Eleven
April 2252

New Albion

Mostly hidden in the tall grass, an open Navy drop boat stood empty under the stars.  A faint trail, visible only to a trained tracker, led away to the north.  At the end of the trail, already six kilometers away from the empty boat, three figures trotted north.  The heavy packs on their backs slowed them not at all.

Leading the group was Master Gunnery Sergeant Gregory Smith, Confederate Marines.  Following him was Gunnery Sergeant Tinker Morris, a recent transfer from the United Kingdom’s Special Air Service, and in the rear ran First Lieutenant Mark Jerrold, Honors Graduate of the first class of the Confederate Marines Force Recon School.

“Ell-tee,” ‘Gunny’ Smith called over his shoulder.  “Brightening up some.  Reckon sunrise in about half an hour.”

The lieutenant pulled a tiny device from the cargo pocket of his fatigue pants, pressed a contact.  “There should be a stream about half a klick ahead.  We’ll stop there and belly-up until nightfall.”

“Good deal, sir.”

The guerrillas they were to contact could only be in the thin strip of forest at the edge of the Crow Ridge range.  The Marines planned to find cover and hide until the next evening, and cover the rest of the distance to the mountains the following night.  How they would find the guerrillas after that remained to be seen.

The Orleans Task Group

“Message for you, Admiral.”  A young Ensign handed Admiral Gauss a message form.  He took the plastic pad, placed his thumbprint on the edge, and read the scrolling text quickly.

“Humph.”  He turned to the Combat Information Center Tactical Action Officer.  “Commander, send to all ships, prepare for formation subspace jump in ten minutes.”  He walked over to the Tactical holo-display.  “Set up standard battle group formation, with the Mountain View sixty klicks behind the flagship, the Cairo, Reuben James and Perry stay with the carrier.  I want the Dallas, the Bob Pritchard and the MacKee sixty klicks to our front in a standard pyramid formation with the cruiser at the twelve o’clock.”

“Course, sir?”

The Admiral punched up a display of the Fortune system.  Fortune was a new world, only opened to colonization three years earlier, but it was a prize indeed, rich in minerals, petroleum products, and plant life, a pleasant world of open forests, beaches, and temperate oceans. 

“Right here,” the Admiral pointed at the symbol representing Fortune.  “A Grugell Occupation ship escorted by three cruisers just entered the Fortune system.  A listening droid on an asteroid six AU’s out from Fortune orbit picked them up as they entered the system’s ecliptic, and they’ll make orbit in about sixteen hours.  We should be there about ten hours after that.”  He punched up a course track.  “We’ll come in from south of the ecliptic, and use the system’s big gas giant as cover.  They won’t know we’re around until we’re already on their sixes.”

“I’ll get the course plots out to the Task Group.” The Commander grinned.  “Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it sir?”

The Shade Tree

A quick pass to the edge of New Albion’s atmosphere had disposed of the drop boat, after which the Shade Tree retreated to the shelter of the system’s sole gas giant.

“Give me a weapons count,” Captain Barrett snapped, for the third time that morning.

“Six Shrikes, Captain, two magnetic mines, particle beam projectors charged and operational.”  The Bridge crew was under enormous stress; the sensor suite gave almost constant warnings as Grugell drive fields crisscrossed the system.

“Where’s that big Occupation ship?”

“Still orbiting New Albion, Captain,” Indira Krishnavarna called out.  “I don’t expect it will be going anywhere, will it?  I should think it is providing logistical support for their troops on the planet.”  Krishnavarna was using a new toy, added on to the Shade Tree in the Tarbos spacedock.  Three tiny, unmanned reconnaissance drones – the Navy called them ‘proxies’ – were serving as the Shade Tree’s eyes and ears closer to the inhabited planet.

“It would sure help those people on the planet if we could take out that Occupation ship, wouldn’t it?”

The Weapons tech, Orlando Taylor, spoke up.  “It would that, Captain, but I don’t see how we’ll get close enough without them detecting us – and I’m not sure six Shrikes will be enough, anyway.  That’s one hell of a big ship.” 

“One of those mines might.  Those are 1-megatonne nukes.”  The Navy didn’t know the Shade Tree had those, and Captain Barrett wasn’t about to reveal her source for that sort of hardware.

“But we’d have to get it into New Albion orbit.”

“Yeah.”  Barrett snapped her fingers.  “Didn’t we hear something about the Orleans engagement, something about the tactical fighters being too small for the Grugell to pick up?”

“Yes,” Krishnavarna confirmed.  “But we’re a lot bigger than an A-66, Captain.  And I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve recalibrated their scanners to pick up small craft now – they lost a cruiser to fighters from the Mountain View that time.”

“We still have a spare parts kit for that drop boat, don’t we?”

“We do indeed, Captain.”  Weapons tech Taylor frowned.  “But what…”

“There are spare solid-fuel maneuvering thrusters in that kit, right?”

“There are, Captain,” Taylor replied, grinning widely now.

“Indira, are you still monitoring that type II comet that’s inbound?”

“Yes, Captain, but it’s going to pass way away from New Albion – it’s really pretty in the night sky right now, but that’s about all.”

“That’s enough.  We’re going to use it.  We’ve got three days before we have to head back to Tarbos, if we want to get our bonus.  Let’s make use of it to do something besides hide behind this damn gas giant and record drive signatures.  Indira, recall one of your proxies; you’ll have to make do with two until we get back to Tarbos.  Orlando, call your relief to the Bridge.  You and I are going to modify one of those mines.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Weapons tech replied.

The Orleans Task Group

One of the Orleans’ quirks was a slight, ship-wide flutter when it was decelerating out of subspace.  The flutter always caused Admiral Gauss an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, and never more so than now, when they were expecting to emerge only a few kilometers away from a Grugell task group.  And with any luck, the Grugell would have their attention on the planet Fortune.

“Approaching subspace now,” Captain Jensen intoned.  “All stations report battle stations manned and ready.”  The Admiral had called the task group to General Quarters a half-hour earlier.  Around the Admiral and his ever –present Chief of Staff, the flagship’s CIC was quiet as a tomb, essential conversations were carried out in anticipatory whispers.  “Entering normal space in five, four, three, two, one – normal space!”

A thousand or so kilometers away, there hung the three-kilometer, gleaming silver bulb of a Grugell Occupation ship, looming rapidly larger as the Orleans closed.

“Launch Lancers!” the Tactical Officer barked.

Four six-meter Lancer missiles burst from bays on the Orleans’ flank.  The flagship was decelerating hard, the thrum of the Gellar drive rumbling underfoot as the mass tunnel fought to slow the ship.  The missiles accelerated away, homing on the unsuspecting Occupation ship. 

Larger, faster and longer-ranged than the fighter-borne Shrikes, each Lancer carried a fifty-kiloton fission warhead.  The first pair hit the Occupation ship at the very aft portion of the main hull, blossoming into sun-bright bursts even as the second pair flashed through to burst against the forward portion of the Grugell ship, obliterating it in a flash of nuclear flame.

“That’s a kill,” someone shouted on the Orleans’ CIC. 

“Settle down!” Admiral Gauss barked.  “Did you think we couldn’t hit something that big?  Tactical, where are the rest of them?”

“Searching now, sir.  Something at two o’clock high…  Looks like a Grugell cruiser, sir, showing turn to starboard, he’s turning in towards us, range sixteen hundred kilometers and closing.  Another ship at three o’clock – belay that, sir, three ships at three o’clock, five more at eleven o’clock low, in lower orbit.”

“Send the Dallas group that way, tell them to engage with missiles.  Watch for fire from cloaked ships.  Signals, start the Task Group on a one-minute countdown, I want all ships to be ready to accelerate back to subspace at one minute from this mark.”

“Sir, the Mountain View?”

“Tell them not to launch fighters.  Not yet.  We took out the Occupation ship, but we’re outnumbered eight ways to hell.  Hit and run time, folks.”

The Orleans shook once, hard.  “Incoming fire, sir, unknown source.  Tracking back now.”

“Targeting particle beams,” Tactical called out. 

“Targeting on what, exactly?”  The Admiral’s voice was deceptively calm.

“Source of the fire, sir, you can detect them for just a moment when they power weapons… There!  There!  Target that emission and fire!”

A shimmering line of force shot from the Orleans port forward emitter, playing in an arc around the detected location of an anti-proton projector.  A flash of sparks and a puff of flame announced a hit.

“He’s moving off – trailing gases and plasma.”

“Let him go,” the Tactical Officer ordered.  “Secure emitter.  Scanning, keep your attention forward.  Forty seconds left.”

Beneath their feet, the rumble of the Gellar drive increased as the battle cruiser accelerated again, straining for the Subspace transit.

“Admiral, you’ll want to look at this.  The Dallas group is romping and stomping, sir.”

Gauss leaned to look over a Chief Petty Officer’s shoulder at a scanner tank.  The Dallas and her two accompanying frigates had romped into the vanguard of a Grugell formation consisting of two cruisers and a frigate and launched no fewer than ten Lancer missiles; the Grugell ships were exploding like milkweed pods on a windy day back in Admiral Gauss’ native Iowa.

“Sir, the carrier and her escorts are gone back into subspace, ten seconds early.  Reuben James shows minor damage.  Dallas group is jumping…  And there we go,” the Scanning station petty announced, watching his display turn to hash as the battle cruiser leaped back into the surreal world of subspace.

“Well,” Admiral Gauss observed.  “That was a hell of a show.  Now, let’s get to our rally point.  We’ve got another hit to prepare for.”

New Albion

“OK, we’re coming in right behind the comet,” Indira Krishnavarna pointed out, unnecessarily – the Shade Tree’s entire Bridge watch was watching on the ship’s main screen.

What the screen showed was a faint luminous glow; the cannibalized proxy scanner now riding the front of a thermonuclear mine relayed the image.  A nudge now and then from a pair of solid fuel maneuvering thruster made course corrections as needed, but Indira Krishnavarna’s initial trajectory calculation had been close enough to require little correction.

“Ten minutes to targeting burn,” the Scanning tech announced.  Jean Barrett glanced at the Bridge chronometer, trying to force the numbers to click past faster by force of will.

“Five minutes.”

Barrett shifted in her Bridge chair, kicking off her sandals and curling both legs under her.  She frowned at the screen.  The glow had brightened somewhat as the mine gained on the comet.

“This just might work,” the Weapons tech announced.  He was looking at a small screen on his panel tuned to one of the remaining intact proxies, which was keeping an eye on the Occupation ship.  “The bad guy is motoring along just as he has been for the last two days, regular high orbit.”

“It’ll work,” Captain Barrett muttered.

“One minute.  Initiating gyro realignment.”

“Go, baby, go,” Barrett whispered.  On the big screen, the view changed as the mine rotated slowly; through the faint, hazy glow the massive form of the Grugell Occupation ship moved into view.

“Cruiser behind them,” Barrett noted.

“Time.  Initiating burn.”  Krishnavarna’s hand stabbed down on a stud.  A few seconds later, the haze disappeared as the mine moved out of the comet’s tail and accelerated.

“No reaction from the target.  Mine is on course.  Sixteen minutes.”

Captain Barrett went back to scowling at the chronometer.  The minutes ticked away with agonizing sloth as, on the screen, the image of the Occupation ship swelled to dominate the screen.

“Five minutes.”

Barrett got up and began to pace.

“Two minutes.  Still no reaction from the target.  The cruiser’s just tooling along about five hundred meters to their aft port side – even money says the nuke gets them both.”

“One minute.”

“If you start counting seconds, I may just blow you out the sally port,” Barrett snapped.  The crew exchanged grins.

“And there we go!”  The main screen flashed to a scattered pattern of random interference. 

“Switch to the proxy,” Barrett ordered.  The image on the main screen fluttered once, finally resolving on a view of an expanding cloud of gas and rubble.  At the top of the screen, the Grugell cruiser wallowed, trying to regain drive control with one drive pod knocked off.  A trail of gas sparkled in the light from New Albion’s sun.

“We didn’t quite kill the cruiser, but that Occupation ship is history.”

“More’s the pity,” Barrett said.  “Still.  That ought to give the people on the ground a break, anyway.  Indira, recall your proxy.  Helm, bring us about, head south out of the system’s ecliptic, ahead full.  Navs, get us a course to Tarbos.  We’ve still got to collect our bonus.”

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.