Deadly Nightshade
Page 1
DEADLY NIGHTSHADE
A TALE OF ENSIGN MAX ROBICHAUX,
UNION SPACE NAVY
(A Prequel to the Man of War Series)
by
H. Paul Honsinger
Copyright © 2015 by H. Paul Honsinger
Cover art/design Copyright © 2015 by Kathleen Honsinger
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To my dearest wife, Kathleen. There are no words, even from the pen of a writer, to convey my thanks to God for bringing you into my life and my infinite gratitude to you for all that you do, all that you mean, all that you are. My days require no sun, for each of them is lit by the joy of being with you and is illuminated by the light of your smile.
Books by H. Paul Honsinger
To Honor You Call Us
Man of War, Book One
For Honor We Stand
Man of War, Book Two
Brothers in Valor (July 2015
Man of War, Book Three
The Brothers of the Black Sky Trilogy
(forthcoming, titles tentative)
To Stations My Lads
Our Courage Defiant
Hearts of Steel
Other exciting titles from Honsinger Publications
The Dracons’ Woman
Book One of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Lobos’ HeartSong
Book Two of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Katres’ Summer
Book Three of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Bearens’ Hope
Book Four of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Gryphon’s Dream
Book Five of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Vulpiran’s Honor
Book Six of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Falcorans’ Faith
Book Seven of the Soul-Linked Saga
The Tigrens’ Glory
Book Eight of the Soul-Linked Saga
Quest for the Moon Orb
The Orbs of Rathira, Book One
Quest for the Sun Orb
The Orbs of Rathira, Book Two
Quest for the Heart Orb
The Orbs of Rathira, Book Three
Secrets Kept
Mixed Blood, Book One
(Available under the name Kathleen Honsinger)
Secrets Told
Mixed Blood, Book Two
Nica’s Legacy
Hearts of ICARUS, Book One
Tani’s Destiny
Hearts of ICARUS, Book Two
Rayne’s Return
Hearts of ICARUS, Book Three
Coming Soon
Salene’s Story (Not yet titled)
Hearts of ICARUS, Book Four
02:42 ZULU HOURS, 19 JUNE 2304
TOP SECRET
URGENT: FOR IMMEDIATE IMPLEMENTATION
FROM: HORNMEYER, L.G., CMRE USN, CDR BG-I 84-3 ORANGE
TO: ROBICHAUX, M.T. ENSN USN
RE: OPERATIONAL ORDERS
1. Effective immediately:
A. You are relieved of all current duties and assignments.
B. CURRENT MOS OF CMOFS-002 (warship combat OFFICER, jUNIOR GRADE) IS REDESIGNATED AS RCPLT-003 (RECONNAISSANCE/combat PILOT, *NON-CRITICAL ASSIGNMENTS ONLY*).
c. yOU ARE CIG FROM o-1.5 (eNSIGN, UNION SPACE NAVY, PROMOTION LISTED) TO O-1.4 (ENSIGN, UNION SPACE NAVY, NON-PROMOTION LISTED). cONSIDER YOURSELF BUSTED. be thankful i didn’t revoke your commission for conduct unbecoming an officer.
d. You are assigned to Squadron FRS-1885, the Intelligence, Reconnaissance, and Surveillance Squadron organic to this headquarters. THAT MEANS YOU ARE DIRECTLY UNDER MY COMMAND. YOUR ASS BELONGS TO ME.
2. rEPORT WITH CELERITY TO HANGAR DECK 17, rathmell STATION, THERE TO TAKE CHARGE AND COMMAND OF SPACECRAFT KMRH-7239 (AN SFR-52C NIGHTSHADE) TO PILOT THE SAID SPACECRAFT ON THE MISSION DESCRIBED HEREINBELOW. SPACECRAFT WILL BE FULLY FUELED AND PROVISIONED BY THE TIME YOU ARRIVE. NO OTHER CREW WILL BE ASSIGNED TO THIS VEHICLE FOR THIS MISSION.
3. aS SOON AS CONSISTENT WITH REQUIRED PREFLIGHT PROCEDURES, DEPART rathmell station. engage stealth systems and go to full emcon immediately upon leaving station traffic control area. Proceed along the route set forth in the APPENDIX 1 ATTACHED HERETO UNTIL YOU ENTER KRAG SPACE. from that point PROCEED TO DESTINATION stated in appendix 2 BY ROUTE OF YOUR CHOOSING BASED ON autoantalounic intel [in case you haven’t gotten to that unit in your training, “autoantalounic intel” is the newly fashionable term for intel you generate yourself with your ship’s sensors and computers plus your own feeble, testosterone-soaked brain. I don’t expect you to know it. It’s greek, dumbass.]
4. as described further in attachment 2 your destination is a point which N-2 believes to be located in Krag space near their border with the vaaach. under enhanced interrogation a krag prisoner has revealed that a new-type prefabricated battle station, reporting name *Stagecoach* will be assembled at that location and then subjected to mock attack by krag fleet. at conclusion of exercise, battle station is to be left in place.
5. intel believes krag have two goals. first, to test capabilities of new battle station type under simulated combat conditions. second, to establish strong military presence near vaaach border to impress them and deter any territorial aggression.
6. from what little intel we have on the vaaach, i personally doubt that they will be remotely impressed by anything the rat-faced motherfuckers can possibly DO, but maybe the krag know more about the vaaach than we do which, as you know, doesn’t AMOUNT to jack squat.
7. your mission is to observe this exercise from close range and obtain as much data as possible regarding this new class of battle station, including weapons installations, deflector strength, point defense capabilities, sensor characteristics, physical parameters, power generation capacity, and all other information which may practicably be gathered using the capabilities of the vessel under your command. Also, to the greatest extent possible, gather intel on the vessels involved in the exercise as well as krag tactics and weapons deployment doctrine. Basically, I want you to get close to the krag festivities, turn on every sensor you’ve got, and record everything you can. i’m thinking that this is simple enough for you to manage, now that you won’t have a FEMALE to distract you.
8. additional directives for the conduct of this mission:
A. avoid detection IN ENEMY SPACE DURING ALL MISSION PHASES. THE VALUE OF THE INTELLIGENCE YOU GATHER WILL BE SUBSTANTIALLY DEGRADED IF THE KRAG DETERMINE THAT YOU HAVE infiltrated, penetrated, or exfiltrated their space. it is PARTICULARLY critical that the KRAG HAVE NO IDEA that any union intel platform observed this exercise. avoiding detection also advances another goal: it will keep them from blowing your happy ass to flaming atoms, which as soon as the krag get so much as a whiff of you they will most assuredly do. with celerity.
b. should any opportunity to gather OTHER useful intel present itself, take advantage of it. you will be crossing nearly 200 light years of Krag space IN EACH DIRECTION so you may be able to observe something OF SOME VALUE.
c. norfolk is practically salivating for intel about the vaaach. should the chance present itself for you to gather any VAAACH RELATED data OF ANY KIND, you should avail yourself thereof.
d. Don’t do anything stupid that gets your sorry ass blown to bits. that nightshade you’ll be flying is a highly capable and extremely expensive ship that i would hate to lose. plus, my very good friend admiral CHARLES middleton would—for reasons that continue to escape me—be greatly saddened by your loss. when you get back, i might transfer your stupid coonass hide to his task force and see how he likes dealing with your antics in his command rather than just reading about them in my reports.
9. The expected duration of this mission is 80 to 90 days (unreplenished endurance of the SFR
-52C with a crew of one is 120 days, so you have a reasonable margin of safety). That should give you enough time to stick a crowbar between your brain and your gonads to pry them at least a few millimeters apart. maybe by the time you get back, you will have your fucking priorities straight. literally.
10. bring that damn ship (AND YOURSELF) back in one piece. GODSPEED.
Chapter 1
14:56 Z Hours, 22 June 2304
“This is better than movie night,” Ensign Max Robichaux, Union Space Navy commented, being careful to touch the key that, at least in theory, temporarily muted the voice recorder in the cockpit of his SFR-52 Nightshade stealth reconnaissance fighter. While the events taking place before him didn’t fit most people’s idea of cinematic excitement, the young pilot did have a ringside seat for what most military men would consider a truly thrilling performance. Thrilling, that is, if—like Max--you were the kind of person who got chills from a live fire exercise involving a Krag Bathhouse class battlecruiser, a Cartouche class fleet carrier, five Crossbar Class cruisers, a dozen and a half destroyers of various classes, plus a mixed bag of escort carriers, fleet tenders, deuterium tankers, fighters, and sensor picket vessels. Not to mention, a brand spanking new prototype modular battle station, given the reporting name Stagecoach by Naval Intelligence.
Max’s front row center seat ticket for this performance was courtesy of Commodore Louis G. Hornmeyer, whose orders were written in the inimitable prose which was already a part of Hornmeyer’s rapidly developing status as a legendary combat commander. In the 41 days it had taken him to get here, Max had reviewed those orders on several occasions. Each time, the admiral’s words of esteem and encouragement gave him a warm, rosy glow.
Or not.
The exercise, which was already underway when Max arrived, appeared to consist of an aggressor force, centered on the battlecruiser and the fleet carrier, attacking the station, which was supported by the destroyers, cruisers, and escort carriers. Both sides deployed swarms of fighters that engaged each other in spirited dogfights and missile duels. The mock combatants in all the warships were firing actual weapons, although the missiles were warhead-less practice rounds and the pulse cannon shots were at 1/100th power.
As the exercise progressed, Max crept ever closer to the battle station to get better readings on its weapons, sensors, and countermeasures capabilities, all the while taking detailed passive sensor readings on every ship within range. Combat exercises offered a gold mine of data about weapons, tactics, comm protocols, sensor characteristics, and the other things, big and small, useful to know about beings seeking to kill you.
Stagecoach, Max had to admit, was an impressive piece of work. When it unleashed its main batteries on its mock attackers, even at what he surmised was an exercise setting of about 1/100th power, it provided an intimidating spectacle. Max and his instruments counted twenty (TWENTY!) pulse cannon turrets, each of which looked to have four units in the 1500 gigawatt range, plus eight super turrets each carrying a single cannon packing something like 8500 gigawatts. The computer estimates of the power produced by these weapons were rough; no one would be certain of their actual output until someone was in the neighborhood when they were being fired at full power. Max just hoped those monsters were never pointed at him. This one station had the firepower of at least four, if not five or six of the Union’s Brandenburg class battleships.
After about four hours of simulated fighting, Stagecoach’s immense firepower, with a little help from the ships supporting it, began to carry the day. The aggressor force was opening the range between it and the battle station, not surprising given that the blistering fire from the Krag installation had “killed” nearly half of the attackers, leaving the nearby space littered with drifting vessels, blue running lights blinking to signify that they were “casualties” in the exercise. Just as what was left of the defeated force began to organize itself for what was clearly about to become a staged retreat to one of the system’s three jump points, a single ship appeared out of nowhere directly between the battle station and the bulk of the aggressor force.
Where the hell did that come from?
Max quickly brought his most sensitive passive detectors to bear on the new vessel. Ships didn’t just appear out of nowhere, particularly in the middle of a live fire exercise with the whole star system jammed to the gunwales with active sensors, pulse cannon blasts, active homing missiles, and careening warships. Even with all that was going on around it, and with his best sensors focused on it, Max could detect the ship only because it was transmitting its own powerful active sensor scans. It must have come in heavily stealthed and then illuminated to announce its presence.
If that’s a prototype for a new Krag stealth ship, we’re in very deep shit.
The ship had to be small—even at extreme magnification, his optical scanners could make out nothing but a set of green, gold, and purple running lights.
Green, gold, and purple? Mardi Gras was months ago.
Max turned his attention to his comm intercept board and noted that Krag intership chatter had surged at the moment the mystery ship appeared. “Surged” was putting it mildly. The volume of communications threatened to overwhelm the capacity of Max’s monitoring system. A few ships were even transmitting panicky sounding voice messages in the clear that his system was translating as the Krag equivalent of things like “where did that come from?” and “what the hell is that?”
So, Mr. Krag is as surprised by this ship as I am. Verrrrry interesting.
In less than a minute, though, the Krag started acting like the disciplined and effective military force that had dealt so many defeats to the Union Space Navy. A powerful attention signal cut off all the chatter, followed by a series of highly encrypted signals that Max’s systems could not translate but that were clearly maneuvering orders. Immediately, the “dead” ships shut off their blue running lights and came back to “life.” Two of the five fighter squadrons ran their pulse cannons up to full power, armed their missiles, and wheeled around at full military power to close on and, presumably, surround the intruder. Meanwhile, five destroyers, two frigates, and a cruiser peeled off from their formations, evidently to back up the fighters, while the rest of the ships also went into motion, shaping their courses to bring them near the battle station. Max surmised that these ships were going to form up around the Stagecoach in something like a Zhou Matrix.
The disciplined comm activity continued for a few moments. Then abruptly went silent.
Dozens of transmissions on fighter intercept frequencies, squadron tactical frequencies, task force master command frequencies, traffic control frequencies, and capital vessel talk between ships fleet frequencies cut off in mid transmission. Max’s signal-hungry scanners rapidly swept every band. Nothing. No comms. Not so much as a squeak. Even on the long range channels on which Max should have been able to pick up signals from various battle fleets and primary command authorities, both Krag and Union, Max’s sensitive comm gear detected nothing. It was as if someone had thrown a switch and simply blocked all comm traffic from moving in this region of space.
The Krag certainly didn’t do it. Every signal blinker in the fleet instantly went crazy as half a million Krag asked the other half million what the hell was going on, and the second half a million told the first half a million that they didn’t have a fucking clue.
The Krag weren’t in the dark for long. A carrier switched on, practically pegging every signal strength meter on Max’s SIGINT console, followed in a few seconds by the standard Krag Hegemonic Navy “Attention: Transmission to Follow” signal blanketing all of their standard fleet bands. The Nightshade’s SIGINT processors automatically configured themselves to translate and display the upcoming message.
The transmission came twenty-three seconds later and required less than a second to translate:
“[Translated from Krag Intership Transmission Text Protocol 2 to Standard.] Attention Krag Forces. You have invaded the territorial space of the Va
aach Sovereignty. withdraw beyond the fala-tchaf TREATY BOUNDARY. Begin your withdrawal within 0.1 daytenths from now and be gone from our space within one day. or die. This unarmed scout vessel will monitor your compliance. Transmission ends.”
Max’s mind reeled. His original mission was actually fairly routine (and, for a combat intel mission in wartime, only moderately dangerous), which is why Commodore Hornmeyer had assigned it to Max, a sixteen year old green as grass junior Ensign whose butterbars were so new the brass had yet to need polishing. That, and the fact that during his last leave on Shelmerston IV, he’d been caught in the bedroom of Commodore Hornmeyer’s achingly beautiful eighteen year old niece with her shirt on the floor, alternating between frantic teenage kisses and trying to persuade her to remove her bra. Max had been in the midst of that breathless foray into sexual multitasking when the Commodore himself, returning from a high-level social function in full dress uniform, had stepped into the room to kiss his favorite niece goodnight, unaware that her kissing-related systems were already operating at maximum capacity.
Hornmeyer had wanted to throw the book at Max. Shelmerstonian law, however, placed the young lady in a very bad position. Because she was legally an adult and more than a year older than Max, the planet’s civil authorities had the option of treating the interrupted liaison as a sex crime of which Max was the victim. If tried and convicted, she could receive a sentence of up to ten years in a “Reformatory Hospital” for sexual offenders. Accordingly, the Commodore declined to have charges filed against Max for Conduct Unbecoming of an Officer. Instead, he sent Max on a solo recon mission planned to last as long as three months that would take him 226.9 light years away from the so very delectable lips (and other parts of her body that were eager to make the acquaintance of their counterparts on Max’s anatomy) of the wildly infatuated young woman.