“Only three ships,” said the Ops chief. “The ISS Arthas, ISS Pandora, and ISS Dakota, however there were fifteen ships holding that side when the battle began. Now only three remain. No, wait…” his tone of voice darkened, “Make that two. We just lost the Arthas…as for the other two, the Dakota is holding position, but under heavy assault and the Pandora appears to be maneuvering away. Based on my scans, the Pandora has lost its shields and most of its armor. No doubt the captain is just trying to keep it in one piece until it can be repaired by a support ship.”
“There won’t be time for any more repairs,” said Ravinder, feeling fortunate that the short reprieve between the vanguard’s retreat and the commencement of the battle proper had given her crew enough time to restore the Hyperion’s shields to full. “At this juncture, we fight, with full ferocity and might, but there is no time for retreat, nor resupply, and most especially not repairs. The battle is joined. As I speak, our entire combat force has engaged the enemy’s front. Even our rearguard is exchanging fire with enemy capital ships, is that not correct?”
“That is correct, sir,” said the Ops chief. “The rearguard has taken the lightest beating so far; I believe they have only lost one ship. However they are in the fight. All of us are.”
“My point exactly,” said Ravinder. “Which means we must all do our part. And right now, the most important thing we can do is to protect the Victory and restore the defensive formation off the Victory’s portside flank.”
“The Dakota has also begun to withdraw; my scans indicate that it has sustained multiple hull breaches. I am unsure if they have been contained. The ship is fast maneuvering toward the rear of our formation. It’s coming apart! Sir, the Dakota has been lost…That means—”
“The Victory’s portside is completely exposed,” said Ravinder. She then made a snap decision, believing there was no other choice, even though it put her ship, and the tattered remains of those under her command, the surviving thirty-seven ships of the Third Fleet, into a greater position of vulnerability. She tapped her line that sent a broadcast to all other ships under her command. “General order to the Third Fleet, all remaining ships, immediately form up on the Hyperion’s flanks and maneuver to the following new coordinates; they will be transmitted directly.” She pointed to her Ops chief, who nodded and sent the coordinates to the Comms staff, who broadcast them to the remaining thirty-seven ships of the Third Fleet.
Then, as one unit, they moved together, nearly two-score warships, many of which had already sustained brutal damage; some had lost their shields completely, meanwhile others had gaping holes where their armor plates had been blasted loose, or otherwise shredded. But they each had one thing in common, they all had operational weapons. And that, to Ravinder, was what counted most. At least for now.
They quickly arrived at the ideal position to defend the Victory’s portside flank, and further shore-up the part of the defensive formation that had collapsed.
“Send a request to the other fleets, especially the First Fleet,” said Ravinder. “We need more ships to reinforce this position, or we won’t hold it for long.”
“Yes, sir,” her Comms chief acknowledged; he and his staff immediately began making contact with the nearest friendly warships, most would belong to the First Fleet, considering their position, Ravinder was certain of it. Meanwhile, the Hyperion began taking fire. There were flashes as beam weapons focused in on them, striking their vessel, crashing it with surges and storms of energy, each one trying eagerly to overwhelm the Hyperion’s shields.
“Defense status,” demanded Ravinder.
“Our shields are at fifty percent and holding. However the nearest enemy warships, four battlecruisers and three battleships, appear to have selected our vessel to focus fire on.”
“Damn,” said Ravinder. “Select their weakest ship and command the Third Fleet to focus fire on it. Two can play at that game.” Her staff obeyed, as did the commanders of the other ships belonging to the Third Fleet. Their target was quickly destroyed. Seeing it blast apart, that momentary flash as the final missile struck the vessel, proving one too many for its hull to withstand, reducing it to a spray of debris in all directions, the sight sent a jolt of excitement through Ravinder. Take that, you bastard, she thought. Then she ordered her people to repeat the pattern, targeting the next weakest ship. The outcome was much the same. Meanwhile, the Hyperion continued taking serious abuse, so much so that the shields were in danger of total failure.
“Reroute all available secondary and tertiary power to shields,” Ravinder commanded.
“Yes, sir, already working on that,” said the Ops chief. He directed his people to help him govern the warship’s various systems, no doubt searching for extra power to feed the shields, wherever they could get it.
“And, if you haven’t already,” said Ravinder, “Make certain our beam weapons are unpowered and that their power is reallocated to the shields.”
“Already done, sir,” said the Ops chief. “We’re doing everything we can, short of taking away life-support, thrusters, systems power, and missile guidance.”
Ravinder nodded. Should things continue in this fashion, with the Hyperion taking too much abuse, she would be forced to take power from life support as well, at least temporarily, and, when that stopped working, she would need to maneuver the Hyperion back, not so far as to abandon the Victory, but enough so that the nearest enemy warships would, hopefully, focus their attack on another, stronger ship. One in better condition and therefore more able to survive the beating.
Ravinder waited on those orders, however, as the situation had not yet come to that. Meanwhile the Third Fleet, including the efforts of the Hyperion, managed to eliminate a third and fourth battlecruiser, one first and then another. The latter must have already sustained significant damage from earlier combat, even though their scans had failed to pick up on it; that was the only explanation Ravinder had for why the enemy warship’s hull buckled so easily after so few missile and gun strikes.
Despite the casualties they were taking, the enemy did not alter its strategy; rather, it simply filled in the gaps created by the lost warships by sending forward more warships to replace any that were lost. It was good and bad news for the Hyperion and the rest of the Third Fleet. Good that they were successfully inflicting casualties upon the enemy, despite so far not losing another ship—yet. However, the bad news was that whenever they destroyed a battlecruiser, it was usually replaced by a battleship from somewhere farther back in the enemy’s tight phalanx formation, and a battleship had roughly double the armor and one and a half times the firepower of a battlecruiser, at least as far as Polarian warships went. Meaning they were running out of weak targets within their range to focus on, and now had the additional concern of an increased number of missiles and other heavy ballistic ordnance coming their way. And no ship in the Third Fleet had to worry more than the Hyperion, which continued to be the local enemy’s target of choice.
Beam weapons continued to slam them, challenging their shields, flash after flash, all while missiles were fired their way; the Hyperion had many skilled gun crews to go along with its many main guns, but even so, there was only so much the main guns could do. And Ravinder understood that. By maneuvering her flagship, and the rest of the Third Fleet into this position, she had effectively replaced the Victory with the Hyperion as the priority target of the nearest enemy capital ships.
Having groups of ships concentrate their fire against a singular target, in order to eliminate it more quickly, was a commonly used and well-understood tactic employed in fleet-to-fleet combat whenever such battles occurred. The difference between Ravinder’s approach, and that of this enemy, was that while she preferred to pick off the weakest ships first, lessening the number of ships able to shoot back in the quickest way possible, the Dread Fleet’s commanders apparently preferred to focus their fire against the strongest ships. Not because they were the most difficult and slowest to destroy—though that was usually
true—but rather instead, they operated using a tactic that Ravinder liked to describe as slicing the head off the snake. The enemy had chosen to target the Victory, hoping to destroy it, because they had correctly identified it as the command ship of the entire defense force.
Since the Victory was currently protected on either flank, the enemy was only able to strike at the Victory’s bow, which was the strongest part of the ship. Therefore, in order to engage the Victory’s weaker portside, they had to clear out the new defenders that had arrived to stall their advance, intercept their missiles, and block their shots. That was Ravinder and her ragtag Third Fleet. Along with any friendly capital ships that would, hopefully, be joining them—and soon.
The enemy correctly identified the Hyperion as the flagship of these new defenders. Even though they were only thirty-seven in number, the enemy commanders somehow recognized that this newly arriving force, which was attempting to shore up the Victory’s portside flank, was, in fact, its own independent unit of warships. Which effectively meant that, by maneuvering the Hyperion and the tattered remains of the rest of the Third Fleet into this position, Ravinder had effectively substituted the Victory for the Hyperion, in the eyes of the enemy, as their preferred target. The enemy would eliminate the Hyperion, along with its fleet—which was barely a squadron now—and then continue their concentrated assault against the Victory’s portside.
That explained the beating they were taking, and why the rest of the Third Fleet, so far, had seemingly been left alone. It was a good thing, too, Ravinder decided. Since the other ships, being far weaker and much more damaged, would be destroyed much more quickly and easily. This way, by taking the brunt of the abuse from the nearest enemy warships, Ravinder could use the Hyperion, and its struggling shields, to sort of de facto shield the other, weaker craft. This would work for as long as the Hyperion could endure the beating, or until the enemy changed tactics and decided it would simply be easier to wipe out the weak, semi-crippled warships first, then deal with the Hyperion. In either scenario, if reinforcements did not arrive soon, none of it would matter. The Third Fleet would be eliminated and the Victory exposed.
Although Ravinder took some small measure of comfort in the knowledge that, although various spots on the Victory’s hull on both the port and starboard sides were technically the massive dreadnought’s greatest vulnerabilities, even at their thinnest points the hull was shielded by six-times the amount of armored plating that a common battleship wore at its strongest points, and three-times the armor of an alpha-class dreadnought, such as the Hyperion. So, even if the Third Fleet was reduced to rubble and dust and swept aside by the superior forces of the enemy, Ravinder had some confidence that the Victory’s portside armor would protect the command ship long enough for reinforcements to arrive and shore up the portside flank before either the Victory was destroyed, or else forced to retreat, sending the defense formation into total disarray.
They took more abuse, mostly from beam weapons, and, after several more hits, the Defense chief announced that the shields were down.
“Get them back online immediately,” demanded Ravinder of the Defense staff, who, at this particular moment, was easily the busiest and most flustered department on the bridge.
“I’ve found some more power to funnel to the shields,” said the Ops chief. “But it will deprive several decks of life support.”
There was a flash as their ship took another direct hit from an enemy beam weapon, this time with no shields to protect them. Ravinder winced as she imagined the superheated armor plating, a portion of it scarred and melted away, wherever they had taken the hit.
“How much more of that can we take?” asked Ravinder, before another beam strike could hit them.
“I would say…not much,” said the Defense chief. “The armor is mostly designed for heavy guns and to reduce explosive impacts, but those beam weapons burn so hot the metal armor gets too hot and begins to fail.”
“Ops, take whatever power you need, from wherever you need, and get it back into those shields,” said Ravinder.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Comms, order the Harlequin and the Genesis to maneuver between us and those battleships that are striking us; we need them to distract the enemy and buy us some time to get our shields back up.”
“Aye, sir, relaying order,” said the Comms chief.
“But, Admiral,” said the Ops chief. “Based on my scans, neither of those ships have much more shield protection than we do, and both of them certainly have less armor.”
Ravinder felt guilty for giving the order; it felt like ducking behind another person and using that person as a shield to protect oneself from a crazed gunman. But she also could not allow the Hyperion to be destroyed. She had to hold this position, with whatever ships she could, until more arrived to shore up the weakest part of the formation, which was right here. Besides, she didn’t intend to use the Harlequin and Genesis as a means of protection for long; it just had to be long enough.
“For the sake of the lives on board those ships, get that damned shield up as fast as you can,” said Ravinder, perhaps projecting a portion of her guilt at her Defense staff.
“We’re doing the best we can as fast as we can, sir,” said the Defense chief. “We’ve only just received the new power source. We have to funnel it into the generators before we can re-activate them.”
As he spoke, there were more flashes out the window, but they seemed muted and distant. No doubt the result of enemy strikes against either the Genesis or the Harlequin. Ravinder was about to ask which one, so she could order it back if necessary, but before she opened her mouth, her question was answered. Just ahead, outside the forward window, she watched—they all did—as the Genesis suddenly exploded. One moment it was right there, the next it was a sphere of dust and debris, hurtling in all directions.
Some of the debris even struck the Hyperion, in multiple places, the Ops officer reported. Though he was quick to announce that only superficial damage had resulted from the strikes. Still, seeing the ship go, losing one more of their broken Third Fleet, their number now reduced to thirty-six, it tugged at something inside her. And Ravinder could not decide if she had made the right call, as a tactical decision, one that likely spared the Hyperion—at least for a while longer—or if she had made the decision based upon her own sense of self-preservation. She did not consider herself a coward, never had. And she participated in this battle today knowing full well, as they all did, what the likely outcome would be. But still…it made her wonder.
“The shields are back online,” announced the Defense chief. “Partially restored, but getting stronger by the second.”
“Good, now order the Harlequin to move aside, now!” said Ravinder, not wanting to experience yet another loss of a vessel under her command, especially considering that, were it to go, its destruction too would be viewable to the naked eye out the forward window, from this position, giving them all front row seats to the brutal execution of hundreds of officers and crew that, at that very moment, were undoubtedly scrambling inside the ship, desperately trying to keep the Harlequin together.
“Harlequin acknowledges and complies,” said the Comms chief and, out the window, Ravinder was relieved to see the frigate begin to move, rapidly accelerating, as if rushing out of sight. But then the unthinkable happened. And there was another flash. Ravinder was afraid to look, but could not look away, and she watched, filled with horror and rage, as the Harlequin, like the Genesis before it, was destroyed. Unlike the Genesis, the Harlequin didn’t blast apart into a million pieces hurtling through space; rather, this time, as the Harlequin went down, it was simply reduced to a charred skeleton, and all it took to blacken the starship, melt its hull, and bring all its systems offline were three quick flashes, in succession, as the beam weapons from multiple battleships struck the vessel.
“God damn them,” muttered Ravinder under her breath. “And God damn me for putting them there.”
The enemy
attacked in earnest then, striking not just at the Hyperion, but at the rest of the Third Fleet as well. Perhaps the ease with which they had dispatched the Genesis and the Harlequin had changed their minds from focusing solely on the Hyperion, and instead shifting tactics to eliminate these weakened, frailer vessels. Vessels which, until they were destroyed, continued to fire upon them, sending toward the Dread Fleet’s battleships whatever missiles and gunfire the Third Fleet could muster. Ravinder considered ordering a retreat, but knew there was no longer time; perhaps the Hyperion, with much of its strength restored, could survive long enough to slip into the back ranks of the defensive formation, but none of the other ships had any hope of surviving. They were equally doomed whether they stayed, fighting and swinging until the end, or whether they turned tail and fled, showing the enemy their sterns, most of which were weakened and damaged, like targets asking to be fired upon and destroyed.
No, thought Ravinder, as much as she regretted it, as much as it pained her to give the order to remain, to stand ground and continue fighting, that was the command she gave them. “We fight and we fight, defending the Victory with everything we’ve got, until we cannot do so anymore,” she had said, as part of the order she transmitted.
The enemy battleships began to fall, one by one destroyed by the concentrated firepower of the Third Fleet acting in perfect unison; together they fired everything they had, with everything to fight for and nothing to lose. They were as good as dead, especially when more enemy battleships arrived to replace those that had fallen. And, as soon as they did, the firefight between the warships so intensified that, for a moment, it seemed to be a total chaos of missiles, gunfire, and beam weapons, all reaching across the short expanse of space that separated the foes; it took seconds but felt like minutes, hours even, as, one by one, the rest of the ragtag Third Fleet—the bold ships that had begun this battle as the vanguard—were rapidly destroyed.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 24