“Aim manually, at the centre of that thing, Eyeballs and open sights, Captain. Fire everything that we got, and don’t back off—if we turn our backs on them now, they’ll fire for sure.”
The captain smiled thinly.
“Hmn. Obviously, we can’t do that.” His eyes fell for a moment.
He straightened up and looked around the bridge.
“Prepare to attack. All weapons will bear on target. Any questions?”
A ragged cheer could be heard through the thin bulkheads. There were no questions.
The captain went to his seat.
“All hands. All right, ladies and gentlemen. Strap in for high-g maneuvering.” The order was repeated throughout the ship.
He looked over at Commander Allen, strapping himself into his own chair.
“The attack is yours, Mister Allen.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was a sudden, delayed grief written all over his face.
He had just lost a very good friend on Draco.
***
Allen had quickly briefed the bridge party and the various weapons rooms.
The plan was to use full countermeasures, jamming, silent running, and passive systems. They would be going to full stealth attack mode; and as soon as all that came active, they would launch all available weapons.
“Wire-guided?” They were strictly for close-in battle, an event which had never happened in the short history of interstellar warfare.
“Everything, Captain.”
The bridge got quiet.
“On my mark. Three. Two. One. Mark.”
The hands stabbed at the icons, the defensive electronic systems went to full output and then the boards lit up with weapons release.
***
The trouble with missiles was the fireball on the end. You couldn’t see a damned thing otherwise from the flaring screens. Something happened and the bridge went wild.
“Shut up!” Captain Rhodes’ voice cracked like a whip.
They stared fascinated at the big forward screen.
“Looks like we got him, sir.” On the ECM panel, Crewman Vogel’s voice was a hushed whisper.
Scene Three
The enemy ship was a glowing fireball.
What came next was shocking in its intensity.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”
The communications officer looked at Rhodes.
“What do I do, sir?”
“Acknowledge.”
The young man spoke into his microphone.
“Mayday acknowledged. Identify, please.”
There was a squeal of radio interference, as the burning ship veered erratically, the venting process throwing off vector-stability. With systems damaged, they were having trouble controlling her. She was no longer invisible, but a flaring match in a dark room. All weapons systems went green with lock-on.
“This is the Confederation Armed Vessel Constitution. We are on fire, approaching meltdown. Please render assistance.”
Rhodes looked at Allen.
“Commander?”
“Demand unconditional surrender and order them to abandon ship.”
Rhodes looked at young Marko on the communications board.
“Do it.”
Signals sped back and forth as Rhodes and Allen consulted quickly. Top priority had to go to the convoy.
The enemy ship was done for.
But there was also much to be gained here.
They watched as the first of the Constitution’s boats was launched, heading away from Nike in their haste to clear the doomed vessel, now spiraling around like a balloon with the air coming out.
The odds of the entire crew getting out were looking worse by the half-second.
“Marko.”
“Sir.”
“Contact Eutropius. Ask Captain Malone to take charge of the scene. They are to recover prisoners, make intelligence assessments of the hulk, if there’s anything left by then, and then they can rendezvous with the convoy ASAP. Destroy anything useful that can’t be taken away.”
“Ah, yes, sir.” Marko’s face was intense with concentration as he relayed all of that to Eutropius.
***
There might have been other enemy subs, as everyone had taken to calling them out there, but the rest of the trip was uneventful.
The funny thing was that it was still exciting.
Rick Allen was just in that fuzzy moment before true alert status. It was his first good night’s sleep in a couple of days, and he wiggled his toes in sheer bliss. A couple more days and they could all rest…
There was a quick rap on the door.
“Shit.”
Rick threw the cover aside and shambled to the door in his underwear. On a small ship, formality took a back seat to an emergency.
“Ah, Commander.”
Rick stepped back, mouth open and eyes widening as the Captain came in bearing a flimsy print-out of a Fleet Priority One communication.
“I thought you’d like to have this.”
He proffered it with a grin, ignoring Rick’s morning breath and the crust around his blinking eyes.
Rick stood there reading as the Captain took a quick glance around the small space, organized but lived-in, just as his own was.
“Congratulations. We’ll talk later.”
Rhodes gave Rick a slap on the bicep and turned, closing the door carefully behind him as he went.
Rick’s knees wobbled and his pulse raced as he read it over and over again.
Fleet was offering Rick his own command—and asking him to leave Nike.
End
About Louis Shalako
Louis Shalako began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time.
> Louis Shalako <
Convoy Duty Page 2