A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) (29 page)

And if they are trying to sneak up on us while relying on us to be watching the formations
, he thought,
they’ve picked a very odd way to do it
.

He studied the sensor drones for a long moment.  The Indians would have real problems sneaking anything larger than a destroyer through the electronic netting and into firing range, no matter what they did.  A destroyer
might
do some damage, but it could be swatted before it did anything lethal.  It would be embarrassing, yet it would be
just
embarrassing.  His task force would survive. 

Unless they expect us to prepare for the formations and not to be alert now
, he added, mentally. 
But such a plan would rely on us doing what they wanted
.

The display looked ominous.  Five formations were closing from one side of the task force; the other side looked empty, untouched.  And yet ... he hadn't dropped his guard.  The Indians would have to be fools to assume he
would
.  After all, they'd gone out of their way to make it clear that at least half the ships advancing on his position were fakes.

“Bring the task force to red alert when the formations are twenty minutes from missile range,” he ordered.  “But keep the tactical crews on alert.”

“Aye, sir,” Sally said.  She paused as a new report flashed up on her display.  “A couple of the reporters have been apprehended trying to get into the CIC.”

James frowned.  He hadn't wanted the reporters.  Given what had happened on
Ark Royal’s
final flight, he'd been reluctant to have
anyone
onboard who wasn't a naval officer.  The Prime Minister had overruled him; the only concession he’d managed to get was an agreement that the reporters could be searched carefully before they were allowed to board and told, firmly, that large parts of the supercarrier were definitely off limits to them.  Even so ... it was far too easy to come up with scenarios where the reporters accidentally or deliberately betrayed the ship.

He pushed the thought aside.  “Inform the marines that the reporters are to be dumped in the brig,” he ordered, curtly.  There was a battle underway, even though neither side had fired a shot.  “I’ll deal with them later.”

“Yes, sir,” Sally said.  There was a pause.  “They’re making a fuss, but the marines have them well in hand.”

James pushed the reporters out of his mind as he turned back to the display.  The Indians were still inching forward - as he’d expected, Indian One slowed slightly to ensure it entered engagement range with its fellows - and local space was clear.  It looked as though the Indians
weren't
trying to be clever.

And that makes no sense
, he told himself. 
What are they trying to do
.

The display updated again as the drones flashed through the enemy formation, but they offered him no answers.  A number of Indian ships were marked as
real
when they opened fire on the drones; others, showing nothing beyond a bare signature, were almost certainly fakes.  Or they merely
wanted
the British to think they were fakes.  James couldn't imagine any scenario where he’d
want
the enemy to get a close look at his hulls, but the Indian CO might have a more active imagination. 

“Interesting,” Sally said.  She sounded surprised - and puzzled.  “Indian Three was
much
more aggressive about shooting down the drones.”

“Show me,” James ordered.  Did Indian Three simply have more
real
ships?  Or did their CO have something to hide?  The more he looked at it, the less sense the Indian tactics made; they were risking defeat in detail, simply by splitting up their ships.  Unless they had a surprise up their sleeves.  “What are they doing?”

“The long-range passive sensors insist that Indian Three consists of twenty-one destroyers and frigates,” Sally said.  “By noting the ships that actually opened fire, we know that eleven of them are actually
real
.  No other formation showed more than four real starships.”

James frowned.  “A shell game, then,” he mused.  The Indians didn't want to fool him - they knew that was impossible, the way they’d set it up - but they wanted to keep him guessing which ships were real.  And yet, by opening fire, they’d kindly identified a number of real ships for him.  “But why?”

***

Vice Admiral Joshi was mildly surprised the British hadn't attempted to avoid combat, given the apparent combat superiority of the formations bearing down on them, but he was quite willing to take advantage of it.  The planners had assumed the British would - correctly - deduce that two-thirds of the ships heading towards them were nothing more than drones, particularly the carriers.  They might even assume that
they
held a decisive advantage and ready themselves to wipe out half the Indian Navy.  It would - he hoped - leave them open for the true threat.

“Inform the crews that they may start deploying on my mark,” he ordered.  The British ships were drawing closer, into missile range.  They’d be prepping themselves to open fire on the warships they
knew
to be real.  “Prepare to fire.”

***

“The task force is going to red alert,” Sally reported.  The alarms were automatically dampened in the CIC.  “Indians One through Five will be in firing range in twenty minutes.”

And nothing - seemingly - ready to stab us in the back
, James thought.  He took another look at the remorselessly empty display. 
Why
?

“Inform all ships that they are cleared to open fire on my command,” he ordered.  “ROE Prime are now in effect; I say again, ROE Prime are now in effect.”

“Aye, sir,” Sally said.

And if any reporters get hurt in the crossfire, it’s their own stupid fault
, James thought, as the Indians drew closer. 
Their ships might be mistaken for enemy vessels and blown out of space in passing
.

He cleared his throat.  “Inform Captain Pole that she may launch starfighters at will,” he ordered.  They’d worked out deployment plans while waiting for the Indians to come into range.  One third of the starfighters would cover the task force, while the remainder would take the fight to the Indians.  “Plan Beta, I think; I say again, Plan Beta ...”

“Aye, Admiral,” Sally said.

She broke off as the display suddenly spangled with red icons.  “Incoming fire!  I say again, incoming fire!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Pegasus System

That’s impossible
, James thought.

It wasn't just missiles, either; missiles fired from a range that would see them burning out long before they reached their targets.  The Indians had launched
starfighters
.  But they didn't have a carrier ... or did they?  Had they concealed a makeshift escort carrier or two under ECM?  Or simply mounted the starfighters on the hulls of a dozen destroyers?  It was certainly technically possible.

“Ready the point defence,” he ordered, sharply.  If the Indians had fired missiles from outside the normal range, it was quite possible that they’d somehow managed to improve on the standard missile designs.  They wouldn't want to waste ammunition on a clear diversion, not when cold logic would
insist
it was a diversion.  “Stand by to repel attack.”

“Admiral,” Sally said.  “They’re launching a wave of smaller craft.  They look like modified shuttles.”

James stared at the display.  There was something about it that was familiar, too familiar; it was almost as if he’d seen something like it before, during the war.  And then it struck him.

“Those are boarding pods,” he snapped.  The Tadpoles had tried to board
Ark Royal
during Operation Nelson.  It had failed, badly, but the Tadpoles had never been particularly adept out of the water.  The Indians, on the other hand, had powered combat armour of their own - and, perhaps, deck plans for
Theodore Smith
.  “Alert the marines.  The Indians are attempting to board the carrier.”

Sally blinked.  “Us, sir?”

“There’s no other target worth the effort,” James snapped.  The Indian ships were coming into range too.  “Order all ships to engage the Indians at will; I say again, engage the Indians at will.”

“Aye, sir,” Sally said.  She paused as new information popped up on her screen.  “Sir, the CAG is diverting starfighters to target the boarding pods.”

“Order him to ensure that at least two squadrons confront the Indian ships,” James said.  “We cannot let them shoot at us without retaliation.”

He turned his attention to the missiles as they reached the point where they should have burned out their drives and gone ballistic.  It wasn't a surprise, not really, to see the missiles split up, each one launching a second stage towards the task force.  A two-stage missile had been a theoretical concept for a long time, but reworking the missile tubes to fire a missile over twice the size of standard missiles had kept running into bureaucratic objections.  And then the new focus on plasma weapons had restricted development elsewhere.

Looks like they did come up with a new concept
, he thought, as the missiles swept towards their targets, followed by the starfighters. 
But so did we
.

Theodore Smith’s
point defence went active, spewing hundreds of plasma bolts into space.  The missiles were surrounded by ECM - he was disconcerted to note that several of the missiles seemed to be nothing more than portable ECM generators - but there were so many plasma bolts that hitting
something
was almost inevitable.  Other ships added their own fire, hacking hundreds of missiles out of space.  Only a handful survived to enter terminal attack range and only one detonated, sending a bomb-pumped laser beam into the hull, before it was too late.

The giant carrier shuddered, violently.  “Direct hit, decks nine through twelve,” Sally snapped, as alerts flashed up on the display.  “I say again, direct hit!”

James had to resist the temptation to snap orders to the damage control parties.  It was Susan’s job to fight her ship, his to control the overall battle ... and yet, it was hard
not
to take command directly.  He understood, in a sudden flicker of insight, just how Admiral Smith had felt.  And
he’d
had the excuse of serving on
Ark Royal
for years before taking her into combat for the first time.

“Alert the starfighters,” he ordered.  The boarding pods were closing in, half-hidden behind a sheen of ECM.  “They are to press the offensive against the Indian ships.”

He watched the display, grimly, as it kept updating.  Thankfully, most of the faked ships had already been revealed ... although he had to admit it was possible that
some
captains were playing it
very
cool.  A couple had flickered and vanished, suggesting that the drones had finally given out under the strain.  The remainder of the Indian ships were firing again, hammering his ships with missiles; this time, they seemed to be launching standard missiles rather than their modified designs.

They must have been unable to produce more than a handful
, he thought.  Even if they
were
willing to gamble, they’d have been unable to afford them - and, of course, avoid the
Superiority
danger. 
And they risked them all here
.

“Admiral,” Sally said.  “
Petunia
is gone.”

James nodded.  The escort carriers were vital targets, particularly if the Indians couldn't get close to the fleet carrier.  They were too large to be agile, too small to be crammed with point defence.  The cold part of his mind noted that there would be no problem taking her starfighters on
Theodore Smith
; the rest of him was horrified at such callousness.  But then, death had been a part of his life ever since the last war.  The delusion that the universe was
safe
had killed far more people than anything else in human history.

“Dashing
is taking heavy damage,” she added.  “
Glasgow
has been crippled; her crew are abandoning ship ...”

She broke off for a long second.  “
Glasgow
has been destroyed, sir,” she warned.  “
Churchill
is requesting permission to withdraw.”

“Denied,” James said.  It was unlikely that the Indians would let her go - and, when she was away from the fleet, she would be an easy target.  “Continue driving them back.”

“Aye, sir,” Sally said.

***

The Indian starfighter buzzed up in front of her, shooting madly.  Flying Officer Harriet Monsey picked it off with a quick burst of plasma fire and drove onwards, heedless of the man or woman she’d just killed.  No one had been expecting a dogfight between rival starfighter forces, but
Teddy’s
crew were living up to their training.  The Indians, too, were fighting with a skill she rather wished they’d never developed.  Right now, a turkey shoot was starting to look like a damn good idea.

“Target destroyed,” Pearson snapped.  “We’ve a clear run!”

“Understood,” Harriet said.  Nine other starfighters were coming up behind them, weapons at the ready.  “Let’s go.”

The Indian cruiser was turning towards them as she led the charge into weapons range.  There was nothing wrong with her point defence, Harriet noted; the Indians opened fire the moment she came into effective range, forcing her to corkscrew randomly through the hail of fire to avoid being hit.  Their electronic servants would be doing everything they could to predict the starfighter’s trajectory and put a plasma bolt in her path; she jinked backwards and forwards, daring the enemy to score a direct hit.  A stream of plasma passed so close she saw it with her naked eye as she swooped down on the enemy hull; she bottomed out and opened fire, spraying plasma fire into the enemy ship.  Its armour was lighter than
Teddy’s
, she saw, but still good enough to ward off plasma bolts ...

Good thing it isn’t good enough to keep us from wiping out sensor blisters and weapons turrets
, she thought.  She'd had plenty of experience at snapping off shots at everything that might be a weapon, crippling the ship even if it could still run for its life. 
And here come the torpedo-bombers!

“The enemy are directing starfighters back to deal with us,” Pearson reported.  “Suggest we turn to engage them.”

“Wilco,” Harriet said.  Flying directly away from the cruiser was a risk, but the enemy crews had too much else to worry about.  A handful of plasma bolts chased her as she fled, none coming close enough to scorch her paint.  “We’ll go right at them.”

She smirked as the torpedo-bombers opened fire on the cruiser.  Their missiles were smaller than the giant weapons launched by capital ships, but they were designed to punch right through armour and explode inside the hull.  And, unlike a fleet carrier, the cruiser wasn't designed to take such an impact.  The cruiser staggered and exploded into debris.

“Scratch one cruiser,” the torpedo-bomber pilot jeered.  “I say again, scratch one cruiser.”

“Very good,” Harriet said.  The Indian starfighters were altering course, moving to protect their other ships.  She silently saluted them - their first impulse had probably been to tear into the torpedo-bombers - and gave chase.  “Now go kill yourself another one.”

She smiled as the Indians ran from her and her fellows, then swooped around and came back firing as they reached a destroyer.  The destroyer opened fire; it looked suspiciously as though they’d forgotten how to work their IFF systems.  Their fire was so wild that Harriet couldn't help wondering if they were just shooting at random.  It was sheer luck they didn't hit one of their own starfighters.

“This one is a little
too
enthusiastic,” Pearson said.  “He’s trying to take me up the butt.”

“Evidently he doesn't know anything about your disgusting bathroom habits,” Harriet said, as she swooped down on Pearson’s opponent.  The Indian hesitated too long, then flipped his craft over and tried to open fire on Harriet.  It was too late; she blew him apart before he could bring his weapons to bear.  “What a moron.”

“Good shooting,” Pearson said.  “I guess I owe you a life debt.  Can I be your slave tonight?”

“Well ... I
do
need someone to clean the deck, I suppose,” Harriet said.  It was
her
turn on deck-swabbing duty, although she had a feeling the CAG wouldn't insist on it, not after the battle.  “I’m sure everyone else will be happy to watch and jeer as you do it.”

“That wasn't what I meant,” Pearson protested.  He snapped off a shot at an Indian starfighter; the pilot evaded, only to run straight into a second shot.  “Got him!”

Harriet rolled her eyes, then watched as the torpedo-bombers closed in on the Indian destroyer.  The ship tried to turn away, but it was already too late; three missiles slammed into its hull and detonated inside the ship, blowing her into a colossal fireball.  She blasted a starfighter that was trying to escape and then looked around for new targets.  The remainder of the Indian fleet was launching yet another spread of missiles towards the task force.  They were already travelling too fast for her to intercept them.

“We need to rearm,” Flying Officer Mulligan reported.  “We buried our last torpedo in that ship.”

“Get back to
Teddy
and reload,” Harriet ordered.  She glanced at her display.  One definite advantage of the newer Hurricane starfighters was that they had nearly twice the endurance of the older models.   “We’ll try and make life easier for you.”

“Understood,” Mulligan said.  “Good luck.”

Harriet looked around for another target.  An Indian frigate was turning towards the battle, its weapons already tracking the starfighters.  They probably wouldn't be able to take the ship out without the torpedo-bombers, but they could strip her of her point defence and sensors, leaving her blind and helpless.  She smirked at the thought, then gunned her engine.  Pearson and the rest of the squadron followed her as she led the way towards the new target.

“Take this one out alone and the CAG will be your slave,” Pearson offered.

“I think he’ll have shit duty for you when you get back,” Harriet reminded him.  “You do realise the press is listening, don’t you?”

She had to bite her lip to keep from giggling.  People who weren't pilots didn't appreciate pilot humour - or the attitude that every moment should be savoured, if only because death could come at any second.  Pearson’s wit - or what passed for wit - would probably lead to questions in Parliament.  Or another edition of
Starfighter Pilots Gone Wild
.