by John F. Carr
Diettinger had one of those records a civilian might have chalked up to mere genius, but Adderly knew better. No military action in which Diettinger had been in command had ever ended in defeat—unless he’d been relieved by the arrival of higher-ranking officers. The man was not just good; he was lucky.
It was rare to find anyone on either side who could claim a consistent record of naval victories. Ship to ship, the Imperial Navy outnumbered Sauron naval forces by three to one, or more. It was all that was winning the war for the Empire. It was also why Sauron ships were built to be twice as powerful as any opposing vehicle of their type.
If Diettinger moved before the convoy arrived, Adderly knew that any battle plan he might devise would be the first casualty.
He decided it was time to confer with the commanders of the light cruisers Strela and Königsberg. He called his First Officer’s duty station. “Jimmy. Get Captains Cassardi and Saunders online for a briefing in two hours.”
William Adderly had been in the Navy twenty years, all of them at war, all of them fighting Saurons or their allies, and he had developed a nose for trouble. He looked at the holo of the Tanith System above his desk.
It stank.
Chapter Two
I
“The enemy convoy is due in-system at any time. We may expect heavy support in addition to the transport ships. The issue is therefore to be resolved as a raid, with rapid deployment of ground forces to the spaceport to determine the location of the borloi, secure it, and maintain the perimeter against local counterattack while the material is being uploaded to the Fomoria.
Diettinger turned to the commander of his ground force, Deathmaster Anson Quilland, and asked, “Status?”
“All forces at operational strength, First Rank. Heavy anti-armor unit outfitting now, heavy anti-aircraft units will be ready in one hour.”
“The Imperial force deployments indicate they are moving their ground units to reinforce the spaceport, evidently to secure it from our attack. But only two enemy battalions have reached it as yet. Augment your force with twice-normal anti-personnel weapons. Use captured projectile weapons as they become available. It will add to the enemy’s confusion if he sees non-energy weapons like his own firing within the spaceport.”
Quilland smiled; he considered himself fortunate to be in Diettinger’s command. The First Rank was crafty and thorough and under him Quilland had been promoted quickly. No one else from his crèche had yet attained the rank of Deathmaster, the authority to decide who among their Soldiers would be committed to large battles—and thus, who would live and who would die.
“All means at your disposal are authorized to secure the perimeter,” Diettinger said. “The enemy must be aware of our presence in-system and cannot fail eventually to guess your objective. The longer we leave them believing that an invasion bridgehead on Tanith is our goal, the less difficulty we will have in off-shipping the borloi.” He looked to his left. “Speak.”
“What are loss parameters for the operation, First Rank?” Second Rank was compiling the database necessary for the coordination of the plans by her Staff department.
“None.” Diettinger acknowledged the reaction of the other Soldiers with a nod. “High Command’s orders were to secure that borloi. No options were indicated.”
Diettinger turned to the massive figure at the end of the table. “Cyborg Rank Köln.”
Heavy facial bone structure, little subcutaneous fat and the short, lank hair of the Cyborgs gave Köln the look of a hungry skull. Diettinger had heard that human norms called the Cyborgs “death’s heads,” after the crossbars and skull-shaped nuclear cloud of the Pathfinder’s insignia. He had begun to suspect it was not the only reason.
“Your Pathfinders will, as usual, precede the first landings to mark and secure the drop zones, and most important—locate the borloi. You will have to disperse your force sufficiently to maintain pressure on the spaceport until reinforced.”
Köln nodded his head. “No difficulty, First Rank. Four Pathfinder Cyborgs can locate the borloi while the rest of the force maintains the feint.”
“Be aware that we cannot risk the nuclear pre-strike standard in your operations; borloi is useless if radioactive.”
“Understood.”
“Very well. In four hours the Fomoria will move to engage the Tanith patrol fleet. Finish your operational plans and coordinate with Second Rank; she will have timetables for you in ninety minutes. Dismissed.”
After the others had left, Diettinger turned to Second Rank. “The convoy will be escorted with additional Imperial warships. Double the density of the mines at the Alderson Points. Detach a squadron of heavy fighters to engage and delay anything that gets through.”
Diettinger considered the improved quality of the latest reconnaissance. “Give the command to Fighter Rank Severin.”
Second Rank raised her head. “First Rank.”
“Speak.”
“Will not all fighter squadrons be required to engage enemy spacecraft?”
“Hopefully not, because your next task is to dispatch an emergency distress buoy through the Alderson Point back to the Second Fleet. Tell them we are encountering heavy and unexpected resistance, with more enemy ships arriving daily and to dispatch all available reinforcements.”
Second Rank’s eyes widened. “But…First Rank…that is not true.”
Diettinger looked at her. “No, Second Rank, it is not true. Today. Nor may it be true tomorrow. In fact it may never be true, but I am not willing to take that chance.”
“First Rank, if word of this gets back to High Command, you will be executed for misappropriation of resources.”
Diettinger did not notice her voice was trembling.
“Second Rank, the Imperials will receive reinforcements when their convoy arrives. They will certainly request more as they engage us, if they have not already; that is standard Imperial procedure. We, too, will request reinforcements as they escalate; that is an established Sauron procedure. I am simply moving up the timetable. I will have that borloi for Sauron, Second Rank, and I will take no chance that it will be lost because our fleets are on standby waiting to rescue one of our incompetent allies from their own blunders. Dispatch the buoy. Dismissed.”
He watched her go, her back stiff. How she could be so concerned with procedure, at a time like this, was beyond him.
Couldn’t they see—any of them? After two decades of war, the pattern I described to Second Rank is now inscribed in stone. Sauron has lost the ability to seize the initiative, to make the enemy react to us; the Imperials now know exactly what we will do. Not in detail, we still hold that tactical advantage. But in procedure, that field where battles may be lost but the war still won. Diettinger ran a hand through his hair, straight, white and, he realized, thinning.
The Imperial commander at Tanith knows what I will do. My only hope is to deceive him as to how I will do it.
II
“And the hell of it is, gentlemen, that I haven’t the faintest goddamned idea of what those Sauron sons-of-bitches are going to do, nor when, nor how, nor even why!”
Adderly had been throwing his pens at the dartboard for the last ten minutes; there was a cluster of them grouped around the bull’s-eye, each later makeshift dart driven in deeper than the last. He was now starting to pitch them hard enough to bury them in the plastic of the wall behind the board, and it was doing no more to relieve his tension than when he’d started.
Captain Edwin Cassardi of the Strela leaned back in his seat and spread his hands. “Will, take it easy; they haven’t moved yet. If they wait until the convoy arrives, they’re hopelessly outnumbered. If they hit us now, we only have to hold, harass and withdraw. One Sauron heavy cruiser against Tanith Spaceport’s Langston Field won’t amount to a pisshole in a snow heap.”
Adderly stopped to look at him, then to Cassardi’s opposite number, Saunders. “Is that what you think, Colin?”
Saunders was a redheaded Gael from New
Scotland, fair skin and freckles making him look eternally young. The freckles almost disappeared when he was angry, as he was now.
“Like bloody hell. Sir.” Saunders did not like Cassardi and made no secret of it. The Strela’s CO was too confident for Saunders’ taste, and too easy on his crew by half. Saunders’ own Königsberg boasted the best readiness record of her class, if not the Navy. Now here is a chance for that readiness to be proven, and this lazy wop wants to run!
“This Fomoria is a heavy cruiser, by their rating, a heavy battlecruiser by ours; but she canna’ outgun all three ships and the Chinthes t’boot! We know she’s out there, and if she’s preparing to hit us, as you say, then I say she’ll ne’er be more vulnerable. Let’s take all we’ve got and run the bastard t’ground!”
Adderly rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m amazed, gentlemen; you agree on something.” He looked up at both of them, scowling. “And you’re both dead wrong. Pull out, or attack; either way we leave Tanith to fend for herself. Christ, men, we’re the bloody Navy! What if we guess wrong, Colin, and don’t find her, and she slips in the back door with a load of thermo-nukes, and Tanith gets slagged in a terror bombing while we’re out beating the bush? Or say we pull safely out of range and wait for the convoy to pull our asses out of the fire, and suddenly, wham, the Sauron drops a battalion of Soldiers through the Field and into the spaceport just in time for their reinforcements?”
“Will, there’s almost two-thirds of a full-strength Division down there!” Cassardi sounded offended. “They’d outnumber a Sauron Battalion six to one!”
After twenty years of being kicked around by the Saurons and their Coalition of Secession, Adderly knew that the Navy’s ranks had been winnowed mercilessly, leaving men who had been fighting in this war long enough to become shrewd, dedicated and skilled in judging their Sauron foe.
I wonder where those men are? he thought, rubbing his eyes. “Ed, Sauron Battalions are designed to engage full strength Imperial Divisions; engage them and defeat them.
Cassardi almost snorted. “Maybe twenty years ago, Will. But they’re on the run, now; everybody knows it. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Aye,” Saunders snapped. “So you’d as soon avoid puttin’ your neck on the line and let somebody else do the dirty work?”
Cassardi’s eyes flashed. In her first engagement three years previously, Strela had been rammed amidships in a battle off Kennicott, losing half her crew in an instant. Twice since then she had suffered heavy losses, once when her fighter cover had strayed, exposing her to attack, and again when a missile bay had taken a freak hit through a burn-through in her Langston Field. The Strela was now marked—an unlucky ship.
“My crew has seen combat, Captain Saunders. I confess I would like to try to spare them further unnecessary ‘glories’ which less experienced officers might find welcome.”
Adderly had heard enough. “All right, both of you. When this is over I’ll officiate at a sanctioned duel if that’s what you want, but until then—and I mean this, gentlemen—I will relieve you both if you do not put your personal differences aside and start working together immediately. Is that understood?”
The short silence that followed before Adderly’s order could be acknowledged was shattered by the battle alarm.
“NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS! BATTLE STATIONS. BATTLE STATIONS. ENEMY WARSHIP DETECTED AND CLOSING. CAPTAIN TO THE BRIDGE.”
“Ah, Christ on a crutch,” Adderly said with a groan. “You two get back to your ships. Ed, I will want Strela in squadron with Canada. Colin, Königsberg stands back at reserve distance until further notice.”
Saunders was too well trained to object, but the bitterness came out in his “Aye, sir.”
Cassardi only looked at Adderly. “Right,” he said, thinking: Three destroyers, one light cruiser and a half-old battlecruiser against the Fomoria. This is it for Strela; our hoodoo’s caught up with us, at last.
Adderly caught his look, pretending to ignore it, as he raced for the bridge. He knew the Strela’s reputation for hard luck and he knew Saunders’ temperament; he’d chosen Cassardi’s ship to accompany Canada for those very reasons. Cassardi would be prudent in the engagement, while Saunders might prove reckless. And when the inevitable reinforcement was called for, Saunders would throw his ship into the battle with all the pent-up fury he’d felt waiting on the sidelines.
If the Navy wouldn’t give him geniuses, he’d have to try and use what he had with brilliance.
III
“Enemy ships closing, First Rank. Three Chinthe-class destroyers, the battlecruiser Canada and the light cruiser Strela. Engagement range in fourteen minutes.”
In contrast to conditions aboard the Imperial ships, the Sauron bridge was quiet. No klaxons blared. No stations reported readiness levels; they were always prepared for battle. Only deficiencies were allowed to interrupt the First Rank’s concentration, and aboard the Fomoria there were none.
Strapped into the acceleration couch, Diettinger watched the tactical display on the battle screens. Tanith’s surly orange bulk crouched on the bottom left while five red circles tracked slowly around the middle of the view. “Marine status.”
“Standing by, First Rank.” Diettinger’s personal modification to space combat was ready; no doubt the Imperials were prepared for it, but there was really no way they could prevent it.
The three smaller circles moved away from the larger two, moving down and to the left, across the face of Tanith.
“Destroyers flanking to port, First Rank.”
Weapons half-turned in his seat; the First Rank often waited to raise the Langston Field until the last moment, but he was taking even longer than usual.
“Enemy systems locking.” Weapons announced.
“Target the Canada.”
“Done.”
The smaller circles were at the lower left edge of the viewscreen. “Destroyers off port bow.”
“Visual to 360.”
The walls disappeared. There was now only Tanith system space.
Weapons’ finger hovered over the Field activation pad. “Destroyers to port,” he called. “Coming about and closing on bearing 255. Destroyers have activated their Fields.”
“All enemy Fields activating.” The red circles had changed to solid squares of black with red backlighting.
“Targeting stations, abort fixes on Canada,” Diettinger said. “All batteries switch to and engage the middle destroyer. Activate Field.”
Weapons’ finger stabbed fire pads and the Field key almost simultaneously. “Torpedoes away. Lasers firing.”
IV
Aboard the Canada, Adderly’s bridge crew had locked down their own acceleration couches into the circular floor plate surrounding the combat hologram. Adderly wanted them prepared for violent maneuvering, in the hope that the Canada’s agility might not be known to the Sauron commander.
The black bubble of Canada’s Langston Field was charged to maximum, ready for the initial enemy salvo. Adderly wanted to buy time for the destroyers to get in and unload on the Sauron; the Chinthe-class destroyers were a new design, greatly over-gunned for their size, and he was hoping they could charge the Fomoria’s Fields with more energy than could easily be dissipated before Canada started firing.
“The Sauron ship has lost her lock on us, sir!” The weapons officer’s elation turned to puzzlement. “Wait, she’s locking again—gods, they’re fast!—right. Now she’s firing, sir!”
“Engineering, stand—” Adderly watched the traces in the combat hologram reach out and enfold the lead Chinthe-class destroyer. That ship, too, had her Field at maximum, but it was not nearly so powerful as the Canada’s, and was never intended to absorb such a flood of energy at one blow. The Chinthe’s Field went from black to red and up the spectrum to violet almost too fast for the eye to follow. White sparks danced over its surface as the Fomoria’s battleship-killing lasers burned through with insulting ease.
The Field collapsed abruptly a
nd the Chinthe was obliterated.
“The sonofabitch is going for easy kills,” a helmsman cursed. “Cowardly Sauron bastard.”
The other two Chinthes cut hard away from each other, one preparing to pass the rear of the Fomoria and the other to go below her.
Adderly was grim. “Don’t kid yourself; he’s working strictly by the numbers. That’s one less ship to help overload his Field.” And I needed her. “Time to impact the torpedoes?” he snapped.
Langston Fields on big ships didn’t go quickly like those of destroyers; they absorbed lasers and proximity-detonated nukes in prodigious amounts, becoming supercharged walls of missile-eating energy. The time to get torpedoes in was now, before their own beams turned the Sauron’s Field into a free line of defense against them.
There were all sorts of wrinkles to this line of work.
“Ninety seconds, sir.”
“Helm, lay in thirty degrees port, five-Gs emergency burn and standby.” Five-Gs was more than human norms could take for extended periods, even with acceleration couches; still Adderly preferred it to being vaporized by the Saurons.
“Signal Strela to get positive two kilometers and fire all lasers at will.”
“Strela acknowledging.”
V
“Incoming torpedoes, First Rank.”
“Target the Canada.” The black square representing the middle Chinthe was gone from the viewscreen.
Excellent. Diettinger’s Intelligence Rank had estimated that this class was very heavily armed for their size, and the enemy commander’s commitment of them at such a close range confirmed it. Destroyers usually hovered at the fringe of battle, launching missiles to aid in overloading enemy Fields. If they didn’t have great laser capability, they would not be worth deploying so close to a ship of the Fomoria’s class.
An alarm sounded, but it was a soft triple chime from Weapons’ console. “Point defense penetration, First Rank; one torpedo incoming.” Weapons completed targeting the enemy BC rather than anticipate the missile impact; there was nothing to be done about that.