Admiral's Challenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 8)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “What?” Druid demanded, the words a death knell for their hope of escape.

  “Sir, we have to slow down!” the Helmsman said, placing his hands on the controls and looking at the commodore urgently.

  “Get me an external view of the ship,” Druid ordered.

  “Just a moment; we’re still trying…I have it. There’s a Damage Control team out on the hull; relaying from suit cam now, Commodore,” replied the Damage Control Officer.

  Slowly, and from too close of a vantage point, the damage to the ship was rendered. As the suit-cam panned from stem to stern of the mighty battleship’s exterior, the devastation became apparent.

  “Sweet Murphy,” Druid fell back in his chair. Because of the rotation, a full half of the ship had been scarred by the Command Carriers hell-cannon. The giant scar started out as a massive rivet in the outer hull armor but, as it continued—presumably when the fully-powered starboard shields had finally surrendered—the beam had struck deep into the ship’s vitals. Looking at the damage from his remove in the bridge, Commodore Druid was amazed the ship was still in one piece and continuing to function at all.

  His respect for the Caprian Dreadnaught Class—that pet peeve love project of Commander Spalding—rose several notches. He didn’t think a battleship made on his home planet would be able to survive such a wound and continue functioning. Moreover, the Caprian battleships had thicker armor than his home world’s native ships. Would they have even survived such a strike?

  His fingers flying, he calculated a new course even as the ship shuddered around him taking fire from the enemy’s secondary weaponry.

  “How soon before the Command Carrier can fire again?” he demanded of his Tactical Officer. He meant to inquire of the enemy’s main gun, and not its secondary weaponry which was as strong as anything boasted by the Parliamentary Power.

  “Best estimate from the power readings we’re getting is another ten to fifteen minutes,” that Officer replied uncertainly, but correctly guessing his commander’s intent.

  Druid slammed his fist down on the arm of his command chair. He couldn’t even ram the enemy before they recharged their main cannon—no matter how much, or little, he may have wanted to.

  “Commodore, the Command Carrier is signaling…” reported the Lieutenant at Comm. before he stopped and looked up with worried eyes and finished, “they demand our surrender.”

  On the main screen, the roll was now completed and the Power wasn’t just taking laser strikes without responding—she was dishing back out her own rain of pain. But the taste of ashes were in his mouth he saw that his battleship’s full broadside wasn’t enough to penetrate the enemy’s shields.

  “Enemy fighters forming up into attack formation!” cried Tactical. “It looks like they’re targeting our engines, judging from their flight profile.”

  Eyes burning with genuine hatred, Druid glared at the image of the Carrier on his screen. This Reclamation Fleet had, in one stroke, just announced the impotence of his ship and the irrelevance of the entire battleship class. Maybe if he’d had enough battleships at his back, Druid could have made a fight of it. But as things stood, the most powerful ship type in the MSP Fleet had just been over powered by one shot.

  One, single, blasted, shot, he seethed silently.

  Maybe the Admiral had enough Battleships to throw at this monster to make it back off, but the Commodore certainly didn’t.

  Now with the fighters on one side, and the Command Carrier and its pair of Battleships on the other, the Parliamentary Power was caught between a hammer and an anvil, and was soon to be ground up into dust.

  Maybe the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet’s much vaunted Little Admiral could have snatched victory—or at least escape—from the jaws of defeat, but if so he was a better man than Druid…because the Commodore didn’t see any way out of this mess of an ambush that didn’t end in death or defeat.

  “Enemy fighters beginning their attack run,” reported Tactical in a flat voice.

  Druid could almost feel the weight of the inevitable, certain defeat settle upon the bridge.

  “Lieutenant Commander Slim,” Druid said, standing up from his chair and rising to his full height.

  “Your orders, Commodore?” his Executive Officer said stepping over and drawing himself to attention.

  “Sound the Evacuation alarm throughout the ship; the order is for every crewmember to board the escape pods,” Druid said, drawing himself up. “After which you are to retire to the Captain’s Cutter, where you are to prepare to do your best to escape from this wretched star system. The fusion cores, indicating this ship’s surrender to the enemy, will be ejected shortly after you clear the hull. Hopefully they will mask your departure signal long enough for you to pull away from the enemy fighter screen,” he met the Lieutenant Commander’s eyes with his own pressed extra emphasis into his voice, “don’t leave the cutter bay until after the current fighter attack run is complete. We’ll weather this storm to buy you the escape window and time you need to get clear. But you must, at any and all costs, get word back to high command and Admiral Montagne himself. Understood?”

  The bridge was filled with the shocked silence of those who knew what had to happen, logically, in their brains but who were still kicked in the proverbial gut when it was said out loud.

  Lieutenant Commander Slim swallowed convulsively and then turned to the bridge. “You heard the Commodore: sound all hands to the escape pods and prepare to strike our fusion cores,” he ordered firmly.

  Druid nodded.

  The first officer turned back to the commodore.

  “Sir, may I ask what you will be doing while I attempt to break through and point transfer out of here?” Slim asked.

  “I’ll be up here on the bridge, coordinating the evacuation and preparing to cover your escape, XO,” Druid said sardonically and then his voice cracked like a whip, “you heard your orders, Lieutenant Commander. Were any of them unclear?” he finished harshly.

  The Lieutenant Commander’s mouth quivered and visibly hesitated more than once before giving a decisive nod. “Your orders were crystal clear, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Slim said drawing himself up to full attention. “It’s been an honor serving with you, Commodore.”

  “I’ll be thinking about you often from inside my prison cell—assuming these pirate-warlords don’t just space me, Lieutenant Commander. Now get the blazes off my command deck and do your duty,” Druid snapped.

  The Lieutenant commander snapped off a salute which Druid returned and then turned to look behind the Commodore.

  “Marines, please escort the Commodore back down to the Cutter and personally see that he gets back to the Admiral with news of this new threat to the Fleet,” the Lieutenant Commander ordered, and then turned to the rest of the bridge. “I’ll be taking command of this ship in the Commodore’s absence.”

  It took Druid a moment to process what was happening and when it did he roared inarticulately. “This is mutiny in cold space!” he shouted the instant he regained control of his voice. “Lancers, arrest this coward and throw him in the brig! Mr. Flender, you will carry out the XO’s mission in his place.”

  “You heard your orders, Sergeant Cartwright,” the XO’s voice cracked like a whip, “secure the Commodore and see him safely down to the cutter.”

  Hands extended, grasping and reaching for Slim’s neck, Druid was stopped abruptly by a pair of duralloy gauntlets on his shoulders pulling him up short.

  “You need to come with us, Commodore,” said the flat voice of Sergeant Cartwright.

  “Unhand me, Cartwright; it’s a Captain’s prerogative to go down with his ship,” Druid growled coldly.

  “Can’t do that, Sir,” Cartwright said unflinchingly.

  “How could you abandon your duty like this, Slim?” Druid glared at him.

  “You ordered me to get word back home at any and all costs. You’ll have a much better chance of getting word home, so even if it costs me my life—or, more agreeab
ly, my career—at least I’ll be following orders,” Slim replied, turning away pointedly.

  Druid struggled but was unable to resist as he was dragged away to the turbo-lift. For his part the Commodore’s former XO didn’t look back as Druid was hauled away.

  “I won’t have a man on my ship I can’t trust,” Druid turned his burning eyes on Cartwright, “do you understand me, Sergeant?” he said, offering one final way out for the misguided marine.

  An impassive gaze returned his own. “We’ve got a lot of ships in this fleet, sir, but what we don’t have are very many Commodores. I’m sure I’ll land on my feet just fine,” Cartwright replied.

  Not another word was said while Druid was taken down to the Captain’s Cutter, and finally escorted onto her bridge.

  Minutes later, the cutter bay doors opened and the Cutter shot out into the vastness of cold space, on a dead run while its hyper engines finished charging the rest of the way up.

  Thanks to the marines, the Commodore was still aboard when they did so.

  Chapter Sixty: These Rustics are so Inept

  On the main screen, the image of fusion cores being ejected from the battered and heavy damaged local battleship was accompanied by the sight of hundreds of escape pods flying free of the hulk.

  “Captain Goddard, I have a call from Rear Admiral Nicolas Wessex,” reported Lieutenant Hobbs.

  “Put the Admiral on the screen for the whole bridge, Hobbs,” ordered the Captain, grinning broadly—and allowing his crew to see him doing so.

  The Admiral appeared on the screen and, with a flicker of his eyes, took in the situation in an instant—primarily, that he was live before the entire bridge of the Carrier.

  “Captain Goddard, excellent work with that provincial battleship,” the acting Rear Admiral praised unstintingly.

  “Thank you, sir,” Goddard said with satisfaction, “it was a team effort and I couldn’t have done it without the efforts of my staff—as well as the coordinates you provided for the short jump.”

  “You and your entire team are to be commended, Captain,” the Admiral praised, “it would appear that even without Admiral Janeski at the helm, the captain and crew of the Flagship of our little Reclamation Fleet doesn’t miss a step.”

  Sensing potentially troubled waters, Goddard allowed his smile to slowly fade. “I take nothing away from this crew, sir,” the Imperial Captain said firmly, “but I’m afraid my own efforts were successful, not because of any innate skills that I possess, but instead because these rustics are so very inept. Why, I tender that any ensign in my ship’s Tactical department could do so well. It’s not that we were so very good over here, but that they were so very bad,” he said, making sure that no disloyalty to Janeski, the Admiral’s skills, or any hint of Goddard having his own ambitions were spread over an open fleet com-channel. Politics could kill a man’s career just as easily as any battlefield could kill his body. “Frankly, it was the usual sort of unimaginative blundering on the battlefield we have grown used to in Sector 26, 27 and now it seems in 25 as well, sir.” “Yes,” agreed the acting Rear Admiral, “I too, in a way, had hoped for a bit more of a challenge. But be grateful for the easy victories while they’re here, Captain. On the front, things were not always so…” the acting Admiral trailed off, no doubt remembering his time on the Gorgon Front.

  For his part, Captain Goddard remained respectfully silent. An Admiral, even an acting one, was not the sort of figure to be trifled with—not even if the Command Carrier was not technically under his authority but only on an extended scouting review of the area around the Fleet Base, although they continued to get further and further from said Base.

  “I hate to interrupt, sir,” Goddard said drawing himself back to attention, “but now that the excitement is over I believe it is time to return to the forward operating base for us. According to his schedule, Admiral Janeski should soon arrive at the fleet base along with additional warships, the fleet train, as well as the invasion and occupation forces for the upcoming campaign.”

  “No doubt he’ll want his flagship back,” Admiral Wessex said, his mood turning sour. “I had hoped to keep you in train until after we’d hunted down the Promethean stragglers, but you’re probably right. If this is the best example of what the locals can do, I’m sure my two battleships will be able to deal with any eventualities.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Goddard said grateful that Wessex wasn’t trying to make this any harder than it needed to be.

  “Then be about it, Captain,” Wessex said officially, “inform Fleet Comm. and Tactical through routine updates when you are ready to leave; there’s no need to ask my permission. You are free to leave as soon as you feel ready. My ships can finish sweeping up the escape pods and seizing or scuttling the local ship.”

  “Aye, sir,” Goddard said saluting. Wessex returned the salute and then cut the channel.

  Sometimes it really is good to be the Captain of the top Admiral’s flagship, Goddard thought with a smirk before setting his jaw tightly. Sometimes…

  Chapter Sixty-one: Peaceful times and taking tally of the Fleet

  “Well, Spalding, what do you think our chances of getting all of the battleships up and running….sometime soon, I mean?” I said my hands clasped behind my back as I stood facing away. I wasn’t liking this business of only having two space-worthy battleships. The yard had been working around the clock for six months and, not only had the fleet and new recruits shown up in that time, so had another load of primarily engineers and technicians. I knew things like repairing capital ships took time, but the fact that I couldn’t see any trouble on the horizon made my head itch.

  Spalding started rubbing his chin, “Let me think on it a bit before giving you an estimate, Sir.”

  “Take all the time you need, Commander,” I said, glancing over my shoulder mildly, making it clear that I would have that answer before he left this office. I then turned to face the meter-thick window showing the region of space outside Gambit Station.

  “Could happen, Admiral,” he said after a pregnant pause.

  “When—exactly?” I asked still with my back to him as I pretended to watch a tender run around outside the window.

  The old engineer coughed, cleared his throat, and stopped to pour himself a glass of water and take a drink. Pivoting on my heel, I cocked my head and gave him a lifted eyebrow at such obvious delaying tactics.

  He flushed. “Soon,” the older engineer said testily.

  I started to feel a frown forming and smoothed my face refusing to let it form. “I need a little better than that, Chief Engineer,” I rebuked deftly, seeing where the conversation was going and having no problem with helping it along, “give me a ball park.”

  “Well…” Spalding hemmed and hawed before finally breaking down, “this month, maybe?”

  “All three of them?” I said with surprise, but still pleased with the answer.

  “Now, don’t quote me on it,” the Chief Engineer grumbled, his gruff tone and words at odds with the twinkle in his organic eye.

  “Perish the thought,” I sighed, shaking my head.

  “See, we could have had a few more of the girls out of the yard before now except for the big push you wanted to get the Parliamentary Power back into action and out the door,” the Old Engineer said, with disapproval evident in his voice.

  “The ‘big push’ I wanted?” I deadpanned.

  The top of Spalding’s forehead started to turn red. “You did pick him to command the first Patrol,” he retorted hastily.

  “Yes,” I nodded, “I wanted him out on the first patrol, but I never designated which ship that would be onboard.” Taking in the way he was shifting around, my eyes sharpened.

  “Well, a Captain ought to be able to pick his ship, don’t you know…” Spalding grumbled defensively.

  I took a deep breath. He was talking about politics on the level below mine, which would normally be of little consequence. But when they impeded my own schedule…


  “Besides, it doesn’t matter the ‘whys’ and the ‘ways of how’ we got here,” Spalding declared quickly seeing my mood darkening at the news. “Sure, we could maybe have had another two battleships out by now but the last one would have still been months away! Better, with all these new recruits, to give ‘em time to settle in. And there’s no better way to settle in than to get their hands dirty helping put their ships back together!” he finished righteously.

  “Spalding!?” I warned.

  “Now, now; just hear me out,” the old Engineer urged firmly.

  I didn’t care who was seated across from me; these kinds of decisions were mine to make. The thought of having three ships still stuck in the yard this month when, as of last month, it could only have been one gave me instant heartburn.

  “Part of it is you wanted the Stone Rhino fixed up first, which took up one of our two capital ship slips,” he declared, as if this was all somehow my fault. “So when I was saying it could have only been one battleship in the yard this month, that’s only if you are to count not fixing up the Rhino.”

  “Rhino?” I demanded, forgetting for a moment which ship he was talking about exactly and then it came to me. He meant the rechristened, captured warship under the command of Acting Captain Archibald, which was now on its way to Sector 24 along with McKnight. “Okay, the Heavy Cruiser; I can see that but I’m still down one battleship. I don’t care if the last one would be down for months. As you well know, these things don’t grow on trees; we need firepower, Commander!”

  “Far as I know, we’re not in any rush right now,” Spalding grumped under his breath.

  “What?” I asked direly.

  “Let me lay it out,” Spalding growled, whipping out his tablet and forwarding a presentation onto my briefing room screen.

  Despite myself, I unwillingly looked over at the screen, not in any way willing to let this matter go. Whether or not this was the right call—which it wasn’t!—I should have been informed of it right from the beginning. I’d been asking for updates often enough, Murphy tear it all!