Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  The hatch slid open. The noise was the first thing that hit Compton. The airlock was soundproof, but the bay itself was an ear-splitting cacophony. There were alarms going off, technicians shouting, all sorts of loud equipment performing one task or another.

  He walked across the deck toward the stricken fighter. He passed two techs who stared dumbstruck for an instant before snapping to attention. The fleet admiral was an infrequent visitor to the landing bay.

  “Don’t let me interfere with your work, gentlemen. At ease.” He walked up toward Hurley, who was waving one arm and giving the crew chief a series of instructions Compton couldn’t hear over the din. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned and walked in his direction.

  “Admiral. Welcome to the landing bay, sir.” She stopped a little over a meter from Compton and snapped to attention.

  “Yes, yes.” He gestured with his hand, waving off her formality. “Relax, Greta. You’re part of the admiralty now. We try not to torture each other with that crap any more than necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stood a bit less rigidly, perhaps, though it would still be a respectable effort at attention for most spacers. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Compton took a deep breath. “First, I want say I’m very happy to see you more or less intact, Greta. You gave us quite a worry there for a while.”

  “Thank you, sir. It was a little dicey for a while, but Commander Wilder is one hell of a pilot.”

  “Yes he is.” Compton smiled. “Why else do you think Admiral Garret sent him here to fly you around?”

  “I appreciate the admiral’s concern, sir.” Hurley was frustrated, but she was trying hard to hide it. “I’m perfectly capable of flying my own fighter, sir. And that would free up Commander Wilder to take over one of the wings.”

  “Give it up, admiral.” Compton’s grin widened. “Even I can’t order that. Not without being grossly insubordinate.” He paused for a few seconds. “And I don’t violate Augustus Garret’s orders lightly.”

  She’d been ready to put up a fight, but all the air deflated from her. Garret was the last word, not just the overall commander, but a legend in the navy. No one argued with Augustus Garret. Rumor had it that Compton had once or twice, but no one else would ever dare. “Understood, sir.”

  “You’re the least expendable person in this fleet, Greta.”

  She stared back at him, a doubtful expression on her face. “You’re too kind, sir.”

  “I’m quite serious. Admiral Garret could replace me. General Gilson could replace Erik Cain…as much as anyone can.” He smiled when he thought of someone stepping into Cain’s shoes. He and Erik had become close friends, but he’d be damned if he could truly figure out what made the stubborn jarhead tick. He looked right at Hurley, his eyes finding hers. “But your experience with fighter-bomber tactics against the First Imperium is unmatched. And fighters are the one weapon the enemy doesn’t seem to possess. They have no truly effective counter.”

  “Until now, sir.” Her voice was grim.

  “Yes, these new weapons are a concern. But they are likely a specialized system, deployed to protect their worlds from missile attacks. We’ve seen no evidence of a mobile version.” He cleared his throat. “And, with any luck, your people just blew away all of them in this system.”

  “Yes, sir.” She forced a tiny grin. Her people did well, and she was proud of them. “The wings did a great job. Even with me out of the mix.”

  Compton tried to imagine Greta Hurley trapped with no com, unable to reach her people in battle. Maybe, he thought, I should give Commander Wilder and his people some sort of decoration for being trapped in there with her for four hours. He caught the laugh before it came out. It would have been difficult at best to explain the humor. “Your people performed brilliantly…and your plan was flawless.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Compton frowned. “I’m sorry, Greta, but I’m going to have to send your people right back out there.”

  Hurley stared back into Compton’s eyes. “What do you need us to do, sir?”

  Her unquestioning readiness almost made it worse for him. He hated taking a unit that had suffered 30% casualties in six hours of sustained operations and sending it back out with no rest. Her crews would barely have time to grab a quick meal while their ships were refueled and re-armed, and they’d be out again, back in the fight.

  “Captain Duke’s attack ships hit the enemy pretty hard. They’re on the far side of the First Imperium fleet, decelerating to turn about and make a second attack run.”

  “That’s excellent news, sir.” She nodded. “I’ve never met Captain Duke, but I’ve heard good things about him.”

  “The bad news is he lost 20 ships.” Compton spoke softly, grimly. “I can’t hold the fleet back and let him attack the entire enemy force alone again. But I have no idea how many antimatter-armed missiles the enemy has.” He sighed loudly. “Greta, I need your people to run anti-missile missions. We need to do everything possible to intercept as many of them as we can. They could gut the fleet with antimatter ordnance if we’re not careful.”

  Hurley nodded again. “Yes, sir. I understand.” She snapped back to attention. “You can count on us, admiral. We’ll blast those missiles to oblivion.”

  “And Greta…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I don’t want any of your hotshots getting too close on their attack runs. These aren’t nukes…they’re antimatter warheads. When you hit them they’re gonna blow, and those are some big explosions.” He stared right at her. “Do you understand me, Admiral Hurley?”

  She stood rigidly at attention and snapped back a sharp reply. “Yes, sir. I understand. I will make certain the squadrons are cautious, sir.”

  Neither one of them believed her.

  Compton watched the wall of incoming missiles on his monitor. They were still outside his point defense envelope, but they weren’t out of reach of Greta Hurley’s fighters. Her squadrons were heading right at the incoming barrage, extending the fleet’s missile defense range considerably. Compton knew he had to destroy most of the approaching weapons. If those were all antimatter warheads, the volley could do catastrophic damage to the fleet if it got through intact.

  They’re probably not all antimatter-armed, he thought, with more hope than conviction. The enemy ships had fired half their externally mounted missiles at John Duke’s attack ships, and the incoming strike consisted of both externally and internally carried ordnance. He’d never seen the enemy carry antimatter warheads in their internal magazines…the risk of a containment breach was just too great. But he had no way of knowing for sure. The First Imperium ships were manned by robots, so perhaps they had a different set of considerations. They could very well choose to take the risk to provide their modest fleet with more firepower. Simply because they hadn’t done it before didn’t mean they couldn’t.

  He had more to worry about than the enemy fleet, though. The orbital fortresses had all launched missiles as well. No human fleet had ever faced enemy fixed defenses before, and Compton had no idea what to expect. For all he knew, the massive volley launched by the forts was 100% antimatter-armed. He couldn’t take the risk…he had to use everything he could to take out the missiles.

  For about the hundredth time since he’d left Sandoval, Compton was thankful he had Greta Hurley in the fold. She wasn’t only the closest thing the Pact had to an expert on fighter strikes against enemy ships – she had also pioneered the use of fighter-bombers in an anti-missile role.

  He watched on the monitors as her fighters closed with the missiles. Before entering range, they dropped a line of point defense buoys. Recently upgraded by Tom Sparks and his research team, the tiny platforms were basically portable shotguns, towed into range by the attacking fighters.

  Compton’s plan was to keep the missiles under sustained, layered attack. First, the fighters would launch a strafing run, targeting the warheads with their light lasers. Compton wished
Hurley’s fighters could make a second run through the volley, but there was no way they could decelerate, turn, and catch the missiles. Not in time.

  After the fighter attack, the missiles would pass into the effective range of the shotgun buoys…all before entering what would normally be considered the point defense zone.

  Compton was confident in the plan, but he was worried about the fighters. Shooting down missiles should be a relatively safe mission for them, but the antimatter weapons were dangerous. Intercepting a nuclear warhead didn’t cause an atomic explosion; the mechanism itself was simply destroyed. An antimatter bomb was different. Most of its inner workings were there to keep it from exploding. It appeared the enemy employed something not enormously different from the magnetic bottles used in Alliance fusion reactors to trap supercooled stockpiles of antimatter. Although they had a familiarity with the principles employed, Tom Sparks and Friederich Hofstader had been unable to replicate the system. Damaging or destroying the fragile units in any way knocked out the containment, causing the antimatter to annihilate instantly.

  A 3-10 gigaton explosion was no joke, and fighters lacked the protection of capital ships, cruisers…even suicide boats. Hurley’s pilots would try to get close to get the best shot, but if they went too far they risked destroying themselves along with their targets. Compton had instructed them to exert caution, but fighter pilots were even crazier than suicide boat crews, and he was far from confident they’d obey.

  “We’re going in, admiral.” Hurley’s voice came through his com. She sounded completely different than she had on the landing bay…totally focused…cold, feral.

  “Good luck, Admiral Hurley.” Compton leaned back and watched his display. The fighters had to get through the enemy formation before the buoys started firing…or they’d be caught in the middle of the detonations. Compton sighed. He was worried about his people, but there was no one he’d rather have in charge than Greta Hurley, especially when razor-sharp timing and precision were needed.

  He watched as the fighters zipped through, taking out missile after missile. He was right, some of them got too close. A few were destroyed outright; others were heavily damaged or were blasted with immediately fatal doses of radiation. But overall the strike was a massive success, with losses well within acceptable parameters. That was a term Compton despised, but he couldn’t argue with its accuracy.

  The buoys were next, and they opened up, firing clouds of tiny heavy metal projectiles at enormous velocities. A 1-centimeter piece of osmium-iridium alloy at 3,000 kilometers per second imparted enough kinetic energy to vaporize a target the size of a missile, especially one that could be destroyed by nothing more than a wire being ruptured and cutting power to the containment system for a nanosecond.

  Compton let out a long breath. Between the fighters and the buoys, they’d taken out almost half the missiles…and his fleet’s point defense batteries hadn’t fired a shot yet. So far so good.

  “Arm plasma torpedoes.” Duke’s voice was loud and clear. His eyes were focused straight ahead, watching his ships on the tactical display. The main fleet’s missile attack had just gone in, and the enemy force was disordered and occupied with damage control. He’d timed his second strike perfectly.

  His people had paid heavily the first time they’d sliced through the enemy fleet. They’d taken a toll, but they left behind almost 1 in 5 of their number. Now they were back for revenge.

  “All ships report ready for attack run, sir.” Lieutenant Tosh sounded edgy, but she was holding things together. Tosh was Duke’s tactical officer on Jaguar, and when Duke took command of the task force, she inherited the overall support role. It was a massive jump in responsibility, but one she had handled well so far.

  Duke shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had the task force accelerating toward the enemy at 4g, which was extremely uncomfortable, but not enough to require the couches or any meds. He wanted as much velocity as he could get, but he wanted his people sharp and alert even more.

  They’d slipped through missile range while the enemy was firing at Compton’s fleet, and they’d managed to avoid more losses. Three more ships went down to particle accelerator fire, but the enemy had been focused mostly on its point defense operations against Compton’s strike, and their fire had been light and poorly targeted. Losing anyone hurt, but 3 ships was better than his most optimistic expectations had been.

  “Commence attack run.” He sat still, trying to stay as comfortable as possible under four gravities of pressure. “All ships fire at will.” His first attack had been tightly coordinated, with fire control directed from the flagship. But now the enemy fleet was badly hurt, and he wanted his captains picking their targets by opportunity, going after damaged vessels they could finish off. Duke wanted blood.

  The wave of attack ships streaked toward the enemy fleet, each captain altering thrust, changing vectors to go after chosen targets. Duke’s task force consisted more than half of Alliance ships, backed up by a crack contingent of boats from the PRC. He had some of the best fast attack ships in space, and now he resolved he would prove their true worth.

  “Make a course for enemy target 14, lieutenant.” Duke had assigned designations to each of the First Imperium vessels to help organize the attack. Number 14 was a Gargoyle with a massive gash on one side, spewing a huge cloud of frozen fluids into space. A well-placed pair of plasma torpedoes would finish it off, Duke was sure of it. “I want a course directly at the bogie…right down its throat.”

  “Yes, captain.” Tosh worked the controls for a few seconds. “Thrust calculated and entered into nav computer, sir.”

  “Execute.” He leaned back. “And get me the chief gunner. I’m going to have his hide if he misses the shot I’m going to give him.”

  “All vessels, launch laser buoys now!” There was hazy smoke on Midway’s flag bridge. The new ship had gotten her baptism of fire, taking damage from a missile near miss and a grazing shot from a heavy particle accelerator. She wasn’t damaged badly, but something was putting a lot of caustic smoke through the ventilation system. Not enough to seriously hurt anyone, especially sealed up in their survival suits, but messy and annoying nonetheless.

  Hurley’s people had done a tremendous job intercepting missiles, even if 33 bombers got caught too close to antimatter explosions and were destroyed. But even with her efforts and the point defense fire from the fleet itself, Compton’s ships had taken heavy damage from the enemy warheads.

  The barrage had been all antimatter-armed, which meant the enemy vessels had carried their enhanced weapons internally, something they’d never done before. That meant only one thing to Compton…the force he was facing was considered expendable. The enemy had to know it didn’t have enough strength to take out a fleet the size of his. There were two only two possibilities he could imagine. Either the enemy hadn’t expected a force as strong as his, a supposition he immediately rejected. He only had half of Grand Fleet, and the enemy had seen greater forces than he now led during the battles on the combined Line worlds. That left only one option. His people were walking into a trap.

  The more he considered it, the more it made sense. This enemy force was here to soften him up, to cause as much damage as possible before they sprung whatever trap they had planned. But it didn’t matter. Compton had no choice…his people had to take this world and find some way to defeat the First Imperium. Besides, he thought with a grim smile, there’s a good chance they don’t know Augustus Garret is on the way with the other half of the fleet. Maybe he’d get to spring a trap of his own.

  Trap or no, right now it was time to go toe to toe with the enemy forces in Sigma 4 and finish them off. He’d sliced and diced at their forces every way he could devise, wearing them down with Hurley’s fighters and Duke’s attack ships. Now he was done with the subtleties.

  “All units deploying laser buoys, admiral.” Harmon sounded aggressive, anxious to get at the enemy. “Estimate 45 second until full dep…” His head snapped aro
und to his display then back toward Compton. “Particle accelerator fire from the orbital forts, sir.” He turned again, reading the data coming in on his display. “Yorktown was hit sir. Reports are sketchy, but it looks like she’s taken heavy damage.” He stared at his data again for another few seconds. “Admiral, I think we’re looking at weapons significantly more powerful than those we’ve encountered before.”

  Fuck, Compton thought. He knew what it was right away. “They’ve got antimatter-powered particle accelerators on those fortresses.” He’d been worried about the forts, but he hadn’t foreseen more weapons powered by antimatter…and now he felt like a fool. They had antimatter-fueled point defense weapons…why not particle accelerators too? Whatever else had been happening while they were preparing Grand Fleet, the enemy got more antimatter up here, that much was certain.

  “Get me Admiral West.” Compton had sent West’s task force on an attack against the fortresses. She’d taken a wider course, and she should be coming around from behind the planet in a few minutes.

  “Yes, sir. Setting up the relay now.” West’s ships were using the planet for cover, which meant Compton didn’t have a direct line to her flagship. Harmon had to set up the link, using a series of other ships as relays. It would take a minute or two.

  Compton looked down at his screen and flipped his com to the AI link. “Joker, I want ongoing reports on any activity from the new particle accelerators.” Compton had been interacting directly with Harmon and the rest of his staff more often recently, instead of working through his AI. In the brief instances over the last month when he’d been able to spare time for idle conjecture, he’d wondered if it was some kind of subconscious reaction to the machine enemy. If it was, he thought with passing amusement, it was wasted effort. Working through another human being who was in turn working through an AI didn’t seem to make much difference when he really thought about it. And he wasn’t going to squeeze the computers out of modern war even if he wanted to; that much was a certainty. War in space was complex business, and men needed their electronic aides if they were going to fight it. But it didn’t really matter - his people where all fully occupied right now, and Joker was perfect for relaying him information promptly.