"CO Madira! CO Franklin!"
"Go, CO Franklin!"
"We're closest to the main group of Seppies, Wally. Give me the Andy Jackson, Bryant, and the Patrick Henry and we'll take it upstairs to them," the CO of the Benjamin Franklin requested.
"Roger that, Mike! Good hunting! Madira out!" Captain Jefferson turned his attention back to the ships on the other side of the battlescape.
Captain?
Go Timmy.
Thatcher has blown the lower deck plating from the aft hanger deck and Ares pilots are flying out from the gaping hole.
Son of a bitch. That Captain Walker is hardcore.
Aye sir.
"Holy shit! Sir!" Helmsman Marks screamed following the brilliant flash about ten thousand kilometers above them.
"What the . . . ?" Jefferson had to squint his eyes from the virtual space flicker created in his mind that was in the general direction of the splinter fleet that the Franklin and three other fleet supercarriers had gone after. Subnuclear detonation proximity klaxons started blearing throughout the ship.
"CO! CDC!"
"Go CDC!"
"We've got a gluonium detonation from the enemy ships at—"
"Roger that, CDC, we see it." The CO cut him off as the virtual sphere reset itself. There were two missing Separatist haulers, several smaller ships, and there were four missing U.S. supercarriers. "Fuck!" He slammed his fist against his chair. "It was a goddamned trap!"
"CO, do we want to get close to the other Seppy hauler?" the XO asked.
"Negative. Fleet. CO Madira! Engage Seppy hauler at distance only. Repeat. Seppy hauler is to be engaged from distance only. Suspect WMD booby traps!"
Captain?
Go, Timmy.
New plot of the hauler's trajectory suggests it is on a collision course for the main dome of Mons City!
Goddamnit, Timmy. We've got to stop it. The CO concentrated for a fleeting second hoping for a spark of some tactic that might help. Suicide bombers.
Sir?
How do you stop suicide bombers?
Sir?
Fight fire with fire, Timmy! Can we clear the fighters in time to hit that thing with a subnuke?
We would suffer major losses but could possibly save the city.
Shit.
"Fleet! CO Madira! Steer clear of enemy vessel on trajectory for planet's surface. Retreat to maximum safe distance now and prepare for subnuclear detonation," Captain Jefferson ordered and started drawing out new vectors in his virtual battle for the surviving members of the fleet.
"Sir?!" the XO said. "A suicide mission?"
"Well, goddamnit Larry, if you'd get me my main guns back we might not have to go to such extremes!"
"Yes, XO! Aye sir! Aye sir!" Hull Technician Joe Buckley almost saluted the tac-net screen. The Sienna Madira was forced on a suicide run and there were only a couple of minutes left to get the main gun up to save it. It was possible that one of the systems would cool down enough for a shot or two in two to five minutes but Joe didn't think that was likely. They were screwed.
Hull Tech Buckley had worked in the bowels of the flagship of the U.S. Navy fleet for seven years and knew every nook and cranny of the coolant flow systems and there was just nothing left to do. The liquid metal flowing around the ship to cool any of the large heat-generating systems such as the engines, the catapults, the SIF generators, and the main DEGs was all overheated—all of it. There wasn't a flow system left that wasn't overheated. It had been rerouted and rerouted and rerouted again in order to keep the SIFs up or the DEGs firing. Joe had never seen the flagship in such a tight spot.
"Well, Fireman's Apprentice King, I guess this is going to be a typical Navy day!" Buckley told his subordinate. The sarcasm wasn't lost on the fireman's apprentice.
"Goddamn it, HT. This is a bunch of shit! I don't want to fuckin' die!" The new guy in the "shithole" had just picked the wrong week to join up and that was all there was to it. Some guys do life in the military and never see any action, not one fucking iota. But then some poor dumb unlucky bastard draws the short end of the stick and has to rush Normandy on his first combat mission, or has to guard the embassy during the Tet offensive, or has to raid the Seppy farms on the first day of the Desert Campaigns, or, in Fireman's Apprentice James King's case, work in the bowels of the shit flow pipes for the flagship of the United States Navy during the mass Exodus of the entire Separatist population in the system.
"That's right, Jimmy, this is just a bunch of shit. Seppy motherfuckers!" Hull Tech Buckley shouted at the top of his lungs and banged his fist against the bulkhead. They only needed a small flow loop. Just enough to give them a few seconds of the main gun! One little flow loop of coolant. Hell, they didn't even need anything exotic for just a few seconds. Just one little goddamned flow loop that wasn't already overheated.
Jimmy's right, Mija. This is a sock full of shit! Buckley thought to his AIC. It was nice knowing ya.
You too, Joe. Somebody has to take the shit and I guess there's nobody better trained for it than us, Mija replied, almost lightheartedly. Sorry, Joe.
Shit . . . shit . . . Joe shook his head and then a thought struck him, almost.
Joe? Are you all right?
Shit . . . Hull Technician Petty Officer Third Class Joe Buckley was in the makings of a moment of genius. Not Nobel Prize–winning genius but perhaps ass-saving genius.
Hull Technician Joe Buckley? His AIC grew worried. She had never seen Buckley react this way.
"Shit!" Joe screamed at the top of his lungs again. "Shit, shit, shit and more shit! That's what we have plenty of down here in the shit hole! Shit!" Buckley paused for just a second and smiled like a madman on a mission and hell-bent for something.
"Uh, HT? You okay?" Jimmy asked.
"Fireman's Apprentice, grab that BFW on the console over there and get over here! I want you to beat the flying fuck out of this empty flow pipe at this juncture." Joe pointed Jimmy to the big fucking wrench and a joint where the DEG liquid metal coolant could be routed to flow through.
Mija, lock off this part of the pipe and flush it, then turn off the SIF on this joint for a moment, he thought to his AIC.
Pipe is empty and SIF is off, HT3 Buckley, Mija responded. There was a faint swooshing sound through the pipe for a split second.
Great.
"Jimmy, start banging!" Joe pointed at the juncture on the pipe.
"If you say so, HT3." Jimmy grabbed the BFW and started pounding away at the flow conduit juncture. Clang, clang, clang. Clang, clang, clang.
"Mija, I'm going voice so Jimmy can hear this too. Turn the SIF back on in that pipe." Joe brought up the heat pipe flows in his virtual DTM and highlighted the flow loop on the two forward DEG batteries. "We've got two sewer plants and one water reservoir on this ship. Mija, how much of that would it take once flushed into the system to cool off and allow us to fire the forward DEGs for a few seconds?"