''You'll be all alone,'' Kris pointed out.
''I have Custer's incoming missiles pushing up my derriere. The thugs have to be paying as much attention to them as they are to me,'' Chandra said. Kris wondered if she believed it.
''Squadron 8, send some 944s back to support Division 3. All you can spare,'' Kris ordered. They had a second attack to make; they would need them. Right now, Chandra needed them, too.
From the bow of the 109 came the sound of more missiles launching out of their tubes.
The 104 and 111 boats flipped and cut, turned and twisted, as they made their final approach on the flagship. Behind them, missiles came at all six battleships. Some fire went for the missiles. Most went at the boats. Main battery now concentrated on Horatio just about to come in range with their supposed 14-inchers. The part of Squadron 8 that had completed their run had mostly been ignored. Now, as missiles came back from them, the battleships took them and their missiles under fire again.
It seemed like mighty thin help, but it was help. All the help they could give Division 3.
''Fifteen … Thirteen. Fire when I say … ten. Laser's fired … Nothing! Damn it! Nothing! What are these ships made of? Solid ice?''
''Maybe,'' Heather said. ''Let's find out, Chandra.''
''I have nothing better to do,'' the Navy mustang answered as if the wealthy debutante had invited her to go mall crawling.
''Think five thousand will do them?'' Heather sounded as casual as if that might be the price of a dress.
''Easily. Nelly, do the numbers. Assume five meters of armor against two of our pulse lasers in close proximity. Two more close by.''
''You could burn through four meters. Not five,'' Nelly said.
''Maybe we ramble a bit closer. Hey folks, keep those cards and letters coming.''
''Yes, we need all the spare missiles you can afford.''
''Back them up,'' Kris ordered.
''Div 2, you'll have to do it,'' Phil said. ''We're out of position. Our missiles won't get there before it's over.''
''Division 2 and 3, support Chandra and Heather,'' Kris ordered. Beside her, Tom's mouth was a hard line. She was depleting his boat.
''Do it, Kami,'' he ordered.
''On their way,'' came a cheerful voice.
''Eight thousand,'' Chandra called. ''What's our mark?''
In the background, almost forgotten, the song hit its refrain: ''How Many of Them Can We Make Die!''
''That does it for me,'' Heather said, as cheerful as if she'd spotted a sale.
''Then we fire on die.''
''Six thousand.''
''How many of them can we make … die!''
''Set those last two ships!'' the Admiral shouted. ''They're going to ram Ravager.''
The Duty Lieutenant repeated the order. More missiles were inbound. Would this battle never end?
Being belted in and at two g's kept Kris in her seat. Lasers were blowing missiles out of space all around the two attacking boats, Foxers were promising course changes to right, left, up, down, and taking laser hits, but not the two boats. They rolled over the second ship in line, firing simultaneously. At Heather and Chandra's cry of ''die,'' their lasers lashed out through ice and steam and wreckage to slice into the stern of the battleship right at the reactors.
Heather aimed her two forward lasers for the same spot, her two aft ones for a different spot. And Chandra did the same. Four pulse lasers cut into one spot of ice. Four more cut into another spot just aft of that.
And nothing happened.
For a moment, that was how it looked.
Then one of the 5-inch lasers caught Heather's boat and pinned it, a second sliced through it and cut it in half. As the two ends fell apart, a missile from Custer impacted on the stern of Chandra's 105 boat.
''Oh no,'' went as a groan through the 109.
The 105 spun, but now she spun too slowly, too much to a pattern. Five lasers caught her at once. She imploded like a star among them.
''No.''
''Something's happening on the battlewagon,'' Moose said.
Kris tore her eyes away from the vanishing remains of her friends. The battleship leaked plasma from a new hole that was not an engine. Slowly, like an rhino trapped on ice, it accelerated into a spin. The main engines swiveled to correct the spin, but one of them was hanging off at an angle … and blowing plasma in fits and bursts. Then a second hole opened up further forward. A jet of hot plasma shot out, slicing chunks of ice off, hurling them into space. The huge ship spun and rolled and began to come apart.
Pieces flew in all directions. One, easily twice the size of the 109, shot across space to slam into the nose of the flagship. Others blew out toward the line of ships behind it.
''Her reactors are going unstable. She's going to blow,'' Moose said. First one reactor did, gouging a huge hole in the long stern of the warship, then another did, then, in a blinding flash, the two remaining ones went, flashing the entire ship into a radiant white ball of fire that quickly dissipated to sparkles and then darkness.
''Good God … have mercy,'' Tom prayed.
''On them,'' Penny added.
''And on us if we don't pay attention. Nelly, is the squadron still in full evasion?''
''Yes, Kris.''
The ten surviving boats sped away from the battle line. The energy they'd put on the boats during their attack run in was already decelerating them quickly toward Wardhaven. They'd have to make major corrections to get themselves into a proper orbit, but those would wait until they were well out of 18-inch laser range. The battleships didn't seem interested in them, now. The incoming wave of missiles from Custer held their full attention. Most were being shot out of space. Many of the rest were just hitting ice. A few did damage on secondary batteries. There was another spectacular hit on an engine of the last ship in line, but damage control kept it from being anything but highly visual.
The attack of Squadron 8 was spent.
Worse, Kris felt wasted.
She'd given it everything she had. Everything her shipmates had. They'd tried everything.
Only two boats had succeeded.
It had cost Heather and Chandra their lives. For a moment the sight of Goran and the kids waiting on the pier for Mom to come home came at Kris. She willed it away.
Kris had ten more boats. The enemy had five more battleships. What price could she ask her shipmates to pay?
Could they destroy those monstrous battleships at any less cost?
The bridge was quiet as the enemy ships receded on the aft screen and Wardhaven grew on the forward one.
''I did it,'' the Admiral chortled, standing to tower over his battle board. ''I beat them,'' he said, stabbing at the blips of the rapidly retreating patrol boats.
''You defeated them, sir,'' Saris agreed, also standing. ''We took the best they had, and it just wasn't good enough.''
''But what about that gun line?'' the future governor said, keeping his seat but waving at the rest of the Wardhaven ships now retreating back out of laser range. ''Aren't they a threat? Don't you have to blow them up?''
''They are nothing,'' the Admiral said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. ''The freighters throwing missiles aren't throwing any more, are they, Chief?''
''None behind this last wave, sir.''
''Want to bet me the freighters have shot themselves dry? These last missiles are just there to draw our fire away from the patrol boats' attack,'' the Admiral said. ''And these other boats, the ones that are trying to look like fast patrol boats. I'll bet you a month's pay they are Al Longknife's yacht, and a few of his wealthy friends' toys as well. Maybe some have 12-inch pulse lasers. What can they hope to do to us after those 18-inchers on the patrol boats failed? As for those ‘battleships.' Chief, talk to me about how the reactors on those so-called battleships are fuzzy. You don't really have to. If they had real lasers on them, they'd have ducked in range while the patrol boats were charging in at us, got some shots off. No matter how old they were, how lousy they were, I'd have tried some shots then.