The Battle of Sauron

by John F. Carr

  Diettinger nodded without looking up. He entered several more commands.

  “Dictator?” Second Rank pressed.

  Diettinger looked up with an expression of mild interest.

  “Dictator,” Second Rank said, “Fomoria Task Force now at optimal launch range for Cyborg Rank Köln’s forces.”

  Diettinger nodded. “Yes.” he said. A flashing light on his panel drew his attention and he activated the communications link to Köln’s torpedo.

  “Awaiting launch signal, Dictator,” Köln declared.

  “Standby, Cyborg Rank Köln,” he answered, then glanced at Second Rank. “Patch navigational control for all vessels in TF Fomoria through to our helm, Second Rank. I want perfect coordination for this maneuver.”

  Second Rank hesitated a moment; had Diettinger left the line to Köln’s torpedo open deliberately? He seemed to have wanted the Cyborg to hear. Despite her discipline, she asked, “Dictator, what—?”

  “Attend to your duty station, Second Rank.”

  She lowered her head and returned to her position within the immersion display.

  “Time to TF Damaris salvo.”

  “One minute, eight seconds, Dictator.”

  The battle was close at hand, now. Task Force Keegan’s last ships had been destroyed an hour ago. Stubbornly holding off nine Imperial heavy cruisers, Dannevar’s remaining three vessels had evidently proven to be more trouble than the Imperials were prepared to suffer; three badly damaged Outworld vessels had executed simultaneous ramming attacks. The effectiveness of each varied, but the end result was to breakup TF Keegan’s already tenuous mutually supportive formation. Imperial forces fell like wolves upon Dannevar’s flagship and the Sauron heavy Cruisers Mordor and R’lyeh; all were dismembered and swept from space. With the destruction of TF Keegan, the reinforced Intruder Two was now only minutes away from engaging the remnants of Diettinger’s command with a quantity and strength of vessels which could not help but prove decisive.

  Now, only the forty ships of TF Fomoria, the remaining six of TF Damaris and the allied vessels Falkenberg and Banshee remained between Sauron and the Empire’s vengeance. All were close enough to one another that the communications lag time of message lasers was almost insignificant.

  “Communications.”

  “Dictator.”

  “Signal Damaris; ‘Standby to patch through helm command to Fomoria; all ships to initiate special maneuvering immediately following your salvo.’ Cyborg Rank Köln.”

  “Yes.”

  “Standby. Launch release in six minutes.”

  Second Rank snapped her head around, frowning. Six minutes? Where had that come from?

  But Diettinger was watching the immersion display.

  III

  Falkenberg and Banshee’s Fields were brick red; interception with the Morgans had not broken up the formation, only allowed the Imperial heavy fighter squadrons to encapsulate the Burgess and New Ireland ships and pour fire into them. The loss of seven Morgans had done nothing to encourage the breakoff of the remainder, and reinforcements were on the way.

  “Time to TF Damaris launch?” Hawksley asked.

  “Seventeen seconds.”

  “That’s it. Mister Willoughby, Chief Cooper; take out the rest of these Morgans.”

  Cooper’s hand went to the release switch, but Willoughby was faster. “Torpedoes away,” Willoughby announced.

  Hawksley kept his voice even. “How many torpedoes, Mr. Willoughby?” he asked quietly. The XO didn’t answer, and Hawksley nodded to Chief Cooper.

  Falkenberg’s turrets began sweeping the Morgan squadrons with lasers, and Imperial pilots began to die.

  “Task Force Damaris now launching, skipper.” It took Hawksley a second to realize that the dead-toned voice belonged to his Executive Officer. Within the immersion display, two hundred blue-green sparks detached themselves from Damaris and her sister ships and began accelerating toward the lead vessels in the Imperial formation designated Intruder Three. The Sauron task force immediately changed course and began vector thrusting toward an intercept with TF Fomoria.

  “All right, we cleared the way; get us out of here, Helm. Bring us about to the midpoint of the Intruder Three formation and let’s get ready to help put the rest of that flying hammer in the hurt locker.”

  “Captain,” Chief Cooper called out; “Sensors show surviving Morgans closing on Banshee.”

  “Commo, get me Captain Connolly.”

  Connolly’s features flickered into life within the display. He did not look happy to see Hawksley. “Captain Hawksley.”

  “Captain Connolly, can you hold out until we can close in to render assistance?”

  Connolly shook his head. “My regrets, Captain Hawksley, but our point defense turrets are out along with half my main batteries. All our missiles are expended, and I believe that Banshee has done all she can this day. We are breaking off combat and retreating. I expect that Banshee will be needed at New Ireland in the months to come, I suggest the same is true of your ship at Burgess. In any case,” he said, reaching out for something on the panel before him, “Fare thee well.”

  The connection was broken.

  Within the immersion display, Banshee’s course suddenly developed a steeply ascending arc that computer projections showed would bring her into a right angle climb above the plane of the ecliptic of the Sauron System, the fastest way out of the battle. By virtue of Banshee’s course and acceleration, Falkenberg’s own current speed and vector would put her directly beneath Connolly’s ship in seconds.

  With the Banshee’s exit, the three dozen lights, representing the Morgans that had been attacking her, all abruptly changed course and began closing on the approaching Falkenberg.

  Hawksley stared in a mixture of anger, contempt and, admittedly, envy. “Well, Erin go fucking bragh to you, too,” he whispered. “Chief Cooper, tell me you can take out those Morgans before we’re crippled.”

  Cooper checked his screens, found a discrepancy, checked again. He gave Hawksley his answer in a voice filled with resigned sadness. “I can do that skipper, if Mister Willoughby would release his lockouts on the missiles he pretended to launch earlier.”

  Hawksley slowly turned a shocked stare to the ashen face of his Executive Officer. Willoughby didn’t move, only answered in a low voice, “There aren’t but the two of us left, Captain.” He raised his eyes to Hawksley’s. “What else could I do?”

  Well, what did I expect? Hawksley asked himself. That’s the problem with being a privateer; sooner or later, men without a country come to believe in nothing but friends or, if they’re very lucky, whatever remnants of family remain to them. For that is all that this way of life leaves them.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his parents, then his wife and children, and finally Mara Emory aboard the Damaris.

  But only if they are very lucky, indeed…

  “You might have considered, Mister Willoughby,” Hawksley told him, “that your actions have probably guaranteed that neither of your mother’s two remaining sons will live out this day. You are relieved, sir.”

  Hawksley nodded to Chief Cooper, who took Willoughby’s place at the helm and main weaponry station. “Everything in order there, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir. Reinitializing weaponry locks now.”

  “Fire when ready.”

  Aboard the Fomoria, one of Second Rank’s assistants double-checked his readings, then announced: “New Ireland ship Banshee breaking off under controlled acceleration, Second Rank.”

  Althene didn’t even pause. “Spike it.”

  The officer nodded to Communications Fifth Rank Boyle, who sent the scuttle signal to Banshee’s special on-board package.

  Chapter Thirty

  I

  Damaris’ immersion display image was steadily deteriorating and now it developed a glaring white spot at the point where Vessel First Rank Emory had last seen the Falkenberg.

  “What ship was that?”

&n
bsp; “Unknown, First Rank; either the Falkenberg or the Banshee, but—”

  “Come about to three-five-seven.”

  “First Rank, Dictator Diettinger has ordered coordinated maneuvers to begin in—”

  Emory was half out of her chair before her Second Rank came to his senses and implemented the course change.

  Damaris made for the last known position of the Falkenberg, while the other five ships in what had been her task force compensated their vectors, and went with her.

  “What the devil is going on with TF Damaris?” Diettinger asked. “Sensors; time to intercept for their missile salvo?”

  “Twelve seconds, Dictator.”

  “Dictator, rear elements our task force report Intruder Two closing to missile range.”

  “Standby,” Diettinger ordered. He checked his chronometer. He had told Köln six minutes; that was two minutes ago. He had four more minutes before he would have to lie to the Cyborg again, or simply tell him the truth; that neither he nor any of his EVA Commandos were ever going to be launched.

  “First wave of torpedoes impacting now.”

  The immersion display showed the seven lead ships of Intruder Three had suffered Field burn-throughs, overloads and other fatal disasters. The Fourth and Fifth rankers on Fomoria’s bridge could not suppress a ragged cheer, but Diettinger looked farther back along the line of Intruder Three’s still-intact formation—over one hundred enemy vessels remained. “Number of torpedoes remaining in Task Force Damaris’ salvo?”

  “One hundred and thirty-seven, Dictator,” Second Rank answered; a third of the torpedoes had been consumed destroying less than five percent of the remaining ships in Intruder Three. Althene sent him a look which told him that whatever secret thing it was he had planned, simple arithmetic dictated that he had best do it soon.

  “Communications.”

  “Dictator.”

  “Send again all vessels, Task Force Damaris: ‘You are ordered to come about and place your helm controls under command of this vessel.’ Distance to Intruder Three?”

  “Fifty thousand kilometers and closing.”

  “Weapons lock!” his own Weapons Ranker shouted. “Enemy missiles bearing one-seven-three mark two-ten. Intercept in nine seconds.”

  Diettinger shifted the display; nearly a hundred ships of a combined Imperial-Outworlder fleet were in firing range of Task Force Fomoria’s remaining forty vessels. Intruder Two had arrived.

  Initial impacts did little to threaten the Fomoria, but a lucky multiple strike caused a minor burn-through; just the excuse Diettinger needed.

  “Cyborg Rank Köln,” he addressed the message panel.

  “Köln here.”

  “We have minor damage to our launch electronics; your EVA will be commenced immediately upon effect of repairs; standby for a two-second launch warning.”

  “Understood.” the Cyborg said.

  Diettinger cut the connection, then used his networked overrides to disable all EVA launch capacity throughout his task force. He had plans for the Cyborgs, and those plans did not include throwing the Super Soldiers away in the absurdity of a Gotterdammerung.

  But he wanted Task Force Damaris and its Cyborgs, too. And he was running out of time to collect them. Before him, the immersion display showed him why Emory was not responding to his direct orders, and—as he had suspected—it had to do with the Falkenberg.

  II

  The Morgans had been joined by the fast battlecruiser Stonewall Jackson from the reinforced Intruder Two, and Falkenberg was being torn to pieces. “Seven burn-throughs, Captain,” Chief Cooper was shouting through the smoke. “All starboard weapon arrays down; dorsal and port arrays at thirty percent; skipper, we’re history.”

  Hawksley coughed and nodded acknowledgment. The problem with fighting from inside the Langston Field was that it did not allow a ship to lower it in order to surrender. Even opening gaps for message lasers was out of the question, as any such breach would be detected by an enemy torpedo’s onboard artificial intelligence, and exploited. The only information incoming was from the two fixed relay sensors and detectors that had survived the bombardment.

  The sheer volume of energy being poured into the Field meant that the moment it was down, any ship it had been protecting would be vaporized before it could so much as key its signaling apparatus to seek terms. For the same reason, lifeboats were useless in combat. A losing ship could only hope that the victor would show sufficient mercy to stop pounding it long enough to allow it to flicker its Field in a gesture of submission. In all the weeks of this battle, that was something the Imperials had never once indicated they were interested in doing.

  “The Stonewall Jackson is shifting to bring the rest of her batteries to bear,” Cooper announced. Hawksley watched as the immersion display depicted the massive egg-shaped Field containing the white bulk of the Imperial battlecruiser pivoting gracefully; he could almost reach out and touch the image…which suddenly flared brilliant orange, burn-throughs scattered across its Field surface.

  “It’s the Damaris!” Chief Cooper’s cheer substituted enthusiasm for hope. “And she’s pouring it on!”

  Hawksley was galvanized. “Helm, what have we got left?”

  “Six gees, for about ten minutes, Skipper.”

  “Give it all to me, and put us down the Jackson’s throat.” It broke his Burgess heart to be attacking a ship named for a cultural icon of his Homeworld, but now was hardly the time for sentiment. Falkenberg’s engines flared, the privateer’s nose came about, and she began to close with the Imperial battlecruiser, the remainder of her turrets firing into the wounded enemy’s Field.

  Hawksley’s acceleration couch lurched suddenly, its magnetic grapples the only thing holding it to the floor. “What the hell was that?”

  “Primary thruster burn-out, number three engine, Captain. She blew—and bad!” Chief Cooper shouted. “Too damn many hits!”

  The Chief’s voice was drowned out by klaxons filling the bridge with alarms which could not be acted upon. The Helmsman looked desperate.

  “Helm, tell me something not bad.”

  “Can’t, sir; control linkages went with the blast; we’re rudderless.”

  Falkenberg began a lazy, slow spin that took her bearing batteries off the Stonewall Jackson. The Jackson, reprieved from one attacker, shifted her Field capacitors into protecting her starboard aspect from the Damaris’ onslaught. Then, together with the Morgans, the battlecruiser rained fire onto the Falkenberg.

  A privateer, Falkenberg had been designed to survive uneven battles until she could make good her escape; but no naval architect could have prepared for the killing volume of fire she now received. Stonewall Jackson discharged fourteen missiles and thirty laser turrets into the Burgess ship; Falkenberg’s Field bubbled, gold-rimmed white-outs of burn-throughs spreading across its surface in blinding lesions. Beams passed through these gaps, tearing into the hull, rending compartments open to the space within the collapsing Field’s volume, filled now not with the trace hydrogen of space’s near-vacuum, but the Field’s stored energy suddenly released from confinement and tearing into the ship’s hull.

  Falkenberg, toughly designed and strongly built, died in pieces; her aft compartments shimmered, converted to energy, vaporized. The mid-ship Field capacitors discharged catastrophically, breaking her spine; aft of the forward bridge, the weapon bays crackled with misfiring lasers, the energy blasting their own mounts off hull braces which then flew apart. The bridge went last, Falkenberg’s bow snapped from the fore end of the hull and was tumbling, streaming atmosphere, into the converging beams of three Morgans, whose fire sliced it into ragged chunks of glowing debris.

  The Stonewall Jackson then turned its attention to the Damaris; but here, wounded though the Sauron ship was, the Imperial was greatly outclassed, and hopelessly outgunned. The Damaris was no mere privateer, nor even a mere Imperial battlecruiser, but a full-size Sauron battleship. The Saurons built their ships oversized, making Damaris
twenty percent larger than its Imperial counterparts, nearly twice the mass of the Stonewall Jackson.

  Damaris began by destroying all but one squadron of the Morgans with contemptuous ease. Still firing, her lasers swiveled about, turned inward, and converged on the Stonewall Jackson. The Imperial’s were firing back, but more and more of them were going dark every second, as Damaris’ unrelenting salvo drove the Imperial’s Field up through the spectrum into violet and the inevitable burn-throughs beyond. Damaris was continuing to close and by the time the Stonewall Jackson’s Field collapsed, converting the battlecruiser to expanding plasma, the massive Sauron battleship simply plowed through the glowing cloud and continued on.

  “Remaining missiles in TF Damaris’ salvo?”

  “Eighteen, Dictator.”

  Diettinger ordered an enhancement command for the number of vessels remaining in Intruder Three: One hundred one. Ground-based missiles were now rising to meet Intruder Three; asteroid defense platforms, emptied of their ordnance, were being vectored into collision courses with the Imperial formation. But there were too many ships, all moving too fast and all doing something the Saurons had simply never dreamed any rational opponent would ever do.

  Fomoria shuddered as a minor burn-through in her Field transmitted a hit to her armored hull. Diettinger stabbed at the panel before him: “Cyborg Rank Köln.”

  “Dictator.”

  “We have taken a hit to our primary launch control systems; EVA launch impossible at this time. The situation has first priority for all damage control crews; you will be launched immediately upon effect of repairs.”

  “What of the other EVA units in the remainder of the fleet?” Köln asked.

  “All fleet systems were routed through Fomoria; until you go, no one can. Standby. Diettinger out.”

  He looked up to see Second Rank staring at him in wonder; not for his blatant lie, he felt sure. Perhaps for the incongruous look of triumph he wore in the face of disaster everywhere around them.