by Blaze Ward
For the next two minutes or so, less if someone over there got smart, her little fighter, with one little pop–gun, would suddenly look like a light cruiser on fuzzy Imperial sensor readouts.
Let’s see you respond to that.
Chapter LXVIII
Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Thuringwell Orbit
“Confirm,” Saveliy barked savagely at his Sensors officer. “That can’t be right.”
The Flag Bridge was quiet enough that Saveliy actually heard the man gulp before speaking.
One did not challenge an Imperial Admiral on his own deck.
Moments of silence turned into a longer stretch. Missile officers counted down to impact. Gunners tracked primary and secondary targets, still well outside of range. Missiles began to shed their outer skins and separate into submunitions.
At the Battle of Petron, Keller had built a variant of a shot missile that contained short–range, Type–1 beams with small aiming engines attached. Perfect against junkyard fighters with minimal shielding.
Saveliy did not expect the same trick here. His craft were top of the line, expert, and could flip their shielding to a heavy forward array, just for exactly that sort of encounter. Most were, right now.
That would fail.
Keller would have dreamed up something else. It was her nature to use artifice instead of tactics to win.
What she would do this time remained to be seen. But he still had the upper hand.
At least half of the missiles going down–range right now were of the shot variety. How better to disarm a carrier than to shoot a covey of quail with a shotgun? If she had more than she was supposed to, that just meant more targets for his missiles.
He would adapt.
“Admiral,” the Sensors officer repeated. “The new target, designated Lion, appears to be roughly the size of a light cruiser, according to the sensor readings we are able to pick up and his own targeting systems.”
That a Light Cruiser had just appeared out of nowhere on his scanners, however, was a different beast altogether. It sat right behind the swarm of fighter craft that was the middle of the Aquitaine formation.
As he watched, it began launching missiles. A great many missiles.
On his port corner, the light cruiser leading was also launching an impossible number of missiles.
So, Keller had brought saturation cruisers with her, instead of combat warships. And yet, she still came out to fight him on the line.
“All vessels prepare to receive missiles,” Admiral Kozlov commanded. “Shift to Defensive Posture Three. We will let them waste all their ammunition now, when it will do little good. After this, we will be chasing them and they will have no beam weapons to engage us.”
That got a good chuckle out of the crew on the Flag Bridge. Missiles only worked if you could utterly overwhelm a target with them.
Keller could not.
And yet, she had to know that. Was this just a charge to build up speed for her escape? Had she already abandoned the system?
No. Those vessels were accelerating, but not madly so. Just enough to maneuver at him, to close the gap quickly, to reduce the number of minutes he might be able to fire at her before he returned.
Standard tactics. From a decidedly non–standard opponent.
What was she up to?
Chapter LXIX
Date of the Republic July 19, 396 SC Auberon. Above Thuringwell
So far, so good.
Jessica watched the two fleets blossom and begin throwing seed pods at each other, like angry, opposing dandelion armies in a light breeze.
Big missiles, turning into smaller ones, turning into short–range sub–missiles. A few would get through, either way, but not enough to turn the tide, unless something went terribly wrong for someone.
It was the nature of such a battle. The first mistake was costly, so everyone strove not to make it.
You fired your missiles at him. He fired his missiles at yours. Or vice versa. Repeat. Eventually, the fighters run out of missiles and close to gun range. These would not be back–line militia pilots, chickens for the hawks to strafe. These would be balanced groups moving in tight concert.
Again, the two groups would probably neutralize each other, itself a victory for her, since the Imperial Admiral over there had probably been expecting to overwhelm her.
Should have brought nine heavy cruisers and nine frigates, my friend.
That would have hurt. This was a predictable scenario. Number three on her original list of expectations. The only problem with planning for something like this was she could not just flee, like she might have, had this been another raid.
Moirrey was down there. Wakely. Vo. Digger. Fourth Saxon. LVIII Heavy. People counting on her to pull this off.
If he was smart, the Imperial Admiral could have just stood off and worn her down with his own hit–and–fade runs. His supply lines were far shorter than hers were. He could retreat and return, while she had to hold the line until First Lord was convinced that this battle was won.
But probably nobody over there save the Red Admiral thought that way.
If they did, she would be in trouble right now, instead of just a fight.
I can win a fight. With odds this even, all I have to do is force your first foot fault, and then push.
Jessica took a deep breath and centered herself. It wasn’t quite like facing the fighting robot, but there was little she could do at this point. Everything hinged on the men and women under her command executing flawlessly.
Robbie had a small edge on her left. Command Centurion Doriane Matveev, aboard Ishfahan, was just as much at a disadvantage. Auberon and Varga could unload the same amount of fire, but Varga was going to be heavier built. She could take more damage and keep flying.
And Shivaji was so far out of position that he could not significantly contribute to the battle at hand. His effect, hopefully, would be psychological.
After all, the Great Marshal had once said that the Morale was to the Material, three servings to one.
She needed it to go just right.
da Vinci suddenly turning herself into a warship on everyone’s scanners went far better than expected. The line of frigates escorting the Imperial warships all began to fire missiles in her direction, nearly simultaneously.
Even a light cruiser would have problems staving off that level of firepower alone. Well, anybody but Ishfahan, which would still have a couple of tubes left over, just targeting incoming missiles.
It was the reverse of the Siren trick she had pulled on the Red Admiral at First Ballard. There, hiding suddenly and redirecting fire towards a shuttle masquerading as a carrier. Here, appearing suddenly, as if hidden by all the fighters in front of it, and unleashing a withering barrage of missiles.
If that was just a fighter squadron, it wouldn’t have been able to launch that many missiles simultaneously alone, so it must be a warship, right?
The Red Admiral wouldn’t have fallen for it. He would have been expecting some S–11 Orca bombers in the mix, with nine launch rails each.
As Jessica watched, the entire Imperial line shifted. Not much, but enough to suddenly engage another missile cruiser all set to pass through the middle of their formation on the fencing pass. The ships flared out a shade, just to get that extra second for defensive shooting.
Little things. Hopefully, it will work.
Again, not much. A precious, extra second of response time, if that. But suddenly she was facing two separate, smaller fleets coming at her instead of one. In their excitement, they almost appeared to have lost track of what Ishfahan was, treating her like a simple light cruiser and not a Manticore of Persian legend.
A second wave of missiles began arcing towards the warships, aimed ballistically to get around the wall of melee fighters closing, instead of passing through the scrum where they could be picked off.
Time for the defensive gunners to get to work.
Chapter LXX
Date
of the Republic July 19, 396 Above Thuringwell
da Vinci held it as long as she thought was prudent, and maybe a few seconds after that.
There was a LOT of crap coming her way right now.
She shut down everything she had all at once, then dumped flares and chaff and whatever out the rear of her little bird.
“Flight Wing, this is da Vinci,” she said coolly. “Returning to normal operations. Ghost mode is over. I repeat, Ghost mode is over.”
And just like that, the little light missile cruiser that had been all prepared to engage an Imperial Battleship at spitting range disappeared.
“da Vinci, this is Necromancer,” Senior Centurion Anastazja Slusarczyk said in her ear from the command deck of the GunShip right behind her. “Shift your flight line to the port wing and stay dark. Heavy Wing will handle the incoming.”
“Roger that, Ana,” Ainsley replied. “Thank you.”
Ainsley dutifully adjusted her flight. The incoming missiles would search helplessly for a bit, unsure of what to do. If she was lucky, some Imperial gunner had locked them in to hit a light cruiser and ignore all the fighters in front of it. Those would just fly randomly on at this point, maybe finding the Survey Cruiser Ballard back there if they flew far enough.
The rest would eventually give up and target a nearby Aquitaine signal. Any signal. Something to be useful before expiring.
Heavy Wing would have to handle it from here.
Necromancer and Sunset had both Dorsal and Ventral Tower gunners to shoot back.
And the S–11’s: Starfall, Del, Balor, and Wingdance; each had a single Tower gunner as well.
And a whole bunch of spare shot missiles on the launch rails, for just exactly a stunt like this.
Maybe not such a bad idea that the Fleet Centurion had spent so much time gaming this out and preparing everyone.
Old–days Auberon, with that dumb–ass Augustine Kwok in charge, would have been splattered if he had to go up against anybody who was any good.
Who wants to die in bed, anyway?
da Vinci checked her readouts as she fit into line , the last little chickadee on the left. The first barrage of missile madness was about done, except for what was going to happen above her. The two armies of melee fighters would soon begin to scrum. She couldn’t do much damage, but you had to get a lock on her to hit her. And that was not going to happen, with as much noise as she could put out.
Something caught her eye.
“Squadron, this is da Vinci,” she called. “Enemy force has just upped the blue–shift.”
Why in blazes would they do that?
Chapter LXXI
Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Thuringwell Orbit
“What do you mean, gone?” Admiral Kozlov growled at his sensors officer.
That man was being transferred to a garbage scow after this.
Apparently, the man intended to go down fighting, though. That alone might redeem him.
“Admiral,” the sensors officer actually turned and looked at him from across the Flag Bridge, instead of politely yelling into the room. “There was nothing there on our scanners before, but they were very badly degraded by the amount of random static the Survey Cruiser is generating and aiming at us.”
Saveliy could actually see the man’s anger build. Anger at his Admiral? At the situation? At his fate? Kozlov did not know.
“Then a large signal appeared in the noise, the fog, if you will, and fired far more missiles than a squadron of Aquitaine fighter craft is capable of,” he continued, grinding fine points out of a presentation deck. “That means there was something.”
The man took a breath, suddenly conscious of where his response had led him, that precipice opening under his feet.
Imperial gentlemen did not duel.
Anymore.
The rules of etiquette and the laws of the Empire did still allow it.
Still, the man seemed to have realized where his steps were taking him.
“And then the signal vanished,” the officer continued anyway, apparently throwing caution and destiny to the winds.
At least the man could laugh in the face of death, even if it was just his reputation, and not his being.
“Keller used a mixed squadron at both the Battles of Petron and Ballard, Admiral,” he ground on. “Medium bombers and a scout, plus a GunShip, rather than just melee fighters.”
“So how did she do this, sirrah?” Saveliy’s anger was just on the cusp of razors.
Seconds would be needed shortly.
Give the man credit. He took a breath, considered his words, and then threw down the gauntlet, anyway.
“If a scout fighter put everything into broadcasting a targeting signal, we might interpret it wrong, especially given our blindness here,” he said, not backing down one millimeter to his Admiral. “In that, we would have failed you. If there are bombers in there, instead of just the fighters we have been expecting, that is enough enemy launch rails to appear to be a missile cruiser, if we are already expecting one. She led us to a river. We drank the water. Admiral, I believe we have been misled by that woman.”
The man fell quiet, obviously waiting to be relieved of duty, confined to quarters, and publically castigated.
Had he been wrong, had he been diffident, he probably would have been.
Even Imperial Admirals can admit to being fools.
As long as nobody calls them that publicly.
“All vessels,” Saveliy called to the various tactical communications officers around the room. “Increase speed five percent. Assume the center of the enemy line is empty and continue to engage your original targets. Fighters will strafe only on this pass, withdraw though the rear of the enemy formation, and prepare for the second half of the battle.”
If the sensors officer was right, he deserved a commendation when this was done, not a reprobation.
If not, there were a great many garbage scows to pick from.
Chapter LXXII
Date of the Republic July 19, 396 CAX Shivaji. Above Thuringwell
“Science Officer?” Alber’ called to the corner station where she was hard at work.
“Negative, Shivaji,” Najafi replied instantly. “No indication they’ve spotted us. I doubt that will last much longer unless they’re drunk over there.”
Alber’ nodded. She echoed his own assessment. This woman belonged here, another Goddess of War in her own way.
“Tactical?” he continued.
“If we accelerate now to full speed,” Bösch said. “We’ll be in Primary range before they can do anything about it. We don’t have missiles for those little escorts, but they won’t survive the Type–3’s very long.”
“Save the big beams?” Alber’ challenged.
“This is only Act One, Commander,” Bösch purred back. “There’s still a battleship out there to tangle with at some point.”
“Agreed,” Alber’ concluded. “Navigation, initiate maximum acceleration. Tactical has the bridge.”
Alber’ could almost feel the energy in the room begin to vibrate at a higher pitch. Playing games as a leopard seal, hiding under the pack ice, had paid off better than anyone had imagined.
Two Imperial Fleet Carriers sat there in the rich, sable darkness, backlit by distant stars on the scanner screens. Even with the best telescope available, not much more than two flat blades, surrounded by fireflies in the night.
Long minutes passed as Shivaji raced forward.
“Tactical, Science Officer,” Najafi called loudly. “Hard ping. Targets have realized we are not just space junk. Targeting locks incoming.”
“Roger that,” Bösch said clearly. “Defense, expect a flight of missiles. You are free to engage with all weapons. Gunnery, prepare to sequence the Primaries onto Hokkaido. Navigation, keep the helm steady through the first barrage.”
Alber listened to the crew acknowledge the commands. This was their first time flying Shivaji into true combat.
All the time
s in the simulators, all the lanes at Simeon. Nothing compared to this.
But this was just Shivaji’s first blooding. Nearly everyone on this bridge right now had been with him at Ballard, when they took an over–gunned heavy destroyer and killed a light cruiser.
Against a small task force like that, almost a fox in the henhouse. Sure, they had more missile tubes and more little guns over there.
He had more Primary mounts.
And surprise.
Shivaji’s hull rang like a bell as her first Primary ever fired in anger went downrange.
And the Otrera, the Goddess of War, smiled on him today.
Hokkaido was a Fleet Carrier. A long, slender tube of gray steel with a distended belly for launching and retrieving her flock of dangerous children. She was not quiet perpendicular as Shivaji closed, but close enough.
That first shot caught her in the ribs. Shields held, but that first blow had still landed.
Five more followed quickly, circling out from that first shot in a cone pattern designed to range the big guns so the Gunner could center in on the second barrage.
A total of four beams hit. Alber’ would give the Gunner that one. It had caught enough of a corner of Hokkaido’s shields to outline the boat like St. Elmo’s fire. That alone would overload the shields, even if the shot itself would have missed hull.
It caused the shields on this side to fail, just in time for the sixth and final shot fired to get home.
Metal exploded. Oxygen erupted from shattered compartments. Hokkaido began to shed pieces larger than rivets.
“Nav,” Bösch followed up. “Come left to three–five–zero, down ten, roll thirty. We’ll entice them by aiming for their stern. They can turn towards us to bring the big beams to bear, or turn away and try to flee. If we caught them cold, they’ll need a few minutes to get the JumpSails ready if they want to leap clear.”
“Hokkaido is rolling to port,” Najafi called from her corner.
Alber’ nodded. That got an undamaged shield in the way fastest. Hokkaido was hurting right now.