First Casualty (16 page)

She didn't seem to hear Mattim's praise. Her eyes were locked on the hostile cruiser as they closed the final distance. They couldn't be more than three thousand kilometers out. “Helm, prepare to rotate ship. Keep nose to hostile.”

“Aye, aye, Commander.”

“Guns?”

“Ready.”

“Helm, rotate now.” As they passed, the
Sheffield
spun on her central axis, keeping her armored hull between the enemy and the vulnerable engines. The enemy spun too—a second too late.

One of the four-inchers stabbed into the giant bell of a rocket engine. With power no longer equally applied, the ship wobbled, presenting more of its vulnerable rear. Two six-inchers stabbed into engineering spaces. Out of control, the ship cartwheeled.

“Sweet Lord,” Sandy breathed.

“Have mercy,” Ding finished.

“Check fire, check fire,” Guns shouted. “Recharge and switch fire to the target I designate.” The next four-inch reached out for the nearest cruiser -the enemy flag.

It was rotating, covering its engines from the one surviving heavy cruiser. A
Sheffield
four-incher nipped an engine, but the resulting spin twisted the flag's fantail away. When the six-inchers spoke, it was to ice and steam. Mattim checked their first target. Its twisting was slowing, as was the defensive spin. It coasted, struggling to put things right before risking power. Its guns were silent.

Our flagship blown to pieces, one enemy light cruiser wrecked. Quite a battle. Now let's get the hell out of here.

That seemed foremost on everyone's mind. All the ships were flipped now, falling backward away from each other. Fire was desultory. Maybe lasers were hot, maybe engineers had chewed their nails enough, watching reactors dip deep into the red. Maybe a lot of things. A breathless peace hung between the ships as they receded out of range.

“Message from the
Significant
, Captain. Assuming command. All ships make best speed for Beta jump.
Sheffield
, appreciate taking the pressure off me. You are best fueled, and best shooting. Continue rear guard station. Independent movement authorized. Godspeed and good luck. Pringle -ends.”

“Gee, thanks,” Mattim breathed.

“Should I send that reply?”

“No, comm, send 'Thank you and good luck to all.'“ Mattim went quickly on to what had to be done for what lay ahead. “Ding, Guns, Sandy, Ivan, we've done such a good job we get to stay in this hell a bit longer.”

“I keep telling you, boss.” Sandy was not smiling. “All get for doing a good job is a worse one.”

“Point taken. Captain has the conn. Thor, put us in line behind the squadron. Ivan, Guns, how do things look? Can you join me in my day cabin for a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir,” they answered him. Mattim stretched; it felt good to be alive. “How long before we see the colonials again, Sandy ?”

“Thirty-five minutes or so.”

“Ding, I want coffee and sandwiches in my cabin for us.” “Quartermaster, have a runner lay down to the galley and get us sandwiches and a couple pitchers of coffee.” “Aye, aye, ma'am.”

* * * *

Sergeant Mary Rodrigo had forgotten how good a warm shower felt. By the time she got back to the supply truck, it was loaded. There were hostiles in the system, but their rocks had landed well away from the base, deceived by the noisemakers her platoon had put out. The Navy pukes had finally got the colonial ships off the marines' backsides. It was a good time to sleep ... so she did.

Seven

Mattim was exhausted, terrified, and damn proud of his crew. They'd taken
Sheffield
to the gates of hell and not only survived but done good. At least one enemy light cruiser would not be nipping at their heels as they bugged out. As the command staff wandered into his day cabin, Mattim was glad to see he wasn't the only one with weak knees. Even Guns was a bit uneven on his feet before he sank into a stuffed chair.

Settled around the coffee table, the Navy types ladled heaping spoonfuls of sugar into their coffee. When Sandy and Ivan followed suit, Mattim broke his usual practice. His tongue found the coffee overly sweet; his body appreciated the jolt. His first sandwich gone, Mattim sat back. “What do we face?”

“A day-long running gunfight,” Guns growled, “with them gunning and us running.”

“We'll be a couple of hundred thousand klicks away from each other when we break orbit,” Sandy observed. “It ought to take most of the trip to close the range.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” the XO observed. “They know we're running for the jump. They know we want to get there fast, but have to bleed off speed before we pass through. They'll send ships clipping across our sterns, aiming for our engines. We can do a lot of things, but change course is not one of them.”

“Skipper,” Guns observed, “all bets are off for today. They'll do whatever they can to damage us, cut us off from each other, turn this into a rout where they can pick off strays one at a time. We've got to hold together.”

That turned out to be tougher than expected.

* * * *

The
Significant
ordered the squadron to 3.5 gees acceleration as soon as they left orbit. As the ships accelerated, something big flew off the
Significant
.

“Damn, her armor's caving.” Ding scowled.

The new lead ship sidestepped out of the column even as communications buzzed Mattim. “
Significant
unable to accelerate above two gees. The rest of the squadron is to continue at three point five gees.
Significant
will take rear guard. Godspeed and good luck.”

“And be cut to pieces,” Ding predicted.

Mattim rang up hull and armor. “How solid is that patch you put on us?”

“Readouts say it's clinging tight as my college boyfriend.”

“Can she trust her readouts?” Mattim asked Ding.

She winced. “Probably. Navy's done its best to understand ice, but it's still ice—with a mind of its own at times.”

“Comm, send to
Significant
. '
Sheffield
will guide on you.'“

“Matt.” Sandy turned in her chair. “Is this a good idea?”

The trader in Mattim certainly agreed it wasn't. Another part, the one that came with the star of a Navy line officer on his shoulder boards, said yes. He glanced at Ding. She nodded slowly, her face a mask. “We've got the extra reaction mass. The rest don't. They can't. We can. Therefore, we must.”

Comm beeped. “Flag says thanks. Operate as you will.”

With a deep breath, Mattim prepared to do just that.

The opening gambits were simple. A light cruiser and two destroyers shot across their stern, only halfheartedly threatening as they covered for two cruisers that came out of orbit a lot slower and headed for the other jump point. The two cans came on fast and shooting—too fast. Their missiles had trouble adjusting, and most went wild. The
Sheffield
evaded and destroyed her three while helping
Significant
gun down her five. The
Aurora
got clipped by a near-miss explosion. One of her engines had to be taken off line, and a second to keep acceleration balanced.

As the enemy destroyers edged over to join the exiting cruisers, Buzz's cruiser slowly fell behind the others. “Figured I'd join the crippled division,” he quipped to Mattim, as he matched
Significant's
acceleration.

“Gives us a good concentration of fire,” Mattim answered with cheer he didn't feel.

“Not bad,” Guns drawled. “We mangled two cruisers, and they detached a third and a pair of tin cans to escort them out. Odds are down to two superheavies and a light cruiser to our heavy and two light cruisers.”

For the next long hours, the two opposing lines accelerated out and drew inexorably closer. The lead half of the squadron reached flip-over a good five hours ahead of the trailing units. The colonials seemed content to let them escape; the three remaining enemy cruisers matched their acceleration to
Sheffield
.

Mattim did not waste the time; he hoped Buzz and Pringle kept their crew as active as he did his. At two gees there were problems, and the inevitable casualties. Still, Mattim made sure his armor was in as good a shape as it could be. He took acceleration down to one gee long enough to mend a few cables, then took the ship up to three gees to verify it could still take it. The
Significant
and
Aurora
slowed to one gee with him. So did the colonials. Who made the best use of the time?

“Folks, I want ideas,” Mattim told his bridge crew.

Guns pursed his lips. “Ever play chicken as a kid?”

“Nope,” Mattim answered.

“They know where we're going, and about when we'll get there. They got reach on us. We need a surprise.”

Sandy looked at her fingers. “We loaded a dozen big rocks.”

“Relativity bombs,” Guns shook his head. “Throw a rock fast enough and you can get quite a boom when you hit a planet. But the relative velocity between us and the colonials is pretty low, and the odds of a dumb rock hitting aren't that good. We don't have an accelerator on board, anyway.”

“If we threw a lot of little rocks, we'd have a better chance. And sand on a laser lens ...”Sandy shrugged.

“Is not my idea of fun,” Guns finished for her.

“We've got plenty of ice,” Ding added.

“Ivan, how long to rig a slingshot?” Mattim asked, careful to keep the excitement from his voice. The damn colonial 9.2-inchers had double his range. If he could make their life miserable, he wanted to.

“A few hours. Not quite the rail gun you Navy folks use, but good enough. I'll need one gee to work in.”

“I'll go to three point five gees now. Let me know when you're ready. Who can grind me up some rocks?”

“I'll take care of that,” Ding said.

“Let's do it,” Mattim ordered.

No message came from Buzz or Pringle as they fell away from
Sheffield
. Two hours later, the
Sheffield
went to one gee. In the time it took to rig the magnetic sling, create and load bullets for it, and set everything up for loading at high gee, Mattim caught up with the two ships.

“Glad to have you back,” Buzz called.

“Had a few things needed doing,” Mattim answered.

The colonials had slowed, falling a bit aft of the
Significant’s
rocket engines. Not a solid up-the-kilt shot, but too damn close. Pringle swung the group a few degrees closer to the enemy and away from the jump point. Now he adjusted course, paralleling the colonial fleet and keeping their fan-tails angled enough away from the enemy. At five hours to jump, the two columns were forty thousand klicks apart—in range of the 9.2-inchers.

* * * *

The dance with death was joined.

The enemy light cruiser cut deceleration, sliding to cut across the
Significant’s
rear. Mattim cut deceleration too, surging ahead of his mates. The colonial quickly realized if he held his course,
Sheffield
would be in a place to blast his own vulnerable rear. For several minutes they traded shots; then the colonial edged back'toward the others. Mattim held his position.

“Well done,”
Significant
sent.

It continued that way, one of the colonial cruisers trying to edge around them, drop behind them, force them into a compromised position. The three Navy ships dodged, zigged, zagged, and otherwise went the way they had to, all the time keeping the jump point their final goal. The 9.2-inchers kept their fire slow and deliberate—every two or three minutes. Most shots went wide. They could afford to bide their time.

At thirty-five thousand klicks, Mattim waited until the heavies fired, then swung his fantail around and tossed out a couple of ice and dust bullets to where the colonial line should be in an hour.

“Sir, isn't it a bit early?” Ding half asked.

“Yes, but the real surprise isn't what we've got. It's what he's willing to do about them.” At thirty thousand klicks, Mattim launched another six, then blew the first collection of dust, gravel, and ice into puffy clouds. The next 9.2-inch broadside showed bright yellow as it passed through the thin collection. It got the colonials' attention. Five minutes later, their secondary battery began random firings, hunting for the extent of the crud, trying to sweep it out of the way. They must have missed at least one big fragment. Just before they were due for another broadside, the enemy flag lit up amidships.

Ding grinned. “Looks like a turret hit. With luck they'll be fighting a major electrical fire for a while.”

It was ten minutes before the next enemy salvo.

The closer they drew to the jump, the slower time passed.

Waiting for the big lasers to reach out got to be worse than dodging them. Minutes became hours.

“I'm gonna quit jinking after the next shot,” Ding muttered. When that salvo missed, she settled the ship on a steady course, eyes glued to the chronometer. Twenty-nine seconds slid by. “Up thrusters,” she said a fraction of a second before the colonials broke with their practice and fired as soon as they were loaded.

“Tricked ya.” Ding grinned ... and settled the
Sheffield
on a steady course. She had the computer generate a random series of ones, twos, threes and occasional fours. Still, she chose where in the random numbers to start the sequence, and when to jump around in the order. “With my life, and the ship, I don't trust a computer,” she muttered.

Mattim could only agree.

After each colonial salvo, he'd swing the ship around to bring the sling to bear, and toss a few more packets across the enemy course. The angle was carefully chosen. If the enemy kept their deceleration even with Mattim's, or swung away, the chances of a hit would drop. For the next half hour, their secondaries continued to sweep their course, and they continued to close.

“Damn, it's gonna be tight,” Ding whispered.

Then everything changed.

* * * *

The enemy flag wobbled, then cut its deceleration to 1.5 gees. “We nipped another engine,” Ding crowed. “The flag's falling ahead. The other two look to be holding their course. We'll be rid of the flag in a half hour, but until then, she'll be getting a better angle on our sterns.”

To Mattim, this looked like a hell of a situation, or a golden opportunity. “Guns, you got any suggestions?”

“We got reaction mass. We got the best damn shooting I've ever heard of. I'm getting bloody damn tired of doing it their way. We can sit here on our hands, Skipper, dodging, or we can give them something to send them on their way.”

“One for you Navy folks' history book.”

“Yes sir,” Guns grinned.

Mattim glanced around his bridge. Ding was grinning and breathing hard. At the helm, Thor's eyes were fixed on the board, hands on the controls, ready to answer orders. The kids around the bridge looked scared, but ready. Sandy swiveled to face him. If there was any mature judgment left, it was hers. She hated war and all that went with it. “How much maneuvering room *do we have at three gees?” he asked. She could squelch any cowboying around with one sentence: We'll miss the jump point.

Sandy reached behind her, tapped her board, and a red dot with an expanding yellow cone appeared on the main viewer. “That assumes the jump point hasn't moved. I'm not in sensor range yet.”

Mattim studied the screen, projected the enemy course on it. Weighed his own options, men mashed his comm button. “This is the captain. We've dinged the enemy flagship and she's falling out of line. Still, she can cause our friends trouble in the next few minutes. Alternately, we can cause them a lot of trouble. With a little bit of luck, we can run the other two colonials right out of range of our ships. We got the reaction mass, and our shooting's been hot. Strap down, folks, for the ride of your life.” He took his finger off the comm button. “Exec, put us on a course to close with their flag.”

It took the colonials five minutes and two salvos at the
Significant
before they realized
Sheffield
was headed for them with a bone in her teeth. The dance turned into a mad cavort. Ding would dodge a salvo then swing around and use full thrust toward the enemy. At twenty-two-thousand klicks, Guns began to reply to the enemy salvos with contemptuous single shots—that scored!