Admiral's Gambit (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “He doesn’t want to risk us firing on those Constructors. For a man who acts so very willing to blow those ships up to keep them out of our hands, he sure is going to a lot of trouble see to it ‘we’ don’t get a chance to destroy them,” I said with smug satisfaction. That satisfaction soon turned to a creeping feeling of dread as the Strike Cruiser came closer and closer.

  I had considered the possibility of actually fighting the Strike Cruiser to be about 50/50. Looks like I had been unconsciously betting on the wrong 50. Either that, or I was pretty bad at figuring the odds.

  “Wait for it,” the tactical officer said from his console.

  For a second, I was confused. The icons on the screen hadn’t yet met. I was about to make a comment but didn’t get the chance.

  “Wait for it,” yelled the Tactical Officer. “Gunnery, now,” he roared. “Port broadside fire as she bears. Forward gunners give it to her with both barrels.”

  I watched entranced as the main screen was filled with streaks of light. I was surprised I wasn’t actually feeling anything. With the ramming maneuver, and obviously during the trip in the little Cutter, the evidence of combat could be felt through deck plating. Here, there was nothing. No recoil, no massive 'thwumps' or those other high-pitch weapon sounds I was so used to hearing in the holo-vids.

  “Her turbolasers are ranging on us, Admiral,” exclaimed one of the sensor operators. “Ours are replying in turn. We’re still outside the range of our heavy laser cannons,” the man said excitedly.

  “Shields are falling,” reported the Shield Operator. “We’re down to 50% on our forward shields.”

  “She’s rotating,” roared the grey haired Tactical Officer. “Recommend we do the same, Sir.”

  It took me a moment to realize the Tactical Officer was speaking to me.

  “The batteries are getting kind of hot. Recommend we rotate to give the port broadside a chance to cool down,” the man at tactical said urgently.

  “Do it, Helmsman,” I ordered, working hard to keep my tone steady.

  Then the Imperials brought their other broadside to bear and continued coming in at an angle such that their main weaponry all found a target. I felt a small shudder and a series of automated warning sirens started going off.

  “Shield penetration,” yelped the shield Operator. “We’re down to 20% on the shields. Spotting is occurring and some of their fire is getting through.”

  Damage Control sounded off, “Hull compromised on deck five. The leakage has been stopped by the automated pressure sensors on the blast doors,” reported a man at damage control. “Dispatching a work party now.”

  “How much damage to the enemy ship,” I asked, pounding my chair in excitement.

  There was a pause. “Negligible so far, Sir” stated one of the tactical trainees after conferring with sensors. “We haven’t even made it through their shields yet.”

  “I thought our shields were stronger,” I said in frustration.

  “The Imperials have better fire control computers and more skilled gunners,” the officer at tactical said hoarsely. Fingers flying over the tactical console and eyes never leaving his screen. “They have more weapons able to fire at these longer ranges than we do. Our boys are doing the best they can.”

  “Reroute power from the rear shielding array to the forward. Let's compensate for the extra damage we’re taking,” instructed Officer Tremblay. He was already at the shield console and I had never even noticed him move there.

  “Shields stabilizing,” reported the Shields Operator.

  “How’s our regen rate,” queried the Tactical Officer.

  The shield operator listed a number that had the man swearing. “Sweet Murphy, the Chief Engineer told me we only had three of the five fusion generators the ship was issued with, but I forgot,” the man said, looking grim. “Must be getting old.”

  Then the Lucky Clover’s starboard turbolaser batteries came to bear and a renewed series of lights flashed back and forth.

  “She’s trying to maintain her distance,” exclaimed one of the sensor operators. “The Imperial's turning to keep the range open.”

  “Get us as close as you can and keep us there, Helmsman,” I ordered before several opened mouths could urge me to do so.

  “Yes, Admiral,” DuPont said with determination.

  For several minutes the two ships pounded away on each other.

  “It’s a good thing our barrels are too hot to fire more often,” reported the Tactical Officer. “With only our three old power generators, I’m afraid we couldn’t keep recharging the shields and fire one broadside full out. As it is, if we were facing more ships, we wouldn’t have the power to fire both broadsides at once, even if the shield recharge rate was cut entirely,” he growled in frustration.

  The enemy vessel rotated again and a fresh barrage of turbo laser fire rained down on the Luck Clover.

  “Shield strength falling rapidly,” wailed the shield operator.

  “Re-route power from the rear shield array,” said the First Officer.

  “There’s nothing to re-route,” said the Shield Operator frantically. Then the ship was rocked by series of blows.

  “Decompression on decks one through three,” reported Damage Control.

  “How bad is it,” snapped the First Officer.

  There was a pause and several more blows caused the ship to shudder.

  “It's minimal,” damage control reported in a loud, yet relieved tone.

  “Roll the ship,” I ordered.

  “We’re not yet at the end of the heat life of our barrel,” protested the Tactical Officer.

  The Helmsman looked back at me and I nodded, indicating he should continue anyway.

  Several more clangs occurred, then finally the roll was over and a fresh broadside was unleashing its fury.

  “Enemy shields are spotting,” said a sensor operator pumping his fist. The Bridge gave a cheer in unison.

  I gave them all a brave smile, but on the inside I was sure the other side was cheering about all the turbo-bolts that landed on the hull of the Lucky Clover, not about a little bit of shield spotting.

  “Contact the Chief Engineer,” I said as soon as Tremblay regained control and the cheering died down. “Tell him I don’t care how he does it, but we need more power to the turbo-batteries,” I barked.

  Something on the other side had to give, or our ship was going to be in a world of hurt.

  Then a series of explosions rocked the ship and the lights flickered on the bridge. I didn’t know how much more of this my ship could take.

  Chapter 6: The Paring Knife

  He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer.

  Crewman Bostwell was trying to say something as the ship rocked worse than it ever had before and a power surge shot through Main Engineering.

  Several crewmen's uniforms caught fire and they fell screaming from the catwalk.

  Smoke started to pour from one of the three primary conduits running from Fusion Generator number 2. Main Engineering quickly started to fill with smoke. “Shut her down,” screamed Crewman Brence, pointing at the sparking and flaming fusion generator. “We have to shut it down and eject the fusion core!”

  “No,” bellowed Chief Spalding. “Turn the vents on full blast and get that smoke out of here. Main Engineering isn’t surrendering yet!”

  “But Chief, the internal breakers are all fused up and even if we could replace them without killing the men doing it, there’s a crack in the containment, there’s no way she’ll hold up under the strain!"

  “Never,” roared the Chief Engineer. “If we lose a power core, the Clover’s as good as finished!”

  “We may not have a choice, Sir,” yelled Brence, pointing to the burning generator.

  “Chief!” yelled Bostwell, manning a monitoring station a few meters away.

  “What,” screamed Spalding as he spun to face Bostwell, his hair even more wild and unruly than usual.

  “The
Bridge says the Admiral doesn’t care how you do it, they need more power and they need it now!” Bostwell relayed.

  The Chief Engineer threw back his head and laughed. Wiping away the tears, he slapped Bostwell on the shoulder. “Tell them they’ll have their power in five minutes."

  “Chief,” protested Brence, “this is insane! We need to dump the core and advise the Admiral to abandon ship if things are so desperate.”

  Engineering was rocked again by a nearby impact.

  Lieutenant Spalding slapped the nearest thing he’d had to a crew chief before Tracto VI squarely on the chest. Those know-it-all settlement types who couldn’t hack it in the SDF and showed up to complain about the state of his Engineering department might know more, but Brence had been there with him through thick and thin. Seeing Castwell die of his liquor addiction had also worked its wonders on the former no-good slacker.

  “Engineering won’t abandon its post while one, single gunner is still manning his. You round up any man that isn’t running for it, get that fire put out and those breakers re-installed,” he barked at the crewman.

  “Sir, it doesn’t matter. Even if we get the breakers back in order and the fire put out, it's too late! The core is going to blow, Chief,” repeated the crewman, panic in full control.

  “You let me worry about the fusion core, laddy. You just make blasted sure that when the power starts flowin’ right, you funnel it where the Admiral needs it. Do you understand,” he barked, grabbing the other man by the back of the neck and glaring into his eyes for good measure.

  The crewman met his gaze and paused for a moment. “No, Sir. I don’t,” said Brence finally.

  “Good lad,” he said, patting him once on the cheek before slapping him away and giving him a boot in the rear to see on his way. Then he marched to the biggest machine shop on the ship and forced his way into a halfway repaired heavy load suit.

  Stomping back into Main Engineering, he watched as the vents struggled, and ultimately failed to contain the smoke. Brence and a handful of men had climbed up onto the fusion generator and were trying to put out the fires with a series of small, portable fire extinguishers.

  As he watched, one man was electrocuted and his blackened body was thrown half way across the decking, landing on the floor with a sickening crunch.

  Seeing a runner high-tailing it off the deck, the old chief used his clumsy load suit to collar the man. Literally. He was trying for an arm, but the unwieldy suit grabbed hold of the fabric of the rating’s collar instead.

  “I need you, lad,” laughed the Chief Engineer. “No more slacking for you!” He marched the two of them over to the plant with the damaged fusion core.

  He pressed the still kicking and struggling crewman towards the manual door controls. “It’s a two man job, lad,” he said loudly and pressed the man against the controls he would need to operate.

  “Stay here and start the opening sequence,” he instructed. “If you're thinking of running while my back is turned, know I’ll find you and toss you into the waste recycler just like they did to Jean Luc,” he warned direly.

  He went back to grab a thin, meter-square section of hull metal, normally used for simple emergency patches. Upon returning, he clumsily worked the levers and the first door leading into the fusion core swung open.

  “Ye’ve done yer duty, lad,” said the Chief Engineer. “You can finish running away if you like.”

  “Yes sir,” said the wide-eyed engineering rating, glancing back and forth between the wildly grinning Chief Engineer and the opening leading into an unstable power core.

  “Engineering is still the toughest blasted department on the ship, my young rating, and don’t you ever forget it. You tell the Chief Gunner I’ll see him in Hades,” howled the grinning Chief Engineer as he marched through the door. “Floating from ship to ship," he muttered as he manually closed the door behind him, "what a bunch of nonsense.”

  He saw the rating was still nodding like a fool and he sighed. It was a sorry bunch of hands he’d be leaving the Engineering department in. A sorry bunch indeed. Turning slowly, he resolutely opened the second of three doors leading directly to the cracked fusion core. The book said there was no way a standard heavy load suit could survive the radiation bath of a cracked core. There was no way a man inside a load suit would survive long enough to fix anything, they said.

  Well, whoever wrote that book was a liar. He’d looked at the specs himself and figured that a man in a heavy load suit, holding a properly sized section of outer-hull metal between himself and the main leak ought to have just enough time to make sure the fix was in before turning into a crispy critter and giving up the ghost.

  Closing the second door, he turned and started the cycle to open the third and final door. It was all that was between him and an out-of-control power core. Holding the hull-metal shield in one hand and his trusty plasma torch in the other, he waded in to do battle with the Demon Murphy himself.

  Chapter 7: The Second Wind

  The Chief Gunner’s Mate on the ship didn’t question the sudden return of power. More power than they’d had the whole battle so far, in fact. Instead, he ordered a renewed barrage of turbo-bolts from the rest of the men and took careful aim at that infernally hard to damage Imperial Strike Cruiser.

  Aiming for where he thought a spot in the shield was about to form, the Chief Gunner on the ship cut loose with the battery under his direct control. He didn’t need some fancily dressed Tactical Officer up on the bridge telling him what to do. This was a fight, not rocket surgery!

  **********

  The ship shook and rocked around me, and the power continued to flicker on the Flag Bridge. Damage control said there was a fire in Main Engineering and they’d heard nothing from Spalding ever since he said to give him five minutes.

  That was six minutes ago, and the Imperial ship continued to pummel us dangerously close to the point of submission. The Lucky Clover had gotten in a few random blows here and there, but nothing to write home about.

  Damage control was talking about needing to eject a fusion core before it exploded, taking the ship with it. But if they did that, there was no way we could stay in the fight with the Imperial Cruiser.

  “I read a pair of CR70 old-style Corvettes coming up fast behind us,” yelled a Sensor Operator.

  It looked like LeGodat was about to make good on his promise to join the Imperials. He was perfectly positioned to strafe us from the rear. After the engines were taken out, it wouldn’t matter about the fusion generator any more. We would be sitting ducks.

  I was just about to order the core dumped and bitterly offer our surrender to Commander Cornwallis, when the Lucky Clover once again lived up to its name sake, with two spots of good fortune.

  Without warning, the lights surged painfully bright.

  “We’ve got full power back! More than we had before the fusion core went unstable,” exclaimed the Tactical Officer before thumping one of his trainees on the shoulder and speaking directives furiously into his microphone. “A hit,” he roared, pounding the trainee beside him on the shoulder so hard the younger man started to fall out of his seat.

  “Her forward shields are wavering, and I’m getting erratic power readings from the Imperial Cruiser,” said a sensor operator, her voice rising above the fray.

  “We hit something critical,” said the Tactical Officer, “Pour it on, lads,” he shouted into his mike, "make every shot count!"

  “We’re gaining on them,” Helmsman DuPont said fiercely.

  “The Corvettes are almost on us,” snapped the Tactical Officer.

  “Only fire when fired upon,” I bellowed, just to be sure I was heard. “The longer they hold off, the better!”

  “Admiral, recommend we slew our engines so it's harder for them to make any trick shots,” suggested Tremblay.

  “Make it so, Helmsman,” I instructed, oblivious to whatever 'slewing the engines' actually entailed.

  The Tactical Officer stopped barking o
rders into his receiver for a few seconds, long enough that I turned to him to see what had happened. His eyes were locked on his primary display, and he took a step back from his console with his hands slowly raising into the air. I had no idea what was going on, but was just about to order Tremblay to his station to assist with whatever the problem was, when he finally spoke. "Heavy Laser range in three..two..one. We've got them, send 'em to Hades, boys!"

  A new barrage of fire erupted from the Lucky Clover, making every time we had fired before pale in comparison. The shields of the Imperial Cruiser, showing random openings before, now seemed ready to collapse under the crushing weight of our medium-range fire.

  I may have imagined it, but the Corvettes seemed to hesitate, and instead of unloading their fire into the vulnerable rear of our ship, they swung wide around the old Battleship and streaked in for an attack run on the Imperials.

  After we had fully cleared our Heavy Lasers, the Imperial ship’s shields managed to stabilize, and their engines were once again at full power. But by now, the damage had been done and the Lucky Clover was in close, able to bring all her firepower to bear. Miraculously, we even had enough power to fire it all this time.

  I didn’t know how Engineering had managed it, but Spalding had worked another one of his miracles.

  All that was left was to see if the poorly named 'Montagne Magic' was going to be enough to give my larger, much more outdated and moderately damaged provincial warship the ability to defeat a top of the line, faster and more maneuverable Imperial, one with nearly the same throw weight and only bearing light damage.

  The Imperial was trying to get away, but things were going to get much closer before they started sliding apart again.

  Roaring in for the kill were the pair of small Corvettes. They came in close and fired their lighter weapons at holes in the Strike Cruiser’s shields. The Imperial Cruiser defiantly fired back, sending one Corvette spinning from a pair of perfectly placed turbo-bolts. The other one streaked away from the much larger capital ship to avoid a similar crippling blow.