“Supply Station Alamo is in missile range,” his tactical office reported, bringing him back to the present.
“Eyes peeled, people,” Rudd warned. “Our little friends will be popping in for a visit any moment now.”
A minute later alarms shrilled. “Laser hit! We have been struck by a laser on the port bow.” A quick diagnostic revealed only minor damage, but nonetheless, battle had been joined. Rudd leaned closer to the sensor display. The display was poor, fuzzy with static from the asteroids, but it was clear enough. And there they were. Five, no six destroyers emerging from the asteroid belt ten degrees to the left of the supply station. Good. He turned to his Executive Officer. “Frank, this is their feint. They’ll pop out another force once we’ve committed to attack. You fight the feint. I’ll handle the real attack.”
The Red Force swung to the left, honoring the threat. The two forces began to exchange missile fire. Rudd ignored it. This wasn’t the real threat. He ordered sensor drones launched “up” and “down”, perpendicular to their line of flight, with active pinging to detect anyone coasting in from the ceiling or basement. He didn’t think Tuttle would do that though, it was too obvious and too easy to discover. He was betting on an attack from the rear, and he began to move his second wave into position to pounce on it when it came.
Meanwhile the missile duel was going pretty much as he expected. The Blue Force had flushed their missile batteries, but had fired erratically, depriving them of the saturation they needed to achieve to maximize their chances of a hit. He peered closer, and then shook his head in disappointment. The best tactic for the Blue Force was to flush its missile batteries, then retreat immediately back into the asteroid belt, where they would be protected from Red Force’s missiles and lasers. But they had charged out farther than they should have, like the British cavalry at Waterloo. They would be exposed to deadly fire for several minutes before regaining the protection of the asteroid field. Rudd frowned; he’d expected better from Tuttle.
Suddenly the sensor plot changed, showing the Blue Force wheeling about, trying to get back to the asteroid field. They desperately shot chaff clouds to further confuse his sensors. His Executive Officer ordered the second round of missiles, and eighty missiles shot toward the retreating enemy.
He watched the feed from the two sensor drones he’d launched towards the Supply Station. Lots of static from the area of the chaff cloud — well, no surprise there — and nothing from the right flank…unless. Behind him, he could hear groans from the Weapons Officer as the missiles lost their sensor lock in the chaff cloud. Some of them would punch through the chaff and regain a lock on the other side. Maybe. Ready for Act II, he thought.
He touched his Sensor Officer on the elbow. “Active sensors there!” he ordered, pointing to an area to the right of the supply station. “Now, ping the hell out of them!” The Sensor Officer charged the sensors for a five pulse sequence, then punched the firing button. Even as the first set of data came up on the screen, more alarms blared.
“Fifty missiles inbound from our stern! Five zero missiles. Two minutes to impact!” the Sensor Officer barked. But before the missiles could reach him, one of his eight ships blossomed and began blinking orange. Rudd blinked. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
“The Alexandria is dead. Looks like multiple laser strikes cracked her bottle, Sir.” The Sensor Officer looked up from his screens. “Gods of Our Mothers, they must have all aimed at the same target.”
Rudd cursed under his breath. Every ship had a magnetic “bottle” protecting the antimatter reactor. It was very well shielded, but a lucky hit could knock out one of the crucial capacitors, making the bottle fluctuate and lose cohesion. Matter and antimatter would fuse uncontrollably…and that would be that.
Time to spring his own ambush. He touched a button to talk to his second wing. Two cruisers and five destroyers had been coasting in behind him, antimatter reactors throttled back to idle, observing radio silence. There was an excellent chance that the Blue Force would not even have noticed them. “Rudd to Red Force Two! Attack the force that emerged behind us! Execute now!” A moment later Red Force Two volleyed ninety missiles. That should distract them, he thought. Now to turn around and-
“Sir, the Boston reports several laser strikes! Damage to one of her missile batteries and to her fire control!”
Damn! Rudd snorted ruefully. He was still going to win this, but Tuttle was taking her pound of flesh. Time to protect his force until the cruisers could soften them up. He quickly weighed the options. The asteroid field would give him ample protection, but it was still several minutes away. Too long. He smiled. The first Blue ships had left an enormous chaff cloud right in front of him. Why not?
“Red Force One, all ships go into the chaff cloud. We’ll let Red Two handle the ships behind us while we go after the first Blue ships. Execute now!”
Thirty seconds later all seven of his ships had plunged into the chaff cloud, concealing them from the pursuing Blue attackers. The sensor display immediately turned murky.
“I can’t see shit,” one of the sensor operators muttered. “It’s like driving though a rain storm.” The Sensor Officer leaned over his shoulder, pointing at something. “What’s that?” The rating shrugged. “Can’t tell, Sir. Too small to be a ship. Could be an echo. Lot of them. See here, and here? I’d guess they’re just sensor ghosts. This chaff is buggering the sensors all to hell.”
“Sir!” The XO shouted. “The Boston just dropped off the net! Wait… Shit, now Athens is gone.” He suddenly leaned over to a rating, who was talking frantically. When he straightened, his face was pale. “Budapest and Tripoli report heavy damage from laser fire.”
“From where? Who’s firing on us?” Rudd demanded furiously. “Sensors! Do we have a lock on the Blue ships?”
The Sensors Officer shook his head in bewilderment. “There are no Blue ships! We don’t have any on the screen.”
The XO again: “Tripoli reports she’s lost power. Naples is under fire and is turning to clear the chaff cloud-”
Then Rudd understood. That sneaky bitch! She’d mined the goddam chaff cloud! She’d suckered him into hiding in it and buggered him royally. He had to smile, despite himself. Buggered by a wet-behind-the-ears trainee!
“All ships, they’ve mined the chaff cloud. Veer left! Get out of the cloud. Fire lasers to your front to clear a path!”
Only two of his seven ships survived to break out of the chaff. He breathed a deep sigh of re-
“Oh, Christ!” the XO exclaimed. Immediately on front of them, six Blue Force destroyers hovered at a full Hoang stop. Ten seconds later the remaining Red Force One ships were Code Omega.
Rudd’s sensor screens continued to show him the battle, even though his ship was dead. He watched sourly as all of the Blue ships slipped back to the safety of the asteroid belt. Red Force Two prudently declined to chase them — it would be like groping around in the dark. Rudd sat back with a sigh. Well, he’d gained his objective, the supply station was his. But what a price!
The room lights went up, signaling the end of the exercise. His com screen came on. Commander Grey’s face appeared. “Well, Alex, this is a first,” she said coolly. “I don’t normally expect my Tactical Instructor to be taken to the cleaners by one of his students.”
Rudd stifled another sigh. “Losses were heavier than I anticipated, Ma’am, but I achieved my objective. We took Supply Station Alamo and deprived the Blue Forces of fifty thousand tons of processed ziridium.”
Commander Grey cocked her head. “Didn’t they tell you?”
Rudd closed his eyes. “Excuse me, Ma’am?”
‘When Red Force Two boarded Supply Station Alamo, it was empty.”
Rudd’s eyes snapped open. “Empty!”
The corner of Commander’s Grey’s mouth was twitching despite her effort to appear dead-panned. The young, chubby lieutenant was one of her protegees, a whiz kid in his own right, and it was all she could do to keep from laughing
at the pained expression on his face. “Yes, Alex. It seems Lieutenant Tuttle moved the ziridium to freighters-”
“There were no freighters,” Rudd blurted angrily. “All she had was ten destroyers-” He stopped in mid-sentence, slow realization settling like a stone in his stomach. Commander Grey nodded sympathetically. “It was a mining colony, remember? The first thing she did when the exercise started was to commandeer all of the mining ships, have them empty their holds and report to the supply station. She transferred the processed ziridium to the mining ships and sent them to the nearest Victorian world.”
“And the laser mines in the chaff cloud?”
Grey grimaced. “That was a nasty touch, wasn’t it? Laser sleds she stripped off the mining ships. She had forty three of them. She slaved them ten at a time to four sensor platforms and strung them out in the chaff cloud. Very limited range, of course, but very powerful.”
Rudd was disgusted with himself. “So I lost eight ships and the ziridium?” he asked, with more than a hint of despair.
“Actually, you lost ten ships.” Grey finally permitted herself a broad smile. She chided herself for enjoying this, but the look on his face was priceless. “She also mined the supply station, Alex. She blew it up when your ships were close by. Dublin was destroyed and Stein was heavily damaged.”
Rudd had to laugh. “She mined the station? A five hundred million unit supply station?” It was beautiful. It was something he would have done if he had been playing the defender.
Captain Grey leaned closer to the screen and lowered her voice. “What do you think, Alex, is she a keeper?” This was a sensitive subject. For years Second Fleet had raided Home Fleet for skilled officers, and used Home Fleet as a dumping ground for Second Fleet’s rejects. Admiral Douthat had objected, of course, but Fleet Personnel had generally given Admiral Skiffington his way. One of those rejects was Michael Bishop, now serving as New Zealand’s Tactical Officer. He was ponderous, unimaginative and enjoyed picking on his subordinates. Grey had been looking for a replacement for months.
Rudd nodded in reply. “She needs more training, of course, but she’s creative and ruthless” — he smiled — “all the characteristics required for making Captain someday. I’d suggest you make her the Assistant Tactical Officer to start with.” He grimaced. “She’ll have to survive Lieutenant Bishop’s tender mercies, but if you bring her along fast, then maybe in nine months…?”
“Good,” Captain Grey replied. She smiled. “When you write up her evaluation, Alex, make it look mediocre. I don’t want to lose this one, too.”
After Rudd had left, Grey sat at the communicator and dialed a number. In fact, she was calling her own communications server, which in turn connected her through an encrypted line to a small stateroom on board the Atlas space station. A deep male voice answered. “Hello?”
“Sir Henry? It’s Julie Grey.”
There was a pause, then the com screen came on. An elderly, elegant looking man with a neatly trimmed beard and a shock of white hair looked back at her. “Always a pleasure to hear from you, Captain Grey,” he said formally.
Grey suppressed a smile, from his tone you would think they were barely acquainted. Sir Henry was always cautious and discrete. She had known Henry Truscott since she was a girl of five, when he used to bounce her on his knee and tell her stories of the faraway lands he had visited. Grey’s father had died before she was a year old. Sir Henry had become a “special friend” of her mother’s, and though they never married and after a time no longer shared a romantic relationship, he had remained a family friend and was as close to a father figure as Grey ever had. Sir Henry did not have a job as such, but was said to be “influential” at the court of Queen Beatrice. In fact, although his name did not appear on any public table of organization or list of high governmental officials, Sir Henry was the most valued advisor to Queen Beatrice and the Royal Family. His influence ran from foreign affairs to matters of security. It was Sir Henry who had helped Grey get a posting in Home Fleet, not merely out of respect for her mother or affection for her, but because he wanted officers in Home Fleet that he could trust.
“We have just finished running the qualifying exams for Tactical.” She looked at him intently. “I have someone you may want to meet. She’s only a Second Lieutenant, but she’s already a standout. With a little bit of time…”
“We may not have much time, Julie,” he said gravely.
Grey stiffened. “Do you know some-”
He shook his head. “Nothing concrete, at least since that intercepted message I told you about. But things are in motion. The Tilleke are intimidating Arcadian shipping as it passes through Tilleke space. The Sultenic Ambassador has issued a formal complaint and is threatening sanctions against Victorian vessels in it space unless we reduce tariffs. And the DUC have gone surprisingly quiet, which makes me nervous.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “If any of these reach crisis, Her Majesty will ask the Fleet to show the flag.”
“And that means the Second Fleet will be on the move.” Grey finally saw where he was going with this.
Sir Henry nodded. “On the move and possibly in harm’s way, so of course he’ll ask for more ships.”
“Not from Home Fleet?” she protested.
“No, but he’ll get them from Third Fleet, and then Admiral Skiffington will have the largest Fleet Victoria has ever seen.” He looked grim. “And this could all happen soon, Julie. Very soon.”
“Have you spoken to the Queen? Couldn’t she-”
Sir Henry sighed. “It’s been a year since her husband’s death and she has — “ he looked up at the ceiling, groping for the right words — “tired of political intrigue. Queen Beatrice has withdrawn from an active role; she spends most of her time in her library or her garden.”
“But surely the First Sea Lord-” she sputtered. “You could warn him!”
“Warn him about what, the suspicions of an old man he considers little more than a family retainer? Admiral Giunta is faced with a possible military action, the first since the Battle of Windsor. Admiral Skiffington is the only Fleet commander with any combat experience. Giunta will use the tools he has.”
Grey thought furiously. “And the Princess?” Princess Anne was twenty, and the only direct heir to the throne. If anything happened to her, several cousins and her uncle would all be in position to make a claim, a nightmare Grey did not want to think about.
Sir Henry nodded. “I think it might be wise to send Princess Anne on a tour, perhaps to Space Station Atlas, somewhere where she is physically separated from the Queen in case someone should…become ambitious.”
“Atlas! But that’s the primary naval base. What makes you think she would be safe when she is surrounded by Second Fleet war ships?”
“Because she will be on a Home Fleet ship, surrounded by Home Fleet sailors and under the eye of my favorite Home Fleet captain,” Sir Henry explained.
Grey inwardly groaned at the thought of having Princess Anne under her charge. Security would be a problem, and who would take care of her?
“I’ve already spoken to Admiral Douthat,” Sir Henry said. “She agrees that the Princess would be safer with Home Fleet than anywhere else. I will arrange to have her visit Atlas in the next week or so.”
Grey sighed. Princess Anne had a reputation as being smart, acerbic, and…hard to handle. She came by it naturally, Grey thought ruefully. Queen Beatrice was a formidable woman…or had been. And her father the King had been as well. Something in the Churchill genes. It was hard to picture the Queen retreating to her garden.
“And my aspiring Second Lieutenant?” Grey asked.
Sir Henry considered for a moment. “By all means go ahead and vet her, Julie. I trust your instincts on this. But be prepared to bring her along much faster than usual. We may soon have a need to know who we can rely on and who we can’t.”
I hope you’re wrong, Uncle Henry,” she said fervently.
He gave a short laugh, totally devoid of hu
mor. “Not half as much as I do, Julie.”
Chapter 19
P. D. 952
In Tilleke Space/ In Victorian Space
The captain of the Arcadian freighter Fool’s Gold stared anxiously at his sensor screen. They were two days into Tilleke space, with one more to go before reaching the Tilleke-Gilead wormhole. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t be soon enough.
Less than fifty miles abeam two Tilleke war ships kept pace, pinging them with active sensor scans every few minutes. Either of those ships could blast Fool’s Gold into atoms at a moment’s notice. The Arcadian captain was a stoic man — you had to be if you were going to run a deep space freighter — but a thin sheen of perspiration covered his forehead and his stomach was tied up in knots. Two other Arcadian freighters flew in loose formation with him. Each carried enough ziridium ore to power a small city for a year. Big fat targets, that’s what they were. A total of ten Arcadian freighters had gone missing in the last several months; there was little doubt what had happened to them. The captain of the Fool’s Gold had known some of captains of the missing ships, had eaten with them, shared more than a few beers with them.
His eyes drifted nervously back to the sensor screen. He could easily see the two red triangles of the Tilleke ships and the three blue circles representing the Arcadian freighters. And between the freighters and the Tilleke raiders, shining solidly, were the two blue triangles of the Dominion destroyers, shielding the freighters from all harm.
He blew out a long, shuddering sigh. “Thank God for the DUC escort,” he breathed thankfully.
Lieutenant Hiram Brill grasped the sides of the podium with sweaty hands, nodded to the rows of admirals, cleared his throat nervously and began his briefing.
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