Alarm of War v-1

by Kennedy Hudner

  “One at a time or all of us?” Laura Salazar asked boldly. She was tall, with striking red hair and pale skin. She made Emily feel frumpy and too short.

  “Entirely up to you,” Rudd replied. “You can coordinate with each other if you want to. In fact, I would urge you to do so.”

  One of the students, Andrew Lord, stared dubiously at his screens. “How will we know which ship is yours?” he asked.

  “For now,” Rudd explained, “all the ships are color coded: blue for friendly, red for hostile, yellow for unknowns and, of course, flashing orange for dead.” A bemused chuckle ran around the room. After their months at Camp Gettysburg, they were all too familiar with flashing orange. “Only here we don’t indicate a destroyed ship by using ‘FOF” or anything else cute and pretty. When a Victorian ship is destroyed, it automatically sends out a special, high speed courier drone that broadcasts a ‘Code Omega’ message. That means the ship is dead. Its crew is dead.” He paused for a moment to let this sink in. “The Code Omega drone will transmit the last hour of data from the ship’s bridge and sensor systems so that we can learn what happened.”

  Each officer was assigned to his or her own “ship,” a cubicle filled with sensor screens and a simple control panel. Emily sat at a console that gave her control of a computer generated destroyer. By moving a joy stick she could “fly” her ship in any direction and fire its weapons. A screen showed her a simple sensor display, while another displayed the condition of her ship. It was about as simple as a computer game display. As an added feature, however, there was a large holographic display in the middle of the room, showing all of their ships suspended in three dimensional space. She put on a pair of headphones and worked out how to talk to the other trainees.

  “Okay, here’s what we do,” Laura Salazar said crisply, assuming command of the ten trainees without discussion. No one objected, mostly relieved that someone was taking charge and had a plan. “Each of our destroyers can launch ten missiles at a time, with a total of thirty spares. If all ten of us load all missiles — skip the decoys and crap — and shoot at the same time, we’ll have one hundred missiles headed for him at the same time. That should overwhelm his defenses and take him out.”

  Emily was scanning through the defense systems for her destroyer. It seemed to be based on short-range lasers. She wondered what the recycle time was to recharge before she could fire the lasers a second time. A frown wrinkled her forehead: How many hits could a destroyer absorb before it was killed? A lot she didn’t know yet.

  Ten minutes later they were ready, their ships moving across the holograph as tiny blue specs. For several minutes, nothing, then a red triangle popped up on Emily’s sensor screen. “Got him!” she alerted the others. They had him, too. “Let’s nail the bastard,” Salazar snarled. “Tally ho!” Lord shouted, then ruined it by laughing. The ten ships wheeled towards their target, formed a ragged line and advanced to weapons range.

  Moments later a hundred missiles were in the air, accelerating rapidly toward Rudd’s ship.

  Emily sighed, folded her arms and sat back. Too easy, she thought to herself. Much too easy. She wondered how he’d do it. Then she frowned and wondered how she would do it if she were in Rudd’s shoes. She thought about how to sucker ten untried tactical officers on their first mission, ten trainees eager to show they could be more aggressive than the next guy. Ten trainees who would charge at the enemy at the very first opportunity… Oh, bugger me! She toggled her communicator so that she was talking only to Rudd.

  “We who are about to get thoroughly screwed salute you,” she said ruefully. There was a moment of silence, then a dry chuckle sounded in her headphones. “Tuttle?” Rudd asked.

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “Well…your file said you were bright. Figure it out yet?”

  “Not all of it,” Emily admitted. “But I know that we’re about to get creamed.” She smiled. “You must be a very busy person just now, with ten ships to target.”

  “Nah, Tuttle, not as busy as you might think. After all, you guys are doing all the hard work for me,” Rudd said cheerfully. “Got to go, Tuttle. Things to do, ships to kill and all that.” He switched off.

  Meanwhile, the destroyers were frantically reloading missiles. “Once we are all loaded, shoot the second round on my command,’ Laura Salazar said forcefully. It was a good plan: The second wave of missiles would be in the air just as the first wave was reaching the target. If the first wave didn’t kill the target, the second surely would.

  Emily stood up in order to get a better view of the holographic display. Ten blue triangles were closing in on one red ship. Then, as she watched, the red ship split into two, then into four, then into eight, each darting in different directions and maneuvering wildly. The missiles relentlessly pursued, splitting up into groups to chase after the nearest target. Three of the trainees decided on their own not to wait any longer and launched their second round of missiles. Seeing that, the others fired theirs off in a ragged volley. The screen was filled with dots of light leaping towards the hostile ships.

  No, not ships, Emily thought. Decoys. Dammit, they were all decoys. So, where was Rudd? Her head swiveled to scan her sensor screens, which were filled with a confusing clutter of over a hundred missiles, other ships, Rudd’s decoys and…

  Without warning, three destroyers blew up, their blue symbols suddenly flashing orange. Shouts of consternation came from their captains. Two more exploded a moment later.

  Where there had been ten blue symbols representing their destroyers, there were now five orange circles and five blue triangles…and one red triangle behind them. Empty space a moment ago, but now there was Rudd’s ship. More missiles emerged from it, almost languid in their movement, boring in towards the remaining blue ships.

  “Shit!” Salazar shouted frantically. “Turn, turn! Activate your short-range defenses-”

  Then it was over. Two more ships were completely destroyed, three were crippled, including Emily’s. After a long moment of silence, broken only by muttered curses, Rudd’s voice came over their headphones. Emily had expected laughter, perhaps sarcasm, but instead his voice was somber and serious.

  “Those of you who are Code Omega are the lucky ones. For the others, your ship is crippled. You cannot maneuver, you cannot turn, cannot stop. Maybe your life support is still working, so you still have air…for a time. Perhaps you hope to be rescued. But look at your sensors. Your ship is still moving, drifting farther and farther away into deep space.” On Emily’s screen her ship slowly cart-wheeled away into the inky blackness, growing smaller and smaller. “This is what we call the ‘Long Walk.’” Rudd continued gravely. “It is the nightmare of every officer and sailor in the Fleet: To drift in the darkness of space for days or weeks or months until your air is exhausted and you die.” He paused, letting them envision it. “Your job as Tactical Officer is to make sure this never happens to you, to your ship, to your crew.”

  “Bastard,” muttered Salazar.

  Later that night, after most of the ship was asleep, Emily searched the library until she found training programs containing a variety of skirmishes. She downloaded the first one. The screen flickered and the face of Captain Grey appeared. She looked full into the camera, her short, gray hair forming a small helmet. After a moment she blinked once, smiled and spoke:

  “If you are using this training program, it probably means you have finished your first day of Tactical Officer training — “ Her mouth quirked in humor — “and you were not very happy with the results. Okay, there is a lot to learn, but the first lesson is this: Combat is not just about force, but about the application of force. The proper application of force depends on three things-” she held up a finger — “One, your status. What is ‘status’? It is the ships you have, their damage state, their weapons status and, importantly, the morale of your crew. Two, the status of your enemy. And three, your ability to control the initiative in the battle. It is not the navy with the most power that win
s; it is the navy that controls how and when that power is used.” Grey smiled grimly. “It’s never that simple, of course, and that’s why you’ll train harder than you have ever done anything in your life. So, let’s begin…”

  Chapter 16

  P.D. 952

  Pieces in Motion

  In Dominion of Unified Citizenry Space

  Through the observation bubble, Michael Hudis watched in grim satisfaction as the armada passed before him. Eight-five ships: one battleship, twenty missile cruisers, ten energy weapon cruisers (nicknamed “Beamers,” he recalled), thirty destroyers, miscellaneous frigates and support vessels…and two carriers, each carrying fifty chemical fuel fighters. Each fighter could carry three ship-killer missiles.

  And best of all, the damn Vickies had no idea they existed. All of the ships had been built at the Dominion’s secret ship yard, hidden from prying eyes in a dust cloud a full thirty days’ travel from the Dominion home planet of Timor. Construction of the ship yard had begun six months after the humiliating defeat at Windsor. For fifteen long years the Vickies had strutted and crowed about Windsor. Now it was their turn. Beware the wrath of a patient man, Hudis thought. And piss on you, Admiral Skiffington.

  The armada lumbered by, turning away from the Unity and gathering speed toward Sybil Head, two months distant. The armada would not pass through any of the principal wormholes, but would follow the old trade route, following a wormhole trail unused now since it was so much shorter to travel through Victorian space and its precious wormholes. They should not meet anyone, but if they did, Admiral Mello was under strict orders to destroy them so that no word could be passed, no warning given.

  Once at Sybil Head, the armada would turn toward Cape Breton, where it would pick up additional support ships, make any repairs necessary, and then proceed through the Cape Breton-Victoria wormhole into Vickie space. Exactly three months from now, the armada would reach the Victorian home world of Cornwall.

  “You should be proud of yourself, Michael. Everything is going exactly as you planned.”

  Hudis inclined his head to the man beside him. Anthony Nasto, the Citizen Director, the most powerful man in the Dominion. Soon to be the most powerful man in the occupied universe. “Thank you, Citizen Director,” he replied. Hudis repressed a smile; he could still remember giving Tony Nasto a bloody nose on a dusty elementary school playground. Well, things change. Now it was “Citizen Director,” even when they were alone. “Admiral Mello’s task force will be under strict radio silence until he reaches Victorian space, then he will broadcast the code word. In the meantime, Admiral Kaeser’s task force is finishing its shake down of the new crews. About two more months should do it, I think. Admiral Kaeser’s task force will be ready to go as soon as the Victorian Second Fleet departs for Tilleke.

  “And the commandos?” asked Nasto.

  “They are almost finished training. In two months they will board three different freighters and move to the target. They will be in place and ready when Citizen Admiral Mello’s task force approaches. And, of course, once the battle begins, we will put the Dragon Teeth in place as well.” The Dragon Teeth would be the Dominion cork in the Victorian bottle, he thought

  Nasto nodded in satisfaction. “And the Tilleke?”

  Hudis shrugged. “So far, playing the role assigned to them.” He took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully. “The Emperor is the wild card; gives me the willies, to tell you the truth. He doesn’t seem to have much of a fleet, but he is very confident.”

  “Have we found out anything about his new weapon?”

  Hudis shook his head in annoyance. “No, and they aren’t telling us anything either. I don’t like it, not a bit.”

  “Well,” Nasto said philosophically. “If everything goes well, it won’t matter what the Tilleke do, will it? All they need to do is lure the Vickie Second Fleet away from Victoria; we’ll do the rest. And has our beloved Admiral Skiffington taken the bait?”

  Hudis smiled in satisfaction. “The Intelligence Directorate reports that the Vickie Third Fleet is moving to Windsor and should arrive within the month. There are signs that Second Fleet is preparing to relocate to Victoria. As we had hoped, the Vickies will use Second Fleet when war erupts between Arcadia and Tilleke, leaving our target defended by the First Fleet only.”

  Nasto frowned. “But their Second Fleet isn’t moving to Gilead? If they positioned themselves forward to Gilead, it could cause problems.”

  “We don’t think they’ll do that. Remember, Citizen Director, if they keep Second Fleet near the entrance to the Victoria-Gilead wormhole, they can cross Gilead and be in Tilleke space in two days.”

  “As long as they use the Second Fleet,” Nasto replied. “We need Second Fleet to leave Victorian space. If they get chewed up by the Tilleke, all the better…”

  Hudis shrugged. “The one thing we can count on is Victorian arrogance and pride,” he said confidently. “The Arcadians have been telling the Vickies that they don’t need any help from them. It stings the Vickie’s pride. Once the shooting starts and the Arcadians cry for help, the Vickies will be eager to show the galaxy that they are the ones who can set things right. They’ll go in, all right, and they’ll go in force.

  “And then we’ll have them.”

  Chapter 17

  Emily’s Personal Journal

  On the H.M.S. New Zealand

  Alex Rudd is the most sadistic bastard ever born. For the last ten weeks he has beaten the living crap out of every one of us in Tactical School. And after he does it, he sits us down and explains in excruciating detail just how we screwed up. Slow motion replays of every stupid blunder we made. And he has this most annoying mannerism of raising his eyebrows in mock bewilderment and asking, “What were you possibly thinking when you gave that order?”

  Now we are in final exams. Or as Rudd puts it, the last chance to have to show just how god awful stupid we really are. We started with twenty trainees; there are ten of us left. We’ve just had one field exercise; one more to go. The exercises are played in real time. Ten of us on the “Blue Team” are in simulators here on the New Zealand, while Rudd and his pack of hyenas are based on the missile cruiser Dublin. The first exercise was a disaster. They picked Laura Salazar to head Blue Team in a mission to guard a fifteen-ship convoy. She kept us in a tight formation to maximize our fire power, but Rudd’s Red Team had split. After three days of constant battle stations, we were all dragging our butts. Then we were attacked simultaneously from two directions. Laura used all of us to attack the larger of the two enemy forces, a calculated risk that we could drive off Red Team by inflicting a massive blow. Bold, but risky. Too damn risky, as it turned out.

  So we left the convoy and attacked the larger of the two Red Team groups. Or thought we did. When we got into missile range we discovered most of the “ships” we were attacking were decoys. By the time we got back to the convoy, half of them were Code Omega and the rest had scattered to hell and gone. Blue Team lost two war ships and eight freighters. Red Team lost one ship and a bunch of decoys. Rudd told Laura that she had done quite well for someone who obviously hadn’t given the exercise any serious thought. He was right, of course. Bastard.

  Tomorrow we start our second exercise. Supply Station Alamo. Alamo has 50,000 tons of processed ziridium, the entire supply of ziridium for that Sector. Blue Team has ten destroyers and has to protect it. We have hard intelligence that Red Team is sending a large force of ships to seize the supply station or, failing that, to destroy it. They could be here within two days. We have seven days before we can expect reinforcements from Second Fleet.

  Rudd told me ten minutes ago that I am in charge of Blue Team.

  Chapter 18

  P.D. 952

  On H.M.S. New Zealand

  Supply Station Alamo — Training Exercise, Home Fleet

  He loved it. This was the best part. They knew he was coming. They would set a trap for him. And he would still beat them. He was chubby, unattractive,
pigeon-toed and awkward, but he would walk into their trap and then beat them silly. Let them do their worst, he would beat them. He would beat them every time because he was smarter and more treacherous than they were.

  He loved it.

  Lieutenant Rudd studied his data screen. He had fifteen ships — two cruisers and thirteen destroyers — with eight destroyers in the van and the remaining seven ships coming in behind him and to his left. As in all missions, the ship’s computer established an artificial “Plane of Advance” that helped orient the Fleet. It showed on the holo as a shimmering green rectangle that looked like a playing field. Any ship on the mission could know where it was relative to the other ships and their targets, and in the confusion of battle it helped enormously to have a simple sense of what was “north,” “south,” “east,” “west,” and “up” and “down.” He was traveling “east” towards a large asteroid belt, which covered the “eastern” edge of the screen. The asteroid belt was enormous, passing out of sight at the top and bottom of his screen. Supply Station Alamo sat immediately in front of it. Good defensive positioning, there was an enormous amount of sensor “clutter” from the belt. You could hide an entire Battle Group in there. Of course, he was pretty sure they didn’t have an entire Battle Group. This was their test, not his, and usually Captain Grey liked to tilt the odds against the trainees. Still, it never hurt to be careful.

  “Launch sensor drones to the left and right of the Supply Station. Pay particular attention to the thermal scanners. Anything hot is an enemy ship.” He wondered what they would try. The last group he’d been up against in this scenario had tried to sucker him with decoys, but his recon drones had detected the ruse. When the real Blue Force had burst out from hiding in the asteroid belt, Rudd was ready for it, and had tricked them into wasting missiles on his decoys. It was over in two minutes. He’d been scathing in the debriefing.