The battle at the Moons of Hell hw-1 Page 36

  “Command, XO.”

  “Go ahead, chief.”

  “The team from 166 has completed testing the hangar breach, and it’s 100 percent; with your permission, I’d like to return them to their ship. I’m sure Lieutenant Chen will be happy to have them back. I’ve got everyone I need.”

  “Make it so, chief. How’s the rest going?”

  “Pretty good, sir. The damage to the surveillance drone hangar has been sealed finally, and we are just running the ultrasonics across the plug to make sure there are no flaws, but so far it’s looking good. Say another ten minutes and we should be done. I’ve sent the foamsteel generators up to the blowout from Weapons Power Charlie to get started up there. We’ve started to get the final bracing in place, so I’d say we’re looking good for being jump-ready by 09:30 at the very latest. Should be earlier with a bit of luck.”

  “Well, the engineers have got everything right at their end, so earlier would be good, chief.”

  “Working on it, sir.”

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  DLS-387, Hell Nearspace

  Michael’s heart lurched in shock at the news. For the first time that day, the Feds could expect some serious opposition.

  The surveillance drones in orbit around Commitment had just reported the departure of twenty-three Hammer ships led by a heavy cruiser positively identified as the Hammer Warship Bravery. It had taken the Hammers an inordinately long time to get a proper response together, but finally they had. And contrary to plan, it looked like 387 would still be in Hammer space when the bastards dropped in-system.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered as he commed Mother to run a formal threat assessment even as Jaruzelska ordered 166 and 387 to turn away from the threat.

  Fear mixed with frustration in equal measures whipped his stomach into a mass of churning acid bile. 387 wasn’t that far away from being ready to jump, and now this. Well, there had to come a time when the Hammers finally got their shit together, and maybe he should be grateful that it had taken them this long.

  “Not what we wanted, sir,” said Cosmo Reilly. The voice of 387’s chief engineer was thick with concern as he and Michael watched Mother’s threat assessment. Her conclusions were brutally simple. The last Fed ships in Hammer space were very badly exposed, and their destruction was assured if they didn’t jump into the safety of pinchspace soon. The two heavy cruisers Al-Jahiz and Sina were beginning to run short of missiles. Even with the Crossbow and Bombard in support and assuming they had time to get two salvos away, the four ships could put only 1,300 missiles down the throats of the Hammers. That wouldn’t be enough even if they got lucky and timed a rail-gun salvo to hit the Hammers as the missiles closed in.

  Not that rail-gun slugs fired across hundreds of thousands of kilometers at a drop datum of extremely doubtful accuracy would make the Hammers sweat. Things were not looking good.

  Michael looked across at Reilly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Cosmo?”

  “I’m afraid I am, sir. We can’t hold everyone back just to save our skins.”

  Michael nodded, the fear and frustration turning to fatalistic resignation. He’d been through too much to waste energy on things he couldn’t control. “I’ll make the call. You go. Do what you can to speed things up.”

  Reilly nodded. He paused for a moment, patted Michael on the shoulder, and left without another word.

  Michael took a deep breath as he put the comm through to Chen.

  “Bill, I’m not going to fuck around on this. You cannot wait for 387 any longer. Mother tells me that you’ll be ready to jump any moment now. So jump when you’re ready. For God’s sake, don’t wait.”

  Chen’s tortured face filled Michael’s neuronics.

  “Michael. I can’t do that. 387 is one of my ships now.”

  Michael laughed. He hadn’t expected Chen to behave any differently. “Thought you’d say that, so it’s only fair to let you know that my next call is to Admiral Jaruzelska.”

  Chen couldn’t quite conceal the faint flush of relief that crossed his face. “Okay, Michael. Make the call. Your right as a captain in command.”

  “Go with God, Bill.”

  Michael put 166 out of his mind as he put the comm through to Jaruzelska. He didn’t waste words as her face, gray-tinged with fatigue and stress, came up on his neuronics.

  “Yes, Helfort.”

  “Admiral, sir. As you know, our battle damage is pretty severe, so we’re going to be around for a while. Sir, I cannot allow the rest of the task group to be put at risk just on our account, so please, jump. We’ll take care of ourselves. The Hammer is bound to drop short, and I’ve got full driver mass bunkers, so catching 387 will be hard for them.”

  Jaruzelska’s eyebrows shot up as Michael spoke. As a rule, junior lieutenants were not in the habit of telling vice admirals what they would or would not allow. But on this occasion, she’d make an exception. Helfort was absolutely right. Sacrificing four capital ships for the sake of one badly battle-damaged light scout and its already depleted crew was not a sensible option. But in her heart she knew full well that abandoning 387 to the Hammer would be the right decision only if 387 survived. If it was destroyed, she would be known forever as the commander who left a defenseless ship to the Hammer. She took a very deep breath. So be it. The ability to make the hard decisions was why she was a vice admiral.

  “I agree, Helfort. I’ll comm orders to 166 to jump as soon as she’s ready. I’ll hold my ships back until we can get full missile and rail-gun salvos away, and then we’ll jump. You’ll be on your own then.”

  “Sir, I understand. It’s the only sensible option. Let’s do it.”

  Jaruzelska had to smile. Helfort might only be a junior lieutenant, but he had balls like titanium coconuts. Even better, he thought straight under pressure. She hoped to God he survived.

  “Thank you, Helfort,” she said wryly. “I do appreciate your endorsement.”

  Michael flushed as he realized that he’d been speaking to a full vice admiral rather more firmly than protocol allowed. “Oh fu-Uh, sorry sir. Shit. I, er-”

  Jaruzelska cut him off with a smile. Her voice softened. “Enough, Michael. Do what you have to do and you’ll get home safely. Go with God.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  With the comforting presence of Jaruzelska and her ships gone, Michael had never felt so alone. Judging from the faces of his scratch combat information center crew, the rest of 387’s crew probably felt the same way.

  Jaruzelska’s final efforts on his behalf had come to nothing. A coordinated rail-gun salvo from the four heavy ships had duly ripped through the Hammer’s predicted drop point datum. The only small problem was that the Hammer commander, clearly no fool, had neutralized the salvos by dropping short and low and splitting his ships into two groups. The swarm was now just another forgotten entry in the knowledge base of space navigation hazards as it disappeared at 3.6 million kilometers per hour into the void.

  The follow-up missiles were no more effective. Three salvos in all, they were too spread out, too small, and too far from the drop point to trouble the Hammer ships much. But worst of all was the fact that for once that day the Hammers seemed to know what they were doing. A good clean drop, warships well positioned, sensors up smartly, and their first salvo away quickly-all spoke of a commander who could be relied on to get things right.

  Time was running out for 387 and fast, Michael thought, and the worst thing about it was the simple brutal fact that he personally could do absolutely nothing more to get 387 jump-ready. Chief Harris and his damage control teams were doing as much as any humans could do, and no amount of nagging from him would or could speed things up.

  Michael was discovering that the hardest thing for any commander to do was nothing when that was the right thing to do.

  “Command, Mother.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Hammer forces redeploying.”

  “Roger,” Michael said, now resi
gned to his fate. “They’re going to try to box us in, I suppose.”

  “Confirmed.”

  Michael nodded. Mother had been driving 387 hard away from the Hammers, but in the end, they had the numbers, and now, with only one small target to focus on, the Hammer commander could afford to spread his net wide. That was exactly what he was doing, the holocams picking up the flaring of main engines as the Hammer ships began to open out.

  “How much time?”

  “Estimate thirty minutes. They’ll have us enveloped then. I expect a single coordinated rail-gun salvo.”

  “To finish us off,” Michael said, completing Mother’s sentence for her. He commed Chief Harris, who took the news impassively. Michael successfully resisted an almost overwhelming urge to tell him to hurry up.

  The minutes ticked by as 387’s every change of vector was matched instantly by the Hammers, the deadly net closing inexorably around the fleeing ship. Michael toyed with the idea of surrendering to the Hammers but dismissed it almost as quickly as it had come. History showed that the Hammers never accepted such offers when they had the upper hand, and Michael was not going to give them the satisfaction of refusing. Now they had less than two minutes before the Hammers were in position. The Hammer ships already were turning to match bearings. Allowing five minutes’ time of flight for the rail-gun salvo, and 387 had less than seven minutes to live.

  “Command, XO.” It was Harris, and Michael began to pray harder than he’d ever prayed before, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled to steady his voice.

  “Go ahead, chief,” he said, barely able to squeeze the words out.

  “Sir, we’ve finished. The hull is jump-worthy. The engineers are running the final numbers into the mass distribution model now, so it’s up to them.”

  Relief flooded through Michael like a warm wave. “Chief, you are a fucking star. Oh, and thanks.”

  “Any time, sir, any time,” Harris replied matter-of-factly.

  “Okay. We might have to jump without the mass distribution model 100 percent right, in which case it might be a rough ride, so I want everyone and everything battened down real tight.”

  Michael grimaced. A rough ride. That was an understatement. If the navigation AI got the ship’s mass distribution wrong by more than one part in a hundred thousand, 387 would never make it home. Where it would go, Michael had no idea, nor would the navigation AI. Nobody had ever come back from a badly set up jump, and for all he knew, 387 would tumble through pinchspace for eternity. He put that awful thought aside. He’d take his chances in pinchspace because one thing was sure: At least they might survive, whereas staying in Hammer space would be 100 percent fatal.

  He commed Reilly and was not reassured by his chief engineer’s worried face.

  “Cosmo, just to let you know. We’ve got five minutes or so and-”

  Mother’s urgent tones cut across him. “Command, Mother. Multiple rail-gun launches from Hammer task group. Vector analysis confirms target 387. Time of flight four minutes twenty-four. Probability of survival zero, repeat, zero.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus, Michael thought, so soon. “Cosmo, did you copy?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Okay. I’m going to jump anyway whether you’re happy with the mass distribution model or not. We have to take the chance. But I’ll leave it as late as I can. I’ll execute a crash jump from here, so make sure everything’s ready to go.”

  Cosmo’s face seemed to crumple as he worked out that 387’s survival now depended on him. He visibly caught his breath before replying.

  “Well, sir, I guess that’s all we can do. We’re pretty close now, and I’ll run the numbers as long as we can. If I don’t see you again, it’s been an honor.”

  “Same here, Cosmo. Same here. Command out.”

  Michael commed Mother to adjust vectors to set 387 up for a jump direct to Terranova, gave command authority to override the safety locks that in normal circumstances would never have allowed 387 to jump, and then sat back. He felt strangely calm as he commed his crew for the last time.

  “All stations, this is the captain. We’ll be jumping shortly, ready or not. It’ll be rough, so hold on. May God watch over us this day. Captain, out.”

  Michael waited as long as he could, the wait agonizing as he watched the incoming Hammer attack remorselessly close in. Then he could wait no more. 387 jumped.

  Five seconds later, the Hammer’s massive rail-gun swarm ripped through a small knuckle of tangled and warped space-time, all that was left to mark 387’s presence in Hammer space.

  Under the arch of a velvety star-speckled sky of a beautiful Commitment night, high-intensity floodlights streamed into the execution yard, drenching the small group of Doc-Sec troopers in a harsh white glare.

  On the other side of the yard from the firing squad, two men stood beside a slumped figure tied to the execution post, his orange prison coveralls drenched in blood.

  The prison doctor looked up at the young DocSec officer standing impatiently in front of him and shook his head. With a muffled curse, the DocSec officer drew his pistol to put the finishing shot into the head of Jesse Merrick.

  “Jesse Arthur Merrick. So die all enemies of the Peoples of the Hammer of Kraa.”

  The deed done, the DocSec lieutenant turned away, a sick feeling lying very heavy on his stomach. He knew full well that he might have signed his own death warrant with that single pistol shot. He could only hope that Polk stayed chief councillor long enough for the memory of Merrick to fade and for his part in the man’s death to be forgotten.

  Monday, November 23, 2398, UD

  City of McNair, Commitment Planet

  McNair had simmered for three days, a lethally unstable stew of sullen resentment flaring without warning into vicious brutality.

  It had taken a declaration of martial law and the news that Merrick had been executed for crimes against the Peoples of Kraa before a major offensive by DocSec supported by marine light armor had been able to push the mobs roaming the streets back behind shuttered windows and locked doors.

  With control reestablished, it was only a matter of hours before DocSec swung back onto the offensive, doing what it did best. Black-uniformed snatch squads fanned out across the riot-wrecked city in an endless stream of trucks. By midday, the city had been swept clean of anyone even remotely connected to Merrick’s political machine. His once-mighty organization was destroyed as thousands of people were dragged out of their houses and thrown into trucks, the first step on the long road to some Kraa-forsaken labor camp if they were lucky or a DocSec firing squad if they were not.

  DocSec didn’t worry about just the human elements of the Merrick machine. Their orders were to destroy everything. Before the day was out, every Hammer of Kraa party office in McNair had been stripped down to bare furniture, with every file, every document, and every workstation ripped out and taken away for analysis.

  Chief Councillor Polk had watched the progress reports with grim, silent satisfaction. Commitment in general and McNair in particular were the wellspring of Merrick’s political strength, a source so ably exploited by Merrick during his long years at the pinnacle of Hammer political power. Well, Polk thought, not anymore, and this day’s operations in McNair were just the start. The pustulant boil that was Merrick had been lanced, and his power base had been damaged seriously. Over the coming weeks anyone and anything even remotely capable of lending aid and succor to the Merrick/Commitment faction would be dealt with with the same deadly efficiency.

  It was Polk’s intention that there would be nothing left to challenge his authority by the time order was fully restored. If it took an ocean of blood and hordes of fatherless families for that goal to be achieved, that was the price that McNair and the planet of Commitment would have to pay.

  Chief Councillor Polk was here to stay.

  Thursday, November 26, 2398, UD

  Space Battle Station 1, in Orbit around Terranova Planet

  If Fleet protocol was any
guide, it wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did.

  Throughout the vast bulk of Space Battle Station 1, work rapidly ground to a halt as word got around, the news spreading like wildfire. In a matter of only minutes, every holovid had been switched over to watch the incoming ship as it decelerated slowly in-system.

  Now every living soul on SBS-1, from the commodore in command down to the lowliest spacer, was focused on the tiny flares of ionized driver mass as 387 dropped in toward the station, safely secured fore and aft by the salvage tugs that had rescued her shattered hull after it had dropped, spinning uncontrollably, out of pinchspace.

  It seemed to take a lifetime, but finally, the tugs’ main engines shut off and 387 was in position for her final approach.

  Slowly, the tugs began to roll 387 to line up her main hangar door for berthing. As they did, a shocked gasp swept through the station as the damage to the ship’s hull became obvious. The white-gray patches of emergency foamsteel repairs stood out starkly against the deep blackness of the scout’s hull; everywhere gashes and gouges had been torn, ripped, and punched into the ceramsteel armor. Then, as 387 made its final approach, the massive foamsteel-filled hole that seemed to take up almost all of the ship’s starboard bow came into view.

  “Holy Mother of God,” breathed Commodore Perec, his morning staff meeting in ruins around him, the chairs around the conference room table pushed back as his staff unconsciously moved to stand in front of the holovid. Perec had been through the last war and had seen some pretty badly cut-up ships, but the only time he’d seen them this bad, they’d been complete write-offs.

  Perec turned to his senior engineer, a tall gray-haired captain. “I don’t believe it, Marta,” he said. “How did they survive that?”

  “By good engineering design, I’d say, Commodore,” she replied, shaking her head in amazement. “She’s been hit right above Weapons Power Charlie. Looks like the blast venting really does work.”