A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He fought down the urge to grip his command chair, knowing he had to present an appearance of being calm and in control at all times. Centuries ago, a distant ancestor had commanded a submarine during the Second World War, charged with sneaking up and torpedoing an enemy ship. John had read his account of life under the waves as a child and wondered at all the difficulties submariners had faced, difficulties that had seemed so absurd in the modern world. But now, he understood his ancestor perfectly. He’d only ever had one shot at his targets, knowing that even a handful of depth charges would be enough to scuttle his rickety boat.

  Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly, he thought. I’m ready for you.

  “We’re in position,” Armstrong said. “I used reaction jets to move us, sir. They shouldn't have been able to detect them.”

  And the shortage of incoming missiles suggests they haven’t detected us, John thought. Unless, of course, they’re trying to lure us into a false sense of complacency ...

  “Good,” he said, coolly. “Hold our position.”

  “Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.

  “Communications, send a tactical download via laser to the Admiral, marked DNR,” John ordered. The entire engagement would be over and done with by the time the Admiral received the download, but at least someone would know what had happened if Warspite never made it home. “And then shut everything down.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

  John turned his attention back to the display. The Indian carrier was still advancing, showing no sign she knew she was inching towards a trap. Her two escorts were holding position; one of them would be in position to fire on Warspite, if they knew she was there. They would know the moment Warspite opened fire ...

  And even if we die, John told himself again, the Indians will have taken one hell of a beating.

  “Twenty minutes to go,” Tara said. “Weapons locked on target; I say again, weapons locked on target. I’m even reprioritising the point defence to hammer their hull.”

  John nodded. He was fairly sure the Indians had skimped on their armour, but it would still be tough enough to shrug off point defence plasma cannons. And yet, if the fire swept the hull, it would smash sensor blisters and missile tubes, just like starfighters had tried to do since the concept had been turned into a viable weapon of war. The Indians would wind up blind as well as crippled. He remembered the nightmarish hours Warspite had drifted helplessly in space and smiled, darkly. The Indians deserved no less.

  “Ten minutes to optimum firing range.” Tara reported.

  “Fire as soon as they reach optimum firing range or they detect us, whichever comes first,” John ordered. If there hadn't been a war on, the Indians would probably be much more careful, but as there was they’d probably shoot first at any sensor contacts that were alarmingly close to their hull and ask questions later. “Do not wait for orders.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tara said. She sounded professional, although there was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. If nothing else, the anti-carrier mission would go down in the history books. “Nine minutes to optimum firing range.”

  John braced himself. Admiral Soskice’s team of engineers and dreamers had taken the original plasma cannon concept and improved on it, creating a magnetic bottle that held a far stronger plasma charge for longer. It was practically guaranteed to burn through anything short of solid-state armour; the only downside was that it had a relatively short range. John had only fired the weapon in anger once before, against one of the Russian deserter ships during the Battle of Vesy. It had been devastating ...

  “Five minutes to optimum firing range,” Tara said. “We are tracking the targeted location; I say again, we are tracking the targeted location.”

  And we can hammer them now even if they detect us, John thought. The closer, the better, but we’re already too close ...

  An alarm sounded. “Contact,” Tara snapped, as the display turned red. One of the enemy ships had detected them. Her hands danced over her console, triggering a firing sequence she’d programmed once he'd given the final orders. “Firing ... now!”

  “Flash-wake all systems,” John snapped. Warspite shook violently as she unleashed a full spread of missiles, right after the plasma shot. There was no time to assess the result of their strike, not with two Indian frigates far too close to his ship. “Get us out of here!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Pegasus System

  “Enemy contact,” the sensor officer snapped. “Enemy ...”

  The entire carrier shuddered. Anjeet was halfway to his feet when the gravity field flickered off, sending him drifting into the air. The main lighting failed a second later, plunging the entire compartment into darkness; half the sensor displays, dependent on main power, went dark immediately afterwards. Shouts of alarm rang through the darkened compartment ...

  “Quiet,” Anjeet bellowed. He could hear the hull groaning and creaking in the distance, even though they were practically at the centre of the giant warship. Something hit the ship and it shuddered again. A missile hit? Without sensors, there was no way to know. “What happened?”

  “There was a sensor contact,” the sensor officer said. He was tapping at one of the few consoles that still worked, but it was hard to pull anything meaningful out of the system. “An enemy warship at point-blank range. And then they fired ... something ... at us.”

  A new weapon, Anjeet thought. He forced himself to think. A single bomb-pumped laser couldn't have done this much damage, not unless they somehow managed to supercharge the laser beam ...

  He pushed the thought aside. “Get into suits, then activate your radios,” he ordered. It was basic survival training, even though none of the carrier’s crew had ever expected to need it. If power was out, there was a good chance that hatches that should have slammed closed, in the event of a hull breach, hadn't done anything of the sort. “I want two volunteers to head to the bridge. If the ship has lost power completely, we’ll need to find out and coordinate an evacuation.”

  “I’ll go, sir,” his aide said.

  “Radio back to me as soon as you know,” he ordered. “And I want two more volunteers to head to the launch tubes. I need to get in touch with the escort ships.”

  He pulled himself back down to the deck as the lights flickered on again for a long second, then dimmed until they seemed on the very verge of going out. There was no sensation that suggested gravity was returning, although that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If they did have to evacuate the carrier before the British came to finish her off, a lack of gravity would be helpful. Somehow, he managed to pull his suit on and check the radio. Not entirely to his surprise, someone was already trying to call him.

  “General,” Captain Sharma said. “We have lost main power. Whatever they hit us with took out all four fusion reactors, either directly or indirectly. Successive hits crippled launch tubes one, three and four; we have lost contact with anything outside our hull. I’m working on launching starfighters and rescue craft from launch tube two. The ship is currently being powered from batteries, sir, and they won’t last longer than a few hours. There’s too much damage to the datanet to cut down usage to essential functions.”

  He paused. “Viraat is doomed, sir,” he added. “I strongly advise you to make your way, if possible, to the nearest shuttle docking point.”

  Anjeet gritted his teeth. “Can you track the bastards who did this to us?”

  “Not yet,” Sharma admitted. “I’m hoping the escorts have given chase, but we have been unable to make contact to confirm. Right now, sir, we’re trying to get some shuttles out so we can start evacuating the crew. We’re a sitting duck.”

  “I see,” Anjeet said.

  He had to force himself to think straight. All four fusion reactors gone? It seemed impossible ... but they were tied together, in the same compartment. A single hit might have disabled a reactor it hadn't actually managed to destroy. There was no point in worrying about it now. The plain fact of
the matter was that the starship was doomed. Either they got the crew off in time or they had to surrender when the British arrived.

  “Make contact with the escorts as fast as possible,” he said. Once a shuttle was out in space, it should be able to raise the starships. “Tell them to prepare to offload as many crewmen as possible.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sharma said.

  “Get a link to Admiral Joshi too,” Anjeet added. “His ships are to abandon the observation operation and join the evacuation effort. If the damaged ships I sent to Vesy can take more survivors, they are to be recalled too.”

  He scowled. The largest cruiser in the fleet couldn't hold more than a couple of hundred crewmen - three hundred, perhaps, if they pushed the life support to the limit. Viraat had - had had - over three thousand crewmen. A great many would be dead, thanks to the British, but he might not have the lifting capability to get all the survivors off. And if that happened ...

  At least the British will be reasonably civilised about POWs, he thought. God knows we have enough of their people we could trade for our own men.

  “Aye, sir,” Sharma said.

  “And get teams working on the datacores,” Anjeet concluded. The limited self-destruct system was unlikely to work - and even if it did, he wasn't sure he could be sure it had worked. Blowing up the remains of the ship would ensure there would be no chance to repair the carrier at a later date. “I want them all reduced to powder.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sharma said. He paused. “Sir, I just got an update from the shuttle crews. Two shuttles are already heading into space and a squadron of starfighters is ready to follow.”

  “Order them to hunt down our enemy and kill him,” Anjeet snarled. It would be small compensation for the loss of the giant supercarrier - it struck him that his career had just come to a screeching halt - but at least he would have that mild satisfaction. “And then start withdrawing the rest of the crew to evacuation points.”

  He cursed the British under his breath as the connection broke. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of trained spacers were dead ... but others, perhaps, were trapped in compartments that were behind vacuum, or simply out of contact with the rest of the ship. There would be no way to go through the entire hull, not before any trapped survivors ran out of oxygen or the British arrived. He doubted more than a thousand crewmen could be saved before it was too late.

  “This compartment is to be evacuated,” he ordered, raising his voice. There was no point in trying to keep the Flag Bridge active. “Make your way through cleared corridors to the nearest airlock.”

  It was tempting to just stay where he was. Admiral Joshi would have to be informed he was in command of the fleet, of course, but after that ... Anjeet could just sit down in his chair, buckle himself in and wait to die. There was no point in going home when he'd almost certainly be blamed for the loss of a carrier that had cost literally billions of rupees. It was unlikely the Prime Minister could save him, even if he wanted to try. Viraat and her sister were the pride of India. The man who’d lost a supercarrier to a sucker punch would be lucky to live long enough to face a court martial.

  But he knew his duty. He couldn't abandon it, even if it meant going home and facing the music.

  “I’ll follow you,” he said, quietly. “Now go.”

  ***

  “Direct hit, sir,” Tara reported. “The enemy ship has lost power.”

  “Pull us back,” John ordered. The carrier had definitely lost power - her point defence had barely started to engage the incoming missiles when it had suddenly stopped firing - but her escorts were already moving to intercept Warspite. “Continue firing.”

  Score one for Admiral Soskice, he thought. The plasma cannon had been devastatingly effective, burning right through the Indian armour. Indeed, he had a feeling it would be just as effective against anything weaker than modern ablative armour. The Indians have lost a carrier and we may get away yet.

  “Enemy ships launching missiles,” Tara reported.

  “Evasive action,” John snapped. Armstrong was already pulling them back, but they needed time to power up the drives completely. “Point defence; switch targeting to incoming missiles and open fire.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tara said.

  John braced himself as the missiles entered engagement range. Nine of them were picked off; two survived long enough to detonate, blasting bomb-pumped laser beams into Warspite’s armour. The ship lurched violently - alarms howled through the vessel - but kept going. John glanced at the status board and sighed in relief as he realised the Indians had hit almost nothing, although they had damaged the hull itself. There was no way the cruiser could carry the armour of a giant supercarrier.

  “Captain, the escort ships are breaking off,” Tara reported.

  John frowned. Warspite was heading away from the ambush site, but the Indians still had a fair chance of destroying her before she made her escape. He puzzled over it for a moment, then decided the Indians clearly wanted to evacuate as many of their crewmen as they could from the giant supercarrier before it was too late. No matter how badly she’d been hit, he was reasonably sure they hadn't lost everyone. Even the pre-war ships had been prepared for unexpected hull breaches.

  But they weren't prepared for weapons that went through their armour like knives through butter, he thought. I ...

  “They’re launching starfighters,” Tara reported. “One squadron, deployed from launch tube two.”

  “Understood,” John said. The Indians had nothing to gain from launching starfighters, besides - perhaps - the chance for a little revenge. “Prepare to repel attack.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tara said.

  John studied the display as the red icons flashed away from the stricken carrier. The Indians were launching a small formation of shuttles too, preparing to evacuate the supercarrier and transfer their crews to a smaller ship, but they weren't a problem. He wouldn't have fired on rescue ships anyway, even if it hadn't been a universally-acknowledged war crime. The carrier was crippled beyond hope of immediate repair, even if the Indians had the best repair crews in the galaxy. And, without their ship, the crewmen were irrelevant.

  “Captain,” Tara said. “The Vesy-bound ships from their original flotilla are altering course. They’re advancing towards our position.”

  “They must want to recover the crew too,” John said. It would be at least an hour before they arrived, by which time the whole issue would be settled, one way or the other. “Ignore them for the moment.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tara said. “Starfighters on approach vector now.”

  John sucked in his breath. The Indian starfighters were very similar to the British and American designs that dominated interstellar warfare, at least in the years immediately following the First Interstellar War. They’d probably been given the original plans, in hopes of ensuring that all starfighter designs were standardised. There were some minor differences, but they were close enough to the designs he knew - the designs he’d flown - for him to be fairly sure they hadn't managed to launch any torpedo-bombers. It was unlikely their plasma cannons could do any real damage ...

  He swore, mentally. If they managed to fire into the gash in the hull, they’d do real damage.

  “Open fire as soon as they enter engagement range,” he ordered. “Helm; spin the ship, if necessary, to keep them away from the damaged section.”

  “Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.

  Howard tossed him a sharp look. John understood all too well. There was no way that Warspite could turn fast enough to avoid the starfighters getting into position to fire into the gash, not unless the Indians were particularly slow. The ship was nowhere near as nimble as any starfighter.

  “Enemy fighters entering engagement range,” Tara reported. “Point defence engaging ... now.”

  John watched, grimly, as the Indians plunged defiantly into the teeth of Warspite’s plasma cannons. They’d learned well, he noted, from the endless skirmishes between the task force’s arrival and the b
attle; they'd mastered the art of random flying and constant evasion. Four starfighters died, but the remainder lived long enough to strafe the hull and fire plasma bolts of their own into the damaged section. Alarms howled through the ship ...

  “Evacuate that section and the surrounding compartments,” John ordered. He cursed himself silently. He should have thought to do that earlier. There were lighter layers of armour running through the interior of the starship, but not enough to keep the Indians from inflicting significant damage. “Keep altering course ...”

  The ship shuddered, slightly. “One enemy target slammed into our hull,” Tara reported. “A piece of armour plating may have been knocked loose.”

  It can be replaced, John thought. The fleet train included a couple of freighters crammed with replacement armour, if they managed to get back to the task force in time. But we need to deal with the threat first.

  “The Indians are regrouping,” Tara reported. “They’re concentrating on the damaged section again ...”