Admiral's War Part Two (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 10)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  I flashed a patented royal smile on my face as I leaned back in my chair. “And, by that, I mean only if they somehow manage to counter both Orion and Storm Cloud,” I added, lying my keester off as I attempted to reassure a bridge crew shaken by our last bloody faceoff with the Imperial Reclamation Fleet.

  “I’m sure that won’t happen, Sir,” Captain Hammer smoothly interjected herself into the conversation, resulting in a brief flash of gratitude on the face of the Tactical Officer as he turned away.

  Since it was just as timely a save for me as it was the Lieutenant, I was willing to roll with it.

  “Your confidence is good to note, Captain,” I said agreeably.

  “However, operations aside I was hoping to get your take on Commodore Kling’s recent movements,” she said, attempting to draw the crews of both the battle and flag bridges back to the skirmishing taking place even now in the outer regions of the star system.

  “Let’s take a look shall we?” I said more than ready to re-immerse myself in the battle.

  Chapter Twenty-six: Head to Head on the outskirts

  Commodores Kling versus Serge

  “I’ve got two squadrons of enemy Destroyers headed this way, Sir,” reported Kling’s Tactical Officer.

  “Good, keep us moving toward point gamma, Helm,” Kling ordered, looking at the two squadrons of Corvettes and one of outdated Destroyers that was all he’d managed to scrape together since he came running back into this system like a house on fire.

  He looked up at the screen and saw that a fourth squadron, one consisting of Corvettes, was on an intercept course and hurrying to join his force.

  “Coms, find out which squadron that is and warn them off. I don’t want to scare away the Imperials before we hit Gamma,” he instructed.

  “Oncoming squadron you are warned off. I say again: you are warned off by order of the Commodore. Let us deal with these Imperials,” transmitted the com-tech.

  “Sir, it’s G-Squadron. They are refusing the wave off. Their squadron commander insists that they are going to join with our task force for strength in numbers,” relayed the tech.

  “Tell them that—” Kling started in a rising voice and then cut himself short, “get them on the line.”

  “This is Major Anwopti of the League warship, Machete. What are your instructions, oh great commander?” asked the Major as soon as he got on the line.

  “Look, Major, I need you to pull back so I can mouse trap these Imperials. I’m afraid if you keep moving to join us you’ll scare them off,” said Kling.

  “No, great commander,” exclaimed the Major, “you will not leave us out here to die. We are joining your taskforce or else the League will pull out of the alliance!”

  “Look, I hate to say this but you’re more liable to get us all killed if you keep coming in as you are than if you ‘pull out’ now. So while I have to urge the Brown Power League to stay with the fleet, if removing yourself from the alliance is what it takes then I’m afraid—” he started.

  “Check your privilege, mon!” shouted the Major. “It’s your kind that encouraged the AI’s to decimate our population because of a supposed fifty percent crime rate among our adult male population. It’s people like you who manipulated the Cost-Benefit ratio into putting our people in giant, planetary ghetto cities, while it’s them monkey boys that pulled the trigger! It’s all because of your inherent discrimination against a certain skin tone and racial type that ‘you people’ felt free to kill and slaughter us—”

  “Hey now, I’m just as brown as the next man—and ‘my people’ didn’t commit genocide. We took massive casualties from the AI’s, over 90%, before being forced to flee from known space in order to be free from their wretched gas chambers. And for your information, everyone was in ghettoes back then and we didn’t participate in any genocide either—we experienced it firsthand! Frankly, we weren’t even in the same Sector of space as you and your ancestors so I don’t know who you are referring to as ‘you people’ when talking out other humans confining your ancestors, but it’s clearly not me and mine. So you can take your myth and theories of persecution and shove them up your—” Kling said angrily and then stopped himself short before continuing much more professionally. “Anyway, as far as your demands for more ‘extra’ privileges, I’m afraid I’ve bent over as far backwards as I care to for your group. You’re just going to have to follow military orders and wave off.”

  “Extra privileges? We’re the ones who suffered at the hands of the monkey-boys. Not you! Check your privilege, mon! Check your privilege! We had a fifty percent death rate and they ate us like potato chips,” the Major said, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair, “and after all that you’re still trying to claim a heritage that isn’t yours. You call that color brown? Why, that’s clearly mocha, mon,” the Brown Power League Major shook his head in fierce disappointment. “Anyone with eyes can tell the difference, and even despite the way you people treated us so long ago we’re still willing to fight with you against the Imperials now. All you have to do is let us bring in our squadron against the Imperials and—”

  “First, no matter how you look, at it 50% is lower than 90%. Second, that was centuries ago so not even the grandchildren on either side—yours or mine—are still alive,” he paused. “You know what? This conversation is over,” Kling said harshly, “divert your course or face mutiny charges. I wash my hands of this—and you.”

  “This is discrimination, pure and simple!” shouted the Major. “Is it because of them non-human monkey-boys? It is, isn’t it?! You think we’ve haven’t noticed the way you cozied up them big, walking fur rugs. Don’t try and deny it, mon. We know. And just because we fry up a few apes now and again, you think you can push us around? When we were in the under the AI’s, it was them Uplifts that pulled the trigger that killed our ancestors, stacking them up like they were meat for the freezers, mon. The Deep Fleet Space Army is right in this. If we want to be free, we have to fight. We have to eat! So fried, roasted, or barbequed, we’ll feed on them the same way they did on us—and there’s nothing a bunch of monkey-lovers and bigots sitting in their ‘rich’ star systems looking down on us like interstellar lords like ‘you people’ can do to—”

  “That’s enough,” said Kling, cutting the channel. He took a large number of big deep breaths before turning back to Sensors, “Did they turn away or are they still coming in?” he demanded harshly.

  “They’re still on an intercept course with the task force, Sir,” said the Sensor Petty Officer.

  “Blast it all,” Kling swore. That tore it. “I have no more patience. Tell legal to draw up formal mutiny charges, tack on an admission of sentient rights violations to include the potential killing and certain eating of sentients—as well as the conspiracy to kill and eat said sentients—with another conspiracy charge for consorting with a known terrorist organization, the Deep Fleet Space Army. Put you in a ghetto? I’ll put you in front of a firing squad is what I’ll do!”

  “Do you want us to continue with the operation, Sir,” asked his XO.

  Kling gritted his teeth. “If we pull back now it’ll look suspicious. We carry on as planned,” he turned to the helm, “max out our engines and try to keep as much distance as we can between us and the Brown Power League Corvettes. Maybe we can still salvage this thing. I just hope the Sundered weren’t paying attention when they started talking about their menu preferences. That’s the last thing we need right now. Internal disputes breaking out in the middle of a battle…what a bunch of nonsense.”

  “Will do, Sir,” said the Helmsman.

  “Good,” Kling said with a sharp nod. If he could get those Destroyers over to point gamma then they had a chance. Otherwise…he didn’t want to think about otherwise because at best it’d be a bloody massacre for both sides. And at worst…

  He had to pull this off.

  ****************************************************

  “I’ve intercepted a high volume of traffic between
that mixed enemy force and the new squadron of Corvettes, but it’s an encryption we haven’t seen before so we can’t crack it in time to do any good, Commodore,” reported the Comm. Officer.

  “Thank you, Coms,” Commodore Serge nodded to show he understood, “steady as she goes, Helm,” he ordered.

  “We’re not going to pull back, Sir?” asked his XO.

  “Pull back? Man no,” Serge said with a bloodthirsty expression, “we can handle it by ourselves even with three squadrons of Corvettes instead of just the two and one of Destroyers like we’d originally planned. But just in case, send a message over to Bruneswitch and tell him to cut loose a squadron of reinforcements. The Supreme Admiral said to cut them down to size and this looks like a properly big enough bite sized gulp.”

  “You know it’s got to be a trap,” advised the XO.

  “That’s what makes it so much fun—and it’s also why we’re calling in Bruneswitch,” Serge said with a confident nod. “Don’t worry, XO we can handle anything they throw at us,” he paused, “but just in case, have Rat Pack move off on a parallel course so that we can increase our pinpoint sensor coverage. No point in letting anything sneak up on us that could have been avoided.”

  “Aye, Sir,” said the XO.

  Kling sat there glowering at the main-screen as the Imperials steadily gained on them. “Fifty percent,” he grumbled, “with those kind of numbers they were probably a heritage. My direct ancestors weren’t designated a heritage population, my ancestors—”

  “Sir?” asked the XO.

  Kling startled. “Sorry, my mind wandered for a moment,” he apologized.

  “Yes, Sir,” said the XO.

  “Back on task,” he said, leaning forward with intense eyes. Some people just couldn’t seem move on. Generations later and they were still stuck on something bad that happened to someone else a long time ago. He couldn’t afford to be one of those people, not with two squadrons of top of the line Imperial Destroyers closing in on him.

  ****************************************************

  “The Imperials are coming in, and other than that one Destroyer off to the side they’re looking decidedly fat, dumb and happy,” said his XO.

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” grunted Kling, “they probably think they’re the hunters in this situation…and they might be right!”

  “Only time will tell, but I’d place my money on us, Sir,” the ship’s Executive Officer said stoutly.

  “I commend your patriotism…if not your intelligence,” Kling said with the faintest smirk.

  “Oh, I happen to know the commanding officer in charge of this operation. I’ve seen the plan. I think we’ll be fine,” the XO winked slyly.

  “The inside track and using your connections for personal gain is it? For shame, Lieutenant Commander,” Kling said.

  “Don’t worry. I know a guy,” said the XO.

  “Think you could hook me up with an introduction?” Kling deadpanned.

  Around them, the bridge which had been increasingly tense suddenly broke out in scattered quickly muffled laughter.

  “Sir,” the Tactical Officer’s voice cut through the commotion like a hot knife through butter, “we are ten seconds away from the go-no-go point.”

  “Thank you, Tactical,” he took one last look at the plot before making his final decision but in reality he was already decided, he nodded, “Operation Chop Shop is a go.”

  ****************************************************

  “Commodore, the locals just changed course five degrees down bubble and increased their speed,” reported Lieutenant Tudor.

  “Running like the stray dogs they are,” the XO shook his head.

  “What’s the status on that third squadron of Corvettes?” Serge demanded.

  “Still five minutes out if they keep to their current course and speed,” replied Navigation shaking his head in disgust, “could be a bit longer if they keep making course changes and adjusting their speed up and down roughly 3-4% ever five minutes or so like they have been.”

  “They’re actually playing with the helm like that?” Serge asked with surprise. “That kind of micro-management is harder on the engines than running them a little too hot for extended periods of time.”

  “Either the helmsman over there is a few screws loose or the Captain’s a real micro-manager, Sir,” the Navigator rolled his eyes.

  “Militia,” Serge rolled his eyes.

  “Shall we keep after them then?” asked the XO.

  Serge looked back at the plot with a faint smile on his face.

  “If the micromanaging locals are five minutes out, it looks like Bruneswitch is only eight. I think we can handle this by ourselves but even if I’m wrong,” he shrugged, “we have reinforcements on the way. We pull the trigger. Spread out the formation slightly just in case of mines.”

  “Spread out formation in case of mines and continue the pursuit, aye,” said the XO

  “Steady as she goes, Helm,” instructed Serge.

  ****************************************************

  “Alright. Wait for it…wait for it…now!” shouted Kling. “Execute Chop Shop now-now-now!”

  “Executing Chop Shop and bringing all weapon systems online,” echoed Tactical.

  “Flipping the ship and going to full reverse burn,” reported the Helmsman.

  “Shields at maximum!” exclaimed the Shield Operator, her voice high and excited.

  “All ships in Task Force Kling are mimicking the flagship,” reported Navigation.

  “Task Force Kling?” the Commodore asked in consternation.

  “Well we had to call it something,” grinned the XO.

  “The Imperials have just entered the kill box,” reported Navigation.

  “Missile separation! Foxtrot has just lit off their drives and are bringing up shields,” A sensor tech cried, pumping her fist in the air.

  “Belay that, Sensors,” barked the XO.

  Kling shook his head. Far too many of the sensor operators that started their training on the Lucky Clover and transferred over to the rest of the fleet came with bad habits that needed to be broken, and he wasn’t the only officer to notice. Jumping out of their seats in the middle of combat, shouting out ‘interesting’ sensor contacts at random intervals, and given to excessive cheering. At times they resembled cheerleaders more than trained fleet personnel.

  “I know tensions are high but let’s keep it together people,” Kling growled. He just hoped he got everything under control within the Corvette flotilla before a naval inspection office was up and running and inspectors started to randomly show up with their clip boards or a transfer officer from a professional SDF came onboard. The last thing he needed to deal with was crew readiness ratings before he had time to get everything ship shape. Things were so much easier when all he’d had to deal with had been the Tracto SDF squadron. Ever since he’d transferred into the MSP main fleet it had been chaos and destruction every step of the way.

  Not that he’d have it any other way, of course.

  “Imperial Destroyers are bringing their broadsides to bear and attempting to exit the kill box!” cried Tactical.

  “As soon as we range on those Reclamation Destroyers tell gunnery to fire as she bears!” Kling ordered.

  “Fire as she bears. I say again: fire as she bears!” Tactical spoke urgently into his mic. “You are free to engage.”

  ****************************************************

  As soon as the missiles and smaller counter-missiles strapped to their hulls have been shot off, the Corvettes of Foxtrot Squadron shot toward the Imperials as fast as their engines could manage.

  “Bag me some ground turkeys and let’s show these Imperials how we do things in New Little Italy!” shouted the ship’s Captain, who hailed from the capital city New Little Italy on his home world.

  “Old Corsica!” cried the bridge crew.

  “Time to show those League of Brown P
ower cannibals just what the real G Squadron stands for—and it’s not Ghetto. It stands for Holy Gangsters of Righteousness. Fire the Tommy Gun 37.3 and let’s show its infinitely superior power to the League’s Machete Light Laser when used in a righteous cause,” commanded the Captain.

  Moments later the Tommy Gun rapid fire light laser attack system showed its worth as it fired light laser bolt after laser bolt at half the strength—but five times the cycle rate—of the standard light laser systems found in the Spine.

  “Tear down the temple walls and let’s throw these heathens out!” the Captain cried, picking up the cross hanging from his necklace and giving it a quick kiss before dropping it again. “Just like the Corleone Family Legions of Old New Jersey, we’ll show these ‘Imperials’ what happens when they try to take what is ours. Let’s prove once and for all that there’s only one true Empire destined to rule all mankind—and that is the ancient Holy Empire of La Casa Nostra! May Saint Soprano and the Italian Stallion guide our aim as we engage in this consecrated drive-by. Fire! Fire! Fire!” he roared.

  “YO, ADRIAN!” cried the Tactical Officer, giving the traditional victory cry of New Corsica right before the bridge crew broke out into cheers as their much smaller ships lunged toward the Imperial Destroyers.

  ****************************************************

  “Gunnery reports that point defense is saturated, Commodore,” reported Tactical mere seconds before the swarm of Desert Eagle class missiles and their smaller counterparts, the Berretta 9.0 counter-missiles slammed were due to slam into their shields.

  “Helm,” barked the Commodore, “emergency power and forty five degree up bubble course change—execute now!”

  Not bothering to acknowledge receipt of the order, the Helmswoman currently in the hot seat grabbed the controls and immediately swung the Imperial Destroyer upwards while simultaneously pushing the throttle up to full emergency power.