by Mike Moscoe
Mattim chewed on his lower lip. “They're playing it safe.”
“For them, sir. They've got DD's. If they put two in polar orbits, they'll know if we cut. We won't know the same for them.”
“That assumes,” Ding cut in, “they've got someone as tactical-trained and professional as one of our war college grads. They are colonials.”
Guns said nothing; Mattim took a deep breath. “XO, they've been fighting among themselves for fifty years. Just because newscasts call it 'childish squabbling' doesn't mean smart folks haven't been learning. I'd expect some pretty canny behavior.”
“Yes, sir” came from both the XO and Guns.
* * * *
There was little behavior of any kind from the flag. Over the next eight hours Mattim rotated his crew to chow and a free hour. The hostiles were just disappearing behind the gasbag when the admiral finally ordered a full sensor sweep.
Mattim ignored the huffy communications between the flag and the 97th. The admiral demanded to know where the “so-called” enemy fleet was. The ground-pounders sarcastically voiced their joy that the admiral could see his way to visit. Mattim passed Sandy 's search methods to the other ships. Two had duplicated her find. The others were grateful as well as impressed.
Mattim listened in on the gunnery net as Commander Howard sketched the enemy's probable past and future movements to the other gunnery chiefs, including the Reply’s and the Significant's . “We should encounter hostiles in sixty-seven minutes, just as we pull away from the marines. However, note that if the skunks make a fast, fuel scoop orbit, they will arrive over the moon just as we do, in fifty-two minutes. I'm betting on a scoop and shoot.” Guns found no takers. And Mattim began to suspect his gunnery officer was more of a jewel than he could have hoped for.
* * * *
The admiral did nothing that Mattim had hoped for, neither revising his simple orders of “Follow me” nor informing his captains how he proposed to fight the coming battle. It was as if he still didn't believe his enemy was in-system. Or maybe out of sight, out of mind.
Or maybe just out of his mind.
“Ships coming out from behind the gasbag,” Sandy reported in a low, controlled voice. “They are low and fast. Guns, I think you won your bet.”
“Yes,” he said, “skunks are climbing out, using lots of delta V. I suspect they did a fuel scoop. I have three cans and six cruisers, including two Revenge-class super heavies.”
Guns whistled. “I thought the grunts were just seeing willies under their beds. Other four look like six-inch conversions.”
“Thank God for minor favors,” Ding breathed.
“Cans look to be falling off to their unengaged side.” Guns frowned. “I'll concentrate on the skunks we've got. Sandy , if it wouldn't be inconvenient, could you look around for those other two DDs? They aren't much, but a chance appearance at an inopportune time could be most unpleasant.”
“Got you, Guns. I'll keep up the search.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
“We ready for this?” Mattim asked Ding, hunting for what he'd forgotten ... what could cost him his ship.
“As ready as we'll ever be, sir.” The young woman grinned like some carnivore stalking prey. She was actually excited by the prospects before them. Well, maybe if I'd spent the last ten years of my life training for this moment, I'd be excited too.
He hadn't. He wasn't.
“Guns, XO, when do we put spin on the ship?”
Ding deferred to Guns, who pulled a handheld calculator out of his pocket. The Navy seemed to go in for obsolete technology. “We're closing at six-hundred-twenty-thousand klicks an hour. Those nine-point-two-inch monsters could hit you at forty thousand klicks, but I doubt it. I'd start spinning at forty-five thousand, sir.”
“Thanks, Guns. Sandy , range to ... what do they call them ... skunks?”
“Yes, sir,” Ding assured him.
“Just passing fifty thousand, Skipper.”
“Bos'n, inform the crew we're putting spin on the ship in five seconds and give them a countdown.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mattim leaned back in his chair and got ready for the ride of his life. His Maggie had been built the way you expected a ship to be built. The screens that showed you what was out there faced out. In a Navy ship, the damn screen was on the inside. You went around all day with your back to space. As the ship began to spin, the ship's 2-gee acceleration pulled him “down”; the spin firmly put his back in his chair, cuddled up like a kid in his dad's lap watching a vid. Of course, this vid was about killing people—and it was interactive.
“Crew,” the XO reminded the bridge party, “do not lean forward if you can avoid it. You've got a big supply of burp bags. If you have to lose it* don't be bashful. You'll probably see me or the captain use the bags. It's all just part of a battle in space. You'll get used to it.”
She sat down beside him. He gave her a smile; she was loosening up with the crew. With a bit of work, she'd fit just fine on the Maggie . Then he leaned over, whispering, “You've never been in a fight. How do you know?”
She didn't even blink. “Fleet exercises, sir. They say if you've been in a couple of them, battle holds no surprises. I sure as hell hope so.”
“Skunks, forty thousand klicks. Two lead ships opening fire on the flag,” Sandy drawled. “One must appreciate their tastes.”
“Guns, you mind telling me what's going on? Better yet, you got any problems with this going out to all hands?”
“No, sir.” Guns mashed his comm link, “All hands, this is the chief gunnery officer. The skipper asked me to keep you informed as to what's happening. When I get too busy to talk, trust me, you'll be too busy to listen.” There was a chuckle on the bridge. Mattim suspected it ran the length of the ship.
“The colonials have opened fire on the flag at extreme range. That's plain stupid. They're wasting energy, heating up their lasers and just helping the flag let off a little steam. Since we're head-on to each other, that means that by the time they pass us, their lasers will be hot and inaccurate. Ours won't be. Gunners, put on the kettle.” That got a cheer.
Guns was good. This might become a regular battle drill.
“Range to skunks, thirty-five thousand klicks,” Sandy reported.
“The old gunner's mate who taught me my trade,” Guns went on, “liked to sucker them into close range, say barroom length. Battery that gets the most energy out has a beer bust on me.” Another cheer, this time accompanied with yelps from the crews of the secondary batteries.
“Okay, two beer busts, one for the hottest six-inch turret, the other for the best four-inch crew.” The cheers were unanimous again.
“Skunks at thirty thousand klicks ... now.”
“And the flag's opened fire.” Guns continued his play-by-play. “The rate of fire from the colonials is slowing. The flag's steaming a bit. That water will pass down the line to us, causing the end of their lasers to bloom. Ours, on the other hand, will be fresh and cut right through it. If your shipmate's fallen asleep, don't bother waking him yet. We got a long minute or so before we'll do anything.”
Mattim studied the screen. The two heavy cruisers were applying a slow and deliberate fire to the enemy's two super-heavies. The light cruisers on both sides were out of range.
“Skunks passing twenty-five thousand.”
“Well, crew, the Topeka has weighed in with her six-inchers. The range is long, but it looks like she's making some hits. The enemy flag is switching fire to the Topeka . I imagine our flag's glad of that. By the way, if you've got anybody snoring near you, you might want to wake them up. We're about a minute 'til showtime. Just enough time to wash their face and brush their teeth before things get exciting.
“Oh, I've got a note here from the crew of turret A. They say they've already picked out the bar for their bust and the rest of you can quit worrying. What do you think of that?”
The gunnery circuit was awash with boos.
Ma
ttim checked the live mikes in each turret. While Guns' verbal horseplay might be taking the edge off the raw terror, the crews were going about their duties as they'd been trained, dialing in their gear, verifying that, while the Target was available, they had it locked in their sights. They were as ready as ninety days of training and drill could make them.
“Lead skunk is at twenty thousand klicks.”
“Folks, at this point we will be signing off. Showtime is in just a few seconds. I hope you enjoyed the preliminary and will stay around for the postgame review. This is your chief of gunnery signing off.” Guns shook himself. “Damn, that was fun, I got to do that more often. Tommy, show me your plot.”
Around the bridge, the crew was grim but determined. Mattim tightened his seat belt, tightened his gut, and studied the screen, measuring the flow of the battle.
“Sir,” the XO put in, “their two big R's are going down the line, switching fire from one ship to the next. I can damn near tell you to the second when they'll take us on. Mind if I jink ship to put them off?”
“XO, you've got the conn. Helm, stand by for orders. Ding, coordinate with Guns. Let's not jink him out of a hit.”
“Right, Captain. Guns, I'm going to bounce ship, ten meters per second high for three seconds, then ten meters per second sideways.”
“Hold those bounces for five seconds,” Gun muttered.
“You're on.”
“Fire!” Guns shouted. Lights dimmed as energy poured from the ship. A green arrow on the main screen reached out from the green dot that was his ship to touch the enemy flag. The red triangle glowed yellow in a corner. Was that an actual hit or wishful thinking by the computer? Mattim didn't ask.
“Bounce,” the XO said softly, “up ... right... NOW!”
The extra twist did wonders to Mattim's inner ear. He isn’t sure where he was going. A red arrow flashed from the enemy flag to him. He felt nothing.
“We'll cease bouncing for forty seconds, Guns. They're taking forty-five or more to recharge,” Ding reported.
“I suggest bouncing in thirty-five. I'll fire the next salvo at thirty.”
“You're on.”
Mattim listened and did not interrupt. In theory, his ship could get a salvo off every ten seconds. Why was Guns holding back? He'd ask later.
An eternity ticked by, one endless second at a time. Then the ship's lights dimmed. A second time, a green line reached out for the enemy. Again the triangle turned yellow. Ding ordered a bounce to starboard, and Mattim's inner world twirled. He wondered how the green kids in his crew were taking this. A diminutive guard by the hatch reached for a burp bag.
Ding bounced them two more times before the enemy cruiser lashed out at them. Another miss. But Guns was laying it on heavy now. Every ten seconds, another two-second salvo. Mattim had enough of the overprocessed pablum on the main screen. He tapped up gunnery on his own board, selected the main battery, and found himself staring at the gun pictures of one of his six-inch lasers. It showed nothing but stars twisting by.
A pip at the upper edge drew his eye. In a blink, a streaming comet appeared. Quickly, the pip tracked the ship across the screen. The laser was recharging; nothing happened. Mattim risked a breath as the pip whipped back to the top.
When the comet reappeared, it was already transfixed by spears of light from the other guns. One blinked off just as this gun shot out its own spear. For two eternal seconds, Mattim did not breathe. Light, passing through the gossamer swirls of steam from the ships ahead, shone like a golden road. The comet rode transfixed at the end, more steam boiling off her.
Then beam and comet were gone. Mattim shook himself; something like this could mesmerize. His job was to fight the ship. “Sandy, where are those tin cans? Now would be a good time for a missile run.”
“They've dropped below the enemy gun line, sir. They're just... damn! They're coming in, jinking like mad.”
“And their missiles are worse.” Ding interrupted her own bouncing to add to their problem.
“Secondary batteries, prepare to take the destroyers under fire as soon as they come in range,” Mattim ordered. “Hit them hard and hit them often.”
“Captain, please belay that order,” Guns snapped. “I'm targeting cruiser engines. I need the energy.”
“Secondaries, hold your fire. XO, what about our own engines?”
“We're about to do a fleet flip, but the flag hasn't ordered one.”
“Flip us. I'm not risking Ivan's engines.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, use thrusters to rotate us around our center. Do it... now.” Hands flying over his board, Thor echoed his orders, a few seconds before he followed them. Mattim's stomach lurched, twisted, and left for points unknown as the spinning ship flipped end over end.
In the process, a lightning bolt passed where their engines would have been.
“Damn good, Colin, Thor.” Mattim applauded. “Damn good.”
“Forward batteries, fire.” As the enemy line passed, the forward batteries had been masked. For the last minute, only the aft and amidships guns had done anything. The forward battery came back with a vengeance. The red triangle glowed yellow on the board again, but Guns was shouting. “We got him up the kilt, we got him up the kilt. Sandy , is he slowing? Tell me, girl.”
“There's a crazy wobble in his course, as if he's missing on a few of his engines. I think you got him, Guns.” The cheer at that announcement damn near shook the entire ship.
“Those cans are closing,” Sandy continued. “Fifteen thousand klicks.”
“All power to the secondaries,” Guns shouted. “Lay it into them.” Now it was the turn of the twenty secondary guns. The crews of the four-inch lasers turned to with a will. Each destroyer had ten missiles, any one of which could vaporize the Sheffield .
“Hold course,” Ding ordered. “Let's give them our broadside for a while. Slow rotation by half, the big guns are out of range, and we want to be steady for those buggers.” The colonial DD's closed to ten thousand klicks, dodging and jinking all the time. Finally, they launched three missiles each and turned away. Four streaked for the retreating line of Society cruisers—two headed for the Sheffield .
“The admiral's still headed away,” Sandy called.
“But they'll have to start decelerating soon to get into orbit around the gasbag, and those missiles will be waiting for them,” Ding warned.
“What about the ones headed straight for us?” Mattim asked.
“That's another matter,” Ding muttered. “Guns, can you take care of those little buggers?”
“Trying, XO. They're a bit uncooperative.”
“Keep trying. Helm, take the spin off the ship. Now, when I tell you, I want you to turn into those missiles. Counter-measures, you got the icemaker powered up?”
“Yes, ma'am,” came the answer.
“Icemaker,” Mattim echoed. Had another critical part of his education been glossed over?
“Right now, those missiles are homing in on us, aiming for the middle of this nice long target. 'Course, we're throwing steam off. That messes up their picture, but they're smart enough to accommodate it.” Ding stared hard at the main screen. It was expanding, showing only the Sheffield and two missiles in ever greater detail.
“In a moment, I'm going to turn close on to their course and spew ice chunks and decoys to port. They should mistake them for us and keep heading for the middle of it. With luck, one of those ice cubes will do a job on their warhead. Guns, in a moment I'm going to need you to check fire.”
“Charging the damn missiles. Way to go.” Guns didn't look up from his station. “I never did like turning tail. Ready on your order, XO.”
“Helm, steer for the missiles, thirty degrees to port of their reciprocal. Guns, check fire, check fire. Countermeasures, Jezebel One, Jezebel Two.”
“Yes, ma'am's” echoed from the comm links as an entire ship did the XO's bidding. On screen, the green dot that was the Sheffield swerved into the paths of the oncoming missi
les. A white shadow grew to one side. The missiles stayed on course.
“Good,” Ding breathed softly, the hint of a smile crinkling her lips. Was this the moment a naval officer lived her life for? Damn, I'd settle for a well-done bargain where we both win.
What Mattim did was settle into his chair, look unconcerned for the bridge crew, and struggle to keep his heart from racing. The gunfight had been wild and fast and over. This waiting could kill a man. “Sandy, you got any passive sensors on those beasts?” he asked.
“Visual only. They're head-on. Not enough of a shift to notice.”
“Let me know the second you get any,” Ding whispered, eyes locked on the main screen. For a long moment, there was nothing. No one breathed on the bridge, probably on the whole ship.
“First missile, range opening to port. She's going to miss us to port,” Sandy yelped.
“Put missile on visual,” Ding ordered. Half the main switched to a live view of space. A missile moved across it, tail now plainly visible—and offset—from the nose. “A miss,” she breathed as the missile entered the ice field. A moment later the missile started shredding parts as it hit first one then another bit of ice. At their relative speeds, it didn't take much ice to rip its thin skin to shreds.
“Second missile is close, but it's a miss,” Sandy said. It was passing close down their port side, but it was a lot luckier with the ice. Unscathed, it began a skewed U-turn.
“Guns, it's yours,” Ding shouted. “Crew, prepare for maximum acceleration. Ivan, your engines good for five gees?”
“Zero to five in twenty seconds, Commander.”
The turning target suppressed its jinking program. Eight secondary batteries reached out for it, crisscrossing space around it. And threw it. The missile was suddenly an expanding ball of glowing gas. Then nothing.
“Guns,” Mattim breathed, “I think we owe a lot of people a beer bust. Like the entire crew.”
“I think you might be right, Skipper.”
Whatever the crew thought of the idea, they were too blown to do more than let out the breath they'd been holding. Mattim's knees were shaking; he felt like collapsing. Since he was already sitting, he settled for swallowing hard and tackling a long list of things left to do. “Well done, XO, very well done.”