Retribution (The Federation Reborn Book 3)

by Chris Hechtl

  The admiral nodded thoughtfully. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a couple of ratings escorting the blue-skinned young woman out of the tank. One tossed a towel over her shoulders. She seemed tired but still game. She even smiled when one handed her a steaming cup of tea to help her relax. After a moment of murmuring, they escorted her off the bridge.

  The admiral turned to note that he wasn't the only one who had watched the woman go. “She … if they were all like her, they'd be easier to accept I suppose,” Captain Picket stated.

  “Perhaps. We take what we can get. The federation has them in droves. We need them. Treat her like the prized resource she is,” the admiral rumbled.

  The captain hid a grimace as he nodded. “Aye aye, sir. I do admit; she did shave a week off each of our transits. Her and her … people,” he said grudgingly.

  “And she'll continue to do so. And once Ma Duece and other ships like her gets a full refit, she'll be able to shave weeks off transit time. And she'll be able to lead our ships to attack a star system from any direction, not just the jump points,” he stated.

  Slowly the captain nodded. He'd already grasped that strategic importance but apparently the admiral needed to make it clear. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I'm glad we have an understanding. You are about to get under way, Captain?” he asked.

  Captain Picket bristled internally at the order but did his best not to let it show. After a moment he nodded. The admiral crossed his arms.

  “Sensors report the star system is clear, sir. We're clear to proceed,” a CIC rating reported.

  “Very well. Navigation, set course for the Dead Drop jump point,” the captain said, settling himself into his chair. “Best speed,” he ordered.

  “Aye, sir,” the navigator said. “Helm, take your bearing of 221 mark 1 by 3. We'll see if we can pick up a grav assist along the way,” he said.

  “Bearing 221 mark 1 by 3. Course set. Speed adjusted to half impulse,” the helmsman stated.

  “Execute,” the navigator intoned formally.

  “Executing course and speed,” the helmsman replied.

  Chapter 9

  “Of all the damn times to have an engineering problem …,” ship Captain and First Lieutenant Chuqi Liyang said in disgust. He shook his head. The gods of space were definitely perverse he thought darkly.

  It was his fault he knew; he'd pushed the ship too hard. He'd been in a hurry to warn Second Fleet and had pushed her past her safe rating mark. He'd thought that the designers and engineers had padded the rating to keep people like him in check. Apparently there had been a real reason for the rating, he thought wryly. They'd bounced off the Delta hyper band and ran at the eighth octave of gamma too long. Something had definitely strained and kerpuffle; they'd been reduced to plodding along in Alpha band for the last half of their journey.

  At least it hadn't destroyed the ship altogether he thought with a small corner of his mind.

  “Lady Luck isn't favoring us I see, sir,” Midshipman Spooky replied.

  The captain of the Prowler class UFN-001P looked over to the A.I., snorted and then exhaled. He'd resigned himself to not getting the word to stop Second Fleet before they jumped for B-97C. Most likely the enemy would be jumping for B-97A at a slower speed … at least he hoped so. Second Fleet and the Horathians would pass each other in hyperspace like ships in the night, neither aware of the other.

  The way their luck was turning, the hope was a possible fleeting one. What else could go wrong kept lurking in his mind. He had enough presence of mind not to voice it out loud. There was no telling how many of Murphy's gremlins were left lurking about for just such a curse to cause more havoc.

  More than they or anyone ever needed he thought with a barely repressed shiver of dread.

  “Lieutenant Pyraven thinks they've got a handle on the damage. We can transition down safely, Captain,” Juma stated dubiously. The albino furred chimera wrinkled his nose to make his curled mustache twitch and then flicked his long tufted ears.

  “Good,” the captain stated. There wasn't a lot of confidence in the rating's voice. That meant the captain had to project his own as reassurance to the crew, even when he wasn't sure he felt it himself. He had faith in Sam, but there was only so much rigging tape and bailing wire could do- even in her capable hands. The ship wasn't designed to carry enough spares to fix everything, and it wasn't like he, Sam, and Spooky could use their tiny replicator to make emergency replacement parts for everything. Especially when those parts were in use. They had to have something for raw material after all.

  Sam had scoured the ship for spare material to make the small parts they could. If it all held together, she promised it would cut down on rebuild time, and the crew would be compensated for their sacrifices. The captain had given his word.

  “Sam I am is sure?” the captain asked. He saw the resolution and set expression and nodded. He'd learned long ago to trust his crew but he was nervous as well and it did something to undermine the confidence he'd tried to project. Oh well, he thought. “Okay, okay, I get it. Nerves I guess. Let's do this.” He rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs to dry them, grinding them in a bit to help massage any cramps.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Their rapid turn around and emergency jump in the empty star system of B-97C had cost them dearly. The rapid recharge had done some damage to the hyper capacitors and drive—not enough to destroy the ship but enough to cut her safe speed down to the lower bands of hyperspace until they could get the right parts to fix the problem. It was costing them more than parts though; it was costing them something far more precious—time. Time to get the warning out. Time to alert Second Fleet so they could have done something about the fleet bearing down on B-97a and eventually B-95a3 and from there, Protodon.

  Protodon would get some warning; if he arrived in time, the Prowler would flash a warning out to the Protodon jump point picket. The stealthier ships would pick it up, and one of them would carry the warning to Protodon. But it wouldn't do the star system and the naval forces there much good. Of that he was sickly certain.

  How the hell were they going to stand up to that juggernaut? The squadron of battle cruisers and squadrons of other ships were bad enough. But the real power, the real thing that kept him up almost every damn night were the two dreadnaughts his sensor people swore had been in the enemy fleet mix. Those were game changers. Those big bastards were going to be damn near impossible to stop even for Second Fleet.

  “Ready to transition down on your order, sir,” PO Juma stated, looking over his shoulder to the captain.

  The captain nodded. “Then do it,” he ordered, following protocol in issuing the order.

  “Aye aye, sir. Preparing to drop down now. We're doing a soft transition to ease additional damage on the hyperdrive. This will take time …”

  “Not what I wanted to hear,” the captain murmured.

  :::{)(}:::

  An hour into their soft transition, the sensor rating froze then twitched. “Sir, we're getting an odd reading,” Juma said very carefully.

  The captain frowned, still looking at his report. Then the tone and content of the report registered, and his brain came alert. “What did you just say? Is it the hyperdrive?” He examined his own status boards but there were no red lights—plenty of yellow ones but no red ones.

  “No sir. Our sensors are picking up another ship in hyperspace also transitioning down on a similar heading. From the look of the readings, it's more than one ship, sir,” Juma stated helplessly.

  “The bastards caught up to us. They are going to get into B-95a3 before us,” Ensign Saheed Jalabi growled sickly. He was the third and last officer on the small ship. He was also their only trained and qualified navigator, so he pulled triple duty as the ship's second officer in the chain of command. He looked over to the captain from his position at the helm station. “We're going to be screwed. If they get in at the same time we do, we won't be able to get into stealth fast enough. They'll have the
legs to run us down and pin us.”

  “Not yet they don't. Engineering,” the captain said, pushing the intercom button with his thumb. Spooky routed the call to engineering instead of the general PA. “Engineering, we've got a race on our hands it seems. We need to win this or there may be no tomorrow,” he stated flatly.

  “Sir, if we push the drive too hard too fast we may not be able to jump again,” Sam warned.

  “I'll accept the risk. Get us in fast,” the captain said as Juma sucked in a protesting breath. His eyes cut to the rating but the rating looked down and away. They all knew it was a risk but one they had to face. There was no other choice.

  “Make the jump. Get us into real space ahead of them. Hopefully, we can get clear of them and into stealth before they know we are there. That will buy you the time to rebuild the hyperdrive. Sensors, do you know where they'll come out?” he asked, looking at the sensor rating again.

  Juma looked at his board for a long moment with his cat-like eyes, trying to puzzle it out before he looked up and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said miserably. “There are too many variables.”

  The captain pursed his lips and then shrugged slightly. “Not your fault. It was a long shot.”

  “If it helps, sir, I think they are jumping short. But I can't say how far short.”

  “If they are, we're not going to do so. Nav, see if we can adjust a bit. We need to get into the system faster. Hit the inner edge if you have to.”

  “Sir, with the drive already damaged …”

  “You don't think it's worth the risk?” the captain asked.

  The navigator shook his head. “Not my call, sir.”

  “But you don't think it is?” the captain persisted.

  “With all due respect, no, sir. I think we can jump into the zone, maybe a bit closer into the inner edge by a couple kilometers. That'll give us some lead time. Engineering will need to get the engines power fast so we can get underway the moment we are in real space though.”

  “Engineering, you heard that?” the captain asked, looking down at his number two display.

  “I heard. I can't promise anything, Skipper. We'll bleed off a little energy to prime the pump, most of it from the reserves. It'll give helm a kick and allow us to get the sublight drives warming up while we shut the hyperdrive down. And I do mean down, sir; this translation is going to be it for a while,” Sam warned.

  “I'll watch for it,” the ensign said professionally.

  “Understood,” the captain said with a nod as he cut the circuit.

  Their situation was dire; there was no other way to describe it. But he clung to hope that engineering would pull off one more miracle. After all, that was what they were famous for.

  :::{)(}:::

  Rear Admiral Amadeus White wasn't amused with himself, which might have been amusing to an outside observer. He'd planned a quick two-week turn around, enough time for his staff to integrate the new ships and adapt to the temporary loss of Maine and the other ships that he'd sent back to Protodon for better repairs. They'd done it, jumped for B-97A and arrived without incident, but once war games had commenced as they crossed that empty star system, it had become clear to him that the staffs involved had needed more seasoning, more training.

  That had meant slowing their pace. It would throw their time table off with meeting the Prowler in B-97C, but not by too much. At best an extra two weeks, which still kept them in the window they were supposed to arrive in.

  For a long time, he'd held the staffs and ships to a strict standard and knew they wouldn't have time to train and fix problems on the fly once they were in Horathian space. Well, technically they already were in Horathian space, but it wasn't their space any longer. His canines flashed briefly. He and Second Fleet had seen to that. They'd taken not only Protodon away from the enemy but also B-95a3 and stomped all over the small defense force that had been bottled up in Nuevo Madrid, the same one that had been periodically raiding Protodon. Granted the defense force had already been battered by previous encounters, but they'd done a good accounting of themselves.

  Hence the need to send some of his ships back for additional repair and refit. The crews could only do so much with what they'd had on hand and what the fleet train could provide them.

  But in training he'd found to his chagrin that they'd encountered another weakness. Two of the newest destroyers to join him, Eagle and Hachimaze, had uncovered drive issues on their last jump. Since the problems were so similar, a general check on all Arboth class ships found similar problems. He'd been forced to extend his timeline as the fleet train and ship crews made the necessary repairs while still transiting across the star system.

  Making those repairs had drawn down some critical supplies in his fleet train though. Supplies that hadn't been expected to be used in one dose at one time. He'd had to send one of his few couriers back with a request for more parts. But that would take time since sending the courier back meant it had to transit to B-95a3, then on to Protodon. They'd have to wait for news on if he was going to get the resupply, then transit back ahead of them.

  And all the while he'd be stuck waiting on that resupply in B-97C. And if anything else broke in the meantime, they'd be SOL on requesting it.

  The one slim benefit of all the stalling and waiting was that he could get his new ships integrated more thoroughly while also picking up a couple fresh ships that had caught up and joined the fleet—ships like the Arboth class destroyers Warrior's Creed and Endymion. The irony was, they both had to have drive repairs when they arrived, further drawing down his resources.

  Crystal Cold was a welcome addition. It pushed his CEV count up to four. She had been replaced in Protodon by T'sunin, a fresh CEV still undergoing working-up exercises. She'd brought along news of other ships in the pipeline. Two days ago he'd seen the first of them arrive. He'd been further gratified by the arrival of the North Hampton class light cruisers, Shirlanka and Unseen Strike, all the way from Pyrax. That pushed his LC numbers up to four, enough to form a small squadron. But the real prizes had been the arrival of the battle cruisers Negani and her division mate Congo. Negani had carried new dispatches, software and intelligence updates, and ship movement updates including the news that he had another twenty-five ships in the pipeline, of which ten were warships including two more CEVs, two more BCs and Illustrious, his first light carrier. The ships he sent to Protodon would return eventually but not for some time.

  But they were in the pipeline. They were reinforcements, for now he had to concentrate on what he had on hand. His mind naturally went to his cruisers and especially his battle cruisers. With them he had ten battle cruisers. He had enough to split his oversized squadron into two smaller squadrons … or leave the squadron intact? He still wasn't certain on what he wanted to do.

  The other problem was he'd need to turn command of the second squadron over to someone else. Obviously one of the ship captains but they'd have to divide their time and concentration between running their ship and overseeing the squadron. Their staff would be overworked as well.

  He frowned thoughtfully, plucking at his lower lip.

  Of course the new ships meant they had to start the whole process of integrating them all over again. That bought him a little time, though it would be easier for the next commander if he bit the bullet and did it now.

  He heaved a heavy sigh. There were really only two contenders: his flag captain Trajan Vargess and Captain Mayweather on Shizouka. Both were … complicated.

  Renee was … good, he had to admit that. But up until her arrival, she'd never experienced being in a squadron. Well, she'd had limited experience of working in a task force when she'd been in Pyrax briefly, but that wasn't the same thing.

  And since she was still rebuilding her confidence, integrating herself and her crew into a new ship, while also being painted as a failure for the ET debacle, she was tainted for the moment.

  But not picking her opened another can of worms. Trajan could do the job; he kne
w it. He was a good flag officer. But in choosing him he would have to shift his lights away from Lady Liberty to another flagship. Every battle cruiser had flagship accommodations, but integrating his staff into a new flagship and working out any teething issues would set them back even further.

  Besides, he liked working with Trajan. The man was quiet but competent in his job.

  He frowned thoughtfully. That gave him his answer right there, he thought quietly. The second question was could he shave one or more of his staff to help out? Oh, and, if he bumped Trajan, would it be considered a battlefield promotion to flag rank? Well, no, a temporary frocking to Commodore … he again plucked at his lip thoughtfully as he thought it over.

  Then the question was, what size squadrons? An even split would give them each five with two division mates and an orphan one, Maine and Justice. That would mean splitting one division pairing up later … since they'd have four each if he did the split right away. But splitting up a division was not wise considering they weren't that far out from combat. Should he go with six in his and four in Trajan's? Give Trajan the carriers? He'd served on them, so he could watch out for them … but they couldn't keep up with the BCs and they shouldn't be in the main battle line! Damn it, he thought in annoyance. He shook himself. He could give him the LCs but they weren't suited for front line combat. He had other uses for them.

  And then there was the question of which ship to shift his lights to?

  He inhaled, broad simian nostrils dilating, then exhaled slowly. So, he was a tad frustrated he thought. And the training was still fraught with issues as people made simple miss communications and mistakes. He was trying hard not to take that frustration out on his staff. It wasn't their fault after all, but it wasn't easy. He needed to vent.

  Now he understood why John played hooky from time to time. Unfortunately, he didn't have that luxury or inclination—not in potentially hostile terrain after all.