"Report."
"All mines report incoming ship as friendly."
"Change the recognition code."
Sweat beaded one tech's forehead. It was at this point that the accidents had occurred. All too often, when the IFF code was changed, the mine either refused to attack a no-longer-friendly—according to the recognition code—ship or launched on every ship within range, including the minelayer.
This time the control board barely had time to report the change in status and register that the mine was reporting an enemy ship before six mine-missiles launched.
The drone tacship fired back with antiship missiles. Two of the mines were exploded.
The third mine hit the robot and tore out its hull. Less than a second later, a score more were hunting the debris. The rest made note of the kill and returned to station.
"Did the mines show any response to the drone's electronic countermeasures?" Atago asked.
The tech consulted a nearby screen. "Negative. All transmissions from the enemy were ignored once it had been identified."
The Lady Atago turned her attention from the screen to Admiral Deska. She allowed one perfect eyebrow to raise a millimeter.
"You may inform the council, Admiral," she said, "that we will begin full production."
A half hour later the flagship was once again the Forez.
Lady Atago went quietly back to her maps and battle plans.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sten landed on Cavite, central world of the Caltor System, as a commander without a fleet.
Among the other shortcomings of the tacships was that their tiny supply holds limited their range. Their delicate engines also required far more frequent maintenance intervals than did most Imperial craft. So the four tacships that were to be Sten's command had been berthed in a freighter and now were somewhere between Soward and Cavite.
Sten made the long haul from Prime to Cavite as a liner passenger. He spent the voyage going through pictures, sketches, abstracts, and envelope projections, as besotted with his new assignment as any first lover.
Part of the time he devoted to a quick but thorough study of what was going to be his base planet. Cavite was about two-thirds the size of Prime World and sparsely settled. There was little industry on Cavite—mostly it was an agriculture-based economy, with a little fishing and lumbering. The climate was also similar to Prime—fairly temperate, with a tendency to snow a bit more than on Prime.
The rest of the time Sten pored over details involving his ships. It did not matter that at present his command consisted only of four brand-new Bulkeley-class vessels and himself. He was to man his ship on arrival on Cavite.
Under separate covers, a fax had gone to Admiral Doorman, requesting full cooperation.
Sten had arrived on Soward just before his four ships were "launched." There wasn't a great deal of ceremony—the hull builder had signed the ships over to a secondary yard, a transporter gantry had picked up the ships, complete less armament, electronics, controls, and crew compartment, and had lugged them across the huge plant.
Incomplete as they were, Sten was in love the first time he had seen the sleek alloy needles sitting on their chocks. To him, the entry in the new Jane's update fiche was poetry:
6406.795 TACTICAL ASSAULT CRAFT
Construction of a new class of tactical ship by the Empire has been rumored, but as this cannot be confirmed at present, this entry must be considered tentative. Intelligence suggests that these ships are designed to replace and upgrade several current classes now considered obsolescent.
It has been suggested that these ships will bear the generic class of BULKELEY. Development of this class is considered to be under construction, with no information as to the number of ships contracted for, commissioning dates, or deployment dates. To repeat, All information must be considered quite tentative.
Sten figured that the editor of Jane's was practicing the age-old CYA, since the rest of the data was entirely too clotting accurate for his comfort:
CHARACTERISTICS:
TYPE: Fleet patrol craft
LENGTH: 90 meters est. (actually 97 meters)
D: Approx. 1400 fl.
CREW: Unknown
ARMAMENT: Unknown, but theorized to be far heavier than any other ships in this category.
The rest of the entry was a long string of unknowns. Sten could have filled in the details.
Each ship carried a crew of twelve: three officers'—CO, weapons/XO, engineering—and nine enlisted men.
And they were heavily armed.
For close-in fighting, there were two chainguns. Medium-range combat would be handled by eight launchers firing Goblin VI missiles, now upgraded with better "brains" and a 10-kt capacity. There were three Goblins for each launcher.
For defense there was a limited countermissile capability—five Fox-class missiles—but a very elaborate electronic countermeasure suite.
Bulkeley ships were intended either to sneak in unnoticed or to cut and run if hit. But the Bulkeley class craft were designed as ship killers.
Main armament was the Kali—a heavy, 60-megaton missile that was almost twenty meters long. Packed inside the missile's bulbous skin was a computer nearly as smart as a ship's and an exotic ECM setup. The missile was launched in a tube that extended down the ship's axis. Three backup missiles were racked around the launch tube.
Crew space, given all this artillery and the monstrous engines, was laughable. The captain's cabin was about the size of a wall closet, with pull-down desk and bunk. It was the most private compartment on the ship, actually having a draw curtain to separate the CO from the rest of the men. The other two officers bunked together, in a cabin exactly the size of the captain's. The crew bunks were ranked on either side of the ship's largest compartment, which doubled as rec room, mess hall, and kitchen.
The only cat that could have been swung inside the ship would have been a Manx—a Manx kitten.
Big deal. If Sten had wanted luxury, he would have opted for Bishop's plan and flown BUCs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Standard obscenity procedure: When an officer arrives at his new duty station, he reports to his new commanding officer.
In the Guard this had meant that one was to show up at the unit's orderly room in semidress uniform. Officer and his new fearless leader would size each other up; the newcomer would be given his new responsibilities and whatever trick tips the old man chose to pass on and set in motion.
The navy, Sten had learned, was slightly more formal.
The "invitation" to meet Admiral van Doorman had been hand delivered. And was printed. On real paper. That, Sten figured, meant full-dress uniform. Whites. Gloves. Clot, even a haircut.
By scurrying and bribing, Sten had gotten the batman assigned to his temporary bachelor officer's quarters to electrostat-press his uniform and borrow or steal a pair of white gloves from someone. The haircut was easy, since Sten kept his hair about two centimeters from shaven.
The card requested the pleasure of his company at 1400 hours. Sten gave himself an extra hour for the civilian grav-car to wind through the packed streets of Cavite City. Even then, he arrived at the main entrance to the naval base with only twenty minutes to spare.
His mouth dropped when the sentry at the gate checked only Sten's ID, then in a bored manner waved the gravcar forward.
Nice, Sten thought. Here we are on the edge of everything, and the taxi drivers can go anywhere they want. Great security.