Exodus: Empires at War: Book 11: Day of Infamy (Exodus: Empires at War.)

by Doug Dandridge

  “Lenkowski’s force is firing,” called out the officer who was following that battle. Smaller icons appeared, thousands of them, vector arrows pointing at the enemy force. What wasn’t showing on that plot were the several thousand missiles that had sped from wormholes at high velocity, almost undetectable until they had closed to within ten light seconds of their targets. The enemy had still not opened fire, and as minutes passed the Admiral had to wonder why. Missiles were most effective at distance, where they could build up their velocity. It didn’t make sense to not fire, unless they were low on missiles, which shouldn’t be the case. As far as Fleet intelligence knew, this force had not fought since it had come across the frontier.

  “Mgonda’s flank force is in contact with the enemy in hyperspace,” called out another officer.

  That was going to be a very different battle. The human force, all hyper VII ships, were heavily outnumbered by the Caca force. They were closing at near light speed, already firing missiles at each other. There was no way they could sneak missiles in, since every weapon was producing the graviton emissions of an active hyperdrive. When they were close the Imperial ships with wormholes would start to launch. The Fleet vessels were starting to change their vector somewhat, minimizing the time they would be within beam weapons range of the superior force.

  More alerts sounded. This was going to be a massive fight, across scores of systems. All were in the early stages. In the past none would have any idea of the other battles going on. Now they were all linked and every group commander was aware of how the larger action was playing out.

  And unlike the vids or movies, where every action occurred within minutes of a sighting, these battles were actually boring to watch, especially through the preliminary stages. With the exception of the infrequent ambush, there were always hours between detection and generating hits with missiles. As someone in the past had said, hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror.

  “Missile impact in five minutes,” called out a voice over the intercom.

  MCullom looked up at the local plot. This was no distant fight. This was the attack aimed at the Donut. Five minutes meant they were about four and three quarters light minutes away, and that the station would be firing every weapon it could bring to bear. These were the missiles that had broken through the swarm of destroyers and fighters that had moved out to form a screen.

  Unfortunately, the station by its very size had some disadvantages compared to a ship, despite its mass and the strength of its supporting members. While it carried a large number of weapons, a destroyer class laser projector every ten kilometers of circumference, with cruiser and battleship class interspersed along the outer hull, it still didn’t have the localized density of a warship. It was hoped the total number would be enough to stave off any attack. Now they would find out if that optimistic plan would work.

  “We have three hundred and sixty-eight missiles still on approach,” said the voice over the intercom, coming from the command and control center of the station. “They appear to have much better penetration aides that the Cacas have displayed in the past.”

  And that’s what we were afraid of, thought the CNO with a grimace. There had been intelligence suggesting that the Cacas had bagged a number of human scientists when they overran New Moscow and cut large swaths through the Empire and the Republic. Of course the scientists, who could be coerced into helping the Cacas, could give them much greater insight into human technology. And the Empire wouldn’t have a clue as to how that insight helped them until the improvements were used in combat, like now. The same was true of the tech humans had captured from the Cacas, though they were hindered by the fact that they didn’t have the Ca’cadasan scientists to go along with it.

  The station was putting counter missiles into space, thousands, so many that the overloaded control center was having problems aiming them. And they were having problems locking onto the now obviously oversized missiles. Another deficiency that would have to be addressed in the future, if there was one.

  They built them bigger so they could cram more countermeasures within, thought McCullom as she watched missile spawned subweapons explode in front of counter weapons and blot them from space. Surely they won’t be mounting those monsters in their warships. A shiver of fear ran through her. There was no telling what improvements they might have made to their ships as well. All of those meeting engagements going on at the frontier might show that her fear was unfounded, or not.

  Still, incoming missiles were dropping off the plot. Lasers started to blast away, their aiming systems trying frantically to lock onto missiles coming in on ballistic paths, not engaging their grabbers until the last second. There were still hits, with multiple lasers targeting each missile.

  “Estimating that missiles will hit this part of the station,” said one of the Techs in the Warroom, pointing to the schematic of the huge structure. It was rotating at a furious rate in order to counterbalance the pull of the black hole. Over twenty-five million kilometers in circumference, the missiles would strike only a relatively small area. That was actually more worrisome, since localized damage could lead to its destruction.

  Because of the sheer size of the structure, the far points were actually over forty-one seconds one-way transmission time from each other. Wormhole gates spaced every one hundred and fifty thousand kilometers around the station not only allowed people to move from place to place much faster than could be managed by the high speed tram system, they insured that no spot on the Donut was more than a quarter second one way communications range from the control center. That allowed for the coordination of systems such as the array of millions of grabber units that kept the station in equilibrium around the black hole.

  “Missile strike in thirty seconds,” called out the voice over the intercom. Over a hundred weapons were still coming on, all of them now engaging their grabber units to ensure a hit. And among them were a half dozen even larger weapons that appeared as ghosts on the sensor systems.

  Fifteen weapons struck, including five of the larger weapons. Most exploded with a multigigaton blast of kinetic energy, the gigaton of force that was the standard capital ship warhead adding its destruction to the total. Multiple kilometers of hull vaporized at each hit, the fury of energy sweeping through the area and ripping apart crew and equipment. Blast doors fell into place, sometimes diverting the fury, sometimes not. Most of the hits were in lightly manned areas, parts of the structure housing electromagnetic projectors or crystal matrix battery packs. Hundreds of these units were damaged or destroyed, negligible compared to the total number. Areas with significant organic habitation suffered serious casualties. But the very size of the structure limited what could be done by standard missiles. Several kilometer-wide structural braces absorbed the blast with minor damage, while the even thicker supporting cables were never touched.

  Where the larger missiles hit there was much more in the way of destruction. These were Quarkium devices, many times more powerful than antimatter warheads. Each generated hundreds of gigatons of fury, not at all a redundant addition. Four detonated just before impact, sending fury like a shotgun blast into the station and through to the other side, fifty kilometers distant. One hit the edge of an inhabited sector, killing hundreds of thousands, while the others blasted through electromag generators, each twenty times more massive than a Ca’cadasan superbattleship. One warhead was late on the detonation, and the missile disintegrated on impact. Unlike an antimatter warhead, a simple breach would not set off a Quarkium device, so it only caused a little more damage than even the standard antiship missiles, its larger mass imparting a bit more kinetic energy to the mix.

  The hits were all over two million kilometers to spinward, information on the damage, visual and through instruments, coming through almost instantly, despite a wormhole portal being wiped from existence. The vibrations of the blasts followed at the speed of sound, about eleven thousand kilometers a second, taking about three minutes to propagate through
the alloys of the structural beams.

  “Second wave will contact in seven minutes, forty-eight seconds,” called out the voice over the intercom.

  “Make sure you track those larger missiles,” said McCullom in return, wondering just how they were going to do that. Enough of the larger warheads could cripple the station by taking out a good percentage of the energy generating and storage units. She wasn’t sure how they were going to track these things. There was only the hope that someone would figure it out in time. And the prayer that none of them would hit one of the major support cables, or the worst case scenario, three or more of the vital structural supports.

  “The enemy ships are on a course that will intersect the station in fifty-eight minutes, ma’am,” said the officer over the intercom.

  And why in the hell would they do that? thought McCullom. It made no sense to send in ships when they could keep sending in missiles. Ships were big targets, and any that got within a light minute of the station were sure to take light amp hits.

  “Keep a watch out for their wormhole,” she ordered both her own people and those in the control center. That was another hopeless task. If they dropped it behind they were sure to stealth it, minimal energy, all heat pumped back through to the other side. Unless something came through the wormhole that was pushing out gravitons, or was large enough that it could be seen visually, the odds were that they wouldn’t find it. And if they kept launching missiles through that were not boosting and were already up to a high relativistic velocity, it would be just about impossible.

  * * *

  “That took long enough,” said the Fleet Captain who was the duty officer on the deck of the station control center.

  The low vibrations of the explosions, felt from almost a million kilometers distant, came through the deck. A minute and a half, thought Lucille Yu as she monitored the stability of the station. Those blasts had been like enormous fusion engines, pushing that section of the station closer to the black hole. Pushed far enough and even the grabber units wouldn’t be able to compensate, and a good third of the station would disintegrate in the gravity field of the hole, while the rest flew out into space. They hadn’t been pushed that far, and the automated systems were handling everything fine. Still, everyone had felt better having the only one aboard who had actually handled the system on manual during such a crisis.

  “How long till the next strike?” asked Jimmy, standing beside her chair.

  “Six minutes,” said Lucille, looking at the plot that showed the station and its orientation to the hole, as well as the vectors of the incoming missiles. “And just our luck. This time we get to take the brunt of the attack on our aspect.”

  Lucille looked over at the Captain for a moment after she made sure that the station was returning to trim. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t let them land too many more punches on my station, Captain. We need this thing to be in good enough shape to keep putting out wormholes.”

  “We’re doing our best ma’am,” said the Captain, as many of the scores of people sitting at stations within the chamber turned to look at the Director with disbelieving expressions on their faces. “There are no guarantees when the missiles are flying.”

  “And why are their ships heading for us?” she asked, pointing to the main tactical plot. “They can’t possibly think they can destroy the station with those ships in a close in fight.” Lucille was not a military expert, but she had learned enough about warships and their weapons systems during her time running the Empire’s only wormhole generating facility. The battleships would be armed with missiles, much like the ones that were already heading their way. Those weapons were best if fired from a distance. Sure, the ships would be coming in at almost point six light, but the missiles would be travelling faster still if launched from where they already were. They had powerful laser batteries, and could carve holes through the lightly armored hull of the station, while the station burned them with dozens of times the laser power. They could also more than match all of the battleships with particle beams, including both antimatter and negative matter.

  “The Admiral has already apprised us of their approach, ma’am.”

  “They must think they have some way of destroying the station, Captain. You mustn’t let them get into close proximity of my station.”

  “We’re working on a response.”

  “I think I have one,” Lucille said under her breath as she tapped into the satellite control network. Everything associated with wormhole production and ship fitting was safely out of the way. But some of those assets had been designed to be last ditch weapons. And now it was time to move a couple of them into place.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Battles are won by slaughter and maneuver. The greater the general, the more he contributes in maneuver, the less he demands in slaughter. Winston Churchill

  Sirens sounded across the city, through the air and through the implants of the inhabitants. The warbling sound had a different quality to it, one which most of those hearing it could recognize, having been played during the infrequent drills that had been conducted by civil defense. The signal through the implants of the citizens left no doubts. All was clear. The attack was over.

  “Well, at least we didn’t have far to climb,” said Margo, squinting her eyes against the heavy stinging smoke in the air, then looking over at her companion.

  Tomas Gijardo nodded, feeling the tears running down his cheeks. Both wore respirator masks over their mouths and nostrils, but their eyes were uncovered. The smoke stung, but Tomas was not sure if that was why his tears were flowing. He was crying inside as well, seeing the damage to the city he had been born and raised in.

  “We were lucky,” he said, turning toward Margo, putting a hand under her chin and tilting her face up. He leaned down and kissed her, the rush of surviving a disaster of such magnitude a sexual charge. “And no one I would rather go through Armageddon with.”

  Other people were starting to come to the surface from the shallow storage room the two had found shelter in. One large gate opened in the side of a building, the first lifts coming up from the deep shelter below. Dazed people walked through the gate, while others exited further down the street. Overhead the emergency vehicles began to appear, ambulances, search and rescue vehicles. There was no telling how many people were trapped in collapsed buildings. Looking down the street at some of those structures, Tomas wouldn’t have given much for the survival of whomever had been inside them when they came down.

  “I wonder how bad it is?” asked Margo, holding onto Tomas as they stepped over some low rubble and onto the street.

  “It looks bad enough here,” said Tomas, though he could imagine that it was much worse in some other places. With a thought he tapped into the carrier wave of the all clear announcement and started to download the local news. “Here,” he said, sending the signal over to her implant. He moved her gently to the side, away from the traffic that was starting to flood the street, as she was caught up in the same scenes of destruction that he was watching through the direct feed to his occipital lobe.

  “Oh my God,” exclaimed Margo as a view of the city from up high came over the cast. There were hundreds of smoking pits in the downtown section, many with the rubble of crumbled mega and skyscrapers piled up to one side. Kinetics had come down there, the best weapons for taking out modern high strength buildings. The Cathedral was gone, only one partial tower remaining. Nearby Parliament had done better, somewhat. About half the building remained. The Imperial Zoo had taken a near miss, meaning that most of the animals had probably survived. The Botanical Gardens had not been as fortunate, taking what looked like a direct strike by a nuke.

  The view panned to the east, toward the hundred thousand square kilometers of low rise development. Some the damage there had been done by kinetics as well, but there were patches of swept clean areas that were the sign of explosive warheads detonating above them. A few buildings, tougher than the rest, had survived the blasts.<
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  Now the view panned west. Constance the Great spaceport had been cratered in a score of places, while warheads had taken out one whole side of the field’s infrastructure. The main terminal in the area had survived with some damage. The thousands of manors overlooking the city on the western hills had come through mostly intact, maybe ten percent of them destroyed, more damaged. And Tomas felt his breath sucking in without thought as the image of the Imperial Palace came into the view. The true center of power in the Empire, it had been a symbol recognizable by all citizens for generations. One whole wing was gone, a deep crater taking its place. That was the wing used by the Emperor, his family, and those who took care of him. The other wing was damaged by a near miss, part of the crater taking a bite out of the north section. The center section, the part where most of the formal functions involving the Emperor took place, had survived mostly intact, though the large shallow dome over the middle was holed in several places.

  “It could have been worse,” said Margo, shaking her head.

  We’re only seeing what went on here, thought Tomas, holding her close. It’s probably worse than we imagine.

  * * *

  “Bring us to yellow alert,” ordered Admiral Hoshi Nakama, trying to pull his eyes away from the tactical plot and failing. There were no more red icons on that plot. As far as they knew, all of the enemy fighters and warships had been taken care of. If any had survived, they must have put down on one of the inhabited worlds. What they weren’t doing was still smashing imperial vessels and shipbuilding infrastructure.

  “Are you sure, sir?” asked Captain Crenshaw, standing in her battle armor near the tactical station.

  “I think yellow is sufficient,” stated the Admiral, though he could understand where the Captain was coming from. They had been hit, hard. The station itself had been heavily damaged, losing over a third of its facilities, and sustaining several hundred thousand highly skilled casualties. Fifty-three ships had been damaged to the point where it would be better to just recycle their materials and start over. Many more were damaged to the point where they would be facing months of reconstruction to get back to where they had been at the start of this day. And scores of bays were now sealed, hatches distorted by impact or welded into place. More time and effort would have to be spent to open up those bays, then reseal them so they were become functional workspaces once again.