So Terrance Compton saved the man who had tried so hard to relieve him. Now he faced a missile fight with an enemy that outnumbered him three to one in both hulls and tonnage. It would be a tough fight, he knew that. But it wouldn’t be his first.
Garret sat on the bridge of the AS Perryville. He didn’t have a proper flagship. In fact, he didn’t have much of a fleet either. He’d rallied what forces were available, but time had been of the essence, and there were only so many idle ships posted along his course to Eta Cassiopeiae. He had a few cruisers and a bunch of destroyers and attack ships, and that’s all.
It had been quite a journey from that cell in Alliance Intelligence HQ. Cain’s people had gotten him to the Martian embassy undetected, and Roderick Vance had smuggled him to Mars and then out of the Sol system entirely. When they filled him in, he knew he had to get to Columbia – he couldn’t imagine the mess the imposter had created. He wanted to gather a large force, but Compton’s Second Fleet was the only major concentration of naval strength in the sector. Most of the rest of the fleet was posted out on the rim. It would have taken months to assemble a large task force, and that was time Garret knew he didn’t have.
The situation was desperate; there was no doubt of that. But it felt good to be doing something and not just sitting in that cell. Holm had been telling him for years what a gifted officer Cain was, and Garret himself had followed the young general’s career with considerable interest and amusement. But now he owed him a personal debt, one he sincerely hoped he’d be able to repay one day. He was well aware of what Cain and his people had done, of the overwhelming odds they had faced. Augustus Garret was many things, but an ingrate wasn’t one of them.
He was looking at the force deployment diagram, hoping he’d come up with some way to help Compton before it was too late. There was a word for the tactical situation in the system right now…clusterfuck. Compton had the largest force posted near Columbia. There was another squadron – the ships that had originally planned to sit out the fight – about 30 light minutes from the planet. Jantz’ group was right next to the Directorate forces, while Garret’s incoming command was still near the warp gate, several light hours from the action.
Garret had his ships set a course toward the Directorate fleet. He knew more than anyone what was behind this mysterious force, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Gavin Stark get away with it. He wanted to take command of the scattered navy forces, but they were too widely dispersed, too far apart. Any orders he issued could only confuse things, so he just kept broadcasting the affirmation of Compton’s command authority as his ships strained their reactors to get into the fight. He’d have to count on his senior officers to make their own separate decisions. They were good officers, well trained and experienced. He had faith in them.
Compton felt like a house had fallen on him. Forty years of service in space and he still hadn’t gotten completely used to the pressures of high g acceleration. He hated the bloated, lethargic feeling the pressure equalization drugs caused, but without them he’d be in worse shape…unconscious at least, and probably dead. Staying focused on the tactical situation while drugged and being crushed almost to death was one of the hardest things for naval officers to master.
He’d needed the acceleration, and now the deceleration. The incoming missile barrage would devastate his fleet if he stayed where he was. Even with full countermeasures, a lot of those warheads would get through. But he was facing a less experienced opponent…of that he was sure. The spread blasting toward his fleet was textbook, simple, unimaginative. Maybe, just maybe, with the right evasive maneuvers he could save his people.
His first thought was to hide behind Columbia, but he wasn’t about to risk letting thousands of megatons of high-yield fusion bombs impact the planet or its atmosphere. The warheads that ships hurled at each other were massive – bigger even than the giant city-killers used during the Unification Wars. It takes a lot of energy output for a near miss to damage a ship in space.
Columbia’s moon, however, was a different story, and the entire fleet was blasting full, trying to put the large rocky satellite between them and the incoming missiles. The weapons would attempt to change course to follow, but they were at a disadvantageous angle and a high velocity. The Directorate commander was impatient; he’d accelerated his missiles aggressively, burning a lot of fuel in the process. A lot of them would expend the last of their thrust capacity before they were able to completely change their trajectories to target his ships. At least that’s what Compton was betting on.
His own missile spread was focused, targeting just two of the big Yorktown class ships. What a waste, he thought. These big, beautiful new ships. The cream of the navy. He had been confused when so many of the new ships had been taken off active service, but now he understood. Alliance Intelligence wanted them; they wanted to create their own navy, under their complete control. Now Compton had to destroy them…or they would do the same to him.
He felt a pinprick in his arm – Joker adjusting his pressure drug dosage. They were almost in position, and Compton didn’t want the fleet at high acceleration/deceleration when the missiles hit. Damage control efforts would be far more effective in freefall or at low g forces. Half a minute later he felt the relief as the ship’s engines began to disengage and the massive feeling of pressure was gone.
“Missiles incoming in five zero minutes.” Commander Larrison was Bunker Hill’s tactical officer. Compton was linked into his com, but he was just a bystander. The fleet was in position; now the captains would fight their ships.
“Very good, commander.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded as calm as if she were having a picnic on the beach instead of waiting for tens of thousands of megatons of warheads to close on her ship. “Full countermeasures, program Epsilon-7.” Bunker Hill and her escorts put out a blizzard of small rockets and sprint missiles, each targeting an incoming warhead. The effectiveness of the long-range point defense was unpredictable, highly dependent on a number of factors, including the vectors and velocities of the incoming missiles with respect to the targeted ships.
The rockets split into hundreds of smaller projectiles, each aiming directly for an incoming warhead, like a bullet. The sprint missiles were single units, and they employed the same strategy as their larger targets…trying to get as close as possible before detonating. The combined effect of the two weapons systems was devastating – the salvo from the Directorate fleet was savaged, with fewer than a third of the missiles surviving.
“On my mark, execute countermeasures, protocol Epsilon-8.” Arlington’s voice was just as calm, though perhaps just a bit of satisfaction had crept in after the success of the initial point defense program.
“Acknowledged, captain.” A brief pause. “Locked in and waiting for your order.”
Sitting idle during a battle was still difficult for Compton. It had been one of the hardest things for him to get used to when he left his last ship command to assume Flag rank. A good admiral didn’t second guess his captains…if they needed that, then he’d already failed. No amount of interference from the flag bridge could make up for a bad captain.
“Execute.” Arlington had waited as long as she could to engage her close-range point defense. Lasers pulsed, picking off missiles that had closed almost to detonation range, and then the big shotguns fired. Magnetic cannon that launched clouds of heavy metal debris at the incoming missiles, the shotguns were the last line of defense.