The Turning Tide (The Federation Reborn Book 5)

by Chris Hechtl

  He was worried that the enemy hadn't been hurt, or at least, not badly enough. No, to be brutally frank, they hadn't been hurt at all. His staff reports reflected that grim reality every time they showed him the figures. They hadn't gotten any hits in the enemy fleet train, nor had they managed to cripple let alone destroy any of their ships. That meant White's force was intact and with their fleet train they could resupply. Most likely he was doing so now if he was in Dd01ns, though he fervently hoped the other man took the hint and kept running back to Protodon. He doubted he was that lucky however.

  And, with the replicators they no doubt stopped in Dd01ns. From there and with their tech advantage, they were probably well ahead of him in making good on their repairs he thought bleakly. He almost wanted to give up in despair, but he refused.

  The good news was that the enemy hadn't returned. He had a feeling they wouldn't any time soon. The feeling grew the longer time stretched out. He almost wished he'd gone after them despite his damage, at least pushed them out of Dd01ns and further up the jump chain.

  But, that would have been a problem. Not only would he had pushed his ships away from their closest port of supply, but they would have pushed the enemy closer to their own. There was a reason most battles were fought in occupied star systems. You fought near points you wanted to protect, sure, and near your supplies.

  He glanced at the status board and then away. Reinforcements were still trickling in. So far only the two freighters carrying supplies from Garth, nothing from home. Recently they had received a mixed squadron of cruisers from Garth. The ships were all former Gather ships, so it didn't take him long to see that they still had discipline issues, not to mention some papered-over problems with their hardware.

  None of the captains were happy that their ships had been stripped of fighters too. Well, that was too bad; his carriers needed them more.

  His staff were reorganizing the fleet. Executioner led a single division. He knew Scott wasn't happy about the losses or the loss of Bayern to be Executioner's new division mate, but that was just too damn bad. The other man had to suck it up. He and his staff had done so for all too long already. It was high time others learned they had to suck it up and do their duty.

  His plans were still evolving. He needed to remain flexible; he knew that much. But the carriers were the new core of his fleet. They had to fight defensively to protect the other ships or there wouldn't be a fleet.

  Unfortunately, they didn't have much to fight with. He knew the CAGs on the carriers were fighting over who got the best and brightest of the veterans. That wasn't his only concern though. They had stripped every ship to rebuild their losses. He needed to rebuild the fighter wings on the other ships too. He'd reluctantly come to the conclusion that more emergency fighters were a waste of time. Oh, he kept the few survivor units he had left, but they were nothing but a training platform and a distraction.

  No, he needed proper fighters and bombers. Not only proper ones, but craft that could match or beat the enemy. The Raptor class fighters the empire had in production were woefully inadequate too. He had Berney and others looking for any other fighter classes in the area. Unfortunately, they were as scarce as hen's teeth. He'd put a “request” in to the duchess to send them everything she had. He doubted she'd honor it. If she did, she would most likely hold back her best and send him the dregs.

  With his luck, they'd be in raptors or emergency fighters he thought bleakly.

  ~~~^~~~

  Rear Admiral Nioma “wrong way” Wong felt seared much like many of his precious pilots and craft—seared and humiliated. He burned in anger to avenge his losses.

  Forty percent! He wanted to tremble in rage over that loss, but he couldn't, not under the eyes of the staff. But damn it all! His jaw flexed, as did his hands under the table, clenching and unclenching in the unconscious urge to rip and tear. As a former pilot and CAG, he knew just how badly that had cut into the wing. He knew he'd never hear the end of it when they got back to the empire too. No matter how many times he tried to explain he would be forever tainted in the fighter community.

  Never had he thought that losses would be that bad in a single battle. He doubted anyone in the fleet had ever considered such a thing. Skull Squadron was the cream of the fleet and they'd been all but struck down. Forty percent of the wing lost, another 10 percent had been damaged, some crippled. Two of the craft had been turned into hangar queens, stripped of their usable parts to get other craft back into space. Since they were all E class, they were modular and therefore many of the pieces of equipment were interchangeable. He had logged the pilot's protests as well as their threats and then ignored them.

  “Further analysis is ongoing of course. We're still going through the fighter cameras and sensor feeds to add detail to our understanding of the conflict. I can confirm that a majority of our losses were in craft unsuited to fighter-to-fighter combat—the furball,” Hans Schnabel, his chief of staff, said flatly.

  Hans was a former pilot much like the admiral. Unlike the admiral, he'd been forced out of the cockpit by a medical issue rather than age and rank. He'd made the difficult transition to line officer though and remained with the carrier force. They tended to try to look after their own.

  The admiral didn't glance at the CAG though he was aware others did. It had been Commander Conrad Giacometti's call to throw everything into the furball. He'd paid for it; the majority of their losses were in the Executor and Emperor class fighters. Each of those fighters had been outfitted with battleship class grasers totally unsuited for fighter combat. It had been like going into combat against a swarm of flies armed with a sledgehammer. Sure, they might have hit a few, but the slow-firing craft had been easy meat for the rest.

  He knew why too. The original plan was for the rest of Skull Squadron to overwhelm the enemy and allow the heavy fighters to get past them to chew up their ships. It had worked many times in exercises in Horath. Apparently, the enemy hadn't been interested in playing by that script however.

  They'd been overconfident. They'd been so smug over the superiority of their own craft that the reports of the enemy having energy-shielded craft and highly-trained pilots hadn't penetrated. Not until they'd engaged and the dying had begun.

  Well, now they knew. And he knew some were scared of a repeat performance. The CAG himself had flown an Emperor, and his double-O craft had been one of the few to return to the ship damaged. He'd almost denied the CAG the right to land for fear of an explosion tearing the carrier apart.

  “We need more interceptors. And we need to divide the wing into proper subunits,” the CAG said hoarsely. “I'm already working on it. I'm doing what I can to integrate the noobs from the fleet. They aren't up to our standards though.”

  Commander Schnabel nodded. By pulling most of the survivors off of the other ships including the fighters that had come in with the recently arrived squadron of cruisers, they had brought the wings of Audacious, Nimitz, and Courageous up to strength on paper. Of course, they had few proper fighters or properly-trained pilots for that matter. Certainly not up to their standards. The two pilots who had been bumped had been trying to bump someone else. That was still up in the air.

  By shuffling around what had remained, they'd restocked some of the other ships but only with the dregs. That was both good and bad for some.

  “We're still savaging the battlefield. We're not getting much for the E class or the enemy craft,” Commander Schnabel continued.

  “Why not the enemy craft?” the admiral asked mildly. He was curious to know. They could use a good look at the craft. A couple totems for Courageous' battle honors wouldn't hurt either.

  “Because they've got self-destruct packages, sir. If they didn't go off already, then the moment we try to lock on they go off melting the electronics into goop. The engineers believe there is some sort of trigger, a remote trip line we're setting off,” the commander stated. “So far any attempt to gather intel with them or even parts have failed.”


  “Nothing?”

  “They are remarkably thorough. We can only be grateful that the trigger is right away, outside the confines of a ship. I'd hate to see whatever they've got go off on a hangar deck.”

  “Leave them then. Focus on our own fighters for the moment,” the admiral stated.

  “We are, sir,” the commander replied with a nod. “We've mostly cleared each of the battle spaces. The emergency fighters are cleared. There is some question on what to do with some of the material …?”

  “We're supposed to get another shipment of parts and supplies from the planet. When it comes, ship what we can't use back I suppose,” the admiral said with a shrug. “Maybe they can make use of it there.”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” the commander replied dubiously, making a note of the order. “Sir, speaking of consumables, we ran through a lot of ordinance. Do you know if we're going to get more?”

  “He means the crap we're getting from the planet is substandard,” the CAG said and then coughed. He doubled over in his seat, coughing. The admiral took a sip of coffee and let the other man recover. According to the report the CAG had been forced to breathe a lot of burnt material. He had gotten his lungs scrubbed in a regen tank but had refused further treatment. The doctor had not flight certified him and flat-out refused to do so for another week.

  Given the weeks that had passed since the battle that was saying a lot about the other man's injuries and his stubborn attention to duty, the admiral thought with a mix of concern and approval.

  “Even though the munitions are substandard compared to what we are used to, we will be fully restocked by the next supply mission. And I've been assured that we're getting a full load of fresh food and some comfort items. Perhaps a surprise or two to let people unwind,” the commander said with a smirk.

  The admiral nodded. He needed to get his pilots out of their shell shock. Their morale had gone in the crapper, and they were still recovering. Their pride had been humbled. Shit like that just didn't happen! Sure, they'd lost some close exercises against the Demons or Wraiths, but they'd always gotten even. And they'd always trumped the Blue Devils, Demon Hunters, or Hell Raisers.

  “Conrad, we need to get our people beyond the shock and thinking about hitting back. We need to integrate the new pups and none of the hazing crap. We're all one big happy family. Act that way so we can get some payback,” the admiral growled.

  “I'd like that, sir. I'd like it a lot. I know my boys and girls will too. Any idea when we'll settle the score?”

  “Soon. I'm not sure when, but soon. So, get your people ready. No more gimme exercises. Use the data we've got on the enemy. Learn what they can do and find their weak spots.”

  “Yes, sir. We'll get it done.”

  “See that you do,” the admiral murmured.

  ~~~^~~~

  Rear Admiral Scott Mueller tried hard not to resent the status of his much-reduced squadron. Admiral De Gaulte had split his surviving ships into two small squadrons, putting Executioner in charge of with Bayern and Scott's precious Obliterator in charge of the other three ships.

  Five dreadnoughts weren't much of a battle line. He knew he wasn't the only one who was still stung by the loss of two dreadnoughts. He was haunted by the vision of seeing them explode and so easily! It burned, burned in him to be backhanded like that and unable to return the favor.

  He had initially wanted to go after the enemy. The sight of a fleeing enemy had been sorely tempting. You didn't leave an enemy intact and running; you run them into the ground. That was something that all naval officers were taught. But the visions of Neptune and Bellerephon XXI exploding remained, ingrained on his retinas every time he closed his eyes. The threats were still there. Until they had a way to deal with that, he couldn't countersign going off after them as he wanted to do.

  He frowned as he looked at the reports. By rights the wounded ships should have been sent back to the empire or at least Garth. Garth had the larger yard; Dead Drop's was pitifully small and saturated. But Cyrano had been adamant to keep and hold every ship there. He only allowed smaller ships to leave the star system and only after they'd been stripped of everything including pulling their crew down to a skeleton crew. That meant ships like Obliterator, Bayern, Executioner, and Fion Mac Cumhaill were stuck making do with makeshift repairs when they really should be headed back to the home yards.

  He frowned. The delay was instilling fear in some, resentment in some others, but he had another concern. By not following up, the enemy would know they were defensive. It surrendered the initiative. They should at least send a large scouting force to find out how far the enemy had retreated and if possible keep him pinned there while they moved up additional reinforcements.

  He paced in his office for a moment and then sat down in his chair and opened up a file to jot out his thoughts. Cyrano had raided the enemy's supply lines recently. They could do it again and this time with the cruisers that had just arrived. After all, they were Gather Fleet units, right? He had already read their reports; they would be of marginal help in the coming conflict. No, it would be wiser to use their skills properly.

  His fingers flexed before he began to type out his missive.

  ~~~^~~~

  The heady triumph of beating the Federation back was something of a distant memory for Captain Magnus Abernly. He was well aware of how things had gone, what they'd lost, but it could have been worse, far worse.

  If he'd thought they'd have time to celebrate, he and his people had been sadly mistaken. Admiral De Gaulte had thrown everyone a curve-ball by ordering everything and anything moving to reconsolidate, repair, and replenish as quickly as they could. His people were still getting a handle on the fleet's needs. The small repair yard was overwhelmed. Fuel and food hadn't been an issue but supplying the rest was keeping him up at nights.

  If he thought he'd had it bad, his Second Lieutenant Sri Savenan had it far worse. He had lost weight; Sri looked like a walking skeleton, drawn, with sunken black eyes and slumped shoulders and a hoarse voice from talking. But, the man was still there, still on his feet doing his duty. That said a lot about his stubbornness or stupidity, Magnus wasn't certain which. He was impressed though, and he had come to learn to treasure the man's work ethic and initiative.

  The industrial plants in orbit and on the ground were never designed to resupply a fleet of that size, nor deal with all the repairs. He hadn't had much of a stockpile to begin with; that had been cleared out within hours of the battle. He hated it. He hated the empty warehouses, the rush to find metals and materials to keep the factories running another day, dealing with the weather, and also the crap he was getting from on high. If he got another bitchy email about the quality of gear they were making …

  He shook his head. It didn't matter. None of it mattered if the enemy kept running. All he had to do was keep his people moving and eventually the empire would send in a resupply ship. They'd already sent one small convoy from Garth. In another month, their report would get to the homeworld and then a fresh resupply mission would be launched along with reinforcements.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Magnus, he thought as he pushed a report aside and then picked up another.

  ~~~^~~~

  “So, you are suggesting we send our reinforcements to scout the enemy? Scout DD01ns? I know they got us to run when they did that, but I doubt we'd get that lucky,” Cyrano said with a shake of his head.

  Admiral Mueller looked over to Admiral Wong and then to the other senior officers. “I think we need to commit. We can cut orders for them not to engage, but we need to be aggressive. Push forward. They can send a courier back with news updates. If the enemy isn't in Dd01ns, all the better. We can move in and secure the jump points there and fight forward. We can also draw on SNHH for resupply. Additional resupply,” he said.

  Cyrano frowned but forced himself to take the plan seriously.

  “And being defensive minded doesn't win wars. And it won't look good back home,” Admiral Mueller add
ed.

  Cyrano's jaw worked. He knew his life was hanging by a thread. That threat he didn't need a reminder of. He shot a glower at Scott for his impudence.

  “I think we do need to know. And if it does push them back, all the better. We need the breathing room. We also need the forward warning if they enter that system again,” Admiral Wong said softly.

  Cyrano turned to him and studied the carrier admiral for a long moment. After careful consideration, he sat back in his chair. “And if they are still there?”

  Scott shrugged. “Then we'll know. I'm curious if they'll let our people sit there and picket the jump to Dead Drop or if they'll chase them out. Also, getting eyes on the situation will let us know their order of battle and what sort of reinforcements to expect. We can cut orders to detach one or two ships to go into stealth at extreme range and remain in the outskirts of the star system to keep tabs on them.”

  “Or send the entire squadron in under stealth at extreme range and watch,” Admiral Wong stated. “I do appreciate the idea of trying to get around them to hit their rear. And I appreciate the idea of getting in and tearing up their convoys. No doubt they are running resupply convoys without escorts. By the way, do we know what happened to the forces that you sent earlier?”

  “No. They either are still there and keeping a low profile, or they were destroyed. My staff puts the odds of their successfully running past the B-95a3 picket and any reinforcements in the stream as low. And just getting into Sigma they'd have to run through Pi first …,” he shook his head.

  “I see. So, anything we try to send behind the lines is tantamount to a suicide mission?”

  “At this time, yes. Unless, we can find a way to resupply them. Obviously, we can't count on their gathering much supplies from any captured ships. I read that report about the remaining hardware our people have tried to salvage as well,” Cyrano said with a tip of the head to Admiral Wong. He flexed his fingers and then nodded once. “Okay. We haven't integrated the squadron into the fleet yet. I'll talk to the captains and have my staff find out what they'll need.”