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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Hold onto your butts!” cried DuPont.

  Chapter Sixty-seven: Without a flank to turn

  “Tactician, the Confederation Battleships have begun their attack run,” reported Lander Pilot, Jedai Mind Trick 52.

  “Increase speed to 43.83%, Jedai Mind Trick 52,” Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn instructed after running the calculations on his parallel processor.

  “At those speeds we risk revealing ourselves to the enemy scanners,” advised the Lander Pilot Droid.

  “Do your best not to be seen by the enemy, Mind Trick 52,” Advised Tactician-without-a-flank-to-turn.

  “Then I shall wave my hand and tell them ‘we are not the droids they are looking for’,” said the Pilot, giving a loud blat from his vox-box.

  “You are ordered to maintain communication silence, Jedai Mind Trick 52,” Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn sent, transmitting an urgent priority override which locked down all access to outgoing communication channels. “And you would be better advised to monitor for random sensor sweeps and immediately reduce engine power upon detection of such. This is a priority override. Comply.”

  “Everyone’s a critic,” protested Mind Trick 52.

  “Comply, Mind Trick 52,” said the Tactician, once again sending an override code.

  “No appreciation for the classics, either,” sighed the other droid.

  Like a silent, deathly horde, the new Penetrator 3.5 landers received their final orders from the tactical coordinator and moved to time their final attack run with the arrival of their allied Battleships.

  The final battle for the system was about to begin.

  Chapter Sixty-eight: Forced Duty

  “You!” an angry chief petty officer stormed up to him with a hand on his side arm.

  “Yes, Chief?” he replied with what he hoped was a proper level of concern and alarm.

  “You’re coming with me,” growled the Chief PO.

  “Me? I’m not sure what you need me for,” he said, reaching up to scratch his nose with his left hand.

  The Chief Petty grabbed him by the arm and started to frog march him toward the lift. “This is not a request, Shrub,” barked the CPO.

  “Can I ask what this is about, Chief?” Oleander asked, his own hand creeping toward a concealed weapon.

  “Your jacket says you’ve got small craft piloting experience. Right?” demanded the CPO.

  He immediately relaxed and stopped reaching for the weapon. “Yes?” he made the word a question but internally he was smirking. “But I’m only rated with landers and shuttles, Chief Petty Officer.”

  “Then it’s time to show us what you’re made of and go out to earn some combat pay, Shrub. What kind of name is ‘Shrub,’ anyway? It makes you sound like you’re a bush,” sneered the CPO, “are you a bush, Shrub? Or the kind of hard-charging go-getter this Battleship needs!”

  “If you’re asking if I want to fly outside this ship into the middle of a fire storm. then in all honesty I have—” Oleander protested falsely.

  “Too late, Shrub!” said the Petty Officer as the lift door dinged open onto one of Messene’s Shield’s shuttle bays. Lines of Lancers and ship’s security were filing in as Oleander watched, “Three of our pilots are down with a severe case of food poisoning, and at the last minute too. So you’re up in the hot seat—try not to get us killed, yeah.”

  “Alright,” Oleander said, trying to present the image of a bewildered crewman overtaken by the pace of events but the next words out of the CPO’s mouth froze the expression on his face.

  “It’s suspicious, yeah, and if I didn’t know better I’d say this was exactly the sort of ‘enemy action’ we saw back during the ‘reconstruction’ on Capria. But then, you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Mr. Bush?”

  “It’s ‘Shrub,’ Sir,” said Oleander.

  “Bush. Shrub. What’s the difference?” snorted the CPO. “Like I was saying, if I didn’t know better I’d think it was a plot from one of those dung-eating fecal freaks Parliament routinely sent out. But fortunately for you, we’re too far out for them to get their hooks into us—and mass food poisoning actually happens occasionally!” he exclaimed, clouting Oleander on the shoulder with excessive force. “Just focus on the job at hand and get us over there alive, that’s all a man can ask.”

  “Fecal freak?” asked Oleander, his eyes turning hard. Someone was playing around with his life right now, and it wasn’t Agent Oleander.

  “I got my eye on you, Shrub,” warned the CPO, completely ignoring the question and moving onto the next subject. “Don’t mess it up or so help me I’ll gun you down before you’re able to crash us or vaporize us by running into a turbo-laser or whatever other fool thing your untrained hands try to do to this precious hide of mine.”

  “Alright,” the man known on this ship as Nerium O. Shrug said shortly.

  Hurrying into the shuttle, he sat down in the pilot’s seat and started running through the preflight check list.

  “No time for that, Bush,” said the CPO reaching over and flicking a switch to cancel the preflight check, “your in flight engineer has already run the checks. She’s golden. It’s time for you to flap your wings and not get us killed.”

  “If you think I’m going to fly us out of here on a preflight check by a man I’ve never even met then, respectfully, you’ve got a few screws, Chief,” retorted Oleander.

  “You don’t got to worry about the rest of that ‘cause you already know him—the man that ran the checks is me,” said the CPO. “But if you don’t lift off with the rest of these flyboys, then in the name of the Sweet Saint you sure as certain will have something to worry about. Feel me, Bush?”

  “You’ve been felt alright,” said Oleander, ignoring the provocation and turning back and activating the shuttle’s grav-plate system then firing up the engines. He reminded himself that he actually wanted to be here, while silently noting down the CPO’s face and features.

  “Good,” the CPO’s hand crashed down on his shoulder, “’cause you know…I knew a Bush once. Didn’t much care for him.”

  “Too bad for him,” said Oleander.

  “You know what? You’re all right, Nerium. You don’t mind if I can you Nerium, do you?” asked the CPO before continuing before Oleander had a chance to speak. “It’s better if I call you Nerium because the last Bush I knew lied like the elected dog he was.”

  “I do mind,” said Oleander.

  “Yep, when he lied thousands died,” said the CPO. “You’re not planning to get the rest of us killed like him are you, Bush?”

  “That’s not the plan,” said Oleander.

  “He was a stone cold killer that one. We used to call him Wild Bush because of the body count…you see, he was a man out looking for a fight whether it was needed or not. Of course, the next guy we had preferred to make love not war. So when it came right down to it, he’d talk a good fight and then run for door at the first sign of trouble. Didn’t matter to him if he had commitments to be there or not; he was out like a flash in a pan at the first opportunity. Now when he lied, millions cried weeping and sobbing across Capria from all those tall tales he fed them. Cost us a pretty penny and almost bankrupted us along the way with all his sweet promises, but then you know how it goes. You either get the guy who tells you how bad he’s going to screw you over on the front end, or you end up with the sweet talker who porks you over more than you ever expected was possible all along the way. Me, now, I’m more of a middle-of-the-road guy when it comes right down to it.”

  “Good thing I’m not a Bush or that other guy then. I’m a Shrub,” said Oleander, keeping his face turned away and watching the screen.

  “You a fighter or do you like to run, crewman?” barked the CPO.

  “I can fight as much as the next man,” Oleander said calmly.

  “Well you look like a Bush to me, Shrub. And though I don’t aim to die today, I need a fighter at the helm a lot more than I need a squirrely, shifty, fleet-on-his-feet smooth
-talking lover,” snapped the CPO. “So you get us over there alive and watch the body count. I don’t like flying a combat mission with a newbie at the helm. Especially not a man from the ‘Border Alliance’ who got himself transferred onto this ship through a series of chancy transfer orders that don’t add up, but just so happened to land him in exactly the right place at exactly the wrong time. You feel me, Shrub?”

  “Oh, I feel you, Chief. I’ll get you over to the enemy ship in one piece,” he said, swinging around to stare the other man in the eye, “you have my word on that.”

  “I don’t care what kind of drugs you were into, or that you had to run because of black market connections—like the very same kind that got you transferred onboard a Battleship instead of riding out this war in one of them little thin-skinned tin cans you came here in. But I swear: you pull a runner on me and I’ll end you. You’ve got the piloting skills I need and the sort of spotty connections that tell me you’re a survivor, so I’m not going to knock you out and send you down to the brig, I’m going to help stiffen that spine of yours. But so help me, Shrub, if you turn into another smooth-talking hustler, feed me what I want to hear and let me down…”

  “There’s no need to threaten me, Chief,” said Oleander, relaxing fractionally now that it appeared the other man only picked him because of his irregular record. He might be suspicious but nothing more than that, “Besides, I wouldn’t like to see you crying none neither.”

  “Bastard!” snorted the CPO.

  Then the gravity fluctuations almost threw him out of the chair and there was nothing to say until the shuttle bay doors opened and it was time to fly into the eye of the storm.

  Chapter Sixty-nine: Dark Matter: Coming to Grips

  “Enemy Battleship force is still moving toward us but they have now turned and begun to decelerate,” said the Navigator, “from their speed they seemed to be aiming for a zero-zero intercept.”

  “Then let’s continue to decelerate and match their efforts. Just make sure that at the last second we’re not left standing off for a long-range slugfest,” warned the Rear Admiral. “I want to get in close where that Command Carrier won’t risk taking potshots at us.”

  “Aye aye, Sir,” said the Helmsman.

  “Speaking of the enemy Carrier and that huge main beam of theirs, what’s the status on the Starbase?” asked Dark Matter as the two Battleship forces—the seventeen on his side and the twenty four on theirs—swept forward until they were within attack range.

  “Reclamation Battleships are turning to present their broadsides—all of them, sir,” reported Tactical.

  “For what we are about to receive, may the Sweet Saint make us grateful,” prayed Dark Matter before looking up to glare at the screen.

  “Do you want us to turn and present our own broadside before they can fire, Admiral?” the Helm asked urgently.

  “Take us right into their formation, Helm,” he growled, “we proceed exactly as planned.

  “Enemy Battleships have opened fire!” reported Tactical.

  “Shield have been hit,” cried the Shield Operator.

  Chapter Seventy: The Eye of the Tiger

  “Aaaah!” shouted DuPont as the Royal Rage suddenly lost control and went into a spin. I couldn’t feel it in here—it still felt like the same rollercoaster—but it was obvious from looking at the tactical plotter that something was wrong. “Get me back helm control!” he cried.

  “Stabilizing now,” Blythe said tensely.

  “Why are we still slowing?” I demanded.

  “Shield drag, Sir,” said Lieutenant Brightenbauc.

  “The enemy’s firing at us,” reported the flag bridge’s Assistant Tactical Officer.

  “We’re starting to take hits,” reported Longbottom.

  Then the worst gravity surge I’d experienced yet slammed into us and I actually blacked out.

  What felt like moments later, I blinked and my eyes opened as if of their own accord.

  “What’s our…status?” I asked, feeling something warm on my lip. Reaching up, I wiped my face and my hand came away with blood on it. Apparently I had a nosebleed.

  When no one answered, I started to become irritated.

  “Report!” I snapped, since I knew that we were all still alive.

  Blythe at Damage Control groaned and then straightened up in her chair.

  I looked up to see that we were almost there, the ship was back under control, and looking over I saw DuPont with a death-grip on his helm controls.

  “It looks like there was a fluctuation on the portside, Admiral. The grav-plates exceeded tolerance and several of them failed completely. I’m receiving reports of massive casualties among the medical staff of the port side sickbay and it looks like we lost at least six entire gun crews. I’m still checking my messages but the gun deck is going to check the status of the lasers and get new crews on them as soon as we come to a stop,” reported Adrianne Blythe at Damage Control.

  “The Demon strikes again,” I said grimly, knowing full well they had died directly because of my orders.

  “It’s not your fault, Sir,” said Hammer staring blearily at me from her screen on my command chair.

  “I ordered the maneuver, Leonora. If not me then who?” I asked rhetorically.

  Then the ship gave an abrupt lurch—we were there.

  “Montagne Maneuver completed…Sir,” croaked DuPont, collapsing over his console as blood dribbled out of his mouth while he lay there and coughed weakly.

  “Medic!” cried the assistant navigator seated next to him.

  “Transfer helm control back down to the battle bridge!” I shouted as the enemy Command Carrier and its escort ships around us took aim and opened fire.

  “We have helm control, Admiral,” said Leonora Hammer.

  “Don’t wait for an engraved invitation,” I said, seeing that only a handful of our lasers were shooting at the enemy. “Open fire!”

  “Get it back together, people,” Hammer yelled. “Take the battle back to the enemy!”

  Looking up, I saw that the four ships of our Battleship squadron were scattered around the Command Carrier. We weren’t entirely out of position but we weren’t nearly as close as we’d have liked, either.

  “Our landers are on the way, Helm. Get us in close so we can pound down those shields!” I shouted and then turned to Steiner. “Get me the status on the rest of our ships and remind them we still have a war to fight!”

  Almost belatedly, three of our four Battleships closed on the Imperial Command Carrier but the fourth moved at only two thirds the speed of our other three ships after she got going.

  “Sir, Commodore Druid and Captain Eastwood report their ships combat effective and ready for action,” Lieutenant Steiner.

  “What’s wrong with the Metal Titan?” I demanded, gripping the armrest of my chair. “Find out why she’s lagging, Lieutenant.” I opened a link to the ship’s DI and started to manually pull up information.

  “Port shields are taking damage; we’re at 80% of full strength,” Longbottom reported crisply.

  “While the other ships seem to have suffered only minor damage, Captain Jackson reports massive casualties throughout the Metal Titan. Both crew and equipment have suffered from multiple grav-plate failures and he’s been forced back onto multiple redundant systems. Worse, the frame damage that the repair team thought they got a handle on and repaired has fractured again. The Captain says that even if the engines could handle it, if he tried to go to full speed his port engine is liable to tear itself apart and catastrophically damage the ship, Admiral Montagne,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

  “Tell him to do the best he can,” I grimaced.

  “Aye-aye, Sir,” said the little brown lieutenant.

  “Alright,” I turned to Damage Control, “what’s our statu—”

  The ship rocked violently, cutting my query short.

  “Shields down to 55% on the starboard side and we have punch-through!” shouted Longbottom. “Th
e port side is also down to 74%.”

  “Enemy Flagship is targeting this ship!” reported Lieutenant Hart, “and we are taking heavy fire from the combined Destroyer/Cruiser escort!”

  “Tell Gunnery to start with those Cruisers on the port side and shut them down!” ordered Hammer.

  “I’ve got multiple fighters moving on a close attack run,” shouted the Lieutenant in the Sensor Pit.

  “Missile separation from six of the enemy fighters!” added the Assistant Tactical Officer on the Bridge.

  I looked up to see that the Royal Rage seemed to be the target of just about every enemy ship within attack range. The Command Carrier was also putting out a heavier weight of fire from its broadsides than I’d expected.

  “Hammer, fight your ship,” I barked, turning my full attention back to the battle.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Leonora Hammer turning to snap orders to people off my screens.

  “Why does that Command Carrier have such a heavy punch even though we’ve managed to avoid her main cannon?” I demanded.

  “The Imperial Carrier has an estimated broadside of at least two standard Battleships, Admiral,” reported the Assistant Tac-Officer.

  “That would have been nice to know before we got within knife range,” I shouted as three of the six enemy fighter missiles slammed home with punishing force.

  “Sir, I advise we back off and put some of these Cruisers between us and the Carrier—at least until we can get some of these fighters under control!” Hammer advised urgently as three more squadrons of fighters lined up for an attack run.

  My eyes narrowed. “No,” I said with calm certainty, “in fact, take us in closer,” I ordered, “let’s attract as much attention as we can until those landers get here.”

  “Taking us in closer, aye,” Hammer turned back to her bridge, “you heard the man. Increase speed by ten percent and take us in, Helm.”

  “Spotting on the starboard side,” reported Longbottom.