by Mike Moscoe
Mattim suspected that boatload of Economic Reformers they blasted was crewed by Unity punks eager to cut out the middle man. At thirteen, Mattim had shipped out with his dad. This wasn’t the same universe.
So now I’m heading into a battle to help people I’ve never met. Mattim, are you getting a late-blooming case of chivalry or whatever it is that causes a guy to get himself killed at midlife? Getting killed was low on his list of things to do today. Yet he wanted to charge through that jump, guns blazing, and save the poor doggies. This was crazy. I think they call it war.
On the flag’s orders, the squadron passed through the jump at a few thousand meters per second. It should have been an easy jump, but the ships came out scattered. Despite the flag orders for tight communications, the admiral was quite liberal with irate orders to re-form. Sandy just shook her head. “This jump point is all kinds of flaky.”
Mattim had other worries; where were the colonials? Passive sensors drew a blank. “Must be under EMCon,” Ding concluded. “Don’t use search radars and lasers, and no one can follow your signals back to you.”
“Sandy, do a visual search on every inch of space between Alpha jump and the marines. Somewhere are glowing engines.”
“They’re decelerating engines away from us,” Sandy said.
“So maybe it’ll reflect off the next ship in line. This armor reflects lasers. Maybe it reflects other things.”
“Optimist. Me, I bet they’re in echelon toward us, reflecting away from us,” Sandy chided him, but went to work.
An hour later, Mattim got his first hint of what lay ahead. “Captain, comm here. We’ve picked up a message tight-beamed from the Ninety-seventh to the flag. It’s probably in response to something from the flag, but we didn’t get that.”
“I’ll take what I can.”
His station quickly displayed the answer to the admiral’s unknown question. ENEMY FORCE IS ESTIMATED AT 5 DDS AND 6 CCS, GUNS VARY FROM 6″ TO 9.2″. ETA HERE IS 22 HRS 18 MNTS. THANKS FOR COMING.
“Let me guess, DDs are destroyers, CCs are any kind of cruiser. Right?” Mattim asked Ding.
“Yes, sir.”
“So how do they know? Ninety-seventh isn’t emitting anything.”
“Ship makes a gravitational pulse as it exits a jump. The bigger the ship, the bigger the pulse. In their first action, the Ninety-seventh spotted five DDs, nine CCs and transports. No transports today. They’re just here to pound the poor joes.”
“Sandy, you got anything?”
“Nothing. They’re dark as space.”
“Sandy, we know where they came from and where they’re going. Find them.”
Four hours later, she did. “Matt, I got ’em. Guns and I got those puppies. It’s beautiful.” Ding was at Mattim’s elbow a second later as they hovered over Sandy’s shoulder.
“Visuals was a waste. They heard us come in. They knew how to hide. So I gave up on eyeballs,” Sandy ran on. “Ships are big, but with that big gasbag’s gravity well, I couldn’t get shit out of the gravity anomaly detector. So I tried electromagnetic. There the gasbag helped. It’s emitting across the spectrum like the biggest radar ever turned on.”
“Yes,” Ding cut in, “but they’ll be operating in stealth mode. You won’t get any radar bounces off them to pick up.”
“Right.” Guns grinned. “That’s what Sandy went looking for. Those turkeys are a hole in the radar return.”
“Look there.” Sandy pointed. “Five holes, then six bigger ones. Five destroyers, six cruisers. You can hide, but you can’t hide the hole you’re hiding in.”
“God damn,” Ding breathed slowly. “She’s got them.”
“Wait ’til the admiral hears this,” Sandy crowed.
“We’re under radio silence,” Ding said.
“They heard us come in,” Mattim snarled. “What you want to bet they’ve been following us visually? Once we flip, we’ll be brighter than a star. If the admiral has a battle to plan, he’ll want to know this. Comm, get me a tight beam to the flag.”
“You got it, Captain.”
“Sheffield to Reply.”
“Sheffield, you are under EMCon One. Use of tight beams toward the enemy is not permitted. Cease your transmissions at once.”
Mattim went doggedly on. “This is Captain Abeeb.”
Again he got the same lecture, only louder; Mattim gritted his teeth. “We have located the enemy electromagnetically.”
“You couldn’t have” was followed by the same lecture, now at the top of someone’s lungs.
Mattim cut his comm. “Guns, I need advice on how this Navy way works. So, what is this shit from flag?” Mattim regretted his loss of control. Still, it felt good at the moment.
“I didn’t recognize the voice, but you can assume the admiral approved cutting you off. I expect sensors on the flag is desperately trying to duplicate Sandy’s achievement and assuring the admiral since he can’t do it, no accountant can.”
“No use trying again?” Ding concluded.
“No, ma’am. Late in my Navy career I concluded you can’t teach pigs to sing, at least not those sporting more gold braid than you. Do merchant sailors learn a similar lesson?!”
Mattim chuckled. “Last few years, it was becoming apparent I should. So far I avoided it.”
“Congratulations, sir. You will have to decide for yourself whether to follow my experience or your own lead.”
“Tight beam coming in, Captain, from the Aurora.”
“That’s Buzz’s ship. Let me see it.”
“Congratulations, Matt. No surprise Sandy did it. I’ve got a Navy type on my sensors. She swears it can’t be done. I told her if Sandy did it, she can. I owe you all a round. When the boss lets us communicate, tight-beam me the full story. Burka out.”
“Captain, we got message traffic from all the reserve cruisers. Do you want to see it?”
“How many of them offer to buy the first round?” Mattim grinned at Sandy. She preened.
“Uh, all of them, I think.”
“Boy, Saturday night’s gonna be fun,” Sandy crowed.
“Enough, Commander O’Mally. Guns, could having the enemy track help the others develop a firing solution?”
“No, Captain, we’re hours away from a shoot.”
“Then no more communications until it’s authorized. Guns, does this tell you anything about what the enemy’s up to?”
“Yes, sir. We’re in no danger, for the moment.”
“And how long will that good fortune follow us?” Mattim got ready for another educational experience.
Guns fingered the display. “They came out of the jump headed for a fast pass on the marines. About the time we jumped in, they sheered away. They’re headed around ELM0129-4 and will meet us head-on over the marines. We’ll have shoots twice an orbit until one of us breaks for a jump. They’ve rigged it so they can bug out without us observing them.”
Mattim chewed on his lower lip. “They’re playing it safe.”
“For them, sir. They’ve got DD’s. If they put two in polar orbits, they’ll know if we cut. We won’t know the same for them.”
“That assumes,” Ding cut in, “they’ve got someone as tactical-trained and professional as one of our war college grads. They are colonials.”
Guns said nothing; Mattim took a deep breath. “XO, they’ve been fighting among themselves for fifty years. Just because newscasts call it ‘childish squabbling’ doesn’t mean smart folks haven’t been learning. I’d expect some pretty canny behavior.”
“Yes, sir” came from both the XO and Guns.
• • •
There was little behavior of any kind from the flag. Over the next eight hours Mattim rotated his crew to chow and a free hour. The hostiles were just disappearing behind the gasbag when the admiral finally ordered a full sensor sweep.
Mattim ignored the huffy communications between the flag and the 97th. The admiral demanded to know where the “so-called” enemy fleet was. The ground-pound
ers sarcastically voiced their joy that the admiral could see his way to visit. Mattim passed Sandy’s search methods to the other ships. Two had duplicated her find. The others were grateful as well as impressed.
Mattim listened in on the gunnery net as Commander Howard sketched the enemy’s probable past and future movements to the other gunnery chiefs, including the Reply’s and the Significant’s. “We should encounter hostiles in sixty-seven minutes, just as we pull away from the marines. However, note that if the skunks make a fast, fuel scoop orbit, they will arrive over the moon just as we do, in fifty-two minutes. I’m betting on a scoop and shoot.” Guns found no takers. And Mattim began to suspect his gunnery officer was more of a jewel than he could have hoped for.
• • •
The admiral did nothing that Mattim had hoped for, neither revising his simple orders of “Follow me” nor informing his captains how he proposed to fight the coming battle. It was as if he still didn’t believe his enemy was in-system. Or maybe out of sight, out of mind.
Or maybe just out of his mind.
“Ships coming out from behind the gasbag,” Sandy reported in a low, controlled voice. “They are low and fast. Guns, I think you won your bet.”
“Yes,” he said, “skunks are climbing out, using lots of delta V. I suspect they did a fuel scoop. I have three cans and six cruisers, including two Revenge-class super heavies.” Guns whistled. “I thought the grunts were just seeing willies under their beds. Other four look like six-inch conversions.”
“Thank God for minor favors,” Ding breathed.
“Cans look to be falling off to their unengaged side.” Guns frowned. “I’ll concentrate on the skunks we’ve got. Sandy, if it wouldn’t be inconvenient, could you look around for those other two DDs? They aren’t much, but a chance appearance at an inopportune time could be most unpleasant.”
“Got you, Guns. I’ll keep up the search.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
“We ready for this?” Mattim asked Ding, hunting for what he’d forgotten…what could cost him his ship.
“As ready as we’ll ever be, sir.” The young woman grinned like some carnivore stalking prey. She was actually excited by the prospects before them. Well, maybe if I’d spent the last ten years of my life training for this moment, I’d be excited too.
He hadn’t. He wasn’t.
“Guns, XO, when do we put spin on the ship?”
Ding deferred to Guns, who pulled a handheld calculator out of his pocket. The Navy seemed to go in for obsolete technology. “We’re closing at six-hundred-twenty-thousand klicks an hour. Those nine-point-two-inch monsters could hit you at forty thousand klicks, but I doubt it. I’d start spinning at forty-five thousand, sir.”
“Thanks, Guns. Sandy, range to…what do they call them…skunks?”
“Yes, sir,” Ding assured him.
“Just passing fifty thousand, Skipper.”
“Bos’n, inform the crew we’re putting spin on the ship in five seconds and give them a countdown.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mattim leaned back in his chair and got ready for the ride of his life. His Maggie had been built the way you expected a ship to be built. The screens that showed you what was out there faced out. In a Navy ship, the damn screen was on the inside. You went around all day with your back to space. As the ship began to spin, the ship’s 2-gee acceleration pulled him “down”; the spin firmly put his back in his chair, cuddled up like a kid in his dad’s lap watching a vid. Of course, this vid was about killing people—and it was interactive.
“Crew,” the XO reminded the bridge party, “do not lean forward if you can avoid it. You’ve got a big supply of burp bags. If you have to lose it, don’t be bashful. You’ll probably see me or the captain use the bags. It’s all just part of a battle in space. You’ll get used to it.”
She sat down beside him. He gave her a smile; she was loosening up with the crew. With a bit of work, she’d fit just fine on the Maggie. Then he leaned over, whispering, “You’ve never been in a fight. How do you know?”
She didn’t even blink. “Fleet exercises, sir. They say if you’ve been in a couple of them, battle holds no surprises. I sure as hell hope so.”
“Skunks, forty thousand klicks. Two lead ships opening fire on the flag,” Sandy drawled. “One must appreciate their tastes.”
“Guns, you mind telling me what’s going on? Better yet, you got any problems with this going out to all hands?”
“No, sir.” Guns mashed his comm link, “All hands, this is the chief gunnery officer. The skipper asked me to keep you informed as to what’s happening. When I get too busy to talk, trust me, you’ll be too busy to listen.” There was a chuckle on the bridge. Mattim suspected it ran the length of the ship.
“The colonials have opened fire on the flag at extreme range. That’s plain stupid. They’re wasting energy, heating up their lasers and just helping the flag let off a little steam. Since we’re head-on to each other, that means that by the time they pass us, their lasers will be hot and inaccurate. Ours won’t be. Gunners, put on the kettle.” That got a cheer.
Guns was good. This might become a regular battle drill.
“Range to skunks, thirty-five thousand klicks,” Sandy reported.
“The old gunner’s mate who taught me my trade,” Guns went on, “liked to sucker them into close range, say barroom length. Battery that gets the most energy out has a beer bust on me.” Another cheer, this time accompanied with yelps from the crews of the secondary batteries.
“Okay, two beer busts, one for the hottest six-inch turret, the other for the best four-inch crew.” The cheers were unanimous again.
“Skunks at thirty thousand klicks…now.”
“And the flag’s opened fire.” Guns continued his play-by-play. “The rate of fire from the colonials is slowing. The flag’s steaming a bit. That water will pass down the line to us, causing the end of their lasers to bloom. Ours, on the other hand, will be fresh and cut right through it. If your shipmate’s fallen asleep, don’t bother waking him yet. We got a long minute or so before we’ll do anything.”
Mattim studied the screen. The two heavy cruisers were applying a slow and deliberate fire to the enemy’s two super-heavies. The light cruisers on both sides were out of range.
“Skunks passing twenty-five thousand.”
“Well, crew, the Topeka has weighed in with her six-inchers. The range is long, but it looks like she’s making some hits. The enemy flag is switching fire to the Topeka. I imagine our flag’s glad of that. By the way, if you’ve got anybody snoring near you, you might want to wake them up. We’re about a minute ’til showtime. Just enough time to wash their face and brush their teeth before things get exciting.
“Oh, I’ve got a note here from the crew of turret A. They say they’ve already picked out the bar for their bust and the rest of you can quit worrying. What do you think of that?”
The gunnery circuit was awash with boos.
Mattim checked the live mikes in each turret. While Guns’ verbal horseplay might be taking the edge off the raw terror, the crews were going about their duties as they’d been trained, dialing in their gear, verifying that, while the target was available, they had it locked in their sights. They were as ready as ninety days of training and drill could make them.
“Lead skunk is at twenty thousand klicks.”
“Folks, at this point we will be signing off. Showtime is in just a few seconds. I hope you enjoyed the preliminary and will stay around for the postgame review. This is your chief of gunnery signing off.” Guns shook himself. “Damn, that was fun, I got to do that more often. Tommy, show me your plot.”
Around the bridge, the crew was grim but determined. Mattim tightened his seat belt, tightened his gut, and studied the screen, measuring the flow of the battle.
“Sir,” the XO put in, “their two big R’s are going down the line, switching fire from one ship to the next. I can damn near tell you to the second when
they’ll take us on. Mind if I jink ship to put them off?”
“XO, you’ve got the conn. Helm, stand by for orders. Ding, coordinate with Guns. Let’s not jink him out of a hit.”
“Right, Captain. Guns, I’m going to bounce ship, ten meters per second high for three seconds, then ten meters per second sideways.”
“Hold those bounces for five seconds,” Gun muttered.
“You’re on.”
“Fire!” Guns shouted. Lights dimmed as energy poured from the ship. A green arrow on the main screen reached out from the green dot that was his ship to touch the enemy flag. The red triangle glowed yellow in a corner. Was that an actual hit or wishful thinking by the computer? Mattim didn’t ask.
“Bounce,” the XO said softly, “up…right…NOW!”
The extra twist did wonders to Mattim’s inner ear. He wasn’t sure where he was going. A red arrow flashed from the enemy flag to him. He felt nothing.
“We’ll cease bouncing for forty seconds, Guns. They’re taking forty-five or more to recharge,” Ding reported.
“I suggest bouncing in thirty-five. I’ll fire the next salvo at thirty.”
“You’re on.”
Mattim listened and did not interrupt. In theory, his ship could get a salvo off every ten seconds. Why was Guns holding back? He’d ask later.
An eternity ticked by, one endless second at a time.
Then the ship’s lights dimmed. A second time, a green line reached out for the enemy. Again the triangle turned yellow. Ding ordered a bounce to starboard, and Mattim’s inner world twirled. He wondered how the green kids in his crew were taking this. A diminutive guard by the hatch reached for a burp bag.
Ding bounced them two more times before the enemy cruiser lashed out at them. Another miss. But Guns was laying it on heavy now. Every ten seconds, another two-second salvo. Mattim had enough of the overprocessed pablum on the main screen. He tapped up gunnery on his own board, selected the main battery, and found himself staring at the gun pictures of one of his six-inch lasers. It showed nothing but stars twisting by.
A pip at the upper edge drew his eye. In a blink, a streaming comet appeared. Quickly, the pip tracked the ship across the screen. The laser was recharging; nothing happened. Mattim risked a breath as the pip whipped back to the top.