by Isaac Hooke
Captain Linder glanced at one of the operations specialists.
“Two minutes, sir,” the specialist said. “So far, only the flotilla is moving. Bandit 1 remains stationary, as predicted.”
When we were about ten minutes away from the drop waypoint, designated by a flashing blue indicator on the tactical display, more red dots began to appear. These were needle-sized.
“Enemy vessels just launched fighters,” an operations specialist said.
“I see them,” Commodore Hanson said over the comm, from the bridge.
“Your orders, sir?” came another voice over the comm. I assumed it must be the Tactical Officer, Lieutenant Commander Miko, who was also on the bridge.
“Hold present course and speed.” Commodore Hanson answered.
“Confirm fighter class,” Captain Linder said.
“Avenger class, sir,” one of the operations specialists answered. “Unmanned and remotely operated.”
“Why launch them so early?” Captain Linder said. “By the time those fighters are in range, the communications lag with the host ships will force the onboard AIs to do most of the work.”
“Unless the fighters are operated by Phants,” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge.
A few tense moments passed.
“Enemy flotilla within mortar and torpedo range, sir,” Miko said over the comm.
“Lock mortars on target,” Commodore Hanson said. “Spread fire evenly among the enemy carriers and frigates. Order our escorts to do the same.”
“Locking mortars on target, and notifying escorts,” Tactical Officer Miko answered.
Launched by rail guns, mortars were true fire-and-forget weapons. Comprised of iron or other minerals, mortars had no propulsion systems of any kind, and never deviated from their initial trajectory, or their initial velocity, after launch. You didn’t need a warhead to cause damage with a mortar—at the velocities starships moved in space, a hit from a mortar could tear a ship in half. Also, since the projectiles were mined from asteroids and other planetoids, they were cheap and easy to replenish.
There was no real defense against mortar projectiles, which were basically mini-asteroids. You could launch a nuke, if you were willing to waste one, but that was about it. The chances of hitting an incoming mortar with one of your own were minuscule, and the Gatlings of point defense systems hardly scuffed the surfaces. The best thing to do was steer out of the way, which made them very effective for target herding.
After a moment, the Tactical Officer’s voice could be heard over the comm. “Mortars locked. The Gerald R. Ford and escorts are ready to fire.”
“Fire,” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge.
“Muting the bridge.” Captain Linder leaned forward. “Now comes the moment of truth. Will our SK allies fire on their own countrymen?”
On the display, yellow lines that represented mortar projectiles streamed out from each of our ships, with dashed lines indicating the intended targets. Four projectiles were headed toward each of the seven enemy vessels.
The three SK vessels on our side had all fired.
“Looks like they came through for us,” Commander Bane said. He was Linder’s second. “Maybe they believe none of their countrymen are alive on the captured vessels.”
The Captain rubbed his chin. “Maybe.”
“Thoughts, Captain?”
Captain Linder bit his lower lip. “The alien beings we face aren’t omni-powerful, despite what some of you might believe. They can’t simply board human ships and expect to know how to navigate them, let alone the strategies to employ in combat. There are SKs on board those captured vessels, fighting for their alien masters, don’t you worry. There have to be.”
“But if Phants possess their fighters, as the Commodore suggests, how did the alien beings learn to pilot them?”
Captain Linder frowned. “I don’t know. But piloting a fighter and operating a carrier lie on two very different ends of the complexity scale.”
Mortar projectiles appeared on the display, coming from the enemy ships. The dashed lines of the computed trajectories converged on the Gerald R. Ford.
All of them.
“Interesting strategy.” Captain Linder continued rubbing his chin. “What do you make of it, Bane?”
“We are the most dangerous threat,” Commander Bane said.
“Yes, but assuming they do disable us, our escorts pack more than enough punch to take down the rest of them.”
“The battle has only started, sir,” Commander Bane said.
“Yes indeed.”
“Alter trajectory to avoid mortar projectiles,” Commodore Hanson said over the comm. “I want a starboard burst of thrust, followed by a countering portside burst the moment those projectiles are cleared.”
“Initiating starboard burst, sir,” another voice said. Presumably the astrogator. Female. That made me think of Shaw. I forced her image from my head. Now was not the time to let thoughts of her consume me.
“Miko,” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge, “lock torpedoes on target. I want the nuclears from us and our escorts to form a constricting noose around the enemy flotilla. Give them only one safe path, down the middle, straight toward us.”
Some moments later: “Ready, sir.”
“Fire.”
I watched purple dots leave each ship. Combined, the dashed lines of their computed trajectories formed a cone whose smaller end faced the enemy. Our SK allies had once again participated, contributing their own nuclear torpedoes.
Small orange dots erupted from the enemy flotilla; their computed trajectories led toward our nukes.
“They’ve launched antinuke countermeasures,” Tactical Officer Miko said over the comm. Antinuke countermeasures were small missiles designed to seek out and destroy nukes well before they hit their target.
“We are clear of incoming mortar projectiles, sir,” came the voice of the astrogator. “Initiating countering portside burst.”
“Good,” Commodore Hanson said. “Scramble Avengers. I want those antinuke CMs taken out. And I want the enemy fighters blown from the void.”
“Scrambling Avengers,” Tactical Officer Miko answered.
I felt the hull of the drop vessel shudder as the Gerald R. Ford launched its own fighters through the launch tubes.
On the display, multiple blue dots appeared on either side of the Gerald R. Ford and the escort vessels.
The F-35 Avengers were fast, sleek, general-purpose drones remotely operated via fighter pilots who remained aboard the carrier. These pilots had numerous AI tools to aim and fire the weapons at their disposal, and to compensate for any delays in reaction time due to the distances the Avengers operated from the ship. The downside of Avengers was that the farther the starfighters traveled from the ship, the more they relied on the internal AIs due to communications lag. Hence the Captain’s surprise when the enemy flotilla had launched their fighters so early in the game.
Roughly half of our Avengers accelerated toward the antinukes launched by the enemy; the other half headed on an intercept course toward the enemy fighters.
“Fire mortars again,” Commodore Hanson said. “I want those ships boxed in. Everywhere they turn, they’re going to face either mortar projectiles, nukes, or Avengers.”
Space combat was really just a bunch of cow herding. You kept steering the cows until you got them precisely where you wanted them: in line for the slaughter.
The 3D display lit up with more lines and extrapolated paths as the enemy flotilla responded in kind with their own mortars. Actually no, some of those weapon paths were dark violet. That meant some of the incoming projectiles were nuclear torpedoes, not mortars. I counted twelve of them.
As usual, everything was aimed at the Gerald R. Ford.
“Commodore . . .” Captain Linder said.
“I see them,” Commodore Hanson responded over the comm. “Launch antinuke countermeasures.”
“Launching antinuke CMs,” Tactical Officer Miko answered from the bridge.
Roughly one-fourth of the enemy starfighters diverted to intercept our countermeasures. Eliminating a countermeasure with the Gatling in a starfighter was safe, since antinukes didn’t have sizable warheads. The Gatlings in starfighters could be used to take down nukes themselves, but the blast radius would destroy the fighter. Avengers were remotely piloted, so there would be no loss of human life; however, each Avenger cost as much as an ATLAS mech to produce, which was why antinukes were the preferred method of nuclear torpedo elimination.
“Alter trajectory to put some distance between us and the nuclears,” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge comm. “Move us up the Z plane.”
“Sir, that will put us in the path of the incoming mortars,” the astrogator’s voice came.
“I am aware of that,” Commodore Hanson answered.
The dot representing our ship shifted subtly to the left. Cow herding indeed.
“Muting the bridge.” Captain Linder rubbed his chin. “That’s got to be their entire nuke arsenal.” He glanced at Lieutenant Commander Braggs. “Again they target everything at the Gerald R. Ford and ignore the others. You’ve dealt with these alien beings before. Thoughts, LC?”
The Lieutenant Commander stared at the display. “I’m wary to suggest anything, sir. We’re facing an alien intelligence here. Their thinking is going to be completely foreign to our own. But I could swear they were trying to get us to focus on the nukes and mortars. It’s like they want us to forget about their starfighters. If it’s true those fighters are piloted by Phants, all a Phant has to do to board us is ram its fighter into the carrier. I have a sinking feeling that the enemy wants to capture the Gerald R. Ford, sir, using those fighters.”
Beside him, Captain Linder nodded slowly, but his face was unreadable. That was a commander’s job. Never show fear. Always present a calm front.
On the 3D display the various dots and curves slowly closed on us.
“Things are going to get messy,” Commander Bane said.
“Win or lose, the enemy flotilla is committed now,” Captain Linder said. “We’ve done half our work. Take a look. Already the remainder of the fleet is closing the noose on Bandit 1.”
Green dots had appeared behind the Skull Ship, spread out in a flanking, half-sphere pattern. Now that the Gerald R. Ford had drawn the enemy flotilla away, the remaining allied ships in orbit were taking the fight to the Skull Ship in a multipronged attack.
I counted twenty carriers in total, from three of the four major space-faring powers. All allied against a common foe. It was truly a significant moment. We were watching history unfold here, before our eyes. Whether they could actually do anything against the Skull Ship’s coronal weaponry was another story however.
The Avengers met the enemy starfighters aimed at our carrier. In moments it became clear the enemy fighters were refusing to engage, because most of those red dots streaked right past and continued on toward the Gerald R. Ford. Some dots winked out, but most of the enemy broke through and continued on.
Our Avengers performed high-energy turns and flipped back to pursue them.
“You said they intend to board us, LC?” Captain Linder said to Braggs. “You’re about to see why they’ll never get the chance. The point defense of a fully powered supercarrier is not something to be taken lightly.”
The moments ticked past.
“Enemy starfighters are in range of our point defense,” Tactical Officer Miko said over the comm. “Automatic Gats engaging.”
The red dots closing on the Gerald R. Ford started to vanish.
“Keep those fighters away from the hull,” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge. “I don’t want any Phants coming aboard.”
Something struck the hull not far from the hangar bay where I resided; the impact was violent enough to be felt inside the Delivery Vehicle.
“What the hell was that?” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge.
“Sir,” Tactical Officer Miko answered. “An enemy fighter managed to momentarily breach our point defense. Its Gat fire struck hangar bay three. We destroyed the fighter, but not before a cascading explosion consumed the hangar. It looks like . . . it looks like we lost the ten drop teams stationed in that bay.”
Captain Linder slammed his chair’s handrest in anger.
The CDC abruptly fell away as the Lieutenant Commander changed his point of view to a drone outside. Debris drifted from the hull of the Gerald R. Ford: hangar bay three had widened into a gaping hole with sparking edges. Amid the wreckage of drop crafts floated lifeless, charred jumpsuits.
I quickly double-checked our duty roster. The MOTHs were distributed in Delivery Vehicles throughout hangar bays seven and eight. None had been in hangar bay three.
I exhaled, relieved. It was selfish I know, because other men had died before they’d even had a chance to fight. But none of my MOTH brothers had perished, and that’s all I cared about right then.
Still, I knew that any one of us could be next.
The view returned to the CDC as Lieutenant Commander Braggs switched back.
“We’re in drop range, sir,” the Tactical Officer said over the comm.
“About damn time,” Commodore Hanson replied. “Open hangar bays and prepare Delivery Vehicles for drop. I want them out before we take any more damage.”
I felt the hull shake again.
“Taking Gat and rail gun fire from enemy fighters,” Tactical Officer Miko said. “We’ve lost turrets three and four.”
So much for our vaunted point defense.
“Fire a broadside of mortars,” Commodore Hanson said from the bridge. “I want those fighters kept away.”
“Firing,” Miko said. A moment later: “Commodore, wouldn’t momentum carry the Phant pilots to our ship, regardless of whether or not we destroyed the fighters that contained them?”
Silence. Then:
“Hard dive,” the Commodore said calmly.
“Sir, that will take us dangerously close to the moon,” Miko said.
“Hard dive,” the Commodore repeated.
“Initiating hard dive,” the astrogator answered.
“Hangar bays are open, sir,” came another voice on the bridge.
“Extend the Delivery Vehicles,” Commodore Hanson intoned. His voice had remained incredibly calm throughout all this.
“Extending Delivery Vehicles.”
The audio and video feed from the CDC abruptly cut out.
“All right men, time to concentrate on the drop.” It was the Chief, speaking over the Alfa platoon comm.
Not yet! I thought. I truly wanted to know how the battle would end. I supposed I’d find out on the surface, one way or another.
If I survived the drop.
A Marine was seated directly opposite me in the Delivery Vehicle. Above his head was a portal, and through it I saw the far bulkhead shift to the left, and rotate.
“What happens if one of those enemy Gats hits us on the way down?” a Marine said. The question made me wonder how many other commanding officers had let their men watch the battle.
“If that happens, you’ll be having a private conversation with your creator,” Tahoe told him.
The Delivery Vehicle jerked and stopped rotating. The gravity field cut out, replaced by the weightlessness of space.
Through the portal I could see ten other Delivery Vehicles, held aloft by rails as they slid from the hangar bay. Beyond them, I watched DVs dropping from other hangars on the Gerald R. Ford, and the hangars of our escort ships in the distance. I saw the flashes of explosions everywhere.
The moon Tau Ceti II-c floated below, while the blue clouds of the gas giant provided an ever-present ba
ckdrop above. The moon’s atmosphere was strangely devoid of weather patterns—terraformed colony worlds, including moons, usually had at least some cloud cover.
The DV dropped.
Through the portal, the Gerald R. Ford vanished. I could see one of the other Delivery Vehicles falling ten meters to our right. A few seconds later, that DV disintegrated under a white hail of incoming fire.
I worriedly glanced at the MOTH roster on my HUD.
No casualties in my platoon. Yet.
At first I thought we’d been hit as well when flames filled the portals and tinted the cabin orange. But then I realized it was just atmospheric entry.
Once through, the pilot steered us toward the insert site. I saw other surviving Delivery Vehicles thrusting alongside our craft, plus a couple of the larger payload shuttles in the distance.
As we neared the surface, the pilot applied air brakes, followed by reverse thrust.
We touched down.
I glanced at my companions, the sixteen individuals—brothers—who had survived the drop with me.
I almost expected to see vomit smears on a few of the face masks. Hell, I’d felt like throwing up during the drop myself, especially when the other Delivery Vehicle had disintegrated. But a quick glance around the compartment told me there were clean masks throughout the group. MOTHs and Marines were tough bastards.
The back ramp lowered.
“All right, men,” Facehopper said. “Deploy and proceed to amtracs.” That was the somewhat archaic nickname for the armored transport tanks that would carry us across the moon.
The clamps that held me in place folded open, and I piled out of the DV along with the others. An all-too-familiar landscape came into view. Black shale stretched to the horizon, like the rocks I had seen on Geronimo. It was like I was reliving a nightmare. I looked to my side, but Alejandro wasn’t there.
Not a nightmare then, but harsh reality.
Facehopper led us toward our designated amtrac at a trot. The slight bounce to our step wasn’t due to any cheer on our part, but rather the 0.92 G gravity.
