To Honor You Call Us (Man of War)

by Honsinger, H. Paul

  Comms had tried all the Pfelung voice and data channels, but the main Pfelung OutSystem Communications Relay and Exchange had automatically rejected the incoming signal because it came from a Union warship and, under their strict neutrality laws, the Pfelung did not communicate with the warships of any of the belligerent powers in the current war. Comms tried spoofing the OSCoRE by changing the source origination code for the signal to make it appear that it did not come from a Union warship, but the Pfelung computer had already associated the ship’s location in space with the original code and saw through the ruse.

  Comms tried bypassing the OSCoRE by signaling some of the larger entities on the planet that had their own comm networks and channels, but all had rejected the signal as soon as the recipient figured out who the sender was. A very helpful female with the Pfelung Astronomical, Astrophysical, Astrometric, and Astrocartographic Administration had, however, suggested that the communication should be directed through standard diplomatic channels.

  Standard diplomatic channels. Brilliant. Only, as part of their strict neutrality, the Pfelung would not allow the Union to maintain an embassy or a consulate or even so much as a GT&T branch office in their space. When the Pfelung said “strict neutrality,” they weren’t kidding.

  Accordingly, “standard diplomatic channels” would consist of a long chain of transmissions across hundreds of light years of space involving the also-neutral Tri-Nin as intermediaries and requiring at least three and a half days. The Krag would be halfway to Bravo by then.

  However, Max was not above bypassing official channels. He had low level, unofficial contacts with virtually every military establishment in Known Space. Except, of course, with the Pfelung. So, he had Comms and his back room root through every database and sigint intercept for every known Pfelung voice channel, comm frequency, data network, or any other means by which someone could get any sort of voice message, electronic mail message, text message, digital image protocol facsimile message, video call, tachyon semaphore, or carrier pigeon with a jet pack and a pressure suit through to the Pfelung Comprehensive Authority for the Harmonious Swimming Together of the Warriors, which is what they called their high command or joint chiefs, to let them know that their continued survival as a species was in jeopardy.

  All to no avail. Naturally, Max had notified Admiral Hornmeyer, who had sent a Priority Flash dispatch off to the chief of naval operations, who in turn, as soon as he got the message fourteen hours later, would frantically throw as many forces as he could in the path of the anticipated Krag thrust.

  But it didn’t take a vice admiral in Strategic Plans to know that it would be far too little, and vastly too late. It would be like what the Germans did to the French in 1940. Disaster. The place to stop the Krag was at Pfelung, not Tarsind, or Virkandum, or—God forbid—Stein 2051.

  Admiral Hornmeyer had dispatched a combat group at maximum speed. It would arrive in ten days.

  Having no help to send, Max had to go himself. In his one puny destroyer. To stop the whole Krag navy. It was suicide, with the added drama of bringing 214 men and boys along for company.

  They might die before even reaching their battlefield. The Cumberland was courting destruction from within by pushing its compression drive beyond the “red line” to propel the ship at the lunatic velocity of 2200 c, about 80 c beyond the vessel’s rated maximum. Lieutenant Brown made his obligatory, ritual protest, but he took one look at Max’s face and decided not to press the matter. The engineer was unable to make further impassioned pleas on behalf of his engines; he was too busy trying to keep them from blowing up and the ship from flying apart.

  Even at this speed, the two light years between Zoleft and Pfelung was nearly an eight-hour trip. And unless Max could convince them not to fire in a great burning hurry, the ship could not jump into the system because the Pfelung defensive installations covering the jump point would vaporize his destroyer in a few seconds.

  “Captain,” Garcia said, “as the ship’s legal compliance officer, it is my duty to inform you that we will be crossing into Pfelung territorial space in approximately two minutes and that doing so will be in express contravention of our orders. I will be required to note that fact in my log.”

  “Understood, XO. And will your log also show a protest of my action?” Garcia had the right to log an official protest of any action he thought to be illegal or outside of the commander’s authority.

  “No, sir. It will show that the action was taken with my full concurrence and support.” Then, so that only Max could hear: “If we live through this, I’ll stand right beside you at the court martial.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty.”

  “Any time, sir. Far better to hang together—”

  “Than to hang separately.”

  Indeed, living long enough just to get past the Pfelung defenses, much less dealing with the coming Krag attack, was by no means certain. Already, as the Cumberland streaked into the outskirts of their system and penetrated their defensive sensor net, the Pfelung were warning him off, telling him in great detail that he was violating their sovereign territorial space and that if he did not turn about and leave, he would be intercepted and destroyed.

  “Mr. Kasparov, some information on what is going on in that system would be very helpful about now,” Max prompted.

  “Sorry, sir, we have every sensor on active scan, maximum intensity, focused on the area in question, but at this speed the sensor beams aren’t moving much faster than we are. I am getting lateral sensor returns from the patrol ships in this part of the outer solar system now, and I should be receiving data on any vessels at intermediate ranges on intercept courses in about a minute. But as for what’s going on near Pfelung, we won’t have much in the way of readings until we are almost there ourselves.”

  “Receiving the transponder codes listed in the freighter’s data base,” Comms chimed in. As each ship continually broadcast its transponder ID, the signal was there to be picked up as soon as the Cumberland was in range.

  “Eight of the ten expected freighters are already in place at the freight facility; one is in the traffic pattern to enter it; and one is about a tenth of an AU out, just getting inserted into the traffic pattern. The last ship is still at least two hours from being docked with the other ships, maybe as long as four or five, depending on the Pfelung traffic control system.”

  “Tactical, how are we doing?”

  “At this speed, we’ve already blown past the Pfelung system perimeter defense,” Bartoli said. “We’re moving so fast that by the time they detected us, the interception geometry was hopeless for them. They‘re far behind us now. They have two cruisers about twenty-five AU from the primary that are moving to intercept—they won’t be able to catch us. But we’ll pass through the outer weapons range of one in just over a minute, and of the other one about two minutes after that. Again, given our present speed, and the firing angles, it would be almost impossible to get a hit on us. After that, it gets more interesting. We’ll have to reduce speed, and they have other ships moving into position that will have a much more favorable interception geometry.”

  “Understood. Comms, any luck opening a direct channel to that pulse cannon battery?

  “Negative, Skipper. Cold shoulder all the way. Oh, and sir, one of the Marine sentries is on the comm saying that the doctor wishes permission to enter CIC.” That’s odd.

  “Permission granted.” Max decided that if he lived through this battle, he would give the doctor CIC access status. One of the Marines opened the hatch to admit the doctor. Just as the hatch was about to close, Clouseau darted in, zoomed past the doctor’s feet, and scampered onto the command island, where he stood, apparently waiting for something.

  “Come on in, Doctor. If you would like to have a seat, use the Commodore’s Station.”

  “Thank you. When I was play acting the part of the cutter captain, I got to like knowing what was going on. None of the Casualty Station consoles tie into any of the tactic
al displays.”

  He took a seat at the Commodore’s Station. Clouseau immediately leaped in his lap and sat up, watching that station’s displays with great interest. The doctor spoke to the animal, “I gather you like to be where the action is, just as I do. How unfortunate that I do not like cats.” Clouseau curled up on the doctor’s lap, still keeping his eyes on the display, while the doctor absently stroked his fur. Clouseau began purring.

  “Both of you are welcome in CIC, of course,” Max said, before turning to Garcia.

  “XO, I think it’s time for you to get on your way.”

  “Aye sir. And Skipper, good luck to you.”

  “Thanks, XO, to us all.” They shook hands, and the XO strode out of CIC. “Weapons, confirm missile tube load out.”

  “Sir, current missile tube load out is: Raven in tube one, missile is unarmed, warhead is unarmed; Raven in tube two, missile is unarmed, warhead is unarmed; Talon in Tube three, missile is unarmed, warhead is unarmed.”

  “Very well. Weapons Officer, this is a Nuclear Weapons Arming Order. Arm missile and warhead in tube one; arm missile and warhead in tube two. Do not—repeat, do not—set target at this time.”

  “Nuclear Weapons Arming Order confirmed and logged. Missile and warhead in tube one armed. Missile and warhead in tube two armed. Targets not set at this time.”

  “Sir,” Bartoli said, “we are coming in missile range of the first Pfelung cruiser.” He paused slightly. “He has fired a superluminal antiship missile.” Pause. “Missile has gone to active homing mode.” Yet another pause. “Missile is locked onto us and is homing. Based on the active homing pulse characteristics, am classifying this missile as code name ‘Minnow.’ Interception geometry is poor, and it is overtaking us very slowly. Point defense batteries locking on. Firing. Missile destroyed.”

  CIC was virtually silent for about half a minute. Bartoli picked up the narration again from the Tactical Station. “Coming into range of the second cruiser. Second cruiser firing. Missile is superluminal and has gone to active homing. Locked and tracking. Classifying as Minnow. Point defense batteries locking on. Firing. Miss. Missile still tracking. Point defense batteries reengaging. Miss. Point defense second layer engaging—rail gun going to continuous firing. Missile range now ten thousand meters. Nine thousand. Eight thousand. Seven thousand. Six thousand. Five thousand. Four thousand. Hit. Missile destroyed.”

  Bartoli shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll be so lucky next time, sir. There is a screen of eight cruisers and twelve destroyers in what looks like the Pfelung version of a Zhou Matrix, right in our path and about sixteen AU from our destination. With their superluminal missiles and with the other missile installations and pulse cannon battle stations they’ve got in this part of the system, there is no way around them, sir. Not if we want to get where we’re going in enough time to do any good.”

  “Then, we’ll have to go through them,” Max said, his fists clenched with determination. “Alert all decks and prepare to accept incoming fire. We’ll pass through the screen and then see what we can do about those freighters. Comms, keep broadcasting the same message. Maybe someone will get the idea that we’re not trying to hurt them, and maybe that will convince them not to shoot.” And maybe Santa Claus will come by in his sleigh and act as a missile decoy.

  WHAM! A bone-jarring shock shook the ship.

  “Stealthed mine,” said Tactical. “Intel said that the Pfelung are in the process of developing them, but they’re supposed to not be deployed yet.” He sounded annoyed, as though Intel had let him down, personally.

  WHAM! WHAM!

  “It appears that their information is not entirely up to date,” Max observed. “Damage?”

  “Damage to several of the amidships sensor arrays, antennas, and fairings—complete list on your DC subdisplay in about two minutes, Skipper.” DC had the answer right away. Minor damage. The way things were going, that wouldn’t last long.

  WHAM! One of the Environmental consoles went dark. In less than ten seconds, one man and a mid had the access panel open and were replacing the overloaded module.

  “Captain,” Bartoli said, “based on my assessment of the number and location of the Pfelung defending vessels and the known capability of their missiles, if each ship fires a full salvo, and if our countermeasures and point defense systems perform as predicted, we will be overwhelmed. Our likelihood of survival is very low.”

  “Very low? Be more specific. How low? Give me an approximate percent.”

  “An approximate percent chance of survival? Zero.”

  Zero. That’s low.

  “How long until they launch?” Heads turned. The question came from the doctor.

  Max nodded to Bartoli, giving him leave to answer. “Just over a minute.”

  Sahin thought about something for about half a second. Making up his mind, he squinted at the unfamiliar commodore’s console, managed to configure it to allow him to key in message text, and started typing furiously.

  He said to Comms, “Two days ago, I saved four images to my personal database. My password is ‘Harun1453.’ You need to broadcast this message and those images to those ships, on every frequency and band and however else you can.”

  Max didn’t have time to ask what the text was or what the images were. Max didn’t have time to ask the doctor to explain. If the doctor’s idea, whatever it may be, was going to be implemented in time to do any good, Max had to give the order in the next two or three seconds. He had to make the call: run the gauntlet of Pfelung warships or trust his life, his ship, and the lives of 214 men to a Hail Mary pass being thrown by a man Max had known for only twenty-two days.

  Easy call. “Comms. Do it.”

  Ensign Chin’s fingers flew over his console, capturing the text message, accessing and capturing the image files, bundling them in a message packet, and broadcasting them by every means the Cumberland had.

  “Pfelung missile targeting scanners engaging and locking. They are preparing to fire.” Tactical was a veritable fountain of good news today.

  It was only after the message and images were sent that Max saw exactly what kind of pass the doctor had thrown. The message read: “DO NOT FIRE STOP THIS SHIP CARRIES PRICELESS PFELUNG VITREUM SCULPTURAL VASE KNOWN AS BIRTH OF THE WATERS STOP SEE ATTACHED IMAGES STOP DESTRUCTION OF THIS VESSEL WILL DESTROY IRREPLACEABLE PART OF PFELUNG ARTISTIC HERITAGE STOP PLEASE LISTEN TO US STOP WE ARE NOT YOUR ENEMIES STOP MESSAGE ENDS.” Four images of the piece were attached.

  “Sir, the cruisers just shut down their targeting scanners.” Well, maybe Tactical did have good news every now and then.

  “Skipper, incoming from the Pfelung force commander,” Comms said. “Text only.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “TRANSMIT NAME OF OBJECT OWNER STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “Comms,” said Max, “send ‘Dr. Ibrahim Sahin.’”

  “Sending.” Ten-second pause. “Receiving.”

  “IDENTITY OF OWNER CONSISTENT WITH OUR RECORDS STOP PLEASE RETRANSMIT EARLIER MESSAGE STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “Quick, Chin, send the earlier message again. Tack on the tactical projection of the expected Krag attack we prepared for the follow-up message. And tell the hangar deck to launch the cutter.”

  “Cutter away,” Tactical announced. The cutter was launched with the XO and ten men aboard. It immediately set course for the last of the ten freighters. The idea was for the cutter crew to board and take the last freighter, then use the freighter’s comm equipment and codes to attempt to induce the other freighters not to do what they planned to do.

  “Maneuvering, reduce to fifteen c and steer for jump point Charlie.” That was the jump point that led in the direction of Krag space. The one the Krag would come through. “Put us fifty thousand kills away from the jump point and from the cargo facility.”

  Maneuvering confirmed the order, and the ship began to slow.

  “Incoming message.”

  “THIS IS ADMIRAL CENRUU-MAA 114 STOP HAV
E RECEIVED YOUR WARNING AND PROVISIONALLY EVALUATE ITS CONTENT AS TRUTHFUL STOP HAVE FORWARDED MESSAGE TO BATTERY COMMANDERS AND HIGHER AUTHORITY STOP HAVE ALSO RECALLED ON MY AUTHORITY PERIMETER DEFENSE FORCE TO MEET THIS THREAT STOP INNER SYSTEM DEFENSE FORCE UNDER MY COMMAND IS NOW CLOSING JUMP POINT ETA ONE POINT THREE STANDARD HOURS STOP YOU ARE DIRECTED TO NULL DRIVES AND AWAIT PILOT VESSEL THAT WILL ESCORT YOU TO HOLDING AREA STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “Damnit,” said Max. “We’ve got to neutralize those freighters. If they figure out that we’re onto them, I’m sure there’s a Krag paying close attention on one of those ships with a remote triggering device, or somewhere in the system, who—”

  Max never got to finish his sentence, as what the closely attentive Krag would do manifested itself in the most obvious manner. All ten of the freighters mentioned in the captured Krag data exploded in the blue-white glare of matter–antimatter annihilation. Max had never seen an antimatter explosion, as antimatter weapons had never been used by any power in Known Space. Until now.

  The explosion instantly vaporized all the affected ships as well as much of the cargo transshipment facility and about half of the thirty or so ships docked there, while turning the rest into sharp-edged shreds of metal debris, some the size of ground cars and weighing almost three tons, embedded in the shock wave. Travelling at an appreciable fraction of lightspeed, the shock wave and debris reached the pulse cannon battery covering jump point Charlie a quarter of a second later.

  Unfortunately, as its designers had thought the battery would face attack only from the direction of the jump point, the side facing the depot was unarmored. The debris tore through the battery’s rear hull in a dozen places like a shotgun blast through cardboard, destroying the advanced fusion reactors that provided plasma for the pulse cannons. Unleashed from magnetic confinement in the reactors’ cores, superheated plasma flashed out in all directions, consuming virtually everything it touched.

  When the fireball faded, all that was left of the “impregnable” battle station was the 5.3-meter-thick, heavily armored, and ultimately useless glacis plate that formed the battery’s hull on the side that had once faced the jump point. Like the British fortifications at Singapore, when the enemy came, the battle station’s defenses were facing in the wrong direction.