Alarm of War v-1

by Kennedy Hudner

  Emily stepped to the large holo display. On the western edge of the display, a cascade of star dust was moving toward them.

  The Captain of the Blue Swan had no doubt what the drones meant: disaster. Somehow, one of the Vicky ships had managed to launch its Omega drones, and now his attack plans were in shambles. Blue Swan was in position, and Blue Heron and Blue Loon should be, but there were two more of the “special” freighters that had not yet arrived. What’s more, there were only a couple of dozen commandoes on Atlas Station, not nearly enough.

  Nothing for it, he thought grimly. “Signal the Heron and the Loon!” he ordered. “Start the attack now!” He turned to his Weapons Officer. “We can’t wait. Get a lock on Lionheart. Open the holds and bring out the missile pods. Now! Do it!”

  The klaxon sounded Battle Stations and the ship erupted into activity. They had practiced this many, many times. The missile pods could be pushed from the ship’s hold and ready to fire in twelve minutes. The pods held eight nuclear tipped missiles. If even two of them got through, the battleship H.M.S. Lionheart would be destroyed. In the meantime, Heron would target H.M.S. Isle of Man and Loon would hit the H.M.S. Invincible.

  The other two freighters would have given them more punch, but so be it. With luck, all three of the Victorian Home Fleet battleships would be destroyed within fifteen minutes.

  Not far away the captain of a small tramp freighter noted the activity and heard the signal from the Blue Heron to its sister ships. This freighter was not registered with the Dominion, nor did its name include the word “blue.” No one knew of its mission except for Michael Hudis and Citizen Director Nasto. The freighter was called the “Star Born” and it was registered under the flag of Sybil Head. Its Captain was a young Lieutenant Colonel in the Dominion Intelligence Directorate named Tony Streather.

  “Are you sure, Mike?” the Captain asked his Sensors’ Officer.

  “Yes, Captain. The Heron and the Swan are both opening their outer doors. They’ll have the missile pods out in just a few more minutes. Can’t see the Loon from here, but if the first two are getting ready, it’s a safe bet Loon is as well.”

  Captain Streather shrugged. So be it. His ship carried two nuclear tipped missiles, but he was not hunting Victorian battleships. His target was more important than that.

  “Ready the missiles, Mike. I want to be ready to fire in no more than ten minutes.” Then he started to plot a course out of Victoria. Captain Streather was not a man who sacrificed his life needlessly.

  On Atlas Station, Hiram Brill was in the Fleet Intelligence Center catching up on the day’s reports. Admiral Teehan and most of the other senior staff were at the Palace on Cornwall, huddled together to plan the next diplomatic and military steps once the Tilleke fleet had been subdued by Admiral Skiffington and Second Fleet. Hiram was enjoying the feeling of being one of the “senior” officers in the FIC.

  When the drone reports were downloaded, Hiram listened in as the technicians prepared the translations.

  “Who’s it from, Maria?” he asked the tech.

  “A Resupply and Maintenance Vessel attached to Second Fleet,” she answered, not looking up, but concentrating on her work. “Number 313.”

  Hiram glanced at the holo display. “That’s a lot of drones from just one ship,” he commented. “What’s the message?”

  “Well, sir, as soon as I can decrypt it we’ll both know, won’t we?” she said with a touch of asperity.

  On board the New Zealand, Chief Gibson suddenly sat up in alarm. “Sweet Mothers! Targeting sensors! We’ve just been swept with targeting sensors!”

  “What?” Bishop looked confused. “But that can’t be, the simulation is off! We’re at anchor. There are no war ships out there! Check your instruments, Chief, you’ve got an obvious error.”

  Emily rubbed her nose, no longer aware of the bump that came from her accident while at Camp Gettysburg. Targeting sensors had a narrower arc than searching sensors, usually no more than thirty degrees. Targeting sensors meant that someone knew the general location of their target and was getting ready to fire, and fire damn soon.

  “Merlin!” she called to the ship’s AI.

  “State your order.”

  “Determine origin of the tracking sensors that just swept us.”

  “I cannot determine the exact location, but it emanates from a group of ships anchored three hundred miles from this location.” On the holograph, a red circle appeared and pulsed brightly.”

  Emily studied the transponder icons. “But those are all freighters,” she said. Spooked from her conversation with Hiram, she had been worried that she would find a cluster of Dominion war ships, armed to the teeth and ready to fire. But there were only freighters.

  “I told you this is a system malfunction,” Bishop said testily. “Chief, I want you to run a complete diagnostic-”

  Emily had another thought. “Merlin, draw a line from the source of the targeting sensor through the New Zealand and extend it for one thousand miles. Are there any targets of military value within a thirty degree arc of that line?”

  “There are five Home Fleet vessels at anchor within those parameters: Missile Cruiser New Zealand, Destroyers Swansea, Repulse and Cape Town and Battleship Lionheart. There are also six Atlas Port Authority buoys that could have military value under-”

  “Stop.” She looked at Chief Gibson, who shrugged. “If it were me, I’d go after the Lionheart,” he said.

  Emily nodded. So would she.

  “This is ridiculous,” Bishop said in exasperation. “It’s a malfunction! Even if you put targeting radar in a freighter, what good would it do? Freighters don’t have missiles, for God’s sake!”

  Emily’s eyes darted back to the cluster of freighters at anchor. “Merlin, focus sensors on those freighters. Are they doing anything unusual?”

  A pause, then: “Still detecting a single S-band targeting sensor, but source is intermittent and cannot be precisely located. Other than that, only normal freighter activity is observed.”

  “The Dominion uses S-band emissions,” Chief Gibson said.

  Something urgent and ugly crowded into Emily’s thoughts. What if -

  “Merlin, what normal freighter activity did you see?”

  “The D.U.C. Blue Swan is unloading cargo.”

  Emily quickly scanned the list of ships in the area within the circle. Eight freighters, but no tug boats or cargo ferries. No barges. Nothing that a freighter could unload its cargo onto. So, if they weren’t unloading cargo, what were they unloading?

  A cold hand grabbed Emily by the heart. “Chief, sound battle stations!”

  “What!” Bishop scowled. “Nonsense, belay that or-”

  The klaxon sounded.

  On the Blue Swan, the air hummed with tension. “How much longer?” the Captain demanded.

  “Ready to launch in three minutes!” the Weapons Officer said, his eyes glued to his console screen. The two missile pods were almost clear of the cargo area, floating straight up over the ship. Each pod held four missiles.

  “Any sign of activity from our target?”

  “Not yet, Captain,” the Sensors Officer replied.

  “Do you have a solid fix?” No time for half measures, the Captain thought. He had no illusions that they would escape from this little adventure, so he wanted to make sure the battleship was dead.

  The Weapons Officer shook his head. “I need a few more seconds of the targeting sensors to lock her in.”

  “Okay, as soon as the pods are clear of the hold, paint her again. But for God’s sake make sure you get a solid lock! We won’t get a second chance.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. Two more minutes!”

  Hiram leaned forward as the Omega Drone’s message was finally decrypted. The holo display showed a middle-aged man slumped forward, staring intently at the camera.

  “This is Captain Michael Zizka of the H.M.S. Bawdy Bertha, attached to the Second Fleet for the action in the Tilleke Sector. Twenty th
ree hours ago, the Second Fleet was destroyed in an ambush by Tilleke and Dominion forces.”

  Everyone in the FIC stopped what they were doing and looked at one another in horror.

  “No fuckin’ way!” someone exclaimed. Someone else started to talk, but Hiram shushed them.

  “-repeat, Second Fleet was ambushed by forces from Tilleke acting in concert with Dominion of Unified Citizenry war ships. Omega logs from several of our ships are attached to this recording. As far as we can tell, more than 70 of our ships were destroyed outright, and a large number seem to be disabled and just sitting in space.” On the screen, Captain Zizka wiped a weary hand across his face. “We can’t tell what happened to the rest. We’re being chased by three Dominion destroyers. We’re approaching the worm hole into Gilead. Once we’re through, I intend to launch as many courier drones as I can.”

  Gods of Our Mothers, thought Hiram. He tried to imagine the mood on the clumsy, slow freighter as it ran hell-for-leather from three sleek Dominion war ships.

  “I hope this message makes it to you, Victoria,” Captain Zizka was saying. “They’re coming. Get ready to fight. As God is my witness, they’re coming.” He paused, then looked steadily into the camera.

  “Remember us,” he said softly.

  The transmission ended.

  “Fire in one minute!” the Captain of the Blue Swan ordered.

  “Warheads armed!” the Star Born’s Weapons Officer shouted. The outer doors of the Star Born were open and the two missiles were poised in their launchers.

  “No need to shout, Lieutenant, I can hear you perfectly well,” Captain Streather said calmly. “Release the missiles, but make sure the transponders are working properly.”

  A small vibration ran through the ship as tractor beams pushed the missiles away. Small thrusters aligned them properly, then nudged them downward. They each confirmed their target’s coordinates, then began to fall into the thin upper atmosphere of Cornwall, the home planet of the Victorian Sector. Home of Queen Beatrice.

  Transponders came to life, telling anyone who cared to ask that the missiles were two cargo ferries in route to the Biscay Cargo Port located on the outskirts of the capital city.

  “Weapons Officer, what have we got to fire on the Blue Swan?”

  The Weapons Officer was Chief James Friedman, a burly man with a drooping mustache that made him look like a kindly walrus. He grimaced. “It will take at least two minutes to spool up lasers. None of the main missiles are loaded, figure at least ten minutes to get them fully launch ready. Only thing we’ve got ready to go is the ship’s anti-missile defense system.”

  Emily considered. The Blue Swan was only three hundred miles away, well within the anti-missile system’s range. Gods of Our Mothers, it was so close they could throw rocks at it.

  “Chief, bring weapons to bear on the Blue Swan and fire!” she ordered.

  “Belay that, goddammit!” Bishop shouted. “The Dominion are our allies! You can’t fire on a helpless freighter!”

  “That freighter is using sensors to target the Lionheart!” Emily said firmly.

  “You don’t know that, Tuttle. For all you know, they could be — ”

  Emily held up a hand. “Enough! Merlin, record without commenting the following.” She faced Bishop. “Lieutenant Michael Bishop, I hereby remove you from command pursuant to Article 13.27(a) of the Fleet Code of Justice for dereliction of duty and suspicion of treason.” She motioned to the Marine guard. “Corporal, remove him from the CIC and confine him to his quarters.”

  The Corporal hesitated, staring at her wide eyed.

  “Do it, or I’ll have you up on charges!” she barked.

  The Corporal stepped forward and grasped Bishop by the arm.

  Bishop looked stunned. He started to say something, but Emily turned her back on him.

  “Chief Friedman, I order you to fire,” she said, working hard to keep her voice steady. The Weapons Officer shared a quick look with the Sensors Officer. Chief Gibson grinned wolfishly.

  “Lieutenant gave you an order, Jimmy,” he said.

  Chief Friedman nodded. “Yes, she did, by God.” He entered the coordinates and hit the firing stud. Fifty “Bofor” guns swiveled to the Blue Swan’s heading and shot ten thousand spent ziridium slugs, paused, then fired again. Twenty five Cobra missile launchers, designed for mid-range anti-missile defense, fired their missiles and automatically reloaded.

  On the Blue Swan, the Weapons Officer called: “First missile away!”

  The torrent of missiles and projectile slugs from the New Zealand reached the Blue Swan a moment later. A war ship, with its thick armor, might have shrugged it off, but the thin-skinned freighter shuddered and heaved under the impact as hundreds of slugs pierced the outer hull to tear through bulkheads and decks, and missile warheads exploded to tear away entire sections of the hull plating. The bridge crew, caught by ricocheting slugs, were virtually shredded in an instant, never knowing they were even under fire.

  One piece of torn hull spun up into the missile pods and sliced through the fire control cables, with the result that the remaining seven missiles never fired.

  The remaining missile sped past the anchored New Zealand and on toward the battleship Lionheart. Bofor guns swiveled desperately and fired as it raced by. Of the thousands upon thousands of rounds fired, one punctured its engine compartment. It was enough. The missile began to wobble. It lost its lock on the Lionheart, then regained it, then lost it again and strayed slightly off course. As it passed the Lionheart its proximity fuse saw its target and exploded, but instead of a contact explosion, the missile exploded thirty miles away. A wave of roiling heat and radiation passed over the Lionheart, frying dozens of its electronic systems but leaving its heavily armored hull intact.

  A thousand miles away, the Blue Heron finished its preparations. “All missiles away!” shouted the Weapons Officer. His cry was echoed on the Blue Loon. Their missiles sped a scant two hundred miles and exploded in one massive paroxysm of heat and radiation on top of the H.M.S. Isle of Man and Invincible.

  Both ships shuddered, then vanished in gout of furious light. There was not even time for the Omega drones to launch. Two of the three Home Fleet battleships were gone.

  On Atlas Station, the Sensors Officer in the FIC turned wide-eyed to Hiram.

  “Lieutenant! Sensors detect multiple missile launches! Isle of Man and Invincible have been destroyed!” She paused. “Lieutenant?”

  “Hmmm?” Hiram wasn’t listening. He was mulling over everything he’d learned in the last nine months, and in particular the last nine minutes.

  Victoria had been suckered. The entire Tilleke campaign against Arcadia had been a ruse to lure the Second Fleet into an ambush. A frighteningly effective ambush, if the Bawdy Bertha was to be believed. And key to the ambush was the fact that the Dominion forces were part of the attack, which meant that the Tilleke and Dominion had been working together for over a year, and Victorian Intelligence had never suspected a thing.

  And then another thought jarred him: Was Cookie still alive? Hot tears pricked his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a sudden, vivid picture of the last time they made love together, her face softened in the aftermath of climax, fingers caressing his cheek. “You always treat me like I’m made of delicate china.”

  “Do you mind?” he had asked.

  She sighed contentedly and wrapped her arms and legs around him, drawing him close once more. “Just don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

  With a conscious effort, Hiram shook himself out of the memory. The Sensors Officer was still staring at him anxiously. Two of Home Fleet’s three battleships were gone. But why? Why attack Home Fleet? With Second Fleet destroyed, it opened the way to attack Victoria itself. But they couldn’t attack Victoria with a few freighters tricked out with missiles. So-

  Hiram spun in his chair. ““Gandalf!”

  The Station’s AI rumbled. “At your command.”

  “Gandalf, review
all records of Port Authority Space Buoys at or near worm holes from any sector leading into Victoria for the last four days. Tell me if there are any large convoys of ships that entered Victorian space.”

  Gandalf paused for a moment, then the primary holo display flickered as it received the data. “There are four large convoys. One is from the Sultenic Empire, consisting of six ore freighters, carrying a cargo of grain. A second from Refuge with eight ships, unknown cargo. A third from Cape Breton with eighty ships, carrying a cargo of grain. The last is from the Dominion of Unified Citizenry, seventy ships, with the cargo listed as steel and high explosives.”

  “ETA on the convoys from Cape Breton and Dominion?”

  “Each should arrive in approximately twenty four hours.”

  Hiram felt the color drain out of his face. One hundred and fifty ships against the Home Fleet’s sixty. No, only fifty eight now.

  Victoria had just lost the war it hadn’t even known it was in.

  “Gandalf, where is the First Sea Lord?”

  “First Sea Lord Giunta and his staff are meeting with the Queen and senior admiralty at the Palace.”

  The two missiles from the Star Born coasted down the long glide path toward the Biscay Cargo Port, flying lazily to maintain the illusion that they were innocent freighters instead of nuclear tipped weapons of mass destruction. They flew over the ocean, then crossed onto land and banked slightly to the north in a heading that kept them in the shipping lane. Two minutes later they were within one hundred miles of the Port, close enough so that the Port sensors would wonder why the radar reflection was so small for two freighters, even for tramp freighters.

  Then they turned sharply and dove to two hundred feet off the ground. Twenty miles away, the Palace sat brilliantly lit under a glowing summer sun. The missiles accelerated, separated until they were half a mile apart, and sped on. A mile from the Palace, one climbed to two thousand feet while the other stayed low.