by Jay Allan
“Yes, sir,” Darrow replied, trying to sound on top of things, but not quite pulling it off. Barron knew his communications officer was doing a credible job of keeping up with the blistering pace of his commands, but he also knew the young lieutenant was being pushed to the very edge of his abilities. Barron knew how spoiled he was…Atara Travis was the best first officer in the fleet, and he was feeling her absence keenly as the battle approached its climax. She was still down in the launch bays, and as much as he wished he had her on the bridge, he knew her energetic supervision had gotten the Blues and the Eagles—and now the Reds too—out at a speed conventionally considered impossible.
“Alternate, Lieutenant,” Barron said, trying not to let his frustration show. If not being Atara Travis was a fault, it was one every officer in the fleet, save the genuine article herself, shared. “Blast the thrusters, and then a one second delay. That’s enough for the catapults to launch once. Then another burst of thrust on a different vector…and then one second to launch again.”
“Yes, sir,” Darrow answered, with more conviction this time. Barron’s orders were far from “by the book,” mostly because there weren’t more than two or three crews in the fleet that could have executed them. But Barron’s faith in his people had grown into a pillar of strength, and the longer they’d served together, the more he’d come to know just how much he could expect from them.
Dauntless jerked hard, a particularly strong burst of thrust. Barron had adjusted the AI’s proposed sequence of evasive maneuvers, adding a touch of human intuition no electronic intelligence could match. His people were in their toughest fight since the terrible battle out at Santis, and he knew it would take everything he had—everything all of them had—to see it through to victory.
The display flickered, four tiny dots appearing next to Dauntless. “Lynx” Federov and three of her Reds. Then the ship shook again, more softly this time as the thrusters fired in almost the opposite direction. Barron was still staring when he saw another half dozen laser shots whip by…and one slam right into his ship.
The bridge shook once, and then again, a few seconds later, as the laser hit was followed by a distant internal explosion. Barron had come to know his ship well, almost like his own body, and he was fairly certain the hit hadn’t been critical. Still, supplemental explosions were never a good thing, and damaged equipment and uncontrolled fires would just pull Fritz’s people from working on the primaries. He still hadn’t given up on getting a shot with Dauntless’s powerful particle accelerators. Not quite, at least.
He watched another four tiny circles appear, and then he forced his eyes to the side, toward the enemy ship and his two attacking squadrons. He’d looked away a few seconds before, unwilling to watch as his best pilots willingly exposed themselves to enemy attack…all in an effort to strafe Union battleship, to gain an edge—any edge—for Dauntless. It was hard enough watching such self-sacrificial courage, but he’d listened in on the communications, sat stone still on the bridge as Jake Stockton had outlined his plan. Barron knew he could have intervened, ordered Stockton and his people to face the enemy fighters instead of making a quasi-suicidal run past the Union squadrons to strike the battleship itself. But he’d remained silent. He’d let them go in…and whatever happened, it was his responsibility, more even than Stockton’s.
The elite formations suffered, certainly, but as he looked again, he realized they hadn’t been as badly hurt as he’d feared. Stockton had been correct…skilled pilots or no, the enemy hadn’t had time to organize their formations. They had made his people pay a price, but then their own vectors and intrinsic velocities had quickly taken them out of range. And Stockton and Timmons were leading the remaining Blues and Eagles right at Vaillant.
He watched as they made their final approach, closing the remaining distance in a matter of seconds. Dauntless shook again, even as his attention was fixed on the fighter attack. His people had managed their maneuvers well, but Vaillant’s gunners knew their trade. He’d been lucky, at least so far. The Union main guns weren’t a match for the strength of his primaries, but they were more than capable of blasting his ship to scrap. One well-placed hit could cripple Dauntless.
“I’ve got Commander Stockton, sir. He reports that Blue and Scarlett Eagle squadrons are making their attack runs.”
“On my line, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” The communications officer flipped a switched and turned back toward Barron. “Connected, Captain.”
“Raptor…Captain Barron here.” He used Stockton’s callsign instead of his name.
“Yes, sir…we’re going in. We lost Hopkins and Klein to the enemy fighters, and Biggs a few seconds ago to defensive fire. Should be about thirty seconds, Captain, then you’ll know if we managed to do any good.”
“You’ve got my every confidence, Raptor. All of ours. Do what has to be done.” Barron cut the line, just as Dauntless heaved again, hard this time. A bank of workstations went dark, and a conduit running along the ceiling fell, a shower of sparks flying all across the bridge. The display tank blinked, a ripple of colors moving through the hologram for a few seconds before it stabilized.
Barron leaned over his armrest, his hand moving to the comm controls. But he stopped.
Fritzie will report anything crucial. Don’t take her away from her work…
He turned just as the display snapped back into crisp focus…and two lines of tiny dots whipped by the enemy battleship one at a time. Stockton and Timmons had their squadrons in single file lines of attack, about one thousand kilometers apart. One ship from each of the two forces passed Vaillant every three seconds, loosing two, perhaps three laser blasts before they passed.
Barron watched his screen, waiting for damage assessments to begin flowing in. It was all guesswork, the AI’s best estimate of what each hit had accomplished. Virtually every shot connected, a testament to the skill and experience of the pilots involved. But most of them struck the battleship’s armor, the tiny lasers carried by the interceptors too weak to significantly penetrate the protected areas of Vaillant’s hull. Timmons had managed to score a hit where the enemy ship’s hull had been breached. Barron knew that laser would have torn through the fragile interior of the Union vessel, but whether it would cause serious damage depended on its location.
He watched, waiting for any signs that Vaillant had been badly damaged…reduction in thrust, plumes of air and liquids blasting out into space. But there was nothing. The enemy just kept approaching, accelerating at a constant rate and firing its heavy guns.
“Thirty seconds until secondaries are in range. All gunnery stations report ready to fire.”
“Very well…fire as soon as…”
“Captain…” Fritz’s voice reverberated in his headset. “…I don’t know how, but we’ve got the primaries online.” A brief pause. “At least I think they’re online. I’ve got the power conduits open full if you want to try to crash energize and fire.”
Barron leaned back in his chair. At least I think they’re online. The words repeated again and again in his head. Fritzie was the best engineer he’d ever known…but she was very precise. And her words meant exactly what they said. If she told him she wasn’t sure, that meant she wasn’t sure.
He felt a rush of indecision, a rare uncertainty. Should he charge up the main guns? If they were actually functional, and if the enemy didn’t manage to knock them out again…or the reactor, or the power lines…just maybe he would get in a close-range shot that would cripple his enemy. But if he had the secondaries stand down for several more minutes, and the primaries were unable to fire, his ship and crew were as good as dead.
“Belay that fire order. Charge the primaries.” He spit out the command, feeling a wave of uncertainty even as he did. But there was no time to deliberate. He had to make a choice, and he went with his gut. If the primaries came through, he had some hope of getting out of the fight in something close to operable condition. And he had to take that chance.
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Barron made sure his voice was deep, that the uncertainty he felt stayed deep in his mind. His people needed to believe he was in total control.
“Captain, we’ve got Yellow squadron armed with torpedoes and ready to go.” It was Travis on his headset. Her voice was hoarse, and the sounds of chaos in the bay were loud in the background.
Barron paused. He had no interceptors to escort the bombers. If they run into enemy fighters they could be wiped out…
He looked at the main screen, at the bright red bar that showed the primaries’ charging status. More than halfway…maybe we can do without the bombers…
But even as the thought went through his mind, he felt the words coming out of his mouth. “Launch, Commander. You have one minute before we fire the primaries.”
“Roger that, sir. Commencing launch operations now.”
Barron felt the catapults sending the first four bombers into space. He knew there had been no choice, not really. The primaries had been a gamble, Stockton’s fighter strike had been a gamble. He couldn’t hold back anything now, no tactic or action that could be the difference between victory and defeat.
The floor under his feet vibrated again, another four of Yellow squadron’s ships launching. Even as he counted the seconds between launches, his eyes were fixed on the status bar for the primaries.
Dauntless shuddered again, yet another hit. Barron could tell this one had impacted directly amidships, and his breath caught in his throat as he waited, his gaze locked on the bright red bar of light. The next few seconds stretched out agonizingly, as he watched to see if the primaries were still receiving the massive flow of power from the reactors…or it that last shot had severed some critical connection.
Yes!
He could see the indicator still moving. Just another few seconds and the massive guns would be ready to fire. He hoped. The unusual uncertainty in Fritz’s report still gnawed at his mind.
He slapped his hand down on the comm controls. “Primary gun crews, this is the captain. I want you constantly monitoring and updating your firing solutions.” He paused, just for a second. “You’ve got to hit,” he said. He realized as he did that his people always gave their best, that the very statement was unfair in its essence. But then he repeated himself. “You have to hit.”
“Understood, sir.” The gunner’s voice was serious. There was no doubt the man knew what was riding on his crew’s performance over the next thirty seconds or so. “We’ll get it done, Captain.” The strain in the gunnery officer’s voice was a testament to just how much pressure he felt.
Barron closed the line, even as he watched the readout hit maximum charge. The guns were ready, at least they were if Fritz’s repairs held. He sat stone still, amid the near silence of the bridge. He knew every eye in the large control center was fixed on him, every veteran officer there frozen in place, drawing deep and worried breaths.
He glanced at the cluster of yellow dots, the bomber squadron he’d just launched. They were clear of Dauntless and on their way to the enemy. If they got past the enemy fighters, and if they made it to Vaillant, they might cripple or destroy the Union battleship. But Barron knew it would likely be too late to save his ship, that any such attack would be a skeletal hand from the grave, rising to strike the enemy in one last act of vengeance.
No, if the battle is to be won now, it will be Fritzie and the gunners down in the fire control center…
He hesitated, just for an instant, feeling a strange reluctance to give the order. If his people fired and missed, their chance of surviving the battle would drop massively. The same if he gave the fire order and the guns failed to respond, if Fritz had missed some malfunction. He waited, for a brief passing second, savoring the hope the shot would succeed. Then he sucked in a deep breath and took hold of himself, banishing the fears and weaknesses he didn’t have time for.
He looked across the bridge at Darrow, wishing once again, unfairly perhaps, that it was Travis there waiting for his command.
“Fire.”
Chapter Fifteen
Command Center
Fleet Base Grimaldi
Orbiting Krakus II
“I want those revised transit orders ready in ten minutes, Commander. And send a communique to the shipyards at Gravis. Honorable and Indomitable are to be released at once for return to duty.”
“Yes, sir.” The logistics officer was clearly stretched close to his limit. Striker had been at the fleet’s main forward base for less than twelve hours, but he’d hit like a typhoon, blasting out a seemingly unending series of orders and demands for information.
“Any word yet from Tantor?” Admiral Van Striker was on edge too, but he carried the burden of knowledge in a much deeper way than his subordinates. The various specialists who staffed the fleet’s main forward base tended to focus on their own specific areas of expertise, tracking enemy movements or fleet logistics. Striker was thinking about all of it, every second.
“Negative, sir. The last report stated that Commodore Isaacson was expecting an enemy attack at any time.”
Striker nodded sharply and stood where he was. Tantor was the next place the enemy would hit, Striker was sure of it. At least it was the logical target if this offensive was the real thing and not some kind of deception or sick Union strategy to “bleed its enemy white.” Tantor was a choke point, a system with connections to four other Confederation systems, each of them leading to strategically crucial locations. If the enemy took Tantor, they would be two transits away from Krakus, which was the next vital nexus they’d have to seize to threaten the Iron Belt and the Core.
If Isaacson was defeated, Striker knew he’d be under immense pressure to abandon Grimaldi base. He looked around at the officers at their stations. They’d fled once before during the initial Union onslaught, and he couldn’t imagine the blow to morale a second evacuation would cause. It was a miracle that Grimaldi even still remained. Admiral Winston had not ordered the base destroyed when he’d had to order the retreat, probably because he’d convinced himself he would take it back in short order. Even more amazingly, the Union forces had failed to scuttle the massive orbital platform when they’d been forced to withdraw, a clear deviation from their standard doctrine.
Somebody went out the airlock for that one…
That was two close calls for Grimaldi, but there wouldn’t be a third. Striker hated the idea of abandoning the fleet’s main operations center, but if he was forced to do it, one thing was absolutely certain. He’d leave nothing behind for the enemy but dust and plasma.
“Admiral, shuttle Omicron has just landed.” The officer paused for a second. “You asked to be notified, sir.”
“Very well,” Striker replied. The added explanation wasn’t surprising. He’d specifically told the officer to advise him when the ship landed. No one else on Grimaldi knew that shuttle Omicron was anything but a routine courier ship, and certainly not that Gary Holsten, head of Confederation Intelligence, was its primary cargo.
“I will be in my quarters,” Striker said abruptly. He walked across the control center, pausing at the bank of lifts and turning back for a few seconds. “If any reports come through from Tantor, any at all, advise me immediately. I don’t care if it’s a battle report or a requisition for cleaning supplies.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
Striker turned and stepped into the small car, reaching out and punching one of the keys on the control panel instead of simply telling the AI where he was going. His quarters were on level four, but he had a stop planned on the way…though it was just about as out of the way as possible.
He stood quietly as the lift moved down, past level four, all the way to the shuttle bays, more than five hundred meters below his quarters. The doors finally opened, revealing a massive deck, filled with more than a dozen small cra
ft, shuttles, freight carriers, and fighters from one of the squadrons tasked with defending the fleet base. There was a background level of activity, ships being loaded and unloaded, and service teams working on the fighters. A single man stood in the forefront, alone, waiting quietly, his eyes focused straight ahead.
“Gary, I’m glad you could come.” Striker stepped out of the elevator and extended his hand.
“There was no choice, Van. You know that.” Gary Holsten took a step forward and grasped the fleet admiral’s hand. There were all sorts of protocols for how two such lofty personages were expected to greet each other and converse, but the two had worked closely together over the past six months, and they’d both agreed to dispense with the formality, especially when they were alone.
The intelligence chief and the admiral had collaborated on a number of projects, including the perpetration of a massive fraud that had put Striker in command of the fleet and Admiral Winston out to pasture. It had been done solely out of concern for the Confederation, a move born in desperation during the darkest moments of the war, but that hadn’t made it any less risky. The results had been extremely beneficial for the Confederation, and Striker’s offensive—a move Winston would never have dared to make—had hit the Union just as the effects of the destruction of their supply base had reached their forward formations. In one move, Striker had driven the enemy forces back almost to the prewar borders, a situation that had held for six months of bitter stalemate. Until now.