Federation Reborn 1: Battle Lines (20 page)

He had three squadrons of fighters on his ship and another three on
Nevada
under Lieutenant Commander Smith. Smith was okay, but he was green. He'd just come up from shuttles. He sighed. At least the senior officers and squadron commanders had the better fighters he thought, looking over to his
Emperor
class fighter. She was big, twice as big as a
Raptor,
which was one reason they had fewer fighters on board.

If every fighter had been a
Raptor
like Captain Post had originally insisted, they could have squeezed five squadrons into each ship. All of the five boat bays made for great room for the fighters. But he'd convinced the skipper to give him his head and let him keep the more advanced fighters. They were tricky to fly and keep running, but he knew their worth. A single exercise with one against an entire squadron of
Raptors
had proved his point. There had been no contest.

No, what really bugged him was the squadron of assault shuttles they had in the keel boat bay. That sucked. They sucked up space, time … he scowled. The skipper and maintenance crews might bitch about the
Fragmacs
,
Sabres
,
Executors
, and his lone
Emperor
, but the shuttles and their crews took up the most room, them and their ordinance and parts. So much room they only had the basic shuttle and cutter compliment, not the AWACS and other craft he had wanted. Not even the specialized Search and Rescue shuttles, or the refuel and rearm boats … he frowned again.

“Something wrong, CAG?”

“Just thinking,” the commander replied. He shook himself. “Woolgathering again I guess. How is it?”

“A fuel line is crimped. At least we think that's the problem,” the deck boss said, holding up a red line. He pointed to the fitting that had been over tightened. “See? And here at the elbow bend?”

The commander took the part and examined it carefully. He saw the crimp but didn't really understand if it was as bad as they said it was. Finally he grunted and handed the part back. “Okay, so do we have a spare?”

“We've got spares, plus spare tube we can bend. We're going to check it before we install it,” the deck boss said.

“Of course. Good man. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, sir. Will do.”

Emilio patted him on the shoulder and then went off to the offices. Each boat bay had its own LSO, Landing Systems Operator, plus an office where the LSO worked from. They didn't have a launch system like a true carrier; craft floated out and then when they were clear of the ship cut in their engines and went on their way. The process ate up fuel though and was hell if they needed to scramble in a hurry.

He'd wanted a real posting on a real carrier, but those were hard to come by in the Empire Navy. Sure, he could have waited, cooled his heels waiting for one of the new carriers to be finished, but he was a pilot. He belonged in the cockpit not behind some damned desk, which was why he'd let the brass talk him into this posting.

Now see he thought with a pang as a rating handed him a tablet. If he'd known it would have been filled with so many damn meetings and paperwork, he would never have allowed himself to get beyond squadron commander. But here he was he thought. He knew that eventually he wouldn't be able to fly anymore. If his eyes didn't bench him, his health eventually would.

He scanned the report, then scribbled his signature and pressed his thumb to the box. After a moment it turned green. He hit send copy to his inbox.

“Sir, are you going to the dinner tonight?” the LSO asked.

“Yes,” he replied, looking up. “If I don't get buried in paperwork first,” he said as the rating departed.

“The fleet runs on paperwork more and more, sir,” Jerry replied with a grin.

“That it does. That it definitely does,” the CAG replied with a grimace. “I knew they should never have promoted me off
Star Ravager
,” he growled. He couldn't go back either. He'd helped the skipper kick his old ship's ass in the last war game. They were probably waiting for him. Undoubtedly, he had people waiting in the bushes with clubs if he fracked up badly enough. Which meant, he just had to keep his damn nose clean and his pilots trained and on their toes.

“I want the hot wash on the latest sim tonight. Have it in my inbox,” he growled to the LSO.

Jerry grimaced. He was a squadron commander; he did the LSO gig as a side job when he wasn't flying. He nodded.

“Make sure everyone is up on their PT. I'll be spot checking during the week. I want to see the fitness evals bumped up during the next cycle or I'll make everyone miserable.”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry replied dutifully.

---<>---<>---

Captain Arnold Post checked in with the bridge and then nodded to a passing crewman. He was on his way to the officer's wardroom for his regular evening dinner with his senior staff. Unlike many in the navy, he, like Mueller, was a new breed. They didn't casually delve into sadism and sloppiness. Slackness he thought, eying a smudge on a wall. He made a mental note to take the crewman on cleanup duty to task for that. He didn't tolerate it. Nor should he.

The empire was changing, sometimes every day. He'd heard about the patents of nobility. He'd thought he had earned one but apparently not. They were going to the families of those who had served the empire loyally for generations first and foremost. He could understand that. But they had set up a glass ceiling; one that was horribly hard to pierce. In his naive youth, he'd expected to be an admiral now, not still a ship's captain.

Oh sure,
Massachusetts
was a powerful ship. She'd slaughter just about anything the opposition had; of that he was certain. But he wished, oh how he wished, that she was just a bit faster. Her last series of refits had helped a great deal, but he knew she had a long ways to go before she was up to the former Federation's standards. Some of their advances had been due to the inventor Leonardo, but more had come from a different source. The last round of refits was all due to the cornucopia of material coming from the El Dorado system. He'd heard whispers of it. But it was classified, and the penalties for breaching the security were severe.

He frowned thoughtfully. He'd almost,
almost
, gotten in. He'd considered an assignment with the fleet protecting that star system and its valuable assets therein. Next to the home system, that was the most valuable in the growing empire. Instead he'd taken on
Massachusetts
with an eye for the empire war games and eventual combat in Pyrax.

He couldn't help but smile a shark-like smile. It may not have been politically prudent to take down
Star Ravenger
or
Star Warrior
in the games, but it had gone a long way to showing his talent. Both ships’ crews would remember the drubbing he and Mueller had given them. No doubt they'd be looking for revenge during the next time they clashed. He was actually looking forward to it.

He hoped Rico and Cartwright hadn't mopped up the Federation star system yet. He had banked on being there, on gaining some of the credit and combat points he would need to continue his rise through the ranks. He frowned thoughtfully.

They were supposed to do a one-month layover in the SNHH star system and then head on up to Nuevo Madrid. Show the flag along the way his orders said. Show the locals what the empire was, what they had achieved, and what they were capable of. That man could again rise from the ashes to greatness under the guiding hand of the emperor. He snorted in disgust. Oh sure, the wedge-shaped behemoths would cow any peasant on the ground if they saw it in the skies above. But he had no intention of lingering that long.

They really should rename the star system. Shit Nothing Happens Here was a mouthful, and the self-pity was pathetic. Something more … majestic he thought. His lips twitched as he toyed with a few ideas before he set the distracting train of thought aside.

A week he thought. Just a week. Long enough to refuel, to show off, and to get his command in order. He had his division: four destroyers, four frigates, one tanker, and the two transports of fresh troops. After all, they were needed at the front. He pursed his lips as he thought of the exact wording he would put in his report. He was fairly confident that Admiral Rico would understand and support his accelerated arrival.

He nodded to the marine sentry outside the wardroom and then entered.

Chapter 11

“Showtime,” Amadeus said softly, rubbing his hands in anticipation as TF22 exited hyper in neat formation. Marshall looked at him from the holo repeater and then away to other things.

The yard dogs had wanted to add a second command chair on to the already crowded bridge. Instead, the small captain's office adjacent to the bridge had been refitted into a small flag bridge for the Admiral instead. The Admiral sat there in that chamber, watching his own repeaters with his flag lieutenant, Jig Jojo Pwaulli. They had a direct line to the captain, AI, CIC, and communication lines to each of the other ships as well as the holographic plot built into the captain's desk.

“Secure from hyper-translation, sir,” the navigator reported. “Sensors are still distorted.”

“I'm trying to compensate for the gravitational lens effect now,” Marshall stated.

“Recon drones are programmed, sir,” the TACO reported.

“Then launch,” the captain said before the admiral could order it, “and the Alert Five fighters when local space is safe. Don't wait for my order, Tactical,” he ordered.

“Aye aye, sir,” the TACO replied with a dutiful nod. He sent out the orders to the boat bay. “Flight 1 recon drones away. Flight 2 is prepped. Alert Five fighters away.”

The admiral nodded. The captain had things under control locally as it should be. He turned his attention to the enemy. His forces were outnumbered in destroyers; they had a
Nelson
as expected. This could get ugly he thought.

As expected there were four destroyers, two frigates, and five freighters in orbit of the supine planet. Two of the freighters were medium size; the other three were large freighters. One was a
Clydesdale
that Marshall estimated with a 60 percent probability as the
Moldy Crow.

According to Marshall and Jojo's take on their incomplete Horathian war book Naval Intelligence had assembled, the
Cutlass
class destroyer was the
Corsair
. That designation was fairly obvious since there weren't that many
Cutlass
class destroyers left in the area, and all but one were in enemy hands. The
Antelope
class fast attack destroyer was possibly the
McRae,
the
Tameichi Hara
, or the
Battle of Samar
.

The
Nelson
had been identified as the
Buchaneer's Breath
from the gold lettering along her flanks.

Identifying the
Arboth
class was nearly as impossible as the
Antelope
. They had narrowed it down to five possible ships:
Akatsuki, Porter, Daring, Jean Bart,
or
Fisher.
All five ships had been listed in the empire's home fleet or in the Rho sector and may have gotten to Protodon since their intel was out of date. Marshall had even suggested some of the ships might be new construction. That hadn't been a pleasant thought to consider but one they had to contend with. Plus its implications.

One of the
Manta
class frigates had been identified as the
Barnabe
. The other was still unknown. There were two other frigate or corvette-sized contacts, but they had only glimpses of them, not enough for a positive ID.

The admiral frowned thoughtfully and cursed the lack of intelligence in the war book. They had the name and some classes of ships but not who was captain. Of course, it would have been woefully out of date but still. Getting some hint of what the other side had for a commander, their mindset, tactics … were they going to fight as a unit or individuals? How comprehensive was their training? He shook his head. “Mangy pirates,” he muttered, watching the plot. The visual was hours old of course; it would take a while before their starburst alerted the enemy to their presence. But neutrinos were a different story. His neutrino detectors told him that the enemy was already reacting to his arrival. His estimation of their tech level just went up.

Jojo looked up from her station. He waved her look away.

---<>---<>---

Lieutenant Shanty had the bridge watch during graveyard. It was one way to fend off lecherous superior officers, though she tended to be smart about such things. The neutrino detector beeped and then flashed a priority code. She frowned and immediately pulled the plot up. She stared at the locus for a moment and then scowled. Her thumb stabbed down on the page button.