“Weapons Officer, what have we got to fire on the Blue Swan?”
The Weapons Officer was Chief James Friedman, a burly man with a drooping mustache that made him look like a kindly walrus. He grimaced. “It will take at least two minutes to spool up lasers. None of the main missiles are loaded, figure at least ten minutes to get them fully launch ready. Only thing we’ve got ready to go is the ship’s anti-missile defense system.”
Emily considered. The Blue Swan was only three hundred miles away, well within the anti-missile system’s range. Gods of Our Mothers, it was so close they could throw rocks at it.
“Chief, bring weapons to bear on the Blue Swan and fire!” she ordered.
“Belay that, goddammit!” Bishop shouted. “The Dominion are our allies! You can’t fire on a helpless freighter!”
“That freighter is using sensors to target the Lionheart!” Emily said firmly.
“You don’t know that, Tuttle. For all you know, they could be — ”
Emily held up a hand. “Enough! Merlin, record without commenting the following.” She faced Bishop. “Lieutenant Michael Bishop, I hereby remove you from command pursuant to Article 13.27(a) of the Fleet Code of Justice for dereliction of duty and suspicion of treason.” She motioned to the Marine guard. “Corporal, remove him from the CIC and confine him to his quarters.”
The Corporal hesitated, staring at her wide eyed.
“Do it, or I’ll have you up on charges!” she barked.
The Corporal stepped forward and grasped Bishop by the arm.
Bishop looked stunned. He started to say something, but Emily turned her back on him.
“Chief Friedman, I order you to fire,” she said, working hard to keep her voice steady. The Weapons Officer shared a quick look with the Sensors Officer. Chief Gibson grinned wolfishly.
“Lieutenant gave you an order, Jimmy,” he said.
Chief Friedman nodded. “Yes, she did, by God.” He entered the coordinates and hit the firing stud. Fifty “Bofor” guns swiveled to the Blue Swan’s heading and shot ten thousand spent ziridium slugs, paused, then fired again. Twenty five Cobra missile launchers, designed for mid-range anti-missile defense, fired their missiles and automatically reloaded.
On the Blue Swan, the Weapons Officer called: “First missile away!”
The torrent of missiles and projectile slugs from the New Zealand reached the Blue Swan a moment later. A war ship, with its thick armor, might have shrugged it off, but the thin-skinned freighter shuddered and heaved under the impact as hundreds of slugs pierced the outer hull to tear through bulkheads and decks, and missile warheads exploded to tear away entire sections of the hull plating. The bridge crew, caught by ricocheting slugs, were virtually shredded in an instant, never knowing they were even under fire.
One piece of torn hull spun up into the missile pods and sliced through the fire control cables, with the result that the remaining seven missiles never fired.
The remaining missile sped past the anchored New Zealand and on toward the battleship Lionheart. Bofor guns swiveled desperately and fired as it raced by. Of the thousands upon thousands of rounds fired, one punctured its engine compartment. It was enough. The missile began to wobble. It lost its lock on the Lionheart, then regained it, then lost it again and strayed slightly off course. As it passed the Lionheart its proximity fuse saw its target and exploded, but instead of a contact explosion, the missile exploded thirty miles away. A wave of roiling heat and radiation passed over the Lionheart, frying dozens of its electronic systems but leaving its heavily armored hull intact.
A thousand miles away, the Blue Heron finished its preparations. “All missiles away!” shouted the Weapons Officer. His cry was echoed on the Blue Loon. Their missiles sped a scant two hundred miles and exploded in one massive paroxysm of heat and radiation on top of the H.M.S. Isle of Man and Invincible.
Both ships shuddered, then vanished in gout of furious light. There was not even time for the Omega drones to launch. Two of the three Home Fleet battleships were gone.
On Atlas Station, the Sensors Officer in the FIC turned wide-eyed to Hiram.
“Lieutenant! Sensors detect multiple missile launches! Isle of Man and Invincible have been destroyed!” She paused. “Lieutenant?”
“Hmmm?” Hiram wasn’t listening. He was mulling over everything he’d learned in the last nine months, and in particular the last nine minutes.
Victoria had been suckered. The entire Tilleke campaign against Arcadia had been a ruse to lure the Second Fleet into an ambush. A frighteningly effective ambush, if the Bawdy Bertha was to be believed. And key to the ambush was the fact that the Dominion forces were part of the attack, which meant that the Tilleke and Dominion had been working together for over a year, and Victorian Intelligence had never suspected a thing.
And then another thought jarred him: Was Cookie still alive? Hot tears pricked his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a sudden, vivid picture of the last time they made love together, her face softened in the aftermath of climax, fingers caressing his cheek. “You always treat me like I’m made of delicate china.”
“Do you mind?” he had asked.
She sighed contentedly and wrapped her arms and legs around him, drawing him close once more. “Just don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
With a conscious effort, Hiram shook himself out of the memory. The Sensors Officer was still staring at him anxiously. Two of Home Fleet’s three battleships were gone. But why? Why attack Home Fleet? With Second Fleet destroyed, it opened the way to attack Victoria itself. But they couldn’t attack Victoria with a few freighters tricked out with missiles. So-
Hiram spun in his chair. ““Gandalf!”
The Station’s AI rumbled. “At your command.”
“Gandalf, review all records of Port Authority Space Buoys at or near worm holes from any sector leading into Victoria for the last four days. Tell me if there are any large convoys of ships that entered Victorian space.”
Gandalf paused for a moment, then the primary holo display flickered as it received the data. “There are four large convoys. One is from the Sultenic Empire, consisting of six ore freighters, carrying a cargo of grain. A second from Refuge with eight ships, unknown cargo. A third from Cape Breton with eighty ships, carrying a cargo of grain. The last is from the Dominion of Unified Citizenry, seventy ships, with the cargo listed as steel and high explosives.”
“ETA on the convoys from Cape Breton and Dominion?”
“Each should arrive in approximately twenty four hours.”
Hiram felt the color drain out of his face. One hundred and fifty ships against the Home Fleet’s sixty. No, only fifty eight now.
Victoria had just lost the war it hadn’t even known it was in.
“Gandalf, where is the First Sea Lord?”
“First Sea Lord Giunta and his staff are meeting with the Queen and senior admiralty at the Palace.”
The two missiles from the Star Born coasted down the long glide path toward the Biscay Cargo Port, flying lazily to maintain the illusion that they were innocent freighters instead of nuclear tipped weapons of mass destruction. They flew over the ocean, then crossed onto land and banked slightly to the north in a heading that kept them in the shipping lane. Two minutes later they were within one hundred miles of the Port, close enough so that the Port sensors would wonder why the radar reflection was so small for two freighters, even for tramp freighters.