The silver fleet the com.., p.21
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 21
“The XO would like a word with you.”
“Very fucking funny, Crosby.”
“I’m patching him through now. Be sure and watch your mouth.”
Rodgers was about to tell him where he could shove it when the XO’s voice cut in.
“Petty Officer Rodgers, this is Commander Webster.”
Rodgers winced.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Lieutenant Crosby tells me that you have some experience working as a junior gunner, is that right.”
“On the Santiago, sir, that’s right.”
“What do you think about this gun, P.O. 1, think you can get her up and working again?”
“I think so, sir.” He didn’t think any such thing but had learned a long time ago not to deny senior officers. He surveyed the area - the whole place was a mess. “But we’re going to have to get clear access to her first.”
“Excellent. If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of hit rate did you have on the Santiago?”
“On the rail gun?” Rodgers pulled a face, uncertain where this was going. “You have to understand, sir, I was only doing live fire rounds on exercises, not in actual combat.”
“I understand completely. This is new for all of us. But do you remember your percentages?”
“Twenty three percent.”
“Pretty good percentages, PO 1. The rail gun isn’t exactly known for its accuracy, is it?”
“No, sir. But if it hits you, you’ll know about it. It sure packs one hell of a punch.”
“Exactly. What if I were to say to you that there was a way you could double your hit rate?”
“I’d have to ask whether you’d been drinking, sir.”
Rodgers gritted his teeth at his own idiocy. This was the executive officer he was talking to.
There was silence on the other end of the line but then Webster went on.
“Over your head, can you see the second ammo chamber?”
Rodgers recognised it at once. The little yellow door was where they normally stored the pulse tracers for test firing exercises.
“The tracers, sir?”
“That’s right. Only, these aren’t tracers. They’re something the development team has been working on.”
Rodgers listened while Webster outlined what he wanted him to do next.
“How quickly can you have it done?” Webster asked.
“How quickly do you need it?”
Webster did some quick calculations.
“Within the next sixteen minutes.”
Rodgers looked around. Ozaki was hauling out a long stretch of burnt wiring. He hoped he wasn’t going to need it later.
*
Faulkner watched as the enemy salvo arced towards them. Sixteen incoming warheads of unknown destructive force. This was not how he’d envisaged his return to active duty going: fighting an implacable enemy about whom they knew very little.
Yamada hadn’t said much about this new threat but what he had said had been enough to convince Faulkner. Yamada wouldn’t have made those comments lightly. Particularly in the presence of Philippe Bertran. The Tactical Officer was very ambitious and never missed a thing that was said on the bridge. If the opportunity presented itself later on when Bertran could turn Yamada’s words against him, they all knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Yamada had been very brave to give voice to his suspicions because while he was keen to avoid being labelled a madman he also wanted to ensure that his captain didn’t go into battle without the full facts at his disposal.
Faulkner had been quick to silence Yamada earlier, keen not to unsettle his bridge officers any more than was absolutely necessary, but the subject of hostile alien forces was one he expected to be hearing a lot more about in the coming months.
He hadn’t really stopped to think about the implications of such an engagement but then he hadn’t been given much of a chance to. The aliens had been totally committed to destroying the Meridian and in that they had been dispiritingly successful. After that, Faulkner had had no choice but to continue with the engagement. All he could hope for now was that the Mantis might somehow survive this first contact.
And if they were going to have any chance of doing that then it was up to him to act – and to act decisively.
“Mr Bertran, Mr Webster. I’m sending across a new firing solution. I’d like you to take a look at it.”
Webster went over and stood with Bertran. They spent a few seconds going over it together.
Webster looked up, slightly confused.
“Are you familiar with the Acheron class missile, sir?”
“I am indeed, Mr Webster.”
“You’re talking about using a tactical nuke.”
“That’s correct.”
Faulkner could see the other man’s dilemma. As first officer, it was the XO’s job to draw his commanding officer’s attention to certain sensitive issues and it didn’t get much more sensitive than deploying nuclear weapons.
“And you’re aware of the current guidance?”
Webster was questioning his understanding of the most up-to-date guidelines. It could have been taken as a slight, but Faulkner chose to ignore it. The Acheron class was an antiquated weapon – there’d been several attempts to have the whole range de-commissioned – but for some reason the navy had seen fit to retain them. But the stipulations surrounding their use were very clear. They were only intended for long range engagements. An exclusion zone had to be observed around the ship for fear of exposing the crew to dangerous levels of radiation.
“I’m well aware of that guidance, Mr Webster. I’m also aware of the potential damage that those incoming warheads are capable of inflicting on us, and we’re running out of options.”
Webster looked to Bertran for support but the other man kept his head down, his eyes locked on his display.
“Sir, I don’t think it’s a good idea to deploy the Acheron missiles,” Webster said. “In fact, I’d actively counsel against it.”
“And that is duly noted. Mr Bertran, do you have any objections?”
Bertran straightened, tugging down the front of his uniform. He looked from Faulkner to Webster and then back again.
“I would agree with Mr Webster’s assertion that we would be operating outside normal safety tolerances. But considering our present situation… I’d have to agree with Captain Faulkner. The use of nuclear warheads is justified.”
Bertran’s assuredness lasted only as long as it took for him to realise that, as Tactical Officer, he’d just given the go-ahead for the launch. If there were any repercussions from this, he’d be the one the Admiralty would hold responsible.
Faulkner said, “Any other objections Mr Webster?”
Webster considered the display again, his eyes alighting on the sixteen glowing icons.
“No, sir. Under the circumstances, I’m going to have to agree.”
“Very good. Thank you for your candour gentlemen. Mr Bertran, fire when ready. Mr Webster, issue a radiation warning. All crew with access to pressure suits should suit up immediately. Other crew should report to their allotted safety zones.”
*
Webster folded his arms and waited. There was nothing else to do.
The missile package they were using consisted of two distinct waves: conventional weapons followed by the nukes. The first consisted of four clusters of nine A-11 missiles, thirty-six in all. They were the smallest missiles the Mantis carried and the hope was that there would be enough of them to blow a hole in the enemy’s offensive line, thereby allowing the nukes room to operate.
The aim of the second wave – two Acheron missiles - was to destroy all the oncoming warheads. It wasn’t a particularly sophisticated plan but Faulkner hoped to unleash such a high level of destructive force that none of the enemy’s armaments could hope to get through.
But the cost of such a manoeuvre was bound to be high. Detonating nukes at such close range meant that the Mantis – travelling at such high speed - had no way of avoiding the radiation blast that would be unleashed. In fact, they would be flying straight into it. Faulkner reflected that this was the sort of reckless stunt that had almost got him kicked out of the Academy.
Though if Faulkner’s plan worked, it would all be worth it.
As the nukes raced towards their target, even Faulkner couldn’t believe how finely they were cutting things. The Acherons were designed with safety protocols which wouldn’t allow them to be detonated within three hundred thousand kilometres of their launch vessel. The incoming missiles were just over a hundred and fifty thousand kilometres distant. Bertran had been forced to override the weapons’ safety settings in order for Faulkner’s plan to work.
“Sixty seconds to detonation.”
Faulkner said, “Is everything in place for a radiation alert?”
“There’s not much we can do for the forward compartments but everything else is good to go,” Webster confirmed.
“Has the enemy vessel shown any signs of course deviation?”
“Nothing so far, sir. She’s still heading straight for us.”
All eyes were fixed on the visual display as the first wave of A-11 missiles approached the enemy ordnance.
“Ten seconds to detonation.”
Yamada’s eyes never left his screen.
“Detonation detected,” he said.
Then again. “Multiple detonations.”
That accounted for the A-11s, though there was, as yet, no telling how effective they’d been.
Webster transferred his attention to the fish tank. The Acheron nukes were represented by three bright red icons. He watched them as each one blinked out of existence.
It was several minutes before anyone spoke.
“I’m picking up six – no, make that seven incoming missiles.”
Seven. Webster was crushed. They may well have destroyed nine of the warheads but that wasn’t going to be enough. Seven missiles was just too many for their defences to be able to cope with. Three, they might have been able to handle - four, if they were lucky. But seven…
Faulkner said, “Alert point defence teams: missiles incoming.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Thirty seconds ‘til impact.”
Webster went over and strapped himself into one of the crash couches set against the rear bulkhead. Faulkner’s command chair had shifted to a reclining position.
Webster started counting down from one hundred, forcing himself not to rush.
He hadn’t reached ‘ninety’ when the whole ship was racked with two massive explosions, one directly after the other.
Webster’s restraints bit into his shoulders and he tasted blood in his mouth. It was only later that he’d discover that he’d bitten through his lower lip.
The bridge was plunged into darkness for a second before the red emergency lights kicked in. Although he couldn’t be sure, Webster thought he recognised that strange topsy-turvy feeling as the artificial gravity momentarily cut out. That was one of the things that concerned him most. If the gravity generators failed, they’d be in a very bad condition indeed.
But there was just no telling just how badly compromised they were - the bridge was designed to stay fully functional even if the rest of the ship was destroyed.
The bridge crew slowly began to return to their consoles as various klaxons sounded the all clear.
Webster un-clipped his harness and went over to join them. Fire teams had already been despatched to the affected areas and there was nothing else to be done until they reported back.
“Tactical,” Faulkner asked. “What happened? How come we’re still in one piece?”
“I’m not sure,” Bertran was struggling to make sense of it all. “Two enemy missiles appear to have broken through but as yet we have no word on the other missiles.”
“What’s happened to them? They can’t just have disappeared.”
“I’m sure they haven’t just disappeared, sir.”
“So where are they, then?” Faulkner said, pushing himself up off his chair. “Speak up Mr Bertran, you’re not making any sense.”
Bertran appeared confused, prompting Yamada to cut in.
“We’re tracking some of them now but it’s difficult to know what’s happened, sir. They appear to have gone haywire.”
“All of them?”
Yamada indicated the fish-tank display. There were five icons displayed, all of them heading off in different directions.
“That would seem to be the case.”
Faulkner stood facing the display, hands on hips. “Any ideas?”
“Not really,” Webster said, “Nukes aren’t known for their subtlety. You’d expect those missiles either to be completely destroyed or totally unharmed. Not this.”
“Couldn’t the heat be a factor?” Bertran said. “Melted some essential part of their circuitry?”
“Whilst leaving all their other systems intact?” Webster said. “Doesn’t seem to make much sense.”
“None of it does,” Faulkner said. “But at this stage, I’m taking whatever advantages I can get.”
Webster paced around the tank, watching the enemy missiles surging off into deep space. What he wanted to know was why those had been disabled while the other two had somehow managed to sneak through without being affected.
“I feel that this could be significant,” Faulkner said. “Mr Bertran, I’d like you to get onto it straightaway.”
If Bertran was annoyed by this imposition, he didn’t say anything.
Webster looked over at the captain. In the wash of red light, Faulkner looked re-born and ready for the fight.
“Sir, we’re not out of the woods yet,” Yamada said.
He transferred what he was seeing up on to the main screen.
An expanding blue ring was emanating out from where the nukes had exploded.
And the Mantis was heading straight for it.
“Brace! Brace! Brace!”
*
The glare of the blast was unlike anything Rodgers had ever experienced. Even though his helmet had polarised in order to protect him, the intensity of the blast filled his head with a terrible brightness.
The shock wave smashed him against the bulkhead, and when he tried to draw breath it felt like a baby elephant had suddenly rolled onto his chest. The pressure mounted until he could feel his eyeballs being squashed flat inside their sockets and, for a moment, he was sure he was going to die. The fuselage screamed as huge forces threatened to tear the ship apart and in the midst of all this he lost consciousness.
When he came back around it was to the sound of alarms blaring in his ears. The weight pressing down on his chest had miraculously lifted and he found that he was once again able to draw breath.
“Jesus.”
It seemed as though the whole starboard side of the ship had gone, leaving nothing behind but a mess of torn metal. A tangle of wires and broken conduits appeared to be all that stood between him and the yawning emptiness of space.
On further inspection, Rodgers realised that that wasn’t the full story. The deck plates appeared solid enough and what was left of the super structure looked to be holding up but this was clearly a very dangerous place to be right now.
“Okay, we can’t stay here.”
Johansson appeared in the air directly overhead. “We need to get going.”
It was at that point that Rodgers noticed the blood. Globules of it floating in the air.
“Are you hit?” Johansson sounded panicky.
He pulled himself down hand over hand and spent some time exploring Rodgers’ suit.
“You’re fine,” he said. “Mind taking a look at me?”
Rodgers did as he was asked and although there were smears of blood all over Johansson’s suit, the suit itself was undamaged.
“What happened?”
“We were hit by something. It’s bad.”
“Osaki?”
Johansson reached out and touched one of the red globules which burst, coating his fingers.
“I think this might be her.”
Rodgers let out a sob, afraid he was going to vomit inside his helmet. That was just about the worst thing that could happen right now so he forced himself to stay calm and worked to regulate his breathing. He had to deal with this himself. He couldn’t allow panic to get the better of him.
“Anyone else left?”
“Michaels took a hit to the head. He didn’t make it. And Tomei’s back there somewhere.”
He gestured hopelessly.
“What about Crosby?”
Johansson pointed towards the corridor where they’d first come in. Crosby was pressed up against the ceiling, his mask had turned opaque and his arms were hanging limply down.
Rodgers launched himself across the divide, grabbing a strut with one hand while shaking Crosby with the other. When there was no response, he searched for the emergency button under the man’s collar ring.
Crosby’s helmet slowly cleared.
His eyes were closed, his face locked in some terrible fever dream. There was a strangely coloured stain emanating from under Crosby’s arm and when Rodgers investigated further, he found a small hole that was already crusted with blood. He’d been wounded in the armpit by a projectile which had pierced his suit and shredded his internal organs. When he was finally able to activate Crosby’s diagnostics, they only confirmed what Rodgers already knew. He turned to Johansson hoping for some miracle, but the other man just looked at him blankly.
“Petty Officer Rodgers!” the voice was terrifically loud inside his helmet.
Rodgers located an icon on his HUD which allowed him to turn the volume down. Only then did he realise that it was Commander Webster.
“Rodgers here, sir.”
“Ah, good. I’ve been trying to contact your Senior Chief but he’s not responding.”
“That’s because he’s dead, sir.”
“Oh,” there was a slight pause. “I see. I’m sorry, that puts a different spin on things. Any other casualties?”
