A glance at the plot showed the rest of her force hanging in tight. Zukaku was the flagship of the force, and the reason for its existence. The eight million ton hyper VII carrier was one of the most modern ships in the fleet. She carried almost the same defenses as a battle cruiser, though she was somewhat light in armor. Her offensive power rested in her wing of warp fighters, seven squadrons of the two thousand ton faster than light ships, the newest model in the Imperial inventory. The fighters could warp space at the equivalent of twenty light, and do so deep into most gravity wells, though they still had problems close to a star or very large gas giants. What they couldn’t do was traverse hyper, and as fast as they were inside a system, they were consider slow as hell at interstellar distances. So the ninety-eight craft needed the capital ship to move them between the stars.
A pair of light cruisers and a quartet of destroyers were along to guard the capital ship against enemy vessels and missiles. If they ran into something really big they would die along with the carrier. If it were somewhat smaller, their deaths might allow Zukaku to get away. The mission called for none of them to come into close action with the enemy. But then again, the Cacas might have something to say about that.
“We’ve completed preliminary scan of the system, ma’am. Everything seems to be as we thought.”
“Tell the escorts to stay alert,” she cautioned, her nerves on edge. This was her first multiship command, and she needed the mission to be a success if she wanted to move higher up the ladder. Getting it shot to hell by some ships lying doggo in the outer system was a sure way to fail.
“First warp fighter squadron is requesting permission to launch,” called the captain in charge of the wing. He would control them from the ship, having graduated from flying to command.
The admiral knew that the pilot captain didn’t like his promotion, preferring to be out there with his craft. To damn bad, she thought. Those multiple squadrons needed direction from above, and since she had not been a flier, it was not in her skillset.
Rodriguez was well aware of her strengths, but being an intelligent woman she was also cognizant of her weaknesses. She was not what one would call a diplomatic person. In fact, she barely got along with the people under her, who thought her aloof and uncaring. The last part was not true, as she did care about her people, since they were the ones who made her a success or failure. What she had was an advanced skillset as a ship handler and tactician, and the instincts of a winner. That’s what had gotten her to this point, and she was depending on those skills to keep her alive and fighting until this war was over.
“First squadron can launch. And give them my wishes for luck in their scout.”
The first fourteen craft were pushed out of the carrier by their grabber units, appearing on the plot as their drives gripped space and pulled them along. It was the same drive used by the warships, though nowhere near as powerful. The warp ships could at most make two hundred gravities, versus the over five hundred for the warships. Then they engaged their Alcubierre drives and disappeared from the plot for a moment, going from under light speed to the equivalent of twenty times faster in as many seconds. They could still be tracked, though not as well, and the image on the plot was an approximation of where they were.
“First squadron away, ma’am,” reported the wing commander, his youthful face appearing on a holo by her chair. “Time to inner system scout completion, twenty-three minutes.”
It couldn’t come too fast for her. The sooner she could launch the rest of the birds, let them do their business, and leave the one squadron behind to police the system, the better she would like it.
“First squadron is reporting contact with enemy ships,” said the wing commander. “Looks to be about a dozen commercial ships sitting in their belt.”
“Tag them and move on,” ordered the commodore. “I want to find their system defense force.”
“If there is one,” said the tactical officer.
“There has to be one. Intelligence said this is a system that makes magnetic components for accelerators. So they have to have some kind of defense in place.” And if they don’t, thought the admiral, staring at the plot, where the hell did those ships go?
They hadn’t expected a large defense force. This wasn’t, after all, a major industrial system turning out ships, missiles, or components for drives. Still, magnetic accelerators were used in a lot of vital systems. Missile tubes and particle beams to name a couple.
Rodriguez sat on the edge of her seat for almost another twenty minutes before what she was looking for came onto the plot, as the ships tried to move away from the warp fighters they had to think were after them.
“It’s looking like two of their supercruisers and a quartet of destroyers. About what intelligence figured.”
“And first squadron is to keep on looking,” growled the commodore. “Intelligence has been known to be wrong once or twice.”
There was some stifled laughter on the bridge, and Rodriguez smiled. It was good to relieve some of the tension while waiting, even for her.
The warp fighters stopped every couple of minutes and pulsed radar and lidar, then moved on. The returns would eventually reach the outer system, where another squadron would be spread out, waiting for them. It was hoped that even the ships that decided not to go active would be picked up. It was still possible some would escape, but they couldn’t wait here forever.
“We’re picking up a ship on the sensors, ma’am,” called out the captain of one of the destroyers. “We’re estimating the mass of a supercruiser, crawling along at about ten gravities. High confidence. They seem to be trying to sneak up on us.”
Rodriguez grunted. A purpose made stealth ship might be able to sneak up on them. Something like a Caca supercruiser? Not a chance. But what else could they do. If they fired at a distance the force would simply fade back into hyper and let the weapons pass.
“Wing Commander. I want two squadrons to attack that ship. And make sure that it doesn’t have company.”
“Isn’t that overkill, ma’am. I would think that one squadron could do the job.”
“Since I am in command here we will act on my thinking, Captain. And it might not be alone. The ships can come back and rearm after they take it out.”
The captain said not a word, obviously hurt by her words. Well, it was something he would have to get over if he was to serve under her. Moments later the twenty-eight warp craft were on their way toward the supercruiser. It was still within the hyper limit, and hadn’t a chance to escape.
“The second squadron is picking up returns on some more enemy objects, ma’am,” reported the com officer.
Moments later they came on the plot, along with their identification and the confidence in such. There were three more warships, a dozen or so commercial vessels, and a half dozen other objects that had to be powered down stations. They couldn’t tell if they were manufacturing or military stations, but the warp fighters would approach them as if they were armed and dangerous.
“Warp fighters are on attack approach, ma’am,” called out the wing commander. “There don’t appear to be any other ships with it.”
“I still want caution, Captain. No use getting anyone killed for no return.”
“Fighters have launched.”
Objects separated from the fighters, one from each of the third squadron. Warp missiles, with their own Alcubierre drives, they would forge in at twenty lights, hitting the defensive fields and armor of the cruiser and cutting through. A picosecond later the warheads would go off.
“They’re picking up graviton beams, ma’am.”
“From the cruiser?”
“A couple are. But the others are coming from other sources around the ship. One of the fighters has been hit and dropped.”
Fortunately for warp fighters, dropping out of warp was not the disaster that dropping out of hyper was. There would be some damage, possibly some injuries from coming out too fast. But they would be mostly intact,
able to boost back on grabbers or be picked up by other vessels. If..
“They just blew that fighter out of space,” yelled out the distressed wing commander.
“Warp missiles have struck, ma’am,” called out the tactical officer, filling in for the shocked captain who should have been reporting those strikes. “Cruiser has fallen off the plot.”
“Take no chances,” ordered Rodriguez. “Destroy that bastard with another volley.”
Within seconds they had verification that the cruiser was killed, and no idea where the other graviton beams had come from.
“I want a destroyer to go check out that area,” ordered Rodriguez. “Make that two. I want to know what they had that dropped that fighter.”
“I’m willing to bet that they had some satellites magnetically tractored to the ship, ma’am,” said the tactical officer.
“And I’m willing to bet on nothing, Commander. I want to know. And I’m sure command would like to know what new tricks the Cacas have up their sleeves.”
The image evoked by what she said drew a chuckle from her lips. The Cacas would have four sleeves, meaning they could hide two times the amount of tricks up them. The crew of the flag bridge turned her way, but she just put up a hand and shook her head. They needed to be paying attention to the business at hand, and not laughing at the old lady’s jokes, whether they were funny or not.
Rodriguez watched the plot as the squadrons of warp fighters ran through the system, taking out the warships while concentrated, then moving off in flights to deal with the commercial vessels and platforms. Those were given warnings over warp pulse com to evacuate before they were hit with warp missiles. Though the commodore would have preferred to just have blown the bastards into the next world, orders from above were to observe the civilized conventions of war, where practicable. She always followed orders, at least the legal variety. But she would shed no tears if some crew decided not to evacuate in the specified time and were blown to hell.
“I think that did it, ma’am,” reported the wing commander through the holo. “We’re rearming the squadron we’re leaving behind. You can drop the pod when ready.”
“And I will,” she told the officer. “When I’m ready.”
The captain was correct, and she would drop the pod, right now. But it was always good to let subordinates know who was in charge, as she had just let him realize.
“Drop the pod,” she ordered the tactical officer.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Moments later another object appeared on the plot. The pod was made to support the squadron being left behind. A hundred thousand ton container, dropped in the far reaches of the outer system, it contained quarters and other comforts for the fighter crews. There were fourteen extendable docking ports for the small craft. Most important, it carried spare parts and missiles for continued operations in a distant port. After all, they would be here, all alone, with no way of leaving the system, until another hyper capable ship came by.
“How long to the next target?” she asked her group navigation officer.
“Seventy-seven hours, ma’am,” announced the young woman.
And then we do this all over again, hopefully, thought the commodore. Only with fewer warp fighters, since they would be short one squadron and a fighter. If they ran into something they might have trouble handling? That would become more likely the further they went. Until they were down to two squadrons. Then it would be time to head back home, through hyperspace, where the two squadrons of fighters they would still have aboard would do little for them. If they were able to drop into normal space? Then they would have some teeth.
Those are the breaks, she thought, looking over the flag bridge crew.
“I’ll be in my cabin. Return to normal watch schedule.” Of course, that would only pertain to the flag bridge staff. How the ships’ captains ran their ships was their business, unless they started doing things that went beyond the pale. Then it would become her business.
Chapter Two
Those who say religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion is. Mahatma Gandhi
MARCH 14TH, 1004. JEWEL.
“So far the plan seems to be working, your Majesty,” said McCullom, looking through the holo at the monarch.
“Very good, admiral,” said Sean in a low voice, glancing back at his scowling wife and the two babies lying in a deep sleep on the couch beside her.
The babies had been put out by their implants, stimulating their reticular activating systems and bringing on a deep sleep. The system had been a godsend to people who had trouble sleeping because of anxiety or stress. It was even more of one for parents, who no longer had to go through sleepless nights with crying babies. They would still wake up if something in their bodies overrode the system, which also monitored their vitals to eliminate the chance of Sudden Death Syndrome. They were hard to wake in that state. They weren’t impossible to wake, and his wife, the physician, didn’t like having to use the system more than once in a night. She couldn’t say there was risk, but like most physicians she had her gut feelings on things. Especially when it came to her own children.
“Very good, admiral,” repeated Sean, keeping his voice low. “So, the self defense fleets of most of those systems have been reduced, huh?”
“If they had ever been of any size to start with,” said McCullom.
Sean held up a hand as Jennifer shot him another look, then transferred the conversation to his internal implant. He would hear with his auditory centers, while his speech centers would be transmitted through the implant as if he were verbalizing the words.
“I’m beginning to suspect that even these industrial systems were not very heavily defended,” continued the CNO. “It makes sense when you think about it. They have an awful lot of territory to garrison, and they’re involved in a war on two fronts. They have to be getting the ships from somewhere, and I’m suspecting that most of their rear echelon systems are lightly defended. Too lightly.”
“I don’t want that kind of thinking to get into the heads of the force commanders, Admiral,” cautioned Sean, looking back and smiling at his wife, who smiled back as she put a hand on both of the babies. Augustine was almost the size of his brother, Glenn, even though he was the older by birth, if not in duration lived. Time travel had done that to the children, and Sean again made a mental promise that his Empire would never engage in that practice again, no matter the situation.
“I don’t want a task force commander to assume the enemy won’t have anything waiting for them, Admiral. If they’re sure the defense force is too weak to challenge them, they might just go sailing in without normal precautions and get their ships lit up.”
“I’ll make sure they know, your Majesty,” said McCullom, an emotional component of assurance coming over the link. “I’ll make sure they’ll answer to you if they get themselves killed.”
Sean returned a mental laugh. Of course McCullom was being sarcastic. He would let that slide as long as she did her job to a satisfactory level. “If they die, I’ll make sure they never make it into the Hall of Legendary Warriors.”
It was the CNO’s turn to laugh. The Hall of Legendary Warriors was a joke in the Fleet, the reward for people who died in the line of duty, to make up for the poor compensation that the Empire offered. There was a payment of ten thousand Imperials death benefit for service members killed in the line of duty. About enough to keep a family going off the dole for two years, depending on size and lifestyle. It was the same for the lowest ranking rating or a duke serving as an admiral. At times that seemed like poor compensation. Hence the Hall of Legendary Warriors.
“We’ll try to keep it real for the force commanders, your Majesty. They will never hear the last of it if they screw up.”
“Have a good night, Admiral,” said Sean over the connection, killing it an instant later.
“Good news?” asked Jennifer in a low voice.
“Our carrier task forces are cutting off their lowe
r level industrial systems,” he told her, plopping down in a chair next to the couch. He would have preferred to have sat down beside her, but the babies were occupying both of those positions. Much as he loved his children, there were times he wished he and his wife still had the Imperial quarters to themselves. “So far they’re not contesting our warp fighter pickets. But that can’t last.”
“And their major systems?”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to take them out the old-fashioned way. With battle groups.”
Jennifer looked over at him with a distressed look, and he knew what she was thinking. Those would be hard fights, and there would be losses. Not just to Imperial Fleet and Army personnel, but the collateral damage to innocent aliens would also be fierce.
Is there really anything like innocent aliens in an enemy system? thought Sean, shaking his head and getting a quizzical look from his wife. In the wars of ancient Earth they hadn’t seemed to think so. If you were helping the manufacturing process that was keeping the war machine going, you were a target. Mining materials, growing food, even just serving the troops drinks and food in an entertainment establishment. Even the civilians, people on your side, could become collateral damage, and it was just something that had to happen. Just ask the French in Normandy. So, much as he didn’t like it, it was still something he would go ahead and order. And hope that one day the descendants of the people he had killed would forgive him.
“You ready for bed?” his wife asked, a smile growing on her face, letting him know what sleep wasn’t the only thing on her mind.
“I am,” he said, feeling the arousal of the smile of a beautiful woman directed toward him. “Get the nurses in here to take care of the babies, and I’ll meet you in our bedroom.”
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 14: Rebellion. Page 3
