A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Interesting,” Sally said. She sounded surprised - and puzzled. “Indian Three was much more aggressive about shooting down the drones.”

  “Show me,” James ordered. Did Indian Three simply have more real ships? Or did their CO have something to hide? The more he looked at it, the less sense the Indian tactics made; they were risking defeat in detail, simply by splitting up their ships. Unless they had a surprise up their sleeves. “What are they doing?”

  “The long-range passive sensors insist that Indian Three consists of twenty-one destroyers and frigates,” Sally said. “By noting the ships that actually opened fire, we know that eleven of them are actually real. No other formation showed more than four real starships.”

  James frowned. “A shell game, then,” he mused. The Indians didn't want to fool him - they knew that was impossible, the way they’d set it up - but they wanted to keep him guessing which ships were real. And yet, by opening fire, they’d kindly identified a number of real ships for him. “But why?”

  ***

  Vice Admiral Joshi was mildly surprised the British hadn't attempted to avoid combat, given the apparent combat superiority of the formations bearing down on them, but he was quite willing to take advantage of it. The planners had assumed the British would - correctly - deduce that two-thirds of the ships heading towards them were nothing more than drones, particularly the carriers. They might even assume that they held a decisive advantage and ready themselves to wipe out half the Indian Navy. It would - he hoped - leave them open for the true threat.

  “Inform the crews that they may start deploying on my mark,” he ordered. The British ships were drawing closer, into missile range. They’d be prepping themselves to open fire on the warships they knew to be real. “Prepare to fire.”

  ***

  “The task force is going to red alert,” Sally reported. The alarms were automatically dampened in the CIC. “Indians One through Five will be in firing range in twenty minutes.”

  And nothing - seemingly - ready to stab us in the back, James thought. He took another look at the remorselessly empty display. Why?

  “Inform all ships that they are cleared to open fire on my command,” he ordered. “ROE Prime are now in effect; I say again, ROE Prime are now in effect.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sally said.

  And if any reporters get hurt in the crossfire, it’s their own stupid fault, James thought, as the Indians drew closer. Their ships might be mistaken for enemy vessels and blown out of space in passing.

  He cleared his throat. “Inform Captain Pole that she may launch starfighters at will,” he ordered. They’d worked out deployment plans while waiting for the Indians to come into range. One third of the starfighters would cover the task force, while the remainder would take the fight to the Indians. “Plan Beta, I think; I say again, Plan Beta ...”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Sally said.

  She broke off as the display suddenly spangled with red icons. “Incoming fire! I say again, incoming fire!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pegasus System

  That’s impossible, James thought.

  It wasn't just missiles, either; missiles fired from a range that would see them burning out long before they reached their targets. The Indians had launched starfighters. But they didn't have a carrier ... or did they? Had they concealed a makeshift escort carrier or two under ECM? Or simply mounted the starfighters on the hulls of a dozen destroyers? It was certainly technically possible.

  “Ready the point defence,” he ordered, sharply. If the Indians had fired missiles from outside the normal range, it was quite possible that they’d somehow managed to improve on the standard missile designs. They wouldn't want to waste ammunition on a clear diversion, not when cold logic would insist it was a diversion. “Stand by to repel attack.”

  “Admiral,” Sally said. “They’re launching a wave of smaller craft. They look like modified shuttles.”

  James stared at the display. There was something about it that was familiar, too familiar; it was almost as if he’d seen something like it before, during the war. And then it struck him.

  “Those are boarding pods,” he snapped. The Tadpoles had tried to board Ark Royal during Operation Nelson. It had failed, badly, but the Tadpoles had never been particularly adept out of the water. The Indians, on the other hand, had powered combat armour of their own - and, perhaps, deck plans for Theodore Smith. “Alert the marines. The Indians are attempting to board the carrier.”

  Sally blinked. “Us, sir?”

  “There’s no other target worth the effort,” James snapped. The Indian ships were coming into range too. “Order all ships to engage the Indians at will; I say again, engage the Indians at will.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sally said. She paused as new information popped up on her screen. “Sir, the CAG is diverting starfighters to target the boarding pods.”

  “Order him to ensure that at least two squadrons confront the Indian ships,” James said. “We cannot let them shoot at us without retaliation.”

  He turned his attention to the missiles as they reached the point where they should have burned out their drives and gone ballistic. It wasn't a surprise, not really, to see the missiles split up, each one launching a second stage towards the task force. A two-stage missile had been a theoretical concept for a long time, but reworking the missile tubes to fire a missile over twice the size of standard missiles had kept running into bureaucratic objections. And then the new focus on plasma weapons had restricted development elsewhere.

  Looks like they did come up with a new concept, he thought, as the missiles swept towards their targets, followed by the starfighters. But so did we.

  Theodore Smith’s point defence went active, spewing hundreds of plasma bolts into space. The missiles were surrounded by ECM - he was disconcerted to note that several of the missiles seemed to be nothing more than portable ECM generators - but there were so many plasma bolts that hitting something was almost inevitable. Other ships added their own fire, hacking hundreds of missiles out of space. Only a handful survived to enter terminal attack range and only one detonated, sending a bomb-pumped laser beam into the hull, before it was too late.

  The giant carrier shuddered, violently. “Direct hit, decks nine through twelve,” Sally snapped, as alerts flashed up on the display. “I say again, direct hit!”

  James had to resist the temptation to snap orders to the damage control parties. It was Susan’s job to fight her ship, his to control the overall battle ... and yet, it was hard not to take command directly. He understood, in a sudden flicker of insight, just how Admiral Smith had felt. And he’d had the excuse of serving on Ark Royal for years before taking her into combat for the first time.

  “Alert the starfighters,” he ordered. The boarding pods were closing in, half-hidden behind a sheen of ECM. “They are to press the offensive against the Indian ships.”

  He watched the display, grimly, as it kept updating. Thankfully, most of the faked ships had already been revealed ... although he had to admit it was possible that some captains were playing it very cool. A couple had flickered and vanished, suggesting that the drones had finally given out under the strain. The remainder of the Indian ships were firing again, hammering his ships with missiles; this time, they seemed to be launching standard missiles rather than their modified designs.

  They must have been unable to produce more than a handful, he thought. Even if they were willing to gamble, they’d have been unable to afford them - and, of course, avoid the Superiority danger. And they risked them all here.

  “Admiral,” Sally said. “Petunia is gone.”

  James nodded. The escort carriers were vital targets, particularly if the Indians couldn't get close to the fleet carrier. They were too large to be agile, too small to be crammed with point defence. The cold part of his mind noted that there would be no problem taking her starfighters on Theodore Smith; the rest of him was horrified at such callousness. But then, death had b
een a part of his life ever since the last war. The delusion that the universe was safe had killed far more people than anything else in human history.

  “Dashing is taking heavy damage,” she added. “Glasgow has been crippled; her crew are abandoning ship ...”

  She broke off for a long second. “Glasgow has been destroyed, sir,” she warned. “Churchill is requesting permission to withdraw.”

  “Denied,” James said. It was unlikely that the Indians would let her go - and, when she was away from the fleet, she would be an easy target. “Continue driving them back.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sally said.

  ***

  The Indian starfighter buzzed up in front of her, shooting madly. Flying Officer Harriet Monsey picked it off with a quick burst of plasma fire and drove onwards, heedless of the man or woman she’d just killed. No one had been expecting a dogfight between rival starfighter forces, but Teddy’s crew were living up to their training. The Indians, too, were fighting with a skill she rather wished they’d never developed. Right now, a turkey shoot was starting to look like a damn good idea.

  “Target destroyed,” Pearson snapped. “We’ve a clear run!”

  “Understood,” Harriet said. Nine other starfighters were coming up behind them, weapons at the ready. “Let’s go.”

  The Indian cruiser was turning towards them as she led the charge into weapons range. There was nothing wrong with her point defence, Harriet noted; the Indians opened fire the moment she came into effective range, forcing her to corkscrew randomly through the hail of fire to avoid being hit. Their electronic servants would be doing everything they could to predict the starfighter’s trajectory and put a plasma bolt in her path; she jinked backwards and forwards, daring the enemy to score a direct hit. A stream of plasma passed so close she saw it with her naked eye as she swooped down on the enemy hull; she bottomed out and opened fire, spraying plasma fire into the enemy ship. Its armour was lighter than Teddy’s, she saw, but still good enough to ward off plasma bolts ...

  Good thing it isn’t good enough to keep us from wiping out sensor blisters and weapons turrets, she thought. She'd had plenty of experience at snapping off shots at everything that might be a weapon, crippling the ship even if it could still run for its life. And here come the torpedo-bombers!

  “The enemy are directing starfighters back to deal with us,” Pearson reported. “Suggest we turn to engage them.”

  “Wilco,” Harriet said. Flying directly away from the cruiser was a risk, but the enemy crews had too much else to worry about. A handful of plasma bolts chased her as she fled, none coming close enough to scorch her paint. “We’ll go right at them.”

  She smirked as the torpedo-bombers opened fire on the cruiser. Their missiles were smaller than the giant weapons launched by capital ships, but they were designed to punch right through armour and explode inside the hull. And, unlike a fleet carrier, the cruiser wasn't designed to take such an impact. The cruiser staggered and exploded into debris.

  “Scratch one cruiser,” the torpedo-bomber pilot jeered. “I say again, scratch one cruiser.”

  “Very good,” Harriet said. The Indian starfighters were altering course, moving to protect their other ships. She silently saluted them - their first impulse had probably been to tear into the torpedo-bombers - and gave chase. “Now go kill yourself another one.”

  She smiled as the Indians ran from her and her fellows, then swooped around and came back firing as they reached a destroyer. The destroyer opened fire; it looked suspiciously as though they’d forgotten how to work their IFF systems. Their fire was so wild that Harriet couldn't help wondering if they were just shooting at random. It was sheer luck they didn't hit one of their own starfighters.

  “This one is a little too enthusiastic,” Pearson said. “He’s trying to take me up the butt.”

  “Evidently he doesn't know anything about your disgusting bathroom habits,” Harriet said, as she swooped down on Pearson’s opponent. The Indian hesitated too long, then flipped his craft over and tried to open fire on Harriet. It was too late; she blew him apart before he could bring his weapons to bear. “What a moron.”

  “Good shooting,” Pearson said. “I guess I owe you a life debt. Can I be your slave tonight?”

  “Well ... I do need someone to clean the deck, I suppose,” Harriet said. It was her turn on deck-swabbing duty, although she had a feeling the CAG wouldn't insist on it, not after the battle. “I’m sure everyone else will be happy to watch and jeer as you do it.”

  “That wasn't what I meant,” Pearson protested. He snapped off a shot at an Indian starfighter; the pilot evaded, only to run straight into a second shot. “Got him!”

  Harriet rolled her eyes, then watched as the torpedo-bombers closed in on the Indian destroyer. The ship tried to turn away, but it was already too late; three missiles slammed into its hull and detonated inside the ship, blowing her into a colossal fireball. She blasted a starfighter that was trying to escape and then looked around for new targets. The remainder of the Indian fleet was launching yet another spread of missiles towards the task force. They were already travelling too fast for her to intercept them.

  “We need to rearm,” Flying Officer Mulligan reported. “We buried our last torpedo in that ship.”

  “Get back to Teddy and reload,” Harriet ordered. She glanced at her display. One definite advantage of the newer Hurricane starfighters was that they had nearly twice the endurance of the older models. “We’ll try and make life easier for you.”

  “Understood,” Mulligan said. “Good luck.”

  Harriet looked around for another target. An Indian frigate was turning towards the battle, its weapons already tracking the starfighters. They probably wouldn't be able to take the ship out without the torpedo-bombers, but they could strip her of her point defence and sensors, leaving her blind and helpless. She smirked at the thought, then gunned her engine. Pearson and the rest of the squadron followed her as she led the way towards the new target.

  “Take this one out alone and the CAG will be your slave,” Pearson offered.

  “I think he’ll have shit duty for you when you get back,” Harriet reminded him. “You do realise the press is listening, don’t you?”

  She had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. People who weren't pilots didn't appreciate pilot humour - or the attitude that every moment should be savoured, if only because death could come at any second. Pearson’s wit - or what passed for wit - would probably lead to questions in Parliament. Or another edition of Starfighter Pilots Gone Wild.

  “Let’s go,” she said, as the Indian ship opened fire. “Follow me!”

  ***

  “The enemy took out two destroyers and an escort carrier, Admiral.”

  Joshi swore, savagely. He'd only had two escort carriers - and makeshift ones at that - assigned to his formation. In hindsight, perhaps it had been a mistake not to convert more freighters into carriers, but the government had been determined to pour resources into fleet carriers. And yet, it had cost them. Two fleet carriers - and a third taking shape in the yards - weren’t enough to have a carrier everywhere it might be needed.

  And without my carrier, I cannot recover and resupply my starfighters, he thought, numbly. The British might have been surprised, but they were fighting back savagely. Seven of his ships had been blown out of space; five more were so badly damaged, thanks to the enemy starfighters, that they were effectively useless. I may be able to recover the crews, but the starfighters will have to be written off.

  “Admiral, the second wave of boarding pods is ready for deployment,” his aide said. She gave him a sharp look. “They’re primed and ready to go.”

  “Deploy them,” Joshi ordered. He’d had his doubts about the whole concept - the British had wiped out the first set of boarding pods before they got close to the target ships - but he saw no alternative. If nothing else, at least they would soak up some plasma fire that might otherwise be aimed at his starfighters. “And pre
pare to fire missiles to cover them.”

  He tapped a switch, bringing up the ammunition expenditure chart. Between the rounds he’d fired and the destroyed ships, he didn't have many missiles left. He didn't dare close any further with the British ships either, not when their mass drivers were almost painfully accurate. It was ironic - he knew what weapons had been emplaced on Clarke - but it did have its advantages. At least the theories for intercepting mass driver projectiles had been proved correct.

  “Admiral,” his aide warned. “We only have enough missiles for one final salvo.”

  “Better make it count,” Joshi said. He keyed a series of commands into his console, plotting out the final strike. General Patel would regret not accompanying the fleet. “And break off the moment we fire the missiles.”

  “Aye, sir,” his aide said.

  At least we gave them a battering, Joshi thought. It was something to be proud of, he was sure. The Tadpoles had done worse, but the Tadpoles had keyed their weapons mix to take advantage of human weaknesses. And if we succeed with the second wave of pods, we may just win outright.