Designated Targets

The Germans were attempting a multidimensional assault right out of the twenty-first-century playbook. Their coordination was hopeless, and a lot of the technology they needed simply did not exist yet. A couple of hastily built, poorly flown ME 262s just didn’t count.

But having secured their eastern flank, they seemed to be bringing the entire weight of their continental war machine to bear on the south of England.

Every now and then, when the pounding of the five-inch guns and ack-ack mounts abated, he could hear the much deeper, more sonorous bass note rumble of ten thousand engines. Of twenty thousand guns, and high- explosive shells, and dumb iron bombs detonating for hundreds of miles around. It was the sound of two worlds grinding against each other, and even with his years of service, he’d never known anything like it.

St. Clair sat across from him, sphinxlike and withdrawn. His sergeant major was always like that, on the edge of battle.

The chopper’s engines hummed into life as the elevator lifted them clear of the hangars and into the daylight. His six troopers reacted in character. Some simply adjusted their Bergens and checked their weapons. Some leaned forward in their seats to catch whatever glimpse they could of the world outside, a slate gray tableau of small, antique warships tossed on heaving seas.

One man, Gibbs, slept with his head cushioned by a life jacket.

“Sergeant Major, what’s our current strength at Kinlochmoidart?”

“One hundred and twenty-five officers and other ranks, sir. Captain Fraser’s already got them turned out and kitted up. They’re waiting for movement orders.”

“Very good.”

The Eurocopter cycled up to full power as Harry felt the Trident come around. They began to dip and rise on the confused swell and crosscurrents where the waters of the Solent met those of the Channel. The rotor’s down blast tugged at his battle dress and made it difficult to communicate without shouting. He signaled to St. Clair to engage tac net. Everyone who hadn’t already done so fitted combat goggles and earbuds before powering up their helmets.

Over the years, Harry had trained his software to the point where it was virtually an extension of his own psyche. Without being instructed, it brought up eight separate windows, biofeedback from his men and himself. Instinctively he scanned the squad, looking for signs of combat fatigue, developing psychoses, exhaustion, or any of the myriad symptoms that stalked everyone who did this sort of work for too long.

They all checked out.

A link to the helicopter’s on-board systems provided a V3D holomap of their flight plan, while an outside link to the Trident added relevant battlespace data. Harry hummed quietly as he took in the information. In truth, there was no safe route they could take to the drop-off. Hundreds of 109s and 110s infested the airspace around them. It was going to be like flying through a hailstorm, trying to avoid the stones.

They lifted off, and he acknowledged a couple of crew on the deck of the cruiser who paused to wave them away.

“Right, everyone, I’ll keep this short.”

Halabi’s voice was broadcast throughout the vessel via shipnet, emerging from speakers and screens on all the decks, from bow to stern.

“The Admiralty have assigned us two objectives. First, a strategic strike on the Tirpitz group, which is now sortieing into the Channel to cover the invasion fleet. And second, battlespace management for sectors One through Four.

“We will need to move west to bring the Tirpitz within range. We shall be doing so without the company of our destroyer screen. They simply can’t move as quickly as we can. Posh calculates that we have enough antiair stocks to return with a three percent reserve. The RAF will provide continuous cover during the run. We will need the reserve, given the new threat of missile strike from the continent. I don’t want to overstate the danger. Even if a number of missiles have been removed from the Dessaix for use against us, the ship herself is not here and the enemy will thus be striking blind. Nonetheless we need to be aware of the risk and ready to respond.”

The Trident’s captain paused. The CIC crew watched her in person. The rest of her men and women craned upward to follow the speech on screen, or listened over shipnet speakers where no screens were available.

“While we are fighting to achieve our goals, the enemy will fight just as hard to destroy us. There are hundreds of pilots aloft now, with even more climbing into their cockpits. Their only goal today is to sink this ship. There are commanders of U-boats and torpedo boats, destroyers, cruisers, and even a few battleships who have probably been personally ordered by Adolf Hitler to ensure that we do not see out this day. Some of them are good men. Some are evil. They are almost all brave and well trained, and they will not hesitate to do whatever it takes to win this battle, and enslave our countrymen.”

She paused again, to let her words sink in.

“That doesn’t really matter,” she continued, “Because we are going to kill them all.”

At that, a rousing, full-throated cheer filled the Combat Information Center, and sounded more distantly throughout the rest of the ship.

Halabi looked over to the antisat station, where the two contemporary navy men had been corralled. They were cheering along with the rest, and every bit as enthusiastically.

“Thank you, I expect you will all do your best.”

She switched off the shipnet and turned to her executive officer.

“Mr. McTeale, all ahead full. Engage the S-Cav system. Assign Autonomy Level One to the Combat Intelligence for defensive measures.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“Comms, signal Stanmore that we are guns free and running west.”

“Fighter Command report that Three-oh-three Squadron have scrambled and will rendezvous with us in six minutes.”

“Excellent,” said Halabi. “Let’s test their VHF sets now.”

The 303 was a Polish squadron, and she had specifically requested them for this operation. Certain pinheaded elements within Fighter Command at Stanmore were dismissive of the Polish pilots, ignoring the fact that pilot training had been extensive and advanced in that country before the war. And, of course, that the Poles had more experience than anyone in scrapping with the Luftwaffe.

Even though they hadn’t joined the Battle of Britain until a few months after it started, 303 Squadron was responsible for downing more of Goring’s precious aircraft than any other single squadron. Flying augmented Spitfires with the new VHF radio sets, they had been training for this operation since shortly after the Trident’s arrival.

“Three-oh-three on line, Captain. Squadron Leader Zumbach sends his compliments.”

“My greetings to Jan,” she said. “Put them in holding, and slave them to air control. We’ll vector them down as needed.”

Halabi rolled her shoulders and settled into her command seat. She had never seen the battlespace display so densely filled with information. It was an almost impenetrable wall of data and imagery that was beyond the ability of one individual to fully comprehend. It wasn’t beyond Posh, however. The ship’s Combat Intelligence tracked every return from her Nemesis arrays and low-orbit drones, sorting the raw intelligence into a coherent narrative that her human controllers might have some hope of understanding.

“Helm, Captain. Course plotted. Supercavitating systems engaged.”

As the trimaran’s aquajets began to shoot out enormous volumes of seawater, pressurised to 60,000 psi, billions of microscopic pores in the nanotube-sheathing of her three hulls opened to vent a fine mist of compressed air bubbles into the surrounding water. With the drag on her keel reduced to a small percentage of its normal coefficient of viscosity, the ship began to accelerate to speeds that left her escorts standing still by comparison.

“CI has the helm, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Halabi acknowledged.

With her speed leaping up to well over 140 knots, it wasn’t feasible for a human being to steer the