+- Discovery Gaming Community (https://discoverygc.com/forums)
+-- Forum: Role-Playing (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=9)
+--- Forum: Stories and Biographies (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=56)
+--- Thread: See Thy Triumph (/showthread.php?tid=126127)
See Thy Triumph - Omi - 02-14-2015
//In the interests of not turning this into a massive mess, please check with either myself or John Wildkins before posting here.
Low Planetary Orbit - Leeds System
The bridge of the Chant du Cygne could have been a funeral parlour, and the ambience wouldn't have changed a bit. Various - mostly unimportant - personnel scurried around, their eyes darting nervously around the vast command center. Others sat at their stations, murmuring quietly to their neighbours - talking helped, if only a little. The mood was grim; the tension in the air so thick it could practically be cut with a knife.
Above the entire scene presided one particular figure, standing higher than all the others, alone on the command platform. Elevated above the rest of the bridge surface, this platform gave the Valor's captain access to all they could ever need - a full bank of consoles and screens providing all the necessary functionality. The technology on display was staggering in its complexity - and that was nothing compared to what lay beneath the surface. The Royal Navy's flagship was the epitome of Gallic military might, a reputation that was reflected right down to the last interior panel. Quite possibly, the safest place in the known universe was here - surrounded by state-of-the-art defensive systems - with multiple redundancies for each, should any fail - enough marines to hold a small island, and meters and meters of folded Ultralloy protecting the whole package from the cruel vacuum of space.
This was all very reassuring, but none of those facts were even the slightest comfort to the Grande Maréchale. Lucie leaned against the railing, glaring down at the bridge officers below with a critical, icy stare. Of course, that was just an expression - in truth, she just felt sick. The traditional butterflies in the stomach seemed to have turned into hornets - a transformation that the King's ultimatum had done nothing to help. The implications of failure had always been there, however much she'd tried to push those thoughts aside, but having it stated outright had brought all her worries to the fore once again.
They were valid concerns, too. Scouting reports were coming in more and more regularly as the enemy fleet advanced, and a terminal in front of her held all the pertinent information. The numbers displayed had long ago surpassed those of the ships she had available, and she hadn't checked it in a full ten minutes. Even the thought of glancing over there made her want to throw up.
Briefly, Lucie wondered how the rest of them were coping. Evreux and Charbonneau had said as little as possible in the High Command's hurried conference, limiting themselves to simple acknowledgements. Neither of the two were particularly sociable at the best of times, but she knew (or, rather, hoped) that they could be trusted to get the job done. Maybe their silence meant they were as nervous as she was. Meanwhile, the odious Lebeau was over a week away, standing watch with the reserve fleets. They hadn't even been able to get a video signal, although her subordinates had assured her that the good Général was on his way. And finally, Xavier had remained his usual cryptic self, spouting rhetoric from the far side of the system. Of all the relief fleets, his was likely to arrive first of all - and truth be told, Lucie was placing most of her faith in her predecessor's eventual arrival.
Suddenly, her reverie was interrupted by the blaring of a loud klaxon. Her stomach seemed like to twist inside out - that particular noise heralded a maximum-priority message, which, given the circumstances, was unlikely to be good news. Within seconds, the communications officer had acknowledged the hailing signal, and the bridge was at once filled with fuzzy audio:
"-say again, this is escadrille zéro-sept-trois, reporting gravimetric activity! The jump anomaly's readings are spiking - spiking hard!" The pilot's professionalism seemed to have collapsed - whether in fear or righteous excitement, Lucie couldn't tell. "Thousands of tons of mass is in transit - deploying straight into the eastern particle cloud. ETA, ten seconds or less. We'll have eyes on them short-"
The feed cut out with an ominous hiss, prompting a surge of muttering and whispering from all aboard. Lucie herself felt a momentary grip of sharp, white-hot fear, before she forced herself into action.
"Libertonian jamming," she declared, her voice amplified automatically by the bridge's equipment. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned to regard her, and she desperately hoped that she looked more commanding than she felt. "That confirms their arrival." She took a deep breath, turning to the immense display behind her. Already, some quick-thinking officer had manually updated it, and the East Leeds Smog Cloud had been shaded an angry reddish colour. The blue icons representing her own fleet sat near the planet, in accordance with the orders she had long since dispensed. Thirteen Valors, fifty-six Obstinates, two hundred and fifty Perilouses, and a few thousand snubcraft were all she had - forces that were more than sufficient to pacify even the largest of incursions. Nobody had expected the Libertonians to order an all-out, do-or-die attack, though. Now, they stood massively outnumbered.
For the next couple of hours, all she could do was wait. It would be suicide to attempt to hold anything more than low orbit - charging into a smog cloud teeming with numerically superior forces would have been a tactical disaster. Instead, Lucie had no option but to grit her teeth and wait. The Libertonian behemoth was in motion, with all the momentum of a hundred thousand tons of well-coordinated steel and fighting men.
A behemoth that she had no choice but to stop.
RE: See Thy Triumph - Wildkins - 02-20-2015
“It doesn’t take a hero to order men into battle. It takes a hero to be one of those men who goes into battle.”
- Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf
- Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf
Deep Space - Magellan System
A few moments prior...
The bridge of the Jacobi was as still as a tomb. The lower decks constituted a series of officers, rapidly scanning their way through monitors while simultaneously exchanging nervous glances to their partners, speaking in hushed tones as the monster of a vessel plowed its way through the fading edge of the Barrier Nebula. At the highest level of the observation deck, there lay a single console wrapped around a half-sphere of a bridge, with a single communications officer sitting in front of the large terminal. Standing directly behind him, clad in a deep navy blue uniform, was Fleet Admiral Nathaniel Davies. He took a long, drawn out puff from a cigar, staring out at the depths of space unfurling themselves before him.
After a few, quiet moments, the quavering voice of a young man spoke up from below.
"S-Sir...?", the young Lieutenant queried, tablet held firmly in his hands. He stared up from the deck beneath Davies, awaiting a reply.
Davies simply let out a sigh, exhaling a cloud of smoke from the cigar, before bringing it down and smashing it in a nearby ashtray, leaving it there, embers twirling their way through the air. He kept his gaze forward, croaking out a reply. "Lieutenant. Report."
The Lieutenant nodded, his gaze falling quickly to the datapad in front of him. "Navigation reports the fleet is closing within range of the Leeds space-time anomaly, sir." His quavering voice straightened itself slightly as he spoke, his words reverberating throughout the otherwise silent bridge.
Davies simply nodded, keeping his head held forward. "Anything else, Lieutenant?", he asked, gazing downward at his uniform.
"Yes, sir, um..." He stopped, collecting his thoughts whilst scrolling through the datapad's many directories. "Fleet Admiral O'Brian has sent a message. She's requesting your immediate return to NATO Headquarters."
The Admiral simply let out a chuckle, looking over at the young officer. "Lieutenant, please be so kind as to tell her these exact words. I am not going to leave my men fighting a hell I personally sent them head first into." He stops, shaking his head momentarily. "If she wishes to sit back as her men 'die for the Queen' on that distant hellhole, then that is her prerogative.", he growled.
"Yes, sir." The lieutenant gave a snappy salute, before stepping off, heading to a console in the far corner of the bridge. Davies returned his attention to the space in front of him, scanning his gaze about. The entirety of the Libertonian war machine's finest was here, churning its way through the stardust and darkness toward what would very likely be a one-way trip. Lying just ahead of a bulk of blue-gray warships and their support craft lay a large rift in space, twisting and turning as it bent space and time. Beyond it, lay the hell-torn landscape known only as Leeds. The men stuck on that war-torn planet had come out of a violent war with Kusari only to be stabbed in the side by the rushing blade of the Gallic forces, tearing their way through Bretonia like a knife through butter. Hopefully, Davies thought, they'd put an end to all of that.
They had to.
As the Jacobi and the rest of its hulking, mile-long support fleet reached the rift in space, the intercoms of each respective ship crackled as Davies began to speak. "All ships, all ships, this is the Jacobi. Halt and standby." Aboard the Jacobi, Davies let out a long, drawn out sigh as he sat in his captain's chair, overlooking the observation deck. The transmitter was held in his right hand, his cigar in his left, elbows resting against the arms of the leather-backed recliner. There he remained for a few moments, motionless, pondering.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is what we've prepared for all of our lives. This is the beginning of the end, and we're to make it so." He stopped, adjusting himself on the chair. "I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Lying on the other side of that jump hole is a well-trained, well-equipped force on the same playing field we're on. This isn't like shooting out smuggler's engines or scrapping with a drugged-up Rogue. This is life or death, and one wrong move will put you on the wrong side of that blade." He let out a sigh, getting up from his chair and moving out to the railing, staring out at the abyss. "But beyond those Gauls and their guns are Bretonians, trapped on a dying world, fighting simply to live 'til the next day. Starving and hopeless civilians praying that the whistling from ahead won't be the last sound they ever hear. We owe it to them - nay, we owe it to ourselves to go in there, and take every last one of those Gallic sons of bitches with us." As he spoke, he paced around the bridge, back and forth, before taking a seat in his chair, silently staring out at the blackness of space, the anomaly dead and center, twisting and twirling. He smashed his cigar down into the ashtray again, leaning back in the chair and staring up at the ceiling of the massive bridge. "All ships, prepare to jump on my mark.", he grunted as he buckled himself into the chair, glancing forward, radio held in his right hand up to his mouth. He counted silently in his head - 1, 2, 3...and then spoke. "Mark."
East Leeds Smog Cloud - Leeds System
The East Leeds Smog Cloud was a rather dull location, all things considered. A large buildup of toxic gases as a result of the heavy industrialization of the Leeds sector, its only notable features were the jump anomalies heading into Magellan and Manchester. That is, until one million tons of steel and a quarter-million fighting men entered the mix, surging out of the Magellan anomaly like blood out of an open wound. Immediately, dreadnoughts and carriers shuddered as their hangar bays swung open, piles of fighter and bomber craft surging out into the nearby area. A large phalanx of fighters charged forward, the quickest of which - a delta of Liberators - slammed straight into a patrolling Gallic fighter wing. The agile and, moreso fragile Liberators danced their way around the bulkier Gallic craft, peppering them with shot as a larger wall of Guardians and Avengers plowed their way through, tearing apart the fighter wing in seconds. After the last white-gray fighter tumbled its way into a floating rock, the fighters stopped, holding themselves just inside the gas cloud.
Davies stood on the bridge of the Jacobi, reading the reports. He looked up as a jet-black Interdictor flew past, engine screaming as a large buoy atop the craft extended, radar dish slowly swinging about. "Jamming field active, sir. Their frequencies are scrambled.", a muffled voice reported over Davies' personal radio. He grabbed ahold of the microphone, muttering some form of affirmative reply, before returning his gaze to the force composition.
A smattering of battleships and cruisers stood between his fleet and the planet, a force just under two-thirds their own. Planetary defenses complicated the matter, but they had to cut a path to start the invasion, and there was only one way through. Straight through the maginot line. He shook his head, throwing the datapad onto the console and grabbing ahold of his radio, barking out orders. "Third and Seventh fleets, split off and head to the north and south ends of these clouds respectively. Fifth and Tenth, prepare to begin supporting maneuvers. First, ready spearhead formation, load long-range antimatter weaponry." He growled as he stared ahead at the force disposition map, noting the largest triangle - a single, red blob with a scrawl of writing beside it. Chant du Cygne, suspected Gallic flagship, it read.
He furrowed his brow at it, scowling as he took a seat once again, staring forward. "All ships, move it out."
Davies sighed, and grabbed ahold of his cigar once more. He took a singular puff from it, staring forward and thinking.
And so it begins...
RE: See Thy Triumph - Rodent - 03-05-2015
Low Planetary Orbit - Leeds System
“To arms! The war is here, at our doorstep, and we will –not- falter!”
The cry roared across the Royal Naval comms network, arcing through from the lowliest fighter rookie to the Chant Du Cygne itself. The warship floated delicately in space a hundred thousand tons of Gallic engineering molded into a single, unified purpose. A warship that meant something more - the very personification of Gallia's raw power and efficiency, and a tribute to its tenacity. However, standing silently on the bridge, Lucie LeBlanc felt none of those things.
Nearly a day had passed since the Libertonian fleet’s first approach, and very little combat had happened. Both sides seemed uncertain, launching diversionary attacks, small sorties and quick hit-and-run attacks on each other. She couldn’t complain, every day of delay brought reinforcements closer. But by now she had a very good idea of Liberty’s fleet composition, and it was intimidating. Even for Gallia.
Even as she mused, sirens started going off, warning lights blinking in front of her urgently.
“Report!” she barked, glaring at an unfortunate aide.
“Main body pegged as First Libertonian Fleet is on the move, Madam Maréchale!” he stated, snapping to attention . Glancing at the tactical view, Lucie could see that he was right. From what little they could decipher from Liberty's communications, the main capital fleet had been named as the First Fleet, and that was where the cream of the crop likely lay. The most experienced officers and crews, led by the best Liberty could bring to muster.
Over the past two days, LeBlanc’s fleet had been steadily losing ground, retreating slowly but inexorably back towards the planet. There was no more room left to retreat, and it seemed like Liberty wanted to force the issue. No more time could be bought.
“ETA on First Fleet is five minutes! Secondary fleets are in motion!” A cry went up from one of the sensor crew, murmurs of acknowledgement spreading in its wake. That returned her to the present. They knew this was going to happen, of course. Charbonneau had argued to let the planet fall in favor of encircling and annihilating the invading fleet. King Charles himself had turned that notion down. They had to hold the planet 'at any cost' - his exact words. Privately, LeBlanc wished that Charbonneau had prevailed. What value the planet held was insignificant compared to the destruction of their enemies' fleets; the planet was an industrial complex, true, but it was also fast approaching ruin.
Faced with this ultimatum, she and Xavier had made what plans they could.
“DeFrance!” she snapped.
Standing a level below her, Louis DeFrance made no move, no sign that he had heard. In fact, he made no movement at all and there was barely any sign of him being alive. LeBlanc knew that her ‘Warwolf Coordinator’ had heard, however.
“Prepare targeting solution,” she continued, as if he hadn't ignored her utterly.
“Merci.” That was all Louis had to say on the subject. The King’s brother, he shared his baldness and brutal visage. He took a seat in front of his console and began relaying orders and calculations.
LeBlanc had often wondered what the King’s brother was doing in the war - on the frontlines, no less. In stark contrast to his brother Charles, Louis was infamously curt and not much was known about him except for the fact that he was an extremely decorated officer of the Navy. It was somewhat intimidating to command a person that could order your head off in seconds, but Louis had never done that to anyone. Yet, anyway.
Her expression one of resigned determination, Lucie depressed the transmit button once more.
“Garde Royale, this is Fleet Command. All vessel are to prepare for immediate jump transition,” she said, her voice stern.
A murmur went up, but it was quickly silenced. Being experienced campaigners, they knew better than to question orders… but it seemed rather clear that LeBlanc did not intend to honor the King’s wishes.
The timer ticked down, and the Libertonian behemoth inched closer. Speeding ahead of the main fleets, Siege Cruiser wolfpacks began firing the opening shots of the battle. At this range, her Valors could do nothing but bear the brunt of the impact, and the Oubli suffered the most. At the forefront, the mighty starship's shields flickered and pulsed with repeated plasma impacts, but held firm for now.
”One minute until enemy enters combat range!”
“ETA until drives have charged?”
“Forty-five seconds, counting down!”
Grimly, LeBlanc stared at the viewscreens arrayed in front of her - consoles lit up with masses of numbers, holograms, and reams and reams of text - all the information required to not only conduct this battle, but to win it outright. Pelletier was delivering, after his near fatal mistake in not spotting the Libertonian build up.
“Evreux?” she prompted, switching her comms to the Maréchal's band with a flick of her fingertips.
“Yes?”
“Forty seconds left. I assume the Vauquelin and Villefranche stand ready?” At this juncture, there was not much to be done if they weren't, but she had to ask.
“Of course.” Evreux could give DeFrance a run for his money in the curtness department.
And now there was only one thing left to be done, and thirty seconds left to do it. “DeFrance, is the solution primed?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” There was a brief pause. "Also - Louis?"
“Yes?”
“How do you rate our chances?”
There was another, more serious pause.
“Poor,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Frowning, LeBlanc opened her mouth to speak, but Louis wasn't finished.
“So are theirs.”
This caught her off-guard, but an uncharacteristic smirk broke out on her face. As always, the King's brother had the truth of it. One side or another would be in flames after a manoeuver like this - they could only do their best to ensure it wouldn't be them.
“Try to calm Charles down, will you?” she muttered, fixing her gaze on the main viewscreen. It might have been her imagination, but it almost looked like space was already distorting. Was that how jump drives worked? She had no idea.
“No promises.”
“Jump sequence initiated,” blared a robotic voice, cutting through their chatter like a knife. A klaxon blared, and a low thrum suffused the entire ship. LeBlanc could only watch as the space around their fleet bent, flexing as if weighed down by the mass of war-forged metal hanging in its midst. And then suddenly, after an imperceptible incident of nothingness - they were in the middle of the enemy formation.
“Fire!”
The Vaquelin, Chant Du Cygne and Villefranche fired in unison, their forward cannons synchronized expertly by Louis. All three shots sought out a single target - an Overlord class battleship named Mount Rainier. At this range, there was no chance of evasion, and all three shots made impact, breaking the ship in half, the port and starboard sides drifting away in different directions.
This was a near-suicidal attack, but LeBlanc had always counted on shock and awe. And close range was where the Valor-class had always really shown their teeth. Intimidation was a major factor here - with luck, their audacity would shatter the Libertonian morale and force them back - even temporarily. They had to buy more time, no matter the cost.
Everything was about buying more time for Xavier to arrive.
RE: See Thy Triumph - Manticore - 03-25-2015
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
- Rudyard Kipling, "Tommy"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
- Rudyard Kipling, "Tommy"
Near Planet Leeds
They had been standing at the ready for nearly a day now - with not much to do but watch the Libertonian fleets slowly coalesce into battle formation. Skirmishes had sparked inside of the "no-man's space" between the two fleets - a gulf of perhaps fifteen kilometers. Aside from those, there had been precious little actual combat yet. Listening in on the fleet-wide comm net, Captain James Lambert had followed the meticulous cascade of orders as ships and units were slowly positioned in preparation for the assault. Over the last hour, those movement orders had slowed to a trickle, leading Lambert to believe the time had nearly arrived.
LNS Fearless sat at the ready, designated flagship of a squadron called GBW 16. GBW 16 was a combined unit, serving as one of three that made up the core of Tenth Fleet. Three other Defiant-class gunboats were arrayed, making up the four points of a square that encompassed the other ships of the unit - six Rhino-class freighters, each configured to carry a company of Liberty marines. Together with the other two identical units, these marines made up the ground element of the First Marine Expeditionary Force, and they would be landing on Planet Leeds to bring the fight to the enemy on the ground.
Lambert's job was to protect them on the way there - as the Rhinos carried very little in the way of defensive armament. While First Fleet tangled with the enemy capital element, Tenth Fleet as a whole would be delivering the marines onto the planet's surface to designated drop points around the equator, via a direct atmosphere approach. From there, it would be on the marines to accomplish their objectives.
Lambert's eyes wandered up to a set of numbers ticking upwards on a screen near the ceiling. The master operational clock - synchronized precisely with the rest of the fleet. Had it really only been forty-eight hours since he'd been assigned to command this unit? He had only been given enough time to quickly meet and brief the captains of the other Defiants - LNS Vicksburg, LNS Intrepid, and LNS Resolute - before they had been called to the assembly area. To him, the whole operation seemed to have been finalized at the last minute, as if to capitalize on a fleeting window of opportunity. Perhaps because of this, a deep feeling of unease ground away in the pit of his stomach.
In the hours since arriving on station, he had stubbornly insisted on maintaining normal watch cycles, ensuring every crewmember was given opportunity to rest. He knew most of them must feel as he did - far too worked up in anticipation of the coming battle and thus unable to sleep, so he had encouraged Dr. Kingsley to distribute low-dosage sleeping medication. He would not go into battle with a sleep-deprived crew overly hyped up on artificial stimulants.
Lieutenant Carmen, his XO, had even forced him to retire to his cabin for several hours. He had even slept for a few of those hours, if fitfully. Lambert felt rested enough now, amidst the quiet bustle of his cramped combat information center. Carmen was leading the bridge team several decks up - serving as an unofficial "flag captain", since Lambert's responsibility was to command the entire wing of ships. He would be best equipped to do that down here, where the banks of screens and large holoplot had been reconfigured to show details on all the ships under his command. Unit icons all glowed a steady blue, indicating they were ready and standing by.
The comm bud in his left ear crackled to life. "Tenth Fleet Units, this is Tenth Actual," Lambert recognized the gruff female voice of Admiral Jane Hartman. "Make ready to execute Approach Plan Able in ninety seconds. That's niner-zero seconds from my mark. Mark!"
Lambert sprung into action, snatching up his own mic and configuring it to speak to all the COs under his command, plus Carmen on Fearless's bridge. "All units, this is Fearless Actual. General quarters. Prepare to move to execute Approach Plan Able in t-minus..." Lambert quickly glanced back to the master clock, "eighty-two seconds. I say again, make ready to execute Approach Plan Able."
Lietenant Carmen's steely voice immediately echoed over the ship-wide loudspeaker, "All crew to action stations. This is not a drill." One by one, the blue unit icons denoting the four Defiants and six Rhinos flickered from blue to green, indicating combat readiness.
Seconds later, Hartman's voice was in his ear again. "Tenth Fleet Units, execute Approach Plan Able on my mark. Mark!"
"Execute Approach Plan Able. Go!" Lambert's own voice rang in his ears with far more confidence than he felt as he leaned forward to gaze at the master plot. Fearless's sensors watched the other units of the combined fleets move into action - a perfectly executed dance. They spread out, a large cluster of massive capital ships forming a wedge formation and moving right for the Gauls in low orbit. Tenth Fleet as a whole skirted far to the edge of First Fleet's approach vector, instead taking an indirect approach towards Planet Leeds. Approach Plan Able called for a slow transition into low orbit on the dark side of the planet while First Fleet clashed with the enemy fleet, and then a slow descent into the planet's high atmosphere. From there, the Rhinos would continue alone to their designated drop zones, while the Defiants would serve as close orbital fire support and ward against any Gallic reinforcements that might try to drop through the atmosphere and hit the marine positions from above.
His unit began their steady approach towards the planet, holding steady with the other two squadrons flanking on either side. The supporting elements, including the dreadnought LNS Cloverfield and the three Bison-class transports, slowly took up the rear of the advance. Everything seemed to be going precisely as according to plan.
Naturally, that was when it all went straight to hell. As he watched, the angry red icons indicating the Gallic fleet disappeared - then promptly reappeared right in the middle of First Fleet's wedge formation. First Fleet's advance shuddered to a halt and then began to splinter as the Gauls smashed into them. Large green icons indicating dreadnoughts and battlecruisers began to flash orange - indicating heavy damage. One ship disappeared from the plot completely.
Lambert tore his eyes from the scene to examine the space around his own unit. Still clear.
"Tenth Fleet Units, proceed as planned. I repeat - proceed!" Hartman's voice was still steady, but he detected a hint of urgency.
He did as he was told, even as the hammer blow that was supposed to clear their way stymied and burned far to his left. Lambert had the distinct feeling that this was only the beginning of the surprises the Gauls had in store for them today.
RE: See Thy Triumph - Jane Hartman - 05-16-2015
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
- But who is that on the other side of you?
- T.S Elliot, The Wasteland
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
- But who is that on the other side of you?
- T.S Elliot, The Wasteland
High Planetary Orbit – Leeds System
Admiral Jane Hartman sat in her chair aboard Glendale and watched ships die. Glendales’s Combat Information Centre was the hasty patchwork of old and new that you only got in wartime. State of the art fire control banks and sensor controls squatted alongside civilian damage-control consoles that were old before Hartman was born. Like many of the Tenth’s support ships, Glendale had started life as a merchant hauler before the Gallic offensive had shocked the Department of Defence into arming everything with a fusion drive.
Now she was a troop ship, press-ganged into command duty. Elegant they were not, but her retrofitted systems were formidable. Hartman could call up details on any formation in-system, any ship. On a clear day the sensors on Glendale could locate a man-sized target from orbit and pass a firing solution to the gunners on Cloverfield in less time than it took her to issue the order. The control Hartman had over her troops was the stuff of wet dreams for the generals of the past. To the Tenth Fleet she was God.
It didn’t mean a thing.
God couldn’t have stopped the chaos playing out on her display. Ships darted across the screen like startled insects, trajectories curving up and away from Mount Rainier’s wreck, Davies’s carefully assembled formation splitting to address the newly-jumped Gallic warships, momentum driving the ships behind them on. As she watched a flight of torpedo bombers peeled away from one of the battleships, red dots of their payloads tracing new lines across the display.
First Fleet ships drifted towards the sun – starboard, shifting course to bring their weapons to bear on the new arrivals. Piece by piece they peeled away from their original vectors, ships flashing from combat-ready green to light yellow to orange as the Gallic force tore into the Libertonian Fleet like wolves to meat. It couldn’t last. Ship by ship, Davies’ complement bought weapons online, missiles and lance fire surging out from distant siege cruisers to burst against the shields of the Gallic dreadnoughts.
Behind them, the Tenth Fleet hesitated. Three Rhinos had flipped and begun to burn away from the combat zone. Away from the fleet’s path to the dark side of the planet and the landing zone. It was a hopeless endeavour, the knee-jerk reaction of unprepared officers. All it did was prolong their time in range. Leeds was the closest thing to cover in the star system and, inch by agonising inch, they were burning away from it. Hartman swore and thumbed the comms.
"Tenth Fleet Units, proceed as planned. I repeat - proceed!" Hartman fought to keep the frustration from her voice. Not now, not now.
Below her, the rapier-thin figure of Lieutenant Commander Ellis barked out his orders, coaxing Glendale and her handful of escort fighters up and away from the combat zone. The big auxiliary wasn’t rated for atmospheric entry and with her complement of marines away, the ship was less than worthless in combat. Hartman resisted the urge to issue orders of her own. Glendale was Ellis’ boat. Hartman just ran the fleet from his CIC.
Two of the Rhinos fired attitude thrusters, dragging themselves back onto course. They were still dangerously far from their formation, somewhere in the no-man’s land forming between the retreating heavy auxiliaries and the landing craft. One, Franklin, continued its frantic burn away from the combat zone. Her display helpfully flagged the Gallic gunboat staring at the little freighter down a targeting laser.
"Franklin, this is the Fleet Commander. Return to your original course." Franklin was thirty seconds from leaving the point-defence range of her formation’s Defiant escorts. There was no response from the freighter.
"Franklin be advised that you are entering hostile range. Change course immediately."
No response. Hartman closed the line to Franklin, read off the steadily-climbing figures on her display. What were they pulling? Ten g’s. Eleven, now. More than enough to drag a baseline human to unconsciousness. The knowledge hit like a punch to the gut. No-one was answering because no-one was awake to answer. The freighter burned across the sky like a missile, drive working just below maximum. It must have been flying on autopilot now. Course punched in and a desperate officer hoping the computer would make sure they woke up again. Meat had limits, even meat that was drugged to the gills. Hartman ignored the sinking sensation in her stomach and tried the comm again.
"Franklin, alter course port three-zero to avoid hostile fire." No time for more.
Franklin was three seconds from leaving the protection of the Defiants behind. Two. One.
The missile showed on her display as a little red dot and a trajectory. A neat curve, stretching from the Gallic gunboat to Franklin, accelerating at a rate that would have ground a human to pulp. A cross flashed over it as the freighter’s limited weapons flagged the projectile as a threat.
“All hands brace for acceleration.” Ellis’ voice cut across the ship’s address system, young and confident. Still a boy at the fair. Sailors and Officers tugged at the straps securing them to their seats, eyes fixed on their displays. A handful of buckles floated in zero-G before their owners returned them to their clasps. Franklin was spitting a haphazard stream of fire at the missile, computer compensating for the crushing acceleration. The ship spat countermeasures, clinging desperately, stupidly, to its course like a drowning man to a raft. The missile inched closer. She realised Ellis was still talking. “Two…One... Burn.”
Acceleration grabbed her guts and pulled her down into the seat as the auxiliary’s drive heaved Glenbrook into a higher orbit. Had she been standing she would have been smeared against the floor of the CIC. Instead, she just settled into the gel-padded embrace of the acceleration couch and tried to ignore her brain’s frenzied attempts to reconcile the shifting pull of thrust with the concept of down.
When the acceleration eased enough for her to move her head Franklin was gone. Hartman felt like she should have felt something, but couldn’t find anything beyond irritation in her. Their pilot had made a stupid, impulsive, decision and now Baker and Lewis had one less ship in the expeditionary force.
Lewis. He’d been with the landing force. On one of the Rhinos. Hartman was halfway to calling up the assignments list to check on him before she caught herself. There was no time for this. She had a landing force to co-ordinate, a fleet to manage. Davies’ people were still under fire, for Christ’s sake, she was an admiral and she was worrying about a schoolgirl crush in the middle of a war zone…
Only it wasn’t a schoolgirl crush.
How many, she wondered, of Glendale’s hundred-strong complement had ever seen combat? Most were reservists and recent volunteers, logistics specialists and loadmasters. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen, herself included. Not with the marines the ship had been ferrying on shuttles burning their way through Leeds’ atmosphere. How many of them knew, actually knew the sort of bond that came from fighting alongside someone for years, fighting with them, and, if she were honest with herself, for them. Lewis would be okay. He had to be. They’d seen far worse. Hartman pushed the thought away and pulled up her alerts. Focus.
A squadron of Gallic snubcraft had altered their courses to match Glendale’s. Hartman called up the figures. Three hours to intercept if they kept to the transfer window. Loaded for space combat, the ships didn’t mount the same heavy drives the landers did. No point carrying the extra mass if you didn’t need to break atmo and, this far from home, every gram counted. A direct burn would get them to Glendale in a quarter of the time, but the ships didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Just pressure. Just a reminder that they could reach her if they wanted to. The system had helpfully labelled them as 3SQN.
Hartman set an alarm and closed the alert. A lot could change in three hours, and every minute those ships were chasing Glendale was a minute they weren’t running down her landing craft. By then Glendale would be safely reunited with the rest of the Tenth Fleet's heavy elements and their associated escorts. If it all went according to plan.
When did it last go according to plan? Hartman watched the landers arc around the dark side of the planet until the feed vanished from Glendale’s sensors. It was a long second before the relay from the orbiting gunboats kicked in to take its place. The ball was in Baker’s court now.
Davies’s fleet had managed to regroup, though not without losses. Mount Rainier’s transponder was dead silent. The shattered dreadnought showed on her display as a debris field rather than a ship, but there were a dozen other priority messages from crippled ships. Calls for medical support mingled with requests for resupply and repair. As the CO of 10FLT, they expected her to provide them. Hartman rolled her neck and began the slow process of assigning her ships.
On her display the Gallic ships labelled as 3SQN promptly vanished.