Alarm of War

Grey shook her head. “We may only have one chance, so let’s wait until we’re closer. Max, C2C all members of the Battle Group. I will commence firing for the entire Group from the New Zealand. No one is to fire on their own.”

Yes, Captain. Preparing for the attack.”

Emily hid a smirk; Max always sounded like a badly written video game. But looking around the bridge, she had to admit that Max’s melodramatic presentation did have an impact on the crew. They looked grimly determined to wage war.

The Battle Group coasted onward. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

“Captain, we are now in the Yellow Zone,” Chief Gibson said, voice rising a bit. The Yellow Zone was where the enemy ship had a fifty percent chance of detecting them on passive sensors. The Red Zone was where the probability rose to ninety percent.

Emily sat down and buckled her battle harness. She licked suddenly dry lips.

“Prepare to fi-” Captain Grey began.

She never finished.

The H.M.S. New Zealand, all 150,000 tons of her, violently heaved up and down like a feather in an unexpected gust of wind. Everything that was not secured went flying through the air — coffee mugs, papers, com slates, chairs and people — and smashed into the ceiling, clung there for a fraction of a second, then smashed hard onto the deck.

Then the noise came, the groaning, screeching, violated shriek of steel walls and decking as they shook and twisted and then ruptured as the force of a dozen laser strikes raped the New Zealand from stem to stern.

And then came the anguished screams of the injured and the roaring of precious air venting into space.

Emily, saved by her battle harness, sat upright in her chair, feeling like Alice in Wonderland as she watched the world go crazy. Papers and objects and people flew past her. Someone’s foot kicked her in the head as they flew by, and a coffee cup sailed by still upright, not spilling a drop, until it shattered against the bulkhead. Immediately in front of her, she watched as Captain Grey went straight up and cracked viciously into the ceiling, seemed to float there for a moment, then smashed into the floor. Blood welled from her eyes and ears.

With a groan, the ship settled.

Emily started to unbuckle, thought better of it and tilted her head up. “Max! Max, defenses free! And engage auto-repairs of all hull leaks. Seal all compartments.” She twisted around, trying to find Alex Rudd, but couldn’t see him. She was on her own.

From across the smoke filled, blood splattered bridge, Chief Gibson smiled and gave her a thumbs up. She could have kissed him.

“Max, enlarge holo display and show the source of whatever the hell it was that hit us.” The display obediently grew larger. The Dominion colliers were still there, but the two frigates were moving away from them, accelerating rapidly, anxious to get away from the obvious target the colliers presented. “Max where are the ships that shot us, dammit?”

Four red circles appeared and began to blink. They were above the Coldstream Guard’s plane of advance, about halfway between the New Zealand and the three Dominion colliers. “Tactical, get a lock on those ships! Max, status report.”

“ Destroyer South Wales, Code Omega. Destroyers Swansea and Repulse, damaged but operable; Cruiser Emerald Isle damaged but operable. Cruiser New Zealand damaged but operable.” The phrase “damaged but operable” unfortunately covered a lot of ground, from minor damage to the hull plating to loss of most of the crew.

“Got a lock on the shooters, Lieutenant,” Chief Gibson said calmly. “Looks like four large cruisers. Computer ‘s guessing three beamers and a missile cruiser. Looks like they all fired their lasers and are recharging.”

“Sweet Gods of Our Mothers, let’s not wait!” Emily said. Hadn’t she heard that the Dominion beamers had an entire engine array dedicated just to recharging their lasers? “Max, all available weapons to fire on the four cruisers. Now! Now! Now!” She motioned to Gibson. “Find the damn colliers before they get away. Pilot, take us down one hundred miles, then resume plane of advance. Head right for the colliers. Tactical.” Chief Friedman looked at her, face pale with shock, eyes too bright. Don’t fold on me now, she thought desperately. “Chief, as soon as we find the colliers again, lock on the nearest one with all lasers, then take the next one with missiles. Got it?” He nodded jerkily, but turned to obey.

In the midst of this she became aware that Captain Grey was on her knees, holding onto the captain’s chair for support. Blood flowed freely from a head wound and covered her face. Where she touched the chair, she left a bloody handprint. Emily raced forward to steady her. With Chief Gibson’s help, she put Grey into the captain’s chair.

“You!” she said to a young rating named Partridge. “Call for a medic!”

“Emily.” Grey clutched weakly at her arm. “Move over, I need to see the holo.” Her voice was a slurred whisper. Emily dutifully stepped aside and Captain Grey peered myopically at the holo display of the battle.

Grey frowned, squinted and shook her head. “Can’t see,” she murmured in frustration.

Emily stripped off her uniform blouse and used it to wipe the blood from Grey’s eyes and face. Grey blinked several times and peered at the display, but shook her head again. “Blurry…eyes.” She tightened her grip on Emily’s arm. “Tell me what’s happening!”

Meanwhile a flurry of laser shots had lanced out at the still recharging Dominion cruisers, followed by a ragged volley of over one hundred and fifty missiles. While most ships managed to flush their missile tubes, the damaged ships were lucky to shoot half of their compliment of missiles. The New Zealand, with twenty two tubes, only managed to shoot nine.

“We’ve been ambushed by four Dominion ships, probably cruisers,” Emily told her. “We lost one ship and several others are damaged. We are trying to shoot the Dominion ships before they recycle their lasers.”

“Supply ships? Where…” Grey paused, panting for breath. Her skin had a sickly greyish hue and she was covered with sweat.

“Where the hell is the medic?” Emily shot at Partridge.

“On the way up, Ma’am, but there’re wounded everywhere and they keep stopping.”

“Communications!” When there was no reply, she swiveled the chair to face the Communications Station. The Comm Officer lay crumbled on the deck in a pool of his own blood. Above him, staring fixedly at nothing much at all, was his assistant, a rating named Betty McCann. “Betty? Comeon, Betty, look at me,” Emily pleaded.

Chief Gibson left his station, marched to where McCann was standing and shouted into her face: “Sailor! Your Captain is giving you an order. Now get your head out of your ass and do your job! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

McCann blinked rapidly, then nodded once.

“Betty, connect me to the rest of the Battle Group, audio only,” Emily ordered.

“Emily!” Grey said urgently. Blood dribbled from her mouth. “I must keep command. Captain Wicklow won’t press the attack.” She collapsed back in her chair, exhausted from the effort of speaking.

Emily hesitated. By all rights her first duty was to tell the Battle Group that Captain Grey was out of action and let command pass to the next most senior captain, Captain Wicklow of the Gloucester. She glanced about desperately for Alex Rudd, but couldn’t see him. Damn! She turned back to the hologram display of the entire battle space.

“Emily, go in and finish it,” Grey ordered weakly. “You can do this.”

And Emily was suddenly certain that she could do it. She had a plan, but she didn’t know if she could convince the other captains to go along with it.

“Betty, are we up?” she demanded.

“Re-ready,” McCann stammered. Behind McCann, Emily could see Naama Denker, the medic, hurry onto the bridge, followed by one of her assistants carrying medical gear.

“This is the New Zealand,” Emily broadcast to the Coldstream