by Rob Buckman
“Enemy firing!” Henley yelled.
“Shields at max, sir!” Stuart acknowledged, clearly agitated. Scott coughed, drawing Bingham’s attention. The captain looked at him a moment, then at the two excited officers, then nodded.
“Keep it calm people, we’ve done this a hundred times in the simulator, so there is no need to get excited,” Bingham commented in a calm voice. He’d finally gotten the message himself.
He sat back and sucked on the drinking tube, swiveling his seat slightly to look at Scott. Most of the officers on the bridge looked round, seeing the captain and the admiral taking softly to each other, serenely drinking their coffee. At that moment, they all relaxed, and settled into the groove they used during practice.
“Fleet starting englobement of the enemy fleet sir,” Stuart announced in a calmer voice. All the enemy ships were firing now, and time after time they saw the shields flare, indicating something was hitting them, but they were holding.
“Enemy launching another wave of spacecraft sir, type unknown,” Henley called out.
“Step up the magnification and let’s have a look,” Bingham ordered, and a few seconds later tracking had a pod of three locked in the view.
They turned out to be similar in design to the fighters, except they looked as if someone had glued two of them together, bottom side to bottom side. They broke up into groups of three and headed in on a random pattern toward the New Zealand, avoiding the fighter engagement going on about them.
“Torpedo bomber, Jack,” Scott observed. “And we’re their target.”
“I agree,” Bingham said. “Ali, put point defense on notice, they have some traffic coming their way.”
“Aye-aye, Captain, so indicated,” Ali answered.
“More coffee, Admiral?” Hardwick asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Scott answered, feeling the ship vibrate as something hit it. Neither said a word.
“Hit on the forward hull, port side with limited damage,” the nervous damage-control officer called out. “Damage-control parties closing up.” Frances Dillard’s voice sounded squeaky. It was one thing to order up damage-control parties during a simulation, and another during a battle. She knew living people were in those parts of the ship, injured people who needed help, not just numbers on a screen.
“Thank you Frances,” Captain Bingham acknowledged, taking a refill from CPO Hardwick.
As he turned, Hardwick nodded toward Scott’s racked helmet. There was a time to show confidence in your crew and ship by not wearing the helmet, and Hardwick’s respectful reminder indicated the time had passed.
“Helmets, people.” And saying that, Scott slipped his helmet on and locked it in place. He left the face shield up, knowing this would snap down in the event of a hull breach and loss of atmosphere.
By now, the tank was a mass of fighters. All locked in a silent dance of death, it was so confusing, the operations officer cut the magnification down to where they could make sense out of it.
Now the enemy battle group realized what was happening, and the spherical formation was starting to come apart as some looked for a way out of the trap. So far, the only real damage was to their fighters. Now the rest of Scott’s fleet was starting to fire, and the alien battle group began taking a pounding. Not that the fleet was getting away scot-free. The destroyer Sheffield took several massive hits and fell out of formation, trailing shattered hull plates and leaking air. The torpedo bombers were weaving a course between the shields, still heading for the New Zealand, and as they came within range the point defense system opened up. The darkness of space was lit by the crisscrossing lashes of pulse plasma fire as the gunners beat the attack back. Not quite a light-speed weapon, it had the advantage that when it hit, the target was obliterated in less than a second. Laser and particle beams could get to the target faster, but took time to eat through the shields and hull. Scott saw this as a tradeoff, sacrificing some speed for a higher percentage of kills. In some ways it reminded Scott of the holovideo game he’d played with Brock and Pam’s little girl, thinking they were better shots than his present gunners. Not that they weren’t hitting the incoming ships, they were, but it was taking them too long to identify, lock on and fire, failing to use the multiple targeting and tracking system to its fullest capacity. The hull rang again, this time a massive hit.
“Hit on port side, amidships, substantial damage to the outer hull.” Frances Dillard’s voice sounded firmer while she ordered up damage-control parties to the section of ship hit. “Damage-control parties working,” she reported in a cool, smooth voice with no excitement this time.
“Acknowledged, Lieutenant Dillard. Keep me informed,” Captain Bingham called.
“Aye, sir.”
“Two alien ships breaking away from main group and heading for a gap in the line,” Henley called.
“What size ships, Tom?” Scott asked, wondering if they were worth worrying about.
“Somewhere between a destroyer and a light cruiser, Admiral.”
“Light them up on the board, please,” Scott said, and the enemy ships started flashing orange.
The gap was at the far side of the englobing sphere where the ships hadn’t quite closed the ring yet. He could break ships away on that side to engage them, but that would leave an even bigger hole somewhere else. Scott checked the board for a densely packed group, checking his readout for any information on repeater screens.
“Dispatch destroyer Masterton, Kaitangate, Foxton and the light cruiser Stuart to break formation and pursue and destroy,” Scott ordered.
“Aye, Admiral. Transmitting message,” Gunter Haas answered. “Message received and understood.” Another hit this time, closer, and the whole bridge shook.
“Hit at base of superstructure, number one launch bay out of action. Damage-repair parties closing up,” Frances reported, clearly shaken.
“Suck on this, asshole!” the XO snarled, and three of the forward mass-driver tubes flashed plasma as four hundred-pound, depleted uranium, boron/cobalt projectiles left the barrels at better than point-two-five light speed.
All three struck a cruiser-sized alien ship, and it simply vanished in a spectacular explosion. Debris wheeled in all directions, crashing into other enemy ships and breaking the sphere apart. The moment that happened, shield integrity vanished and the ships were vulnerable to direct particle beam and pulse energy cannon fire. They saw hit after hit that scorched or ripped holes in the oncoming warships. The alien battle group broke up then, dispersing in all directions, some straight toward the nearest hole in the line, others back the way they’d come with maximum speed. That didn’t stop the enemy’s torpedo bombers, and Scott felt three more massive hits on the New Zealand. One of them hit forward of the last one, and this time they could hear the tortured scream of bending metal and buckling girders.
“Second hit on number one launch bay, with additional damage between decks four, five, and six. Additional damage control parties closing up,” Frances sang out in a calmer voice.
“Acknowledged, Lieutenant,” Jack Bingham acknowledged.
“What’s the status of those torpedo bombers, how many are left?” Scott asked.
“Six, sir,” Henley reported.
“Would you ask air if they can do something about them? We seemed to have pissed them off.” Jack Bingham sounded a little pissed off himself that the enemy was putting dents in his new ship.
“Right, sir, I’ll see what I can do.” The scattering enemy ships were rapidly closing on one part or another of the enclosing ring. It would then come down to individual action. If the Earth fleet tried to remain in formation, they would be at a distinct disadvantage.
“Comm!” Scott called.
“Aye, Admiral?”
“Flash message to all ships. From Drake, commanding. Go immediately to independent action, and repeat for clarity, no acknowledgment necessary. Got it!”
“Aye, sir.”
“Oh shit! Duck!” the XO, Ali Caza, yelled. T
hey did, and three seconds later a massive explosion rocked the bridge.
Scott simply held on as his world bucked and shook around him. He was blind for a moment as the blast plate snapped into place to protect his face from the flash of the nuke. In complete darkness, he reached into the patch pockets in the legs and pulled out his gloves, quickly pulling them on before the biting cold of space could freeze them and do more damage to his slightly burned hands. The flexible, self-aligning ring in the cuffs locked into the groove on the cuff of the suit and sealed. Only after that did he touch the side of his helmet to lift the blast plate, looking up to see naked space above him, but there was no time to admire the view. Emergency lights flickered on, and he saw what was left of his first command. The bridge was a shambles, sparks erupting from broken cables and shorted electrical circuits. What smoke there was, immediately streamed into space through the rupture with the remaining air. The good thing was, the vacuum prevented any fire. Captain Bingham was down, as was Henley and Dillard.
“Sound off!” Scott snapped into the comm unit as he released the magnetic clamp on his chair.
“XO Caza here, Admiral.”
“Stuart here, Admiral.”
“Haas here.”
“Foster here, Admiral,” the navigations officer answered. That was it. They had lost the environmental specialist, operations, weapons, the captain, and several operations personnel. He had no way of knowing if they were dead or alive, and no time to stop and find out. The bridge was useless, and there was no way he was going to fight the ship from here.
“Ali, you are now senior officer. We need to get to the auxiliary CIC and fight the ship from there!” he snapped, checking the captain. Bingham was alive, and his suit integrity seemed intact, but his life signs readout showed he was seriously injured.
“Aye, Admiral. Will you be transferring your flag?”
“Hell no. If this ship goes, so do I,” he shot back. “Get medical up here on the double!”
“Aye, sir.” Scott was pissed; the attack on this ship had been too well coordinated for his liking. He could accept one, possibly two hits within the region of the CIC, and random chance dictated that, but not four. Someone knew just where the operations center of this ship was, and that had been the torpedo bombers’ main target.
“Admiral to all personnel,” he opened up the general push frequency of his helmet comm system, “we will be on this frequency while we move to the auxiliary CIC. Continue with your present assignment until further notice. Let’s move it, people.”
Cracking the bridge hatch proved a little difficult until Scott pushed to the front, gently moved the two marines aside, and grabbed the wheel. With a groan, it turned, and he spun it, unlocked the dogs and jerked it open. The seven of them entered the short passageway that acted as an airlock, closing and sealing the door behind them. The XO opened the air valve and flooded the airlock. As the control panel indicator light turned green, indicating the airlock was full, a small telltale light inside Scott’s helmet appeared, and he lifted the faceplate, as did the others. The smell of burnt insulation and plastic filled the air, but it was breathable. The XO spun the wheel on the other door and pushed it open, seeing Hardwick, two security marines, and a damage-control team waiting on the other side.
“We cleared the way to the auxiliary bridge, sir,” Hardwick said, looking at Ali Caza, Ross Stuart, Gunter Haas, Dan Foster, and Scott, to see if any of them needed medical attention.
“Sorry, Chief, this is all that’s left,” Scott said. The chief stopped for a second, then nodded. “Get medical up to the bridge on the double and see what you can do for the captain and the others,” Scott ordered the damage-control party.
“They are on their way, sir, follow me,” was all Hardwick said, his main concern getting his admiral to safety.
By a roundabout route they moved through the ship, climbing companionways and passing through airlocks. In some places, the smoke was so bad they had to close faceplates and use low-light enhancement to find their way. More than once, they entered sections of the ship under vacuum conditions, but the airlock system worked well. At last, they took an elevator up the remainder of the superstructure to the auxiliary bridge.
“Here we are,” Hardwick said, opening the last hatchway. Scott immediately sat in the captain’s chair and plugged in.
“Attention all hands, captain on the bridge, I say again, captain on the bridge and resuming command.” The auxiliary, or as some called it, the battle bridge, was smaller than the main one, and only contained weapons, communications, helm, and operations controls.
“With your permission, Admiral, I’d like to take over weapons control,” Ali said.
“Permission granted. As of this moment you are the captain of the New Zealand. Stuart, you’re on operations. Haas, you’re back on communications, and Foster, you are on helm. Let’s go people, give me a status report as soon as you can.”
Scott clamped himself into the captain’s seat, his hands running over the board. Two of the main forward batteries were out, plus six of the secondary weapons emplacements. Point defense was down to a third of its normal function, with some of the remaining indicators showing yellow, indicating some damage. Quickly he contacted each of the remaining weapons subsections and brought them up to date.
“Remaining weapons online and functioning,” Stuart sang out.
“Acknowledged, guns. Keep them firing.”
“Aye, sir,” Stuart answered. “Suggest we roll ship and present our good side toward the enemy, sir.”
“Good idea. Helm, roll ship.”
“Aye-aye, sir. Rolling ship.” Out here, it didn’t matter which way was up, and now they had the undamaged armored side toward the enemy cruiser.
“Main Three. Target at fifty thousand yards, use mass driver, load and fire when ready,” Scott ordered.
“Target located and locked, tracking. Fire!” The high-pitched whine of the main guns discharging came over Scott’s headset, and he saw the energy flash as the projectile left the barrel. It impacted on the fleeing vessel, taking out the drive unit and leaving it dead in space.
There was only one large enemy vessel remaining, and she was a big bastard, more of a heavy cruiser, or a battleship. The battle board told the story, and it wasn’t good. Too many human ships were out of action with severe damage, either moving away streaming air, or dead in the water. If they didn’t take out this last alien, it would hunt down and destroy all the remaining human ships. As good as their shields were, and surprisingly better than the aliens’, a destroyer or light cruiser could stand up to the pounding from the weapons of the alien ship. Not on its own, though, since interlocking shield integrity was gone at this point.
“Gunter, order all remaining ships not otherwise engaged to pull back into a defensive group, including the damaged ships that can still maneuver— Helm! Best possible speed, and head straight for that bastard.”
“Aye, sir,” both replied.
“Get us alongside her. Stuart, all remaining power to shields. Ali, hold fire until we’re at point blank range.”
“Aye, sir. Shifting all available power to forward and side shields.”
“Hold fire until pointblank range, skipper,” they replied in turn, Ali’s reply growled through clenched teeth, understanding what Scott was going to do.
As expected, the alien battleship switched weapons and concentrated on the New Zealand, giving time for the remaining ships of the Earth fleet to pull into a defensive group and interlock their shields. The New Zealand paid a heavy price; despite her stronger shield and thicker hull, she still took hits. The impacts sent shudders running through her hull, all the way back to the auxiliary CIC. Scott could feel the old lady shivering through his boots, even as she shrugged off another hit.
“Get in under her guns!” he ordered. The alien battle cruiser’s main duty was long-range pounding of enemy fleet elements, and he was betting she couldn’t depress or roll to take on something really close. H
e was right. As the New Zealand drew closer, more of the invisible particle beams missed. The gleaming white hull of the New Zealand dropped lower while the alien captain tried to roll his ship to keep his weapons on target. The New Zealand was faster and pressed in, closer and closer until she was almost underneath, and turning with the roll of the alien battle cruiser. The only thing coming at her now were the point defense clusters along the underside, and were more of an annoyance than doing any real damage.
“All weapons to commence firing as they bear. Helm, drift us closer!”
“Aye, sir.”
Scott tapped his comm unit, frustrated at not knowing the engineer’s name. “Engineering!”
“Engineering, aye.”
“Tell your boys to stand clear of the shield power junctions, they’re about to blow when our shield hit the alien’s.” There was stunned silence for a moment, as engineering realized just how close they were to the enemy ship. Scott heard whoever it was relay the message to the engineering staff. Scott was thankful he remembered the lesson from the academy about the possible consequences of two shields interfacing with each other.
