''It is done, sir, as ordered.''
''Good. Good. Keep me informed on how we're doing on those missiles, Chief.''
''They're tossing them at us. Our 5-inchers are starting to bat the leading ones down, sir.''
''Good, good. We can do this all day.'' But the Admiral kept one eye on the temperature of each of his battleships' fuel tanks. They rose higher and higher; all were venting. The more fuel he lost, the less options he had to maneuver in Wardhaven's orbit until his supply fleet arrived with Marines in two weeks.
Several of his skippers were already resorting to a third option for cooling their guns, switching their coolant into local secondary radiators that spread out around the twin laser turrets themselves. This got the heat out into space, but it weakened the ice around the turret… and it gave the turret a decidedly warmer infrared signature than the rest of the ice around it. Maybe we can't do this all day, but then, they can't have enough missiles to keep this up for an entire day, can they?
''How's your stock of missiles?'' Kris asked.
''It won't last forever,'' van Horn answered.
''What do the battlewagons look like?''
''Fuel tanks are venting. That's bound to cause the trailing ships' lasers to bloom,'' Penny said.
''I like that,'' Tom said.
''Some battleships are showing hot spots around their 5-inch batteries,'' Moose said. ''Lot more of them than I was expecting. Those mothers really are monsters.'' He sent a picture to Kris. Yep, they had at least twice the number of secondary turrets dotting their ice, if the hot spots were taken for them.
Kris studied her board, tried to do the three-dimensional math. Van Horn's four freighters were firing missiles from slightly aft of the battleships, letting them decelerate down on them. If Kris launched her squadron at the hostiles, she risked running into her own missiles.
''Nelly, give me a battle plan that puts the squadron at the edge of big laser range and gives us a solid run in with missiles ahead of us and behind us.''
''But none in the same space as us,'' Nelly added. Was there a chuckle in there?
''You go, girl,'' Tom said.
''Here is a schedule. We should break out now.''
''Divisions 1, 2, and 3, let's show the guy what we got. Phil, lead the way. Divisions 4, 5, and 6, form a line but stay back. Sandy, they're yours until I get back.''
''You're not taking them in with you?''
''Change in plan. I want to get an up-close look at those monsters. Try to spot something a 12-inch pulse laser might dent before I send them in.''
''Look for a miracle, huh?''
''Isn't that what we Longknifes always do?''
''Good hunting.''
''With targets that big, how can we miss?''
Kris waited until Squadron 8's boats were in a good starting pattern, random to all outward appearances, but, if the planned dance came together right, and if they weren't too badly damaged on the run in, it would have the boats paired up close and personal to each of the six battlewagons.
There were some big ifs in there, Kris noted.
Kris's screen blossomed as Custer fired off a major pulse of rockets, then darkened as a space opened up.
''That's our cue,'' Kris said. ''Initiate intercept orbit. Evasion scheme 2.''
PF-109 slammed from a steady one g to two g's while flipping over and aiming itself back at the moon. A moment later, as if thinking better of that, it flipped over and turned its deceleration into acceleration at an even wilder 2.25 g's.
Penny's announcement, ''We're in big gun range,'' was followed by another major change in direction, and Moose muttering, ''Damn, they did try to swat us with an 18-incher.''
''They did?'' Kris asked.
''Yep. Missed.''
''Nelly, was that part of your evasion assumption?''
''Of course, Kris,'' the computer answered patiently.
''Dang it all, where are they going, and why are we hanging around here, behind?'' came over the net.
Sandy expected it. At least Luna was talking before she charged in. ''We will stay right here, by my orders.''
''And if we don't?''
''I'll shoot you down like the dog you are. Don't I remember somewhere someone promising to follow orders?''
''Well, yeah, but there's orders and then there's being a yellow-bellied coward.'' That brought agreement on net.
''In a couple of moments,'' Sandy said, trying to keep exasperation out of her voice, ''I'm going to expect you to follow me in something that no coward would ever do. Just about the time those battleships get a good solid bead on Kris and her boats, we're going to parade ourselves inside their gun range. We're going to march right through the one hundred thousand klicks range they got to the eighty thousand klicks range that the 14-inch guns you would have if you were the ships you're claiming to be. You following me?''
''We ain't gonna po-raid along right behind you, are we?''
''No, I expect you to be in full evasion mode.''
There were several expressions of relief at that.
''We're going to draw their fire just long enough for Kris to get a good solid aim at her target, make her hit, then start to run away. Then, depending on how much wreckage she's left behind, we either run in ourselves, or run away.''
''Why are all you Navy types so pessimistic? We'll be running right in there behind her, collecting up all the strays and brandin' ‘em.''
And why are all you who never studied war such optimists? Sandy thought, but kept that to herself.
''XO, set us a course that will take us in to eighty K from the hostiles. Begin evasion program at one hundred-and-one K range.''
''Aye, ma'am.''
The 109 boat dipped, then zigged a bit, then zagged a lot, then did several minor dodges that left the hairs on the back of Kris's neck wanting something major. About the time she was ready to say so, the 109 slammed itself into a complete course reversal, then into a hard left. Then dropped like a rock.
''Missed us again,'' Moose chortled.
''I calculated that should fake them,'' Nelly said.
''You sure faked me,'' Kris said.
The 109 flipped, flopped, and spun. ''And they miss again,'' Moose drawled.
''What's their heat situation?'' Kris asked.
''Building up fast, what with 18-inch and 5-inch firing,'' Moose said. ''Their fuel tanks are all venting. I can spot all their secondaries. Their capacitors must be losing efficiency. Taking less of a charge, taking longer to take it. You got to like their problems, ma'am. They're either going to have to stream those radiators and risk losing them or start taking hits from our stuff getting through.''
Moose looked up. ''I wonder just how thick their ice is.''
''We're about to find out,'' Kris said as she watched the battleship secondaries fight their battle with Custer's missiles. Most of the missiles were homing on the heat of the 5-inch batteries. The fight was up very close and personal for those gun crews.
Smash the missile, or the missile kills you.
Beneath Kris, the 109 dodged and weaved, cut and turned as the 18-inch lasers tried to cut her in two. 18-inch turrets were not designed to track targets that turned on a dime, shot away at two, three g's, then swung around again. In most cases, the lasers were just laid and fired when the PFs looked like they were headed into that bit of space. Nelly's dance and the Foxer's confusion disrupted the gunner's plans time after time. Eighteen inches of blazing death reached out, but the mosquitoes they sought were never there.
''Whoops,'' came a voice on net.
''What happened?''
''They winged me,'' Heather reported. ''Opened my quarterdeck to space. Engine room is tight. Bridge is holding. Gonna have to put a bit less stress on the hull, though.'' With its longitudinal strength compromised, hard turns now risked having PF-110 bend in the middle like a wet noodle.