Admiral's War Part One

by Wachter, Luke Sky

  The fact that two of the Wolf-9 Cruisers—and more than half the Destroyers and Corvettes—were leaking atmosphere or responding sluggishly compared to the others did little to invoke my confidence.

  “It’s good working with you again, Admiral,” LeGodat said with a tight smile, “how do you want to do this?”

  “You handle the rearguard and we’ll sweep away the pieces, Commodore,” I explained. A Battleship squadron reinforced by Droid Cruisers—equipped with those antimatter-pumped spinal lasers—was more than able to crush anything that was pinned down or in this case too slow to escape. Sure, even the Hammerhead class could have escaped us if they’d been at full speed, but they weren’t and they knew it.

  As our Battleships lunged forward, I could all but feel the consternation among the five surviving Cruisers of the three squadrons we’d jumped in front of. If they had been intact, maybe they could have actually done something about it. But they were going the wrong way at high speed, which meant they were in a genuine pickle and knew it.

  “That’s odd,” Captain Hammer said.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “The rear guard Cruiser in the enemy squadron is somehow keeping station with the rest of the squadron even though they’re pointed at us and it’s at the Wolf-9 force,” she said.

  I glanced at the icons representing the ships of the enemy’s fifth Cruiser Squadron. They did seem relatively close together. Too close together in fact.

  “Sensors, what’s the separation between the enemy’s four lead ships and the Hammerhead at the back?” I asked.

  “Checking, Sir,” said the Officer, he read the results on his console and frowned, “that’s odd. Running a high focus scan now.”

  I waited a beat.

  “Results confirmed,” the Sensor Officer said, shaking his head, disbelief and admiration on his face as he turned to me, “the enemy are towing their fifth ship with bucking cables, Sir.”

  “Bucking cables!” I snorted and then look appraisingly at the enemy squadron. Whoever was over there was one smart cookie. He knew that as soon as his main force of four pulled away from the rearguard ship that LeGodat and his forces would cut in behind it and take out its engines, after which they would immediately turn at make an attack run at his other ship’s now undefended rear ends.

  By literally towing their cohort behind them, they could both defend their rears and keep from being out flanked—barring an insanely lucky shot to sever the cables.

  “That shouldn’t work,” Hammer said as soon as she heard, “the drive plume on anything but a straight course towing a ship that large would eventually burn through the cables and we’ve seen them make turns too steep for them to make without burning the lines.”

  “It looks like two of the ships in the middle have split the towing duty between them. The drive plumes are never in danger of impacting the cables,” reported Sensors.

  “Sneaky blighters,” Lieutenant Hart swore.

  “I hate a competent enemy, they’re bad enough, but an innovative one is ten times worse,” I said, wishing the squadron commander over there worked for me. I could use the help. Druid seemed competent enough but he had lost his Battleship on his very first independent patrol. LeGodat was definitely competent—and sneaky—but innovative? I hadn’t seen that. Add in the fact that while he’d thrown his lot in with mine, I knew his support only went so far, and what did I have left. Akantha? Glue? Middleton?

  Now there was a man: Captain Middleton had been competent, sneaky and innovative. Sadly, it hadn’t been his qualifications that had been in doubt but rather his loyalty or to put the extreme best face on it, the ability to follow orders.

  “They don’t have much of a chance do they?” observed Hammer’s First Officer.

  “Not unless they know something we don’t,” I observed and then pursed my lips, cocked my head and narrowed one eye.

  “A thought, Sir?” the Captain asked not failing to catch my sudden change in appearance.

  “I think I’d like to speak to these Reclamationists—or at least the commander of this particular cruiser squadron,” I said offhandedly, as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

  Her gaze sharpened but she didn’t object to my notion.

  “Lieutenant,” I said turning to Ms. Steiner, “if you would be so kind as to open a hail before we hit the enemy?”

  “We’ll be on them in less than two minutes, Admiral,” Captain Hammer noted.

  “Well then we must endeavor to move with alacrity,” I said eyes shooting back to Steiner with a silent message in them. However, as soon as I looked back she was already on the coms.

  “I have the Squadron Commander of the enemy ships on the line, Admiral,” Steiner said, her face flushed with success.

  “Put him through,” I instructed and a moment later the image of a man in a uniform with a suspiciously Imperial cut to his uniform, albeit one with the usual Imperial colors reversed. Normally in the Empire they wore blue on black, not black on blue.

  “This is Senior Captain Jerry Creed of the Reclamation Fleet, cease your hostile actions and prepare to be boarded by Reclamation Marines. If you do so now I promise to speak for you at your trial,” the Officer—a standard-looking man for a white-skinned, blond-haired Imperial—said, drawing himself up a steely glint in his eye as he stared at me.

  I lifted my eyebrows. “My trial, Mister?” I asked, my voice cracking like a whip. “I dare say you lack both the power and the legitimacy to demand such an action of me.”

  “It’s Senior Captain to the likes of you,” he barked. “It’s true that you’ll probably succeed in killing me and wrecking my ships if that’s your intent, but our ultimate victory is inevitable. Things will only go that much harder for you and your world when this Sector is subjugated if you don’t cooperate.”

  “I’ll make you a counterproposal, Captain,” I sneered, “lower your shields and strike your fusion generators and I won’t treat your lot for the rebels, insurgents and pirates that you’ve proven yourself to be.”

  “I will not be spoken to like this by some jumped up provincial with his mighty one-world SDF. We are here to save these sectors, including yours, from the chaos and anarchy that has overtaken them due to ineffectual efforts of weak men like yourself. Frankly, son your commission isn’t worth the parchment it’s printed on. Better to use it for toilet paper now while it still has some value to you,” the Senior Captain mocked.

  “While I’m not surprised that a pirate like yourself is unfamiliar with Confederation uniforms,” I mocked, quite certain that he was in fact a former or even current Imperial Officer and not an actual pirate—even though he and his fleet’s actions had technically been piracy, “the fact remains that I happen to be both a Confederation officer, not a provincial one of any stripe and a Vice Admiral in the service. So unless you’re suddenly claiming you’re an Imperial officer—something I’m told your Reclamation Fleet has gone to great lengths to avoid doing—you have less than no authority in this Sector despite whatever organization you say you follow. What’s more, since this is Confederation territory and not the Empire, even if you were to claim to be one of those slack-jawed, bum-rushing Imperials, any authority you might attempt to lay claim to would still require you to defer to Confederation judgment and authority. Meaning my judgment and authority, not to put too fine a point on it.”

  The Senior Captain flushed turning increasingly red in the face. Then he threw back his head and barked, his laugh sounding more like a seal’s bark than anything else I’d heard.

  “I ought to give you both sides after that; too bad a Hammerhead only has the front. Everything else is of marginal firepower or strictly point defense,” replied the Captain.

  “Thirty seconds, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart reported.

  “As much as I’d like to stick around and chat ‘til the system primary turns over, I’m afraid our time is almost up,” I said, leaning forward and giving the Senior Captain a resolute look. “I respect the ma
neuver with the bucking cables, I really do. Towing your fifth ship behind the other four to provide cover for the otherwise unprotected stern of the rest of your squadron was inspired. That’s why I’ll give you this last warning: you can’t win. Step down your fusion generators, lower your shields and prepare to be boarded.”

  “I must refuse, young Admiral,” Senior Captain Jerry Creed replied.

  “So be it,” I nodded and motioned for Lieutenant Steiner to cut the channel.

  A second later the channel cut, and moments after that the Battleship Squadron and accompanying Cruisers with us opened fire.

  A trio of antimatter-pumped spinal lasers lashed out each striking a different ship. Shields flared, weakened, and then were punched through as lasers lashed the hull and metal turned to slag, ruptured, and fissured off in spraying geysers from the ferocious volleys.

  Battleships and Cruisers pivoted and immediately after turbo-lasers flared and smashed into the already damaged vessels, as well as the pair that had escaped the brunt of the Mothership’s attack.

  “Multiple hits to the enemy vessels,” reported Mr. Hart, “enemy shields are weakening. Multiple instances of turbo-laser punch-through resulting hull damage.”

  For several long seconds our ships pummeled the enemy’s squadron of medium cruisers.

  “The rear-facing Cruiser being towed with bucking cables just took a critical hit to her engines!” Lieutenant Hart said seconds before the ship exploded. “Correction: enemy Cruiser destroyed!”

  As I watched, one by one the enemy’s Hammerhead Medium Cruisers lost their shields, started venting gases, and eventually fell silent.

  “One Medium Cruiser destroyed, three more heavily damaged. Two are drifting and the third lost the forward right quarter of their forward facing and their entire shield generator!” crowed the ship’s Tactical Officer.

  “Tell gunnery hard at them, Mr. Hart,” Captain Hammer said, slamming a fist into her other hand for emphasis.

  As we flashed past the enemy Cruisers, a furious barrage of medium and heavy lasers lambasted the battered enemy Cruisers until we slid past them, the distance between us and our former targets growing by the second.

  Behind us, the battered remnants of the once proud Reclamationist Squadron continued to drift and spew atmosphere.

  “Bring the squadron around for another pass, Captain Hammer,” I said, tapping the screen her image was portrayed on and uploading a quick and dirty proposed course change.

  Her eyes briefly flickered down to check the file and she nodded curtly.

  “We’ll get on it,” she replied, “however, as you’re aware we’re now going exactly the wrong way so it won’t happen quick. Would you rather we curve over and relieve the Sector Guard contingent instead?”

  I took a moment to take another look at the local battle space, and the increasingly pressed Guard contingent, before shaking my head. Not only would we not save that much time diverting to help the guard versus swinging back around to finish the Hammerheads, but after ripping out the heart of a pair of squadrons when we first arrived and then dealt with these slow Medium Cruisers I wanted to put the finish on something. Besides that, most Cruisers—such as the ones facing the Guard—were much fleeter than our battleships. So unlike when we faced the sluggish Hammerheads, even if we diverted as the Captain had suggested all we could be sure of was that we’d run them off, possibly not earning so much as one single kill. My way ensured that several enemy warships were permanently put out of commission. If that meant our ‘allies’ had to suffer for a bit longer then that’s what they were going to have to do.

  “Captain, while my heart weeps for our brethren of the New Sector Guard, they’re just going to have to make do with the support of the Reservists from Wolf-9 for the next little while. We need to keep our options open and finish off this squadron. Pass the order to Commodore LeGodat that he is to take his contingent of faster more maneuverable ships to their relief,” I paused as I considered what this was going to do to the various pieces in play, scratched the back of my neck to relieve an itch, and then nodded. “That should do it for now.”

  The Captain nodded. “It would be marginally faster to simply reverse course if you want to get to those Cruisers as quickly as possible,” she said without judgment.

  “Standing around essentially flatfooted in the middle of a battlefield that keeps evolving with more and more enemy warships jumping into it all the time hardly seems the wisest course, Captain. My orders stand,” I replied curtly.

  “On it, Sir,” she nodded and started spewing the orders necessary to make my vision, such as it was, possible.

  I watched as the Royal Rage and her sister ships, including the droid crewed Motherships, slowly arced around the outer edge of the battlefield where only a few battered wrecks from both sides drifted. As the minutes piled up, I wished that I’d been able to pick either of the flagship captain’s alternatives and run with them.

  Normally I was used to other ships either running away or coming at us directly. I was essentially sitting in my chair and twiddling my thumbs while nearly a hundred other ships wheeled, raced and charged into battle. Those vessels seemed to act as if my battleships were merely a brutish afterthought that would be dealt with if and when slowly jogged back into the battle, and that began to wear on me for some reason. I was surprised to discover I was grinding my teeth in frustration.

  That would never do.

  Taking a deep breath and unclenching my jaw, I leaned back in my chair. There was too much going on to pay as much attention to individual ships, even the Destroyers and Cruisers, as I was used to. In my last large fleet action I had also been unable to pay attention to everything but at least all of my ships were in close formation around my flagship. Essentially, I had been a single contingent commander. But if this battle was teaching me anything, it was that I was going to have to keep expanding my field of vision and keep from growing mono-focused.

  Ignoring the gut grind that was taking place in my midsection, I absentmindedly motioned for a cup of tea.

  A young yeoman scurried over and placed a steaming hot cup in my hand before stepping back out of my field of vision.

  Carefully taking a sip, I took a moment to savor the sensation while we were still well outside the range of anything that could hurt us or we them. It wasn’t the best blend I’d ever had, as battlefield teas tended not to be overly aromatic, but by my second sip I was feeling much more centered.

  We were only a couple minutes from returning to finish Creed’s squadron of enemy Cruisers, which I insist had nothing to do with my improving mood.

  I took one final sip to fortify myself before I instructed Steiner to give one last call for surrender from the Senior Captain and his hammerheads when an alarm went off in the sensor pit.

  “Multiple point transfers detected. We’ve got a heavy hyper footprint, Captain!” cried the Sensor Officer. “It looks like it’s the enemy battleships and they’re less than five minutes away from our position!”

  I choked as hot tea tried to go into my lungs instead of down my throat. Acting purely on instinct to preserve myself from the murderous beverage, I spilled the rest of the cup down the front of my uniform. I wheezed and convulsed, trying to eject the scalding hot liquid from a place it was never intended to be and wondering if I had just chosen the greater of two evils by not pouring the scalding fluid straight into my lungs.

  “Are you alright, Sir?” a yeoman asked, hurrying over and deftly picking the cup out of my hand before it hit floor, concern written all over her face.

  “What?” I coughed.

  “I can call the medic for an analgesic, Admiral,” she said.

  I waved her off angrily and then turned to my officers.

  “Report,” I rasped, my eyes raking over the screen where two squadrons of enemy warships had just appeared toward the middle and off to our side of the main battle taking place between our ships and theirs.

  “Still waiting for confirmation
on ship sizes, Sir,” Tactical Officer Hart reported, “but all enemy Cruisers that are not currently engaged seem to be pulling back toward them.”

  “I want confirmation,” I said with a nod, “though, looking at the screen it would appear that it’s not just their Cruisers but all surviving enemy ships that are pulling back,” I observed as warships all over the field started to drift back, as if pulled to those newly arrived enemy ships by the force of gravity itself. “If those aren’t their heavies then I’ll eat my hat.”

  Hart nodded.

  “Enemy classification confirmed,” exclaimed the Sensor Officer, “those are two squadrons of battleships.”

  “Two squadrons,” I muttered. We were outnumbered—heavily.

  “Orders, Admiral?” Hammer said staring at me expectantly. Looking up, I could see that she wasn’t the only officer looking at me as if expecting something. It took me a moment to recall that a number of my officers, even those who had supported the ambush, had called for a rapid retreat in the face of superior enemy battleships.

  I furrowed my brow, then ran the numbers.

  “You’re right. We’re going to have to let these Cruisers pass for now and divert our course…we’ll be back,” I said, grimacing at the thought, even if it wasn’t at all the actual thought behind all those expectant gazes. “Captain, swing us around for a high-speed intercept on those battleships.”

  “The two squadrons of enemy battleships, Admiral?” Hammer clarified.

  “The very same,” I grunted, “I don’t think we’re going to get a better chance than this to strike a telling blow.”

  I could see the moment realization thudded in the bellies of our more fainthearted friends that, far from running away, we were about to charge the enemy head-on. It was, after all, the MSP way.

  “Yes, Sir,” Hammer said and her jaw clenched once before she turned back to her crew on the battle bridge, “you heard the man: point us at the enemy and full speed ahead.”