Then the destroyer made the ultimate sacrifice, as it was supposed to. Sean felt his mouth form a scream his lungs could not support as the two hundred thousand ton ship pushed at over three hundred gees into the path of several of the missiles. One hit the bow, followed a ten thousandth of a second by one to the stern. The ship vaporized in an instant in a blinding flare, which expanded again as the antimatter breached containment. Six closely following missiles were caught in the expanding cloud of debris and pummeled, their own velocity breaking them apart through the cloud in a series of bright flares.
Nine missiles made it through the thinning barrier, locked onto the battleship. Close in weapons fired a furious cloud of metal, knocking out three more that detonated close enough to put heat and radiation into the outer skin of the ship. Six closed on the ship, four sure to make contact and shatter the capital ship and its precious cargo.
The Sergiov jinked in three directions within a millisecond at two hundred and eighty gravities. Sean felt his stomach turn and the beginning fuzzy daze of a concussion as his brain rattled around in his skull. But three of the sure hits were thrown off the strike. They detonated at closest approach, two within a hundred meters of the battleship. Sections of the thick hull were breached by heat and radiation, alloys vaporizing and gassing into space. Atmosphere followed the gaseous metals, until the nanoliquid within the hull filled the openings and hardened. The two outliers also went off, adding their radiation from ten and thirty kilometers respectively.
The last missile was hit by several rounds from close in weapons and an ejecting plate of hull metal in the last ditch defensive system. That missile broke up and detonated within milliseconds, sending a wave of material particles into the hull at point five c. Several of the larger particles penetrated the hull and projected deep into the ship, and the vessel shuddered under the impact.
Klaxons sounded as the damage reports came in over the net. One hundred sixty-four killed. Another fifty-two injured. Several grabber units put out of action, as well as many close in weapons and a half dozen counter missile tubes. The most serious was the damage to the port stern missile magazine, which was now jammed beyond immediate repair. The missiles could be shifted to other magazines as space became available. And fortunately none of the warheads had been damaged within their shielded compartment, or that side of the ship might have been a total wreck.
“Nothing else approaching,” called the tac officer over the circuit. “We got them all.”
“Or they about got us,” said Captain Ngano, a slight smile on his face.
Sean saw the smile, thought about the dead crew, and was within an instant of yelling at the man. Then he caught a look at the Captain’s eyes and realized that the man was in pain at the loss of crew. And at the loss of the escorting destroyer and all aboard her. And that the smile was the relief that any human might feel at still being alive.
“I am sorry, my Prince,” said the man, looking straight into Sean’s eyes with a look of sorrow. Sorrow at something else. “I will explain as soon as we are back to emergency boost.
“Slow the ship to normal acceleration,” ordered the Captain. He switched to the all ship circuit and talked into the com. “All crew. Prepare to reenter the tanks. Emergency boost in five minutes.
“Get ready, your Majesty,” said the Captain as he sat up from his couch. The tanks were in the process of rising up from the floor, and the bridge crew was hurrying to get out of their armor. “I’ll jack into your personal circuit once we are boosting. Then I’ll explain it to you.”
Sean nodded his head as he stood up and moved to an empty cubby. Explain what to me? he thought as he let the cubby pull the armor from him. He had a bad feeling. Whatever it was he wasn’t going to like it. And ‘your Majesty’, he thought with a grimace. The Captain had always gone out of his way to not put a tag of birth on his young officer. It must be very bad indeed.
Chapter 17
No Captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy.
Horatio Nelson.
“Fire,” said Vice Admiral The Countess Esmeralda Gonzalez into her com circuit. The station bucked with a series of quick vibrations as it flushed its missile tubes. Ten seconds later it flushed again. Then again. The three waves of green arrows appeared on the plot, along with the arrows from the other fortress. Three hundred of the large missiles, each three hundred tons with their own self-contained fusion reactors, carrying five hundred megaton fusion warheads, were on their way. The forts would continue to fire, wave after wave, until their magazines were emptied.
They should be up to terminal velocity by the time they get where they need to be, she thought. They were also bigger targets than capital ship missiles, carrying fusion warheads instead of the smaller antimatter variety. But since nobody wanted several teratons of antimatter warheads this near a planet, where an exploding station could drop them to the surface, the safer fusion warheads were what the forts carried.
“Incoming missiles in twelve minutes,” called out the tactical officer. The Admiral switched her internal view of the plot, moving outward to where the ninety enemy missiles were coming in at point eight c. She could feel the vibrations of the station change slightly as the counter missile tubes started their firing sequence. The great thing about the forts was that they had lots of room. So the long range counters were larger than their equivalents on ships, which a much longer range. And she would use that range to keep pumping them out throughout the approach profile of the enemy. As she watched the plot the green arrows increased and moved out in their waves, while the red arrows moved in.
* * *
“Com from the orbitals,” said the com tech, looking over his shoulder at the Admiral. “Personal from Admiral Gonzalez.”
“I’ll take it on my internal,” said Admiral Heinrich, switching into his own link. Unfortunately, he knew, the other Admiral was over thirty-six minutes one way com time from him. He could listen, but his reply would take over a half an hour to get back to her.
“We came through as good as could be expected,” said the Countess over the link. “Some damage to the other fortress. We took a couple of minor hits from fragments. But they weren’t as hard to take out as we had thought.”
She paused for a moment, looking thoughtfully into the cam unit. “Their missiles were very good to get those hits without achieving saturation. Not really super weapons, no. Better acceleration than what we have now. With slightly better ECM and penetration aids. But nothing we can’t overcome with numbers.”
“If only we outnumbered them,” said Heinrich under his breath.
“We’ve sent everything your way we could launch,” she continued. “Within the time frame. Praying that everything works out within the plan. Gonzalez out.”
There followed a mass of technical data which Heinrich shunted into the tactical systems for his staff to look over. It did seem too easy, so far. The big bad ogres were not so frightening after all. And that seemed more frightening from his professional perspective than anything.
The Admiral started a second as a hand touched him on the shoulder, breaking him from his thoughts. Flag Captain Lamborgini looked down on him, her face tense.
“It’s time, Admiral,” she said, nodding toward the large tactical screen.
Heinrich looked up as a series of green arrows appeared over all of his ships, then spread out and away. They were launching their own missiles. The enemy was within thirty million kilometers, a range that would continue to shrink over the next two hours before the enemy passed them and the range opened again. For a half hour of that time they would be within effective laser range, and the gun battle would dominate the engagement. Either of the forces could be shattered by that time by missile fire. Or both. Both or the enemy’s would be a satisfactory outcome from a strategic point.
“May god be with us,” he said as he expanded the tactical display to bring all the players onto the scene.
* * *
L
ow Admiral Hrissnammartanama watched the tactical display as all of the players moved across it. Nothing was in real time, based as it was on best guess estimates of sensor returns of objects still light minutes away. But the best guess estimates were normally very good.
Over four hundred of the largish attack fighters of the humans were coming in from the starboard quarter, moving at point two c relative to his force. They had just lit their reactors up after presumably coasting for an undetermined time from their launch vessels, and were about fifteen minutes from contact. Nineteen medium sized vessels, about three times the mass of his scout ships, were sitting to the port side and had released about two thousand missiles. The weapons were coming in at about point six eight c relative, and would make contact in about ten minutes.
And to his front he had over a thousand missiles, launched from planetary orbit, coming in at point nine c relative (about .7 absolute), and the missiles launched by the enemy fleet, over five thousand, moving at considerable less velocity than the other weapons, but estimated to contact his force in ten minutes.
“Except for the small vessels we’ll be dealing with their weapons all about the same time,” said the tactical officer with a tight look on his face. Just as he finished the plot changed as twelve hundred missiles left their launch bays on the human fighters. The vector arrows started moving toward the Ca’cadasan force, and soon numbers appeared underneath. ETA of ten minutes.
“A masterful engagement,” said the Low Admiral, showing his teeth in admiration of a skillful opponent. “He attempts to use everything he has to saturate our defenses.”
“We have an understanding of his systems now, my Lord,” said the underofficer, looking at the screen. “He will not do as well as during the first engagements.”
“He will still draw blood,” said the Low Admiral. “Just hopefully not as much as he desired too.”
The Low Admiral looked at the screen for a moment more, then looked over at his tactical officer.
“Fire five full salvoes at the enemy,” he ordered. “Set them to continuous target tracking. I want them to seek out whatever comes up next if they miss their first targets of opportunity. Ships, orbital stations, whatever they can line up. And send a full salvo at that group of ships to our port.”
The tactical officer nodded in acknowledgment and worked at his board. Soon the tactical display was filled with the vector arrows of the Ca’cadasan missiles heading toward the enemy, until six thousand of the projectiles were on their way.
* * *
“We have enemy missiles on an incoming trajectory,” yelled out the tactical officer.
Admiral Sir Gunter Heinrich looked up from his chair where he had been contemplating the future and saw the storm of vector arrows now heading for his force.
We knew we were going to stir up a hornet's nest , he thought as he stared at the holo tank. And the hornets were coming on with stingers to the fore. He could feel the shiver of fear run up his spine as he contemplated his own removal from existence. What would his family think of his leaving them? What would his Empire think of not having Sir Gunter Heinrich leading His Imperial Majesty's warships into battle? Of course the dogs would miss him, if they even remembered him, it had been so long since he had been on his estates. Or would he be the only one to notice that he wasn't here anymore.
The Admiral felt himself chuckle at the absurdity of that last thought. How would he notice if he were no longer here? Unless one of the major religions was correct and there actually was an afterlife. He was not a believer. His belief was that when life ended consciousness, existence itself, ended. And right now he did not want to believe that. Not with non-existence staring him in the face.
“Total of six thousand missiles heading our way,” called out the tactical officer in an artificially calm voice. The voice taught to young officers in the academies, to portray the proper attitude of nonchalance to the crew.
“Are you OK, Admiral?” asked Flag Captain Myra Lamborgini, looking over from her chair, her head looking tiny in the combat armor that might allow her at most a minute more of life. Her eyes were wide and sweat was beading on her face despite the perfect climate of the flag bridge.
“Fine, Myra,” said Heinrich, wiping a bit of sweat from his own forehead and smiling. “Scared to death at what's about to happen. But fine.”
The Flag Captain's eyes went even wider at the admission of her superior and lover.
“It's out of our hands, Captain,” continued Gunter, shaking his head. “We live or die based on the performance of these young men and women, and the equipment that they operate.”
Lamborgini nodded her head and returned his tight smile.
“At a time like this I wish I were an ensign,” she said, looking at the plot. “Or a Lieutenant JG, working the weapons console of a frigate. Doing something, with at least the illusion that what I was doing would make a difference in whether I lived or died.”
“Not a ship's Captain, Myra?” asked Heinrich, his eyebrows looking a question. “Not the one in charge of the play?”
“Hell, Admiral,” she said, shaking her head. “Our Captains have no more control of their destiny than we have. Their ships are plugged into the program. They're just spectators. Just like we are. Until the first barrage arrives, ships die, and the plan changes. Then those who survive become masters of their fate again. At least to the degree where they can decide how they are going to play the next wave. Maybe they might even survive the whole show.”
“I wish I had told you more often how much I love you,” whispered Heinrich, leaning over toward his Flag Captain and placing a gloved hand on armored knee. He wished it could be the touch of his flesh and blood hand on her bare skin.
“But you had your wife and family,” she said with a catch in her throat. “Appearances need to be kept.”
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, feeling his face tighten.
“Our first wave should be reaching the enemy in one minute,” said the tactical officer. “ETA of enemy missiles, four minutes.”
“We shouldn't be going these places at a time like this,” said Lamborgini, flashing a quick smile. “If it's our last moments, we shouldn't waste them in recriminations. If we survive, we can talk about this later.”
Heinrich nodded his head, then made sure the seal on his helmet was tight. The faceplate could be dropped and sealed just before the enemy missiles struck. He turned his eyes back to the plot, watching as the green arrows of his attack reached out toward the enemy, and the red arrows of the enemy's strike moved across space toward his force.
* * *
The Low Admiral could feel the massive ship buck slightly under him and knew that the counter missiles were cycling though the tubes. Every ship in his force, from the twenty battleships, through the twenty cruisers, all the way to the forty scouts, were flushing counter missiles as fast as they could cycle. All targeting the most dangerous wave, that of the orbital forts that were traveling at over point nine light speed. After several cycles the missiles switched targets, going with one wave toward the missiles coming from the far cruiser force. The next cycle targeted the wave from the fighters. Then two cycles on the missiles coming from the enemy battle force. And so it went as the fleet attempted to put all the missiles they could into space, and knock down as many enemy missiles as possible at the longest range they could.
“First wave contact in one minute,” called out the tactical officer, while all watched the fastest moving arrows approached. Three hundred red arrows that showed on the display as larger sensor targets than the others. They began to turn into pinpoints of light as counter missiles reached out, dozens of counters to each of the offensive weapons. A hundred winked out, then another fifty, then fifty more, as hard and proximity kills took out the weapons that had been launched over an hour before by the orbital platforms. Ninety six continued on, their seeker systems making adjustments while they picked out targets, priority given to the largest.
Close in systems
took out over half those remaining, while heavy jamming spoiled the targeting of a score more. Twenty missiles got within range to actually accomplish their mission. Four hit scout class vessels, blotting them from existence with gigatons of kinetic energy. Fourteen went for proximity kills when it became apparent to their electronic brains that they were not going to hit their targets. They caused some damage to a pair of massive battleships and a trio of cruisers. One hit a cruiser dead on the bow, shattering all the way through the two kilometers of vessel, while one made a glancing hit on a battleship, killing all aboard as compensators fail to handle the change in inertia in the spinning ship.
Next in were the missiles from the cruiser force, traveling at point seven light. The systems on the Ca'cadasan ships were able to burn through the jamming and gain firm solutions on most of these weapons. Two thirds were blotted from the heavens before they were three minutes out. A mere dozen got within kill range, causing minor damage to a quartet of cruisers and a pair of scouts.
The missiles from the fighters had better luck. Smaller targets, the dedicated jammers were able to hide most of the killer weapons in a cloud of static. Waves of interceptors flew toward them, in their numbers attempting to break through the jamming and acquire targets. Tens of thousands of the smaller missiles flew into the static cloud, and some were bound to come close enough to a missile to lock target and attempt a kill. Kill they did, putting waves of particles and debris into the path of incoming weapons in proximity kills. There were even a few lucky hard kills. Almost half the small fighter missiles broke through the first wave of interceptors. Half of those died at the hands of the second wave, until a thousand missiles came within the range of the close in systems. In seconds the threat was over, at the cost of one of the battleships, hit by a score of missiles in a paroxysm of statistical improbability, and a half dozen of the smaller ships damaged to varying degrees.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2 Page 27