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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Seconds later a pair of missiles slammed into their shields rocking the ship but ultimately leaving her unharmed however her counter parts, the other Destroyers in her squadron were a split second slower in changing course and they were not so lucky.

  More than thirty missiles and eighty counter-missiles, along with a series of laser bursts from every local ship that could range on them, slammed repeatedly into the shields of the Imperial Destroyers in Commodore Serge’s two squadrons.

  “Rat Pack reports engine damage from a counter-missile that snuck through her shields and Man’s Shadow’s shields are down and she lost her spinally-mounted medium laser cannon when a missile punched through her hull and took out the auxiliary bridge along with the entire port side crew quarters. Acid Burn reports—”

  “That’s enough; I can see it myself,” Serge raised his hands to cut off the litany of damage as he looked down at the suddenly flashing yellow and orange icon that represented the damaged ships of his command, “the other Destroyers weren’t as fast as us and they took more damage, but we’ve weathered the storm. As soon as we’re sure we’re clear of any remaining missiles that might still lock back on, we’ll swing back around and finish these locals,” he said harshly.

  The enemy had been tricky this time, just like he’d expected, but other than some minor damage they’d just shot their wad without accomplishing anything. By waiting until the missiles wandered out of the area or self-detonated, he gave his Destroyers time to effect emergency repairs and rebuild their shields before moving in for the kill.

  Yes, they had a few tricks, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.

  “When we come back around, we’ll engage as a formation but as soon as the enemy breaks we’ll split into hunter killer pairs and take them down,” Serge ordered.

  “Panther attack protocol?” asked the XO to clarify.

  “Yes,” the Commodore said grimly. If you were going to engage in battle, ships and people were going to get hurt—but the locals were destined to hurt more. The damage stung, but now that they’d just used their trump card he had them right where he wanted them.

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

  “Yeah!” shouted Kling, pumping his arm as Destroyer after Imperial Destroyer rocked and reeled from the sudden surprise blow from Foxtrot. He hadn’t managed to bag any of the enemy Destroyers outright like he’d secretly hoped, but taking down their shields and winging two of them in the engines was more than good enough.

  The ball was officially in the Imperial Commander’s court now, but either way if he sacrificed his speed advantage and stuck around like he hoped or took off and abandoned his two engine-damaged Destroyers to Kling’s Task Force—giving them a couple of relatively easy kills—he was satisfied he had the enemy commander right where he wanted him. “What’s the Imperials’ new course and speed?” he demanded staring intently at the screen. He needed to maintain the initiative for as long as possible.

  “The Imperials are coming about in a slow, arcing turn. It looks like they want to avoid our stray missiles and recharge their shields before coming back around for another pass,” reported Tactical.

  Kling narrowed his eyes. The enemy was still moving away, but with the clear intention of coming back when he was ready.

  “Let’s see if we can’t hurry things along,” he said.

  “Sir?” asked the XO.

  “Tell Foxtrot to remote detonate all their remaining missiles and counter-missiles. If they haven’t hit by now, they’re not going to. Pass the order to all ships: I want those wounded Destroyers. Pursuit by squadrons. We’ll link up before the Imperials can arc back around, and either they abandon their wounded and we hit them where it hurts or they have to face us before their shields are fully recharged,” he ordered and then leaned back in his chair.

  “Transmitting orders now,” reported the com-tech.

  “Ball’s back to you,” muttered Kling.

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

  “They’re trying to force a re-engagement,” remarked Serge’s XO.

  “Then, by all means, let’s give them what they seem to want,” he replied, one eye narrowing slightly and then the corner of one side of his mouth turned up, “but with a twist.”

  “Sir? You’re not worried about playing into their hands,” asked the XO.

  The Commodore sat there, his pointer finger smoothing and twisting over the second joint of his left thumb as he ran the numbers in his head. He finally gave a decisive nod.

  “Order a squadron reorganization: I want our engine-damaged Destroyers over in Beta Squadron,” he said.

  “Sir?” prompted the XO.

  “While our warships are moving back and forth as we reorganize to face the enemy’s attack, I want Alpha squadron to drop four of our Nervous Nellies amongst all the confusion. Full stealth and set to go off upon proximity to the enemy,” said Commodore Serge, “we’ll also have Beta squadron dump their waste thirty second later, right before the Nellies are set to go off, just to make sure the locals are looking the wrong way at exactly the right moment. It’s not that it’s likely that they’ll see them given their current sensor technology but there’s really no point in taking chances. Sloppy in, sloppy out, and before you know it you’re the fleet’s next Bruneswitch. No, we’ll do this by the numbers—just like we were on the Gorgon Front.”

  “We only have twelve Nellies, Sir,” the XO pointed out, “technically, we’re supposed to reserve them for later use unless instructed otherwise by high command.”

  “Noted. Now begin the squadron transfers and get ready to dump the Nervous Nellies,” he ordered.

  The XO smiled. “I think I’m going to like this,” he said.

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

  “Are the Imperials still coming about?” Kling asked perfunctorily. He could see the screen just as well as the next man or woman and it looked like things had settled down but he’d just been on the coms dealing with an irate Foxtrot Squadron who were angry at Gangster Squadron for ‘sneaking up behind their backs.’ This even though Gangster wasn’t even trying to hide their attempt to link up with the Task Force in violation of official orders to the contrary and could use the update.

  Keeping the Corsicans from doing a ‘drive-by’ and kicking off a holy war, while the Major in command of the Brown Power Corvettes was on open com’s threatening to cut off heads with a machete if his people were once again oppressed, discriminated against and left out to die at Imperial hands unsupported and alone had been a headache he could have done without to say the least but now, finally, things seemed to have been smoothed out, settled down, and all the ruffled feathers unruffled. Meaning it was time to get back to the business of making sure that his soon to be linked up squadrons were as ready to face the Imperial threat as they could be.

  “G Squadron is still two minutes behind the main group and even though F Squadron is in front of them now they’re still just getting going. G should pass F in about thirty seconds with F rejoining the main Task Force group a minute and a half after G,” reported Navigation.

  “Let’s just pray they don’t start shooting at each other before they get a chance to tangle with the enemy,” Kling groaned.

  “Meanwhile the Imperials have been moving to link up with another Imperial Destroyer squadron which should arrive at their position sometime after G links up with us but before F. Given their current speed they can either make a high speed pass and keep going, turn around to rejoin the battle, or start slowing soon and then meet up with everyone several minutes later. Either way they’ll be here and gone for a while or they won’t arrive at all before we get the chance to hit their main force,” explained Tactical.

  “Alright, that was confusing but I think I got it,” Kling nodded. “Either they can make a high speed pass and then come back or else they’ll join the party at a later date. Got it.”

  He forcibly ignored the way a certain femal
e Sensor tech was squirming in her seat and tapping away forcefully at her console. He would be satisfied just so long as they stopped jumping around. There was a reason they had the chain of command, and unless it was a genuine split-second life or death emergency it was better to—

  “Sir!” started the sensor tech, raising her hand.

  “Not now, tech,” interrupted the Petty Officer in charge of the Sensor section. “Sir there’s something odd…the Imperials have just vented their waste systems, or at least half of them in one of the two squadrons have.”

  “But Sir there’s something else on my screen!” exclaimed the tech. “Or…there was for a moment but now it’s gone. It was like a glitch but—”

  “Not now, tech!” shouted the Petty Officer rounding on her.

  “I want all eyes focused on those enemy Destroyers, people. Sensors, get control of your section before I have to,” Kling said forcefully. He didn’t have time for—

  The main screen suddenly hazed, one moment showing a white, snow-filled screen and the next the close proximity warning alarms sounded automatically as the entire screen began to populate with thousands of sensor contacts all in close proximity to the flagship.

  “What the blazes?!” Kling cried with alarm.

  “Have we just been hacked?” demanded Tactical. “There’s no way over a thousand fighter, Corvette, and Destroyer-sized contacts just appear inside our firing arc, Sensors!”

  “Contact the other ships on an isolated encrypted channel have them send us their sensor feed,” barked the Commodore.

  “I can’t reach the other ships, Sir. There’s too much white noise. It starts to make a connection and then it’s almost as if someone or something zeros in on my channel and starts putting out too much noise, I can’t get a hard link,” reported Coms.

  “A stealth ship maybe?” demanded Kling.

  “I’m still thinking it could have been a hack,” said Tactical, “if they’re in our systems then—”

  “That wouldn’t explain the fluctuating signal strengths on my com-channels,” retorted Coms.

  “Uh, I’m seeing what looks like the shadow of a planet on my screen—but it doesn’t have anything like the gravity presence a real planet would. It’s obviously fake. But sir, as of this moment I’m officially flying blind I can’t tell our own ships from all these ghosts!” cried the Helm.

  The hubbub on the ship grew as the entire bridge crew began to realize they were flying blind.

  “Quiet, people,” snapped Kling and the noise level instantly lowered. “If we’re hacked and we don’t know it then we’re already dead. So that for us that means it must be something external. Find it. Shut it down and kill it!”

  “My sensor glitches! It must be them. I told you it was important, but nobody would listen,” the former Clover sensor tech said angrily.

  The Sensor Petty Officer’s forehead started to turn red, and Kling met his eyes with a questioning look.

  “It’s not a good one, but it’s the best idea we’ve so far,” the Petty Officer said flatly, glaring sideways at the sensor tech before looking back at the Commodore.

  “Increase speed and change course to port by fifteen degrees,” Kling commanded, clenching his fist.

  “We risk hitting our own ships if we do that, sir,” pointed out the Helmsman nervously.

  “Just do it; I’m more worried about being hit by the Imperials than running into one of our own ships,” Commodore Kling barked.

  “Aye-aye, Sir,” said the Helmsman and began moving the ship.

  “Sir, the sensor ghosts and interference is starting to clear!” the Sensor Petty Officer said excitedly.

  “Alright then the next thing to do is…” Kling said urgently.

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Paying it back

  Commodores Kling versus Serge

  Moments after the Nervous Nellies flooded the enemies’ sensors with static and false contacts, the enemy formation fell into confusion. Ships started jerking this way and that as if to avoid collisions. Two of the enemy Corvettes even had a near collision as they both jerked the wrong way at the same time and brushed up against one another’s shields.

  “One good turn deserves another—two can play at the jammer game,” Serge said with satisfaction.

  “They’re deaf, blind and stupid. You have them right where you want them, sir,” the flagship’s XO said with obvious satisfaction. “After the way their main force acted around during the last battle, as if they were going around clubbing our ships in the dark it was time to turn the tables.”

  “They need to learn that anything a provincial can do the Empire can do more and better,” Serge said dismissively and then now that he was certain the enemy had fallen into confusion turned to his Comm. Officer, “message to the task group: all ships are to fall back by squadrons and engage the enemy with alacrity before they outrun the Nellies. It’s time to hit them where they live, people. Don’t disappoint me. It’s time for some payback.”

  “Yee-haw!” howled the Helmsman, flipping the ship and burning back towards locals at high speed.

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

  “…reestablish contact with the rest of our forces, get them clear of this sensor jamming and if possible take out their jammers,” Kling said urgently.

  “Sir! I’ve got a hard lock on the enemy Destroyers—and, sir, they’re coming this way,” shouted the Sensor Officer. “They’re almost within weapons range.”

  “Coms: punch signal through to any ships still in the haze and tell them they’re about to get clobbered if they don’t move now!” shouted Kling.

  “I’m trying!” cried the com-tech.

  “Sir, it’s too late for that. We need to coordinate with Ghetto and Foxtrot while we still have the chance to salvage something from this mess. It’s our only play, Sir,” his XO said urgently.

  “Blast,” swore Kling, giving the XO a nod, “do it. Do it now!”

  “The enemy just fired a ranging shot!” exclaimed Tactical.

  “Shields down to 85% on the port side,” reported Shields.

  “For what we are about to receive, may the Saints of cold space make us grateful,” Kling said bitterly. And he’d been so sure he had the enemy right where he wanted them, too.

  Chapter Twenty-eight: The Hammer of Man

  Commodores Kling versus Serge

  “Hit their Destroyers in the first pass. I want their heavies taken out before they have a chance to respond,” barked Commodore Serge, issuing orders to the task group.

  Like the Hammer of Man, the enemy entered the firing arcs of his two squadrons and where paid them back with interest for the damage they’d inflicted during the first engagement.

  “Pound them with everything we’ve got—including the point defense lasers and chain guns,” Serge instructed as an enemy Destroyer reeled, vented atmosphere from damage to her midline flank, and started rolling like crazy as if that would somehow save her from her fate.

  There was a flash as a second enemy Destroyer lost core containment and exploded violently. For a moment even the Nellies were disrupted by the force of the blast due to their extreme proximity to the enemy warships.

  “We’ve got them right where we want them,” Serge clenched his fist and then gave his chair an open hand slap as one of the two approaching enemy Corvette squadrons wavered and started to turn away before, almost reluctantly turning back to join the battle, “HA!”

  “The cowards,” his XO said with disdain.

  “Ignore the Corvettes about to join the battle and take us in close. It’s time to gut them,” Serge ordered leaning forward in his chair.

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

  “Murphy’s twisted demon son! Either you get your squadron into this fight and join the task force you’ve raging about for the past half hour or I’ll personally advise the Tyrant of Cold Space himself to orbitally bombard your entire home world,” Kling roared into the open mic built into h
is command chair. “Do you understand me you twisted son of persecuted horse droppings?! Blighter, I will personally press the button that ends your entire cannibalistic league—ONE PLANET AT A TIME!”

  “Ghetto just turned back on course to the fight,” reported Tactical, his eyes wider than a doorjamb.

  “Good,” Kling pounded the arm of his chair five or six times to give vent his emotions. “I have no use for cowards. Absolutely no use. Point us at those Imperials, link up with whoever’s available, and take us into knife range—we need to get in close, Helm,” he snapped.

  His Executive Officer sidled over and looked at him with concern. “You’d really bombard his home world?” the other man asked in a low intense voice.

  Kling clenched his teeth together. “I wouldn’t advise the Admiral to, no. That was a lie. In fact, after I’ve calmed down I’d probably advise against it but—but!--if he gave the order to do it anyway, I’d sure as blazes push that button. Better me than someone who’d be twisted up about it later on,” Kling said gnashing his teeth. “Call it a personal flaw, but I have no use for sentient eating, cannibalistic cry-bullies who admire the Deep Fleet, run like cowards at the first stiff breeze to come their way, and think I’m nothing more than some over-privileged mocha latté who’s not Brown enough to join their ‘special oppressed league’,” he declared furiously. “And if this is who the League sends to represent and defend their way of life, they’re nothing more than a thinly disguised pirate haven and I have no further use for their entire way of life.”

  “I see,” his XO said eyeing him worriedly.

  “And probably that’s a good reason why Capria put me in the reserves and I’m not the man in charge of this fleet,” Kling said, falling back into his chair with a slump before grunting as yet another one of his task force’s Destroyers suddenly ejected its fusion core and went dead in space. “It’s time to deal with these Imperials,” he glared at the screen as Foxtrot Squadron came streaking in for a slashing high speed pass while Ghetto still lingered behind it.