Susan sucked in her breath sharply. The aliens hadn’t converted the freighters into escort carriers, they’d converted them into arsenal ships! She’d seen the concept mentioned a few times, in some of the less reputable military journals, but she’d always considered them impractical. It simply wasn't possible to fire off enough missiles to make a difference ...
That bit of military wisdom may fall today, she thought, grimly.
“Point defence to full alert,” she snapped. “Link us into the datanet and prepare for impact.”
“They’ve launched outside standard range,” Mason commented, quietly.
Susan nodded, grimly. The aliens wouldn’t have fired unless they knew they had a chance of hitting something, even if their targets had no point defence at all. No, they were two or three-stage missiles ... she didn't know why the aliens were deploying so many missiles, but she had to admit that it seemed to pay off for them. They’d get a free shot at the task force’s ships.
And with so many missiles, she thought, they will score a hit.
“The starfighters are advancing towards their targets,” Granger reported. “They’re being diverted onto the battleships.”
“Smart thinking,” Mason said.
“True,” Susan agreed.
She studied the situation for a long moment, thinking hard. The aliens were moving the arsenal ships forward threateningly, but it had to be a bluff. Fitting a thousand missiles into their hulls - their workers had to have stripped out nearly everything else, save for the drives - would be quite hard enough. There was no way they could fire a second barrage. All they could do was try to soak up a few missiles that would otherwise be aimed at their battleships.
And we have to ignore them, she thought. Unless ...
“Keep an eye on them,” she ordered, coolly. “They may feel they can get away with ramming us.”
“Aye, Captain,” Charlotte said.
Susan gritted her teeth as the wall of missiles swept towards the task force. The alien ships were picking up speed, moving faster now they weren’t carrying their load. Normally, they wouldn't have a hope of getting close to her ships, but with so many missiles - and the alien battleships - flying around, they might just get lucky. And even if they didn't, they’d distract her gunners at the worst possible moment.
Damn them, she thought. There’s no way this should have paid off for them.
She watched, grimly, as the missiles began a careful series of evasive patterns, altering course slightly to throw off her gunners. Someone had definitely reported back, after the Battle of Unity. There was no way to deny it now. An alien analyst had noted what the humans had done and devised a very simple counter. And yet, how the hell had they managed to cram so many control links into a missile, even an oversized one? The time delay alone ...
Except there isn't a time delay, she thought, grimly. They have FTL communications.
The alien missiles flew into her point defence envelope. Dozens vanished, but hundreds survived to press their offensive against the human ships. Susan clutched her command chair, unable to take her eyes off the display as USS Beacon, HMS Bradshaw and FS Jean-Paul died in fire. Beyond them, seven freighters were blown apart by the hail of missiles, none carrying anything like enough armour to survive the impact. Susan cursed under her breath, knowing what that would mean for their long-term plans. Losing the freighters was bad enough, but losing the supplies they carried was far worse.
“Incoming missiles,” Granger snapped.
“All hands, brace for impact,” Susan snapped. “I say again ...”
Vanguard rocked, savagely. Susan swore as four of the displays flickered alarmingly - the outer network of sensor blisters must have been badly damaged - and then leaned forward as reports started to come in from the rest of the ship. They’d taken a beating - and one of their armour plates had practically been shattered - but they’d survived. And the deluge of missiles was over.
“Report,” she ordered.
“Heavy damage to starboard armour plating,” Mason said. He was bent over his console, reading the reports as they came into the bridge. “Damage-control teams are on their way, but the entire section may need to be sealed off. Some considerable internal damage too.”
He looked up. “Captain, if that had happened to us last year, we’d be dead in space.”
Susan nodded. “And the remainder of the squadron?”
“New York took another battering,” Granger said, grimly. “Edinburgh and Hamburg took a pasting themselves. Captain Stewart appears to believe that he can repair his ship, but Captain Doorman is ordering his crew to abandon ship.”
“Deploy shuttles to recover the lifepods,” Susan ordered. “And the carriers?”
“No damage,” Granger said. “They weren't included in the attack pattern.”
She paused. “The enemy fleet is reversing course.”
Susan gaped. The enemy didn't get to hammer her ships and then waltz away! But it looked as though that was precisely what the aliens had in mind. Did they feel they couldn't win a close-range engagement, despite the battering they’d already handed out? Or did they believe that they hadn't inflicted so much damage? Or were they sensitive to further losses ...
Or maybe we’re completely wrong about them, she thought, sourly.
“Request orders from the flag,” she said. The task force could chase down the alien battleships, even though it was clear the starfighters hadn't inflicted any real damage on the alien ships. And killing the cruisers wouldn't be hard. But at what cost? “And then get me a full damage report from Edinburgh.”
It could be the other race in command, this time, she thought, numbly. Maybe they have a different approach to life.
She scowled as she worked the problem over and over in her head. The old ‘diversity is strength’ mantra had gone out of fashion during the Troubles, when diversity had become a swearword, but she could see some value to it. If combining British and American ideals had produced some interesting concepts, who knew what would happen if one combined ideas from two different races? Humanity had learned a great deal from the Tadpoles - and, she suspected, the reverse was also true.
“Captain Stewart has forwarded his damage report,” Parkinson said. “He has reiterated his determination to save his ship.”
Susan didn't blame him, but the odds were not in Edinburgh’s favour. The cruiser had been badly damaged - her hull had been broken in a dozen places - and she was probably heading for the scrapyard, even if she made it home. She knew just how Captain Stewart was feeling, but there wasn't any time. Even if Edinburgh sneaked away from the remainder of the task force, she’d still have to crawl through enemy-held space to reach the nearest safe harbour.
And the nearest safe harbour would actually be in Tadpole territory, she thought. The newcomers might be doing their best to invade it.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said. “The task force is to reverse course and head through Tramline Two.”
Susan exchanged glances with Mason. Heading through Tramline Two meant continuing on the arc Harper had planned, back before the engagement. It gave them the chance to slip back to Unity, but it also ran the risk of encountering other alien forces. But there was no choice. The aliens might just miss the task force crossing an alien-grade tramline. They certainly wouldn't miss the task force heading back the way it had come. The battleships orbiting Unity would be ready and waiting for them.
“Acknowledge the order,” Susan said. “And get me a direct link to Captain Stewart.”
“Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.
Susan barely had a moment to compose herself when Captain Stewart’s face appeared in front of her. His bridge looked battered, but he and his crew were alive. And Stewart himself looked determined, very determined.
“Captain,” he said. “My crew and I intend to make our own way home.”
“Don't be a fool,” Susan snapped. She understood his feelings, she understood them all too well. “You’ll
be caught and killed on the way home.”
“Not if we’re careful,” Stewart said. “Captain, we can do it.”
Susan gritted her teeth. If Stewart was right, he’d set an epic that lived up to the trail blazed by Admiral Smith and Ark Royal. But if he was wrong, the Royal Navy would never know what had killed the cruiser. The enemy ... or a technological failure, after the ship had been battered beyond endurance?
But, technically, she had no right to order him to abandon ship.
“Good luck,” she said, finally. “And make sure you get back alive.”
“Of course, Captain,” Stewart said. He tossed her a jaunty salute. “And thank you.”
His image vanished. Susan stared at where it had been for a long moment, then pushed her emotions to one side. There would be time to worry later, after they were away from the aliens and heading home.
“Set course to Tramline Two,” she ordered, sharply. “And move us out with the rest of the task force.”
“Aye, Captain,” Reed said.
A light flashed on the display, then vanished. “That was Hamburg,” Granger said. “They triggered the self-destruct once the ship was evacuated.”
“Understood,” Susan said. She closed her eyes for a long moment in silent salute. “Helm, get us out of here.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“You are going to buy me a drink after this, aren’t you?”
Stott grunted, but didn't stop searching George, first with his hands and then with a sensor rod she vaguely recognised from the Academy. George did her best to look professional, although it wasn't easy with her hands locked on her head and a marine pawing her. Stott wasn't molesting her - his touch was professional - but it still bothered her. The thought that she might be considered a potential traitor ...
If they somehow got a bug on me, I might have led the aliens directly to the camp, she thought. And Kelly and I could have led the aliens here too.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but rumour on deck is that you’re screwing a gunnery dude,” Stott said. “I wouldn't want to muscle him out with my hyper-masculinity and general sexiness.”
“I'm surprised you even know the word hyper-masculinity,” George growled, feeling her cheeks redden. Fraser had been right. Someone had noticed ... she was surprised the word hadn't reached her sooner. But then, what she did on her shore leave was no one’s business, but her own. “Do you even know what it means?”
“Sure,” Stott said. “It’s the power of raw animal magnetism that draws chicks to me like flies to meat.”
He struck a dramatic pose. “Do you not feel any desire for me?”
“I feel a strong desire to ram something down your throat,” George said, crossly. “A grenade, perhaps, or my gun.”
“I’d just bite it off,” Stott assured her. He clapped her on the shoulder in a manner she assumed was meant to be reassuring. “But I wouldn't want to steal you from someone who actually works for a living. If you were dating a REMF from the outer darkness ... why, I’d be trying to get into your panties like a shot.”
“You’d look very nice in them,” George said. “I can loan you a pair when we get back to the ship, if you like.”
There was a harsh bark of laughter. They both looked up. Byron was standing nearby, his arms crossed. “She’s got you there,” he said. “And besides, wasn't it you who was caught banging the general’s wife?”
“It wasn't her who complained,” Stott protested. He sobered, suddenly. “She’s clean, sir.”
George scowled. “I told you I wasn't bugged.”
“You wouldn't know,” Byron said, grimly. “Bugs these days are so tiny they can't be seen with the naked eye. And if the damn thing has gone dormant, we wouldn't know about it until they reactivated it - and then it would be too late.”
“Shit,” George said. “But surely we have to keep going?”
Byron gave her a humourless smile. “That’s what dozens of insurgent groups thought,” he said. “They regrouped after we clobbered hell out of them - or let a few of the bastards break out of the camps - and then we came down on them like a ton of bricks.”
He nodded for her to follow him as he led the way deeper into the camp. It was actually smaller than the last camp, although a couple of armoured vehicles had been placed near the fringes and heavily camouflaged. George was surprised to see them - she’d been told that all armoured vehicles had been destroyed during the invasion - but none the less pleased. The aliens would be in for a nasty surprise when - if - they tried to sneak up on the campsite.
“Fred seems to like you,” Byron observed. He turned to smile at her. “But not in that way, I'm afraid. He’s accepted you.”
“Thanks,” George said, doubtfully.
“It’s a good thing,” Byron assured her. “For us” - he waved a hand to indicate the camp - “it’s never easy to know if we can count on the navy. There have been times when the navy has been utterly superb, performing wonderfully, and times when they’ve been too busy sipping their tea to do their jobs. We never know if the pilot flying us down to the surface is going to land in the teeth of enemy fire or going to panic the moment the first MANPAD is shot at the shuttle and misses by a mile.”
“I thought you had your own pilots,” George observed.
“We can't always depend on them being assigned to us,” Byron said. He nodded towards the hidden tent. “And well ... you could have curled up into a ball, upon crashing, and insisted on being carried all the way home. I’ve had intelligence specialists working with me who didn't really understand what they’d been asked to do until it was too late.”
He opened the tent, then nodded to her. “But you’re doing fine,” he added. “Keep it up.”
George said nothing as she followed him through the second flap. Fraser had pushed her hard, during her first deployment; Stott ... had openly teased her. She honestly wasn't sure how to feel about it. But then, she told herself, at least she wasn't being praised for her body or her clothes. It was for something she’d done.
“Ah, George,” Kelly said. He was leaning over a table, examining a mangled alien body through a microscope. “What do you make of this?”
George stared. “Are you a trained xenospecialist?”
“I’m the best on hand,” Kelly said. “I did have to take a course in xenomedicine, before a brief deployment to Vesy, but they’re a very different race. Frankly, I think xenomedicine is going to be divided up into several different subsections before too long.”
He nodded down at the body. “What do you make of cow-face here?”
“Nothing,” George said. The Cow was lying on the table, its chest cut open to reveal a handful of organs. She couldn't tell if it was male or female. “I am not a doctor.”
“I can tell,” Kelly said.
He tapped the leathery skin. “I can also tell that these bastards are tough,” he added. “They seem to be slow and lumbering, according to the reports, but they can take a lot of damage before they go down. Their skulls are heavy too - frankly, I wouldn’t expect a headshot from a pistol to take one down. Realistically, they’re strong and nasty and very tough. Try not to get into a punching match with one.”
“I see,” Byron said.
George leaned forward. “Do they have any weaknesses?”
“I think their vision and sense of smell are both worse than ours,” Kelly said. “But I suspect we won’t know for sure until we manage to talk to them. There’s also a set of genitals right where you’d expect them, so a kick there might upset them.”
Byron frowned. “Might?”
“I didn't have an intact corpse to dissect,” Kelly admitted. “But ... well, the one I examined didn't have anything like as many nerve endings leading to the penis as I might have imagined. It’s possible they don’t get anything like as much out of sex as we do - it’s also possible that their penis might break off, the first time they have sex, and regularly impregnate the woman.”
“Ouch,” George said. She glanced at the two other bodies, stacked like cordwood at the rear of the tent. “Are any of them female?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Kelly said. “They all have recognisable male organs, but nothing resembling a vagina or a womb. It’s possible that I’m making a mistake, though. I’m not an xenospecialist.”
“So you keep saying,” Byron said. “Do you have anything else to offer?”
“Just that none of the Cows allowed themselves to be captured,” Kelly said. It sounded as though they’d had the same discussion earlier. “All five of the ones we tried to capture committed suicide when it looked as though they’d be taken prisoner.”
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