Battleship Indomitable (Galactic Liberation Book 2)

by B. V. Larson

  “I think that despite my best efforts to drill and integrate our crews, we’re not truly a disciplined fleet. We’re a loose collection of individuals who haven’t yet fought a battle together, from different cultures, different planets, even different species. Some will hold the line. Some will attack against orders. Some will fail to attack when ordered. Some will run.”

  “Damn. That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

  “It’s the price we pay for you pushing, pushing, always pushing, never taking a breath to prepare, Commodore. Real navies have exercises, evaluations, data in their files. They vet their captains and crew. Those captains work together and get to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses.”

  Straker punched his fist into his palm. “But we have the numbers, and the enemy’s not ten meters tall. Lots of Mutuality ships have defected over the last few weeks. They’re shaky.”

  “They’re less shaky in the presence of a fleet with a dreadnought, and of their commissars. We have to assume they’ll fight competently.” Engels adjusted the simulation. “Here’s what I’ve got so far.”

  The holographic sequence showed the two groups of capital ships approaching each other, each in a flat circle formation like a dinner plate, heaviest ships in the center. The two plates slowed as they approached each other, while clouds of lighter forces followed behind and hovered around the edges, slightly back.

  In the sim, the two main forces exchanged fire. Once the heavies were fully involved, the light units flowed around the circular flanks and engaged each other. It was a battle of attrition, one that the Liberation fleet eventually won, though having lost half its forces while the Mutuality fleet was utterly annihilated.

  “Costly,” said Straker. “But we win, and we keep on liberating systems—or we could run home and return with Indomitable.”

  “This is a crude simulation, using standard hit probabilities and breaking points,” replied Engels. “It shows two fleets of machines, acting like machines. It completely ignores the unpredictability of people. It gives you a feeling of certainty because you’re used to thinking of battles between machine-like elites—relentless Hok versus top-level mechsuiters. This won’t work like that.”

  “Then how will it work?”

  Engels spread her fingers and waved them. “The relative strengths are too close… Nobody can predict the actual outcome. That’s why a conventional plan is good. We reduce the variables. As the larger force, we go head to head and take casualties, to make certain of victory.”

  “I don’t like it,” Straker said, walking slowly around the holo-table. “You said yourself our ships might not hold in the face of heavy fire. And, it’s always easier to attack madly, with hot blood, than to defend calmly and coolly. We have the numbers. I think we should make an all-out assault. Scare them so much they break, not us. Unleash our own forces so they’re too busy charging to get scared.”

  “Then our people will massacre the enemy if we win. When you loose the dogs of war, it’s hard to call them back. You might even have to fire on our own ships to get them under control. Is that the kind of Liberator you want to be?”

  Straker worked his jaw, envisioning the worst case: undisciplined ships rampaging, blasting surrendered enemies, refusing to stand down. Then he remembered an Old Earth general once said. He couldn’t recall the exact wording, but he spoke the gist of it. “There’s nothing as ugly as a battle won—except a battle lost. We have to win this.”

  “No, we don’t!” Engels lowered her voice stepped toward him. “Dammit, Derek, we’ve been mousetrapped. All we really have to do is get away, live to fight another day!”

  “No. No, no, no! If we don’t win this battle, if we appear to run away, our momentum and our morale will evaporate. Carla, you understand machines and ship captains. I understand warriors. A warrior that believes he can be beaten, will be beaten. You said it yourself. This fleet isn’t an integrated naval force. It’s a ragtag collection of individuals and groups, and the only thing holding it together is me—my image, I mean. The Liberator. I’m like Alexander the Great rampaging through Asia. As soon as I lose a battle, or am perceived to lose a battle, it’s over. But when word of the destruction of a real Mutuality naval fleet spreads—even if that fleet is only a hasty task force—it proves we can win and keep winning.”

  “Preach your sermon to the dead,” Engels snapped.

  “Death is better than slavery.”

  “We tell ourselves that, but we’re making the decision for them—these people, these average citizens.”

  Straker grasped her shoulders. “I don’t have fancy answers for you, Carla. I only know what’s right. If we fail, some people will die before their time. If we succeed, billions, maybe trillions of people, will be freed to choose their own destinies, and it will have all been worth it. So, are you with me?”

  Engels took his large, rough hands in hers. “You know I am. You’re my commander, and my man. I’m your woman. Your cause is my cause. Your fate is my fate, and I’ll die where you die.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll also be there when you bury our fallen, whispering in your ear that you’re mortal too. So let’s not die today.”

  Straker felt a wave of mixed emotion—love, respect, appreciation, annoyance—roll over him. “Cosmos, Carla! You’re not making this easy.”

  “A lion needs a lioness. You prefer a sheep?”

  Straker convulsively let go of Engels’ hands. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled a long breath, thinking. Eventually, he said, “I appreciate your position, but we do it my way. All-out attack. You pass the orders, specify the tactics. Just make sure at the end of this day, we hold the field. Everyone’s going to see this battle, and the price we pay today will win us entire star systems tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since the Mutuality set up this trap, no doubt they have stealth recon drones, maybe even scout ships, waiting out in flatspace. As soon as the battle’s done, they’ll carry word to their bosses. I want drones and couriers of our own to spread far and wide with full showvid broadcasts of our victory. Even if they don’t revolt, they’ll be primed to help us when we show up.” He pointed at the hologram. “Winning this may be the pebble that starts the avalanche.”

  Engels nodded, stepping back, her face cold. “I’ll pass the word to have full records made. Excuse me, Commodore, but I need to get to work.”

  “By all means, Captain. Carry on.”

  Straker watched as the holo-table reverted to displaying the current reality. As the bridge buzzed with rapid-fire orders, the Liberation fleet reorganized itself in accordance with his will, detailed by Carla Engels. He hadn’t known exactly what that would look like, but he found out now.

  Instead of relegating the hodgepodge of light units to a supporting role behind and around the Liberation heavies in their disk of battle, Engels sent them forward in layers, or shells, like skirmishers in a ground fight. But in space, there were no trees and rocks to hide behind.

  She’d be trading smaller ships, less valuable and more vulnerable ones, for time and the preservation of critical Breaker heavies, Straker realized. It meant more casualties faster, but it would force the enemy to counter the tactic. And he assumed she wasn’t going to simply smash the two fleets together; he knew Engels well enough to expect finesse and tactics, rather than mere slugging.

  “They’re opening fire with railguns,” said Tixban at Sensors. “Long range, multiple submunitions, high orders of magnitude.”

  Straker watched quietly as the battle began to unfold. There was no turning back now.

  Chapter 20

  Nawlins System, Battlecruiser Wolverine

  Engels leaned forward in her chair at Tixban’s announcement of incoming fire. Railgun shot had infinite range, but accuracy was low at this distance and ammo was limited. She wondered why they’d begun firing so soon. “Missiles?”

  “Not yet,” said Tixban. “Correction. I have cold launches. They appear to be prepar
ing for a fleet strike.”

  “What’s a fleet strike?” Straker asked.

  Tixban answered the question. “Ships cold-launch multiple volleys of missiles, which float along ballistically, waiting. They activate them all at once, creating a much bigger wave than usual. Normally, they will support the wave with direct fire, decoys and light units, hoping to overwhelm enemy defenses and achieve effective shipkiller strikes.”

  “Pass your analysis to all ships and tell them to prep for maximum point defense, shipkiller priority.” Engels turned to Straker. “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. They’ve jammed your all-out attack. We have to deal with the fleet strike first. After that, they’ll be low on shipkillers and we’ll have a big advantage.”

  “Understood. Carry on. You’re the space tactician.”

  “Damn right I am,” Engels muttered. She issued a string of new orders, making adjustments to her fleet dispositions. Instead of widening shells of light units, the escorts pulled in to form a narrower, shorter, fatter cylinder, like a flat ration can. This created a gauntlet between the enemy and the Breaker heavies, a defense in depth.

  “Our increasing density is allowing them to achieve minor railgun strikes on our light units,” said Tixban.

  Engels nodded but said nothing. This answered the question of why they fired submunitions now. The enemy had anticipated her thickening defenses, and while the billions of tiny tumbling high-speed cubes wouldn’t kill any ships, they could strip vital sensors and damage the small point-defense lasers vital to dealing with missiles.

  Straker looked at the holo-table and back to his fleet commander. “Aren’t we going to fire back?”

  “Everything’s a tradeoff, Commodore,” Engels replied tightly. “We can fire early at low probabilities—or later at higher probabilities. There will be an optimum moment, but it’s not now.”

  “Some of our ships are firing,” Tixban said.

  Engels grunted. “This is the lack-of-discipline part I was talking about. Comms, broadcast a reminder not to waste ammo.”

  The holo-table showed the two formations approaching each other obliquely. The Mutuality fleet was advancing toward the Liberation transports to force an intercept, and the Breakers fleet was sliding between them like a warrior’s shield.

  “They have something up their sleeve,” Engels said, rubbing at the corners of her mouth with the tips of finger and thumb. “With the current setup, there’s no way they’ll win.”

  “And they’re not suicidal,” Straker said. “So what could the surprise be? More ships behind the moon of Shreve?”

  “No. Anything hiding there won’t reach the battle zone in time.”

  Tixban cleared his throat, and they glanced at him. “I may have an answer. Observe the main screen.”

  A shaky optical of the enemy dreadnought flagship floated on the big front holoscreen, clearly at maximum zoom. The detail was poor and the image lacked illumination, but Engels could see something seemed odd about the shape of the ship. “Can you enhance further?”

  “No,” Tixban said.

  “I don’t need enhancement,” said Kraxor, locomoting forward to get a better view and focusing all four huge eyes on the screen. “The dreadnought is carrying strap-ons.”

  “So we’re about to get screwed?” said Loco. “Should we get the lube and bend over?”

  “Can it, Loco,” said Engels. “Strap-on what? Missile pods? No…” she answered her own question. “They’d have cold-launched those by now. They have to be…”

  “Attack ships,” said Kraxor. “I’ve seen this before.”

  Engels’ voice tensed. “Check their other ships for add-ons, anything out of profile, and get me an estimated count of how many they have!”

  Sudden flares occluded the picture on the screen. “I have missile exhaust blooms, Captain,” Tixban said. “They’re beginning their missile wave. More than four hundred, maximum acceleration. Correction, four hundred forty… Four hundred sixty... The strap-ons are deploying.”

  “How many of those?”

  “I count approximately one hundred sixty. The other Mutuality capital ships had them too.”

  “Shit.” Engels stood to approach the holo-table. “Push datalinks to Liberator and Revenge with this info. Tell them to make ready for underspace insertion. They’re to take independent action on attack runs that will send them through the enemy fleet and into their backfield.”

  “By now the enemy knows about our underspace Archers,” Straker said. “They’ll have detectors going.”

  “I’m counting on it. This is war to the knife, Derek, and we need every advantage. I want the enemy nervous and expending maximum effort worrying about our Archers. They’re diversions.”

  “I’d hate to lose the only two we have.”

  Engels eyed Straker. “I hate to risk Liberator and my friends aboard, but you’re the one that said we have to win this battle at all costs. Don’t go second-guessing me now.”

  “Point taken. Carry on.”

  Tixban spoke in his own language. He might have been cursing, from Engels limited understanding of the Ruxin tongue. In Earthan, he said, “The attack ships have strap-on missiles of their own. They have launched four each. Missile count has now risen to over one thousand.”

  “Strap-on strap-ons! I told you those strap-ons would screw us. Bend over!” said Loco, half-chuckling.

  “Not helping, Loco,” Straker said. “Why don’t you go make the rounds, steady the troops? Do something positive?”

  Loco shot Straker a sour look and stalked off the bridge.

  Engels didn’t bother asking Tixban how many missiles were shipkillers. Missiles were deliberately fashioned to hide their warhead type. Some would have standard fusion nukes, some bomb-pumped laser heads that shot brief, impossibly intense beams at multiple targets, and some would launch decoys or emit powerful electronic countermeasures to aid the others.

  “Begin anti-missile salvos,” Engels said. “Every ship so equipped, start firing. I want to thin them out and force them to commit. Capital beams, start trying to pick them off at extreme range. Load railguns with submunitions but hold fire.”

  “What’s going on at the leading edge of our skirmishers?” Straker asked, extending a hand into the hologram to touch the front of the Liberation formation. “These guys are pulling back.”

  Engels scowled. “Crap. It’s like I said. Some are running, afraid the fleet strike will kill them—and just like in a ground fight, that will turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy. We have to steady them before the fear infects everyone.” She turned to her comms officers. “All ships, salvo missiles. Fusion warheads target enemy weapons. Beam and decoy warheads, proximity targeting of enemy ships. Keep them guessing.”

  Pinpoints of light appeared in ragged volleys throughout the Liberation fleet and accelerated toward the enemy. Above the holo-table, between the two fleets, it looked like a firework flower reached toward a regimented swarm of bees. Beyond the bees followed the slightly larger hornets of over 160 attack ships.

  Now and again one of the specks winked out, destroyed by long-range fire, but far too few—until the firework and the swarm touched. Explosions blossomed then, impossible for the display software to represent to scale, even when Engels ordered the table to zoom in on the area where the weapons met.

  “Fleet strike reduced by approximately fifty weapons,” Tixban reported. A number appeared next to the swarm: 961. “Attack support has lost several.” Another number: 159.

  More fireworks reached toward the incoming fleet strike as it accelerated. Each Liberation volley reduced the missile and attack ship count, but the tide was not stemmed fast enough, and more friendly skirmishers turned tail and ran, unwilling to face the oncoming wall of death.

  “Record me a general fleet message,” Straker said.

  “Recording.”

  “This is Straker, the Liberator. Hold steady! If you run, you abandon your comrades to fight alone. If you’re falling b
ack, turn around now to rejoin your brothers in arms. If we break, we fail. If we stand together, we win. Hold steady! Hold steady!” He made a cutting motion. “Send that. Tightbeam it on repeat to any ships that don’t rally.”

  Engels nodded. “Let’s hope that helps. It looks like fewer are backing up, and mostly for tactical reasons now. Our counter-volleys are thinning them out, but it’s expensive. We’re burning through our own missiles stocks, so we won’t have many left for the endgame.”

  “That’s what they want,” replied Straker. “Without shipkillers, that dreadnought will be an even tougher nut.”

  “Exactly. Missile officer!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Pass to all our capital ships: reserve one shipkiller volley each. Everyone else, fire at will. Let the enemy think we’re draining ourselves dry. When the time comes, we’ll have a surprise for them.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  Straker said, “Our skirmishers are still falling back, even if they’re not running. Our formation is turning into one solid plate shape instead of a gauntlet, with our core at the center.”

  “I see.” Engels shifted to another angle on the holo-table. “That raises the luck factor, makes the fleet strike more all-or-nothing as the time to intercept compresses.” She slammed her palm on the table. “Dammit. Pass to all capital ships, impeller retrograde. Maintain formation.”

  “You’re not happy with that order?” asked Straker.

  “If our skirmishers notice, it will seem like we’re staying back from the front line—which we are. That’s the plan, to let the light units thin out the strike. But it may look like we’re trading their lives for ours—which we are, too. Using impellers only, I’m, hoping the shaky captains won’t notice, and the steady ones will understand.”

  The count fell to 767 and 142 by the time the fleet strike reached the leading edge of the sixty-some Liberation skirmisher-escorts. Oncoming missiles exploded in fiery fusion blasts or burst into clouds of decoys, submunitions and jammers, the better to help their deadly fellows find their true targets.