but was unable to piece together the imperfect picture.

  The chaos did not last long. The final laser shot fired four minutes after the first. One hundred twenty blue half-circles had survived the carnage 8lm from Lochaber. Not a single red marker remained. The newly blooded Brevic pilots rotated their fighters toward TG 3.1 and began the return cruise home.

  We’ve done it, Twist thought happily, delighted that the frightening fighter component had been removed from the overall fight. The “tricks” are over; it’s now a standard naval engagement. Twist felt his smile widen. Even better, we have the upper hand because we still have lots of fighters left. It’s time to press our advantage.

  Minutes later, Lochaber initiated a rotation with the rest of its task group to slice inward once again toward the enemy. Each ship inside the formation executed its turn and powerful drives touched off, killing the momentum away from the invasion force. Lochaber’s immense Allison-Turner Type-88 drives burned precisely fifty-one seconds, long enough to regain the standard battle speed of .2c.

  Ten light-minutes ahead of Lochaber, the Hollaran invasion force also reacted to the dogfight butchery. The colossal formation of thirty-four ships broke into three, separate sections. Twist watched in fascination as the tactical plot arranged the smaller groups. Someone on the bridge, perhaps Kessler himself, had tagged the new groups: “Vanguard,” “Heavy Main” and “Carrier Force.”

  The seventeen-ship formation designated Heavy Main was, by far, the largest. Comprising the brute force of the Hollaran assault, it included not only the Commonwealth battleship but also a dreadnaught. Bolstering their formidable punch, two command cruisers and four heavy cruisers flanked the capital ships. Trailing them, four light cruisers and five destroyers and frigates filled out the awesome display of Hollaran strength. This force, the traditional punch of contemporary naval power, remained on a collision course for the planet, Pan.

  The other two groups, acting in concert but breaking away from the Heavy Main, encompassed the fleet carrier with her escorts and the majority of the ships that had destroyed the tunnel point defenses. The Hollaran carrier, depleted of her wing of attack craft, seemed to be retreating to the safety of the Kale tunnel point under the protective shield of the Vanguard.

  Twist’s spirits soared higher. Two of our task groups against their heavy main. We’re going to crush it, he thought optimistically while gauging the distance between his ship and the enemy. Less than 10lm separated the two fleets. Task Group 3.1, an additional 10lm behind Lochaber, had yet to turn toward the enemy. I guess they have to wait until their fighters return and rearm.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, the Brevic fighters continued toward their carriers while TG 2.2 shaved another 2lm from the distance between itself and the Heavy Main. It was slow going. The Hollarans were uncooperative, refusing to set their own intercept course for the Brevic fleet. Instead, the Hollaran heavies continued doggedly toward Pan. As a result, the closure rate between the two fleets was a paltry .13c. Twist was not worried however; his task group would easily overtake the intruders before they entered into fusion-missile range of the planet.

  “What’s going on with our carriers?” Falk asked, breaking the long silence.

  Twist watched the eight ships of TG 3.1 rotate and thrust hard, away from Pan. The new course would take the ships toward the Kale tunnel point. Why are they running away from us? Twist asked himself. His eyes tripped over the Hollaran carrier fleet. Oh, they’re not running away from something, they’re running toward something.

  “Are they trying to cut off the Hollie CV’s escape?” Twist suggested. He could not help but feel a little abandoned by the maneuver.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Falk replied. The slightly acrid tone of his voice bespoke of a tacit agreement with Twist’s sentiment.

  Twist blew out loudly in a deep sigh. “Having those fighters with us would’ve made our job a heck of a lot easier.” After a brief pause, he added, “Still, we have one more ship than they do and that group also has some of the escort ships that were damaged during the tunnel point fight.” Have faith, Caden. The admiral knows what he’s doing.

  Twist’s comm panel crackled to life. The grim face of Lieutenant Chappell appeared. He was wearing his shocksuit helmet. “Get your cover on, team. Word from the bridge is we’ll be conducting a standard missile attack against the force threatening Pan. We’ll enter missile range in approximately seven minutes and launch everything we have at them. The task group will then execute the standard retrograde away from the Hollie missiles to give our escorts maximum time to intercept the return fire.” Chappell paused for half a beat before adding, “If necessary, we’ll close to laser range and finish them. We’ve got to keep the Hollies from Pan.” The man’s eyes shifted from panel to panel as he looked at each of his junior officers. “We've trained our whole lives for this. We’re ready.”

  Uh, not really, Twist thought derisively.

  Chappell continued, “Remember, there’s bound to be some Dachshund missiles that get past our escorts. The captain is counting on Haze and Laze to protect Lochaber.” He nodded once with a fierce determination. “We won’t disappoint him.” The screen went blank and Twist turned toward Falk.

  “Time to earn our pay, Ensign.” The gunnersmate first class ran a hand through his short hair before donning his shocksuit helmet. “Just like we practiced it and we’ll be fine,” he coached. “The light laser section is more on the hook for missile defense but that doesn’t mean we can’t chip in.”

  Twist pulled his helmet over his head. Powerful magnets along its edge created a seal with the collar of his suit. It was a snug fit and the helmet was heavy. During his first and only exercise, he learned that if he sat slightly slumped in his chair, the majority of the helmet’s weight would rest on his shoulders. It had helped relieve some of the strain on his neck during those long hours. Today though, the helmet was as light as a feather, a result of the adrenalin coursing through his body.

  He studied the tactical display. The opposing fleets were 5.5lm apart. Speakers inside his helmet came to life. “Haze-One, this is Falk. Estimated missile launch will occur at twenty-two fifty. Expected missile defense will be roughly fifteen minutes after that. All crews perform your point defense checklists and report status.”

  The bank of status panels in front of Twist began to flash with green updates from his gunners. Thre
e minutes later, the entire panel held a comforting, emerald glow.

  “Ensign,” Falk said, “Haze-One is green across the board and ready for point defense.”

  “Acknowledged,” Twist answered. He pressed a finger over a green icon on his main console, dragged it to the HAZ/CC comm icon and dropped it. The update shot through the ship at the speed of light, informing Lieutenant Chappell that Twist’s half of Lochaber’s heavy lasers was ready for action. The second half of her heavy battery had readied up seconds earlier.

  Task Group 2.2 performed no last-second maneuvers as it prepared to enter missile range. Its present formation had been predicated on the upcoming missile attack anticipated since the beginning of the engagement. Only the six ships of 2.2’s escort squadron made minor adjustments as they settled into a standard square formation several light-seconds ahead of the heavy ships.

  At 22:50 BSMT, over nine hours since Twist first took his station, twelve ships of Task Group 2.2 launched their opening missile barrage. Three hundred sixty Javelin-E anti-ship missiles spewed from the fleet in near unison. Each missile was ejected from its respective missile port and paused fractionally before lighting off its tiny propulsion drive that would push the eight-meter weapon to .5c. Javelin guidance computers, aided by the tremendous fire control systems of their masters, locked onto an enemy ship and began the nearly ninety million-kilometer trip toward destruction.

  As with the exercise, the task group averaged a missile volley every twenty seconds, or over a thousand missiles each minute. With a throw-weight of three hundred sixty missiles, it took only five minutes to run the fleet’s magazines dry. When the final missile had been launched, 5,400 anti-ship missiles were reaching toward the Hollaran fleet. The enemy did not hold back either. From across the battlefield, 5,250 Hollaran missiles stretched out over a 3lm span, seeking retribution.

  Empty of their long-range weapons, both fleets executed radical maneuvers with their rotational thrusters, desperate to orient away from the incoming threats and kill the forward momentum that contributed to an astounding closing speed of roughly seven-tenths the speed of light.

  The smaller ships of TG 2.2 finished their turns much faster than the behemoths of the group. Even Lochaber completed her spin well before Determined. Yet every vessel inside the fleet waited patiently for its flagship. The seeming stoicism was not born out of a respect or deference to the gigantic warship but the necessity to maintain proper station-keeping inside the formation.

  An agonizing thirteen seconds passed while Lochaber waited for Determined to finish her turn. Once completed, enormous Type-88 propulsion drives touched off and fought against the inertia that carried them toward the approaching missiles. A failing drive or burn time miscalculation could end in disaster for the fleet. Early history was replete with examples of formations being torn apart by mistimed fleet maneuvers. Even the slightest difference in course and speed could result in escorts that were too far apart to provide an effective defense for the vulnerable heavies. An errant burn by a heavy ship could place it outside of the point defense zone, virtually guaranteeing its destruction. Twist knew that these dangers were real but mitigated by the most recent advances in navigation. These horror stories and precautionary tales seemed destined to become ghost stories from the Secession Wars with the Solarian Federation rather than common recurrences in modern warfare.

  A full minute passed before Lochaber’s drives went dim. The risk had been worth the reward. Twist exhaled an audible sigh of relief when he verified that the fleet had executed the evasive maneuver perfectly. Now, instead of trying to intercept those Hollie missiles with a .65c relative closing speed, we’re sailing away from them and reduced it to only .25c. He smiled slightly. That means much more time in the kill zone for those missiles and more shots for us to knock them down. I’m sure glad that our missile technology is better than theirs.

  “Something’s wrong,” Falk cautioned. He worked anxiously at his console.

  What? What’s wrong? Twist thought irritably. He searched his status panel. Everything seemed okay to him. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, he spun around to face his NCO. “What?”

  “The spacing between their missiles is all wrong.” Falk continued to work at his console as Twist’s comm panel came to life.

  “Be advised,” Chappell reported, “telemetry from the Hollaran missile waves indicates that these are not Dachshunds. Commander Escobar is designating these missiles as Hollaran Greyhounds. We still have our job to do. Chappell out.”

  “Dammit,” Falk cursed. “The stories were true.”

  “What?” Twist said again, exasperated.

  “We’ve been hearing that the Hollies stole some of our missile tech and have been working to improve their missiles.” Falk gestured disgustedly at his tactical plot. “Judging by their speed and the interval between the waves, it looks like they’ve closed the tech gap.” His shoulders dropped as his voice soured. “In fact, not only have the Hollarans matched our rate of fire, these new missiles are faster than our own.”

  The Hollaran breakthrough held ominous consequences for Lochaber. Instead of facing missiles with relative closing speeds of .25c, the Brevic gunners would be fighting missiles racing toward them at .38c. Additionally, where they had expected each Hollaran missile wave to be a full fifty-four seconds apart, the precious time used to cool down laser batteries and obtain firing solutions between each wave had been reduced to a mere thirty seconds.

  Twist turned to read his tactical plot. He tapped the leading edge of the incoming missiles, now only 18ls from 2.2’s escorts. Twist wondered aloud and not for the first time, “Why weren’t we warned about this?”

  Chapter 14

  “Doesn’t matter much now, Ensign,” Falk said as he sat up straight. “We’re going to have more leakers and Chappell’s going to queue them a lot faster than in the exercise. You start at the top of the list and I’ll start at the bottom. We’ve got to allocate them to our gunners pronto, sir. They’re going to need every second we can give them.”

  The tip of the Hollaran spear reached Task Group 2.2’s escorts at precisely 23:04 BSMT. The vessels of CortRon 7 opened fire at the leading edge of missiles breaching 5ls. The massive missile wave, originally numbering three hundred fifty, was cut nearly in half by the opening bursts. The light lasers of the escort ships recycled and spit forth charged energy every two seconds. By the time the missiles raced past the six-ship CortRon, three hundred forty-four missiles had disappeared from the tactical plot. The remaining six Greyhounds flashed by the escorts and continued toward the heavy ships of TG 2.2.

  Three bright green taskings appeared on Twist’s main console, causing his heart to leap into his throat. This is it, Caden. He quickly pressed the tasking at the top of the screen to confirm the target. As expected, Vampire Alpha was designated as a Type-I Greyhound anti-ship missile. Estimated length, weight, diameter, warhead, detonation mechanisms, propulsion type and other data expanded from the discrete tasking symbol. Target is hostile, Twist confirmed. No target aim point field was available. I guess any hit on something as small as a missile will kill it. He, once again, broke into a drenching sweat. Downrange is free of friendlies. He glanced at the status screen for Kilo Turret. Battery is ready for action. Twist slid his finger over Kilo’s basket and removed his finger from the screen. Vampire Alpha strobed briefly and resumed its bright green hue.

  Twist looked back to the tasking queue. Falk had already assigned the remaining two targets; however, two additional taskings had appeared.

  Twist pressed the first tasking and began to repeat the fire control procedure. Less than a third of the way through the ritual, Falk barked desperately, “Give them fire authorization, Ensign!”

  Twist could feel rivulets of sweat running down his face. The space behind Delta is clear of friendly ships…

  “Twist, give our crew authorization!” screamed Falk.

  Twist saw the Vampire Delta symbol rip away from his index finger
and into a turret’s basket. “I’ve got the vampire!” Falk’s voice bordered on hysteria. “They can’t fire unless you authorize!”

  Twist’s status and comm panels were lighting up with digital fire authorization requests along with actual communication queries from his gunners. Trembling fiercely, he searched feverishly for the fire authorization. He groped for the flashing field on the screen but was knocked sideways in his shockseat. A distant boom followed the jolt as the compartment’s lights flickered ominously.

  Oh my God, we’ve been hit! My gunners never fired a shot! Twist looked up at the bank of status panels. Turret November, the second rearmost turret along Lochaber’s starboard beam, no longer fed him data. We didn’t even fire… because of me, he thought with revulsion. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Dammit, Ensign, you have to grant fire permission or they’re locked out!” Falk thundered. He scanned his own turret status displays. “We must’ve taken the hit near November. Go see how bad it is.”

  “But what about fire authorization?” Twist instinctively fell back to the comfort of the rules. TG 2.2’s escorts were already firing at the next, rapidly approaching Hollaran missile wave.

  “With you gone, I can grant it,” Falk replied irritably. He pounded at his console to erase the flood of comm requests received in the last ten seconds. “Just go!” he barked. After a brief pause, Falk added with a bit more civility, “Sir, please go check on November’s status. I can hold down the fort.”

  Twist nodded and released his shockseat’s restraints. He stood and ran out of the compartment, down the narrow corridor that would lead him the length of the ship to the stricken turret.