First Casualty (15 page)

Whatever the crew thought of the idea, they were too blown to do more than let out the breath they'd been holding. Mattim's knees were shaking; he felt like collapsing. Since he was already sitting, he settled for swallowing hard and tackling a long list of things left to do. “Well done, XO, very well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” Now that the battle was over, Ding looked pale. She made no effort to rise either. Someone's teeth were chattering. One of the guards. Ding sent him to sick bay.

“Captain has the conn. Thor, get us headed back to station. I imagine the admiral's disappointed that we're out of line. Sparky, any traffic from the flag?”

“We've been getting a steady flow of message traffic, each sharper than the one before. I'm only required to pass messages along to you within ten minutes. Allowance for if you're in the head and stuff like that. The first one was four minutes ago.”

“Thanks for not jiggling our elbow. Anything I need to know?”

“No, sir, just get back in formation.”

“Pass it to my day cabin. I'll use it for bedtime reading tonight. Captain off.” He turned to Ding. “You'd think the bastard has better uses for his time.” Mattim shook his head and got back to business. “Sandy, where are the hostiles?”

“Decelerating, sir, pulling back into orbit.”

“And our guys?”

“Decelerating, too.”

“Helm, put us on course to rejoin the squadron.”

The prodigal son was not welcomed back. Mattim suspected the admiral would have relieved him where he sat, but there was no one on board who didn't share in his high crimes and misdemeanors and no way to transfer anyone. The squadron decelerated, facing backward as they accepted ELM0129-4's powerful tether. To Mattim, it looked like the
Sheffield
was now the head of the line. He doubted the admiral shared his view.

With things reasonably settled down, Mattim released half the crew for a quick chow. Many needed a change of underwear or to clean up from burp bag overflows. The mechanics of orbits guaranteed them time. Gunners went about lavishing care on their lasers the way few had ever shown a significant other.

While some of the damage control crews carried sandwiches to the gun crews and engineering, the hull and armor team waited for the course to settle in, then sent squat robots out to examine the one large gash in the
Sheffield
's armor. Insulated lines began showering a mist into the hole, slowly packing it with ice, less dense ice, but armor nevertheless.

Mattim got his team on net. “Guns, great going. The enemy flag will remember us. Engineering, solid performance. Sandy , you were wonderful on sensors. Okay, we done great. We've got an hour before we meet those bastards again. What do we need?”

“Guns is ready” was all Commander Howard had to say.

“Sensors are undamaged. I've got a couple of antennas that have been shaken up a bit by all the jostling, probably bum connectors, but I don't see us fixing them any time soon.”

“Skipper”—Ivan's gravel voice had somehow gotten even lower—”we've done a lot of bouncing around, changing acceleration and the like. It's been a major drain on our reaction mass. I also don't think the stuff we last took on has anywhere near the density required by Navy specs.”

“How far down are we, Ivan?”

“Forty percent. Normally I wouldn't worry, but if we have a few more hours like the last, we could end up limping back.”

“Assuming we were in one piece.” Sandy scowled.

“Guns, suggestions?”

“Book says you must refuel at fifty percent, 'barring unavoidable circumstances,' whatever those may be.”

“Comm, send to flag,
Sheffield
at sixty percent fuel state. However, reaction mass is not at required density, request fuel scoop.”

“Yes sir, sending.”

“If we're all heading for fifty percent, why hasn't Smiley laid on a fuel scoop pass?” Mattim asked.

Once again, his XO seemed reluctant to offer an opinion. “Guns,” she said.

“Skipper, data would seem to indicate he's made up his mind, one more firing pass, then we head for the jump.”

“Bit obvious, aren't we?” Sandy drawled.

“I fear so,” answered Guns. “Possibly to our detriment.”

“Comm here, Captain. Flag says maintain station. Fuel state not critical.”

“Why am I not surprised? Thanks, comm.” Mattim leaned back in his chair. “Any suggestions?”

Heads nodded on the bridge. The net was silent. “Okay. I'm the captain of this ship and ultimately responsible for its safety. I read that somewhere. Helm, captain has the conn. Break from formation and do a fuel scoop pass. Use whatever fuel is necessary to get us down and back in one hundred seventy degrees of orbit.”

“Laying in course. We'll need some three gees deceleration, sir.”

“Give the crew five minutes warning.” Mattim again tapped his comm link. “Comm, flag will be sending us more of the same messages. Pass them to my day cabin ... uh, unless he threatens to shoot us. Pass that one direct to me.”

The fuel pass was smartly done. The flag, while frequently sending its displeasure, stopped short of shooting. As they climbed up, Sandy studied her boards.

“Skipper, I think I've found one missing destroyer.”

“Where?”

“She's on a high, elliptical orbit. Active on radar and lasers. She's got us and squawking. What she knows, the rest of those bastards know.”

“Pass it along to the flag, if they'll let us get a word in edgewise. Comm, put this on a broad beam. Make sure all the squadron picks this up.”

“Yes, sir. Sending.”

Mattim leaned back in his chair. “So, they know where we are and we got no idea what's up behind this big ice ball. Ding, Guns, any ideas of what you'd be doing?”

“They put on a lot of acceleration during that firing pass,” the XO mused slowly. “They'll be high this time around, probably diving for a scoop sun, maybe? Guns?”

“Agree with the high part. Not so sure about the scoop. That would depend on their fuel state. They seemed to be coining up from one last orbit. Unless he's neurotic about fuel, I'd skip it this pass. Captain, sorry we can't be more help. The skunks will be high and either coming down to our orbit or diving for a scoop.”

“If they're high, when will Sandy catch them?”

“After the rest of the squadron. Remember, we're low.”

“Hate to depend on the flag for anything.” Mattim rubbed his jaw. “Comm, send to
Aurora
on tight beam. Mattim to Buzz. We're low, let us know when you topside folks spot something.”

“Sending.” There was a momentary pause. “Buzz says he'll look sharp.” They waited. Damage control reported all repairs made. Even one of Sandy 's cable runs was replaced. Things were looking up. “Comm here.
Aurora
sends 'Hostiles in sight,' and passes their sensor picture to us.”

“Sandy?”

“Got it. They're high, heading for our level. That's strange. We ought to be getting an angle on their bow at this distance in orbit, but they're keeping straight bow on to us.”

“No change in formation. The three cans are a bit further ahead, six cruisers behind in line. One of the cans is radiating. Just what you'd expect,” Ding concluded.

“Matt, I'm not so sure,” Sandy cut in. “This is all radar returns. Nobody's using gravity sensors.”

“How soon until we get a look?” Mattim asked.

“Should acquire the picture in ninety seconds.” Sandy answered. They waited. As the enemy line swung into sight, Sandy went active. “I got 'em—radar, visual, and gravity. They may be head-on to the rest, but they ain't to us. The two big bastards are in front acting like destroyers, and they got another cruiser with them! The cans are in rear formation this time!”

Mattim mashed his comm link. “Send our board to the flag.”

“Doing it, sir.”

“Any reply?”

“No, sir.”

For five long minutes the squadron continued in line ahead, the
Sheffield
playing catch-up.

At forty thousand klicks, the enemy's lead ships did nothing as a destroyer would. The flag's targeting lasers came on, sweeping past the lead ships to concentrate on the six in line. “He doesn't believe us,” Sandy muttered. From their perspective they could see the lead cruisers swinging around, keeping their narrow face to the squadron.

At thirty thousand klicks the
Reply
opened up on the lead “cruiser” in line. The two leading colonial “destroyers” were at less than twenty-five thousand klicks when they pinned the
Reply
in their combined beams. Hit, the
Reply
threw water like a fire hose and twisted out of line—toward the enemy.

The other cruisers of the squadron tried to take the new target under fire, but it took time to change firing solutions, especially at maximum range. Thirty seconds later, all three colonial cruisers snapped out at the
Reply
. Again she shed steam. It looked like her wobbling might jink her out of the lasers' paths. It didn't. The
Reply
burned.

“Guns, we in range of a target?” Mattim snarled.

“Not as close as I want to be.”

“Get their attention.”

“Fire.”

Lights dimmed. Arrows reached out from one electronic icon to spear another. Mattim steadied himself for the shock of return fire. The closest enemy was a light cruiser; it did not respond. For the last few seconds, it had been firing at will. Now it fell silent. Mattim checked the chronometer. Thirty seconds since the heavies last fired.

The enemy line lit up. It reached out, pinned the
Reply
in its focus, slammed it with all the power of bitter humanity. The flag expanded, gas shooting off in jets and streams.

Then it blew.

Chunks of hull rode the expanding gas out toward the stars. The explosion turned out and in and then was gone. Where a ship and six hundred people had been—nothing.

“Guns, pour everything we've got, mains and secondaries, into that cruiser. Get her attention. Don't let her do that again.”

“Roger, Skipper. Can you get me more power?”

“Ivan, we aren't at high gees. Feed the guns.”

“I got backup cables to the midship batteries. I'll feed them off ship's power. Next time they recharge, I'll switch.”

“You hear that, Guns?” Mattim checked to make sure.

“Got it. Just a second. Just a second.” Light stabbed out from the
Sheffield
, reaching for the other ship as it turned its weapons on the
Significant
.

“Damn, they're going to do it again,” Mattim snarled.

“Ivan, give me the juice,” Guns shouted.

“On the way.”

The four-inch lasers reached out, raking the cruiser, boiling off patches of the surface ice. When next
Sheffield's
six-inchers spoke, they stabbed at the already warm ice. Slush streamed off into space, leaving fantastic patterns in the cruiser's wake.

“We better start jinking,” Ding said.

“Do it. XO has the conn,” answered Mattim.

They dodged left as the cruiser fired—at them. Light streamed harmlessly by to port. Mattim hoped Pringle was grateful for the help.

“Good call, Ding.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard.

Now the XO danced with the enemy cruiser. She'd hold the
Sheffield
steady on a zig while their battery unloaded energy. Then, as the tenth second since the enemy last fired approached, she'd jink. Three times she dodged the lancing light. Three times the
Sheffield
slashed and cut at the

enemy's frozen armor. Some of what streamed behind the cruiser was not steam or ice.

“We've peeled her,” Guns shouted. Ding ordered a dodge-up, but no fire came. As she turned to the helm to order a second jink, the enemy battery stretched out to them.

The
Sheffield
shuddered, but held to her spin. By the time Thor started the jink, the fire ceased. “Damn,” Ding snapped. “Guns, when's your next volley?”

“Soon as we're charged.”

“Hold the one after that for closest approach.”

“Will do.”

Four long seconds passed. The four-inchers slashed out every two or three seconds. Then the big lasers spat. As soon as the light blinked out, Ding started talking.

“Helm, port thrusters, one one thousand, two one thousand. Low thrusters, one one thousand, two one thousand. Starboard thrusters, one one ...” The enemy cruiser's lasers passed harmlessly to starboard. Two tried to track in to where the
Sheffield
was, but winked out as they touched ice.

“You did it, Commander.”