Yorktown: Katana Krieger #1

by Bill Robinson

  "Copy that First. Mr. Garcia, Mr. McAdams, status update on enemy course and speed."

  Garcia answers. "Intruder settled at 2.98 gees. We are at 2.99. If we hold there, we will reach Gamma Omicron 1 in 16.3 hours with about a 200,000 click lead, within their weapons range. Lt. Powell is not happy, but promises we'll make it."

  "Copy that. Continue on course. Report any changes in enemy status." Question is, is that as fast as they can go, or are they playing with us?

  "Aye."

  It takes me four hours to do what would have taken the flight management computer much less than a second. I message it to Shelby to look at. She spends three hours redoing the calculations. Good thing I timed it for a course correction at the eight hour mark. She messages back an "Aye, Skipper" and a ;-). I take that to mean she likes it. I message it to Garcia.

  "Mr. Garcia, new course and speed on your pad. Implement as required."

  "Aye, sir." She looks at her pad, does some scribbles.

  "Skipper, can I suggest that we..." Shelby cuts her off.

  "Garcia. You are in a combat situation and your captain just gave you a direct order. Follow it!"

  "Aye, aye, sir." She should also remember that she's not on comm and the entire bridge can hear her yell. There's too much sarcasm there. I watch her start to enter the data, slower than I know she can, then suddenly there is life in her fingers and they fly across the panel.

  "Mr. Garcia, I see that you have figured out the plan and that you apparently agree with it. As captain, I value my officers and their input, but never, ever, assume that means this is a democracy. Am I clear?" My stern captain voice is pretty good after five years of practice. Made sure this time to have my ship-wide mic off.

  "Yes, sir, sorry sir." Never want to do that in public, but can't have the disrespect there either.

  I message the course to McAdams, with some additional details. First two on a circular course, maximum down angle at the moment of engine fire, then aim toward the keel. Third maximum accel at my mark, shortest course, maximum dispersion, my mark. She messages back an "aye."

  Shelby messages me. "Good plan, Katana."

  "Relies on them not doing anything unexpected. Every time we've done that, we've ended up with holes in the hull. What's the chance our luck is going to change this time?" My return message.

  She doesn't respond. We spend the next eight hours praying. Praying that the enemy stays on course, praying that engine two stays together, praying that they don't see it coming, praying that we're quick enough. The overwhelming white outline of the ship stays in our visual displays, shark hunting it's tuna. The only news is that it's Suncoast chasing.

  Our course puts us into the gravity well of the planet, makes us rotate and gives them a window to shoot. One window, assuming we stay on course, in 42 minutes. Twelve minutes after I expect to blow them out of the sky if they'll just frakkin cooperate. I go back to staring at my screens and watching the clock. Once again, it seems like a week passes before anyone talks again.

  "Captain, 5 minutes to point Alpha." Garcia calls me to attention. That's what I called the key point in all this. Clever, huh?

  "Copy. Intruder status?" I just checked 20 seconds ago, I have the same screens they do, but I can't help myself.

  "Unchanged."

  "Copy. All hands," not that they haven't been listening, but I need to talk to them. "Prepare for combat. I know everyone will do their duty. I want you to know I am proud to be your captain. Four minutes. Out."

  We slide past our saviors, I secretly give them a wave. Normally, we'd have the computers figure out just when to activate, but today my brain is the computer.

  "Mr. McAdams, missiles one and two, prepared course, full thrust, on my mark."

  "Ready, go on your mark." We left them in orbit a month ago. Three Javelins I am about to shove up somebody's unpleasant body parts. I had to figure out how to put us between them in just the right spot. Made me test every bit of math I haven't done since I graduated the Academy.

  "Wait.... Wait.... Now!" Her finger jabs forward a quarter inch onto her console. On visual, we see two missiles pitch over, accelerating beneath our travel plane.

  "Enemy rotating, they see them sir." Bass has the sensors facing. McAdams has them too, but she's working on the big finish.

  "Ready for number three, on my mark."

  "Ready, Skipper, on your mark." She has the devil in her voice again.

  I watch the screen, the enemy ship rolling to bring it's guns to bear on the first two missiles, my hands squeezing the armrests, waiting. There's a flash of light, missile one dies in the power of a 42 inch laser cannon, missile number two goes a couple seconds later

  "Now, Mr. McAdams, number three, full thrust, activate mines." Her finger bounces into her console again. The mine layer missile, not designed for ship to ship action, roars to life, we can make out its trail on infrared.

  Suncoast has fully rotated, her cannons facing where the first two missiles were, nothing but that big fat belly facing all those beautiful little nukes. Normally I would have saved one of the ship to ship missiles for the coup de grace, but they require a lot better aim than a flight of mines and we have no attack computers.

  "Now Mr. McAdams, release the mines, maximum dispersion." The finger flies one last time, so forcefully I'm surprised it didn't break the glass.

  No engines or power sources of their own other than the detonators, the mines release toward the enemy in free fall at the velocity the missile gave them, forming a widening conical shape. Suncoast's turning, desperately trying to bring her guns to bear, and to narrow her profile.

  If the systems were active, the computer would already have spoiled the outcome, told us what would happen, we'd know, this time no computers to help. But I know. A couple of them are going to miss high and low, but the rest, the rest....

  Three little splashes of white nuclear light erupt from the keel, then the body of the mines hit, and there is nothing but white light everywhere, filling our screens, cleansing our little piece of the universe. Everyone on the bridge is cheering this time, even the captain.

  "All stations, prepare for radiation and debris impact." Shelby taking care of her business.

  "Mr. Garcia, engines to standby." Me taking care of mine. "Nice work folks. Stay sharp. Let's not let one of those little pointy ships get by this time. RISTA, all sensors you've got, active and passive, survey the explosion site, advise if you find something."

  But I know there's not going to be anything. No significant pieces of debris heading our way, the radiation will have dissipated by the time it gets to us, and if those pointy ships can survive that, humanity is done anyway. I wait 10 minutes just to be sure.

  "Mr. Garcia, coordinate with RISTA, get us close." I get an aye in return. There's a two minute delay.

  "Skipper," Garcia at the ready, "information on your screen."

  I spend as little time as possible, I know the two of them won't screw it up.

  "Approved, you may fire when ready, Gridley." There's a note of puzzlement in her return aye.

  Yorktown pivots while the acceleration horns are sounding, then a very brief acceleration/decel program gets us back to 50,000 kilometers off the contact point, which is moving very quickly toward Gamma Omicron 1. An aircraft crashes and 50 years later they still find pieces of debris on the side of the same hill. Space craft blow and 50 years later the debris is half a light year gone. I go back to the ship-wide intercom.

  "Mr. Palmer, get your survey team on the move, have your damage control team report to the First Officer."

  "OohRah Captain," a very Marine reply.

  Shelby doesn't ask, and I don't tell, but I'm not going with them this time. My butt, though it's been wrong once recently, doesn't think there's anything interesting out there. She picks up her hand held and establishes radio contact with Sergeant Flanagan whose unit has DC duty. Sergeant McGregor is running backup, using the LS today rather than the sloop.

  Pal
mer must have known what was coming and moved his teams under the three gee acceleration, reminding me how crazy you have to be to be a Marine. It's only a minute since he got the order, and he's calling for launch clearance.

  "Yorktown, Marine Expeditionary Force requesting clearance to depart."

  "Copy, cleared to go, be careful out there, keep comm open at all times." I hope I don't sound as tired as I feel, Palmer gives me a crisp reply.

  We can feel the collar retract and the ZR push off from the hull, slight downward movement since it was parked on top of the ship. I have the external camera and the nav screen rotating on my left display to watch him, and I let the rotating status screens keep rotating on the right. Nobody else can view anything other than their base display, I'm the lucky one with all the extra wiring.

  Shelby exits the bridge to meet the damage control team, the hull breach being priority number one. I send Ayala down to Engineering to get a status report that won't have to play across the entire ship. Morale might suffer a bit if the jump engines are permanently out of commission. The screens I'm seeing look decent, but sometimes there's a nasty surprise at the center of the lollipop.

  Ayala gets back before Palmer gets to the debris, reports that engine one is good to go, the others are days away from operable, but there's nothing they can't repair. We'll need to prioritize systems, since recycling and parts of the environmental systems are out too. He took some initiative and visited Shelby, they both think the hole in Yorktown isn't life threatening, and the Marines can patch it up reasonably well. Six of our 18 cannons, though, are likely beyond fixing.

  Palmer took 20 minutes to get to the center of the debris field, but he finally reports back in. I take his camera feed onto my left screen and float though the ZR's main hatch and outside with him. No piece of the ship left that's big enough to see.

  "No large pieces of debris visible," comes the report.

  "Copy that," I come back. They search for a half hour before I call it off, nothing larger than an inch diameter in their collection plates. Two hours after they separated, we feel them reconnect and the collar engage.

  "Mr. Garcia, I want us into a stable solar orbit far enough away that anyone who comes looking for them won't find us. Report as soon as you know parameters."

  "Aye, Skipper, give me a couple minutes."

  She's back in one, and four hours later we've slowed enough that we'll circle the sun just outside of Gamma Omicron 2's orbit for thousands of years unless we do something about it.

  For the most part, we've been awake for 24 hours, but I make everyone finish their double check for latent damage, then I put the D.C. parties and second shift to bed, and tell them we'll wake them in eight hours. Then settle into the couch, not even bothering to watch the screens. If there's another shark coming for us we're not up for the fight, the ship nearly dead and its crew played out.

  We lost Sergeant Sullivan, and we lost Petty Officer Carver. He sealed the inner hull breach. She was out of her couch on her own initiative trying to get the last three jump engines on line by hand when the blast hit.

  After both shifts have had the chance to sleep, I assemble the crew, 53 now including the crews of the LS and ZR, in the Marines' open space on deck 2. Half of them are crying, the other half too numb. We have pictures of our two lost comrades on the projector, black background. I float to the far end of the room, trying once again to look like a captain. I am terrible at this, but they were my responsibility, and so is saying goodbye. I don't even try to keep the emotion out of my voice.

  "I wish there were words that could actually express how we feel right now, this minute. Two of our shipmates, our family, are lost to us today. Two friends gone. I stand here and tell you there is no good day to die. When we sign up for the service, Marine or Navy, we know it might happen, but in truth most of us live to old age without seeing that moment where death stares at us, daring us to pass by."

  "There is only one reason to give one's life. It is not king or country, it is not honor or glory, it is to save those we love, our family, our crew. I know that Sergeant Ethan Sullivan and Petty Officer Shae Carver did what they did for the love of the people in this room. Without their sacrifice, we would not be floating here today. We will never forget that, or them." My voice cracked a couple times, I give it a pause, gather myself for one strong command.

  "Company. Attention." We play the Marine Hymn and Navy Anthem over a stupid little pad speaker because that's all we have. I know they wouldn't have minded. Strangely symbolic that the Marine anthem mentions the US Navy's first frigates and the Navy anthem doesn't.

  "Company. Dismissed."

  Yorktown is a very quiet ship for the next two days as we get back to the business of repairs. The D.C. crew takes a pod out and patches the outer hull breaches, then we take off Sullivan's emergency inner hull patch and replace it with something more battle ready. I take Maria Garcia with me to recharge all of the pads that are glued to our walls, using the time to talk to her about duty and making sure she understands what I think she can become, and what paths lead away from that goal.

  Engineering is a jungle of floating engine parts, I still stop in to boost spirits. Recycling is up within 12 hours, so at least we won't have to go on water rationing. The Marines make sure every gun that isn't in a million pieces is ready to return fire.

  I perform another duty for the first time the second night. Palmer has to fill out his chain of command, and he's chosen to promote Corporal Christina Henson of 3rd squad to sergeant and put her over 1st squad, Sullivan's post, and make a battle field (i.e., temporary) promotion of PFC Zack Bronson to Corporal of 3rd squad. By the regs I have to approve the permanent promotion, so I use the chance to have another, happier, ceremony on board.

  Third day in orbit I'm on the bridge helping Garcia run a test of the temporary navigation server that's just gone live in the instrument room when my station beeps at me. I float over, hit the comm switch and find a message from Summerlin, in system, 18 hours out, with his two little buddies and all the spares we'll ever need. I let the crew know.

  We literally tether the LS to the ship and push it out into space so that all three of the arriving corvettes can dock on Yorktown. They've got fresh fruit and vegetables, and for the first time in a while there's a sense of normalcy on board, a big buffet on the Marine deck, everyone not talking about the last time we were up here together.

  Summerlin outdid himself. He's got a full set of 60 blades for our servers and brand new racks. Plus he brought a stunningly gorgeous woman who turns out to be a Chief Petty Officer and supposedly part of the group that designed the software for our servers. I'm sure the fact that he was stuck in a confined space with her for five days had nothing to do with his invitation.

  After we're fed and relaxed, I gather Shelby, Ayala, and the three corvette captains in my ready room. I serve them iced tea, we make small talk for a while, and thank the captains for their help. Then it's down to business.

  "My assumption is that we do a quick survey of this system, then jump to Theta to clean it out. I think we're keeping our little battle group together for now, no sending you off to fend for yourselves."

  "I suspect we have no choice other than to destroy the remaining ships, but I want to board one of them first if we can do it with a reasonable chance of success."

  That leads to 20 minutes of discussions about possible courses of action, and some argument about where to go after Theta.

  I have their attention, yet I pause, look down the line of them. I want to tell them what I know, but I don't. There are regs on first contact which include minimizing the number of people who know, and what the people who do know know. But that's not it, exactly. We know, but we can't prove it. Courtney's probabilities and my butt won't be enough until we find something beyond the five second recording. I move on.

  "Mr. Perez, how long until we're battle ready?"

  "Eighty hours, give or take." Shelby has the advantage of already being part
of the secret.

  "Then let's get back to work."

  Chapter 12

  It turns out that Summerlin's lady friend is good to her word, and we have the entire 60 server instrument complex back up in less than three days from disk images she brought with her. I never would have believed it, and we couldn't have done it without her. She even makes a temporary patch for the problem we had with the jump engine controls on manual, though I have no plans in which have to do things manually again.

  I don't want to leave until tests are completed on everything, particularly the software that controls the missile launchers and jump engines, so it's five days total orbiting the Gamma Omicron star before I deem us fit for combat.

  We send a combination of drones and corvettes out on short exploration missions during the down time until I'm sure that the mining ops on planet one, planet two, station Beta and planet six have not been visited recently, and no one is in orbit.