Alarm of War

“The Duck ships have cleared, Sir, and are taking up positions behind Admiral Penn’s two battle groups.”

The master holo display showed the green ships of the Dominion just finishing their turn to slide in behind the Victorian’s left flank. The display was magnified so that the Victorian line extended from one end of the display to the other. Across the display a blinking orange line showed the outer limits of the Victorian’s missile range. The red symbols of the Tilleke force were just crossing it. Admiral Skiffington thumbed the communications channel to the entire Task Force.

“All ships in range fire one salvo and reload! We will close to optimum range for the second salvo. Skiffington out.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Let’s teach the Tillies a lesson!”

Aboard the Battleship Sussex, Admiral Penn frowned in disbelief. “Fire now? If we fire now, at the edge of our range, most of them will get away. If we wait fifteen bloody minutes they’ll be too deep in the kill zone to get out! What is he doing?”

“Do you want me to launch missiles, Sir?” the Tactical Officer asked.

Penn forced herself to sit back in her chair. “Fire ten missiles, but save the other thirty, Mike. But be ready to fire the second salvo on my command.” The order was carried out and she watched sourly as her ten missiles sped out toward the enemy ships on the far other end of the holo display. Maybe the Tillies were in far enough in. Maybe. And maybe cows can fly, she thought bitterly.

An avalanche of blue arrow heads poured from the Victorian line in pursuit of the Tilleke ships. Grant wanted to laugh. There must have been fifty, no sixty missiles for every Tilleke ship. Total overkill. Even at the outer edge of the missiles range, this one salvo should still completely obliterate the Tilly force.

Aboard the Emperor’s Pride, Prince RaShahid suddenly realized that he had cut it too close. He had let himself get too deep into the enemy’s missile range. “Hard turn! Chaff and decoys. Activate ECM. Full acceleration!” His force of thirty four ships wheeled about nimbly, racing back toward the “outer range” line of the Vicky missiles.

“Enemy ships are turning, Sir!” the Sensors Chief called out. The red ships were turning in a sharp curve to their own right, sweeping the Tilleke ships back across the blinking orange range line. They spewed chaff and decoys in their wake, but the avalanche of Victorian missiles thundered after them. Two Tilleke destroyers were slower to turn than the rest and the Victorian missiles fell upon them. The Tilly ships flared, then blinked out of the display.

“Two hits!” cried the Tactical Officer. But the rest of the Victorian missiles had spent their fuel and gone ballistic, losing their radar lock and drifting away.

Grant Skiffington blinked in surprise. All those hundreds of missiles and they had killed only two ships. It didn’t seem possible.

Admiral Skiffington frowned in annoyance. “Order the Fleet: Increase speed and pursue!”

The red dots of the Tilleke force pulled further away, arcing in a slight left curve that took them across the Vicky left flank and further away from the Vicky center and right.

“Tell Admirals Pinney and Daniells to come to the left. Quickly now!” Admiral Skiffington sat back in his chair. “They may have squeaked out of this one, but we’re not through with them yet, not by a long shot!”

Aboard the Emperor’s Pride, Prince RaShahid struggled to calm himself. With a momentary loss of concentration, he had almost destroyed the only force available to lead the Victorians into the trap. Then he noticed the sensor display. They were beginning to outpace the Victorian battle fleet! He cursed himself for a fool. “All ships, reduce speed. We must not outpace the enemy ships!” He turned to the helmsman. “Thrusters, only, Pilot!”

“Yes, Noble Born.”

“Keep them just on the edge of their missile range,” Prince RaShahid ordered.

“Majesty! The Falcon!” cried the Tactical Officer.

Prince RaShahid spun to the sensor display, and to his horror saw the bright blossoming signature of a Dark Matter Brake. He punched the communications stud. “Falcon, you fool! Use thrusters, not the DMB!” If the Vickies saw the DMB signature, they would know that the Tilleke ships were not trying to run away.

On the H.M.S. London, Specialist First Class Spenser frowned at his sensor display. That couldn’t be right, could it? Through the clutter of chaff clouds and distracting decoys, he thought he saw the light blossom signature of a Dark Matter Brake. Just a second or two, but it certainly looked like a DMB. He turned hesitantly to the Chief Sensors Officer. “Sir, I may have just picked up a DMB signature.”

The Chief Sensors Officer strode to him and stood by his shoulder. “Where?”

Spenser pointed to a point at the far reach of the sensor display, which was fuzzed and spotted with jamming and chaff. “Right about there, Chief. Just for a second. Doesn’t make sense, they should be trying to get away from us, not slow down.”

The Chief stroked his chin. Spenser wasn’t his best operator, that was for sure, but still… “Okay, take a minute and review the display. Magnify that section and send it to my-”

“Incoming!” another Specialist screamed. “Forty missiles!” A pause. “Ah, Christ, they’re all aimed for us!”

“All defense arrays, fire at will!” Commander Kerrs barked. The Chief Sensors Officer sprinted to his station, the report from Specialist Spenser already forgotten.

Prince RaShahid cursed the ineptness of the Falcon’s commander. He would have his head on a pike as soon as they returned. If they returned. Had the Vickies seen the DMB? Did they understand?

He needed something to distract them. Now. “Have you marked the command and control battleship?” he demanded of his Select Freeman (Sensors), an experienced Freeman who had been on the Prince’s staff for years.

“Yes, Lord.”

“Good, send it out to all ships. Hurry!” He wheeled on the Select Freeman (Weapons). “Fire all missiles at the designated target!” In a moment the holo display showed thin blue lines streaking out to the Vicky battleship. Would that distract them? Or had the Falcon’s foolish captain condemned them all?

“Ten more minutes, Lord,” his navigator said. “We pass the first line of platforms in ten minutes, the second a minute later.”

Prince RaShahid forced himself to sit down in the command chair and nonchalantly cross his legs. “Very well. Maintain course and speed. I want them to think they are going to overtake us at any moment.” He pointed to the communications officer.

“Send a drone to the kraits. Tell them we will pass through their area in approximately eleven minutes. Remind them there is to be no radio or other electronic emissions until they are ready. Obedience or death!”

The Select Freeman (Communications) bowed, then programmed the drone and launched it. It shot out of the missile tube and accelerated away.

Soon now, thought the Prince.

On board the H.M.S. London, Admiral Skiffington grunted in satisfaction as the last of the Tilleke missiles exploded harmlessly. “They can’t penetrate our defenses,’ he said, loud enough for the entire deck crew to hear. “Not enough punch.” He rubbed his hands together briskly and laughed. “They can run, but they can’t keep us from reaching Qurna. Then they’ll have to fight and we’ll have them.”

Grant Skiffington listened to his father with only one ear. Something was nagging him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He watched the holo display, a little tickle of unease in his gut. The Fleet was accelerating, but they still weren’t overtaking the Tilleke warships. The Tilleke were able to keep their distance, just on the outer edge of the Victorian’s missile range.

“Maximum military speed,” Commander Kerrs reported to his father. Five percent of the speed of light. “If we want to go faster, you will have to authorize overriding the inertial compensators.” The practical limit of the ships speed wasn’t the engines. Given enough fuel and time to accelerate, a ship could go faster and faster. The real limit was the ability of the inertial compensators to protect them. If the inertial compensator failed, the entire crew would be turned into something resembling chunky tomato paste in a matter of moments.