Toll of Honor, page 45
part #15 of Honor Harrington Series
But they didn’t do that, and his eyes narrowed as they continued to fire back, instead. Wounded, broken—yes, they were both of those, and their defenses weakened in lockstep with their offensive firepower. Their point defense was weaker, and from their emissions signatures, one of them had lost at least half the sidewall generators in her engaged broadside. Yet they never wavered. They maintained course, pounding away.
“Can’t say I like this much, Skipper,” Lev Carson said over McKeon’s earbug from his own post in auxiliary control at the far end of Prince Adrian’s core hull. “This isn’t Mathias, for God’s sake!”
“No, it sure as hell isn’t,” McKeon grated, because Carson was clearly thinking exactly what he’d been thinking.
Citizen Rear Admiral Dietz and Citizen Rear Admiral Linton had been trapped in Mathias. They couldn’t have avoided or evaded Sixth Fleet whatever they did. But Bogey One’s units could have. Their wedges were up, their base velocity was two-thirds that of Sixth Fleet, and Sixth Fleet was outside them. They could break off, roll ship to hide their wounded sidewalls, and shelter behind the unbroken wall of their fellows while damage control worked frantically on repairs.
The fact that they were doing nothing of the sort was . . . worrisome.
“There, Skipper!” Lieutenant Commander Chen said. “That’s one!”
“I see it,” McKeon acknowledged as one of those crippled superdreadnoughts finally pulled out of Bogey One’s wall and rolled to interpose the belly of its wedge. But he felt less exuberance than his tactical officer.
From CIC’s estimates, that ship was a shambles, little more than a broken hulk that still had impellers. It hadn’t fired a single shot in the last salvo before it rolled, but its wounded sisters never wavered, and they should have. By all rights, that wall should have been shedding ships by twos and threes as their damage mounted, and despite the disparity in numbers, it was being hit far harder than Sixth Fleet. By now, every Havenite spacer, commissioned or enlisted, had to know about the superiority of Manticore’s missile technology. They had to know Sixth Fleet had every edge in a missile duel, and the fact that they were taking so much damage while so many of White Haven’s capital ships were mere dreadnoughts must have driven home that proof of their tactical inferiority with brutal force. That had to have taken the heart out of them, yet they were coming in anyway, taking their losses in ships—and lives—and never flinching.
A pair of Peep superdreadnoughts slewed suddenly out of formation. Not to roll ship, but staggering aside as their wedges went down. One of them still had her after-impeller ring; the other was naked in the storm, and a torrent of missiles roared down upon her and ripped her apart.
Five seconds later, her wounded sister followed in the blinding glare of failing fusion bottles, yet still Bogey One’s course never wavered, and Alistair McKeon knew why.
They did know how outclassed they were in a missile engagement. But they also knew they had a significant edge in numbers and tonnage, even with the losses they’d already suffered. The range between Bogey One and Sixth Fleet was little more than four million kilometers now, and they were trying to close all the way into energy range, force the devastating close engagement prewar theory had extolled as the decisive moment in a fight to the death between walls-of-battle.
They’re not going to get it, he thought. If they can turn away from us, then we can turn away from them, and now that we’ve dropped the pods, our acceleration’s at least as good as theirs. White Haven will never let them get that close!
Only . . .
The Peeps had to know that as well as McKeon did, and they were trying anyway, which made no sense. It would only allow Sixth Fleet to hurt them even worse before White Haven broke off. So why in God’s name—
One of the plot’s green lights suddenly flashed the red of critical damage as half a dozen Peep lasers blasted into HMS King Michael, and Alistair McKeon’s jaw clenched as the superdreadnought’s wedge faltered. But then it came back up again, and the 8.3-million-ton Leviathan continued to fire. McKeon relaxed slightly . . . then stiffened as the entire ship simply blew up, taking six thousand human beings into death with it.
He heard someone gasp, yet he never looked away from the plot as Sixth Fleet edged ever so slightly to starboard. White Haven wasn’t breaking off, he knew. The Earl was simply holding the range, preventing Bogey One from closing.
The missile exchange redoubled. But the weight of fire favored Sixth Fleet ever more heavily as more and more Peep launchers fell silent, and another Havenite fell out of the wall, covering herself with her impeller wedge as best she could.
That was five of Bogey One’s SDs out of action or destroyed outright, to only one of Sixth Fleet’s, and the surviving Peeps were far more heavily damaged. At this rate, White Haven would have a decisive edge even in energy range, assuming the Peeps could get that close, and Bogey One’s commander had to know that. So why was he still coming in this way? Nightingale was of only tertiary importance to the People’s Republic. It certainly wasn’t worth the destruction of a fleet Bogey One’s size! And even if it had been, any sane tactician would settle for driving Sixth Fleet off rather than seeking a close engagement which had to be suicidal! It made no—
“New contact, Skipper!” Chen snapped, and McKeon’s nostrils flared as a fresh rash of impeller signatures blazed suddenly in the plot.
“Designate this Bogey Two,” Chen continued, dropping back into the disciplined chant of a tactical officer facing disaster. “Bearing zero-four-five, zero-three-niner. Range niner-two-million klicks. One-eight million from the fleet Flag. Estimate twenty-four—two-four—ships-of-the-wall.”
McKeon slammed a fist on his command chair’s armrest as understanding blazed through him. No wonder the Peeps had held their course so unflinchingly! Bogey One had known exactly where Bogey Two was, and it had drawn—or perhaps a better term would be “herded”—Sixth Fleet directly into the trap. Now the untouched superdreadnoughts of Bogey Two had pushed their own drives high enough to burn through their stealth fields to accelerate into battle, and on their current vectors, Bogey One and Bogey Two would cross Sixth Fleet’s track in barely eight minutes.
At which point fifty ships-of-the-wall would pour a torrent of fire into Sixth Fleet’s surviving twenty-three.
“Orders from the Flag, Sir!” Lieutenant McCloskey said suddenly. “The wall will alter to two-seven-zero, zero-zero-zero at maximum military power and roll ship against Bogey Two! The screen will alter to nine-zero-zero, zero-zero-zero at maximum military power and roll ship against Bogey Two!”
“Acknowledge!” McKeon snapped, and stabbed a look at Lieutenant Pamela Irvine, Prince Adrian’s astrogator.
“Punched in . . . now, Skipper,” she said before he could speak, and he grunted approvingly.
“Execute order from Nike,” McCloskey announced.
“Make it so!” McKeon ordered, and HMS Prince Adrian turned away from the enemy for the first time in her entire existence.
Even as the screen came hard to starboard and broke for the hyper limit at five hundred twelve gravities, Sixth Fleet’s wall-of-battle broke in exactly the opposite direction, driving even deeper into the hyper sphere. Like the screen, White Haven’s wallers had redlined their inertial compensators, running them with zero margin against failure. That invited catastrophic damage should one of those compensators fail, but it also brought their acceleration up to four hundred nine gravities, and the earl was no longer attempting to avoid Bogey One.
Alistair McKeon watched his display, his jaw tight, as he realized what White Haven had done.
Bogey One had paid a hideous price to bait the Havenite trap, but Bogey Two had jumped the gun. Only by a very few minutes, perhaps, and probably only because Bogey One’s damage had been even worse than their pre-battle planning had allowed for. McKeon could readily understand how that might work. How watching Bogey One being ripped apart must have torn at the very heart of Bogey Two’s CO. And it wasn’t as if he’d lit off his drives all that much sooner than the plan had undoubtedly allowed for.
But it was—it might be—just enough, Alistair McKeon thought, punching numbers into the auxiliary plot deployed from the base of his command chair. If he was right, if—
The vectors came together on his plot, and his jaw clenched even tighter.
It was enough, but only barely, and only because Admiral White Haven had responded almost instantly. Given the comparative accelerations and the geometry at the moment Bogey Two revealed itself, Sixth Fleet could evade it. It would still bring White Haven’s wall into its extreme missile range, but it was “above” as well as “outside” Sixth Fleet, which meant Sixth Fleet could roll up on its side, presenting only the roofs of its impeller wedges to Bogey Two’s fire. Some Havenite missiles would probably get through, find targets through the Manticorans’ hidden sidewalls, but no more than a handful.
Yet there were prices for everything, McKeon thought grimly. The only course that would permit Sixth Fleet to evade Bogey Two would force it to cross Bogey One’s track at a range of barely one light-second, and an attitude that shielded White Haven’s wallers from Bogey Two’s missiles would force it into a broadside exchange with Bogey One well inside energy range. It would be a passing engagement. Even if Bogey One altered to extend the energy envelope as much as possible, Sixth Fleet would be through it and out of range once again in barely twenty seconds, and once past Bogey One, it could interpose its wedges against both Havenite formations.
But those twenty seconds would be carved from the heart of Hell itself.
Alistair McKeon didn’t know what the final losses were going to be, but he knew they would be horrendous.
And he knew the war had just changed.
HMS Prince Adrian
Madras System
April 11, 1907 PD
Alistair McKeon rapped his spoon against his water glass.
The ancient attention-claiming signal chimed musically through the buzz of conversation, and heads turned toward him. He gazed down the long table at the diminutive midshipwoman seated at its far end.
Midshipwoman Felicia O’Toole drew a barely perceptible deep breath, picked up her wine glass, and rose to her majestic hundred and sixty centimeters.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she raised her glass, “the Queen!”
“The Queen!” rumbled back in response as other glasses rose all around the table, and Brandy Bolgeo smiled as O’Toole settled back into her chair, her expression only slightly touched with relief.
The midshipwoman had just turned twenty-two, and she’d boarded Prince Adrian, along with fellow middies Bryant Atwater and Lawrence Shakoor, less than two weeks ago. Brandy remembered her own middy cruise, how terrified she’d secretly been that she’d somehow screw it up, despite all her hard work and preparation at the Academy. But at least—her smile faded—she hadn’t had to worry about being killed in action before she was twenty-three.
“Thank you, Ms. O’Toole,” Captain McKeon said gravely, then leaned back in his chair and regarded his guests with a thoughtful expression.
There were quite a few of them—Chief Brodzinski had been forced to use both extenders, and the lengthened table filled even his dining cabin almost completely—and he considered them gravely for a moment or two.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said finally, and Brandy saw some of the others smile at the polite formula courtesy required. She’d sometimes wondered what would’ve happened to an officer who’d declined his CO’s “invitation” to dinner. She was pretty confident the situation had never arisen, since a junior officer that stupid probably also forgot to breathe without being reminded.
“It’s good to see you all here,” the captain went on. “Most of us have been through a lot together by now, and the newcomers”—he smiled at O’Toole and Shakoor; Atwater had the bridge watch and had been unable to attend—“seem to be fitting in well. So far, at least, Which, of course, any middy had better do! Trust me, you two do not want to find out what happens to midshipmen who don’t fit in.”
Shakoor’s gray eyes widened ever so slightly, but a reassuring chuckle rippled its way around the table, and O’Toole smiled back at the captain.
“As those of you who have been around a bit longer than our newcomers know,” McKeon continued, “I try to dine with my officers on a fairly regular basis. It’s a lesson I learned from probably the best starship captain I was ever privileged to serve under, and I commend it to all of you as your own careers progress. But tonight, as you may have noticed, the table is a bit more crowded, and that’s because this is a special occasion. We’re here tonight to say goodbye to someone who’s served aboard Prince Adrian for well over two T-years. During that time, he’s been a pillar of strength when we needed one, an outstanding mentor to his own subordinates, and one of the best examples of what it truly means to be one of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines.”
He picked up his glass again, raising it slightly, and nodded to Viktor Yestachenko.
“If I may be just a few days premature, Major?” he said, then looked at the other seated guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, will you join me in offering our well-deserved congratulations to Colonel Yestachenko?”
“Congratulations!”
The response filled the compartment, and Brandy realized she was on her feet—that all of them were on their feet, except Yestachenko. The Marine must have heard the sincerity in all those voices, because somehow the face that had always said whatever it was supposed to be saying seemed to have escaped his control. In fact, he reached up and wiped an eye as surreptitiously as possible.
“Speech!” Brian Chen said with a huge grin, and Lev Carson took up the chant. They even began clapping rhythmically, and Yestachenko lowered his hand and glared at them. But then McKeon raised his own hand, stilling the tumult.
“Let’s not get too rowdy,” he said with a smile. “We’re all Queen’s officers, if you’ll recall. That means that a certain standard of behavior is required of us.” He paused a beat. “Even those of us who happen to be Marines.”
“Oh, thank you, Sir,” Yestachenko said. “You’ve made me feel so much better.”
“You’re a Marine!” McKeon’s smile segued into a grin. “Suck it up, Colonel!”
Laughter rumbled, and Yestachenko glowered at the entire compartment. It was a remarkably insincere glower, Brandy noticed.
“Well, as it happens, Marines, unlike mere naval types, always have contingency plans,” he said. “My well-honed tactical instincts suggested the high probability of an unscrupulous ambush of this nature, and like any good Marine, I came prepared.”
“That sounds vaguely ominous,” McKeon observed, then shook his head. “I may regret this, but the floor is yours, Viktor.”
“Thank you, Sir.” There was less humor in Yestachenko’s tone—and expression—as he stood and faced McKeon’s assembled guests.
“The truth is that I’m genuinely torn,” he said simply. “Obviously, I’ve always wanted a colonel’s planets, but I never realized how much a part of me would hate giving these up.” He touched the three golden pips of a major which adorned his collar. “I’m looking forward to the challenges, now that they’ve decided to trust me with an entire battalion, but a part of me—a huge part of me—will still be right here, with Baker Company. I’m going to miss everyone aboard this ship, but I’ll especially miss you three.” He looked across the table at his platoon commanders, who sat very straight under his eyes. “I haven’t told you often enough how satisfied I’ve been with you and how enormously proud I’ve been of you,” he told them. “I have never asked something of you and not gotten it, and believe me, I know how often and how far beyond the mere ‘call of duty’ you—all of our people—have gone for me.
“I know that you’ll give the same loyalty, the same integrity, to Major Hendren when he reports aboard. In the meantime, of course, the Company will be in your hands, Isaiah.” He looked directly into Lieutenant Gillespie’s eyes. “Take care of it for me.”
“I will, Sir,” Gillespie promised, and Yestachenko nodded.
“Good!” He cleared his throat and nodded again. “Good.”
He picked up his own glass, looked down into it for a moment, then raised it.
“Ladies and gentlemen—my friends—join me, please, in a toast.”
Shoe soles scuffed and clothing rustled as everyone in the compartment rose, and he turned his head, sweeping his gaze over all of them.
“To the finest ship I have ever served in,” he said. “To the finest crew I have ever served with. And to the finest body of Marines, I have ever commanded. May God hold you in His hands, preserve you from harm, and give you the victory every one of you absolutely deserves.
“Godspeed, Prince Adrian. Cool heads, strong hearts, stout ships, and damnation to the Peeps!”
* * *
Much later, Brandy sat in front of her terminal in her much smaller cabin. At least as Prince Adrian’s senior engineer, she didn’t have to share it with anyone, and she luxuriated in that sense of privacy as she recorded her letter to her parents.
“So we’re all going to miss him,” she said. “I can’t tell you where he’s going, of course, but I will say that it’s no more than he deserves, and that I’m sure he’ll do just as fantastic a job there as he’s done here, and that’s a pretty high bar to clear.
“And, to be honest, sad as we all were to see him go, I think we all really needed that dinner. That party. The chance to share our hearts and hopes with each other. It’s been a tough couple of months.”
She knew her expression and her tone were giving away more than she really wanted them to, but that was okay. They were her parents. They deserved the truth . . . and there was no point trying to fool them, anyway. Her dad was far too well tapped in to Navy channels to not know what had happened in Nightingale, what it meant. And the House of Winton had always leveled with its subjects. No one would give away any tactically or strategically critical information, but while Navy communiqués might occasionally omit information, conceal ship movements, they never lied. That had been Manticoran policy since Queen Adrienne’s day.
