“Bogies, south by southeast, range three hundred kilometers, bearing, due north,” said Joey from the rear. “Missile launch, missile launch.”
The scope showed six missiles leaving the three Caca atmospheric fighters. The return was blurry, all of the jamming interfering with the sensors of her aircraft. They were still very high in the upper atmosphere, on the edge of space, and they were catching the jamming of both ground and space based platforms.
“Tracking,” said Joey, and Nora looked at her holographic screen to see several of the incoming weapons firm up on the plot. They were high velocity weapons, capable of boosting or turning at hundreds of gravities. While not in the same class as warship weapons, in atmosphere they were still very effective.
“Firing,” called out the back seater as the missiles, traveling at Mach thirty, came within fifty kilometers. The aircraft bucked slightly as it released a pair of counter missiles, which streaked out at a similar acceleration as the incoming weapons. Two missiles also left each of the other craft under her command. The missiles were not really set to intercept. Instead, they flew a pattern that brought them in a wall in front of the incoming missiles. At a kilometer range, less than a fraction of a second from contact, the counter missiles sent out a hundred small balls each, which exploded a fraction of a second later, putting up a wall of shrapnel that the incoming weapons had to negotiate. Five exploded as they hit that wall, one making it through by dumb luck. An instant later the lasers on the human fighters hit that weapon with enough power to blow it out of the sky.
“Let’s get them,” yelled Nora into her com. She and her wingman vectored to the right, the other team from the left, coming into an approach that scissored in on the trio of Caca fighters. Each fighter launched a missile as the Cacas tried to maneuver away, dropping altitude and turning in a manner that would get them the largest payoff in gaining distance.
Three missiles found targets, blowing two Caca aircraft out of the sky. The third veered at the last second and launched a multitude of decoys, the missile chasing that Caca homing in on those sources instead. At the last second it turned away from the decoys and back onto the real target, just in time to catch a counter missile. The Caca straightened out and hit the acceleration, disappearing into the static filled atmosphere.
“Good job, people,” said Nora, setting her craft to drop lower and slower, looking for more targets. She felt some relief from her anxiety. She had never faced the Cacas before, and had no idea what their aircraft were going to be like. She found them to be not as responsive as her own, but still nothing to be dismissive about.
“Let’s go get us some more.” That was their job, shooting enemy aircraft out of the sky so the ground support craft could operate without interference. It would help if they had some more of their own flying this mission, but they had what they had, and the job was still theirs.
* * *
Sevastopol shifted into a geosync orbit high above the planet. The ship had been battered into almost hulk status from the fight with the orbital fort. Three quarters of her crew were dead or wounded, most of her secondary weapons were gone, and she was in no shape to either battle it out with other capital ships, or to help form a missile screen to guard other vessels. In both of those tasks she would be more of a liability, something to protect. But she still had two laser rings and a particle beam accelerator, and there were ground targets that desperately needed servicing.
“Do we have a target?” Captain Vladimir Schmidt asked his Tactical Officer. He was looking at a globe of the planet that showed all of the known concentrations from both sides. Known being the operant word. They had very good data on their own troops on the ground, but not so much on the enemy. Some positions, like barracks, fortifications, airfields and shore batteries, were there as firm targets. They didn’t know if some of those positions were still there, or the state them if they were. And they had little idea of where the enemy mobile units were, except where communications with scout assets placed them for a certain limited duration.
A particle beam rose up from the planet, moving so fast it seemed to just appear. It missed the battleship, a testimony to the effectiveness of the jamming systems the Imperials had deployed through all the layers of the battlespace. The ship was able to trace the beam back to its point of origin on the ground, and sent a particle beam and a pair of lasers back in return. It was difficult to tell if the counter fire had any effect, but it did show whatever was on the ground where the battleship actually was. The next beam that came hit the battleship, slashing through its weakened electromag field and penetrating armor that had already been scarred or melted by other weapons earlier in the battle.
Sevastopol fired again, and a trio of beams came up and hit her again. This time two of the beams penetrated through the armor, blasting into the ship all the way to the rear central capsule, barely stopped by its armor. The ship shook like a beast in agony from spears driven through its body.
“We have a target lock,” said the Tactical Officer, his voice almost shaking in tension. “They’re not close to anything of importance.”
“Give them everything we got,” ordered Schmidt, wincing as another beam struck his ship.
The tubes on the port side of the ship, the six that still functioned, facing the planet, spit out six missiles toward the target. All of the hundred and fifty ton missiles accelerated at five thousand gravities for a second, building up their velocity well beyond what they would achieve by merely falling into the gravity well.
A beam reached up and hit one of the missiles, vaporizing it on contact. One more was hit by an anti-aircraft missile that struck through the side, sending pieces of weapon flying out to fall in random directions. The other four hit the ground, coming down like streaks of fire thrown at the planet by an angry god. Each was without a warhead, depending completely on their velocity, mass and the kinetic energy they generated. Each generated twenty megatons of force that was focused into the ground, blasting through the plasticrete and armor into the positions below. A quartet of mushroom clouds rose into the sky, coalescing into one that pushed into the stratosphere.
The Captain waited for another beam to rise from the position they had hammered. When nothing happened for a minute he knew they had taken that battery out, and could go searching for another target, or let the target come looking for him. His ship would be at extreme risk during this kind of operation, but it was his homeworld, and he was willing to take that risk to free it from those who had come to destroy it.
* * *
“That’s the last one, sir,” said Rear Admiral Kelso, looking out of the holo from the station he was manning in CIC. “We’re a little behind, but maybe we can catch up.”
Fleet Admiral Jerry Kelvin shook his head, thinking about the part of the problem they really had no control over. Everything had been presupposed on a tight timetable, the ships on the other end actually pre-accelerating toward the gate based on the velocity they wanted to be at when the portal was opened. Almost a hundred ships had maneuvered at the last minute to miss the gate frame, since it didn’t have a transmittable portal at the time. And it wasn’t like they could just try again now that the gate actually was open. No, all of those ships would have to spend twelve hours or so to slow to a stop and turn around, then another twelve hours to come back in the proper velocity to transit. Those ships would not be participating in the battle of which they were a necessary component.
He only had two thirds of the battleships he should have had, and a mere nine fleet carriers. He wondered if they could even generate a missile storm large enough to panic that enemy, much less hurt them badly. There were a few ideas he was willing to try, but since they were new, he wasn’t sure how well they would work. And how well they worked could be the difference between winning or losing this battle.
At least we have the ships still in the line coming through, he thought. All the battleships that were coming through had already transited. Now two of the gates were send
ing through battle cruisers and heavy cruisers, while the other two were transiting light cruisers and destroyers.
“Where are those missile colliers?” he asked Kelso, who he expected would have some knowledge of where the support ships were located in the other systems.
“About fifteen minutes from the gates,” said Kelso, activating an overlay on the bridge central holo tank that showed the large freighters that were carrying their resupply of missiles.
Kelvin walked over to that holo and looked at the orientation of the missile supply ships. He linked in with the ship’s computers and fed in the distances and acceleration figures, ordering the system to show a representation of what he was thinking about. The courses were calculated, and he smiled at the result.
“Send a request to the Admiralty,” he told Kelso. “Show them this short study and tell them I recommend this use of the reserve missiles.”
“They may want to hold them back for our defense of the system,” said the other Admiral.
“And we will not be here to defend the system if we don’t use them. So send them the information and my recommendation.”
Kelvin stared at the holo, once again set to show the tactical situation in the system as it stood at the moment.
“We have missile launch,” called out the Fleet Tactical Officer. “Three thousand missiles, velocity point two light, acceleration eight thousand gravities.”
And so it begins, thought Kelvin, looking at those red vector arrows that were pointing his way. As he watched another wave separated from the enemy fleet, then a third, fourth, and fifth. Of course they would come in as one wave, adjusting their accelerations to adjust their positions, so that they would come as fifteen thousand missiles. While that might not totally destroy his command, it would do enough damage to weaken him to the point where he couldn’t possibly win.
* * *
“We have contacts,” called out the Tactical Officer, while the vector arrows appeared on the holo. “Three hundred plus contacts, velocity point nine light.”
“Where in the hells did they come from,” shouted High Admiral Lisantr’nana, his face a mask of shock. The objects hadn’t been picked up over a distance, like would be expected from stealthy craft. The profile of those kind of ships was a faint return at a distance, then a firmer one closer in, then much of the same until the contact was firmed. If they ever got a firm contact at all.
These things had gone from not even being there to becoming firm contacts in an instant, as if they had teleported there. Since teleportation on that scale was clearly impossible, there was something else going on here.
Were the rumors true, he thought, looking at the vector arrows, most of which were pointed in a direction that would take them far astern of his force. But a hundred of them were aimed right at his fleet. The rest seemed to have missed the mark.
“Intruder one accelerating at twelve hundred gravities,” called out the Tactical Officer, the vector arrows of the attack force that were coming at the Ca’cadasan on a clear intercept blinking. “Range, thirty-seven light seconds. Estimated mass, twelve to fifteen hundred tons.”
So they were some kind of attack fighter, but how had they gotten to within clear sensor range without being seen? And why were two of the forces so far off on their attack? Even as those thoughts were going through his mind those two forces disappeared once again.
“We have missile launch,” called out the Tactical Officer. Over two hundred new vector arrows appeared on the plot, forging ahead at ten thousand gravities. Moments later two hundred more appeared.
How many do they carry? thought the High Admiral. He had four hundred weapons heading his way, due to arrive about thirty seconds. Would there be more coming, or was that all?
“All units are to fire on the missiles,” he finally ordered, going with his instincts that the fighters couldn’t be carrying that many more ship attack missiles, if any at all. “Only fire on the fighters if you have a ninety-five percent hit chance.”
The fleet opened fire, putting out a short wave of counter missiles, then switching to lasers and particle beams. Missiles exploded as they were hit, brilliant flashes against the star fields. A hundred and sixty came through, taken under fire by the close in projectile weapons. A few of the fighters went up as well as some ship or other locked them up with tight fire control. The close in weapons knocked down another fifty-three missiles, the sheer volume of fire cutting through their jamming and hitting weapons on evasive maneuvers by statistical chance.
One hundred and two missiles reached engagement range, and suddenly the plot blossomed with six hundred and twelve objects as their warheads released from the body. Four hundred and thirteen hit one hundred and forty-one ships, their fifty megaton antimatter warheads detonating with bright flashes that blew pieces of hull and armor into space. A few of the smaller vessels exploded into plasma, a pair of cruisers broke up, and even one superbattleship lost all acceleration as it grabber ring was shredded. Over a hundred ships were damaged to the point where their combat capabilities were significantly degraded.
Now all of the defensive fire switched to the fighters that were boosting, changing their vector to fly over the Ca’cadasan fleet. They were easier targets than the missiles due to their size, but they also had better electronic warfare systems and stronger defensive screens. The fighters fired their lasers as they maneuvered, getting in some couple of hundred hits that caused small but sometimes significant damage.
Sixty-one fighters made it over and away, moments later again disappearing from the plot.
“That really hurt them,” said the Tactical Officer, a predatory grin on his face.
The High Admiral glared at the male, his own mind running over the balance of damage between his own force and the fighters that had just blown past them. He had destroyed just over sixty thousand tons of enemy warship, and by his best estimate, about two hundred or so humans. In return, he had lost over ten million tons of warships destroyed, and almost five thousand males killed. Added to that were many more millions of tons of warships that were now damaged, along with many more thousands of casualties.
He stared at the tactical holo for a few moments more. He didn’t know where those other two wings had gone. And he no way of knowing when they would return, though he was sure they would. That depended on their acceleration rate, something he had no information about. He was sure they would appear when he least expected them, and he would lose more ships.
“Order the fleet to reduce acceleration to four hundred gravities,” he told the Com Officer.
“That will increase our approach time to the enemy fleet,” said the Tactical Officer, turning with an expression of shock on his face.
“But it will muddy their guess on our position whenever they come out of whatever they come out of,” said the High Admiral, making a guess based on their attack pattern that they had to predict where their targets would be in the future.
If they did hit him again, it would probably be another sting, like that first attack. But like most intelligent creatures, the High Admiral did not like being stung.
* * *
“Dammit,” growled Grand Fleet Admiral Lenkowski, sitting back in his chair on his flag bridge. He had just watched the attack of the inertialess fighters in more or less real time through the wormhole com that projected information into the flag bridge’s central holo tank. “More than two thirds of the damned attacked missed.” He slammed a hand on the arm of his chair. “Missed.”
The holo no longer showed the fighters, which had disappeared from the scan after they had raised their warp bubbles and gone accelerating away from the enemy. Or, in the case of the two wings that had missed their targets, decelerated so they could come back on a return attack. They might have fired their missiles anyway, which would have fought to change their vectors and attack the enemy ships. The Admiral was just as happy that they hadn’t, since those missiles, from all projections, would have come in at a crawl from a rear angle
on the ships, an easy target.
Lenkwoski had a view of the battlespace that no commander in history had ever enjoyed. Every ship with a wormhole in the New Moscow system was transmitting its tactical information into that com net to Naval Headquarters in the Hexagon, and from there to his flag. With graviton tracking they could tell where every boosting vessel was in real time. With the exception of those fighters in their warp bubbles.
“The enemy ships are reducing their acceleration,” called out one of the Assistant Tactical Officers manning a side station. “Down to four hundred gravities.”
“Shit,” said Lenkowski. “That asshole in charge of their force is not stupid.” It looked as if the Caca had deduced that the ships couldn’t track them when they were transiting warp space. And he was adjusting his acceleration so they would come out well ahead of his force. The fighters would have no shot at the enemy ships. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Len slammed a hand down on the chair arm once again, cursing the tech that allowed him to observe so much, while unable to do anything about it.
“What’s our ETA to the system?” he asked, sure that he would get the same answer.
“One hundred and fifty-seven hours,” stated the Navigator.
“Get me on the com to all ship captains,” ordered the Admiral, looking over at the Com Officer. “I want all ships to boost to point nine seven light.”
The Com Officer looked at him with surprise, while everyone on the bridge turned to stare. Everyone knew that going above point nine five light would risk damage to their cellular structure from the particles that would push past their electromagnetic screen. It would also cause a degradation of their internal nanite cellular repair systems, adding to the damage.
“Medical is to prepare nanite boosters and to keep them in protective isolation until we decelerate back down to point nine five light.”
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 8: Soldiers (Exodus: Empires at War.) Page 29
