A few miles later it pulled into a clearing before a tunnel entrance.
Command Post and control facilities, vehicle shelters and storage vaults had been bored into the mountains. At the entry control point, where umedo guards held the gates, Pa’an left his party with the carrier, left the heat and misty sunlight for the cool of underground.
With an umedo escort he crossed the hollow of the main loading area and the intersection of corridors beyond, took a lift down into the mountain’s bowels, and emerged in another corridor. The amphibian led him straight on, to double doors that parted as they approached.
The Command Post had been built like an amphitheater: four tiers of seats, all equipped with secure visiphones, facing a holotank that covered the opposite wall. At the moment, the holotank displayed an astral map of Saede and Ogata, Sostis and Yan, and showed the positions of the Isselan and Bacalli fleets.
Pa’an surveyed it before he acknowledged the presence of the others. Mostly human flag officers from Issel and Adriat, a few umedos, the masuk field commanders who had come for the exercise. He put out his hand to the masuki, palm forward in greeting, and each clasped it in turn, baring tusks in a grin.
He didn’t approach the humans or umedos. He held his place until they approached him, as befitted a son of the Pasha of Mi’ika.
One of the humans addressed him, a man with many medals and thinning hair. “You’ve arrived earlier than expected, Pa’an. We’ve had no orders from the Sector General.”
“That is because I carry them.” Pa’an reached into his tunic and produced a sheaf of folded pages. “They will be executed at my command.”
“At your command?” Indignation narrowed the human’s eyes. Pa’an saw distaste in his face, in the squaring of his jaw. But a second human, his features no less grim, put a hand on the first one’s arm.
Pa’an unfolded the sheaf with care, smoothed the creases, passed it over to the human who wore the greatest rank, and waited while he and his deputies examined the Sector General’s seal laser-burned through each page, making the document official. As if they disdained to believe a masuk.
“The orders are plain,” Pa’an said. “The Isselan First fleet and the Saedese Fourth are to launch at once. The Fourth will move against Yan, and the First, when it is joined by the ships I have brought from Issel, will depart Ogata for its strike against Sostis.”
* *
Captain Benjamin Horsch glanced at the timepanel over the navigator’s station and turned to Lujan. “Think I’ll try to get some shut-eye while I’ve got a chance, sir. Who knows what we’ll be in the middle of in another few hours.”
“Good idea,” Lujan said. “I’ll probably turn in soon myself.”
Horsch nodded, and addressed the officer of the deck. “Mr. Dowlen, I’ll be in my quarters if anything comes up before zero-six-hundred.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the OOD, and added as Horsch stepped into the lift, “Captain off the bridge!”
Lujan returned his attention to the forward screen.
According to classified message traffic, Issel’s hidden task force had broken orbit from Ogata fourteen standard hours ago. It would be ten or twelve hours more before the long-range scanners picked up the first contacts, when the Isselan fleet made lightskip.
Buhlig rolled before them, tugging at its elliptical orbit like a rotund pet on a leash. The light of its star turned its atmosphere of methane and ammonia to amber and gave its windswept cloud cover the appearance of long, soft fur.
But it wouldn’t provide a gentle landing for Isselan ships emerging from lightskip. They would have to use the planet’s gravity and rotation for propulsion into their next ‘skip, and that flight path already had been calculated. Sostish minelayers plied the corridor now, seeding it with langrage the size of skimcraft. There were no explosives; mass and timing alone were necessary. In a few standard days Buhlig’s gravity would clear the junk, drawing it to it surface in decaying orbits.
Meanwhile, the Spherzah fleet could only wait.
Allowing himself a sigh, Lujan turned toward the lift. As the door slid closed behind him, he heard the OOD announce, “Admiral off the bridge!”
He took the long way up to the flag quarters, crossing through the hangar decks but staying well back to watch the deckcrews at work, so they wouldn’t glimpse him and call the area to attention.
Destrier had four hangar decks, each supporting a squadron of twenty fighters with its own maintenance crews and equipment, its own launch and recovery ramps. Destrier’s fighter complement was almost twice that of Venture’s, the carrier from which Lujan had flown against Dominion Station, but everything felt the same. He read it in the faces of the deckcrews, and in the fighters poised in their bays.
Except for the pilots on cockpit alert, no spacecrews could be seen in the hangars. All were on crew rest, supposed to be sleeping.
Lujan knew better. They might be in their berths, might be lying with closed eyes, but unless they had taken patches they wouldn’t be asleep. Every nerve, every muscle would be taut, anticipating the klaxon that would call them to their cockpits.
Lujan wouldn’t be flying in this battle, but he felt the same tension in his own body.
He found the flag quarters dark when he stepped inside. Almost. Starlight poured through its three observation panes, each nearly the height and width of a man, and spilled over the carpet.
Lujan crossed to the nearest pane. He stood there for a long while, looking out on the silent stars, the spinning planet.
In another few hours all of space surrounding that planet would be littered with the debris of battle: battered hulks of ships, frozen fragments of human bodies. He set his jaw, remembering the aftermaths of battles he’d fought during the Great War.
But he knew what the cost would be to Sostis if the price were not paid here at Buhlig. He’d also seen what the Dominion had done to Issel during the Great War.
The weight of his responsibility made his shoulders sag. He stepped back, still facing the starfield, and knelt, resting his hands on wide-planted knees and bowing his head.
He had no idea how long he’d been praying when the intercom on the bulkhead buzzed. He raised his head, turned slightly. “Open.”
The officer of the deck appeared in its screen. He looked instantly apologetic. “Excuse me, sir.”
Lujan reassured him with a motion of one hand and rose to his feet. “What is it?”
“Sir, scan has reported a contact, bearing zero-four-three, declination two-seven, range six thousand miles. Speed is undetermined. It appears to be decelerating from lightskip reentry.”
Lujan glanced at the timepanel. Twenty-five standard hours since Issel’s fleet departed Ogata. The timing’s right. He said, “Only one contact?”
“Two now, sir—no, three. Captain Horsch is ordering the ship to general quarters.”
“Good,” Lujan said. “Tell him I’ll be in the Combat Information Center.”
As the stateroom door slid shut behind him, the address system filled the passages with the alert horn and the deck officer’s voice. “General quarters, general quarters! All personnel man your battle stations!”
In moments the slam of hatches and shield doors sealing echoed through the bulkheads, insurance for the carrier’s integrity under attack. Lujan strode through the passage with one shoulder to the bulkhead as spacers pressed past him to their posts. Some wore the pressure suits and oxygen packs of Damage Control, others the helmets and heat vests of gunners. Recognizing him, they nodded acknowledgement and quickened their paces.
* *
The fleet looked like a new constellation, Mebius thought. Like stars winking into existence in the shadow of Buhlig.
Until one of them exploded.
It didn’t happen all at once. Secondary detonations ripped along its hull in what seemed to be a chain reaction, rolling it over and over and leaving it to burn until its internal atmosphere had vented it
self.
“We’ve lost the carrier Accolade!” said the communications officer.
Mebius spun about in his chair. “What? Scan!”
The scan operator bent over his console, brow creasing. “Asteroids,” he said after a minute. “We’ve come out in an asteroid field!”
“Shields full front!” said Mebius. “All ships, fire braking thrusters! Reduce speed to—”
“All ships have not cleared lightskip, sir.”
Another ship broke clear as he watched, and smashed, still scan-blind, into an asteroid. It blossomed like a supernova, just to port of the s’Adou The’n, lighting up space with a moment’s fireball and hurling debris through the fleet like shrapnel.
“Lost radio contact with the destroyer s’Ahbad!” said the comms officer.
“Sir!” The scan officer sounded as if he’d almost choked. “We have numerous contacts, bearing three-one-seven, declination three-three-three! Estimate sixty contacts, range five-niner-five-two miles.”
“On screen,” said Mebius.
Beyond the asteroid field, the blips came up like a three-dimensional wall across space.
Mebius sank back in his command chair and cursed. “These aren’t asteroids,” he said. “They’re space mines.”
The masuk personnel on the bridge looked puzzled. K’Agaba Id Qum, the officer who stood at Mebius’ right, growled, “What is this?”
“An ambush.” Mebius straightened, in control once more. “All ships, battle stations! Accelerate to launch speed and prepare all fighters for take off.”
* *
The last “manned and ready” calls came in as Lujan entered the Combat Information Center. He looked at the Operations Officer.
“All stations report manned and ready, Condition Zed set throughout the ship, sir,” Ops reported, and turned to the three-dimensional display glowing above the projection table. “We had forty-two contacts, lost two in the mine field. Range is five-three-four-four miles, speed is point-eight-three miles per second.”
Lujan absorbed the display with a glance. Forty points of red light slid into battle positions against his fleet of sixty, marked in green. “Fighter status?” he asked.
“Three squadrons launched, sir. The fourth is standing by.”
“Get them off. And the other carriers?”
“The same, sir.”
“Let’s go,” said Lujan.
The Ops Officer keyed his pickup. “Charger Fleet, this is Charger Base. Launch all remaining fighters! I say again, launch all remaining fighters. Execute!”
Lujan saw the hangar decks through the vision of memory. Pilots sealing their helmets and canopies and firing up engines until their screams drowned the orders ringing through the address system. Deck crewmen in tethered pressure suits pulling power cables, guiding the fighters into the ramps, setting the catapults.
“Charger Group, this is Charger Base,” Ops said into his pickup. “We’ve got multiple contacts bearing zero-four-three, declin two-seven, holding positions at range four-niner-two-zero. Acknowledge.”
“Charger Base, Charger Lead. Contacts at zero-four-three and two-seven, roger.” The lead pilot’s voice crackled over the bulkhead speakers. “Request release to vector for intercept with weapons free.”
Ops glanced back.
“Given,” said Lujan.
“Release is given,” Ops said into his pickup. “Bag us some hairballs, Charger Group!”
Lujan studied the display over his Ops Officer’s shoulder, watching the points of light which were the fighters forming up, one squadron taking defense stations around the carrier, the others arcing away to the attack.
* *
“Sir, we have numerous incoming small craft!” said the scan officer. “Coming in from bearing three-five-zero, declination three-three-three, range four-eight-niner-three.”
Mebius leaned forward in his command chair. “All ships, Warning Red! Weapon systems to active mode! All carriers, launch your fighters.”
In a few moments they became visible on the forward screen, points of light that shattered into whole squadrons of attacking craft as they drew near enough for scan to distinguish them. Mebius’ hands turned hard on the arms of his chair. On either side of him, masuk eyes narrowed to slits and masuk lips curled to reveal tusk-like teeth.
* *
“Charger Base, this is Charger Lead.” The pilot’s voice rattled through the Combat Information Center. “I’m picking up numerous weapon signals but only from half the fleet. My scope says the rest of ‘em are—transports.”
Ops exchanged a glance with Lujan. “Are you sure of that, Charger Lead?”
“Dead sure, sir.”
“First wave, target only the combatants,” Lujan said quietly, “but stay sharp; it looks suspicious. If they are transports, the third wave can take them.”
“Roger, Base,” said Charger Lead. And then, “Charger Group, form into first, second, and third attack waves according to squadron. Each wave make your run from a different angle and heading to throw off their trackers. Acknowledge.”
“Lead,” another flyer broke in, “I’m painting multiple bogies, bearing zero-one-zero, declin five-four, range one-three-niner-eight.”
“I’ve got ‘em, too,” Lead said after a moment. “Heads up, Group. They sent out a welcoming committee!”
Lujan studied the tactical display. He couldn’t see the enemy fighters in it yet, but it would be too late by the time he could. He saw how the Spherzah battle cruisers and destroyers held their battle spread formation, loose enough to prevent the enemy from shooting into a crowd, close enough to provide mutual cover. “Request all ships to up-load missiles and put fire-control on standby,” he said.
Ops relayed the order.
Pilot chatter filled the speakers:
“Tally two, tally two! Coming in at zero-one-four!”
“Got ‘em noses on, inside one thousand miles!”
“Plasma cannon armed. Centering the box. . . .”
Green lights converged on red, too far away to follow the attack with any visual detail. The audio painted a clear scenario.
“. . . heavy fire from the destroyers. Lost Devin and Raphel!”
“Closing on the frigate. . . . It’s a kill, it’s a kill!”
And then, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” The cry burst through the static of distance, rang over the rest of the chatter. “. . . ordnance launch and targeting systems are disabled . . . aborting the mission.”
“Alert the deckcrews,” Lujan said.
* *
System failure lights warned that she had lost her starboard engine, too. Gryfiss shut it down, pulled the T-handle to cut off fuel, toggled the switches of the starboard directional thrusters. They would have to substitute for the main thrust to get her home.
As she left the destroyers’ rockets and the fighters’ searing ribbons of plasma cannon-fire behind, her breathing began to steady under her oxygen mask. But her voice rasped when she said, “Base, this is Charger Eight. I’m coming in with my starboard engine blown. This’ll be an emergency egress.”
“Roger that,” said the controller. “You’re cleared for ramp one, Charger Eight. Emergency personnel are standing by.”
Approaching the carrier, Gryfiss concentrated on the emergency landing and egress lists: check pressure suit integrity, initiate cockpit depressurization, release canopy locks for nonejection egress, check landing gear, fuel lines, electrical systems. . . .
She had to bring the craft around twice, leaning hard on the thruster switches to make a tight enough bank before the AG lights showed green. Ramp one loomed up like a square mouth. She fired braking thrusters, extended landing gear and hooks, and locked her cockpit harness against the impact with the arresting net.
Emergency personnel in pressure suits shot out from equipment bays, surrounding her craft even before the ramp doors slammed closed. Gryfiss didn’t notice. Both hands flew over switches and
knobs, shutting down the remaining engines, fuel lines, electrical systems. Sweat streamed off her forehead under her helmet. She yanked the canopy trigger, popping it open.
“Engine’s in bad shape,” she heard in her earphones, “but it doesn’t look like there’s much risk of fire. Go ahead and pressurize.” She glimpsed her crew chief, standing under the damaged engine and gesturing at an unseen ramp operator.
A noise like a wind filled the bay. The influx of oxygen snatched flames from the stricken engine and swept them up at the cockpit.
Gryfiss dived headlong over the port wing, knocking over two crewmen who reached up to break her fall. Personnel with extinguisher packs shot gray foam at the engine, sending it splattering off the wing and across the canopy before the crew chief confirmed the fire was out. He sent a couple of deckies up to pin the ejection seat and plasma cannon studs, and secure the tow bar that swung down from its overhead track.
Gryfiss followed her craft down the ramp, through four sets of shield doors that opened before them and closed behind, into the heart of the hangar deck. She loosened her helmet seals as she walked, and pulled off its rounded weight.
“You did everything right, Lieutenant,” said the crew chief, clapping her on the shoulder. “Emergency procedures, safety checks, everything by the book. We’ll replace that engine and check out your ordnance systems and have your bird turned around in forty-five minutes.”
Gryfiss only nodded, watching men and mechanicals maneuver her fighter into its bay, and running her hand through sweaty hair. She was still standing there watching, working off her gloves, when the fighter exploded.
Twenty-Three
The concussion hurled Lujan over the projection table in the Combat Information Center, two levels above the hangar bays. He struck the deck hard on his right shoulder as all the displays in the Center blacked out.
He knew what it meant. The ship’s computer had cut power to threatened areas and sealed off the Combat Information Center, with only emergency lighting and communications and minimal ventilation, until the fire danger had been contained.