“Erickson,” Clarke said, “you should be ashamed of yourself. The uniform you wear used to be reserved for a better person than you are. Tal-Kader’s made a mockery of the Defense Fleet, and you’re the symptom of the Fleet’s disease.” His voice came clear and cold, to such a degree that it surprised him. He felt neither clear nor cold. Clarke would’ve given a hand to have Erickson in front of him so he could strangle the corporate captain with the other.
It took a minute for his message to reach Vortex, another one for the answer to reach Hawk, plus the extra seconds of Erickson’s response.
“Tall words coming from someone who left the Fleet in disgrace after running away from combat,” Erickson said. He flicked away a strand of blond hair from his forehead and smiled devilishly. He was the vivid image of a corporate figurehead, yet his uniform was that of a soldier. “Hell, you even ran away from me once already. I doubt this time will be any different.”
“This time you’re not facing a civilian crew, you murderous bastard,” Clarke said. “We aren’t running, Erickson, and you can’t get away from what’s coming for you.” Clarke and Alicante exchanged a glance, and Alicante shook his head, meaning Hawk hadn’t yet reached its engagement range.
Another minute or so later, Erickson said, “It’s hard to feel intimidated by three outdated destroyers from the EIF. Hell, Clarke, how can these things sail at all? They’re ancient! Are you trying to give that fake Reiner bitch legitimacy by picking her up with ships from her father’s time? Ah, don’t answer that. Listen, I should kill you and your EIF shits already and call it a day. But, unlike you, I’m not a terrorist bastard. So, here’s a one-time-only chance of surrender. De-activate your weapons, send me your ship’s control codes, and I’ll have mercy on your crew.”
“I know the value of your word, Erickson,” Clarke said. “You can take it and shove it. You get no offer of surrender from me. Vortex’s crew, though, does. I know Vortex’s Navigation and Naval Intelligence are hearing this. You’ve seen Erickson and Tal-Kader’s commit crimes against humanity. They use unmanned ships, they see planets as bargaining chips, they execute innocent non-combatants. I urge you, depose your treasonous captain. As sailors of the Defense Fleet, this is your duty. Restore the Fleet to its rightful place as the Edge’s protector.”
In the minute before the answer arrived, Pascari cut in, “How gallant, Clarke. You think that’s going to work?”
“No,” Clarke said, “but it’s my duty to exhaust all other recourse before opening fire.”
As his only answer, Erickson laughed and ordered, quite clearly so Clarke could hear him, for Vortex’s crew to load the torpedoes. Then the communication ended.
“Show the video feed to all personnel not currently involved in critical tasks,” Clarke told Alicante. “Let them know what we’re fighting for.”
“Trust me, Captain, they know.”
Battle began without fanfare.
Minutes later, Hawk reached Vortex-1’s effective range. Both groups unloaded at the same time.
Turret fire soared across space in beautiful silence. Nine out of ten rounds missed their mark. Most of the ones that hit were deflected by the ships’ hulls. A tiny amount of armor-piercing rounds bypassed metal, gel, and ceramics alike, turning critical machinery to slag.
Turrets fired until they ran out of ammo or overheated. Across the decks of all ships, engineers and crewmen ran across the length of complex heat-dampening machinery, fixing errors here and there, replacing broken components, trying to convince the turrets to steal a second or two of function before the enemy crew could get their own turrets firing.
Commander Alicante listed the damage. “No critical hits on our destroyers. Falcon’s escorts report a ship out of commission and another one too damaged to continue. They’ve deployed escape capsules.”
“Have them pull back,” said Clarke, his eyes glued on the VCD. Rehman had deployed his escorts too close to the action, effectively turning them to meat shields. Escorts were meant as support units, not as part of the main combat between ships of the line. Their place, if commanded by any sane leader, was at the back of the fight, ready to deploy as needed in case of an eventuality.
“Vortex-1 is deploying torpedoes,” Alicante announced. Clarke’s map confirmed it, the three enemy destroyers sent forth a flurry of red triangles headed their way.
“Confirm they’re actually torpedoes and not AI ships,” Clarke said. Then, to Sierra-1’s commanders, he said, “Get a cannon salvo before committing to torpedo hunting.”
Don’t let the enemy dictate the rhythm of the fight, Captain Yin whispered in Clarke’s ear. He commanded the escorts to assist in intercepting the torpedoes.
Sierra-1 changed formation. The destroyers stopped accelerating for a couple seconds while maneuvering thrusters slowly shifted the mass of the ships so their beams faced Vortex-1 and their noses faced each other. Fire emerged from tubes protruding from their hulls and projectiles too fast to be seen by the human eye crossed the missile swarm and made way for Vortex-1.
Cannon ammunition was very much like a kinetic projectile, except more suited for ship-to-ship combat than a static target bombardment. The ammunition could make tiny course corrections and was, to a point, smart. It could detect its target and follow it, but the huge speeds at which the projectile moved limited the power of the computers it carried inside. They had to be tough to withstand the violence of the acceleration, and tough was the enemy of complexity.
Vortex-1 began evasive maneuvers. Clarke focused on surviving the incoming torpedo swarm.
Escorts and destroyers activated their point defense turrets and opened fire at the target rich environment. The cloud’s size shrank due to a mixture of bullets, EMP bombs, lasers, and decoys.
Enough torpedoes survived and kept coming. Sierra-1’s escorts accelerated toward the torpedoes, passing over and under Hawk, Falcon, and Eagle. At such a close range, there was no margin for error. The sailors manning the ships knew their duty. If their defenses failed, they’d intercept the torpedoes with their own ships. Technically, they’d have enough seconds to reach the escape capsules, but in practice…Clarke winced as the VCD showed two of Falcon’s escorts shielding the destroyer and taking a direct hit as a result. Only one of the escorts deployed escape capsules, but it didn’t matter. The explosion caught the capsules before they reached safety.
Clarke cursed bitterly under his breath. Survivor’s guilt was a very real phenomenon among sailors, especially those manning ships of the line. Sure, the logical argument was clear. Twenty times as many people manned a destroyer as an escort. The Edge’s combat doctrine preached that it was righteous for the few to sacrifice for the many. Clarke understood that, but he hated it anyway.
He had no time to process the loss of those thirty men. A single torpedo managed to dodge the escort wall of Eagle and scored a hit on the destroyer.
How far was that explosion? In the VCD, the impact happened right under Eagle’s nose. In real space, how far could that have been? Less than a hundred kilometers meant the crew was dead or would be in short time.
“Shit!” someone exclaimed in Hawk’s bridge channel. “Did we lose them?”
“It wasn’t a direct hit,” Clarke said automatically. “Eagle is still showing on the map.”