by David Weber
“Yes, Sir,” Imbar said. “We’ve got a confirmation on Sidewinder’s second group of wedges, now bearing oh-two-one by oh-one-eight. From the signature there seem to be significantly more ships there than in the first group. That confirms they’re the main Green One force, with the smaller group also confirmed as Green Two.”
“Redesignate accordingly,” Gensonne ordered. “Green One’s distance?”
“Just under fourteen light-minutes.”
Gensonne nodded in satisfaction. The Sidewinder recon data had been a bit fuzzy, given the destroyers’ distance from the inner system. But the data and Gensonne’s own extrapolations had been right on the nose.
Now, with the defenders’ positions confirmed, the plan was officially a lock. Assuming the Manticorans bought into Olver’s story, Green Two would rush to Naglfar’s rescue and be quickly destroyed by Odin and the rest of the advance force. If Green One followed and moved to engage, its ships should arrive just in time for a one-two punch as Thor and the rest of the main force moved up close behind Gensonne’s advance force.
If Green One opted instead to avoid battle and run for home, the end result would still be the same, just a few hours later. Either way, Manticore was as good as taken.
Llyn would be pleased. More to the point, Llyn’s bosses at Axelrod would be paying a nice contractual bonus.
Smiling tightly, Gensonne settled back and waited for the Manticorans to take the bait.
* * *
“We’re making as many gees as we can,” the tense voice came from the bridge speaker, “but I don’t know how much longer before we’ll have to shut down the wedge completely, and we’re a hell of a long way from anywhere. Whatever ships you’ve got—freighters, liners, ore ships—anything we can pack our people into—please send them. For the love of God, please.”
Heissman gestured, and Chief Kebiro at Com keyed the volume back down. “XO?” the commodore invited, looking at Belokas. “How many passengers do you think we can take?”
Belokas huffed out a breath. “Between the four of us, I don’t think we can take more than five hundred. And that’s if we pack them to the deckheads. Not exactly luxury travel.”
“Still beats suffocating in the cold,” Woodburn said with a grunt.
“That it does,” Heissman agreed. “All right. Aegis will probably get the distress call directly, but go ahead and send them a copy, just to be sure, along with a request for aid. They’re farther out, but they’ve got a lot more room.”
“Assuming Leviathan can hold its bottle together long enough for Locatelli to reach them,” Belokas warned.
“Nothing we can do about that,” Woodburn said.
“So we are going to head out there?” Travis asked.
All eyes turned to him. “You have something, Lieutenant?” Heissman asked.
“Something solid?” Woodburn added. “Because hunches don’t—”
He broke off at a small gesture from Heissman. “Continue,” the commodore said.
Travis braced himself. “There’s just something about this that feels wrong, Sir,” he said, hoping the words didn’t sound as lame to the others as they did to him. Especially since Woodburn had already warned him that no one was interested in his hunches. “The timing, the vector—same bearing as the hyper ghost—the fact that they came here instead of trying for somewhere else—”
“Their wedge is showing signs of stress,” Heissman reminded him. “And all indications are that it’s a merchant or passenger liner, not a warship.”
“Sir, zero-zero intercept course is plotted and ready,” the helm reported. “I’m assuming Leviathan will be able to maintain her current accel. If her wedge goes down, we’ll have to recompute.”
“Understood,” Heissman said. “Feed to the other ships, and let’s make some gravs.” He looked at Travis. “And order all crews to Readiness Three,” he added. “Just in case.”
* * *
“They’re coming,” Imbar announced. “Vector…too early to tell for sure, but it looks like they’re lining up for a zero-zero intercept with Naglfar.”
“Excellent,” Gensonne said with a warm glow of satisfaction. The Manticorans had fallen for it. “Do we have a fix on Sidewinder yet?”
“Not yet,” Imbar said. “But we’re monitoring the area where they should be. Assuming they made it in all right, they should be lighting off their wedges sometime in the next couple of hours to fine-tune their own intercept with Green Two.”
Gensonne nodded. Having Umbriel and Miranda arrive just in time to catch the Manticorans in a cross-fire would be helpful, but it was hardly vital to his plan. If the two destroyers were too far out to get in on this first skirmish, they’d be able to take on a similar attack role when the Volsungs came up against Green One.
And if they also managed to miss out on that one, they’d still be useful as scouts and gadflies, sweeping the area ahead of the Volsung fleet toward Manticore proper after the two groups of defending forces had been disposed of.
One way or another, Gensonne promised himself, every ship in the Volsung assault force would earn its pay today.
* * *
Janus was still two hours away from their projected zero-zero with Leviathan, and the four ships were making yet another course correction as the damaged liner once again adjusted her own acceleration, when Gorgon signaled the news that two more faint wedges had appeared in the distance.
“Shapira says it’s pure luck she spotted them in the first place,” Belokas said, hovering close beside Heissman’s station as they gazed together at the unexpected and, to Travis’s mind, unsettling data Gorgon had sent across. “Given that our wedges were all turned that direction, and our crews busy with the course change, I tend to agree with her.”
“Captain Shapira has a bad habit of ascribing to luck things which properly belong to training and vigilance,” Heissman said thoughtfully as he gazed at the tactical. “Make sure we log a commendation for her and her bridge and CIC crews. What do you make of it?”
“They’re definitely smaller than Leviathan,” Belokas said. “Could be small freighters. Definitely not ore ships or anything else that’s supposed to be running around out there.”
“Or they could be small warships,” Woodburn added. “Destroyers or light cruisers. Especially—there! Now, isn’t that interesting?”
Travis felt his eyes narrow. As suddenly as they’d appeared, the mysterious wedges had vanished. As if the ships had finished with whatever course change they’d come out of hiding for and then dropped back into the covering blackness of interplanetary space.
Woodburn was obviously thinking the same thing. “They’re hiding, all right,” he said grimly. “You’ll also notice that they saved their maneuvers for a period when we were doing some adjustments of our own and were theoretically at our least attentive. With all due respect, Commodore, this is starting to look less like a rescue mission and more like an invasion.”
“Agreed,” Heissman said. “I believe we may owe Mr. Long an apology.”
“I believe we do, Commodore,” Woodburn agreed, giving Travis a small nod. “Looks like you were right about them, Lieutenant. Nicely called.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Travis said. Prickly, but fair.
“And now that we know what game we’re actually playing,” Heissman continued, “what’s the status on our battle inventory? Mr. Long?”
“Not as good as it should be, Sir,” Travis said.
And instantly regretted the words. The fact that Janus wasn’t running at full strength was the fault of the politicians in Parliament, not RMN Command. But his thoughtless comment could easily be construed as criticism of that leadership.
Or, worse, as a criticism of his own commander. Neither was acceptable, especially not on that commander’s own bridge.
Fortunately, Heissman didn’t seem to take it that way. “No argument here, Lieutenant,” he said, a bit dryly. “Continue.”
“Without the editorial comments,” Belok
as added more severely.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said, wincing. Especially since Casey was already better armed and equipped than most of the rest of the fleet. “My apologies. We only have eighteen missiles, but both fore and aft lasers are fully functional, as are the broadside energy torpedo launchers. One of our autocannon is a little iffy—cooling problems; the techs are working on it. Loads are at about sixty percent. We also have nineteen countermissiles.”
“What about the other ships?” Belokas asked.
“Gorgon has eight missiles and Hercules and Gemini each have four,” Travis said. And they were lucky to have that many, he reflected silently. “Their point-defenses are about in the same shape and with the same load percentage as ours.”
“How many of the missiles in that list are practice rounds?” Heissman asked.
“None, Sir,” Travis said, frowning. “I didn’t think I should count those.”
“They still look like real missiles, even if they can’t go bang,” Heissman pointed out. “What’s the count?”
“We and Gorgon each have two; Hercules and Gemini each have one,” Travis said. But if the missiles had no warheads…?
The confusion must have shown on his face, because both Heissman and Woodburn favored him with small smiles. “Never underestimate the power of a bald-faced bluff, Mr. Long,” Heissman said. “At worst, a dummy missile can make an enemy waste rounds from their point-defenses. At best, its wedge can shred a hull with the best of them.”
The Commodore’s smile vanished. “So basically, we’re underarmed, undercrewed, and even with Aegis pulling all the gees they can we’re a fair ways from any reinforcement. Recommendations?”
“The safe move would be to break off,” Woodburn said. “Our limping passenger liner could be anything up to and including a battlecruiser. Maybe even a battleship—it’s certainly big enough. The problem is that by the time we have accurate sensor data it’ll be too late to get away.”
He gestured. “And then we’ve got those two ships playing hide-and-seek out there. We’re lucky to see a couple of visiting ships a month; and now we’ve suddenly got three of them on the same day? And three ships which seem to be coordinating movements?”
“So you’re recommending we alert Command and break with an eye toward a rendezvous with Aegis?” Heissman asked calmly.
“I said that would be the safe move,” Woodburn corrected, just as calmly. “But we’re not out here to play safe. We’re out here to look for trouble, and when we find that trouble to assess and deal with it.”
“So your actual recommendation is that we fly into the mouth of the beast?” Belokas asked.
“Right square into it,” Woodburn confirmed. “But I also recommend we have Gorgon start drifting a little behind us and the corvettes. Not so fast or far that our friends out there take notice and wonder what we’re up to, but far enough for her to run communications between us once we raise our sidewalls.” His lips compressed briefly. “Hopefully, she’ll also be able to stay clear long enough to send back a full record of whatever’s about to happen.”
Travis swallowed. The implication was painfully clear. Woodburn didn’t expect Casey or the two corvettes to survive the approaching encounter.
But that, too, was why Janus was out here.
“XO?” Heissman invited.
“I agree with Commander Woodburn’s assessment and proposed action, Sir,” Belokas said, her voice formal.
“Do you further agree that the circumstances justify the expenditure of one or more of our missiles?” Heissman asked.
Under the circumstances, Travis reflected, that particular formality sounded incredibly stupid. But none of the three senior officers so much as batted an eye.
“I do,” Belokas said.
“As do I,” Woodburn said.
“Very good,” Heissman said, his tone matching theirs. “Alert all ships as to the situation, and have them stand ready for further orders. Albert, draw up a proposed timeline for detaching Gorgon and shifting us into combat formation. XO, go to Readiness Two. If we’ve got any spare warheads aboard, have the crews start swapping them into the practice missiles.”
“Yes, Sir.” Woodburn nudged Travis. “Come on, Lieutenant. We have work to do.” He pushed off the hand grip and floated toward his station.
Travis followed, long practice enabling him to stay close to his superior without bumping into him. “A question, Sir?” he asked.
“Why Gorgon instead of one of the corvettes?”
Travis felt his lip twitch. “Yes, Sir,” he admitted. “Gorgon has more missiles, more armor, and better sidewalls. If we’re heading into a fight, we could use her up here with us.”
“She also has aft autocannon,” Woodburn reminded him. “If it comes down to the last surviving ship of Janus Force making a run for it, we need to make sure it’s the ship with the best chance of making it through a barrage of up-the-kilt missiles.”
Travis nodded, an odd and unpleasant thought shivering through him. Woodburn’s military logic was solid enough, but there were more than just military considerations here. Ensign Richard Winton, the Star Kingdom’s Crown Prince, was currently serving aboard Hercules. By all political logic, it seemed like Heissman should have designated Hercules, not Gorgon, to run Janus’s backup and communications.
Yet he hadn’t. Clearly, for Heissman, military considerations trumped everything else. Which, Travis supposed, was the way it should be.
But that led to an even less pleasant thought. Like Gorgon, Casey also had aft autocannon. But she also had an aft laser, which gave her an even better chance of survival against up-the-kilt attacks. If the most critical priority was to gain information on the intruder and then run, Woodburn’s military logic should have put Casey into Janus’s rear position. Depending on what kind of warship was lurking behind the crippled-liner masquerade, having Casey in the battle probably wouldn’t make that much of a difference in the outcome anyway.
Again, that option didn’t seem to have even entered Woodburn’s mind. Or Belokas’s, or Heissman’s.
And again, that was as it should be. They were in command, and they would of course take Casey into the thick of whatever was about to happen.
Yet Travis had thought of it.
Did that mean he was a coward?
Maybe Leviathan really was a damaged liner. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for those other two here-then-gone wedges. Maybe this was just a bizarre coincidence that all of them would get together and laugh about over a drink someday.
But if it wasn’t, then they were all about to see how the RMN handled a real, non-simulated battle.
Back on Phoenix, Travis had wondered whether a taste of warfare would shake up some of the Star Kingdom’s complacency. Now, it looked like they were going to find out.
* * *
“General Quarters, General Quarters,” the gravelly voice of Captain Hagros came through Hercules’s Forward Impeller Room’s intercom speaker. “Set Condition Two throughout the ship. Repeat: set Condition Two throughout the ship.”
“Well, diggity damn,” Impeller Tech Chief Labatte muttered. He glanced over at the man seated beside him. “Sorry, Sir.”
“That’s all right, Chief,” Ensign Richard Winton said, feeling his collection of stomach butterflies coalescing into a dark, leaden mess. Readiness Two. Combat imminent.
Janus Group, HMS Hercules, and Ensign Richard Winton were going to war.
To war.
It was insane. The Royal Manticoran Navy hadn’t engaged in any sort of combat for nearly a hundred years. No one, from Admiral Locatelli on down, had the slightest idea how to prosecute a full-scale, multi-ship battle.
But they’d better learn. They’d better learn damn fast. The survival of the Star Kingdom could well depend on what happened here today.
“Sir?”
“Right with you, Chief,” Richard said. He gave his head a quick shake, chasing the fears and doubts to a back corner of his mind
. His Navy and his people were depending on him. More importantly, his father the King was depending on him.
And he would not let them down.
“Run me another diagnostic on the impellers and sidewalls,” he ordered. “Especially that iffy Number Two. Figure out which components are most likely to fail, and move replacement parts close to hand.”
“We may not have everything we’re likely to need,” Labatte warned.
“Oh, I’m sure we don’t,” Richard said sourly. “We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.”
“Right.” Labatte gave a little snort. “Ironic, isn’t it? If Breakwater had taken Hercules for his precious little MPARS fleet instead of, say, Taurus, we’d be sitting off on the sidelines right now.”
Instead of getting ready to die, the thought ran through Richard’s mind. “Lucky for us,” he said aloud. “We get to fight back against an invasion.”
“That we do, Sir,” Labatte said. “Okay. Here’s the diagnostic, and here’s the likely failure list. I’ll grab Nathan and start collecting the gear.”
“Good,” Richard said. “Let me know if you need any help.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was time.
Gensonne ran his eyes over Odin’s bridge displays one final time. He and Tyr were in their combat stack, Odin a thousand kilometers above the other battlecruiser, where the constraints of wedge and sidewalls gave both ships optimal fields of fire for their missiles and autocannon. The two heavy cruisers, Copperhead and Adder, were in their own stack a thousand kilometers ahead and slightly above and beneath the two battlecruisers, positioned so that their countermissiles could protect both of the larger warships. Fifteen hundred kilometers ahead of the cruisers and another thousand to starboard, the destroyer Ganymede guarded the starboard flank.
Ideally, Gensonne would have liked to have Phobos mirror-image Ganymede on the formation’s portside flank. But with communications through sidewalls tricky at best, it was more important for Phobos to hang far back in com-relay position. In the heat of battle a communications blackout, even a brief one, could spell disaster. The only way to assure that didn’t happen was to dedicate one of his ships to bounce signals back and forth through the unobstructed gaps at the other ships’ kilts.