“I think I can remember how to be a shooter,” the SEAL said. “What does this bite thingy do again?”
“As soon as Lyle is kitted out we’re moving.”
“Fighters at one-one-four alpha nineteen,” Favarduro said. “Automated defenses engaging—” The Caurorgorngoth shuddered and shuddered again. “Dreen heavy plasma fire. Shields at fourteen percent.”
“We have retreated far enough,” Kond said. “We are being picked apart by sag. Pilot, maximum acceleration towards the enemy. Favarduro, concentrate chaos engine and secondary batteries on the lead cruisers. Go for the heavies.”
“I’ve got the new algorithm debugged,” Weaver said, walking into the conn. “I’d like to test it at least once.”
“Agreed,” the CO said grimly.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Caurorgorngoth is getting hammered,” the XO replied. “And their consort was taken out by a force of fighters. They were trying to engage from range but they’re now accelerating towards the task force. It looks like a suicide run.”
“Or they figure that if they get in close enough, there’s no way they can miss,” Weaver said.
“It’s both,” Spectre said. “They’re sacrificing themselves to take out the cruisers. Maybe the destroyers as well. But they’re not going to survive it. Which leaves the rest up to us. Commander Weaver, even if they succeed in taking down that entire task force, there are going to be seven destroyers left in this system, any one of which can destroy the entire Hexosehr fleet. And a battlewagon with a super-cannon. Your fix had better work.”
“Oh, it will work, sir,” Bill said. “Whether we can survive it working is another question.”
“Dreen cruiser at six dreg,” Favarduro said as the Caurorgorngoth rocked under the hammer of the combined task-force’s plasma fire.
“Fire,” Kond pinged. He had held his fire, coming in the whole run as if the chaos engine was out of commission. And the enemy had fallen for it, closing in on each other to get in on the kill.
The sonar image was clear. The chaos ball flashed out, less than six treek from time of firing to impact. The center Blin cruiser caught the ball direct on her snout, the powerful ball of pure chaos plunging into her heart. The sound image was muted as she disintegrated in fire.
“Retarget, second cruiser,” Kond said. “Bring them all to the slaughter.”
“Shields at two percent,” Favarduro said as the ship adjusted course to bring the gun online. “Damage to aft quarter, fighters are close enough to overcome our shields. There are less than nine left, however. Damage in forward quadrants. Plasma nine, six and one off-line. Their mass drivers have reached range to engage us.”
“Fine,” Kond said. “If we’re that close, then we cannot miss.”
“I want a full broadside of twenty-four of these things,” Spectre said. Weaver had found another convenient piece of space detritus and tried out the new targeting system. Unlike the first test, the chaos ball had impacted on first try. It also was slow enough to follow the action. That, frankly, scared the hell out of the CO. Dreen systems were like lightning to engage. They were going to get hit, and this “mini” chaos ball hadn’t done that much damage to the capital ships. He just had to hope that the destroyers were an easier kill.
“Agreed,” Bill replied. “But what we have is one.”
“Right,” the CO said. “XO, all the fires put out from the last time?”
“Vacuum has a habit of doing that, sir,” the XO replied acerbically.
“I was speaking metaphorically,” the CO said.
“Then they won’t be out until we spend another six months in the body and fender shop, sir,” the XO replied. “But we’re spaceworthy. Hell, we’re mostly space at this point.”
“Better than being filled with water,” the CO said. “Pilot, match course and speed on target Sierra Sixteen. And may God defend the right.”
“Okay, we’re getting near something,” Berg said quietly.
“Why?” Lyle asked.
“There’s more fungus,” the sergeant replied. “I could wish for a map of this place.”
But the best thing they had were the symbols on the walls. They seemed to be following a path, inward, forward and in one case up three levels. They were getting near the center of the ship, if Berg’s spatial awareness was working, and a bit forward of center. That didn’t mean it was for sure the bridge. Russian subs had the bridge at the rear. CIC was near the center of a ship. But it was a target for sure. The increasing fungus said that.
So did the group of dog-demons that keened their battle cry and charged as he turned the corner.
“Dreen,” Berg shouted, backpedaling into the corridor they had been going down.
“Alpha, prone,” Top shouted. “Here they come.”
With the mass of fungus coating the floor, the dog-demons didn’t have as much trouble making the turn. And Berg found himself face to face with them at less than three meters. Which just meant he had to kill them very fast.
As Berg and Seeley blasted the Great Dane sized monsters with their machine guns, Lyle rolled backwards, then came up on a knee to the side, holding his fire. As one group turned the corner and charged en masse he put an exploding round into the center demon, killing it and knocking down its fellows for his teammates to finish off.
“And we got ’em at the rear,” Miller said calmly.
Berg could hear the sound of the fire from behind him and it was comforting. He’d been in enough gun fights to learn to read it, to the point where he could almost distinguish people’s personalities from it. The late Drago had been profligate with fire, either in single shot or auto, blasting away with a glee that could almost be felt. Lurch, clearly, was a sniper at heart. Wait for that right shot and take it. Seeley always banged away slowly, split-second moments of hesitation indicating indecision. Not a lot of it, but it was there. And often followed by somewhat wild fire as he engaged his chosen target because it had closed more than he liked.
What Berg was hearing from the rearguard was the sound of a senior Marine Force Reconnaissance gunnery sergeant and a SEAL old enough to be his father. Single shots, no pause except for an incredibly brief interval to change targets. No hesitation, nothing wild. It was the most professional fire he’d ever heard in his life. Even Top wasn’t that good.
The attack cleared in moments, leaving the ground a welter of dead dog-demons.
“Let’s move,” Top said. “They’re going to be moving in on this position.”
“Yo, Two-Gun,” Miller said over a private channel as Berg, somewhat more cautiously, turned the next corner.
“Yes, Chief Warrant Officer?”
“It was nice to hear you behind us. Nice fire technique. Very smooth.”
“Thank you, Chief Warrant Officer,” Berg said. “Don’t take this wrong, but I was thinking the same thing about you and the gunny.”
“Well, that’s a right compliment coming from the holder of the Navy Cross.”