"Chief, how long until our next salvo?" She said, fighting to keep her voice level.
"I need another twenty minutes Captain, there’s a few things I can try. I’m going to try to disable some of our electronics advanced features, see-"
"Alright go for it Chief, I’m going to come down and give you a hand."
"That probably isn’t -"
Willis cut him off again.
"I spent last night reading the manuals they sent up. I’d guess I have better understanding of our computer than anyone, bar yourself."
There was pause on the other end of the line. Guinness was smart enough to realise that she was making a statement of intend, not a suggestion.
"Alright Ma’am. Chief out."
"Helm come about to starboard. Take us down the line and bring us in astern of Onslaught. Guns go fore and aft, open gun crews from stations." Willis ordered. Standing up she tried to rub the tension out of the back of her neck. "We’ll have to hope the rest of them leave us enough of a target, to come round and try again. Commander… Commander, what’s your name again?"
"Horan, Captain.
"Right, sorry, Horan you have the bridge, I’ll be down in Fire Control."
"Yes Ma’am." Her second in command replied.
As Willis left her bridge, she heard Horan mutter to the communications officer.
"They can’t send us in, not if this bucket can’t shoot straight!"
Closing the hatch behind her, Willis leaned against it and close her eyes. That was wishful thinking if ever she heard it. The reality that she had come to accept, but not shared with her fellow officers, was that Hood and the rest of the Geriatrics were cannon fodder. In the cold-blooded mathematics of war, the missile that blew the Hood away would be a missile that didn’t hit something more important. They were all expendable, that was the unavoidable fact. Willis brushed the back of her hand angrily across her stinging eyes before starting towards Fire Control.
_______________________________
"What have you got for me Tim?" Lewis asked without raising his eyes from the work in front of him. For man of his age, the admiral still had excellent peripheral vision and saw his staff captain hovering at the hatch.
"Sir, Cruiser Squadron Eighteen has completed its gunnery exercises."
"What’s the damage?"
"To be honest, sir, that’s the problem, there wasn’t much." Sheehan replied offering a pad. Lewis accepted it and put it down.
"Give me the highlights."
"The skipper of the Hood reports, they have all four guns and both missile launchers working, but she’s admitting that they can’t hit anything past fifteen thousand clicks. Onslaught also has all guns, but no launchers. Tempest has only three of her six guns working, plus three of her four launchers. Whirlwind, five guns and three launchers. Hurricane is the only one reporting all primary weapon systems working."
Lewis nodded slowly as he signed yet another document.
"Better than I expected." He replied eventually. "Order the four that are going to have to be towed, to dock with their tugs."
"You’re still planning to take them, sir?" Sheehan asked, obviously unhappy.
"You still think I shouldn’t?" Lewis replied.
"Sir, those ships are old. Their gun barrels are worn. They’re using such early models of missiles we can’t fill their magazines and their machinery is clapped out. Any kind of sustained engagement, they’ll start loosing systems just to breakdowns."
"If they’re lucky, Tim." Lewis replied quietly.
"Sir?"
"We… I have given them less than five days, to get those relics going again." Lewis shook his head. "Five weeks would have been too little time. But I need those ships." Lewis looked across at his Staff Captain. "If I thought their engines would take it, I’d put them in the vanguard, to absorb the first incoming salvo."
"That’s tough for the crews, sir." There was more than hint of reproach in Sheehan’s voice.
"It’s what we signed up for Tim, each and everyone of us, we can dress it up any way we like but ultimately, we gave the fleet the right to put us in harms way," Lewis voice hardened, "and I’m about to exercise that right. Has Headquarters found us a Rear Admiral for Squadron Eighteen yet?"
"No, sir." Sheehan shook his head. "They’re trying to find Rear Admiral Tan, sir. He’s hiking with his partner in the Australian outback. Unfortunately he hasn’t taken a phone or radio with him. The Australian government is assisting, but it’s a big country."
"That’s unfortunate. It looks like they’re going to have to go in, without a section commander. Do you have anything else?"
Sheehan offered another pad.
"The situation dirtside is getting worse, sir. People are poring out of the major cities. There have been protests outside Headquarters. Dublin, London, Washington, Moscow- they’ve all experienced riots and looting." He shook his head. "What the hell is going through their heads, do they think that there is anywhere they can hide, if the Nameless do get into firing position?"
"Fear doesn’t think Captain, it simply reacts; fight or flight and they can’t fight." Lewis replied staring into space. "When the system seems to be failing, people look to their own."
"Sir… was it… was it like this the last time?"
"Yes it was. People prefer to remember themselves shaking a defiant fist at the stars, rather than cowering in a refugee camp somewhere." Lewis replied quietly, before looking up sharply. "Put fighters into them."
Sheehan looked baffled by the non-sequencer.
"I’m sorry, sir, I don’t-"
"Pick a squadron of fighters, put them into the shuttle hangars of the Squadron Eighteen. That’s ten units and means those old ships will achieve something before they’re eliminated."
"Do you want fighters to replace all the shuttles in the fleet?"
"No." Lewis replied after a moment of thought. "With the red ships we can afford to risk it, but not with the amber and green fleet. Is there anything else Tim?"
"No, sir."
"Alright see to it. And try to get some sleep yourself, if you can."
"Yes, sir." Sheehan saluted and left.
When the hatch closed behind the captain, Lewis picked up his pen again and paused over the paperwork. Then he put it down again and rose from his chair. Crossing his cabin he sat down on his bunk. Opening a draw in his bedside cabinet, he carefully removed a framed photograph. It was a picture that had travelled with the admiral for over thirty years, through every posting and command. But in all that time, it had never once been hung up. The photo had faded somewhat with age, giving it a slightly washed out appearance, but still clearly showed a group of young men and women dressed in old-fashioned British Royal Air Force uniforms. Automatically Lewis’s eye went to one of the laughing faces, a face that was younger and far more innocent.
Lewis could still remember the day clearly. The squadron had just been certified operational on the Phoenix fighter, the first squadron of space fighters in the RAF. The C.O. had wanted a squadron photo, to mark the occasion, another notable moment in the history of Number Seven Squadron of His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. But the photo Lewis stared at wasn’t that formal picture. Instead it was a picture taken by one of the squadron’s aircraft fitters as the pilots headed for the photo shoot, pushing and shoving at one another, like children let out of school early. Frozen in that moment of time they laughed, oblivious to what they would soon be heading into. Four months after the photograph was taken, only one of the twelve was still alive: Flying Officer Paul Lewis.
By the time of the First Battle of Earth, Lewis had served with Number Seven Squadron for three years. It had been a good place to serve in, at least during peace time. But in wartime he had buried every one of them.
The Home Fleet was now holding position on the edge of the Earth’s mass shadow, ready to jump for Alpha Centauri, or race back to Earth. Two battleships, seventeen cruisers, twenty one destroyers and well over three thousand men and
women. Many of whom, even if things went as planned, would soon be dead.
The price of service.
Lewis put the photograph away, lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes.
Forgive me Lord, for those I lead into your embrace.
_______________________________
Positioned at the rear of the Home Fleet, were four tug ships, short, squat, ugly vessels, with heavy hulls and for their size, massive engine. Under each one, almost like an afterthought, was a member of the Geriatrics. A small ship to ship shuttle homed in on the tug locked onto Hood.
When her intercom buzzed, Willis was touring her ship, trying to gain a little more familiarity with her command. Also give her people the opportunity to see her, and hopefully, they would know they could trust her. Certainly there was no point in staying on the bridge, with Hood locked beneath the tug, she was not in control. And that was grating on her nerves.
"Captain, this is officer of the watch, a staff officer has arrived from the flagship, with orders." The duty officer reported. "Says he needs to speak with yourself and the Chief Engineer."
"Put him in my cabin and tell the Chief to come up." Willis replied.
"Yes Ma’am."
"Ravens?" Willis asked
"Yes ma’am you’re to drop your shuttles and take aboard four Raven fighters." Said the flag lieutenant. "They should be arriving at Oh six hundred hours tomorrow."
Willis, Horan, Guinness and the flag lieutenant were all squeezed into Willis’s tiny cabin. The daily visit by a staff officer had become necessary. With no flag officer assigned to the Geriatrics, there was no one responsible for channelling information about the squadron to the flagship. There was also no one there to make sure that the instructions coming out of Warspite had been received and acted upon. So a junior staff officer had been sent out to Willis and the other skippers of squadron eighteen, to deliver orders and pick up reports.
"We only have one shuttle anyway, which I think they forgot about when Hood was mothballed. But we have no capacity, or personnel to rearm and service fighters. Not to mention the docking cradles we have are different from those the Raven uses." Willis objected.
"You’ll need to alter the launch arms, Headquarters engineering department has included specs for the conversion." The flag lieutenant replied. "Its crude but will allow you to get them away."
Guinness looked up from the computer pad he was reading from.
"Crude? That’s one way of putting it. You’re talking about more or less, wielding a cage around the fighter. Christ, as if I don’t have enough to do." Guinness muttered wearily.
"And arming?" Willis prompted. "How in hells name are we supposed to arm them?"
"Erm… That’s on the second page of your orders, Ma’am. They’ll will be arriving armed." The lieutenant replied before, adding helpfully, "You’ll just have to launch as you go in."
Horan had been looking over Guinness’s shoulder at the pad, Willis was flicking through the orders. As one the three looked up sharply.
"Did you say launch as we go in?" Willis demanded.
"Yes Ma’am-"
"And hope to god that we manage to launch before we get hit, with fuelled and armed fighters in our hangars. Our unarmoured hangars." Commander Horan muttered.
"You should be able to launch them a minute or two before jump-in." The lieutenant, now wilting under their combined glare.
"No we bloody well won’t!" Guinness replied hotly. "The main armatures in our bays, aren’t strong enough to take the gravitational sheer inside a jump conduit. If we take fighters, we can only launch’em in real-space. Whose brain fart was this one anyway?"
"Chief." Willis said with a note of warning in her voice, before turning back to the staff officer. "Lieutenant, this plan is an unacceptable risk to my ship."
"Erm… Err… Last paragraph Commander."
Willis turned to the last page and read.
I am aware that to jump-into a live fire situation with fuelled and armed fighter craft embarked, presents a significant risk to the launch vessel. However given our lack of a dedicated carrier, and the otherwise limited combat potential of Cruiser Squadron Eighteen, that risk must be taken. Your squadron will be deployed at the rear of the fleet to minimise the risk, but I still expect Cruiser Squadron Eighteen to have fighters embarked before the end of the day. No alternatives will be accepted.
She read out loud, before looking at the uncomfortable lieutenant. You didn’t have to be very good at reading between lines to get the message; the CinC was willing to lose an obsolete cruiser or two, to get a handful of fighters into action
"Well, now we know how much the Admiral values us. Do you have anything else?" She asked coldly.
"No Ma’am."
"Then you are dismissed."
The flag lieutenant gratefully left.
Guinness sighed and sat down heavily on Willis’s bunk and rubbed his eyes tiredly.
"At this rate we won’t need any bloody aliens to shoot at us." He muttered. "We’ll have collapsed of exhaustion."
"Will you be able to do it?"
"It’s nothing complicated, just welding really. Well, a lot of welding." Guinness shrugged.
"What about the fire control computer?"
Guinness shook his head.
"Sorry skipper, I’ve done my best with it but fifteen thousand clicks is about our limit for accurate shooting. Beyond that it’s pretty much fire and hope. There’s just nothing more I can do, not without pulling the hardware apart. With your permission, I’ll start on the docking cradles.
"No." Willis replied, looking up sharply. "You need a couple of hours in your bunk. Hand it over to your number two and hit the hay."
"I’m all right skipper, I’m starting to get my second wind."
"That was an order David, not a suggestion." Willis turned to Horan. "Make sure he gets some sleep, at gun point if necessary."
"All right, all right Ma’am, I know when rank is being pulled." Guinness muttered as he pulled himself to his feet. "You need sleep too, you know."
"Alright, go, and good night Chief."
When the others were gone, she stretched out on her bunk and closed her eyes. Undoubtedly there were many more men and women, here on the eve of battle, struggling to sleep, on what might be their last day. But after days of frantic activity, Commander Faith Willis wasn’t one of them.
Chapter Eleven
Silent Running
"Bridge to Fire Control, Guns, how much flak ammunition do we have?" Crowe snapped out. Around him the crew were scrambling into their survival suits. Crowe took his time pulling his own suit on, so that he wouldn’t miss anything. On the main holo, the uplink from their sensor drone was showing seven blue blips arrayed across their path.
"Bridge, we have thirty four percent of capacity balanced across all magazines." The Gunner called back across the intercom.
"That’s not enough to shoot our way out." Crowe muttered to himself.
"Skipper, our electrics haven’t been fixed, if we take a hit they’re probably going to fail again." Hockley warned.
"All right, Helm, reverse course to port. Engines hard burn." Crowe snapped out. "Head for the planetary rings, we’ll have to try to lose them in there."
Deimos immediately slewed round.
"Contact separation! We have ten plus incoming!" Called out a sensor operator. "Time to convergence, three minutes fifty."
"Guns, hold fire until incoming pass through the four thousand clicks mark, short controlled bursts." Crowe ordered.
"Roger that bridge." The intercom squawked back.
"Navigator, how long until we re-enter the rings?"
"On hard burn, forty minutes Captain." The officer shouted back. From the rear of bridge came the sound of air being drawn out as the bridge started to decompress.
"Looks like we’re in for a long three quarters of an hour, sir." Said Hockley just before he snapped closed his suit visor.
Time crawled by with agonizing
slowness. Every few minutes another wave of missiles curved in, only to be blasted away or miss the weaving cruiser. It had taken ten minutes on full burn, just to arrest their forward motion, now thirty minutes after the arrival of the Nameless they were breaking again to enter the rings. Instinct was screaming inside Crowe’s head to keep running as fast as possible, but they had to come in slow and steady to make the orbital insertion safely. This made them more vulnerable than ever. As each wave of missiles curved in towards them Crowe’s entire body tensed, preparing for the blow. Ahead of them the rings, and the safety they offered, seemed as far away as ever. Every few minutes he glanced across toward the bridges weapons status board, the ammunition for the flak guns was steadily draining away. Already the loader crews were frantically transferring rounds from the forward magazines to the aft.
The holo flashed red as a pair of missiles breached the five hundred kilometres perimeter. Crowe’s knuckles went white as the pair charged in. The weapons board buzzed urgently, as two of the upper aft flak guns magazines abruptly ran dry. The two mounts continued to track the missiles, their feed systems clicking uselessly.
"Helm roll to Port! Roll to Port!" Crowe shouted. "Ventral guns engage!"
As the lower guns came to bear they blazed away at the missiles. At three hundred kilometres one was vaporised, as it took a direct hit. The other was now in so close the turrets were struggling to track it. Without waiting for the order the helmsman swung the ship port, dragging round the guns aiming point. A single flak round went in, the missile detonated only thirty kilometres short of the hull. The shockwave rattled the ship and fragments of missile casing peppered the hull.
On the bridge the lights dimmed for a moment, and the tactical holo flickered. Crowe’s stomach gave a lurch, inspired by pure fear. Then the lights brightened again and the holo stabilised.
The Nameless War Page 23