Echo of Tomorrow: Book Two (The Drake Chronicles) (11 page)

“Permission granted, and give everyone a well-done from me.”

“Aye, skipper,” he answered, his smile hidden by his helmet. “Main gun crew to stand down, and the admiral said, well done!”

“Thanks Ali, I’ll stand you a drink for that,” the gun control officer replied.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The midrange and point defense batteries were holding their own, picking off targets of opportunity as they came in range, and needed no further assistance from him, so Scott sat back a little and watched the battle slowing. Fighters still streaked across space in pursuit of an enemy spacecraft, or checking on an unconfirmed contact. Of the twenty-odd alien vessels that had entered the solar system, all were either destroyed, or badly damaged, dead in space either way, and it dawned on him at last that they’d won.

“Comm! Order all units to stand down from battle stations,” he said over his shoulder. “Have them check on each and every one of the alien vessels and find out if they know what a possum is.”

“Aye sir. Relaying message.”

“Admiral to all ships. Well done,” Scott said, standing up.

“Your orders, Admiral?”

“Commence cleanup operations, and order all ships to launch any SAR units they have, and order the tugs to tow any damaged vessels that can’t make it under their own power back to moon orbit. We’ll take care of towing those enemy derelicts to the scrapyards on the moon later.”

“Aye-aye sir.”

“Oh, make sure you inform intelligence, they’ll want to have a look at them. No one is to go aboard without a full marine escort. There might be some live ones in there,” Scott said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right, Admiral. I’ll have a full report of battle damage and casualties on your desk as soon as I can,” Ali answered.

“Thank you, Captain, carry on.” Scott returned to his stateroom and climbed out of the battle armor after going through the decontamination wash cycle, glad to be out of it. One look told him how lucky he’d been; the outside of the suit was scorched and blackened. The rad counter didn’t show any lethal radiation, and he was thankful. Even with the servo assist, running around in it wasn’t his idea of fun. Hardwick arrived a few moments before he did, handing him a large whisky as he stepped out of the suit locker.

“I think you’ll be needing this, sir.”

“Damn right I do. Thanks, Chief.”

“Leave the suit, sir, I’ll have the maintenance crew take it to the sanitizer and return it to the main bridge as soon as it’s repaired.”

“Thanks, but that might be a while, and I doubt that we can do it out here. It’s going to take yard work to put this ship back in shape,” he said, walking into the bathroom. “Water on?”

“Yes, sir. But not much of it.”

“Good,” he said, stripping off the body suit and switching the water on.

“How many ships did we lose, Chief?” he called.

“The full count isn’t in yet sir, but the unofficial count is fourteen, mostly destroyed, and one light cruiser,” Hardwick called, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the water. That didn’t make Scott feel any better; it was a high price to pay and he knew there would be a lot of analysis over the damage reports.

They’d won, but the cost had been high, too high in his estimation. They knew little or nothing about the enemy’s tactics, what the lizards were fighting for, or what their motivations were. They had to learn and learn fast, or the cost would grow out of proportion to the amount of lives it took to obtain it. The aliens fought with a tenacity that surprised him, and his first thought was they’d run when they saw the fleet coming at them, but they hadn’t, they kept on coming. Why? In a reverse situation he would have run, as fast and as far as he could, back to the warp point for reinforcements. So, why hadn’t they?

Question after question ran circles around his brain, but none was answered. He sat down and finished his drink, shaking his head at Hardwick when he asked if Scott wanted a refill. There was also the question of why the auxiliary CIC wasn’t manned, as it should have been. An oversight on the part of Captain Bingham? Just inexperience? At the time he didn’t think to question it himself either. That meant for a few precious minutes the ship was without a command staff to fight the ship. He made a mental note to address that in the near future as he spraed
‘Insta-Doc’
on the back of his burned hands.

Scott contemplated the amber liquid swirling around in the bottom of his glass, savoring the smoky aroma that drifted up. He recognized the symptoms, after-battle blues. Some called it survivor guilt, or, “
why did I live and he didn’t
?” He’d felt it more keenly now than when he was a lowly squad leader, seeing men and women he’d ordered into battle get killed or wounded. He’d check them out when they went down, if he had time, or yelled for the medic before going back into battle. In his naive innocence, he thought it would get easier the further up the promotion ladder he went, but it didn’t. Now he was killing them by the job lot, instead of in ones and twos, remembering the destroyer
Santa Cruz
vanishing in a flash of light when her fusion reactor blew. It didn’t get any easier the higher you went, it got harder. The men and women on that ship, and others, were irreplaceable, their futures erased because he’d ordered them into battle. He remembered what Kat said to him the first day they met, that he’d probably get a second chance to get them all killed. He raised his glass in a silent salute to the fallen, and swallowed the last gulp.

“Coffee, Chief, I’ve still got a day’s work ahead of me yet,” he ordered, brushing away the dark thought that lingered at the edge of his mind. “If you can’t stand the heat, get the fuck out of the kitchen,” he muttered to himself.

“Right sir, I’ll start getting them for you.” Hardwick was as good as his word, and the reports started flowing in.

The final report was sixteen ships of the fleet damaged, four destroyed, and nine with superficial damage. The butcher’s bill was one hundred-eighty-two dead, ninety-eight wounded, eighteen seriously, and a shipload of minor cuts, bruises, and burns. Out of the two hundred and fifty fighters launched, twenty-six had bought the farm, but only eight of the pilots were killed. All the others either had been picked up, or were in the process of being picked up. At least it proved the escape system worked as advertised. Scott deliberately didn’t think about Kat, or if she made it. One way or another he’d find out soon enough.

Auckland
and
Wellington
reported in.
Wellington
was standing guard over the warp point while
Auckland
was still chasing the mother ship all over the system. She wouldn’t stand and fight, nor would she surrender. She did make one try for the warp point, but the moment she spotted the
Wellington
she veered off in another direction with
Auckland
in hot pursuit. Slowly, the remaining operational vessels formed up on the
New Zealand
, and with the power down, ships and derelicts in tow, the fleet headed back to moon orbit.

To be on the safe side, Scott dispatched one undamaged heavy cruiser and ten destroyers to the warp point, in case the aliens tried to send another battle group through. Yet he doubted they would, not yet. They’d need time to get the message, presupposing one of this fleet got away and informed them. Barring that, they didn’t know if the aliens had some form of warp communications, but he doubted it. There was no telling if the aliens managed to get a stealth drone through. That meant they’d only know that something happened to their fleet when it didn’t arrive back where it was supposed to go next, but not what. What would they do then? What would he do? Put together a bigger, better fleet, and send it through the warp point with orders to kick ass, that’s what. But how long? … Again, an unknown. He made a note to himself to send spy torpedoes through the warp points as soon as R&D had perfected the programming. So far, of the six they’d sent in, none had returned. He suspected that the aliens had somebody on the other side watching for something like that, and had destroyed them. The next generation had to be quicker, stealthier and more maneuverable so they could get in and out with the information, since without it, they were blind. Kat finally came through the door, looking wrung-out and beat as she came to attention and saluted. “Group Captain Moore reporting Admiral,” she said.

“You’re out of uniform, Group Captain,” he observed softly, more as a joke than anything. She wore only a miniskirt and side hat.

“Sorry, sir, didn’t have time to change.” She was obviously too beat to catch his joke.

“Not important, your report please.”

“All fighters and personnel accounted for, and I have to report that three of my pilots didn’t make it.”

“Sorry to hear that, Group Captain, but how did the fighters hold up against the alien ships?” Scott asked, keeping it formal.

“Very well, sir, even better than we expected. Three of our pilots managed to take out an enemy ship somewhat larger than a corvette.”

“Good work. Make sure you note that in your report, plus any recommendations for medals or citations.”

“Yes, Admiral. Will that be all?”

“Yes, Group Captain. I’ll want to see you later, and go over your report in detail.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave him a tired smile.

“Carry on then,” he said softly, and she took a step back, saluting again and moving aside for the next person in line. And so it went for another hour, until he asked, “Are there any more out there, Chief?”

Hardwick stuck his head through the doorway. “No, sir. Lieutenant Caza is the last one.”

“Good, sit down, Captain. Hardwick, break out the good booze you’ve been hiding and bring us two glasses.”

“Drinks coming up, sir,” Hardwick acknowledged, cocking an eyebrow at Ali Caza.

Scott took the hint. “Oh. Excuse me, Ali. Would you prefer something else?”

“Thanks, Admiral. Despite what most people might think, and my um … background, I do now drink, no matter what Allah, the Prophet, or the bloody Ayatollah might think.”

“Good for you, Ali, but by the way, you are out of uniform.”

“Pardon sir?” Ali looked down at his outfit.

“I appointed you captain, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes sir, but that was only for the duration of the battle.”

“Who said?”

“Well, no one sir.”

“Then effective as of …” Scott consulted his wrist unit. “As of four and a half hours ago, you were and still are the captain of this ship.”

“Thank you, sir, I think.”

“You won’t thank me after you see the amount of paperwork you have to do. Thank god I’m an admiral. I just have to look pretty and say all the right things at the right time.”

“Yeah, and pigs will fly,” Ali muttered.

“Insubordination already!” Scott barked in mock anger.

“Don’t try to pull the old sea dog on me. If you hadn’t asked the captain for coffee at the right time, the whole bridge would have been dancing around like chickens with their heads chopped off.”

“So you noticed.” Scott smiled and nodded, slightly embarrassed.

“Yes, sir. Jack Bingham is a good captain, and a good officer, and I hate to speak ill of someone,” Ali said, looking down. “I hope he recovers quickly and returns to duty.”

“Don’t think anymore about it. Like I said, my job is saying the right things at the right time, that’s all.”

“Like not reminding him that it was you who came up with the interlink idea?” Ali answered.

“Huh. I’m going to be watching you very carefully, friend Ali, I think you’re after my nice cushy job.”

“No way, Admiral. I have a long way to go before I can sit in that seat….” Hardwick came in just then with a tray of drinks and a small decanter. Scott took one and handed it to Ali, who sniffed it suspiciously, then raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“No, it’s not the moonshine the good doctor had been passing off as whisky, it’s a drink called Grand Marnier, and comes from a place once called France. It was made there for hundreds of years, and this came from the private stock of His Majesty King William the Third.”

Ali sipped the potent liqueur. “Nice stuff.”

“So, what was your estimate of the battle?”

“To put it bluntly, we got our asses kicked.”

“Reason?”

“Lack of information of enemy tactics and weapons, sir.”

“Right. One of the items on the top of my list is to get a spy drone though the warp point and get some information. Anything else?”

“The tactics we do use need improvement. Our weapons need improving: shields, armor, to name a few things, and the point defense system sucks.”

“Well, I had to ask.”

“Sorry if I sound disappointed, sir, it’s just that I expected us, you, to come out of this a little better.”

“Look on the bright side. We won didn’t we?”

“At our present rate of ship production and crew training, we can’t stand more wins like this.”

“I agree with everything you said, and then some, but like anything you start from scratch, we can only get better.”

“I hope so.” They talked for another hour before Ali asked to be excused, as he still had a million things to do.

“Ali, don’t try to do them all yourself. Delegate, remember?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember that.”

Kat arrived just after he left, and Scott took her to bed, but they simply cuddled up to one another and for the first time, he saw her cry. She hated losing any of her people, but six, instead of the one she expected, weighed heavily on her. She blamed herself, thinking she’d missed something in the training exercises.

“No my love, it’s the nature of war. There is always a price to pay, no matter how good the training, and you have to expect that.”

“I can’t at the moment,” she said, sitting up and looking at him. “Did you feel this way after the Middle East War, when you lost all those people?”

“That and worse. At one point I wanted to commit suicide, but Brock took my side arm, thank god.”

“That bad, huh?” When he nodded in response, she said, “And I had the nerve to yell at you that first day.”

“You had the right, and I’m glad you did. If you get callous and forget the cost, then you shouldn’t be in charge. So if you feel like crying your eyes out, go ahead, this shoulder is certified as waterproof.” She attempted to prove him a liar by doing just that, in the end falling asleep in his arms, safe and warm.

He awoke the next morning to find her gone, which wasn’t a surprise, since Kat wanted to maintain decorum where their relationship was concerned. He sat down to a working breakfast with the captains and the newly appointed senior officers. The newcomers felt a little uneasy in such high company, and ill at ease giving their reports. Scott bribed them with coffee, and said, “Damage report, Ali,” to kick off the meeting.

“We took a few good hits sir, one on the port side, amidships, that took out a large number of the weapon systems on that side, plus the point defense operations center as well.”

“Again indicating that it wasn’t a random hit,” Scott remarked.

“Yes, sir, the accuracy of the impact was too precise for it to be random.”

“Next.”

“The three major hits were at the base of the superstructure, and intended to take out CIC, again, indicating prior knowledge of this ship’s construction,” Ali said, looking up at Scott. “I think the fourth hit on the forward deck was originally aimed at the same location as the other three, but we got lucky. If that had hit its intended target, I doubt either of us would be here right now, sir.”

“I agree completely, which begs the point: how the hell did they get a copy of the ships specs, and when?” Scott snapped. There was no answer. “I need to have a word with a few people when we get home.”

“I sincerely hope so, sir, otherwise we’re going to go into battle with a definite disadvantage.”

Scott nodded in agreement. “Now, the next item of business,” he said, waiting until the steward had finished refilling his coffee mug. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I want you to come up with a way to eliminate your jobs.” Heads snapped up all around the table.

“I … I don’t understand sir?” Ali said.

“I was watching the action yesterday, and the whole setup is too cumbersome. It might’ve worked for surface ships three hundred years ago, but at the speed space battles work, and the number of instant decisions that have to be made, we need to find a faster way to react.”

“Any idea of a direction we should look?” asked the navigation officer, Lieutenant Dan Foster.

“No Bill, I’m sorry I don’t. Or I should say, I won’t give you one. I want each of you to examine all possible options independent of each other, and see what you come up with.”

“But you do have a final objective in mind, right?”

“Yes, with the numbers of trained officers we have, I’d like to see each of you sitting in his or her own captain’s chair.” That got their attention. “At this level of technology and training, I don’t feel we need an officer at each of the major positions, it’s outdated.” Hearing that, most of them agreed.

After breakfast, Scott and Hardwick took off for a tour of the ship, both dressed as inconspicuously as possible, a skin suit, cover by an old pair of slacks and shirt. Scott didn’t bother pinning on his shoulder tabs. For three hours they roamed about the ship, visiting the damaged areas in emergency breather gear to survey them. Captain Bingham was right, Scott discovered; the hit on the portside impacted directly across from the portside defense CIC, killing or injuring everybody there.

“When I find out who’s responsible for this, they’re going to pay a high price, Chief,” he muttered.

“I hope I’m there to assist, sir,” Hardwick answered.

“I’ll make it a point to see that you are.”

Scott visited the hospital, and went from bed to bed talking to each person who was awake, or in a condition to talk. The doctor informed him that twenty-six of the worst cases were in the regeneration tanks. Upon viewing them, he saw these were an update of the cold-sleep tanks he and the others had spent so long inside. This wasn’t cold sleep though. In fact, the liquid in which these people were totally immersed was kept at body temperature at all times. Some of the people had radiation poisoning from the nuclear blast; others were ordinary burn casualties; others missing one or more limbs. By using a combination of regeneration liquid and the mad doctor’s genetic treatment, all of them would be restored to perfect health within one week to three months. Very different from the days when war casualties went home to their wives and family with missing limbs or disfiguring scars, and for that Scott was thankful to the little madman. His last stop was the Marine Corps deck, but the moment he stepped out of the elevator and challenged by the guard, the call “Admiral on deck” echoed through the area.

“I could have told you sir, there is no way you can hide down here,” Hardwick said with a chuckle. A young Marine Corps major came running up, skidding to a halt, and came to attention.

“Major Jack Allen reporting, Admiral,” he said, snapping a salute.

“At ease, I just dropped in for an informal visit,” Scott said, returning the salute.

“I wish you had informed us you were coming sir, we would have had a proper welcoming committee waiting.”

“I know, why do you think I dropped in unannounced?” he answered, smiling.

“About time you showed up, skipper!” Pam Brock commented as she walked up.

“Sergeant Brock! That’s no way to speak to the admiral,” Allen said, face reddened in anger. “Come to attention and salute!”

Pam gave him one of those looks, usually intended for some raw recruit who’d asked a stupid question. “Keep your pants on, Major, no disrespect intended,” she growled back.

“That’s a lie, when have you had any respect for senior officers, Pam? You think we’re a bunch of pencil dicks who don’t know our heads from a hole in the ground!” Scott shot back, breaking military protocol by giving her a hug.

“That’s true, skipper, but you are the exception.” The young Royal Marine Major who’d tried to chastise her, looked outraged at the implication.

“Cut him some slack, Pam, he’ll learn,” Scott said.

“Or he’ll be dead,” she answered, looking over her shoulder, and that comment didn’t go unnoticed either.

To Major Allen he said, “Let me pay my compliments to the commanding officer, then show me where the poker game is.” The major’s eyebrows shot up. He clearly didn’t know about any poker game going on.

“Did you bring any money?” Pam gave Scott a suspicious look.

“Hardwick!” he said over his shoulder.

“Yes sir, you did.”

Scott put his arm around the young major’s shoulder, and gently walked him away before he could say something to Pam he might regret.

“You haven’t been with us long, Major, so a word of caution.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Many of the old marines have been with me a long time.” He smiled, thinking of just how long. “So there is a more informal attitude between us. That means no disrespect to me, or my rank, just their way of showing it.”

“I think I understand, sir, it’s just something of a shock.…”

“And not the way you were trained in the British Royal Marines.”

“No, sir.”

“I understand. But you’ll find that a certain amount of informality goes a long way, and makes your life a lot easier in the long run.”

“Yes, Admiral.” Scott could see he doubted the advice at the moment, but that would change. The old marines would see to that. They had their ways of bringing a young officer around.

“These people might look like a bunch of teenagers, but they have a lot of experience under their belts,” Scott continued. “You listen, and they will teach you. Got it?”

“Yes, Admiral. I … think so.”