Then a huge shape appeared, drilling into the enemy formation from below and starboard. Railgun fire shattered the forward pair of frigates, and a giant spear of fire raked the forward portion of the enemy cruiser. Jacob’s jaw fell open as the newcomer turned, its batteries still pounding away at the crippled Scythe class ship, and then its profile fell into place. He turned his attention to Ensign Dukoff.
“Signal the Gawain and give Captain Espinoza our thanks.”
A short cheer broke out on the bridge as a pair of giant explosions rocked the enemy cruiser.
Jacob tapped the command channel again and tried not to look too triumphant. “Squadron, provide fire support for the Gawain as we pass, and then lock sailjammers onto the dreadnaught. Captain Hull out.”
The Knight class cruisers had been touted by their builders as superb combat ships, and Captain Espinoza was certainly proving that claim correct. Her ship had come around in a clean turn that mocked the efforts of the Scythe class craft’s efforts to run. The first plasma lance hit had ruined its DE sails, and as Gawain closed, her powerful weapons now tore into the main hull. Missile hits battered the length of the ship, while railgun turrets encouraged the remaining destroyers and frigates to run. Then the lance blazed to life and sliced the enemy cruiser open with terrible ease. Its flaming corpse continued to tumble forward, but the cruiser was clearly no longer part of the fight.
Jacob had one moment to celebrate their triumph before the first missile hit. It streaked in from above the Gawain, followed by an avalanche of its brethren. Anti-missile flechettes sprayed out in an effort to intercept the bombardment, but there were too many contacts to track and destroy. Impact after impact rocked the Knight class cruiser, until there was no hope it could be saved. Escape boats began to sprout from emergency sections all over the ship, and the cruiser rolled to reveal a flank carved in flame and wreckage. After a few more moments, those flames went out, and the Gawain was dead.
A sudden silence filled the bridge, but then Jacob forced himself to speak. “Ensign Remmers, where did those missiles come from?”
The Sensor officer’s voice seemed to be impossibly dry. “The dreadnaught, sir. The damn Odurans must have focused their entire salvo on Gawain.”
“Thank you Ensign.” Jacob took a deep breath and tried not to picture Terrier keeling over the same way Gawain had. It wasn’t easy. “Continue closing with the dreadnaught. We have to get inside her missile range and stop her.”
Flint twisted around in his seat. For a moment, he looked as if he was on the edge of an outburst. Then he restrained himself with an effort. “Sir, are you sure? We have no capability to stop that kind of attack on our squadron.”
“We have no choice, Commander Flint.”
Flint’s expression seemed to close down, and Jacob shook his head. He turned back to the projection. There were no other ships nearby, now; the closest was a Brute class cruiser off to starboard that wouldn’t be in range until after they’d made their first attack run. Jacob put that detail out of his mind for a moment and focused on the rest of the situation.
The dreadnaught wasn’t firing yet, and Jacob thought he knew why. Wreckage filled the space between his destroyers and the larger ship. It was possible the enemy’s sensors had lost contact, and even if they hadn’t, the Odurans had to be thinking the same thing Flint was. Two destroyers didn’t charge a dreadnaught, not if they were commanded by sane men.
For some reason an old conversation with Turley sprang to mind, and Jacob grimaced. The best destroyer commanders are usually crazy. Let’s see if that’s true.
Both destroyers swept toward the dreadnaught. Al-Mustafa’s flagship was vulnerable, but if they launched the jammers too far out, the Odurans could sweep them aside and then destroy his ships. They had to get in close enough to launch the sailjammers, even if that meant weathering the dreadnaught’s fire for a while.
Jacob leaned forward and touched his controls. “Squadron, continue closing and remain close together. Do not launch sailjammers until my mark. Point defense crews stand by to receive fire; prep anti-missile defense as well. Captain Hull, out.”
The dreadnaught, still focused on fleeing and not registering the threat his ships posed to its escape, did not react when his destroyers cleared the wreckage. Out to starboard, Brute class cruiser started to accelerate towards them. Perhaps the general had ordered the other Oduran ship to stop them, but it was not going to reach them fast enough. For two long minutes, the range continued to fall, and Jacob felt his breath coming quicker as he watched the dreadnaught grow larger in his projection.
The tension on the bridge grew thickened, and Commander Flint’s expression returned to dull, condemning neutrality. Jacob fought to control his own breathing as the larger ships loomed on the projection. Railgun shells were starting to fire from the dreadnaught now, though the rear batteries seemed to be having trouble targeting his ships. Point defense turrets intercepted the enemy fire, but shell fragments still rolled along the destroyers’ armor and bounced off the hull. Two hits slipped past the Beagle’s defenses to carve sections out of her port side, and another slammed into Terrier’s dorsal armor.
He closed his eyes for a moment as guilt and uncertainty assailed him, and then he opened them again. They were in range. “Terrier, Beagle, launch sailjammers. Open fire on DE sail rigs in view.”
The response was instant. Both destroyers spat a wave of sailjammers at the dreadnaught’s sail rigs, and then the gun decks opened up. A steady rain of railgun shells streaked towards the dreadnaught, overtaking the giant ship at an impressive rate. Defense turrets on the larger craft swiveled and began to intercept the incoming shells, but it was already too late. Explosions sprayed over the aft sections of the dreadnaught.
Half a heartbeat later, the sailjammers engaged, spraying the DE sails with disrupting energy particles. Every sail on the dreadnaught winked out in a heartbeat, the victim of the sailjammers’ accurate targeting. Unseen, the Capistan aboard the dreadnaught must have gone silent as well, ruining the general’s chances to flee. He was trapped here, for as long as it would take to reestablish the sails.
He had no time to watch the impacts. Even as the dreadnaught drifted, dead in space, the Brute class cruiser was diving in from the side. Momentum meant they had to pass its course, in spite of anything the Helm could have done. Alarms wailed as the dreadnaught launched missiles, adding to the chaos. Jacob gritted his teeth as the crew struggled to intercept the incoming threats, watching the ships under his command bend their course to try to evade.
Railgun shells sprayed out from both Terrier and Beagle, even as fire from the cruiser came back at them. Plasma fire began catching the shells as they drew close to their targets. Soon space was filled with the shattered remnants of those shots. Fireballs glowed as shells detonated early, sewing the intervening space with chaff and fragments grayed out the sensors, and flechettes hunted the arcing missiles attempting to come around at his ships.
Then Jacob’s eyes widened as the cruiser swerved hard to starboard, abruptly drawing closer to their course. The Oduran ship paid the price as its defense turrets faltered, allowing some of the trailing end of the destroyers’ fire to slip through and tear holes in the armor. Atmosphere leaked and wreckage spilled free, but the cruiser seemed to shrug off the damage as the distance shrank.
Jacob’s worst nightmare was given form as a plasma lance came to bear and unleashed a shining line of destruction. It swept toward Terrier with a kind of lethal inevitability. Time seemed to slow for a moment as Commander Flint yelled over the alarms, his voice desperate. “Change course! All stations br—”
That was all he managed before the bridge went wild with shouts, sirens, and shocks. Plasma seared a brutal scar through the Terrier, slicing in through the upper decks. It burned through armor as if it were air and dug a scar in the ship heading aft. The Helms officer’s instinctive reaction tore the beam free before it could slice further through the destroyer, but the damage was al
ready done. Half the forward sections were a blazing ruin, and only a minor miracle kept the destruction from reaching the reactor. Terrier’s DE rigs shut off as abruptly as the dreadnaught’s had, though there was far less chance of them being restored.
Jacob coughed and shook his head. Fumes were filling the cabin from somewhere, though none of the consoles seemed damaged. He opened his mouth to speak, and coughed again; pain shot through his ribs. “Commander Flint. What’s our status?”
Flint looked even grimmer than usual. “External communications are down. Beagle is pulling away from us. Engines are down, and power is iffy throughout the ship.” He paused to cough, hacking and spitting before he continued. “Target cruiser is in pursuit, but we’re pulling away.” Flint’s face changed as his eyes ran over something else. “We have two missiles incoming.”
He felt a leaden feeling settle over him. With the ship gutted by the lance, there was no hope of evading anything, let alone a pair of missiles. Jacob tasted acrid smoke in his mouth and resisted the urge to spit. “Issue the order to abandon ship. All crew to the escape pods.”
Commander Flint nodded, his expression hard. The loss of the ship had been evident from the moment the lance made contact; the only question had been whether the Terrier would make it through the rest of the battle without forcing her crew to evacuate. Jacob’s eyes went to the flickering projection still struggling to define the surrounding space. He caught sight of Beagle racing forward, with missiles closing on her from all sides. Jacob prayed Leon would be able to keep the last portion of his squadron safe, and then his eyes caught sight of two streaks of light closing fast.
He measured their distance against the speed and realized his ship had less than a minute to live. Jacob listened to Flint sounding the evacuation over the communication systems, and hoped the survivors in his crew could still hear it. With a reluctance that defied all logical understanding, he unclipped the restraints that had held him in his seat. Around him the bridge crew was following suit, rushing back through the hatch to the antechamber beyond, where the pods for bridge crew were located.
Jacob turned to follow them and paused. He saw Commander Flint, still at his station, still giving the order to evacuation. He stepped towards Terrier’s commander. “Flint, time to go.”
Flint barely hesitated. Jacob saw tears running down his face and something broke. He stalked over to the commander, yanking him from his chair with both hands. “Enough! Let’s go, Commander!” Flint tried to swipe at him with one hand, but Jacob manhandled the man out the hatch.
The pods had been attached to the sides of the antechamber, separated from the open space by doors that were normally closed. There was still a pod waiting with a single Marine inside, and as the proximity alarms began to scream behind him, Jacob shoved Flint inside. He had enough time to dive in after him and punch the launch button before the first missile hit.
The world went wild for a long time, and then everything faded to darkness.
Chapter Nine
Jacob blinked when a bright light pierced his eyeball and seared straight to the back of his head. He groaned, and tried to shy away from it. Everything hurt, though the most pain radiated from somewhere in his ribs and right elbow. Then he shifted, and his left ankle forced him to change his assessment of the situation. White hot agony swept through him, and he groaned again through gritted teeth.
A female voice answered his protests, coming from somewhere to his right. “Well, it looks like he’s coming around.”
Another woman growled near his left elbow. “About damned time our captain stopped sleeping it off.”
Recognition filtered in as Jacob’s head began to clear, and the light slowly resolved itself into a lamp attached to the ceiling above him. Laurie was the first visitor; the other had to be Al-shira. Jacob tried to push himself up, shaking his head. Hands landed roughly on his shoulders and forced him back down. The movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through him, and he grimaced.
Al-shira’s snarling face swam into focus, her eyes flashing fire as much as they ever had. “Don’t you complain to me, captain. You’re the one who keeps getting your ship shot up and yourself wounded to match. Do you know how close you got to ending up on the Fatal Casualties list this time?”
Jacob shifted uncomfortably. “Commander Flint? Did he make it too?”
Al-shira’s eyes flashed, and she straightened. She crossed her arms in front of her, and her lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s all you’re going to ask. A whole ship full of people, an entire flotilla involved, and you ask about one man.”
Flint’s face flashed through Jacob’s mind again. Firm, disapproving, professional. At the end, broken and weeping, trying to go down with a ship he had commanded. “He matters to me, Al-shira, even if you don’t care. Did he make it?”
Laurie was the one who answered. “He made it, Hull, but they’re still working on him. Apparently he was nearly as roughed up as you were. Your pod must have launched just before the Terrier went up.” She fell silent. “You might want to cut it a little less closely next time.”
The memory of the Oduran shell tearing apart Gun Deck A returned, and Jacob grunted. “Isaac! Laurie, I don’t know if he—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t worry. He made it.” Her hand fell back to her side, and she looked away. “The little twit wasn’t in central fire control where he should have been, and he managed to make it to the pods far before you did. He’d be here, but he said he had something else he needed to do.”
Relief flooded through Jacob, and a certain kind of exhaustion with it, but he fought to stay focused. He looked back to Al-shira. “Did we win the battle? Did we get the General, or did his dreadnaught make it out of the ambush?”
Al-shira looked as if she wanted to spit, but she answered. “We got him, captain. His DE sails were still coming up when Lancelot’s plasma lance gutted his riftjump generators. The rest of the ship joined them shortly after.” She shook her head. “The General’s dead, as far as we know, and for all the good it will do us. I hope it was worth the cost.”
He frowned at the pessimistic tone of her voice, and he opened his mouth to ask what had happened to discourage her. Then a certain incongruity wormed its way into his mind. Jacob looked back to Laurie, then around at his surroundings. By the pungent smell of medicine and sterilizers in the air, combined with the bland surroundings and confined quarters, he was in one of the individual sick berths on Badger. A certain species of dread began to grow as he returned his gaze to Laurie. “Where are we?”
Laurie opened her mouth, but Al-shira was the one who answered. “You’re on the Badger, captain. After all, your last ship isn’t around to ferry you anymore.”
Jacob winced inwardly at the barb, but he shoved his annoyance aside. “Laurie, why aren’t you on the Beagle?”
The Countermeasures officer hesitated, her face shouting the answer she was trying to phrase. “The Beagle…” She shook her head. “The Beagle is crippled, Jacob. They have to tow it home. The cruiser and the dreadnaught both shot us up after Terrier went down, and got in enough shots that we nearly lost her too.”
He felt a lump of dread congeal in his throat. “Did Leon make it off safely?” She nodded, and he was left wondering if he even needed to ask the next question. “When will they…no, no they won’t will they.” Jacob looked down. “They were already saying the ships had too little protection, and this will make it easier on them, won’t it?”
“Hull?” Laurie looked confused, and Jacob shook his head.
“They’re not going to rebuild the Beagle, Laurie. Just like they weren’t going to repair Wolfhound or the others. As soon as we make it back to Reefhome, the Navy will scrap her. They’ll scrap all of them.” He sighed, feeling remorse seep into his chest. “Maybe they’ll scrap their commanding officer too. And who could blame them?”
The question he needed to ask next rose in his mind, and however much he fought it, he knew he had to give it voice. There was
no other way to find out, and avoiding the information for the rest of his life was not an option. He swallowed and looked down. “How many died?”
There was dead silence for a moment. Then Laurie spoke, her voice filled with reluctance. She obviously thought he was pushing too hard. “Jacob, you can talk about it some other time. You need rest. Get some sleep.”
He almost agreed with her, but it was his responsibility to know. His orders had put his people in harm’s way, and no true commander would forget what that meant. Jacob had to know. Turning to Al-shira, whose eyes still burned with resentment, he asked again. “Al-shira, how many of them didn’t make it out? Tell me.”
For a moment, her eyes filled with something besides the anger that had burned in them for so long. Then her jaw tightened, and she answered. “We lost about seventy five from Beagle. They’re still working on about forty more wounded.” She paused, and looked away. “From Terrier, only one hundred made it off. The rest were on the ship, or their escape pods were caught in the fighting.” Al-shira looked up again, and her anger drained from her expression. Jacob couldn’t analyze what replaced it; his mind was numb. “I’m sorry, Jacob.”
It was a long heartbeat before he could speak again. Shock over the loss of his crews and their ships filled him, and he wondered again how he had ever thought himself a decent commander. He shook his head. “I am too, Al-shira.” Over two hundred and seventy crewmen dead, on top of all the other losses he’d had. Nearly as many as had been lost in the fight for Reefhome, and here they had done what? Killed an Oduran officer? What kind of monument would such an achievement serve for so many people dead? Jacob looked up and found her still watching him, strangely calm. “I am too.”
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