The Belt Loop_Book 3_End of an Empire

by Robert B. Jones

  “Comm, aye,” she said.

  During the next five minutes the CIC plotted eight more contacts. The eleven ships were bobbing up and down in the void, forming into a coherent group. Then six smaller tender craft unfolded. Haad waited ten more minutes and ordered battle stations.

  This was not the Great Black Fleet massing sunward of Wilkes and Venus-II.

  These were Varson destroyers. Now they were broadcasting ship-to-ship on tight-band frequencies.

  Haad had to be ready for the interdiction, ready to intercept them before they powered up their engines and headed for the planet housing the Navy Base.

  He had a diplomatic mission and half of his officers had never seen combat before.

  Another glorious day in the Colonial Navy.

  Chapter 41

  The Varson battle group unfolded and spiraled away from the egress point. Once all of the ships were safely out of the fold Bale Phatie formed his group and made his final assault plans. He coordinated and marked the time for the sortie and waited until he collected readiness reports from all of his ships. Once satisfied that his flotilla was ready to commence the bomb run, Phatie ordered each of his captains to spin up their engines. The transit time to the release point would be forty-five minutes at 95 percent efficiency.

  Six minutes before his scheduled time to depart for Wilkes, Phatie was approached by one of his officers from the Combat Information Center. “Eminence, we have detected an anomaly. Our sensors tell us one thing, our long-range visuals tell us another. The consensus in the CIC is for this being debris, a cometary tail, or, worst case, a battle group of alien ships.”

  Phatie rose from his chair and looked down his nose at the man. “Well, which is it? How can you not be sure?”

  “Sir, the returns are scattered. The formation, or whatever it is, is too far away to define with the instrumentation we have available.”

  “Put the image on the forward screen, Mister Noordit. Let me see with my own eyes.”

  The CIC officer said a few words into his headset. Seconds later the forward blister flickered and jumped. Once the new image stabilized, the screen split and down the right side a series of spidery numbers assembled into groups of formulae, scrolled upward and repeated. On the left side of the blister a telescopic view of the area in question. Phatie took two steps forward and put his hands on his hips. He was staring at a star field. As he watched, the image wavered slightly, the background stars seemed to change ever so slightly. The next second the image was normal again. It was like looking through a privacy-glass block. The more he watched, the more obvious the intermittent distortion became.

  “Admiral Onduure, prepare a ship. I want you to send one of the fast-boats to take a closer look at that area. Some of the latest reports from our ships returning from battles around Bayliss have reported difficulty with detecting the Colonial Navy’s ships. This could be a wolfpack waiting to attack us from above, or it could be a debris cloud venting heat into the surrounding space. It could even be recently transpired fold signatures from passing ships. Make a determination and report your findings to me immediately. I am putting the countdown on hold until your ship returns with a visual accounting.”

  “Yes, sir. I will see to it personally. Do you have a preference as to which ship should be sent to investigate?”

  Phatie had to control his anger. He was only an hour or so away from destroying another human colony and these last-minute inconveniences did not sit well with him. As usual, his commanders were spineless and could not make decisions on their own. “I promoted you to admiral, Onduure. You make the decision. Make it now. I will tolerate no further delays.”

  Onduure pounded his chest and walked away from the blister. After twenty seconds of commands shouted at his comm officer, the Malfeasance broke ranks and spiraled away from the battle group. Phatie watched its plumes diminish on the forward blister and turned to his new admiral. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Phatie said.

  * * *

  At precisely 0030 hours the first ship from Earth materialized from the fold. It was a Tsunami-class destroyer with a crew of 400 souls. As soon as its Dyson-IV engine shut down it pushed up and away on its impulse engines and made a long graceful swing around the entry point, a perfect hole in space cooling down through the higher frequencies of color until only a dull red glow marked its passage from the uneventful two-week transit from Earth. The ship — named the WINS Madagascar, hull number DSS-288 — settled into a parking orbit 6,000 kilometers from the fold egress point and immediately began broadcasting its IFF transponder codes.

  The Madagascar was a marvel of engineering. Its 1,400-meter hull was sleek and curved at its waist with a tapered bow and a fluted stern. The huge bulge abaft of the side-entry hangar bays housed twin magnetic containment coils and enough shielding to insulate the human cargo from the raging internal fires of its mammoth engines. The outer hull of the ship was covered with roughly sixteen million electrically adaptive reflective tiles, each one controlled by a sophisticated computer interface. She could alter her appearance at the whims of her captain.

  Exactly forty seconds later, a second ship unfolded. Then a third, a fourth. The fifth ship was a Venom-class battle cruiser weighing in at over two million metric tons. The flagship. The WINS North America took almost 10,000 kilometers to dampen its forward momentum and move its bulk into a stationary position behind the five destroyers.

  “Captain Clay, this is the North America hailing. Any response from our IFF beacon?”

  “Negative response, Captain Dent. We’re pinging on all standard frequencies. Nothing yet.”

  “Keep me informed. Dent, out.”

  The captain of the North America walked his bridge with the confident steps of a seasoned veteran. He was commanding the latest in high-tech WI Navy technology and he made his rounds, checking with his XO, visiting each of his department heads on the three-tiered bridge deck. In all, forty sailors manned the bridge, monitoring all ship aspects from integrated consoles married to one another through a ninety peta-flop computer system humming away down on deck two behind three meters of hardened plastisteel bulkheads and decking. From his central command post Captain Dent had engineering, weapons, communications, science, astrogation, combat information and so forth at his fingertips.

  “Mister Decker, have the ships report in to the quartermaster as soon as they make the formation. Make sure we keep our separation. One hundred and twenty ships make for a lot of room, even in the vastness of space. Make sure the individual captains stress the point no reverse movements are allowed. Should they miss their initial approaches to the formation, have them go around again.”

  Commander Will Decker acknowledged the instructions and flipped frequencies on his belt transmitter with his right thumb.

  Captain Dent retreated to his command chair and opened a secure comm link with the WIN admiral down on deck three in his stateroom. “Admiral Pauls, sir, Captain Dent. We have arrived, sir. Station keeping at the assigned coordinates, awaiting IFF response from our Colonial Navy cousins. Seven ships out of the fold so far, estimate about four hours before we are assembled and ready for your inspection.”

  “Very well, captain,” Vice Admiral Pauls said. “Carry on, and keep me posted. I want to know when you get a reply to your IFF signals.”

  “Understood, sir. Dent, out.”

  Dent fired up his screens and watched as his fleet assembled behind him.

  “Sir, I have a ship on my screen,” his CIC lieutenant commander said, his face showing up in a separate window on his console screen. “It looks like a CNS destroyer, but, it definitely doesn’t belong to the Colonial Navy.”

  “Transponder signals?”

  “Negative, sir. It’s heading up at one two thousand. Making for an unknown destination.”

  Dent pushed up the bill of his cap. “A rogue ship out here? Pirates?”

  Lieutenant Commander Nicks shook his head. “Unknown, sir.”

  “Track that sh
ip, commander. Keep me informed,” Captain Dent said.

  “Aye, aye, sir. Sending the feed to your screen now.”

  “Captain Dent, sir. Incoming transponder signals from the CNS Kona Coast. I have an Admiral Haad on voice and visual with an urgent communication, sir.”

  Dent grunted at his comm tech and wiped his screen, pushing the unknown ship down into the corner and out of his thoughts. A half-hour into Colonial Navy space and these hicks already have an emergency? “Put it on my screen, Lieutenant Gibb.”

  Two seconds later Admiral Uri Haad’s image materialized on his screen.

  One minute later Captain Dent sounded battle stations.

  Chapter 42

  “Hold your positions, and let us see what this intruder is up to,” Admiral Haad transmitted to his battle group. After informing the WIN flagship of what he had estimated to be a Varson flotilla recently out of the fold, Haad had his CIC track the incoming scout ship. Obviously, the ship left the Varson formation on a discovery fly-by. It was coming in from below in a wide low-gee turn aimed at the Colonial Navy’s starboard flank. If his guess was accurate, this ship had been sent out to confirm the unresolved scanner returns now flickering and shifting on the lead ship’s screens.

  Not wanting to tip his hand too early, Haad waited for the scout to get within visual range.

  “Sir, Varson frigate decelerating, lighting up its radar, Delta through Romeo bands. She’s definitely looking for us,” Lieutenant Hurd said calmly.

  “Mister Jacks, standby for evasive maneuvers. You have the helm,” Haad said.

  “Helm, aye, sir. Boat free to move. Standard dispersal pattern.”

  “Captain Orr, arm our weapons. Restricted laser fire only. If we have to break formation I don’t want to hazard the other boats. Targeting resolutions on the main body. Lock them in. Leave that scout ship to one of our CCV’s. Notify Captain Yorn to target that frigate, keep him below the formation plane.”

  Orr passed down the orders and Mister Hollis coordinated his arming commands with the CIC. The Kona Coast was ready.

  “Sir, the Christi’s dropping down and turning to port,” Mister Hurd said.

  “Patch me through, Mister Hurd.” Haad waited for the secure link to his fast-attack boat. “Captain Yorn, Admiral Haad. We have targeting solutions on the main group. Track and engage that intruder. I do not want that ship to return to its formation. Jam her communications with ECM bursts when she gets in range. As long as the main group is confused as to our numbers, we may be able to scare them back into the fold. Under no circumstances are we to communicate with the GBF. They have 120 ships to get settled and refueled. We can’t count on them for any immediate assistance. If this turns out poorly, our last tactic will be to drive the intruding battle group into the GBF guns.”

  “Understood, admiral. At the rate she’s slowing, we should be able to intercept that scout well before she resolves the main group. Corpus Christi, over and out.”

  Haad watched as the Christi dropped from the formation and eased away on thrusters. The image of his old ship back in action evoked a moment of nostalgic reflection. Her hull was repaired, epoxy-coated, her electronics upgraded, engines overhauled. Sailing into battle once again with his trusted friend at her wheel. He had no illusions as to the readiness of the Christi, or her crew. Yorn was one of the most experienced captains in the Fleet and as soon as he got his first taste of command under fire he would comfortably settle into the required second-nature aspects of pressure-cooked decision making.

  Directing his attention back to the overall chain of events rattling around his bridge, Haad followed the incoming stream of information from his CIC. The Varson battle group was holding station, tenders moving in and out of the various ships, prepping the group for action.

  Haad wondered if somewhere in that assemblage of ships rode the Varson madman that had destroyed Canno.

  * * *

  “How many ships? Say that again, admiral,” Bale Phatie said.

  “So far, sir, we count forty ships coming out of folded space. They are making local space at less than a minute between arrivals. If it were not for our positioning below the plane of the ecliptic, we would have never seen them. It just so happens they are unfolding with the Flame Nebula right behind them. A ripple of distortion, then a ship appears. We have not been able to detect them on our scanners, but their silhouettes are visible using our long-range cameras.”

  Piru Torgud Bale Phatie started a slow burn. A suspected Colonial Navy battle group lurking in a formation between his ship and Wilkes. Now this. Forty ships and more coming every minute. Had he unwittingly led his group into a Colonial Navy trap? Phatie looked around his bridge. It was fortunate no person was within striking range, he was in the mood to remove a few heads. Someone had to be held accountable for this interruption in his plans and he secretly waited to take out his frustration on the very next crewman to anger him.

  “Admiral Onduure, dispatch two ships and approach this latest threat. I need to know what we face,” Phatie commanded.

  Onduure started to object. The proximity of Phatie’s hand to the hilt of his sword dissuaded him. He pounded his fist into his chest with vigor and turned on his heels to make the arrangements. Two minutes later two ships were departing the formation heading for the assembling fleet of WIN ships.

  “What reports are coming in from the reconnaissance vessel? They should have made contact by now. Our time is leaking away, our element of surprise completely ruined,” Phatie lamented, his usually unshakable voice showing signs of diminished authority.

  “We’ve been able to resolve a dozen ships, hull configurations unknown from this distance. No visual reports yet, my eminence. Still monitoring,” his comm officer said.

  “Lieutenant Manciir, call the detention block and have Admiral Regiid returned to the bridge in restraints,” Phatie ordered his aide. “There must be a way to deploy our weapon on the fly. Regiid will know.”

  Manciir did as he was told and contacted the brig.

  “Sir, we show movement in the Colonial Navy formation. One ship is peeling away from the group. Intercept course with the Malfeasance. Contact imminent.”

  Phatie looked at his blister and gritted his teeth. Suddenly his swagger left him and he almost staggered to the control chair and a quick seat.

  His officers stared at him with wide eyes.

  * * *

  Captain Yorn stood with his feet apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t have to remind himself of the countless other times he had been in this exact same position. Tracking an enemy ship, waiting to launch the first volley in what was sure to be a fierce battle. This time the situation was slightly different, though. Instead of waiting to pass down orders from Uri Haad in the captain’s chair as the XO of the Christi, he was the front line commander and his XO — Milli Gertz — awaited his orders.

  “Steady as she goes, Mister Vane. Mister Carson, prepare the ECM grenades,” Yorn ordered. The electronic countermeasures cans would be launched prior to engagement and once exploded, the jamming chaff would scramble any transmissions the intruder tried to send back to its command ship. Also, the irregular chunks of metal served as effective shrapnel should the intruder elect to run into the ECM cloud at speed. Most would be deflected by her Higgs Field, but occasionally a piece would get through and pierce a speeding hull like a hot knife through butter. Yorn also had heliospasm torpedoes at his disposal, weapons capable of frying most electrical systems with tremendous EMF pulses. Since the enemy had stolen Colonial Navy technology, he wondered at the effectiveness of these weapons. If the intruder had an active Higgs at one hundred percent efficiency, she could withstand the onslaught with ease.

  “Grenades armed and ready, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Carson said from the weapons alcove.

  “The intruder is being hailed from the battle group, sir. My Varson isn’t what it should be, but it sounds like they’re trying to warn him off. We’re being painted, captain,” Miste
r Corman said.

  “Mister Vane, take us in, two-thirds impulse. Weapons, fire ECM grenades. Ready zanith magazines portside.”

  “Closing at two-thirds, our one five six at four niner down,” Vane reported.

  “ECM away, captain,” Carson called out.

  Milli Gertz thumbed her comm transmitter. “Standby for firing orders,” she said into her headset, linked directly with the weapons bay on the forward port quarter.

  “She’s running, sir,” Lieutenant Vane said from the helm.

  “Bring us into her starboard flank and give me an eighth roll to starboard, Mister Vane. Mister Gertz, watch those readouts and don’t lose lock.”

  “Aye, aye, captain. Holding firm. Distance now six point six,” she said. The Christi started a slow roll to starboard, bringing the portside lasers to bear on the fleeing ship. The intruder was just starting a high-gee eluding maneuver to her left when Captain Yorn gave the order to fire. At 66,000 kilometers it took the high-energy excited light less than three-tenths of a second to close the distance between the ships. Mister Carson had led the Malfeasance perfectly and the laser strike opened up a runnel of destruction along her starboard flank from just beneath the bridge superstructure to the huge containment rings forward of her engines. A second volley was waiting for the ship as it careened into the stuttering fire. It took ten seconds for the laser to breach the ship’s containment collar and ruptured her hydrogen stores of fuel bottles. The almost invisible blue fireball erupted at once, sending shards of the Malfeasance away from the disintegrated engines at 18,000 kilometers per hour.

  “Mister Vane, hard over to starboard and right the ship. Get our metacenter back to the centerline. Swing around and put our nose toward the Varson battle group,” Yorn ordered, counting on the twenty-second delay from the Varson ship’s destruction to reach the main enemy flotilla and an equal amount of delay should any return fire erupt from the anchored ships. Forty seconds of maneuvering time would be enough to get the Christi out of harm’s way for the immediate future.