Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  That was the force multiplier the Ionians were counting on, but he had taken their measure. No decoys or EW techniques could defang railgun fire, and that was what he planned to give them a healthy dose of. Shields worked by counterposing a gravity field with an antigravity field to create an intense shear zone that detonated warheads and channeled the blast effects away from the ship.

  The intense shear also deflected and decelerated solid bodies, like railgun projectiles, but much less effectively than they dealt with missiles and torpedoes. The more kinetic energy the projectile had, the less affect the shield had on it. This accounted for persistence of railguns in modern naval warfare.

  These considerations lay at the heart of Rhimer’s tactics. First, he would launch a missile barrage and then fire concentrated salvos, timed to arrive just after the missiles detonated. The missiles’ pentaids and boost motors would mask the salvos, which would erupt from the storm created by the explosions to tear gaps in their close-packed formation.

  With the enemy thus disorganized, he would close and finish the business with more gunfire and torpedoes launched at short range where the vaunted Ionian technology would have no opportunity to operate. Then they would celebrate their victory over dinner.

  Sayles replied with no more than a broader smile and a nod. Rhimer effected not to notice, but her enthusiasm warmed him. This victory, and the vindication it promised, had been a long time coming.

  “Be so good as ask them to open a fleet broadcast channel, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir.” Sayles relayed the request to the Signals Officer. A moment later, she said, “Channel’s open, sir.”

  Rhimer activated the pickup. “All hands, this is your admiral. The day we have long awaited is upon us. The day we finally meet the joyful destiny for which we have so long labored. The day after which we return home with honor, conscious of having done our duty. Hold to that! Stand to your stations secure in the knowledge that God defends the righteous. The order is . . . Strike!”

  “Well done, sir,” cooed his chief of staff as they felt the subtle vibration of Polidor accelerating. “Should you retire to CIC, now?” They were in the cramped trapezoidal space that served as Polidor’s flag bridge, and it was clear from the commander’s tone she felt CIC was a more fitting station for her admiral. And for herself, as she must stay by him. It was also a good deal safer.

  “No,” Rhimer said after a moment. “This is well enough. Those people down there know their jobs. Won’t do to crowd them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Commander Sayles swallowed silently. “Of course.”

  * * *

  Fifty-two light-minutes away, between the orbit of Tanis and the outermost asteroid belt, LHS Leander drifted, bearing a ruined Mission, antsy officers, a morose crew, two squads of marines led by Major Lewis, enough tension to make the hull glow, and Kris. The members of the Mission were in the worst shape: Loews had dominated them entirely; none of them had been admitted into his confidence at any time, and personal loyalty to the Envoy—as far as Kris could tell—did not exist. They were all in it to advance their positions, but not at any risk to their precious Homeworlder hides. (Kris thought of Dr. Leidecker, now trapped on Iona with his patient, as the sole exception.)

  To make matters worse, Loews’ chief aide, in a state of near-panic, had expended all of Leander’s remaining hyperdrones to send off his messages about Loews’ condition—one to Eltanin, another to New Meridies and a third to Sol—leaving them effectively incommunicado. This irked Kris as much as all the rest because, on top of everything, the Mission, all at odds with one another, seemed to have bestowed on her the mantle of leadership; a position she found wonderfully disagreeable—all the more so because it smacked of ass-covering. With hostilities imminent, the aide opined that as military rep authority naturally devolved her, and kept dropping hints about the futility of remaining, despite the precarious position of his boss.

  Practically speaking, remaining was pointless, but that would cut no ice with Kris’s superiors and she’d be damned if she put her ass on the block for a bunch of simpering political hacks who couldn’t find their own with a nav-pack shoved up it. (A hypothesis she wouldn’t mind putting to the test.)

  For their part, Leander’s captain, officers and crew kept to themselves as much as possible. As they saw it, their contract did not require them to linger in a war zone, and Kris strongly suspected they would have bolted, were it not for the presence of the major and her marines. During the twenty-six hour transit, she’d noticed the ship’s people developing a marked tendency to slink by when they encountered them in passageways and whisper in their presence.

  In this atmosphere of useless, seething anxiety, Kris and Min, reduced to mere spectators, stood on Leander’s observation deck, watching events already an hour old unfold with a cold, tight-lipped ire mingled with distrust. All of Leander’s sensors were linked to the O-deck’s screens and although they didn’t have anything like the fidelity of a combatant’s suite (the gravitics were especially coarse), to get a better picture required commandeering General Corhaine’s flagship Penthesileia, a violation of the mercenaries’ current status, which prohibited them or their assets being employed in a conflict against their employer. True, merely observing wasn’t much of a violation, but both Kris and Min preferred to respect that line, and Leander’s lightspeed sensors painted the broad picture well enough.

  “That seem weird to you?” Kris asked, gesturing at the Ionian formation. “They’re all bunched up.”

  “Tighter defense?” Min didn’t sound like she really believed it.

  “They must be masking their firepower by a third or more. If that’s all they wanted, they coulda stayed home.” Nothing she was seeing fit the Ionian’s vaunted reputation for aggressiveness or skill.

  “They’re laying down a lot of ice,” Min observed.

  “Not enough.” The ice Min referred to—which the Ionians were spraying about with abandon—was not simply frozen H2O, but a mixture spiked to make it opaque to lightspeed sensors even at a shallow depths. As a countermeasure, it couldn’t match chaff but you could cover vast areas with it. Even so, you didn’t lay it down with abandon. Ice laying was an important component of naval art, and Kris doubted very much the Ionians lacked a proper appreciation of it.

  “Depends of what you aim to accomplish.” Min pointed at the screens. “Huddled up like that, can’t say what’s in there. Now they’re playing peekaboo.”

  “He’s firing.” Kris ground her teeth as Rhimer dumped half his missiles in a single massive barrage. Silent minutes crawled by. Then: “Are those railgun transients?”

  “Looks like,” Min answered. “He’s using his missiles as a screen.”

  A decent tactic, Kris admitted to herself, as Rhimer’s ships continued to pour fire into the distant Ionian formation. Those ships wouldn’t have time to evade once they detected the incoming rounds.

  If they actually were where Rhimer thought they were, that is.

  Kris glanced sidelong at Min. “You think he knows what he’s shooting at?”

  * * *

  Captain Haskell followed the CEF squadron’s smart turn to port on John Paul Jones’s big forward screen. “Here it comes, people. They’re serving it up hot. Look sharp!” Their taskgroup’s advance units had been weaving plumes of ice like a dancer’s veils, revealing just enough to entice the foe closing on them. In a little less than two minutes, they would know how well it worked.

  The screen filled with vibrant orange blossoms, blinding his ship and all those around him. “Keep her thus, helmsman. Steady on this vector.” Prow towards the onslaught, it made no sense to risk turning into the path of a hypervelocity projectile.

  Plenty of those were sure to be coming, unless he and commodore had failed in assessing their opponent. As if on cue, a torrent of metal erupted through the glowing clouds of plasma and, with pinpoint accuracy, decimated the flock of EW drones at the formation’s center.

  Captain Haskell
tapped up CIC. “Credible practice, sir. At least his crews know their business.”

  “Just so, Captain. They have some fine people over there.” What a damnable waste, Commodore Bainbridge thought as he allowed himself a solemn headshake. Over here, his people had gotten off lighter than he’d dared hope. The heavy cruisers Lexington and Saratoga had taken minor hits; only Hancock had suffered appreciable damage; an unlucky shot that disabled her propulsion. Coasting on a pure ballistic, her people were working frantically to restore control. With the light cruiser streaking toward the enemy, Bainbridge made a quick decision.

  “Detach Ranger and Avalon. Have them take Hancock under tow.” He’d miss the two destroyers, but not critically.

  Haskell tightened his mouth at the corners. “She has all her teeth, sir, and her people are game. Captain Sharpe reports he still has full maneuvering thrusters.”

  “His chance will come, Frank. There are battles yet to fight.”

  “As you say, sir.” Haskell relayed the order. “Units detached and en route.”

  “Very well, Captain. Execute Plover.”

  * * *

  “You’ve done it, sir!” Commander Sayles favored her boss with a delighted smile. In the omnisynth’s holographic volume, the dots representing the Ionian fleet milled in disarray, attempting to reform from the shattering blow to its heart. The remaining ice clouds prevented anything more than sketchy damage assessment but it was clear they had struck some shrewd blows. Already, he could see them beginning to fall back, seeking refuge in a spur of dust where they could either form up again in defensive array, or extend an escape.

  If he moved by the left flank—the prudent approach given his lack of detailed knowledge—he could turn their position, but if they meant to escape, he would miss them. Clearly, that would not do. The thing must be pressed. No other option suited.

  “Not quite, Orietta”—employing the familiarity because they were alone. “But we shall very shortly, without any doubt.” The commander moved closer still to his side, practically brushing against him. He did not object. “Signal all commands: General Chase—Close Engagement.”

  * * *

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Min blurted, her neck beginning to flush red. “He’s not gonna follow ’em into that soup?”

  “He’s trying to cut ’em off. Go for a close engagement,” Kris’s spoke low, her voice frosted with a thoroughly professional disgust. Somehow, the fact they were watching history made the anguish that much more acute. In all probability, the battle had already been decided. “They’re funneling him in.”

  “I don’t fuckin’ believe it.” Min turned away from the screen. “His crews aren’t worked up for a knife fight in that shit!” Her eyes blazed as she looked at Kris. “I sweartogawd I’m rootin’ for the wrong fuckin’ side!”

  * * *

  His squadron bearing down on the still disorganized Ionian force at flank acceleration, Admiral Rhimer began to give way to the feeling of exultation he’d been so ruthlessly suppressing. In ten minutes, thirteen at the outside, he’d be among them at point-blank range. Now would be a good time to employ his remaining missiles—keep them stirred up.

  As he formed the words of the order, the Ionians abruptly reversed in a shocking maneuver and began to accelerate toward him. In all his long career, he’d never seen ship handling that—and entire formation turning as one, each ship coming about like a cutter. Working his jaw, he considered his order about the missiles. With the Ionians moving to the attack, torpedoes would—

  Commander Osier appeared on-screen, his face bleached white. “Sir! We have Ticonderoga closing dead astern. They’re towing her!”

  Hearing Commander Sayles’ harsh gasp beside him, he cycled the display. There she was, emerging from a cloud of ice and dust, harnessed to a quartet of destroyers with ley-lines. As he watched, the battlecruiser slewed to port and opened an extraordinarily rapid, sustained and, above all, accurate fire.

  * * *

  “Fuckin’ mother of god.” Minerva Lewis’s low flat murmur filled the compartment, her tone as dead as the ships adrift among swarms of wreckage—human and mechanical—shrouded in mists of freezing vapor. “How many you think will get out there?”

  “Some.” The battlespace was almost fully obscured, but now and then, signals escaping through rifts in the haze told of running fights still ongoing. “A few.”

  “Time to phone home.”

  Blood still thumping in her ears, Kris didn’t take her eyes off the main view screen “With what?” Any escaping ships were a day’s cruise away and the Ionians could easily arrive first, if they chose to, giving her a choice of cutting and running or becoming another POW before she got her hands anywhere near a hyperdrone.

  “I’ll have a chat with the General.”

  “How’s that gonna work?”

  Min shrugged, a tired off-kilter motion. “Who knows? Maybe professional courtesy?”

  * * *

  “Do we pursue, sir?” Captain Haskell asked Commodore Bainbridge.

  The commodore considered. He could feel the tension in his officers; the strain at the traces to have this thing done once and for all—to make a clean sweep of it. But his orders were to neutralize the CEF force as an offensive threat, and they’d done that. The three ships over there, gamely trying to escape—all damaged, one little more than a hulk—were no conceivable threat and he was already burdened with captures. While it would be easy enough to snap up a trio of cripples, they’d taught the League a lesson they would not soon forget; nothing would be gained by a display of vindictiveness. His government wanted to left alone, not inflame the League further.

  Those however, were mere pragmatic concerns. In truth, his heart was not in it. Their flagship had fought superlatively; whoever commanded her now—surely not the dangerous buffoon who precipitated this business—knew his job through and through. The light cruiser she was towing clear—a beautiful ship, his soul ached for her current state—had been brilliant, making charge after charge with suicidal ferocity until her drives failed her. The scrappy little frigate covering them both despite the mauling she’s received—he doubted she had even half of her miserable little popguns left—filled him with equal admiration. In truth, the CEF force as whole had fought well after the first shattering onslaught; had they been led by someone worthy of them, the battle might have been very different.

  “No,” said Bainbridge, speaking his mind aloud. “I think we’ve had enough fun for one PM.” Around CIC the tension flattened, almost a sense of anti-climax. He felt the sense of frustrated longing—consectatio interruptus—although there was no outward sign beyond a somewhat unusual degree of quiet.

  The commodore rose from his chair and stretched a trifle ostentatiously. “Well done, gentlemen. Let’s pack up those leftovers and head back to our wives and sweethearts.” He sketched the sign of blessing in the air. “May they never meet!”

  Seven: Ringside at Armageddon

  Day 204 (Late PM)

  Weyland Station

  Vesta, Eltanin Sector

  The alarm began beeping, loud and urgent, calibrated to pierce the deepest sleep. But the sleeper was not sleeping. Carlos Westover was not awake either, but in some vague irritating state in between. He rolled over, slapped the voice-only button on his xel and answered without conscious thought.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Captain Billington’s complements, sir,” Wells, his aide, said. “And her apologies for disturbing you. She has some information she thinks you should hear.”

  That got Westover’s eyes open. Anything his chief of staff would bother him with in the middle of the night for must be bad news indeed. He scrubbed his hands down his face, feeling the whiskers scratch. “Put her on.”

  Captain Billington appeared on the small screen, dark circles under her eyes and her hair uncharacteristically disarrayed. “Yes, Colette. What’s blown up?”

  He’d meant to get the conversation off on a light note, but
Billington’s face did not twitch. “Maybe everything, sir. The Ionians have declared war.”

  Whatever he’d been about to say—some autosomal reflexive response—died in his throat. The remnants escaped as a low gurgle. Billington waited with an admirable surface calm, although the stress showed in the whiteness around her lips.

  After a couple of deep breaths, Westover asked, “How did that happen?”

  “We’re working on that now.” Her reply was clipped; her fine voice as haggard as her face. “Maybe I should begin at the beginning.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Yes, sir.” Billington scraped a strand of dark blond hair away from her face; an odd nervous gesture for her. “We’ve gotten three . . . disturbing communications from Iona space.” Westover nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Disturbing” was a strong word in Billington’s lexicon. “The first came in nineteen hours ago—hyperdrone sent to Admiral Sabr. The IW people got it immediately, because the hyperdrone wasn’t one of ours.”

  “Oh?” Westover broke in.

  “No. It definitely came from Iona—we verified the phase wake—but nobody in that system should be using this variety of drone. It was manufactured in Skye—typical gray-market stuff—and so far we haven’t been able to trace the user.”

  This was close to rambling for Billington. “What was the message?” Westover coaxed.

  “It was an urgent request to Admiral Sabr for class 3 support—”

  “Class 3?” That was a full task force; half of what Lo Gai would have had—if he was here.

  “Yes sir. Repeated—with a warning to enter the system with caution.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s all we’ve extracted so far, sir. The message was not encrypted but it was garbled. The drone had an encryption module, but whoever uploaded the message didn’t have the key.”

  “Who signed the message?”

  “It was signed by Loralynn Kennakris, as acting SOC. You might remember her.”