"So, what do you want us to do?"
David looked at the display, trying to implant their three-dimensional situation in his mind.
"The 95M5 is the closest. We'll hit them in distance order." He looked at the display for a few more seconds. "Sally, put a Bludgeon in that bastard."
"Will do. "
She worked the weapons controls carefully. They were fairly simple, meant to be operated under duress and in a hurry, but she hadn't seen them since her initial fleet training several years ago. As she worked, it came back to her.
"I have it, Mister Powell. Three minutes with direct routing."
"Shoot."
Sally hit the Execute option on the screen and the first Bludgeon deployed. She moved on to the next contact, the 220 plus 10, which seemed to be moving in their direction.
"I don't like this guy," David commented, "He's coming our way. Two Lances and a Bludgeon, Sally."
"OK," she said as she again worked the controls. She was getting more comfortable so this setup took much less time.
"Ready."
"Go for it."
She looked back at Powell, who was head down, scanning forwards and back through the sensor feeds, looking for other contacts.
"Go for it?" she asked.
"Just shoot the damn missiles, Sally."
She did.
"We should see the 95M5 strike shortly."
Despite the deterministic laws of gravity, Gray could not be sure when her attack would actually take place. Beside the uncertainties of range and final enemy course, the attack missiles varied their precise course and speed unpredictably, making them more difficult to detect and to avoid. Jackson saw it first.
"IR transient at 95 even. Profile is a Bludgeon explosion."
Powell moved to look over his shoulder.
"Persistence?" The mark of a good hit was the persistence, and especially increase, of the IR trace after the weapon had exploded. David was pleased to see the intensity numbers move upward rapidly, reach a definite peak, and then begin dropping gradually. Somewhere over 500 kilometers away, an enemy ship was incinerated.
"Oh, yes! Good persistence with sustained high level. Shift ruined. All leaves canceled."
Jackson smiled to himself. It felt really good to get even. He might even regret his callous words later, but at the moment any sense of victory was welcome.
"New transient at the 210 plus 5 contact. Looks like a Lance." This time the trace did not rise dramatically to a peak. "No secondary. What did we shoot at them?"
"Two Lances and a Bludgeon. Maybe the Bludgeon is behind-"
As she spoke a third bright point appeared near the position of the enemy ship.
"Another Bludgeon. I think there may have been a Lance just before but-"
The second ship exploded, just as bright as the first.
"Two for two, Mister Powell."
"Yeah, well, we're not out of this yet."
"Last target is now at 110 even, Mister Powell," Abe offered.
"Two Lances, Sally. I want to hold back the last two Bludgeons just in case."
Sally dispatched the attack. The Lances hit, but there was no large explosion.
Powell returned to his own console to watch the tactical situation. An hour went by before he was satisfied that they had destroyed two enemy vessels, and forced a third to withdraw, damaged.
"Hey, Mister Powell, did you notice they never shot at us?"
David looked at Abe Jackson, the surprise clear on his face.
"Huh. I was so busy shooting at them I didn't think about it."
"Makes me wonder if maybe they couldn't see us?"
"Maybe. Ensign Farley called me right before we were hit. She thought they were tracking us with the SLIP somehow."
"But the attack took out the SLIP system. I checked on the comm systems and there's no status on it at all. It's gone." Sally offered.
"What comms do we have?" David asked her.
"The laser seems OK, and the VHF is probably functional, we'll have to see. But that's it."
"So, if they suddenly lost track of us when the SLIP was destroyed, that would tell us a lot about how they were doing it, don't you think?" Abe suggested.
"It would. Interesting. Scary, but interesting."
After two more hours of slow turning with no new events, David called Kondo.
"Mr. Kondo, I think we are clear. Let's stop the rotation and get to T-II. What is the drive situation?"
"Not great, but adequate. Based on the condition of the ship I think I can safely give you half of best speed to T-II. I kinda thought that would be where you'd go."
"Thanks Mr. Kondo. Yes, let's go to T-II."
In a few minutes they were accelerating away from the battle area, leaving a great deal of themselves behind. After another hour, David left Jackson to monitor the ship and walked, well, stumbled, back to his cabin. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. Two of his three roommates were gone. The Inor veteran Len Davis, straight-laced and honest Jake Fleming, Lisa - sweet, hardworking, funny Lisa who clearly had a soft spot for him. Dead. That jackass Boyd, too. Paula the dear Surveillance chief who had shown him how much the crew thought of him. Gone. All of them, in an instant, gone. Never one for tears, he held the pain inside. He saw their faces, heard their voices, remembered how they walked, their laughs and thoughts, how they led, or served, or both.
For now, the waking nightmare was over. They had pulled the ship out, saving the rest of the crew, and managed a little payback as well. But payback would never be enough for David. He'd gladly trade all the enemy dead, let them just get away, if he could have any one of his shipmates back. But, as he was often heard to say, that is not the universe we live in.
After a few minutes, his mind began to slow down and he took off his shoes and laid back on top of the bed. He concentrated on the fact he was alive, as were 42 others on his ship, and tried to focus on what he would need to do tomorrow to better their chances of living to see Tranquility II. Eventually, he drifted off, dreaming of a card game with Travis and Lisa and Leah, all alive and vital and funny again. When we awoke, he felt a fresh pain that they were gone.
ISC Fleet HQ
Fort Eustis, VA
Sunday, June 26, 2078, 0830 EDT
CINCFLEET Admiral Connor Davenport was leaving the BOQ for the short walk to the chapel, planning to meet his wife and family for Sunday service. He made it home for a few days when he could, usually three or four times a month. But he met them for Sunday church and brunch weekly, so far without fail. Just as he stepped out into the bright summer morning, the FLASH message alarm sounded on his phone. Cursing, then correcting himself - it was, after all, Sunday - he opened the message.
FLASH 207806251330 UTC
TO: CINCFLEET
FROM: SIGMA
HAVE BEEN PACED REPEAT PACED ONE HOUR REPEAT ONE HOUR
BY TYPE I CONTACT VICINITY GL 876.
MANEUVERING TO DETERMINE IF CONTACT IS TRACKING
WILL ADVISE
END
Paced? They were being tracked? He stopped for a moment to think what he should do. Sigma was 23 hours away by SLIP, so whatever might happen to her had already happened. He had just less than a half-hour before the 0900 service with his favorite chaplain, Craig Erickson. The man had a way of making everyone in the place think he was talking just to them. It was spooky, but in a good way. Erickson was touching something important deep inside each of them. He decided to keep his Sunday morning schedule and set up a meeting with his senior staff, Cook, Harris, and Collins, at 1 PM. They could talk this over then. Regrettably, he thought to himself, it really could wait a couple hours. They had no help to offer Sigma for at least 23 hours. Davis was on his own, like every other ship captain in the Fleet. When Davenport arrived at the chapel, he found Erickson and asked him to call out Sigma in his daily prayers.
After an hour of loud music, tough preaching, and quiet reflection, Davenport went home with the family for brunch. He enjoyed
the noise and chaos of the kitchen as they prepared sausage, eggs, waffles, or whatever else his children, and a couple small grandchildren, might want. The kitchen looked like a tornado victim as they all dropped around the large dining room table to eat. Cleanup could wait. He had just sat down when the alarm went off again.
FLASH 207806251545 UTC
TO: CINCFLEET
FROM: SIGMA
AFTER MANEUVER TYPE I CONTACT CLEARLY TRACKING THIS VESSEL
ATTACKING CONTACT AT 1.2MKM RANGE
END
He looked at it for several seconds, Marian staring at him disapprovingly. He looked up at her without responding. She didn't quite understand what war meant, he knew. He forwarded the message to his staff and put the phone away.
"Must you?" she demanded. "Today?"
"The war doesn't know it's Sunday, Marian," he said flatly. "I'll be going to the office at one."
Still glaring at him she stabbed a waffle off the pile and dropped it on her plate. Connor could not help feeling that the defenseless waffle was taking a beating really meant for him. It made him laugh inside, but he suppressed the urge, and only a small smile crept out. He served himself some eggs, two sausages, and a bagel for a finish, then happily dove back into the loud family conversation going on around him. They were just starting to clean up when the third message came.
FLASH 207806251612 UTC
TO: CINCFLEET
FROM: SIGMA
BEING PACED BY SECOND TYPE I CONTACT. RANGE 520 KKM.
STRONG BELIEF THAT ENEMY IS DETECTING AND TRACKING
THIS VESSEL
PLAN TO STRIKE SECOND CONTACT
END
Ron Harris was in his office by noon, reading and trying to absorb the messages from Sigma. The last was perhaps the most frightening. Two contacts, both tracking them. Davis had given them no information on the outcome of his strikes. Fiona arrived shortly after he did, and they sat in Ron's office trying to make sense of it.
"If we're being tracked that might explain Otbara," the worry was clear in her voice.
"Yes, it might."
"We should be getting another update before long," she said, looking at the UTC clock behind Ron. It had been an hour since the last one.
"Let's hope."
They passed the rest of the time in small talk, heading for CINC's office when the time arrived. Chief of Fleet Operations Admiral Cook was already there, her face full of worry. CINC looked across the desk at them.
"It's now been, what, almost two hours since we heard from them?"
"Yes, sir," Cook responded. She turned to Harris. "So, what do you make of this tracking?"
"I have no idea, Admiral, I really don't. We've guessed previously that maybe we could be tracked by star occultations. After Inor we talked a lot about that but didn't really arrive at a conclusion. Besides that, we've always been worried that there would be something we're emitting that we don't know about."
"Like?"
"Well, artificial gravitons, for example. But FPI tells us they don't buy that."
He looked back across at Davenport.
"Could the reactor be leaking something? We've checked and checked, and we can't see anything."
"And then there's the unknown," Fiona commented.
"Right. It could be something else we have no idea about."
"So, what should we do? What can we do?" CINC asked, clearly annoyed at the lack of information in his brain trust.
Cook spoke first.
"We should get a message out to the Fleet that this might be happening. If they encounter an enemy ship that appears to be tracking them, they should drop whatever they're doing and leave."
"Yes, that would be sensible," Fiona agreed. "The longer we go without hearing from them..."
She had expressed what they were all worried about, but there was not much any of them could do about it.
"She could be damaged, sir, not necessarily lost." Ron offered.
"If they can, they'll update us soon," Cook said, a bite in her voice. "If they can't, I'll have to see what we can send."
Davenport nodded his agreement.
"Meantime get the warning out."
They broke up, each returning to their offices, wondering where they might find answers. There were no ships nearby GL 876. The best they could do was to send Chaffee, which was at Tranquility II, over seven light years away. A week away from Sigma. Cook decided to wait and see what happened in the next day. If they didn't hear in that time, she'd see if Chaffee could make the trip.
ISC Fleet HQ Operations Section
Fort Eustis, VA
Monday, June 27, 2078, 0830 EDT
Cook looked across her desk at Ron.
"They could just be incommunicado. They might not be dead."
"True, but we've heard nothing in almost a day after they went into action." His expression was hard. "The presumption should be that she's lost."
Cook's eyes flared.
"I'll decide the presumptions, Ron."
"As you say, Patty, it's your call. You asked my opinion."
She leaned back in her chair and nodded in resignation.
"Did you talk to Evans?"
"Yes. He's upset, as you'd expect. But he says you should tell Antares." About a third of the Antares crew, most critically her captain Terri Michael, were originally from Liberty and had been with Sigma's captain Len Davis on Inor. They would take this loss very hard.
"They're pros, Patty, they understand what's going on. They'll be fine."
"I was talking to CINC earlier. You remember that student that Hansen talked about? Powell?"
"Oh, right, sure. Dropped out but Hansen wanted him commissioned."
"CINC decided last week to go ahead and promote him."
"That's good, I guess," Ron did not understand where Patty was going.
"He's on Sigma."
"Oh, shit. And Hansen is on Antares."
"Correct."
"It's going to be a very hard day on Antares. At least they're already on their way back here."
"They're still ten days out. I am going to wait one more day before I call Sigma overdue."
"I see."
"You don't agree?"
"I don't, but on the other hand, I don't see the harm in waiting another day. They'll still have time to digest it before they get back."
Ron left the Operations offices unsatisfied. His approach was more "get it over and then get over it," and he would not have waited to tell Antares. Sigma was already silent for almost a full day in combat. Sure, she might not be dead, but that did not seem very likely to Ron.
Time will tell, he thought.
ISC Fleet HQ Intel Section
Ft. Eustis, VA
Monday, June 27, 2078, 1025 EDT
Frances looked across her desk at Roger Cox. She noticed that the young man needed a shave. His usually precise grooming habits had slipped a bit lately. Probably my fault, she thought, I've been keeping him up too late. No matter, she said silently to herself. The work is more important. And the work lately had been hard.
Frances had brought over two more experienced NSA analysts to help with the TDOA problem. To Roger, they were spooky legends with shady, possibly dangerous pasts. The truth was, Candy Hull was a grandmother of five who had never known any other life - her parents had met at NSA. She was tall, spare, severe looking, but with a fast wit and a broad smile. On the outside, Donald Curtis was just a dad of three boys, who could often be seen chasing them around the yard after work. Inside, he was a studious, attentive, insightful traffic analyst. Donald was of average height and slight build, and some said he reminded them of Sammy Davis, Jr. Donald wasn't sure that was a compliment, but he grudgingly agreed that there was a minor resemblance.
"So, Roger, what do you think?" Donald asked.
"Well, sir, based on what we've collected over the last week, six messages in all, I think we've found an enemy position."
Donald nodded.
"Yes, I agree.
How would you characterize it?"
Roger frowned.
"I am not sure, sir."
"Take them one at a time, Roger, and walk me through it." Candy said.
He reshuffled the papers in his hand and started.
"OK, message number one is about three seconds, and locates to near GL 876."
He flipped the sheet.
"The next one is ten seconds and is located in deep space, somewhere 25 light years in the south."
He paused.
"I really wish we could read this stuff," he said sadly.
"So do I," Donald said agreeably, "But we really don't need to see the content if we can figure out which are questions and which are answers."
Roger nodded.
"OK, we know the distance between the sources of M1 and M2 is about 30 light years."
"Long way!" Frances commented.
"Right, it is. Based on that M2 was sent something like two hours after M1 would have been received."
"Quick response. The message must have been important, don't you think?"
"Yes, that makes sense."
He flipped pages again.
"M3 is sent from deep space shortly after M2. It's also long, about eight seconds."
Candy leaned over, looking at Roger.
"So, we have a ship calling into HQ, getting a response, and then HQ sends out some kind of fleet message?"
Frances nodded.
"Yes, I think so. We haven't seen a response to M3 from anywhere, so my guess that it was some kind of notification."
"Not yet, anyway," Donald corrected.
"Right, not yet. The delays still amaze me."
"OK. time to brief the boss."
Frances said as she picked up the phone.
"Cap - oops - Admiral Harris, sir, we have something to show you if you could come to my office."
Ron arrived shortly after. Roger and Donald led the discussion, bringing Harris up to date on their progress and the estimated position of what they began calling 'Enemy Station.' Harris was pleased, excited even, and promised to bring Frances to brief CINC the next morning. As he stood to leave, Candy spoke up.
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