Earth Strike: Star Carrier: Book One

across the solar system to Point Libra, at two. “Let’s call the thirty-three ships at Neptune Force Alpha. The real strike force, over here at Point Libra, is Force Bravo. Okay?”

Caruthers’ image nodded.

“Alpha has been gathering data on our Inner System for nine hours plus now, since they dropped out of metaspace at 1745 yesterday. My guess is that they started beaming that data from Pisces to Libra immediately. Force Alpha, or a part of it, then moved to Neptune-Triton, but they continued beaming updates to Libra. The Libra force is going to need the most recent data on our fleet deployment possible.”

“Okay…”

“Look here.” The image magnified, zooming in on the red line. At the chord’s midpoint, the line skimmed close to another icon, a small yellow point.

“What’s that?” Caruthers asked, even as he triggered the data block.

“A deep-space communications relay at 60558 Echeclus. Close to its aphelion right now, fifteen AUs from the sun. A Centaur…”

Centaurs were a type of asteroid or comet-they showed characteristics of both-first catalogued with the discovery of Chiron in 1977. Echeclus-pronounced “Eh-kek-les”-had been discovered more than two decades later, in 2000. In 2178 an automated communications relay had been built on it. Its thirty-five year orbit took it from just outside of Jupiter’s orbit to several AUs inside the orbit of Uranus. There wasn’t much to the thing-an 84-kilometer chunk of ice and rock. For a time, the High Guard had maintained a base there; the object’s orbit was unstable, and it would have been a good candidate for a deliberate nudge that would have threatened an Inner System world.

Now, though, the base was purely automated.

“It’s run by an AI named Echeclus,” Koenig said. “He’s smart and he’s curious. He’s also about six and a half light hours from Neptune. If Force Alpha started transmitting tight-beam updates to Point Libra as soon as they took over Neptune-Triton, he should be picking up the signal just about now. I would expect an AI of Echeclus’s caliber to rebroadcast the signal to us. At fifteen AUs out…that’s just two hours.”

“We could expect to get the transmission at around 0515, then.”

“Exactly. But it gets better. That transmission from Echeclus will be nondirectional, spreading through the solar system like an expanding bubble. Our fighter reconnaissance will be outbound one hour into their mission, assuming America launches at once, and they’ll encounter that bubble before we do. They’ll have comprehensive if-then orders: if they pick up the signal, it means I’m right and Force Bravo is out there, waiting for the signal from Neptune that they won’t get for another three and a quarter hours or so. If Echeclus reports no signal, they decelerate immediately, then boost back for the Inner System.”

“Damn, that’s complicated,” Caruthers complained.

“The joys of communications limited by c, Admiral. But it will work. It’ll let us deploy out toward Point Libra now, and maybe get the jump on the Turusch before they’re expecting us. If I’m wrong, if there’s no signal, the fighters will turn around and be back in the Inner System three hours later. Think of them as a tactical reserve.”

“And we have other squadrons,” Caruthers said, thoughtful. “Essex and Kennedy are all at full strength. I’m inclined to say yes, Admiral. There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“The Senate. Specifically the Senate Military Directorate. I have a certain amount of freedom in how I deploy the fleet for the defense of Earth, but I know damned well they’re not going to authorize sending four fighter squadrons out on what they’ll be convinced is a wild goose chase. The request is going to get bounced back to Earth. That’s a time lag of twelve minutes right now. And twelve minutes more for the reply.”

“So we have twenty-four minutes before they say no. I suggest, sir, that you let me commence launching now.”

“Admiral…you’re still under something of a cloud with this Board of Inquiry. Technically, you shouldn’t even be in command of that battlegroup while you’re waiting for the Board’s decision.”

Koenig decided not to tell Caruthers that he already knew what the Board’s decision was. He suspected, though, that Caruthers already knew the outcome as well.

“I’ll take full responsibility for my decision, Admiral. Hell, tell them I boosted without orders, without consulting you. They can crucify me when I return.”

“You’re intending to take your battlegroup out toward Libra as well.”

“Of course. We won’t get there for sixteen hours, but my fighters will need to be recovered. If we start boosting behind America’s fighters immediately, we’ll still be in a position to turn around and return if we don’t hear from Echeclus in a reasonable time.”

“I’m going to authorize this, Koenig,” Caruthers said after a moment’s thought. “God help your career if you’re wrong.”

“God help us all if I’m right or wrong,” Koenig said.

He didn’t add that twelve capital ships and a few fighter squadrons would not last long against Force Bravo. He didn’t know how many ships the Turusch would be sending in their main force, but it would certainly be more than the thirty-three ships of Force Alpha. A lot more.

It was possible that the deployment of Battlegroup America would prove to be nothing more than a spoiling attack-a means of damaging and perhaps slowing down the enemy fleet before it reached Earth, but at the cost of America and her consorts.

“Either way, Admiral Koenig, good luck.”

The connection was broken, and Koenig was again in CIC, strapped in his recliner. “Commander Craig!”

“Yes, sir!”

“New orders to all ships in the battlegroup. Prepare for acceleration. Course fifteen-plus-fifteen.”

“Aye, aye, sir. New course fifteen hours right ascension, plus fifteen degrees declination.” She blinked, looked puzzled. “Sir?…”

“You have your orders, Commander.”

“Just a moment, Admiral,” Quintanilla said. “Those coordinates…that’s in almost the exact opposite direction from the enemy’s emergence point!”

“Almost,” Koenig replied easily.

“B-but…but you can’t do that!”

“Mister Quintanilla, you would be surprised at what I can do when I put my mind to it. Now strap yourself down and stop floating around my CIC, or I’ll have you ejected. Again. We are going to be doing some maneuvering in the next few moments, and I don’t want you crashing into the instrumentation.”

“All hands, prepare for maneuvering,” the voice of America’s helm officer announced. “Two gravities in fifteen seconds.”

The twelve vessels of the battlegroup would be jostling their way into formation now, using plasma thrusters to maneuver. The gantry of the Phobia dock facility continued dropping away, drifting now until it was off America’s stern quarter.

Quintanilla barely made it to a spare acceleration couch. When the ship was under grav acceleration, of course, CIC was in free fall, and couches were hardly a necessity. A two-G nudge from the main thrusters, though, could break bones if you weren’t prepared. They provided an added safety precaution as well for officers and crew who were working in simlinks, and unaware of their actual surroundings. Having everyone strapped down while they were linked kept them from blindly drifting into one another, or into the ship’s consoles or instrumentation.

The helm officer was speaking again. “And five…and four…and three…and two…plasma torch sequence initiated…fire!”

And Koenig, now, was committed to what might be his last deployment as a naval officer.

He opened another channel. “Commodore Dixon.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Captain Joseph Victor Dixon replied. Dixon was America’s CAG, the officer in command of all squadrons operating off of the carrier. The term was an ancient acronym, one standing for commander air group. The title had eventually been changed to commander air wing, and, still later, to commander space wing, but the original name had remained unchanged throughout four centuries, clearly preferable to suggested official alternatives such as CAW and COSPAW.