by Jay Allan
“Reports indicate ten Gremlins destroyed or reduced to combat ineffectiveness, admiral.” Carp’s head was bobbing back and forth, reading multiple data inputs. “Major Bogdan is focusing his bombing strike on the remaining Gargoyles.”
Jacobs suppressed a little frown. He wished there’d been time to rationalize the Grand Pact’s rank structure. The RIC used army-equivalent ranks for their bomber corps, while the Alliance assigned naval designations. Major Bogdan was the rough equivalent of an Alliance commander, which made him the senior squadron leader and put him in charge of the overall strike. It wasn’t really very important, but Jacobs liked things as clear and simple as possible. Confusion and poor communication had lost more battles throughout history than every other cause combined.
“Very well.” There was a touch of concern in his voice. He wanted those Gargoyles taken out, but with his bombers targeting them exclusively, he was going to have to deal with a lot of surviving Gremlins. Bogdan was doing the right thing…Jacobs just wished the missiles and buoys had taken out more Gargoyles. “Advise Major Bogdan that I approve his target priorities.” He just couldn’t risk letting the heavier Gargoyles get into energy weapons range. He outnumbered them enough to win the battle no matter what, but his ships would be ravaged, and he simply couldn’t risk taking that much damage so early in the campaign. If the enemy had over 30 ships on patrol here, there were worse things waiting for his people down the line. “And wish the major good luck and Godspeed.”
Bogdan’s bomber cut the 4g thrust that had been pushing down on its crew and went into free fall. The Gargoyle was less than 80,000 klicks from his ship…knife fighting range in space. Coming in this close was dangerous, but Bogdan didn’t care…he was going to take this son of a bitch down, whatever he had to do. He’d double-loaded his plasma torpedo, which meant one of his three crew members was focusing almost entirely on keeping the thing from blowing while it was still in the tube.
Overpowering the plasma torpedoes wasn’t his own innovation. He’d heard that Greta Hurley had done it a few times during the battles on the Line. Hurley was a hero in the fighter jock community, worshipped by her own pilots and respected by every officer who’d ever set foot in a bomber. She’d faced the First Imperium in more than half a dozen engagements and come back every time. A lot of her crews came back too, which was something no other commander could say. Losses were heavy on her missions, no question, but they’d been far worse in every battle where she hadn’t been there to command the wings. No one had anything close to her experience facing the First Imperium. Bogdan had heard they were going to make her an admiral and put her in command of all of Grand Fleet’s wings. If the rumors were true, she would be the first officer of flag rank to lead her forces from the cockpit of a fighter-bomber – and he knew enough about her to be sure they’d never get her out of her fighter. Her legend would continue to grow, Bogdan thought with a smile. He couldn’t think of an officer who deserved it more…or anyone he’d follow more willingly into the burning fires of hell.
“Watch those torpedo readings, people.” He had three other ships with overpowered weapons in the launch tubes. The other two of his birds didn’t make it through the point defense. Losing a third of his ships already had him pissed…he didn’t want anyone getting careless now. If his people stayed focused, they could do their jobs and get out without any more losses. And Pavel Bogdan was not willing to lose any more of his crews. “Fire at will.”
His job as squadron leader done for the moment, he switched hats to gunner. Pavel Bogdan was going to take this shot himself. The Gargoyle he was facing had a significant hull breach, and he intended to place his torpedo precisely where it would hurt the most. He stared into the targeting scope, the bomber’s AI constantly updating the feed. The background noise in the cockpit gradually vanished for him as his mind tightened and focused. Bogdan was able to tune out virtually anything and concentrate on the task at hand with enormous intensity.
That didn’t lessen the stress though; it just controlled it. He felt the rivulets of sweat sliding down his neck as he adjusted the aiming data, and he could sense his heart beating in his chest like a drum. He was counting down softly to himself, allowing his intuition to guide him in tweaking the targeting computer’s firing solution. Suddenly, he knew it was time. His finger squeezed tightly, and the ship shook hard. The torpedo was away. “Execute thrust plan Zeta.” The weapon would take almost 30 seconds to reach its target, and Bogdan wasn’t about to sit around deep in the enemy point defense envelope and wait. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He winced and felt a shiver down his back as he waited for the pinprick of the acceleration couch’s med system injecting the pre-acceleration drug cocktail. Bogdan had grimly led fighter squadrons on hopeless missions and coolly ignored enemy fire so thick it seemed to fill space, but he didn’t injections, and he always dreaded waiting for the system to give him the shot.
His arm twitched as the needle finally poked into his skin, and he felt the irrational relief he always did once it was over. The compartments on his chair opened, expanding into the protective couch that would shield him from the acceleration that was coming. “Executing engine burn in five, four, three…” The artificial voice of the craft’s AI was loud, reverberating off the walls of the small cockpit. “…two…one.” Bogdan felt the pressure as his bomber’s engines fired at full thrust. The couch and drugs provided considerable protection, but 38g was unpleasant to experience no matter what was wrapped around you. He felt the increased pressure in his helmet, helping to force air into his tortured lungs. Still, he perceived his clarity fading, replaced by the strange hypnotic state so frequently experienced by spacers in high thrust situations.
He was drifting, caught between consciousness and a waking dream, but he heard the AI’s voice clearly, and he understood exactly what it was saying. “Target destroyed.”
“I said fall back again.” Jacobs’ voice was sharp…more so than he’d intended. Carp hadn’t argued with him; he’d merely passed on the concerns of Jacobs’ subordinate commanders. “Inform Squadron Captains Cleret and Mondragon that I understand exactly what I am doing, and I will take their suggestions under advisement. In the meanwhile, they are to execute the specified thrust plan without further discussion or delay.”
“Yes, sir.” Carp’s response was crisp and immediate.
Jacobs understood the thinking of his attack ship commanders, both of whom had considerably outranked him until a few months before. Suicide boat tactics were aggressive, based on speed and daring. The attack ships were considered expendable, at least in the context of major fleet operations, and their crews were audacious, always anxious to get at the enemy.
But they were far from expendable to Jacobs. Attack ships were designed to boldly charge in against larger ships, and their plasma torpedoes gave them enough punch to hurt any vessel…even a battleship. Or a First Imperium ship. But their speed and maneuverability served another purpose. They made excellent scouts, and that, Jacobs reminded himself, was the true purpose of his entire fleet. If he lost his ships fighting with an enemy picket force, he wouldn’t be able to properly execute that mission…and Garret and Compton and most of mankind’s warships would blunder forward blindly. Even if his vessels were just damaged, it would still wreak havoc with the operation. He was counting on speed, not just to get his ships into good scouting positions, but to get them out again with the intel they gathered. Battered ships operating on reduced power would be poor scouts…and easy targets.
They’d been fighting a running battle for fourteen hours, Jacobs firing a missile volley and thrusting away from the enemy. None of the rounds had been as effective as the first. The laser buoys were gone; there were replacements in the supply ships, but there was no way to reload his warships in the middle of combat. The missile barrages were scoring fewer hits too. Missiles fired from a retreating fleet had to work against the intrinsic velocity of the launch platforms, so they couldn’t build
as much speed toward the enemy. Consequently, they spent a lot more time in the point defense envelope…and took a lot more losses. Jacobs was thrusting after each launch, increasing his velocity away from the enemy, making each subsequent volley increasingly problematic.
Still, the First Imperium fleet had been worn down. There were just nine Gremlins surviving, and most of those had at least some damage. The suicide boat commanders were clamoring to go in and finish them off, but so far Jacobs had refused. Pavel Bogdan’s bombers had re-armed and flown another sortie, and Jacobs was hoping he could take out the rest of the enemy ships with this last round of missiles. His vessels had just fired the last ordnance in their magazines, so if the enemy survived, he was going to have no choice but to send in the attack ships and take the losses.
His bomber squadrons were in worse shape than he’d have liked. Bogdan had lost close to 40% of his fighters, which was actually low for two attack runs at a First Imperium fleet. But it was still close to half his strength. He had some replacement bombers in the supply ships, and Bogdan was sure at least a third of his crews had managed to eject from their destroyed craft. Given time to rescue his crews and uncase the replacement fighters, he could get his available strength close to 75% of its initial level. Not great, but it would have to do.
“Captains Cleret and Mondragon acknowledge receipt of your confirmed order, sir.” Carp had a diplomatic touch. “Confirmed” had a softer feel to it than “repeated.” Mondragon had simply accepted the command, but Carp had momentarily thought Cleret was going to continue to put up a fight. The veteran attack ship commander vented for a few seconds, but he, too, ultimately accepted his superior’s order.
Indianapolis shook as her engines fired again, and the bridge crew hunkered down as the relief of freefall was replaced with the discomfort of three gravities. The flagship’s lights dimmed as the engines roared to life. Jacobs had stayed out of energy weapon range, but he hadn’t been able to prevent his ships from taking damage from the enemy’s missiles. The Gremlins had been targeting his heavier ships, the cruisers…and they’d managed to identify the flagship, sending heavy fire its way. That was new, he thought…more lessons they’ve learned from us.
Indianapolis had taken damage from two nuclear detonations, and one had knocked out a section of conduits near the power core. Jacobs hadn’t had to power down the reactor, but he’d followed the engineer’s recommendation and reduced output to 40% until the repairs could be made. The affected compartments were heavily radiation contaminated, and his damage control teams still hadn’t been able to get in there and repair the problem. We’ve got bots to do so much for us, he thought, but sometimes you just need to get men and women in there to fix things.
He was running projections in his head, educated guesses on what his last missile barrage would do to the enemy. He added it up ten different ways, and it kept coming out the same. There were going to be survivors. He was going to have to commit some of the attack ships after all…or else go in with the cruisers and gamble on how many particle accelerators the damaged enemy craft still had functioning.
“Commander Carp…” Jacobs’ voice was halting, hesitant. He didn’t want to do what he knew he had to. “Order Captain Mondragon to organize a task force of 20 attack ships and prepare to move against the enemy formation at my command.” Cleret was senior to Mondragon, but Jacobs wasn’t about to give the arrogant SOB the satisfaction. Jacobs respected Mondragon as an officer, and he definitely considered him the smarter of the two.
“Yes, sir.” Carp pushed back an amused smile. He’d been pretty sure the missile barrage wasn’t going to get the job done, that Jacobs had given in to wishful thinking. He’d been confident the admiral would quickly come to the same conclusion, so he’d refrained from offering his own suggestions…especially after Jacobs’ exchanges with Cleret and Mondragon.
Jacobs had rescued Carp from a lifepod during the fighting around Adelaide. The officer had served the admiral, then captain, ever since. His respect for his CO over that time had only grown. Jacobs wasn’t one of those officers who stuck to his guns out of useless pride and arrogance. When he was wrong, he admitted it, at least to himself, and quietly changed his course. The youthful lieutenant commander had only served under two captains…Jacobs, and before him, Captain Calloway, who’d sacrificed himself to give his crew a chance to escape certain death. He knew he was lucky; even in an organization with the history and reputation of the Alliance navy, officers like Jacobs and Calloway were rare.
Carp had been one of the few survivors from the attack ship Raptor when it had been destroyed trying to defend Adelaide early in the war. The small squadron of attack ships under Captain Calloway never had much chance to save the planet from invasion, but that battle had produced extraordinary and unexpected results. Jacobs’ ship had miraculously survived, eventually to journey deep into unexplored space and locate the only known First Imperium base. That discovery now formed the basis of Pact strategy.
“Admiral, Captain Mondragon reports he will have a 20 vessel attack force ready for action within five minutes.”
Jacobs smiled. He realized Mondragon had already had some preparation in place. It took at least ten minutes just to get the plasma torpedoes out of secured storage. He might have been annoyed, but he couldn’t fault an officer for preparedness and initiative, even when it strayed close to insubordination. Jacobs would take doers any day over blindly obedient drones.
“Very well, commander. Advise the captain to report in when his task force is ready.” Jacobs paused for a few seconds, then he turned to face Carp. “And commander…tell the captain he is under no circumstances to include his vessel in the force nor lead the attack himself.” Jacobs knew what Mondragon would want to do…he knew what he would want to do in his subordinate’s place. But he couldn’t lose a key commander to a freak shot from an enemy particle accelerator. Not this early in the campaign. Mondragon was one of the few officers he had whom he’d trust on an independent scouting mission. He would need him later; he was sure of that.
“Yes, sir.” It was Carp’s turn to force back a smile. He’d been thinking the same thing, and he’d expected Jacobs’ command…though he didn’t think Mondragon would like it much. “Transmitting your orders now.”
Francisco Mondragon could swear like no one else in the Pact’s combined naval forces. He had a seemingly unending list of curses from his Basque homeland, most of which only he understood. That was a good thing, because many of them were insulting enough to cause a fistfight at best and a blood feud at worst.
A bit of that invective was silently directed toward Admiral Jacobs. Mondragon didn’t dislike Jacobs, in fact he quite respected and admired Scouting Fleet’s commander. Unlike Captain Cleret, Mondragon had no resentment over the fact that Jacobs had leapfrogged them both. He had achieved something incredible in scouting so deep into uncharted space, and Mondragon felt he fully deserved the promotion. But now Jacobs had ordered Mondragon to send his ships into battle, and he’d refused to let him go with them. He understood the admiral’s reasoning – and he would have done the same thing in his place - but he was pissed nevertheless.
Mondragon had served in the federal navy since he was sixteen years old and, in a service riddled with bureaucracy and cronyism, he’d managed to rise in the ranks based solely on his ability. Few others had been able to attain a commission, much less command rank, without family influence or a powerful patron.
In the days before the Unification Wars, Mondragon’s Basque brethren had been less than thrilled to be part of the nation of Spain. Now the entire area that had once been Spain was part of Europa Federalis, and a significant percentage of the former Spaniards were no more enthusiastic at the relationship. But it was the era of the Superpowers, and fractionalized nationalism within Europa Federalis had been brutally crushed for over a century. Many in the Basque areas still bristled at being part of the French-dominated Superpower, but they did so quietly, and only among trusted comp
atriots. Everyone, it seemed, had a grandfather or other ancestor who’d disappeared or been executed during one of the crackdowns. The age of rebellion, the struggle for freedom…they were long lost and dead, replaced by autocracy grotesquely masquerading as a republic. Technology had shattered the hopes of any would-be rebels. The governments controlled massive high-tech surveillance systems and enormously powerful weapons. The days of freedom fighters taking to the streets to push for change were a fading memory. Like it or not, they were all Europan citizens.
Mondragon was a military professional who spent most of his time seeing to the needs of the men and women he commanded. He paid lip service to patriotism as required by his career, but he had no love for the massive nation he served. He’d felt no calling to follow any flag, and certainly not the Europan one. The navy had been an escape from a life as a migrant farm worker, one he was lucky to get, and he’d jumped at it.
Now he felt something new. He was serving a cause, one he could believe in fully. All mankind was united, facing a common enemy, and Francisco Mondragon finally knew what it was like to feel something akin to patriotic fervor. He wasn’t fighting the unending and pointless war with the CEL, watching thousands die to determine whether Paris or Neu-Brandenburg would rule a few disputed colonies. Now he was fighting for home, for his mother and father and sister…for their very survival. It was a feeling he’d never experienced before…and it was making it even more difficult to sit and watch his people go into battle without him.
Jacobs had fought a masterful running battle, expending ordnance, but keeping his fleet from suffering crippling damage. Now, Mondragon’s people were going in to finish the job. There were six enemy ships left, all the smaller Gremlins. Every one of them was damaged, but it was unclear how badly. The fast attack ships had to get in close to launch their torpedoes, running first through the enemy’s missile and energy weapon zones. If the surviving Gremlins were badly hurt and a significant number of their weapons systems were knocked out, Mondragon’s task force might keep their losses light. If those enemy ships had their full missile broadsides and particle accelerator batteries functional, the suicide boats would earn their nickname. Again.