''You got that right.'' Luna said.
''And jink. Never go in a straight line for more than a second or two. You got to keep dodging constantly. Custer's gonna burn a lot more of their 5-inchers. We're going to take out more of them, but there's still going to be a hell of a lot of lasers coming at us.''
''Dance, baby, dance, like you never done danced before,'' was Luna's answer to that.
''For our freedom. For your families. For Wardhaven. For Princess Kris. Let's go,'' Luna shouted back. A second later, that was what echoed on net.
The 109 and twenty-one other boats crossed into 18-inch laser range. Above Kris, nineteen other boats followed the Halsey down into the danger zone. As they had before, they jinked up and down, right and left. For their very lives, they sped up and slowed down to no discernable pattern.
And the 18-inch lasers reached out for them.
''Admiral, Defense Central wants to know if you wish to change their priorities, sir,'' the Duty Lieutenant reported.
''I bet they do,'' the Admiral growled, but low. The standard doctrine called for the 18-inchers to take on anything within range for as long as they were in range. But the standard doctrine was developed by some dunderhead blissfully ignorant of the heat put out by the Whistler & Hardcastle, Limited, lasers provided to the fleet.
The Admiral was all too familiar with their heat problem.
He leaned into the spin of the Revenge. The 18-inchers would fill up the heat sinks quickly. Then, when the 5-inchers started their rapid fire, they'd lose efficiency very quickly.
What were the chances of winging one of those dancing hummingbirds with an 18-inch laser at 80, 90 K? What were the chances of taking them out at 30, 40 K with rapid 5-inch fire?
Certainly the main battery had contributed nothing the last time they'd tackled the fast patrol boats.
''Hold main battery fire.''
''Hold main battery fire, aye, sir,'' the Duty Lieutenant repeated. ''Defense Central has checked main battery fire.''
''What!'' the future governor of Wardhaven squawked. ''You have them in your sights. Smash them.''
''I will not waste my heat budget at this range. Governor, I promise not to tell you how to rape, pillage, and ravage unarmed civilians. Please don't jiggle my elbow while I'm handling the armed ones.''
''1 could have you relieved of your command.''
''But right now might not be the best time to do it.''
''Admiral, intel has cracked one of the transmissions from the Wardhaven fleet attacking us, sir. Some of the tugs do not have the strongest ciphers, and they are talking.''
''And what are they saying?''
''They appear to be cheering Princess Kristine Longknife, sir. Intel thinks she may be the one leading the attack on us.''
''That's impossible,'' the future governor huffed. ''She was relieved of her command. She's disgraced.''
''Maybe not as disgraced as someone had thought,'' the Chief of Staff muttered into his hand.
''So I face the little girl Longknife,'' the Admiral said thoughtfully. ''Not bad. Not bad at all. Should I say, for a girl, Governor? For a girl who was relieved of her command? Sent home in disgrace to what, knit baby things? What did she have to draw on? A destroyer and a relic … and a dozen mosquitoes that were supposed to be demilitarized and put up for sale,'' the Admiral said, slamming his fist down on his board.
''And what, little girl, have you baked up for your Uncle Ralf? Freighters loaded with rockets. Yachts loaded with what I can only guess. So, little girl Longknife stands up and says she will fight me, and suddenly my battleships are facing not the fourteen we were told we might, but forty plus hulls charging hell for leather at us. Plus wave after wave of missiles intel never expected to see supporting a Navy attack.'' The Admiral shook his head and eyed his political master. Maskalyne's mouth hung open. Maybe it was the spin. Most likely it was the shock of seeing a Longknife held in respect.
''Mr. Governor, I wish I had half of what that little girl has. Here,'' he stabbed a finger at his head. ''And here,'' now he stabbed at his heart. ''Yes, I will defeat her because of what I have here.'' He stabbed at the dots on the battle board showing his ships. ''But it would be nice to go into battle just once with people like she has racing to answer her call.''
''Admiral, I should relieve you where you sit,'' the future governor snapped.
''But you won't, because I have a battle to win. Now, if you will please remain quiet, I must see about winning it.''
Flag plot fell quiet. The first wave of incoming missiles began to strike.
''They have quit firing their big guns,'' Penny said. ''They're still charged, but they aren't firing them.''
''They've even retracted their ranging gear,'' Moose added.
''Hold your Foxers for closer range,'' Kris ordered on net. ''If they aren't firing now, don't waste the decoys.''
The ships still dodged and turned as they closed toward 5-inch range, but it was as if they were charging in slow motion. The 109 pitched and whirled, but the motion this time was almost gentle compared with the brutality of the first charge.
''We want to get within five thousand kilometers of the battleships and stay there,'' Kris reminded folks when a couple of runabouts dashed ahead of the rest. ''Whatever energy you put on now, you'll have to be able to dump then.''
So the boats charged in … slowly.
Squadron 8 still needed to close on the battleships first. Stan had the lead once again. ''Division 1 is going for the second and third ships in line,'' he announced.
''Division 2 will take the last two,'' Kris ordered.
''I guess I get the flagship,'' Babs said.
''You're not alone,'' Sandy said. ''The Halsey wants a big piece of that bastard.'' Now the chatter on net was ships sorting themselves out, pairing up, picking targets. Each battleship got two armed yachts and some runabouts. The Cushing begged off. ''We can't get the old girl above one g, and she's not dodging so well. We'll come in late. Help where we can.''
''We'll save some of the fun for you,'' Kris promised, but suddenly they were in 5-inch range, and the battleships opened up, and there was no time to talk. No time to do much more than hold her guts in and wait for the 109 to do its next erratic tiling.
But there were answers to the battleships. Forward, Kami squeezed off 944s, adding them to the tag end of the cloud of missiles headed for the battle line. The Halsey added her own 5-inchers, taking shots at the flagship's antennas or 5-inch batteries when they popped up to fire at a missile or a boat. The battle was joined. Kris sat tight and watched the range drop from 40,000 to 30,000 to …
''I'm hit,'' came from Andy Gates on the 103
''How bad?'' Stan, his division leader, called back.
''Engine room. Losing power. I'm veering off, but I'll salvo all my missiles first.''
''You do that, Andy. Take care.''
''Hate to leave you folks.''
''Go,'' Stan ordered his division mate.
Andy was lucky; he could limp out of the fight. Kris watched in horror as first one, then another runabout took direct hits and vanished. Kris mashed her commlink. ''Runabouts, your maneuvering jets aren't good enough. Fall back. Slow down. Come in behind the yachts, or you won't come in at all.''
''We can do it,'' one argued. But another one lit up in a pinprick of light, and the others slowed to fall behind the yachts.
Behind Kris, an old tug skipper announced a laser had opened his boat to space. Rather than abandon ship, they'd fight it in their salvage suits. A moment later, a second hit silenced him. Apparently, suited hands were not deft enough to fight a ship. Another tug trailed off to stand by Andy.