Echo of Tomorrow: Book Two (The Drake Chronicles) (9 page)

“Order air command to launch their remaining fighters and fill in the gap between Eagle and Hawk wings,” Scott said softly, understanding the enemy’s early launch of their fighters. They were hoping to draw off his, and have an uncontested run at his fleet. It was something to remember for the future.

“Aye, sir,” Gunter Haas acknowledged.

“
Auckland
and
Wellington
reporting they have taken up positions between solar north and east, sir,” Stuart said.

“Where’s the mother ship?” Scott asked.

“Still on course for Earth, sir,” Stuart replied.

“Good. If she bugs out, they’ll have her no matter which way she runs.”

“Firing mass driver,” Ali Caza called.

“Carriers confirming launch of all fighters,” comm sang out.

“We have a hit on the lead ship, she’s breaking off and withdrawing,” Ali announced. A small cheer went up on learning they’d severely damaged one of the alien’s cruisers, seeing the alien battle group reform into a globe shape.

“Keep it up, XO, hit then again,” Bingham almost yelled, his excitement obvious.

“Can we get a cup of coffee up here, Jack?” Scott asked.

“Coffee?” the captain repeated, looking around in confusion.

“Yes, a cup of coffee would be good about now, calm the nerves.” Scott said it softly, hoping Jack would get the point.

“Do you really think so sir, right now?” Jack came back, his eyes flicking from screen to screen and back to the holotank.

“Oh yes, I think everyone could do with some, right now!” Scott didn’t really raise his voice, but put enough emphasis on the word “now” to make himself understood. Jack gently pounded the arm of his chair in frustration of an admiral that wanted coffee in the middle of a fucking battle.

“Yeoman, order up coffee for the bridge crew!” Captain Bingham yelled, obviously upset, but Scott couldn’t say anything directly.

“Aye sir, coffee coming up—”

“Alien fighters engaged, sir,” Stuart announced.

“Slow to quarter, Captain,” Scott ordered. Somewhere in the last few minutes his fear had vanished, his palms no longer sweated, yet this barely occurred to him. His thoughts were now entirely on the fleet and how best to utilize it. By slowing the ‘
New Zealand
’, it permitted the rest of the fleet to slowly overtake her, and if his plan worked, they would englobe the alien battle group before they realized what was happening.

“Coffee, Admiral?” CPO Hardwick asked.

“Thanks, Chief. One for everybody,” he ordered, “especially the captain,” he said in a sotto voice. The CPO looked at him, then the captain, then nodded.

“Take a seat, Captain and drink this,” Hardwick said handing him the coffee. The captain did, dropping into his seat with a thump and accepting the coffee with ill grace. The containers, called bulbs, were sealed, self-sealing drinking bulbs with a long straw so you could drink it while in a battle suit. This was a precaution against a sudden loss of gravity, and prevented hot liquid floating around the bridge or cabin.

Gunter called, “Message from
Auckland
for the admiral, sir.”

“Read it,” Scott said.

“From
Auckland
to
New Zealand
, from officer commanding, to Admiral Drake. Splitting forces in case MF runs for warp point, that way will have both ends covered. Message ends.”

“Received and understood, send an acknowledgment, signed Drake, commanding.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Gunter answered, seeing Scott smile at how the name for the enemy ship, from MS, for the mother ship, slipped into MF for “motherfucker,” they’d cursed it so much.

The lightness ended, and in tense silence, they waited as their battle group closed with the flagship, its main guns hammering away at the enemy. By going to a spherical formation, they had overlapped their shields … absorbing the energy. Within minutes Scott knew he’d have to release the fighters, and it was going to get messy.

“Comm, order all ships to commence firing as they come within range,” he ordered.

“Aye, sir. Message relayed.”

As yet, the alien battle group hadn’t opened fire, and he wondered why, suspecting they wanted to get into their knife-fighting range first. That brought up the question of how effective their main weapons were. That they didn’t fire yet suggested they weren’t much good at long range. It also made him a little nervous about how good they were at short range.

“Comm! Tell the fighters they’re released, independent action but stay out of our line of fire,” he said.

“Aye, sir. Releasing the fighters,” comm answered, transmitting the message.

“Tallyho!” they heard the squadron leader shout, the English accent unmistakable. “Bandit! Bandits! Bandits dead ahead!” The tank showed the yellow blips of their fighters surging ahead to engage.

“Enemy firing!” Henley yelled.

“Shields at max, sir!” Stuart acknowledged, clearly agitated. Scott coughed, drawing Bingham’s attention. The captain looked at him a moment, then at the two excited officers, then nodded.

“Keep it calm people, we’ve done this a hundred times in the simulator, so there is no need to get excited,” Bingham commented in a calm voice. He’d finally gotten the message himself.

He sat back and sucked on the drinking tube, swiveling his seat slightly to look at Scott. Most of the officers on the bridge looked round, seeing the captain and the admiral taking softly to each other, serenely drinking their coffee. At that moment, they all relaxed, and settled into the groove they used during practice.

“Fleet starting englobement of the enemy fleet sir,” Stuart announced in a calmer voice. All the enemy ships were firing now, and time after time they saw the shields flare, indicating something was hitting them, but they were holding.

“Enemy launching another wave of spacecraft sir, type unknown,” Henley called out.

“Step up the magnification and let’s have a look,” Bingham ordered, and a few seconds later tracking had a pod of three locked in the view.

They turned out to be similar in design to the fighters, except they looked as if someone had glued two of them together, bottom side to bottom side. They broke up into groups of three and headed in on a random pattern toward the
New Zealand
, avoiding the fighter engagement going on about them.

“Torpedo bomber, Jack,” Scott observed. “And we’re their target.”

“I agree,” Bingham said. “Ali, put point defense on notice, they have some traffic coming their way.”

“Aye-aye, Captain, so indicated,” Ali answered.

“More coffee, Admiral?” Hardwick asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Scott answered, feeling the ship vibrate as something hit it. Neither said a word.

“Hit on the forward hull, port side with limited damage,” the nervous damage-control officer called out. “Damage-control parties closing up.” Frances Dillard’s voice sounded squeaky. It was one thing to order up damage-control parties during a simulation, and another during a battle. She knew living people were in those parts of the ship, injured people who needed help, not just numbers on a screen.

“Thank you Frances,” Captain Bingham acknowledged, taking a refill from CPO Hardwick.

As he turned, Hardwick nodded toward Scott’s racked helmet. There was a time to show confidence in your crew and ship by not wearing the helmet, and Hardwick’s respectful reminder indicated the time had passed.

“Helmets, people.” And saying that, Scott slipped his helmet on and locked it in place. He left the face shield up, knowing this would snap down in the event of a hull breach and loss of atmosphere.

By now, the tank was a mass of fighters. All locked in a silent dance of death, it was so confusing, the operations officer cut the magnification down to where they could make sense out of it.

Now the enemy battle group realized what was happening, and the spherical formation was starting to come apart as some looked for a way out of the trap. So far, the only real damage was to their fighters. Now the rest of Scott’s fleet was starting to fire, and the alien battle group began taking a pounding. Not that the fleet was getting away scot-free. The destroyer
Sheffield
took several massive hits and fell out of formation, trailing shattered hull plates and leaking air. The torpedo bombers were weaving a course between the shields, still heading for the
New Zealand
, and as they came within range the point defense system opened up. The darkness of space was lit by the crisscrossing lashes of pulse plasma fire as the gunners beat the attack back. Not quite a light-speed weapon, it had the advantage that when it hit, the target was obliterated in less than a second. Laser and particle beams could get to the target faster, but took time to eat through the shields and hull. Scott saw this as a tradeoff, sacrificing some speed for a higher percentage of kills. In some ways it reminded Scott of the holovideo game he’d played with Brock and Pam’s little girl, thinking they were better shots than his present gunners. Not that they weren’t hitting the incoming ships, they were, but it was taking them too long to identify, lock on and fire, failing to use the multiple targeting and tracking system to its fullest capacity. The hull rang again, this time a massive hit.

“Hit on port side, amidships, substantial damage to the outer hull.” Frances Dillard’s voice sounded firmer while she ordered up damage-control parties to the section of ship hit. “Damage-control parties working,” she reported in a cool, smooth voice with no excitement this time.

“Acknowledged, Lieutenant Dillard. Keep me informed,” Captain Bingham called.

“Aye, sir.”

“Two alien ships breaking away from main group and heading for a gap in the line,” Henley called.

“What size ships, Tom?” Scott asked, wondering if they were worth worrying about.

“Somewhere between a destroyer and a light cruiser, Admiral.”

“Light them up on the board, please,” Scott said, and the enemy ships started flashing orange.

The gap was at the far side of the englobing sphere where the ships hadn’t quite closed the ring yet. He could break ships away on that side to engage them, but that would leave an even bigger hole somewhere else. Scott checked the board for a densely packed group, checking his readout for any information on repeater screens.

“Dispatch destroyer
Masterton
,
Kaitangate
,
Foxton
and the light cruiser
Stuart
to break formation and pursue and destroy,” Scott ordered.

“Aye, Admiral. Transmitting message,” Gunter Haas answered. “Message received and understood.” Another hit this time, closer, and the whole bridge shook.

“Hit at base of superstructure, number one launch bay out of action. Damage-repair parties closing up,” Frances reported, clearly shaken.

“Suck on this, asshole!” the XO snarled, and three of the forward mass-driver tubes flashed plasma as four hundred-pound, depleted uranium, boron/cobalt projectiles left the barrels at better than point-two-five light speed.

All three struck a cruiser-sized alien ship, and it simply vanished in a spectacular explosion. Debris wheeled in all directions, crashing into other enemy ships and breaking the sphere apart. The moment that happened, shield integrity vanished and the ships were vulnerable to direct particle beam and pulse energy cannon fire. They saw hit after hit that scorched or ripped holes in the oncoming warships. The alien battle group broke up then, dispersing in all directions, some straight toward the nearest hole in the line, others back the way they’d come with maximum speed. That didn’t stop the enemy’s torpedo bombers, and Scott felt three more massive hits on the
New Zealand
. One of them hit forward of the last one, and this time they could hear the tortured scream of bending metal and buckling girders.