by Marko Kloos
The Orion III streaks past the drone line of deployment and into their field of view like a very motivated and angry firefly. In the dark of space, the brilliant chain of nuclear explosions trailing the missile marks its flight path in a dramatically obvious fashion.
“Twenty seconds. Bogey’s course and speed unchanged.”
Colonel Yamin is holding on to the edge of the holotable with both hands, and her grip is so tight that I can see the white of her knuckles. The Lanky seed ship is still making its slow and steady round of the polar region, oblivious to the destructive energy we are hurling at it.
“Update on Sierra-2 and 3,” she says.
“Still in geostationary equatorial orbit. No change in course or speed.”
“Ten seconds to target. Nine. Eight. Seven . . .”
Colonel Yamin leans forward and expands the window with the live feed of Sierra-1 with both hands.
“For Darius,” she says in a low voice.
“Impact,” the tactical officer announces. “Waiting for delayed visual confirmation.”
At this distance, the radio signals from the drones take almost twenty seconds to arrive back at Ottawa. The entire CIC crew stares at the visual feed that still shows the Lanky gliding through space for an agonizingly long period. Then the display washes out with a bright flash. When the camera filters kick in and show the same section of space again, all we see is an angry-looking iridescent cloud of radiation and debris.
“That is a hit,” the tactical officer says, his voice rising to a shout on the last word. “Splash one. Sierra-1 destroyed.”
The CIC erupts in raucous cheers. I make a fist and tap the edge of the TacOps station’s frame a few times.
When the initial impact cloud has dispersed a little, I can see that the seed ship didn’t disintegrate entirely. What’s left of the oblong hull looks like no more than half of the intact ship, and it’s clearly a defunct wreckage. We watch the decapitated Lanky ship tumble and drift toward the moon’s north pole, out of control and without any semblance of coordination. The Orion III doesn’t hit quite as hard as the original design but it seems that it hits plenty hard enough to assure a mission kill.
“All right, people,” Colonel Yamin says when the cheers have died down. “Let’s not open the cold beers just yet. That’s one out of three.”
“Sierra-2 and 3 are still in their orbits,” the tactical officer says. “They either didn’t notice the fireworks, or they don’t care.”
“Contact New Svalbard. Send them a tight-beam transmission announcing our presence and intentions. Maybe a few ten thousand watts of radio energy will get the shovel heads to notice us. Warm up tubes one and three.”
“Aye, ma’am. Prepping tubes one and three for launch.”
“New Svalbard System Control, this is NACS Ottawa,” the communications officer enunciates into his headset. “We are on an interdiction and relief mission inbound your position. Do you read?”
For several minutes, there’s no reply, and the comms officer repeats her message several times. The mood in CIC goes from jubilation to subdued concern. If there’s nobody left alive on New Svalbard, we came all this way with the throttle wide open for nothing.
Then there’s a burst of static on the overhead speakers, and an excited-sounding voice acknowledges our message.
“Ottawa, New Svalbard System Control,” the voice says. “We read you loud and clear. Thank the entire fucking pantheon of gods.”
I grin at this exclamation, delivered in the slightly twangy drawl the colonists down on the ice moon seem to have adopted as their local accent. It has been five years since I set foot on that moon, but I still remember the inflections.
“System Control, Ottawa. What is your status? Be advised that we have engaged and destroyed one of the enemy ships in orbit and that we intend to close in with the other two and engage.”
“Ottawa, System Control. Understood. We are under sustained attack by Lankies on the surface. They landed four days ago on the northern plateau, and they’ve advanced to within two kilometers of the city. The garrison is holding the perimeter, but they are short on almost everything. The Lankies have destroyed Camp Frostbite. The drop ships at the airfield are out of fuel and ammunition. We have three thousand people underground and in the admin center.”
Colonel Yamin grabs her headset and takes over from the comms officer.
“System Control, this is Ottawa Actual. We are on the way with help. Stand by for updates. Can you relay comms to the commanding officer of the garrison?”
“Stand by, Ottawa Actual.”
There’s a thirty-second silence on the channel beyond the message delay. Then a female voice comes on. This one sounds gruff and more than a little tired.
“NAC task force, this is Major Archer, garrison commander. Please identify.”
“Major Archer, this is Colonel Yamin, NACS Ottawa. What’s your situation on the ground?”
“Colonel, it’s good to hear you’re inbound. We are holding the line, but barely. My platoons are stretched thin on the ground. We’re low on ammo, the drop ships are dry, and half my mules are destroyed. The ones that are left are down to a few dozen rounds each. If we don’t get relief soon, the Lankies are going to push us back into the center of the town, and they’re going to take the airfield and destroy the comms arrays. Tell me you have a battalion on the way and a drop ship wing loaded for bear.”
“I can do you one better than that, Major. We have two battalions and four strike squadrons. As soon as we are in orbit, we are sending reinforcements and close-air support your way. Hang in there for another two hours.”
“Copy that, Colonel. Best news I’ve had all week. I’ll pass word to the battalion,” Major Archer replies.
Colonel Yamin takes her headset off again and hands the channel back to the comms officer of the watch.
“Status on the other two bogeys.”
“Still in their orbit, ma’am. They haven’t budged.”
“So we do it the hard way. Let’s get this battlewagon on the road. Helm, set course for New Svalbard, all ahead full.”
“Aye, ma’am, all ahead full,” the helmsman replies.
Ottawa burns her main engines and starts advancing into the system at twelve g. As usual, I don’t even feel the forces that would have me flat against the bulkhead and gasping for air without the artificial gravity. Only the rapidly increasing number next to our tactical icon shows that we are underway again, racing toward the Lankies that are killing our friends and comrades. I’ve never been in a position to save a colony from Lanky invasion, and even though I’m still fearing the impending close quarters battle, it feels good to be the cavalry for a change instead of running from the seed ships. I wonder if Lankies can feel anything like fear. If they can, I hope they feel it in spades once they notice that we are coming for them this time.
CHAPTER 19
CQB
An hour and a half later, we have closed half the distance to New Svalbard and turned the ship around for our counter-burn. The Lankies are still holding their geosynchronous station, unaware or unconcerned that a NAC warship is bearing down on their position.
“New drone contact, bearing two hundred by negative eighty-three,” the tactical officer calls out. “Ma’am, it’s the Michael P. Murphy.”
“On the holotable,” Colonel Yamin orders. A second later, a display window overlay opens on top of the tactical screen, showing the distinctive angular shape of a Blue-class Fleet destroyer.
“They’re running silent. No active transmissions, no running lights.”
“I would too if I was in a destroyer right now,” Colonel Yamin says. “Ping them once with a low-power tight-beam. See if their radios are broken or if they just haven’t spotted us yet.”
The comms officer does as ordered. Whatever the Murphy is doing out there, they won’t be able to miss the active radio energy bouncing off their hull. A few moments later, they respond in kind with a tight-beam signal of their
own.
“Unidentified ship, this is NACS Michael P. Murphy. Please authenticate.”
“Send our Fleet ID and put me on that tight-beam channel,” the CO orders.
“You are go on tight-beam, ma’am.”
“Michael P. Murphy, this is NACS Ottawa, Ottawa Actual. We thought you guys were a debris field right now. I am glad to see that’s not the case. What is your status and intent, over?”
“Ottawa, this is Murphy Actual. We are combat ineffective. Be advised that there are three Lanky ships in the area around New Svalbard. We engaged them, but they landed a few hits before we could get out. Main sensor array is down, we have no radar or lidar, and we have expended all our ordnance and lost the rail-gun mount.”
“Murphy, be advised that the number of enemy ships is down to two. We are aiming to reduce that count further in about an hour. If we aren’t successful, make for the Alcubierre node at best speed and transition out of this system. You did what you could. Let Ottawa do the heavy lifting.”
“Ottawa, Murphy. I have no particular objections to that plan. I sure hope you know what you are getting into.”
“Affirmative, Murphy. Stand by for updates. And if you hear our crash buoy, get to the node and get the hell out of the AO.”
“Copy that, Ottawa. Good luck and Godspeed. Murphy out.”
Colonel Yamin focuses her attention on the plot again, where a new icon labeled “DD-655” has appeared at the edge of our awareness bubble, on the opposite side of the sphere from the marker for New Svalbard. Murphy is coasting passively in the general direction of the Alcubierre chute, her fusion engines idling to reduce her radiation and thermal signature. If they have lost their main sensor array and radar to battle damage, they are flying mostly blind, and without a rail gun or missiles left in their magazines, they’re largely defenseless except for their point defense cannons. But they’re still largely in one piece, which is an outcome I wouldn’t have bet money on.
“Bogeys are still geostationary. They’re glued to their orbits,” the tactical officer says.
“We need to start thinking about prying them loose from their parking spots,” Colonel Yamin says. “Give them something to worry about.”
“The plot is clear for five million klicks past New Svalbard at least,” Lieutenant Colonel Barry replies. “We could go full power on all transmitters and blast them with noise. They’re sensitive to radio energy, right? If we drop stealth and go active, they’ll pick us up for sure.”
“Make them come about and head our way. Force a head-on engagement with two seed ships,” Colonel Yamin muses.
“We won’t get clear shots at them if they stay in that orbit. If we lure them out, at least we have a safe backstop and room to maneuver. The particle cannon won’t care whether we get a broadside or a head-on shot.”
“And head-on they can’t use their broadsides.”
“They can try to go for a ramming kill, but we know that our ship is more nimble than theirs. We should be able to kill them outright, and avoid them if we can’t score hard kills on the first pass.”
“We have the mobility and firepower advantage,” Colonel Yamin says. “So let’s dictate the terms of the engagement for once.”
She studies the plot for a few moments, but I can tell that she has made up her mind. I reach over my shoulders and pull down the straps for the safety harness to buckle myself back in.
“All right. We are going active. Comms, broadcast at full transmitting power. And let’s ping some radar off their hulls. We won’t get a return, but maybe all those megawatts will tickle them.”
“What would you like me to broadcast, ma’am?” the comms officer asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about you pull some music out of the data banks? Let’s give the shovel heads a sampling of Earth culture. Put it out over FM and AM bands. And drill them with a nice focused tight-beam on top of that.”
“I like it.” The comms officer grins and turns his attention to his screens. “One musical sampler from Earth coming right up.”
A few moments later, a rousing classical music piece comes out of the speaker on the comms console. The communications officer smiles and turns toward the holotable.
“Pouring out Earth culture at fifty megawatts on all frequencies, ma’am,” he says.
“I like that music,” Lieutenant Colonel Barry says. “What is that, Wagner?”
“Yes, sir. Ride of the Valkyries. Nineteenth-century opera.”
“Put it on shipwide speaker for the crew,” Colonel Yamin says. The XO looks at her with an amused smile on his face, and she shrugs in reply.
“Might as well charge in with style,” she says.
“Aye, ma’am.” The comms officer’s grin gets a little wider. He taps a few screens, and then the music comes from every overhead speaker.
“The crew on Murphy will think we’ve lost our shit,” I say, but I can’t suppress a grin myself.
I’m pretty sure we’re the first Fleet unit actively trying to get the attention of the Lankies, and I’m very sure we’re the first ones to do so by deliberately blasting classical music at them.
We carve our way toward New Svalbard, decelerating gradually in our reverse burn. At first, it doesn’t seem like our systemwide entertainment program has any effect on the Lankies, but a few minutes after the start of our broadcast, the two orange icons at New Svalbard subtly change position on the tactical plot.
“They heard us,” the tactical officer says. “Sierra-2 and Sierra-3 are leaving orbit and coming about. They’re accelerating.”
“Nice of them to take the bait,” Colonel Yamin says. “Cut the overhead speakers. Keep sending on all frequencies. Let’s lure them out far enough for an ass-kicking.”
“Bogeys are now CBDR. I’d say we got their attention.”
CBDR—constant bearing, decreasing range—means that the bogeys are heading directly for us, which leaves no doubt about their ability to locate the source of radio transmissions. I watch as the distance between the center of the plot and the approaching Lanky ships shrinks a little more with every passing minute.
“Aspect is still bad for an Orion shot,” the tactical officer warns. “Bogeys are still right between the moon and us.”
“We’ll be below minimums for the Orions in a few minutes anyway,” the XO says.
“Flip the ship. Target lock both bogeys for the Alpha and Bravo mounts,” Colonel Yamin orders. “Get the reactors up to full power.”
The lateral thrusters on the ventral side of the ship fire a long burst, and the ship rotates on its transverse axis to present the bow-mounted particle cannons to the approaching seed ships. When we are facing the moon and the seed ships between us and New Svalbard bow-on, the dorsal thrusters counter-burn to arrest our rotation.
“We have locks on Sierra-2 and Sierra-3,” the tactical officer reports. “Tracking targets. Closing speed is eleven hundred meters per second, increasing.”
The two Lanky seed ships are close enough to Ottawa that the high-powered magnifying lenses on our optical array could spot hull rivets if the Lankies had any. The two hostile ships look like a pair of sharks on the prowl to me—lethal, streamlined forms out for an easy meal.
“Fifty thousand kilometers and closing fast.”
“Open fire at twenty thousand. Lock on Sierra-3 with both mounts and blow that son of a bitch to pieces,” Colonel Yamin says. Everyone is back in their seats and strapped in now. In less than a minute, we will be in weapons range, and so will the Lankies. This won’t be a sucker punch from a million klicks away, but a knife fight in a toilet stall.
“Forty thousand.”
I check the tightness of my harness straps and the fasteners on my suit. Ottawa is an enormous ship, but the seed ships are still three times as long, and they probably have ten times our mass. If one of them decides to ram us head-on at these closing speeds, we will burst apart like an overripe piece of fruit.
“Thirty thousand.”
“Alph
a and Bravo mounts show a green board,” the weapons officer says. “Reactor power to full pulse afterburner.”
“Set both mounts to one-second burst,” Colonel Yamin orders.
“One-second burst, aye. Entering weapons range in three . . . two . . . one.”
“Fire.”
The lights in CIC dim very slightly. Deep inside the ship, the two particle cannon mounts that run the entire front third of the hull focus more destructive power than humanity has ever managed to concentrate on one spot. I stare at the screen that shows the live video feed of the two Lanky ships barreling toward us almost side by side, with no more than ten kilometers of space between them.
The impacts from the particle cannons light up the display and wash it out completely. The drone cameras are tracking the Lankies from three different angles, and those auxiliary feeds show the hull of seed ship Sierra-2 disappear in a supernova of radiation and glowing particles.
“Direct hit,” the weapons officer announces in a jubilant tone. “Target destroyed.”
“Closing rate is too high,” the tactical officer warns. “Sierra-2 is going to pass us ten klicks to port.”
“Evasive action,” the CO shouts. “Dorsal bow thrusters, down forty degrees.”
“Negative forty degrees, aye,” the helmsman replies. The bow of Ottawa begins to swing downward in reaction to the approaching Lanky, but the closing rate is so high that the seed ship covers the distance between us before we have altered our trajectory significantly.
“All rail-gun batteries, go to automatic mode and engage the enemy,” Colonel Yamin orders. “Full broadside, maximum rate of fire.”
The metallic clanging from the rail-gun mounts reverberates through the hull as the projectiles leave their magnetic rails at several thousand meters per second. The Lanky appearing on our portside looms over us, so immense in size that the ten klicks between us still feel close enough to almost scrape hulls.
“Incoming ordnance,” the tactical officer yells. “Threat vector two-seven-zero.”
“Roll the ship,” Colonel Yamin barks. “Turn our dorsal armor toward them.”