“Order all wormhole launchers to take the enemy fleet under fire. I think we can assume that even if they split up further in, enough will be left to make the launches worthwhile. Keep launching until we're out of missiles.”
That probably wouldn't happen. Unlike on the Machine front, she had what amounted to unlimited missiles on this campaign. She might have to wait until launchers were reloaded and missiles accelerated up, but it wouldn't be a long wait.
“Any other launches?”
Beata knew why her chief of staff was asking about launches. Missiles were most effective at long range, building up the speed necessary to make the targeting solutions of defensive weapons problematic. They were also more effective when coming at the enemy in masses, too many for the defenses to handle. But she did not want to give away the positions of her ship concentrations too early. It was also difficult to get all the missiles on target at the same time. And the enemy could see them coming, and make course adjustments accordingly. Sometimes that even worked.
“Let's launch from the asteroids and gas giant moons. Let's say half from each platform. That should put a hundred thousand in space, yes.”
“About that many,” agreed Janssen, pointing and clicking on platforms and queuing the orders for the com people to send out. “Do you want to approve that launch?”
“Yes. Go ahead. I...”
“We have missile launches from the Caca fleet, ma'am,” called out the flag sensor officer, looking at the take from every platform.
“Targets?”
“To early to confirm, but it's looking like they're targeting everything they can see in the system, ma'am.”
“I'm betting they’re trying to get us to fire, so our fleet will be easy to locate,” said Janssen.
“Agreed. Fire from the platforms,” Beata said, then thought for a moment. “Any luck in locating their command ships.”
“We have five likely battleships,” said the sensor officer, looking over the takes.
“Our two stealth attack can target a pair of them immediately, ma'am,” said Janssen, pulling in a close up of the enemy fleet. “I recommend these two, here and here.”
“Accepted,” said Beata after a moment's thought. “Engage. Then send them two more targets.”
“Sending.”
* * *
Two light minutes above the main body of the Caca fleet sat a pair of Imperial stealth/attack craft. Both were equipped with one of the defending force’s precious wormholes each. The wormholes were pulling all of the heat from the mostly powered down warships, feeding it into a heat sink in the Donut, the huge space station around the black hole. Or they had been. Now they were configured as launchers, attached to accelerator tubes back at the Donut. They would start to heat up, over several hours, but until then they would be putting out minimal infrared. Otherwise, their hulls would absorb almost any radiation that hit them, making them all but invisible to any kind of active sensors.
The ships were moving slightly on grabbers that were putting out almost nothing in the way of gravitons. Aligning them onto their targets, a pair of superbattleships that were moving deeper within the formation.
“Fire,” called out the senior commander. Both ships released a stream of thirty capital ship missiles at point nine five light. Flight time to the edge of the enemy fleet, two minutes and six seconds. To the target ships another couple of seconds.
Not all of the missiles made it through the maze of ships in the way. Three scouts, a pair of cruisers and a superbattleship went up in plasma from direct hits. The Cacas tried to intercept in the few seconds they had after recognizing the threat, and got a total of seven missiles in that short basket. Actually very good, all things considered, but not good enough. The two target ships were both hit, converting to plasma interspersed with bits and pieces of hard alloys. Many ships in close proximity were struck with varying degrees of damage. Normally not much, sometimes enough to reduce their capabilities a bit. A half dozen missiles continued on, to take out one more supercruiser and damage some other ships with near explosions.
The stealth/attack shifted slightly and brought their launchers in line with the next two targets. A moment later they launched again, after the obligatory thirty second wait for the next accelerator tube to move into position back at the Donut.
* * *
“We're picking up missiles on close approach,” called out the tactical officer, his subdued whine indicating his anxiety. “Coming in from above.”
“Target them,” ordered Mrastaran, his stomach clenching on him as he thought about his own ship becoming a cloud of plasma, his own molecules scattered among them. The great admiral could not blame the younger officer for being on the edge of panic. He felt like screaming out in rage and terror himself. It would do no good, and much harm, though, so he restrained himself.
“Our ships are already firing, my Lord,” growled back the tactical officer, his upper lip quivering.
Of course they are, thought the great admiral, feeling like a fool. Every ship that was in danger of being targeted was putting out everything they could. Even ships that weren't being targeted were firing, adding to the mix. Not just to save their fellows, but to strengthen their own chances of making it through this volley. After all, there was no telling when a missile might veer off to take another target, or get knocked off course to end up in some hull they hadn't even been targeting.
The danger of fratricide would come when the missiles penetrated the perimeter and ships started firing on arcs that might hit other vessels of the fleet. Not much danger of that, since the target ships were sure to be on that perimeter, and almost everything that wasn't taken out would be targeting one of those ships.
Only they didn't target the perimeter ships. A couple were taken out by missiles that couldn't change vectors enough in time. Some were hit with defensive fire. And the unimaginable happened as counters and laser fire from some of the ships hit others. The counters hadn't built up enough velocity to carry much kinetic energy, and their warheads were too small to destroy even a scout. But they did cause damage. Same with the lasers. It took less than a second from the perimeter to the targets, a fraction of a second more for the misses to either acquire another target or get blasted out of space.
“We lost two group command ships,” shouted out the com officer. “Gone, with all crew.”
How in the hell did they target those ships? thought Mrastaran, a shiver of fear running up his spines.
“Shut down all coms from this ship,” he ordered, figuring that they were tapping into his com somehow. Stealthed platforms picking up transmissions and triangulating to the targets maybe. “Feed our communications by lascoms into the nearest scout. Then order them to transmit to the fleet.”
It would be rough on the scout if the enemy located it and set it up for an attack. Sad, but its job was to protect the larger ship. If that meant taking a missile to save it, so be it. The scout selected was a light second behind, and twenty thousand kilometers up, so anything targeting it was unlikely to hit the flagship.
“Order all group commanders and above to do the same,” he said after a second's hesitation. If the enemy was going for head shots, as seemed obvious, he needed to put other vessels to blocking.
The enemy might still hit his fleet from whatever platforms they were using, but they wouldn't get his command and control ships. Except through the old-fashioned way, luck. Good for them, bad for the Ca'cadasans.
“We have another volley coming in,” called out the sensor officer.
They've probably already targeted what they wanted to hit, he thought, realizing that he had taken the precautions too late, just hoping that his ship hadn't been one of those they had locked onto.
“We have hits on two more command ships,” called out the com officer.
“I want scout squadrons sent along the vectors of those missile streams,” yelled out Mrastaran, looking over at his com people. “Find those stealth ships and take them out.”
That's what had to be there, the damned stealth ships of the Terrans. Those had been a thorn in the side of the Ca'cadasan fleet since the beginning of the war. Almost impossible to find at any distance, they could be located if closed with. Given luck. Too much depended on damned luck, something Mrastaran hated about battle. It had always been that way, and probably always would be.
“And send a command for the fleet to go into a spread,” he ordered as he watched the two squadrons of scouts heading out on their hunt. He wanted those stealth ships. The humans could only have so many wormholes out here. According to the intelligence reports he had received, less than fifty. And there were at least two of them on those ships.
* * *
“Order the stealth/attack ships to shut down and covert their wormholes to heat sinks,” ordered Beata, looking at the zoomed in plot, which was showing the graviton traces of the Caca scouts heading out for their area of operation.
They had reported hits on the Caca fleet, including what appeared to be a quartet of command and control ships, superbattleship flagships that were controlling battle groups. Maybe even some of the super group commanders. With luck the fleet commander, though Beata wouldn't allow herself to grasp that hope.
They had just released a third volley, aiming at ships that had been transmitting on multiple bands minutes before. There was some chance they would hit the command and control ships. There was also a chance that the missiles would acquire other targets, not as important, but any Caca ship that was killed was a small victory.
“We have scout ships on approach,” called out a voice over the com.
Beata was sure it was one of the stealth ship commanders, and the woman's voice was filled with tension. If they were made there was no way they could escape. A dozen scouts would outgun each of them. They had the advantage of the enemy having to overcome their initial velocity. Still, the scouts would eventually get to them, in less than a couple of hours, and if the stealth ships tried to run they would be picked up in a split second. Missiles would soon follow. But Beata had thought out this scenario through all of its possibilities. She wasn't one to depend on luck when action could tip the scales.
“Do we have warp fighters rearmed?”
“Yes, ma'am. All of them have been resupplied with missiles and are ready to warp.”
The gave her over eight hundred of the craft. She was sure the Caca warp fighters would sally this time, but unless they were in overwhelming numbers she wouldn't be too concerned about them. Caca fighters could only make a pseudospeed of ten lights, half of what the human craft could do. Their warp missiles could move a little bit faster than the fighters, but were still not capable of catching human craft from behind.
“Send them in against the Cacas. Make sure a couple of squadrons each sweep up those scouts.” Beata thought about it for a moment. “Have them turn and launch anything they have left when those scout ships are gone.”
“They're going to pick up our carriers, ma'am,” said Janssen, a concerned expression on his face. “If they haven't already.”
“Bound to happen eventually,” said the admiral. She didn't like the idea of the enemy knowing where her fighter launch platforms were either. But they could move, slowly, and cover up behind the moons and asteroids they were near. “Keep a squadron back with each carrier, for close support.”
The only thing that could hit the carriers quickly were the Caca warp fighters. She had eight carriers, so that was ninety-six fighters she would hold back. Still, those ships were important to her. There were other places around the system with stockpiles of warp missiles, but the carriers were still the first and best option, since they could change locations at will.
“We've got tracks on their launches now, ma'am,” called out the fleet tactical officer. “Heading for the locations of the carriers?” The tactical officer had an expression of doubt on his face, as though he wasn't sure he believed his own words.
The missile tracks appeared on the plot, curving away from the Caca fleet. Dashed lines linked them to their predicted targets. They might not be the real targets, especially in the moon systems of gas giants or in the clusters of asteroids. The missile could acquire one of many targets when they closed. It was the best estimation by the computers of the ship, looked over by the analysts.
“They're targeting everything in the system,” said Janssen in a hushed voice.
Yes, they are, thought Beata. None of the swarms would be overwhelming to her fleet, if her fleet had been the target, and had been in one mass. That wasn't the case, and most of the targets would not be able to defend themselves. Most of the targets were also not really worth anything. But enough were that she would be forced to defend them, giving away the positions of some of her units.
“Send new orders to the warp fighters. All not on the carrier protection patrols are to go after missiles once they flush their weapons at the Caca fleet.” Beata looked over at her chief of staff. “Calculate the best interceptions to protect the most important targets.”
She was committing the warp fighter crews to many hours of constant, nerve wracking action. Missile interception was a dangerous business. One mistake and they were gone. She just hoped the sacrifices would pay off.
Chapter Thirteen
Arrogance, ignorance, and incompetence. Not a pretty cocktail of personality traits in the best of situations. No sirree. Not a pretty cocktail in an office-mate and not a pretty cocktail in a head of state. In fact, in a leader, it's a lethal cocktail. Graydon Carter
“Here we go again,” said Captain Michael Lauren under his breath, looking around the small bridge of his fighter.
The wing commander had hoped to be transferred to a training command after the pure terror of the Machine front. Or at least with one of the major fleets on one of the main fronts. Instead, here he was on another side campaign, fighting a numerically superior enemy on a front that was not receiving the resources it needed. It was like the Empire was trying to kill him off. They hadn't succeeded on the Machine front, so this was another attempt. Or so it seemed to him.
“Make sure everyone knows to stay out of range of the warp lances,” he told his Klassekian com tech. “I don't want some fool driving in closer because he thinks he can get a better shot.”
That little bit of range, the difference between coming under fire from a weapon that could drop them from warp, and staying out of its basket, wouldn't make much difference for hit percentages. However, some commanders would risk all, their ship and their crew, to get in another hit. Lauren needed all the ships in his wing through what promised to be a long battle, and didn't want to see stupidity take fighters from his order of battle.
“We have warp signatures ahead,” called out the sensor tech, monitoring the only things she could in a warp environment. Graviton emissions and warp signatures. They were blind to the rest of the Universe, all the various radiations that sensors used to build a coherent picture.
Lauren looked at the blobs on the plot, straight ahead, leaving the Caca fleet. He took a second to look around the bridge at the people on his crew. They were all new to him, assigned after he had returned from the Machine front. They had undergone training together to form a coherent team, though Michael had spent less crew time than the other fighter commanders due to his duties as a wing commander. This would be their first time in combat together, and he would not really know how they would perform until they were called upon to act.
“We have six hundred enemy fighters ahead. Estimated velocity, ten lights.”
If that was their limit his ships were twice as fast. Could he assume that was their limit? And they outnumbered his attack wave, his and the two other wings, two to one. There were two other groups incoming, and he waited to see if the enemy was going to vector fighters their way as well. So far, nothing.
“All ships are to lock onto an enemy fighter and fire one, I repeat, one missile. All others are to go into the Caca fleet. We will then break to the left and up a
nd head for these missile swarms.”
If everything worked as planned they would take out a couple of hundred enemy warp fighters, then hit from fifty to a hundred enemy ships, inflicting various degrees of damage. After that they would outrun the remaining enemy fighters and go about their hunt and kill of Caca missiles. Without losing any of his own fighters.
Yeah, right, thought the wing commander. And then you wake up.
“Firing missile,” called out the pilot, Lieutenant SG Xing.
The plot filled with the icons of warp missiles outbound. With nothing coming from the enemy. Just before the Terran missiles got to target, the enemy flushed all of their missiles. They only carried two to a ship. Still, twelve hundred weapons on the way in to the three wings was daunting.
“All ships. Break up and to the right. Full warp.”
Lauren could see the Klassekian com tech, one Ferdara, going to work at his board. In normal space, with normal fighters, the signal would have reached all of his birds in less than a second. It was much more complicated here. The tech transmitted back to their carrier, as well as to his siblings. Other Klassekians transmitted the message they read on their boards, out to their siblings on other fighters, or other carriers. Some fighters got the message immediately, others had to go through four or five layers of com techs, receiving their transmission up to ten seconds later. If it had been a set piece it would have been one thing. Improvisation often led to disaster with the com lags.
The ships of three wings broke up and right. Each wing moved as a well-trained whole. But the wings had not practiced this maneuver together, and their paths crossed. Though relatively close, there was still enough distance to make a direct collision unlikely. Unfortunately, the compression and expansion beams of the warp drives reached out light seconds, and it was inevitable that some of the beams would cross the warp bubbles of a few of their fellows.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 15: All Quiet on the Second Front? Page 16
