by David Weber
Except that in this particular case, countermissiles from Gajelis’ carriers weren’t going to be a factor. CarRon 14’s longer-ranged capital missiles could reach past its cruisers to range on Desmesne’s ships and the Fatted Calf carriers, but their countermissiles would be unable to intercept the fire directed at their cruisers. That meant CruFlot 140 was more vulnerable than CruFlot 150, which was stuck in relatively tight to its own carriers, since a carrier mounted twenty-seven times the countermissile tubes a cruiser did. Gajelis’ carriers and cruisers between them mounted roughly fifty-six hundred shipkiller tubes to Fatted Calf’s combined thirty-seven hundred, but Fatted Calf had the cover of almost nine thousand countermissile tubes to CruFlot 140’s seven thousand. And, even more importantly, no cruiser could match the targeting capability and fire control sophistication of an all-up carrier, which meant Fatted Calf’s countermissile fire was going to be far more effective on a bird-for-bird basis. Not to mention the fact that each carrier mounted almost thirty-five hundred close-in laser point defense clusters, none of which would be available to CruFlot 140.
Gajelis had obviously decided to expend his cruisers in an effort to inflict crippling damage on Fatted Calf before his carriers came into range of Demesne’s cruisers. He could “stack” shipkillers from his carriers to some extent by launching them in fairly tight waves, with preprogrammed ballistic segments of staggered lengths so that they arrived in CruFlot 140’s control basket as a single salvo. It was going to be ugly if—when—he did, but the capital missiles would be significantly less accurate staging through the fire control of mere cruisers. And if something nasty happened to be happening to his advanced fire control platforms, it would throw a sizable spanner into the works.
It wasn’t as if he had an enormous number of options, she reflected. For that matter, Fatted Calf didn’t have a huge number of options, either. But a lot depended on the way the two sides chose to exercise their options.
The details. It was always in the details.
“Emergence . . . now,” Astrogation said.
“It will take some time for us to get hard word on what’s going on in the system,” Admiral Helmut said, glancing over at Julian. They were in the Fleet CIC, watching the tactical plots and wondering if the trick was going to work.
“Sir, no response to standard tactical interrogation of the outer shell platforms,” the senior Tactical Officer reported after several minutes. “We’re getting what appears to be a priority lockout.”
“Directed specifically against us?” Helmut asked sharply.
“I can’t say for certain, Sir,” the Taco replied.
“In that case, contact Moonbase directly. Tell them who we are, and ask them to turn the lights back on for us.”
“Sir,” Marciel Poertena’s executive officer said just a bit nervously, “far be it from me to second-guess the Admiral, but do you really think he knows what he’s doing here?”
“Don’t be pocking silly,” Poertena said. “Of course he does. I t’ink.”
He looked at his display. HMS Capodista would never, in the wildest drug dream, be considered a warship. She was a freighter. A bulk cargo carrier. The only thing remotely military about her was her propulsion, since she had to be able to keep up with the fleet elements she’d been designed to serve. Which, unfortunately, meant that her tunnel and phase drive plants were both powerful enough for the Dark Lord of the Sixth’s current brainstorm.
At the moment, she, Ozaki, and Adebayo were squawking the transponders of HMS Trenchant, Kershaw, and Hrolf Kraki, otherwise known as Carrier Squadron Sixty-Three. Nor were they the only service ships which had somehow inexplicably acquired the transponder codes of their betters.
“Of course he does,” Captain Poertena muttered again, touching the crucifix under his uniform tunic.
“What the hell is that?!” Admiral Ernesto La Paz demanded as a fresh rash of icons appeared in his tactical display. It was basically a rhetorical question, since there was only one thing it really could be.
“Major tunnel drive footprint astern of us!” Tactical called out at almost the same instant. “Eighteen point sources, right on the Tsukayama Limit.”
“Eighteen.” La Paz and his chief of staff looked at each other.
“It’s got to be Helmut,” the chief of staff said.
“And isn’t that just peachy,” La Paz snarled. He glowered at the display for several more seconds, then turned his head.
“Communications, dump a continuous tactical stream to all other squadrons.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Maneuvering, come twenty degrees to starboard, same plane. Astrogation, start calculating your first transit to Point Able.”
“Sir,” the Tactical Officer announced suddenly, “we have two phase drive signatures directly in front of us, range approximately four-point-five light-minutes. BattleComp reads their IFF as Courageous and Damocles. They’re accelerating towards the inner system at one-point-six-four KPS squared. Current velocity, one-three-point-three thousand KPS.”
“Ah, yes,” Helmut murmured. “That would be our friend Ernesto. But only two ships? And already up to over thirteen thousand?”
He tapped his right thumb and forefinger together in front of him, whistling softly. Then he smiled thinly at Julian.
“It would appear that the party started without us, Sergeant Julian. How irritating.”
“Courageous and Damocles are changing course, Sir,” the Taco said. “They’re coming to starboard.”
“Of course they are,” Helmut snorted. “La Paz isn’t about to fight at one-to-nine odds! And he knows damned well we can’t catch them if he just keeps running. No doubt he’d like us to try to do just that, though.”
He glanced at Julian again and snorted at the Marine’s obviously confused expression.
“I keep forgetting you don’t know your ass from your elbow where naval maneuvers are concerned, Sergeant,” he said dryly. “At least a part of what’s happening is obvious enough. The attack on the Palace must have kicked off at least six hours ahead of schedule, because we arrived within one minute of our projected schedule, despite our little side excursion, and to have reached that velocity, CarRon 13 must have been underway for a bit over two and a half hours. And since it would have taken over twenty minutes for movement orders from Old Earth to reach La Paz, that gives us a pretty tight lock on when the balloon must have gone up. And we, unfortunately, are still nine-point-eight hours away from Old Earth. So it would appear that the plan to divert Adoula’s squadrons away from the planet before the attack isn’t really likely to work.”
Julian’s face tightened, but the admiral shook his head.
“Doesn’t mean he’s failed, Sergeant,” he said, with a gentleness he seldom showed. “In fact, all the evidence suggests the attack on the Palace itself probably succeeded.”
“What evidence?” Julian demanded.
“The fact that the system reconnaissance platforms have been locked out, that La Paz was obviously headed in-system just as fast as he could go, and that his carrier squadron is down to only two ships,” Helmut said.
“The recon lockout had to have come from Moonbase—that’s the only communications node with the reach to shut down the entire system. And if Adoula were in control of the situation, he certainly wouldn’t be ordering his own units locked out of the system reconnaissance platforms. So the lockout order almost certainly came from someone supporting Prince Roger . . . which means his partisans have control of Moonbase.
“The fact that La Paz was headed in-system suggests the same thing—Adoula and Gianetto are calling in their loyalists, and they wouldn’t be doing that unless they needed the firepower because of the situation on the Old Earth.
“And the fact that La Paz is down to only two ships—that half his squadron is someplace else—suggests that someone has been doing a little creative force structure reshuffling. My money for the reshuffler is on Kjerulf. Which would also make sense of Moonbase’
s defection from the Adoula camp.”
“Sir,” the Taco put in, “we’re also picking up additional phase drive signatures. Looks like four carriers coming in from out-system—we’re too far out for IFF—about half a light-minute out from Old Earth, decelerating towards orbit. We’ve got six more signatures coming out from the inner-system, decelerating towards the same destination.”
“Gajelis and . . . Prokourov,” Helmut said thoughtfully. He glanced at Julian again. “The six coming out from sunward have to be Gajelis and CarRon 14. I’m guessing the other four are CarRon 12, which probably means Prokorouv’s decided to back your Prince. I can’t think of any reason even Gianetto would think he needed ten carriers and over two hundred cruisers to deal with an attack on the Palace. Mind you, I could be wrong. He always did believe in bigger hammers.”
“Incoming. Many vampires incoming!” Tactical announced.
Gloria Demesne only nodded to herself. It had been obvious what was coming for the last thirty minutes. CruFlot 140 was still over fifteen minutes out, just entering its own missile range of Fatted Calf, but Gajelis’ carriers had started launching over a half-hour before. Now their big, nasty missiles were stacking up in CruFlot 140’s control basket, and the cruisers themselves had just gone to maximum rate fire. No wonder even the computers were having trouble trying to tally up the total.
She understood exactly what Gajelis was thinking. This was a bid to overwhelm Fatted Calf with firepower while his own carriers were safely out of harm’s way. Fatted Calf’s carriers had the range to engage CarRon 14, but the chances of a hit at this range, especially without cruisers of their own out there to provide final course corrections were . . . poor, to say the least. And even any of their birds which might have scored hits would still have to get through CarRon 14’s missile defenses. The term “snowball in hell” came forcibly to mind when she considered that scenario. So at the moment, he was free to concentrate his fire on the targets of his choice from a position of relative immunity.
For as long as his own cruisers lasted, anyway.
It might just work, but it might not, too, especially given the range at which his cruisers had opened fire. Their missiles would be coming in at high terminal velocities, but crowding the very limits of their designed fire control and with a ten-second signal lag in fire control telemetry, which gave away accuracy. The Imperial Navy’s electronic warfare capabilities were good, even against people who had exactly the same equipment. It took the computational capabilities of a major platform to distinguish between real and false targets reliably. The sensors and AI loaded into shipkiller missiles were highly capable, but not as capable as those of the cruiser or carrier which had launched them, so firing at such extreme range meant Gajelis was accepting poorer terminal guidance due to the delay in telemetry corrections.
The sheer size of the salvos he was throwing was also going to have an effect. It wasn’t going to catastrophically overwhelm the fire control capability of his cruisers, but it was going to overload it, which meant the computers would have less time to spend coaxing each missile into the best attack solution. If she knew Gajelis, he was going to concentrate a lot of that fire—especially the heavier missiles from his carriers—on Fatted Calf’s carriers, instead of hammering the lighter cruisers. There were arguments in favor of either tactic, but Fatted Calf had no intention of wasting any of its birds on carriers. Not at this range. Demesne intended to kill cruisers, ruthlessly crushing the smaller, weaker platforms while they were out of their carriers’ cover, and Captain Atilius, Fatted Calf’s acting CO, just happened to be Minotaur’s skipper. Which meant the rest of the squadron’s carriers, as well as its cruisers, were conforming to Desmesne’s tactical direction.
Which was also why none of Fatted Calf’s units had fired a single shot yet. At this range, it would take almost five minutes for CruFlot 140’s missiles to reach Fatted Calf, and at their maximum rate fire the cruisers would shoot themselves dry in about fifteen minutes. They’d put a lot of missiles into space over those twenty minutes, but she had a lot of point defense to deal with them. If she waited to fire until the distance to Gajelis’ cruisers fell to decisive range, Bellingham and her consorts would be able to control their missiles all the way in, which meant they’d be at least twenty-five percent more effective. Of course, they’d have to survive Gajelis’ fire before they launched, but every silver lining had its cloud.
“Open fire, Captain?” Ensign Scargall asked. The young officer’s taut voice was higher pitched than usual and her face was pale as she looked at her readouts, and Gloria didn’t blame her a bit. There were already well over forty-five thousand missiles on the way, and still none of Fatted Calf’s ships had opened fire.
“No, Ensign,” Gloria said in a husky voice. She punched in a command, and the bridge was filled with a throbbing beat as she pulled out a pseudo-nic stick. She brushed a lock of red hair out of her eyes and puffed on the stick, lighting it.
“Hold your fire,” she said. “Let them come. Come to me, my love,” she whispered. “Fifteen thousand tears I’ve cried . . .” She’d had a hell of a singing voice, once. Before the pseudo-nic smoke had killed it. But every silver lining had its cloud. “Screaming deceiving and bleeding for you . . .”
“They’re fighting dumb, Admiral,” Commander Talbert said.
“Not much else they can do,” Gajelis shrugged. “They have to come to meet us to keep us away from the planet. In fact, the only thing that surprises me is that they haven’t cut the cruisers loose to intercept our cruisers even further out.”
“They have to be worried about keeping us as far out as possible, Sir,” Talbert said, “but they’ve had over three hours to get their forces deployed. They ought to be further out than this by now. And where are their fighters?”
“They probably didn’t know exactly when this was coming,” Gajelis said, and grimaced. “That’s the problem with coups, Commander—it’s harder than hell to make sure everyone’s ready to kick off at the right moment. They’re probably having to make this up as they go along, and they know we’re just the first squadron they’re going to have on their backs. So they’re playing it as cautious as they can, but they still can’t afford to wait us out and let us get into kinetic range of Imperial City. As for the fighters, they’re obviously holding them aboard the carriers. Given the force imbalance, they’ll want to send them in with maximum Leviathan loads. In a minute or two, they’ll punch them to come in across the cruisers, from either system north or south.”
“Atilius is tricky,” Talbert pointed out. “And Demesne is worse. This isn’t their style, Sir.”
“There’s no style to a battle like this, Commander,” the admiral said, frowning. “You just throw fire until one side retires or is gone. We’ve got more firepower; we’ll win.”
“Yes, Sir,” Talbert said, trying to project a little enthusiasm. It was hard. Especially knowing that Prokorouv’s cruisers were going to be close enough to start “adjusting” the force imbalance in about another ten minutes. “I suppose there is a certain quality to quantity.”
“Fatted Calf Squadron has just flushed its fighters,” Tactical said.
“See?” the admiral said. “Flip a coin whether they go in over the cruisers, or under.”
“Here they come!”
Not exactly a professional announcement, there, Demesne thought. But under the circumstances, a pardonable slip.
The volume of space to sunward of Old Earth was a hurricane of raging destruction. Countermissiles, roaring out at thirty-five hundred gravities, charged headlong to meet a solid wall of incoming shipkillers. Proximity warheads began to erupt, flashing like prespace flash guns at some championship sporting event. Stroboscopic bubbles of nuclear fury boiled like brimstone flaring through the chinks in the front gate of Hell. The interceptions began over a million kilometers out, ripping huge holes in the comber of shipkillers racing towards Fatted Calf, but the vortex of destruction thundered unstoppably onward. Eighty-four
thousand missiles had been fired at only one hundred targets, and nothing in the universe could have stopped them all.
Point defense laser clusters opened fire as the range fell to seventy thousand kilometers, and the fury of destruction redoubled. CruFlot 140’s missiles were coming in at twenty-seven thousand kilometers per second, which gave the lasers less than three seconds to engage, but at least tracking had had plenty of time to set up the firing solutions. Demesne’s cruisers’ point defense was lethally effective, and the four carriers’ fire was even more deadly.
Laser heads began to detonate. Against ChromSten-armored ships, even those as light as cruisers, even the most powerful bomb-pumped laser had a standoff range of less than ten thousand kilometers; against a carrier, maximum effect of standoff range was barely half that. Cruisers began to take hits, belching atmosphere and debris, but Demesne and Atilius had been right. Over seventy percent of the incoming missiles were targeted on the carriers, a hundred thousand kilometers behind the cruisers.
CruFlot 150 turned, keeping its better broadside sensors positioned to engage the missiles which had already run past it, even as its ships took their own hammering. And they did take a hammering. Thirty percent of eighty-four thousand was “only” two hundred and sixty missiles per cruiser, and even with poor firing solutions and the carriers’ support—what they could spare from their own self-defense—an awful lot of them got through.