Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant

by Mike Shepherd

  It was time.

  “Sailors, my clock says we got five minutes,” Kris said. “Chief, you got another one of those drinks for us?”

  “I just might,” he said, heading aft.

  “Strange,” Penny said, “I downed two of those and don’t feel any urge to run for the head.”

  “We sweated it out,” Kris said. Her own shipsuit was dark with dried perspiration, but either the life support system was working overtime or they all stank so much it was past notice. Strange what mattered at a time like this.

  The Chief glided through, tossing liter bottles. “Last communion,” he said with a smile.

  Tom caught the first one and raised it in salute. “As he died to make us holy. Now we fight to keep us free.”

  Kris sipped her fortified water slowly, savoring the taste. Maybe she was just enjoying the comfort of sharing it with the others on the bridge. Last communion. Maybe the Chief had hit something solid there. He passed through again, collecting the empties. Tom turned to face his board, eyed the battle forming up in front of him . . . and crossed himself. “Into thy hands, Father, I commend my spirit,” he said softly.

  Behind Kris, Penny was whispering the Twenty-third Psalm, “. . . though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...” came a bit louder than the rest. Beside Kris, Fintch was saying her Hail Mary over and over, as fast as she could get the words out.

  Kris swallowed hard. All her life, Father had taken his family to church every Sunday. It was a photo op that was not to be missed. But that photo op wasn’t the comfort to Kris just now that faith was to those around her. When this was over, Kris intended to spend some time with Tom and Penny, seeing what it was that made them want a priest and a minister at their wedding, a prayer on their lips just now.

  But just now, orbital dynamics ruled their lives. Kris mashed her commlink. “This is Light Brigade. Squadron 8 will be approaching the one hundred K boundary in sixty seconds. Custer, you ready for your last stand?”

  “Actually,” van Horn said, “I was thinking of setting up a lemonade stand and seeing if I could make a long-term go of it.”

  “You sure couldn’t make a joke of it,” Sandy replied.

  “Y’all both better be awful glad the Navy’s keeping you in ah day job,” Luna drawled. “Thousands ah out ah work comics and ya have ta try ya hand at it.”

  “Thirty seconds until we start the attack. Rockets on their way,” van Horn reported.

  “All right crews,” Kris began, “every one of you is a volunteer. You knew coming into this that we were a pretty puny David and that those battlewagons were Goliath on steroids. Two of our fast patrol boats have shown that we can burn a battleship. But burning one doesn’t come cheap.

  “This time, we close with them. This time, we aim for the whites of their eyes. Hold your fire until they open up a gun turret to fire, then laser the turret while it’s open. Their engines are vulnerable. They’ll try to turn them away from you, so pair up with another, form threes and fours, and go for a battlewagon from every direction. They can’t keep their stern turned away from all of you.”

  “You got that right,” Luna said.

  “And jink. Never go in a straight line for more than a second or two. You got to keep dodging constantly. Custer’s gonna burn a lot more of their 5-inchers. We’re going to take out more of them, but there’s still going to be a hell of a lot of lasers coming at us.”

  “Dance, baby, dance, like you never done danced before,” was Luna’s answer to that.

  “For our freedom. For your families. For Wardhaven. Let’s go!” Kris shouted.

  “For freedom. For families. For Wardhaven. For Princess Kris. Let’s go,” Luna shouted back. A second later, that was what echoed on net.

  The 109 and twenty-one other boats crossed into 18-inch laser range. Above Kris, nineteen other boats followed the Halsey down into the danger zone. As they had before, they jinked up and down, right and left. For their very lives, they sped up and slowed down to no discernable pattern.

  And the 18-inch lasers reached out for them.

  “Admiral, Defense Central wants to know if you wish to change their priorities, sir,” the Duty Lieutenant reported.

  “I bet they do,” the Admiral growled, but low. The standard doctrine called for the 18-inchers to take on anything within range for as long as they were in range. But the standard doctrine was developed by some dunderhead blissfully ignorant of the heat put out by the Whistler & Hardcastle, Limited, lasers provided to the fleet.

  The Admiral was all too familiar with their heat problem.

  He leaned into the spin of the Revenge. The 18-inchers would fill up the heat sinks quickly. Then, when the 5-inchers started their rapid fire, they’d lose efficiency very quickly.

  What were the chances of winging one of those dancing hummingbirds with an 18-inch laser at 80, 90 K? What were the chances of taking them out at 30, 40 K with rapid 5-inch fire?

  Certainly the main battery had contributed nothing the last time they’d tackled the fast patrol boats.

  “Hold main battery fire.”

  “Hold main battery fire, aye, sir,” the Duty Lieutenant repeated. “Defense Central has checked main battery fire.”

  “What!” the future governor of Wardhaven squawked. “You have them in your sights. Smash them.”

  “I will not waste my heat budget at this range. Governor, I promise not to tell you how to rape, pillage, and ravage unarmed civilians. Please don’t jiggle my elbow while I’m handling the armed ones.”

  “I could have you relieved of your command.”

  “But right now might not be the best time to do it.”

  “Admiral, intel has cracked one of the transmissions from the Wardhaven fleet attacking us, sir. Some of the tugs do not have the strongest ciphers, and they are talking.”

  “And what are they saying?”

  “They appear to be cheering Princess Kristine Longknife, sir. Intel thinks she may be the one leading the attack on us.”

  “That’s impossible,” the future governor huffed. “She was relieved of her command. She’s disgraced.”

  “Maybe not as disgraced as someone had thought,” the Chief of Staff muttered into his hand.

  “So I face the little girl Longknife,” the Admiral said thoughtfully. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Should I say, for a girl, Governor? For a girl who was relieved of her command? Sent home in disgrace to what, knit baby things? What did she have to draw on? A destroyer and a relic . . . and a dozen mosquitoes that were supposed to be demilitarized and put up for sale,” the Admiral said, slamming his fist down on his board.

  “And what, little girl, have you baked up for your Uncle Ralf? Freighters loaded with rockets. Yachts loaded with what I can only guess. So, little girl Longknife stands up and says she will fight me, and suddenly my battleships are facing not the fourteen we were told we might, but forty plus hulls charging hell for leather at us. Plus wave after wave of missiles intel never expected to see supporting a Navy attack.” The Admiral shook his head and eyed his political master. Maskalyne’s mouth hung open. Maybe it was the spin. Most likely it was the shock of seeing a Longknife held in respect.

  “Mr. Governor, I wish I had half of what that little girl has. Here,” he stabbed a finger at his head. “And here,” now he stabbed at his heart. “Yes, I will defeat her because of what I have here.” He stabbed at the dots on the battle board showing his ships. “But it would be nice to go into battle just once with people like she has racing to answer her call.”

  “Admiral, I should relieve you where you sit,” the future governor snapped.

  “But you won’t, because I have a battle to win. Now, if you will please remain quiet, I must see about winning it.”

  Flag plot fell quiet. The first wave of incoming missiles began to strike.

  “They have quit firing their big guns,” Penny said. “They’re still charged, but they aren’t firing them.”

  �
��They’ve even retracted their ranging gear,” Moose added.

  “Hold your Foxers for closer range,” Kris ordered on net. “If they aren’t firing now, don’t waste the decoys.”

  The ships still dodged and turned as they closed toward 5-inch range, but it was as if they were charging in slow motion. The 109 pitched and whirled, but the motion this time was almost gentle compared with the brutality of the first charge.

  “We want to get within five thousand kilometers of the battleships and stay there,” Kris reminded folks when a couple of runabouts dashed ahead of the rest. “Whatever energy you put on now, you’ll have to be able to dump then.”

  So the boats charged in . . . slowly.

  Squadron 8 still needed to close on the battleships first. Stan had the lead once again. “Division 1 is going for the second and third ships in line,” he announced.

  “Division 2 will take the last two,” Kris ordered.

  “I guess I get the flagship,” Babs said.

  “You’re not alone,” Sandy said. “The Halsey wants a big piece of that bastard.” Now the chatter on net was ships sorting themselves out, pairing up, picking targets. Each battleship got two armed yachts and some runabouts. The Cushing begged off. “We can’t get the old girl above one g, and she’s not dodging so well. We’ll come in late. Help where we can.”

  “We’ll save some of the fun for you,” Kris promised, but suddenly they were in 5-inch range, and the battleships opened up, and there was no time to talk. No time to do much more than hold her guts in and wait for the 109 to do its next erratic thing.

  But there were answers to the battleships. Forward, Kami squeezed off 944s, adding them to the tag end of the cloud of missiles headed for the battle line. The Halsey added her own 5-inchers, taking shots at the flagship’s antennas or 5-inch batteries when they popped up to fire at a missile or a boat. The battle was joined. Kris sat tight and watched the range drop from 40,000 to 30,000 to . . .

  “I’m hit,” came from Andy Gates on the 103.

  “How bad?” Stan, his division leader, called back.

  “Engine room. Losing power. I’m veering off, but I’ll salvo all my missiles first.”

  “You do that, Andy. Take care.”

  “Hate to leave you folks.”

  “Go,” Stan ordered his division mate.

  Andy was lucky; he could limp out of the fight. Kris watched in horror as first one, then another runabout took direct hits and vanished. Kris mashed her commlink. “Runabouts, your maneuvering jets aren’t good enough. Fall back. Slow down. Come in behind the yachts, or you won’t come in at all.”

  “We can do it,” one argued. But another one lit up in a pinprick of light, and the others slowed to fall behind the yachts.

  Behind Kris, an old tug skipper announced a laser had opened his boat to space. Rather than abandon ship, they’d fight it in their salvage suits. A moment later, a second hit silenced him. Apparently, suited hands were not deft enough to fight a ship. Another tug trailed off to stand by Andy.

  Ted Rockefeller’s 102 boat took a hit. “They just winged me. We’re still good. Besides, if I go, there won’t be anyone left to go after that third battlewagon but a couple of Luna’s nutty yachtsmen.”

  “I heard that,” Luna said.

  “So sue me,” Ted shot back.

  “Maybe I will if you don’t get a big enough chunk of that battlewagon.”

  “I’ll get a hunk of it. You just get yours.”

  “Hold your fire,” Kris reminded them. Her range was down to 20,000 klicks. Over 20 percent of her boats were gone, and she had yet to ding a battleship. What was it going to take?

  “Hostiles twenty thousand kilometers and closing,” the Duty Lieutenant intoned. The Admiral eyed his charts. They’d gotten a bare 20 percent of the attackers. His secondary batteries were tied up with the damn missiles. Dare he let the missiles have a free ride to concentrate on those damn patrol boats and the yachts?

  Avenger staggered out of line, plasma blasting from an engine knocked askew by a rocket hit. Damn. They’d designed the battleships to handle big gun fights. Doctrine called for battle lines to turn their vulnerable engines away from laser fire and kinetic weapons. But doctrine was one thing; his orders were what ruled his life. Orders written on the assumption he would not have to fight his way into orbit.

  Was it time to tear up his orders and fight this battle the way it needed to be fought? Was there any way he could fight it?

  Sending in a battle line unescorted was a gross violation of doctrine. He should have had a squadron of cruisers and two of destroyers. But those were off demonstrating at Boynton because there just wasn’t going to be any defenses left around Wardhaven.

  Maybe there wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for you, little girl. Damn you Longknifes.

  Eighteen thousand kilometers. If he ignored the missiles, they’d rape his sensors, leave him too blind to use his lasers. No, he had to defend against them. So, we fight the missiles, then we fight the patrol boats.

  He glanced at his board. His secondary batteries were showing yellow. He was already pumping their coolant into his main belt coils to try to spread the heat, but they were firing so fast that they were heating up far beyond their specs. Well, he was pumping power from four reactors into those secondary batteries. They should be hot; hold out for just a bit more.

  He had a major advantage. Pulse lasers were just that. They fired their energy off in one big pulse. Each of those fast patrol boats had four pulses. The yachts had two, maybe one pulse, then they were empty. And he had the armor to take a few pulses. No question about that.

  “Lieutenant, advise Central Defense that the tugs are not to be ignored. They recharged the fast patrol boats once. I don’t want that happening again.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Do we keep shooting the missiles?” Saris asked.

  “Can’t ignore them. If we do, they’ll strip us blind and knock our engines to scrap metal. No, we have to keep knocking them down, then take on the ships behind the missiles. First one, then the others. You see something better, say so, and I’m sure our political master will relieve me with a smile,” the admiral said with a toothy grin for the future governor.

  “I see no better way to fight this, sir. We need support. Destroyers, cruisers of our own. We don’t have them.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” the Admiral said, eyeing his board. The 5-inchers were yellow and edging into the orange. Not good.

  “Penny, Moose, what’s happening on those battleships?” Kris asked as they crossed the 15 K line.

  “They’re hot and getting hotter,” Penny said.

  “Hot as a two-dollar pistol,” Moose added. “They’re gonna be slow reloading by the time we get down there among ’em.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Tom said.

  “I’m hit. I’m hit,” the skipper of the 104 boat shouted. “I’m pulling out.”

  “To where?” Tom asked under his breath. A moment later, his question was answered as a second hit blew the patrol boat into a cloud of expanding gas.

  “This close, there’s no place to pull out to,” Penny said.

  “The 109 is going in, no matter what,” Tom growled. “Dance, baby, dance.” And the 109 whipped them around as it whirled into another turn. Now they fired Foxers, shooting out iron, aluminum, and white phosphorus a few hundred yards farther along their path, to convince tracking fire control systems that the boat was still on its course for a hair too long . . . to snap off a 5-inch laser blast at the decoy rather than the boat twisting away.

  “Ten K,” Kris muttered. Only five thousand more kilometers of taking this before they would start hitting back.

  “Kris, you were always a better shot than me,” Tom said, his voice urgent and low. “You want to take over shooting the 109, or do you think you need to observe and command?”

  “It looks like it’s every man for himself and the devil’s offering no breaks. I don’t want to si
t here on my thumbs.”

  “Kris has weapons. I have the conn,” Tom announced.

  “Sink ’em all,” Fintch said.

  Kris took in the final situation as they closed, part commander’s eye, part gunner. Her Division 2 had so far been lucky; they would hit the last two battleships in line with four fast patrol boats. The other divisions were all short; each battleship would get only one PF. Ungood. The yachts were coming in full strength, two per battleship, but there was hardly a runabout per hostile; they’d paid a high price. The Halsey was bearing down on the flagship with a bone in her teeth. She was also drawing more than her fair share of attention from the flag and the next two battleships in line.

  So far, Sandy had been good. Or lucky. Kris prayed that luck would hold.

  “Nelly, target the second to the last battleship. Pick two 5-inchers that should be opening up soon and the closest engine. Give each a 10 percent pulse as we cross the five K line.”

  “Target laid in.”

  Kris passed along what she’d done to the other ships and got “Aye aye,” and “I like that,” in response.

  Everything done, Kris sat at her station. Around her, the 109 dodged and dipped. Kris ignored the now-familiar pounding as her body was slammed against the restraints. In the background the music played softly.

  Close your mind to stress and pain,

  Fight till You’re No Longer Sane

  Let not one damn cur pass by,

  They were coming up on the line as the refrain came on. Around Kris, the bridge crew, the entire crew sang the words: “How Many of Them Can We Make Die!”

  “Fire,” Kris said softly.

  From two dozen ships the pulse lasers reached out toward their tormentors, finally in range. They took on the 5-inch lasers, aimed for the vulnerable engines.

  For a moment, the five battleships continued along their stately course. Then first one, then another, then all five began to dance off in different directions as the huge rocket bells that powered them, directed them, took hits and twisted in directions not ordered by Captains or navigators.