“The phase wakes were not steady, sir, but—”
“On plot!” Snapping off the man’s replay, incensed with his temporizing. The wakes appeared, fuzzed and distorted, but clear enough. “That’s a denied zone! No warships can jump in from there!”
“But, sir,” the conning officer pleaded. “Those are combatant wakes. The gravitational distortions must be shifting the origin—”
“They’re drones!” Practically a shout. He’d wasted a full salvo on a flock of worthless drones . . .
“Sir!” His sensor lead appeared on the overlay. “New contact—closing hard a-port!”
He knew it. They decoyed him with drones to set up this attack on his other flank. “Come hard about! Prepare to engage with missiles. Fire as soon as you have a solution.”
“Continue reloading torpedoes, sir?” asked his WCO, hovering over his display. The new formation was flying tight and in all the clutter he could only tell it was heavy. The range estimates jumped alarmingly—even the bearing would not settle. Once they cleared this damn ice though . . .
“Do not continue reloading. Do you have a solution?”
The ice was thinning. The WCO adjusted his filters—bearing was good. The formation was starting to open up, preparatory to launching. If they could just settle the range a bit more . . .
“Almost, sir.”
“Do you or do you not have a solution?”
The WCO felt the short hairs on the back of his neck grate on his collar at the captain’s tone. The confidence indicator shifted from red to yellow. Close enough.
“Yes, sir. We have a—”
His next word faltered as railgun fire from Tisiphone and Medea hammered Mistral’s hull—from the starboard. The light cruiser heeled and bucked under the punishment. In CIC, the emergency reds came on, and the systems flickered and rebooted as they switched to backup power. This prevented Captain Potucek from giving his next order—to roll the ship and interpose her keel—for a few crucial seconds. Tisiphone’s 8-inch shot had breached the hull amidships between frames 36 and 41, cutting the control lines and momentarily isolating CIC from the bridge.
As Potucek switched circuits to raise his executive officer, one of Medea’s 4-inch rounds, massing a mere 28 kilos, shot through the breach and struck a stack of torpedoes the loaders in their hurry had left beside the midships hoist. The safed warheads, shattered by the impact, failed to detonate. The boost motors, primed for launch, did.
A few milliseconds later, IHS Mistral broke in half.
~ ~ ~
Day 233 (0430)
Eight hours later . . .
LSS Polidor, lying up
Romeo Sector, Apollyon Gates
“What the fuck?” growled Kris through clogged throat as some uninvited hand shook her awake. “Who let me sleep?”
“The angels.” Min winked and shoved a plate of food under her nose. “Eat something, Commodore. Unless you wanna be one of them before your time.”
Struggling semi-upright with Min’s impertinent help, she took the plate. It indeed smelled heavenly: two eggs, over easy; three strips of bacon, and best of all, fried potatoes. “Where the hell’d ya get this?”
“That’s not your department. Ma’am. Eat. Before the Corporal decides to feed you herself. ”
So much for the dignity of flag rank—balancing the plate on her knees and shoveling in a forkful of potatoes. No one told her she’d have to endure g’damned mother . . . hens.
“How we doin’?” Mumbling the words through the mouthful.
“The General will bring you up to speed. Once you finish that.”
Could a captain in the Ionian Navy, appointed commodore but serving as a volunteer, write up a CEF marine commandant for insubordination?
Probably not. Worse luck . . .
“Cloak and Dagger have been devoting themselves to keeping ’em on the strain, but the party will start back up in earnest in under an hour,” Min divulged as the last of potatoes disappeared and Kris tackled the bacon. “And Vasquez wants to look at your arm. Party or no.”
“A’right”—bowing to the inevitable. Kris started to set the eggs aside but Min’s look quashed that. “Tell the General I’ll be on-line in ten”—dutifully finishing both.
Min tossed her a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Restored by breakfast and two cups of coffee Corporal Vasquez had brought and made her drink with her left hand under control of the neural induction unit by way of therapy, Kris brought up General Corhaine on the flag bridge’s main screen. She greeted Kris cordially, looking relaxed, as if they weren’t about to get their asses shot off. Clearly no one was harassing her to eat, or conniving to let her doze and neglect her duty—four hours! —or bringing her coffee and seeing that she drank it. Nor could Kris conceive of anyone doing so. The woman seemed impervious to exhaustion, hunger, worry or doubt.
Gawd, how I miss my fighter. Life had been so beautifully simple then . . .
“How’s it holding, General?” They pulled back some during the “night” of their arbitrary day-cycle, limited themselves to the harassing attacks Min referred to as “keeping ’em on the strain”, so they could regroup, make repairs, and catch what snatches of sleep afforded. The evening has seen their first serious casualty: Orithyia, one of Cloak’s destroyers, badly hulled when, trying to evade the battleship Condorcet, she ran headlong into a salvo from Bolimov. Towed clear, thanks to a frantic attack by her mates, she survived but looked to be out of the fight for good.
“So far, as well as we have any right to expect. I sent Orithyia back to AG-IV”—the exit zone to Iona—“with Aurora. If she can safely jump, she will. Otherwise, she’ll lie up dark. Aurora will rejoin within the hour. Hippolyta and Antiope were shaken up some, but nothing we can’t handle. Tisiphone scored a cruiser and took the legs off another destroyer, but more to the point, he’s been set back at least three hours.” Three hours may not seem like much, but it showed their plan was working. “On the negative side, Caneris must’ve guessed we could read his mail, as he’s switched from fleet broadcast to tight-beam relay. That will slow down his responses, but we’re back to guesswork.”
“Okay. It was fun while it lasted.” Kris’s remark expressed a degree of philosophy she didn’t actually feel. They’d achieved yesterday’s lopsided box score—two Dom cruisers and a destroyer down, another cruiser and three more destroyers damaged, two legless, at the cost of one destroyer out of action and some repairable damage—by intercepting his orders and using their superior agility to position their own ships ahead of his. But they knew it couldn’t last.
“Any word from Deep Six?” By the schedule, the shipbreakers should have arrived there two hours ago. The first harbor sections might arrive anytime in the next day-cycle, and they couldn’t arrive soon enough for Kris and her little fleet.
“The Boys”—Corhaine’s pet name for the teams on the trio of corvettes—“made their schedule. Jester picked up some tremors. It’s too soon to say exactly when, but we do know they’re coming. Best estimate, is four to five hours.”
That was something. The Rip might be chaotic, but it didn’t play favorites.
“If we saw those tremors, Caneris did too. He’s been prudent in his actions up to now—maybe a shade too prudent—but with the clock started, that will almost certainly change. He’s holding steady now but at any time, he could go for broke.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Let go Tango sector, consolidate and work the flank. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him at Deep Six. If we act like we’re trying to funnel him into a ship grinder, the more likely he’ll be cautious.”
“Maybe fall back on AG-IV then? If we look like we’re trying to hold the door for another force, he might be tempted to come after us to avoid an envelopment?” Which, of course, was exactly what they intended to threaten him with, once Huron showed up.
But Huron wasn’t due for 19 hours. Maybe as much as twenty-one. Even twenty-four . . .
“He might,” Corhaine said after a telling moment. “But it’s risky. He might also decide to detach a pinning force and trust Condorcet and Bolimov to handle whatever’s in front of him. That’s a risk for him, but we don’t know how he’ll assess it. Overall, I think it’s better if we don’t entice him to divide his force that way at this stage.”
“Okay. I get that.” She also got—belatedly—that her suggestion would have isolated Corhaine’s shipbreakers, sacrificing them, for all intents and purposes, even if they succeeded in their mission.
Yeah, bad call . . . “We go with the plan then: consolidate and hang on his flank. Gimme a sec to shoot the word to Red Horse.”
“Of course.”
Kris paused the link and paged the signal lieutenant’s duty station.
“Yes, ma’am?” answered Ensign Simms, groggy and blinking.
What the hell? Don’t they ever let this kid sleep? The dark circles under his sunken eyes gave her a whole visual for the saying “death warmed over”.
“Message to Red Horse, Ensign. Inform them we are about to engage. Use Lieutenant Salsato’s time tag and adjust for the comms delay.” From the Apollyon Gates to Nicobar, that was about 200 minutes via hyperwave.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Simms, clearing his throat with difficulty. “Um . . . what should I say?”
Kris tapped out a brief message. With a sharp rap, she sent it to him.
The youngster looked slightly scandalized. “You want me to send this, ma’am?”
“That’s right, Ensign. Send it word for word.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
“And try some coffee, Simms. It ain’t gonna be a short day.”
“Aye—ah . . . yes, ma’am.”
“Carry on, Ensign.” Killing that line, Kris keyed back to the link with Corhaine. “Cut loose whenever you’re ready, General.”
“Roger that, Commodore. We are link-locked.” The green lock icon lit as the video faded.
Stretching her neck until it popped, she booted her console, activated the link to the lithomorph and reached for the helmet.
Time to dig deep.
Relaxing in the chair, Kris shook her hair back and settled the helmet.
And for love of gawd Huron, don’t be late . . .
~ ~ ~
Day 233 (0815)
Tanith Ranger’s Corvette “Calvin”, on-station
Deep Six, Apollyon Gates
Specialist-1st Class Peter Wolff slumped his chair again as his xel emitted a loud discordant shriek overlaid with maniacal laughter and a holographic hand gave him an emphatic finger.
“Shit,” grumbled Wolff—called “Very Young Peter” because the unit already had an “Old Peter” and “Young Peter”—as he hit the manual kill switch. They’d been passing the time by exchanging commercial xels configured with various standard software suites and, using the corvette’s system to emulate the cloud environment of a randomly selected Homeworld, attempting to gain control of the other’s xel while protecting their own. This round used IGM xels operating on New California.
And Very Young Peter was now zero for three.
Looking across at Senior Warrant Office Simon Penrith, who was taking a slip of plaspaper from the breast pocket of his fatigues and making a note on it, he asked, “What was it this time?”
“Peartree.” Taking his feet off the crate they were resting to lean forward, Penrith showed him the slip with a grin. “That’s another fifty you owe me, youngster.”
“It wasn’t active,” complained Peter. Peartree was a “helper app” supplied by IGM on their last few generations of xels. The latest version had come under scrutiny due to allegations that it employed illegal AI technology. These allegations were the latest in a protracted legal battle between IGM, the leading xel supplier, and its main rival, Nova-Sparque.
Penrith pocket the slip. “Didn’t read the TOS, did you?” IGM’s terms of service were notorious. “Paragraph 17.F.IX, section two.”
Peter brought out his personal xel—very much not a commercial model—and looked up the relevant paragraph. “How do they get away with this shit?”
“The gods of the marketplace, son. All powerful and crooked as hell.”
The pilot stuck his head through the hatch. “Sorry to interrupt your busy PM, but we got some action here.”
“About damn time,” grunted Penrith. “Who’s ball?”
“Ours,” the pilot confirmed with a twinkle in his eye. “Curly and Moe gonna have to wait their turn.”
“Excellent.” Penrith rubbed his hands briskly. They’d been wagering to relieve the tedium of waiting, but more to keep the kid’s mind off the naval battle bearing down from G-north. Now that the first of the harbor sections were arriving, they could finally get on with their work.
“What do I do?” Very Young Peter looked a trifle pale. Understandable: this, his first deployment, was proving to be one hell of a baptism.
Penrith kicked the crate he’s been using as a footrest. “Take that and chuck it out the lock.”
Five: Apollyon’s Trumpet
“Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God . . .”
—Revelation 16:1
Day 233 (0840)
IHS Bolimov, engaged
Whiskey Sector, Apollyon Gates
The situation picture in Bolimov’s CIC failed to show Admiral Caneris many things he badly needed to know: the number and nature of his attackers (the comms were full of reports of cruisers, battlecruisers, even a lurking light carrier); where they were jumping in from (destroyer squadrons appearing out of “nowhere”), and especially how. The plots showed them using regions of the Gates that should be denied to capital ships. How they were spoofing their jumps’ origins was impossible to fathom, and their superb use of ice rendered his lightspeed sensor data unreliable—or worse, misleading.
One critical thing the picture did show, and most clearly: he was losing control of the battle. In all the confusion, his fleet was reacting organically: swarming to the threat, which increased their tendency to overreact. Being forced to rely on tight-beam relay exacerbated this and cramped his formations, making them more predictable—a condition the enemy had exploited with uncanny skill.
Viewed dispassionately, the calculus that mattered was ships and men versus time. With so many factors obscured, and in view of the losses he’d sustained, prudence demanded he conserve the first at the expense of the second, but that would soon change . . .
As if summoned, the conning officer paged Captain Hoffman, reporting transients in AG-VI. The page was formal gloss; the report was actually intended for Caneris who stood at Hoffman’s shoulder. The captain requested details. The conning officer supplied the data.
One harbor had arrived; a second appeared imminent. No sign of the remaining five, but they could not be far out. Within the next half-day, certainly. The tactical calculus had now shifted.
Caneris reached out and tapped an icon on the console. “Detach Orion”—his fastest battlecruiser. His finger continued down the console, selecting the heavy cruisers Riga, Breslau, Kolyma, Tonnerre, Cormoran . . . the destroyers Eridan, Arago, Atalante . . . More deliberate taps; more destroyers, two light cruisers, another heavy cruiser—all fast ships.
“Signal Captain Thevenet. He is make the best possible time to AG-VI with safety to the drives.” The caveat was not superfluous when it came to Orion’s captain. “We will screen him to the east.” That would place them between Thevenet’s detachment and AG-I, should a reinforcement appear from that direction, and also put him in a good position to cut off any retreat through AG-IV.
Dividing his force this way was a gamble: if another powerful force lurked undetected near AG-VI or AG-VII, it invited disaster. Yet, Caneris’ instinct was beginning to whisper that his adversary’s game was to play on just that fear, tempting him to keep his fleet concentrated and thus slow it down. With the arrival of the harbors, time was the critical factor. They must not lose another minute of
it.
And if it flushed his quarry into the open, so much the better.
~ ~ ~
Day 233 (0850)
LSS Polidor, engaged
Romeo Sector, Apollyon Gates
The message came through from Penthesileia and Min, who’d appointed herself Kris’s aide de camp, nudged her elbow. Kris put the connection to the lithomorph on hold and focused on the main screen just as it updated to show a powerful detachment rocketing out of formation and piling on vee.
Min waggled an interested finger at the accelerating ships. “He’s goin’ for a Hail Mary.”
“Yep,” Kris agreed. To have a chance of stopping them, they’d have to go all in. So far, they’d been keeping Pitchfork and Jester out the rough and tumble, but the time for hit-and-run had just flown of the lock. There’d be no let up now until it was game-over.
Luckily, Caneris was taking the rest of his fleet toward AG-IV, apparently to cut off a retreat Kris had no intention of ever making. She keyed up the link to Penthesileia.
“General, we can take that battlecruiser with Polidor and Osiris,” Kris began without preamble—this was no time for pleasantries. “Can you slow down those heavy cruisers bringing up the rear? I’ll bet if we disrupt the main body, those tin cans out ahead will turn tail and run for home. ”
“It’s worth a try, certainly,” Corhaine answered.
“How d’ya suggest we go about it?”
“As Admiral Nelson reputedly said: ‘Damn the maneuvers, always go straight at ’em’.”
That didn’t sound right to Kris. “I thought it was: ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead’.”
“Of course, we don’t damn the torpedoes,” Min had interjected unhelpfully. “We launch the damn torpedoes. Then it’s full speed ahead.”
The general actually chuckled. “I think it works either way.”
Kris indulged herself in a brief eye-roll. “Okay. You wanna go first or shall we?”
“We’ll set the wedge. You go for the throat.”
“Roger that. I’m gonna see if Jester can get us an in. Advise when you’re set for the first hop.”
“Affirmative. Penthesileia out.”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 55