Marines (35 page)

"Entering optimum launch range, Admiral."  Lieutenant Simon's voice brought Garret out of his guilt-ridden trance.

He put his arm on the edge of the command chair.  "Give me a boost, Nelson."  He felt the small pinprick as the AI directed the injection of the stimulant cocktail designed to maximize mental clarity and effectiveness.  Garret felt the drug pushing away the fatigue and the crushing headache.  By the time the battle was over he was likely to be a strung-out wreck, but none of that mattered now.

He ordered all ships to flush their external racks in a first volley, and then fired virtually every remaining missile in the fleet in a series of waves, another violation of SOP as outlined in the "book."  Only his destroyers kept their small arsenals; every other missile in the fleet was now heading toward the enemy.

His battleships launched 72-96 missiles each, with the gargantuan Yorktowns firing a total of 144.  All told, the battleships and cruisers had fired a volley of over 1,000 missiles, each with multiple warheads.  His ships were decelerating, and they were moving at a considerably lower rate than the approaching enemy fleet.  The lower intrinsic velocity imparted to their missiles meant the incoming volley would hit them before their own salvoes struck, a difference of no particular consequence beyond the possibility that Garret wouldn't still be alive to find out how much damage his attack inflicted.

"Nelson, course change.  All ships are to conduct full burns.  Thrust plan Vega.  Execute in 30 seconds."  Garret could have given the order to Lieutenant Simon, but as excellent an officer as she was, the AI would get the orders transmitted to over 160 ships a lot faster than any human could.  Garret was conducting evasive maneuvers, trying to position his fleet away from the incoming missile strike.  The thrust plan was random, something he made up himself, designed to scatter his ships, making them a tougher target.  The enemy's weapons were coming in at a fairly high velocity, and they would have a harder time changing course than his slow-moving vessels.

"Incoming missiles.  Detonations projected in eight minutes."  Lieutenant Simon was still solid, but with a billion megatons of nuclear bombs heading at them, Garret could excuse the slight waver in her voice.

"Full impact procedures, all ships." 

"Yes sir."  Simon relayed his order on the fleet command circuit.

"Impact procedures require all personnel to be wearing helmets, Admiral."  Nelson's voice was as unemotional as ever, but Garret was still annoyed as he reached down and grabbed his helmet.  He knew it was irrational, but he hated being nagged, particularly by a machine.

The enemy missiles were blasting hard at 50g, straining to maximize the targeting on his evading fleet.  His ships were thrusting full too, but manned vessels couldn't compete with missiles unburdened by the need to prevent human crews from turning into strawberry jam.

"Engage point defense procedures, Plan Delta."  Garret gave that order to Nelson, who would implement it immediately.  Firing the point defense systems was a computer's game, requiring precise tracking and microsecond targeting.  Men and women mostly watched, and waited to see if their computers saved their lives.

Throughout the fleet, cluster-warhead interception rockets launched and short-ranged lasers fired, targeting the missiles whose vectors were judged to be the most threatening.  The escorts were positioned around the capital ships, linking their fire with the defensive arrays of their big brothers.  Defensive fire was preferenced to protect the big ships.  The escort crews knew the deal; they were the shields.

Hundreds of missiles were intercepted, but there were just too many to get them all.  In the end, Garret's evasive maneuvers were reasonably effective.  The AIs controlling the enemy missiles attempted to inflict maximum damage, splitting the multiple warhead vehicles at the optimum times and triggering detonations as each came as close to a target as its plot indicated it would.

The space around Garret's ships was engulfed in thermonuclear fury as hundreds of miniature suns flared briefly into existence.  Seven of the Alliance ships, mostly smaller destroyers and attack ships, were close enough to exploding warheads to be destroyed outright.  One of the big cruisers was less than 300 meters from a heavy thermonuclear detonation; the ship just disappeared.

About 20 other vessels took heavy damage from the heat and shockwaves.  A few of them were crippled and rendered almost entirely combat ineffective; others had varying levels of damage.  Inside the battered hulls, men and women struggled and died.  Pressure doors closed, isolating breached sections of the hulls.  Nuclear reactors shut down before magnetic bottles failed.  Electrical systems overloaded, causing systemic failures throughout entire vessels.  Wounded crew filled the sickbays, and ship's surgeons worked frantically to save those who could be saved.

"Damage control report."  Garret snapped the order to Lieutenant Simon, who was compiling reports from various ships in the fleet.  Garret wasn't asking about Cromwell; Flag Captain Charles would handle that in his own command center.  Garret wanted a summary on the whole fleet, and he wanted it immediately.

"Seven ships destroyed, sir.  Cruiser Miami; destroyers Sunhawk, Stingray, and Scorpion; attack ships Terrance, Seward, and Clive."  She winced a little - her friend, Violet had been assigned to Miami - but didn't hesitate in giving her report.  "Data still coming in, sir.  It looks like most of the battleline came through it fairly well...except for the Leyte."  Short pause.  "She is reporting systemic damage.  Her weapons are offline and she's running on batteries.  They are attempting to get the secondary reactor restarted."

Simon worked her way through the reports as they came in, relaying the information to Garret.  By the time they'd organized everything it was clear things had gone fairly well, better than he'd had any right to expect.  Only two of the capital ships sustained major damage, and the Leyte was the only one that was combat ineffective.  So far they'd gotten off light.

Garret was pleased, but also somber.  Every ship destroyed and crewmember killed still hurt.  He'd lost count of how many brave men and women had died in his many victories, but at night they visited him, the ghostly cost of his glory.

Simon's voice interrupted his introspection.  "Enemy bombers incoming.  Seven minutes out."

Garret smiled.  Standard tactics.  Right out of the book.  "Plan Omega.  Execute." 

"Launching interceptors now."  Garret had held back six squadrons of fighter bombers and configured them for interception.  Now, the launch catapults on six battleships spat their charges into space with the maximum velocity they could impart.  Launched on a direct intercept course with the attacking bombers, they strafed the incoming craft with their "shotguns," magnetic-powered railguns firing blasts of high-velocity projectiles designed to tear apart the tiny, unarmored bombers. 

They only got one pass - by the time they could decelerate and turn about the attackers would be finished with their bombing run.  But they took out half the incoming craft, leaving just 37 to attack, and the combined point defense of the fleet took most of them out.  The entire enemy bombing run scored only one major hit though, as luck would have it, that was against the unfortunate Leyte.

"The Leyte's offline, Admiral.  Captain Harris is dead.  She's bleeding atmosphere.  Secondary explosions onboard."  Simon was reading the incoming reports directly to the admiral.

Garret winced, grateful for the helmet that hid his face.  He'd known Tom Harris for fifteen years.  Like that, he was gone.  The Leyte will be lucky to get through this, he thought.  Rachel Aaron is the ship's exec...at least they're in good hands.  "I want running status reports on the Leyte.  If Commander Aaron doesn't think she can save the ship, order her to implement Code Y procedures."  Code Y was Alliance protocol for abandoning a hopeless ship.

"Acknowledged."

Garret leaned back in the command chair and sighed softly.  "Nelson, updated projection on energy weapons range."

"At present vectors and rate of deceleration, the two fleets will be in energy weapons range in 6.5 hours."

"Lieutenant Simon, all personnel not directly involved in damage control activities are to take two hour rest periods in one-third intervals.  All crew are to be at the ready in 6 hours."

"Acknowledged."  Simon relayed the admiral's order through the fleetcom circuit.  "Sir, I can monitor the boards if you want to get some rest."

"Negative, lieutenant."  He paused briefly, realizing he'd been a bit abrupt with her.  "Though thank you.  Please send the damage control reports to my screen.  Capital ships first."

"Yes, sir.  Reports coming through now."  After a brief pause:  "Admiral, Commander Aaron reports she believes she can save the Leyte."

"Thank you, lieutenant."  Garret sat and reviewed the various reports, occasionally issuing an order, but mostly just monitoring the situation.  Damage control was generally within the realm of the individual ship captains.  His responsibility was pretty much limited to how to utilize a ship based on its condition.

The fleet had been decelerating, but the Leyte and some of the other heavily damaged ships had lost significant thrust capability.  That left Garret two choices - reduce the deceleration rate to keep the fleet together or maintain the thrust levels, allowing the damaged ships to move out of the formation.  Since they were decelerating as they approached the enemy, this would be a death sentence for the damaged ships, which would remain at higher velocities and enter weapons range ahead of the fleet.  They'd be easy targets, and the enemy would pick them off one by one.

"Synchronize deceleration rate.  Maximum thrust that allows the fleet to maintain formation."  You're being weak, he thought.  Jeopardizing the battle plan to save a few crews.  He let the order stand, though.

Commander Jonelle was Garret's fleet operations officer.  "Implementing now, admiral."  A few seconds later.  "Adjusted thrust deceleration level in ten seconds."

Garret lurched back into his chair as the ship reduced its thrust from 4.5g to 1.75g.  The reduced deceleration made the crew substantially more comfortable, but it played havoc with his battle plan.  "Nelson, prepare a thrust plot for maximum deceleration to implement once the enemy has passed out of energy weapon range."

Garret reviewed the damage reports and checked and rechecked his calculations.  "Admiral, energy weapon range in 30 minutes."  He had ordered the AI to warn him at the 30 minute mark.

"Begin charging procedure for all weapons systems.  All crew are to take a stimulant injection 10 minutes before range."  He paused.  "Give me mine now, Nelson."  He put his arm on the chair edge, wincing slightly as the needle pricked him, then inhaling deeply as the fatigue drained away.

His plan was simple.  First, a heavy weapons exchange as the two fleets passed each other, inflicting the maximum possible damage to the enemy battleships already damaged by the bombing run.  The enemy fleet would continue decelerating as they approached the station, but they expected their first wave to have gutted it.  Instead, they would run into a full missile broadside, followed by Garret's returning fleet, ready for another close-range knife fight with energy weapons.  It would be a battle of annihilation. 

His orders were simple.  Hold the system at all costs.  Garret stared grimly at the viewscreen.  He intended to do just that.  Gliese would remain his...or the Alliance navy would die right here.

Chapter 2

I Corps Assembly Area

Columbia - Eta Cassiopeiae II

"Good afternoon, Colonel Cain.  I am Captain Peter Warren, your new political officer."  The visitor was tall and thin, but there was something unsettling about him.  Cain decided it was his eyes.  They were small and beady, and oddly far apart from each other.  His uniform was spotless and neatly-pressed, but it was a design Cain had never seen.

Erik wore gray fatigues, and they were anything but spotless or neatly-pressed.  He was young to be wearing colonel's eagles, and he looked even more youthful than his 35 years.  Almost two meters tall, with close-cropped brown hair and blue eyes, Cain looked busy, too busy to be concerned with perfect uniforms or to waste time with officious-looking types sent out from Earth. 

"What kind of horseshit joke is this?  I don't know what the hell a political officer is, but I know I don't need one."  Cain's voice was derisive, and it was clear from his body language he considered the newcomer dismissed.  He turned and opened his mouth to talk to his orderly, but Warren spoke before he got any words out.

"I'm afraid, Colonel, that you do need a political officer.  New directive from central command.  All unit commanders from battalion level up have been assigned liaison staff.  Alliance Gov has issued a series of new directives designed to improve conditions and efficiency for our troops.  My job is to assist you with implementation."

Cain turned and looked at Warren with eyes of icy death.  "Captain, I'm going to say this one more time.  I do not need any help seeing to the needs of my men, certainly not from some bureaucrat they shove in a uniform and sent out here to harass me.  You can tell Alliance Gov to sti..."

"Erik!  The general wants to see you.  Now."  Major Darius Jax ran up behind Cain.  Jax was at least ten centimeters taller than Erik, and his dark skin contrasted sharply with Cain's pale tone.  Jax was being technically insubordinate in not addressing his superior as "colonel," but he thought it was more important to intervene quickly.  Besides, the two had fought together for years, and were close friends. 

Cain spun around on his heels and followed Jax without even a word to the stunned officer who stood where he was, staring in disbelief.  It was just as well, because if he'd gotten any more words out of Cain, they probably wouldn't have been to his liking.  Erik Cain had grown up a gang member in a hellish slum after his family had run afoul of government regulations and been cast out of Manhattan and subsequently murdered.  He despised everything to do with the authorities back on Earth, and he was not likely to be patient with a glorified government snitch in a uniform.