09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Unless she has some hyper-advanced weapons system we’ve never heard of, we can take her,” John agreed. “We’ll have to sneak up on her, of course.”

  He scowled. A cruiser wouldn't have any trouble outrunning a battleship. The Foxes would have to be utterly insane to fight when they were outgunned so badly - he tried not to think about the number of times the Foxes had picked a fight they were bound to lose - but if they chose to run instead, screaming a warning ...

  “Vanguard and her task force will attend to the planet,” he said, flatly. “The remaining elements of the task force will proceed, in full stealth, to Tramline One and hold position near the least-time course from Planet Three. If our calculations are correct, that’s the shortest route to their homeworld.”

  “And also the route they will use to dispatch any reinforcements,” Commodore Solange Leclère pointed out.

  “Indeed,” John agreed. “And that poses another problem.”

  He studied the starchart for a long moment. There was no way to know the enemy dispositions, at least until a fleet of enemy warships arrived to push matters. Logically, the Foxes would hesitate to dispatch more than a handful of ships from their homeworld, at least until they determined the scale of the threat. But if they responded quickly, if they sent a full-sized fleet to ES-19, he would have no choice but to engage it. He couldn't leave that threat in his rear.

  “The scouting units are to be detached,” he added. “One scouting element is to proceed through Tramline One, the other through Tramline Two. They are to follow standard stealth procedures at all times. Bear in mind that the enemy have very good sensor-stealth systems - we can expect their sensors to have advanced too. They know more about what they have to break than we do.

  “If we find a worthier target on the other side of Tramline Two, we will proceed through Two instead. If not, we will proceed as originally planned.”

  He glanced at Hoover. “You will assume command of Task Force 7.2 and 7.3,” he said. “If the enemy ship makes a break for the tramline, intercept and destroy her.”

  “They shouldn't see us until it’s too late,” Hoover assured him.

  John kept his face impassive. War was a democracy in the truest possible sense. The enemy, that dirty dog, had a vote. The Foxes could do something in the next few hours that would upset all of his plans. Hell, there was a substantial time-delay between the task force and Planet Three. For all he knew, the enemy ship had already started retreating towards Tramline One.

  Or she might try to run to Tramline Two, he thought. It was unlikely, given the relative positions of the two tramlines, but it was possible. The aliens wouldn't have any choice if they spotted Hoover waiting for them. And they could have already sent a message for help.

  “We will move in thirty minutes,” he said, tersely. “If there are any further problems, inform me at once.”

  “Of course, Admiral,” Solange said.

  John nodded, but he wasn't particularly reassured. The real work was about to begin ...

  ... And things had already started to go off the rails.

  ***

  George couldn't help a flicker of Déjà Vu as she opened the compartment, clicked on the light and peered inside. It was empty, as far as she could tell. The occupants had clearly decamped to sickbay, even though the crew had been ordered to remain where they were unless they were seriously injured. She scowled, logged the compartment as empty and then backed out, as carefully as she had come. Hopefully, the occupants hadn't heard the orders, instead of either choosing to disobey them or being badly injured.

  She rubbed her forehead as she closed the hatch. Her headache wasn't bad, compared to some of the others, but it was still an omnipresent distraction. The jump-sickness - some wag had already coined the name - seemed to strike at random, making no distinctions at all between male or female, young or old ... or anything, really. George had a headache, Corporal Lewis hadn't had anything ... and Sergeant Tosco had been laid up so badly that Major Andres had ordered him to stay in his bunk. That, more than anything, worried her badly. She couldn't imagine anything stopping the sergeant.

  And if it had happened at school, she thought as she opened the next hatch, some of the students would have been delighted.

  It wasn't anything to be pleased about, she told herself sharply. A third of the Royal Marines were either unconscious or too badly affected to do anything, beyond staying in their bunks and hoping it cleared up soon. It was why she’d been sent out alone, along with most of the other marines. There were just too many compartments to check for them to go in pairs. At least they weren't in enemy territory. She would have hated to search an enemy ship without armed backup.

  She cursed as she found the light and clicked it on. A middle-aged man was bent over a table, moaning. He’d thrown up badly, she noted as she keyed her terminal to alert the others; he didn't look injured, but it was clear that he was definitely suffering badly. At least he hadn't choked on his own vomit, unlike the poor bastard who’d been asleep when the fleet jumped. Thankfully, one of his roommates had caught him before it had been too late. She gritted her teeth and hurried forward. He started to turn his head, then stopped.

  “Relax,” she said, pulling him back. His nose was bleeding, but it didn’t look broken as far as she could tell. “You’re safe now.”

  The man moaned, twisting against her. He was wearing a naval uniform, but one too fancy to wear on a day-to-day basis. It was too clean to be real. And he didn't have any rank badges or gold braid. A reporter then, she decided. Someone trying to look militaristic without actually attending the academy and being commissioned. The nasty part of her mind was tempted to leave him, but she knew better. Major Andres would be furious. So would the captain.

  He shuddered, his hands flapping helplessly in the air. His eyes were half-closed, as if he was trapped in a nightmare. George hesitated, then slapped him across the face as hard as she could. He jerked violently, his body going limp, then opened his eyes wide. George frowned as she saw an ugly red mark taking shape on his face. Perhaps she shouldn't have slapped him so hard.

  He’s a reporter, part of her mind insisted. He’ll tear your life apart because it’ll boost his fucking ratings for a day.

  But he doesn't deserve to be assaulted, another part insisted.

  “An angel,” the man croaked, hoarsely. His voice was raspy, as if he hadn't drunk anything for days. “You’re an angel.”

  George rolled her eyes as she positioned him carefully against the bulkhead, then looked around for a water dispenser. She was surprised he’d even realised she was female, thanks to the marine uniform and haircut. The uniform hid her breasts remarkably well. She found some water and held it out to him, then smiled as he drank it in great gulps. Hopefully, he wouldn't need a stimulant. Her supply was running out.

  “Fuck,” the man managed. “What happened?”

  “We jumped,” George said, tersely. She knew better than to talk to a reporter any more than strictly necessary. The asshole couldn't be trusted. Maybe he was an embed, maybe he knew the ropes and rules of military journalism, but he still couldn't be trusted. “The shock was unpleasant.”

  “Brilliant,” the man said, sarcastically. “I’ll be the sole reporter who doesn’t have a write-up ready for his publisher.”

  George rolled her eyes. Assuming the fleet followed a least-time course back to Earth, the idiot would still have over three months to put together something that would satisfy even the most demanding boss. If she could satisfy her teachers at school - who rarely granted extensions without the most solid grounds - he could satisfy his editors. And then they’d probably change half of it to suit themselves.

  I’ll probably discover I’m a blonde bombshell with huge tits, she thought, wryly. The respectable newspapers and datanet sites were reasonably honest, but there were plenty of fringe publications more interested in titillation than real news. They wouldn't dare to print it otherwise.

  “I’m sure you’
ll be fine,” she said, taking back the empty cup. “How are you feeling?”

  “Foul,” the reporter said. He looked down at his uniform jacket. It was stained, something that George couldn't help thinking made it look a little more authentic. “My head hurts, my eyes hurt and I need to change my shirt.”

  He winked at her. “Are you going to help me shower?”

  “I think you’ve definitely recovered,” George said, dryly. She had a suspicion that telling Sergeant Tosco that she’d stopped to help a reporter shower would result in so many press-ups that the poor sergeant would have to invent some new numbers. “Don’t leave the cabin ...” - she looked around, silently noting that the reporter had a nicer cabin than Fraser or anyone else below Commander Mason - “and try to stay calm. We’re on the move now.”

  The reporter looked up, dimly. “To where?”

  “The enemy, I assume,” George told him. She smiled as his face rapidly paled. “We made it. We’re in enemy space.”

  She paused, just for a second. Provoking him might be a mistake, but ... she didn't want to stop.

  “And now we have to win or die,” she added. The reporter looked as if he was going to be sick again. “Victory or death.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Coming up on Planet Three,” Reed reported.

  “No sign we’ve been detected,” Lieutenant Charlotte Watson added. “Their orbital defences appear to be quiet.”

  Unless they’re quietly tracking us and preparing a surprise, Susan thought. Admiral Naiser had put her in tactical command, knowing that she would be in the best position to conduct the engagement. It was a challenge, but it was also dangerous. If they caught a sniff of us, they might be trying to lure us in closer.

  It wasn't a pleasant thought, even though she was fairly certain that Planet Three and the lone enemy cruiser couldn't stand off the task force. The Tadpole fleet that had attacked Earth had been spotted on the way in, spotted and tracked by a lone destroyer. It had been sheer luck that the fleet had been detected in time for Earth’s defenders to take up position to defend the planet, then drive the alien fleet away. Space was so vast, she knew, that an entire alien fleet could be lurking in the darkness, just waiting for her. Groundhogs might talk about hiding behind planets, but as long as the aliens were careful they didn't need to do more than keep their drives and active sensors stepped down to remain undetected.

  “Hold us steady,” she ordered. Three battleships were pretty much unbeatable odds for a single cruiser, as long as the battleships got into weapons range before the cruiser saw them coming. “Tactical?”

  “Weapons locked, Captain,” Lieutenant-Commander Jean Granger said. “Enemy ship will enter effective missile range in seven minutes.”

  Susan nodded, silently running through their possible options. Ideally, they'd want to get into energy range before opening fire, relying on the main guns to take out the enemy ship quickly and cleanly. There was no way a light cruiser could mount the sort of armour necessary to survive one battleship, let alone three. Unless, of course, she was armoured with something Susan had never heard of ... she shook her head in annoyance, dismissing the thought. If the Foxes had made such a breakthrough, the war was already on the verge of being lost.

  But if she sees us coming and wheels about, she thought, we may have to chase her down.

  She cursed under her breath as the range narrowed. If the cruiser had her drives stepped down, there was no way she could bring them up in time to escape. But if she had her drives on stand-by, she might just be able to get out of Susan’s missile envelope before it was too late. Hell, if her drives were already at full power, she could thumb her nose at the task force as she avoided engagement completely. Susan rather suspected a human crew would not be at full alert - they knew there was no danger of being attacked - but would the Foxes feel the same way?

  Keeping the ship on alert puts wear and tear on the equipment, she reminded herself. But if they suddenly found themselves under attack, wear and tear would be the least of their worries.

  The alien ship took on shape and form, a flattened arrowhead that reminded her of British or French light cruisers. She was bigger - it looked as though she mounted a Warspite-class primary gun as well as the usual armaments - but it was impossible to guess at her power. A handful of possible scenarios scrolled up in front of them as the tactical analysts struggled to make sense of what little data they had. Susan scanned it briefly, then dismissed the memos with a shrug. They weren't telling her anything she didn't already know.

  That cannon could do real damage if they hit one of the carriers, she thought. Or a cruiser, if they decided to waste their shot. But it won’t damage us.

  She reminded herself not to be complacent as the range closed steadily. The aliens weren't running basic sensor scans, something that perplexed her, but their passive sensors would detect the task force soon enough. Unless it was a trap ... she scowled as she surveyed the orbital display, as if glaring at the device would be enough to bring any lurking alien ships into view. The aliens might be careless, this far from the front, or they might be baiting a trap ...

  “Entering sprint-mode missile range,” Jean reported. “Two minutes to energy range.”

  Susan nodded, impatiently. The latest set of improvements, she’d been told, enhanced Vanguard’s effective energy range considerably. She’d had the chance to test them against drones, during the long voyage from Earth, but not against actual alien starships. Plasma bolts lost their effectiveness after a certain range, no matter how much power was fed into the magnetic bottles. If the aliens were very lucky, they might just be able to escape with a scorched hull.

  “Signal the other two ships,” she ordered. “We will open fire at effective energy weapons range, unless the enemy alters position.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan braced herself. Three battleships, firing in unison? That cruiser was dead, if they managed to get into effective range. She’d be blown to atoms before she even had a chance to realise she was under attack, let alone fight back. And yet ... she knew the chances of being detected were rapidly climbing higher and higher. They couldn't get much closer without the enemy reacting, surely ...

  The display changed, sharply. Red icons blinked into existence, centred around the alien ship. “Captain,” Parkinson said. “The enemy ship has seen us! She’s powering up her drives!”

  We caught her at standby, Susan thought. The aliens hadn't been entirely senseless, she noted coldly. They’re flash-waking their drives.

  “Bring up our own sensors and sweep the area,” she ordered, sharply. “Tactical?”

  “Missiles locked,” Jean said.

  Susan thought, fast. The alien ship was already moving, if slowly. She might just get out of range before the battleships could engage her with energy weapons. It was frustrating, but there was no other option.

  “Fire,” she ordered.

  Vanguard shivered as she launched her first barrage. A moment later, the alien starship returned fire, launching a pitiful handful of missiles towards the battleships. Susan watched them for a long moment, then relaxed as it became clear that there was nothing special about them. Vanguard’s point defence units were already tracking them, calculating firing vectors and preparing to fire. The alien weapons didn't have a hope of reaching engagement range.

  And even if they did manage to hit us, she thought, the damage would be minimal.

  The alien crew had been shocked, she noted, but there was nothing wrong with their electronic servants. Point defence fire started at once, even though the missiles had been fired from practically point-blank range. The cruiser kept moving, picking up speed even as the first warhead detonated, sending a beam of deadly energy slashing into the ship. Two more followed, tearing great gashes in the alien hull. Susan watched, feeling a trace of sympathy, as the cruiser spun madly, her crew trying desperately to get out of range. But it was too late. Three more bomb-pumped lasers sliced into her
hull, tearing deep into her innards. A moment later, a series of explosions ripped the alien craft apart.

  “Target destroyed,” Jean reported, dispassionately. “No lifepods detected.”

  Susan nodded, watching as the last alien missile vanished from the display. They’d been lucky. The aliens had been caught by surprise. Next time, it would be a great deal harder to take them out. Hell, a much larger incoming barrage would have caused far more problems for her point defences.

  And they might have modified their own missiles too, she thought. The arms race started the moment the war began.

  “Pass the word,” she ordered, as sensor sweeps revealed a handful of weapons platforms orbiting the planet. “Destroy all their orbital defences, then launch surveillance platforms and survey anything that looks harmless.”