by Eric Thomson
WHEN THE
GUNS ROAR
Siobhan Dunmoore Book 6
Eric Thomson
When the Guns Roar
Copyright 2019 Eric Thomson
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published in Canada
By Sanddiver Books Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-989314-17-3
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
— One —
— Two —
— Three —
— Four —
— Five —
— Six —
— Seven —
— Eight —
— Nine —
— Ten —
— Eleven —
— Twelve —
— Thirteen —
— Fourteen —
— Fifteen —
— Sixteen —
— Seventeen —
— Eighteen —
— Nineteen —
— Twenty —
— Twenty-One —
— Twenty-Two —
— Twenty-Three —
— Twenty-Four —
— Twenty-Five —
— Twenty-Six —
— Twenty-Seven —
— Twenty-Eight —
— Twenty-Nine —
— Thirty —
— Thirty-One —
— Thirty-Two —
— Thirty-Three —
— Thirty-Four —
— Thirty-Five —
— Thirty-Six —
— Thirty-Seven —
— Thirty-Eight —
— Thirty-Nine —
— Forty —
— Forty-One —
— Forty-Two —
— Forty-Three —
— Forty-Four —
— Forty-Five —
— Forty-Six —
— Forty-Seven —
About the Author
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— One —
“That assemblage of spare parts has to be the Shrehari forward operating base my drones picked up.” Lieutenant Shanna Nishino’s hologram looked up at Siobhan Dunmoore, sitting in the throne-like command chair at the heart of Iolanthe’s combat information center. “It appears lightly armed by our standards and isn’t hosting any ships at the moment. As my favorite obachan would say, a carp on a cutting board. We paid particular attention to the planet’s Lagrangian points, in case the boneheads know about us and are running silent hoping to spring an ambush, but found nothing. However, based on the emissions signature, there’s someone home, and they put a half dozen satellites in geosynchronous orbit as a rudimentary surveillance constellation.”
“Confirmed,” Chief Petty Officer Third Class Marti Yens, Iolanthe’s sensor chief said. “And if we can see it, then it’s a given Fennec’s eyes aren’t telling lies, since they’re at least twenty percent better than ours.”
“Make that thirty percent, Chief,” Nishino, Fennec’s captain, replied with more than a hint of pride in her voice.
“Eyes aren’t telling lies?” Lieutenant Commander Thorin Sirico, Iolanthe’s combat systems officer, cocked an eyebrow at Yens. “When did you take up the fine art of poesy?”
“Everyone needs a hobby, sir,” Yens replied, unrepentant. “And I’ll accept thirty percent, Lieutenant. Those new long-range sensors are amazing.”
The Q-ship and her diminutive consort, one of Task Force Luckner’s two sloop-sized scouts, had come out of hyperspace as close to the dead planet as they could while remaining within the wartime safety envelope. They were now running silent, albeit with an undetectable laser comlink joining them while looking for the enemy battle group calling the hastily constructed orbital station home.
Dunmoore nodded.
“That they are. Let’s hope the resident Shrehari battle group isn’t stalking Admiral Petras while he’s hunting that convoy. Otherwise, it could become messier than planned.”
Nishino made a face.
“No kidding.”
After weeks of fruitless patrolling as a formation along the frontier, Rear Admiral Kell Petras had finally accepted Dunmoore’s suggestion and taken Task Force Luckner well into what was Shrehari space even before the war. There, instead of stalking known interstellar shipping routes, they’d loitered at the heliopause of a star system named Khorsan. According to naval intelligence, it might harbor a forward operating base. Perhaps even the one which supported the strike group Iolanthe fought from time to time.
FOBs received regular supply convoys, and every ship crossing the heliopause was forced to drop out of FTL because hyperspace physics severely limited a starship’s velocity inside a heliosphere. Passing the heliopause on an inward-bound course at interstellar speeds never ended well. And jumping through interstellar space at in-system speeds meant an endless voyage. Starships were never more vulnerable to ambush than either at the heliopause or their target planet’s hyperlimit.
Thanks to a stroke of luck, when they probed Khorsan, the scouts detected an eight ship convoy. Its presence in an otherwise uninhabited system meant it was probably leaving a FOB after resupplying it with ammunition, food, spare parts, and other items essential to waging interstellar war. Five of the vessels were armed freighters, the other three were Ptar class escorts, corvettes that stood no chance whatsoever against the Q-ship’s guns.
But inexplicably, Petras had ordered Iolanthe, his most powerful ship, to reconnoiter the suspected FOB accompanied by Fennec instead of putting her at the head of Task Force Luckner’s attack phalanx. But Dunmoore could guess why.
Ever since joining Luckner, she had been as cooperative as possible with the demanding admiral, biting her tongue whenever his tactics during their never-ending battle drills ran counter to the experience Iolanthe’s crew had gained from raids inside the enemy’s sphere. After a few rebuffed attempts at diplomatically suggesting ways to improve performance — always in private, with no one else around to hear — she’d given up.
The task force’s mission was to raid enemy commerce, harass their shipping, and cause as much havoc as possible, just as its namesake, Count Felix von Luckner, a famous wet navy commerce raider did during one of Earths’ wars centuries ago. Yet Petras insisted on deploying his ships in ways that didn’t seem to deviate much from conventional doctrine.
That he didn’t want Dunmoore around for his first real try at stalking and destroying a Shrehari convoy wasn’t exactly a surprise to most of Iolanthe’s people. Or to Lieutenant Nishino, a career chief petty officer commissioned from the ranks early in the war when the Fleet doubled in size and experienced officers were at a premium.
“What are your intentions, sir?” Nishino asked. “We could do a flyby at fairly close range and carry out a detailed scan. With no enemy ships around, the FOB is pretty much a sitting duck.”
Commander Ezekiel Holt, Iolanthe’s first officer, or rather his hologram, since he was at his station on the bridge, saw an all too familiar gleam appear in Dunmoore’s eyes.
“The admiral wants us to scout out this place, Skipper. He didn’t indicate we should attack the FOB if it appeared ripe for the picking. That bizarre construct might be lightly armed by our standards, but I’m sure it still packs a punch. Even a flyby should stay out of gun range.”
>
“Are they carrying out active scans, Chief?” Dunmoore asked instead of answering Holt.
“Negative. And I’m not reading anything that might show they’re powering up to fight.”
“Not unreasonable,” Sirico said. “They don’t expect hostile ships this deep inside their own space, which means they aren’t looking for any.”
“And we should take advantage of that.” She smiled at her first officer. “Don’t you think, Zeke? Imagine the effect on Shrehari morale if we destroy one of their orbital stations and then simply vanish. The battle group based here would need to travel further back for resupply, meaning they’d have less time to spend hunting us. A winning proposition, no?”
The first officer let out a soft sigh, knowing his captain’s mind was made up.
“Once again, I find it difficult to argue with your logic, Skipper.”
She grinned at Holt.
“To paraphrase the great Horatio Nelson, our fleet will sooner forgive an officer for attacking his enemy than for leaving him alone. When the station’s orbital period takes it behind the planet, we will fire thrusters to accelerate and hope their surveillance systems don’t spot us. A single pass, then we boost back to the hyperlimit and check out the gas giants before rejoining the task force. One of them must have an automated antimatter fueling station in orbit. We should destroy it as well. Fennec will stay out of known effective enemy range at all times.”
“I’ll ask Astrid to prepare the navigation plot right away.”
“And I,” Lieutenant Commander Sirico added, rubbing his hands with bloodthirsty glee, “will prepare a firing plan to destroy that monstrosity with a single salvo.”
“Best plan on several salvos, Thorin,” Dunmoore replied. “It could be tougher than we think. The Shrehari aren’t much on esthetics, but they know how to build something solid.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
It wasn’t long before the CIC’s tactical projection lit up, showing a plot that would bring the Q-ship within optimum gun range of the FOB as it swung around the planet on a course to slingshot back toward the hyperlimit. Fennec would follow a parallel course, but beyond known enemy weapons rage, and record every single detail about the target for Fleet intelligence. Lieutenant Drost’s hologram appeared beside that of the first officer.
“Good work as always.” Dunmoore smiled at her. “What about you, Thorin?”
“My fire plan is coordinated with Astrid’s plot, sir.” Further symbols appeared in the tactical projection, showing the planned firing window.
“Fennec?”
“We received your navigator’s calculations, Captain, and our own course is laid in to conform with your movements but at a greater distance from the target.”
Dunmoore gave the three-dimensional projection of the dead planet and the orbital station one last glance, knowing she was about to cast the die and exceed her orders.
“Since the target no longer has a direct line of sight to our current position, you may fire sublight drives as per the navigation plot and put us on the right course at full acceleration.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Drost and Lieutenant Nishino responded in unison.
“And Thorin...”
“Sir?”
“Turn her into the Furious Faerie. There’s no sense letting the enemy watch us unmask. They will undoubtedly send word on their subspace net, and I prefer them to think a battlecruiser is attacking and not that dastardly phantom raider they’ve been chasing for months.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Moments later, Dunmoore felt the vibration of camouflage plates sliding aside and gun turrets rising from their hidden compartments, transforming a harmless bulk carrier into a deadly warship. A countdown timer appeared on one of the CIC’s secondary screens, marking the hours, minutes, and seconds remaining before Iolanthe reached optimal engagement range. Or as Sirico would put it if asked, marking how long the Shrehari forward operations base had left to live.
Dunmoore climbed to her feet.
“You have the CIC, Mister Sirico. I’ll be in my day cabin.”
“Sir.” The combat systems officer sprang up. “Shall I send for you five minutes before we reach extreme engagement range?”
“Please do.” She glanced at Holt’s hologram. “Join me for coffee.”
Her day cabin was halfway between the bridge and the CIC, and they arrived simultaneously. Once inside, Holt headed for the urn, picked up two mugs emblazoned with the ship’s Furious Faerie crest and filled them while Dunmoore dropped into the chair behind her desk.
“I hope you won’t try to talk me out of attacking, Zeke.”
He handed her one of the steaming cups.
“Me? Perish the thought. It’s too late, anyway. But be prepared for one of Petras’ stern talks about managing risk this far from the nearest Commonwealth star system.”
“I am.” She sighed. “You’d think after working at Special Operations Command HQ, the idea we exist to take greater risks than conventional units would come naturally to him.”
“Sure, but losing ships still gets you in front of a board of inquiry. And if there’s the slightest hint of preventable error, it turns from a formality into a full-blown inquisition, even for a SOCOM flag officer.”
“And he’s not experienced enough to understand just how far we can push the envelope. I know.” Dunmoore took a sip of the dark brew. “What I fear is that he’ll never make the leap, meaning ships such as Iolanthe and Jan Sobieski, who were built to take the fight deep into enemy space, will be wasted. The Shrehari are running out of steam. I can feel it. Every intelligence digest hints at it. Which means this is the time to hit them below the belt often and hard.”
“Such as destroying one of their FOBs and tons of supplies recently delivered but not yet distributed to patrolling ships. As I said, Skipper, I can’t fault your logic, but the admiral will try. Especially if we come back damaged enough to need dry dock time.” Holt snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he considers you a bad influence on the other captains. Petras must already suspect Gregor Pushkin feels more loyalty toward you than toward him.”
“But he’s also smart enough to know Gregor will do his duty with utmost diligence nonetheless. Lena Corto is the one who worries me.”
Holt made a face upon hearing the name of Task Force Luckner’s flag captain. “Me as well.”
“Lena is desperate for her first star. And she knows the only way to become a commodore when you’ve spent most of the war in staff appointments and never commanded at the captain rank is by riding an admiral’s coattails. And you don’t ride coattails that aren’t headed up the greasy pole. Dear Lena won’t want her boss to make the sort of mistake that’ll see him stay a rear admiral for the rest of his career. She’s invested too much in him for a change of patrons at this late date. The rule is passed over for promotion ten times, and you retire — at least in peacetime. Her last promotion was a while back, which means she’s already been passed over several times. A few more and the moment this war ends, she’ll swallow the anchor for good, even if she doesn’t want to retire.”
“Tick tock.”
“Yup. And that sound is getting louder in her ears.”
“Meaning Corto won’t let Petras take what she considers undue risks. Better to be suspected of excessive prudence than seen as overly aggressive when one comes home with dented starships.”
“It has ever been thus, Zeke. Our dear navy will never change, not even under the pressures of interstellar war.” She put her mug down. “Speaking of excessive prudence versus naked aggression, how about a few games of chess?”
Holt let out a theatrical groan, but it was mostly feigned. He enjoyed their regular matches, even though she still beat him two times out of three.
“I’ll fetch the set.”
Five rounds later, Dunmoore glanced at the timer on her cabin’s main display. Sirico would call soon. She moved her queen and sat back.
“Check, mate.�
�
Holt sighed.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice my mistake, but nothing ever gets by you.”
Dunmoore grinned at him.
“Cheer up, Zeke. You won two games. That’s almost half.”
He rounded up the chess pieces and placed them one by one in the antique mahogany case which, when open, also served as the board.
“I suggest we grab a sandwich before returning to our duty stations, Skipper. My stomach is making demands I can’t ignore.”
“Ditto.”
— Two —
“Captain.” Lieutenant Commander Sirico jumped up the moment Dunmoore entered the CIC. “I was just about to call you. The boneheads are still quiet. No active scans, no signs they’re powering up for a fight, and no ships hiding in plain sight. We’re tracking the target on passive. Our weapons systems are ready and waiting on low power standby. It’ll take the usual ninety seconds from your command to the first round downrange.”
She studied the three-dimensional targeting plot, where a red icon orbited a reasonably accurate facsimile of the rocky, airless world. A pair of blue icons, one larger than the other were moving toward it, their planned course marked by two dotted lines. The larger of them would pass within a few thousand kilometers of the red icon at its closest approach to the planet before using a gravity assist maneuver to slingshot around and head back out toward interstellar space, along with its smaller companion.
Sirico touched his console, and the projection zoomed in on the orbital station, now bracketed by symbols marking the beginning and end of the optimum engagement window.
“Provided they don’t detect us until we go up systems, our firing window will allow for way more than three salvos, sir. It’s really a question of how much ammo you want to expend. The boneheads are stuck in a predictable orbit. Which means every shot and every missile will be on target.”
Dunmoore squinted at the tactical display.
“We might as well give them as little time as possible to react and thereby not empty half of our stocks on a target of opportunity. I think it won’t be as tough a nut to crack as our own FOBs. Besides, the admiral might look to the weight of our broadside during a planned operation before our next resupply run, and I’d rather not come up short.”
