Ted Rockefeller's 102 boat took a hit ''they just winged me. We're still good. Besides, if I go, there won't be anyone left to go after that third battlewagon but a couple of Luna's nutty yachtsmen.''
''I heard that,'' Luna said.
''So sue me.'' Ted shot back.
''Maybe I will if you don't get a big enough chunk of that battlewagon.''
''I'll get a hunk of it. You just get yours.''
''Hold your fire.'' Kris reminded them. Her range was down to 20,000 klicks. Over 20 percent of her boats were gone, and she had yet to ding a battleship. What was it going to take?
''Hostiles twenty thousand kilometers and closing.'' the Duty Lieutenant intoned. The Admiral eyed his charts. They'd gotten a bare 20 percent of the attackers. His secondary batteries were tied up with the damn missiles. Dare he let the missiles have a free ride to concentrate on those damn patrol boats and the yachts?
Avenger staggered out of line, plasma blasting from an engine knocked askew by a rocket hit. Damn. They'd designed the battleships to handle big gun fights. Doctrine called for battle lines to turn their vulnerable engines away from laser fire and kinetic weapons. But doctrine was one thing; his orders were what ruled his life. Orders written on the assumption he would not have to fight his way into orbit.
Was it time to tear up his orders and fight this battle the way it needed to be fought? Was there any way he could fight it?
Sending in a battle line unescorted was a gross violation of doctrine. He should have had a squadron of cruisers and two of destroyers. But those were off demonstrating at Boynton because there just wasn't going to be any defenses left around Wardhaven.
Maybe there wouldn't have been, if it wasn't for you, little girl. Damn you Longknifes.
Eighteen thousand kilometers. If he ignored the missiles, they'd rape his sensors, leave him too blind to use his lasers. No, he had to defend against them. So, we fight the missiles, then we fight the patrol boats.
He glanced at his board. His secondary batteries were showing yellow. He was already pumping their coolant into his main belt coils to try to spread the heat, but they were firing so fast that they were heating up far beyond their specs. Well, he was pumping power from four reactors into those secondary batteries. They should be hot; hold out for just a bit more.
He had a major advantage. Pulse lasers were just that. They fired their energy off in one big pulse. Each of those fast patrol boats had four pulses. The yachts had two, maybe one pulse, then they were empty. And he had the armor to take a few pulses. No question about that.
''Lieutenant, advise Central Defense that the tugs are not to be ignored. They recharged the fast patrol boats once. I don't want that happening again.''
''Understood, sir.''
''Do we keep shooting the missiles?'' Saris asked.
''Can't ignore them. If we do, they'll strip us blind and knock our engines to scrap metal. No, we have to keep knocking them down, then take on the ships behind the missiles. First one, then the others. You see something better, say so, and I'm sure our political master will relieve me with a smile,'' the admiral said with a toothy grin for the future governor.
''I see no better way to fight this, sir. We need support. Destroyers, cruisers of our own. We don't have them.''
''My thoughts exactly,'' the Admiral said, eyeing his board. The 5-inchers were yellow and edging into the orange. Not good.
''Penny, Moose, what's happening on those battleships?'' Kris asked as they crossed the 15 K line.
''They're hot and getting hotter,'' Penny said.
''Hot as a two-dollar pistol,'' Moose added. ''They're gonna be slow reloading by the time we get down there among ''em.''
''I like the sound of that,'' Tom said.
''I'm hit. I'm hit,'' the skipper of the 104 boat shouted. ''I'm pulling out.''
''To where?'' Tom asked under his breath. A moment later, his question was answered as a second hit blew the patrol boat into a cloud of expanding gas.
''This close, there's no place to pull out to,'' Penny said.
''The 109 is going in, no matter what,'' Tom growled. ''Dance, baby, dance.'' And the 109 whipped them around as it whirled into another turn. Now they fired Foxers, shooting out iron, aluminum, and white phosphorus a few hundred yards farther along their path, to convince tracking fire control systems that the boat was still on its course for a hair too long … to snap off a 5-inch laser blast at the decoy rather than the boat twisting away.
''Ten K,'' Kris muttered. Only five thousand more kilometers of taking this before they would start hitting back.
''Kris, you were always a better shot than me,'' Tom said, his voice urgent and low. ''You want to take over shooting the 109, or do you think you need to observe and command?''
''It looks like it's every man for himself and the devil's offering no breaks. I don't want to sit here on my thumbs.''
''Kris has weapons. I have the conn,'' Tom announced.
''Sink ‘em all,'' Fintch said.
Kris took in the final situation as they closed, part commander's eye, part gunner. Her Division 2 had so far been lucky; they would hit the last two battleships in line with four fast patrol boats. The other divisions were all short; each battleship would get only one PF. Ungood. The yachts were coming in full strength, two per battleship, but there was hardly a runabout per hostile; they'd paid a high price. The Halsey was bearing down on the flagship with a bone in her teeth. She was also drawing more than her fair share of attention from the flag and the next two battleships in line.
So far, Sandy had been good. Or lucky. Kris prayed that luck would hold.
''Nelly, target the second to the last battleship. Pick two 5-inchers that should be opening up soon and the closest engine. Give each a 10 percent pulse as we cross the five K line.''
''Target laid in.''
Kris passed along what she'd done to the other ships and got ''Aye aye,'' and ''I like that,'' in response.
Everything done, Kris sat at her station. Around her, the 109 dodged and dipped. Kris ignored the now-familiar pounding as her body was slammed against the restraints. In the background the music played softly.
Close your mind to stress and pain
Fight till your no longer sane.
Let not one damn cur pas by
They were coming up on the line as the refrain came on. Around Kris, the bridge crew, the entire crew sang the word: ''How Many of Them Can We Make Die!''
''Fire,'' Kris said softly.
From two dozen ships the pulse lasers reached out toward their tormentors, finally in range. They took on the 5-in lasers, aimed for the vulnerable engines.
For a moment, the five battleships continued along their stately course. Then first one, then another, then all five began to dance off in different directions as the huge rocket bells that powered them, directed them, took hits and twisted in directions not ordered by Captains or navigators.
''Yes!'' Tom shouted beside Kris.
''Don't go celebrating,'' Kris growled. ''I just made the target harder to hit. Damn it all.''
''But we hit it.''
''Yes, we hit it.'' Kris pushed hard on her commlink. ''get in close now. Get in close and get them while they're trying to figure out which end is up.''
''What the hell is going on?'' the future governor of Wardhaven demanded as he was thrown against the restraints on his seat, then thrown half out of his chair.
''We seem to have taken a hit,'' the Admiral muttered.
''They fired off all their pulse lasers at once,'' his Chief of Staff said, ''but they only winged us. We can handle this.''
''But why would they waste a pulse on a 5-inch turret?'' the Admiral mused, flexing his body with the bucking of the Revenge.