Hines, Cortez, and Luo were moving fast enough they had the first loads in before Marcus decided on the attack profile he wanted. Well, if there was one jammer loaded, that gave him three options. He picked one and selected a new target.
The other auxiliaries were firing faster. Marcus started to worry about fratricide. Missiles arriving immediately after a detonation could be caught in the blast front and destroyed. Though in vacuum there was no concussion wave. That’s why he had to set the explosive warheads to trigger on contact.
He concentrated on firing on Censorials that weren’t being shot at currently. Which wasn’t perfect because he had to rely on the squadron’s relay of a scout’s radar imagery. It always ran several seconds behind.
Damaged Censorial ships weren’t jumping out. They just drew back behind the plane of their formation. That let the other ships intercept missiles aimed at them.
Marcus aimed about one in six of his salvos at the damaged ships. He didn’t want them relaxing.
Azure Tarn shifted sideways a bit. Tightening up the formation, or taking the place of a knocked out ship? Only the bridge knew and Marcus knew better than to bother them.
The interceptor guns kept firing bursts. Marcus could feel the vibration through the deck. He thanked God the supply ship had carried ammo for them too.
Salvos with two jammers seemed to be more effective, but he didn’t have enough of them to keep that up. He put no jammer in at least half the salvos. He didn’t want Censorials expecting them.
A Fieran missile, not his dammit, blew open a Censorial destroyer. He could see the flash with his bare eye. “Take a look, boys. We got one good,” he called.
Cortez and Luo hopped toward the hatch. “Awesome,” said Luo as the bright cloud faded.
“Glad you’re enjoying the show,” snarled Gunner Hines. “Now move some ammo!”
The interceptors went to continuous fire, shivering the deck.
A bright flash lit up the hold as an enemy missile exploded two hundred meters away.
Two small holes appeared in the bulkhead as shrapnel cut through. Hines spasmed as a fragment cut into the energy pack of the missile he was holding, releasing its charge as bright blue tendrils swarming over his suit.
A deafening CLANG followed by a whistle of escaping air made Marcus’ ears hurt. He slapped his hand to the side of his helmet. That reduced the whistle to a high pitched whine.
Marcus looked around for the nearest spacer. “Cortez! Got tape?”
“Uh, yessir.”
“Tape now!”
The spacer fumbled the thin roll out of the pouch on his belt. The vacctape went over the gash. Blessed, blessed silence.
Marcus took a deep breath, thanking God for the thickness of the air. “Thanks, Cortez. You okay?”
“Yessir.”
“Luo, sound off,” Marcus called.
“I’m good, sir.”
“Hines, are you all right?”
No answer. The NCO was twisting in the middle of the hold, arms still around the damaged missile. Black scorch marks covered his arms and chest.
Marcus grabbed him and shook. No response. He plugged his data cable into the port on Hines’ wrist and checked the display. “Crap. Heart stopped. Okay, let’s get him on the deck between those pallets. I can brace on them and do CPR.”
Luo said, “Sir . . . look at his temperature.”
Marcus did. ‘TEMP:122F’ was right above ‘PULS:0,’ he’d just ignored it at first glance. “Okay. Put him with Sokol. I’ll take care of the missile.”
A pallet at the bow end of the hold held missiles too damaged to fire. Marcus added the new one to the collection and bounced back to the launchers. Cortez and Luo were already loading again.
Marcus studied them. Both wore two stripes. “Which of you is senior?”
They looked at each other. “I pinned on in April,” said Cortez.
“March for me,” said Luo.
“Okay. Spacer Luo, if something happens to me, you’re in charge. You handle target selection. Do you know how?”
“Uh, the Gunner’s Mate showed me, but . . .”
“Right.” Marcus slapped the launcher display. “Pick a target for this launcher. Any ship. See the star there? It means this display is controlling all three.”
He took five times as long as Marcus would have, but he made the launchers ready to fire.
“Good. Let’s load.”
All three of them carried missiles. Marcus figured the right wiggle to get one into the chute, but it took him longer. Once the launchers were fully loaded he fired off the salvo while the spacers went for more missiles.
An order popped up on the display. ‘CEASE FIRE IN FIVE MINUTES.’ An urgent signal ‘ding’ sounded on the radio channel, drawing the attention of the spacers.
“What’s up, sir?” Luo asked.
As the number two in this outfit he needed to know. Marcus said, “We have to shoot all we can in the next five minutes then stop.”
He programmed the jammer to hide in the middle of the salvo and go off outside interceptor range. Then he went to carry.
The next one was a partial salvo, fired off right before the next order: ‘CEASE FIRE. CEASE FIRE. CEASE FIRE.’
Marcus put his head outside the hatch to look around. The entire Fieran fleet had stopped firing. The enemy was still attacking. He could see the flashes of incoming missiles destroyed by defensive fire.
He’d assumed the order only applied to fire against enemy ships. If he was supposed to shut down the interceptors . . . he’d take the court martial for disobeying an order.
“Why’d we stop shooting?” asked Luo.
“I have no idea.”
Then they saw movement past the edge of the formation. A stream of silver darts went past.
“What the hell is that?” exclaimed Cortez.
Marcus grinned. “Vacuum buggies. Fighters. Lots of them. Off to knife fight with the Imps. That’s why we stopped shooting. Didn’t want to lose them to friendly fire.”
***
“Attrition projections?” asked Admiral Pinoy.
“Enemy losses on the curve,” reported Commander Ruslov. “Ours are about five percent over prediction. At this rate we’ll lose twelve percent of our total force if the barbarians fight to the bitter end.”
“Expensive but acceptable. I hope their commander will see sense.”
Governor Yeager asked, “How long would the bitter end take?”
“Twenty-two hours, sir.”
“Thank you.” That would be five hours after the expiration of Yeager’s command.
“Your excellency, we may hope for a surrender earlier than that.”
Yeager nodded. Pinoy was being polite enough. But it was his delays that put them against this deadline.
The intelligence chief went off to settle a dispute among his subordinates.
Pinoy said, “Regardless of the exact outcome, you will be recognized as the one who saw the need for this expedition. The Fierans are too dangerous to leave uncontrolled.”
“I certainly hope the Monitor will be grateful.” Yeager wished Pinoy had something better to do than butter him up. Unfortunately for the conversation, but fortunately for the Censorate, everything was going according to Pinoy’s plan.
Then Ruslov returned, a bad news expression on his face. “Pardon me. We need to revise one of our assessments.”
Pinoy flicked his fingers impatiently.
“There’s a stream of objects approaching from the planet. We originally assessed them as long-range missile fire, or possibly decoys intended to distract us.” He swallowed. “It now appears they’re fighters. A great many fighters.”
“Have you updated the attrition simulations?” asked Admiral Pinoy.
“We have created a range of updates. The outcome depends on the effectiveness of the fighters. If they’re refitted civilian vessels like those armed freighters they put in the line we may take no damage at all. If they’re as effective
as our best fighters we would have . . . considerable losses.”
“Show me.” Pinoy followed the staffer to the display consolidating the scouts’ reports on enemy forces. After several minutes study he said, “You originally said they couldn’t be fighters because there weren’t enough carriers or space stations to launch them from.”
The intel chief flushed. “Ah. Yes, we did. Lieutenant Trask pointed out a vacuum-optimized fighter can launch from a planet, if it flies slowly and the weather is good.”
“I see. An elegant gambit, in its way. I wonder how they found the pilots for them? Not important.” Pinoy turned to Yeager, coming to attention. “Your excellency, I request permission to take the fleet back into hyperspace.”
Yeager was astonished. “What? No! You said we needed to keep the pressure on so the Fierans couldn’t repair and resupply. How can you even think of retreating from them?”
Pinoy spoke in an explanatory tone. “The fighters could be a real danger. But small craft don’t have the endurance to stay in place indefinitely. If we wait in hyperspace a few hours they should have to return to their bases. Then we can resume the battle.”
“Could, you say. The commander said they might do no damage at all. Isn’t that right?” Yeager pointed a pressure-suited hand at his witness.
The intelligence chief paled. Arguments between the governor and admiral were something all the staffers tried to stay clear of. “That is possible, your excellency. We can’t make solid estimates until we have an engagement with the new forces.”
“There! Your intelligencer says you must stay so he can find the data he needs.”
Ruslov paled. His mouth opened but he made no sound. His hands lifted in protest.
Pinoy said, “A valid point, though not his exact words. I must make the formal request: Do I have your permission to retreat to hyperspace?”
“You do not.”
“Very well, sir.” Pinoy turned away. “Ops! Have the fighter wing gear for counter-fighter and launch at will.”
Yeager tried to keep his face calm. That Pinoy would seize this excuse to try to take away even a chance of the victory belonging to the governor enraged him. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing.
The remnants of the ten carrier fighter wings had been consolidated into a single wing. They’d been held in reserve. Now their anti-ship munitions were being hastily swapped out.
The wing commander led them out, aiming for an intercept with one of the four streams of enemy fighters. They’d meet between the fleets. His transmissions were played on the flag bridge.
“Closing to laser range. Matching their deceleration. Some of the enemy are already firing. That’s a waste. Poor discipline. Not keeping formation well either.”
The flag bridge’s central holotank displayed the opposing fighter formations as they closed.
“We’re osculating their formation. The boys are really demonstrating their precision. I’m seeing a bunch of kills. Their formation is coming apart.”
Pinoy wore his normal calm and confident expression, but Yeager could see nervous expressions on the younger officers. The ops staffers were making calculations on their tablets and showing them to each other.
“Main enemy weapon is a mini-missile. They have racks of them. Not very accurate. And tactics, these clowns don’t have tactics, they’re just jinking around like raw trainees.”
Lieutenant Trask murmured, “Probably are trainees.”
“Ah, they do have some competent pilots. That’s refreshing. Most are idiots. I swear I saw two of them collide while lining up on me.”
The display was unintelligible to Yeager now. The dots of Censorial fighters were lost among the red dots of the barbarians.
“Blazes. Lost another of my boys. They’ve rammed nearly as many as they’ve shot.”
Admiral Pinoy demanded, “Casualties?”
“Over fifty percent,” said Ops.
“Get them out of there,” ordered Pinoy.
Commander Ruslov slapped a button to transmit the signal.
The wing commander said, “I see the recall but there’s no empty sky to retreat to. These fools are just swarming all over the place. Damned unprofessional.”
Then there was silence.
“I’m sorry, I’ve lost all their beacons,” said the communications tech.
Admiral Pinoy ordered, “All ships. Cease fire on enemy fleet. All weapons on fighters.”
The Intel chief said, “Our kill ratio was nearly five to one.”
“That would matter if we had fighters left,” said Pinoy.
An aide urged Yeager back to his control station, made sure his straps were fastened, and verified the governor’s helmet was in reach. Yeager waved him away. Were the Navy men trying to scare him into thinking his life was in danger again? He set his displays for the flagship’s external cameras, trying to get a look at the attackers.
They were specks, only noticeable because they moved across the real stars. Then he blinked and they were moving through the Censorial fleet. The fighters were thin cylinders, covered with racks holding weapons and sensors. The mini-missiles shot off at ships. When the racks were empty the fighters sped away.
Yeager could hear enemy fire hitting the flagship. Not the thuds of missiles hits as he’d heard during the battle after passing through the tunnel. This was like rain on metal, gusting then fading before gusting again.
Some of his displays went out, replaced by the small letters ‘SIGNAL LOST.’ He switched one to the damage control channel. The incomprehensible jargon had a more frantic tone than when he’d checked earlier in the battle. It was scrolling even faster than during the tunnel battle.
“Close that damn vent!” someone shouted.
Yeager looked up. A plume of yellow smoke was coming out of an air vent. No one had put on his helmet yet. But then, they wouldn’t.
That vent was sealed. Wisps of smoke came through another. The artificial gravity cut out. Yeager watched his feet drift up. It seemed his legs wanted to be straight unless something was pulling on them.
He switched displays. Damage control updated a holo of the ship with where the problems were. Usually it was just an outline with cryptic codes marking trouble spots. Now—purple spikes went in from the hull. Yellow splotches were scattered about. Yellow meant fire. He checked the key. Purple indicated compartments in vacuum.
He hoped the spacers there put their helmets on in time.
The rain seemed to be fading. The exterior views showed fewer fighters than before.
Admiral Pinoy demanded, “Did that maniac ram us?”
“He did, sir,” answered an officer, “but I think he was trying to evade interceptor fire, not doing it on purpose.”
“Incompetent barbarians.”
Lieutenant Trask broke in. “Sir, about two percent of their force has stayed clear of the assault. We suspect those are experienced pilots waiting to guide the trainees back to their bases. If we fire on them now we could disrupt their next attack.”
Pinoy considered the suggestion. “No. We need to focus on protecting ourselves now. Keep fire on the attackers.”
The lights flickered. Then restored artificial gravity pulled Yeager’s feet to the deck. He sniffed. There was less smoke in the air.
Angry shouting broke out among the ops staff. Someone had directed a cruiser squadron to take evasive action toward the same volume a destroyer squadron had evaded into. Now they were blaming each other for the resulting collision. It was suppressed before Admiral Pinoy finished walking over to them.
The Ops chief said, “Sir, we’ve taken out their stragglers. The main body of fighters is out of our effective range. Their fleet has opened fire again. Request permission to redirect our fire to their fleet.”
“Granted,” said the admiral.
The chatter on the flag bridge still focused on damage control and rescuing crew off shattered ships.
Ten minutes went by with Admiral Pinoy saying nothing. Then he walked ove
r to the Intel section. “Are the attrition simulations updated?”
“No, sir,” said their chief. “We’re still waiting on the remaining damage reports.”
Pinoy gave him a nod and walked away.
Damage control was putting out the fires on the Immensity. Sometimes they did that by dumping the compartment to vacuum. The purple spikes grew as often as they shrank. But the report channel was less frantic now.
Yeager switched to the Ops reports. The fleet wasn’t firing as many missiles as before the fighter attack. The number was going up as ships recovered from the shock. The same percentage were still making it through the Fieran defenses. They were whittling the enemy fleet down.
The Intel chief called out, “Sir, the simulations are finishing up.”
Admiral Pinoy turned toward Yeager. “Your excellency, you may wish to see this.”
They joined Ruslov at his display.
“Gentlemen. With our data complete, we’ve been simulating multiple strategies and possible enemy responses to them. We were specifically asked about retreating into hyperspace for brief periods to avoid fighter strikes. Our estimate is that the enemy would fall back to their planet so we would have to face continuous overlapping strike waves.”
Yeager asked, “Why aren’t they doing that now?”
“It would expose their planet to the risk of stray missiles impacting population centers.”
Or intentional ones, thought Yeager. It was a normal technique for the Censorate when subduing rebellions.
The intel chief focused his display on a different branch of his flowchart. “Our most successful strategy is to hold our position here, engaging with the enemy fleet and destroying it. Then we can attack the planet, destroying the fighters in their bases.”
He switched to a wordy chart. “We still have unknowns we needed to estimate in the models. How long the fighters will take to turn around, how many new fighters will be generated between each strike, and whether their fleet will hold its position.”
Pinoy gave him a ‘get on with it’ wave.
“Our assessment is that we will destroy the enemy fleet completely and force surrender of the planet in eighty to a hundred and fifteen hours. Our losses will be forty to fifty-five percent of our force.” Commander Ruslov stood straight and stiff, as if facing a firing squad.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 21
