“Command, I speak for all of us,” Kubby said, the operations AI’s avatar grim-faced.
Michael glanced at the other AIs; the avatars nodded their agreement. “Kelli? Nathan?”
“Us, too,” his two captains said.
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“We’ve considered all the options. Realistically, there are just two. Either the dreadnoughts push on or they turn back to assist Assault Group.”
“You’re sure of that? I need to know I haven’t missed something here.”
“Those are your options,” Kubby replied, its tone emphatic. “We recommend that the dreadnoughts press on. Assault Group should be retasked to deal with the latest Hammer incursion. Let me show you why.”
Michael watched the AI run a quick and dirty simulation of what would happen if he turned back. It was as he feared: Opera could not succeed if the Fed attack ended up bogged down in an endless battle of attrition with a never-ending flow of Hammer reinforcements. With everything to lose, the Hammers would not hold back. They would keep throwing ships into the fight until every last Fed warship exploded into a ball of gas. Somebody had to press home the attack, and he was that someone.
“Okay,” he said. “I agree. We don’t have a choice. We need to push on. Warfare concurs?”
“Warfare concurs. Push on.”
“Retrieve?”
“Concurs.”
“Recognizance?”
“Concurs.”
“Roger. Let me talk to the admiral’s staff to get their approval,” Michael said, praying harder than he had ever prayed that he was going to get it. “And if I don’t get the admiral’s approval, we’re going anyway, and that’s an order.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” his dreadnought captains replied.
“Good.” Taking a deep breath-the step he was about to take had kicked his heart into overdrive-Michael commed Perkins’s staff.
“Flag, Reckless,” he said.
“Flag.” The avatar of some staff drone-a three-ring commander-replied.
“Hammer-6 will be in a position to engage Assault Group in less than ten minutes. I intend to push on to destroy the plant. Reckless, over.”
“Stand by, Reckless.”
The wait was a long one; the staff officer’s avatar reappeared finally.
“Reckless. From Flag, not approved, repeat, not approved. Dreadnought Group is to adjust vector to take station on Assault Group. When the Hammer attack has been contained, Assault Group will res-”
“No, sir!” Michael barked. “That will not work. This Hammer attack is a distraction. If the dreadnoughts turn back to support you, we’ll lose too many ships and too much time to complete the operation. We have the initiative, but we’ll lose-”
“You’re not listening to me, Captain!” the officer barked. “Without the support of your ships, Assault Group cannot contain these Hammer ships, so adjust vector as ordered. That’s an order.”
“No, Commander, you’re the one not listening,” Michael replied. “If we pull back, the Hammer ships inbound for SuppFac27 will get there intact. More reinforcements are sure to be on their way. Once those warships are under the protection of the battle stations and platforms, we will not have the assets to break through if we stop to help Assault Group. We’ll lose too many ships. And if the dreadnoughts don’t get through, that means all of this effort, all of the ships and spacers we’ve lost, will have been wasted. I’m sorry, I know it will be rough for Assault Group, but that’s just the way it has to be. Assault Group’s mission has changed. It has to change, sir. You have to run interference for us. Look at the sims; you’ll see what I mean.”
“Don’t tell me my job, Captain,” the staff commander said, his voice pure ice.
“I’m not, sir,” Michael said, “but we have run the sims, and it’s clear that pulling the dreadnoughts back to cover Assault Group endangers the entire operation. More to the point, it is inconsistent with Opera’s prime directive.”
The staff officer’s eyes bulged in disbelief. He glared at Michael, visibly angry. “You leave me no choice, Captain.”
“I am obliged to comply with Opera’s prime directive, Commander,” Michael snapped. “Sorry, sir. I will not adjust vector. Request you provide cover for my assault on SuppFac27.”
“Stand by.”
The staff officer’s avatar disappeared, the grim face of Rear Admiral Perkins taking its place. “Listen to me, Helfort,” Perkins said, his voice shaking. “I don’t care what you think. Your ships are under my command, and you’ll do as you are damn well ordered.”
Michael shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Under normal circumstances, of course I would. But these are not normal circumstances. If I follow your orders, Opera is lost.”
“That’s a matter of interpretation, Helfort, and I should not have to point out that it is my interpretation that counts, not yours.” Perkins’s face reddened with rage, the effort he was making to stay in control all too obvious. “Listen to me, Lieutenant, and listen well. This is a direct order. Dreadnought Group will adjust vector to take station on Assault Group. Do you understand my order?”
“I do, sir.”
“Obey it!”
“No, sir,” Michael said. “I can’t do that. If I obey, Opera is finished. The dreadnoughts will push on. The mission’s prime directive takes precedence over your orders. I’m sorry, but that’s a fact … sir.”
While Michael spoke, Perkins’s face twisted with ugly rage. “Listen here, Helfort,” he barked, his voice thick with fury. “Goddamn it! A direct order is a direct order. Take station on Assault Group. Now!”
“No, sir,” Michael said with another shake of the head. “Sorry, I will not comply with your order, and neither will my captains. Reckless, out.”
Michael cut the link and Perkins’s avatar, mouth open, face crimson, and eyes closed to narrow slits in impotent rage, faded away. For a moment, Michael wondered just what he had done. Ignoring a direct order from an admiral in battle was bad enough. Ignoring an order with the future of the Federated Worlds at stake was a hundred times worse. Heart racing nearly uncontrollably, he forced himself back to reality.
“Command, Warfare. To all Dreadnought Group ships, immediate execute emergency speed 300, acknowledge.” “Warfare, stand by … all ships acknowledged, emergency speed 300.”
Michael commed Rao and Machar. “You guys copy that?”
“We did, sir,” Rao said.
“You with me?”
“Yes, sir, we are. The admiral has given us the same order, and we have both declined to obey it.”
Michael swallowed hard. Trashing his own career was one thing; consigning officers as promising as Rao and Machar to the scrap heap was quite another. “You know what you’re risking?”
“Not as much as you are,” Machar said, “so don’t sweat it, sir. We’re in.”
“Roger. Thanks. Reckless, out.”
The die was cast; there was no going back. Michael could do nothing more. He breathed in and out slowly to try to get an unruly body back under control while Reckless’s main engines came up to emergency power, tons of driver mass accelerated at 40,000 g pouring from her main engines in two massive blue-white plumes of plasma. Around her, the dreadnoughts followed suit, thirty ships now driving in hard toward SuppFac27.
To Michael’s surprise, all of a sudden the stress, the fear, and the tension that had hung over him from the start of the operation started to slip away. With absolute clarity, Michael knew this to be the defining moment of his Fleet career. A strange calm filled his body, sharpening his senses, the terrible risks he faced visible in all their frightening detail. With a huge effort, he cleared his mind of everything but the mission, his ships, and the target. What mattered was making sure that the bet paid off.
Everything else was irrelevant.
Michael watched the command plot as the final acts of Operation Opera began to unfold. He was not going to worry about Perkins and his ships. What concerned him was the two Hamme
r task groups falling back to SuppFac27 after wasting their time dealing with the decoy attacks. If left unchallenged, they were strong enough to deflect his final assault on SuppFac27. Chucking yet another of the Fighting Instructions’ precious rules out the window, he decided to split his forces,
“Retrieve, Recognizance, this is Reckless.”
The faces of Rao and Machar popped into his neuronics; the pressure of events was clear to see. “Sir?” they said in unison.
“Kelli. I’m detaching Second and Third squadrons under your command. Adjust vector to intercept the Hammer task groups inbound for SuppFac27. I know it’s a big task, but I need you to keep them off my back while the First pushes on to deal with the antimatter plant. You must hold them up long enough for me to get through, even if it costs you every last one of your ships. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Rao said.
“Good. Destroy the Hammers if you can, then take to the landers and get the hell out of here. You don’t have enough time to turn your ships before they enter the southern minefield, so don’t try. Okay?”
Rao said nothing for a moment. Then she nodded. “Yes, sir. I see what you want. Leave it with me; we’ll do our best.”
“I know you will,” Michael said. “Nathan. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir. Good luck.”
“We’ll need it. Before you detach, I’ll take two more missile salvos from your ships … stand by … right, you have targeting data.”
“Roger that, sir. Launching missiles, second salvo to follow.”
“See you on the other side. Remember Comdur. Reckless, out.”
Reckless shuddered when hydraulic rammers off-loaded another missile salvo; Michael ignored the noise and scanned the command and threat plots. With the rest of the dreadnoughts under Rao’s command dealing with the last of the Hammer ships, the tactical situation came down to the one defensive problem-the battle stations and defense platforms arrayed around SuppFac27-standing between him and his only objective, the destruction of the antimatter plant.
Michael briefed Warfare. His fingers tapped impatiently; he waited for the AI to translate his wishes into specific plans. One minute later, Warfare produced what he wanted: a detailed plan to take and destroy SuppFac27’s defenses, a plan that had a reasonable chance of success. And he had to succeed; if he did not, he knew that Perkins would have every right to have him shot, and he did not intend to give him the satisfaction. He would make the damn plan work.
“Command, approved,” Michael said, sitting back. He had played his part; execution of the plan now rested in the hands of Warfare.
Reckless shook when massive hydraulic dispensers rammed a second full missile salvo into space, the rest of the dreadnoughts of the First following suit. The missiles opened out slowly. Two minutes later, another salvo followed, and two minutes later another, and another and another until none were left. The die was cast; Reckless’s missile magazines and those of the rest of the First were empty. Well, not quite. Michael kept twenty missiles back, half with fusion, half with conventional chemex warheads-they had a job, but only if and when his ships punched their way through SuppFac27’s defenses.
“Now,” Michael whispered an instant before Warfare gave the order that committed the missiles to the attack, tens of thousands of Merlin antistarship missiles rammed toward the Hammers defending SuppFac27 on pillars of fire.
“Command, Warfare. Missiles committed. Time to target seventy seconds.”
“Roger. Update.”
“Retrieve reports dreadnoughts have engaged. Hammer ships interdicted by preemptive rail-gun and missile attack.”
“Command, roger. Nice work, guys, nice work.” Michael focused his attention back on the First’s salvo. He watched it smash home, the combination of missiles and rail-gun slugs overwhelming SuppFac27’s defenses, space flaring white as proximity-fused fusion warheads detonated. The Hammer battle stations and platforms disappeared from view behind clouds of flaming armor.
While he waited for the battle damage assessments, Michael checked the dreadnoughts of the Second and Third squadrons, which were closing on the Hammer ships. Rao had to stop the Hammers; if she did not, Michael knew he would be attacking SuppFac27’s defenses while the Hammers fired missiles up the sterns of his ships, precisely where dreadnoughts were most vulnerable.
It seemed a long wait, though it probably was not. Taking aggression to new heights, Rao and Machar threw their ships directly at the Hammers; soaking up everything thrown at them, they closed until the Hammers had nowhere left to run. The massive ships, shrouded in clouds of ionized armor blown off by the Hammers’ frantic attempts to keep them out, were unstoppable. Smashing into the enemy, the dreadnoughts blew themselves apart, taking the Hammer cruisers with them, the rest of the Hammer ships falling to waves of missiles and rail-gun slugs, sheer brute force battering them into bloody wrecks tumbling away into space.
Michael frowned. Rao and Machar had done well. It was a great victory, but it had come at a terrible cost: Twenty dreadnoughts was an awful price to pay but one worth paying to give Michael’s ships the clear run in he needed so badly.
“Command, Warfare. Message from Retrieve: Mission accomplished. Hammer task groups combat-ineffective. Own losses heavy: sixteen ships destroyed, four ships seriously damaged and combat-ineffective. Casualties: six wounded, two serious, in regen tanks. Retrieve and Recognizance abandoning ship. Kill those Hammer bastards. Remember Comdur. Retrieve, out.”
“Command, roger. Reply: To Retrieve and Recognizance, thanks, job well done. Good luck. Get home safely. Reckless out.”
“Warfare, roger. Message sent … stand by … missile launch from SuppFac27 ground defenses.”
“Command, roger.” Michael was unconcerned. SuppFac27’s missile and laser batteries were well camouflaged and hard to eliminate, space battle stations were tough, and defensive platforms were expendable, but that was about all SuppFac27 had going for it. It had an Achilles’ heel: None of its defenses could maneuver, which made them the sort of target every rail gunner dreamed about, and his rail guns bettered any in humanspace. His dreadnoughts would make short work of SuppFac27’s defenses; millions of rail-gun slugs had already pulverized the surface of the asteroid and everything on it into a finely milled cloud of dust, the destruction systematic and unrelenting. Now his ships had to survive the Hammer missile attack pushing through his outer defensive screen of medium-range missiles at over 1,000 kilometers per second.
“Command, Warfare. Update. Assault Group reports task group Hammer-6 combat-ineffective”-well done, Rear Admiral Perkins, Michael thought acidly; you are good for something, after all-“surviving Hammer units scattering to the north, assessed no threat.”
“Command, roger. And Assault Group?”
“Combat-ineffective. Heavy losses, including Seiche”-this was turning out to be a bad day for flag officers, Michael said to himself, trying to ignore an image of Perkins being bundled ignominiously into a lifepod, a glorious moment of unalloyed schadenfreude-“Flag has passed to Sephardic; Commodore Jun has operational command. Assault Group conducting lifepod recovery. Flag advises that Assault Group will withdraw on completion.”
“Roger that. Request Flag to recover landers with survivors from Retrieve and Recognizance.”
“Roger … Flag confirms landers will be recovered. Stand by, message from Flag … Message reads: Personal from Commodore Jun for captain in command, FWSS Reckless. Your actions in keeping with highest traditions of Fleet. Well done. Regret in no position to assist you. All ships combat-ineffective. Good luck. Remember Comdur. Jun out.”
Michael sat for a moment, stunned. He had more friends in high places than he knew. “Send to Flag: Thanks, Reckless out.”
Much as he appreciated Jun’s vote of confidence, her confirmation that he could expect no support from Assault Group was a blow, not unexpected but disappointing nonetheless. Of all the ships committed to Opera, only his could finish what Opera had set out to achieve:
the destruction of SuppFac27.
It was a lonely feeling, not least because success or failure rested on a single pair of shoulders: his.
“All stations, Warfare, brace for missile impact.”
Reckless reverberated with the familiar racket of close-in defensive weapons systems fighting to keep a Hammer attack at bay, the noise underscored by a crunching thud when Reckless fired her rail guns, the job of reducing SuppFac27’s defenses not forgotten. After the terrifying brutality of the earlier Hammer engagements, the attack launched by SuppFac27’s defenses was an anticlimax: There were simply too few missiles attacking too many ships. Without the mindless violence of a rail-gun attack to break open their defenses, the dreadnoughts could focus every weapon they had on the incoming missiles while they clawed their way across tens of thousands of kilometers of space. The noise died away finally, the last Hammer missile blown apart hundreds of kilometers short of its target.
Turning his attention back to the battle damage assessment, Michael took stock. His last salvo had inflicted enormous damage but not enough to finish the job. The defensive platforms might have been scoured out of space, but the Hammer battle stations still stood; they were a much tougher proposition altogether. Though badly damaged, they had survived to launch another missile salvo, their antistarship lasers still working hard to strip the frontal armor off the inbound dreadnoughts. Enough, Michael decided, enough. What came next broke his heart, but it had to be done. He did not have the time-or the missiles-to do this the hard way.
“Warfare, command. Commit the dreadnoughts. Send them in.”
“Warfare, roger.”
The unmanned dreadnoughts responded. Pushing their main engines to emergency power, the ships accelerated away from Reckless on vectors direct for the Hammer battle stations, their defensive weapons scouring the Hammer’s last missile salvo out of existence with contemptuous ease. Outnumbered, the battle stations never stood a chance. Shrugging off everything an increasingly desperate Hammer defense threw at them, the ships smashed headlong into the armored spheres, ripping them open before joining them in incandescent balls of plasma when their main propulsion fusion plants exploded.
The battle of Devastation reef hw-3 Page 26
