Admiral's War Part Two (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 10)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Hold it together,” I said as our fellow Battleships opened fire, slamming broadside after broadside into the Command Carrier’s shields.

  “Enemy shields are not weakening as fast as expected; they’re definitely stronger than Battleship level,” reported Hart.

  “Tell Druid to get his butt over here—we’re abandoning the attack on the enemy’s starboard side for the moment. And advise the Metal Titan to put everything they’ve got on the port side as well. We need to break through those shields!” I snapped.

  “Both commanders acknowledge your orders, Admiral,” said Steiner.

  Slowly, the Armor Prince rolled around the Command Carrier. Her rate of fire didn’t let up for an instant, and the Metal Titan complied by throwing her weight of fire against the starboard side with us.

  “Give our shuttles the prep signal. I don’t know where the landers are, but as soon those shields start spotting they’re going in,” I said and then glared at the screen, “and where are my gunboats!? We need them to help keep off these fighters,” I snapped as another spread of missiles were fired from the enemy fighters at us. “Come on, people—it’s time to show these Imperials some Royal Rage!”

  I’m coming for you, Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski, I thought, looking at the screen with eyes hot enough to melt duralloy if they’d been hooked up to a laser focusing array.

  This was the moment. It was time for everything and the kitchen sink.

  Chapter Seventy-one: Imperial Reaction

  “All four enemy Battleships are now focusing fire on our starboard side, Admiral,” reported Captain Goddard.

  “There’s no point in trying to maneuver the Carrier with them so close to the ship,” Janeski grimaced, “curse that full-stop maneuver. Make a note: I want to make sure one of those Battleships survives at least partially intact. Have a tech team ready to explore its peculiarities as soon as this system is conquered.”

  “Will do, Sir,” said the Flag Operations Officer.

  “Do you want to continue to focus fire on just the one Battleship, Admiral?” asked Goddard. “At this rate it’s going to take longer than projected to reduce her combat power.”

  Janeski gave him a withering look. “The hull of that ship is almost entirely made out of Duralloy II, making it their most durable warship—and it’s also of Caprian design. The odds of the Governor being onboard that Battleship, unless he’s too busy cowering onboard their Starbase to face me, are high,” Janeski explained impatiently. “So no, I don’t want to let up. If anything, we’re going to throw more at her. Keep launching fighters until every bomber is away with an escort. We’re going to cut the head off this snake and watch the rest of its body as it twists and turns…and dies.”

  “Aye-aye, Sir,” said Goddard.

  “Ordering another bomber strike now,” reported the Fighter Operations, “what do you want to do about those gunboats, Admiral?”

  “How many of them are there again?” he asked.

  “Current count is just under 300 boats on approach to the Carrier,” reported the Fighter Operation Officer.

  Janeski tapped his knuckles alternately on the arms of his chair and then nodded his head. “Dispatch all twelve of our Destroyers under Commodore Serge, along with half our currently launched fighters as a delaying force. They are to thin out those boats before they can arrive,” he said.

  “Dispatching the Commodore with twelve Destroyers and half of our launched fighters, aye,” acknowledged Ops.

  Janeski watched as the majority of his Destroyers and their fighter escort left to give someone over there in command of the gunboats a very bad day.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, Governor,” he sneered.

  “Sir, I’m getting a faint signal,” reported Stenson, looking concerned.

  “From where?” asked the Admiral as the combined warship/fighter group under Commodore Serge exited their firing arc and started blasting toward the gunboats.

  Stenson looked at him with alarm, “Everywhere, Sir!”

  Chapter Seventy-two: The opening

  “The enemy has reduced their close-in defensive escort,” reported the Sensor Droid a former street sweeping unit that had upgraded itself named R2-4-Eyes.

  “Command Carrier’s shields are weakening,” reported another droid.

  The droid in command of the lander force waited while its battle program ran calculations. Those calculations complete, it opened a link via whisker laser to a com-satellite that had been placed behind them.

  “General broadcast. This is the opening we’ve been waiting for. All units are to attack upon receipt of this message,” ordered Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn.

  Seconds passed as the message was relayed back to the communication satellite and then a series of coded pings was sent forward to the location of the various lander forces.

  “I am reading multiple drive faint drive signals consistent with Penetrator 3.5 lander engines,” reported R2-4-Eyes.

  “Follow them in, Pilot,” said the Tactician with the sort of confidence in its calculations that only a machine-based intelligence was capable of.

  Chapter Seventy-three: Rage on the Flag Bridge

  “Penetrator class Landers have activated their drives; they are moving to attack,” reported Tactical.

  “Yes!” I pumped my fist.

  “Enemy Cruisers are shifting their fire,” reported Sensors.

  “Tell Gunnery to pour it on—we can’t let up on the Carrier’s shields,” I ordered, knowing this was the best—and only—chance we’d have to neutralize that beast of a Command Carrier, “and prepare to open hangar doors. We’re going to send our shuttles in right on the heels of those landers!”

  Looking at the main-screen in full-on zoom mode, it made what had only been a theoretical inevitability hit home with real force. This was a battle between a twelve hundred meter long hull and a six hundred meter one. They were only numbers until you could see them stacked side by side. Janeski’s flagship was twice the size of mine and even thicker around the middle. In truth it was the size of any three or four Battleships and it had better armor, weapons and shields. That much mono-locsium alone was enough to boggle the mind.

  I’d looked into trying to produce it ourselves but just the set up costs….

  “Shields on the starboard side have reached critical condition!” reported Lieutenant Longbottom as the flashing yellow semicircle on the right side of the Royal Rage, representing shield strength, turned red.

  The ship shook as four turbo-lasers raked the Royal Rage in quick succession.

  “Enemy fighters lining up for another pass!” reported Tactical.

  On the screen I could see a half dozen Cruisers and a pair of Destroyers standing off and attacking our portside, while to starboard we seemed to have attracted the full might and fury of the Imperial Command Carrier.

  “We’re taking a pounding, Sir,” reported Hammer, looking over at me with concern, “somehow they seem to have identified that we’re the flagship, or we just lost the luck of the draw.”

  “Whatever reason they chose us, doesn’t matter. We’re going to give those landers of ours every chance. Tell all Battleships to maintain position, keep working to lower her shields and then keep them down, and,” I glanced at the screen where the landers were even now on close approach, “launch the shuttles.”

  Hammer nodded, “Will do, Admiral Montagne.” She then turned to issue the orders. Seconds later, our shuttle bay doors opened and out streamed our trusty little shuttles packed full of a mixture of Wainwright’s Marines, Tracto-an Lancers, and Border Alliance recruits.

  “Enemy fighters have altered—course they’re now aiming for our shuttle bays and the shuttles coming out!” cried Sensors.

  “Gunnery!” shouted Lieutenant Hart into his microphone.

  Chapter Seventy-four: On the Gun Deck

  “Plasma cannons!” Chief Gunner Lesner shouted over the growing din on the gun deck, and with a flick of a switch
he activated the overhead speakers.

  “All heavy and turbo-lasers: maintain fire on that Carrier,” he snarled. “Everything else—and the plasma cannons—target those fighters before they drop a missile into this ship through the shuttle bays! No more holding back, boys. We’ve got over fifty of the blighters at point blank range and I say it’s time we give them a real hearty, Royal welcome!””

  A good half of the gun deck and both sides of the Battleship erupted with a storm of plasma balls.

  Chief Lesner stormed up to a turbo-laser mount and slapped the assistant gunner on the arm.

  “Tell your man as soon as the shields start to weaken, it’s counter-fire all the way,” shouted Lesner, referring to the gunner currently operating the laser mount, “there’s no way we’re taking that beast in a slugfest so we need to thin out their broadside!”

  “Aye-aye, Chief Gunner!” the Assistant Gunner said excitedly.

  “Good man! Pass the order on,” Chief Lesner shouted, starting toward the next weapon mount, “we’ll hold them until those hotheaded idiots in the shuttles have their chance at fortune and glory!”

  Chapter Seventy-five: Desperate times

  The shuttle thundered out of the hangar bay, bringing up the rear of shuttle line which carried the majority of Messene’s Shield’s onboard Lancer contingent.

  The moment they cleared the Battleship, the little shuttle performed its first automatic sensor sweep.

  Oleander blanched as the shuttle’s holo-screen lit up with hundreds of contacts—many of which were at very close range.

  “Evasive maneuvers! Hold on back there,” he shouted over his shoulder before throwing the shuttle into a hard, upward burn.

  An enemy fighter came blasting toward him, only to be turned into an expanding ball of fragmented metal and gas by a stray point defense shot.

  They rapidly turned into a rolling corkscrew as Oleander desperately fought the shuttle around the remains of the fighter.

  “Follow them in! Chase those landers,” howled the Chief Petty Officer from the in flight engineer seat behind him.

  Oleander glanced at the landers and out of the corner of his eye saw a pair of shuttles that had launched from Messene’s Shield take fire and explode. A full squadron of enemy fighters came tearing through the remains and the shuttle’s alarm system went off at max volume.

  “We’ve just been target locked!” cursed Oleander, slapping the panel to release a cloud of chaff behind the slow-moving shuttle.

  The shuttle shuddered as it took a shot. “Atmospheric pressure is dropping,” reported the dispassionate voice of the onboard shuttle computer as warning lights started flashing throughout the shuttle’s cockpit and cargo bay.

  “Seal deal!” shouted the Chief Petty Officer as he hurriedly closed his helmet and locked it in before going on the overhead speaker system. “Lock and load and seal those helmets, people, in case we have to bail. We’re losing air and—”

  The shuttle shuddered from a second hit.

  “What was that?” demanded the CPO.

  “We just lost the port thruster,” Oleander said tightly.

  “I thought you were a smuggler. Can’t you do a job better than this?” yelled the CPO.

  “What, you think smugglers get into battles with their shuttles?” Oleander turned to look at him in disbelief.

  “Watch where you’re going, fool!” cried the Petty Officer.

  Oleander turned just in time to avoid a flying piece of debris.

  “You fly worse than Parliament during a recount!” cursed the CPO.

  “Do you want to take over and try your hand?” Oleander demanded fighting for control as he silently cursed the hoary old royalist. The shuttle shimmied from side to side while both pilot and onboard computer attempted to compensate for the missing thruster, “I’m more than happy to turn this flying pig over to you and jump the blazes out!”

  “Just drive, you miserable excuse for a smuggler,” roared the former Caprian petty officer, “curse all Bushes anyway. I should have known better than to trust a man with your last name. I thought at least you could handle yourself in a fight but apparently that was too much to—”

  The shuttle shook again.

  “I said keep it steady!” yelped the CPO. “Sweet Murphy, we’d all be better if you ran for election instead of trying to pretend you’re a shuttle pilot. What were you in, the Caprian Aerospace Guard or whatever local border equivalent you crawled out from? I swear you fly like a reservist—and that’s being kind! Why, I once had this Parliamentary pilot that didn’t know his arse from his elbows and he still flew twice as good as you—”

  Oleander tuned out the other man’s nonstop tirade against reservists, Parliamentary members, and people who’d be better off running for elected office instead of trying to get a bunch of good men killed.

  He was too busy trying to survive as, all around him, a good quarter of his fellow pilots were shot out of the sky and turned into flaming wreckage long before they reached their objectives.

  Seeing another squadron of enemy fighters coming around the hull of the Command Carrier, accompanied by an increasingly accurate point defense system from the giant ship, Oleander took a moment to shake his head in disgust. He knew he really should have known better than to leave the Battleship, and he only felt disgusted with himself for the miscalculation.

  Then the Carrier’s shield appeared almost in front of him—made obvious when several landers smashed full-force into them, smashing themselves to pieces while the area they had been destroyed visibly shimmered.

  “Hold onto something—we’re going in,” Oleander said coldly aiming his shuttle right at the spot those several same landers had just destroyed themselves on.

  “Demon Murphy, boy, pull up. Pull up!” shouted the CPO, slapping at his restraints to try and free himself as he saw the shuttle aimed at that enemy’s still active shields.

  Oleander bellowed as he activated the shuttle’s twin pea shooters in the front. He needed every little bit of help he could get, even if it was just a drop in the metaphorical bucket.

  Then the shuttle seemed to slam into a wall.

  “You killed us! You killed us,” repeated the CPO sounding more angry than anything. “I should have known better than to pick a—”

  “Shut up; this isn’t the afterlife. We’re through,” Oleander rebuked as the shuttled shook from side to side and then started a wicked shimmy. “Uh…no!” he shouted fighting the shuttle controls.

  “What’s wrong?” demanded the CPO.

  Oleander unbuckled and half stood up before sitting right back down.

  “What have you done now?” demanded the Petty Officer.

  “We just lost the other forward facing thruster when we crumpled the shuttle’s nose against the shields,” Oleander said tightly.

  “You hit hard enough to crumple the nose…and we’re still alive?” the CPO said with more interest than surprise. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  A laser passed right in front of the nose of the shuttle, setting off every alarm in the cockpit.

  “This is going to be tight!” Oleander snapped just before a lander came shooting in front of them. The backwash when its engine ignited was enough to crack the cockpit’s forward viewing portal and set off yet another series of shrill alarms.

  “I’m flying here, you blasted droids!” Oleander screamed futilely at the lander, which had already turned and was blasting its engine furiously as it attempted to land on the Command Carrier’s hull without crushing itself.

  “Do something or we’re gonna smash into the hull,” shouted the CPO.

  “Some in-flight engineer you are,” said Oleander in a loud, dismissive voice.

  “I can’t fix something you ripped off the hull now, can I,” retorted the Petty Officer.

  “Hold onto your lunch…this is going to get interesting,” Oleander said before cutting the engine, disabling the grav-plates and then repolarizing them from his console.


  “Dear gods,” came a shout from the back, followed by the sound over his helmet intercom of multiple people evicting their latest meals.

  “Drag…drag…” Oleander muttered tensely as the shuttle slowly flipped end over end, “…now!” he said with savage satisfaction, toggling back on the grav-plates and the engines at the same time and shoving the throttle past full and into the red-zone.

  “Yeeeee!” screamed the CPO.

  Shortly after, there was another crash as the shuttle hit the carrier and everything turned dark.

  There were clangs and rattles and a sense of weightlessness followed by an extended pause.

  “I know I’m dead this time,” said the Chief Petty Officer as soon as the red emergency lighting kicked in.

  “No such luck but don’t worry—the day is young,” Oleander promised with a smile well-hidden in the darkness.

  “Don’t tell me…”asked the other man.

  “The magnetic lock seems to be holding, so we’re definitely on the hull,” said Oleander.

  “That’s impossible!” shouted the CPO, suddenly and urgently struggling to free himself.

  “I assure you that the system’s engaged and its working; we’ve arrived at our final destination. Thank you for flying Caprian Royal Air, the fair fare from here to there,” deadpanned Oleander, happily shoving the blame for the rough flight onto a fictitious royal transport company.

  “No, you moron,” the CPO cried, tearing himself free from his seat before pulling his blaster rifle free and firing it into the broken and shattered, forward-facing cockpit window.

  Oleander ducked down to avoid the attack but, instead of shooting him, the aged petty officer kept firing into the window. “What are you doing?” he demanded, pulling out his own pistol.

  “We can’t be magnetized to the hull, you idiot! It has to be something else,” roared the CPO, “the entire Imperial hull of this ship is made out of mono-locsium—crystal! We could be floating dead in space attached to a piece of debris for all we know.”