"Feel free to wander around, captain," he says, "Please don't touch anything."
"Thanks Mr. Palmer, not my first rodeo."
I start by thrusting to the nearest body, which turns out to be Lt. Springs. If I hadn't just been warned, I'd have probably reached out and brushed the hair out of her eyes. My fault she's floating here, but I do make her a promise. I am going to find whoever did this and make sure no one can identify their remains.
The rest of the field is full of balls of metal, a sign that it was molten and reformed itself as it cooled, clean edges on all the larger pieces. Definitely energy weapons. Missiles leave jagged, lasers are clean. No sign that the reactor exploded though, which is unusual.
Twenty minutes is enough wandering around for me, I rejoin the lieutenant.
"Status, Mr. Palmer?"
"We'll be done in 25 minutes sir, back aboard by 0900. My report to you by 1100."
"Fine work, lieutenant."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sergeant Yeager, let's roll."
Thirty minutes later after showering and putting on a fresh dark blue uniform, I take back the bridge and send Shelby off for some well earned sleep. While I was gone, two more crewmen earned their two day passes by finding trace evidence of a ship passing through the system, enough different pieces that none of us doubts now that it is over 200,000 tons. We have suddenly become David holding his slingshot.
At 1400 we take Yorktown back to Beta station, and send the Marine squad that didn't travel this morning over to make sure there's nothing of interest in the mine. They report machinery functioning normally, bins indicating they were emptied by Trump as expected.
I get senior staff together to eat in my ready room at 1900, including Lt. Summerlin, and, after food, the usual argument between the Second and RISTA, and a half hour listening to Palmer and looking at photos, we get down to brass tacks.
"Anything else we can learn by hanging around here?," I already know the answer, but gotta ask. There's a chorus of shaking heads.
"I agree. We're still agreed that investigating Trump is our next step?"
Unanimity of nodding heads.
"Anyone with any hard info on where Bainbridge is?"
Embarrassed and lame head shaking this time, but still unanimous. RISTA has been looking like she has something to say. I guess I haven't asked the right question yet.
"RISTA?"
"We assign a 78.3% probability that Richard was destroyed by something larger than 36's."
"That's crazy." It's Ayala, probably just looking for another argument, maybe some more ZGM. I look him quiet.
A 36 inch laser mounts on battleships. No active Union warship carries a weapon that big, the two remaining Royal Navy dreadnaught class have them, but we'd wax their candy butts no problem. As far as we know, none of the Dynastic ships mounts them any more either. Budget cuts all around for our band of brothers.
A 36 is not twice as powerful as an 18, its four times, and that makes it two and a quarter times one of our 24's.
"Bigger than a 36?" I make sure I don't sound like my Second officer.
"Yes, sir."
Lt. Palmer is not normally part of these discussions, probably my bad, but destroyers don't carry Marine units, and the Marines and Navy are very separate on a cruiser. Didn't really think it through when I took on Yorktown, maybe I need to.
"Captain," he interjects before I can respond, "My team think so too. We didn't put it in the report because we wanted to wait until we could do a measured test, but they came to that conclusion in the field, sir."
"How much bigger?"
"We think something like a 42 from the energy signatures." RISTA says it gently.
Ayala won't shut up. "Who's ever seen the energy signature for a 42?" I eyeball him again, he lets me ask the next question.
"A 42. That's three times the energy of our cannons. Each." Not really asking a question, but I am.
"Affirmative. Not exactly 42, the math isn't a perfect match, but close enough. Richard took two hits."
Shelby can't hold herself back. "Two hits did that to an 800 ton warship?" She's pointing to the picture of the debris field on the screen.
"Affirmative. We isolated two vectors of energy bursts from the data."
Three little conversations break out among the seven of them. I rope them back in.
"Mr. Garcia." They all stop talking. "Plot a two gee course back to Gamma Omicron One. Plan on 0700 wheels up. Mr. Summerlin, your choice, ride or swim, let Commander Perez know. Mr. McAdams, get with the Marines and give me a threat assessment on what a hit from a 42 inch would do to Yorktown. Then update the investigation plan for Trump and pad it to me.
And, folks, we all need to be thinking about how to find Bainbridge, and the bastards that did that." I nod my head toward the screen at the last. Then I give them a facial gesture and a quick point toward the door. They get the hint.
I stop Emily from leaving.
"Where are we on propulsion?" If we're going toe to toe with a 200,000 ton warship packing the biggest guns I have ever heard of, I'd like to be able to do better than two gees acceleration.
Then I notice there are bags under her eyes, stains on her uniform. Probably didn't need to ask the question if I had looked first. She scratches her head before answering.
"Nowhere yet, Skipper. Engines one and three at 100 percent. Our first two tries at constructing workarounds for two and four were no go. That pump is the critical piece in the assembly, and no redundancy either. I have a bunch of ideas for the folks back at Electric Boat. The 3D printer is spitting out our third attempt as we speak, we'll be testing tomorrow."
"Understood. And get some sleep, lieutenant, that's an order. I don't need zombies trying to repair that equipment."
She laughs. "Aye, sir."
Then it's just me, Perez, and Ayala.
Shelby starts. "Now is it time to send a message home?"
We have one jump capable message drone. It can jump out, deliver its message, but then we're voiceless until somebody joins us or we go home. There is an appeal to calling for backup, but there's a problem there too.
"No," I try to look thoughtful, "FRIGCOM made it pretty clear that if we can't handle this, it's the end of the program. We can't ask for help until we know what we're up against. Scream for help because our RISTA thinks there are 42 inch lasers out there on a pirate ship, and I think I know what the response will be."
They both look at me, not sure.
"Hey, this is what the frigate corps is about. Sail off to exotic ports out of contact for months at a time. This is why we're cool."
They laugh. I send them back to work, and start in rereading all the reports. Just when you think you know what the puzzle looks like, you realize how many pieces are still missing. My pad beeps before I solve any of the universe's remaining mysteries.
Conclusion from RISTA and the Marines is that they aren't sure. Yorktown, like all modern Union warships, is coated with billions of microscopic mirrors that diffuse any radiant energy sent their way, negating most of the energy of a laser cannon. Ships are vulnerable because (a) the mirror system starts taking damage the second it leaves dry dock, and (b) when we open the gun ports to shoot back, the lasers themselves become targets, and if you can take the lasers out, you can shoot into the ship itself through the empty gun ports.
Everything about ship design is a compromise. An 18 inch has less power, but is a smaller target for the bad guys. A 42 would be a big target for our guns. Navy lasers use a two mirror system. You charge the weapon, light bounces between two big mirrors until it reaches maximum power, then the outer mirror magically lets it out in a sustained burst. The bigger the mirrors, the longer the charge time. An 18 inch cannon can fire four times a minute, our 24s can manage three. A 42? Smaller guns also have greater targeting flexibility, since they are physically shorter and lighter within the ship and can be realigned more easily.
So in ship design you choose, stopping power
versus target size versus fire rate versus targeting ease. Compromise. Then there is armor. Corvettes have one inch titanium alloy all around, a foot of insulation, and a half inch inner hull. Yorktown has three inches of titanium armor, four feet of an internal steel honeycomb filled with insulation, radiation shielding, and fire retardant, then a one inch steel inner hull. Here the compromise is weight against engine performance and fuel requirements.
Conclusion: without knowing the fire rate they can't be sure, but they think we can take the 42 clean if the hull is in perfect condition, and maybe, just maybe, one direct hit if it's not, or if they catch us with our ports open.
On that happy note, I take my own advice and get some sleep.
By 0520 I am strapped into my couch on the bridge, wet hair floating around, but should be dry and tied down before we go. Ayala happy to be relieved early. I get with Manuel to talk about the drone we have in orbit around DO 1. While I wait, he sends it a reprogramming message that will keep it on the other side of the planet from us once we establish orbit, and, if it runs into what it thinks is a ship, it will head to the north pole of the planet, and warn us.
We're going back the way we came, meaning accelerate for a while, then coast most of the way, three days in transit. I want us to find the other ships in this system before we reach orbit.
Nothing of note happens on the way in, except I think Shelby and Palmer get in some ZGM. Disadvantage of being the captain, I have to wait until we get home. I am doubly frustrated as we finish the planning for orbital insertion, basically we're just as blind as we were when we thrusted away from Beta.
Marcos puts us into orbit right on the line, elliptical, designed to give us maximum time over target when we get ready to send the team down, more variety to our camera angles for photographing the planet, and, we hope less likelihood that someone can sneak up on us. We're spending at least a day in orbit, getting ready.
Shelby and I leave Ayala on the bridge and go grab a couple treadmills, joined part way through by Lt. Palmer who gets on Shelby's right, even though I invited him, and Lt. Summerlin who gets on my left.
We had been talking about the photos appearing on the screen in front of us, courtesy of RISTA. Rocky, brown, no visible water, no signs of life other than the mining station, which is fully automated, so maybe safer to say no signs of life. There is an atmosphere, relatively thin, not breathable. Still 20 minutes from the crash site, that's why we're here now instead of later. I change the subject.
"Mr. Palmer, what do you know?"
He starts his report with the human side of the equation.
"Seven crew were on Richard, five women, two men. Three bodies found in the wreckage positively identified as Lt. Springs, and two rated seaman, both female. One body part and scattered remains found in the wreckage, all belonging to the other two women. No DNA found from any of the men on board."
"It's possible that we missed something, a random sweep in no way ensures we cover everything, or it's possible that the men survived and their bodies were some distance away, suited, and we missed them."
Shelby interrupts for me. "We didn't have any evidence of objects outside the debris field."
"No, ma'am, but we didn't do a full 360 sweep beyond 20 clicks either. Your people were looking for a ship or something large, not space suits, particularly with no power and deceased occupants."
All true. Still not right.
"Commander," I would turn to face her, but a zero gee treadmill works because you set a half dozen straps to provide effective gravity, and there's no way to move that far, "Let's get some of our freelance RISTA volunteers into the data files and see if they can spot something."
"Aye." She smiles.
"Personally," I continue, "I think it unlikely your squad missed anything Lieutenant, they performed flawlessly from what I saw."
"Thank you, sir. If I may continue. Our onboard testing confirms that only energy weapons were used to destroy the vehicle, and that the weapon was 41.2 inches, plus or minus 0.1 inch. That weapon diameter does not conform to any known laser device, nor to any known system of measures. If pirates built it by hand, it might explain the odd size. Otherwise, we have no explanation to offer. In addition, there appears to be small arms fire on one of the pieces of wreckage we recovered."
"Finally, data suggest that there were three shots fired, not two as originally thought. The first was at least 10 minutes prior to the second and third which were separated by perhaps 40 seconds, though it's hard to be precise from only the electromagnetic after marks."
"No conclusions?" Shelby, I think, is being legitimate and teasing him a little at the same time.
"Sirs, it was a prolonged struggle, not a quick hit. There was a pause in the action, but at no time does it appear that Richard got a shot off. We need significant additional intel before we can make sense of this scenario."
"Was she boarded?" The bit about small arms is new, I need to ask.
"Captain, no way to determine for certain, but we suspect there was at least an attempt to board. It is the logical explanation for the time delay between the shots, but again, no evidence other than one weapon discharge. I can call up the photos."
We spend at least 15 minutes looking at the photos, some pretty gruesome, most just of melted metal while Palmer and Summerlin tell us where on the boat each piece of debris is from. Then my pad beeps, telling me we're getting our first photos of the crash site. We change the screen.
At first, nothing new, just better resolution and cleaner than the old shots, but they keep coming. We hold on one about midway down the hull of Trump. There's a nice, clean, round hole in the wreck, and my guess is it's about 42 inches.
"Mr. Palmer, same weapon that killed Richard?"
"We won't know til we get there, sir, but I'd certainly bet a week's pay."
We run in silence for another 15 minutes, until we're out of good camera range, then head off for our respective showers.
By 0800 when I get back to the bridge we've made eight orbits, and learned little. I spent an hour going through the most relevant overnights sent to me by Manuel, a little less interesting than watching dirt. Oh wait, it basically is watching dirt. A brown dead planet with reasonably interesting geography, lots of historical volcanic activity and active plate tectonics, creating a mountainous landscape across most of the surface. Explains why its such a high value mining planet.
Planetary sunrise at the crash site is 1600 our time, we are planning to exit Yorktown at 1530. Two Marine squads in the LS, and a very happy two man crew finally getting to contribute, 3rd squad in Yorktown's lifting body, for backup, and me and Yeager in my gig.
Shelby and I have a private argument about whether or not I should be away from the ship under these circumstances. I win, of course. She's even less happy when I give her my orders: ship first. She's to run like Hell if something bigger than a marshmallow comes over the horizon, get home, and get help.
We do agree on one thing, I will stay down only for one orbit. Compromise. Our orbital path is 147 minutes, which works out to about 95 minutes on the ground between descent and ascent. Short, but enough to let me see the hole in the ship.
Right on time, we feel the LS detach, then Yeager drops us out of the boat deck, two minutes of station keeping with our mom before dropping away and igniting retros. The lander is designed to handle reentry heat anywhere by it's body structure alone, the gig not so much and is normally sprayed with a consumable coating before it goes out, but here the atmosphere is thin enough we can get by without it, though we have to be extra careful to maintain proper attitude.
By agreement with my First, Yeager and I circle for 10 minutes while the Marines land, secure their perimeter, and establish communication with Yorktown independent of the LS. They are within the shadow of the wreck, which itself is about three times the length of our frigate, and three times the diameter. It was cylindrical in the original plans we examined, but it's decidedly oval shaped at present, compression fro
m the impact. Covered in dust, sunk partly into the ground, the bright red and orange logo of the mining company stretched to an unrecognizable and somewhat grotesque shape by the unhappy landing. By my estimate 30 feet shorter than it was, we identify a strange rip in the starboard side, maybe 50 feet toward the stern from the weapons hole.
Finally, we can let Shelby know we're landing, and put down within the Marine cordon, nice and clean. I let Yeager do the shutdown by himself, hop out and get ready to move.
"Lt. Palmer." On the open channel, try to sound commanding.
"I got you Captain, the hole. First Squad, you know the drill, let's find the lady a 42 incher. Second Squad, data collection, by the book." I ignore the slightly off color remark.
We bounce together, me, eight of Palmer's Marines, and Yeager, toward the unfortunate new opening in the side of Trump. It helps that I am wearing the same enhanced battle gear they are, no trouble keeping up. Only 10 feet inside the ship and we can see out through the weapons breach. Probably some decompression explosions within the ship caused by the abrupt change in pressure and the weakening of the pressure vessel, bulkheads blown out in a near circle with the hole in the center of the pattern.
Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1 Page 7