Defenders (The Chaos Shift Cycle Book 2)

by TR Cameron

  “You’re going to like this, my friends,” Cross said. “And the Xroeshyn are most definitely not going to like it.”

  Twenty-seven ticks later, as the clock hit zero, two of the three other sides of the square that described the boundaries of the sector filled up. On one side were the retrofitted capital ships of the United Atlantic League, led by Admiral James Okoye on the Chicago. On the opposite edge, a squadron of Alliance vessels tunneled into the space.

  Cross smiled, wishing he could see the look on the enemy commander’s face. “All right, witch. You want to tussle? Let’s tussle.”

  As one, the forces of the UAL and AAN descended upon the invaders in a classic pincer movement that hearkened back to the earliest days of Earth warfare.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Beijing appeared in the sector along with the rest of his squadron, aligned at right angles to the UAL armada. Everything stood still for several moments as the forces negotiated their relationships to one another—their computers exchanging signals, testing for the first time a shared system that would allow the ships to coordinate their activities. His comm unit crackled, and he waved at his communication officer to accept the signal.

  “Captain First Rank Petryaev, it’s good to have you here.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Admiral Okoye. What are our tasks?”

  “We’ll engage the enemy forces. You and your squadron should interpose yourself between the base and the Floating fortress. If you see an opportunity to eliminate enemy ships feel free to take it, but your main focus is to keep the installation and the people inside it alive for as long as possible.”

  “Acknowledged, Admiral. Beijing out.”

  Dima connected to his squadron captains. He issued orders that would place them in the appropriate spots, and the Beijing led the team, flying in a calculated weave to avoid the defenses of the Floating fortress as they closed. There was enough room for his entire squadron to line up at varying depths in the gap between the Fortress and the base. Dima kept them in a slow rotation, bringing new weapons to bear on the off chance that something would sneak through the enemy’s shields and cycling ships in need of recharging or rearming into the rear rank. He created three separate firing angles, each serviced by four vessels, with each attempting to overload the same section of the Fortress’s shield.

  Many of the Fortress’s protectors pulled away to react to the UAL pincer movement. When the Beijing’s turn to fire arrived, he launched a full spread of torpedoes from each broadside, rolling in place to orient both sides to the enemy. Energy weapons followed, and the Floating fortress returned fire with energy weapons. A blossom of missiles erupted from the top of the behemoth, on a path to evade the defenders and seek the heart of the starbase. Dima detailed two ships to defend against it. They streaked toward the incoming missiles, their own defenses and armaments hacking away at the thick screen of projectiles.

  They were only partially successful. One ship rejoined the line with only cosmetic wounds, but the other took significant damage. It trailed debris as it tried to return to the line. Its engines stuttered and small pieces broke off as it approached.

  “Open a channel to the Nishio.”

  His communication officer signaled and Dima spoke, “Captain Hamada, seek shelter behind the base while you make repairs.”

  The clipped tones of the ship’s captain came back immediately, “Negative, Captain, we can maintain our responsibility to the squadron.”

  “Enji,” Petryaev said, “no heroics yet. This is a long game, and we need to preserve our pieces. Please retreat and repair.”

  A gruff, “Affirmative,” arrived in reply, and Dima killed the communication channel.

  “Wing Commander, send our fighters to protect the Nishio.” He turned to his tactical officer. “Are we having any effect on that damn thing at all?”

  Lieutenant Belikov Yegorovich responded, “Not a scratch, Captain, as near as I can tell.”

  Dima tapped his index finger on his teacup, then lifted it and took a long drink. “All right. We’ll make them defend against us on multiple fronts. Divide the squadron into three and set up a rotation around the Fortress. Constant barrage as they circle. On random passes, have all ships launch missiles toward the north and south poles of the Fortress. They must be weaker in the hangar area, so maybe we’ll get lucky. Ships between the Fortress and the base keep resources in reserve to deal with any attacks.

  “Communication, connect me to the base commander, please.”

  “Connection established, Captain.”

  “This is Captain First Rank Dima Petryaev, seeking the commander of the UAL starbase.”

  “You’ve got him,” a thick Texas drawl answered. “What can we do for you?”

  Dima explained his strategy and inquired about offensive capabilities.

  “Well,” the commander replied, “we have basic defensive offenses if you get my drift but nothing that can reach as far as that Floating fortress and do any real damage while its shields are up. Bring those down, and it’s another story.”

  “We’ll do our best. Beijing out.”

  His ship entered the rotation, and the Beijing took his turn pummeling the Fortress’s shields with everything he had. Again, to no appreciable effect. Dima heard his tactical officer grumble under his breath and wished that circumstances permitted him to do the same.

  “Incoming transmission from the Novgorod, Captain.”

  Dima nodded again, and the smooth voice of one of his more aggressive captains came over the intercom, “Permission to go after some of the enemy’s smaller ships, Captain. We are wasted here.”

  “Denied, Captain Kae. One hopes there is a larger strategy at work. Even if there isn’t, we’ve been given a task, and we will execute it to the best of our ability. However,” he couldn’t suppress a small grin, “if one of your orbits should happen to loop you wide enough to fire torpedoes at an enemy ship…well, targets of opportunity are always welcome.”

  He heard the laugh in her voice as she acknowledged his response.

  As the battle continued, Dima watched the tactical display. The sides traded ships across the sector, but it appeared to be shifting in favor the humans. A light on a recently installed section of his armrest controls activated, signaling a pre-planned command from the UAL admiral. “Lieutenant Kazato, it’s time to try out the new toys that the Union developed. Load the tubes.”

  He toggled his squadron-wide command channel and said, “Load the new torpedoes into all launchers. Standby to launch in thirty seconds.” The countdown clock appeared on his screen, and on those of the ships under his command. “Keep up the energy barrage in the meantime.” Thinking quickly, he activated his connection to the base again. “Commander, even if they won’t do much damage, a missile salvo would a useful distraction.” No sooner had he finished the sentence than two sets of sixteen missiles erupted from the base, heading toward the Fortress’s midpoint.

  He watched as the countdown clock completed its work, and all the ships in his squadron fired what the engineers called drill torpedoes. These carried shields that might allow them to survive the initial impact with the enemy’s defenses and a small laser in the nose to pierce the shields before detonation. He watched, and almost joined in the cheers of his crew as the Floating fortress was wreathed in the explosions of missiles against its surface. “Reload and fire,” he ordered, and watched the smoke dissipate. “Fortress status, tactical?”

  The tactical officer shook his head in frustration, hopelessness evident in his voice. “We penetrated the shields but did negligible damage. It’ll take forever to get deep enough to destroy it.”

  Moments later a bright light caught his attention on the main screen. He ground his teeth in anger as one of his ships was smashed into its component pieces by the intersection of several lasers and multiple projectiles from the Fortress. He resisted the urge to throw his cup across the room. It had been a very long time since an enemy had proven to be this resil
ient against him, and he didn’t like the once forgotten feeling of helplessness.

  He stood up, adjusted his uniform, tugging it into place, then sat rigid on the edge of his command chair. “Communication, squadron-wide, full-ship broadcast.”

  His communication officer nodded, now in control of the announce systems on all the ships in the squadron. “Attention all Allied Asian Nations forces. This is Captain Petryaev. We’re facing an enemy that is harder to defeat than any we’ve faced in our history as a spacefaring people. Do not allow early frustrations to discourage you. Your officers will solve this problem, and we will emerge victorious. Officers, know I have the utmost confidence in you. Continue your close focus on this engagement. We’ll mourn those lost at a later time. Now, we must buy a victory worthy of their sacrifices.”

  He flicked the switch to cut that channel, then opened one to only his commanders. “New plan. Surround the Fortress, then make overlapping attacks on the hangar entrance on the bottom. My tactical officer will plot the attack runs. We’ll shift to full computer helm and armament control. Prepare your ships, we begin in one minute from… mark.”

  His crew got busy readying the ship for computer control. Fundamentally, Dima didn’t like the strategy. He believed it was too static and failed to allow for instant adaptation to the enemy’s tactics. However, when nothing else worked, it was time to dig to the bottom of the tool bag and use what remained. It wasn’t his first time doing so, and he hoped it wouldn’t be his last. The Beijing was at the end of the line, and after the other ten ships of his squadron battered the shields protecting the hangar, his ship came in to deliver the coup de grâce, launching a full barrage then spinning to launch the second, all timed to impact the same moment. The Beijing dodged, as evasive patterns were the next step in the programming, and Dima could only stare at the battle display wireframes to see if they’d penetrated.

  He knew it before his tactical officer reported it, “No significant damage, Captain.”

  Dima whispered a particularly vile curse reserved for one’s most hated enemies. “Bring the ship back to manual–”

  The Beijing rocked as enemy armaments found it, driving into the starboard side and setting off explosions in the torpedo magazine stored there. Safety panels blew out and interior bulkheads slammed down, limiting personnel fatalities to only those in the main area. The primary energy conduit failed, but backup systems kicked in immediately—the need for dual redundancy a lesson long since learned by both forces at the hands of their opponents.

  “Secondary bridge and two-thirds of starboard battery destroyed, Captain”

  Dima closed his eyes. The backup bridge crew, along with his executive officer, had been operating the auxiliary bridge. Dima’s exec had been with him for her entire career, on six different ships. “No time to mourn,” he whispered to himself.

  Yegorovich continued his report from the tactical station. “Squadron reports heavy fire and loss of multiple shields. We’re losing the war of attrition against the Fortress. In addition, a number of the enemy forces have disengaged from the Union ships and are heading in this direction.”

  “At least we accomplished that much,” Dima replied, a tired look on his face. He ran his hands through his snowy hair and straightened his shoulders once again. He hit one of the newly installed buttons on his console, and the countdown clock appeared again on his screen and on those of his entire squadron.

  And on the main displays of the Union fleet.

  Twenty-seven seconds later, all of Earth’s ships jumped again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Cross watched as all the human ships in the sector reassembled like chess pieces back at their starting squares. Notable gaps were evident on all three sides, but that attrition was expected and planned for.

  The enemy reacted to the jumps by moving toward the Fortress and adopting a defensive posture, while the Fortress resumed hammering on the starbase.

  Okoye’s voice came over the intercom, “All Alliance and Union ships are ordered to intercede between the base and the Fortress. The Fortress appears to be impenetrable, so focus on the smaller vessels and on destroying any projectiles thrown at the starbase. Captains, form squadrons of at least three and no more than five, based on surviving elements of the original forces. Where necessary, combine.”

  The general ship address clicked off, but Okoye’s voice continued in Cross’s earpiece. “Cross, time to head hunt.”

  “Acknowledged, Admiral We won’t disappoint you.”

  “For better or worse, you rarely do.”

  Cross laughed with a grimace as he killed the line. “Communication officer, patch me through to the Munich, Oslo, and London.” A moment later the indicator on his display lit up, signaling the established channel. “Captains, we’ve been granted a singular honor. There are two primary ships that our computers identify as the enemy leaders. One is our old friend, the Ruby Rain. It’s protected by the second-in-command ship and several escorts for each. Our goal is to decapitate the invasion. Hopefully, that will take the enemy out of the fight. Standby to switch helm control to the Washington.”

  Cross nodded at his tactical officer, and the computers took over. The squadron arranged itself in a star, with the Washington at the point, the Munich and Oslo a length behind on either side, and the partially damaged London trailing. Computers brought the vessels to within tens of meters of one another, allowing them to focus their energies on speed and increasing power to selected shields with three of their four sides protected by the other ships. They overlapped shields to protect the top and bottom, providing maximum defense all around. “Are we ready?”

  Affirmatives sounded from across the bridge. Cross acknowledged them by pointing at the helm officer. “Shortest line from here to there. Execute.”

  He connected to Jannik. “Chief, how are we coming?”

  “Oh, we’re set, my boy. They won’t know what hit them.”

  “Excellent. Load them up.”

  He contacted Kate on the auxiliary bridge and tasked her with overseeing the loading of their gifts for the enemy commanders into the torpedo magazines of both broadsides.

  “They’ve seen us,” the tactical officer declared, and Cross looked up at the battle schematic. The eight ships had organized themselves into two groups with four advancing on a direct angle to the Washington and her sisters, and the others retreating at full speed.

  “Cowards,” he growled.

  “You expected different?” Kate asked over their private connection, watching the same displays below.

  “Of course not. But a guy can hope, right?”

  “I would’ve thought you’d faced enough rejection in your life to recognize that’s not always the case, Cross.”

  “Ouch. Betrayed by my own XO.” He clipped the channel at the sound of her laughter and turned back to the bridge crew. “Look sharp, people. This is it.”

  “Thirty seconds to range,” reported the tactical officer.

  Torpedoes loaded: Kate typed into a message on his personal display.

  “All weapons green, Captain,” reported the weapons officer.

  “You’re free to engage with energy weapons at maximum range, Walsh, but hold off on our surprise until we’re up against the leaders.”

  “Affirmative.” The man’s eagerness for destruction was infectious.

  Cross turned to the battle display and saw that the humans were fighting the aliens to a stalemate near the starbase, but no better. They were trading losses, and at this rate the four ships of his squadron and the eight that remained of the enemy’s would be the only ones left in the sector if something didn’t change. As they reached range, energy pulsed out at the enemy and return fire hammered against their defenses. The combined shields were more than adequate to the task, absorbing all the incoming damage. The computer-coordinated energy barrage decimated two enemy ships, and his squadron blasted past the other pair, heading for the commanders.

  “Message to all weapons
officers: Well done,” Cross ordered.

  “Sent, sir,” the communication officer replied.

  Cross opened a channel to Okoye. “Admiral, we are about to engage the command forces.”

  “Acknowledged, Cross. We’re little busy here, but keep this line open.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  When they reached maximum missile range, the Washington launched both broadsides, and they arced out in a broad curve before orienting toward the enemy ships. Cross watched on the battle schematic as they closed, their speed faster than the starships they targeted.

  “Wait for it,” Cross instructed as the distance shrunk. “Wait for it. Now.”

  At his order, the weapons officer triggered a signal to the missiles, all of which disappeared from the plot at once. An instant later they reappeared, each emerging from its own small tunnel. They struck the command squadron from its less-defended forward side because their directional shields were pointed back at the pursuers.

  One ship received a full third of the missiles. It disintegrated, sending projectiles into the weakened shields of the second-in-command ship. The damage was visible with sections open to space and a dangerous radiation leak emanating from the ship. The Ruby Rain benefited from the failure of several torpedoes from the starboard broadside, which emerged from the tunnel drifting and failed to impact. Nonetheless, the alien command ship took damage. Well-placed damage. Damage to its engines that forced it to slow to half power.

  The bridge erupted in cheers, and even Okoye murmured, “Yes,” over the intercom.

  “Squadron, plan Kappa. Execute,” Cross instructed.

  The trailing ship broke off, heading back to harass the surviving members of the original four that had attacked them. Cross and the other two launched at the lone remaining escort, damaging it but failing to take it out of the fight. At the touch of a button the other ships with Cross veered off, setting intercept courses and increasing their speed to maximum in order to cut off the enemy commanders before they could escape the Washington. Cross anxiously anticipated seeing a wash of color whisking them from the sector, but it didn’t come. He quietly thanked Jannik for the software modifications that allowed the missiles to target specific areas identified as engine and engine support.