The battle of Devastation reef

perpendicular to Group South’s vector-had turned inward; now they plunged down onto the Fed task group, the fast-closing gap between attackers and defenders filled with the flash of missiles exploding as Group South’s mediumrange missiles and lasers did the grim work of tearing the Hammer attack to pieces. The battle was degenerating fast into a wretched, scrambling fight for survival, one that no Fed ship could afford to lose: A single fusion warhead, triggered by a proximity fuse to explode close to its target, released enough raw power to strip a heavy cruiser’s flank armor right down to the inner titanium hull, the impulse shock violent enough to send razor- sharp splinters ripping through the ship to lethal effect.

The missiles that survived closed in, and the Feds’ short-range defensive weapons joined the fight, throwing up a wall of metal backed up by lasers, clawing more and more missiles out of the attack. But missiles still made it through, relentless, unstoppable; there were too many of them. Just before missile detonation, the Hammers’ rail- gun salvo arrived, slugs burying themselves deep in the frontal armor of their targets, great gouts of ionized ceramsteel armor blasted out into space, ugly clouds of white-hot gas boiling away from the ships. Seconds later, the missiles hit home, a brutally effective mix of boosted chemex and fusion warheads, lances of white-hot fire and hellish torrents of radiation putting their victims to the sword.

It was a sickening sight. Michael watched the damage reports flooding in. The ships attacking SuppFac27’s southern flank had been roughly handled. Too many were beyond help, broken hulls spitting lifepods in all directions, orange-strobed specks driving away through clouds of ice and fire in a frenzied race to get clear before the ships blew, violent blue-white flashes marking the loss of one ship after another. More ships, battered and combat- ineffective, pulled out of the line of battle to reverse vector and run for safety.

The fight was not one-sided, though; now it was the Hammers’ turn to suffer. The Fed ships dropped their own exquisitely coordinated rail-gun and missile salvos onto the enemy ships, flame-shot clouds of plasma erupting as rail-gun slugs and missile warheads clawed at the Hammer ships. When the clouds cleared, Michael saw that the Hammers had suffered every bit as badly as the Feds, maybe more so. Ship after ship pulled out of the line, brilliant flares flagging the death of ships when their fusion power plants lost containment.

The first phase of the engagement was over; to Michael’s astonishment it had lasted only a few seconds. Now the hard slog started for Group South: The two sides closed in, trading salvo for salvo, missiles and rail-gun slugs thrown across space in a brutal war of attrition that would end when one side either ceased to exist or fled the field of battle. The Feds were relying on better salvo rates and more accurate targeting to overcome the Hammers.

Michael’s mouth tightened into a thin, tight snarl of approval. Operation Opera had a long way to go, but so far, so good. It might be a bloody business, but Group South was doing what it had been sent to do: fix the Hammer ships in place, lock them into a running battle from which they could not disengage without risking destruction, keep them away from the dreadnoughts and Assault Group. It was a magnificent, tragic spectacle; while he watched, Michael tried not to think about the thousands of spacers dying to protect his ships.

“Command, Warfare. Group North missile commit in five … stand by … now.”

Missile first stages fired, the Fed ships illuminated by the harsh brilliance of hundreds of thousands of thin white pillars of flame. It was an awesome sight, the missiles opening out into a ring while they flew toward the advancing Hammers, who were not slow to respond.

“Command, Warfare. Group North reports missile commit from task group Hammer-2.”

“Command, roger,” Michael acknowledged. His mouth dust-dry, he contemplated ending up on the wrong end of hundreds of thousands of missiles. “All stations, this is the captain. Quick update, folks. It’s on. The Hammers have committed their missiles, and they’ll be on us soon. So brace yourselves. It will get rough. Command, out.”

Michael patched a quick com through to Rao in Retrieve and Machar in Recognizance. Their avatars popped into his neuronics, grim-faced, taut with apprehension. Michael’s heart went out to them; though they had all been in combat, none of them had ever seen anything quite so daunting, quite so terrifying, as the immense missile strike heading their way.

“Kelli, Nathan. All buttoned up?”

“Yes, sir,” the pair chorused.

“Good. Stick to the plan, and remember that if and when it all goes to shit, do whatever it takes to get your ships through to SuppFac27. Just go, keep on going, and get your marines into the plant.”

“Sir.”

“Good. See you on the other side. Reckless out.”

Death arrived, heralded by the appalling racket of Reckless’s defenses when they joined with the dreadnoughts and the rest of Group North to slash missiles out of space. But there were too many to fend off. Inevitably, some fought their way through, leaving ship after ship reeling from fusion blast, missile strike, and the impact of rail-gun slugs. The Hammers had planned their attack well. Focused on the leading ships, their opening salvo ripped the guts out of Group North. Too many of the cruisers had been hit, some fatally, the telltale orange strobes of lifepods filling the space around the dying ships, the distress radio frequency filling with the urgent bleatings of automatic beacons asking for help.

“Command, sensors.” Carmellini’s voice was hoarse. “Seljuk’s in trouble, sir.”

Of all the ships! Michael did not want to think what losing Jaruzelska might mean for Opera’s chances of success. He forced himself to sound calm. “Command, roger. Train a holocam on her.”

The video feed from the holocam confirmed Carmellini’s report. The massive heavy cruiser had been heavily punished up forward; Seljuk’s bows were a smoking ruin of white-hot ceramsteel armor. Worse, the full force of a pair of well-timed fusion warheads had opened up her starboard side down to the titanium frames; Michael saw right into the dying cruiser. He did not have to check the data feeds from Seljuk; he had seen enough damaged ships to know that she was doomed. It was just a matter of time before a Hammer missile-one of many held back, loitering behind the main attack to pick off the wounded-plunged into the ship, its target one of the massive cruiser’s main fusion plants. For Seljuk-and Admiral Jaruzelska-Operation Opera was over.

Not having Jaruzelska in charge was bad enough.

Having Perkins in charge of Opera might be, would be, ten times worse.

A terse com from Seljuk confirmed his worst fears. “Command, Warfare. Message from Flag: Seljuk fatally damaged. Abandoning ship. Flag passes to Seiche; Rear Admiral Perkins has operational command. Good luck. Jaruzelska out.”

“Command, roger.” Damn, damn, damn, Michael raged. Without hesitation, he trusted Jaruzelska with his life. He would not trust Perkins to look after a week-old cheeseburger. Michael watched the damage assessments flood in. They made for horrific reading. But there was some good news. Largely because they had run tucked in behind the main group of Fed ships, Reckless and her fellow dreadnoughts had escaped unscathed, the only damage inflicted by missile debris and minor. Five minutes behind them, Assault Group drove on completely untouched.

Group North had been mauled severely: moments after Seljuk blew itself apart, more ships followed her into oblivion, and others started to pull out of line, but not before dumping every missile into the next attack their shock-damaged hydraulics were capable of. Relief flooded his body as he watched the next phase of the attack develop: Group North might have been battered, but it remained an effective fighting force.

Michael forced himself to stay focused, to stay objective. Hard though they might be to accept, those losses did not matter provided that the Hammer ships attacking Group North were kept away from the dreadnoughts. And the Hammers were taking a beating. Pinned in place by Group North’s attack, the ships of task group Hammer-2 were being ripped to bloody shreds. It was a good result. The way things were going, none of those Hammer ships would be a threat when the dreadnoughts and Assault Group broke away for the final assault on SuppFac27.

“Command, Warfare. Stand by to alter vector in five.”

“Command, roger. Advise Flag.”

“Stand by … Flag advised.”

Michael forced himself to relax. He half expected Perkins to start changing the operations plan, but thankfully, that did not happen.

Five seconds later, the dreadnoughts adjusted vector, peeling away from Group North to turn southeast to start their run into SuppFac27, 180,000 kilometers distant. At 12,500 kilometers behind the dreadnoughts, Assault