Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  So far, the program was working, at least in Kris’s mind. Based on what she’d seen already, Kris was plenty anxious. Whatever weaknesses the Ionians were hiding probably would not go far towards countering the real strengths in evidence. They might as well just let them look. But she was only anxious from the perspective of going into battle against the force the Ionians were so proudly displaying. Looked at from the purely academic standpoint of shipbuilding and fitting-out, she had no trouble in admitting to a considerable degree of admiration.

  Ticonderoga was a case in point. Facetiously called a battlecruiser, she was actually a pocket battleship with two banks of 14-inch railguns on each side, twelve guns per bank for a total of forty-eight. Along her dorsal spline were arrayed 256 vertical-launch cells, all hot rounds, with another 500 missiles stored in a ‘tween-decks magazine. Her fore and aft chase mounts were the heaviest Kris had seen off a dreadnought and she was had more automation than any ship Kris had ever been on: Ticonderoga could almost literally fight herself. In battle much of that automation was bound to fail, but until it did, she could keep up a truly horrendous rate of fire. Nor were her defenses neglected. Her point-defense was, if anything, overdeveloped, but then Iona lacked carriers, so Ticonderoga wasn’t able to rely on a fighter screen as League ships did. The Ionian Navy was an in-system force and without the need to be so mass conscious, their engineers had done away with the standard layer of active armor and replaced it with a crysteel belt, a meter thick in places, along with a new type of superefficient shield generator that dumped energy directly through the engine ports to cut down on shield flutter. Her EW suite was cutting edge, based on a class of algorithms that, as far as Kris knew, weren’t even in development in the CEF.

  Furthermore, the Ionians knew that the League’s heaviest combatants in system were old refit Halith cruisers designed for deep-space engagements at long range, not close-in knife fights in a system full of rocks. The light cruiser Osiris, sleek beautiful craft that she was, would be lucky to live ten minutes if she got in range of Ticonderoga’s broadside.

  True, Ticonderoga’s engines were not yet operational and would not be for several months. Even then, she faced more weeks of final fitting out, crewing, and then shakedown. Ticonderoga was not an immediate threat; rather she was a potent symbol of a near-term capabilities and aspirations. All the more so, because although the Ionians claimed she was not hypercapable, that statement was heavily qualified by the presence of a broad ventral spline that wasn’t good for anything except attaching a keel for a grav plant. Overall, Kris was ready to conclude that if the Ionians fought as well as they built, Rhimer had been right about the odds being 2 to 1, just wrong about the favored side. She wondered what Loews was making of all of this.

  The lieutenant was pointing around CIC, carrying on in a cheerful voice about the state-of-the-art sensor-weapon suites, the data fusion and filtering capabilities, the fully integrated consoles; answering questions and thoroughly enjoying himself while the delegates jostled and prodded one another to get a better look at this or that. Kris forcibly suppressed a chuckle as she remembered Rhimer’s indelicate hints about a keen eye and an attentive ear. If only he’d been invited.

  The ship’s clock chimed four bells of the PM watch, two in the afternoon of the arbitrary ship’s day, the traditional time for the senior officer’s dinner. The crew ate at noon, Kris told Leidecker in response to his whispered question; the gunroom—that is, the junior officers and noncoms—at 1:00 PM; the wardroom (senior officers and senior warrant officers, Kris explained) at 2:00 PM; and the captain, when he dined alone, at 3:00—these days, some even waited until 4:00. Evidently, Iona maintained these League traditions, or they were accommodating themselves to their guests. A bell? Oh, yes: a bell was half an hour. There were eight bells to a watch, making six full watches in a standard day, although there were really seven because of the dog watches, but Leidecker did not get to hear about dog watches because at this point the security men began herding them towards the wardroom, where dinner would be served, and further discussion became impractical.

  Nor did Kris and Leidecker get to resume their conversation during the meal. It had been agreed to mix the messes so that Ionian and League personnel ate together. Somehow, Kris was not surprised to find the young lieutenant cum tour guide sitting across from her. He saluted and then held out his hand.

  “Lev Anson,” he introduced himself. “Humble lieutenant of the Ionian Service.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Loralynn Kennakris.” Kris took his hand briefly. The first course arrived: soup—eels for god’s sake, eels in cream—and Kris poked it suspiciously while the lieutenant made small talk. By the time she nerved herself to bite into one, she’d heard a snippets about the lieutenant’s education, the merits of various eateries downside, and a new way to rig small craft on a crowded deck. (This last because Lieutenant Anson had made out that Kris was a flight officer.)

  In self-defense Kris, having bitten into a chunk of eel and discovered it was actually quite good, asked, “So what duty do you have on Ticonderoga?”

  Anson smiled and cocked his head sideways. “Ah! Fooled ya, did I?”

  “Excuse me?” Kris inquired icily.

  The lieutenant was undamped. “I don’t serve on Tyco, Commander. They just let me do this charade to get my hopes up.”

  Kris arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Anson nodded, his mouth being full of soup. “Yes indeed,” he said at length. “I’m afraid it’ll be quite a while before you get to hear about the gallant Captain Anson in the press.”

  “So what do you do? If you don’t mind a foreigner prying.”

  “I work for Bill Roquelaurie.”

  Now Kris was caught with a mouth full of cream and eel. She dabbed her chin with a napkin. “Dr. William Roquelaurie? The Secretary of Defense?”

  “That’s right.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Anson said, waving his spoon. “Gopher, lackey, aide-de-camp.” By which he meant a senior staff position. Anson was awfully young to fill such a billet for cabinet minister. He was either very good or very well connected. Kris, thinking of Huron, decided not to rule out that he was both.

  “Anson. The Llanberis Anson’s, by any chance?” Leander’s copy of the League Almanac, which Kris had been reading off and on, had them down as big mining magnates on Iona’s southern continent.

  “Oh?” The lieutenant looked up bright eyed. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Your family, yeah.”

  “Good things, I hope.”

  “I don’t know,” Kris replied in her best deadpan. “The wanted poster didn’t say.”

  Anson laughed, a loud, raucous off-key noise, much at odds with his lovely voice. “Well, I guess deserved that.” Kris said nothing, going after the last of her cream with a piece of bread. “But I was surprised to learn that there’s an almost-celebrity on your station right now.”

  That made her stomach tense. As the SECDEF’s aide-de-camp, he’d certainly have strong intel connections. Was he hinting that he knew details of her service record? Just a little twist of the knife to round out the AM’s performance?

  “Who’s that?”—taking a breath and letting part of it go.

  “Major Minerva Lewis.”

  That allow the rest of the breath to escape. “Oh. How’s she an almost-celebrity?”

  “You aren’t familiar with Dakota, then? It’s a video series.” Kris shook her head. “It probably hasn’t jumped markets yet.” With that, he unfolded the plot of a typical action-adventure show about the career of a mercenary during the interwar years: lots of highly improbable derring-do helped along with plenty of gratuitous sex. It sounded a bit like the Wayfarer serials Kris had watched as a kid—the last video entertainments she cared to remember. What this had to do with Major Lewis did not appear until the main course (Beef Wellington) was served. “She’s the inspiration for it,” Anson explained. “Now, most people don’t know
that, and from what I’ve learned, Major Lewis is actually even more colorful than the character they based on her. You’d know more about that than we do.” Kris made an ambiguous noise. “I tell ya, I’d give Tyco’s port broadside to have her in our service.”

  “Would you?” Kris sliced into her Beef Wellington and tried to hide her surprise at finding a slab of meat inside.

  “Damn straight, and the forward chase mount too.”

  That earned him a smile. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Anson laughed again, that odd discordant barking, took something out of his breast pocket and slid it across the table. “My card. Leave me a message when it’s all arranged.”

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon was given over to a gun exercise: a live-fire demonstration of Ticonderoga’s railguns. The ship was towed from the slip with by a trio of tugs and the delegation gathered on the upper gun deck—only the one deck would be fired—where a bulky, leather-voiced bosun, a perfect caricature of the breed, explained the evolution.

  “Now, officers and gentlemen, we shall be firing at those targets there.” He pointed to a view screen on which a cutter could be seen ejecting long silver cylinders: the gas-filled targets. “Note the velocities,” he called out, pointing the display and it’s color-coded readouts. “Three targets shall be on a matching course oblique—that is, providing a pure deflection shot. Three shall be on an intercept course ahead.” The bosun’s pointer highlighted the targets as he named them. “This exercise shall be done at null-gee but we shall not pump ship—”

  “Pump ship?” whispered Leidecker, standing by Kris again. “Whatever does that mean?”

  “Ships evacuate their air before going into action,” Kris explained rapidly. “It’s a safety measure, like spalling shields.”

  “Safety measure?” the perplexed doctor muttered. “No air?”

  “Holes, doctor,” Kris hissed. “Warships get holes in the them. Air leaking out at a standard atmo’s worth of pressure makes a mess.”

  “Oh yes, oh without a doubt, yes . . .”

  “—conducted by the deadlights. There shall be no ship’s power to the guns, nor to the shot train. Fire directors will not be used; guns are to be trained and pointed by the internal sighting system only.” He patted the display on the nearest mount, its 3D reticule and range readouts already illuminated.

  “No power?” asked Leidecker, whispering once again. “Aren’t these weapons electrical in nature?”

  “Power cells,” Kris answered low, jogging his elbow. “There’s a power cell in each mount in case the ship’s power lines are cut.”

  “Oh. Yes. Clever.”

  Kris rolled her eyes.

  “The ship shall fire as many full broadsides as may be done in five minutes, port watch first. Then we shall roll on attitude thrusters, and the starboard watch shall engage against six fresh targets. You gents there will be well advised to take a fast hold when we roll—it comes on sudden. And mind your ears, as it can get noisy. When the boats are clear, the exercise will commence upon the gunnery officer’s order. Permission to call gun crews, sir.” This to the officer, a senior lieutenant, looking very grave, who would conduct the exercise while Ticonderoga’s senior officers observed from the half-deck, above them and right aft. Kris did not envy the lieutenant, who nodded. The bosun turned smartly to the waiting crews and bellowed, “Crews to your guns! Jump to it now!”

  The crews ran to their stations: three per gun plus a gun captain who trained the gun and fired it.

  “Run out your guns!” The gun captains opened each gunport by the manual crack, leaving just the memory-plastic pressure seal, while the crews tallied onto the manual winches on either side of their mount and with a cry slammed it up hard against the port combing.

  “Lock your guns!” One man on each side of the mount rammed the locking dogs into their deck recesses; the gun captain hauled back on the winch tackle to confirm that the mount was secure, and at his nod the crew hollered, “Up and out! Hard and down!” which Kris considered an inspired but thoroughly unnecessary bit of theater.

  “Grav off!” called the bosun. The gravity disappeared abruptly, causing murmurs of dismay among the civilians. Kris took hold of Leidecker’s shoulder as he began to drift and secured both of them to a deck stanchion.

  “Rig for red!”

  The lights went out, equally abruptly, and the emergency reds came on. The whole gun deck bathed in eerie bloody light. Quite effective, Kris thought, for those who’d never been in combat.

  “Loaders up!” called the bosun. The loading crews by the fore and aft magazines placed a 12” titanium-sapphire round, just over two and a half feet long and tapering to a sharp ogive point with a hollow receptacle in the end, in each of the first six cradles, ready the slide them down the center track to the waiting crews once the first salvo was fired.

  “Rangemaster,” asked the lieutenant in a nearly human voice, “this is Tyco. Are we clear to fire?”

  “Tyco,” the rangemaster answered, “you are cleared hot. I say again, you are cleared hot.”

  “Guns!” the lieutenant barked, “you will fire as they bear from the forward, aft. Fire at will!”

  On the view screen the first targets came into line. The captain of number-one gun watched his sighting pip intently. He traversed the gun with the hand controls and as the pip dropped between the two innermost rings, he pressed the firing stud. The railgun gave an enormous shriek—a noise Kris had rarely heard before, the hull normally being airless—and a vibration ran through the deck as outside the ship the accelerator rings, seven of them, gave off a deep ultraviolet flash, visible as a sort of nimbus on the view screen. The breech opened and the sharp electric stench of ozone reached their nostrils. Number-two gun bore and fired and then the rest in frightful rapidity. The deck was alive with trembling; the shriek, a weird high-pitched falling banshee wail, became continuous as the firing of one gun overlaid another. Fifty-kilo shot ran down the train on their magnetic cradles, caught by two men who deftly guided them to the breech. The third man thrust a meter-long needle into the shot’s pointed end and then all three shoved it home and sealed the breech.

  “What is that needle?” Leidecker bellowed, hands cupped over his ears against the din.

  “A prefire rod,” Kris answered, close to his ear.

  “A what?”

  “A prefire!” she repeated, louder. “Most ships have a layer of reactive armor—it explodes outwards when it detects an incoming round—”

  “Around?” Leidecker shouted as the firing tempo increased. “Around what?” The targets were all in shreds and the gun crews were firing into the tatters while the tracking system tallied the hits.

  “A round!” Kris yelled, “A shot! The explosion’s impulse slows down the round, maybe enough so it won’t penetrate.” Leidecker nodded. “The rod is fired ahead of the round by a chemical charge—”

  “A what?” The firing reached another crescendo, the third broadside.

  “Chemical! An explosive! Makes the armor react too soon so it doesn’t slow down the round!”

  Leidecker nodded and might have spoken but whatever he said was lost in the fourth broadside.

  “ ’Vast firing!” thundered the bosun.

  “Put her over, Mister Karol,” called out the gunnery officer in the piercing, reeking quiet.

  “Helm, make roll! Starboard teams, look alive there! Fire as they bear!”

  “Hold on!” Kris grabbed Leidecker as he about to be flung into a bulkhead. Ticonderoga rolled over briskly, shockingly disorienting to those unaccustomed to it. Kris executed a neat back flip, a maneuver so ingrained it was almost pure spinal reflex, which was just as well since she was busy with pulling Leidecker over with her. When they came back “upright” again, Leidecker had turned pale and perhaps a little green. “Oh my goodness,” he murmured. “Oh my word.” Then the firing and hammering and noise began again—five minutes of shrieking hurrying hell.

&
nbsp; At last, the bosun yelled, “ ’Vast firing! Secure guns! Loaders, haul aft! Make all secure!”

  The crews powered down and undogged their mounts, ran them in, careful of the tubes that cracked with static as they encountered the air, and locked them down while the gun captains secured the port lids. The loaders uncradled and stowed the unfired shot and when all was done, the crews let out a blooding-curdle shriek in unison, very like a railgun firing, that made Leidecker jump.

  The bosun turned to the gunnery officer and reported, “All secure, sir! Crews to be dismissed?”

  “Yes, Mister Karol.” The lieutenant glanced at Tyco’s captain, unmoved on the half-deck, who waited a moment and then gave a slight nod. Pleasure, not unmixed with relief, showed plain on the lieutenant’s features as he said to the bosun, “That was well done, Mister Karol. Well done, indeed.”

  With that, the crews filed off (with more smiling and laughing than might be considered acceptable under a really taut skipper, Kris thought), and Lieutenant Anson came to collect his charges who, ears ringing and eyes smarting, were all too happy to go. As they left, Kris snuck a glance at the shot tracker on the view screen.

  Eighty percent of the rounds had gone home—eighty percent at almost a round per minute, all by hand. League standard for manual gun practice was a shot every eighty seconds, and if two-thirds were on target, that was considered to be better than good. Of course, the Ionians were working off a nice stable deck, the targets weren’t maneuvering, and no one was shooting back. But even so . . .

  I think we may be in trouble.

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 181

  Caernarvon

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  Back on Leander, Kris composed a memo on the various Ionian installations she’d visited—especially Ticonderoga—to the Right-Honorable Envoy with a courtesy copy to Admiral Rhimer, and she did not spare the details. She stopped short of making any recommendations: the admiral would draw his own conclusions and Loews so far had not asked for any opinions from her. Thus far, he had more or less totally ignored her presence, which suited Kris just fine.