by B. V. Larson
“I gather this is not an unusual circumstance in your experience?” asked Miklos drily.
I gave him a sidelong glance. I was pretty sure he was making a reference to me and my frequent deviations from his script. For Star Force, he represented central command. As an operating field commander, I had, if the truth be told, not always played by his rules.
“Yeah,” I said. “They do it all the time. You know, I have a soft spot in my heart for the Worms—and not just due to remorse for having once killed one of their cities. They are a brave and honorable people with a streak of the screaming barbarian in them. Who doesn’t admire a true warrior of the old school?”
“Sir, time is pressing, if you don’t—”
“Right. Let’s get back to the situation at hand. We’ve got missiles, beams, fighters and cannons. Can we reach Phobos with any of those before the Worms hit them? Assuming, of course, that we put the pedal to the metal now in order to catch up?”
Their expressions changed from thoughtful to alarmed. Staffers began tapping and whispering.
“Uh, sir,” Miklos said, speaking for the group as usual. “Are you suggesting we’re going to attack Phobos? I was under the impression the enemy ship was on a course we agreed with and we were going to stay out of it for the duration.”
“You thought wrong. The situation has changed.”
“But…but, what about the mines? We’ve been building up a supply. I thought we were going to get ahead of them and drop mines at the rings.”
“Forget about the mines. Retool them into missiles. We’re behind Phobos now, did anyone notice? Damn.”
The staffers were white-faced. They scrambled to comply with the changing plan all around us as I spoke.
“Why do we have to get involved?” Miklos asked, not letting the matter rest.
I glared at him. “Allowing Phobos to crush the Worm fleet was never in my plan.”
“But we would rather them die than us, wouldn’t we?”
“Neither of those choices is acceptable. I’m asking for options. What kind of assets could we bring into play?”
Numbers began popping up on the screen. They put them in different colors and a red timer appeared at the top. I could see the layout clearly as they zoomed in and laid out all the details.
We were about ninety minutes behind Phobos right now, matching her course and speed. She would hit the ring to the Alpha Centauri system in four hours. But between Phobos and the ring was a cloud of some fifty Worm ships. They were spiraling like a swarm of wasps already and heading directly toward the ship invading their territory.
Yellow lines appeared representing predictive paths. These lines gently curved showing a unique route for each group. Our fleet was right behind the enemy, but as I watched, the curve shifted, becoming more linear. They were plotting what we could do if we increased our speed in order to run Phobos down.
I crossed my arms and waited. We had some time to spare, and it was important to get these numbers right before making any decisions.
On the screen a series of spheres appeared around our ship. These represented weapons ranges. The spheres looked grossly inadequate on this scale.
“Well?” I asked, becoming impatient as they squabbled over details.
“It’s all about the missiles, sir,” Miklos said. “That’s the only system that can reach the enemy in time.”
“And the fighters,” Jasmine added.
Miklos looked at her coldly.
“What about the fighters? Can they get into the battle or not?”
“They don’t have the range to fly out there, attack, and return.”
“Hmm,” I said, tapping my fingers on the table. “I see what Jasmine is hinting at. They could fly out, exhausting their fuel. They’d have to drift and wait for pickup afterward. How much tactical time would they have over the target if we did throw them in?”
“Sir, I don’t think—”
“Just answer the question, Commodore.”
“About eight minutes of heavy fighting. Then they’ll be exhausted. But sir, I don’t see how we could use the fighters in a strike. We’d just lose them all. The missiles—we could throw them in and afford the loss. We can rebuild missiles with supplies of raw materials aboard our carriers. But the fighters are irreplaceable on the front lines.”
I didn’t listen to any of them for about thirty seconds after that. I was looking at the tactical displays and thinking hard. Finally, I made my decisions.
“We’ve seen their weapons in operation several times now,” I said. “This could be an excellent opportunity to test a theory of mine.”
Miklos looked more alarmed than ever. “Sir, this can hardly be an appropriate time to—”
“Listen: this is all the time we’ve got. Before anyone freaks out, I want you all to know I’m not going to get anyone senselessly killed. I’ve got a theory about how their defensive field operates, and I want to test it. That’s all. What we’re going to do is launch a good-sized barrage of missiles. Let’s fire a hundred of them. If I’m reading your map correctly, by firing missiles now we’ll strike before the Worms do. Right?”
“That is correct, Colonel.”
“Good. Then when we get in closer, we’ll launch fighters. Two full squadrons. We have to make it look real.”
There was some level whispering about that. On the screen, the proposed attacks were plotted. Lines appeared and moved with ghostly, pulsing contacts. They represented future positions about an hour from now.
“Yeah, that’s it. Give the launch order. I want a hundred missiles flying within…eight minutes.”
The group broke up now that the order had been given. Miklos didn’t leave the table, however. He stepped around it to talk to me privately.
“Sir, I would like to request permission to stand down as your operations officer on this campaign.”
“Request denied.”
“But sir, I don’t feel like I’m doing my job. I’ve been overruled and ignored on every detail. I—”
“Look Commodore,” I said, “I don’t have time to replace you right now. You’re doing a fine job, anyway.”
“You could put Captain Sarin in my position.”
I looked him in the eye. I could see he was seriously pissed off.
“I’m sorry for overriding your authority without talking you through the plan,” I said. “Sometimes, in space combat, there isn’t a week or two to discuss and wring your hands over every decision, each nut and bolt. At those times, I need quick competent support people to carry out my orders rather than individuals with a raft of their own ideas to float. Now, can you explain why you’re objecting so strenuously? What’s so bad about this situation you want to quit on me?”
“You’re risking too much of our strike power in this assault. I believe the enemy ship will destroy everything we throw at it.”
“It’s a fleet-thing, then. You don’t want to lose any more ships.”
“Of course not, Colonel.”
“It’s not just about the fleet, man. The fleet is a tool to reach a goal.”
“You’re saying that my men and ships are expendable?”
“In the grand scheme of things, yes. I’d kill us all to save the species. That’s why we’re here, you know. Self-sacrifice is part of the game in any military. But I’m talking about a single dangerous attack. You’re making it sound as if we might as well take a nice hot group-shower and slit our wrists together.”
“That’s about how I would characterize this attack.”
I glared at him and he glared back.
“All right,” I said. “We have time now, so I’m going to explain my strategy to you in detail. This entire action is a bluff, Commodore. I didn’t want to tell everyone that, as I wanted the attack to look as real as possible to the enemy—also, it might turn out to be real if we get lucky. We might go through with the full operation if my plan works.”
Miklos calmed down, but still looked confused. “What do you mean?
How can a fake attack be useful in this situation?”
“The enemy has a very powerful weapon that requires a great deal of energy to use. It doesn’t fire frequently, and it has a limited range. The only way past a blanket defensive system like that is to overload it. First, the missiles will reach Phobos. If Tolerance takes them out, he’ll probably not be able to stop the next wave.”
“Which will be?”
“The Worms. Look at the timing, they are scheduled to come in second. The third and last wave will be our fighters. But I’ll only commit them if the Worms are still alive. Do you get the picture? We’ll be forcing Tolerance to make hard decisions, testing his defenses. If the missiles are wiped out and the Worms as well, then we pull out our fighters. He only has one shot. If he doesn’t stop the missiles, he has to take that strike on the chin and then decide which of the next two waves to target.”
Miklos’ face cleared. “I understand your logic better now, sir. But I thought you didn’t want to destroy Phobos. I thought you wanted that ship to clear the way to Earth.”
“I highly doubt a few missiles and ships are going to do the job. But we’ll have to do it later. If Phobos reaches Earth, it will be our task to destroy her then. This is an opportunity to learn how to effectively attack this monster.”
He nodded slowly. “I still feel you could have informed me of these details during the planning session.”
“Timing was tight. Do you feel that? The shuddering under our feet? Every ship is firing the missiles even now. I wanted them away and on target. I wanted those extra minutes without having to explain it all to you or anyone else.”
Miklos sucked in a big breath and let it out. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“I am too. You’re Fleet, and you love your ships too much. It’s clouding your strategic thinking. Due to this, I’ve decided to take your suggestion.”
I gave him a stern, meaningful look. He appeared stunned as it dawned on him what I was saying.
“Yes,” I said gravely. “For the duration of this campaign, I’m relieving you of your position. Captain Jasmine Sarin will run tactical ops. You will specialize in logistical management. This may change again in the future, and no ranks will be altered for now. I’m sorry Miklos, but I need people who offer helpful advice rather than paranoid resistance.”
He was angry again after my comments. He stood straight and at attention. His eyes avoided mine.
“I see, Colonel. Am I confined to quarters?”
“Don’t be dramatic, man!” I said, waving him toward the darkest, least frequented corner of the command deck. “Head over there and start riding those supply nerds. And don’t look so upset. Quitting your post was your idea, remember that.”
“So it was, sir. So it was.”
* * *
Gaines came over to me about an hour later. I looked at him with suspicion.
“What?” he asked right away, seeing my expression.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I’ve been too hard on the Commodore, like everyone else?”
“I’m not like everyone else, sir,” he said with an easy smile. “I’m just along for the ride. Until you kick me out into space that is, screaming in my little tin suit.”
I smiled. It had been over an hour since I’d smiled, and I wasn’t surprised Gaines had been the one to make it happen. He was a true veteran marine: gung-ho, but one step from mercenary in his attitude toward life and death. Orders were orders. Dying was just part of the business, not something to get all ruffled up about.
“You’re going to have a lot of company with you when you go.”
“Yes sir, and fortunately I like the smell of sheep.”
I shook my head. The marine grunts had taken to calling their Centaur comrades “sheep” even though the alien troops were anything but cowardly. I didn’t mind, as men since time immemorial have given less than complimentary names to their allies in arms.
“Sir, the real reason I’ve come to talk to you is about a design-related issue.”
I nodded. “All right, I’ve got a minute. No promises though. Show me what you’ve got.”
He pulled up schematics of the landing pods. My men lovingly referred to these pieces of equipment as “flying coffins”. Unlike the standard surfboard-type systems, which were built for space-borne assaults, the landing pods were bigger, torpedo-like affairs. They were designed to insert a marine into a combat zone on a planet with an atmosphere. This was always a tricky business, as anyone who’s done it can tell you.
The enemy almost always shot at you as you came down. In order to avoid being blown to pieces, you had to come down fast. But that created a lot of friction which manifested itself as an armor-melting fireball if it you did it wrong. The trick was to bring the occupant down to the planet surface in record time without cooking him in the process.
“We think the aerodynamics of these units is leaning in the wrong direction, sir,” Gaines said, poking at the screen laid out before us.
As he spoke, I turned and looked toward the other staffers. I was beginning to catch on. When Gaines said “we” he meant the nerds in the corner. When he represented his ideas for fixing the design, he did so because they’d put him up to it.
Everyone aboard knew that Gaines and I were drinking buddies. After they’d witnessed my dressing-down of Commodore Miklos, they were probably too scared to give me a good reason to chew on them.
I sighed, trying to pay attention to Gaines and figure out what they wanted.
“You see here?” he was saying, “these lines are some kind of refrigeration tubes. They’ll cool down the man inside when the heat gets to maximum. That, and insertion at a softer angle, should allow us to get to the ground faster and more safely.”
I smiled at him. “What grade did you get in your college calculus courses, Gaines?” I asked him.
“Uh…”
“That’s what I thought. I got Cs and barely passed myself. I hate real math. My point is this: I know the team over there in planning and design put you up to this. But it’s cool, as it sounds like a good structural fix that we’ll have time to implement long before we reach Earth. Go tell them you’ve convinced me. Project approved.”
Gaines nodded and laughed. “Let me talk to you a bit more, so they figure I had to work real hard.”
I glanced at the design team. Some of them were fun to look at. “Trying to get a date, huh?” I asked Gaines. “All right, you’ve got it.”
We poked at the designs for several more minutes, but talked about the last time we’d played pool together. We both described in detail the nature of the rematch we’d have after Earth had been liberated. He assured me that I’d walk out of the pool room with a strange gait and a missing bat, while I told him he’d never smile with all his teeth again.
Looking back later, I was happy I’d had that calm minute or two to share with a comrade. Because right about when we finished talking and Gaines walked over to the design group with the good news, bad things began to happen.
-13-
Faced with a multi-wave incoming attack, Tolerance did what any newbie commander would do: he panicked.
“Sir, we have incoming energy emission readings.”
I knew what that meant. I stepped back to the tactical tables and waved Captain Sarin over. “Do your magic, Jasmine. What have we got?”
She glanced once in the direction of Miklos, but then quickly got down to business.
“Looks like Phobos has fired its main gun again. But we aren’t registering any damage.”
“That’s good,” I said, leaning on the table and staring at the display intently.
Our attack was less than an hour from contact. The missiles were green slivers with traced paths ahead of them done in light blue. They were arranged in a wide dispersal pattern and they were going to slam right into the nickel-sized sphere we’d named Phobos.
“He’s shooting at something. What about the Worm ships in front of him? Have any of them been crushed or fallen o
ut of formation?”
“They don’t have a formation in any normal sense,” she said, “but as far as we can tell, they haven’t been—oh, wait a second. I see it now. We’re so far out, it takes our optics time to register anything hitting them.”
Deftly working the screens, she brought a timer box that showed how far away in light-seconds each element of the battle was. The Worms were the farthest, a full two hundred light-seconds away. Millions of miles. I shook my head.
“As far out as that he’s able to hit them?”
“That’s just it, sir—I think he missed.”
“What?”
“All the Worm ships are accounted for. Phobos fired too early. What I’m detecting is an evasive pattern among the Worms. They’re flying in a random tangle of trajectories now.”
This was not at all unusual for the Worms. They were always chaotic, but with determination and suicidal bravery. When their ships came at you it was like being swarmed by angry wasps.
“How do we know they’re being targeted?” I asked.
“By their reactions. Their spiraling patterns have accelerated. I’m not certain they’ve been hit, but it makes the most sense. They might be monitoring the energy output and taking evasive action just in case—either that or they just took a glancing blow. A strike that didn’t destroy any ships, but which they felt.”
I watched as calmly as I could. This was all going to come down to a razor’s edge.
“If we charged in now, how long would it be until our ships came within Phobos’ effective range?”
“About forty minutes, sir. The missiles will hit long before that.”
“Or they’ll be wiped out. I’m curious as to why Tolerance decided to fire on the Worms rather than our missiles.”
Jasmine shrugged. “Smaller targets are harder to hit?”
“Maybe. But I think it’s something else. I think he’s made his decision. He’s going use a blanket, close-range blast to take out the missiles. Then he’ll let the Worms get in close. Therefore he’s not worried about the missiles right now. He knows he can destroy them all when the time comes.”