by Unknown
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“Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire on the flight deck! Fire on the flight deck!” The ship’s over-monitor automatically announced, sounding a clanging alarm.
Firefighting crews hurried from their ready-station at the base of the island, clad in protective suits, while a ship’s version of a fire engine sped from an aft garage. They began pouring a foaming mixture that mimicked the smothering and cooling properties of water, dousing the flames before they could cook off the live ordinance that was loaded on the helo.
While all of this was taking place, the two behemoths continued to trade round after round as the destroyer closed ever nearer, never slowing even as the fighter jets tore into it. At the last moment, the Storian ship veered wildly upward, avoiding collision at the last possible moments. Its lower hull was low enough to sweep through the Anderson atmosphere that protected the flight deck, creating a wash of wind that was nearly hurricane force. It blew crewmen in the opposite direction that the incoming round had blown them.
Flaming strata flew from both ships under the shared onslaught, creating trails of sparkling debris behind them.
“Good Christ!” Robert let out at the close call.
Different sets of alarms were braying for attention. Operators were busy trying to keep up with the now franticly paced responses that were required of them. The Air Boss was shouting into a set of phones, one on each ear, trying to direct his crews.
The fighter jets sped past, hot on the tail of the destroyer as it initiated a wide turn to begin another pass as the Belleau Wood plowed on, closing the distance to the Storian carrier.
“Activate pings on those missiles!” Robert demanded.
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The Ops officer touched a control, bringing sonar-like pings into play over the alarms. The pings began to sound faster together as the missiles neared their targets. Robert prayed that they would find them successfully.
“She’s come about!” Ghent yelled.
The Belleau Wood shook under another salvo of cannon fire.
“Come on!” Robert spewed between clenched teeth, trying to will the torpedoes to find their mark while this bastard hassled him.
The Elsys
The Tracking officer jumped at the alert tone that sounded from his console.
“Four missiles inbound, closing fast!”
Admiral Arham remained steadfast, determined not to be distracted from watching while the harbor grew almost near enough to initiate his attack. He did not move from his spot in the forward-most area of the Bridge.
“Range and bearing?” He asked coolly.
“Range, four hundred! Closing on port-aft!”
The Phalanx batteries mounted atop the command island constantly scanned space for incoming fire, and once they detected the missiles, brought their rapid-fire systems into play. Their job was to sweep back and forth, creating a blanket of plasma in which a missile would be shredded apart.
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Flying ahead of the missiles, the MAC-7 torpedoes were the vanguard, leading the warheads in. The moment the phalanx fire began, their nosecones folded back, revealing powerful anti-radar components. The intense pulses of energy focused on the source of the very scanning equipment that had locked onto them as they approached.
On the Elsys, monitors at the weapons station abruptly filled with static, and the batteries ceased their firing.
“We’re being jammed!” The tech yelled.
“Then switch to manual!” Arham ordered impatiently.
The tech flipped a switch, and pressed the firing button, forcing the batteries to open back up. This time, though, they were firing blindly.
The missiles spread apart, each veering in the direction that would take it toward its target. The first made minor course adjustments as its internal tracking registered the carrier, and homed in on the flight deck. The second locked onto the power plant emissions of the forward-most destroyer.
By sheer chance, a lucky shot struck the primary’s MAC-7 dead center, blowing it to pieces, leaving the missile flying alone without jamming protection. The weapons screens on the Elsys cleared, and the Phalanx system was able to restore its lock on the proper area of space. There were audible gasps on the Bridge, seeing the missile so near. A particular bell brayed, and the weapons officer gripped the side of the console in an open display of fright.
“Radiological alarm!”
It was a nuclear-tipped warhead, and it was nearly on top of them. The batteries shifted their fire.
Rounds ripped into the missile’s fuselage, knocking it off-
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course. Registering the damage the warhead detonated before it could fly too far from its intended target.
Space before the Elsys gave birth to a new sun.
The wave of blast energy bubbled outward within the minimum safe distance zone, slamming into the portside of the carrier, heaving it sideways. The Bridge was a cacophony of noise as the lights flickered, and sparks flew from junction boxes. Operators that had forgotten to strap themselves in were thrown violently across the deck, crashing into other console stations. Alarms screamed, as did the crew.
The ship trembled, continuing to pitch to the right, beginning to roll. The artificial gravity struggled to maintain a pitch center for the crew, sending waves of nausea through their stomachs. Vomit mixed with the blood that was flying about. Monitors rolled, and filled with static.
Gradually, ever so gradually, the ship righted itself. The gravity systems came back on full, pulling the droplets of blood and gore to the deck in a splattering rain, along with the heavy thumps of bodies.
Arham had been thrown, and picked himself up to one knee, blood trickling from a gash on his temple. He cast a baleful look about his Bridge, and cursed wildly. In a single blow, his flag ship had been kicked in the groin, and hard. Acrid smoke hung in thin wisps, the air scrubbers laboring to clear the air.
He managed to get to his feet, and glowered at the main forward viewer. It was a mash of colored pixels, showing nothing useful.
“Master Chief!” He bellowed over the alarms. “Get me a cursed damage report!”
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The secondary missile had far better luck in achieving its intended goal.
It slipped right through the defensive fire, and slammed directly into the destroyer’s engineering plant at the midline. The cone punched through the armored hull, and a micro-second later, the nuclear warhead set itself off.
Shipboard nuclear weapons are of a much lower yield than those used for planetary strikes. A mere megaton, which is a drop in comparison to the 1000 megaton models. Still, a megaton of condensed uranium-enriched plasma is an incredible amount of energy to release within the confines of a starship.
The blast wave vaporized all but the further-most portion, the command island. The still intact Bridge tower tumbled backward, carried by the expanding nuclear bloom---straight at the Elsys steaming a short distance behind.
Admiral Arham had made it as far back as his command dias, and happened to be looking at the forward viewer when its system finally rerouted around damaged circuitry. The screen cleared, and came into focus, revealing the wreckage of the destroyer rolling right at them, growing larger by the microsecond.
“Hard to starboard! Emergency All Ahead Flank!” He screamed with all his might.
The helm had been re-manned by someone else, as that operator had been thrown, and cleaved his skull nearly in two. The idiot’s brains made a smear of gore along the deck. The new operator previously manned the communications console, and had no idea what all of that meant. He did have a good idea that the order meant they needed to change course, and damned quickly, judging by the mountain of plas-steel coming at them.
The helmsman threw himself bodily against the yoke, pushing with all his might.
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“Collision alarm! Collision alarm!” The over-monitor droned mindlessly in its automated, feminine tone.
The gravity system struggled once again to re
main centered in the hard turn, creating another round of nausea.
Arham and the Bridge crew fell into silence as they were able only to watch as the destroyer’s tower loomed right over them, casting a shadow over the flight deck. Smaller pieces of strata began to rain across the deck, bouncing off in all directions. The tower skimmed the hull as the Elsys turned hard away, metal kissing metal, scraping aft. A sensor relay sheared off, followed by a nest of antennas, and a gun battery. The hulk clipped a portion of the drive cupola with a wrenching squeal that resounded all through the carrier, then tumbled thankfully away.
The admiral realized that he had been holding his breath.
He let it out with relief, hands shaking as he sat heavily down in the captain’s chair. The captain, he noticed, was lying in a heap, crumbled against the base of the over-monitoring station. He reached down, and touched her neck. There was no pulse. She was quite dead.
“Silence those damned alarms!”
Arham’s ears rang in the sudden silence that followed. Casting a glance about the Bridge, he was inwardly pleased to see that those who were able were resuming not only their own stations, but multi-tasking the empty ones as well, nursing wounds of their own. The operators were well-trained. The late captain deserved a proper burial when time for that allowed. For the moment, however, there was still work to be done.
“Give me a sweep.”
It took a moment, but the Tracking officer presented good news.
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“No further immediate threats detected. The enemy contact has been engaged by our escort.”
“Good. Resume our attack course. Sound Flight Quarters.”
The Belleau Wood
Tensions were soaring on Corbin’s bridge as well.
The Storian destroyer had been circling like a shark on the attack, unleashing horrific blows on the LHA despite being torn steadily apart by the jet fighters, and the Belleau Wood’s own defensive batteries.
It was a circus of screeching alarms, and people shouting to be heard over the background noise. The master chief was hollering orders into his handset, directing damage control parties. There had been some serious buckling from the impacts of the 20-inch guns. Several water supply lines had ruptured, and teams were laboring to attach clamps in order to stave off not only the flooding of compartments, but the waste of one of their most precious commodities.
There were a couple of minor fires, none too serious, producing more danger from the toxic smoke than anything. It was nothing that hadn’t been trained for, but the fact that so many things were happening at once was a bit disconcerting.
The Air Boss was a vision of a man being hit from all sides. He had managed to see his crews through the task of extinguishing the fire on the flight deck, clearing the debris, and towing the damaged helo to the side elevator so that it could be taken down to the hanger bay for repairs.
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Now, the man had just received word that one of the Alert five had sustained damage from a deck-mounted Sea Whizz, a rather wicked gun battery that was not unlike a gatling. Six spinning barrels that spewed 1000 rounds a second. That fighter was limping its way back, trailing fuel behind it. The cockpit had lost its atmosphere, forcing the pilot to rely on the limited emergency pressure of his suit.
“On the flight deck! Prepare for a combat landing! Damaged aircraft inbound!”
Once again, the flight deck crew scrambled for another potential disaster.
Robert’s own concerns lie in the fact that he had been forced to break off pursuit of the Storian carrier in order to deal with this persistent pain in the ass.
“They’re making another pass!” The Tracking officer warned.
“Brace for shock!” Robert exclaimed.
The firestorm erupted yet again as 20-inch rounds slammed into the portside hull. Exterior fittings flew apart, spinning off into space. The pounding creating a veritable quake inside the ship, especially so on the side taking the hits. Crewmen held their hands over their ears against the noise, others not properly prepared were bounced against bulkheads. Decks buckled upward, and sparks continued to pop and snap from electrical junctions.
As the destroyer completed its pass, one of the fighters harassing it loosed its last rocket. It arced, then locked on to the exhaust cupola, accelerating forward. This time, the phalanx battery was unable to catch it in time. The rocket punched through the engineering plant, and the resulting explosion blew a huge portion of the aft section apart. The Storian ship heaved upward from the rear, and began to list. Flame and atmosphere gushed from its aft section,
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and the exterior lights flickered, then went out.
The fighters tailed it from both sides, watching. The destroyer made no maneuvers to correct its course, still floating awkwardly an angle. More and more room grew between the vessels, and it was soon clear that their attacker had been disabled.
On the Bridge of the Belleau Wood, Commander Ghent stood upright from the monitor he had been hunched over.
“Looks like the fight is out of her!”
The Ops officer confirmed that, “Their support systems are crashing. Life boats jettisoning.”
“Shall we maneuver to rescue the survivors?” Ghent asked.
Robert considered that. They were the enemy, yes, but it was the humane thing to do. The Articles of War demanded the act of mercy as well. Fact was, there simply wasn’t time. The Storian carrier was moments from reaching strike range of Star Harbor.
“Negative.” He decided. “Get our fighters on the deck, and prepare to engage that task force.”
Ghent paused. It was only for a fraction, but enough to silently communicate his disagreement with his commanding officer. Robert caught the meaning of the gesture, and nodded his understanding.
Ghent lifted the receiver, and relayed his orders.
The wounded jet-shuttle circled the battered Belleau Wood, waiting while the first four landed first, and were spotted out of the way. The pilot was shaking like a leaf within his suit, watching
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more and more of his control bleeding away. The controls were becoming sluggish, and idiot lights were winking like a Christmas tree, all telling him that yet another component had failed.
Breathing curses under his breath, he waited with growing impatience. If the Boss delayed the landing much longer, there would be no point to even try. Another warning lit up, as if the dying craft were agreeing with his thoughts.
Finally, the Air Boss’s voice sounded over the helmet pick-up.
“Alright, Lieutenant, the deck is crash-ready. Bring it in.”
Thanks for the load of confidence.
“Roger that, Belleau Wood,” the pilot responded instead. Voicing his thoughts might be detrimental to his career.
He wrestled his fighter outward, ahead of the ship for a good distance, before banking in, and lining up with the deck. Wishing that his squadron had been assigned to a full carrier, with a longer strip would do no good, either.
“You have the ball,” The Air Boss told him.
The pilot took short breaths, easing in and down as best as he was able. The controls were practically dead-weight in his hands. He cut the main engine, and tried to gently puff the front braking thrusters. Only one of them responded, and it canted the fighter slightly to the left.
“Damn it,” he grumbled, trying to correct. The nose swung too far right. The deck was leaping up at him.
“Abort! Abort!” The Air Boss was shouting.
The pilot pulled back on the stick, and nothing happened. His fighter was spent, and he was in a free-fall at that point.
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The crash siren was already warbling on the flight deck as the jet-shuttle penetrated the Anderson dome, the grinding scream of its damaged power plant becoming audible. The jet slapped down hard, almost nose-down, and at a port angle. The cockpit snapped away from the main body, and went spiraling toward the island, crashing against it. The rest of the jet had thankfully
expended all of its ordinance, and leaked out most of its fuel. The fuselage skidded the length of the flight deck, going into a spin, throwing sparks in all directions. The crash net erupted from its place in the deck, catching it, pulling the broken craft to a halt while foam showered from nozzles.
The Air Boss was leaning as far forward against the viewport as he could, looking down at the cockpit section below. The emergency crews had opened the hatch, and were pulling the pilot out, gingerly placing him on a stretcher.
“We’re secure, Captain!”
Robert wasted not a precious second, “Helm! All Ahead Full!”
As the Belleau Wood accelerated forward, the captain turned his attention back to the Air Boss.
“Ready the squadron for launch, Boss!”
“Already on it, Sir!”
The captain grabbed at his comm-box, quickly dialing in.
“Missile Room.”
“This is the captain. Spin up warheads three and four, prepare for nuclear release on my order.”
“Aye, Sir!”
Replacing the handset, Robert focused on his Bridge crew,
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“Weapons! Program targeting for that carrier!”
“Roger that, Sir!”
Robert braced himself against the dias rail, allowing exactly one moment for himself to think about his sons, more so for his oldest, Timothy. Having him on-board had been a pleasure in the beginning, but now that they were sailing into battle, it was just another source of worry.
The moment passed, and the captain zeroed in on the task at hand. A million souls were under the Storian gun, and his ship was the only one near enough to try to stop it.
Come on!