“All we’ve done so far is soften them up,” Cornwallis mused and lifted a finger, “I think that since we now have a better idea of their defensive countermeasures it’s time to do some real damage.”
The Commander Space Group looked at him in alarm.
“At the rate we’re going we’ll be able to keep the pressure on them, rotating our strike groups out to them and back to the carrier. Are you sure you want to adjust things?” he asked with concern.
“Unsupported fighter strikes, even with the new Strike II-A variant, are doomed to whittle away our combat power with little to show for it, nothing more. I think it’s time to ramp things up,” said Charles Cornwallis.
“You’re the Flotilla Commander, Praetor. What would you suggest?” the CSG said blank face.
“We take the Punisher’s remaining eight fighter wings,” the Senator opening his fingers and then clenching them into a fist, “and make a hammer capable of reaching into the center of the enemy—and then we rip out his heart.”
“What about complements of the Emperor Augustus and Imperial Road? They only have the old Strike I-B fighters but there are four wings of them,” asked the Commander Space Group.
Cornwallis nodded. “There’s no reason to sacrifice those fighters,” agreed the Senator, “on the other hand, the enemy shouldn’t have a chance to rest either. It will take some time, but within two hours I want one of those fighter wings to make an attack run on the Spineward Sector Fleet every hour on the hour.”
“They’ll be annihilated,” the Fighter Commander observed neutrally.
“The goal isn’t to do damage. Leap in, hit the enemy’s screen, and bounce back. I’m not looking to damage the locals so much as keep them at their posts. Let’s see what eight hours of continuous fighter strikes does to their morale before the main fighter group makes it’s move,” said the Senator.
Two hours later, the first of the old strike I-B variants made their attack. They hit the enemy screen and caused some damage to the Spineward Sectors Corvettes before shooting off and away with seventy of its fighters still fit to return to Imperial Road the Imperial light carrier that was its home.
An hour later, the next attack came—only this time the Corvettes moved out to engage, driving off the wing from Emperor Augustus without them even pretending to make a run at the heart of the Spineward Sectors Fleet.
Cornwallis' fingers on the arm of his chair clenched until they were white and then he turned to look at the CSG.
“For the Glory of the Empire,” he said, turning back to look at the screen stonily.
The CSG stiffened and then turned back to his station with a jerk. When the next fighter wing, comprised of one hundred fighters from the Imperial Road, were intercepted by the Corvettes screen, the Strike I-B variants the older style fighters didn’t turn away. Instead they stayed formed up and punched through the Corvettes, determined to attack despite the losses. With under sixty fighters fit for service, the remainder continued on an attack run deep into the fleet. Without regard for their lives, the Imperial wing engaged another Medium Cruiser and crippled her engines before a pitiful handful of Strike Fighters disengaged and succeeded in pulling away from the Spineward Fleet.
“Prepare a written commendation for each member of that Fighter Wing, both those that survived and those that did not, I’ll sign it,” said the Senator, continuing to look at the screen.
“That won’t bring their lives back, Sir,” spat the CSG.
“No, but a unit-wide medal will add at least a hundred credits a month to their family’s pensions and that, along with the commendation, will let their families know in no uncertain terms that their sacrifice was necessary for the good of the Empire,” said the Senator, still not looking at the Commander Space Group.
There was only silence from the CSG.
“Do we have a problem, CSG?” asked the Senator.
The Commander took a deep breath. “No, Preator. I’ll make sure to notify the six survivors of this attack of the commendation at once,” said the other man.
“Good,” said the Senator, still focused on the battle plot.
The CSG turned back after sending out the message, and then looked at the Senator breathing deeply several times before once again speaking, “Will the next two wings be required to make a similar sacrifice?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Cornwallis.
An hour later, the next group of old style Strike Fighters formed up like they were going to engage the Corvettes and then broke into individual squadrons and tried to skirt around them. A swirling dogfight ensued as they maneuvered around the Corvettes, several squadrons forced to engage the little warships directly while the remainder brushed up against several squadrons of Destroyers before turning back. They withdrew after leaving a pair of Destroyers streaming atmosphere.
In the end they withdrew with half their numbers.
The next wing of fighters came an hour later, these the last of the old style variants. Formed up like they were planning to smash directly through the Corvettes and engage the main fleet, they had orders to engage the depleted Corvette screen directly instead.
Fighters were shot out of the sky, but another three Corvettes were knocked out of service.
“Now it’s time for the decisive blow,” said the Senator as the survivors from the previous strikes continued to straggle in back home to their carriers.
“They still show no sign of movement, Sir,” noted Cornwallis’s Chief of Staff.
“He wants us to come to him,” said Cornwallis.
“Or he’s afraid of what we might have hidden behind the outer asteroid field, but either way we should not do what he wants,” advised the grey bearded Commodore.
“I agree. However this war won’t be won with half measures; at some point we’ll have to face them,” said the Praetor.
“But at a time and place of their choosing?” questioned the Commodore.
“No. Indeed not. Even if they appear weak in number that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” mused Cornwallis, “which is why I think I’ll send the Glorious Fleet out a few minutes before the main fighter strike from Mighty Punisher rams home.”
“You’re the Admiral…or Praetor, I suppose,” shrugged the Commodore automatically correcting himself, “I know I don’t need to remind you but I’m going to say it anyway. We have reliable reports that Admiral Montagne has access to a jump device capable of jumping a small fleet of ships both into and out of the hyper limit. I advise we proceed with caution.”
“You mean I should proceed with caution,” Cornwallis contemplated the other man silently before continuing as if as if that moment had never occurred, “well, caution has never been my strong suit but neither has stupidity. Which is why the glory of the first engagement will go to the Glorious Fleet of Liberation, if at all possible, and my Command Carrier will stay back with the rest of the Flotilla.”
“An excellent suggestion, Praetor,” said the Commodore, prompting Cornwallis to give him a sharp look.
Finally it was once again the Mighty Punisher’s turn, and with over eight hundred new variant Strike Fighters—and the permission of Praetor Cornwallis—the CSG sent eight full wings right down the Spineward Sectors' throat.
The Corvettes were overwhelmed and more than half the remaining warships destroyed as an overwhelming force of Imperial Strike Fighters the II-A variant smashed through the defensive screen. Belatedly realizing the sheer size of the attack, many Destroyer squadrons not already in the path of the Imperial fighter tsunami scrambled to re-position and face the new threat. Others broke formation, pulling back and gathering together with other ships from the same star system in order to defend each other.
The tight, interlocking fields of fire the Spineward Fleet had set up were broken as individual System Defense Force leaders panicked and broke ranks.
Not waiting for the Spineward Sectors Fleet to get its act together, wave after wave of Strike Fighters smashed thro
ugh a pair of Destroyers and shot forward into the gap caused by the locals' loss of fleet control.
Ignoring the easy pickings that were the now several, small, divided SDF commands, the still more than six hundred strong
Strike Fighter, under the order of their Imperial Wing Commanders, aimed themselves right at their real targets: the Spineward Sectors Battleships.
Lasers flared and chain guns roared while a converted Imperial Medium Cruiser, now a Spineward Sectors refitted Heavy Cruiser, the Furious Phoenix shot forward opening fire with its plasma cannons, sending streams of plasma balls at the attacking Strike Fighters.
Losses were heavy, but the Imperial fighters closed into close attack range and swarmed. That was when they revealed that several of the fighters had special munitions attached to their undercarriages.
Chapter 48: Agitation and Deadly Losses Among the Fleet
One moment we were surrounded by Strike Fighters, and the next an explosion rocked the starboard side of the ship. Fortunately the shields held.
“Shields are down to 40% on the starboard side. We have spotting,” reported Junior Lieutenant Longbottom.
“What was that!?” I demanded.
“I don’t know, Sir. But I have multiple bogies on an attack run on the starboard flank; they’re trying to get inside!” shouted an Assistant Tactical Officer.
“Whatever that, was it caused a feedback in the shield system and flipped half my surge protectors,” reported Longbottom.
“All gunners are to fire at will. I want those fighters gone; Gunnery has to keep them off of us and make sure whatever that was doesn’t happen again,” snapped Lieutenant Hart.
“They’re getting too close—permission to take action,” urged DuPont.
“Permission granted. Roll! Roll! Roll!” snapped Lieutenant Commander Snyder issuing an order to the helm.
The Royal Rage began to ponderously rotate.
“Enemy fighters are adjusting; they’re still aiming for our backside,” reported Assistant Tactical.
“Load balance those shields, Junior Lieutenant,” I barked.
“Gunnery! Where are those chain guns?” demanded Hart as lasers whined and what had to be every single laser on the ship fired as fast as they could.
“Enemy fighters have just penetrated the shields on the port side!” Ensign Terry Pentadra's voice cut through the fray.
There was a momentary pause.
“Where are my chain guns!” shouted Lieutenant Hart even as the chain guns opened fire now that the shields had been penetrated.
“They’re coming around for our engines,” said Pentandra as a pair of fighters fell victim to the Royal Rage’s defensive fire.
“Chain guns!” Hart roared into his portable microphone and the Imperial Strike Fighters opened fire. In a fit of rage, the Tactical Officer smashed his microphone into the edge of his desk, breaking the head clean off the stand as the port engine flickered and then died, going into an emergency shutdown procedure.
“I can break formation. Do you want me to maneuver for effect, Admiral? We might shake them off,” demanded DuPont hands eagerly holding onto his control sticks.
“Hold formation, Helmsman,” I said, fighting the urge inside of me that said every other ship in the fleet was there to protect me and not the other way around, “others may have abandoned their duty but we will not break faith with our brothers and sisters. The Royal Rage is a Battleship and Battleships hold the line.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” DuPont said, straightening his shoulders before reapplying himself to his maneuvering thrusters.
I turned back to Tactical. “What are we doing about those fighters?” I demanded as an explosion rocked the ship and coolant started venting from the coolant lines that kept our main engines from overheating.
“The lasers can pop them like a bubble but they seem to have some kind of shield or magnetic grav-plating that’s stopping our chain guns from getting a quick kill. It takes multiple hits on target, Grand Admiral,” reported Hart as half a dozen fighters died and a dozen more came to take their place, “I think we’re being deliberately targeted.”
“That’s not what I asked!” I barked as another explosion rocked the rear of the ship.
“The starboard engine is down. I say again: both the port and starboard main engines are down,” reported Adrienne Blyth from Damage Control.
I slammed a hand into the armrest of my throne.
“What’s happening to my flagship!” I demanded as both of the secondary engines flashed yellow and then turned amber on my damage control screen.
“The power runs and coolant lines have been heavily damaged. Secondary engines offline until Engineering can survey for emergency repairs,” reported the Damage Control Technician.
“That won’t be happening any time soon. Being on the hull right now is suicide,” said First Officer Snyder.
More enemy fighters took damage and were destroyed and then, like the ocean tide, the latest wave of Strike Fighters receded and pulled away.
“Sweet Crying Murphy, how the name of creation did they penetrate our shields like that so quickly?” I asked, as all around the Battleships of the fleet Imperial fighters turned and began to flee. Where they had started with seven-to-eight hundred Imperial Strike Fighters, they had to have ended up with less than half of their original number with more being chased down and destroyed by a tide of our furious Destroyers.
“It must have been some kind of energy torpedo. I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Lieutenant Hart.
“It sure did a number on our shields, Sir,” said Junior Lieutenant Longbottom.
“Figure it out,” I growled turning away. Unfortunately I had more important things to worry about because, as bad as our condition, was the state of the fleet was even worse.
Five Spineward Sector Battleships were drifting, stranded in cold space their engines either too heavily damaged to function or outright destroyed. They were stuck their until their engines were repaired or they were taken under tow.
But worse than the damage to a fifth of my wall of battle, was the state of the New Confederation’s First Fleet.
“Sir you need to take a look and listen to this,” said Lisa Steiner who, not waiting for my reply, immediately shoved an ear bud into my ear and then a data slate into my hands.
The com-channels were literally in chaos.
Recriminations were sent flying as Captains and Admirals, appalled by the damage taken by the fleet, accused one another of everything from incompetence to outright mutiny and cowardice in the face of the enemy in order to save their lives.
Even worse, I, Grand Montagne was being accused of not doing my job. Of criminal negligence and cowardice in the face of the enemy for being unable to exert proper command control over the damaged squadrons and destroyed starships.
I’d had enough.
I immediately ordered the fleet back into formation, which caused several SDF detachments to move even further away from the main fleet. When they started to group together for mutual protection outside of the main fleet, I grit my teeth. Enough was more than too much.
Incensed, I was ready to wash my hands of them. So they wanted to ignore their fleet commander and walk their own road? Well, why ever not?! Just don’t come crying to me when you’re about to be destroyed by the Empire!
However, instead of letting them kill themselves I decided to call for an emergency fleet holo-conference instead.
“Get me the commanders of those SDF groups that are standing apart from the fleet,” I commanded.
“Yes Sir,” said the Com-Officer.
He turned to me looking perplexed.
“I have Grand Admiral Manning on the line. He said you’d want to speak with him,” said the com-officer.
I frowned at the other man. “I said I wanted to speak with the commander or commanders of those warships that have left formation without orders.”
“I tried, Sir! They rerouted me to the Grand Admiral—I mea
n the other Grand Admiral, Sir!” replied the Officer.
My eyes turned to narrow slits. There was trouble in the wind and it smelled like Grand Admiral Manning.
“Put him through,” I ordered. This was the second time Manning had put himself between me and a band of mutineers. What exactly was his angle? Was he trying to embarrass me so that he could strip me of my officer and take over the Confederation Fleet? I wondered but I didn’t know.
Well, it was time to find out.
“Grand Admiral Montagne,” Manning pursed his lips in greeting as soon as he appeared, “what can I do for you?”
I snorted, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Grand Admiral Manning?”
“I was under the impression you were the one initiating the call, Grand Admiral,” he shot back, calm but firm.
“I wanted to speak with the leaders of a potentially mutinous group of warships,” I said my voice cooling, “then you intercepted my call,” I paused for effect, “unless you’re here to tell me you’ve entered into a state of mutiny I’m afraid I’ve got the wrong man and you, Grand Admiral, have got me all wrong.”
“No, I believe I already have your measure, Fleet Commandant,” Manning retorted and then arched a brow, “as for a mutineer? Hardly.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” I shot back.
“About my familiarity with you or my loyalty to the government?” he asked curiously.
“I was going to say 'both,' but nice dodge on that last little bit there.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Manning snorted.
“Oh. I think you take my meaning exactly. Loyalty to the elected government and obedience to the chain of command should go hand in hand, but in point of fact they actually are very different things. As many a maverick and, for that matter, future despot has discovered.”
“I find it curious how you equate mavericks with despots, everything considered, Fleet Commandant,” he said exhaling through his nose.
It was my turn to arch a brow. “What I find curious is how you have consistently put yourself on the side of a group of warship commanders who seem intent on getting this fleet killed with their refusal to obey orders and if that doesn’t count as mutiny, refusing orders that by refusing are going to get good men and women in uniform killed, then I’m not entirely sure what does,” I riposted.
Admiral's Nemesis Part II Page 50
