by Chris Hechtl
“Very well. Keep me posted,” the XO growled. He glanced at the plot, and his lips thinned. If he could lie this at his twin sister's feet, he would, but he knew he couldn't. She wasn't calling the shots on Executioner. Sure she was whispering in the ear of the admiral who was, but that didn't mean what had just happened was her fault. Arkangel had been unlucky.
They'd damn well better not be again he vowed.
:::{)(}:::
Princess Catherine paled when she saw her brother's battle cruiser take four missile hits. Her shields buckled but then rebounded. She sucked in a shaky breath and then let it out slowly. So, he'd survived. But he was probably thanking the space deities and planning revenge.
Damn. She wasn't certain at that point whether she wanted to see her brother's ship dead or not. Not anymore. Something told her they'd need to work together to stay alive.
“Arkangel's shields are reforming. She's taken some light damage to her starboard lower quarter, sir. Demeantor's starboard shields also took a heavy hit. One warhead got through, and she took damage. Her DCC crews are working on an assessment now, sir,” a comm rating reported.
“Very well,” the admiral said, dragging Catherine back into the battle. “Get me a status update on the fleet. I want to know how much ground we've lost in this race, and we need to find a way to make it up,” the admiral growled.
“Aye, sir.”
:::{)(}:::
Prince Mason Ramichov, lieutenant in the Marines, gulped as he saw the carnage. He'd signed on to the Marines because he liked the idea of sticking it in. He admitted it, cherished it when he'd played rough sports growing up. He'd envisioned going through a couple deployments, getting a taste for combat and his veteran's stars, then moving on to the Death's Head Brigade or one of the other top ground outfits of the empire.
But this was different. He'd just witnessed eight ships obliterated and another four battered into air-bleeding wrecks.
And he was a passenger. He was helpless to defend himself. He couldn't do a damn thing to stop it from happening.
Suddenly being an empire Marine was no longer the glamorous job he'd thought it'd be, nor as “safe” as he'd hoped and planned on.
:::{)(}:::
“Twelve hours to loop, sir. In another six we're going to get a lot of interference from the star on our port flank, it will get worse the further in we go. We'll lose some communications and sensors at some point along that route,” Kyle stated.
The admiral grimaced but then nodded.
“CIC is reporting several hits on the main body of Tango 1. Hits to two of their battle cruisers,” Kyle reported.
The admiral nodded and tugged on his cuffs. “Very well. It was worth a shot, Garfield. Did you learn anything new?” he asked.
“They are better than I expected,” the Neocat replied instantly. His ears went flat; clearly he would have taken that statement back if he could. “We're going to need concentrated fire to get through that. Or we're going to have to pick apart their screen then concentrate on the ships inside, sir.”
“Very well. Update our targeting to the bombers. Download what the recon drones got and what your computers have crunched so far. See if they can exploit any weaknesses you found and do some of that damage for us.”
Garfield nodded as he turned back to his station. “Aye, sir. They are going to have to launch from extreme range and then flip if they have a hope of catching up to us, sir,” the tactical officer stated.
“Understood. Keep me posted,” the admiral growled.
:::{)(}:::
Catherine saw the enemy bombers coming in. She had never envisioned what she was seeing; they were going on their twentieth hour. She was past the point that caffeine could help her.
She ordered Thresher and Akatsuki tucked in on the far side of the fleet away from the enemy bombers. She had been tempted to swap them for the destroyers covering the fleet train but the admiral had overruled her.
She knew why too. The destroyers he'd placed there were slow and from Dead Drop. They didn't have the speed to keep up with the main body nor the training. Technically, they should have dropped Akatsuki back there as well so the fleet train could start on her repairs, but the admiral hadn't been in the mood to be reasoned with so she'd let the matter drop for the moment.
“Bombers are lining up for their first strike. From their profile it looks like they are focusing on the screen,” a hoarse CIC rating stated over the intercom.
“Understood. CIC, get a relief going. This is going to take a while,” the admiral ordered.
“What do you think, they are going to pick our screen apart to expose the main Battle Fleet to fresh missile attacks, sir?” the admiral glanced at the intelligence officer. Sedrick spread his hands apart. “It's what I'd do, sir.”
“It makes sense. Have them tuck in a bit closer to us. Move Crueron 5 forward to fill the gap. Keep Crueron 2 covering Nimitz,” he ordered. She nodded. “That will let us get in some harder licks as well,” the admiral ordered, glancing at Catherine.
She nodded. “Aye aye, sir,” she said, passing the order along.
:::{)(}:::
Each of the forty-eight Mitchells carried 4 torpedoes for a total of 192 torpedoes in the combined bomber wing. Each of the torpedoes had a micro fusion reactor to power their drive and PENAIDS, as well as a double fusion penetrating warhead capped by a force emitter that no shield could rebuff. In a conventional strike, a pair of torpedoes would be enough to take down a basic destroyer. In reality one had to account for losses in flight due to enemy action. That included losing an entire mother craft with a full load. Therefore, the mission planners had allocated twelve torpedoes per destroyer.
The federation's fighters paved the way for the bombers, drawing the enemy fighters off and mixing it up with them in a tangled furball. As the fighters tore a hole in the enemy's defenses, the bombers moved in to extreme range.
In order for the bombers to acquire lock, they had to stay on a base course towards their intended target. Those targets had teeth, and they fired back with lasers and grasers in order to break the lock or destroy the attacking bomber. Two bombers were cut down by a fusillade of graser fire from the Antelope class Battle of Samar of Sixth Squadron. Two others took damage and were forced to launch early and then bank away.
When the remaining bombers acquired lock, they immediately launched their torpedoes. They continued to take losses as the torpedoes telemetry stabilized and received one last download from their mother ships as a send-off.
The handful of defensive drones immediately spat fire into the torpedo swarm. Since they were close and running slow initially, the drones scored some kills, a few by fratricide, others by lucky hits. Sixteen were destroyed in that brief moment of fire. But then the torpedo's engines kicked up to full power and they moved out of the drone's limited engagement envelope before they could finish recharging.
Each torpedo was a tightly packaged weapon of destruction. A torpedo was shorter ranged and slower than a missile, but it packed its own wedge, ECM, and counter munitions as well as a smart network to guide them. Counter munitions took on the Horathian counter missiles, plowing the way for the torpedoes to drive ever inward.
Then it was the counter missile's turn as the torpedoes ran out of submunitions. The Horathian screen managed to launch counter missiles in two waves before the point defense lasers started up as the surviving torpedoes got into final acquisition range. Twenty missiles found targets in the first wave, another thirty-one in the second. Nineteen torpedoes fell to the cutting fire of the PDLs before they went off.
A total of ninety torpedoes had run hot straight and true to their targets in the destroyer screen. During the last stages of their acquisition, their network reprioritized their targets to meet the twelve torpedoes per destroyer ratio.
Which meant seven destroyers were destroyed outright when the detonations from the fusion warheads faded. Another four were damaged to varying degrees.
:::{)(}:::
Ca
therine gasped when she saw the plot and the damage the tiny bombers had inflicted on the fleet. Roughly a thousand of her countrymen had been snuffed out in a blink. She fought down a shiver as she bit her lip hard enough to cause pain. To think such small ships … then again, she thought as she shook her head. She'd always been a Battle Fleet girl, looking down on the fighters and bombers. No longer apparently, she realized.
“Sir, the damage to the screen is severe but limited to them alone. None of the torpedoes went after the cruisers,” Sedrick reported quietly.
“I see that,” the admiral replied. “They are getting better,” he mused. “And we need to be a bit more careful with our own forces.” He turned to Catherine. “Order Zakhan to withhold half his surviving fighters from the next strike. He's to send the bombers in with the rest, but they are to fire only at range. Don't get entangled with the enemy fighters,” he warned.
“Aye, sir. I'm afraid they won't score much. And without proper cover the bombers will be shredded.”
“I know. We need to keep the pressure on them.”
“Aye, sir,” she said dubiously.
“Sir, the surviving screen and cruisers fired nearly a quarter of their counter missiles in that engagement. We can't handle that sort of munition use; our logistics can't support it,” Berney said tightly.
“I know. I'm not happy about that either. When Crueron 5's expenditures get below 50 percent, have them retire and rotate Crueron 2 in their place. Have the ships fall back on the fleet train to resupply, that's what they are there for.”
“We won't have many missiles in future engagements, sir,” his chief of staff warned.
“We'll fight those battles when we get there. In this case it is a firm problem of use ‘em or lose ‘em,” he said, indicating the plot. “As in, lose the ships if we don't.”
Berney glanced at the plot then nodded grimly.
:::{)(}:::
Vasili sucked in a tired breath fourteen hours after they'd launched. Finally, they'd caught up with the carriers. He'd lost three planes: two had been destroyed outright, and the last had been abandoned after her surviving crew had been pulled off. He watched as the shuttles recovered first since they were the slowest and lowest on fuel.
“Damn, I'm so glad I didn't draw that detail,” Anna murmured tiredly. He glanced over to her. “To be in one of those crates? Unarmed, filled with fuel and just waiting for enough oxygen and a spark to ignite? One wrong docking and they'd be SOL.”
Vasili grunted. She was right; the pilots probably knew it too, which was why they did their best to get out of the job as soon as they could. But since they'd been trained for the role, and not many wanted it, they were stuck. “I guess we owe them some beers,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” Anna replied. She rolled her shoulders. “I'm looking forward to my rack,” she said. “A long soak would be nice too, but I'll settle for the rack,” she said.
Vasili snorted. They had a small foam bed in a cubby behind them. On long duration missions they could pull it out and take turns racking out. He'd almost been tempted to do that but he'd been too anxious, too filled with adrenaline to allow himself to sleep.
Besides, this was their last mission until after the loop. It was probably their last mission for several days if all went according to plan. He'd only see more action as a spectator initially … and perhaps only as another desperate move to throw a roadblock in the pirate's way.
“I think someone knows they've been kissed,” Vasili said.
“Good. But they better buy me flowers and chocolates if they want a second date,” Anna said, closing her eyes momentarily.
Vasili snorted just as a call went out.
“We've got a crash. Repeat, a bird has crashed on Admiral Spruance. All planes designated to recover there are on hold. Repeat, all planes are on a holding pattern,” a rating said over the radio network.
“Frack,” Vasili muttered.
Anna bit her lip then exhaled. “I guess we've got a while to wait,” she sighed.
Chapter 12
Once all the planes were recovered and secured on the decks, the ground crews dived into them frantically.
The crews of the ships were more concerned with their own headache as the first stage of Rowland's loop commenced. The engines of the ships throttled up to near 90 percent as they arrowed in to the star and then used her immense gravity and their momentum to slingshot around her and on a course to the B-95a3 jump point beyond.
During that time they would have the speed advantage and manage to claw their way out of range of the enemy. That allowed the crews to take a breather and then dive into any damage that had occurred.
Of course crew fatigue started to become a factor for some. For the pilots and flight crews, once they had some downtime the CAGs called them to order to perform hot washes of the battles while also plotting out what to do with the battles still to come.
Everyone knew that their lead was a fleeting one. Like the tortoise and hare, the tortoise's slow and steady pace would catch up to them once their sprint ended and they were forced to pitch over and begin a deceleration burn in order to not overshoot the jump point.
:::{)(}:::
Admiral De Gaulte oversaw his staff as they did their best to deal with the damage. Since they were underway and had no idea when they would maneuver, he couldn't authorize the resupply Catherine had asked for.
He knew they'd need it and trying to resupply later, potentially when they were under fire would be the worst time to do it. He'd just have to cope he thought.
The status of his counter missile supply wasn't his only concern however. His fleet's maneuver to keep pace with the Fed fleet was putting a strain on his ships. Concern was spreading throughout the ranks over cracks. Checks were mandatory now, and a few new ones had been found adding to the fear of a potential catastrophic failure. It didn't help that some of his ships were damaged. He'd had to leave some of the worst damaged ships behind with the trailing fleet train.
He realized he couldn't narrow the window to overhaul White, but he'd get there eventually. He had to settle himself in for the wait and make what plans he could in the interim. Anger and a desire for vengeance were widespread in the ship crews. The humiliation of being backhanded like that, so casually punched in the nose, and the professional air the Feds had put on in doing so burned in many, overriding their concern that their ships couldn't handle the speed or abuse. They'd get their vengeance soon enough he vowed.
:::{)(}:::
Commodore Eichmann stared with hating eyes at the enemy ships. He wanted so badly to hit back, but he couldn't.
The damage to Daring had cost him his place in his squadron. He'd been forced to watch impotently from the sidelines near the fleet train as Evan had carried his load … and ultimately failed. And she'd paid the final price for such failure. She and most of her squadron had been gutted by the damn Fed bombers.
“Our turn is coming, you bastards,” he murmured softly, eyes intently staring at the plot and willing the enemy to slow and come into his waiting arms.
:::{)(}:::
Admiral White regretted not having missile pods. They were packed away in the bowels of the munition colliers. In order to get to them, the crews would have to shift a lot of the ordinance around, which wasn't safe. Since each ship was stuffed to the bulkheads, it was perilously dangerous. He couldn't afford the risk.
He'd expected the Horathians to make up some ground when his ships had gone ballistic a day before but they'd held off. He knew they had to have some speed in reserve but he wasn't certain how much. He'd intentionally pitched end over end to throw them off and perhaps get them to misjudge his timing. By keeping the timing to the last minute, he knew he was keeping the bridge crews and flag officers on the enemy ships on edge in anticipation. That was fine with him.
He glanced at the clock, and then to his staff navigator. The human male seemed to feel his brown inquisitive eyes on him. After a moment he turned to his admiral.
“Then let's do so, Alec. On your order,” Admiral White said. Alec nodded and returned his attention to his station. He murmured softly, passing the orders to the other ships.
On the dot the ships of TF2.1 and her fleet train reignited their cold engines slowly. After a moment they throttled up to a full burn.
They were now slowing down and facing the enemy juggernaut, inviting them to catch up in a show down Amadeus wasn't certain his forces could win, or even survive.
:::{)(}:::
“About time,” Sedrick grumbled. “They waited a while longer than I would have,” he said.
“Which explains why you are where you are and not in their shoes, Sedrick,” the admiral said tartly. He'd gotten some rest but not a lot. He was still getting used to the concept of a battle lasting so long. Days and days of waiting—he had plenty of patience but even his had been tested to what seemed like his limits. And now the battle was about to heat up. “We can hold our pitch and braking burn for what, another hour?” he asked, glancing at his navigational officer.
“Two if we want to make up the ground we've lost. Three if we don't mind overshooting the jump zone, sir,” Lieutenant Jeremy Herod, his staff navigator replied. “But that would mean we wouldn't be able to immediately chase them into hyper. Any that escaped I mean, sir,” he said hastily.
The admiral grunted but didn't reply. At least not right away.
“We'll be in extreme engagement range once more in … seventeen minutes, sir,” Catherine reported after glancing at the clock on her internal HUD for confirmation. “Do you still wish to hold our fire?”
The admiral nodded. “Commander Zakhan, your people are going to get the first licks in.”
“We're ready, sir,” the CAG replied. “We just need a target.” He left unsaid the need for more ordinances. His bombers had burned through most of Nimitz's short supply of torpedoes. He'd begged and pleaded with Commander Ramichov and Commander Yashanaka to let them resupply, but it was not to be. They'd have to go with what they had on hand.