CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
2120 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar)
UNSC Iroquois , military staging area in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV
“Ship’s status?” Captain Keyes said as he strode onto the bridge, buttoning his collar. He noticed that the repair station Cradle still obscured their port camera. “And why aren’t we clear of that station yet?”
“Sir, all hands are at battle stations,” Lieutenant Dominique replied. “General quarters sounded. Tac data uploaded to your station.”
A tactical overview of the Iroquois , neighboring vessels, and Cradle popped onto Keyes’ personal display screen. “As you can see,” Lieutenant Dominique continued, “we did clear the station, but they are moving on the same outbound vector we are. Admiral Stanforth wants them with the fleet.”
Captain Keyes took his place in his command chair—“the hot seat,” as it was more colloquially known—
and reviewed the data. He nodded with satisfaction. “Looks like the Admiral has something up his sleeve.” He turned to Lieutenant Hall. “Engine status, Lieutenant?”
“Engines hot at fifty percent,” she reported. She straightened to her full height, nearly six feet, and looked Captain Keyes in the eye with something edging near defensiveness. “Sir, the engines took a real beating in our last engagement. The repairs we’ve made are . . . well, the best we could do without a complete refit.”
“Understood, Lieutenant,” Keyes replied calmly. In truth, Keyes was concerned about the engines, too—
but it would do no good to make Hall more uneasy than necessary. The last thing he needed now was to undermine her confidence.
“Gunnery officer?” Captain Keyes turned to Lieutenant Hikowa. The petite woman bore more resemblance to a porcelain doll than to a combat officer, but Keyes knew her delicate appearance was only skin deep. She had ice water for blood and nerves of steel.
“MAC guns charging,” Lieutenant Hikowa reported. “Sixty-five percent and climbing at two percent per minute.”
Everything on the Iroquois had slowed down to a crawl. Engine, weapons—even the unwieldy Cradle kept pace with them.
Captain Keyes sat up straighter. There was no time to spend on self-recriminations. He would have to do the best he could with what he had. There simply was no other alternative.
The lift doors popped open and a young man stepped on deck. He was tall and thin. His dark hair—
longer than regulations permitted—had been slicked back. He was disarmingly handsome; Keyes noticed the female bridge crew pause to look the newcomer over before returning to their tasks. “Ensign Lovell reporting for duty, Captain.” He snapped a sharp salute.
“Welcome aboard, Ensign Lovell.” Captain Keyes returned his salute, surprised that the unkempt officer could demonstrate such crisp adherence to military protocol. “Man the navigation console, please.”
The bridge officers scrutinized the Ensign. It was highly unusual for such a low-ranking officer to pilot a capital ship. “Sir?” Lovell wrinkled his forehead, confused. “Has there been some mistake, sir?”
“You are Ensign Michael Lovell? Recently posted on the Archimedes Remote Sensor Outpost?”
“Yes, sir. They pulled me off that duty so quick that I—”
“Then man your station, Ensign.”
“Yes, sir!”
Ensign Lovell sat at the navigation console, took a few seconds to acquaint himself with the controls—
then reconfigured them more to his liking.
A slight smile tugged at the corner of Keyes’ mouth. He knew that Lovell had more combat experience than any Lieutenant on the bridge, and was pleased that the Ensign adapted so quickly to unfamiliar surroundings.
“Show me the fleet’s position and the relative location of the enemy, Ensign,” Keyes ordered.
“Aye, sir,” Lovell replied. His hands danced across the controls. A moment later, a system map snapped into place on the main screen. Dozens of small triangular tactical markers showed Admiral Stanforth’s fleet massing between Sigma Octanus IV and its moon. It was a sound opening position. Fighting in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV would have trapped them in the gravity well—like fighting with your back to a wall.
Keyes studied the display—and frowned. The Admiral had moved the fleet into a tightly packed grid formation. When the Covenant fired their plasma weapons at them, there would be no maneuvering room.
The Covenant was moving in-system quickly. Captain Keyes counted twenty radar signatures. He didn’t like the odds.
“Receiving orders,” Lieutenant Dominique said. “Admiral Stanforth wants the Iroquois at this location ASAP.”
On the map, a blue triangle pulsed on the corner of the grid formation.
“Ensign Lovell, get us there at best speed.”
“Aye, sir,” he replied.
Captain Keyes fought down a wave of embarrassment; the Cradle stardock started to pull ahead of the Iroquois . It took up a position directly over the Admiral’s phalanx formation. The refit station rotated, presenting its edge to the incoming Covenant fleet to show them the smallest target area.
“Rotating and reversing burn,” Ensign Lovell said. The Iroquois spun about and slowed. “Thrusters to station keeping. We’re locked in position, sir.”
“Very good, Ensign. Lieutenant Hikowa, divert as much power as you need to get those MAC guns charged.”
“Aye, sir,” Hikowa replied. “Capacitors charging at maximum rate.”
“Captain,” Lieutenant Dominique said. “We’re receiving an encrypted firing solution and countdown timers from the Leviathan ’s AI.”
“Transfer that vector to Lieutenant Hikowa and show me on screen.”
A line appeared on the tactical map, connecting the Iroquois to one of the incoming Covenant frigates.
The firing timer appeared in the corner: twenty-three seconds.
“Now show me the entire fleet’s firing solutions, Lieutenant Dominique.”
A web of trajectories crossed the map with tiny countdown times next to each. Admiral Stanforth had the fleet exchanging fire with the Covenant like a line of Redcoats and colonial militia in the Revolutionary War—tactics that could best be described as bloody . . . or suicidal.
What the hell was the Admiral thinking? Keyes studied the displays, trying to divine a method to his commanding officer’s madness . . . then he understood. Risky, but—if it worked—brilliant.
The fleet’s firing countdowns were roughly timed so that the shots would be staggered into two, maybe three, massive salvos. The first salvo would—hopefully—knock out the Covenant ships’ shields. The final salvo was to be the knockout punch.
But it could only work once. After that, the UNSC fleet would be destroyed when the remaining Covenant ships returned fire. The Iroquois and the other ships were stationary targets. He appreciated that the Admiral couldn’t get too far from Sigma Octanus IV, but with zero momentum—and no room to maneuver—there’d be no way to avoid those plasma bolts.
“Sound decompression alarms in all nonessential sections, Lieutenant Hall, and then empty them.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, and bit her lower lip.
“Guns: status on the MACs?” Keyes’ eyes were glued to the firing countdown. Twenty seconds . . .
fifteen . . . ten . . .
“Sir, MAC weapon systems are hot!” Hikowa announced. “Removing safeties now.”
The Covenant ships started to rotate slowly in space—although their momentum continued to carry them on their inbound trajectory toward the UNSC phalanx. Motes of red light collected along the alien ships’
lateral lines.
Five seconds.
“Transferring firing control to the computer,” Lieutenant Hikowa said. She punched a series of firing codes into the computer, then locked down the controls. The Iroquois recoiled and spat twin bolts of thunder toward the enemy.
The starboard view screen showed UNSC destroyers and frigates launching their opening salvo.
The Covenant fleet fired as well; angry red lances of energy raced though space towards them.
“Time until that plasma impacts?” Captain Keyes asked Ensign Lovell.
“Twenty-two seconds, sir.”
The vacuum between the two opposing forces filled with a hundred lines of fire and smoldering metal that seemed to tear through the fabric of space.
Their trajectories closed on one another, then crossed, and the bolts of fire grew larger on the main screen.
Lieutenant Dominique said, “Receiving a second set of firing solutions and times. Admiral Stanforth on the priority channel, sir.”
“Put him on, holotank two,” Keyes ordered.
Near the main view screen, a small holographic tank—normally reserved for the ship’s AI—winked into operation. Admiral Stanforth’s ghostly image appeared. “All ships: hold your positions. Divert all engine power to recharge your guns. We’ve got something special cooked up.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not—I repeat, do not—under any circumstance break position or fire before you are ordered to do so.
Stanforth out.”
The holographic projection of the Admiral snapped out of existence.
“Orders, sir?” Ensign Lovell turned in his seat.
“You heard the Admiral, Ensign. Thrusters to station keeping. Lieutenant Hikowa: get those guns recharged on the double.”
“Aye, sir.”
Keyes nodded as Hikowa turned back to her task. “Three seconds until first salvo impact,” she announced.
Keyes turned back to the tac display, concentrating on the MAC rounds that crawled across the screen.
The fleet’s MAC rounds hammered into the Covenant lines. Shields flickered silver-blue and overloaded as the super-dense projectiles rammed into the formation; several ships were spun out of position by the impact.
“Guns?” he called out. “Enemy status?”
“Multiple hits on Covenant fleet, sir,” Hikowa replied. “Salvo two impact . . . now.”
A handful of the shots were clean misses. Keyes winced; each one of the off-trajectory MAC rounds meant one more enemy ship would survive to return fire.
The vast majority, however, slammed into the unshielded alien vessels. The lead Covenant destroyer took a direct hit from a heavy round, which sent the alien ship into a lurching port spin.
Keyes saw the destroyer’s engines flare as her pilot struggled to regain control—just as a second MAC
round struck on the ship’s opposite side. For an instant, the Covenant vessel shuddered, held position, then flexed as the hull stresses became too great. The destroyer disintegrated and scattered debris in a wide arc.
A second Covenant ship—a frigate—shuddered under the impact of multiple MAC rounds. It listed to starboard and rammed the next frigate in the enemy formation. Sparks and small explosions flared from the ships as a gray-white plume of vented atmosphere exploded into space. The ships’ running lights flickered, then dimmed as the pair of dead spacecraft—locked in a deadly embrace—tumbled into the heart of the Covenant line.
A moment later, the wrecked ships hit a third Covenant frigate, and they exploded, sending tendrils of plasma through space. A dozen of their ships vented atmosphere and fires flickered within their hulls.
The fore view screen, however, was now filled with incoming weapons fire.
“Fleet commander on priority channel,” Dominique announced. “Audio only.”
“Patch it through, Lieutenant,” Keyes ordered.
A hiss of static crackled through the communications-system speakers. A moment later, Admiral Stanforth’s voice calmly broke through the noise. “Lead to all ships: hold your positions,” the Admiral said. “Make ready to fire. Transfer timers to your computers . . . and hang on to your hats.”
A shadow crossed the overhead camera. On the view screen, Captain Keyes watched as the Cradle repair station, the plate nearly a kilometer on edge, rotated and started to slide in front of their phalanx formation.
“Christ,” Ensign Lovell whispered, “they’re going to take the hits for us.”
“Dominique, hit the scopes. Are there any lifepods outbound from Cradle ?” Keyes asked. He already knew the answer.
“Sir,” Dominique answered, his deep voice thick with worry. “No escape craft have left the Cradle .”
All eyes on the Iroquois ’ bridge were riveted to the screen. Keyes’ hands clenched with anger and helplessness. There was nothing to do but watch.
The front view screen went black as the station passed in front of them. Pinpoints of red and orange appeared along the back surface, metal vapor venting in plumes. Cradle lurched closer to the fleet, the impact of the plasma torpedoes pushing it back. The station continued to move downward, spreading out the damage. Holes appeared in the surface; the internal lattice of steel girders was exposed and, seconds later, glowed white-hot—then the view screen was clear again.
“Ventral cameras,” Captain Keyes said. “Now!”
The view changed as Dominique switched to the Iroquois ’ belly cameras. Cradle station reappeared. She spun and her entire forward surface was aglow . . . heat spread to the edges, the center liquefied and pulled away.
“MAC guns ready to fire in three seconds,” Lieutenant Hikowa announced, her voice cold and angry.
“Targeting lock acquired.”