“I have some thoughts,” he concluded. “I suggest we get the rest of the Captains and CAGs in on this. We might be caught by surprise, but I refuse to be caught unprepared!”
27
Presley System
16:00 September 27, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Alliance Forty-First Fleet
“Pandora Isle is secure,” Major Konstantin reported, her voice drained. “No prisoners. No…”
She sighed.
“Nothing left,” she admitted. “Where do they find these motherfuckers? Entire towns leveled by artillery. My people can’t even count the dead. We evaced maybe twenty thousand people, and there might be another twenty thousand in the towns we haven’t reached or in hiding. This island was supposed to have eighty thousand people, sir.”
Kyle winced. The rumors and horror stories about the Commonwealth’s Pacification Corps were paling in comparison to the reality his people were now encountering—but no one had ever successfully taken a planet away from them before!
Everything combined totaled far less than the one destructive moment when they’d blown New Carpathia’s dome, but so much of the killing had been so much more…personal.
“How are your people holding up?” he asked.
“So far, so good,” Konstantin told him. “But…”
“But?”
“I strongly recommend that these troops are not deployed against Commonwealth forces again until they’ve spent time in counseling. All of them. including me,” she admitted. “After this…Voidshit, I can’t guarantee we wouldn’t do something we’d regret.”
“Understood, Major,” Kyle replied. “A thousand times over.”
His father had been a Marine in the last war and had ended up one of exactly seven suicides from post-traumatic stress disorder in the Federation afterward. Modern counseling was good—but you had to get it before it could help.
“I’ll make sure it happens,” he promised. It was probably going to require a major interruption in the ops plan to take the Marines back to Alliance space and find new ones…but he owed it to his people.
And if this mess wasn’t going to distract the Commonwealth, nothing was.
“How much longer?” he asked.
“Pandora was the last significant Corps presence,” Konstantin told him. “There are still major groupings of civilians for the locals to evacuate, but all that’s left are scattered companies and platoons now.
“We’ll coordinate with Open Ocean, but we should have the last of the Corps swept up inside thirty-six hours.”
“You don’t have thirty-six hours,” Kyle warned her. “We need to be on our way in twenty-four. Less, preferably.”
She sighed and nodded.
“We can clean up the major forces by then,” she promised. “We’re past the point where orbital bombardment is going to help, anyway. The locals can deal with the last few platoons if we make sure there’s no power armor left on this damned rock.”
“They’ll have to,” he said grimly. “The clock is ticking.”
“Sir!” Aurangzeb’s voice interrupted his conversation. “Alcubierre emergences! Multiple Alcubierre emergences.”
Kyle’s smile twisted.
“It seems, Major, that the clock has run out. Deal with the Pacification Corps. This mess is my problem.”
Vice Admiral Kyle Roberts turned his attention back to the feed in time for space itself to explode in front of his fleet, a ball of fire the size of the planet behind him lighting up a temporary new sun in the Presley System barely a light minute from Ambrose.
“What the hell was that?” Sterling demanded.
Kyle winced as the data on the explosion ran through his feed, and traded a look with his flag captain.
“You tell him,” he ordered Captain Novak.
“That, Senior Fleet Commander, is why threading the needle is the last resort of the deranged and the desperate,” she said gently. “And why you don’t change course in a warped-space bubble. Someone overshot, hit the needle, and fell off on the wrong side of caution.”
It had started as the regular pulse of Cherenkov radiation…and then had turned into the energy release of an entire ten-million-ton-plus warship converting itself to energy. Along with its crew.
“Eternal Stars,” Aurangzeb breathed. “That…that…”
“Was a starship,” Kyle finished for him. “And it’s one we’re not going to have to fight, unlike their friends. What do we have, Ops?”
Senior Fleet Commander Zartosht Aurangzeb shook himself, focusing on his duty to put away the terror of what he’d just seen.
“Commonwealth warships,” he stated the obvious. “I’ve got seventeen ships…left, I suppose. Mostly reading in the thirty- to fifty-million-cubic range, but I think there may be a couple of twenty-five-million-cubic-meter ships out there.”
“Nail down the details,” Kyle ordered. “So no Saints, no Volcanos, but there’s a Gods-accursed difference in threat level between seventeen Resolute-class battleships or seventeen Lexington-class carriers with a proper ratio of bombers.”
“We’re working on it,” Aurangzeb promised.
Kyle left them to it, focusing on the feed and linking in with his Captains.
“All right, people, it looks like we ran out the clock,” he said grimly. “We’ve got eight thousand Marines on the surface, so we aren’t running. That means we have to fight, and Walkingstick has sent a fleet with the hulls and starfighters to give us a run for our money.
“One of the poor bastards overshot, and that may have taken the odds from screwed to even, so let’s not waste it. Formation Alpha-One. Let’s head out to meet them, people.”
“What about the starfighters?” Bai’al asked.
Kyle smiled.
“They have their own job.”
“Will the radiation be damaging on the surface?” Green Dolphin asked, the voice behind the holographic icon clearly concerned.
“No,” Kyle told him. “Anything with a planetary-scale electromagnetic field or a military-grade electromagnetic deflector will be fine.”
The electromagnetic deflectors on his starships and starfighters, after all, were intended to deflect focused beams of charged antimatter. Even a solar mega-flare or the self-annihilation of an Alcubierre-drive starship paled in comparison to that threat.
“That’s…good, I suppose,” the representative of the organization that was now, basically, Ambrose’s government replied. “What about non-military ships?”
Kyle winced.
“Let’s just say it’s a damned good thing we’d evacuated your orbital platforms,” he said quietly. “And, well…I’m probably not going to bother blowing them up now.”
Once the radiation wave swept over the exotic-matter refineries, coil-growth facilities and other advanced, high-tech manufacturing facilities in Ambrose orbit, none of their sensitive electronics and systems were going to be functional.
Most likely, even their airlocks were going to be fused shut. Actually destroying the space stations would be almost pointless now. While it would be cheaper to restore the facilities than to build new space stations, it would take almost as long as building new manufacturing facilities.
That part of his mission was apparently complete. Now, however…
“We didn’t expect the Commonwealth to respond so quickly,” Dolphin said quietly. “The numbers don’t look good. I’m sorry.”
Kyle snorted. He’d known from the beginning that Open Ocean’s revolt was effectively, though unintentionally, a trap for his fleet. He’d tried to evade it by setting a time limit, but he’d guessed wrong.
“It isn’t as bad as the numbers look,” he told the civilian. “My ships are bigger and more advanced than theirs, though the fighter balance isn’t as heavily in my favor as I’d like.
“No, this fight had to happen sooner or later, Dolphin. This way, I at least get to set the terms of engagement, plus they blew up one of their own ships getting to me.”
“Is there any way we can assist?”
“Finish your evacuations and help my Marines get ready to move out,” Kyle told him. “This part is mine.”
“Then I shall get out of your hair, Admiral. Good luck.”
ECM drones flared out around Kyle’s fleet, concealing starships and starfighters alike from the incoming enemy. His formation shook out with calm practice—with three star-system invasions under their belt, his crews were comfortable with themselves and their Admiral now.
He’d organized his fleet into a rough cube, with a five-ship “wall” of battleships and battlecruisers forming the front face of the cube, and a second five-ship “wall” of carriers bringing up the rear. A hundred Falcon starfighters formed a protective screen in front of the battle wagons, helping keep Presley’s ever-present rocks from interfering with the formation.
“We have a count,” Aurangzeb told him over the tactical feed. “Better than it could have been, but we still might be in trouble.”
Kyle nodded wordlessly, trusting the implant link to carry the intent to his subordinate.
“Three battleships. All Resolute-class,” his ops officer started. “Older battlewagons, but still heavy hitters. No starfighters, but big lances and lots of missiles. Three strike cruisers, all Ocean-class. Nothing special about them, sixty fighters, a dozen launchers, bugger-all for offensive lances.
“Six carriers. Four are Lexingtons, but two are Paramounts. That’s the good news. They’ve got starfighters and bombers, but none of those six have missiles or lances worth mentioning.
“Four battlecruisers, including the joker in the deck,” Aurangzeb concluded. “One Hercules-class battlecruiser, presumably the flagship. Rest are Assassins.”
Kyle nodded again, then smiled viciously.
“I’m almost insulted,” he said aloud, making sure his voice was carried over the bridge and fleet link as well. “We spend a month poking holes in the Commonwealth’s vulnerable spots, and this is all Walkingstick has to send us? His second string of ships he wouldn’t trust in a real fight?”
The truth was a bit more complex, and he knew his people knew it…but there was a solid core of confidence to his intentionally boisterous enthusiasm. Seventeen second-rate ships were a real threat to his fleet, but one they could almost certainly defeat.
The problem, of course, was the Commonwealth commander was almost certainly running the same calculation and coming up with a different answer. The cold calculus of war suggested one of them was getting their inputs wrong, but there was only one way to find out.
“Forty-First Fleet will move to engage the enemy,” Kyle told his crews.
28
Presley System
18:00 September 27, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Alliance Forty-First Fleet
Twenty-seven Alcubierre-Stetson drive capital ships maneuvered toward each other through Presley’s debris-filled voids. Few systems in the human sphere could assemble that many warships. Even the Sol System’s immense economy could fund only a handful of warships without bankrupting itself.
Fleets of this scale took multi-stellar nation-states, not a single system. Whatever happened here today, Kyle was grimly certain Presley was about to see more than its annual economic output destroyed.
“They’re playing it cautious so far,” Captain Novak noted. “Starfighters moved forward about two million kilometers and are holding position there.”
She paused.
“Missile launch,” she reported calmly. “One-seven-zero inbound.” She shook her head.
“New birds too, Admiral. Ten-fifty gees.”
“Understood.” Kyle studied the screen for a moment, then smiled again. “Let’s return the favor. Senior Fleet Commander Aurangzeb!”
“Sir!” his ops officer responded crisply.
“All ships are to target the Hercules and launch missiles,” Kyle ordered. They’d have a better chance of taking out, say, the Paramounts, but with the carriers’ starfighters already in space, the old ships’ real role in this fight was already over.
More missile icons speckled the display. The range was still nearly two light-minutes, well out of range of any other weapon system in either fleet’s arsenal. The capital ship missiles could make the distance, though each salvo was the cost of an entire starfighter squadron.
“Are we limiting salvos, sir?” Novak asked. With the price tag of starship missiles, there were only so many of the weapons aboard the fleet.
“No,” he told her, then linked in the rest of the Captains. “Empty the magazines, Captains. I have no intention of holding back anything in our first real fleet action.
“We’ll pull back to Via Somnia after this to rearm and replenish our stocks. For now, let’s give our new friends everything we’ve got.”
Acknowledgements came back over the link, and a second salvo blazed out. Most of his ships carried a hundred missiles per launcher with a cycle time of a bit under a minute. By the time the first salvos arrived, he’d have thirty-five more salvos in space following them.
They’d be through the Commonwealth fleet before they could actually empty their magazines. His people knew what he meant, though.
Most fleet actions were decided by starfighters, and this one would be no different—but if he wanted the enemy to think he was courting a true ship-to-ship action, he had to play the game.
Despite the phenomenal acceleration and speed of missiles and starships, space combat still took time. Lots of it. From the moment the missiles first launched to their reaching the range of the starfighter screen in front of each fleet was over thirty minutes.
Those Falcons and Arrows dedicated for missile defense swarmed around the incoming missiles, lasers and positron lances flashing desperately. The capital ships behind them had been watching the missiles coming for half an hour themselves, and their own lasers and defensive positron lances opened up as well.
None of the missiles made it through. But the second salvo had been launched with that touch more velocity and that touch less far to go. The gap between their arrival was less than the gap between their launch times.
Each salvo came closer than the one before it, the line of explosions marching closer to his fleet.
Their own salvos weren’t even getting as close as the Commonwealth’s. The attackers’ fighter screen was far denser, with over eight hundred starfighters formed into a solid defensive screen in front of the Terran fleet. It was costing them starfighters, but it was stopping every one of the Alliance missiles.
And the Alliance’s own defense was costing them starfighters as well. Kyle watched the icons flash red and disappear off his feeds with a forced level expression.
He’d once been in a starfighter that had been too close to a successfully stopped missile. He’d lived, but his crew hadn’t—and he’d been grounded forever.
“Are we at Point Turkey yet?” he asked quietly.
“Negative,” Sterling replied. “Another three minutes and counting.”
So far, none of the enemy fire had reached his fleet—but he could only lose so many starfighters from his limited screen before that changed…
“Turkey in one hundred fifty seconds. Williams-Alvarez, you’re closest. Call the shot.”
Lakatos’s voice echoed in Michelle’s implant as she rechecked the positions of her fighters.
“SFG-012 ready for Turkey,” she told him. “Ready to call the shot.”
The hundred and ninety-two starfighters under her command continued to drift through one of the denser sections of Presley’s spread-out asteroid belts. SFG-012 was spread out across about half a million kilometers, each starfighter and bomber locked onto a hunk of rock big enough to conceal the eight-thousand-ton spacecraft.
The main use of those hunks of rock and ice was as heat sinks. Every erg of waste energy being produced by eight hundred Falcons, Vultures and Arrows was being dumped into Presley’s asteroids. With their drives down, their sensors deactivated
and their heat dumped into natural objects big enough to absorb it, Forty-First Fleet’s fighter force was functionally invisible.
They were also spread out across an arc some ten million kilometers wide. They’d been positioned based on the theory that any fleet had to be coming from Niagara, but that still left them with a lot of space to cover.
Michelle checked.
Her entire fighter group, bombers and starfighters alike, was going to be in range. Of the rest…well, most of the bombers would be in range for the torpedoes.
Everyone else was going to have to close the range. The sucker punch was on her.
“That Hercules is getting pounded by radiation, even if none of the fleet’s missiles have hit her yet,” she observed to her people. “Vrubel, one squadron only against the Hercules. Then the Resolutes, then the closer Assassins. One squadron each.”
As she spoke, Wing Commander Dusana Vrubel updated the targeting parameters for her bomber wing, forwarding the data back to Michelle. Eight bombers on each of the battleships and the modern battlecruiser.
That left one battlecruiser, the strike cruisers and the carriers unengaged.
“Alpha Wing, you’re with me on the last Assassin. Bravo Wing, Charlie Wing, Delta Wing: each of you takes a strike cruiser.”
“What about the carriers, ma’am?”
“This bunch of obsolete trash doesn’t even have missile launchers,” Michelle replied, keeping her voice as dismissive as possible. “Take out the escorts and they’ll know the game is up!”
Seconds ticked by as she waited for a response.
“Turkey in thirty seconds,” Lakatos told her quietly. “The call is yours, Vice Commodore. Everyone else will close in your wake.”
“Understood,” she replied levelly, checking the time and the position of the Commonwealth fleet hurtling toward her little section of space. If they hadn’t been using q-coms, the entire conversation would have risked their stealth—the lead formation of Terran starfighters was already past them!
Operation Medusa Page 18
