Admiral's Fall

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Too bad,” said Manblaster when it became clear the Battleship was going to survive the HPC round with nothing more than a few scratches and metal splinters in its side.

  Then the still-spinning forward section of the Light Cruiser moved dangerously in the Battleship’s direction.

  “Imperial Battleships is taking evasive maneuvers,” reported Hart in a rising voice.

  “Oh, sure, they’ll destroy one of their Cruisers but when one of the important ships is in danger, then they’ll move out of the way,” Lisa Steiner huffed.

  “Let’s not be hasty. We’d probably do the same if it was what was required for victory,” I warned in a quiet voice.

  “We’ve never fired on our own ships just because they were in the way,” argued my Chief of Staff.

  “Let’s hope the Sweet Saint keeps it that way,” I said, wondering what I would do in a similar situation. I knew I would never sacrifice civilians, but fleet personnel were a different story altogether—and forget my own crew for a minute. Would I be willing to sacrifice Bluetooth and a few of his Sector Guardsmen if that was what it took to win?

  Risk them? Certainly and without hesitation. But to fire on them with my own ships? That took a whole other level of cold which I wasn’t sure I wanted to know I was capable of. I preferred to let chance and heavy lasers do the deciding for me. A man deserved a fighting chance.

  The Battleship looked like it was going to clear the large former hull section of its escort Cruiser when one of our Battleships took that moment to target every one of its still visible maneuvering thrusters. They didn’t get them all, we didn't even get half, but the loss of half a dozen thrusters—all on the side facing the Cruiser section at the same time—was just enough to start that Battleship back around toward the Cruiser.

  Her helmsman corrected within seconds and by the time they were once again turning back away it was too late and the spinning clump of metal that used to be the front section of the Light Cruiser smashed into the nose of the Battleship.

  Clearly damaged, the Reclamation Battleship staggered back into formation moments before they hit our lines and, while it might have survived the HPC and a clash with its own Cruiser, our Battleship captains seemed determined to put an end to it.

  With eight Battleships peppering its damaged front end, sinking lasers through its broken nose section and deeper into the ship it wasn’t long before the first escape pods started ejecting.

  But whatever the crew might think, the captain of that ship and its gunnery department didn’t appear to be done yet, and more than thirty lasers on each side of the crippled warships fired right back into our teeth.

  “Here they come,” reported Tactical Officer Hart as the Destroyers and Cruisers turned away from our line and, like a flock of birds, began to spread out.

  “Tell our wallers to turn nose on to the enemy and prepare to return fire!” I ordered.

  “What are they thinking?” cried my Chief of Staff.

  “They want to get in close to the Clover where we can’t hit them with our main gun,” I said, thinking we’d already gone over this.

  “But we’ll tear them apart. Even if they get in close,” she protested.

  “It’s a numbers game,” I replied.

  The double line of MSP Battleships turned just in time to meet the advancing line of Imperial Battleships and, as the first enemy waller moved to slide past them, fire and fury erupted from both sides.

  The Reclamation Fleet had been forced to stay silent due to the nature of their approach but they were anything but silent now. Spitting more than forty lasers out each side of their first ship Admiral’s Norfolk’s Fleet had just given the MSP its first strong reply.

  As each Imperial Battleship advanced through the sides of our Battleship squadrons, a fresh firestorm broke out.

  “Commodore Druid is ordering his squadron to roll and present a new facing to the enemy,” reported Coms, “Captain Jackson is instructing his squadron to do the same.”

  “Good old Rampage,” I said, recalling how the Captain had insisted on renaming the Pyramid his new command and, unlike Eastwood whose ship had been given the ‘II’ desigation, Quentin Jackson had declared he would only go into battle on a ship with the same name as his original command. “How is the new Metal Titan doing?” I asked, looking over at Officer Hart.

  “Five by Five, Sir,” reported the Tactical Officer.

  I nodded, “Tell the gun deck it’s about to get busy down there.”

  “Will do, Admiral.”

  Akantha pulled up beside me, looking like a horse too long in the stall the way she was shifting from side to side and eyeing the screen.

  “Is there anything I can help you with, Protector?” she prompted.

  I ran a hand over my face. My first reaction was to tell not just ‘no’ but Sweet Murphy, no. Unfortunately there was something she could do.

  “If you could relay to the General that things are about to get dicey and I may have reason to call upon him later, I’d appreciate it,” I said, imagining the good a well-placed brigade of power-armored Marines could do at just the right moment.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “I’ll go tell him personally,” she said, pulling out a handheld comm. device and starting for the blast doors.

  I shook my head wearily. Some battles just weren’t worth fighting.

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” I said as the lead Reclamation Battleships pulled even with the 1800 meter monster that was my flagship and opened fire.

  “Port side shields down to 85% and holding,” reported the Shield Operator after the first enemy broadside slammed home, “no spotting or bleed-through, Sirs.”

  “Good man,” said Manblaster as the shield regen brought the port side back up to 86% while he was talking, and then the lead ship on the starboard side pulled even and unloaded.

  “Starboard shields at 83%% and holding. No bleed-through and no spotting, Admiral,” exclaimed the same Operator.

  “Next one’s coming up!” shouted Hart as the next two Battleships in line on either side pulled even.

  Roughly half the enemy warships had decided to target us, a full squadron of four to either side of the Clover. Meanwhile the remainder had turned and engaged my Battleships.

  It looked like the enemy was gambling it all on overpowering the Super Battleship Lucky Clover and neutralizing her before our reinforcements could arrive.

  “Eight on one without being able to bring the HPC into play, Sir. That’s long odds,” First Officer Manning said with concern.

  “We’ll make it. The flagship will hold, Number One. It’s the meanest, toughest warship in the galaxy,” I said as the second pair of 500 meter Battleships opened fire, bringing our shields down into the thirty-to-forty percent range on both sides.

  “Of course, Sir,” Joe Manblaster said his face assuming a stoic mask.

  Hear me, baby? Hold together, I silently urged. At that moment everything was up to our Shields and Gunnery departments.

  “I told you pack of whiny, overgrown, overly stout greasy, miserable excuses for grease monkey’s that the main gun of this ship didn’t matter two figs!” screamed Chief Gunner Lesner, his voice echoing over the headsets of every gunner and assistant gunner on the gun deck, “well now the enemy’s here and I was proven right—yet again.”

  “It always comes down to the lasers boys and girls. Always! Now by the Sweet Saint’s wretched focusing crystal of carnage and destruction, man those lasers like you’re gunners and the not ham-handed wrench pullers you showed yourselves to be during that last volley,” Lesner declared, pausing to hawk and spit on the floor in disgust after that last declaration.

  There was a growl of protest up and down the deck, causing the Chief Gunner to sneer openly.

  “Oh you don’t like that? You think your tender feelings are hurt because I called an 80% hit rate at close range the work of a bunch of ham-handed wrench pullers? My fine darlings, I couldn't care less what you th
ink,” snarled Lesner, building up a good head of outrage. “I wipe my backside with 80%! You want me to hold your hands and praise you for a miserable, no good 4 in 5 hit rate at point blank range? Well kiss my posterior! The next gunner who misses a shot can blasted well turn his or her gun over to their assistant—and you can consider that an order,” barked Lesner. “I don’t care if you’re operating a little pea shooter like a chain-gun or one of the bloody turbo’s; The next one that misses is demoted back to grease monkey until their assistant misses a shot. You’re out and everyone else moves up in rank.”

  Men and women up and down the deck started taking his name in vain while their assistants immediately perked up at the chance to ride the top slot in every gun crew and get their hands on the controls.

  Which only caused the Chief Gunner to smile beatifically in response. This crew was sloppy and it was divided between his old hands and the newer gunners who’d been here from the start, most of whom frankly speaking wouldn’t have been fit to work an assistant gunner position back when the Rage had been the flagship.

  But the worst of it, as far as he was concerned, was the way they were turned against each other more than the idiots in Engineering or those meatheads over in Lancer country. That last he could not abide.

  His veterans from the original Clover and Furious Phoenix crews were spoiled. He saw that now. They were used to working with men and women the same skill level as them, and over the years they’d gone from green freshies so ham-handed they couldn’t hit the broadside of an asteroid, to the top gun crew in the fleet. Most of the replacements since then had been the top gunners of their previous assignments, the cream of the crop. Being thrown back in with a more normal, mixed-skill group had thrown them all off-stride.

  Including a certain Chief Lesner, if he was being honest, but he’d been a gunner for more years than he could easily count. He’d adjusted and now playtime was over.

  The next broadside went out on time, in one solid volley—and more importantly, as far as he was concerned, with a better than 90% hit rate.

  Calling it point blank range was technically true but it was also fair to point out the enemy wasn’t just sitting there for a slugfest—at least not yet, as they were still busy moving into position. But as they say: war wasn’t fair. This battle certainly wasn’t fair, and as far as the Chief Gunner was concerned Lesner had no idea why his gunners would expect him to be fair, either.

  Turbo-lasers thundered like titans while the heavy-lasers' high pitched whines filled the gun deck in one righteous broadside as the Lucky Clover returned fire.

  While two squadrons of Reclamation warships paired off against a similar number of MSP and Confederation Flotilla ships, the Lucky Clover was surrounded.

  With four Battleships to port, running the length of the ship, and another full squadron on the starboard, Admiral Norfolk took a safe position away from the firing arc of the Clover's main cannon and opened fire.

  The Chief Gunner’s console beeped at him.

  “New orders from Tactical,” Lesner said, glancing down at his screen before continuing. “Alright then: all gunners target the lead enemy warship to port and starboard and concentrate your fire on those Battleships,” he roared into his microphone as he forwarded the designated targets to the rest of his gun teams. “Don’t stop until they move out of range, break in half or you’re given new marching orders—you hear me!? We’ve got to keep those blighters off our stern.”

  A wordless growl echoed up and down the gun deck, and right on the heels of that another unified broadside slammed into the Battleship nearest the stern of the Lucky Clover.

  “Take that—courtesy of the Spine, Sector 25 and MSP!” shouted Lesner.

  Chapter 41: Reclaiming the Battle

  “Man’s Domination reports their shields just dropped another 32%, Sir,” said Lieutenant Commander Xipper from his position in the Comm. department where he was coordinating the data and incoming transmissions from the rest of the fleet and the Battleship squadrons in particular.

  “Flaming atoms, that’s the second time they’ve been hit that hard in as many minutes,” swore Rear Admiral Norfolk, “what’s that bring the Domination down to, 40%?”

  “Thirty six percent, Sir,” reported Lieutenant Commander Xipper.

  “One more hit like that and it won’t matter if their shields are technically still functional. Man’s Domination is going to start taking some serious damage,” added Norfolk’s Chief of Staff, Senior Captain Nikolai Wilkins.

  “Those double weight broadsides and that crazy rate of fire are daunting,” agreed the Flag Captain in charge of Norfolk’s current flagship the RSS Manchester, “anyone who thought 'if we could just get inside the range of that main cannon we’d be fine and dandy' was clearly dreaming.”

  “Watch yourself, Captain,” warned Senior Captain Wilkins warned, “this fleet is daunted by nothing. Not even the so-called Tyrant of Cold Space himself. A poncy name typical of the up-jumped provincials if ever I heard one,” he scoffed, “we’ve been dealing with the likes of this ‘Grand Admiral’ Montagne from the day we began liberating the Spine. He’s a war criminal who uses anti-matter and biological weapons to compensate for his lack of tactical ability and small reproductive organs, nothing more.”

  “Enough!” Norfolk snapped as the Manchester began to ready itself for another broadside.

  An immediate and respectful silence fell across the bridge.

  “There’s no use fighting amongst ourselves over trifles and word choices. It doesn’t matter what Admiral Montagne is called or what he calls himself. The enemy is in front of us, gentlemen, and he requires our full attention,” Norfolk said glaring at his top officer.

  “Aye, Sir,” muttered his Chief of Staff, quickly followed by the remainder of his senior officers including those who had yet to even sound off or weigh into the situation.

  “Now their throw weight and recharge cycle, surprising as it is, is still hardly critical. The key right now is lowering their shields—and that we’re about to do. After that we can take our time cutting this Clover apart piece by piece,” said the Admiral.

  One by one, in an almost ripple fire set roughly a half a minute apart, the Battleships surrounding the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet flagship slammed broadsides into their target.

  “Enemy Super Battleship’s shields have fallen, Sir!” reported Fleet Tactical as the Lucky Clover’s shields fluctuated and then fell on both sides of the ship.

  “Yes! Target those shield generators, Flag Captain,” Norfolk’s eyes narrowed before turning to communications, “my compliments to General McKraken, gentlemen, and tell him he is to prepare his people for action. It’s time to see just how lucky this Clover is,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Shuttle bay doors are opening and Marines equipped with gravity harnesses are deploying from airlocks onto the hulls of the Manchester, Man’s Domination and the other Battleships of both squadrons surrounding the Lucky Clover, Admiral,” the Fleet Operation’s Officer reported looking over at Norfolk, “they await your order, Sir.”

  “The order is given, Operations. Deploy our—” Norfolk started.

  “Shields back up! The enemy have just raised shields!” snapped Fleet Tactical.

  “What!? Belay that last order,” Norfolk barked in surprise.

  “Abort! I say again: abort! Enemy shields are back up. I say again: enemy shields have not yet fallen. All Marines back to starting positions,” Operations ordered rapidly. “Operation Pile Driver is on hold. I say again Pile Driver is back on hold. Confirm receipt of this order.”

  While Fleet Operations was scrambling to keep their people and Marine assault shuttles from committing suicide by driving directly into the Lucky Clover’s shields, the Reclamation Admiral stood up.

  “I thought those shields were down?” Norfolk asked with a growl in his voice as he looked over at his tactical section.

  “They were, Sir! But they came back up,” the Commander in charge of Fleet Ta
ctical reported blank faced.

  “Sensors?” the Admiral barked.

  “It’s confusing, but…” the top Sensor Officer hesitated still staring at his screen instead of the Admiral before straightening triumphantly and finally returning eye contact, “they have a backup, Sir. Two independent sets of shield generators and, considering what just happened, a second power bank to supply it as well.”

  For a moment Norfolk’s cheeks puffed out red and clearly irritated. But then he nodded and turned around.

  Returning to his seat when he looked back up at his flag bridge, the irritation was gone and the Imperial Admiral was back. He’d gone from irritated to calculating and intrigued in less than half a dozen footsteps.

  “He’s wilier than even I’d expected, but it won’t matter in the end. We’ll just keep hitting them; it doesn’t matter if they have three redundant shield systems, we’ll still pin this Grand Admiral’s ears back behind his head and haul him back before an Imperial tribunal. No one stands in the way of Man,” said Norfolk.

  Wilkins eyed the main screen uneasily.

  “The battle plot shows the rest of Montagne’s Fleet will be here in less than fifteen minutes. If we’re going to do this it needs to be now, Sir, or this is going to hurt a lot worse than we’d prepared for,” Norfolk’s Chief of Staff said urgently.

  “We knew there would be losses before going into this,” Norfolk dismissed, “all we have to do is get those Marines onto the hull of that ship.”

  “What if we knock one down, launch our Marines, and another one jumps back up just in time to meet our people, Sir?” asked Wilkins wiping his forehead.

  “A good point. New orders to the fleet,” said Rear Admiral Norfolk, “we continue with full broadsides to knock down those shields and then deploy bucking cables, but this time I want every ship in both squadrons to fire at the same time. Let’s see just how strong that Super Battleship really is. I can’t imagine it can raise another set of shields after eight full simultaneous broadsides and with two squadrons worth of bucking cables deployed. No ship, not even that one, is that lucky.”