He connected to Sierra-1’s command line. “Commander Mather, what’s your status?”
His gaze never left Eagle’s dot, seconds trickling by in slow motion until Commander Mather connected to them.
“By Reiner, that was a close call,” said Mather. Her voice retained her tough drawl, but Clarke could tell she was shaken. “A turret managed to nail the damn thing at the last second. Got it about fifteen hundred clicks away from us. Damage report incoming. No internal circuitry damaged from the EMP, our shielding held. Bad news, Eagle’s blind, Captain, we lost radar and most of our targeting systems. No medical report yet available, though our lead shell should have done its job.”
In the academy, there were compiled reports of all space engagements across history. Clarke had lost count of how many sailors had died because the lead should have done its job, yet didn’t. Technically, the ship had been at a safe distance from the blast, but space worked strangely with oryza-powered nuclear explosions.
“Don’t take any risks, Commander,” he said, “have your crew pop iodine tablets and send a random selection of non-essential personnel for an immediate medical examination. If they’re contaminated…” he didn’t bother finishing his sentence. It wasn’t necessary. An infirmary could save a sailor from radiation poisoning if it acted quickly enough. An entire crew? Not likely.
“Yes, sir,” said Mather, her voice somber. “Is Eagle out of combat?”
“Eagle’s targeting systems can work with Hawk’s substituting their sensors,” Alicante suggested.
“What’s your assessment, Commander Mather?” Clarke asked. “Should you pull back? Give me your honest opinion, this is not the time for gallantry.”
“Hell yes, we can still fight,” came her answer. She coughed and composed herself. “Just point them out for us, and we’ll do the rest. Eagle would like to return Vortex the favor, Captain. With your permission.”
“Granted, Eagle,” Clarke said. He bit back a worried comment about Mather’s cough. If any of them wished to survive to worry about radiation poisoning later, they had to kill Vortex-1.
The VCD showed that Vortex-1’s evasive maneuvers had worked, and they had avoided the smart projectiles with no damage. Right now, they were scattering to regain speed and take position in something resembling a firing line. In reality, their targeting systems had fed Navigation a firing solution, and the ships maneuvered to optimize their angle of fire.
We’re not going to stare and let you do that, Erickson, Clarke thought. “Sierra-1, deploy torpedoes, each destroyer pick your target and stick to it. Prepare for another cannon salvo after we’re done reloading, use shrapnel variant. Update me as soon as you’re ready. Eagle, we’ll feed you your firing solution, stand by.”
Shooting two salvos too close together could destroy the delicate tube machinery. It required an experienced commander to get the timing between reloads right and a competent engineering and gunnery crew to pull it off. Clarke knew the crew was competent, but he doubted the outdated machinery could withstand the abuse.
He used the extra seconds it took for Hawk’s computers to do Eagle’s calculations as a buffer, but he couldn’t wait much longer after that, otherwise, Vortex-1 would regain battle momentum.
The bridge shook as Eagle’s three torpedo bays fired at the same time. Shortly afterward, while the torpedoes still flew toward their target, the two cannon tubes took aim and fired.
The sequence Clarke had used—cannon salvo first, then torpedoes, then another salvo—was a classic tactic taught in the Academy. It required little coordination among ships, so it could be used by a commander with an inexperienced crew, and it was effective if the enemy commander lacked the experience or training necessary to respond to multiple threats.
The first cannon salvo was meant to miss. The point of it was to get the enemy to overreact in their defensive maneuvers, to invest too much velocity in them and slow their reaction time in the short term. Defending against the torpedoes would increase those mistakes, and then the second cannon salvo would do the real damage.
The risk of that sequence was that it required time to pull off, and an enemy firing at random could still get lucky and kill you in that time.
Hawk shot its cannons, with Falcon and Eagle next to it doing the same. Clarke’s g-seat, along with the entire bridge, jerked back slightly, as if a giant had pushed the ship a centimeter to the back.
Clarke held his breath as he watched Sierra’s torpedoes diminish as Vortex-1’s defenses made short work on them. A couple escorts died to protect Vortex from a hit, two more suffered glancing hits from the nuclear blasts and the EMP fried their systems. No other hits. The destroyers remained untouched.
Hawk’s computers informed Clarke that Falcon had lost one cannon tube due to overheating. Engineering was working hard to get it back online, but they made no guarantees.
Vortex-1 saw the incoming projectiles and maneuvered hard, up and to the left from Clarke’s perspective, pulling some hard g’s, trying to outrace the smart ammunition. The acceleration they were under definitely put the lives of the crew at risk. Despite himself, Clarke winced in sympathy, as if he could hear the sound of ribs and vertebra snapping under the pressure.
C’mon, he thought as the rounds reduced the distance to Vortex-1, as if he could guide them to their intended targets by will alone. We need a hit.
It was a good angle, he knew. Despite Vortex-1’s maneuvers, they were moving from a bad position, and the smart ammunition was already making slight course corrections to try to intercept the ships.
Clarke clutched the armrests of his seat. No one spoke on the bridge, everyone’s eyes were glued to their holos. The map showed how some brave escorts tried to buy Vortex extra time by throwing themselves toward the salvo, but they simply couldn’t react fast enough to intercept the smart ammunition. A computer tick alerted Clarke that one of those ships had pulled a lethal amount of gs in its attempt. Escape capsules out, but since it had maneuvered to the very end, the commander had to have remained behind.
A senseless death, and yet, Clarke couldn’t avoid feeling respect for that unknown man. Perhaps if that escort commander had led Sentinel, this senseless fight wouldn’t be happening.
Four projectiles missed their mark. An amazing cannon shot deflected another one, a perfectly timed response from one of Vortex-1 patrol destroyers.
Sierra-1 faced some skilled sailors. Maybe Tal-Kader hadn’t managed to get rid of all old school Defense Fleet soldiers. At least they were facing Erickson and not Sentinel’s admiral.
The last cannonball missed that same destroyer by a few kilometers. The computer inside the smart ball calculated the distance and detonated at once, propelling a spherical cloud of shrapnel in all directions, including toward the destroyer, which couldn’t do anything but stare in horror and try to survive the impact.
“Hot damn, I’ve never seen a shrapnel ball get such a sweet angle as that one. Eagle’s shot, it was. Seems we’ve a blind fighter among our roster, sir,” Alicante commented. He read the destroyer’s damage report when Hawk’s sensors finished processing it. “Vortex-1-2 suffered hull penetration through all its structure. Drives are out. No overload so far. Its weapon systems seem down, and we can see the ship venting atmosphere. With any luck, we racked their bridge.”