“I have nothing to report,” she sighed, running her fingers through her blond hair.
“No, I wouldn’t expect you would,” Walsh replied. “At least not yet.”
“The crew’s patience is starting to fray. You know they’ll follow your orders, sir, but I have to agree that after almost thirty-one hours of this it’s reasonable to ask if we’re trying to track a phantom.”
“Are you still questioning those readings we got over Bayone Seven?” Walsh asked calmly, reclining in his black leather executive chair.
“I agree they were unusual–”
“They were artificial. There is no natural phenomenon that would account for that combination of spectrometry data. There is also a vanishingly small chance we would lose all our readings within moments of breaking LRS range.”
“In my opinion, it’s inconclusive, sir.”
“It’s a cloaked ship. Scout-class. She’s armed with short-range capital weapons. There’s a snake loose in the nursery, lieutenant, and the clock is ticking.”
The look on Commander Walsh’s face was as passive and assured as ever, even though he had essentially just announced the house was on fire. Nessa Boyle desperately wanted to be that sure about this. Hell, she wanted to be that sure about anything in her life, but it seemed she was cursed to always carry a nagging little voice of doubt while her captain’s expression was like a block of ice two miles under Antarctica.
“Come on,” Walsh said. He put on his fur-lined coat and cover. Nessa got back to her feet and followed him into the passageway. The captain made his way past several saluting crewmen and then climbed a set of metal stairs into Rhode Island’s brand new CIC. The interior of the ship was illuminated, but the interior colors had been specifically tuned to make everything seem like a calm night. The purpose of it all was to put the crew in a quiet, solemn state of mind so they could concentrate on their deadly work. Their mission was literally to find the things that go bump in the night, and then quietly kill them without leaving a trace their victims or the Rhode Island were ever there.
“Captain in CIC,” announced one of the fast destroyer’s tactical specialists. Most of the rest of the watch didn’t notice, as they were intent on their scopes and equipped with highly sensitive noise-proof headphones. Walsh stopped at the horizontal liquid reactive display and pulled up a tactical map of Bayone Seven’s orbit. Executive Officer Nessa Boyle watched her captain’s cool, measured work. He configured the light table, then brought up an overlay of the Perseus Task Force inbound tracking for the Bayone system. One deck above the new combat nerve center was the destroyer’s bridge, where the mood was no less intense.
“Fury enters the system here,” he said. A wide green lane appeared along one side of the planet. “Our friend out there wants to be here when the commander reaches A-point.” A yellow icon appeared, indicating a position along the trailing edge of the nearby gas giant’s atmosphere.
“How is that going to help him? He’s on the wrong side of three escort vessels,” Nessa replied, resting her elbows on the table across from the captain.
“Three vessels that can’t detect him at ranges of more than two thousand miles,” Walsh said. “Whoever it is, we’re gambling they plan to engage the Perseus formation. Both Captain and Commander Hunter were expecting this, so they just made things easier.”
“You’re under orders,” Boyle said quietly, her eyes widening.
“Affirmative, XO,” Walsh replied quietly. “Need to know only. We’ve turned Fury into bait, and I’m the guillotine blade. He’s out there, and he means to ambush Commander Hunter’s flagship right in our kitchen. He’s going to come right out of Bayone Seven’s orbit, and he’s going to rely on the combination of magnetic fields, false radiation readings and confusion to keep him concealed until he’s in Fury’s wake.”
“And then just dump his cloak right in Jayce’s drive field?”
“That or launch his capital torpedos forward of her and try to run to get out of detonation range.”
The cold realization of it all made Nessa’s skin crawl. “At that range, the right weapons would vaporize a Pershing-class ship.”
“Under normal circumstances, XO, I would agree. But these aren’t normal circumstances.”
“How do you mean?”
“Because I’m going to get that sonofabitch, and I’m going to get him before he breaks the formation perimeter. All he’s got over us is that cloak. He knows if Rhode Island catches him out in the open, I’m going to burn him down. He can’t survive a stand-up fight, but if he gets close enough, he can take out any ship in our fleet with one shot. My orders are to make sure he never pulls the trigger.”
Lieutenant Boyle looked around the CIC. Several crew members snapped back to their consoles, trying to avoid being caught eavesdropping. Practically the entire ship’s watch was supposed to be intently tracking every electromagnetic and spectrometric signal within thirty million miles. It was a coordinated effort to tease useful or unusual information out of the never-ending storm of background noise surrounding major celestial objects like the nearby planet. With her new refit, the fast destroyer Rhode Island was the one Perseus ship able to use that information like a bloodhound uses the half-day old scent of a wandering raccoon.
Her banks of lethal Mantid-class concussion-warhead missiles were bane to concealed enemies, and her new lighter night-black scanner-absorbing spaceframe made her a deathly opponent, even in a head-to-head match. The standard Delaware-class destroyer was designed for rapid maneuver and picket work. Rhode Island’s refits, however, had allowed her to shed ten thousand tons of bulk without significantly affecting her defenses.
Her new narrower shape was reminiscent of knives, fangs and talons. She was now faster and more maneuverable with six times the firepower, two banks of battle screens and an electronic “nose” that could just about detect a lit match anywhere in a star system. Her combat systems and weapons package had earned her the nickname “ghost killer.” Once she had been launched, however, more than a few of the designers and technicians who had sharpened her to a maleficent edge were forced to admit it was hard to tell which ship was the ghost and which was not.
But even Rhode Island’s teeth and claws couldn’t kill what she couldn’t catch. Somewhere near Bayone Seven, her captain was convinced an assassin lurked. In a straight-up fight, the enemy ship didn’t stand a chance. But a toe-to-toe fight wasn’t on the mind of the destroyer’s nemesis. Walsh knew his opponent was patient, emotionless and utterly determined not only to kill its target, but to do its deadly work in such a way as to demoralize the Perseus Task Force. Skywatch had plenty of enemies, and they all knew if DSS Fury lost its captain, Perseus’ effectiveness would be halved. Surely the formation’s other officers would do their duty, and do it well, but they weren’t Jayce Hunter. They didn’t inspire the kind of no-nonsense effectiveness nor did they instill the kind of confidence Fury’s skipper did. Someday they might, but by then the assassin would likely have long since celebrated his victory and disappeared forever.
What Captain Darragh Walsh knew above all else was this: If Rhode Island failed in her mission, it would potentially put the battleship Argent and the lives of a thousand irreplaceable crewmen, officers, pilots and marines in danger, to say nothing of the defenseless civilians on Bayone Three and the mounting roster of missing crews.
Lieutenant Boyle leaned on the table again and took a moment to re-evaluate her captain’s strategic interpretation of the battlespace. “Sir, what stops that ship from coming after us?”
Captain Walsh didn’t answer right away, but had his XO seen his downcast face, she would have noticed the sudden hardness in his expression. “For the same reason a cobra doesn’t go after a mongoose, lieutenant. Our enemy is insidious. Though the jungle teems with his prey, deep in his heart he knows there lurks one predator. He may get his kill. He may not. But while he hides in cold darkness and waits, he knows.”
Nessa didn’t have to ask the quest
ion. DSS Rhode Island’s skipper straightened and studied the largest viewscreen in the CIC and its spectacular view of Bayone Seven’s dark side.
“He knows I’m going to catch him. And then I’m going to kill him.”
Fifty-Six
“You tell those bastards the war’s already started! We’re dark across everything west of the ridge! There’s enough gravitic energy out there to blow half this planet into commemorative coins!”
“We’re not reading anything unusual, Two-A.”
“I’ve got seismic readings we don’t even have numbers for!”
“We can’t confirm your data, captain.”
“Lieutenant, the rough equivalent of a mechanized regiment is going to come over hill one zero two in about eight minutes. Now you can spend that time filling out reports or you can get the rest of the brigade in gear. I have a war to fight. Tarcus out!”
The commander of Sixth Armor, 14th Infantry failed to break the solidly constructed radio when he slammed the handheld against its cradle, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. He chomped the long-since extinguished half of his cigar to the other side of his mouth and swiveled his shock couch to its forward-facing configuration. He rolled up the sleeves on his heavy gray combat fatigues and started his battle tank’s autochecks.
“Alright, let’s come at this from a standpoint of readiness. What have we got that can kill what they’ve got?”
“There’s a 200 MPH wind blowing out there, captain. I can’t see missiles being worth the fuel. We can drive to point Baker and slug away at that hundred-foot ridge with our main batteries, but to be honest, sir, I’d rather just go hand-to-hand in powersuits.”
“Who came up with that ridiculous idea in the first place?”
“Some propeller-head back at Leviathan thought we could shoot the planet out from under those things and just let them slide into the valley. Naturally, they didn’t plan on units that big having counter-grav. The first time around results were about what you’d expect. Second-round knockout. Almost cost us the spacehead.”
“Well, Stevers, it’s high time we start coming up with some good old-fashioned battle plans around here instead of trying to superhero our way out of this. Does Hill 102 give them or us a tactical advantage?” Tarcus asked impatiently.
“Without missiles?”
“Let’s stipulate for the time being nobody’s going to fire self-guideds into that typhoon. If they park on that hill and start pounding away, who wins?”
“That depends on what we leverage to our advantage, captain,” another voice cut in over the comm net.
“Go ahead, Franklin. I want everyone’s opinion on this one.”
“Very well, sir. With direct fire weapons only, being on that hill is a dumb idea, and I’m pretty sure our enemy knows it. All it does is make them better targets without the ground clutter to confuse tracking.”
“So maybe the big bad here isn’t tactics but tonnage?”
“Affirmative, sir. We’ve got artillery. They’ve got numbers.”
“Sounds like two groups of people who need to be introduced to each other at the earliest opportunity. What’s our orbital status?”
“We’ll have a look-down bird for about another seventeen minutes. Then we’re going to have to wait until the next one cycles over. As soon as their assault force clears the horizon it’s anyone’s guess what survives and for how long,” Corporal Fernandez replied.
“And we’ve got positioning on their horizon from point Alpha, affirmative?” Tarcus snapped as he reconfigured his heads-up console.
“They’ll transition bearing two six one. They can’t switch orbits or they’ll lose their LOS alignment.”
“But they know we’re going to shove this war right back up their–”
“Sir, I expect they think we’ll be ancient history by the time they clear the horizon.”
“Then they are going to be in for the biggest surprise of this war. Open a channel to Rickety’s gun shop. We’re not going to wait for them to climb that hill. Tigerman, charge main batteries. Bring us to full power and alert the formation we rally at point Charlie.”
“Affirmative, captain!”
“I’ve had enough talk for one Tuesday morning! It’s time we kicked those sons-a-bitches square in the ass and God only knows what happens next! Hit it!”
Captain Tarcus’ SX15 Razorback superheavy main battle tank’s engines roared in the Mackinac docking canopy moments before its driver released the transmission. Tens of thousands of foot-pounds of torque spun the twelve-foot-wide metal composite tracks and literally shredded the reinforced floor of the lander before the 19000-ton weapon blasted through the relatively flimsy structure like a deranged bear escaping from a dollhouse. The fifteen-foot-tall red-eyed hog’s face emblazoned on its forward hull over its unit designator was appropriate for the occasion, as was the unit motto:
DEATH BY BACON
Within moments, the four occupants of the enormously unsubtle weapons platform were being thrown around in their shock harnesses like they had just climbed aboard untamed mustangs. Tarcus barked like an ugly dog in a moving truck.
“Get me a white on black signal, Tigerman! Missiles secure! Direct fire sequences only and tell Porter to keep his damn spacing this time!”
“Affirmative, cap!”
“And put your helmet on, princess!”
Corporal Tigerman fumbled with his goggles and headgear as Tarcus’ lead armored unit turned on a new heading towards the east end of Hill 102 and accelerated. Within moments, the office-building-sized block of ablative armor, fusion reactors and weapons was pushing nearly 75 MPH. Tigerman had time. He didn’t need to turn to avoid obstacles, since even a piece of solid granite the size of an aircraft factory would simply detonate into a fast-moving wall of fiery wreckage upon impact with an SX15‘s battle screens. At full speed it flattened twenty-foot hills with contemptuous ease and turned small forests into spinning globs of semi-greenish hot paste.
And now, it had a target.
“Orbital contact! Designate Jester Two! Azimuth one zero! Bearing two four two degrees! Range one seven zero miles! Battle computer responding! Net reports hostile contact confidence at 98%!”
“Tigerman! Do you have your ass together yet!?”
“Affirmative, sir!”
“Signal all units: Sixth Armored! Deflection lock! Target Jester Two!”
The fast-moving battalion of eighteen battle tanks held their course towards the east edge of Hill 102, but their turrets all swiveled counter-clockwise in perfect synchronization, elevating to 10 degrees as they locked deflection with the tiny-looking dot of brightness just over the southern horizon. It looked harmless enough, but to a seasoned ground forces officer, it was the rough equivalent of a naked man breaking through the front door armed with machetes in both hands.
“Hostile SRS reflections! We’re being targeted for range!”
“The hell we are! Commence fire! Fire at will!”
Sensors as far away as Starhaven pegged at their maximums as Sixth Armor ripped a five-mile-wide hole in Bayone Three’s dingy screaming atmosphere with its eighteen main guns. Thunderclaps shocked the sky as bolts of energy bright enough to cast shadows on the murky cloud cover overhead ripped and slashed through the hellish wind, puncturing the angrily spinning storm like rifle bullets through cake frosting.
The unidentified warship almost 200 miles above Bayone Three was hit so suddenly it scarcely had time to perform its first evasive maneuver. Its battle screens were overloaded and blown completely dark in a matter of seconds. Secondary electrical discharges violently shook the vessel’s outer hull and left enormous red-hot scorch marks behind. Bolt after white-hot bolt flashed up through the atmosphere. Some missed, but most crashed into the ship’s leading edge like Mach-40 railroad cars filled with explosive energy.
Its crew had only seconds to recover. Then a second barrage from Tarcus’ company speared its mangled hull at several points. Explosive atmosphere breaches appe
ared for a moment before an uncontrollable magnetic feedback disruption ignited its missile fuel. The explosion flared brightly enough to cast shadows on the ground.
“Splash one,” Tarcus muttered. “Alright, let’s line up that artillery. Get me a–”
“Mech!” Someone shouted over the communications net. An impossibly dark shadow suddenly loomed over Hill 102, and Sixth Armor was far too close to attempt to evade it. A furious spinning tornado of destruction poured from its “shoulder” mounted weapons, blasting dozens of 100-foot wide craters into the ground around the fast moving tanks.
Razorbacks Four and Five roared through a fireball the size of a large sports stadium before they launched into mid-air over one of the craters. Four landed hard in steaming-hot mud and immediately reversed its engines, attempting to pull itself back up the incline. Five landed topside down. Moments later it blew all six of its dorsal emergency ground-pressure jets and was flipped back on its tracks with a 40 million-pound thud registering just above 4.0 on the Richter scale. The tank immediately pivoted eighty degrees in the melted, sticky dirt and resumed main battery fire on its primary target moments before a wall of half-megaton missiles exploded into a superheated cloud of radioactive fire around its battle screens.
The rest of Sixth Armor engaged the enemy mech with a savage exchange of sustained high-energy weapons detonations. The ground heaved with thundering explosions and the air was torn and ripped by impossibly bright pale strobes and overloaded electrical energy. The two forces aimed guns and missiles designed to destroy starship-sized targets at ranges of hundreds of thousands of miles and launched full-power war shots at each other separated by perhaps five football fields.
A well-aimed blast detonated under Razorback Twelve and blew the top half of the tank straight up into the air. Pieces of its drive train spun and tumbled in all directions. R-Ten swerved but there was nowhere to go. The massive block of dense metal slammed against the forward section of the second tank and buried its forward hull thirty feet deep.
Strike Battleship Engineers (The Ithis Campaign Book 2) Page 23
