Two twenty gigawatt lasers and some point defense autocannon, thought the CPO as he looked at the sensor data. Maybe enough to get them back into hyper. Maybe not. Depended on what waited for them in the system.
“Bring us out a few light minutes further than normal, McMurty,” he said to the helm. “Just in case we have to duck back in and take off before we run out of room and hit the limit.”
The helmswoman nodded her head and glanced over at the navigator.
I can always send the message in and get the hell out, thought Popodopolis. Then they can’t say I didn’t fulfill the mission parameters.
He leaned back in his chair with a tight humorless smile and followed the tac data as they continued toward the system.
* * *
“You know what this is about sir?” asked CPO First Jana Gorbachev as she slid into the lift just before the doors closed.
“The system is under attack,” said Sean, looking over the tactical data through his link with the battleship’s tactical computer.
“So why the yellow alert?” asked the confused NCO. “I mean, if we’re under attack and all.”
“Because they are more four light hours away,” said the officer, checking the schematic again. “Right now we’re moving to a rendezvous point with the rest of the task group.’
The lift started moving, heading toward the bow of the ship, sliding through layers of the forward central capsule that contained their quarters, mess facilities and recreation decks. It picked up speed quickly, as shown by the movement of the digital indicator beside the door. There of course was no feeling of motion, the lift’s inertial compensators saw to that.
A warning light blinked on the indicator as they left the heavily shielded capsule and moved out into the working area of the ship. Sean looked down to his breast and checked the radiation badge, making sure it was a new one. He didn’t really worry so much about extra rads. He and Gorbachev were both in the light armor that was required to work in the weapons and engineering spaces of the ship, and both had more than enough nanites in their systems to handle even a killing dose. But people survived in space by taking advantage of all the redundant systems. That had been drilled into him at Peal Island, and Captain Ngano insisted on adhering to those operating regs on his vessel, with no exceptions.
“I think you’re doing fine, sir,” said the NCO, breaking into the Prince’s thoughts.
“Huh,” he said, wondering what she was talking about while taking in her fine featured face. And you are very fine, he thought, dismissing it as soon as it came. He had no business thinking that about a subordinate, and one that wasn’t even an officer or a noble.
“I said you are doing fine, sir,” she repeated, looking him in the eyes. He felt a thrill run up his spine. “You are a good officer. And when the shit hits I am sure you will be OK.”
“Thank you, chief,” he replied, breaking eye contact before he said something he regretted. He was saved by the doors opening, revealing the landing room for that deck.
“Let’s go,” said Gorbachev, leading the way across the landing and to the hatch leading to the ring control room. The thick door opened as they approached, then closed behind them, and they walked the short distance to the next door, which opened directly onto the control room.
“Officer on deck,” yelled out the Petty Officer in charge of the duty watch. Sean waved everyone back to their seats.
“Everyone check their battle armor?” he asked, and saw the negative shakes of all in return. Of course not, he thought. They just got an alert, and they’re checking the systems first like good spacers. “Go ahead and check it, then we’ll do a complete diagnostic on the system.”
That set everyone into motion, people moving to their personal battle armor cubbies and opening them, giving them an eyeball check, then a diagnostic. All were supposed to be fully charged and repaired in the cubbies, like most equipment aboard. And like most equipment aboard a warship things could go wrong with automated repair and maintenance systems, so it was best to check everything at intervals. And this seemed like a good time, while they had it.
More of the crew came in and Sean set them to checking armor while he sent those who had completed that task to checking the emitters. As far as he knew they were all in great shape, even the one that had been giving them trouble.
“How are the power matrixes?” asked the Prince of his chief NCO when she made it to her station.
“We have fifty percent charge on all matrixes,” she said, looking over the graphs that came on holo display.
Just where they’re supposed to be while we’re sitting in system, thought the Prince, leaning over her shoulder to see the graphs. “Go ahead and bring them up to ninety percent. We’ll bring them up to full when we are expecting action.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gorbachev, setting the charge to power up the storage cells.
There were over four hundred thousand tons of the crystal storage matrixes on board Sergiov, and sometimes that didn’t seem like enough. They were level three, same as those used on infantry weapons, and a compromise between safety and power storage. Level one and two were much safer, but also much weaker. And four was used for explosive devices, like infantry grenades, and was very unstable. And no one wanted four hundred thousand tons of unstable crystalline matrix on board a warship.
After all the checking was done, Sean linked into the system to see if any orders had come down. They had.
“Everyone can stand down besides the duty crew,” said Sean to his senior NCO. “Get some food and rest, then we’ll send the duty crew to get some.”
“Yes, sir,” said the NCO, nodding her head.
“And Chief Gorbachev,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “There’s no one I would rather have on my team than you and these men and women.”
“Yes, sir,” said the chief, smiling, then turning to go back to the lift and some down time, while the Prince took his place back at his station and made sure for the fourth time that everything was OK.
Chapter 11
I don't believe in an afterlife, so I don't have to spend my whole life fearing hell, or fearing heaven even more. For whatever the tortures of hell, I think the boredom of heaven would be even worse. Isaac Asimov
“We have translations,” came the voice over the com circuit.
Captain Laura Montenegro sat up in her chair and pushed away from the desk where she had been working on requisitions. She was the manning the system commander slot for the Sestius System while Commodore Chung was out touring the asteroid processing facility which had opened for operation last week. Which put him over forty-five light minutes away from the base and basically unable to command the planetary defense system.
“Montenegro here,” she said over her com link as she ran from her office toward the lift. “What do you have?”
“Multiple translations from Hyper VII,” answered the tactical officer. “Don’t know where they came from, but we didn’t pick them up until they came into n-space.”
Damn, she thought, running into a waiting lift. The doors closed behind her and the lift started up. They did have to come in while the main sensor array was being replaced. Normally they should have picked up the incoming ships hours before they entered n-space. The outer system buoys were due to be emplaced next week. There were no hyper capable ships in system to use their own sensors. And the station’s was out as a new and improved system was being put in. Of course old, unimproved and working would have been better than new, improved and not functioning.
And all of the nonhyper defense ships are out in the outer system to provide early warning, she thought with a grimace. It was very likely that their light speed com transmissions were on their way into the inner system right now. Maybe to arrive any minute. But as they didn’t have hyperdrives they lacked the ability to send gravity wave code transmissions, which made them pretty damned worthless.
The Captain came out of the lift at a run, down the corridor seventy
meters to the command center. The Marine sentry saluted as she hit the door panel with her open palm, keying the entry with her prints and genetic code.
“What do we have?” she shouted as she ran into the control room. A trio of officers and a half dozen enlisted personnel sat their stations, while the holo tank blazed with red dots in the outer system. They knew better than to jump to attention in the midst of an emergency.
“We have translation of ten vessels massing between destroyers and light cruisers,” said the duty officer, a dark skinned Lt. Commander rising from the command seat to make way for her. She nodded her thanks as she sank into the chair and he stood near.
“Do we know whose vessels, Lt. Commander Mauhana?” she asked, looking at the system schematic. The red dots were almost on top of the last reported position of their one system defense destroyer. The three corvettes were scattered along the perimeter of the system. Maybe they would be able to get back to the inner system to do some good. And maybe not.
“No idea, ma’am,” said the Commander. “We just know they’re not anything we’re familiar with.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, the thought striking her. “How are we getting this information without our sensor array?”
“A freighter in orbit picked them up and is transmitting to us,” said the Commander. “Their Captain is still trying to decide whether to run for it or take the crew down to the planet.”
Damned tramp freighter sensors are the best we can do, thought the Captain. We’ve got to do better than that.
“How long till the sensor array is online?”
“At least four hours, ma’am,” said a tech from his station.
“We’re getting another feed from the freighter ma’am,” called the sensor tech. “They report hyper emissions approaching the system in the VII band. At least four large objects.”
And all they had to fight at least fourteen unknown ships were three out of place corvettes and a Class IV orbital fort. At thirty-five million tons they were the smallest fortifications in the Imperial inventory. And the fighters.
“Contact ground station,” she ordered, a plan forming in her mind. “Have that group of space fighters launch to orbit and report here.”
“Aye, ma’am,” said the com tech, sending the orders out.
That’s gives me eighty total fighters to launch a strike with, she thought, along with four fast attack craft. And they won’t be able to see real time into the system. So where to hide them where they’ll do the most good when the time comes.
* * *
In the early morning alarms and sirens were going off over the cityscape of Willoughby. After a few minutes sleepy citizens were rushing about, grabbing children and supplies. Many headed toward the wilderness and prearranged sanctuaries, while others crowded into the underground shelters that were placed for their protection.
The regular troops and Marines ran to their armories and gathered weapons and equipment, then headed for their assembly points. Most of the militia went to their armories as well, got their equipment and weapons, and headed out. About two thirds of them actually reported to their units. The rest reported to their families and led them to sanctuaries and hiding places. They would worry about legal repercussions on another day.
On his farm six hundred kilometers from Willoughby, near the Regional Capital of Frederick, Cornelius Walborski woke as the house alarm went off. He reached for the clock, sleep clouding his mind, before realizing that it wasn’t the clock. He opened his eyes and saw that it was only a little after three AM. He noticed that there were sirens in the distance and the dogs, his and the neighbors, were barking up a storm.
“What is it?” asked Katlyn as she struggled to wake.
“Damned colony wide alarm,” he said as he attempted to link into the net.
Her eyes opened wide and she sat up straight in bed.
“Are we under attack?” she asked, looking around the now lighted room. One of the dogs, the inside guardian for the night, jumped into the bed and moved around anxiously, tail wagging.
“I don’t know,” he said, linking to the information. “It’s a real alert though. Keeps repeating on the net that it isn’t a drill. I guess I had better go in and see what’s happening.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Get in the house shelter,” he said, looking into her frightened eyes and grasping her arms. “Take the guns and the dogs down there with you, and as many of the cats as you can round up. And wait until I send you a message on what to do next. But sit tight. It’s probably just a damned drill of some sort, no matter what the net is saying.”
Cornelius dressed quickly, belted on a sidearm and walked to the door. Katlyn met him there, wrapped her arms around him, and put her lips to his.
“Be careful,” she said, breaking the connection with his mouth and keeping her arms around his shoulders. “And come back to me.”
“I’ll be back,” he agreed with a strained smile. “You stay under cover until you hear from me. OK.”
She nodded her head and he went out the door. He ordered a pair of the dogs that followed him to stay, and he got on his cycle and started the engine. Looking to the west he could see Frederick lit up in the distant night. Spotlights shone into the clouds, giving a visual alarm to those who might not actually receive the auditory signals.
The armory at the village was crowded, even though he was one of the first fifty men there. Many had brought along family members who were looking for news. The new First Sergeant, who always seemed to be there first even when he was a Platoon Sergeant, had no answers for them and was telling wives and children to go back home. The men entered the armory and headed below ground to collect their weapons and equipment.
“What’s going on Top?” asked Walborski as he walked to the entrance of the armory bunker.
“Do I look like a fucking newsy, Walborski,” said the First Sergeant, glaring at him. “Get your ass in there and draw your shit.”
“Yes sir, First Sergeant,” said Walborski, giving the man a salute and hurrying down the steps.
Walborski saw his squad leader in the armory proper, standing alongside the armorer who was handing the troopers their rifles and other weapons, as well as ammunition and power packs.
“Sergeant Crowder,” said Cornelius, stopping in front of the NCO. “What’s going on? Is it another damned drill?”
“Not what the net’s saying,” said the Sergeant, looking at the Private. “Didn’t you link in before coming down?”
“I did just that, Sergeant,” said Walborski, nodding his head. “But I don’t know what to believe on that thing sometimes.”
“Well believe this one, Private,” said the Sergeant. “We have incoming hostiles. Unknown hostiles. Heading into the system. They should be here in about twenty hours if they turn over and decel for insertion. A lot sooner if they just blow by and shoot at us.”
“And what good are we going to be if they do that?” asked another Private, taking his rifle from the armorer and checking to make sure it was right.
Well,” said Crowder, sneering at the Private, “if you survive the kinetic weapons’ hits, I guess you can help the other survivors. And pray that someone comes out here and bails our asses out of this mess before we run out of consumables.”
“Consumables?” asked Walborski, taking the rifle that Crowder was holding out to him and looking at it quickly to make sure that it was his.
“Yeah,” said the Sergeant, leaning on the counter between him and the Privates. “If they hit us really hard it could bring down every structure on the planet. Cave in the underground shelters. Even tear half the atmosphere off this world, and poison the rest.”
“Damn,” said Walborski, accepting a full load of ammo, power packs and grenades from Crowder’s assistant. “So we’ve got to hope they want to come down here and kill us up close.”
“Only way we’re going to get some of them,” said the Sergeant. “Now y
ou boys need to be moving off and getting into your gear. I’ve got other customers waiting.”
Cornelius nodded as he moved off. He dodged a couple of troopers already in full equipment, making his way to his platoon’s lockers. There were a half dozen other men and a couple of women already in there, pulling off their civvies and putting on their combat gear. Walborski opened his locker with a hand print and started pulling his clothes off.
“We’re just cannon fodder,” said Corporal Sheila McMurty, pulling on her protective skin suit. The suit adjusted itself to her body in a moment.
“Cannon fodder?” asked Cornelius, pulling off his undergarments and grabbing his own skin suit. The fabric would provide some ballistic and radiation protection, as well as shelter from the elements. He put one leg into the suit and pulled it up.
“Yeah,” she said, sitting and pulling a boot onto her left foot. “We’re going to be nothing but targets. Drawing fire so the real soldiers know what to shoot at. Just you wait and see.”
She cinched the boots tight while Walborski pulled his body into the loose fitting garmet. The hood went on last. He made sure everything was in place, then pressed the seal on the front of the suit closed. As it sealed the suit tightened, adhering to his shape like a second skin.
“You’re exaggerating, Corporal,” said another Private, pulling on his armored vest and checking the fastenings. “They’re going to take it on the chin. Just like us.”
“Sounds like everyone’s about to get it,” said Walborski, sitting to put his own boots on. He knew that the regulars had better suits and armor than the militia. His setup was at least a half century behind theirs in capability. But from what he had heard a big foot was headed their way to stomp them. And better equipment would only allow an extension to the misery.
“That’s about the truth of the matter,” said the Corporal, grabbing her helmet and placing it on her head. “I didn’t really think about this part of it when I came out here. Or when I volunteered for the militia.”
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2 Page 18
