Federation Reborn 1: Battle Lines (22 page)

She wanted to signal the ships, warn them but fought the urge. It would be all right. If she called out a warning, the enemy fighters would see her. Besides, she watched as her tiny fighter AI plotted the fighters as they streaked away. It was already too late to engage she thought.

---<>---<>---

“What the hell was that?” Lieutenant Stone demanded, jinking his fighter slightly to get around what looked like a moving hole in space. “We've got something weird here.”

“Weird … you think recon drones?” Lieutenant Adams asked.

“No, moving … sir, I think they are fighters.”

“Shit. I'll call it in. Did you get a vector?”

“They aren't going for the warships, sir, not on that vector. They are headed for the planet.”

“Then I'll definitely call it in,” the lieutenant stated, putting the call in. “Capin' Gumel is seriously not going to like this,” he murmured. There were two fighters left with the warships and none at all with the freighters. Sheep indeed he thought with a pang. And by the time they got their orders back and turned around, it would be too late. There would be no way his force could engage them. And since the enemy fighters were moving near .3 light years, his light speed warning wouldn't do much good. But he had to try anyway.

---<>---<>---

“Enemy fighters headed to the freighters!” CIC reported. The captain's head jerked up to stare at the tactical department. “Confirm that!” he stated, pointing his thick index finger at Shanty.

“Sir, if they are they are under stealth,” Shanty replied. She looked at her scopes and then shook her head. “We're not getting anything with active, sir.”

“Frack,” Dutch breathed.

“Order the freighters to break orbit. Tell them …,” Gaston scowled. His orders were to protect them. “Tell them to make for the B-95a3 jump point,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“Sir, retreating?” the tactical officer asked in disbelief.

“I'm getting them out of the way,” the captain stated. “That report had
better
be accurate,” he growled.

“Sir, the problem is, by the time they get the order it may be too late. The fighters will be all over them,” Lieutenant Shanty said.

“I know that,” the captain stated, flexing his jaw.

“Should we come about, Captain?” Dutch asked nervously. The captain waved a hand flat down to signal no. He nodded. “Very well, sir.”

“It'll be all right,” the captain murmured, eyes locked on the enemy ships. “At least, it'd better be.” His eyes gleamed as CIC cleaned up the data. Three corvettes and three frigates weren't going to make up for a destroyer. Not in his estimation. The fight ahead was going to be tough, but he was fairly certain where he'd place the odds. All in his favor, he thought, grinning slightly.

---<>---<>---

“Sir, the enemy fighters ….”

“I know. Launch the reserve fighters. Have them engage and keep them off of us,” the admiral ordered, looking at
Cutlass
and then away. “And order the gunships to launch as well. They won't stand a chance against those fighters, but they'll definitely even the odds.”

“Yes sir. Fighters are launching now. Gunships are as well,” the AI reported.

---<>---<>---

Lieutenant Adams saw the fighters launching and swore viciously. They weren't set up for an antishipping strike anyway, so all he had intended to do was harass the enemy and beam back data to his own forces. Now things had changed. “Prepare to mix it up,” he stated, pulling his mask over to cover his face. He locked it on and then dropped the visor. “All fighters on me. By pairs, people, remember your training,” he said. “Stone, take your wingman, Niagara, and Chucklehead and head low. See if you can cut up and make them break off some of their fighters to engage you. The rest of you, smoke ‘em,” he said, setting himself as the missiles and energy beams began to fly.

---<>---<>---

“Sir, two pair of fighters have broken off from the furball. CIC identifies them as Tangos 5, 6, 7, and 8. They have cut down on our negative Y axis and are now climbing to attack our keel from below and behind.”

“Where we are most vulnerable,” the Naga captain murmured, noting the missile pods obstructing the lower sail as well as the massive fusion engines in the aft.

“Yes, sir. We have the fewest point defense weapon coverage there. Should we direct a defensive drone?”

The captain glanced at the plot and then shook his head. He could see the fighters coming in; the drones would take too long. Besides, there was a simpler method of dealing with such ship attacks. “Helm, 180 degree roll. Execute,” he stated.

“Aye, sir, rolling her one eighty,” the helmsman stated flatly. He turned the yoke until his attitude indicator's horizon indicated 180 degrees. He righted the yoke and checked once more. “One eighty complete, sir.”

The TACO had anticipated the order and had already silently ordered the sensor feed from the keel sensors to be shunted to the weapon mounts. The roll momentarily disoriented them, but they were already in the ballpark. “Dorsal point defense engage,” the TACO stated, nodding to the JTO and then the ship's AI avatar. Both were already at work targeting the incoming fighters.

Two of the fighters saw the roll and broke off, arching wildly away. A third started to arch away, but then came back to its wingman who bored into the point defense phaser fire anyway. Invisible phasers spat energy fire into the black void, hammering at where the JTO and gun crews anticipated where the fighters would be. Both fighters jinked about, trying to prevent a weapon’s lock. Whenever the phasers hit something, it sparkled as the energy reacted violently with the mass.

“They are firing!” the sensor officer stated.

“Two missiles incoming, Threat Level 2. Switching targets to new threat priority. Engaging, one destroyed,” the AI stated. “Two destroyed.” He stated a moment later.

“One fighter has taken damage. She's slowing,” the JTO stated.

“He must have sucked up part of the missile debris,” the TACO stated. “Engaging with secondary guns.”

“Rail guns will endanger the area. Stick to phaser or grazer guns,” the captain stated, tapping at his own controls.

“Aye aye, sir. Engaging with phaser mounts. Tango 8 hit. She's a dead stick. Tango 7 disengaging and withdrawing. Tango 7 hit. She is limping away,” the Taco reported.

“Tell CIC to let our fighters know where she is. Tell them I want a confirmation on Tango 8 as well.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Check for an eject. I want to know if the pilot got out. If he did, mark him. Mark the wreckage too.”

“Damn. I'd hate to be a Dutchman. Even a pirate doesn't …,” the JTO cut herself off. “Sorry, sir.”

“Why?” the Naga captain swiveled his flank eye to the JTO. “I could care less either way. Attend to your duties,” the Naga stated.

“Aye, sir,” the JTO said, looking back at her station. “No targets in engagement range.”

“Then let's see if we can get some more. Ship status?”

“No damage.”

“Good work, Captain,” a familiar voice said. The Naga turned to look down at the repeater display. He clacked his claws against the arm rest at the sight of the chimp rear admiral. “We're a long way before we clean them up, but we're getting there. Just don't expose our own fleet train in your eagerness to blood your ship and her crew with a kill.”

“I'll do my best not to, sir,” the Naga replied with a bob of his head.

“Tango 5 and 6 are attempting to circle around to hit the transport on the flank. See that they are suitably dissuaded, Captain,” the admiral ordered.

“Aye aye, sir. You heard him, helm, guns, get on it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I am tucking the transport in tighter. Watch for it,” the admiral stated.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“We've almost got this wrapped up but don't lower your guard. That's usually when things frack up the most.”

“We'll do our best not to disappoint, sir.”

---<>---<>---

“Virus packages away,” Marshall stated. “So far no effect.”

“We're almost within extreme missile engagement range, Admiral,” the captain warned. They had already cut their drive to maintain the engagement window and to maneuver if they needed to do so. They were still drifting however; they still had their momentum they had built up in their charge across the system.

“I know you've wanted to kick the pods clear. Do it. Bring them on tow. Launch the reserve defensive drones as well. Put them between us and the enemy,” Amadeus ordered.

The enemy ships were coming in with the two frigates in the lead, serving no doubt as sacrificial cannon fodder, screening units. The four destroyers were following along in their wake almost a half a million kilometers behind. They had initially been spread out with the
Antelope
and
Nelsons
on the flanks in a flat plane but had recently come together into a box formation. He nodded. The box formation would be their best defensive formation. It would also be their last.

“Missile pods are away. Missile pods are locking on now, sir. Entering engagement window according to plan Alpha, sir.”

He should have put the
Nelson
further forward and tucked the frigates in on his flanks Amadeus observed. He had no intention of wasting his first precious shots on the small ships.

“Target the missile pods on
Corsair
and the
Nelson
. All other ships are to engage the other destroyers. Ignore the frigates,” he ordered.

“Targeting, sir. Targets locked.” the TACO stated with just a hint of eagerness in his voice.

“Then fire,” the admiral stated, sitting back in his chair.

---<>---<>---

“We're being targeted by computer viruses over the radio net!” the computer tech reported.

“Sever our communication's link. Jam the transmission, Comm. Don't let it into the computers!” the captain ordered instantly. “Scrub those systems!”

“Severing the links now,” the communication's rating stated. “The flagship has laid a whisker laser on us.”

“Good,” the captain stated. “Are we ready?”

“On the flagship's order, sir. Firing in three … two … one …,” the TACO's finger stabbed down on the big red button. “Firing missiles now!” Lieutenant Imbi said triumphantly. His eyes snapped to the main plot, gleaming with hunter's anticipation. Captain Gumel had targeted their force's missiles on the one
Arboth
since it was the most capable of the enemy destroyers. That triumph immediately turned to terror when he saw the returning reply.

“Spirit of space!” Captain Queux said as hundreds of missiles erupted in their face. He had no further time for thought as his ship fought for its life.

---<>---<>---

The clash did not go in Gaston's favor. The missile pods that erupted into his teeth more than changing the balance of forces.
Corsair
and
Buccaneer's Breath
had been brutally destroyed in the initial broadside. He was shocked by the carnage. The Federation forces weren't attempting to cripple their opponents; they were playing for keeps. He was pretty sure few survivors got off either ship.

McRae
had gotten through the initial engagement almost unscathed; the explosion of
Corsair
had taken out some of the missiles meant for her. She and the two frigates were lucky. They turned to run, trying to cover themselves. It was every ship for itself as terror drove them to run.

His own
Jean Bart
lost her hyperdrive and part of her starboard sublight drive while attempting to turn away. He ran a rear guard as he changed tactics and followed his orders to protect the freighters. But that was almost impossible. As the freighters ran for the jump point, the enemy fighters pounced on them out of stealth. Two of the unarmed lumbering freighters fell out crippled while a third staggered but gamely tried to continue her flight.

When
Jean Bart
passed the crippled ships, he coldly ordered a broadside of grazers into them to destroy them. Any shuttles that had managed to get off docked with the running ships. He passed over any rescue beacons that were adrift. The Dutchman's was well and truly lost.

“But …,” Dutch protested, holding his handkerchief to his bloody forehead. He pulled it away to look at it, felt gingerly with a finger, winced, and then put it back in place.

“We can't slow down, Dutch. I know you want to know if Brom and the others survived.” Gaston knew it was highly doubtful anyone had gotten off the other warships. “No. Let the Federation stop. I hope they do! That would give us time to escape. But we'll be back,” Gaston growled, eyes glittering with rage. “This insult
will
be avenged,