by John Carr
“TF Damaris signaling preparation for launch of full missile spreads on Intruder Three from extreme range,” Chief Cooper reported.” They’re going to try to put about two hundred fish into the Impies, Captain, but after that, their bays’ll be empty.”
“Let’s keep those Morgans off their back, then. Mister Willoughby, target a spread for our remaining missiles. Put them in staggered intercept courses for the enemy fighter formation. I want to knock as many of those Morgans out of the sky as possible before they can screw up TF Damaris’ fire solutions.”
“Aye, Captain,” Willoughby acknowledged. Hawksley turned his attention to the audio of the signal intercepts. He knew what Willoughby was listening for, and he wanted to be sure he heard it first.
Twenty-Nine
I
Damaris, with the six surviving ships of her task force trailing to her flanks, was closing with the forward point of Intruder Three. Muted combat lighting did little to mask the damage of fires that had broken out after the last burn-through of Damaris’ Field; overworked air recyclers did less to scour the smell of burned flesh from the starship’s closed environment.
Vessel First Rank Mara Emory concentrated on the data lines suspended within the flickering immersion display around her; it made her head ache, but kept her attention from her scarred bridge.
“Weapons; status.”
“Fire solution optimal in twenty-four minutes, First Rank.”
“Communications; maintain open signals to the rest of the task force. Guarantee me synchronized launches.”
“Affirm.”
“First Rank!” It was her Sensors Ranker.
“Speak.”
“Two full squadrons of enemy heavy fighters to starboard of formation, now engaging the Mago. Mago signals her Field capacitors approaching critical.”
Emory bared her teeth in rage. The Imperial attacks were relentless. No Sauron vessel was gaining any respite to bleed off the captured energy stored in its Fields; if Mago went, it would be just the latest in a long line of warships beaten to death since this grim endgame had begun. Worse, it would open a breach in TF Damans’ formation which other fighters could exploit.
“Signal Mago: ‘break-off. Switch weapon locks to the fighter squadrons and engage at will.’ We have to do something to keep them off our backs for the next . .Weapons?”
Weapons’ head was bent over his console; he only raised his eyes, looking up at her from beneath his brows: “Twenty-two minutes, First Rank,” he answered.
Emory heaved a sigh. Well. Every little bit...
Hawksley checked the Falkenberg’s chronometer. “Helm; time to intercept?”
“Full locks on seven missiles, skipper; missile number three is showing a malfunc light. All batteries in range in seventeen seconds.” Willoughby was obviously straining to hear the signal intercepts, and Hawksley was just about to relieve him when he caught the signal fragment amid the clutter.
“... roger that, Hydra; closing on your three, standing by for launch go...”
Hawksley’s eyes snapped to Willoughby, but the XO seemed to have missed it. Willoughby was the eldest of seven brothers, two of which had remained loyal to the Imperial faction in what was essentially a civil war. The youngest, a fighter pilot assigned to the INSS Centurion, had chosen as his call sign a mythological beast whose seven heads served as his reminder of the supposed homogeneity and survivability of Burgess siblings.
Besides Hawksley’s XO, he was the only one of Mrs. Willoughby s sons still alive. Hawksley had no desire to destroy the lad; but he had less to be destroyed by him.
“What about those Morgans, Mister Willoughby?” Hawksley asked quietly.
“They’re ignoring the Mago, skipper, just like you figured.” He turned to face Hawksley; his expression showed he clearly did not want to finish his report.”They’re in range now, sir.”
Hawksley tried to let his tone show that he understood; still, he had no choice. “Shoot, Mister Willoughby.”
Willoughby’s fingers flew over the console, Banshee’s Weapons Officer followed suit, and the Morgans began to disappear from the display. After the first wave of fire, scattered Imperial fighters began to regroup; they headed straight for the Damaris, lead ship in the Sauron Task Force.
In the display, Hawksley saw that TF Fomoria was mauling Intruder Three, but not enough. Worse, the bulk of the reinforced Imperial fleet was now bearing down on their position. The lead ship of Intruder Three’s remaining one hundred and three vessels was now less than three hours away from entry into Sauron’s atmosphere; at its current velocity, impacts would begin eighteen seconds later; assuming Intruder Three lost another twenty-percent of its ships, they would continue for a full rotation of the planet.
So, Intruder Three had to be stopped, TF Damaris had to be protected to launch her missiles, and TF Fomoria had to remain intact to have any chance of fighting off the rest of the Imperials. Hawksley almost laughed out loud.
Next time, I’ll try looking for a real challenge...
“Helm. Intercept the Morgans and send us right through the middle of their formation. That ought to break them up.”
“Helm, aye,” Willoughby acknowledged; Hawksley could hear the relief in his XO’s voice. Willoughby obviously thought that the Falkenberg’s skipper would try to avoid shooting down the Morgans for as long as possible.
Hawksley caught Chief Cooper’s eye. Coop nodded.
II
Diettinger’s attention had been occupied by the battle, but Second Rank finally interrupted him. “Dictator; Intruder Three now at two hundred and fifty thousand kilometers and closing.”
“Yes.”
Second Rank was taken aback.”Cyborg Rank Koln...”
Diettinger checked his system panel. “Lock-downs in place in all EVA pods?”
Second Rank nodded. “Yes, Dictator. Cyborg Rank Koln is awaiting clearance signal to launch.”
Diettinger nodded without looking up. He entered several more commands.
“Dictator?” Second Rank pressed.
Diettinger looked up with an expression of mild interest.
“Dictator,” Second Rank said, ”Fomoria task force now at optimal launch range for Cyborg Rank Koln’s forces.”
Diettinger nodded. “Yes.” he said. A flashing light on his panel drew his attention and he activated the communications link to Koln’s torpedo.
“Awaiting launch signal, Dictator,” Koln declared.
“Stand by, Cyborg Rank Koln,” he answered, then glanced at Second Rank, “Patch navigational control for all vessels in TF Fomoria through to our helm, Second Rank. I want perfect coordination for this maneuver.”
Second Rank hesitated a moment; had Diettinger left the line to Koln’s torpedo open deliberately? He seemed to have wanted the Cyborg to hear. Despite her discipline, she asked, “Dictator, what - ?”
“Attend your duty station, Second Rank.”
She lowered her head and returned to her position within the immersion display.
“Time to TF Damaris salvo.”
“One minute, eight seconds, Dictator.”
The battle was close at hand, now. TF Keegan’s last ships had been destroyed an hour ago. Stubbornly holding off nine Imperial heavy cruisers, Dannevar’s remaining three vessels had evidently proven to be more trouble than the Imperials were prepared to suffer; three badly damaged Outworld vessels had executed simultaneous ramming attacks. The effectiveness of each varied, but the end result was to break-up TF Keegan’s already tenuous mutually supportive formation. Imperial forces fell like wolves upon Dannevar’s flagship and the Sauron heavy cruisers Mordor and R’lyeh; all were dismembered and swept from space. With the destruction of TF Keegan, the reinforced Intruder Two was now only minutes away from engaging the remnants of Diettinger’s command with a quantity and strength of vessels which could not help but prove decisive.
Now, only the forty ships of TF Fomoria, the remaining six of TF Damaris and the allied vessels Falkenbe
rg and Banshee remained between Sauron and the Empire’s vengeance, and all were close enough to one another that the communications lag time of message lasers was almost insignificant.
“Communications.”
“Dictator.”
“Signal Damaris; ‘Stand by to patch through helm command to Fomoria; all ships to initiate special maneuvering immediately following your salvo.’ Cyborg Rank Koln.”
“Yes.”
“Stand by. Launch release in six minutes.”
Second Rank snapped her head around, frowning. Six minutes? Where had that come from?
But Diettinger was watching the immersion display.
III
Falkenberg and Banshee’s Fields were brick red; interception with the Morgans had not broken-up the formation, only allowed the Imperial heavy fighter squadrons to encapsulate the Burgess and New Ireland ships and pour fire into them. The loss of seven Morgans had done nothing to encourage the break-off of the remainder, and reinforcements were on the way.
“Time to TF Damaris launch?” Hawksley asked.
“Seventeen seconds.”
“That’s it. Mister Willoughby, Chief Cooper; take out the rest of these Morgans”
Cooper’s hand went to the release switch, but Willoughby was faster. “Torpedoes away,” Willoughby announced.
Hawksley kept his voice even.”How many torpedoes, Mr. Willoughby?” he asked quietly. The XO didn’t answer, and Hawksley nodded to Chief Cooper.
Falkenberg’s turrets began sweeping the Morgan squadrons with lasers, and Imperial pilots began to die.
“Task Force Damaris now launching, skipper.” It took Hawksley a second to realize that the dead toned voice belonged to his executive officer. Within the immersion display, two hundred blue-green sparks detached themselves from Damaris and her sister ships and began accelerating toward the lead vessels in the Imperial formation designated Intruder Three. The Sauron task force immediately changed course and began vector thrusting toward an intercept with TF Fomoria.
“All right, we cleared the way; get us out of here, Helm. Bring us about to the midpoint of the Intruder Three formation and let’s get ready to help put the rest of that flying hammer in the hurt locker.”
“Captain,” Chief Cooper called out; “Sensors show surviving Morgans closing on Banshee.”
“Commo, get me Captain Connolly.”
Connolly’s features flickered into life within the display. He did not look happy to see Hawksley. “Captain Hawksley.”
“Captain Connolly, can you hold out until we can close in to render assistance?”
Connolly shook his head. “My regrets, Captain Hawksley, but our point defense turrets are out along with half my main batteries. All our missiles are expended, and I believe that Banshee has done all she can this day. We are breaking-off combat and retreating. I expect that Banshee will be needed at New Ireland in the months to come, and I suggest the same is true of your ship at Burgess. In any case,” he said, reaching out for something on the panel before him, ”Fare thee well.”
The connection was broken.
Within the immersion display, Banshees course suddenly developed a steeply ascending arc that computer projections showed would bring her into a right angle climb above the plane of the ecliptic of Sauron System; the fastest way out of the battle. By virtue of Banshee’s course and acceleration, Falkenberg’s own current speed and vector would put her directly beneath Connolly’s ship in seconds.
With the Banshee’s exit, the three dozen lights, representing the Morgans that had been attacking her, all abruptly changed course and began closing on the approaching Falkenberg.
Hawksley stared in a mixture of anger, contempt and, admittedly, envy. “Well, Erin go fucking bragh to you, too,” he whispered. “Chief Cooper; tell me you can take out those Morgans before we’re crippled.”
Cooper checked his screens, found a discrepancy, checked again. He gave Hawksley his answer in a voice filled with resigned sadness. “I can do that skipper, if Mister Willoughby would release his lock-outs on the missiles he pretended to launch earlier.”
Hawksley slowly turned a shocked stare to the ashen face of his executive officer. Willoughby didn’t move, only answered in a low voice, “There aren’t but the two of us left, Captain.” He raised his eyes to Hawksley’s.”What else could I do?”
Well, what did I expect? Hawksley asked himself. That’s the problem with being a privateer; sooner or later, men without a country come to believe in nothing but friends or, if they’re very lucky, whatever remnants of family remain to them. For that is all that this way of life leaves them.
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his parents, then his wife and children, and finally Mara Emory aboard the Damaris.
But only if they are very lucky, indeed...
“You might have considered, Mister Willoughby,” Hawksley told him, “that your actions have probably guaranteed that neither of your mother’s two remaining sons will live out this day. You are relieved, sir.”
Hawksley nodded to Chief Cooper, who took Willoughby’s place at the helm and main weaponry station.”Everything in order there, Chief?”
“Yes, sir. Re-initializing weaponry locks now.”
“Fire when ready.”
Aboard the Fomoria, one of Second Rank’s assistants double-checked his readings, then announced: “New Ireland ship Banshee breaking off under controlled acceleration, Second Rank.”
Althene didn’t even pause.”Spike it.”
The officer nodded to Communications Fifth Rank Boyle, who sent the scuttle signal to Banshee’s special on-board package.
Thirty
I
Damaris’ immersion display image was steadily deteriorating, and now it developed a glaring white spot at the point where Emory had last seen the Falkenberg,
“What ship was that?”
“Unknown, First Rank; either the Falkenberg or the Banshee, but - ”
“Come about to three-five-seven.”
“First Rank, Dictator Diettinger has ordered coordinated maneuvers to begin in - ”
Emory was half out of her chair before her Second Rank came to his senses and implemented the course change.
Damaris made for the last known position of the Falkenberg, while the other five ships in what had been her task force compensated their vectors, and went with her.
“What the devil is going on with TF Damaris?” Diettinger asked.”Sensors; time to intercept for their missile salvo?”
“Twelve seconds, Dictator.”
“Dictator, rear elements of our task force report Intruder Two closing to missile range.”
“Stand by,” Diettinger ordered. He checked his chronometer. He had told Koln six minutes; that was two minutes ago. He had four more minutes before he would have to lie to the Cyborg again, or simply tell him the truth; that neither he nor any of his EVA Commandos were ever going to be launched at all.
“First wave of torpedoes impacting now.”
The immersion display showed the seven lead ships of Intruder Three had suffered Field burn-throughs, overloads and other fatal disasters. The Fourth and Fifth Rankers on Fomoria’s bridge could not suppress a ragged cheer, but Diettinger looked farther back along the line of Intruder Three’s still-intact formation - over one hundred enemy vessels remained.”Number of torpedoes remaining in Task Force Damaris’ salvo?”
“One hundred and thirty-seven, Dictator,” Second Rank answered; a third of the torpedoes had been consumed destroying less than five-percent of the remaining ships in Intruder Three. She sent him a look which told him that whatever secret thing it was he had planned, simple arithmetic dictated that he had best do it soon.
“Communications.”
“Dictator.”
“Send again all vessels Task Force Damaris: You are ordered to come about and place your helm controls under command of this vessel.’ Distance to Intruder Three?”
“Fifty thousand kilometers and closing.”
“Weapons lock!” his own Weapons Ranker shouted. “Enemy missiles bearing one-seven-three mark two-ten. Intercept in nine seconds.”
Diettinger shifted the display; nearly a hundred ships of a combined Imperial-Outworlder fleet were in firing range of TF Fomoria’s remaining forty vessels. Intruder Two had arrived.
Initial impacts did little to threaten the Fomoria, but a lucky multiple strike caused a minor burn-through; just the excuse Diettinger needed.
“Cyborg Rank Koln,” he addressed the message panel.
“Koln here.”
“We have minor damage to our launch electronics; your EVA will be commenced immediately upon effect of repairs; stand by for a two-second launch warning.”
“Understood.” the Cyborg said.
Diettinger cut the connection, then used his networked overrides to disable all EVA launch capacity throughout his task force. He had plans for the Cyborgs, and those plans did not include throwing the Super Soldiers away in the absurdity of a Gotterdammerung.
But he wanted TF Damaris and its Cyborgs, too. And he was running out of time to collect them. Before him, the immersion display showed him why Emory was not responding to his direct orders, and as he had suspected, it had to do with the Falkenberg.
II
The Morgans had been joined by the fast battle cruiser Stonewall Jackson from the reinforced Intruder Two, and Falkenberg was being torn to pieces. “Seven burn-throughs, Captain,” Chief Cooper was shouting through the smoke. “All starboard weapon arrays down; dorsal and port arrays at thirty-percent; skipper, we’re history.”
Hawksley coughed and nodded acknowledgment. The problem with fighting from inside the Langston Field was that it did not allow a ship to lower it in order to surrender. Even opening gaps for message lasers was out of the question, as any such breach would be detected by an enemy torpedo’s onboard artificial intelligence, and exploited. And the sheer volume of energy being poured into the Field meant that the moment it was down, any ship it had been protecting would be vaporized before it could so much as key its signaling apparatus to seek terms. For the same reason, lifeboats were useless in combat. A losing ship could only hope that the victor would show sufficient mercy to stop pounding it long enough to allow it to flicker its Field in a gesture of submission; and in all the weeks of this battle, that was something the Imperials had never once indicated they were interested in doing.