The silver fleet the com.., p.19
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 19
Yamada relayed the details over the next several minutes as Meridian waited until the last possible moment to launch her own defensive measures. Six minutes after the enemy’s missiles had been launched, they received news that one of the missiles had been destroyed. They fully expected to receive similar news concerning the second missile but nothing was said and time seemed to stretch out before them.
“Anything?” Faulkner asked grumpily.
“Missile is still active. A hundred and ninety seconds ‘til impact.”
Webster looked up at the main screen where he could see the two ships clearly displayed. It would be another four minutes before they would come within range of the Mantis’ long-range missiles. If there was only something more they could do to help.
“Meridian’s defensive lasers are firing,” Yamada said.
This was it: the destroyer’s last hope.
No one on the bridge moved for a very long time.
Then, Yamada turned to face Faulkner. His face said everything.
“She’s been hit, sir.”
“How badly?”
“She’s still in one piece but that was a serious detonation. I’m detecting that large sections of her fuselage have been lost. And the Alpha is firing again. Three warheads this time.”
By the time the Mantis was within firing range, the fate of the Meridian had already been settled. Her captain, having exhausted all other defensive measures, was reduced to releasing chaff.
As well as confusing the missiles’ targeting systems, the chaff was diamond hard. Hard enough, it was hoped, that when it was released in a cloud it was capable of punching holes through the missiles’ nose cones. The problem was that you needed a vast quantity of the stuff to provide a large enough defensive barrier to be truly effective, and the Meridian didn’t have nearly enough.
The bridge crew on the Mantis watched in grim silence as the missiles’ extra manoeuvrability allowed them to avoid the chaff clouds before activating their final propulsion stage.
The Meridian’s defensive lasers managed to pick off the first of the incoming warheads but all that did was create gaps in her defences elsewhere and the final two missiles’ navigation systems capitalised upon this during their final assault.
Bertran was totally composed when he said, “Sir, just to advise you that they are coming within range of our main weapons.”
“Thank you, Mr Bertran.”
So close, yet there was nothing to be done.
Webster was watching the screen when the Meridian vanished.
Everyone stood around, waiting for it to reappear. The comms equipment wasn’t perfect, there were a hundred and one reasons why contact might have been lost.
After several moments, Faulkner said, “Are we getting anything at all on the Meridian?”
Yamada double checked his instruments. Then he looked up.
“I’m detecting a major explosion. Most of her operating systems just went off-line. I can’t be certain at this distance but I’m guessing she’s taken a hit either to her munitions or to one of her main engines.”
“The Alpha’s still firing,” Webster said.
Faulkner was incensed. “She’s trying to finish her off.”
It was one thing to disable a ship, quite another to systematically destroy her. According to the rules of combat there was a fine line between a military defeat and cold-blooded murder. So long as a ship could still return fire she was to be viewed as a potential threat and dealt with accordingly.
Faulkner sat up straighter in his chair, knowing that whatever he did now would be analysed in minute detail later. This was, after all, the start of the USDC’s first active engagement with this new enemy.
“Mr Bertran, let me see those launch packages the XO put together earlier.”
The three packages appeared on the screen, slowly cycling around in order.
“Very well, we’ll go with the first one, keep it simple,” he nodded to Bertran. “You may begin firing when ready.”
A few seconds later, they felt the deck shudder slightly as two Magdalene missiles left the ship. Bertran had anticipated Faulkner’s decision and had had them pre-loaded in their tubes. Normally, Faulkner disliked crewmen being so presumptuous but, in this instance, he felt that it was entirely justified.
Ninety seconds later, they launched a clutch of four Arachnid missiles.
The delay was facilitated by the fact that the Magdalene missiles were so much slower than the Arachnids. The thinking was to confuse the enemy so that they would have to switch their targeting parameters from one set of missiles to the other.
The Arachnids were due to strike home first, clearing a way through the enemy’s defences for the more substantial Magdalenes.
A minute passed.
Yamada said, “They’ve ceased firing, sir, and are now starting to decelerate.”
“I’ll bet they are,” Faulkner said. “They were so hell-bent on chasing down the Meridian they’ve completely lost sight of their operational parameters. And that may yet prove to be their undoing.”
Webster said, “The enemy is an excellent teacher, sir.”
“Really? Who said that?”
“My fencing master. He never tired of saying it.”
“I’m sure. Well, let’s give this lot a lesson they’ll never forget.”
*
Webster moved across and stood beside Faulkner. He couldn’t be certain but it looked as if the old man had fallen asleep. And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed, a number of the bridge crew had also been glancing over at the command chair. It was embarrassing. Here they were about to engage in a primary manoeuvre and their captain was effectively asleep at the wheel. No one had said anything so far but that wouldn’t be long in coming.
The enemy had so far fired two volleys of three missiles each and, while it was tempting to see this as a simple defensive measure, there was no way of being sure. If the missiles were as effective as the ones they’d deployed against the Meridian then the crew had every right to be anxious.
Webster was concerned. By his reckoning, they only had a few minutes before the first two Magdalene missiles engaged with the Alpha. What happened next would need to be closely monitored so that they could respond to whatever presented itself. The six incoming Yakutian missiles were due to arrive some two minutes after that. Faulkner would be cutting it fine if he intended to use any evasive tactics and already missed several opportunities to do so.
Webster nudged the chair with his knee in the hope of getting a response. When that failed, he gave a small cough.
“Something I can help you with, first officer?”
Webster stepped back with a start. Had the old man been awake all this time?
Faulkner lifted his head and slowly rubbed his eyes.
“Sorry, sir, I thought you …”
“Were sleeping? No, not quite. Just needed some time to think.”
“Oh, and did it help?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” he pointed up at the main screen. The ships were closing to within two hundred thousand kilometres. They were getting close.
“Tactical, are the decoys prepped and ready?”
“Aye, sir,” Bertran replied.
At sixty tonnes, the SS-20 decoys needed very careful handling, which was why they needed to be loaded well ahead of time. Plus, they only had one tractor on board big enough to lift them so they could only be loaded one at a time. The decoys were big enough hopefully to fool the enemy’s missiles into believing that they had locked onto the Mantis herself. They were armed with a range of electronic counter measures intended to scramble the on-board computers of the incoming missiles. If that failed, they would activate a wall of white noise to disorient whatever navigation systems the missiles were still operating. Finally, they could be detonated once the other missiles came within range.
They were potentially a very effective defensive measure but, because of their size, a Xerxes class ship like the Mantis could only accommodate six of them at any one time.
“You think the 20s will be enough to fool them, sir?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Webster couldn’t believe how calm the other man sounded. While their missiles would strike first, the missiles the enemy was unleashing promised to deliver enough firepower that if even one of them managed to get through it would put a serious dent in the Mantis’ armour. Webster had been involved in minor engagements before, but had never faced such an overwhelming destructive force. In the past, his biggest concern after an engagement had been whether they’d be able to limp home under their own power, he’d never actually been in a position where his own life – and that of his crew – might actually be in danger.
Now that he’d had the thought, he found the idea of it quite debilitating.
“SS-20s primed, sir, and ready to fire.”
“Very good. Prepare to fire when the incoming missiles approach fifty thousand kilometres.”
Fifty thousand kilometres! The threat was currently approaching at a thousand gravities. Webster quickly tried to calculate how long that would give them. A matter of minutes. Not very long at all.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Faulkner mused. “The recommended distance for launch is twice that but I’m reckoning on the fact that they’ve staggered their launch times in an attempt to better break down our defences. Hopefully, if we can destroy the first two or three missiles, the SS-20s should be capable of causing enough damage that we’ll be able to pick them off with our lasers.”
“Sir,” Yamada said. “They’ve taken out the first of the Magdalenes.”
“And the other?”
“Should be coming into range about now.”
Time seemed to stretch interminably and Webster realised that he’d been unconsciously wringing his hands. The tactical display had stopped registering either of the two Magdalenes. Webster wondered if it was a glitch in the system or whether something more sinister was occurring and he was yet to grasp what it was.
This first exchange was going to prove crucial. If the hostiles were capable of taking out two of their most sophisticated weapons then there was very little chance of their Arachnids causing much damage.
Faulkner didn’t even seem to be listening. His head was resting on his chest and both eyes were closed.
Webster experienced a sudden surge of panic. What if Faulkner actually was unfit for command? What if he’d missed something major? A lot had changed in the twenty years since he’d last commanded a starship. Faulkner’s clear inability to work even the most intuitive operating systems pointed to that. And yet, if he had made some terrible blunder then surely Yamada or Bertran would have said something. But neither one of them had seen fit to voice any concerns, if indeed they had any. They wouldn’t even need to speak openly, a private message to Webster would have sufficed. But, so far, nothing.
“Reading multiple impacts, sir,” the comms officer said. “All along the Alpha’s starboard side.”
There was the sound of muted celebrations from the officers.
“Did all our Arachnids get through,” Faulkner asked.
“I’m checking that now, sir,” Yamada sounded perplexed. “I’m scanning the Alpha for damage. Only…”
“Something wrong, Mr Yamada?”
Yamada pinched the bridge of his nose. “Only there doesn’t appear to be any.”
Webster exchanged a glance with Bertran.
Faulkner said, “How can there be no damage if all four missiles got through?”
“I’m aware that it doesn’t make any sense, sir. It’s appears that they all self-destructed less than a kilometre short of the ship’s hull.”
It was Webster’s turn to feel breathless.
“Some kind of shielding?” he suggested.
“I hope not,” Faulkner said. “Or we’re in real trouble.”
The crewmen looked at one other, unable to grasp the significance of what had just happened.
Webster, however, was more concerned about the in-coming missiles.
“What about that second Magdalene?” Faulkner wanted to know. “Surely we should have heard something by now.”
“I’m looking at it now, sir,” Yamada said. “I’m getting a backwash of readings indicative of a large pay-load explosion.”
“Good,” Faulkner said. “What about damage?”
“Again, sir, nothing,” Yamada’s voice was flat. “According to this, the Alpha is completely unharmed.”
Webster felt a pang of dismay. Six missiles fired, all to no effect. He knew that engagements of this kind tended to be short and brutal. Whoever drew first blood tended to have a substantial advantage. And yet, so far, their best efforts had proved largely ineffectual. The next few minutes, as they waited for the enemy’s response, were liable to prove painful and terrifying in equal measure.
It was Faulkner who broke his train of thought. “Mr Webster, what about our defensive options?”
Webster straightened under the captain’s gaze. “Mr Yamada, kindly put me through to the laser gunners.”
The main tactical screen showed the two SS-20s in split screen as they attempted to draw off the enemy fire, but something was wrong. The inbound missiles appeared to be ignoring them, sticking assiduously to their designated paths.
“This doesn’t look good,” Webster said under his breath.
“Prepare to deploy electronic counter measures,” Faulkner said.
“Activating ECM capabilities in five, four, three, two, one.”
At first, nothing happened on the big screen then the two SS-20s disappeared from the screen as their ECMs were activated. They switched their attention to the 3-D rendition of events – the so called ‘fish tank.’ It soon appeared that one of the enemy’s missiles had become disoriented, most of its on board electronics no doubt having been scrambled. The missile suddenly took on a vertical orientation and they all watched as it soared higher and higher before finally disappearing.
The tension on the bridge mounted as everyone switched their attention to the five remaining icons in the fish tank. They were rushing toward the two SS-20s at incredible speed. They would soon draw level.
Bertran looked expectantly at Faulkner.
Faulkner said, “Do it.”
Bertran triggered the self-destruct on both missiles.
The first of the SS-20 icons winked out, followed almost immediately by the second. Thirty thousand kilometres away, two enormous explosions ripped through space.
But the five missiles kept right on coming.
They all knew that that should have been impossible. But there was no altering what they were seeing: five hostile missiles heading straight for them. No matter how thick her armour, the Mantis couldn’t hope to withstand an impact of that magnitude.
Then, someone let out a whoop and Webster was forced to look again.
One of the icons had disappeared, followed a few seconds later by another.
Webster refused to blink, anxious not to miss the destruction of the next one. But it didn’t happen. The three remaining missiles just kept right on coming.
“Two minutes ‘til impact.”
Webster accessed the gunnery deck, the big screen dissolving into a split feed.
There were six gunnery officers in all, tasked with over-seeing the ship’s point defence lasers. The gunners wouldn’t be firing the weapons themselves, the in-coming missiles were far too fast for that, but their targeting decisions would make a huge difference to the overall outcome.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Webster said, trying to keep his voice level. “You have three missiles inbound. Good shooting.”
Then, all they could do was stand and watch. Faulkner looked back to the main visual display which had switched coverage to the glittering carpet of space. The missiles were out there somewhere but at twenty thousand kilometres distant he was damned if he could see them. Luckily, the targeting software on the laser clusters had no such difficulty as incandescent bursts of light reached out across the void. The volley lasted all of thirty seconds before the targeting computers paused, re-configured their response in line with each missile’s pattern of evasive manoeuvres. Then the firing began again.
“One minute ‘til impact.”
The bursts of laser fire were much shorter this time.
Somewhere over on their starboard side, Webster caught a flare of light which surged brightly before dying out. That still left two more missiles unaccounted for.
“Thirty seconds ‘til impact,” Yamada warned.
The laser clusters were firing in a carefully regulated rhythm now, in an effort to afford maximum coverage while still avoiding overheating.
A flurry of laser fire was followed by a huge detonation that was so close that it flooded the screen with light. It happened so quickly that the screen didn’t have time to auto correct, leaving Webster momentarily dazzled.
Before he had an opportunity to recover, the bridge lurched violently pitching him thrown onto the floor. As damage alarms blared all around, he struggled to regain his feet. The room was bathed in an eerie red light. He’d landed heavily on his elbow but any pain he might have felt was quickly forgotten amidst the severity of what had just happened.
“Are we hit?”
“We’ve taken serious damage to our forward hold,” Bertran said, his French accent slightly more pronounced than normal.
“What about the main hull?”
Bertran was swiping through the sensor feed on his console, checking for damage. The forward hold was designed so that it could be completely isolated from the rest of the ship for just such an emergency.
His face hovered over the images flashing before him. Finally, he looked up.
“Structural integrity seems to be holding but I can’t access any of the cameras in the forward hold. We have to assume their life support’s been compromised.”
“Any signs of further breaches?” Faulkner said.
“Several. According to this, we’re venting atmosphere at an alarming rate.”
Faulkner beckoned Webster over. “Are there many personnel down there?”
