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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Well get it back,” barked Kling. “We took one hit—there’s no way we lost that many lasers from one shot.”

  “A critical relay junction is down and it’s going to take time to route around. I’m going to have to do it manually,” reported the Engineer.

  “Don’t tell me about it—just do it,” ordered Kling.

  “Sir, I’m getting a signal from a New Corsica Comm. Officer. We’re being warned that they’re about to pass us on the starboard side,” said the Com-tech.

  “Why do I need to know this?” Kling demanded rhetorically. “Helm, roll the ship; Shields, divert everything we have left to the starboard side!”

  “Sir, it’s the New Corsicans—they just wanted me to remind you that while they were back at Wolf they rearmed their ships. Their hulls are once again strapped full of missiles,” reported Coms, “and they’ve got a full load of bucking cables.”

  “What!?” Kling’s head snapped back around.

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

  “Admiral, there’s a threat developing on the enemy’s port side that needs to be dealt with,” reported First Lieutenant Sands, reaching over to tug on his sleeve for emphasis.

  “What is it,” Benson said irritably. Then he looked over at the close in view the Tactical Officer was looking at and swore, “Are those missiles they’re towing?”

  “Yes sir,” Sands nodded.

  “Somebody tell our Destroyers out there to stop those ships—preferably before they hit our Cruisers,” Vice Admiral Benson snapped, turning to issue the orders.

  “Order relayed. The commander of those Destroyers, Commodore Bruneswitch, says they are moving in now,” reported the Coms.

  “Good, he—” replied with a nod and then froze, “Bruneswitch…isn’t he that Destroyer commander that’s the laughingstock of the fleet?”

  Sands stopped and pulled up a file, “Yes.”

  “Blast!” Benson slammed a hand down on the plot.

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

  “Capo, we just got permission from the Commodore. We are free to pass. The flagship is going to cover us,” reported Officer at the Com-Station.

  “Good thing we came strapped to the party,” said a tech at damage control

  “Silence on the bridge!” the Captain glared at the low-level, Connected Guy, 3rd class technician over at Damage Control.

  “Sorry, Captain,” said the Damage Control Tech.

  “Now then, let’s get ready for the drive by. Helm,” he said turning to the Made Guy at the Helm.

  “What are your orders, Sir?” asked the Helmsman.

  “Watch out for those Destroyers and take us in,” the Captain ordered.

  “Yes sir!” said guy at the Helm.

  “And somebody cue in the fighting music,” snapped the Captain, “we forgot last time and I’ll not have it happen again on my bridge!”

  Moments later, the holy soundtrack started to play, and an ancient artist began singing about the thrill of the fight and rising up to the challenge of rivals.

  “Uh…sir! The enemy Destroyers have just broken their previous speed records and are pointed right at us,” reported the Tactical Officer.

  “Saint Soprano asks no more of any guy than he can give,” the Captain said confidently, “just like the Family Legions of New Jersey when faced with Imperial Jacks on the ground outside the New Pope’s holy residence, there is only one order left to give,” he drew in a deep breath. “For God and La Cosa Nostra! Charge!” he shouted, his words heard by every guy on the ship via the overhead speakers.

  Kissing the cross around his neck, there was nothing left to do but wait. The Holy Gangsters of Righteousness were about to take one more ride.

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

  “Yes!” said Vice Admiral Benson as the first of those infernal missile-carrying Corvettes was hit and destroyed in a chain reaction that virtually annihilated the entire ship.

  Sadly, it didn’t take out either of its sister ships in the attack but there was still time—until suddenly there wasn’t.

  The screen around one of the Corvettes fuzzed. “One of the enemy Corvettes just activated the missiles they were towing, along with a large number strapped to the hull of their ship,” reported Sensors.

  “That’s gone and torn it,” growled Benson, “somebody tell me that our ships are still outside of missile range.”

  “Not quite,” reported Sands after running the calculation, “our ships should have time to shoot down most of those missiles, and the shields of our Cruisers can stop the others,” she said.

  “That’s good then,” Benson said relaxing slightly. As long as he could keep the pressure on them the locals were a spent force that had nowhere to go. But if they could disrupt his encirclement just long enough for a breakout—or even a partial breakout—then they might be able to prolong things and what he wanted right now was a clean sweep.

  “No, the problem isn’t the missiles already fired—it’s the Corvette aiming to follow them in and drop his payload at close range,” Sand remarked absently, suddenly causing the Admiral to clench up.

  “Tell Bruneswitch I don’t care how he does it, I want—” started the Admiral, when suddenly one Destroyers moving to intercept the provincials suffered an engine flare and went from 110% of normal max acceleration back down to 75%.

  “Man’s sake!” cursed the Admiral. His eyes roved over the screen but he didn’t see any other solution but just in case he asked his Tactical Officer. “Any recommendation, Sands?”

  “Either we take the risk they can’t hit the engines of our Cruisers or we tell our commanders to turn and defend themselves,” she replied, her youthful face scrunching up as she considered.

  “Thus disrupting our formation,” he said rhetorically, “alright then, blast it: tell those captains to turn and defend themselves.”

  “Now the only question,” she said clinically, “is if they have time.”

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

  “Enemy Cruisers are turning to face the New Corsicans,” reported Tactical, “it looks like they won’t have the time. They’re going to have to drop their missiles and break off.”

  “Rats,” said Kling, “prepare to swing us wide. It’s not what I wanted but so long as we can throw off their timing and get them facing us instead of our Cruisers, we give LeGodat time to pull his force back together.”

  “Sir,” reported his XO pointing at the screen, “LeGodat seems to be using the time to pull back and fight his way out,” he said, pointing to where a number of the broken right wing as well as those Cruisers furthest from Task Force Firestorm seemed to be fighting their way out and back toward Wolf-9.

  “While it would have been nice to be informed,” Kling growled, “it’s the right move. Let’s make sure our people are able to link back up with those Cruisers or else the Imperials will make short work of us. And—”

  “The New Corsica Corvette is starting to take heavy fire but it’s not pulling away, Commodore,” interrupted Navigation, “instead it’s increased its speed and started to release escape pods.”

  “What?” Kling turned back with surprise. “What are those crazy fools doing?”

  “A hit! They just took a hit from a Cruiser’s Medium Laser,” reported Tactical.

  “Tell them to get out of there,” Kling ordered.

  “They seem to have lost power,” said Damage Control, as the Corvette staggered and lost thrust before its engines suddenly restarted. “No, wait…she’s back under control!” he reported as the New Corsican ship resumed accelerating right back along its original course behind the missiles.

  “Coms!” shouted Kling.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. The Captain of that ship won’t turn back. He says they’re ‘on a mission from God’,” the com-tech said, looking back at Kling helpless.

  “Of all the accursed, religious fanatic claptrap,” Kling cu
rsed. “I thought New Corsica didn’t have an extreme religion? Or has this captain just lost his mind in the heat of combat? Sweet Murphy save us from self-sacrificing officers,” he swore. But even though he was admonishing the other man, he couldn’t help but feel a sense or respect for the grit and determination of the Captain. Because not only was he pressing home his attack, he’d already released his crew to the escape pods.

  While he was thinking that, another close hit took out the Corvette’s remaining shields but missed its hull. Moments later, the screen around the little Corvette fuzzed.

  “Missile launch. I have multiple missile launches—the Corvette has just launched her missiles…but for some reason they seem to have fallen behind the Corvette! The New Corsica ship is now leading her own missiles, sir!” reported Tactical.

  Just what in the world? Kling wondered, not bothering to ask the question aloud. Because not only would no one here know the answer, but clearly the captain in front of him might be an idiot but he was apparently no fool. He had a plan and it only remained to be seen just what it was.

  “Now that they dropped their missiles their accel has shot up,” reported Sensors.

  “The Corvette has changed course—she’s now on a collision course with an enemy Cruiser,” reported Navigation.

  “I’m receiving a powerful open hail on all frequencies,” said the com-tech at the same time one last escape pod ejected from the Corvette.

  “Put it on,” ordered Kling as one Cruiser finally finished turning its broadside to the little Corvette.

  “Here it is, Sir,” said the com-tech.

  “Yo, Adrian,” came the sound of the other ship’s captain moments before the Cruiser opened fire, its lasers sweeping missiles out of the sky while a pair of medium lasers specifically targeted the Corvette. Those beams punched clean through its hull from stem to stern in nearly simultaneous blasts.

  “That’s it. She just lost her engines and automatically ejected her fusion core,” reported Sensors with a sigh.

  “Not quite…she’s still on course for that Cruiser,” said the Navigator, “and even now her hull is still protecting the missiles behind it.”

  As they watched, an increasingly desperate Cruiser tried to protect itself and its comrades—who still hadn’t turned sideways—from the Corvette and its missile attack. Hit after hit punched into the little Corvette’s hull, completely destroying it and breaking it apart and, in the process, taking out a number of missiles from behind it. But in the end it was too little, too late, and the suicidal little Corvette did her duty by blocking for the missiles.

  Igniting their little engines to sprint mode, all of the remaining missiles and counter-missiles lunged forward around the remaining parts of the Corvette. Waves of them slammed into—and through—the shields of the enemy Cruisers.

  “A hit—one of them just took out an engine!” Tactical said jubilantly. “And another one just punched through—and another just hit them in the hull. Minimal damage but—”

  A massive explosion rocked the area as the remains of the Corvette’s hull slammed into the weakened shields of the Cruiser, causing massive damage to her flank until finally something inside of her exploded.

  “What happened? They hit her side-on,” asked Kling.

  “I have no idea, Sir,” replied the Tactical officer, looking bewildered.

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

  Benson’s fist slammed down onto the plot table.

  “At least half of them will get away,” he cursed as chaos and confusion caused by one little suicidal Corvette caused a major disruption among his forces pressing home the attack that pinned down the enemy.

  “Half is better than none,” pointed out Sands, “with the damage they’ve taken they’ll need to reorganize before they’ll be a major threat. At least for the moment they’ve been neutralized. We can either split off a portion of our force to keep them pinned down or finish them now.”

  “I don’t want neutral—I want dead,” Benson said with certainty. “Order a full pursuit. It’s time we ended this. And tell someone over at the Destroyers to get in there and put the period on those enemy Corvettes. I want them ended,” he then glared at the Comm. station.

  “Will do, Sir. I’ll pass it along to their senior commander,” said the com-tech.

  “Preferably someone other than that failure, Bruneswitch, please,” he snapped.

  “Commodore Serge is the senior-most surviving Destroyer commander,” said the Tech after a moment.

  “Good,” said Benson, “order an immediate pursuit as soon as we are able. We have them on the ropes and now is the time to finish them before they can escape back into their fortifications and turtle up.”

  “Sir—” started Sands.

  “What?!” shouted Benson.

  Sands blinked, leaning back with alarm.

  “I’m sorry, please continue,” he said more calmly after realizing his error.

  “The fighter and bomber wing is here and they’re requesting permission to complete their mission,” she said.

  Benson smiled. “Give them our best targeting data, along my compliments. They are more than welcome to hit the enemy at will. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see their torpedoes hit them as they run away,” he said with deep satisfaction. The Supreme Admiral had finally showed up with support—and at exactly the right time.

  Chapter Forty-one: Confusion in the Sensor Department

  “Enemy fighters have just launched long-range torpedoes,” reported Lieutenant Hart from down on the battle bridge.

  “Fire the defense turrets and ready the popup missile launchers,” I instructed.

  “I thought we were saving those for the Reclamation Cruisers?” asked Hart.

  “We’ve got the jammer up and I want them available just in case we need them,” I said.

  “There’s still a chance they might catch them with their sensors,” he pointed out.

  “That’ll be all, Lieutenant,” I said.

  “You’re the Admiral,” he said with a shrug.

  “I am indeed,” I drawled before turning back. Our lasers were sweeping Imperial fighters out of cold space, but not nearly enough or fast enough for my comfort. As of this moment we’d only shot down somewhere around twenty of the original one hundred and twenty when they’d decided to launch their torpedoes and turned away.

  “Enemy fighters have diverted course; it looks like they’re trying to fall back, Sir,” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer on the flag bridge.

  “No doubt because they’ve tested our defenses and just fired over fifty torpedoes at us,” Hammer said dryly. “Why hang around and take damage when they don’t have to?”

  I frowned, and that expression only grew deeper as the torpedoes proved increasingly hard to knock out as they approached. Only half had been neutralized when the remaining twenty six decided to put on a sudden burst of speed.

  “Admiral, it looks like two squadrons of fighters have broken off from the main body. One squadron is looping down and around our formation and the other is breaking starward,” said the Sensor Officer.

  “They’re trying sneak in to get a close-up look at our defenses,” I remarked.

  “That looks to be the case, Admiral,” said Captain Hammer.

  “Let’s disabuse them of the notion, Captain,” I said coldly and turned to the com-section, “notify the remaining Corvette and Destroyer captains near those fighters. Tell them they’re heading that way that I’d appreciate it if there were no more fighters within our defensive perimeter—and then, just to be sure, pass a message to Wolf-9 telling them that I am placing Starbase command in charge of destroying those fighters. They are to take any and all measures necessary to neutralize them so long as they don’t risk exposing our defensive posture to the enemy still outside our defensive perimeter.”

  “Relaying the messages now, Sir,” said the com-tech.

  “Enemy torpedoes on close approach,” reporte
d the Assistant Tactical officer up on the flag bridge, “fleet gunnery reports they are targeting. Assigning individual targets now.”

  Lieutenant Hart down on the battle bridge popped up on my screen, “I’ve just lost target lock, where are those torpedoes, Sensors?”

  “Sensor contacts are flickering! The torpedoes have cut their acceleration and engaged some kind of countermeasures,” cried Sensors.

  “What’s going on, people?” I demanded as two bridges on board this ship fell into confusion.

  “Our sensors can’t get a hard lock, Admiral,” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer on the flag bridge, “if we can’t see them, we can’t hit them.”

  “Gunnery reports that they think they can hit them once they get in close, but until then they can’t see well enough to take a shot,” reported Lieutenant Hart from down on the battle bridge.

  “Target those torpedoes, Lieutenant—preferably before those they get to within attack range,” I snapped.

  “Has anyone noted the Sector Guard doesn’t seem to have any problem with their point defense?” Hammer asked, directing my—and just about everyone else’s—attention back to the holo-screen, “look there, they just hit a torpedo.”

  As we watched, first one, and then two more torpedoes where annihilated by the SG point defense grid.

  “Someone get on the horn and find out why they don’t seem to have any trouble with their targeting. I want to know what we’re doing wrong and fix it,” I ordered, noting that the New Sector Guard seemed to be the only ones within the fleet still firing at and actually hitting the blasted things.

  The com-tech jumped as if given an electrical shock, pressing the little ear-bud tightly into his ear and speaking rapidly.

  “Sir, the Guard says they aren’t experiencing any trouble locating the torps with their sensors, Admiral,” said the com-tech.