by Jay Allan
He paused again, counting off a couple beats before he continued. “I believe this is the right course of action. Indeed, to me there is no other possible choice. This inbound force will undoubtedly bombard civilian targets on the surface of Columbia, and as an Alliance naval officer, I take it as my duty to stop them if I am able.” He swallowed hard and continued. “Duty is a hard taskmaster, and the essence of my duty is to protect the civilians of the Alliance. Regardless of political affiliations or opinions about rebellion, indiscriminate bombing of civilian targets cannot be justified.”
Compton was standing dead center in his control room. His staff had thrown in with him to the bitter end; he was sure of that. But what about the rest of the fleet? Remaining with him on station was one thing, but engaging other Alliance forces was another.
“I am resolved to make a stand here, and to engage any forces that attempt to seize control of the space around Columbia. I feel without reservation that this is where my duty lies.” After a pause he continued, his voice a bit softer. “As I said, I will not order any vessel to stand with me. You must make your own choice in this. Any who remain will have my deepest gratitude. Any who feel their conscience or personal interpretation of duty does not allow them to stand with me may maneuver to disengagement range with my best wishes.”
That’s it, he thought. Let’s see what they do, and then I’ll know where I stand. It’s a lot to ask…not just to fight against other Alliance units, but to engage an overwhelmingly superior force. In all likelihood, the only reward anyone would get from following him was to die branded as a traitor.
The Directorate fleet was almost in missile range. Jantz and about half his forces had joined with the invaders, but most of the fleet rallied to Compton. Only six ships elected to leave his command, and they maneuvered deeper into the system, setting a course to link up with Jantz’ dropouts. They wouldn’t attack the incoming fleet, but neither would they fight against Compton. They had assumed neutrality.
Compton was relieved and gratified that so many of his people stood with him. The odds were still long, but at least he had a fleet. He was about to give the order to fire when fleetcom crackled to life and began broadcasting a message. “Attention all Alliance personnel.” The warp gate scanners were reporting incoming vessels just as the comm signal arrived. “This is Fleet Admiral Augustus Garret.” The message was uncoded, broadcast in the clear.
“This message is directed to all Alliance naval personnel in-system. Orders issued from my office during the last year have been compromised and misrepresented through the actions of unauthorized parties.” Garret’s voice was strong and steady, with an undercurrent of anger that was detectable only to those who knew him well. “I want to make this perfectly clear. Admiral Terrance Compton is confirmed in command of the Second Fleet, and I hereby ratify and approve any decisions or orders he has issued.”
Compton exhaled softly. Cain and his people must have gotten Garret out. He couldn’t imagine how they’d managed it, but the relief was considerable. He hadn’t really believed he’d ever see his friend alive again, and he felt pure joy at hearing Garret’s voice.
“All forces in this system are ordered to stand down. This order is being transmitted under Priority One protocols, with DNA scan identification verified at this time.” So there was no doubt…this was the real Augustus Garret. And he had a score to settle.
The Directorate fleet had no intention of following Garret’s order to stand down. Fleet Commander Warne had orders, and they were clear and inflexible. He was to seize control of Columbia, arrest Compton, and destroy any ships that resisted. Then he was to render any assistance requested by Governor Cooper.
The tactical situation had changed considerably, however. He was going to lose Jantz’ ships now, Warne was pretty sure of that. But the Directorate forces still represented almost two-thirds of the tonnage in the system and the Alliance navy forces were divided into four groups, in poor position to coordinate or support each other. Warne had the tactical advantage.
Jantz’ ships were closest. They’d been ready to attack Compton’s force alongside the Directorate ships, but Jantz acknowledged Garret’s order and his vessels began to change course, attempting to pull off from the Directorate fleet and disengage.
Warne had his own agenda, however, and he was prepared to fight all of the navy forces in the system. He had the edge right now, not just in tonnage, but in position. Jantz’ squadron was still nearby, within energy weapons range. He decided to engage them first, taking them out of the equation before they could link up with the other naval units.
But Compton anticipated Warne’s action, and he ordered his fleet to immediately launch a full missile barrage. It was technically a violation of Garret’s stand down order, but Compton and Garret were light hours apart, and there was no way to get confirmation in time. If Compton didn’t do something immediately, Jantz and his crews were lost.
Compton’s attack gave Warne a choice. His ships detected the missile launch just as they were positioning for the attack on Jantz’ fleeing vessels. If he went ahead and engaged Jantz’ fleet at energy range he’d be strung out, not in position to counter the missile attack. Compton or Garret might have gambled, launching a fast assault on Jantz and quickly turning to face the incoming missiles. But that would be a bold move, and the Directorate commander simply didn’t have it in him. Nor were his crews experienced enough to pull it off. He had no real choice but to let Jantz go and engage Compton in a missile duel.
So Terrance Compton saved the man who had tried so hard to relieve him. Now he faced a missile fight with an enemy that outnumbered him three to one in both hulls and tonnage. It would be a tough fight, he knew that. But it wouldn’t be his first.
Garret sat on the bridge of the AS Perryville. He didn’t have a proper flagship. In fact, he didn’t have much of a fleet either. He’d rallied what forces were available, but time had been of the essence, and there were only so many idle ships posted along his course to Eta Cassiopeiae. He had a few cruisers and a bunch of destroyers and attack ships, and that’s all.
It had been quite a journey from that cell in Alliance Intelligence HQ. Cain’s people had gotten him to the Martian embassy undetected, and Roderick Vance had smuggled him to Mars and then out of the Sol system entirely. When they filled him in, he knew he had to get to Columbia – he couldn’t imagine the mess the imposter had created. He wanted to gather a large force, but Compton’s Second Fleet was the only major concentration of naval strength in the sector. Most of the rest of the fleet was posted out on the rim. It would have taken months to assemble a large task force, and that was time Garret knew he didn’t have.
The situation was desperate; there was no doubt of that. But it felt good to be doing something and not just sitting in that cell. Holm had been telling him for years what a gifted officer Cain was, and Garret himself had followed the young general’s career with considerable interest and amusement. But now he owed him a personal debt, one he sincerely hoped he’d be able to repay one day. He was well aware of what Cain and his people had done, of the overwhelming odds they had faced. Augustus Garret was many things, but an ingrate wasn’t one of them.
He was looking at the force deployment diagram, hoping he’d come up with some way to help Compton before it was too late. There was a word for the tactical situation in the system right now…clusterfuck. Compton had the largest force posted near Columbia. There was another squadron – the ships that had originally planned to sit out the fight – about 30 light minutes from the planet. Jantz’ group was right next to the Directorate forces, while Garret’s incoming command was still near the warp gate, several light hours from the action.
Garret had his ships set a course toward the Directorate fleet. He knew more than anyone what was behind this mysterious force, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Gavin Stark get away with it. He wanted to take command of the scattered navy forces, but they were too widely dispersed, too far apart. Any
orders he issued could only confuse things, so he just kept broadcasting the affirmation of Compton’s command authority as his ships strained their reactors to get into the fight. He’d have to count on his senior officers to make their own separate decisions. They were good officers, well trained and experienced. He had faith in them.
Compton felt like a house had fallen on him. Forty years of service in space and he still hadn’t gotten completely used to the pressures of high g acceleration. He hated the bloated, lethargic feeling the pressure equalization drugs caused, but without them he’d be in worse shape…unconscious at least, and probably dead. Staying focused on the tactical situation while drugged and being crushed almost to death was one of the hardest things for naval officers to master.
He’d needed the acceleration, and now the deceleration. The incoming missile barrage would devastate his fleet if he stayed where he was. Even with full countermeasures, a lot of those warheads would get through. But he was facing a less experienced opponent…of that he was sure. The spread blasting toward his fleet was textbook, simple, unimaginative. Maybe, just maybe, with the right evasive maneuvers he could save his people.
His first thought was to hide behind Columbia, but he wasn’t about to risk letting thousands of megatons of high-yield fusion bombs impact the planet or its atmosphere. The warheads that ships hurled at each other were massive – bigger even than the giant city-killers used during the Unification Wars. It takes a lot of energy output for a near miss to damage a ship in space.
Columbia’s moon, however, was a different story, and the entire fleet was blasting full, trying to put the large rocky satellite between them and the incoming missiles. The weapons would attempt to change course to follow, but they were at a disadvantageous angle and a high velocity. The Directorate commander was impatient; he’d accelerated his missiles aggressively, burning a lot of fuel in the process. A lot of them would expend the last of their thrust capacity before they were able to completely change their trajectories to target his ships. At least that’s what Compton was betting on.
His own missile spread was focused, targeting just two of the big Yorktown class ships. What a waste, he thought. These big, beautiful new ships. The cream of the navy. He had been confused when so many of the new ships had been taken off active service, but now he understood. Alliance Intelligence wanted them; they wanted to create their own navy, under their complete control. Now Compton had to destroy them…or they would do the same to him.
He felt a pinprick in his arm – Joker adjusting his pressure drug dosage. They were almost in position, and Compton didn’t want the fleet at high acceleration/deceleration when the missiles hit. Damage control efforts would be far more effective in freefall or at low g forces. Half a minute later he felt the relief as the ship’s engines began to disengage and the massive feeling of pressure was gone.
“Missiles incoming in five zero minutes.” Commander Larrison was Bunker Hill’s tactical officer. Compton was linked into his com, but he was just a bystander. The fleet was in position; now the captains would fight their ships.
“Very good, commander.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded as calm as if she were having a picnic on the beach instead of waiting for tens of thousands of megatons of warheads to close on her ship. “Full countermeasures, program Epsilon-7.” Bunker Hill and her escorts put out a blizzard of small rockets and sprint missiles, each targeting an incoming warhead. The effectiveness of the long-range point defense was unpredictable, highly dependent on a number of factors, including the vectors and velocities of the incoming missiles with respect to the targeted ships.
The rockets split into hundreds of smaller projectiles, each aiming directly for an incoming warhead, like a bullet. The sprint missiles were single units, and they employed the same strategy as their larger targets…trying to get as close as possible before detonating. The combined effect of the two weapons systems was devastating – the salvo from the Directorate fleet was savaged, with fewer than a third of the missiles surviving.
“On my mark, execute countermeasures, protocol Epsilon-8.” Arlington’s voice was just as calm, though perhaps just a bit of satisfaction had crept in after the success of the initial point defense program.
“Acknowledged, captain.” A brief pause. “Locked in and waiting for your order.”
Sitting idle during a battle was still difficult for Compton. It had been one of the hardest things for him to get used to when he left his last ship command to assume Flag rank. A good admiral didn’t second guess his captains…if they needed that, then he’d already failed. No amount of interference from the flag bridge could make up for a bad captain.
“Execute.” Arlington had waited as long as she could to engage her close-range point defense. Lasers pulsed, picking off missiles that had closed almost to detonation range, and then the big shotguns fired. Magnetic cannon that launched clouds of heavy metal debris at the incoming missiles, the shotguns were the last line of defense.
Compton was watching his monitors, and he could see the defense grid had been to be highly effective. His evasive maneuver cut down the incoming missiles to roughly half the overall barrage – the rest running out of fuel before they were able to complete vector changes. The layered point defense intercepted most of the remaining warheads. Less than 3% of the missiles launched at the fleet detonated close enough to have an effect, but even this small remnant caused widespread damage.
The cruiser Dublin was destroyed outright, bracketed by three explosions within 2 kilometers. Two attack ships were also lost, and a number of other vessels suffered varying degrees of damage. Bunker Hill had some radiation penetration in outer compartments but was otherwise unscathed. All things considered, Compton thought, it could have been much, much worse.
His own volley proved to be substantially more effective. Precisely targeted and focused, a large percentage of the warheads penetrated the poorly deployed and coordinated countermeasures, savaging the primary targets…two Yorktown class capital ships. One vessel was virtually destroyed, dead in space with fires raging out of control in her inner compartments. The second was shattered, bleeding atmosphere and trying to pull out of the battleline.
He’d won the first round, but he knew the energy battle would be tougher. There were fewer tricks he could use, and the relative inexperience of the opposing crews would have less of an effect. The enemy’s numbers would tell.
“Admiral, the enemy is decelerating.” It was Joker’s voice in Compton’s earpiece. “I project an aspect change. Probability 74% they are turning to face Admiral Garret’s incoming ships.”
That was a hell of a projection considering Garret’s squadron was too far away to show up on Compton’s scanners. Once Garret passed the detection devices deployed near the warp gate, his ships entered a dead zone, disappearing as far as the fleet’s detection capability was concerned. Joker, or any of the other AIs could only predict the likely vector and location of the admiral’s ships. Garret was blasting full when he left range of the warp gate sensors, heading directly toward the Directorate fleet; that much they knew for certain. What they had done since could only be an educated guess.
“Joker, put me on the fleetcom command circuit.”
“You are broadcasting, admiral.” Joker’s voice was matter-of-fact, as always. “All fleet captains online.”
“All ships prepare for full thrust in five zero minutes.” He could almost sense the groans throughout the fleet, though no one made any sounds he could hear on the fleetcom. “I know we just got out of the couches, but Admiral Garret is heading straight for the enemy, pulling them away from us.” His voice got louder, sharper. “And we are not about to leave him hanging alone.” He paused then added, “All vessels confirm readiness in four zero minutes. Compton out.”
He leaned back on the couch, feeling the pinprick a few seconds later as Joker prepped him for the coming high g maneuvers. He could feel the nausea and the sickly bloated feeling the drugs caused, then another prick and som
e relief…the stimulants that partially counteracted the side effects of the pressurization injections.
“We’re coming, Augustus.” He was whispering, talking to himself. “Thank God you’re finally here.”
Chapter 29
Foothills of the Red Mountains
Northern Territories, Concordia
Arcadia – Wolf 359 III
Kara Sanders was exhausted, but she kept walking along with the rest of the army. What was left of it, at least. The retreat after the Second Battle of Sander’s Dale had turned into a near-disaster. The loss of Will Thompson infuriated the army, and the troops went wild, throwing themselves at the federals in a mindless rage. Will’s plan had been to hurt the enemy and withdraw, not to get sucked into a battle of annihilation his army couldn’t win. He knew they didn’t have the strength to defeat the federal powered infantry in a pitched battle…that they would have to wear it down gradually. But his enraged and devastated soldiers weren’t working on logic; they were out to avenge their beloved leader.
Kyle Warren had been everywhere, vainly trying to disengage and retreat. He had to save the army – for the rebellion of course, but also for Will. He owed that much to his fallen friend and leader. He got more than half their strength off the battlefield that day, but a lot of those had since been lost on the retreat, expended in desperate delaying actions or melted away in the attrition of the grueling march.
Warren knew he couldn’t defend Concordia anymore, and he resolved to move the army north, into the mountains where they had a chance to hold out, at least for a while. But before anything, there was something he had to do, a task that was his and his alone. Telling Kara about Will was the hardest thing he had ever done, and he would have rather faced any enemy on the battlefield than seen the expression on her face. He didn’t even have to tell her; she knew the minute she saw him.