Brothers in Valor (Man of War Book 3)

by H. Paul Honsinger

  “Nope. Every second counts. We’re going to do this one at 50 c, or as close as Wernher can get us.”

  More than a few heads turned at that last statement.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Many minds had formed the question, but naval custom and protocol meant that only the doctor could speak the words.

  “Yes, Doctor, it is, but I have a feeling that everything we do for the next few hours is going to be dangerous, so this maneuver isn’t going to be anything special. XO, you have your orders.”

  “Aye, sir, 50 c,” DeCosta acknowledged with a gulp. The executive officer knew from Max’s tone that he was in no mood for further discussion of the wisdom of crossing interplanetary distances at fifty times the speed of light, even though doing so greatly increased the risk of overshooting or undershooting the Cumberland’s destination by millions of kilometers, possibly delaying arrival at the battle and giving an enemy possessed of advanced sensors and superior firepower more time to detect the destroyer and blot it out of existence with a well-placed nuke. Or five.

  And there was always the risk of compression shear, which would shred the ship down to the subatomic level in a spectacularly brilliant explosion producing X-rays, gamma rays, and a cloud of incandescent subatomic particles zooming away from each other at 99.9999 percent of the speed of light, leaving behind a lovely astronomical object visible from a dozen or so nearby systems.

  And now, class, if you would all slew your telescopes plus 49 arc seconds in declination, you will be able to see the beautiful Cumberland Nebula!

  Several short conferences with Stevenson and Brown later, DeCosta set a countdown for the Cumberland to engage her compression drive calculated so that she would arrive at the battle with her weapons, sensors, and other systems on line and ready to fight. He informed Max of the timing—the destroyer would go superluminal five minutes and fifty-seven seconds after she emerged from the jump that had brought her to the Angelos system. “XO, you’re telling me that the ship will be fully ready to fight less than six minutes after a jump?”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Well, XO, the next time you see the ship’s training officer, you might let him know that he’s done a damn fine job and that he deserves the captain’s thanks.”

  “I’ll pass that along, Skipper,” DeCosta replied, deadpan.

  On the Cumberland, as on most smaller destroyers, the executive officer doubled as the training officer.

  “XO, you may take the ship superluminal when ready.”

  “Going superluminal on my command, aye,” DeCosta acknowledged. “Deflector Control, forward deflectors to FULL, lateral and rear to CRUISE.”

  The man at that station acknowledged the order.

  “Maneuvering, null the main sublight drive,” DeCosta ordered confidently. “Main sublight drive to STANDBY. Maneuvering thrusters to STANDBY.”

  LeBlanc acknowledged these orders and had the three men under his direction at the Maneuvering Stations execute them. When the status lights had winked into the appropriate configuration, he announced: “Main sublight nulled and at STANDBY. Ship is coasting. Maneuvering thrusters are at STANDBY. Attitude control is by inertial systems only.”

  “Prepare to engage compression drive on my mark. Set c factor for five-zero-point-zero. Compression shutdown to be commanded from Engineering.”

  “Aye, sir,” answered LeBlanc. “Engaging compression drive on your mark. C factor set for five-zero-point-zero. Green light from engineering—compression drive is ready for superluminal propulsion at your command. Engineering confirms by voice that compression shutdown will be commanded by Lieutenant Brown from the MECC.”

  Brown, in the Master Engineering Control Center, would personally shut down the compression drive and return the ship from physics as governed by the laws that Pawar and Karpinski discovered in the twenty-second century to that governed by those discovered by Newton in the seventeenth and Einstein in the twentieth.

  “Engage on my mark. Five, four, three, two, one, engage.”

  “Engaging,” LeBlanc announced. “Compression field forming. Field is going propulsive. Speed is zero point five. Zero point nine.” Every eardrum on the ship recoiled from the piercing agony of “Einstein’s Wail,” the bloodcurdling, tooth-splintering shriek produced as the ship cracked through “Einstein’s Wall” and exceeded the speed of light as measured from the viewpoint of an observer outside the zone of compressed space. “Ship is now superluminal. Speed is one point eight. Three. Five. Nine. Eighteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-five. Forty-four. Field is now reaching equilibrium. Equilibrium achieved. Compression field is now propulsive and stable at fifty-one point two c.” Everyone in CIC held his breath, straining to hear or feel the slightest irregularity in the ship’s progress that might herald a compression instability. Although it felt like hours, less than forty seconds passed before LeBlanc said, “Compression shutdown commanded from Engineering. Ship is now subluminal.” Then, in an amazed tone, “Bull’s-eye, Skipper. Our current position is only 1974 kilometers away from the target coordinates.”

  Not bad. Especially for a ship traveling 15 million kilometers per second. “Maneuvering, null our rates, then go to station keeping. Sensors, Tactical, I need to know what’s going on, and I need to know it two minutes ago,” Max said. “Gentlemen, my intention is to ascertain the tactical situation before engaging. We’ve got a friendly ship out there, and we can’t afford to go in with guns blazing.”

  Kasparov and Bartoli rapidly coordinated the data coming in from their respective systems and back rooms. It took less than half a minute before Bartoli started to rattle off the information. “There are three ships engaged in a running battle off our bow, bearing three-three-seven mark one-five-five, range 151,252 kilometers, speed of advance less than 10,000 meters per second: one Union tender and two Krag warships: a cruiser and a destroyer. The Krag appear to have the upper hand. There is also a debris field at three-two-nine mark one-six-one, range 152,830 kilometers, that appears to be the remnants of a Union destroyer, Alfred Thayer Mahan class, likely the USS Vauban. I’m assuming that Vauban was the tender’s escort. Radial velocity of the debris and size of the debris field are consistent with Vauban’s destruction by a fusion weapon approximately fifty minutes ago. The engaged vessels are as follows. One Union Clarence Birdseye class tender, designated as Charlie 1, and identified by her transponder as the USS Nicholas Appert. Her heading is zero-two-zero mark one-eight-seven, and she’s barely making any headway—speed is only 9345 meters per second. One Krag destroyer, Demerit class, designated as Hotel one, and one Krag medium cruiser, Crusader class, designated as Hotel two. Both enemy vessels are circling Charlie 1 and hitting it with plasma cannon fire.”

  “What kind of shape is the tender in?” Max asked.

  “Not good, sir. She appears to have sustained at least moderate damage. Her main sublight drive appears to be inoperable, and she is on maneuvering thrusters only—that’s why the group is making such slow headway. Deflectors are down to 60 percent average, but coverage is spotty—we believe deflector strength to be below 20 percent amidships. She appears also to have suffered significant EMP and moderate blast damage, but I’m not showing any hull breaches at this time and the ship is still under active control. But it won’t be more than ten minutes before her shields are down to nothing. Sir, I don’t get it. With her shields down to 20 percent amidships, why don’t the Krag just hit her with a big nuke and be done with it?”

  “The rat-faces don’t want to vaporize her; they want to board her and take her cargo. Remember, the Krag shortage of fuel and supplies is the reason we’re in this area to begin with.”

  “Skipper,” Bartoli broke in, “Charlie 1 . . . he just fired a missile at Hotel two.” Three seconds passed. “Hit! A good, solid hit near the bow sensor array!” His excitement melted two seconds later. “Little or no effect, sir.”

  “Fucking Goshawk,” Ensign Levy could be heard to mutter from t
he Weapons console.

  “Mr. Levy?” Max said. His voice held mild reproof and genuine interest in equal measures.

  “Sir,” said Levy, somewhat embarrassed, as though he hadn’t intended to say the remark out loud, “sorry about the ‘fucking’ part. The tender fired an ASM-768 Mark III Goshawk missile. NAVWEAP needs to fit those logistics ships out with a more effective missile type. The Goshawk’s dinky little ten-kiloton unitary warhead just isn’t big enough. It’s like a kid throwing pebbles at ground cars as they drive past on the highway. Against the current crop of Krag first-line warships, it just doesn’t do chara, if you’ll pardon my Hebrew.”

  “If chara means the same thing as merde, you’re right, Levy, it doesn’t,” Max allowed grimly.

  “Sir,” Bartoli said, “we’ve got enough data for a reasonably good damage assessment on Hotels one and two, and it’s looking now as though neither has suffered any meaningful damage—both are at 95 percent efficiency, probably higher. That doesn’t leave us with any way to engage both enemy ships with conventional tactics and win. We could probably destroy Hotel two with a surprise missile attack, especially with the Equalizer, but attacking Hotel one at the same time as Hotel two risks destroying the tender. Hotel one is just too close to the tender, and her deflectors are too depleted. And if we don’t kill both ships simultaneously, we’d be in a fair fight with a Demerit class destroyer, which is practically a light cruiser in terms of firepower. We lose that one every time, even if we could safely engage her when she is this close to the tender, which we can’t. I can’t see any way for us to engage these two ships without significant risk of destroying ourselves and the tender. As your tactical officer, it’s my duty to inform you that the rules of engagement for this situation say that we are more valuable to the overall conduct of the war than the tender. Accordingly, we are required to consider the tender . . . uh . . . expendable under these conditions. The rules say that we’re supposed to make good our escape, secure another tender from the fleet, and start over.”

  Max’s jaw muscles rippled, and his fists clenched. In an instant, though, with what appeared to be a supreme exertion of his will, he became composed, even serene, and took a slow, even breath. “Lieutenant, your job as tactical officer is to tell me what the rules of engagement have to say on this subject, and I appreciate that. Sincerely. On the other hand, my job as commanding officer of this vessel is to say that the rules of engagement . . . can go fuck themselves. The tender is a navy vessel, and that makes every man aboard her our brother. I’m not going to turn tail and leave my brothers to die.” Then, in a whisper, “Not again.”

  Brave words. Now how in the hell am I going to do that?

  Max quickly scanned the eyes of the men in CIC. Although he saw some fear, these men were ready to follow him into battle rather than leave their brothers in the hands of the Krag. His eyes locked with those of his weapons officer, the brilliant nineteen-year-old Menachem Levy. Nothing but determination there. He’d use the jawbone of an ass if that’s what it took. Well, Levy, that makes two of us. I’d like to unleash some biblical wrath-of-God stuff on those Krag bastards. Suddenly Max smiled.

  “Mr. Levy, throwing rocks at the passing ground cars is useless, right?”

  “Um, yes . . .” the young man answered uncertainly.

  “But what if you could hit those cars with rocks hurled at the speed of a bullet? You think that might do something?”

  “Sir?”

  “Stand by. Get ready to deploy a weapon you’ve never worked with before. If there is no way to win with conventional tactics, we’re just going to have to invent some unconventional ones. Mr. Kasparov, can you give me an active scan of the Vauban’s debris field without giving our position away to the Krag?”

  “Affirmative, sir. We’ve got a good angle. Not much chance they’ll pick it up, especially if I keep the power low.”

  “Then do it. Find me something big and heavy and solid in there that we can latch onto.”

  “Yes, sir,” he responded, trying to keep his incomprehension from showing.

  Kasparov spoke to his back room and got the scan going.

  “Skipper,” Chin interjected.

  “Yes?”

  “Shouldn’t we let the Nicholas Appert know we’re here? She might fight harder if she knew help was on the way.”

  Chin always wanted to talk to whatever Union ship was in the vicinity. I guess it goes with the job. “Chin, are you telling me that if they know we are here, those men on the tender are going to fight harder than they would just from the prospect of being boarded by Krag, killed—or tortured and killed—and then having their bodies hacked to pieces and tossed into space? Is that what you are saying, Mr. Chin?”

  “I guess not, sir.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about the fighting spirit of the men of the USS Nicholas Appert,” Max said gently. “Besides, we can’t take the risk right now, Chin. We derive an enormous tactical advantage from the Krag not knowing that there is another Union ship in the vicinity. Don’t worry, the folks on the tender are going to notice the cavalry coming over the hill before too long.”

  “Sir,” Kasparov said, “I’ve got the ventral hemisphere of the destroyer’s CIC pressure bulkhead. It’s ten point four meters in diameter, nineteen centimeters thick, and made of solid Michiganium. Mass is 13,530 kilograms.” Michiganium, first produced at the University of Michigan Engineering College in 2117, was an alloy of depleted uranium, titanium, chromium, some exotic trace elements, and a healthy dose of plain old iron, all combined into an incredibly tough molecular matrix by quantum orbital manipulation technology. Nearly as hard as diamond, denser than gold, and virtually impervious to ionizing radiation, Michiganium was the ultimate armor for the parts of Union warships that most needed protecting.

  “That will do quite nicely,” said Max. “Maneuvering, ahead one quarter. Put the ventral hemisphere—let’s call it the boulder to make things easy—five hundred meters off our five o’clock.”

  LeBlanc acknowledged the order. Max could feel the questioning stares of his CIC crew. They’ll understand it soon enough. “Mr. Levy, I seem to recall that one of your ancient countrymen once slew a giant with a stone thrown from a slingshot.”

  “That’s what the Nevi’im says, sir.”

  “You think you can duplicate the feat in space with a 13,530-kilogram CIC pressure bulkhead hemisphere?”

  The young man smiled broadly as understanding dawned on him. “Watch me.”

  Less than five minutes later, having come around in a wide arc, the Cumberland was creeping toward Hotel two on maneuvering thrusters, approaching the Krag vessel from its six o’clock position, with all systems set for maximum stealth. This was not an orthodox battle maneuver. Not even slightly. There was, of course, nothing odd about creeping up behind one’s adversary, but it wasn’t every day that a destroyer came up on the enemy’s six using its grappling field to tow a 13,530-kilogram, solid Michiganium CIC pressure hull hemisphere from a recently nuked Union warship.

  The novelty of the maneuver wasn’t lost on Dr. Ibrahim Sahin, occupying his accustomed place at the Commodore’s Station with the ship’s cat, Clouseau. The black tomcat was in one of his many accustomed places in CIC, this time lying in the seat of the Commodore’s station beside the doctor, resting his head upside down on Sahin’s leg, sprawled in the boneless repose of which only felines are capable. Sahin spoke to his skipper at a volume calculated to keep his remarks between the two of them. “Max, I’ve read the Manual of Standard Union Battle Maneuvers and descriptions of all the destroyer battles you listed for me to read, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this particular maneuver.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t. As far as I know, it’s never been done before,” Max responded.

  “I seem to recall hearing from you some kind of maxim to the effect that one should never be the person to do something for the first time.”

  Max shook his head. “That was one of Commodore Middleton�
��s Rules of Bureaucratic Behavior. This is combat, not bureaucracy. Entirely different set of rules. In combat, doing the unexpected is the second-best way to survive.”

  “What, pray tell, is the best?”

  “Running away.”

  “Oh.

  “At least,” said Max, “you know in advance what we are going to do this time. Does that make any difference to you?”

  “Less than I would have suspected. Even though I have a rudimentary understanding of our proposed course of action, I understand so few of the details by which we seek to effectuate this objective that I still feel singularly uninformed. I don’t even understand so basic a fact as what happens if we aren’t able to accomplish the objectives we have set for ourselves in a timely fashion.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. If we screw up, and we’re lucky, we’ll be able to run away, and the Krag will take the tender.

  “And if we’re not lucky?”

  “We get blown to hell in about three minutes.” Max could see Bartoli slowly shaking his head. Apparently, the tactical officer’s hearing was better than Max and Bram had counted on. Max met Bartoli’s gaze, and the tactical officer held up two fingers. “That’s two minutes.”

  Bram took a slow breath and squared his shoulders. He was not a fearful man, not by any means, but he had not been in warship service long enough for facing possible death to have become routine. Routine or not, facing death was part of his job, and Doctor Ibrahim Sahin always did his job, whether it involved supporting his friend and captain here in CIC or taking care of his patients in the Casualty Station. He would do his job today, too, without flinching. Much.

  Max reverted to his “CIC voice.” “Tactical, any change in enemy dispositions?”

  “None, sir,” Bartoli replied. “Hotel two is still standing off about 27,000 meters from the tender, pummeling it fore and aft with pulse-cannon blasts. Hotel one is at close range—2,700 meters or so—hitting her with concentrated blasts amidships to wear down the deflectors in that area. Hotel one is still looking as though she intends to board. No sign that either is aware of our presence.”