by Britt Ringel
The Brevic ships fell into a pattern for the next three waves. Stalwart Fence killed the lion’s share of each volley, alternating between thirty-eight and thirty-nine intercepts while the remainder of the squadron handled individual missiles without incident. The sixth wave saw similar results though Twist’s heart leapt into his throat as one of two missiles targeting Falcata persistently evaded defensive fire until a frantic shot from Turret 4’s gunner, Able Gunnersmate Pierson, blew a third of the missile apart at 1.5ls. Harpoon, the destroyer nearest Falcata, struggled with her own tenacious pursuer, barely averting calamity with a lucky shot within 1ls.
Too close, Twist thought with a shiver. He exhaled a short sigh of relief and then refocused on the seventh wave. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face as he concentrated, working with his console to prioritize each onrushing threat. His hypothesized strategy would be working in this engagement. He knew that much. The near miss from the last wave would likely not have occurred using his method because Devore had allocated what would have been his contingency turrets to another missile and consequently, there was no one to help in Vampire Tango-33-6’s destruction.
It was maddening to be working so hard during the point defense action while knowing his efforts were purely conjectural. It doesn’t matter that my plan would’ve stopped Tango Thirty-three Six sooner, Twist admitted begrudgingly. All that matters is that Devore’s plan keeps us alive. At least working this hard keeps me busy and is giving me valuable experience… and maybe a little bit of confidence. He smiled to himself. I guess Captain Weis made the right decision.
Six more waves passed without catastrophe over the next minute and forty-five seconds. Fence saw further reductions in accuracy but still consistently culled at least seventy percent from each wave before resorting to pure self-defense in the final moments of each successive attack.
However, each wave revealed more and more degradation as Fence’s gunners began to hit personal limits and the turret waste heat generated from the fusillades of fire crept higher and higher. The toll shaved fractions from the frigate’s marksmanship and for the first time in the engagement, she failed to intercept at least seventy percent on the twelfth Hollaran wave. Nineteen missiles broke through Fence’s point defense umbrella, a pair reaching for the frigate herself.
Twist watched Falcata fend off another duo of missiles blazing toward her stern. A bright strobe on his tactical plot foretold at least one Brevic ship had taken a hit but Twist’s focus remained on a tenacious Greyhound defying Falcata’s defenses. The offender was erased a second later and he risked a glance at the tactical plot, fearing the worst.
Fence had been saved, however, by her aging KDTs. Already the frigate escort was looking toward the next wave of missiles, 9ls away. The victim of the latest assault was Chakram. Notations within the callout of the standard frigate’s tactical symbol flickered into existence with automated updates. She had undoubtedly taken a direct hit but was still in the fight.
The thirteenth wave changed that. Fence, flailing desperately at the throng of missiles, stopped a scant thirty-three, leaving another nineteen for the bulk of the squadron. Falcata’s luck held but four vampires rushed toward the missile destroyer, Saber. Despite meager point defenses, she protected herself gallantly and two of the four missiles erupted into fury a full 5ls from her hull. A third exploded at 2ls. Yet, the final spear of death bore in to strike Saber forty-three meters from dead center. The escaping gravitational waves tore deeply into the ship through armor, bulkheads and crewmembers before explosions and decompression purged that debris from the gaping crater in her side.
The calamity was little more than a strobe of light on Twist’s tactical plot. The faint flicker signaling death and ruin aboard Saber was matched by a second strobe from Chakram.
Fence braced herself for the next onslaught. The tenacious warship had already destroyed four hundred eighty-two of the possible six hundred seventy-six Greyhounds. Turrets rotated and gunners trained their lenses out toward the second to last wave with grim determination.
Twist felt the tension in Auxiliary Control spike as fewer and fewer missiles were cleared. It was obvious to all that there would be over a score of leakers and Twist had preemptively assigned three missiles to his fictitious gunners when twenty-one missiles poured past Fence’s fire. His heart skipped a beat when a fourth missile appeared to change target and veer for Falcata. Would my back-up gunners be picking that one up? he wondered while watching the quartet of missiles streak closer. None were eliminated in the first salvo of defensive fire, nor the second. At 3ls, the first vampire was killed, a second brother falling shortly after to continue Falcata’s perfect defense.
That perfection dissolved when the final two Hollaran missiles of the fourteenth wave stubbornly resisted all attempts at their destruction. Falcata’s gunners missed their shots at 2ls and the final, wild bursts from her forward-most turrets strayed far wide of the evading Greyhounds.
Behind him, Twist heard Chief Dozier’s panicked voice cry out to the compartment to brace themselves. Twist’s eyes skipped to the tactical plot an instant before Falcata suffered the hits. The glimpse presented a dire situation for the entire squadron.
Falcata’s elusive stalkers had been fired from the same ship. HCS Djinni, a dedicated missile destroyer in service to the Commonwealth Navy for over twenty years, had been constructed with ten missile launch systems spread evenly between her beams. Eleven months before the Brevic-Hollaran conflict, she had undergone extensive refits to her fire control systems, providing her the ability to use the latest iteration of anti-ship missiles. Missiles November-41 and -52 had been almost simultaneously expelled from their missile portals a scant forty-five meters apart. November-52’s drive activation had occurred less than 0.03 seconds after -41’s and each missile had flown toward the Republic fleet less than half a light-second from its brother. Upon first detection, Fence’s sensors had originally classified the two signals as a single contact. As the missiles screamed closer, that erroneous classification was corrected and the trailing missile was given its own identity. Both Greyhounds had eluded Fence’s murderous laser fire and as they streaked past the frigate escort, the closely positioned missiles locked onto the same target.
November-41-14 struck Falcata’s port, center shield head on. The direct hit imparted brutal forces against the barrier and smashed its way through in an eye blink with nearly thirty-three percent of its energy remaining. The destroyer’s duralloy armor attempted to resist, caving in nearly twenty degrees before succumbing to the inevitable. The first missile’s remaining energy directed itself at the ship’s tenth frame and the more fragile compartments it supported. It was a providential strike. Hit amidship on her opposite beam during her first tour in Kalyke, Falcata’s internal anatomy of frames, supports and bulkheads was already compromised. Compartment after compartment collapsed. Damage radiated outward from the nucleus of the hit, killing fifty-nine sailors outright. Falcata’s material toll was even higher. Her port heavy laser was smashed and ripped free. The four light laser turrets nearest it were equally devastated. The Gibson Series 200 generator, responsible for her port, central defense screen, crumpled like so much paper. Deeper inside Falcata still, her secondary life support systems shattered and then scorched in a resultant inferno that raged inside the compartment. An adjacent room housing her primary navigation suite suffered through a brief immolation followed by the ear-splitting screech of decompression. Had Falcata taken the fearsome strike further aft, near her power core, the blow might have destroyed her outright. Instead, the concussive forces ebbed just twenty-two meters from the bridge.
Exactly one second after November-41-14’s blow, the missile’s companion, November-52-14, struck Falcata less than three meters from her gaping wound.
Chapter 27
Vix Kirkpatrick slammed sideways in his shockseat when the missiles struck. His restraints burrowed deep into the fabric of his shocksuit, severely bruising his shoulders and waist.
His helmet prevented whiplash but not the intense migraine that came with pounding his head brutally against his left shoulder.
The trauma had been inflicted before Kirkpatrick could even gasp and he tried to right himself with unsteady hands. “That was bad,” he commented to the four spacemen sharing his damage control station. Blinking away the stars in his vision, he consulted his trouble board. Falcata had been impaled. Flashing, red indicators signaled severe damage amidship but his status board offered absolutely no information in a wide cone piercing well through the ship’s heart. Those dormant indicators meant something far worse than the blinking, red lights around them.
He attempted to release his restraints but found one of the connections had bound. “We’ve got to work our way to the bridge,” he called out while pulling a short knife from a sheath attached to his right boot. “Santos, call down to Lieutenant Lovejoy and make sure they’re all right.”
He sawed madly through the strap holding him to his seat. His Ops-A damage control team was spread between two stations. Kirkpatrick and his companions were on the middle deck, forward of the bridge. The second, four-spaceman team was on the same deck, aft. A cursory glance at the trouble board hinted that his second team should have survived the hits.
“Santos,” he yelled again, “after calling the bridge, contact Spaceman Hart and tell her to get her squad to the bridge. We may not have a path to it but they might.”
Kirkpatrick sheathed his knife and stood. Damage control kits and medical packs hung on the walls. He hurried to the portal, grabbing one of each on the way. As the door slid open, he turned to wait for his team.
Still seated, Santos cried, “I’m getting nothing from the bridge, sir!” The spaceman popped his restraints and began to stand.
“Wait!” Kirkpatrick screamed while waving him down. “You stay here. If communication with the bridge is out, the other DC teams are going to be calling us.” He thrust a finger savagely at the nineteen-year-old. “You route those calls to me, okay? I gotta see how bad we’re hurt.”
* * *
Twist had nearly bitten through his lower lip. He held his left hand to his mouth through his open helmet, trying to stem the flow of blood. Falcata was bleeding too, hemorrhaging wrecked equipment and superstructure along with untold amounts of her atmosphere.
“Where?” Dozier asked frantically.
Damage Controlman First Class Crowley gaped at his panel. “One hit us right in the center… it’s real bad.” He shook his head hysterically while crying out, “I can’t find a second hit.”
“We got hit twice, Marcus,” Twist insisted. Blood leaked between his fingers. “I watched them both track in.” A dark realization passed through him like a shockwave. He stabbed at his comm panel. “Devore? You there?”
Silence.
Twist kept calling for Devore even as he opened a second channel. “Devore, answer! You there? Andy, are you getting taskings from the bridge? Anyone?”
He scanned his console anxiously. The fifteenth wave, the final wave of the attack, was inside Fence’s point defense screen. The frigate was lashing out at it for all she was worth.
“Nothing, sir!” It was Burns’ trembling voice.
A flicker of doubt crossed Twist’s mind but was quickly smothered. His hands reacted automatically. “I’m switching WEPS control to my station.” On the tactical plot, the tracks of six Greyhounds converged on Fence. Ten additional missiles flashed past the exploding frigate and toward the DesRon.
Twist’s computer classified three missiles as definite threats and two missiles as unlikely threats but targetable. Adhering to his prearranged protocols, he instantly divided the three threats among his light laser groupings. The rear turrets would handle two of the three inbound vampires while the last was tasked to his bow gunners. Fire control officers and gunners confirmed their targets and brought crosshairs over the threats. The exchange had been accomplished in less than three seconds.
The opening shots of Falcata’s final defense salvoed when the three missiles broke inside of 5ls. In a flash, the bow gunners dispatched their Greyhound with inspired accuracy. The duo of vampires streaking farther aft evaded the inaugural fire and closed to 3ls before the defending turrets recycled. Second bursts from Turrets-8 and -16 smashed the trailing missile to pieces. Two seconds later, both gunners took poorly aimed shots at the final missile and missed. Desperate, closing shots followed heartbeats later from the same turrets accompanied by those near Falcata’s bow. Yet still, the missile remained. Falcata’s final laser bursts crisscrossed ahead and behind their quarry.
Vampire Oscar-11-15 homed in remorselessly on her target, heedless of the gigajoules of hate directed at it. It adjusted its course fractionally to strike dead center and its silicon brain instructed the gravity warhead to switch from proximity detonation to a direct impact. In an instant, the warhead reached its goal but encountered nothing but empty space. A second later, confounded by the inexplicable miss, the missile’s brain reverted to a proximity detonation that immediately triggered.
A victim of Falcata’s electronic countermeasures, the Greyhound missile detonated belatedly and harmlessly, one hundred fifty thousand kilometers beyond the beleaguered ship.
Twist raised a fist upward, half in triumph and half in shock. The bloody, left hand reminded him of his lip and he again tried to pinch the gash closed. He scanned the tactical plot searching for additional missiles but found none.
“We’re through it,” Dozier announced. “We have to restore contact with the bridge. Marcus, are your DC teams moving?”
Twist heard the damage controlman’s acknowledgment while he looked at the larger picture. Task Group 2.6.2 had cleared the missile attack but at a terrible price. Chakram drifted in several pieces. Falcata and Saber had suffered at least two hits each. Harpoon and the frigate, Pistol, had also been struck. Only the DesRon’s last frigate, Matchlock, had emerged unbloodied. As Twist had expected, Fence was gone. Her Emergency Locator Transmitter Implement, or ELTI, pulsed brightly to mark the spot of her death. He replayed the final twenty seconds of the attack and watched in horror as the escort frigate completely eschewed her own defense to strike out at the missiles her sisters would face after her destruction. Gooseflesh broke out over his skin as the tiny frigate continued to strike at missiles aimed for the DesRon even as half a dozen pounced, unmolested, upon her. He felt humbled by the display of heroism.
“Nothing yet, Chief,” Crowley said. “But we’ve got a team close.”
* * *
Kirkpatrick was picking his way carefully through Hell. Alloy supports more than a meter thick were twisted and snapped like toothpicks. Sterile compartments had been transformed into junkyards of metal and flesh.
The Operations ensign had already passed by the remains of eight sailors killed by concussive force but the charred remains of the sailors immolated by fires were far worse. In his technical training school, an entire lesson had been dedicated to the horrors he could expect to witness as a damage controlman. That gruesome day of education, the entire school body sat transfixed by the brutality of war. Counselors had been made available after the lesson and most sailors had sought their refuge.
That horrific day paled to what Kirkpatrick had witnessed in the last three minutes. He was spurred forward only by the knowledge that if he stopped, if he quit and turned around, one of his own spacemen would have to endure the kaleidoscope of gore in his stead.
Meter by meter, he wended his way through Falcata’s shattered remains. He left the fires behind, several compartments back. Now, the icy cold of space ruled the mangled interior. Kirkpatrick managed to crawl under what once may have been the ceiling of the destroyer’s central corridor. He turned right and duck-walked several more meters to the gaping entrance to Falcata’s bridge.
The portal’s door had either been shorn away or retracted into the recess of the bulkheads. Crouching low and moving inside, he stared in revulsion at the broken bodies strewn throughout the bridge
. Much of the compartment was crushed. He tried to account for the entire bridge crew but their conditions made that problematic. Once the ensign had confirmed the deaths of Captain Weis and Lieutenant Hayashi, he stopped sifting through the carnage.
“DC-One, this is Kirkpatrick.”
“Go ahead, sir,” Santos answered quickly. “I still can’t raise anything on the bridge. Team Two is trying to get there but is having a lot of trouble finding a path.”
“Turn them around,” Kirkpatrick ordered. “Have them start implementing standard damage control procedures.”
“But the Captain, sir…”
“He’s dead,” Kirkpatrick choked out, reality setting in. “They’re all dead.”
* * *
Chief Dozier paced in Auxiliary Control. “I might cut you loose, Emma. That hit was close to the primary helm controls and they’re bound to need help.”
Twist sat at his console, assessing the squadron’s status. We’ve been badly battered but we’re still sailing with five ships. His eyes traced toward the enemy force, sailing away. The Hollaran formation still appeared to have seven ships. Worse yet, none of the symbols on the tactical plot had callouts annotating damage. Come on, Twist thought irascibly. Surely some of our missiles got through.
“Anderson,” Twist said slowly, attempting to speak clearly through his split lip, “have we performed a damage assessment on the Hollie light fleet?”
