by Jay Allan
On every ship of the fleet, in damaged hanger bays and smoke-filled bridges, in cramped maintenance tubes and frantically-manned weapons stations, a great cheer rose. Garret’s people were ready to finish the job.
“C’mon, crew chief. I need these reloads finished now.” Greta Hurley was standing next to her bomber, looking down at the bald, sweating head of her maintenance team. “We need to launch again ASAP.”
“Cap…Commodore, we’re moving as quickly as we can. The birds are refueled, but there’s no way we’re getting another load of torpedoes in place in less than an hour.”
Hurley opened her mouth to argue, but she closed it again. Flight Sergeant Jones was the best. He’d been keeping her craft flying since before the war, and she knew he always gave his best. “How about rocket packs?”
Jones looked up at her, thinking for an instant. “They’re quicker, no question. But will they hurt those things?” He motioned to the right with his thumb, a pointless gesture…and in nearly the opposite direction of the enemy fleet, but she knew what he meant.
“I don’t know, flight sergeant.” She sighed, wondering herself. The rocket packs were outdated…the weapons of choice for bombers before the development of the miniaturized plasma torpedo. They weren’t as strong as the torpedoes, that much was certain. But with the right targeting, she thought, who knows? “They’re what we can get loaded in time. Do it.”
“Yes, commodore.” He pulled himself to his feet and walked behind the bomber, shouting instructions to a cluster of technicians standing there.
Hurley didn’t know how effective this strike would be, but she was determined to do it. Garret had been skeptical, telling her that her people had done their part. But Hurley knew this battle was going to be close…and the fleet needed every edge. Besides, Garret, of all people, should know a mission like this could work. She’d been a junior officer flying one of the birds when the fleet admiral used his fighter-bombers for a close-in attack at the Battle of Gliese 250. It was an unorthodox and risky strategy…and a huge success. Granted, she thought, those ships were fresh, not the shot up remnants of a just-completed attack. Her crews were exhausted, and they’d just lost over 30% of their number. But Hurley didn’t care. She was determined.
She pulled out her remote com, her connection to Scarlett. The AI was monitoring preparations on the other capital ships. Her strikeforce was a large multinational conglomeration, based on sixteen different vessels. There had been 21 capital ships, but three had been blown to bits and the other two were gutted, landing bays destroyed and damage control crews desperately trying to save them.
“Scarlett, advise all wings we will be launching in fifteen minutes.” She turned and shouted back over her shoulder. “Ten minutes, crew chief. That’s all you’ve got.”
“Many of the motherships are running behind in rearming the bombers.” Scarlett’s information would be accurate, Hurley knew that much. “I currently project you will have approximately 40% of squadrons available in your designated time frame. It is likely that a second wave can launch approximately 20 minutes after the first.”
“Damn,” Hurley huffed under her breath. She commanded a huge force with four different nationalities. There was just no way to run it as tightly as she wanted. Well, she thought, 40% will have to do. It was still over 150 bombers, and she knew she could do a lot of damage with that.
“Fifteen minutes, Scarlett.” She started walking toward her ship. She was going to preflight it herself. “I want all available squadrons launched in fifteen minutes.”
Gwen Beacham was strapped firmly into her command chair. The ship was at zero gravity and running on batteries. She still wasn’t used to the idea of commanding 18 cruisers…though only 12 of them were still in action. Eleven if you didn’t count Marlborough, though Beacham expected the reactor to be back online any minute. She missed John Paul Jones, but her old command was still at Wolf 359, waiting its turn for repairs at the massive orbital shipyards. Her new flagship was a more appropriate place to fly an admiral’s flag anyway. The third ship of the King George class, she was the state of the art in Alliance heavy cruiser design.
Garret had bumped Beacham to admiral right after the battle at Point Epsilon, and he transferred her to First Fleet to run one of his cruiser squadrons. It was an abrupt change – Beacham had expected years of service as a captain before getting a shot at her star. But Combined Fleet was low on senior officers, so she ended up wearing two hats…commanding the fleet and skippering Marlborough. She was grateful for the extra job. Running the ship was more familiar. It made the transition easier for her.
The battlelines had been pounding each other, sitting at a dead stop and blasting away. At close range, the advantage of the enemy particle accelerators was less severe, and the laser cannons of the battlewagons were at least reasonably effective against the enemy armor. The fight was a close run thing, and she knew either side could still prevail.
Beacham’s cruisers had driven through the enemy line, going after ships with major breaches and finishing them off with targeted fire. Many of the First Imperium vessels had been badly damaged by the x-ray lasers, and the cruisers closed to point blank range and completed the work begun by the buoys. First Imperium ships were dangerous until they were completely dead, and Beacham knew her targets would fight back ferociously.
“Captain, we’ve got a Gargoyle closing on us.” Lieutenant Commander Furth snapped out the warning. “It’s targeting us.”
Beacham felt her insides clench. She needed the reactor back online immediately. They were sitting ducks like this. She flipped the com. “Engineering, I need the reactor. Now.”
“Negative, admiral.” It was Commander Powell, the chief engineer. “If I restart now it’ll just scrag immediately. Or it will blow.” He took a quick breath. “I need eight minutes, admiral. Maybe ten.”
“I don’t think we’ve got it, commander.” Powell was one of the best. There was no reason to argue. He’d get the reactor started as soon as possible without her riding him. “It’s urgent. Begin the startup the second you can. Even if it’s risky. Understood, commander?”
“Yes, admiral.” His voice was distracted; he was working as he spoke. “Understood.”
“Commander Furth, I want life support and maintenance systems on minimal. Divert all available power to damage control systems.” It was all she could do. She didn’t have weapons or maneuver capability right now.
“Yes, admiral.” Furth turned toward his workstation and paused. “Admiral Beacham, we’re getting massive energy readings from the enemy vessel.” A brief silence while he continued scanning the incoming data. “It just lost thrust…another energy spike, internal explosions.” Furth’s head snapped around. “Admiral Beacham! Someone just planted two plasma torpedoes in the guts of that thing.”
Beacham stared back wordlessly. None of her cruisers were in position to fire…and they weren’t armed with plasma torpedoes anyway. Who was firing on that Gargoyle?
“Admiral, it looks like the Gargoyle’s dead. I’m not getting any readings of energy generation.”
“Scan the area. Are you picking up any friendlies?” Beacham didn’t have a clue. She knew for a fact there were no Combined Fleet ships over there!
Furth started to reply, but the main com crackled to life before he got any words out. “Alliance cruiser Marlborough…this is AS Hornet. Are we glad to see you!”
Hurley’s bombers zipped around the wounded behemoth, stinging it with short-ranged high velocity rockets. The tiny sprint missiles didn’t have much penetrating power, but they packed a nice punch with 3-kiloton nuclear warheads. They had a hard time getting through the First Imperium armor, but the Leviathan they were attacking had already been hit hard. There were three large gashes in its hull, including one almost half a kilometer in length. Despite the heavy damage, the thing was still firing, ripping into Garret’s flagship with heavy particle accelerators.
Her squadrons didn’t have much velocity
, and they were able to maneuver with precision, changing vectors abruptly and operating much closer than normal to the wounded enemy vessel. The Leviathan’s point defense was badly damaged, and Hurley’s people flew almost with impunity.
“OK, lieutenant, here we go again.” Hurley turned the flying over to Potter. She was focused on the targeting scope. “We’ve got one last shot.”
The bombers had been blasting the hull of the enemy battleship, picking away at it bit by bit. But Hurley intended to fire a rocket through one of the breaches to detonate inside the vessel. It was a hard shot, but she was determined to make it. The gashes were long, but the largest was only about three meters wide…barely twice the size of the rockets. She’d missed three times, and the bombers carried four rounds. This was it.
“Get me close, lieutenant.” Potter was a strong pilot, but getting in too tight was dangerous. A hit, or a minor malfunction, could cause the bomber to careen into the target vessel. But Greta Hurley was determined, and now she had Potter’s blood up too.
“Yes, captain.” Her voice was distracted, distant. There was nothing on Emma Potter’s mind but the bomber she was flying. She angled the sleek little craft and tapped on the throttle. She was burning the engines hard, but just for a second or two each time. It was an uncomfortable ride. The 6g pulses of thrust felt like getting hit in the chest with a bat. But she was swinging around, bringing the bomber directly at the ragged gash in the Leviathan’s side. “You’ll only have a second, admiral.” Her voice was hoarse, strained with tension. “Then I’ll have to spin around and execute a burn. Otherwise we’ll crash into the hull.”
Hurley didn’t answer. Her face was pressed against the scope. The targeting computer was feeding her data through her earpiece, but she was doing this with her gut.
“Now, admiral. You’ve got three seconds.”
Hurley nudged the stick, massaging the targeting angle. Three seconds, she thought, three seconds. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, droplets sliding down the side of her neck. She knew she was running out of time. Take the shot, she thought….take the bloody shot.
Her fingers tightened, pulling the trigger than launched the tiny sprint missile. She felt a giant fist slam into her as Potter spun the bomber and blasted away at 10g. She was pushed back into her chair, gasping for breath. It wasn’t just the pressure…there was another pain there as well, something new. She’d cracked a rib…at least that’s what it felt like. It wasn’t important now, so she gritted her teeth and ignored the pain. A few seconds later, Potter killed the thrust and she could breathe again.
“Scarlett…damage assessment.” Every word hurt, like a burning knife slicing through her chest.
“Direct hit, admiral. Your rocket detonated inside the enemy vessel. Still scanning for specific effects, but the damage appears to be catastrophic. Remaining craft in the squadron are launching at the now-expanded breach. Projecting multiple additional hits.”
Hurley leaned back, eyes tearing from the pain as she tried to catch her breath. She was dirty, hurt, and sore, but she’d never felt better in her life.
“Lieutenant, take us home.”
Augustus Garret stood on Lexington’s battered flag bridge. He had no idea how many hits the ship had taken, but there was damage everywhere. The air was thick with smoke, though it was less caustic than before, and the smell was one of burnt circuitry instead of chemicals. There was a collapsed girder lying on the deck, and a dusty layer of grit covered the workstations and survival suits of his staff.
There had been casualties on Lexington, he was sure of that, but his staff had escaped all but minor injuries. He knew the flagship was in rough shape, but all its systems seemed to be functioning. Both reactors were operating, one at full, the other at half power. There was a lot of damage in the landing bays, but Captain Stone and his people had managed to get Hurley and all of her survivors landed.
There were vessels of the Pact everywhere in the system. Some were lightly hit, but most had taken considerable damage. A number were drifting, waiting for propulsion systems to come back online. More than a few were fighting to get internal fires under control and restart vital systems. The already lengthy list of destroyed vessels was likely to grow, and Garret had given strict orders to abandon any ship that was beyond saving. He didn’t like the thought of losing more ships, but he was adamant that no more of his people be needlessly added to the roster of those killed in action.
In all of the vast, mostly empty space that made up the Delta Leonis system, there was not a live First Alliance vessel remaining. There were dead hulks and massive fields of floating debris…enough to keep Hofstader and Sparks and the rest of their whitecoats busy for years. But there wasn’t a functioning enemy ship anywhere.
Augustus Garret and the Combined Fleet of the Grand Pact had swept the system clean, and the last forty or so enemy vessels had retreated through the warp gate. It was the first time a First Imperium force of that size had run, and Garret figured it was a turning point of some kind. He wasn’t sure what it meant long term, and he certainly didn’t fool himself into thinking the war was over. But it had been a good few days for the cause. The cost had been high, as it usually was, but at least those who died gave their lives for a victory, one that saved countless human lives on the planets beyond Sandoval. Garret’s people weren’t running, they weren’t pulling back. Here they stood in possession of the battleground, and their pride swelled, momentarily overcoming the crushing exhaustion.
Garret’s own elation was on hold, however. He stood behind Max Harmon, staring down as his chief of staff worked the com circuits. Lexington’s communications were functional, but they were far from 100%. “It’s ready, sir. We’re transmitting to the surface.”
“Garret to 1st Army HQ.” He nodded his thanks for Harmon. His legs were a little weak, and there was a tightness in his gut. “This is Combined Fleet Command to General Cain. Please respond.” Where they in time to save Cain and his people? How bad would things be down there? Combined Fleet didn’t have much in the way of land forces, and Garret wasn’t sure how much he could do if the First Imperium forces had Cain’s army on the run. Or worse.
The flag bridge was silent, everyone waiting, wondering…praying that 1st Army was still holding out. All through the vicious battle in space the worry had been there. Had the enemy wiped out Cain and his forces?
Garret knew the delay in orbital communications was short, less than a third of a second. But he could have sworn he’d been waiting for hours, listening to nothing but staticky silence. His stomach was churning, and he could feel the tightness in his chest.
“Combined Fleet, 1st Army HQ here.” The voice was immediately familiar. Lexington’s flag bridge erupted into wild cheers. “Cain here, admiral.” A short pause, then: “What took you so long, sir? We could use a ride. It’s getting pretty boring down here.”
Chapter 28
Upper Atmosphere
Planet Garrison
Alpha Corvi III
“The Line”
“Attack force Alpha, three minutes to landing.” John Marek’s voice was like a knife slicing through the clouds. His force was small, but it was fresh and well-equipped. And Marek figured General Gilson needed everything she could get right about now.
Marek had disobeyed orders by coming to Garrison…sort of. His plan bordered on insane, and Admiral Garret had rejected it. But Marek’s troops were from Columbia, veterans of the bloody rebellion there. And John Marek was the president of that world and the commander of its small army. He was a Marine too, as he would be until he died, but he was inactive and therefore not subject to the chain of command. At least that was his interpretation. With Garrison only two transits from Columbia, he was also doing his duty to defend his adopted homeworld. If Garrison fell and 2nd Army was destroyed, he’d have very little chance of holding Columbia alone.
The Alpha Corvi system was occupied by a First Imperium fleet, and the defenders on Garrison were comple
tely cut off. The Grand Pact fleet assigned to defend the system had been badly defeated in the initial battle, and there wasn’t enough strength to even consider a return engagement…especially not with the resources diverted for the relief of Sandoval. But Marek’s plan didn’t require a fleet. The layout of the Alpha Corvi system allowed a ship to trace a straight course from the warp gate to the planet Garrison.
Marek’s ships had come in silent, engines shut down, energy emissions at a minimum. It was a gamble…a big one. If the unarmed transports had been detected they’d have been destroyed in an instant. They had no escort – no force of warships Marek could have mustered would have meant anything in a fight against the First Imperium fleet. He was counting on stealth, and a careful use of the gravity of Garrison’s two large moons to position his fleet into planetary orbit with a minimum of energy output.
He’d intended to use whatever ships he could scrape up, but Roderick Vance had intervened and provided six modern troop transports, packed with the newest ECM and stealth equipment. Marek had no idea how Vance found out about his plan, but he was grateful. The Martian equipment vastly increased his chances of getting through.
The launch had gone off perfectly, the sleek 10-man Confederation landers gliding down to the surface carrying his 2,800 troops…and the skeleton crews of the transports. For the ships themselves, it was a suicide mission. Detected as they braked to enter orbit, they had barely enough time to launch the landers before they were blown to plasma. But they’d gotten everyone off, and the expedition didn’t suffer a casualty until the first of the landers was shot down.