by Chris Bunch
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THERE WAS NO pomp and there was carefully no ceremony when Lady Atago transferred her command from the battleship Forez to the infinitely smaller Zhenya.
Admiral Deska had spent a good portion of his military career studying his superior. She despised the frills and displays of military recognition. All that she required was that one do exactly as she indicated without hesitation. She became very thoughtful about any icing upon that requirement.
Despite their size, the Zhenya and her sisterships were a major tech miracle for the Tahn. The design and development of the ships would have cost even the Imperial naval R&D staff a good percentage of its budget.
The Zhenya was intended for mine warfare of the most sophisticated kind, a type of combat that the Imperial Navy had given little attention.
It had been a very long time since the Empire had fought a war with an equal. Even the brutal Mueller Wars were, ultimately, a limited uprising. Mines were used in positional warfare to deny passage to the enemy or to provide stationary security for one's own positions. They could also be laid to interdict the enemy's own ship lanes. Mines simply hadn't seemed relevant to the navy strategists.
The other reason for the navy's lack of interest in mine warfare was its unromantic nature. A mine was a heavy clunk of metal that just sat there until something made it go bang, generally long after the minelayer had departed. Mine experts didn't wear long white scarves or get many hero medals, even though mines, in space, on land, or in water, were one of the most deadly and cost-efficient ways of destroying the enemy.
The Tahn were less interested in glamour than in any and every method of winning a war. The Zhenya was one of the keys to their future.
Sophisticated space mines, of a kind never seen before, could be laid with impossible speed by the Zhenya. Each mine was basically an atomic torpedo that was immediately alerted to any ship in its vicinity. A “friendly” ship would be transmitting on its Identification-Friend or Foe com line, and the mine would read the code and ignore that ship. An enemy ship or one not transmitting the current code to the mine would find a very different reaction. The mine—and any other mines within range—would activate and home on the enemy ship. With thousands of mines in any one field, even the most heavily armed Imperial battleship would be doomed.
The Tahn had also solved another problem. Space warfare, even one with established battle lines, was very mobile and its conditions changed rapidly. Retreating or attacking through one's own minefield could be lethal, even if the mine had identified the oncoming ship as friendly. It still was a large chunk of debris to encounter at speed. And if battle conditions changed, the minefield might have to be abandoned—it took a lot of time and caution to sweep a field and then re-lay it.
The Zhenya could retrieve and redeploy mines almost as fast as it could lay them. It was an interesting way to be able to create, define, or modify the field that the enemy would be forced to fight on—in theory.
The Zhenya-class ships had yet to be proved. In the Tahn's haste to add the ships to their combat fleets, there had been many failures—all ending with the deaths of the entire crew.
Deska was confident that all the problems with the Zhenya and her sister ships had been solved, but not so confident that he felt safe risking the Lady Atago's life. He explained this to her, and she listened with seeming interest. She thought for a moment.
"Assemble the crew,” she said finally.
Although it was a small crew, gathered together they filled the Zhenya's mess hall. The Lady Atago waited quietly until everyone was available and then began to speak.
"Our task today,” she said, “is to prove the worth of the Zhenya. On our success, much is dependent. You understand this, do you not?"
No one said a word. The audience barely breathed. But there was a stiffening of attention.
"Previous trials have ended in disappointment,” she continued. “This is why I am with you today. If you die, I die. It is therefore required that every one of you perform his individual task to his supreme abilities."
She swept the room with her never changing eyes of absolute zero.
"It goes without saying,” she hammered home, “that if there is a failure today, it would be best for any of you not to be among the few survivors."
She dropped her eyes and flicked at a crumb left on the otherwise spotless mess table in front of her. The crew was dismissed.
* * * *
The drone tacship drove toward the Zhenya at full power. Between the robot and the minelayer hung a cluster of the newly developed mines. Lady Atago stood behind the mine control screen, watching closely.
"Report."
"All mines report incoming ship as friendly."
"Change the recognition code."
Sweat beaded one tech's forehead. It was at this point that the accidents had occurred. All too often, when the IFF code was changed, the mine either refused to attack a no-longer-friendly—according to the recognition code—ship or launched on every ship within range, including the minelayer.
This time the control board barely had time to report the change in status and register that the mine was reporting an enemy ship before six mine-missiles launched.
The drone tacship fired back with antiship missiles. Two of the mines were exploded.
The third mine hit the robot and tore out its hull. Less than a second later, a score more were hunting the debris. The rest made note of the kill and returned to station.
"Did the mines show any response to the drone's electronic countermeasures?” Atago asked.
The tech consulted a nearby screen. “Negative. All transmissions from the enemy were ignored once it had been identified."
The Lady Atago turned her attention from the screen to Admiral Deska. She allowed one perfect eyebrow to raise a millimeter."You may inform the council, Admiral,” she said, “that we will begin full production."
A half hour later the flagship was once again the Forez. Lady Atago went quietly back to her maps and battle plans.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
STEN LANDED ON Cavite, central world of the Caltor System, as a commander without a fleet.
Among the other shortcomings of the tacships was that their tiny supply holds limited their range. Their delicate engines also required far more frequent maintenance intervals than did most Imperial craft. So the four tacships that were to be Sten's command had been berthed in a freighter and now were somewhere between Soward and Cavite.
Sten made the long haul from Prime to Cavite as a liner passenger. He spent the voyage going through pictures, sketches, abstracts, and envelope projections, as besotted with his new assignment as any first lover.
Part of the time he devoted to a quick but thorough study of what was going to be his base planet. Cavite was about two-thirds the size of Prime World and sparsely settled. There was little industry on Cavite—mostly it was an agriculture-based economy, with a little fishing and lumbering. The climate was also similar to Prime—fairly temperate, with a tendency to snow a bit more than on Prime.
The rest of the time Sten pored over details involving his ships. It did not matter that at present his command consisted only of four brand-new Bulkeley-class vessels and himself. He was to man his ship on arrival on Cavite.
Under separate covers, a fax had gone to Admiral Doorman, requesting full cooperation.
Sten had arrived on Soward just before his four ships were “launched.” There wasn't a great deal of ceremony—the hull builder had signed the ships over to a secondary yard, a transporter gantry had picked up the ships, complete less armament, electronics, controls, and crew compartment, and had lugged them across the huge plant.
Incomplete as they were, Sten was in love the first time he had seen the sleek alloy needles sitting on their chocks. To him, the entry in the new Jane's update fiche was poetry:
* * * *
6406.795 TACTICAL ASSAULT CRAFT Constructio
n of a new class of tactical ship by the Empire has been rumored, but as this cannot be confirmed at present, this entry must be considered tentative. Intelligence suggests that these ships are designed to replace and upgrade several current classes now considered obsolescent. It has been suggested that these ships will bear the generic class of BULKELEY. Development of this class is considered to be under construction, with no information as to the number of ships contracted for, commissioning dates, or deployment dates. To repeat, All information must be considered quite tentative.
* * * *
Sten figured that the editor of Jane's was practicing the age-old CYA, since the rest of the data was entirely too clotting accurate for his comfort:
* * * *
CHARACTERISTICS:
TYPE: Fleet patrol craft LENGTH: 90 meters est. (actually 97 meters)
D: Approx. 1400 fl.
CREW: Unknown ARMAMENT: Unknown, but theorized to be far heavier than any other ships in this category.
* * * *
The rest of the entry was a long string of unknowns. Sten could have filled in the details.
Each ship carried a crew of twelve: three officers'—CO, weapons/XO, engineering—and nine enlistedmen. And they were heavily armed.
For close-in fighting, there were two chainguns. Medium-range combat would be handled by eight launchers firing Goblin VI missiles, now upgraded with better “brains” and a 10-kt capacity. There were three Goblins for each launcher.
For defense there was a limited countermissile capability—five Fox-class missiles—but a very elaborate electronic countermeasure suite.
Bulkeley ships were intended either to sneak in unnoticed or to cut and run if hit. But the Bulkeley class craft were designed as ship killers.
Main armament was the Kali—a heavy, 60-megaton missile that was almost twenty meters long. Packed inside the missile's bulbous skin was a computer nearly as smart as a ship's and an exotic ECM setup. The missile was launched in a tube that extended down the ship's axis. Three backup missiles were racked around the launch tube.
Crew space, given all this artillery and the monstrous engines, was laughable. The captain's cabin was about the size of a wall closet, with pull-down desk and bunk. It was the most private compartment on the ship, actually having a draw curtain to separate the CO from the rest of the men. The other two officers bunked together, in a cabin exactly the size of the captain's. The crew bunks were ranked on either side of the ship's largest compartment, which doubled as rec room, mess hall, and kitchen.
The only cat that could have been swung inside the ship would have been a Manx—a Manx kitten.
Big deal. If Sten had wanted luxury, he would have opted for Bishop's plan and flown BUCs.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
STANDARD OBSCENITY PROCEDURE: When an officer arrives at his new duty station, he reports to his new commanding officer.
In the Guard this had meant that one was to show up at the unit's orderly room in semidress uniform. Officer and his new fearless leader would size each other up; the newcomer would be given his new responsibilities and whatever trick tips the old man chose to pass on and set in motion.
The navy, Sten had learned, was slightly more formal.
The “invitation” to meet Admiral van Doorman had been hand delivered. And was printed. On real paper. That, Sten figured, meant full-dress uniform. Whites. Gloves. Clot, even a haircut.
By scurrying and bribing, Sten had gotten the batman assigned to his temporary bachelor officer's quarters to electrostat-press his uniform and borrow or steal a pair of white gloves from someone. The haircut was easy, since Sten kept his hair about two centimeters from shaven.
The card requested the pleasure of his company at 1400 hours. Sten gave himself an extra hour for the civilian grav-car to wind through the packed streets of Cavite City. Even then, he arrived at the main entrance to the naval base with only twenty minutes to spare.
His mouth dropped when the sentry at the gate checked only Sten's ID, then in a bored manner waved the gravcar forward.
Nice, Sten thought. Here we are on the edge of everything, and the taxi drivers can go anywhere they want. Great security.
He paid the driver at dockside, got out, and then goggled.
The flagship of 23rd Fleet was the Imperial Cruiser Swampscott. Sten had looked the ship up and found out that it had been built nearly seventy-five years previously; it was periodically upgraded instead of being scrapped. The description gave no inkling of just how awesome the Swampscott had become—awesome in the sense of atrocious.
The cruiser evidently had been built to the then limits of hull design, power, and armament. Upgrading had started by cutting the ship in half and adding another 500 meters to the midsection. The next stage had added bulges to the hull.
After that, the redesigners must have been desperate to meet the additions, since the Swampscott could now be described as a chubby cruiser that had run, very hard, into a solid object without destruction.
As a grand finale, there were twin structures atop the hull, structures that would be familiar to any Chinese Emperor of the T'ang Dynasty of ancient Earth.
Since the Swampscott had never fought a war, these excrescences did not matter. The ship, polished until it glowed, was used for ceremonial show-the-flag visits. It would settle down in-atmosphere in as stately a manner as any dowager queen going down steps in a ball gown. If a planetary assault had ever been required, the Swampscott would either have spun out of control or wallowed uncontrollably. In a wind tunnel, a model of the Swampscott might have been described as having all the aerodynamics of a chandelier.
Sten recovered, checked the time, and hurried into the lift tube.
Exiting, he saw not one but four full-dress sentries and one very bored, but very full-dressed, officer of the deck.
He saluted the nonexistent and unseen “colors"—toward the stern—and the OOD, then gave the lieutenant a copy of the invitation and his ID card.
"Oh, Lord,” the lieutenant said. “Commander, you made a real mistake."
"Oh?"
"Yessir. Admiral Doorman's headquarters are downtown.” .
Downtown? What was that navalese for? “Isn't this the flagship?"
"Yessir. But Admiral Doorman prefers the Carlton Hotel. He says it gives him more room to think."
Sten and the lieutenant looked at each other.
"Sir, you're going to be very late. Let me get a gravsled out. Admiral Doorman's most insistent about punctuality."
This was a great way to start a new assignment, Sten thought.
* * * *
Admiral Doorman may have insisted on punctuality, but it applied only to his subordinates.
Sten had arrived at the hotel in a sweaty panic, nearly twenty minutes late. He had been escorted to the lower of Doorman's three hotel suites, reported to the snotty flag secretary at the desk, and been told to sit down.
And he waited.
He was not bored, however. Awful amazement would have been a better description of Sten's emotional state as he eavesdropped on the various conversations as officers came and went in the huge antechamber:
"Of course I'll try to explain to the admiral that anodizing takes a great deal of work to remove. But you know how he loves the shine of brass,” a fat staff officer said to a worried ship captain.
"Fine. We have a deal. You give me J'rak for the boxing, and I'll let you have my drum and bugle team."
The conversation was between two commanders.
"I do not care about that exercise, Lieutenant. You've already exceeded your training missile allocation for this quarter."
"But sir, half my crew's brand-new, and I—"
"Lieutenant, I learned to follow orders. Isn't it time you learn the same?"
Real amazement came as two people spilled out of a lift tube. They were just beautiful.
The ship captain was young, dashing, tall, handsome, and blond-haired. His und
ress whites gloved his statuesque body and molded his muscles.
His companion, equally blond, wore game shorts.
They were laughing, enjoying the free life.
Sten hated their guts on sight.
Chattering away, the two sauntered past Sten, down a corridor. The woman suddenly made some excuse, stopped, put her foot upon a chair arm, and adjusted the fastener on her sports shoe. And her eyes very calmly itemized Sten. Then she laughed, took her companion's arm, and disappeared. She had a figure that made it nearly impossible not to stare after. So Sten stared.
"That's definitely off limits, Commander,” the flag secretary said.
Not that he cared, but Sten raised a questioning eyebrow.
"The lady is the admiral's daughter."
Sten wanted to say something sarcastic, but he was saved by the buzzing of the annunciator. He was escorted into the admiral's office.
* * * *
The term “office” was a considerable understatement. The only chambers that Sten had seen more palatial were some of the ceremonial rooms in the Imperial palace. Always the cynic, he wondered if the suite had been furnished with Doorman's private funds or if he had fiddled something.
Fleet Admiral Xavier Rijn van Doorman was equally spectacular. This was a man whose very presence, from his white coiffed mane to his unwavering eyes to his firm chin to his impressive chest, shouted command leadership. This was a leader men would follow into the very gates of hell. After ten minutes of conversation, Sten had a fairly decent idea that was where most of them would end up.
It could have been said about van Doorman, as it had been about another officer centuries earlier, that he never allowed an original thought to ruin his day.
But still, he was the very image of a leader: fit to address any parliament, soothe any worried politician, address any banquet, or show any banner—and totally incompetent to command a fleet that Sten knew might be only days from being the first line of defense in a war.
Van Doorman was a very polite man, and very skilled in the minefields of social inquisition. He must have scanned Sten's fiche before Sten had entered the room. Certainly he was most curious about Sten's previous assignment—at the Imperial palace itself, as CO of the Emperor's Gurkkha bodyguard.