There was general silence on net back at her. Was she losing her volunteers in that dead quiet? “Horatio, Custer, your assessment,” Kris said on net for all to hear.
“The missile launchers achieved my intent,” van Horn said with maddening coolness. “The hostiles showed us what they had. We scored some hits. I counted about fifteen. We trimmed some of their secondary batteries. Some of their sensors. Reno did what was expected, and we’ll have rescue vessels out to pick up the survivors’ life pods in a couple of hours.”
“It may have done a bit more,” Penny said from behind Kris. “Is anyone else getting a rise in the infrared from the targets?”
“I have it, too,” Sandy said. “Their lasers aren’t as efficient as ours. They’re generating a whole lot of heat, and it has to go somewhere. They tried feeding it into their reaction mass fuel tanks, but they’re a lot closer to empty than their boss man would like them to be. I’m betting he’d love to stream his radiators out behind him right about now.”
There was a cough behind Kris; she turned to Moose. “Ma’am, I’m getting more reactor signals than I was a minute ago.”
“More reactors?”
“I’m getting it, too,” Sandy said. “My folks are scratching their heads. How can battleships have more than two reactors?”
“If they’re built with three. Four,” Moose said.
“Four reactors?”
“Did anybody get a good readout on the main battery that they brought to bear on the freighters a couple of times?”
“My people did,” Sandy reported. “But we thought it was some kind of mistake.”
“My readings show triple lasers discharging,” Moose said. “Not twins. What did you get?”
“Triples,” Sandy said softly.
Kris called up the specs on the largest battleship in human space, the President-class. Designed to fight the Iteeche Noble Deathship, it had three 18-inch turrets strung around its forward hull. Three more around its bulging amidships, and a final three aft where the hull again tapered. All were buried under meters of ice except when they popped up to fire, and all were evenly spaced at different intervals around the hull’s circumference.
And all the turrets held just two lasers.
That gave the Presidents a whopping eighteen monster lasers.
If you put three guns in each turret, you had twenty-seven of them. Kris gulped. “That would take a lot of power.”
“I’m showing four reactors on each of those ships ahead of us,” Moose said. Penny nodded.
“Ah, Kris,” Penny said. “We intercepted a message from the flag ordering fire against the Reno Task Group. It was in a code very much like the one Sandfire used, so we cracked it a lot faster than I expected. He named two ships. Revenge and Ravager. In a later signal, he identified the Avenger.”
“Friendly bunch,” van Horn said dryly.
“No hidden agendas from the Peterwalds,” Sandy said.
“So what kind of ship do you get with twenty-seven big lasers and four reactors?” Kris asked.
“I’m trying for measurements, now that we had Reno’s ships somewhat close to it,” Moose said. He sent a scale drawing to Kris’s board. The President-class weighed in at 150,000 tons of steel, ice, and electronics. The picture he put over it was big.
“It could be nearly 300,000 tons, ma’am.”
Kris let out a low whistle.
“And aren’t the bigger they are, the harder they fall?” Tom said, but he was a mite pale around the freckles.
“Anything built by men can be blown up by women.” Penny grinned.
“Then it’s time we start breaking a few things,” Kris decided. “Task Force Custer. Will you please lob more missiles their way. Start easy. Let’s see how they react to them. Then pick up the pace. We want to heat them up before Squadron 8 punches some big holes in them. Squadron 8, rig your 944 missiles to home on heat. If Custer is kind enough to overheat the secondary battery for us, no reason we can’t knock them out on our way in.” That brought a cheer on net.
“Nelly, work with Moose. I want to know exactly where those four reactors are in those ships. As I see it, we got twice as many targets to aim for now.”
There were more cheers as the computer replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Custer 3 through 6, you have your targets,” van Horn ordered. “You heard the princess, let’s heat them up for Eight to knock them down.” On Kris’s battle board, Custer sprouted missiles. Behind her, Moose talked to Nelly, the computer’s voice coming not from its usual place at Kris’s neck but from his own computer. Kris eyed the situation.
In five, maybe ten minutes, she’d commit her tiny command to its first test. She might be planning to take a second bite out of this apple, but she wanted her first one to be big and whoever was running that show to know he’d been bit.
“Here comes trouble,” the Duty Lieutenant announced just as the relieved Chief came through flag plot’s aft hatch. “The first enemy group is launching missiles, Admiral.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Can’t we just shoot the enemy ships launching them?” the future governor asked.
“They are staying five thousand kilometers outside the range of our 18-inch lasers, Mr. Governor,” Saris answered for the Admiral.
“Then go after them,” the civilian said simply.
“Sir, we are decelerating into High Wardhaven’s orbit to begin our ordered planetary bombardment,” Saris said, choosing words a child might understand. “If we deviate from our course, we very likely would miss that orbit. At this stage of our approach, we could even end up crashing into the planet.”
“Oh,” came very softly.
“Believe me, sir. They want us to juggle our approach,” the Admiral assured the future governor. “No doubt those are small, say thirty, forty thousand-ton ships. You can horse them around in orbit easy. Our planet killers are 325,000 tons of power. We have solid ice as our defense. We can take what they can dish out.” The Admiral tried to sound full of confidence. He was . . . as far as it went. He did not mention the deficiencies in heat management that still bedeviled the squadron. The yard had been so sure they could solve the heat buildup problem from all the extra weapons they’d slapped on the Revenge-class ships. If not this week then next week. Well, maybe the week after.
They’d sailed, assured that it would not matter. There would be no fight. “The whole Wardhaven fleet is at Boynton.” So what was coming at them just now? Al Longknife’s private yacht?
The Chief took a station. The Admiral noticed that he didn’t relieve the man who’d replaced him but rather tapped the most junior tech. The youngster reluctantly made for the door, but the Duty Lieutenant had the makings of a good leader. He sent him instead to a spare jump seat. Good. An extra pair of eyes might come in handy, and the young man would talk about being in flag plot for the Battle of Wardhaven until the end of his days. Unfortunately, the Battle of Wardhaven was making itself into something much more two-sided than the Admiral had expected or wanted to fight. “Talk to me, Chief.”
“The incoming missiles are AGM 832s. Standard Wardhaven Army issue. They have fully selective seekers. Their warheads may be high-explosive general purpose, sub munitions dispensers or armor-piercing. No way for us to tell until they hit. Sir, I notice that some of my sensors are off-line.”
“The ships making for Jump Point Barbie turned out to be loaded with ancient missiles,” the Duty Lieutenant said.
The Chief said nothing but eyed his board. “The incoming wave is heavy, and it is deep. Sir, there is movement behind the missile ships. Four, six, uh, nine, twelve small blips are decelerating out of their shadow. I make twelve system runabouts. No, some of them may have full reactors. Some of them may have capacitors for lasers. Sir, there’s a lot of masking. I can’t say anything for sure about those boats.”
“Except there are twelve of them.”
“There are definitely twelve, sir.”
“How many PFs
were put up for sale, Mr. Governor, by Wardhaven’s temporary government?” the Admiral asked.
“Ah, twelve.”
“Think that might be them?”
“They were ordered demilitarized.”
“Yes, it was on all the talk shows,” the Chief of Staff said with a slight cough.
“Missiles to ding us. Fast boats to damage us with lasers, then a gun line to hit what is left of us. Not a bad battle plan.” The Admiral smiled, letting his teeth show. “Sadly for them, we are not your usual battle squadron, and, I suspect, they are a very old bunch of relics. But it is nice to know what the battle will be. Very nice to know. Finally.
“Lieutenant, send to fleet: ‘Prepare to repel missile attack. Withdraw unneeded sensors to protected positions. Prepare to repel fast attack boats armed with pulse lasers. Use main battery if necessary, but watch your heat budgets. Continue deceleration at one g unless I order differently.’ ”
“It is done, sir, as ordered.”
“Good. Good. Keep me informed on how we’re doing on those missiles, Chief.”
“They’re tossing them at us. Our 5-inchers are starting to bat the leading ones down, sir.”
“Good, good. We can do this all day.” But the Admiral kept one eye on the temperature of each of his battleships’ fuel tanks. They rose higher and higher; all were venting. The more fuel he lost, the less options he had to maneuver in Wardhaven’s orbit until his supply fleet arrived with Marines in two weeks.
Several of his skippers were already resorting to a third option for cooling their guns, switching their coolant into local secondary radiators that spread out around the twin laser turrets themselves. This got the heat out into space, but it weakened the ice around the turret . . . and it gave the turret a decidedly warmer infrared signature than the rest of the ice around it. Maybe we can’t do this all day, but then, they can’t have enough missiles to keep this up for an entire day, can they?
“How’s your stock of missiles?” Kris asked.
“It won’t last forever,” van Horn answered.
“What do the battlewagons look like?”
“Fuel tanks are venting. That’s bound to cause the trailing ships’ lasers to bloom,” Penny said.
“I like that,” Tom said.
“Some battleships are showing hot spots around their 5-inch batteries,” Moose said. “Lot more of them than I was expecting. Those mothers really are monsters.” He sent a picture to Kris. Yep, they had at least twice the number of secondary turrets dotting their ice, if the hot spots were taken for them.
Kris studied her board, tried to do the three-dimensional math. Van Horn’s four freighters were firing missiles from slightly aft of the battleships, letting them decelerate down on them. If Kris launched her squadron at the hostiles, she risked running into her own missiles.
“Nelly, give me a battle plan that puts the squadron at the edge of big laser range and gives us a solid run in with missiles ahead of us and behind us.”
“But none in the same space as us,” Nelly added. Was there a chuckle in there?
“You go, girl,” Tom said.
“Here is a schedule. We should break out now.”
“Divisions 1, 2, and 3, let’s show the guy what we got. Phil, lead the way. Divisions 4, 5, and 6, form a line but stay back. Sandy, they’re yours until I get back.”
“You’re not taking them in with you?”
“Change in plan. I want to get an up-close look at those monsters. Try to spot something a 12-inch pulse laser might dent before I send them in.”
“Look for a miracle, huh?”
“Isn’t that what we Longknifes always do?”
“Good hunting.”
“With targets that big, how can we miss?”
Kris waited until Squadron 8’s boats were in a good starting pattern, random to all outward appearances, but, if the planned dance came together right, and if they weren’t too badly damaged on the run in, it would have the boats paired up close and personal to each of the six battlewagons.
There were some big ifs in there, Kris noted.
Kris’s screen blossomed as Custer fired off a major pulse of rockets, then darkened as a space opened up.
“That’s our cue,” Kris said. “Initiate intercept orbit. Evasion scheme 2.”
PF-109 slammed from a steady one g to two g’s while flipping over and aiming itself back at the moon. A moment later, as if thinking better of that, it flipped over and turned its deceleration into acceleration at an even wilder 2.25 g’s.
Penny’s announcement, “We’re in big gun range,” was followed by another major change in direction, and Moose muttering, “Damn, they did try to swat us with an 18-incher.”
“They did?” Kris asked.
“Yep. Missed.”
“Nelly, was that part of your evasion assumption?”
“Of course, Kris,” the computer answered patiently.
“Dang it all, where are they going, and why are we hanging around here, behind?” came over the net.
Sandy expected it. At least Luna was talking before she charged in. “We will stay right here, by my orders.”
“And if we don’t?”
“I’ll shoot you down like the dog you are. Don’t I remember somewhere someone promising to follow orders?”
“Well, yeah, but there’s orders and then there’s being a yellow-bellied coward.” That brought agreement on net.
“In a couple of moments,” Sandy said, trying to keep exasperation out of her voice, “I’m going to expect you to follow me in something that no coward would ever do. Just about the time those battleships get a good solid bead on Kris and her boats, we’re going to parade ourselves inside their gun range. We’re going to march right through the one hundred thousand klicks range they got to the eighty thousand klicks range that the 14-inch guns you would have if you were the ships you’re claiming to be. You following me?”
“We ain’t gonna po-raid along right behind you, are we?”
“No, I expect you to be in full evasion mode.”
There were several expressions of relief at that.
“We’re going to draw their fire just long enough for Kris to get a good solid aim at her target, make her hit, then start to run away. Then, depending on how much wreckage she’s left behind, we either run in ourselves, or run away.”
“Why are all you Navy types so pessimistic? We’ll be running right in there behind her, collecting up all the strays and brandin’ ’em.”
And why are all you who never studied war such optimists? Sandy thought, but kept that to herself.
“XO, set us a course that will take us in to eighty K from the hostiles. Begin evasion program at one hundred-and-one K range.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
The 109 boat dipped, then zigged a bit, then zagged a lot, then did several minor dodges that left the hairs on the back of Kris’s neck wanting something major. About the time she was ready to say so, the 109 slammed itself into a complete course reversal, then into a hard left. Then dropped like a rock.
“Missed us again,” Moose chortled.
“I calculated that should fake them,” Nelly said.
“You sure faked me,” Kris said.
The 109 flipped, flopped, and spun. “And they miss again,” Moose drawled.
“What’s their heat situation?” Kris asked.
“Building up fast, what with 18-inch and 5-inch firing,” Moose said. “Their fuel tanks are all venting. I can spot all their secondaries. Their capacitors must be losing efficiency. Taking less of a charge, taking longer to take it. You got to like their problems, ma’am. They’re either going to have to stream those radiators and risk losing them or start taking hits from our stuff getting through.”
Moose looked up. “I wonder just how thick their ice is.”
“We’re about to find out,” Kris said as she watched the battleship secondaries fight their battle with Custer’s missiles. Most of the missiles were homing on the
heat of the 5-inch batteries. The fight was up very close and personal for those gun crews.
Smash the missile, or the missile kills you.
Beneath Kris, the 109 dodged and weaved, cut and turned as the 18-inch lasers tried to cut her in two. 18-inch turrets were not designed to track targets that turned on a dime, shot away at two, three g’s, then swung around again. In most cases, the lasers were just laid and fired when the PFs looked like they were headed into that bit of space. Nelly’s dance and the Foxer’s confusion disrupted the gunner’s plans time after time. Eighteen inches of blazing death reached out, but the mosquitoes they sought were never there.
“Whoops,” came a voice on net.
“What happened?”
“They winged me,” Heather reported. “Opened my quarterdeck to space. Engine room is tight. Bridge is holding. Gonna have to put a bit less stress on the hull, though.” With its longitudinal strength compromised, hard turns now risked having PF-110 bend in the middle like a wet noodle.
“You want to pull out?” Chandra asked.
“To where? The other side of those bastards looks as close as any other safe place. ‘How Many of Them Can We Make Die!’ ”
The 110 boat slowed; 105 boat dropped back. Chandra refused to leave the young skipper alone in the gathering hellfire.
Behind them, Horatio drew in range of the battleship’s main battery, and their fire shifted to this new threat. But Kris had hardly a moment for a breath of relief; she was well in range of the 5-inch batteries, and Custer’s last blast was pretty much done while Kris’s boats were still looking at a long way to go.
The good news was there were fewer 5-inchers firing now, though there were still too damn many of them for Kris’s taste.
“Squadron 8, let’s give the 5-inch gunners something to worry about. Verify 944s are set for infrared. Salvo fire them now.”
From the bow of the 109 came the sound of rockets exiting the tubes.
The Revenge shook with yet another hit. The Admiral tapped his board, calling up reports on all six of the ships in his command. More secondary batteries were unavailable. Just off-line, or wrecked by a Longknife rocket? The board did not have that information. What the board did show was that more and more of the 5-inch turrets still on-line were showing deeper and deeper yellow, headed for orange. Slow to charge now, and taking less and less of a charge when they did. Heat buildup was slashing the effectiveness of his massed weapons.
Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant Page 34
