“Outstanding, Mr. Sauvé, just the way I like them. Let’s keep the blindfolds tight so that they don’t detect anything in their path. Weapons, bring the stinger to Prefire.”
“Aye, sir. Stinger to Prefire,” Mr. Levy acknowledged.
The Stinger, officially known as Pulse Cannon 4, was the 75 gigawatt, rear-firing Krupp-BAE Mark XXII pulse cannon, a little brother to the 150 gigawatt Mark XXXIV units, three of which were mounted in the bow. At a range of 10,000 kilometers, the Krag warships were just inside its reach.
Levy keyed the command that powered up the systems that would divert plasma from the fusion reactor, direct it to the Stinger’s firing chamber, aim the weapon, and keep the whole system cool so that it wasn’t vaporized by the 10,000 degree Kelvin plasma that made the whole thing work. On the Weapons Console, the blue light marked PLS CNN 4-STANDBY winked out and the orange light marked PLS CNN 4-PREFIRE winked on. “Pulse four at Prefire,” Levy announced.
“Pulse Cannon four to Ready. Target Hotel three,” Max ordered. According to the Tactical Display, Bartoli had designated the middle Destroyer, the one in the lead, as Hotel 3.
Levy acknowledged the order and keyed the commands that sent the plasma that was effectively the “cannonball” fired by the “cannon” to the firing chamber, locked the cannon’s aiming mechanism on the target, and readied the exquisitely engineered but disposable cryogenically-cooled field generator that went inside the plasma bolt, confining it in a tight sphere until it reached its target. The green light on his console labeled “PLS CNN 4-READY” illuminated.
“Pulse Cannon four at Ready. Weapon is locked on Hotel three.”
“Set cannon at full power, low rate with a two second pause between cycles. Maintain firing until further orders.”
“Aye sir. Full power, low rate, two second inter-cycle pause. Maintain firing until further orders.” Levy smiled, knowing that it was all part of the show. He keyed in the requisite commands. “System set for full power, low rate, two second inter-cycle pause, indefinite sequence.”
“Fire.”
Levy hit the FIRE button. Plasma flowed from the firing chamber through a liquid helium cooled conduit into an acceleration tube where magnetic coils aimed it at its target and accelerated it to seven tenths of the speed of light. The plasma charge then received its containment field generator, exited the ship, and sped toward its target. This cycle was repeated every seven seconds—five seconds for the system’s normal cycle and two seconds of additional pause inserted at Max’s order. After each shot, the system would evaluate at the trajectory taken by the plasma bolt and, if necessary, adjust its aim to zero in on the target.
“How long do we keep doing this?” The Stinger had fired at the lead Krag Destroyer nine times and scored seven hits.
Max responded to the doctor, “Until we get to where the fleet is moored, which will be in just over eight minutes.”
“Our firing on the enemy ships does not seem to be having any effect,” he said, his voice tinged with surprise as he scrolled through the Enemy Condition reports available from his console.
“I know. I didn’t expect it to.”
“Then, why are we doing it?”
“Because it’s what the Krag expect us to do. From their perspective, now that the fighters are gone, the only way we have of possibly keeping them from destroying the moored ships is to stay ahead of them and hope we get lucky with the Stinger.”
“Why not attack them with the pulse cannons in the front of the ship?” I seem to recall hearing something to the effect that they are far more powerful than the ones in the back. Or the missiles in the front. I understand that we can fire two at a time of those.”
Max didn’t wince at the use of “front” and “back” to describe parts of a warship. Much. His reply was patient and even. “If we turn on the Krag ships to use our forward-firing weapons, our rear countermeasures array would lose its lock on the enemy sensors. Before we could bring the forward countermeasures array to bear and re-establish, the Krag would get a firing solution and blow us halfway to the Outer Galactic Arm. Besides, we don’t have enough firepower to take on five Dervish class cans. No, we’ll continue as we are, which gives us a plausible reason to stay ahead of the enemy ships and do what we are really here to do, which for sure isn’t sitting up here at extreme range trying to pick them off with that little popgun we have in the stern.”
“And what, exactly, are we here to do?”
“Something else, entirely.”
“And, let me guess. That ‘something else, entirely’ is another one of your borderline insane, elaborately dangerous, made up on the spur of the moment, labyrinthinely complex, Rube Goldman stratagems.”
“Goldberg.”
“What?
“That’s Goldberg. Rube Goldberg.”
“If you are going to be fussy about irrelevant details, I suppose that is the name. I could literally draw you a schematic of one of his ludicrously over complex devices but I got the name slightly scrambled.”
“I see.”
“Well, is it?”
“Is what?”
“Your plan. Is it one of your typically wild, dangerously gut wrenching, nail biting, death defying stunts?”
“Most of what we are about to do is no more dangerous than any other set of maneuvers typical for a Destroyer in combat. Except for what we are doing right now. And, even that isn’t something I would describe as being inherently dangerous. It’s more that there are very severe consequences if we don’t do it exactly right.”
“And what is ‘most of what we are about to do’?”
“You’ll see.”
“All right, then,” said the doctor after snorting with exasperation, “perhaps you will give me a clue pertaining to what is dangerous about what we are doing right now?”
“Only that, if we lose our jamming lock for as little as two seconds, the computers on those Krag ships will automatically generate a firing solution and fire their missiles. About five seconds after we lose the lock, we die.”
“Actually, with all due respect, Skipper,” interrupted a broadly smiling Bartoli, “allowing for the typical time for Krag to generate a firing solution, the length of their missile firing cycle, and making proper allowance for the range, I calculate that once we lost the lock it would be more like seven point four seconds before we were vaporized.”
The doctor heaved a mock sigh of relief. “Oh, seven point four seconds. That makes a whole galaxy of difference, doesn’t it?” He lowered his voice and spoke confidentially to Max, “You, sir, have corrupted them. These are impressionable young men who very nearly worship the very ground on which you walk, and you have corrupted them utterly. Not only has their brief association with you inured them to extreme danger and reckless exposure to outrageous risk, it has made them flippant about it. They toss off jokes in the face of death. You are a bad influence. What do you have to say for yourself?”
In an equally confidential tone, Max replied, “I would say, doctor, that I am turning them into real Man of War’s men: men who can fight the ship and repair damage and put out fires and repel boarders and charge across a boarding tube onto an enemy’s deck and cut off a Krag’s legs at the knees with a boarding cutlass, all without pissing themselves at the first whiff of danger or the first sight of the enemy. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’ve been working for that since the first minute of the first day.” When Bram harrumphed his condemnation, Max pretended not to notice. He continued at a volume audible throughout CIC. “And then there is also the matter of having to maintain precisely the range to the enemy.”
“And why, pray tell, is precise range so important?” The doctor set his criticism aside, for now.
“Because, we need to remain within ten thousand five hundred kills of the enemy in order to hit him with our pulse cannon, but if we stray within nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty seven kills, we will be within range of their pulse cannon which has a backup optical aiming mode imperv
ious to jamming and, with five destroyers, each armed with four forward pulse cannons, they could pound us to dust in about five seconds.” He looked over his shoulder at Bartoli who nodded in confirmation that, under those circumstances, the Cumberland’s destruction would indeed require roughly five seconds.
“Is that not a rather narrow margin, particularly given velocities at which we are traveling?”
“It is, but we are in the capable hands of Mr. LeBlanc and Mr. Fleishman. I have every confidence.”
“From which I am sure I take the most profound reassurance.” His tone of voice said otherwise.
The two men fell into silence. CIC was quiet except for the occasional report from a man at his station, calmly acknowledged by Max. The signs of increasing tension were evident even without the doctor’s acute powers of observation. The shuffling of feet, the drumming of fingers, the variety of ways that men have of dealing with sweaty palms and churning stomachs. DeCosta literally found himself unable to sit down, and was prowling CIC, looking over the shoulders of the watch standers, asking them, in the friendliest terms, extremely specific and detailed questions about what they were doing and about their systems and data sources.
As DeCosta was stepping from one station to the other, Max met his eyes and then stared pointedly at the XO station. He got the point and sat down in his own seat. As soon as the younger officer settled back in his seat, Max stood up, moved over until he was standing beside the XO’s console, and pointed to one of the tactical displays, leaning in as though to discuss some point of maneuvering or tactics. Instead, he said softly, “XO, you don’t want to bounce around CIC like that. It makes the men think one of two things, both of them bad: that you don’t have confidence in them or that you’re too nervous to sit down. It’s best to stay at your station unless you have a particular reason to get up.” He pointed to a different part of the display, maintaining the charade that he was talking to the XO about something there. “Working as a senior officer rather than someone who is actually operating a system or is analyzing a specific kind of data is hard to get used to. It leaves you feeling like you have nothing to do but worry. Breathe deeply, slowly, regularly, from the diaphragm, to calm your nerves. Always have your coffee or whatever it is you like to drink at your station. Holding a coffee cup or a can of juice gives you something to do with your hands. Sit still and don’t fidget. If you need something to do, use your console to pull up the other displays around CIC, see what everyone else is looking at, and then see what control inputs are coming from the various consoles—that tells you whether the folks at those consoles are paying attention and staying on top of things. But do it deliberately and calmly—not like you’re in a hurry or in a way that conveys nervousness. OK?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, sir.” Max heard something in the young man’s tone that wasn’t quite right. He needed a little bit more. Well, that’s what skippers do.
“You’re a good officer, DeCosta, and you’ve got the makings of a damn good XO—you’ve got the tactical, systems, and ship-handling parts of the job down cold. But, that’s about half the job. The other half is leadership, and two thirds of that is exemplifying in your own conduct the qualities you would most wish to see in that of the men. That means more than telling them what to do and more than showing them what you want every now and then. It means living the example. It means being what you want them to become, every minute of every day. That make sense to you?”
“Perfect sense, sir. And, skipper?”
“Yes, XO.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For taking the time to explain that to me. In the middle of a battle. When you have so much else on your mind.”
Max smiled at a pleasant memory. “Commodore Middleton told me that the middle of a battle is one of the best times to learn. He said, ‘there’s nothing like the prospect of sudden, violent death to focus the mind.’ Think nothing of it. It’s my job.”
“Well, sir, no one has ever taken much of an interest in my development as an officer before.”
“Not true. I know for sure that someone else has.”
“Who’s that?”
“Admiral Hornmeyer. He picked you for this billet personally.” Max slapped him on the shoulder. Two quick, sharp pops.
“Skipper,” Bartoli sang out, “the lead Krag destroyer is powering up his pulse cannon. He’s just gone to Prefire. I don’t get it. We’re out of range. They can’t hit us.”
“Maybe they don’t know that,” said the doctor, drawing several barely “what a stupid remark” glares and snorts from various CIC personnel.
“He’s gone to Ready.” Pause. “Firing.”
One of the optical scanners on the hull automatically locked onto the incoming ball of brilliant plasma and followed it as it approached, a tiny speck that slowly grew to the apparent size of a pea before exploding hundreds of kilometers away from the Cumberland as the coolant that preserved the containment field generator was exhausted, the generator was destroyed by the plasma that surrounded it, and the released plasma violently expanded in a blast very similar to a small thermonuclear explosion. There was a collective breath of relief.
“Uh, sir?” Bartoli didn’t sound the way one would want a tactical officer to sound after an enemy weapon has just exploded short.
“Yes, Bartoli?”
“The extreme outer range of Krag pulse cannon is supposed to be nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty-seven kills. Well, that one just went ten thousand, two hundred and ninety-eight before detonating. More than two standard deviations beyond the average range.”
Shit.
Bartoli continued. “They must have made some sort of modification. If we assume that this bolt was more or less average, and given the standard deviation of range previously observed in Krag pulse cannon bolts, and given our current range, we can expect something like one round in four to have the range to reach us. Given the observed accuracy of their optical targeting system and extrapolating to the current range, and taking both factors into account—range and accuracy—we can expect to be hit by something between one in six and one in fifteen of their shots, depending on the breaks and depending on where that first round falls on the range bell curve. But, sir, I have no idea what they did.”
“I do,” said Levy.
Max spun to face the young Weapons Officer. “Shoot, son.”
“I put my Back Room on watching the sensor take on the Krag weapons as soon as I thought they might shoot, just to see if I could learn anything. The difference was apparent as soon as they fired—lower color temperature of the plasma. Turns out they reduced the amount of plasma in the bolt without reducing the size of the containment field. So, it’s at a lower pressure, meaning lower temperature, meaning the coolant in the field generator lasts longer before it gives out and the generator is vaporized. Buys them more range.”
“Good job, Levy. Why did they stop firing?”
“First shot was likely an experiment, sir, to see if the modification worked. Now that they see that it does, they’re busy modifying their pulse cannon plasma control software in the other three pulse cannons on the lead ship and in all four tubes on the other ships and, when they get that done in a few minutes, they’ll open up on us with all twenty tubes.”
“I can hardly wait,” Max said. “And, there’s no helping it because, if we pull out their range, then the range will be too long for us as well, and then the cat is out of the bag. Looks like we’re going to have to take some hits, people. Deflector control, rear deflectors to full. Damage Control, have DC parties stand ready to receive damage from enemy action in frames seven through twelve. Maneuvering, when they start firing again, execute evasive maneuvers at your discretion.” Max trusted LeBlanc’s judgment in how best to dodge the enemy fire. As all of those orders were acknowledged, Max turned to Chin. “Mister Chin, One MC.”
“Aye, sir, One MC.”
The light went on. Max’s voice would reach every corne
r of the ship. “Men, we’re about to start receiving enemy fire. We’ll have to take it for a few minutes. Stay at your stations. Do your jobs. DC parties, you’ve been trained for this. Keep your heads and do what the old timers tell you to do and you’ll be fine. Men, you are equal to this challenge. Skipper out.”
Just over a minute passed without a word spoken in CIC save routine reports and acknowledgements. Then, Max could almost feel Bartoli tense up. “All five hostiles going to Prefire on pulse cannons. All four tubes on each.” A few seconds. “All tubes now at Ready. . . . Firing.”
The displays tied into the aft optical scanners picked up the cluster of twenty tiny incandescent pinpricks spat out by the Krag destroyers. The tiny stars slowly grew larger on the screen as every sphincter in the compartment puckered. LeBlanc was watching something on his console intently and muttering to his men in a low voice. Then, when the pinpricks had grown to pea sized, one of them exploded. It had come to the end of its extended range. Then another. Then two more. Then three. Then eight in quick succession, leaving five that were now very close. His expert eye judging the relative positions and ranges of the five remaining bolts, LeBlanc brought his left hand down smartly onto the right shoulder of the man at Yaw and snapped out, “Port, to the stop,” and then brought his right hand in the same manner down on the left shoulder of Pitch, “Up, to the stop.” Yaw turned his yoke all the way to the left while pitch pulled his all the way back. The agile ship pulled hard “up” and to the left. Half a second later, his hand landing on Yaw’s shoulder LeBlanc said, “back off a quarter.” Yaw turned his yoke one fourth of the way between the stop and the center position. The ship straightened out slightly.
For Honor We Stand Page 15
