This was not the case with the Glorious Fleet of Liberation.
I guess whether you had as many warships as they did, the difference eight hundred or nine hundred ships was negligible, in other words it didn’t really matter. However, for those of us mere mortals with only two hundred warships to call our own, and many of them loaners on top of that, I can testify that one hundred losses in warships made for an intimidating number.
“Fleet is formed up around Commodore Druid’s flagship,
Grand Admiral,” said Lieutenant Commander Lisa Steiner.
“Inform the Commodore we’ve fallen far enough behind; I’m delegating operational command to him. Any indication Grand Admiral Manning intends to dispute things?” I asked.
“I’ll pass them along and no, Sir. Manning and his mutineers continue to maintain their grouping alongside but separate from the main fleet. However, no sign at this time that they’re refusing to follow orders,” she reported.
I found myself mouth open and about ready to issue new orders twice while she went about her business, but each time I bit my tongue. The urge to micromanage things from here or to hop on a Cutter and transfer my flag was almost overwhelming, but for any number of very good reasons I stayed right where I was and the Royal Rage limped along behind the rest of the fleet.
While I watched and the Rage played catch up, Commodore Druid organized the mass of ships that was First Fleet into an arrow head formation and hit the rear of the swirling mass of confusion and contradictory orders that was the rear of the Glorious Fleet of Liberation.
Splitting them down the middle, the Spineward Sectors Fleet fired both broadsides simultaneously and, like a hammer hitting a glass bowl, more than fifty warships of the Glorious Fleet were left disabled or destroyed and First Fleet suffered nothing more severe than a little shield damage.
“If they swarm around and attack the rear of Druid’s formation, they could snipe enough engines to stall our attack,” observed Lieutenant Hart, pointing toward a group of light warships that seemed ready to do just that.
“Then let’s do what we can to nip that in the bud,” I said, and then not just the Royal Rage but the half a dozen other cripples that still had working engines with us began to turn and present their broadsides.
“We have range on the potential flankers,” said Hart.
“Fire at your discretion,” I acknowledged.
Moments later our gun deck opened fire.
While we were raining pain on the enemy moving against the rear, a pair of Battleship squadrons rallied a small fleet and tried to make a stand at the front. Intent on blocking the way toward the battle taking place between the Bug ships and the Imperial fleet, the small group of seventy Old Confederation warships fell into what might pass for formation around the two squadrons of heavies and presented their broadsides.
“Do you want me to suggest the Commodore—” started Lieutenant Hart, “ah there he goes,” he said, as our own fleet turned side on and presented our own broadside.
“Somehow I don’t think eight Battleships against twenty is going to be a winning proposition,” I observed.
While the Battleships slugged it out, the Cruisers and Destroyers of the enemy were matched by the Corvettes, Cruisers and Destroyers of our fleet.
Druid exchanged three broadsides with the scratch force of Confederation warships and the enemy lit their engines and started moving.
“What the blazes?” I asked, bewildered as first the increasingly battered enemy Battleships tried to run away by themselves, only to be followed quickly by the rest of their scratch force which, instead of following the Battleships, scattered in every direction.
Resuming his advance, Commodore Druid pointed his ships back at the Imperial force and started moving again. Pushing his engines he crossed the T behind the fleeing Battleships and as every ship passed they fired another broadside into the rear of the cowardly Confederation Battleship squadrons.
As if angered by the attack on their Battleships, four squadrons of Destroyers formed up and charged right into the middle of the main body of first fleet—where over a hundred heavy laser strikes promptly disabled them.
“Their counterattack has to come at any time now. All they need to do is form up,” Lieutenant Hart said clinically, our battle with the stragglers to the rear already over and done with.
I narrowed my eyes. He had a point.
I straightened up in my chair and then glanced over at the still entangled Spheroid/Command Carrier mess and the rescue attempt by the Imperial to save their flagship. The Imperials were slamming coordinated fire into the Bug Sphere while over two hundred shuttles were transporting back and forth between the Sphere and the Carrier. I could only assume they were ferrying Marines over and either came back empty or else returned with survivors from the Carrier.
From this remove I genuinely couldn’t tell if they were still trying to contest the Carrier or simply save as many as they could, but knowing the Empire like I did I was pretty certain they were in it til the death.
“Lieutenant Commander Steiner, I have a message for the Glorious Fleet. Please prepare to put me on an open com-channel,” I said.
My Chief of Staff started with surprise, “Sir?”
I motioned for her to set up the broadcast and she gave herself a shake.
“Of course, sir,” she said quickly.
Half a minute passed and then she gave me the thumbs up.
“We’re ready, Sir. Go when you are,” she said.
I looked straight into the holo-pick up. “Members of the Glorious Fleet of Liberation, your leader Senator Charles Cornwallis is dead. With him died any chance you had of conquering the Spineward Sectors,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster. I honestly didn’t know if the Senator was dead or not but either way, it didn’t matter if it was true. I’d take anything that helped sow confusion and, more importantly, hesitation into the enemy ranks and seize it with both hands. “You have a choice to make...”
“Who does he think he is?!” Vice Admiral Justin Beecher from Saint’s Reach demanded in a rising voice. He looked around the table of the holo-conference for support and got several nods in the affirmative.
“Agreed. The Empire has assured us that Cornwallis is still alive aboard his Command Carrier and communications will be restored at any moment,” said Front Admiral Melissa March, chiming in with loyal support.
“Acting Commodore Chael Sonic of the Imperial naval flotilla assures me that with just one good pass we can crush the upstart colonials out here in the back end of the Confederation,” the Vice Admiral said in a rousing voice.
“Didn’t Front Admiral Loader say the same thing?” asked the querulous voice of Fleet Admiral Jessup, a man who had to be three hundred standards old if was he day.
Front Admiral Featherby coughed. “I believe his exact words were ‘they wouldn’t last three broadsides before they break and run’. Of course, the one who broke and ran was Admiral Loader,” said Featherby.
“That kind of defeatist talk is not allowed at this table, Featherby!” Admiral Beecher shrieked.
“I say, who let vice-commanders have speaking rights at this conference?” Mellissa March asked in a snide, cutting voice.
“Quite right,” said a Rear Admiral who was in command of nothing bigger than the SDF squadron from his home world but who, unlike Front Admiral Featherby, was the undisputed supreme commander of that detachment—under, of course, Praetor Cornwallis.
“As such and recognizing that defeatist talk like the Front Admiral’s is a direct harm to the Glorious Fleet, that same in its own way as a direct and physical blow to the body of every member of this command conference, I hereby exercise my authority as the most senior surviving Officer on the Confederation side of course,” he flashed a fake smile, “to mute Featherby in this and all future command conferences.”
“Hear hear,” Front Admiral Melissa March cheered.
“I am also, in consideration of every office
r in the room, filing charges against Featherby for assaulting a superior officer,” he finished triumphantly.
“That about sounds right,” Admiral March nodded sagely.
“That sounds like complete p-p-poppycock,” stuttered Admiral Jessup, pointing a finger at Vice Admiral Beecher.
“Featherby’s crimes against the morale of this fleet know no bounds! I dare say it quite nearly rises to a crime against humanity. How dare you defend him?” cried Beecher.
“I’m not defending the misguided traitor one way or the other. I’m s-simply saying that the day a Vice Admiral outranks a-a-a f-f-Fleet Admiral is the d-d-day I retire!” Fleet Admiral Jessup stuttered his way through the defense of his seniority before falling back in his chair gasping.
Vice Admiral Beecher’s triumphant look of scorn instantly wilted, curdling into a face of nothing but sour dissatisfaction. “I have the largest intact task force of ships. I should be in command. It’s my right. Its mine! Mine I tell you! Mine!” he shouted.
“I demand the right to defend myself from these ridiculous charges,” Front Admiral Featherby said, surprised to discover that he was unmuted, “since when did speaking truth to power become a crime against humanity? And second, this fleet has thousand year traditions and a clear chain of command. Usurping the rightful lines of authority can’t end anyway but badly. But more importantly we have to pull together or we’ll fall apart separately.”
“Un-muting yourself is insubordination,” shouted Vice Admiral Beecher pounding the table angrily, “and I’ll have you know I paid top dollar for my commission and it’s the highest one that money can buy. Which is why I have every right to get what I paid for: command of this Glorious Fleet! Brothers and sisters,” he said, turning to the other Admirals, “a dark day has come upon us and it’s clear that Fleet Admiral Jessup, the only other man worthy of this highly prestigious command which you have bestowed upon me, is suffering from heath issues and possibly mental health issues as well, a stroke or grand mal seizure or something of that nature. Which is why I am calling for a vote.”
“It was just a minor transient ischemic attack brought on by the excitement of battle. I’m already receiving the best medical treatment and my doctor assures me I’m not only f-f-fit for d-d-d-duty but I’ll be better than ever again in just a couple of hours,” Fleet Admiral Jessup said triumphantly and then raised his hands in the air, only one of them rising above shoulder level, “so make sure to cast your vote for me!”
Front Admiral Featherby covered his face with his hands.
“That’s exactly right, Fleet Admiral,” Beecher beamed, “which is why everyone who thinks Admiral Jessup should take command of this fleet raise your hands. On the other hand if Jessup fails an up or down vote of confidence, through no fault of his own, health reasons being what they are and all that,” he said sympathetically, and at this the Fleet Admiral nodded at Beecher gratefully, “I will have no choice but to accept the implicit endorsement of this council and assume supreme command of the Glorious Fleet until such a time as Praetor Cornwallis is restored to power.”
“Vice Admiral Beecher!” cheered Rear Admiral Mellissa March, lifting a fist triumphantly and sounding exactly like a paid cheer leader.
There was a shimmer of light as another person joined the holo-conference.
“What did I miss?” asked Admiral Loader, appearing in a seated position as the holo-table they were all sitting at automatically expanded to include him.
Admiral Beecher looked down his nose at the other man and refused to speak.
“We were just about to hold a vote,” Mellissa March sneered leaning away from Front Admiral Loader in distaste.
“What on?” he asked.
“Does the stink of defeat not diminish your arrogance in any way?” demanded Rear Admiral Mellissa March.
Front Admiral Loader flushed and then turned to Front Admiral Featherby, who coincidentally was sitting by his side.
“What are we voting on?” he asked.
“Don’t mind Featherby; he’s been muted,” sneered Vice Admiral Beecher.
Featherby shook his head.
“Beecher is proposing a vote of confidence. If it passes, Fleet Admiral Jessup assumes high command until Praetor Cornwallis returns to us. If Jessup loses, he’ll take that as our endorsement and attempt to assume command of the Glorious Fleet,” said the Front Admiral.
“Blast it, where exactly is that mute button!” snapped Vice Admiral Beecher mashing on several controls off screen, “pay no mind to the coward, Loader. His morale-busting rhetoric knows no bounds! Why, he even slandered you for a loser and insinuated we ignore the latest Imperial direction.”
Loader’s face immediately became guarded and he glared at Featherby.
“Why, expect if we un-muted him he’d even go so far as suggest we turn tail and run like dogs!” sneered Beecher.
“Still not un-muted, Sir. And for the record, while I recognize you were only interested in smearing me in front of this council, I was actually going to advise a temporary withdrawal until the fleet can be reorganized,” Featherby sighed.
“You cowardly dog, Featherby!” Front Admiral Loader said with disgust before giving the other man a withering look. He stood up. “I propose that this council of Admirals immediately recognize the threat we face and apportion a sufficient number of ships under my command to ensure the dastardly rebels of the Spine are crushed,” Front Admiral Loader said passionately, “this kind of war crime, the use of biological weapons, cannot go unanswered!”
“W-M-D!” shouted one of the minor flag officers in the room.
“Exactly,” Loader nodded firmly.
“Any such discussions are premature at best, at least until after the vote of confidence is concluded,” Admiral Beecher said strictly, glaring at Loader like he was trying to steal his firstborn child.
“Anyone who supports giving me command of enough forces to crush the locals has my vote,” Loader said firmly, causing both Beecher and Jessup to look at him sharply.
There was the partially muted sound of a chime going off in the background behind Vice Admiral Beecher, causing the other man to first look alarmed and then excited.
“Acting Commodore Chael Sonic has just endorsed my candidacy as the senior surviving Admiral for commander fleet,” Vice Admiral Beecher said, visibly swelling with pride.
“Again, I’d like to point out that Fleet Admiral Jessup is still very much alive and very much senior to you Vice Admiral Beecher,” Front Admiral Featherby said wearily.
“Quite right, son,” Fleet Admiral Jessup said, bleary eyes looking over at him appreciatively, “I’ve yet to medical out. As such, it is a hard and weighty burden but I believe that my health is up to it!”
“I can’t believe we’re sitting here arguing about command while the enemy is out there, literally at this moment, blowing our ships to kingdom come!” Front Admiral Loader said standing up passionately. “I can’t believe there’s no clear designated successor now that Cornwallis is dead.”
“Cornwallis is not dead,” snapped Beecher.
“It was suggested several times, but the Praetor personally vetoed the suggestion. It was assumed that whoever was senior would take over locally if there was ever an issue during battle,” Featherby said sighed, “but we can all see how that’s working out.”
“All of which is immaterial. We have the will. We have the forces. The rebels won’t survive three broadsides against the full might of the Glorious Fleet before breaking and running!” Loader cried, and then looked around confidently as if waiting for applause.
Vice Admiral Beecher was looking at him like Loader was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe, Rear Admiral Mellissa March rolled her eyes ruthlessly, and Fleet Admiral Jessup had a disappointed look on his face as if he’d expected so much more.
Meanwhile, a number of the one squadron rear Admirals were looking at him like he was crazy.
“Isn’t that what you said the last time
you went to face them?” asked one of the Rear Admirals.
“What’s your solution then?” demanded Loader confidence of before withering into scorn. “Stand around with are thumbs up our unmentionables and cast ballots while the rebels have the run of the battlespace? Waiting here is useless.”
“This fleet needs unity first and foremost if we are to regain the heights of our an-an-ancestors,” said Fleet Admiral Jessup.
“We have procedures,” Beecher chimed in scornfully before turning to the rest of the admirals, “that’s why I’m calling for the next vote and, unless your ship is under attack, I expect everyone present to cast a ballot. We’ll start with Mrs. March.”
“Why thank you, Vice Admiral,” Rear Admiral March simpered, looking at him under her eye lashes.
“I’m out of here! What we need is combat, not councils!” Loader said standing up furiously.
“I agree with Loader,” said Front Admiral Featherby, and then he turned to his fellow Front Admiral, “my squadrons are willing to work with yours, Front Admiral.”
“As if I would want a task force lead by two-faced, morale-busting double talker like you at my side—the answer is no!” Front Admiral Loader said dismissively.
“You really intend to buy into their lies and turn down help at a time like this?” Featherby asked with disbelief.
“The Far-Ban Sub-Fleet can take care of itself,” Loader said stiffly and then added, “if we need you we’ll call,” before cutting the connection and disappearing.
Featherby turned back and for a long moment looked back at the ongoing squabble as Admiral’s argued and voted to see who would be fleet leader while at that very moment ships were dying. There was nothing in this room worth dying for.
Following Loader’s example he severed his connection and exited the conference room he was using for the holo-conference.
“I take it the conference didn’t go well?” hazarded Fritters after one good look at his face.
Admiral's Nemesis Part II Page 58
