Fleet Action wc-3

by William R. Forstchen

  "Order all on defensive to prepare for second strike on enemy carriers."

  The combat commander looked up.

  "Their armaments have nearly all been expended, my lord."

  Prince Thrakhath growled angrily. If he landed them and any of the carriers were destroyed by the boarders he'd lose his pilots.

  "Order the fighters to hold until boarders are disposed off, then land and rearm."

  He looked up at the internal security display and saw a white line tracing the enemy attack into the second level of the ship.

  "I'm going to the forward launch bay," he announced coldly. "The attack to finish their fleet I'm personally leading

  He started off the bridge and then paused.

  "Order the cruisers to break through and finish Earth now!"

  In anguish Geoff Tolwyn watched the flickering two dimensional image on the tactical display. All holo displays were now off line as was primary shielding jump engines, and port launch deck. Concordia had survived two more torpedo hits and was crippled, barely able to make twenty percent speed.

  The offensive strike waves had simply disappeared into the heart of the enemy fleet. He knew some successes were made, with more than a dozen frigates, destroyers and cruisers gone. But the carriers were still intact. Whether any of the boarding parties had even gotten into the heart of the fleet was merely a guess at this point. The computers handling the hundreds of comm channels was down, as was burst signal link to Earth.

  They had fought the enemy offensive strike to a stand-still. Not fifty of the enemy fighters out of the four hundred that had come in had survived. Two more of his carriers were gone, the surviving three damaged, with Lexington threatening to blow from internal fires — and there were still close to a thousand enemy fighters left along with a hundred escort ships.

  But what was worse, far worse, was the cruiser squadron that at the opening of the action had flanked far out to port by more than five million clicks and was now plunging straight in towards Earth, scoops closed and up to flank speed. Not even his fastest ships could close with them now. The light picket line of a cruiser section, Earth orbital defenses and moon ground based defenses and a handful of obsolete frigates would have to stop them. It had been assumed that at least one section of enemy ships or more would go for a straight breakthrough under the screen of the fleet-to-fleet action. Earth was on its own now.

  He thought for a moment of a distant ancestor of long ago, who, when contemplating the invasion and destruction of England, announced that even if England fell, the Empire, and with it the fleet, would still continue the fight.

  England. No, he didn't want to think of that now.

  "Get me Polowski on laser link."

  The image flickered on the screen.

  "Mike, they're going to come in to finish us off. We still need to keep our carriers alive. I want you to close and see what you can do to knock them off balance."

  "What I've been waiting to hear," Mike replied, his voice sounding distant and strained.

  "Take care, and God's speed to you, Mike."

  Mike did not even reply. Seconds later Destroyer Squadron Three leaped forward into the attack.

  Duke Grecko, his good arm shattered by a blast from a grenade, sat against a bulkhead wall. A lone runner came back from the point squad.

  "The bastards are insane up there. At least a hundred of them charged when we hit the next deck. It was hand to hand."

  The runner was panting hard.

  "Your platoon?"

  "Finished, sir," and she paused "I got out because Lieutenant Flory sent me back just before they overran us."

  "It's all right, Marine. How long before they get here?"

  "I lasered the door shut, sir. Not more than a minute or two."

  Duke brought his laser up with his artificial arm at the sound of running. From around a corner a Marine appeared, gun down low, ready to fire, and relaxed at the sight of Grecko. He looked back and waved on his unit and came up to Grecko.

  "Demo team reporting, sir. How's it up ahead?"

  "As far as we're getting son."

  "Only three levels down, sir. Can't we get one more?"

  Duke looked at the young woman who had been on point.

  She shook her head

  "Then it's right here, son," and as he spoke the survivors of the demo team and the platoon escorting them came up, pushing a steel crate, maneuvering it with null gravity handles.

  "Open her up," Duke said quietly, and the team lowered it down, popping the lid open.

  Duke looked at the detonator for the thermonuclear warhead.

  "All right, now get the hell out of here. I'm giving you five minutes," and he reached over, first arming the device and then turning the timer on.

  The demo team looked at him and grinned

  "Let's go, sir."

  "I'll be along in a minute," Duke said quietly.

  The surviving corporal of the team hesitated.

  "That's my job, sir."

  "I'm not going to play hero, son. Now get the lead out of your butt and that's an order. I'll be along shortly."

  The Marine looked at him, hesitating. A thin smile creased his features. He saluted and then turned, heading back down the corridor, leading his team with him.

  Duke settled back against the wall and sighed. He simply couldn't admit that he was played out and exhausted. Perhaps the president was right, he had never really recovered from his wounds taken at Vukar. He should have stayed at his desk rather than running off to play commando. Since someone did have to stay behind, just in case the Cats got through and knew how to disarm the weapon, it might as well be him.

  "You all right, sir?"

  He looked up. It was the young woman who had been on point.

  "Marine, get the hell out of here."

  "Like hell, sir," she said quietly. "I'll hold point." He smiled sadly.

  "I thought you might want some company," and her voice was almost childlike.

  "What's your name, Marine?"

  "Jenny McCrae, sir."

  "That's my girl's name too," he said, a fatherly tone evident in his voice. "She's with the Fourth Marine."

  He didn't want to think about that now. She was somewhere in the assault.

  "I know, sir, we went through boot together. She was awfully proud of you."

  "Really? I wondered. I haven't seen her in years. Her mother and I . . ."

  "I know, sir. It's all right though."

  They heard the door down the corridor burst open a thundering roar filling the corridor. He looked down at the chronometer ticking off on the bomb. A minute forty-five to go. The squad just might have made it back by now and gotten off.

  I'll give them a few more seconds.

  The first Cat turned the corridor and Jenny dropped him. And then a swarm of them came on. He started to slam his fist down on the firing button when a solid blow knocked him off his feet, slamming him against the bulkhead. He tried to get back up, barely seeing the Kilrathi Imperial Guard trooper closing in on him from behind.

  The Cat fired again, stitching a burst across his chest and the world started to go warm and hazy.

  He looked up and saw Jenny standing over him. She looked like his daughter, or was it his wife, or mother — filled with gentleness.

  She looked at him, a smile lighting her innocent face, and then her fist slammed down on the ignitor.

  Kevin Tolwyn flung his hand over his visor as a sun ignited before him.

  They got it!

  He knew he was getting dosed but he didn't care. Not now. The entire top forward half of the carrier was engulfed in the fireball, the lower and aft parts of the ship tumbling down from the shock of the explosion. The rest of the ship appeared to hold together for a brief instant and then fractured open, the engine cells igniting, the fireball racing outward. Another flash detonated to his right followed by half a dozen more. He guessed that two of them were cruisers, the others, he wasn't sure of.

  B
ut two more of them were heavy carriers! The glare of the explosions filled space across hundreds of cubic kilometers. His dose meter clicked off, beeping an alarm. He didn't care. He just didn't care anymore. They had finished the bastards.

  He closed his eyes, feeling at peace.

  Stunned, Prince Thrakhath turned his fighter around, looking back at his flagship as it blew apart, a dozen clicks behind him.

  He knew that those on the deck had thought him a coward for leaving the ship, seeing through his excuse that he was going to personally lead the next wave into battle.

  Well, they were dead now and he was still alive.

  His heart filled with mad rage as more detonations let go, two more of his prized ships disappearing, and he howled with insane fury.

  The explosions died away. He scanned through his tactical.

  He still had one old carrier and Craxtha intact.

  He punched into Craxtha's main channel and called in the commander of the ship obviously startled.

  "We feared you were dead, my lord."

  "I was off ship, preparing to lead the next strike."

  "Sivar be praised. She guided you thus, my lord."

  "The status of your ship?"

  "She is fully operational, my lord. We repelled all boarders — my fighters stopped them long before they closed."

  He could detect the pride in the commander, as if he were saying that the other ships were lost through negligence.

  "Yes, of course, praise to Sivar. Order all heavy strike fighters from all ships to land on your carrier and rearm immediately for a killing strike on the enemy fleet. We will still win this action."

  The commander hesitated.

  "We have reports of an incoming strike of enemy destroyers, my lord. And besides, you are talking about turning around over five hundred strike craft on this one ship

  "Your ship is designed to handle that. Now pass the order. Let the remaining fighters and our escorts block the destroyers."

  "As you command, my lord."

  Thrakhath turned his fighter in towards Craxtha, which within minutes was surrounded by swarms of fighters who were lining up for recovery on the six launch bays.

  Thrakhath cut into the front of the landing pattern and came in, touching down in the forward portside landing bay.

  Inside the hangar deck was mass confusion, the bay crammed from one end to the other with fighters. Fuel lines were snaked across the deck, armaments lockers were open and torpedoes were being hoisted out. Crews struggled with long energy cables, hooking them into ships, recharging neutron guns, batteries, and shielding systems.

  There was no semblance of order: pilots and ship crews from the other three heavy carriers milled about, most of them in obvious shock at the sudden reversal.

  Thrakhath stepped out of his fighter and instantly the deck went silent.

  "Keep working," he snarled. "We will still finish the scum before this day is done."

  He felt the ship start to heel over, the starfield outside the entry lock shifting. He could imagine the confusion this sudden maneuver was causing with the hundred or more fighters and strike craft still lined up for recovery. Angrily, he strode across the deck into the launch officer's operations office.

  "Put the bridge on," he thundered.

  "What are you doing up there?" he shouted. "We need to get these fighters in as soon as possible and turned around."

  "Five destroyers have broken through the inner screen and are coming straight in on us."

  "Enemy carrier turning away, sir.

  "Keep on closing," Mike said calmly.

  He looked over at his helm officer and smiled.

  "Just like the Battle of Leyte Gulf," Mike said.

  "I was thinking that," the helm replied "One of my illustrious ancestors commanded a cruiser there. We should have won that day."

  Mike nodded.

  "Torpedo room."

  "Torpedo room, sir."

  "Have lock yet?"

  "Twenty-two seconds and counting, sir."

  Mike looked back up at his tactical. Of the twelve destroyers in his squadron only four were left. There was a flash of light on his main visual and he realized he was down to three.

  "Hell of a day to be a destroyer skipper," and then he focused back on the enemy carrier, a dozen clicks ahead as it turned hard over, now presenting a full amidships shot and then started to present its stern.

  A swarm of Kilrathi fighters shot in, stitching his destroyer with everything they still had. Four of them elected to simply come straight in, one of them kamikaziing through the shield as it struggled to recover from the repeated hammer blows. The kamikaze hit just aft of the bridge, blowing into the center of the ship, knocking Mike to the deck. Decompression alarms sounded off, the damage control board sparkling with red lights.

  "Torpedo room."

  "Twelve and counting, sir. What the hell happened back there?"

  "Never mind, just get those birds launched."

  Another string of fighters swooped in, concentrating on the bow of the ship.

  "We've lost lock, sir. Torpedo guidance control off line."

  "Damn it!"

  To his right, Roger Young launched its torpedoes just before blowing. The spread of a dozen rounds leaped forward

  "Helm, follow those torpedoes in," Mike shouted, and then he reached over, punching the abandon ship alarm.

  "This is the captain speaking. If you wanna see your families again, you've got thirty seconds to get to the escape pods and the hell off this ship!"

  He looked over at his helm and fire control officers.

  "I hate to ask this of you two."

  "It's all right, sir," the helm officer said. "This time the family wants to be on the winning side."

  Mike looked at the rest of his team.

  "You heard me, get the hell off this ship."

  They hesitated.

  "Damn it, you fools. You've got something to live for, now move it," and he grabbed hold of his damage control officer and pushed her towards the door.

  She looked at him, wide-eyed, torn.

  "For God's sake, Elaine, you've got kids back home. Now move it!"

  She struggled to hold back the tears and then, turning, ran down the corridor to the nearest escape pod, the rest following.

  "Helm, follow those torpedoes in."

  Aye, sir.

  Mike stood, watching the screen, ignoring the fighters that swarmed around his ship. A staccato series of hammer blows blew the main generator off line, dim emergency battle lamps coming back on. All but two of the torpedoes launched by Young were gone as well.

  "Torpedo room, still with me?"

  "Still here, sir. Figured we should hang around for the fun.

  "Get ready for blind fire. Set fuses at point one seconds!"

  "Point one seconds, sir?"

  "Shut up and do it!"

  "Point one seconds, sir, and we'll see you in hell."

  "Helm, do your job right. Bring us in on the landing bay an instant after Young's birds hit."

  The helm officer grinned as he delicately worked the controls, weaving the destroyer in, as it came up directly astern of the enemy carrier.

  The carrier's point defenses tore into his ship and he felt her dying, letting go.

  "Helm, full speed ahead now!"

  He felt the final surge of his ship thundering under his feet.

  "Torpedo room, ready, ready, fire!"

  The one surviving torpedo from Roger Young hit the carrier's aft starboard launch bay and blew, distorting the phase shielding. An instant later a dozen more torpedoes fired at point blank range detonated.

  The last thing Mike Polowski saw were his own torpedoes blowing less than fifty meters ahead of his own ship. He thought of the warm hills of his now dead world and smiled as the blast wave blew his ship apart. The forward momentum of what had been the aft end of his destroyer, however, continued on, even as it died, adding its thousand tons of mass into the detonating firestorm
of the torpedoes impacting against the carrier's overloaded shields. Most of the mass was repelled away, but the aft end of the ship, engines still pulsing, even as the ship ahead of it vaporized, continued onward, driving through the shattered hull, pushing before it fragments of bulkheads, decking, and those few still on board. The engine mounts, made of solid durasteel, were all that was left a hundredth of a second later as they impacted through the landing bay's airlock. Several dozen tons of molten durasteel blew into the vast hangar bay, vaporizing flesh, cutting into fuel lines, igniting ammunition, and ripping open the hundred and three fighters being readied for launch.

  The entire bay exploded in a white-hot fireball of destruction.

  Prince Thrakhath staggered through the wreckage and onto Craxtha's main bridge. The room was choked with smoke, half the bridge crew dead or wounded, open fires still licking out of shattered equipment. The ship's commander was dead, slumped in his chair, the top of his head gone.

  "Who's in command here?"

  The crew looked at him, stunned.

  "I think I am now, sir," and Thrakhath saw the green tabs of damage control on the officer's collar.

  "Can you save her?"

  "We've lost two aft bays, my lord," the officer reported. "The explosion started in starboard aft bay, then leaped through an open access elevator to topside bay."

  "Why was it open?"

  "The commander ordered it. They were out of torpedoes in the lower bay. We were shifting them down from above."

  Thrakhath looked back at the commander and silently cursed. If he were still alive, he would have him executed on the spot for such stupidity.

  "Two of our main engines are gone as well, sir. We're lucky the main fuel cells didn't go up. I'm purging out the three cells closest to the fire right now. I've also ordered all armaments in the aft topside bay dumped overboard"

  "Do that and we have to run with scoops full open!" Thrakhath roared. "We'll lose whatever offensive capability we have left. With half our remaining armaments gone, we're finished!"

  "Sire, if you don't like what I'm doing then execute me and do it yourself," the officer snapped. "We're lucky to be alive as is. If we don't purge those cells now they'll blow. It's an inferno back there."