Alarm of War

frowning. “Tuttle! How many times have I told you that doctrine prohibits you from dividing your forces?”

“Sir,” Emily replied matter of factly. “My understanding is that doctrine is there for our guidance, not to be followed slavishly under all circumstances.

“It’s for your guidance when you are an admiral with years of experience under your belt,” he said, “which you most certainly are not. You are a green lieutenant with notions of grandeur well above your station. You put your entire force at risk for a cheap stunt, Lieutenant Tuttle. I am forced to mark this as a defeat and your record will be so noted.”

Emily had had enough.

“Then, I formally protest,” she said, struggling to keep her tone civil. “I want the entire record of this battle attached to your report and I will appeal to the Captain.” She took a breath. “I would also like to see what would happen to your battleship if you allowed this simulation to continue because, with all respect, sir, I think I had you skunked.”

Bishop’s face went mottled red, but before he could reply, Chief Gibson called from the Sensors’ Station: “Hey, there are drones coming in! Lots of them!”

Everyone in the CIC did a mental “Huh?”

“But the simulation is suspended. My battleship never got hit,” Bishop said in confusion.

Gibson was a twenty year veteran who had seen countless incompetent officers; Bishop was just the latest. “They are not in the simulation, Lieutenant Bishop,” he said slowly. “These are real drones. From the looks of it, they came from the Gilead Sector.” The room fell quiet. Tilleke was on the other side of the Gilead Sector, and the Second Fleet was in Tilleke.

“Are they broadcasting, Chief?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, but they’re encrypted and I don’t have the code. It must have been issued to First Fleet just before they left and hasn’t made it to us yet.” It was hard to remember that Second Fleet had gone to war only five days earlier.

Emily stepped to the large holo display. On the western edge of the display, a cascade of star dust was moving toward them.

The Captain of the Blue Swan had no doubt what the drones meant: disaster. Somehow, one of the Vicky ships had managed to launch its Omega drones, and now his attack plans were in shambles. Blue Swan was in position, and Blue Heron and Blue Loon should be, but there were two more of the “special” freighters that had not yet arrived. What’s more, there were only a couple of dozen commandoes on Atlas Station, not nearly enough.

Nothing for it, he thought grimly. “Signal the Heron and the Loon!” he ordered. “Start the attack now!” He turned to his Weapons Officer. “We can’t wait. Get a lock on Lionheart. Open the holds and bring out the missile pods. Now! Do it!”

The klaxon sounded Battle Stations and the ship erupted into activity. They had practiced this many, many times. The missile pods could be pushed from the ship’s hold and ready to fire in twelve minutes. The pods held eight nuclear tipped missiles. If even two of them got through, the battleship H.M.S. Lionheart would be destroyed. In the meantime, Heron would target H.M.S. Isle of Man and Loon would hit the H.M.S. Invincible.

The other two freighters would have given them more punch, but so be it. With luck, all three of the Victorian Home Fleet battleships would be destroyed within fifteen minutes.

Not far away the captain of a small tramp freighter noted the activity and heard the signal from the Blue Heron to its sister ships. This freighter was not registered with the Dominion, nor did its name include the word “blue.” No one knew of its mission except for Michael Hudis and Citizen Director Nasto. The freighter was called the “Star Born” and it was registered under the flag of Sybil Head. Its Captain was a young Lieutenant Colonel in the Dominion Intelligence Directorate named Tony Streather.

“Are you sure, Mike?” the Captain asked his Sensors’ Officer.

“Yes, Captain. The Heron and the Swan are both opening their outer doors. They’ll have the missile pods out in just a few more minutes. Can’t see the Loon from here, but if the first two are getting ready, it’s a safe bet Loon is as well.”

Captain Streather shrugged. So be it. His ship carried two nuclear tipped missiles, but he was not hunting Victorian battleships. His target was more important than that.

“Ready the missiles, Mike. I want to be ready to fire in no more than ten minutes.” Then he started to plot a course out of Victoria. Captain Streather was not a man who sacrificed his life needlessly.

On Atlas Station, Hiram Brill was in the Fleet Intelligence Center catching up on the day’s reports. Admiral Teehan and most of the other senior staff were at the Palace on Cornwall, huddled together to plan the next diplomatic and military steps once the Tilleke fleet had been subdued by Admiral Skiffington and Second Fleet. Hiram was enjoying the feeling of being one of the “senior” officers in the FIC.

When the drone reports were downloaded, Hiram listened in as the technicians prepared the translations.

“Who’s it from, Maria?” he asked the tech.

“A Resupply and Maintenance Vessel attached to Second Fleet,” she answered, not looking up, but concentrating on her work. “Number 313.”

Hiram glanced at the holo display. “That’s a lot of drones from just one ship,” he commented. “What’s the message?”

“Well, sir, as soon as I can decrypt it we’ll both know, won’t we?” she said with a touch of asperity.

On board the New Zealand, Chief Gibson suddenly sat up in alarm. “Sweet Mothers! Targeting sensors! We’ve just been swept with targeting sensors!”

“What?” Bishop looked confused. “But that can’t be, the simulation is off! We’re at anchor. There are no war ships out there! Check your instruments, Chief, you’ve got an obvious error.”

Emily rubbed her nose, no longer aware of the bump that came from her accident while at Camp Gettysburg. Targeting sensors had a narrower arc than searching sensors, usually no more than thirty degrees. Targeting sensors meant that someone knew the general location of their target and was getting ready to fire, and fire damn soon.

“Merlin!” she called to the ship’s AI.

“State your order.”

“Determine origin of the tracking sensors that just swept us.”

“I cannot determine the exact location, but it emanates from a group of ships anchored three hundred miles from this location.” On the holograph, a red circle appeared and pulsed brightly.”

Emily studied the transponder icons. “But those are all freighters,” she said. Spooked from her conversation with Hiram, she had been worried that she would find a cluster of Dominion war ships, armed to the teeth and ready to fire. But there were only freighters.

“I told you this is a system malfunction,” Bishop said testily. “Chief, I want you to run a complete diagnostic-”

Emily had another thought. “Merlin, draw a line from the source of the targeting sensor through the New Zealand and extend it for one thousand miles. Are there any targets of military value within a thirty degree arc of that line?”

“There are five Home Fleet vessels at anchor within those parameters: Missile Cruiser New Zealand, Destroyers Swansea, Repulse and Cape Town and Battleship Lionheart. There are also six Atlas Port Authority buoys that could have military value under-”

“Stop.” She looked at Chief Gibson, who shrugged. “If it were me, I’d go after the