by Britt Ringel
“Admiral, thank the heavens!” Cohen called out in relief.
“Was that Admiral Heskan’s voice?” Vernay demanded over the open command channel.
Heskan took an awkward step forward. Shirtless though heavily bandaged, he leaned on the doctor as they moved together across the bridge and began the torturous process of climbing the three stairs leading to the landing around the holo-tank. Heskan’s left arm was bound tightly to his chest to minimize the possibility of reopening his shoulder wound.
When he finally reached his station, Heskan produced a brave grin. “It’s not that easy to get rid of me, Stacy.” His pallid color belied the assertion. Heskan looked around the deathly quiet room. Every eye was on him. “Can someone get me a service coat, please? Feeling a little self-conscious here.” He reached out with his free hand to the console for support. “Thanks, Doc. I think I can stand on my own.”
The medical officer slowly pulled his arm away but looked grimly at the wounded man. “Admiral, there are enough stimulants running through you to wake the dead but they won’t last forever. You’re going to crash soon and when you do, your blood pressure will drop and with the amount of blood you’ve lost, you’re going to stroke. You do it here, you’ll die. You do it in my infirmary and I might be able to save your life.”
“Garrett…” Vernay’s concern-laden voice carried over the channel.
“I’m going to be fine, Doctor. My shoulder and back just feel a little stiff now,” Heskan asserted. He lowered his voice and asked, “How long do I have?”
The doctor hedged briefly before answering, “The stimulants will wear off in about half an hour, maybe a little longer. It depends on your metabolism, really.”
Heskan glanced at the chronometer. “Hawk,” he ordered, “come left to zero-eight-zero. Negative plane five degrees, increase speed to point one-eight-C. Immediate execute. All sections will follow the van.” He flinched as someone draped a service coat over his shoulders. The rank on the epaulettes was that of a lieutenant’s. He pulled it tight near the collar with his right hand and tried to button it. He failed.
The next practice pass was an unconventional mixture of speed and course by the Seshafian fleet although the result was the same as the earlier suicidal runs. This time, however, the poorly positioned rearguard nearly ran through the Saden formation. Whether any vessels in Truesworth’s meager, four-ship section would have exited was doubtful. The pass, another disaster for Seshafi, pushed the Saden fleet a farther 19ls out-system.
The final mock pass was an aborted run by the system’s defenders. Although aligned better than in the previous run and sailing in relatively good fashion, the outnumbered fleet seemed to lose heart during the final moments and veered radically away from their foes. The Saden fleet cruised victoriously through the uncontested space before reacting to the abandoned run with a pursuing turn to port. The maneuver carried the fleet 14ls farther away from Seshafi’s star and three degrees into the negative plane.
As both sides reformed into their battle lines, the Seshafian fleet skidded slightly away from the Sadens, as a skittish animal might shy from its brutal master.
Heskan scrutinized the holo-tank and extrapolated time and distance to determine where the fleet would travel during their final bout of maneuvering. Twenty seconds to rotate, three seconds of thrust… “Rotate one-eighty and reduce speed to point one-two-C. Maintain course.” We’re close but I have to get them closer still.
“Admiral, six minutes before zero-hour,” Cohen reminded.
“Thank you, Dennis.” Heskan tapped controls on the communications console with his right hand. Once the update had processed, he forwarded the file to the SENS officer. “Lieutenant De Haas, send this updated order of battle to Wallace, please.” A quick check of the ship’s chronometer assured him the update would reach his counterpart just in time.
“On the way, Admiral.”
Heskan noticed his hand was trembling. He took a deep, calming breath that hurt far more than it should have. Glad I’m in the command ship; I’d never be able to wear a shocksuit wrapped up like this. He steadied himself against his station to hide a wobble. Sometime during the practice runs, a junior officer had placed a chair behind him. I have maybe twenty minutes to win the battle. “Attention Seshafi defenders, we do it for real this time. Each of you knows your job. Focus on doing it as well as you can. Accomplish your individual task and, together, we’ll win the whole battle. I believe in you.”
Determined nods played across each ship captain’s square on the screen before him. Most of them were far too focused to respond. One was not. Lieutenant Covington promised in a resolute voice, “The van will lead the way, Admiral…” He raised his eyebrows in a fatal acceptance and added anxiously, “Even if we’re short by a couple of ships.”
Heskan noted that Wallace had shuffled his forces slightly and moved ships from his rearguard to his van. Covington’s pitiful van now faced Triumph, a brig and four snows. Truesworth’s rearguard was outnumbered by two snows. Only the opposing mains looked relatively well-matched. “Still working on getting you help, Clayton. Stout hearts.”
Covington’s jaunty reply came twenty seconds later. “You mean iron hearts, sir.”
“Good man,” McDaniel approved.
* * *
“Rotate to port two degrees,” Wallace ordered firmly. “Don’t let them open the range. I want this pass to be an extermination.”
“They’re pulling our fleet away from us, Admiral,” Ladd noted.
“Then move the command ship closer,” Wallace spat. “Isn’t that the obvious solution?” He concentrated on the evolving tactical picture and muttered, “I’ll chase them to Hell if I have to.”
Tiny, new holograms flared into existence in the holo-tank. “What is their rearguard doing?” his assistant asked. Wallace squinted at the information. It appeared almost as if the freighter directly behind that section’s leading corvette was shedding pieces.
“Are those lifeboats?” a voice asked from across the bridge. “Are they abandoning ship?”
Wallace’s assistant rocked back in comprehension. “They’re some type of shuttles.” His head tilted. “To be used in the battle?”
The Red Admiral snorted derisively. “Unlikely. What would be the point?” He looked at the tactician and said calmly, “These aren’t the killing fields of the Republic, Damien.”
The shorter man continued to gape at the holographic shuttles as they expertly formed into three groups of five. “Do they know that?”
A communications officer broke the brief silence that followed. “Incoming message, Admiral. It’s Seshafi’s order of battle.”
“Forward it to me at once,” Wallace commanded as he looked down at his console expectantly.
Next to him, Ladd announced, “Triumph has entered missile range. She’s launching.”
Wallace knew the next call would announce the destruction of the brig facing Triumph. He quickly opened the newly acquired order of battle and scanned the, thankfully, properly formatted document. The original order of battle, given to him at Nessus, had been a mockery of corporate chivalry. Hundreds and hundreds of ships, shuttles, even satellites had been listed as potential combatants. A cursory glance at the new document was enough to tell Wallace that a true Seshafian had compiled this accurate and concise list.
To his amazement, the freighters in the Seshafian rearguard were, indeed, pressed civilian ships. Distressingly, fifteen shuttlecraft were included in the list as well. The doomed pilots of those helpless craft would only add to the dishonor the battle promised to yield. Wallace noted that Iron Brigade privateers filled out all but the lead brig in the enemy’s van. Those ships would be tough nuts to crack and he felt a twinge of satisfaction that his earlier insight had led to bolstering his own van by stripping ships from his rearguard.
The imminent clash between the two mains would offer the closest semblance to an equal battle in the entire skirmish. Wallace bit lightly on his lower l
ip, knowing that Formidable and Renown were in for a brutal exchange. However, his main would only have to suffer the first pass unassisted. After that, there would be so many gaps in Seshafi’s line that if they dared insult him with a second offering, Wallace would have more than enough ships to bolster his main.
The veteran’s eyes reached the final paragraph of the document. He reread the simple subsection but failed to comprehend the meaning at first. After a second review, his eyes darted between the order of battle and the specters displayed inside the holo-tank. His tally came up three ships short.
(Link to the order of battle; there is a return link after the chart to continue reading.)
Chapter 25
“Sound the dive bell,” Diane Selvaggio ordered from the captain’s chair in Ravana. Her ship, indeed her entire dive force, was already at battle stations. They would be diving into Seshafi just three seconds late, a feat of spacemanship that would have impressed even the most experienced navigator.
The dive bell, its sound both antiquated and charming, chimed in succession three times throughout the snow and Selvaggio closed her eyes tight against the anticipated onrush of nausea. The chime, an ocean of difference from a proper, two-toned, Brevic dive alarm was yet another reminder of her first command’s origins. If someone had told me five years ago that my first ship would be from the Commonwealth…
She grunted against the blast of disorientation and clutched at the arms of her command seat. When it was possible, the New Milani native forced open her eyes and searched desperately on Ravana’s tactical plot. Her three-ship flotilla had appeared from the Ugrit tunnel point a mere 12ls from the Saden vanguard. Years of navigation experience reduced her next course-plotting effort to a few seconds. “Starboard turn four degrees, positive plane two degrees and make our speed point one-four-C. Go, go, go!”
Her bridge crew reacted instantly as Selvaggio repeated her orders over the formation’s communications frequency. Behind her own ship, tactical plots on Rindr and Anakim were updating with steering points relayed from their leader. Her commands would position the dive force for a battle pass on the opposite side of the Saden vanguard from Hawk and the rest of Seshafi’s van.
“Thirty-one seconds to contact,” Selvaggio warned with a fierce smile. Ravana’s computer was projecting a nearly perfect run down the leading ships of the enemy vanguard. She counted out ten seconds silently and ordered, “Free to maneuver to best facing, helm. WEPS, fire at will.” To her surprise, she barely recognized her own voice. The stress embedded into her words added decades to her normal tone and reminded her of her mother. Sweat dripped down her sides, plastering her duty uniform blouse to her skin, inside her shocksuit.
Selvaggio’s first combat as observed from a captain’s chair would be longer than most. During the planning sessions, Admiral Heskan had been adamant that her small squadron’s first pass against the Saden vanguard be a decisive one even if it meant lingering in GP laser range against larger ships for longer than usual. The risk associated with the extended engagement window against superior ships was mitigated not only by the factor of surprise they would achieve but also by firing at the virtually unprotected flank of Triumph. The Saden third-rate, like her sister ships, was unconventionally armed and protected. Each of the monster ships could orient an impressive amount of weaponry and shields toward their “battle face,” but the line ships were extremely vulnerable along the opposite beam. Given the scriptures of corporate warfare, the unusual design was the natural evolutionary response to combat that had strict rules and favored straightforward conduct.
Selvaggio grinned openly as light from Triumph reached Ravana and she witnessed the line ship’s thrusters begin firing in a desperate attempt to abort its run. She knew the effort was in vain. A bright flash erupted on the side screen showing the optical of the twisting line ship. For an instant, a hazy, light-green circle flickered into existence before winking out. That would be our particle beams piercing their AIPS, Selvaggio thought gleefully. She resisted the urge to compliment her weapons officer. Captain Heskan never distracted us during combat. I need to let them do their jobs. Showers of debris burst forth randomly along the length of Triumph’s exposed beam as Ravana’s forward GP lasers lashed the vessel. To the young captain’s disappointment, the line ship’s frantic maneuvering avoided the short-ranged carronades of the Hollaran snows, but the long line of destruction their GP gunners had painted down its side bespoke of heavy damage inflicted within the vessel. Additionally, Triumph had masked several of her own heavy lasers with her evasive tactics that, otherwise, would have poured death into Hawk.
Ravana shuddered as she absorbed a parting gift from the third-rate’s aft-most Maclex. Ten seconds after that, the ship rocked harder as an engineering compartment decompressed from a second salvo. The Hollaran snow streaked out of Triumph’s weapons range but right past the next Saden vessel in the section. As she flashed by each vessel in turn, spewing particle cannon and laser fire, hits from her adversaries began to accrue on the snow.
Thirty-two seconds after first contact, Selvaggio’s dive force rocketed away from the battered Saden formation. Fifteen light-seconds off their starboard bows, Lieutenant Covington and his van sailed with them on a virtually parallel course. In their wake, three Saden vessels burned brightly in the dark of space.
* * *
Third in line inside the Seshafian main, Commander Joseph Tannault’s jaw dropped as he gaped at the destruction wrought by the twin passes of Covington’s van and the surprise dive force. More Seshafian deception, he thought with revulsion. Making matters worse, his own bridge officers were cheering the unexpected appearance of the Colossus-class snows from the tunnel point. His stomach churned at the reversal of fortune.
“Ninety seconds to contact,” Lieutenant Merriweather announced intently. “We’re right on course and locked tight onto Superb.”
Captain Augilar, reflected Tannault, now there’s an honorable corporate captain. The cheap tricks by his own fleet admiral served only to confirm his decision, made weeks earlier. A sense of satisfaction washed over him. Turnabout is fair play. “Navigator, rotate ninety degrees to starboard. Increase speed to point one-seven-C.”
Falcon’s navigator twisted in her seat to face him with a look of utter disbelief. “Excuse me, Captain? What?”
Tannault felt his mouth turn upward as he answered, “You heard my order correctly, Alisha. Break the line.” He moved his hand to his panel and tapped in commands. “I’m striking our lights. We are, by law, out of this fight.” The smug smile spreading over his lips faltered. He signaled surrender a second time on his console but, as before, the order failed to process.
“We ain’t striking jack, you traitor.”
Surprised by the loud rebuke, Tannault turned to face his gruff Operations chief. “How dare—”
“Shut yer trap,” Brown boomed over the commander. “By special order of Admiral Heskan, command of this ship has now passed to Lieutenant Merriweather an’ you’re under arrest, you son of a bitch.” The side screen on the bridge, previously holding the optical of the Saden brig Superb, flickered. Short and simple orders issued from Admiral Heskan and countersigned by Archduke Covington replaced the image of the lethal brig. The size of the lettering and brevity of the wording gave no room for misinterpretation. Seconds later, an armed Seshafian marine detail rushed through the bridge entrance. The youthful marines’ eyes were wide open and uncertain.
“L-T, you’ve got a ship to fight,” Brown advised Merriweather. He shot a blood-chilling look at the nearest marine guard and instructed, “Escort Commander Tannault to his quarters an’ keep him there.” He gestured at the side screen. “There’s yer authority.”
Tannault rose from his chair indignantly. “This is my ship!” He spun to face the marine and pointed ferociously behind him toward Brown’s station. The ship captain’s eyes locked onto the uncertain private first class and stared imperiously at the youth not yet out of his teens. “I command yo
u to—”
Tannault never saw the large fist that connected powerfully to his right temple. Stars exploded in front of his eyes but, curiously, the pain originated from inside his knees. Before he could even raise his hands to protect himself, he hit the alloy deck of the bridge.
“Well,” Brown stated as he shook out his fist, “maybe I am strikin’ somethin’ after all.” He readdressed the marines with a look that dared defiance. “Drag him out an’ lock him up in his quarters… now.”
The chief watched the marines spring into compliance before he turned to Merriweather. “L-T, I’ll remove the lock-out on the capt’n’s chair… everybody on Falcon’s countin’ on you. Thirty seconds ‘til contact.”
* * *
Fifteen light-seconds ahead of Falcon and oblivious to the drama unfolding on its bridge, Commander Vernay issued rapid-fire orders that would deliver her line ship to the best position and heading as it entered weapons range. Although Ajax was the only line ship in the battle with “old style” armament running down the length of both beams, she would still outgun the brig she would face with her massive, twin Maclex heavy laser battery atop her superstructure.
Ahead of her, Dioscuri was making a final adjustment to the main’s overall course that would place the five ships sailing behind her between four and six light-seconds from their counterparts during the run. The pass was a conservative one that would allow ships more equally matched to close within the knife-fighting range of light lasers, while permitting the snows near the end of the section an opportunity to merely skim the decisive range and increase their odds of survival.
“Starboard thrusters at maximum!” Vernay growled out angrily.
“Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Ricot cautioned, “wouldn’t it be better to stay outside of five light-seconds? Renown doesn’t have heavy lasers; our opponent wouldn’t even be able to return fire.”
Vernay shook her head fiercely. “Ajax is the hammer, Sam.” She pointed at the screen displaying the optical of the target brig cruising toward them. “That ship dies on this pass.”
