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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Cowards or mutineers, the lot of them,” Norfolk said coldly, referring to the ships that fled or joined the enemies.

  “We can take them, Admiral,” his Flag Captain said angrily, eager for combat and not abashed at showing it, “after what they did to the Supreme Admiral, it’s our duty to do so.”

  “Is it confirmed that Arnold Janeski is dead?” Admiral Norfolk asked ignoring the statement.

  His intelligence officer nodded gravely. “An emergency repair team finally made it into the flag bridge. The entire compartment was crushed when the ship snapped like a twig,” she said.

  Norfolk winced. “We have six Battleships, more than three times that in Cruisers, and another two squadrons of Battleships on course to join us—as well as main fleet’s Cruisers and Destroyers,” shot back his Flag Captain. “And furthermore, a little respect for the dead—of both ships and Admirals—from Intelligence would be appreciated,” the Captain growled, his nostrils flaring.

  “Fourteen Battleships against…what do they still, have sixteen? And that’s if you don’t count the two around the remains of the Carrier, or the abortions they’re using as gunboat carriers. They’re built on Battleship platforms, so who knows what they can dish out, and they’re moving to join their fifteen hundred meter cannon platform—whatever they’re calling it.”

  “Enough,” Norfolk said cutting through the growing tension, “enough dancing around the elephant in the room. The problem isn’t their blasted battle-damaged Battleships or the traitors and mutineers who’ve joined up them. We may only have six Battleships in this task force, but every warship here is fresh. The problems is that infernal, cursed weapons platform they’ve somehow shoehorned onto a warship.”

  “Scans and our engineers’ studies of them have shown that they didn’t shoe horn anything. They couldn’t have; to build what we think they’re using, they’d have had lay the keel up around it, and even then we’re questioning how they’re managing to meet the intense power requirements for a monster like that,” said the Intelligence Officer. “I mean…a plasma cannon that can cut apart Command Carriers? Even if it took three or four shots, the numbers just don’t add up.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the Flag Captain cut in hotly, “she’s half-built and already damaged. We can take her.”

  Both Officers paused and looked over at him.

  “What’s the maximum fire rate before we get within range, Intel?” Norfolk asked finally.

  “Our best guess, based on previous fire rates, are three to four shots,” she replied evenly.

  “And then we’d destroy her, Sir. We can win this battle and take the star system,” said the Flag Captain.

  “At what cost?” Admiral Norfolk wearily ran a hand over his face. “If we lose three to four Battleships, that would bring us down to, worst case scenario, eleven Battleships left to deal with their sixteen to eighteen, depending on what those Carriers out there are capable of. An almost two to one disadvantage, with all but two or three of our ‘fresh’ Battleships knocked out of the fight. Even if we win, can we still carry out our mission with fewer than two squadrons of surviving Battleships?”

  “I hate to be the one to say it, but the mission was lost when the Command Carrier was destroyed and half our Battleships defected to the enemy,” the Flag Captain said, his face hard. “We’ve taken steps to stop a mutiny among the task force and passed orders to the other taskforces, but there’s no reason to think we might not lose more ships to mutiny among the main fleet’s surviving Cruisers and Destroyers—not unless we avenge the Admiral and crush the provincials here!”

  “We’re not here to destroy the Spineward Sectors and send them back into the dark ages, which is all we’d be left in a position to do if we followed your course. We’re here to prepare them for induction into the Empire as productive member provinces,” Norfolk said wearily.

  “If our mission is a failure, or at least delayed, this could also be our best and only chance to destroy that mobile plasma cannon of theirs and save Imperial lives in the future,” pointed out his intelligence Officer. “If it’s giving us this much trouble when it should still be in a builder’s yard, just think: how difficult will it be to take it out after it’s finished?”

  “You’re certain that they built it?” Norfolk asked.

  “85% certainty, Sir,” said Intel.

  “Then if they’re building the flaming things, what’s the likelihood that even if we destroy it they won’t simply build more?” he asked.

  She paused, obviously thinking before speaking again.

  “It’s got to be at least a two year build time to make another one, and if they had any already completed why would they bring out this half-built one?” she mused.

  “That’s if they have others. This could be the only one, Admiral. I still say we finish them right here, right now,” urged the Flag Captain.

  “I’ve heard all of your advice. If we go in, we gut the taskforce to get that ‘thing’ of theirs, but we’d definitely get it,” he looked over at her and the Intelligence Officer nodded with certainty. “However, even if we won, it would be the ultimate pyrrhic victory. Not only would we fail in our mission, but most everyone would be dead—even if we continued on to take this system as originally intended.”

  “That’s right,” she agreed.

  “All right…give me a minute,” said Admiral Norfolk as he ruminated. As a naval officer, he was born and bred for combat. The thought of dying didn’t worry him. But that was when he was dying for something. Dying for nothing, on the other hand, did bother him—immensely.

  “There is another possibility,” his Flag Captain interrupted him after several moments.

  Norfolk looked up at him crossly for being interrupted when he’d specifically said otherwise. “Go on,” he said with an edge to his voice.

  “There are still more than three hundred fighters out there. More than enough to soften up and destroy a warship whose main weapon can only target one thing at a time,” said the Captain, “we can’t take all of them with us. Well,” he paused, “I suppose we could strap them to the hulls of our larger warships and at least save the pilots, and maybe the fighters too. But what if, instead, we sent them to take out that fifteen hundred meter mobile platform without risking any of our Battleships in the process? We might have still failed our mission, but with that platform dead or disabled the heart goes out of the enemy and we get a boost—not to mention the chance to end this campaign on a victory. Even if it’s ultimately a big picture defeat, we finish it with our heads held high.”

  “And if the fighters fail?” the Admiral asked rhetorically. It was rhetorical because, frankly, he liked this plan. He made a snap decision. “Let’s do it. Tell the fighters to continue the attack run but,” he raised a finger, “order the Taskforce and all other remaining forces in the area to steer clear of that thing. I’m not going to lose another ship due to inattention.”

  “Aye aye, Admiral,” growled the Captain.

  Chapter One hundred nineteen: A simple engineering problem

  “Commander, the enemy relief fleet has slowed down and diverted course slightly. But those fighters are still on the way here, sir,” reported Sensors.

  “They want to soften us up with the fighters before committing,” Spalding said.

  “And, to my mind, they’ll succeed,” said Baldwin.

  Spalding glanced at her.

  “Oh the Phoenix will do its best, and so will the gunboats, but there are a lot more fighters—and ones armed with missiles—than there were in the last batch,” she said evenly. “Even if they don’t destroy us, one good hit to the grav-coil and we’re out of commission. You did notice that we don’t have armor over a significant portion of the hull, right?”

  “What kind of formation are the fighters using?” asked Spalding, wondering just how far they were spread out.

  “You actually think you can fight the whole world and win,” Glenda said, her words abrupt but there was a fain
t look of appreciation in her eyes.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Spalding scoffed, “I’m not saying we can handle six Battleships and more than twenty Cruisers. But a few fighters,” he rolled his eyes, “that’s just a simple engineering problem. Nothing more.”

  “Tell that to a warship captain the next time you’re running a tactical simulation,” she laughed.

  “Oh, and maybe I will,” Spalding said with false effrontery.

  “This I’d like to see,” she said with a sniff.

  “And maybe I’ll do that, too,” he grumbled, walking over to the engineering station on the bridge.

  “I’d think you’d be over at Tactical or the coms,” Glenda Baldwin said, following him over.

  “And you’d be wrong—as usual. I told you: this is an engineering problem,” he chuckled.

  “’As usual,’ is it,” she said peering over his shoulder. “Hey, what in the name of Murphy are you doing?”

  “Ejecting a generator, of course,” he grunted, putting in half a dozen override codes before activating a recorder and clearing his throat. “This is Commander Spalding. Acting in my capacity as the acting Chief Engineer of this ship, I’m declaring a ship-wide emergency and, under Provision 984-2, ejecting Generator 2 for the safety and security of all onboard.”

  Glenda gasped. “That provision is for genuine reactor emergencies!” she declared with a hint of outrage.

  “This is an emergency,” Spalding huffed angrily. “Why, I’m a-feared for my life, woman!” He then put on a pious look, “I’m just a tired old man who spotted a suspicious wave form in Antimatter 2. Maybe like yer all fond of sayin’: I’m long in the tooth, jumping at shadows, and my nerve finally broke due to a combination of a holy head and battle stress,” he said, placing a hand across his chest as if pledging allegiance to the flag. “But I’m genuinely afraid that if that generator stays onboard this ship one minute longer, we’re all going to die!” he finished with a sniffle and then straightened up. “And let me assure you that the fact that those fighters would probably kill this ship if I don’t has nothing to do with this decision. I’m a trained professional don’t-ya-know?”

  “You crazy old man,” she glared, “you’re actually going to blow it up. That wasn’t hyperbole?”

  “I’m a man of me word, girl, and it hurts when you question me like this,” he declared uprightly, trying to sound wounded.

  “Unless you know something I don’t, we won’t clear the blast radius,” she pointed out, sounding as if she was fighting for calm. “An antimatter generator with that much fuel can’t possibly be ejected far enough away in our current state—meaning we’re all about die, not just the fighters, so I hope this wasn’t your plan to impress me, Commander.”

  “I know a lot of things you don’t,” Spalding said shortly, “starting with the fact that I’m not an idiot. I was prepared from the beginning for the need to get an unstable antimatter generator as far away from this ship as possible in as short a time as possible. I’ll admit that I wasn’t planning to use one as a poor man’s…” he cut himself short and coughed, “er, you know what I mean. But anyway, it should still work…”

  “I’m just going to sit over here and watch. I’ll laugh if you blow us all up, mind you, but I’m not going to interfere,” she said with a sigh.

  “That’s good enough for me,” he said with a grin. Then the generator finally accepted his command, a section of hull metal was shot away by explosive bolts, and the generator started to move away from the ship under its own power.

  “How is it changing course?” asked Glenda.

  “Needed a lot of grav-plates to keep the matter and antimatter apart,” he snorted looking at the screen, “now I’m using them to move the thing toward those fighters.”

  “If the plates are being used to move the generator then what’s keeping the thing from blowing up!” she exclaimed.

  Spalding just laughed even harder. That’s what redundancy was for, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  Flipping a switch, he opened an emergency com-channel.

  “Hail, hail, hail: this is the Lucky Clover declaring an engineering emergency. We’re giving a warn-off to all space craft in the area. I say again: all ships and small craft are advised to steer clear of the Super Battleship for your own safety. I say again: this is the Lucky Clover broadcasting in the clear. We are currently experiencing a dangerous and gen-you-wine engineering emergency and advise all hostile warships and small craft to steer clear of the Clover for the duration of the emergency—for their own safety, of course. Stay back or we cannot guarantee your survival. That will be all,” he said, cutting the channel and then leaning back in his temporary chair.

  “There,” he said with satisfaction, “that should keep us covered under interstellar law. Always a good idea to take care of the legal ends of things!” he chortled.

  ****************************************************

  “Why aren’t they firing?” asked Admiral Norfolk.

  “The cannon platform is identifying itself as the Lucky Clover, a Super Battleship—whatever that is—and declaring an engineering emergency. They’re giving us an official warn-off,” his Flag Captain said with disbelief.

  Norfolk’s brows rose.

  “I’ve heard of desperate ploys, but this has to be one for the books,” he shook his head.

  “Unless they are experiencing a genuine emergency, Sir,” the Captain pointed out playing devil’s advocate.

  “Anything on the sensors?” asked the Admiral with a frown.

  “Just some debris and movement on the gravity sensors consistent with a stealthed missile…or possibly a torpedo,” the Captain said wryly.

  “A nice try, but did they really think we’d fall for such a puny gambit?” snorted Norfolk before shaking his head. “Inform the fighters of the risk; they can detail a pair of squadrons to go and deal with it while the rest of the wings continue the attack.”

  “Aye aye, Sir,” said the Flag Captain.

  With cold, assessing eyes Admiral Norfolk and the flag staff of the reserve task force watched the final moments of the half-built ‘Super Battleship’—the very ship that had killed their supreme Admiral, destroyed the supposedly invincible Command Carrier, and in one fell swoop derailed an entire multi-year plan.

  Everything they’d sacrificed for so long was now under threat. The least they could do was repay the favor and share some of the Reclamation Fleet’s pain.

  “Fighters entering close approach,” reported Tactical as the fighters broke into three groups.

  By far, the smallest group continued straight on ahead of the others to take out the stealthed torpedo, or missile, or mine, or whatever it was while the second and third groups split just about equally, with half diverting slightly to deal with the protective gunboats and Medium Cruiser with its infernally effective, normal-sized, ant-fighter plasma cannons. The remainder continued slightly behind the first group and straight on toward the oversized Super Battleship and its spinally-mounted, ridiculously gigantic plasma cannon.

  ****************************************************

  “Enemy fighters have divided their formation, Commander,” reported Tactical. “It looks like they are sending forward two squadrons of fighters to investigate the antimatter generator.”

  Spalding frowned.

  “Let me take a look, Ensign,” he said, pulling up the exact distances on his screen. His frown increased.

  “Problem?” asked Glenda.

  “Looking at the distances, we’ll still catch most of them in the blast wave,” he scowled unhappily.

  “Do you want to have the Furious Phoenix open fire with their long-ranged weaponry to scare them away, sir?” suggested the Ensign.

  “We start firing and they’ll smell fresh blood in the water and avoid it for sure!” Spalding said with disapproval.

  The Ensign hunched his shoulders. “Or we could send the gunboats out to drive them off?” he said weakly.<
br />
  “And risk them getting caught and destroyed by our own attack?!” Spalding exclaimed hotly and then throttled himself back. “Look, I’m not going to sacrifice our own people. And furthermore—” he started raising a finger. This was a prime teachable moment, after all.

  “Well you’ve got to do something,” Glenda declared, stepping between him and the hapless ensign, “unless you want to see if they can set it off with fighter blaster fire?”

  Spalding coughed with embarrassment and then glared at the Yard Manager. “To every problem there is an engineering solution,” he said gruffly, his finger now pointing at Glenda instead of the Ensign. He then hurried over to the engineering console, quipping over his shoulder, “And a proper engineer is always prepared!”

  A few taps of the buttons on the console and he nodded with satisfaction.

  “That should fix it,” he nodded sagely.

  Behind him, Baldwin rolled her eyes.

  ****************************************************

  Seconds later, just as the advanced group had entered attack range, the torpedo took off like a rocket straight toward them.

  “Fusion-fired space flames—what is that!?” exclaimed Norfolk’s chief of staff, Commodore Dietweiler.

  “Ever since that thing took off, I’m reading high level power fluctuations, Admiral,” reported Sensors in a rising voice. “These readings are off the chart.”

  “Fighters are firing,” reported Tactical.

  At first it was just the advanced force of fighters that opened fire, but shortly afterward the main fighter force joined them.

  Then a stray shot from the advanced force struck the ‘torpedo’ and a massive explosion caused the screen to fuzz. The entire region of space comprising both the provincial warships and the Imperial strike fighters was affected, temporarily turning everything into time-delayed yellow, indicating last known positions and projected courses.