“Hotter,” muttered Guo.
A guard obligingly turned up the water temperature each time Guo asked, until the other guard complained it was painful.
By the time they finished he’d recovered enough to stand on his own in the drying booth. He emerged to find the dry guards holding real clothes, not another set of prison fatigues.
As they slipped each layer on him Guo realized it was one of his formal suits. The shoes were freshly polished.
Guo could walk now. He wasn’t fast enough for the officer. Guards held his upper arms and marched him briskly out the front door.
The sun hurt his eyes. He closed them to slits, barely seeing the autocar before they put him in the back.
Two men in suits had the front seats. They didn’t say anything on the hour-long drive.
They stopped at a shuttleport he hadn’t seen before. When the door opened he staggered out.
A hand caught his elbow, keeping from falling. “Good to see you again, Ambassador Kwan.”
It was Ping.
The Elder linked arms and steered Guo toward a waiting shuttle. Its aeroturbines whined as they idled, ready to go to full thrust in an instant.
“Where are we going?”
“To PHS Kongbu, our flagship. And then to Pintoy. Having a familiar face on the screen should smooth the surrender negotiations.”
Don John Station, Pintoy System, centrifugal acceleration 10 m/s2
Sheu closed the door to Mitchie’s office and saluted.
She returned it crisply. “Relax. Have a seat.”
He sat, back too vertical to touch the cushions.
“I said relax. Lean back. Cross your legs.”
That drew a bashful grin. Sheu slid into a pose of relaxation. He still looked tense.
“Better. So, how are the Fuzies looking?”
“They’re managing basic competence. They’ll fight, they’ll follow orders, they’ll fix problems with some advice. They’ve finally got everyone the full set of training manuals instead of just the operational ones. That’ll let stragglers catch up with us.”
“Good. How much longer until they’re ready to go?”
Sheu shrugged. “We could deploy now. It would take six months to get them fully shaken down. A few more weeks or months won’t make that much difference.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned forward. “There is one thing that could improve the fleet’s performance.”
Mitchie lifted an eyebrow to encourage him.
“We’ve scrubbed the rosters of our ships. We can fight the squadron effectively with two-thirds of the enlisted we have now and half the officers. The rest could be seconded to the Fuzies as exchange personnel. It’s what they need most, trained, experienced people. Hell, they have destroyers commanded by jumped-up midshipmen. And I’m more experienced than some of their heavy cruiser commanders.”
And commanding a capital ship in combat, even a foreign one, would be the peak of any officer’s career.
Mitchie chose her words carefully. “I think you’d be a damn good heavy cruiser skipper. And I intend to make sure you get one.” Which might require writing a negative performance appraisal on you. “But the CPS is still a potential enemy. We’re allied at the moment because the Harmony is a common enemy. Once the Harmony is gone we’re back where we were before.”
“That’s . . . I see the problem, ma’am, but we were allied against the Betrayers.”
“No. This is classified, only talk to me or Admiral Galen’s staff about it. We blackmailed the Fusion into the alliance.”
“What! How?”
“We found out the secret of all those virtual people. Attacking the Betrayers was the price of not revealing it to the stipend kids.”
Sheu thought it through. “But now the secret’s out and we have no hold on them.”
“That’s right. So I want to have a fully staffed squadron, and no hostages on the Fusion fleet.”
“Do you really think it’ll come to that? I like those people.”
Mitchie walked over to her side cabinet. “I have friends here too. But the Committee for Public Safety is only an assassination or two from another wave of riots and beheadings. Our job is to protect our home planets, not to make friends.”
She poured two shots of whiskey and handed one to Sheu.
He downed it. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve been so focused on fighting the Harmony I didn’t think about what would happen afterwards.”
Mitchie chuckled. “You’re not an admiral yet. You should be focused on the immediate objective.”
“You’re not an admiral either, ma’am.”
She laughed harder. “No. But intel weenies are supposed to look at the big picture.”
***
Admiral Bachak concluded, “I’d like to compliment the Ninth Destroyer Squadron for their rapid maneuvering to cut off the opposition force escape route.”
Mitchie stepped forward on cue. “Thank you all for a very successful exercise. This has been an outstanding performance. It is also our last exercise.”
A wave of surprise went through the assembled commanders.
She said, “In forty-eight hours we will depart for Tiantan to break the tyrants and liberate their people. Return to your ships, fix anything that broke, and make sure you are fully stocked. To victory!”
“To victory!” chorused the officers. They chattered excitedly as they exited the lecture hall. Bachak’s staffers began taking down the visual aids for the after-action assessment.
Mitchie led her subordinate to one of the side conference rooms. “Okay, I’m impressed. That’s three exercises you’ve led. Unlike everyone else we’ve had in charge your formation held together instead of becoming a cascading clusterfuck. How are you doing that? In nice, simple, easy for the intel weenie to understand terms.”
“It’s loose and sloppy.” Bachak pulled up an image of the exercise on the room’s holotank. “I recorded the maneuvering errors in all the previous exercises. I assigned enough room between squadrons to accommodate most errors. Next, the maneuvering orders are all relative to a fleet vector. So if they get out of position they can continue from where they are. Instead of a rigid formation it’s flocking behavior.”
He played a portion of the exercise at ten times actual speed. “See where the Twelfth Light turns late here? The neighboring squadrons adjust, then their neighbors.”
Mitchie could see the wave of adjustments move across the formation like a splash in a pond.
“Why didn’t anyone else do that?” she asked.
“Tradition. And it keeps them too far apart for mutual support against missile attacks.”
“So the Harmony will want to stand off and trade missile waves.”
“They could,” answered Bachak. “They’d have better accuracy and better defensive attrition than us. But missile duels are a numbers game. We have the numbers.”
He went around the holotank and thrust his arms into the center of the formation. “What I expect is they’ll see a gap in our formation from sloppy maneuvering and try to exploit it. Thrust in with their whole force to split us apart.”
Mitchie hadn’t totally ignored her fleet tactics class. “You want a Trafalgar.”
Bachak gave her a proud teacher’s smile. “Yes.”
“With us as the French.”
“The Harmony won’t cooperate otherwise. It lets us bring our advantages to bear. We have more training in short-range gunnery than long range. Disrupting our formation won’t hurt us. And our commanders are aggressive. They have to be. Anyone avoiding action would have his crew mutiny.”
As he spoke Bachak pulled up a simulation of that scenario. As the Harmony column broke through the center of the Fusion disk the outer ships turned to englobe the enemy.
“Where I’ll earn my pay is deciding when to commit the reserve.” He pointed at the cluster of ships behind the disk. “They’ll need to hit the Harmony at their most disorganized to keep them from reforming.�
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Mitchie contemplated the image. It looked like it would be a bloody victory.
He added, “It would help if I could count on your Disconnect squadron as part of the reserve. Would you be willing to put them under my operational command during the battle?”
“I’ll consider it. Make plans for them. The decision will depend on what the politicians are up to.”
Joshua Chamberlain, Pintoy System, acceleration 10 m/s2
“I love parades,” said Coxswain’s Mate Mthembu.
Hiroshi looked at the line of plumes ahead of them. Joshua Chamberlain was too far back to see them disappear into the gate. “I don’t think we’re part of the parade. We’re the elephant poop scoopers.”
“Fine by me. I’ve had enough time under fire.”
The acting captain laughed. “Best say some extra prayers for that. Commander Long didn’t bring us along to haul freight.”
“We are hauling freight.”
“Not much. That’s just an excuse in case there are any odd jobs that need doing.”
The communications box squawked with Commander Sheu’s voice. “Squadron scatter! Squadron scatter!”
“What the heck?” said Mthembu.
Hiroshi thumbed the PA switch. “Grab hold and hang on!” He turned to his co-pilot. “Pivot ninety degrees port and double acceleration.”
Mthembu executed the commands simultaneously. “Please, God, let there be no one on the ladders.”
After a minute on the new course the co-pilot asked, “What’s going on?”
“I’d guess we’re getting out of the way of someone’s screw-up.”
A Fusion destroyer flashed by, far too close for safety. Both men covered their eyes against the glare of the warship’s torch. The blue flame filled the dome over their heads.
“Blessed Mary protect us!” If they passed too close it could melt a hole in their hull and burn them to death.
Joshua Chamberlain’s acceleration quickly carried them clear of the other ship’s plume. The pilots lowered their arms and blinked away purple splotches.
The comm box spoke again. “Sheu to squadron. Seems a destroyer unit put itself in the wrong place in line then tried to jump to the right place without coordinating the movement. Good evasive, everyone. You are clear to return to formation.”
Hiroshi checked the ship’s sensors. “Crap. Starboard camera is out. Their plume must have scorched it. Cut thrust.”
He floated over to the comm box. “Joshua Chamberlain to command. We need to do a hull inspection to assess plume damage.”
“Acknowledged. Make sure you have your running lights on while your torch is off.”
“All the ones that are working, aye.” He turned to the co-pilot. “You have the con. I’m going to go out with the mechanics to inspect.”
“Yessir. Isn’t the Bosun supposed to cover for Chief Kwan?”
“Oh, she’ll be out there with us. The four of us together might have as much suit time as the Senior Chief. Sing out if you see any torchships coming this way, okay?”
BDS Norfolk, Atafu System, acceleration 20 m/s2
“Commodore, signal from the flag,” said the comm officer.
“Got it,” answered Commodore Halgai. She switched her acceleration chair’s display screen to receive the incoming message. Her eye caught on her cuff, still wearing the four stripes of a captain. Her promotion had come during the assault on Boswell, stepping into a dead man’s shoes. Fabber time was too scarce to be used for making rank braids.
Admiral Galen’s face appeared on the screen. That it was him instead of the rear admiral she reported to meant bad news. The grim expression meant worse news. “Commodore, I have a critical mission for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“At their current approach the Betrayers will cut off the tail end of the fleet before they can get through the gate. We need you to disrupt them and buy us four hours. I can give you a full fleet missile salvo to support your attack.”
Halgai bit her lip. This was a suicide mission. She could probably succeed, but she’d never get any of her ships clear to catch up with the fleet. A glance at the Tactical station’s holotank showed her squadron was near the end of the line of ships creeping toward the gate. If she refused the mission they were probably dead anyway.
“Can do, sir. I’ll coordinate with my Tactical and let you know the best time for the salvo.”
“Thank you. God go with you.” The screen blanked.
She took two breaths to steady herself. Then began a crisp stream of orders. “All hands, we are making a spoiling attack on the enemy. Helm, coordinate with squadron to execute a one-eighty flip in two minutes. Drop accel to ten gravs after the flip. Tactical, give me attack options for disrupting the lead Betrayer elements. You’ll be coordinating a full fleet missile salvo.”
A wave of “aye-ayes” came back from the bridge crew.
Once they were steady on the new heading Halgai walked over to the Tactical display. The leading wave of Betrayers was a flat sheet closing at a tenth of a percent of light speed. Any faster and they’d be easy prey for missiles detonating in their path. They were aimed for the gate but would have to go around it. If they went through at that speed they’d emerge on the other side as dust.
A green line projected from the squadron’s course showed where they’d meet the Betrayers. As she watched a dimple formed in the sheet, expanding into a dome ready to engulf Halgai’s ships.
“That’s what irritates me most about AIs,” she muttered.
“Ma’am?” Lt. Commander Bowie looked up from his tree of tactical options.
“Nothing. I just hate how AIs always respond instantly to our maneuvers. A human enemy has reaction time, makes interim maneuvers until they’ve decided how to react. These things . . . just act.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have some options for you to look at.” He replaced the battlespace display with a hypothetical scenario. “Stand-off. Close to effective missile range then start thrusting to hold the distance. We’d trade missile barrages and use the fleet’s missile salvo in packets to strengthen each attack.”
“Okay. Next?”
“Straight in. Close to minimum distance and use our full firepower to rip the center out of the formation. Intel assesses the lead ships as destroyer-class so they can’t stand up to our heavy cruisers individually. The salvo would clear the path for us and disrupt their formation so we can get in to inflict maximum damage.”
“I like that. What else?”
“Scatter.” The display showed the squadron splitting up and going to the edges of the Betrayer disk. “Each ship would establish a by-pass position at the edge of the disk, taking part of the salvo along. That eliminates most of the counter-missile fire and allows the maximum number of hits on the enemy.”
“How much of the damage will be on the center of the formation?”
“Very little.”
“Then we don’t want it. The Betrayers will just blow past us and hit the ships in line for the gate. They can’t maneuver, they’ll be doomed. We’ll go straight in.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bowie switched the display back to the real situation. A yellow glow highlighted the expanding dome in the enemy formation. “That’s what they’re expecting us to do.”
“Because it’s our best option. They can adapt but they can’t avoid being hurt unless they give up the pursuit.” She patted Bowie’s shoulder. “Good work. Coordinate the timing of the salvo with Fleet Ops.”
The heavy cruisers crossed over a million klicks of empty space to close with the enemy. The Betrayers adjusted their dome to precisely match them.
The fleet launched their missiles in succession, all timed to create a single time on target wave. As the missiles neared the end of their flight the cruiser crews worked frantically to take over control from the launching ships. The missiles were over ten light seconds from the fleet. Controlling their final attacks with that much time lag was ludicrous.
As they took
over each batch of missiles the squadron targeted them on a group of Betrayer ships. The dome was now flexing and pulsing as the AIs executed evasive maneuvers. Once each missile was close enough to find the way to the target with its little onboard computer it was ordered to cut the wires to its communications antennas. That prevented the AI from subverting it into attacking a human ship.
Forty-five gravs pressed Halgai deep into her acceleration couch as they matched vectors with the enemy. The joints of her pressure suit cut into her elbows. The display locked over her face showed missiles detonating just ahead of Betrayer ships, scattering shrapnel in their path. More missiles exploded prematurely. Had the AIs fooled their sensors?
Bowie was reeling off reports. They’d hit enough ships to disrupt the attack on the main fleet. Now to see if they could survive—and if not how many Betrayers her squadron could take with them.
“Lost the Halsey,” reported Sparks.
Halgai saw the cruiser’s icon disappear from her display.
“Executing Fire Pattern Alpha,” said Bowie.
“Helm, shift us to cover Halsey’s slot,” ordered Halgai. She’d put her flagship in the middle as a reserve.
The hull sizzled. Enemy laser fire was scorching metal off it. The sound faded as evasive maneuvering or counter-fire stopped the attack. Or was just drowned out by the continuous fire of their own railguns and lasers.
“Lost some sensors,” said the Damage Control Officer. “We’re putting a replacement out the port airlock.”
“Bandit on collision course!” snapped Sensors. The rating at Helm pivoted the ship to evade without waiting for orders.
Two more cruisers were marked as destroyed on the display. “Tactical, what got them?” asked the commodore.
“Hang on, ma’am,” said Bowie. “Nothing. One of the lookouts says he sees de Grasse through a porthole. Bad data.”
“Right. Damage control, cut the sensor wires, we’ve been infiltrated. Gunnery to visual targeting.”
The hull rang with a spatter of shrapnel.
“Ma’am, before we lost data we’d destroyed over two thirds of this Betrayer force,” boasted Bowie.
Torchship Captain Page 25
