“She’s as ready as I can make her, Lieutenant,” Chief Petty Officer John W. Finn calmly said as Staton reached his Meteor.
“Is she ready enough that I don’t have to run a pre-flight myself?” Staton asked, echoing Finn’s calmness.
“If you trust me, she is, sir.”
“You don’t get to be a chief if you aren’t trustworthy,” Staton said, climbing into his Meteor.
“I’ve never lost a pilot yet,” Finn told him as he dogged the hatch closed.
“Yet?” Staton asked, but the hatch was closed and he hadn’t hooked into his comm yet. Well, he did trust Finn. He quickly went through his instrument check; everything seemed to be ready and working properly.
“Catfish, are you ready?” Staton said, testing his comm link. “Sound off.”
“Catfish Three and Four, ready for launch,” came the voice of Lieutenant (jg) Donna A. Gary, the assistant squadron commander.
“Catfish Five and Six, ready,” was Lieutenant (jg) William E. Hall.
The rest of VSF 114’s two-spacecraft teams reported in as the spacecraft were trundled to the launch tube.
“Victor Sierra Foxtrot One-one-four, ready for launch,” Staton reported to launch operations.
“Victor Sierra Foxtrot One-one-four,” replied launch officer Lieutenant Commander Alexander G. Lyle, “launch in five, four, three, two, one, go!”
Two by two, flight leader and wingman, the Meteors lunched at ten second intervals. Less than a minute and a half after Staton was slammed back into his seat by the force of launching, VSF 114 was in formation and heading on an intercept vector toward the oncoming bogeys.
VSF 218 “Lionfish” began launching three minutes later.
VSF 114, “Catfish” squadron, off NAUS Kidd, En Route to Intercept Bogeys
“Talk about your target rich environments!” Ensign Paula Foster shouted.
“Restrain your enthusiasm, Pinball,” Lieutenant Adolphus Staton said to his wingman.
“Right, boss. But there’s still a lot of them!”
The squadron was closing with the oncoming missiles at more than a thousand klicks per second.
“All Catfish, listen up,” Staton said on the squadron’s circuit. “We might only get one pass here, and there’s many more of them than there are of us. On my mark, give them everything you’ve got. Remember, every one of them that gets through will kill a bunch of doggies and some of our shipmates. So kill them all!”
Everything you’ve got was Beanbags and Zappers. “Beanbags” were canisters loaded with sand and fine gravel that would spread out when the canisters burst open, creating a screen that would blast through anything man made in its path. “Zappers” were missiles with proximity fuses; they emitted powerful electromagnetic bursts designed to fry all electronics within a five klick range.
Staton didn’t fret over what he knew to be true: that even if the Catfish and the Lionfish killed every one of their targets, at least some enemy missiles would still get through, and there was nothing he could do about it. In a corner of his mind he hoped that the destroyers and cruisers screening the ARG, and the destroyers coming out from the planet, could get everything the Meteors didn’t.
Staton checked that his computer had calculated the times of notification so that each of his squadron’s spacecraft would fire simultaneously—the squadron was spread wide enough that there would be a time lag before the most distant fighters would get his fire order. Then he paid attention to the rapidly closing distance between his squadron and the oncoming missiles, and noted the vectors each of his pilots would follow after they fired their loads. He was so intent on studying those vectors that he didn’t notice that the enemy missiles had launched smaller missiles of their own—aimed at the Meteors of Catfish Squadron—until his ship’s warning system set off its proximity alert.
Staton looked at the front display and almost screamed in horror at what his display showed. Each of the sixty oncoming missiles had split into six; instead of nearly four targets per Meteor, there were now more than twenty.
But he was disciplined enough to squeeze his emergency fire lever and send a fire-and-evade message to his pilots. Then he fired off his port and ventral jets to jink up and to the right to get out of the way of the rapidly approaching threat. The sudden change of direction slammed him down to his left; if it wasn’t for his harness, it would have smashed his shoulder into the corner of his acceleration couch, dislocating it if not fracturing bones. “Evade,” he verbalized to his computer—the closing speed between the oncoming missiles and his Meteor was too fast for merely human reflexes to successfully maneuver out of harm’s way. The Meteor’s maneuver jets fired: now port, now starboard, now ventral, now dorsal, often in concert or rapid succession. For the next several moments he was flung about inside his crew pod as the Meteor dodged the enemy counter fire, unable to see where his spacecraft’s fire went, much less that of his pilots. Or even if his pilots were surviving.
When the jinking finally stopped and he was able to look, he only found five of the other fifteen of his squadron on his first pass. And far more than half of the enemy missiles were still inbound for the ARG.
“Catfish, on me!” he calmly said into the squadron circuit, and aimed his Meteor at the missiles.
“What are we going to do, boss?” asked Lieutenant (jg) John K. Koelsch as he aligned his fighter to Staton’s left rear.
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out. All Catfish, sound off!” Who made it through? he wanted to know. He tried not to think of who was lost.
He got eight replies, better than he had feared although still too few; one was from a Meteor he hadn’t seen on his first look, two were from badly damaged fightercraft that could only limp behind. Counting him, only nine of the sixteen fighters of VSF 114 Catfish had survived the initial contact. He hoped that at least some of the other pilots were still alive in the cockpit pods that were designed to keep pilots alive when their spacecraft were killed.
When Staton saw his remaining Meteors were all close enough, he ordered, “Echelon left.” The six lined up to his left, angling back from his position. He had no idea what his truncated, nearly out of ammunition squadron could do to stop the enemy missiles.
They weren’t closing; the enemy missiles were faster than the Meteors. He gave the order for the Catfish to fire off the rest of their ordnance. Surely the beanbags and zappers were faster than the enemy.
Chapter Ten
Destroyer Lance Corporal Keith Lopez, Approaching the Enemy Missiles at Flank Speed
Commander Ernest E. Evans, captain of the Lopez, studied his sit-board. It clearly showed three dozen bogeys coming on, with VSF 114 turning to chase them, and VSF 218 closing with the bogeys head on. The range to the bogeys was short enough that the Lopez could open fire now and get most of them. But VSF 218 was in the line of fire; no matter how good the firing solution was, some of the 218’s spacecraft were sure to get killed by a salvo from the Lopez.
“Radar, Captain,” Evans said into his comm, “How long before 218 clears our LoF?”
“Captain, Radar,” came back Lieutenant (jg) Frederick V. McNair. “At current velocities, 218 will pass through the bogeys and clear our line of fire in twenty-seven seconds.”
“Weapons, Captain. Did you copy that?”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Guy Wilkinson Castle answered. “Firing solution being calculated. We will be ready to fire the new solution as soon as two-one-eight clears.”
As soon as two-one-eight clears wasn’t exact; at the distances involved there was relativity to factor in, and VSF 218 was already through the formation of bogeys by the time Radar gave its estimate. What it did was give the fighters a margin of error to clear out of the way of the Lopez’s fire.
“Weapons, fire when ready,” Evans ordered.
“Fire when ready, aye, sir.”
That was before the alien missiles split.
Destroyer Commander Herald F. Stout, Pursuing the Enemy Missiles at Fla
nk Speed
“They’re getting away from us, ma’am,” Lieutenant Edouard V.M. Izac said shrilly, shocked at how the enemy weapons had suddenly multiplied.
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Izac,” Lieutenant Commander Jane D. Bulkeley, Stout’s captain, replied.
The Stout was on an intercept vector, but the missiles she was chasing were going faster than she was, and there was no maneuver scheme that would close the distance to optimal range for a firing solution. The enemy missiles would be past wherever the Stout’s weapons intercepted their paths no matter how the ship maneuvered.
“Weapons,” Bulkeley said into the comm, “do you have a solution for hitting those bogeys?”
“Affirmative, skipper,” answered Lieutenant Edward H. O’Hare. “It’s at extreme range, but I think we can hit a few of them.”
“‘I think’ isn’t good enough, Mr. O’Hare. Can we hit them?”
“Ma’am, I’m sure we can hit some of them.”
“But not all.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t think we can hit all.”
“Try for all.”
“Aye aye, ma’am. I already have the firing solution programmed in.”
“Do it.”
Seconds later, the Stout shuddered as her tubes ejected Beanbags, Zappers, and rockets at the enemy missiles. None of the Stout’s missiles could accelerate faster than the enemy’s, but they could reach a point in space within a fraction of a second of when their targets did. It wasn’t likely that the weapons would physically destroy any of the enemy missiles, but the beanbags might damage some of them enough to slow them down, or deflect their courses; the same went for the rockets with proximity or timed fuses. The better chance was that the zappers would fry some of the missiles’ electronics, possibly with shock enough to explode their hydrox—or whatever they used for fuel.
Then the tension on the destroyer was palpable as everyone who could see a display watched their ship’s weapons heading toward the enemy.
Several hundred kilometers to port, the destroyers HM3 Edward C. Benfold and First Lieutenant George H. Cannon also loosed their weapons at the enemy missiles.
Destroyer Chief Gunners Mate Oscar Schmit, Jr., Approaching Enemy Missiles at Flank Speed
Commander Eugene B. Fluckey, the Schmit’s captain, gritted his teeth at the view he saw on his situation display. The Meteors of VSF 114 and 218 were doing their best to knock out the oncoming enemy missiles, but already 114 was down to less than half strength, and 218 was being severely punished as well. Fluckey wished he knew the names of the squadrons, so he could pay them proper respect. But he didn’t, so their numbers would have to do. It was a pity that there weren’t enough of the interceptors to stop the attack on the ARG. Far to the rear of the approaching furball, he saw the missiles fired by the Stout, the Cannon, and the Benfold chasing the attackers. He could tell that many, perhaps most, of the their weapons wouldn’t catch up with the enemy.
The defensive weapons being launched by the Schmit, and the Lopez to starboard and ahead, were taking their toll on the oncoming missiles. But not nearly high enough a price. Many of the missiles speeding toward the two destroyers, he knew, would strike them. Probably enough to kill both warships. Then others would batter the following cruisers, Coral Sea and Ramsey Strait.
Which would leave the transports of ARG17 defenseless, except for the carrier Kidd. And the Kidd had virtually no weapons other than her two space squadrons, which were already fighting the enemy.
It didn’t matter that the wormhole the ARG had come through had closed; the starships were too far away from where it had been to reach its safety before the attacking missiles arrived even if it had still been open.
NAUS Durango, Flagship Task Force 8, Admiral’s Bridge
Admiral Avery helplessly watched the action taking place more than two light minutes distant. At this remove, there was nothing he could do or say to affect the battle. Anything he saw had already happened, any orders he gave to the warships protecting the ARG would arrive more than four minutes after whatever he responded to had happened.
Four minutes in a close-fought space battle might as well be an eternity.
Avery forced his jaw to unclench, his shoulder muscles to unknot. He did it without thought, it was a skill he had developed during the course of nearly four decades of standing watch and commanding ships.
Bright lights that sparked soundlessly in the visual spectrum told of enemy missiles being destroyed by fighter fire. Brighter flashes showed the deaths of interceptors from VSF 114 and VSF 218.
The section of sky short of the approaching convoy suddenly speckled with sparks, the sparks of missiles being killed by fire from the destroyers Avery had sent to aid the defenders of the convoy. But they couldn’t kill all of the missiles; there were too many of them.
There weren’t enough bright flashes; there were too many of the brighter flashes.
Then came a light that blossomed far larger than any of the missile or fighter deaths he’d already seen—an escort warship exploded, her spine broken by strikes from multiple missiles that had gotten through the screen of defensive fire and interceptors. Then another bright blossom. The Lopez and the Schmit, the two destroyers in the van of the ARG, were gone.
An even brighter flash heralded the death of one of the cruisers, followed immediately by the brilliant death of the other. Now there was nothing but a few out-classed interceptors left to shield the transports of Amphibious Ready Group 17—and they were chasing the missiles.
Avery didn’t allow himself to hang his head; he continued to watch the displays. In another place and time, a fleet commander in his situation would retire to his cabin and commit ritual suicide. But in the here and now, he remained alive and in command, doing whatever he could to salvage the situation, until another admiral arrived from Earth to relieve him.
“Fleet CAC,” he demanded into his comm, “have you found where they come from yet?”
“Sir, we know they came from behind Mini Mouse. We’re analyzing their trajectory to determine exactly where. We should have the location shortly.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
NAUS Durango, Fleet Combat Action Center
Lieutenant Commander R. Z. Johnston scowled, visibly upset that the enemy had sneaked an attack past him. He already had his people back-tracking the trajectory of the missiles to determine exactly where they originated. They came from the far side of Mini Mouse, that much was obvious. The small moon wasn’t tidally locked to Troy, so the launch site had moved since the missiles went up. That meant the launch site—sites?—had moved, relative to where the moon’s “far side” was now. Elementary to calculate. And they had a complete map of the surface of the small moon. Two analysts were examining the maps, and one of them was plotting the possible site/sites against known gravitational anomalies.
Johnston suspected the launch site was on or just below, the surface put in place after the initial attack of the aliens. He didn’t see any way they could have brought in the heavy equipment they’d need to dig in deeply without being noticed from the planet’s surface—or the digging operations noticed by approaching starships even if they were able to shield the operation from surface-based observers on Troy—before the original attack. Ergo, Johnston concluded, the site must be on or near the surface, and camouflaged.
It was just too bad Mini Mouse hadn’t been thoroughly mapped earlier. Then it would have been an easy job to compare that against the navy’s maps that showed what was there now.
“Sir,” Senior Chief John C. McCloy interrupted Johnston’s thoughts, “I think we’ve hit paydirt.”
“Show me.”
McCloy toggled one of the analyst’s displays to the CAC head’s display. It showed four surface soft spots with something with variable density immediately below.
“Bingo,” Johnston murmured. “Admiral’s bridge, CAC.”
Avery was waiting for the call. “Speak to me.”
>
“Sir, we’ve got four probable targets. Each shows distinct features of camouflaged artillery positions.”
“Can their locations be hit by the Scott or the Durango?”
“Negative, sir.” He looked at McCloy.
“Working on it,” McCloy said softly, and turned to the analysts to get them to work on initial plots to move the two warships into position to strike the enemy sites.
“Sir, we are working on vectors for Scott and Durango to take to be able to strike at the Mini Mouse sites.”
“Keep doing it. Let me know when you have the vectors. I’ll order them to follow them, and have their CACs coordinate with you. Avery out.”
NAUS Peleliu, Flagship of Amphibious Ready Group 17, Commodore’s Bridge
Rear Admiral Daniel J. Callaghan, commanding ARG 17, and Lieutenant General Joel H. Lyman, commanding VII Corps, stood at the control bar separating the commodore’s station from the officers overseeing the fleet’s operations. The main display that hovered before them showed a ninety-light-second-diameter, three dimensional sphere to their front. Callaghan was in his crisp khaki duty uniform. Lyman, who a short time earlier had expected to be making planetfall in his corps’ second wave, was in his eye-fooling camouflage field uniform. Where their arms almost touched, Lyman’s nearly blended visually into Callaghan’s.
Callaghan’s mouth was dry. It didn’t take any understanding of orbital mechanics to see that Catfish and Lionfish squadrons— what was left of them—had virtually no chance of destroying any of the fifty-eight missiles still homing in on the nineteen transports and supply ships of ARG17, and that most if not all of the starships of ARG17 were going to be hit, possibly—probably—killed. Even a six-year-old playing “Deep Space Fleet” on a child-size HUD could see that.
His only consolation was that he probably wouldn’t survive to face a board of inquiry.
Issue In Doubt Page 11
