“Intel, what do you have for me?” said Admiral Pinoy.
“Preliminary report ready, sir,” said a commander standing next to a display as tall as he was. Ruslov, that was his name.
Yeager drifted over to hear the briefing. He found himself behind a semicircle of senior staffers with Pinoy. The display showed the dimensions of the tunnel, a triangular passage through the massive shoal walling off the Rift. It zoomed in to show the mines in the entrance, some shaded to show they’d been expended.
“How far in do these go?” demanded the admiral.
“The destroyers farthest in were still picking up mines at the limit of their radar. Which wasn’t very far. The barbarians made their mines with some anti-reflective techniques. I’m afraid we must assume the entire tunnel is mined.” The intelligence officer didn’t look afraid. Yeager wouldn’t have blamed him for nervousness in delivering such bad news.
Admiral Pinoy only said, “Thank you. MacIver, let’s hear it again.”
A younger officer took over the spot by the big display. “A narrow minefield could be dealt with by sending some ships through then using plasma and laser fire from both sides. We’ve established this one is too deep for that.
“We’ve also found out the effective ranges of the automated missile and plasma weapons. I propose we stay outside that range and clear the field with a missile bombardment. This would have to be volume coverage as the mines can’t be detected at that distance.”
A couple of officers grunted in surprise at the suggestion. The rest just looked grim. Yeager presumed they’d heard it before.
MacIver brought up a diagram of warheads exploding in the tunnel. “Aetheric shock waves can be generated by synchronized detonations. That lets each salvo clear more volume than we can reach with just the initial attack. The reflection of the shocks off the walls of the tunnel will drive the timing of salvos. Avoiding fratricide will be a key constraint.
“There are several issues with this plan.” MacIver gave an apologetic nod to the supply chief. “It will use a substantial portion of our missile stocks. It will take six days to complete.” That nod was to the governor. “Leaving us with fifteen days on the Monitor’s Warrant.”
Yeager politely nodded back. At least they were recognizing time as an issue.
“And we’ll have to wait for the shock waves to damp out before we can move the fleet through. Questions, gentlemen?”
There were many, containing phrases such as “asymmetrical blast focus” and missile model numbers, all of which blurred until Yeager knew he wouldn’t be able to remember them well enough to look them up even if he wanted to.
Admiral Pinoy ended the discussion. “Missiles are cheap, spacers are valuable. MacIver, generate an initial firing plan.”
MacIver hurried off, a couple of cohorts in tow.
“My question for the rest of you,” said Pinoy, “is why. Why a minefield? Just the ones that detonated so far probably cost more than the damage we took. What are they trying to achieve with it?”
The senior staffers began to brainstorm. “It would stop a small force.” “If they’re short on spacers this is an unmanned option.” “Could be short on shipyards, needed something they could make at civilian factories.”
They were clearly fumbling. Yeager decided to add his experience to the discussion. “It’s a political compromise.”
The officers fell silent. Pinoy turned to face him and the rest followed. “How so, sir?”
“Fiera isn’t a military dictatorship. When the embassy returned to them wailing we were going to attack, the civilians in charge didn’t want to ruin their whole economy building warships. So they compromised: they mined the tunnel. Now they know we’re here and they’re frantically ramping up production.”
The officers nodded in satisfaction. “Well, then, gentlemen,” said Admiral Pinoy. “The faster we get through this the smaller the reception committee we’ll have.”
***
Marcus loved SRN Station Seven. Their cargo hatches were flexible extenders which clamped onto Azure Tarn’s hull. They could load and unload as easily as planetside. His crew didn’t even need to suit up.
“All hands, all hands,” blared his father’s voice over the PA. “The Censorate has entered the Tunnel. Repeat, the Censorate has entered the Tunnel.”
A few seconds of dead silence were followed by a buzz of speculation between the spacers and the station’s longshoremen. Hines cut through it with, “No one said to stop working!”
Marcus looked at the pallets coming aboard. Practice round missiles with dummy warheads for the next round of gunnery drill. “Belay loading!”
The workers stopped again, all looking to him for what to do next. “Offload all practice rounds!”
That was simple enough to not need details. They turned to reversing the last half hour’s work.
Marcus walked through the hatch into the warehouse they were docked to. The woman he was looking for was hurrying toward him.
“Landry! Why are you rejecting your cargo?” said the quartermaster, waving her tablet.
Right. Normally that only happened when the supercargo found a major defect. The sort that led to the quartermaster—or the supercargo—getting fired.
“Did you hear about the Censorate?” he asked.
“Yes . . .”
“We’re going into action. We don’t need practice rounds. We need war shots.”
“Oh.” Expressions flickered across her face as the situation sank in. “What kind?”
“Ten pallets of armor piercing and ten of explosive.”
“That’s—let me check our inventory.”
Inventory check took long enough that she started the longshoremen on the combat missiles before completing the count.
Marcus was watching a forklift take a load of armor piercing through the hatch when she came back.
“You can have ten AP but I only have nine pallets of explosive. Want another AP?”
“What else do you have?”
She swiped at her tablet. “Electromagnetic pulse, anti-fighter cluster, jamming, and decoy.”
His mouth watered. “I’ll take one of each.”
“That’s twenty-three pallets.”
“I’ll make room.”
Then it was time to report to the captain. Captain Landry said, “Good initiative,” in that tone of voice that meant, ‘Good job, but you’ve given me another grey hair.’
“Thank you, sir. Loading should be done in two or three hours.”
“Right. I’ll let the commodore know we won’t be showing up for the practice he scheduled.”
Bill Sung had become a freighter captain after twenty years in the Sulu Republic Navy. That made him commander of the squadron of eight converted freighters Azure Tarn was assigned to. No promotion came with it, despite the insistence of the former Merchant Service skippers in making it his nickname.
“Ask him if there’s any news on the rest of our armament, please.”
“Will do. Bridge out.”
Loading all the pallets kept Marcus wearing his supercargo hat. He wanted them in neat stacks at the fore and aft ends of the hold, arranged so he could access whatever type of missile he needed.
Accessibility would have to wait. He focused on getting the pallets stacked and tied down well enough to handle zero-gravity maneuvers.
The PA crackled again. “Bridge to hold. The commodore found a shipyard with a cruiser they can’t finish in time. They’re ripping out the weapons and other gear. If we get there before it’s gone we can load up. Bridge out.”
When the announcement ended the spacers resumed tying down pallets.
“Belay stacking and tying,” ordered Marcus. “Get them into the corners. Just leave them on the deck.”
The gunnery crewmen were new enough at cargo handling they didn’t flinch at the command. The longshoremen turned to their foreman. He confirmed the order. It was on Marcus’ head if the artificial gravity failed and pallets bou
nced all over the hold.
As the last few pallets went in the quartermaster shoved a tablet at Marcus. “You need to sign for them.”
The first form was for his rejection of the practice rounds. Most of the form was an open field for the reason for rejection. He scrawled, ‘Change of mission needs.’ The other six just needed his signature.
He didn’t know when or if he’d use any of those missiles. He was sure that after today it would be much harder to get ammo.
When Azure Tarn pulled away from the station most of the cargo hold deck was covered by pallets. Including the spots marked for the new launchers. Marcus started them stacking pallets at the ends.
Without the warehouse’s forklift all the lifting had to be done by the overhead crane. One crewman operated the crane from its booth while the others used lines to align the pallet with the one it was being placed on.
As the ship drew closer to Fiera Marcus stopped worrying about stacking and just ordered pallets in the middle moved toward the ends.
When the forward end of the hold was crowded he ordered, “Switch to the aft end.” Spacers turned and started walking to the other end. The crane hook jittered in place a moment, then slid briskly to the aft—still hanging at head height.
Marcus shouted, “HIT THE DECK!”
He flung himself down as an example. He felt the breeze as the crane hook went by five feet over him.
When the crane carriage stopped at the far end of its rail the hook swung up, smacking a pallet with a loud clank.
Marcus popped back to his feet. All the spacers looked all right. No damage except to the pallet. “Everybody take five.”
He went up the ladder to the crane operator booth. Spacer Sokol was white faced. He realized at least part of how much he’d screwed up. Glancing down verified that no one else was close enough to eavesdrop.
“You should have had the two week course on how to do this job,” Marcus began. “Instead you had me and the operator manual.”
“Yessir.”
“You have to make safety first. We can’t afford someone’s head getting ripped off. Which nearly happened to Cortez just now.”
The spacer flinched.
“Yes, I’m pushing for speed. But it needs to be safe speed.” Marcus reached up to pat a motor housing. “This can lift twenty tons against Fiera’s gravity. When you’re moving empty there’s enough power to knock a hole in the hull. You need to control it, not turn it loose.”
“Yessir.”
“If the Gunner or I are pushing too hard you are to yell ‘Safety’ and keep operating in a safe manner. That’s an order. Is that clear?”
“Clear, sir!”
“Good. Take five. We’ll start shifting cargo again when you’re back.”
Marcus went down the ladder to make way. He was tempted to take over the crane himself. But he was the only one who could verify pallets were secured. If he drove the crane he’d have to get out of the booth every ten minutes to check something. That wouldn’t work.
He’d just have to hope that Sokol learned from his mistake.
Once Sokol was out of earshot Gunner Hines came up. He looked cranky.
“Good morning,” said Marcus.
“Sir. The training and correction of spacers is an NCO responsibility. Officers should use the chain of command to get the results they need.”
This again. “Gunner’s Mate Hines, providing feedback to weapon operators is your responsibility. I have complete faith in your abilities and will delegate to you any corrections I need done.
“Providing feedback to cargo handlers is the supercargo’s responsibility. I am the only person here qualified to give training in crane operation. If we had a quartermaster petty officer I would delegate that. We don’t so I have to do it myself.”
He needed to end on a positive note. “We’ll be going into combat soon. Then we’ll all be focused on weapons.”
“Very well, sir.” Hines marched off.
Marcus checked the time. He could sneak in a visit to the head before the break ended.
Traffic Control diverted Azure Tarn to the ‘Vulture Pattern’ to wait for a landing spot to open up at the shipyard. That gave them time to clear the spots for the promised weapons. They even started on stacking and securing the pallets. Which would have to be done all over again in flight to the battle. All the armor piercing missiles were buried under other types.
Once cleared to land Captain Landry descended at the maximum speed allowed. Marcus suspected Azure Tarn had never gone that fast in atmosphere before. Air rushing past the hull made it too loud to talk in the hold. Marcus tried to look bored. It seemed the most comfort he could offer his nervous spacers.
The landing jarred them but didn’t seem to damage anything. As the cargo hold hatch lowered dust swirled in through the opening.
Marcus saw the under construction cruiser. The hull was complete except for the aft end, awaiting engines that would probably never come. It sat on a concrete apron, under a sheet metal roof fifty meters high held up by steel trusses. Scaffolding surrounded it. Cranes were lowering down components as they were removed.
A ten wheeled flatbed truck roared up, followed by a forklift. A beefy man jumped out of the cab and trotted to the hatch. “Who are you?” he bellowed.
“Azure Tarn,” called back Marcus.
“Good.” He turned and waved. The forklift took a missile launcher off the truck and trundled forward.
Marcus was signing for the weapons when the argument broke out.
Hines was blocking the forklift after it dropped off the second missile launcher. “You can’t just dump them there! You have to install them.”
“We’re done installing, buddy,” said the shipyard worker. “You want this junk or not?”
Marcus tossed the tablet back to the supervisor and strode over to the confrontation. “Gunner Hines!”
“Sir.”
“Please inform Chief Engineer MacGregor we will need him with his welding rig after lift-off.”
“But—” The NCO’s protest met a glare. “Aye-aye.”
Once Hines was out of sight the supervisor rejoined Marcus. “That’s a fussy one.”
“Sorry. He’s regular Navy.”
“Oh, I know the type. Regulars just can’t grasp there’s a war coming.”
Another worker trotted up and reported, “That’s all of them, boss.”
Marcus blinked at her. He’d heard some high schools were shut down to supply workers but he hadn’t expected to see someone that young here.
“All?” demanded the supervisor. “What’s that then?” He pointed at a box still on the flatbed.
“That was for the previous ship. They said they didn’t have room.”
“I’ll take it,” said Marcus.
The supervisor gave him a look. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“You’re right. What is it?”
“Countermeasures dispenser type something,” supplied the kid.
“I’ll take it.”
The supervisor shrugged. The forklift made one more trip.
The kid came up to Marcus. “Sir? Could you use another mechanic?”
Before he could consider if his desire to grab everything that might be useful in a fight extended to crew, there was a practical consideration. “Do you have a spacesuit?”
“I have an air mask.”
“Combat repairs are done in vacuum.”
“Oh. Sorry, sir.” The kid scampered off.
The supervisor let out a sad smile. “Can’t blame her for trying. You give those bastards hell for us, right?”
“We will.” They shook hands.
***
“What are you reading, sir?” asked Gunner Hines.
Marcus looked up from his tablet. “The manual for this thing.”
He pointed at the ‘countermeasure dispenser.’ It was mounted halfway up the side of the main cargo hatch opening, out of the way of the anti-missile interceptor guns.
> “It has all this stuff on wiring interfaces and software protocols, but I can’t find anything to tell me what it does.” Marcus smacked the tablet in frustration.
Hines leaned down to read the fine print in the headers. “Oh, that’s the maintenance manual, sir. You want the operating manual. There’s not much to it, though. You just give it the signal and it kicks out a pod.”
“What does the pod do?”
“Listens for gravitic fields. If one comes close enough it generates matching pulses to overload the thruster. Works well on missiles. It’ll make a ship cut power and move away. Just sits there, though. If it had a thruster of its own, it’d fry it.”
Marcus nodded. “It’s just for covering a retreat, then.”
“Yes, sir. Drop ‘em as we run. Blocks straight missile shots, forces the enemy to change course and come at us from an angle.”
“Good, thanks. Can you save me some more reading? How do these things work?” Marcus led Hines to the pallet of anti-fighter missiles.
“Just what it says on the box, sir. When there’s enemy fighters you shoot this. It splits into sixteen submunitions at the selected range. Each one is a mini-missile. They look for a fighter and zoom after it. Watch for friendly fire. These things aren’t smart enough to tell the good guys from bad guys.”
“Are they any good against ships?”
Hines shrugged. “If the ship’s armor is blasted off, the submunition could do some damage. But they’re not going to aim for a vulnerable spot.”
He went on to explain the other missiles Marcus had picked up. “A decoy puts out the signal of a freighter or destroyer. Doesn’t have the power to fake a cruiser or capital ship. A jammer confuses enemy sensors by giving them so much static they can’t see anything. EMP is an attack on the sensors—puts out an electromagnetic pulse to fry them.”
Marcus nodded politely. He knew this from his gunnery course but cutting Hines off would be rude. Plus, the man might say something he didn’t know.
“Hey, Landry! We’re done here,” called Chief MacGregor.
Marcus turned to see the chief engineer straightening up from the missile launchers. The two new ones were now braced and welded to the deck. Tets was packing up the welding rig.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 16
