by David Tatum
With a sigh, he took his seat. Surrounding him was the best staff he could assemble from the surviving units. Most of the usual higher-ranking officers in the Navy were at the Wargame, and Commodore Bernhard Haas was busy working with the Orbital Guard in rescue operations, which left few officers for this council of war. There was just one flag officer left in his little assembly, Commodore Oli Jokela of the Navy Yard, and as a dockyard officer he looked decidedly out of his element. The man was a career desk officer in his eighties, and just about everyone else in the room but McCaffrey were in their twenties and thirties.
Captain Ahonen and Lieutenant Hrkac accompanied him from the Academy. Jokela came from the base. Captains Alton Fraisse, Stephan Boone, and Wayne Hoch, and Commanders Mia Spirit and Sophie Lindt, came from their ships – the Wolf, Boxer, Terrier, Guerriere and Venture respectively. The Antelope’s representative was her chief engineer, a Lieutenant Commander Matthias Arnason, and a few of the captains brought their first officers as well. In all, fourteen people populated the small room, and every one of them had disbelief etched in their faces. The unthinkable had happened and now they were the ones who would be in charge of recovering from it.
“Well, I’m afraid we’re it,” McCaffrey began, taking a seat at the head of the table. “At least until the civilian representatives get here. We’ll have to start this meeting without them. Let’s start with contingency planning.”
“With what?” Arnason asked gruffly, scratching away some flecks of dried blood on his day-old beard. His words were slurred. Temporary stitches had been placed to hold a gash in his cheek together until a doctor could take a better look at him, and it was affecting his speech in a most distracting manner. Everyone knew that every word he spoke pulled painfully on those sutures, but he continued on as if he hadn’t been hurt at all. “How are we going to respond when all we’ve got is a bunch of crippled ships? I’m thinking we would be better off trying to figure out why they spared our few remaining ships and retreated. Yeah, we got their troop transports, but without reinforcements the path to landing on Earth is open for anyone to fly in. And I’m not even sure bringing the reinforcements directly here is a good idea – the fleet they had left might be waiting to ambush whoever we bring in.”
“Reinforcements are already on their way,” McCaffrey said. “I dispatched one of the star drive-equipped Orbital Guard cutters, the Tapir, as a messenger. They are headed to the Wargame, and whatever is available will be either returning to Earth or reinforcing other strategic positions. If they’re waiting for us to bring in more ships, they’ve got it. Which means we’ll need to come up with a contingency plan if luring those ships here is their goal, and additional plans for preparing ourselves if it is not.”
“At this point,” Ahonen chimed in. “We don’t have much to go on. We have no knowledge of who it was who attacked us, why they attacked us in the first place, or why they retreated after we destroyed their troop ships. What we do know is that they have a tremendous lead in some technological areas, especially in stealth and targeting systems. But none of that tells us who they are, what they want, or what we can do about it.”
“We’ve been expecting trouble from the Cygni for some time,” Lindt snapped. “I’d lay odds it was them, but they’ll just deny it, which will make us look like the aggressor if we retaliate.”
McCaffrey’s eyes hardened. “People... I know we’re still all in a state of shock from this surprise attack, but throwing up our hands and saying ‘there’s nothing we can do’ is not an option. Nor is baseless speculation as to who attacked us. There are concrete things we can work with, so let’s go over what we know. My first thought, when I heard about the attack, was that they were exploiting the hole in passive sensors that allowed unpowered ships to coast by on inertia undetected, but that proved to be wrong. No matter how much power they were generating or what they were doing, every passive scan detected nothing from these ships. So, from now on, all patrols will be running constant active scans. Even the slightest blip will be cause to send out the alarm.
“Many of our early losses came because we couldn’t get the men to battle stations and the ships into formation before they were in battle. That was a consequence of our peacetime doctrine. We always believed that passive sensors would give us enough warning to assemble our forces. This doctrine must be scrapped, and a new one must be established to deal with this new enemy.
“Finally, we know that they have at least... how many enemy ships do we know survived, Mr. Hrkac?”
Hrkac blinked for a moment, surprised at being addressed directly by the Admiral, but quickly checked his hand-comp for the data. “We detected seventeen battleships, twenty two frigates, and thirty one cruisers that we could not count as ‘killed’ in the after action report. There may have been others we did not detect.”
Commander Spirit whistled. “I didn’t think we did that well. According to those numbers, we killed them almost two to one, plus got rid of all the troop ships.”
McCaffrey grinned darkly, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “See, ladies and gentlemen? Looking back on it, we performed admirably. We were surprised, outnumbered by more then two to one, and started the battle well out of position, yet we still managed to destroy them two to one. What we need to do, however, is prepare ourselves to face at least twenty battleships, thirty frigates, and forty cruisers... because we know they’ve got at least that many.”
“With what?” Arnason snorted. “Even if all the survivors can be repaired into fighting shape, one battleship with half a dozen smaller vessels would be wiped out in moments.”
McCaffrey nodded. “Indeed. Commodore Jokela, what are the chances you might have a solution to this?”
“Me, sir?” Jokela replied, startled.
“Yes, you. You command the Naval Station. That means you would know the status of all ships which are still under construction or being fitted out. You would know better than any of us how quickly we can launch more ships.”
Jokela hesitated. “Well, that—”
“Before you answer, consider the following: The Civilian Authority has just authorized an emergency spending bill that gives us what amounts to unlimited funding to aide in the recovery for the next three months. They have also authorized a draft, so your theoretical personnel limitations are the number of human beings inside of Sol System, although admittedly not all of them would be skilled labor and few have anything resembling Naval training. The only restriction we’ve got at the moment, in terms of finishing those ships and building new ones, is how fast can your Navy yard operate?”
Commodore Jokela’s eyes widened as he heard those conditions. “Sir, we’ve currently got twenty-two ships fitting out for duty or otherwise close enough to completion that we can start assigning crew. That means we’ve got the parts for them all set aside, at least, and we could launch all twenty two within a few weeks, given unlimited budget and labor. Only five of those ships are battleships, though. We can also repair damaged ships, as well, but even so the most we would have would be thirty-one ships, of which only six would be battleships. I don’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that six battleships could stand up to twenty, or that thirty one ships overall could stand up to ninety. I suppose we could quickly assemble the materials to build another couple of battleships and maybe a few frigates and corvettes during the three month period that bill allows, but that’s it.”
McCaffrey nodded, not surprised. “And if we purchased into the Navy some of the merchant fleet and Orbital Guard cutters currently in orbit? How much of what’s here is solid enough to refit and modify into warships?”
Jokela winced, and several others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The idea they were desperate enough to bring in civilian ships was uncomfortable, to say the least. “We might be able to convert a few cutters into corvettes, sir, but... but there’s no way the hull of your average merchantman or pleasure cruiser would stand up to the fire of even the smallest warship. Maybe, with a
lot of armor plating, a few of the civilian transport ships and pleasure cruisers that are already equipped to defend themselves against pirates could be turned into something that would make good commerce raiders, but I’d rather spend the labor and materials on new warships. It takes a lot more to make a warship then to stick guns on her, Admiral.”
“I know that,” McCaffrey snorted. “But we’re talking desperate measures, here, gentlemen. We need hulls, and like it or not our merchantmen are the only thing we’ve got until we can gather the materials for something better.”
Spirit hesitantly raised her hand. “Sir... if it’s hulls you want, I might have an alternate idea. It’ll take a lot of work, but I think it’ll be better for everyone if we can manage it. And Mr. Jokela’s right, sir – even as a desperate measure, I don’t think converted merchantmen is the way to go, if I may be so blunt, sir.”
McCaffrey looked at her silently. Given her performance in the battle, he was inclined to listen to her, but he wasn’t exactly happy about having his plans questioned. However, she’d more than earned the right to speak, so he’d give her a chance. “So tell us your idea.”
“Sir, after each Wargame, most of the Academy side’s ships are mothballed. The location of the mothballed ships is usually kept secret and need to know – it’s possible even you might not have been apprised, sir,” she began. “But I happen to know where at least one batch of ‘Wargame’ converted ships are, along with many other mothballed ships that could be re-commissioned far faster than any civilian merchantman could be converted. And it’s only about twenty minutes hyperspace travel away....”
——————————
EAS Chihuahua
“Mr. Orff seems capable of running your battle plans pretty well, Conrad,” Anne Morrison said softly to the Chihuahua’s captain as the simulated battle raged on around them. “I suppose your being a ‘casualty’ isn’t going to hurt the crew’s performance too much.”
Burkhard sighed. It hadn’t been a very good few days – not only had he been listed a ‘casualty’ and reduced to the role of observer alongside the Academy instructor early on, but word had leaked out that his ship had been behind the supply raid on the tenders, and speculation was heavy that Admiral Mumford had been favoring the Chihuahua for special treatment because his granddaughter was on board. It was making them an unpopular ship.
He had hoped to resume command early despite his ‘injuries,’ but after those rumors surfaced – which, despite their malicious origins, were perhaps more on target then either the Admiral or Burkhard would care to admit – he didn’t dare carry them out.
“I fear what would happen if he got distracted, or if the conditions changed. I’m convinced he’s smart enough, but not that he’s enough of a quick thinker for command. He bickers with his ‘underlings’ over things he feels his rank should entitle him to, whether it really does or not. He follows orders well, yes, and can carry out a plan, but I suspect what we’ve actually got is another Commodore Green in the making – efficient, but constantly requiring guidance of one form or another.”
“Well, we could test that theory. You’re ‘hospitalized,’ and ‘fighting to survive,’ but that frees you up to become a distraction if you want. You’re now an ‘observer’ and can order tests of certain individuals. In fact, I suggest you try distracting various crew members, just to see how they respond.”
Burkhard grinned and glanced around the room looking for a decent target. He would get to Orff, of course, but only in due time. Distracting the acting captain’s support staff would be much more useful for the moment.
“Mr. Desaix,” he called.
Chris didn’t bother looking away from his monitors. He did, however, reply. “Aren’t you dead?”
Burkhard snorted. “Not yet. But I’m supposed to be the annoying distraction of a wounded man screaming in pain or something like that. At any rate, I’m supposed to make some sort of attempt to distract you.”
“Ah. Proceed, then,” Chris said absently, typing something on his keyboard.
“If we manage to get the Chihuahua purchased into the Navy, I suspect they’re not going to let us keep her name. So, what name would you change her to?”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t keep the name,” Chris said, his attention still focused on the monitor. “It’s perfect for her. And they’ve allowed sillier names in the past.”
“Perhaps. But if they were to choose a new name for her, what name would you give her?” Burkhard asked.
“Easy. The Virginia,” Chris replied.
“Why is that so easy?” Burkhard asked, a little startled at how quickly he was able to come up with the name.
It was not Chris but Rachel who answered him. “Sir, haven’t you read up on your pre-spatial military history?”
“Um... not recently,” Burkhard replied. This wasn’t going quite as he’d planned. They weren’t distracted, but now he was.
“During the American Civil War on Earth,” Rachel began, not losing track of her own instrumentation as she talked. “One side of the war, known commonly as the Confederacy, developed a new type of warship: The ironclad. They raised the hulk of an old ship, the Merrimack, that had been what we might today call ‘mothballed.’ They gave her a new propulsion system, new weapons, and then clad her in iron armor plates. She was the first ever ironclad warship to fight a battle, and they re-commissioned her the Virginia.”
“And we are a ship that was pulled out of mothballs,” Chris continued for her when she became too busy at her tactical station. “Given a new, modern propulsion system, new weapons, and we’re now the first... um, shieldclad, I guess you could call us. The parallels are all too apparent.”
“So what happened to her?” Burkhard asked. “I faintly recall reading that this ‘Confederacy’ lost that war.”
“Abandoned and destroyed to prevent capture when her port was evacuated,” Chris replied. “Before that, she had proven herself effective against the normal wooden vessels of the time, and stalemated her only fight against the Union’s own ironclad vessel. Neither side had a weapon prepared that could penetrate the other side’s armor.”
“The Union’s ship in that battle was also innovative for the time,” Rachel added. “It was scratch-built, and used the very first turrets ever operated in combat. However, it was poorly designed for deep water ocean travel, and sunk in a storm without ever seeing action again.”
“I doubt the Fleet has managed to develop its own Monitor since finding out about our existence, however,” Chris concluded. “So we don’t have to worry about that one.”
Burkhard’s head turned from Chris to Rachel and back again as the speakers changed. Finally, he glanced helplessly at Captain Anne Morrison, whose shoulders were shaking as she tried to hold in her laughter. “Right. Mr. Orff!”
“Sir?” Orff replied.
“What are your thoughts on the name of the ship?” Burkhard asked, deciding to keep the distraction as mild as possible at first.
“I think... What was that, sir?” Orff asked, looking over at his ‘injured’ captain and blinking to try and clear his head. “Is that really the right thing to be talking about right now, sir?”
“For me, yes it is,” Burkhard explained. “So, your thoughts?”
Orff looked rather uncomfortable. “I... well, I don’t know, sir.”
“New contact incoming!” a muffled female voice reported. It wasn’t Rachel speaking, but it did come from the general location of the tactical station.
“Well, give me an answer, dammit!” Burkhard snapped. “Or the whole damned mission will fail!”
“Mission? What mission?” Orff replied, horribly confused. “I... what is all this about, sir?”
“Don’t ask me. This is all your fault!” Burkhard shouted, getting into the spirit of things and deciding to have a little fun with it. “I need an answer, and you’re wasting precious seconds asking me why I’m asking you what I’m asking of you, so you better give me an
answer that justifies asking a question!”
“Huh? Sir, I can’t follow—”
Suddenly, an alarm went out across the bridge. A recorded voice started repeating the words, “Collision alert! Collision alert!”
Orff spun to look at Rachel. “Ms. Katz, why didn’t you warn me before this? I—”
“My apologies, Mr. Orff,” Anne Morrison intervened primly from her spot standing next to the aforementioned female cadet. “I seem to have sat on the collision alert button.”
“But—”
“However, you were warned of a target incoming, and ignored it to answer Mr. Burkhard’s questions... when you should know perfectly well that your captain is ‘incapacitated.’ Now, that target warning should probably have been confirmed, but—”
Morrison was unable to finish her lecture before an entirely different cry came from across the bridge. “Transmission from Flag, sir,” Emily Mumford’s voice called out, silencing the cacophony.
Orff looked at her, knowing he shouldn’t repeat his mistake and let the people who weren’t officially there distract him again. “On speakers.”
But Mumford shook her head. “We’re on stand-down. ‘We’ meaning not just Chihuahua, sir, but the entire bloody Wargame. Something big just happened... I think the Wargame is being cancelled. Captain Burkhard, you’re being asked to contact the Flag securely.”
Orff’s eyes widened. “But... what’s so big that it could cancel The Wargame?”
Burkhard and Morrison shared a dark look. There was only one thing they knew of which would cancel The Wargame... and that was a real war.