by David Weber
The drone was too big for the housing to hold it in fully assembled form. Putting the bits and pieces together and testing them had occupied a sizable number of Vergeltung’s technicians for the last seven and a half hours. But the suited figures were drifting back towards the battleship, now.
And then, without fanfare, the drone was away.
It was hard to make out, even with the viewscreen set to maximum zoom. Like the modified shuttle Travis and Chomps had ridden, it was painted a black so deep that the light from the Andermani techs’ helmet lamps had seemed to simply melt into it. At the moment, its running lights were glowing, but when those winked out, the drone would just disappear. Unless it occluded a star, no optical sensor had a hope of spotting it.
According to Commander Anholt, Admiral Basaltberg’s operations officer, the drone was capable of a max acceleration of fifteen hundred gravities, not quite half that of a missile in long-range cruise mode. But unlike a missile, the drone’s impellers could be turned off and then on again. That was vital, given the limits of their power supply—even the Andermani couldn’t squeeze a reactor into something that small. The impellers would only be used for relatively brief accelerations and decelerations, with lengthy ballistic phases in between. That made for a prodigious operational range, as well as contributing enormously to its stealthiness along the way.
The deeper implications of such a system were enormous. Not just for tactical drones or missiles, but also for small craft. Travis’s mind flashed back to all the slow shuttle rides he’d taken over his years in the RMN. If those shuttles had been equipped with impellers, he could have saved many dreary hours of his life.
In the distance, the drone’s lights vanished. Probably because they’d been switched off, but equally possibly because when something pulled away at fifteen hundred gravities it got itself out of sight in a hurry.
“And, they’re off,” Chomps murmured. “Wonder what it’ll find.”
“Whatever’s there,” Travis said. “I wonder if it’ll really be able to find its way back home.”
“I don’t think even a drone would risk pissing off Admiral Riefenstahl by getting lost,” Chomps assured him. He shook his head. “But yeah. I really, really want one.”
* * *
“My congratulations yet again, Captain Marcello,” Commodore Charnay said from the com display, a tight but satisfied smile on his face. “Damocles did you proud. Again.” The smile morphed into a grimace. “I wish all of my ships performed that well and that consistently. Intrépide’s crew, in particular, needs to work on scrubbing away the rust.”
“Thank you, Commodore,” Marcello said, fully appreciating the depth of the other’s compliment.
Intrépide was one of Charnay’s modern, powerful destroyers, but her skipper had been taken by surprise by the first of Commander Laforge’s drills. Once she’d recovered from the surprise, she’d performed adequately.
Just not as well as Damocles. Despite the destroyer’s age and the Royal Manticoran Navy’s relative inexperience, only three of the Havenite ships had reached full combat readiness before Marcello’s crew even in the first exercise. And his people had performed equally well in all of the subsequent drills the commodore had laid on, consistently placing in the top five scorers in each exercise.
The results had been well worth the time and effort. A T-week of Charnay’s and Commander Laforge’s drills had turned an already professional group of officers and crews into a group that now operated with a clean, snappy precision Marcello wished the RMN possessed.
Not surprising, really. Under normal circumstances, training was just training. But here, every man and woman aboard the Havenite ships was fully aware that the drills would be followed by actual, vicious combat…and that they would be on the short end of the firepower ratio.
“Have you decided on the initial deployment yet, Sir?” he asked Charnay. The last three or four drills had tested alternative deployment plans, and Marcello knew which one he preferred. But Damocles was the visiting member of the team, and that decision would be the commodore’s alone.
“I have,” Charnay said. “Assuming we manage to beat the pirates to Danak, we’ll go with Embuscade. If they get there before us, we’ll go to Mascarade and hope we can convince them to leave the system intact.”
“Which would mean abandoning Baird and his family,” Marcello pointed out.
“I know,” Charnay said heavily. “Letting them get away is clearly less than optimal, for other reasons as well. But we don’t have the firepower to take them head-on. Besides, much as I hate what’ll almost certainly happen to the Bairds, I can’t possibly justify a fleet battle in the heart of the Danak System if there’s any way to avoid it. The collateral damage there could be enormous, even if the mercenaries didn’t threaten to deliberately destroy its deep-space infrastructure for tactical leverage.”
“Understood,” Marcello said.
Like Charnay, he hoped they wouldn’t have to go with Mascarade, even if Damocles’ antics during the Barcan incursion into Manticore had served as its inspiration.
That had been an interesting set of conversations. Their Havenite hosts had been politely skeptical when he and Lisa described Commander Long’s boosted impeller deception—mainly, Marcello suspected, because they’d been astonished anyone had fallen for such an ancient chestnut.
But slowly that attitude had changed. It was an ancient trick, but that also meant it was so old a lot of navies had completely forgotten about it. In addition, as Charnay had reminded them, the reason the tactic had once been so common was that until an attacker reached detailed sensor range, he had to assume he truly was looking at the larger and more powerful ships. The consequences if he decided it was a ruse and been wrong would have been disastrous.
And so Charnay had dusted the concept off and incorporated it into the Mascarade deployment. If the mercenaries were already inside the inner system when the Allied squadron arrived, his two modern heavy cruisers—Jocelyne Pellian and Jean-Claude Courtois—would run up their impellers to simulate battlecruisers, while Courageux and Intrépide ran theirs up to simulate heavy cruisers. That much apparent firepower should give the pirates pause and add weight to Charnay’s demand that they depart Danak space upon pain of attack.
It might even work.
Hopefully, that situation wouldn’t arise. If the pirates kept to their timetable—which they had every reason to do, given Baird’s insistence that they had to be a scheduled arrival—Charnay’s squadron would arrive over a day and a half before they did. In that case, Embuscade offered a much higher chance of success. There was only one part Marcello considered truly chancy, although he understood why Charnay had included it.
“Is Brigadier Massingill confident her people will be able to get aboard both ships, Sir?” he asked.
“Brigadier Massingill,” Charnay replied with a somewhat lopsided smile, “is confident her people can do anything. And, to date, she’s always managed to back that up. In this case, I’ll admit I’m a bit more concerned than usual. But given the data Captain Rhamas was able to provide on the pirates’ ships, I’m willing to risk her teams if it means a chance to take one of their damned battlecruisers out of play early.”
“If Admiral Swenson isn’t too skittish about splitting his force.”
“And if I were him I’d be leery about doing that,” Charnay agreed. “We just have to convince him that he’s expected and there aren’t any unfriendly welcoming committees around. I figure there’s maybe a thirty percent chance he’ll bite. If he does, I’m guessing he’ll send Loki.”
“Because that’s not his flagship?” Marcello suggested.
“That, and because the Bayezid-class ships have older compensators. She’s slow, so it would make more sense to detach her. Assuming he bites, of course.”
Marcello nodded. It would be better for the Havenites if Swenson sent Odin, which was far and away the most powerful of the pirates’ ships. But Charnay was right. If Swenson deta
ched any of his ships it would probably be the one most likely to hold down his fleet acceleration rate.
“And one bite is all it’ll take,” Charnay continued. “If the Brigadier’s people get aboard, any battlecruiser is toast. Even if Swenson has the equivalent of a Marine detachment—which they might if they’re mercenaries and not pirates—they aren’t going to be armored and ready when the commandos come storming in. Personally, if I found myself trapped inside a ship with the Three-Oh-Third, I’d surrender so fast I’d sprain something.”
“Hopefully, they’ll feel the same way,” Marcello murmured. Privately, both he and Commander Donnelly had some serious reservations about this part of the plan. Still, if it worked it would certainly be a masterstroke.
And even if Swenson declined to take the bait, it shouldn’t leave them worse off than they were already.
He felt far more confident about the rest of Embuscade. It was about as straightforward as a battle plan got, and it should offer them the best tactical situation anyone could hope for.
And if Swenson did allow Massingill’s commandos to take half his battlecruiser strength off the board, the numerical odds would be the next best thing to even.
Having drilled with Charnay’s ships for the last six days, Marcello liked their chances in that kind of a fight.
* * *
Ten hours after the drone’s departure, Casey once again floated off Vergeltung’s flank, this time ten light-minutes outside the hyper limit on Walther Prime’s side of the system. In the distance, the dim firefly of the decelerating drone approached the hidden fleet.
Despite the small size of those impellers, it had required barely 40 minutes and only 41,731,000 kilometers—little more than 2.3 LM—to attain a velocity of 35,000 KPS. It had done that long before it crossed the Walther hyper-limit in-bound, then coasted ballistically across the entire hyper-sphere in less than six hours before exiting on the far side. It had then reengaged its impellers and begun braking for recovery by its mothership.
Now Travis watched the faint signal of that stealthy impeller wedge come to rest less than five hundred kilometers clear of Vergeltung, wondering what its sensors had found.
The answer, it turned out, was quite a lot.
“I have to say, Admiral,” Captain Clegg said to Basaltberg’s image on the bridge com screen in front of her, “that your probe has definitely added new meaning to the old adage that bad news travels fast.”
“It’s a concern, certainly,” Admiral Basaltberg conceded. “We’re fortunate it passed close enough for the drone to get a decent look at it.”
“Have you identified it?” Clegg asked. “Nothing from our ship archives comes closer than eighty-two percent probable.”
“It appears to be one of the old Beowulfan Stilio-class ships,” Basaltberg said. “Beowulf retired them decades ago, but obviously there are still some in service elsewhere.”
Travis had already keyed his display. The entry came up, and he ran his eyes quickly down the entry. Stilio-class ships ran to about two hundred thousand tons, and were somewhat more modern than the RMN’s Lexington-class battlecruisers. The original weapons systems were listed, but since the Volsungs had probably upgraded it over the years that information was only marginally relevant.
He also noted in passing that that particular class had come in at only seventy-nine percent probable in their own archive search. Yet another area in which the Andermani were ahead of them.
“A significant weapons platform,” Basaltberg continued, “but not anything Vergeltung can’t handle.”
“No doubt,” Clegg replied. “Though I’d just as soon not have had this added to the mix at the last minute.”
“You should learn to look upon the positive, Captain,” Major Zhou offered. “The more ships which are present, the more ships we can dispose of.”
“Exactly,” Basaltberg agreed. He tapped the plot in front of him. “And not just present, but so conveniently gathered together for us.”
Travis nodded silent agreement as he shifted his eyes again to the plot on the tac display. The Andermani drone had passed close enough to get a detailed look at the group of ships in orbit around Walther Prime in company with the Volsungs’ space station. There were twenty-six of them in all, three more than Travis and Chomps had observed in their own flight through the system.
Two of the newcomers were freighters, which were unlikely to matter as far as the upcoming combat was concerned, bringing the total freighter count to nine. One of those was obviously a tanker, while another, judging from the hab sections, was probably a personnel transport. The rest appeared to be standard freighters, most in the two million-ton range. Most showed no sign of armament, although it was possible they were more conventional Q-ships than Hamman and simply chose to keep their teeth hidden. But that seemed unlikely, and Travis suspected the majority were prizes the mercenaries had acquired.
That left seventeen warships: two light cruisers, ten destroyers of one sort or another, and five Ordra-class Silesian frigates.
Plus, of course, the newly-arrived Stilio-class battlecruiser.
Under the circumstances, Travis thought, one might wonder just how conveniently what had been gathered, and for whom.
“Certainly an impressive collection of hulls,” the Andermani admiral continued. “Commander Anholt’s best estimate is that they out-mass us by a bit more than two-to-one, not counting the base missile platforms, now that the Stilio’s been added to the equation.”
Again, Travis nodded silently to himself. That fit his estimate, as well.
“Of course, if all goes according to plan, the missile platforms will cease to be an issue shortly before battle is fully joined,” Basaltberg said. “We also estimate that at least five of the destroyer-range vessels and three of the frigates are down for maintenance. Several appear to be undergoing long-term refits, and need not enter into our calculations. The others seem to be undergoing more limited repair, but given the probable efficiency of technicians working for Gensonne, I doubt that any of them can be made combat-ready in the available window.”
Travis and Clegg exchanged looks. Both of them, Travis had no doubt, were remembering another star system and another group of warships trying frantically to clear their maintenance docks.
“That leaves only nine combat-capable mobile units as opposed to our seven,” Basaltberg said, “and I venture to say that our ships are better armed and equipped then theirs on any ton-for-ton comparison.”
His expression hardened. “But there is more to war than tonnage or hardware. There is a vast difference between mercenaries who prey upon the weak and the helpless and a navy which stands between them and their victims. It is a difference we Andermani understand better than most, perhaps. Firepower and numbers matter, but so does the willingness to stand and fight.”
“I can’t argue with any of that, Sir,” Clegg said. “However, as you say, firepower and numbers are significant factors, and we can only hope there aren’t more battlecruisers wandering around the outer system the way this one was.”
Basaltberg shook his head. “I doubt there will be any more of them.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because I don’t believe this one was wandering the outer system, as you suggest,” Basaltberg said. “It seems obvious that we caught her arriving from out-system. Any additional ships would almost certainly have been in company with her and therefore also have been spotted by the drone.”
“I agree it’s likely she was inbound and not just returning from some kind of exercise,” Clegg said, frowning. “May I ask why you believe it obvious and not simply likely?”
Basaltberg gestured to Major Zhou, standing silently at his side. “Major?” he invited.
“Gensonne has certain habits, Captain,” Zhou explained. “Habits to which he insists all of his captains conform. A final loop around a fixed or orbiting base whenever one of his ships arrives on station is one of those habits. That’s what this ship was doing.”<
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“Really?” Clegg peered hard at the plot. “What does he hope to accomplish with that kind of maneuver?”
“A dog circling its bed,” Travis murmured to himself.
“You have something to add, TO?” Clegg asked.
“Sorry, Ma’am,” Travis apologized, feeling his face warming. “My mother breeds dogs, and I was remembering that some breeds like to circle their beds before lying down. Goes back to when they slept in the wild and wanted to drive out any snakes or large insects that might be hiding in the grass.”
“Exactly correct, Commander Long,” Basaltberg said, inclining his head in Travis’ direction. An especially impressive feat, given that Travis wasn’t within the field of view of Clegg’s com. “Gensonne knows how vulnerable orbiting stations are to sneak attacks, so he likes to take occasional looks, hopefully unexpected, behind any blocking planet or moon. An incoming ship which is already on the move is ideal for that purpose. That’s why, as Major Zhou points out, he has always had standing orders to that effect.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Clegg said, a bit doubtfully.
“It represents a hard learned lesson of the Imperial Navy, Captain,” Basaltberg said. “Though had he taken the entire lesson to heart, he would order periodic, erratically scheduled sweeps with the ships already in-system.”
“Or post a unit in a position to watch their backs,” Clegg said.
“Exactly,” Basaltberg said. “Though in face of our proposed tactics, any decision on their part to sweep the far side of Prime would have been of no utility. Regardless, I believe the vessel’s flight profile positively confirms that she is a recent arrival, not something that your people missed on your probe of the system.”
“I understand, and concur,” Clegg said, inclining her head.
Basaltberg nodded back. “I also point out in passing, Captain, that our drone’s information matches almost perfectly with your own sensor records. An impressive feat indeed for an improvised installation.”