He leaned back in his command chair and smiled. “Send the signal, commander,” he ordered. “And then we will see whose battle plan survives contact with the enemy.”
The cluster of red icons representing the enemy starships moved closer, still trying to hide under cloak. Plotting and analysis specialists studied what returns could be gleaned from the recon drones, and concluded that the enemy fleet was actually larger than it had first appeared, with upwards of one hundred and fifty starships approaching Earth.
Marius ignored the whispered speculation in the background as to who was attacking Earth, but it was becoming an increasingly alarming mystery. Only the Federation Navy, by law, could possess superdreadnaughts, a measure instigated to prevent a system defense force from declaring independence and standing off the massed force of the Navy. That left only three possibilities: Outsiders, an unknown alien species…or a rebellious Federation Navy admiral.
He scowled. The Outsiders weren’t organized, which suggested that they couldn’t build superdreadnaughts, or crew them even if they did. An unknown alien race...that was possible, but they would have to be insane to attack Earth. The entire Federation would go berserk. The Brotherhood wouldn’t need to drum up anti-alien hysteria after an attack on Earth, even one that had been beaten off by the Federation Navy. And how could aliens have obtained the sort of access required to take out EDS1 and Navy HQ? Along the Rim, the joke was that anything could be had on Earth for a large bribe, but somehow he doubted that anyone on Earth would sell out the entire planet, whatever the size of the bribe.
That left a rebellious admiral...
“They’re decloaking,” the sensor officer snapped. The red icons rapidly took on shape and form. Marius counted seventy-nine superdreadnaughts, nineteen carriers and one hundred and seventeen smaller ships, including one that persistently refused to be identified. The superdreadnaughts were all Splendid-class, which proved—beyond a doubt—that aliens were not involved. No alien race would have built an exact duplicate of a Federation Navy superdreadnaught. “Sir, I can’t pull any IFF signals off them...”
“Unsurprising,” Marius commented. Now they’d shed their cover, the enemy starships were picking up speed, boring directly towards Earth. “Hail them, Lieutenant Nicholls.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Nicholls said. There was a long pause. “They’re not responding...”
On the display, new red icons—starfighters—began to appear.
“I think they just have,” Marius said. If nothing else, the wait was over. “Commander Fallon?”
“Yes, sir?” Fallon leaned forward.
“Launch half of the ready starfighters to enhance the Combat Space Patrol,” Marius ordered calmly. “Reload the other half of the ready starfighters for antishipping strikes and prepare to launch as a formation.”
He studied the display again. “If they’re smart, they’ll come boring in and soak up the damage while getting to energy range. If not...well, it will say interesting things about their ultimate aims, won’t it?”
“Admiral, we’re picking up a signal from the enemy fleet,” Lieutenant Nicholls said. “They’re ordering us to surrender, or die.”
“Melodramatic asshole,” Marius said. He grinned as the blue starfighters moved out and into formation. “Send back: Go to hell.”
He keyed his console. “All units, you are authorized to fire at will. I say again, fire at will.”
Chapter Five
Federation Naval doctrine is based around the use of overwhelming force. When the Federation goes to war, it brings the biggest stick of all to the party.
-An Irreverent Guide to the Federation, 4000 A.D.
Near-Earth Orbit, Sol System, 4092
Lieutenant Jack Peregrine braced himself as his FASF-45 Hawk starfighter rocketed towards the incoming enemy ships—and the wave of starfighters spreading out to intercept the incoming strike. Every fighter jock knew the mantra; blow through the defending pilots, put the missiles on the target, then turn to engage the CSP, covering the second strike as it was launched from the battlestations. His thumb came down on the firing key as his ship entered engagement range and his craft began to spit plasma fire towards the enemy starfighters. Without careful manoeuvring, at this range there was little chance of a hit, but the incoming blasts would make the enemy take evasive action and be unable to coordinate their countermeasures.
At least, that was what The Book said.
He smiled tightly. Of course, the enemy would probably have read the same handbook, and should know what he and the others in his squadron were trying to do. It would be interesting to see what they did in response.
“They’re returning fire, skipper,” he said, as new icons flashed into existence on his display. The enemy fighters weren’t just evading, they were returning fire with enthusiasm. A lucky hit took out one of his comrades and another scorched a second starfighter, sending the craft tumbling out of control and the pilot bailing out of her vessel. If she was lucky, a SAR team would recover her after the battle ended; if she were unlucky, she would run out of life support and die far from home. “Here they come...”
A civilian would have seen a disorganized mob of pilots and wondered if the fighter jocks were drunk, mad, or both. Experienced military men knew better. Flying a predictable pattern was asking for disaster, especially considering the enemy had computers that worked just as well as his own, and could plot a craft’s course with ease if it stayed predictable and safe. That was the way to have a plasma bolt or antifighter missile pick the starfighter off before the pilot even knew he was under attack.
The starfighters ducked and weaved as they passed through the enemy’s swarm of fighters—the odds of an accidental collision were extremely low, although it had been known to happen—then the enemy swarm turned and gave chase. Jack grinned as the enemy fleet came into view, wondering if the enemy would screw up their Identify Friend or Foe beacons. Even with the most advanced technology and the best-trained pilots in the galaxy, it wasn’t unknown for friendly point defense to accidentally engage friendly starfighters.
“Form up on me,” he ordered as the strike commander designated targets. An enemy superdreadnaught blinked red in his display; that was his target. The other enemy ships would be ignored for now, although eventually they, too, would have to be dealt with. Jack knew they couldn’t allow the enemy to keep their command datanets, which linked their point defense into a seemingly seamless whole. He noted absently that the enemy’s point defense systems were putting out a staggering amount of firepower.
Of course, a single superdreadnaught possessed an awesome amount of firepower, while an entire fleet could render itself almost impregnable. But if he thought about that too long, he’d start worrying about his mission—and that would never do.
Jack gritted his teeth as his squadron zoomed into engagement range. None of the pilots, including himself, had seen action outside of simulations, and that lack of experience was going to get far too many of them killed. But he intended to be one of the survivors.
“Go!” he yelled.
The squadron rotated in place—a tricky maneuver at the best of times—and swooped down on its chosen target. The enemy ships retargeted their fire, sending thousands of plasma bolts and missiles flaring through space, picking off Jack’s fellow pilots one by one. They only had to get lucky once, while the starfighter pilots had to get lucky every time. Sooner or later, Jack knew, luck ran out. The only question was if he would manage to get off his missiles before the enemy got him.
“Prepare to engage,” he ordered his wingmates. “Fire on my command.”
The enemy fire hadn’t abated. Instead, it grew ever more savage. They knew—they had to know!—what he and the others were doing, all right.
It didn’t take a genius to realize that some overpaid admiral had decided to start a civil war. Jack paid as little attention to politics as he could get away with, but it was clear to him that some of the admirals positioned along the fr
ontiers had been effectively operating as independent warlords for a long time.
Besides, the superdreadnaught he was closing in on was clearly of Federation design.
The enemy superdreadnaught drew closer, its weapons spitting deadly fire towards Jack and his incoming fighters. It was a monstrous hulk and it seemed unbelievable that it could be brought down by a bunch of swarming gnats, but Jack knew better. Individually, the starfighters were harmless; collectively, they were lethal. The enemy superdreadnaught was putting everything it had into driving off Jack’s fighters before it was too late.
“Fire,” Jack ordered. The fighter shuddered as it unleashed both of its standard missiles. A moment later, his remaining fighters added their own missiles to the barrage. “Scatter and retire; I say again, scatter and retire!”
He smiled as he yanked the fighter through a tight turn and accelerated away from the enemy ship. The Federation’s standard starfighter missiles carried a shield disruptor that allowed them to penetrate the enemy ship’s shields and detonate against the unshielded hull. They seemed the perfect weapon, apart from the minor detail that they had to be launched at close range and most of their weight was drives, which meant they couldn’t carry a heavy warhead. It was a shame that there had been no compressed antimatter on hand, but Federation Navy regulations were clear. Antimatter was not to be carried onboard starships and battlestations without an active state of war, as the risks far outweighed the benefits.
And earlier today, they’d been at peace. Or so everyone had thought, including Jack.
The enemy superdreadnaught flared with light as the missiles that made it through the barrage of point defense struck home. Explosions, each one devastating on a planetary surface, but almost unnoticeable against the vastness of space, billowed against her hull. For a moment, Jack allowed himself to wonder if the enemy ship would survive—superdreadnaughts were armored heavily to protect against just such an attack—before the superdreadnaught fell out of formation and exploded. The sheer fury of the explosion suggested that the ship had been carrying antimatter warheads, as well as the more conventional nuclear warheads.
Why would anyone fight for such people? Jack thought. What does their stupid admiral over there think he’s doing?
His computers shrilled with alarm, too late. An enemy fighter had drawn a bead on him; it was too late to evade. Jack reached for the emergency cord, hoping against hope that somehow he’d be able to eject before the ship was hit…
Then three plasma bolts slammed into his starfighter. In the instant before his ship blew up, Jack wished the invading admiral and all those who followed him to oblivion.
And then, there was nothing but a ball of radioactive fire where Jack’s ship had been.
* * *
Marius watched as dispassionately as he could as his cadre of starfighters swarmed around the enemy fleet, which had settled into a position that allowed them to exchange missile fire with the defenses of Earth. He had the uneasy sense that the enemy commander had definitely expected Earth’s defenses to be completely uncoordinated, for his tactics would have made perfect sense if he’d expected each battlestation to be thrown back on its own resources. As it was, he was giving the defenders of Earth time to reorganize and cripple his fleet.
And which of the admirals, he asked himself, would rely more in sneak attacks than brute force?
He turned to Fallon, who watched the display in disbelief. The commander was far too young to have seen service in the Blue Star War, but the scale of the engagement could hardly have come as a shock. After all, before the Federation had won the Inheritance Wars, many young men must’ve seen battles that had involved thousands of starships on both sides.
“As you will observe, commander,” Marius said, “you can see certain patterns appearing in the data.” He quirked an eyebrow, inviting Fallon to reply.
“Ah,” the commander stammered, “you mean their reluctance to risk serious losses?”
“Precisely,” Marius said. He had to smile. An orbital battlestation outgunned a superdreadnaught, but it was hardly as mobile, even with the orbital maneuvering drive units. Dodging incoming enemy fire wasn’t an option. “They could have won by now if they’d flown into orbit and engaged us at close range, yet instead they’re choosing to bombard us at extreme range. Why, I wonder?”
It wasn’t a question, but Fallon tried to answer it anyway. “Because they’re short on material?”
Marius shook his head. “They have to know that Home Fleet is around here somewhere, even if they think that Titan Base is still in blissful ignorance of events on Earth. The only way they’re going to win against Home Fleet is by taking the high orbitals and forcing the Senate to surrender on pain of bombardment. So why aren’t they trying to soak up the damage and punch through?”
He smiled as another enemy superdreadnaught was blown into flaming debris. The victorious starfighters broke off and headed back to the orbital fortresses for rearming before returning to the fray. And there was another interesting question; standard doctrine said that fighter platforms had to be obliterated to force the fighters to fall back, so why weren’t the enemy ships trying to take out the fighter bases?
The answer seemed clear.
“They’re wondering if they’ve been tricked,” he said finally.
Fallon frowned in incomprehension.
“Think about it,” Marius urged him. “Whoever they are, they’ve launched a series of sneak attacks on Earth that should have crippled our defenses. They came very close to crippling us, in fact, yet we’re still fighting. Could it be that whoever is in charge over there is having second thoughts?”
Fallon voiced the obvious objection.
“Sir,” he said slowly, “the Senate isn’t likely to forgive this attack.”
“No,” Marius agreed. “But if the enemy thinks they’ve been tricked, they might be wondering where the Senate actually is, or what is really going on with Home Fleet...and then they might start thinking about contingency plans for what they need to do if they lose this battle.”
He sat back in the command chair, thinking hard. The tactical section still hadn’t been able to ID the superdreadnaughts, but Marius was mortally certain that he was facing a rogue Federation Navy admiral. And that meant...what? There were a dozen possible candidates for the rogue officer, all of whom were smart enough to know that he or she had crossed the Rubicon. Failure in the environs of Earth would mean certain death once the remainder of the Federation Navy, having mobilized their reserves, came for them. He frowned as another flight of enemy starfighters left their carriers and rocketed down towards the network of orbital battlestations surrounding Earth. The enemy commander had moved from launching a very bold stroke to playing it carefully, but Marius still had no idea who he was facing.
Who among the admirals would be so brazen on the one hand and so overcautious on the other?
Absently, he tapped the command display and checked on Home Fleet. It had been centuries since there had been more than minor piracy in the Sol System, but Home Fleet was responding about as well as could be expected. If Earth held out for another hour, perhaps less, the enemy would find themselves caught between a rock and a very hard place.
“They’re retargeting their fire, sir,” the tactical officer observed.
“Thank you,” Marius said.
He nodded to himself. The enemy force had enough superdreadnaughts to produce mass fire against a number of different targets at once. The real mystery was why they had waited so long to do it. It suggested a certain inclination to conserve force and weaponry. After all, he reasoned, if they were caught by Home Fleet—having used up all their missiles in the Battle of Earth—the result would be disastrous.
For them, Marius thought. For him, it would be very satisfactory.
“They’re focusing on this station,” the tactical officer added unnecessarily.
“Move our automated platforms to provide additional coverage,” Marius ordered calmly. A st
eady voice, he’d been told at the Academy, could prevent a commander’s subordinates from panicking. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anywhere to run. They would either stop enough of the missiles to save EDS3, or die once the missiles knocked down the shields and blew through the heavily-armored hull. “Start updating EDS13 with our datanet coordination systems. Prepare them to take over from us if we lose the communications section.”
“Aye, sir,” the systems operator said.
“Enemy units opening fire,” the tactical officer reported. All of the enemy superdreadnaughts were belching missiles, so many that Marius found himself wondering how they intended to control them all. Even a superdreadnaught only mounted so many fire control links, and they were firing more than any standard superdreadnaught could hope to coordinate at once. He understood a moment later when new emissions signatures appeared among the incoming swarm of missiles: gunboats, each one doubtless carrying fire control software, followed the missiles towards their targets.
“Order the CSP to take out the gunboats,” Marius ordered, keeping his voice calm. “Redirect everything else to cover both us and the planet.”
Inwardly, he was seething. The enemy commander hadn’t just targeted his station; instead, the enemy commander ran a very dangerous risk of accidentally bombarding Earth in the process. Even without antimatter warheads, a single missile impacting on the surface at a significant percentage of the speed of light would do colossal damage. And, in a very real sense, the rogue admiral was holding the planet hostage.
Marius knew that taking out the gunboats meant more uncontrolled missiles flying through space, yet there was no other choice. He had to stop this rogue admiral, and stop him right now.
Space became a maelstrom of weapons’ fire and destroyed missiles as the incoming attack came within range. All of the surviving battlestations launched counter-missiles, opening fire with massive primary beams, weapons designed to target enemy superdreadnaughts. Smaller point defense weapons were targeted on the missiles that broke through that line of defense, picking off hundreds more missiles before they had any chance of reaching their targets. Rail guns and pulsars added the final line of defense, detonating missiles just before they reached the station. At such ranges, the antimatter warheads were still dangerous, overloading the sensors and blinding the defenders.
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