Admiral's War Part One

by Wachter, Luke Sky

  Our losses were not inconsiderable, but on the whole I was satisfied with the result, especially after the Cruisers arrived to finish sweeping up the pieces.

  Of the fifty enemy Destroyers caught up in our trap, thirty two warships had been destroyed or damaged to the point they could no longer fight or run away. Sadly, the other eighteen had fled into hyperspace.

  “They ran like the cowards they are,” Brightenbauc chuckled, sneering at the screen where an entire squadron of Destroyers disappeared into hyperspace moments before our Cruisers could reach them.

  I glared at the other man. Really, this Confederal officer was a little bit too much. Hesitant to commit to battle, timid in the planning stages, eager to run away until reinforcements arrived, but more than willing to denigrate and trash talk our opponents at the first opportunity? I was completely disgusted.

  I needed to find myself a new navigator—someone more like the late Officer Shepherd. He may have been cautious and just as willing as the next man to cheer when we succeeded, or when the enemy failed, but when the chips were down he had iron in his stomach.

  In the meantime, a few choice sayings from my remote childhood burbled up to the surface of my thoughts. Little limericks like, ‘he who smelt it dealt it,’ and ‘don’t get mad, get even.’ Either of which, sadly, might make too pointed of a comment if leveled at my lackluster navigator. Because while he was rapidly approaching the next closest thing to trash—in my opinion—saying such a thing about one of their own might incite the rest of the Confederation sleepers to turn against me. Unlike the loudmouthed navigator, I wasn’t stupid enough to let my mouth run without reason other than self-satisfaction. Well, at least not often, I silently amended.

  It was remotely possible that I was biased against the ‘trash navigator’ due to his lack of fighting spirit, and not due to an inherent lack of ability. So I settled on a more neutral response.

  “Let’s try to temper our enthusiasm with reality, Nav,” I said a hint of frost. “Against Cruisers, those Destroyers are not only outnumbered but fighting above their weight class. The smart move was to run.”

  Captain Hammer seemed to agree as she nodded. “It’s probable that they’re well-trained in joint maneuvers at the squadron level and higher. As such, their best strategy would be to withdraw and return as part of a joint force,” she observed.

  I felt the urge to hunch my shoulders. We’d been practicing squadron formations and fleet movement, but even the MSP had only been working on squadron level actions since we left Gambit—and the results had shown we still had much to learn. Throw in all the additional volunteer forces and our limited practice after leaving Tracto made it something I didn’t want to think too closely about.

  I knew that both the MSP and Coalition Fleet had a lot work to do in order to make us into one seamless unit, but seeing precisely what that meant in these reports was unsettling.

  I resolutely turned my thoughts away from that line of thought. “How would you evaluate our chances in a head-to-head set piece fleet battle?” I inquired, just so I could get her opinion on our effectiveness.

  “I’ve only commanded small units, and most of that was out on lone patrols or operating as pairs. So while I know what needs to be done, I’m in no way a master of the subject. I was Rim Fleet, not Battle Fleet,” she paused and then nodded seriously in thought. “The way you maneuvered the enemy into a situation that negates their battle fleet formation training and emphasizes the advantages our people have—which is one of independent or small forces tactics—was quite masterfully done.”

  Unable to resist a flush of pleasure at the evaluation, I still managed to lift an eyebrow at her. I wanted her to know that despite the deft dodge, I had noted the way she’d failed to answer the actual question—which was about how well she thought we would do against a trained force of equal or greater size.

  The lack of response said it all, as far as I was concerned, and a new resolution started to fill my soul. The fact that we hadn’t previously had the ships to perform fleet maneuvers, or the officers that were capable of carrying out the sort of training we needed, was immaterial. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet was here to stay, and that meant we were going to start learning the certain things in order to remain one of the bigger fleets in the Spine.

  Like everything, it was going to be a work in progress and I fully expected we were going to get far more on-the-job-training than we’d prefer. But that was par for the course in this organization.

  I was still musing on training plans—and wondering just how I was going to handle an enemy fleet that was trained in all the things my forces weren’t—when another Cutter popped into existence beside us and completely removed all such future considerations from my mind.

  “Data dump!” Steiner said after the Sensor watch had successfully identified the little warship as one of ours. “Commodore LeGodat reports large scale enemy reinforcements have arrived on scene. More than fifteen enemy Cruisers just jumped into sensor range of our forces! They’re scattered, Sir, but he says they’re moving to regroup quickly and expects an attack to be imminent.”

  “Blast it all,” I cursed under my breath, motioning for the data transfer and pulling up the Commodore’s message and attached sensor files as quickly as I could manage. I’d never wished so ferociously before that I was somewhere other than I was right then…well that wasn’t entirely true. Back when I’d been on the dungeon ship I’d wished I was anywhere but there just as badly. Facing an execution with a certain fixed date will do that to a person, but I suppose barring that the previous statement could stand as it was.

  “The standby Cutter is asking if we have any orders to transmit,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

  I narrowed my eyes. The captains of Cutters ought not to be jogging the elbows of Admirals, but I decided to let it go. I had bigger fish to fry.

  As frustrating as it was, there wasn’t actually anything I could do right then. I mean, sure, I could give orders to the men at the scene and try to micromanage them from a distance. But that didn’t really seem like a sound way to try and run a battle.

  Sure, if the Sector Guard Contingent started doing their best to ruin things by running out of control then I’d micromanage the Hades out of them and dare them to say ‘frog’ while doing so.

  “Tell the courier Cutter Captain to wait; I’ll be sending them out directly,” I grumbled, settling back in my chair. There was nothing I could do other than draw up orders instructing the droids to hold back the Mothership and Cruisers we’d sold them for a combined strike with our battleships. The Mothership is an incredibly slow warship, and while their gunboats might have been useful against the Destroyers, against Cruisers they weren’t going to last long enough to do much good.

  When the next scheduled Cutter transfer came in with a status update, I could hardly keep my breathing under of control. Nostrils flaring, I glared at the report tallying the number of our ships which had been knocked out of action by the enemy’s newly arrived Cruisers.

  The enemy Cruisers had done more damage in ten minutes than we had sustained during the entire battle with the Destroyers. Well, okay, not quite as much but it was still pretty blasted bad.

  “New orders for the messenger to relay,” I snapped, quickly jotting down instructions for them to maintain distance and keep the enemy Cruisers from jumping out if they could, but by no means were they to risk their certain destruction. I needed those ships more than I needed dead martyrs.

  Even after our Cruisers showed up and spearheaded their various contingents, the enemy was too powerful for us and we were forced to retreat.

  Still, things seemed to stabilize somewhat over the next handful of reports—until the departed Reclamation Fleet Destroyers returned with a vengeance.

  With superior numbers but smaller ships, and pressed on all sides by the enemy, our forces began a fighting retreat. The tables had well and truly turned, and for a long moment I regretted holding back those droid Motherships. T
hen I shook my head roughly. I had to trust that even if I’d made a wrong call, there was nothing to be gained by regretting it. All that existed for me in that moment was the need to push forward. I had to let victory and defeat be the final judgment on this battle and how it was fought.

  After several minutes, Corvettes started popping back into existence around the battleships, flash dumping their sensor logs and demanding instruction, direction and emergency medical or engineering support.

  “Captain Hammer, use our shuttles to provide what assistance we can to those damaged ships—or better yet, utilize whatever the freighters, colliers and support ships can spare. That’s what they’re there for: support and repair. I don’t want to risk lives or ships but we might need those shuttles in the battleship squadron if worst comes to worst. Better to keep our options open,” I ordered tensely, battling through the confusion caused by the premature interruption of the information line. I was used to a focused report from the Cutter captains I had sent out on sequence to monitor the enemy. With three ships showing up at once and dumping their logs on me, I was essentially drowning in details.

  The next several relays didn’t improve my mood. Watching a fighting retreat when you are stuck away from the battle and unable to do so much as issue an order that wouldn’t be hopelessly time-lagged by the time it arrived was increasingly hard to bear.

  Then—finally—it was our turn.

  “Time to micro-jump in five…four…three…two…one…jumping,” declared Brightenbauc, and I had a moment of relief tinged vindication: we were going to arrive before the Reclamation Fleet battleships! Then, in a flash, we were there.

  “Point transfer!” exclaimed the Navigator.

  “I’m reading multiple high energy discharges at close range,” cried the Sensor Officer.

  “Shields have just been hit; strength holding firm at 93%,” reported Ensign Longbottom, one of the transfers from my old command along with Helmsman DuPont. He might not be much, but Longbottom was an officer I could trust.

  “Baffling extended and main engines going to half burn,” DuPont stated tensely and moments later the ship lurched, “the ship is free of the inertial sump.”

  “Point us at the enemy and take us to full burn on all engines, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered, my fist slamming down on the cushioned arm of my command chair as a smile filled my face. Finally, we were no longer sitting back unable to do a thing—we were back in the action.

  “Enemy Cruisers approaching at high speed!” cried the Sensor Officer.

  “Exactly as planned,” I said with a shark-like smile, knowing without a doubt that my battleships were slower than enemy Cruisers. Considering the increased accuracy of a short-ranged jump, I had deliberately placed our squadron along with the three droid Motherships right in the path of two squadrons of Reclamation Cruisers—it was what some would call a ‘target-rich environment,’ and I had decks full of guns in need of a thorough clearing. “Inform the Chief Gunner that he is to take aim and fire as they bear, Mr. Hart,” I ordered in a slightly raised voice.

  “Aye aye, Admiral,” Hart acknowledged, turning to the microphone on his desk and doing just that.

  “Reinforce the shields on the port side, Longbottom,” I instructed, watching the Cruisers approaching at top speed.

  In just a few moments, the Royal Rage and the rest of the battleship squadron would join the battle. I couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Twelve: Fire from the Gun Decks

  “Portside prepare to fire,” bellowed Lesner, spitting out his recently lit cigar and lighting up an enemy Cruiser with his targeting computer as his voice echoed throughout the gun deck. A moment later the computer signaled a good firing lock, and he bellowed, “Pour it on, me hearties!” Putting word to action, he depressed the dual triggers needed to activate the turbo-cannon.

  Through his gun sites, the Chief Gunner fired, and fired again at the rapidly approaching enemy Cruisers. Each ship in the battleship squadron had been assigned a different Cruiser to focus their fire on, and the target assigned to the Royal Rage was Cruiser #3—he aimed to prove that his crew on the flagship was still the best gun crew in the fleet.

  Through the targeting computer, Chief Lesner could see the Cruisers going to hard burn as they tried to move outside the range of the Royal Rage’s main guns, but it was an action doomed to fail. The Admiral had planned this engagement too well, and they were only going to get deeper in before things got better.

  Assuming we survive long enough for things to get better, he thought with a savage grin.

  “Starboard-side: get ready to compensate for fast-moving targets and take over for the port,” he said, his gun rapidly overheating. He figured he could get off at least one more shot before the Cruisers shot past the ship in a desperate attempt to escape his firing arc. Then a thought occurred to him, “And a half keg of brew to the team that takes down number Three’s engines,” the Chief Gunner declared over an open mike. Keeping crew morale up is almost as important as destroying the enemy, he thought piously.

  He had barely enough time to see his last shot punch through the enemy shields, causing an explosion near their main shield generator, before that ship flashed past the portside in the blink of an eye.

  He released his dual triggers and leaned fractionally back in his chair, knowing that it was up to the starboard half of the gun deck now.

  Chapter Thirteen: Raining and Pouring

  “Pour it on!” I shouted, pounding on the arm of my Throne. “Order the Sector Guard forces to advance and pin those Destroyers down!”

  The last thing we needed the enemy’s battered fifth squadron of Cruisers, recently reinforced by the Destroyers that had fled or survived up to this point, to throw a monkey wrench into things.

  The Guard, with its three battered—but still very much functional—Heavy Cruisers along with their accompanying smaller warships, should be able to handle them long enough for us to finish up the rest of the enemy heavies.

  “Sir, we’ve only got positive confirmation on three of the four—” Lieutenant Hart started to report.

  “Instruct the droid Cruiser squadron they are to move up behind the Rage in a triangular formation so as not to obstruct us when we turn,” I ordered brusquely.

  Helmsman DuPont had gone to full burn, but the battleship was still getting up to speed even as it moved to intercept the embattled enemy’s fourth Cruiser squadron, a group consisting of five very slow Hammerhead class Medium Cruisers.

  Behind the Royal Rage floated the wrecks of the once-powerful Heavy Cruisers. While I would have preferred to continue after the five survivors of the three squadrons—three of them standing almost completely unscathed—that had so recently been the heart and soul of the enemy’s offensive push against our then beleaguered lighter forces, I would take what I could get.

  I knew the relative speeds of our two forces and, when it came down to it, Battleships chasing Cruisers it was a losing proposition every time. Well…every time except when the Cruisers being chased were what had to be the slowest capital ship in the Spine, the sluggish Hammerhead class and not the new construction, Imperial tech Cruisers the enemy had built. Like, say, the ones we’d just knocked out with our surprise point transfer-and-attack.

  “Admiral, are you sure…” Hart started to ask, but I turned a deathly look on him and he raised both hands before turning back to dealing with his section.

  I knew what he was worried about. He feared the remnants of the first, second, and third enemy Cruiser squadrons—the ones we’d just torn through like a buzz-saw—would rally together and move to assist the fifth if given enough time. Not to mention those Cruisers we’d only knocked out through engine damage if given enough time might affect repairs and get back into the action.

  The fifth squadron being the one facing the Sector Guard, I had to concede that his concerns where legitimate. That said, it actually would be a terrible loss if the New Sector Guard were overrun…

  With a sigh, I briefly con
sidered what that would do to the defensive position of our lighter units and then turned to the communication section.

  “New orders to the Promethean and Droid Contingents: with my compliments, they are to rally on the New Sector Guard,” I instructed. “We need some reinforcements in that area.”

  “Yes Sir,” Steiner said rapidly relaying my message.

  “Enemy Cruisers are attempting to turn and face us,” Lieutenant Hart reported from his position at tactical.

  I smiled. The Hammerhead is a slow beast at best, and most of its firepower is concentrated forward. This makes them deadly in a head-on attack, but makes their flanks—and, most especially, their rear—open to attack. Combine their outdated design with a decided lack of speed compared to modern warships, toss in their relative impotence to anything but a head on attack—which they were particularly strong and suited for—and you had one happy Admiral. Why, you might ask?

  Because if they were turning to face us, that meant they were opening themselves up to the guns of the battered and bloodied Wolf-9 contingent.

  “Incoming com-call from the Commodore, sir,” reported Steiner.

  I raised my brows we had more than one Commodore, three at last count in fact, in this lash up I was calling a Coalition Fleet but I let it pass. It was obvious enough who was calling.

  “It’s good to see you, Admiral,” LeGodat said, appearing on my holo-screen relief briefly flickering before being replaced with an image showing a distinctive glint in his eye.

  “You as well, Commodore,” I agreed with a nod, “but don’t mind us; we’re just here to help take out the trash.”

  LeGodat snorted.

  On the screen, the Medium Cruisers, realizing that escape was futile, had completed their turn—all except for one which was still pointed toward the Wolf-9 force as some kind of rearguard and were now facing us. Not to be left behind, the Confederation Reserve Force, minus three Destroyers and several more Corvettes, immediately began to pursue.