“Aye, sir,” said Mister Demir. “Adjusting shields.”
Even by doubling the strength of their forward shields, Raidan knew the Harbinger could only endure this kind of attack for a short time. But, if it bought the Victory’s engineers a few more seconds to reroute power into the command ship’s shields, then it was worth taking some abuse. However, unlike Fleet Admiral Ravinder, Raidan was unwilling to sacrifice his ship just to defend the ISS Victory.
“All missile batteries lock to targets and fire at will,” said Raidan. “As for the guns, hold half of them in reserve. I expect a lot of missiles coming our way.”
“Yes, sir, relaying orders,” said Mister Demir.
Raidan’s prediction proved true as a fleet of battlecruisers advanced from the center of the Dread Fleet’s position and then, each of them, immediately began launching volley after volley of missiles—all targeting the ISS Victory.
“God, they’re really piling it on now, aren’t they?” said Raidan. He didn’t know exactly how many missiles there were, nor did he care to ask Mister Ivanov for a scan, all he knew was that the number was high and growing and the battlecruisers continued firing them.
“All forward guns, intercept those missiles,” Raidan commanded.
Mister Demir acknowledged the order and he, along with his staff, sent orders to the gun crews below. Meanwhile, Raidan considered turning the Harbinger broadside and making more guns available, in order to be doubly certain that the missiles did not reach the Victory—no matter how many, and how endless, the waves of missiles seemed to be.
To its credit, the Victory, and its unmatched number of forward guns, probably would have been able to destroy eighty percent of the inbound missiles, Raidan judged. As for the missiles that would have made it through, Raidan could only speculate as to mow much damage to the bow’s armor and hull the detonations would have caused, but, fortunately, he never had to find out, as the guns from the Harbinger eliminated whatever missiles the Victory did not.
Once the barrage of missiles had ended, after seven volleys, the battlecruisers swiftly turned and accelerated. No doubt in an effort to escape retribution from the Victory, which was no longer distracted by missile bombardment. For many of the battlecruisers, the effort proved futile. The Victory shredded about twenty of them within only a few seconds, as if they had paper armor. Raidan was stunned as he watched the exchange on the 3D display.
For its part, the Harbinger also fired what it could at the retreating battlecruisers, destroying four and badly injuring two more, but their effort paled in comparison to that of the Victory.
“Well, obviously we’re not needed here, for the time being,” said Raidan. He then commanded the Harbinger to relocate, creating some space between it and the center of the battle, but still remaining near the front.
Raidan made his judgments of where and how to position the Harbinger by analyzing the tactical display. However, whenever he looked at it, he couldn’t help but think of how many fewer lights appeared than had at the start of the battle; it was depressing to think about. Still, he could not lose heart. Even if they could never win this battle, the future of the Empire lived and died here, today, and Raidan would be damned if he let it die without giving his all to stop that from happening.
As the Harbinger was in transition, now too distant from the Victory for either ship to support the other, Mister Ivanov drew his attention to the appearance of a large swarm of warships making a power move against the starboard flank of the defensive formation. Not unlike the attack that had earlier collapsed the portside, and had forced the entire defense to retreat.
This time, retreat was no longer an option. So Raidan understood that it was paramount that the defense force bolster that position before it fell to the enemy. “We must not allow the formation to collapse there; move us to that position, maximum speed.”
“Aye, sir, on our way now,” said Mister Watson, acknowledging the order.
“And Mister Gates,” said Raidan. “Instruct the flotilla—and every ship that remains, regardless of its fighting condition—to immediately divert to those same coordinates. We must prevent that position from collapsing.”
Mister Gates acknowledged and got to work transmitting Raidan’s order.
“What about our shields?” asked Mister Demir.
“What about them?” asked Raidan.
“They’re in no fit state to take much abuse from any beam weapon fire, sir. And the ship, our armor, and all our systems are operating at full capacity, but we’re a lot more vulnerable than you think. See for yourself.” He pointed to a display on which, even from the command position, Raidan could clearly see the detailed representation of the Harbinger. Mister Demir adjusted it, showing various different angles, each time pointing to potential weaknesses where the armor had been compromised and, in some spots, completely destroyed.
I had no idea we’d taken so much battle damage, thought Raidan. But that did not affect his resolve. “Regardless,” he said. “Mister Watson, stay true to course and, as soon as we’re in weapons range, Mister Demir, have your crews commence firing on the enemy. For now, continue to hold some fifty percent of the guns in reserve, but give the crews manning those guns authority to fire on sight, should any enemy missile come into range.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” his people acknowledged him.
Mister Mason made eye contact with Raidan and nodded, as if to communicate his approval. Raidan nodded back, although he was entirely apathetic regarding Mister Mason’s approval or disapproval. Raidan was going to do what he thought best, always, regardless of what Mister Mason thought of it.
“Captain,” said Mister Gates, “We have made contact with the remaining ships of the flotilla. All commanders acknowledge your order and they are moving to those coordinates with all speed. However, all commanders report that they are some distance away and it will take some time before any of the rest of the flotilla can arrive.”
“What matters is that they get there as fast as they can,” said Raidan. “Nothing else.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Which fleet is responsible for shoring up and protecting the starboard flank?” asked Raidan, unable to remember exactly what orders Sir Arkwright had given and to whom.
“The Fourth Fleet, sir,” said Mister Ivanov. “Commanded by Fleet Admiral Sullinger aboard the ISS Seeker.”
“Mister Gates, send an urgent message to Sullinger and inform him that his forces protecting the forward portside of the formation are going to imminently collapse, unless he reinforces them.”
“Yes, sir,” sending message. Then, a moment later. “Fleet Admiral Sullinger acknowledges and says he already has sixty-three capital ships inbound.”
“How long until they arrive at that position.?” Asked Raidan.
“He did not say, but I would expect something close to ninety-seconds, said Mister Gates.
“Sir, we’re fast closing on the given coordinates,” said Mister Watson.
“How long until we are in firing range?” asked Raidan.
“Immediately,” said Mister Demir, in fact our gun crews have already begun opening fire on the inbound enemy force.
“So we just have to survive for a little over a minute,” said Raidan. He glanced at the tactical display to see what must have been twenty-something blue lights holding the position, currently exchanging fire with a horde of red lights that seemed too many, and too clustered, to count. “Hold position here and continue exchanging fire on the enemy. Mister Ivanov, drain whatever system you have to in order to keep our shields up.” Just as he spoke, there was a flash and Raidan knew their ship had just taken a beam weapon strike.
“Aye, sir, I’ll do everything I can,” said Mister Ivanov.
“As for the rest of you,” said Raidan. “You know what to do.”
The battle continued and, once the entire enemy formation had come into range, the nearby defenders began to fall. Raidan watched the blue lights blink away, one by one, from
fifteen down to three, in what could only have been thirty seconds.
Hang on, he thought. Just a little while longer!
“Sir!” said Mister Demir. “The enemy has begun to focus on us—there are missiles inbound!”
“Instruct all gun crews to switch to missile interception at once,” commanded Raidan.
“Yes, sir,” said Mister Demir. “Already working on it.”
“Mister Ivanov,” said Raidan, “How many missiles do your scanners detect?”
“More than we can handle, sir, with our forward guns.”
“Hard to starboard!” said Raidan, knowing that the side of the ship had many more gun batteries than were available to the bow.
“Yawing hard starboard!” said Mister Watson.
“Are you sure you want to intercept the missiles with our portside?” asked Mister Watson. Our starboard side is in better condition; the portside armor is…severely damaged.”
“But the portside has more operational guns,” said Raidan, remembering seeing that on Demir’s display. “I would rather destroy all of the inbound missiles, with a chance to take no damage—risking a more serious injury if a missile gets through than make a choice that almost guarantees we will be hit by some number of missiles, although the damage to the ship would be somewhat mitigated by the vessel’s armor.”
“As you say, sir,” said Mister Watson.
Raidan was quiet then, watching and listening, as Mister Ivanov counted down the number of missiles on course to strike them—and how soon. Meanwhile Mister Demir counted the number of missiles his gun crews successfully destroyed. It took only a few seconds before Raidan realized it would come down to the wire, and he genuinely did not know whether the Harbinger could stop enough of the missiles—even with every possible gun assigned to the task—to prevent crippling, possibly fatal damage to the ship.
Then he got his answer. “Sir!” cried Mister Demir. “Several of the gun crews report their guns have overheated. It will take time to get them online again.”
“That means—” Mister Ivanov began to say.
“That we cannot stop those missiles,” said Raidan. “At least not all of them. How many are predicted to successfully strike this craft, and where?”
“About eleven missiles, sir,” said Mister Ivanov. Raidan grimaced when he heard the number. Eleven missile impacts! Especially to a part of the ship that had compromised armor. “And, even worse, sir, the missiles appear to have been fired deliberately at the weakest points on our portside.”
“Will the missiles destroy us?” asked Raidan.
“Impossible to know. But…”
The expression on Mister Ivanov’s face was not positive.
“Time to impact?” asked Raidan. It felt as though he were asking the Reaper of death how much longer he had to live. As it turned out, not much.
“Nine seconds.”
Raidan took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for the possibility that the Harbinger would not survive. He counted down in his head. Seven. Six. Five. By the time he got to four, his thoughts were interrupted by Mister Ivanov. “Sir! All missiles have been destroyed. I repeat, all missiles have been destroyed.”
“What?” demanded Raidan.
“Sir, we are being hailed. Incoming message from the Arcane Storm,” said Mister Gates.
Then it suddenly made sense to Raidan what had happened. The Arcane Storm must have been closer to us than I’d thought. “Patch the message through to the loudspeakers, Mister gates.”
“Aye, sir.” Then, a moment later, Mister Gates signaled Raidan with a thumbs-up.
“So, Tristan, you loyal bastard,” said Raidan. “I suppose I have you to thank for eliminating some missiles that otherwise had my number.”
“Naturally,” Tristan replied. “I considered letting you die, of course, but then what fun would that have been? Besides, I thought you asked me to join you in this fight specifically to keep your ass alive—if possible.”
Raidan chuckled. “Well, whatever the reason, thanks for the assist.”
“Now that’s three you owe me.”
“I suppose so,” said Raidan. “But for now, back to the fight.” He then signaled Mister Gates to end the transmission. At this point, not only had the rest of the flotilla arrived but, by quick examination of the tactical display, Raidan could see that the ships from the Fourth Fleet had arrived as well.
Just in time too, since the enemy attack force had regrouped and appeared ready to charge their position.
“Now this is more like it,” said Raidan, noting the seemingly equal number of blue and red lights near his position on the tactical display. “Message the rest of the flotilla: prepare for imminent attack.”
CHAPTER 15
The battle raged all around. By this point, nowhere in the formation was safe; even the rearguard was exchanging fire and losing warships. Adiger gave his commands; he was very comfortable ordering his crew…he knew how to make them work hard and through their efforts, and perhaps a bit of luck, the Black Swan remained in the fight.
When it came to giving orders to the Seventh Fleet, his charges, that had proven much more difficult. One by one, their strength of ninety starships were picked off until only forty remained. At that point, he chose to appoint the most qualified of the other captains and gave him control of the remaining ships in the Seventh Fleet. Adiger could then focus solely on the Black Swan, and making certain that it was put to the best use for the queen and the Empire.
Although the battle had stretched on for some time, it seemed far from over. If anything, the affected region of space was more filled with missiles, heavy gunfire projectiles, and weaponized beams than at any point before. In the distance, he watched as a starship began taking so many beam strikes that it seemed constantly lit, almost like a candle. After a few seconds of this, the starship’s shields failed, as did its armor and hull, until it was no more than a burned out husk. All within the space of ten seconds.
This is madness, thought Adiger, as he observed the carnage. This is pure and utter madness. How did it possibly come to this?
His thoughts were interrupted by his Comms officer. “Sir, receiving multiple distress calls. General frequency.”
This did not surprise Adiger, given the state that most of the ships were in; everybody needed help and nobody was in any position to offer any. Still, there had to be something unusual about these particular distress calls, otherwise his Comms department would have filtered it out rather than drawn attention to it.
“The first is from the Star Chief Marshall,” said the Comms chief. “She says that she has grouped together all remaining starfighters and is moving them to assist the ISS Victory, which is under heavy drone attack. She requests all able ships in the vicinity—including us—
to move into position to help attack the drones.”
“Well, obviously we have to respond to that one, we cannot allow the Victory to fall,” said Adiger. “What were the other distress calls?”
“There was only one other one, sir, that I thought important,” said the Comms chief. “It was from Sir Doran on behalf of the Second Fleet. He says that the portside flank of the formation is nearing collapse and that any and all available warships—again, including us—move with haste to help bolster the defenders there; otherwise they will be overrun for certain.”
Suddenly it became a more difficult choice. On the one hand, if the drones were numerous enough to represent an actual threat to the Victory, he needed to help save the command ship by eliminating as many drones as possible. Then again, other ships, including all of the remaining Imperial starfighters were responding to that call; if no one came to assist the failing Second Fleet, and they were destroyed or else forced to retreat, then the defensive formation would collapse in on itself—just as it had once before.
“Move the ship to the coordinates provided by Sir Doran and inform him that the Black Swan is en route to assist,” commanded Adiger.
“Aye, sir,�
� his men acknowledged, getting quickly to task.
“How long can Sir Doran and the other defenders hold the position?” asked Adiger. “And what size of force are we up against?”
“It is difficult to determine how long the defenders can remain at that position,” said the Defense chief. “But it should probably be noted that the defenders are not just the remains of the Second Fleet but also the combined remnants of the Delta and Foxtrot Rotham flotillas. In all, the defense includes some one-hundred and sixty warships, sir.”
To Adiger that sounded like a sufficient force not in imminent danger of being overrun. “And the enemy moving against them. How many have they sent?”
“Again, it is difficult to determine, due to the close proximity of their starships, however I do have an estimate. But, you’re not going to like it, sir.”
“I don’t restrict questions to ones I like,” said Adiger. “Now tell me, what will we be up against?”
“I estimate some four-hundred and fifty capital ships, along with an unknown number of drones, sir,” said the Defense officer.
No wonder Sir Doran sent his distress call; he really was about to be overrun. Unfortunately, it seemed, judging from the tactical display, that only the Black Swan was on course to respond to the plea for help. And, although the Black Swan was an alpha-class dreadnought, it was certainly not enough to turn the tide of battle in their favor. In fact, Adiger didn’t even know how much of a difference they would make, if any.
But he had to at least try to help. Should the position collapse, then the entire defense force would be thrown into disarray. Not to mention the ISS Victory would become far more exposed to attack, and really, at that point the battle would effectively be over. A victory for the Dread Fleet, which was then likely to destroy all life on Capital World.
His hope in joining the Black Swan to the battle at the portside flank was twofold. First that the sight of it, knowing it had come to support the existing defenders, would help rally the morale of those defenders, making them far more likely—Adiger hoped—to stand their ground and not begin routing. His second hope was that, by moving to that position, he would embolden other starship captains, or, better yet, their squadron and fleet commanders, to direct more ships to the coordinates given. Sometimes, Adiger knew, all it takes is one brave soul to be the first one to jump, after that it seems easier for all the others. This might be one of those times.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 32