“I must say,” said Bram, “these Pfelung adolescents have a strange outlook on warfare if they perceive deployment of nuclear weapons as ‘fun.’ ”
“I don’t know, Doctor, I always rather liked it,” said Max. “How about you, Levy? Do you like firing nukes?”
“Well, sir, I know I’m supposed to say that I am greatly weighed down by the solemnity and mighty responsibility of setting free into the universe the awesome destructive power that lies dormant in the core of the humble atom,” Levy intoned with all the gravity he could muster, “But yes, sir, I do get a rush from nuking the Krag, I must admit.”
The doctor could only shake his head and look at Max accusingly. It was Sahin’s “You are corrupting these young men” look that Max had come to know so well. Max smiled and gazed back innocently in return. It was his “I know. Isn’t it great?” look with which the doctor had become very familiar. The idea simultaneously occurred to both men that these kinds of exchanges were becoming common and that their frequency was likely a sign that the men were becoming extraordinarily good friends, notwithstanding their comparatively short acquaintance. It was an idea that they both welcomed.
Bartoli interrupted the wordless conversation. “Cruiser just engaged her compression drive.” He looked over at Kasparov and Goldman, both of whom were rapidly scrolling through several data channels, talking with each other and the Sensors back room.
After about twenty seconds, Kasparov turned to Max. “Skipper, we’ve done a series of active tachyo-graviton scans in six polarization planes and at a dozen phase modulations, and we’re getting a definite compression trail. A good, straight heading, zero-five-one mark zero-zero-eight, and from the amount of residual continuum disruption, he must be pulling at least nineteen hundred c, maybe more than two thousand.”
“And sir—” Bartoli started to add.
“You don’t need to tell me, Bartoli. A good captain always has his bearings. That’s straight into Vaaach space.”
* * *
CHAPTER 13
* * *
17:44Z Hours, 30 March 2315
“No response on any of the Vaaach channels, Skipper,” Chin reported for at least the twentieth time. The Cumberland, back on Condition Blue, had crossed through the several light years of disputed space that might be Vaaach or might be Union and had for the last four hours or so been in space that undoubtedly belonged to the Vaaach.
The Vaaach. The Vaaach who possessed technology centuries in advance of the best that humanity could field, were highly aggressive carnivores and tended to deal with territorial incursions by vaporizing the interloper first and asking questions later.
But Max consoled himself that if they were powerful and dangerous, the Vaaach were also scrupulously honorable. They applied their code of honor to other species to the same degree as they applied it to themselves (a Vaaach would rather slit his throat with his own claws than apply a double standard or engage in the slightest hypocrisy) and honored Customary Interstellar Law, including, Max hoped fervently, the Right of Hot Pursuit.
To preserve the Cumberland’s claim that it was hunting the Krag cruiser and to preclude any conclusion by the Vaaach that it was entering their space covertly, the destroyer had been broadcasting a message on the standard interspecies attention channels, stating that the ship was entering Vaaach space without any effort at concealment, in pursuit of a Krag vessel that had fled from honorable combat. That should mollify the Vaaach.
Under Interstellar Law, a warship of one power had the right to enter the space of another when it was engaged in combat with an enemy warship and to continue that pursuit for a reasonable time, reasonableness being a highly elastic concept depending on the kind and quality of the most recent sensor detection, whether the enemy vessel was leaving some kind of trail, and other factors. The Hot Pursuit Doctrine denied to combatants the ability to avoid destruction through the cowardly expedient of slipping just over a neutral border. Surely, the Vaaach would respect such a reasonable and honorable principle, Max hoped.
“We’re still on their trail, sir,” Kasparov announced. “And we’re gaining on them slightly.” The ship had dropped into normal space to scan for the aftereffects of the passage of a ship under compression drive. The Krag ship was relying on speed rather than stealth, and was taking the shortest route across Vaaach space toward home. Having verified that the Krag were still ahead of them, Max ordered the Cumberland back to 1960 c, which was as fast as he dared maintain for what might be a chase of several days.
Max was drinking hot, black ship’s coffee and munching on an “exploding” ham sandwich when Kasparov announced, “Skipper, I’ve just lost the Krag’s compression signature.”
“How far behind him were we?” Max asked.
“Six minutes and nineteen seconds, sir.”
“Maneuvering, take us subluminal 437,000 kills short of Mr. Kasparov’s estimate of where the Krag dropped out of compression. Alerts, general quarters, ship versus ship.” As the klaxons and announcements sounded, Max turned to the Stealth console.
“Mr. Nelson, I want the ship at maximum stealth, all modes, as soon as we hit normal space. If Monsieur Visage de Rat is having problems with his compression drive, maybe we catch him with his guard down.”
“Aye, sir. Maximum stealth, all modes.”
About three minutes after GQ was sounded, Alerts announced, “All decks and all stations at general quarters, ship versus ship, sir.”
“Very well.”
The hatch cycled to admit Dr. Sahin and Clouseau. As frequently as the two came into CIC together, Max wondered whether they were together in another part of the ship, whether Clouseau had been waiting along Sahin’s route to CIC and fell in behind him en route, or whether they both came in response to the klaxons and simply tended to arrive at the same time. One of these days, he would ask.
The doctor sat down at the Commodore’s Station and punched up various displays to tell him what was going on. Clouseau scampered over to Gilbertson, who was near the coffeepot and who slipped him a cat treat produced seemingly from nowhere. Once he had convinced himself that one treat was all he was going to get from the midshipman, the ever-larger feline sashayed over to Dr. Sahin’s feet, curled around his right ankle, and promptly went to sleep. Several of the older spacers looked at each other and nodded.
“Disengaging compression drive in thirty seconds,” announced LeBlanc.
“Very well,” Max responded. “Gentlemen, we don’t know what the target is up to here. His compression drive might have failed from battle damage, or maybe he’s turning to fight, or maybe something completely different. Stay sharp. We need to be ready for anything.”
“Ten seconds,” said LeBlanc. “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. NOW.” Fleishman brought the compression drive contol lever to zero. The compression drive returned the space around the ship to its normal configuration, and the Cumberland rejoined the Einsteinian universe. Max looked at Kasparov for his first indication of what was going on outside the ship. He didn’t have long to wait.
“Contact…two contacts. Intermediate range. Massive energy signatures. Lots of maneuvering…Weapons fire…Targets are exchanging weapons fire. First contact is consistent with Hotel One, bearing zero-five-three mark one-eight-eight, range based on apparent angular size 1.4 million kilometers. Second contact—second contact, designating as Uniform One, bearing zero-five-five mark one-eight-seven, range roughly equivalent to Hotel One. Hotel One is firing dorsal and ventral turret pulse cannon batteries. His rate of fire is subnominal—he must have sustained some kind of damage, plus he’s not firing the starboard battery, which is bearing on the target. Uniform One is returning fire with a weapon that I can’t identify at this time. He doesn’t seem to be doing much damage, though.”
Max saw both Bartoli and Levy get very busy bringing their departments to bear on developing a clear picture of the situation.
>
“Maneuvering, let’s close the contacts,” Max said, squinting at the tactical display. “Make for the midpoint between them. Ahead one third.” He turned to DeCosta. “XO, speculation. Who is Uniform One?”
“He’s got to be Vaaach, doesn’t he? I can’t think of anyone who’s stupid enough to go barging into Vaaach space and start shooting at a Krag ship without their permission.” Pause. “Present company excepted.”
A smile flickered across Max’s face. “I’d agree that Uniform One is Vaaach but for one thing,” said Max.
“What’s that?,” DeCosta replied.
“The Krag ship. It’s still there. That Vaaach ship that we encountered would have obliterated that cruiser faster than you can say ‘mousetrap.’ But not only did Uniform One not obliterate Hotel One in an instant; these two ships appear to be in a running battle.”
“Skipper,” Kasparov interrupted, “the Krag weapons fire has been illuminating portions of Uniform One. We’ve been assembling a composite image. It’s on VC-2.”
Max immediately punched Visual Circuit 2 up on his console’s primary display. Outlined in blue-white plasma explosions against its deflectors was a long, narrow arrowhead shape, sleek and deadly looking.
“It’s Vaaach all right,” said Max. “Kasparov, what’s the scale?”
Max said the last part without any harshness, even though standard procedure requires that the image include scale markers. No rebuke was necessary. “Sorry, Skipper.” Bartoli’s voice dripped with remorse. He spoke into his headset. A few seconds later, a set of scale calibrations appeared on the screen.
“Oh, that explains it!” Max said. “That thing’s tiny, or at least tiny for a Vaaach ship. It’s smaller than we are.”
“Skipper,” interrupted Bartoli.
Max turned to face the Tactical Station.
“The size and silhouette is a match for a Vaaach Vernier class scout vessel. But sir, that doesn’t make sense. A Vernier shouldn’t be engaging a Crayfish class. Even given the extent of Vaaach technological superiority over the Krag, those little scout ships don’t have the firepower to tackle something as powerful as a cruiser. These little guys are designed only to take on pirates and turn away the foolhardy. When they run into something like that Crayfish out there, they are supposed to stay stealthed, transmit their position, and shadow it until a more powerful vessel arrives. If they are detected and attacked, they’re faster than anything in this part of the galaxy, so they can just run away.”
He stopped to listen to something coming over his headset, then turned to his console for a few seconds. “One more thing, Skipper. The Vaaach ship has taken a lot of damage. He’s managed to break away from the Krag and put on a burst of speed that opened up the range and bought him a few minutes, but he just lost one of his reactors. He can’t run away now, and his deflectors have taken a real beating. When that Krag ship closes the range enough to use its pulse cannon, it will destroy him.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Max. “It’s a young one, probably on his first mission. When a young Vaaach spies prey, the rapture of the hunt can overpower his better judgment. Mr. Chin, get a narrow focus comm laser tracking the Vaaach ship, and see if he’ll answer a hail. Be sure the Krag ship never enters the laser’s visibility cone.” Chin acknowledged the order.
“Maneuvering, increase to maximum stealthy speed and bring us around in a wide arc so that we end up with the Vaaach ship between us and the Krag.”
LeBlanc had just finished repeating the order when Chin spoke up. “Captain, I’ve got visual from the Vaaach ship on Lasercom.”
“Let’s have it.”
In a few seconds, Max found himself face to face with the image of the Vaaach scout ship commander. Like all Vaaach, he was shaped like a giant koala bear, but with fangs and teeth that were more than a match for the most ferocious Earth predator. Although the typical Vaaach’s fur was an assortment of tawny browns, tans, burnt oranges, and light reddish-grays, this Vaaach’s fur was several different shades of light and medium green shot through with irregular dark-green blotches the shape of forest shadows. His coat looked like, and probably was, exquisitely effective forest camouflage.
Several speakers around CIC began to emit a series of roars and growls, higher pitched than Max was used to hearing from the Vaaach. The computer provided a written translation on the screen.
“Speak quickly, fruit eater [a term that the purely carnivorous Vaaach use to disparage any species that consumes plants even to the smallest degree]. I am engaged with my prey. Do not interfere unless you wish to become prey as well.”
“Bravely spoken, young one,” Max said calmly. If the Vaaach weren’t attuned to human tones of voice, maybe his computer was. “But according to my sensors, it is the vermin Krag and not the Vaaach who are the hunters here. Before many breaths have passed, you are to be their meat. I have hunted the Krag. I have made them my prey. I have stalked and taken them with the Hunters of Vermin. Allow me to lead this hunt, and it is you who will taste their meat.”
The responsive roaring was shrill and discordant. “You lie! You have never been with the Hunters of Vermin!”
Max drew his boarding cutlass, made two slashing motions in the shape of an “X,” and bared his teeth in anger. “Were you not so young,” he said in his best drill instructor voice, “your actions would have brought great dishonor upon your sire and all those who hunt with him. You did not offer proper greetings to me and didn’t tell me your name, your rank, or what honors you have earned. You did not challenge the sharpness of my teeth and claws, doing me dishonor by depriving me of the opportunity to tell you my name and recite my honors. You are engaged with prey that you can neither kill nor escape without aid. And now, you accuse me of a dishonorable act.” He resheathed his cutlass and sat down, shaking his head in disbelief. When he continued, he sounded more like a disappointed parent than an enraged chief petty officer or sergeant.
“You have much to learn about being a hunter, nameless youngling. But together, we can turn this vermin into meat and add honor to our names.”
The Vaaach looked briefly at the ceiling, which Max knew to be a gesture of concession. “I am Vgglarwarrr, Forest Follower of the Third Order [an adolescent who will shortly become an adult], Master of Patrol Vessel 22-2356. I have done nothing to bring honor to my name.”
“You have done nothing yet. I am Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Robichaux, Captain of the destroyer USS Cumberland. We can talk about who and what I’ve killed, how, with what, when, and where later. Right now, we’ve got a Krag Crayfish class cruiser to handle, and if we don’t kill it, it’s almost certainly going to kill us.” He eyed the tactical display closely. “Are you familiar with the ‘my claws from your shadow’ maneuver?”
“I am.” Vgglarwarrr bared his upper and lower fangs in approval. Because he was an adolescent, they were shorter than an adult’s. His were only three-quarters of the length of a man’s forearm.
“Will your ship stand up to enemy fire for that long?”
“Yes and longer. Very little longer.”
“Has the maneuver been changed in any way recently?”
“Not since it was added to the list of standard combat maneuvers more than seventeen turns ago.”
“Very well. We will use the standard distances, signals, and timings. Do not exceed my maximum acceleration profile—do you have it?” The Vaaach bared his fangs twice in quick succession: the equivalent of a nod.
“Good. Execute when you are ready. May you taste blood today!”
“I will begin in a tenbreath [approximately 1.2 minutes]. May your claws and fangs strike true!” the Vaaach replied. “This communication ends.” The screen went blank.
“Skipper,” Kasparov said, “the Vaaach has dropped his stealth and sensor jamming fields and is transferring power to his drive and deflectors. Check that. He’s dropped his stealth
and sensor jamming fields in all directions except directly forward. He is still blocking any scans originating from directly ahead. He may also have diverted power to his weapons, but I wouldn’t be able to detect that until he fires them.”
“I guarantee you that he’s diverted power to his weapons,” Max said, smiling while he retrieved some data from his console. “Maneuvering, in a little less than a minute, the Vaaach ship is going to turn and head directly for the Krag cruiser. As soon as he does, we will fall in behind him, right on his six o’clock, and keep the Vaaach vessel between us and the Krag at all times. Mr. Nelson, as soon as the Vaaach ship is screening us, discontinue stealth and extend the radiator fins. Let’s get that heat sink back in the green.”
“How much separation between us and the Vaaach?” LeBlanc asked as soon as those orders were acknowledged.
“I’m getting that information right now. It’s in an interspecies contact report I wrote years ago.” He entered a few commands on his console. “Here it is. Put us 27.83 kilometers behind the Vaaach. Weapons, make the missiles in tube one and in tube two ready for firing in all respects, except I want the missile doors closed. Target the Krag ship. Direct attack pattern.”
LeBlanc and Levy repeated their orders. “He’s making his move, sir,” said Bartoli. “Engaging his reactionless drive and bearing for the Krag ship.”
“Gentlemen, execute your orders,” said Max.
LeBlanc had his men steer the Cumberland on a course that put the Vaaach ship between it and the Krag vessel. With the Vaaach’s stealth and sensor jamming fields blocking scans from forward of the ship, the Cumberland was hidden from the Krag. Accordingly, Nelson put the ship’s stealth systems on STANDBY and extended the radiator fins, allowing the ship to start shedding the thermal energy stored in its heat sink.
For Honor We Stand (Man of War Book 2) Page 36
