by T. R. Harris
In the meantime, his men and women would experience a windfall of incredible wealth. Whether they’d live long enough to spend it remained a mystery.
*****
AS a young and fiery world, Crinous was located in the heart of the Darius Nebula. Space within the region was a treacherous mix of uncharted eddies of deadly gases and rogue clouds of hull-shredding stellar ejecta. Yet one of the greatest assets Kincaid had in his arsenal was his senior pilot, Master Chief Chuck Moran. Moran was ancient—probably seventy by now—who had spent over thirty years as a roughneck miner scouring the Reaches for rich veins of minerals and precious metals. The bulk of that time had been spent within the Darius Nebula, so he knew it better than most.
Once the Malicious and her escorts had stationed themselves within eyesight of the blazing cloud of stellar gases, Kincaid called a strategy meeting in the wardroom of his ship.
“There are only three established paths into and out from Crinous,” Chief Moran informed them. “Two are narrow and seldom used. But the Alpha Channel is wide enough for a convoy of deep-space cargo haulers to pass without much trouble.”
“How long will they be in the Channel before they reach open space?” Javon Steele asked.
“A day, maybe more, and they won’t risk making jumps with so much miscellaneous crap in the surrounding space. Nuthin’ worse than dumping out of a jump with a cloud of baseball-size rocks following you; I’ve seen ’em overload shields in a heartbeat and then tear the ass-end out of a starship in nuthin’ flat. They’ll wait until they’re through before making the jump.”
“So we make our move while they’re in the Channel,” Kincaid stated. “The Angelus Depression seems like our best spot. The Revenge, with Mister Steele in command, will be stationed on the opposite side from the Malicious, while Mister Drake and the Kai Shek wait overhead. Lieutenant Sinclair will coordinate the KST ships while Commander Bronson directs the strikecraft.”
Robert focused on Bronson. “Make sure your flitters go only for the engines of the haulers. Remember, this isn’t a military strike; we need those ships intact when we’re through.”
“That’ll take some precise shooting, Captain,” Bronson said. “We’ll do our best, but only about a third of my pilots are military-trained. The rest are made up of your KST jockeys.”
“I understand that, Nick. But I grew up with a lot of these KST hotshots, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with what they can do in a flitter.”
“It’s not their piloting skills I question, it’s their discipline.”
Robert raised his trademark eyebrows. “You got me there, Commander. Just remind them that if they blow up a container ship that’s about twenty thousand dollars in lost share each. That should motivate them to follow your orders.”
“Maybe this is how all navies should be run,” Bronson said with a smile. “Sure would make for a lot of dedicated sailors.”
“What about the escorts?” Drake asked. “I spotted nine destroyers and two cruisers.”
“The Revenge should be able to take on the bulk of them, with the Malicious filling in. Lt. Sinclair will have to cluster his KST ships against any we can’t handle. Don’t send your ships in one-on-one, Sean. The Vixxie will eat them alive if you do.”
“Have you ever considered that this might be a trap?” It was Paul Shuler, Robert’s former House Master, who made the stark comment. Kincaid had invited him to the meeting simply because he had an incredible amount of common sense and was outside the motivations of the others seated around the table. He didn’t need the money and he was beyond macho bravado. Now his words hit everyone like a splash of cold water to the face.
The old man cleared his throat and continued. “The Vixx’r must know this convoy is a prime target for your pirates, Robert. Even eleven ships in defense seems light when considering the size of your fleet and the potential reward if you succeed. It might have been easier for the aliens to sneak these container ships out of the Reaches undetected a few at a time. Instead they appear to be making a big production out of this massive convoy. I know Gaolic; he has a remarkable mind for strategy. And now the Vixxie are dangling an almost irresistible prize in front of your face and challenging you to attack. It’s just a possibility.”
“Who invited this guy?” Javon Steele said with a smile. “There’s no room at this table for clear and logical thinking.”
Even though he was caught off guard by Paul’s comments, Robert couldn’t be more proud of the man. He was doing what Robert had hoped he would do—contribute to the dialogue.
“Drake, I think I want you to hold off taking a direct role in the attack. Stay back toward the rear and watch for any wakes coming our way. Paul’s right. I know Gaolic, too, and that slimy bastard would love nothing more than to bring this whole thing to a head in spectacular fashion.”
“Just so long as I still get my share,” Drake said.
“Don’t worry about that.”
“That’s easy for you to say. And what do I do if I see something? Are we then going to abandon the convoy and run?”
“There is another possibility,” Chief Moran said. All eyes turned to him. “We could use the flitters to box in the transports, bunch them together so they can’t fully engage their sails. That way Commander Bronson can keep more of his strikecraft in reserve, just in case Mr. Shuler is right. Then depending on the true strength of the enemy, we can concentrate in eliminating the threat. Once that’s done, then we can come back and make short work of the haulers.”
“Nick?” Robert looked to his strike-force commander.
“Sounds like a plan. But are we willing to have a few of the haulers escape? Some might, you know?”
“With all their protection eliminated in the area, there’s a good chance we can hunt them down afterwards, before they make it to the border,” Robert said. “Of course, we can’t become greedy, not when it could mean a potential tactical disaster on our part. Commanders, I believe we have a plan. Retire to your ships and stations and prepare your battle strategies. We launch in three hours.”
*****
VISUALLY, Kincaid spotted the first of the huge container ships as just a black dot moving swiftly against the red, yellow and green background of the Darius Nebula. The image on his screen was on extreme magnification, and soon he detected a second dot not far behind the first.
Scouts had already reported six ships in the convoy, with many more lining up for departure. The escort force was also preparing to leave. His capital ships and KST converts would handle the escorts, while the single-person fighters would sweep in and knock out the stardrives of the haulers, targeting the lead vessels first. With the currents so swift and narrow at this point within the nebula, any of the container ships trying to make an end run would be in trouble. All that Commander Bronson’s fighters had to do was keep them bunched up until Kincaid and the rest of the fleet could come in for the kill.
After that, it would just be a matter of gaining entry to the haulers and disposing of the small maintenance crews aboard the mostly-automated starships.
When all twenty of the haulers were underway and solidly within the kill zone, Kincaid gave the attack order.
The Malicious and Revenge extended their masts and unfurled their maneuvering sails, as their energized Norvell Drives kicked in and blasted the ships out from behind the cover of numerous large asteroids bordering the Channel. Simultaneously, Robert heard and felt the rumble through the deck as a dozen strikecraft shot out from the rear launch bay of the Malicious. Twice as many fighters would be exiting the much larger dreadnaught Revenge at the same time, speeding off to cross the forward path of the long string of massive cargo haulers.
Kincaid had a huge graphic display of the battlefield on the forward view screen, and he watched as lines of transit trailed behind the paths of his attacking vessels. The eleven Vixxie military escorts immediately separated from the convoy and shot off to intercept the fighters. Soon brilliant streaks of plasma energy
filled the space within the Channel as the combatants engaged.
Bronson’s fighters made an abrupt turn to port and sped off toward a diaphanous cloud of green and red stellar gas with six of the Vixx’r destroyers in hot pursuit. As the Human forces neared the cloud, they steered up and over the edge of the massive structure, just as a dozen yellow and red KST fighter-converts shot over the crest. The Vixx’r destroyers were caught off guard, with their tender underbellies now exposed to the fiery barrage of missile fire from the former merchant vessels.
Four of the destroyers were literally zippered apart along their centerlines from near-point-blank fire, while the other two managed to lay down intense fire of their own—also at point-blank range. Even though Robert’s technicians had mounted an array of deadly weapons to the hulls of the KST ships, nothing could be done about the light hull construction of the vessels. In battle they ended up being no match for the powerful and accurate weaponry of the Vixxie. Robert cringed as six of the twelve KST ships were shredded.
Even from his seat on the bridge of the Malicious, Kincaid could see that the Vixxie shots were much more precise and targeted than the flurry of bolts sent out from the KST ships. His former workmates and family employees gave it a valiant effort, but very few of them had any kind of military training. They could point and shoot the weapons, yet they were generally a step behind in leading their targets or in steering to avoid incoming fire. The Vixxie gunners, on the other hand, were seasoned professionals, many having honed their skills through six years of near-constant engagement in the Midlands.
Fortunately for Robert, the convoy escorts were few in number, and what the out-matched KST ships couldn’t do on their own, the Malicious and Revenge would finish.
“Moving into attack profile, sir!” Master Chief Moran cried out. The old veteran would be in command of the actual movements of the Malicious, while Robert gave suggestions as to the next course to take. With battle in space occurring at such an accelerated pace, senior pilots were often given autonomous control over their vessels. Seldom was there time for orders to filter through the chain of command. Captain and gunners would react to the ship’s movements, and that was why experience played such a vital role in the success or failure of ships and crews. Command, Control and Weapons all had to work in unison, like an elaborately-choreographed ballet, with each member anticipating the moves of the others and ready to act when the time came. The crew of Malicious was getting there, but not at one-hundred percent efficiency yet. The Revenge—under command of Javon Steele—was even more uncoordinated in their dance. Yet Javon did have forty guns under his control. What his crew lacked in finesse they made up for in sheer volume.
Eighteen powerful plasma shells streamed out from the Revenge, saturating a region of space that left one of the Vixx’r destroyers no place to hide. One shell skimmed over her superstructure, tearing off comm and navigation sensors before finally exploding just above the aft generators. The ship lost two-thirds of her power, including the portside shields and weapons batteries. Two more shells then struck the enemy warship, one forward and one aft, and both on the port side. They entered the hull cleanly and without resistance. The Vixx’r destroyer separated in half, with tiny explosions detected in the mangled wreckage.
Robert took a mental tally. Five of the eleven escorts were down, yet that still left six more, and they were making a beeline for the convoy and the swarm of tiny fighters now encircling it. The range of the weapons on the remaining four destroyers and two cruisers was easily four times that of the strikecraft, and soon the Vixx’r would start picking them off one by one.
“Get us in there, Chief,” he ordered. “We haven’t had a kill all day.”
“The damn Sludgers keep running from us, sir.”
“Then get us in among the fighters. Give them someplace to hide from those destroyers. I’ve already lost more KST ships than I was expecting. Let’s not lose the fighters as well.”
“Blue wing, move in to cover the Malicious!” Robert heard Commander Bronson call out from his tactical station aboard the huge KST Heavy Hauler Big Yella. It was four times as large as any of the other KST ships and served as Bronson’s command and control center for the strike force.
“Belay that!” another voice called over the comm. “I’ll cover,” said Bondel Drake. “The rest of you continue to your objectives.”
Kincaid felt the blood rush to his ears. He had ordered Drake to stay back and watch for any re-enforcements arriving on station. Yet here he was, right in the thick of things, and countermanding the orders of one of his military officers.
“What the hell are you doing, Drake?” Robert asked over the comm channel.
“I saw how your KST ships were hit and knew you’d need more firepower against the escorts.”
“And who’s guarding our six?”
“Don’t worry; I didn’t see anything out there. Besides, the sooner we mop up this mess the better we’ll be able to defend a second front—if one appears.”
Nick Bronson’s face displayed its share of frustration on Robert’s screen. “Send them in, Commander,” Robert ordered. “Our whole reason for being here is to capture those container ships, not to destroy a few Vixx’r warships. We’ll handle things on our end.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Bronson emphasized Robert’s rank, not for Kincaid’s benefit, but as a reminder to Bondel Drake who was in charge.
“Cruiser at one-seven-four degrees and closing, Captain,” the young tac officer Ryan Grossman reported.
“Thank you, Mr. Grossman. Excuse me, Mr. Drake, but would you like to help us take out that bogie, or is there something else you’d rather be doing? I thought I’d ask you before I issued any more orders—or I guess you call them suggestions.”
“Don’t get snippy, Captain,” Drake replied. “You know I’m right.”
“Enough chatter!” Robert’s anger was at the boiling point. “Take my starboard wing.” Kincaid turned his attention to the helm. “Chief, begin counter-maneuvers. There are two cruisers out there; let’s cut that number in half.”
9
BRONSON’S strikecraft were one-man flitters, quick, agile and heavily armed for their size. Most of their weapons were short to medium-range since the ships were designed for close-in combat.
On command, they broke into two-ship assault units, a pair for each of the haulers. As they swept over the looming hulls of the mostly-automated cargo vessels, they opened fire, strafing along the aft third where the engines and generators were located. Kincaid watched on his tac monitor as one of the streams of plasma fire impacted the massive stardrive of the lead cargo ship, causing the brilliant glow within the huge opening to suddenly go dark. But then the plasma stream continued forward until it impacted the hull just forward of the engine compartment.
The continuous series of micro-bursts—appearing as one single ray of white-hot plasma—tore through the thinner metal on this part of the ship, weakening the hull integrity until the air pressure within blew out a massive hole in the side of the ship. But the damage didn’t end there. The hull continued to rip apart, as the stress placed on it by the slight deviation in the respective directions of the forward and aft sections was too great for the structural material to hold. The entire rear section of the ship fell away as fuel lines snapped and electrical fires flashed. Innumerable clusters of brilliant blue bursts began moving inexorably through the forward section, as if a voracious beast was literally eating the ship alive, one section at a time.
“Dammit, Blue Wing,” Bronson shouted. “You’re not supposed to destroy the targets, just disable them.”
“Sorry sir,” was the sheepish reply over the comm. “A miscalculation on my part.”
Kincaid recognized the voice as that of Bobby Upton, one of the former KST pilots. Unfortunately, he was a perfect example of what had been discussed earlier—a skilled pilot with little-to-no combat experience. A military gunner would have been able to better control the plasma bursts.
What’s a container ship filled to the I-beams with gold and silver worth? Kincaid wondered. Ten…fifteen million in local dollars? He fingered the comm.
“Strike crews, this is Kincaid. The loss of the lead hauler just cost us around fifteen million dollars. I’m not being overly critical here, Mr. Upton, but all of you need to be more deliberate with your shots. Lay off the trigger some; do quick, short bursts, not continuous streams. As you’ve just seen, these ships are not designed for major structural stress. They break apart if you look at them cross-eyed. Concentrate future fire on their masts and sails. Without those, even if they get away, they won’t be able to go very fast. Kincaid out.”
He looked to Chief Moran. ‘Where’s that damn cruiser?”
“Coming around on our port quarter, sir. They’re trying to slip past us and get in toward the strike force.”
“Cut ‘em off! Drake, dive under us and come up on their ass. They won’t be expecting something as fast as the Kai Shek coming from behind.”
“I’m on it!”