* * *
Roman felt—again—the absurd urge to whisper as the enemy fleet swept towards Midway. The tracks shown on the main display suggested that Justinian’s fleet would pass far too close to Midway, close enough for Justinian’s ships’ passive sensors to pick up his own ship, if the opposition was lucky. The cloaking device emitted a tiny level of turbulence, after all, and the enemy might well detect their presence. And if that happened, Roman would have to be very lucky and skilful to get his ship away before the enemy blew her into dust.
“One hundred and seventeen superdreadnaughts,” the sensor officer said. His voice was very low, as if he could avoid being overheard. “Seventy carriers of various designs. Two hundred heavy cruisers, including some that seem to be of a new class we haven’t logged before. Four hundred destroyers, and over a thousand gunboats. That’s enough firepower to punch out the defenses of pretty much any star system apart from Earth.”
“Log it and transmit the data back to Magnificent,” Roman ordered. The laser beams they used for communication were impossible to detect unless a starship accidentally crossed the beam’s path, something that was very unlikely. “Are they trying to use ECM to fool us into believing that they’re stronger than they actually are?”
“They have some fuzzy ECM up and running,” the sensor officer said slowly. “The level of drive turbulence matches the ship count, however, which suggests that the count is fairly accurate.”
Roman winced. All drive fields emitted a certain amount of gravimetric distortion, allowing a starship’s class to be determined even outside active sensor range. A superdreadnaught couldn’t pretend to be a destroyer without some fairly radical and expensive drive modifications, but the reverse was an easy task. A destroyer could pretend to be a superdreadnaught and get away with it, provided no one scanned the ship with active sensors. But an active sensor scan would reveal the truth very quickly—and reveal the ship scanning them very quickly as well.
Roman couldn’t risk that, not so close to the enemy fleet.
“Update the transmission with that information,” he ordered. One way or another, Admiral Drake had to have that data. “And then...”
He broke off as the tactical console sounded the alert.
“They just saw us,” the tactical officer reported. “They swept us with targeting sensors and locked on to the hull.”
Roman swallowed a curse. “Helm, swing us around and get us out of here. Tactical, deploy ECM drones to confuse them; set them to maximum power, now!”
Midway’s internal gravity shivered as the starship spun around and accelerated away from the enemy fleet. Unlike a ponderous superdreadnaught, Midway could accelerate at an astonishing rate; nothing larger than a starfighter or a gunboat could hope to catch her if she had a reasonable head start.
The display sounded a second alarm as the enemy CSP rotated and came after the cruiser, but Midway was already well on her way. The starfighters in pursuit posed a very real threat, yet before Roman really started to worry about them, they turned and fell back to their carriers. While he wasn’t sure why they had done that, Roman allowed himself a sigh of relief.
“Signal Admiral Drake,” he ordered. “Transmit the final data we collected, then request orders. We can watch them from this position, or we can rejoin the other ships, whatever he wishes...”
Roman settled back into his chair. It would be hours before they heard from the admiral and, until then, Roman’s duty was clear. They would continue to observe the enemy fleet from a safe distance and keep the admiral updated. The admiral would need all the data Roman’s people could produce.
“Deploy a shell of drones to surround us,” he added, addressing the sensor officer. “If they feel like trying to sneak up on us, I want to detect them before they get too close.”
* * *
Commissioner Williams looked dreadfully tired, the malicious part of Marius’s mind noted, even though he’d convinced the commissioner to get some sleep before the battle began. In fact, it looked as if the man hadn’t slept at all, something Marius remembered from his days as a very junior officer. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the eve of a major battle either. The Blue Star War had cured him of that, at least.
“Commissioner,” he said, by way of greeting. “We are approaching the outer edge of the engagement sphere.”
He waved a hand at the display. The enemy fleet—and his own—was surrounded by a transparent holographic sphere that marked out the moment when both fleets could open fire. One advantage of fighting a civil war—although it wasn’t something he was going to point out to the Senate—was that it was easy to categorize the other side’s forces...although they could obviously do the same. Unless Admiral Justinian’s research programs had borne fruit, there wouldn’t be any real surprises in store. The Federation’s own research programs, which had been given a sudden boost by the war, held out the promise of new hardware, but nothing new had really been developed.
He did have a couple of surprises up his sleeve, yet they were really just improvements on current technology. The Senate’s freeze on technological development had cost the human race dearly.
“Thank you,” Williams said. He sounded tired, as if he were struggling to hold back a yawn. “How long until we launch starfighters?”
“Ten minutes,” Marius informed him. “We don’t want to strain their life support packs too much.”
He settled back to watch the final approach. The enemy ships were turning slightly, presenting their broadsides to the Federation Navy. That wasn’t too surprising—indeed, he’d ordered his own ships to begin a comparable motion—and it suggested that Admiral Justinian was thinking along conventional lines. If Captain Garibaldi’s estimate of their strength was accurate, Admiral Justinian was outnumbered and outgunned. The question was simple: did he understand his weakness? A weakness could be turned into a strength if used properly.
“Record,” he ordered the communications officer. “Admiral Justinian, this is Admiral Drake. You are outnumbered and outgunned. In order to spare the lives of our crews who will die in the coming battle, I wish to offer you a chance to surrender. I am authorized to offer you and your senior staff a chance to go into exile, along with your families, if you surrender now. Your junior crews will receive a full pardon. You have five minutes to respond.”
He looked up at Williams, who nodded. “Transmit the message,” Marius ordered. “Wide-band transmission. I want them all to hear it.”
* * *
“Admiral, we’re picking up a message,” the communications officer said. “It’s a wide-band transmission, direct from the enemy fleet.”
“Trace the source,” Admiral Justinian ordered. “Let’s hear it.”
They listened to the message in silence.
“Do you want to surrender?” Caitlin asked, finally. “Your family could live...”
Justinian shook his head. His backers had warned him that the Senate would make many false promises to gain victory. He wasn’t blind to the use of the wide-band transmission either, or what it implied. One of his junior officers would get a free pardon if he stuck a knife between his ribs. And yet, he’d picked all of his subordinates for loyalty. They’d stick with him.
“No,” he said sharply. The enemy ships were just coming into engagement range. “Launch starfighters. All batteries lock weapons on target and prepare to commence firing.”
“I can’t trace the source,” the communications officer reported. “They relayed it from all of their ships, sir.”
Justinian nodded, unsurprised. The Book said to keep the flagship’s identity concealed as long as possible, after all, and it was one piece of wisdom that everyone followed. They’d learned from Admiral Parkinson ...
“Starfighters away, sir,” Caitlin reported. “They’re falling into attack patterns now.”
“Good,” Justinian said. He’d win the battle yet. “Order them to press the offensive as hard as they can. No mercy.”
* *
*
“There was no response, sir,” the communications officer reported.
“I think they’re going for the old boot in the head response,” Marius said and smiled. The display was sparkling with new icons as the enemy starfighters launched from their carriers, turning towards his fleet and preparing to attack. “Launching starfighters is a pretty good way of saying fuck off.”
He looked over at the communications officer. “Record a second message,” he ordered. “This is Admiral Drake, Commanding Officer of the Grand Fleet. Your admiral has rejected a demand for his surrender, even though we offered to guarantee his personal safety and that of his subordinates. I am extending the offer to his entire fleet. Cut your drives and weapons and stand down; we will accept your surrender and treat you as honourable foes under the Articles of War. I say again; surrender now and live...”
“No response,” the communications officer said after a moment.
“Are they insane?” Williams frowned.
“Perhaps they’re loyal, or perhaps they don’t believe us, or perhaps...they’re not in a position to surrender,” Marius countered. “He could have loyal troopers on the bridge of every one of those ships, enforcing his orders.”
“But they’ll die, too,” Williams protested.
“Of course they will,” Marius agreed tiredly. “It doesn’t really need that many idiots to turn a brief confrontation into a raging war. Just ask the admiral who lost the Battle of Spider Bite.”
He snorted at Williams’ expression. Evidently the man hadn’t believed that Admiral Justinian would stand and fight.
“Launch all starfighters,” Marius ordered Admiral Mason, “but hold the CSP in reserve, as planned. It’s time to test out what the new units can do.”
“Aye, sir,” the CAG said through the intercom. Admiral Mason had drilled the starfighter pilots extensively and it showed; they were responding at astonishing speed. “Permission to launch fighter strikes?”
“Granted,” Marius said. “Just make sure that you avoid our engagement envelope.”
He allowed himself a tight smile as the two clouds of starfighters raced away from their respective fleets. In a few moments, no less, he’d know if his gamble had paid off...or if he was about to command the greatest disaster since the Battle of Athens.
His lips twitched. After everything else, there was one important point to recall about that battle: Despite how bad the Battle of Athens had seemed at the time, the Federation Navy had actually won the day.
Chapter Forty-Three
Individually, starfighters aren’t dangerous opponents to a starship. But when operating in sufficient numbers they can be deadly.
-Observations on Military Tactics, 3500 A.D.
Lombardi System, 4097
Flight Leader Joe Buckley was not a happy man.
First, he had allowed himself to be seduced into joining Admiral Justinian years ago, lured by the promise of merit-based promotion and a fairer deal for the newly-settled colonies, such as the one his family lived on. Second, the admiral had lost the opening battles of the war and had found himself condemned to a war of attrition, a war that Joe was convinced the admiral couldn’t win. And finally, Joe was leading a strike force right into the teeth of enemy firepower.
Joe was no coward—no one who flew a starfighter into combat could be called a coward—but the odds were badly against the rebels, and he knew it. The sane course of action would be to fall back to Harmony or Jefferson, daring the lickspittles to do their worst.
“All wings, form up on me and prepare to kick some serious ass,” he ordered. The Senate’s lapdogs had formed a fairly typical formation, with the lighter units moving into position to shield their bigger brothers from oncoming starfighters and missiles. They’d probably charge in, launch their missiles and then charge out again. “Prepare to...”
He broke off in surprise. He’d expected the enemy starfighters to move out to counter his men’s strike in order to engage them in a brutal dogfight. Instead, they were moving away, as if they intended to dogleg around his force and attack the carriers and superdreadnaughts.
For a few seconds, he puzzled over their tactics, and then decided that the scumbags thought their point defense would suffice to deal with his strike. The thought made his lips curl back into a pitiless smile. His pilots had been drilling constantly since the war had stalemated and knew everything there was to know about their craft. They were the most experienced pilots in the universe. If the sons of bitches wanted to give them a free shot at their hulls without having to worry about opposing starfighters, it was fine by Joe.
“Prepare to engage,” he ordered. “On my mark...go!”
The starfighters wheeled around, rocketing at their new targets. It would have been more amusing if the enemy fleet had been turning and trying to escape, but no superdreadnaught could hope to outrun a fighter, at least in the short term. In the longer term, they’d have their chance to escape while the fighters returned to their motherships for rest and replenishment…yet oddly, they weren’t even trying to run.
He frowned as his HUD illuminated with new search radars and active sensors, wondering just what the enemy had in mind. The starfighters, ducking and weaving as they were, presented an almost impossible target. Any hits to any of the ships under Joe’s command would be made at least partly through sheer luck.
“Leaders, designate your targets,” he ordered as the enemy ships grew closer. They still weren’t engaging his ships with point defense, something that made almost no sense at all. Even if they didn’t hit a single fighter, they would still scatter his formation and make it impossible for Joe and his men to launch a coordinated strike.
Superdreadnaughts flashed red in front of his eyes as he marked targets, knowing that the ugly ships couldn’t hope to escape. An individual starfighter, even one armed with antimatter missiles, wasn’t that dangerous, but the swarm would kill. He ignored anything smaller, knowing it could be mopped up later.
“Prepare to separate...” Joe ordered, but then broke off. “Jesus Christ!”
The small enemy ships, the ones he’d dismissed, opened fire. They put out an impossible rate of fire, thousands of plasma bolts, pulsar bursts and antifighter missiles blazing from their hull, straight into the teeth of Joe and his men. He and his fighter jocks were well-trained and aware of the dangers of enemy point defense, but they’d never—not even in their worst nightmares—dreamed of such a savage defense.
His formation scattered as some of his starfighters began to explode, picked off by Federation ships...dear God, he realized, they must have packed the ships full of antifighter weaponry and nothing else. The Book frowned on single-purpose ships, yet it was clear that the designer of this little stratagem, probably Admiral Drake, hadn’t read The Book. Or hadn’t paid attention. And it had paid off for him handsomely.
“All units, abandon current strike plan,” Joe ordered. “Form up on me and hit those point defense ships!”
He desperately threw his starfighter into a series of twists and turns that should make it impossible to track and hit his craft. Even so, the assholes might score a hit on his ship by pure luck; as no one had ever built a starfighter that could carry shields, a single hit would destroy his ship. If he were lucky, he might manage to eject into space before the ship went critical.
He cursed under his breath as his formation gradually reassembled. Squadrons and wings had been scattered by the point defense storm, leaving each starfighter’s assigned unit well under strength. His squadron had lost five pilots—five out of twelve—and few of the others were in any better shape. No wonder the enemy starfighters had refused to engage; they’d known precisely what kind of shit-storm Joe Buckley and his pilots were about to encounter.
As the fighters formed up on him, he barked orders. He knew, without consulting with the CAG, that they had to take out the new starships first. Their point defense would be even more effective against missiles, which meant that Admiral Justinian’s fl
eet would be fighting at a severe disadvantage. On the other hand, taking the starships—the battle computers rated them as nothing more than cruisers—would cost the lives of hundreds of his pilots.
But there was no choice, he realized. One look at the overall tactical display revealed that the two fleets were too close together to avoid engagement.
“All units, designate your targets and follow me in,” he ordered, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Here we go...”
The starfighter tilted and dived at its target, a light cruiser spitting fire and death. His pilots followed him, carefully keeping their trajectories random, although that didn’t save a dozen more of his pilots from being blown out of space in the first few seconds. Joe mourned their deaths with one part of his mind, even as another part tracked the enemy craft and silently plotted revenge. A cruiser couldn’t hope to soak up the same amount of fire as a superdreadnaught, so only a handful of missiles would be needed to blow the bastard out of the sky.
He selected his missiles, flew straight for as long as he dared—about four seconds—and fired two shipkillers at his target, just before yanking his craft out of the path of a plasma bolt that would have wiped him out of existence. The enemy computers, tracking the battle as best as they could, were good.
He had the satisfaction of watching seven missiles strike home. The cruiser begin to disintegrate into a ball of fire and light.
And then an errant plasma bolt scored a glancing hit on his fighter’s drive array. The starfighter spun out of control, right for one of the other anti-starfighter cruisers. He reached for the ejection handle and started to pull it, hoping he could get out in time.
But it was too late. He didn’t even have time to curse before a second plasma bolt struck his ship, vaporizing it instantly.
* * *
“Admiral, their fighter assault has been blunted,” Raistlin reported. “They’re preparing to launch missiles.”
Barbarians at the Gates Page 42
