No Honor in Death (37 page)

"Smart scouts as we were, we ferreted out the Shrehari fleet heading on its way to cause mischief to Dordogne, and led TF 3A across their hawse.  The battle was one hell of a spectacle, sir, ships everywhere, shooting plasma, popping off missiles,"  Guthren's hands moved above the table, conjuring the picture of a mighty space battle between behemoths.  "Accounting to the fact that we were just a small scout, we sat on the sidelines, half of us watching for a second Shrehari force coming to flank us, the other half watching the fight of the century.  Then, near us, the frigate
Barracuda
gets into real trouble.  She's got two Hades-class cruisers going at her and no help in sight.  So the skipper, tired of sitting on her thumbs and seeing a opportunity to help - fact is," Guthren ginned wickedly, "her best friend was Gunnery Officer on the
Barracuda
- blindsided one of the Imperials with our pop-guns, drawing him off long enough so the
Barracuda
could send the other to join his ancestors.  We gave the bastard a hard time, but he rattled us bad enough to leave us drifting, all power gone.  Seeing that we were out of the fight, the Imp left us for dead and turned back to the
Barracuda
.  Cap'n Dunmoore's friend must have been a good gunner, cause he got that one too."

"So there we were, dead in space, no power, no shields, no guns.  We were drifting on our last course and everybody was ignoring us in the heat of battle.  We were just another large piece of junk.  Our First Officer was down and as officers, it was just Cap'n Dunmoore and a terrified ensign not a year out of the Academy down in the engine room.  Well, between the two of them, and the best machinists I've known, they got the sub-light drives back on, the shields back up and the guns on line.  The jump drives were shot and there was nothing we could do about that.  So the Cap'n and Mister Brocard, the engineering ensign, hatched a little plan to use our anti-matter fuel in a most imaginative fashion.  Like I said, the
Don Quixote
was a well-built ex-smuggler and she could do things no honest navy ship could," his grin returned, "for instance eject the fuel still in its magnetic bottle, like a big fucking bomb."

"By that time, we'd drifted right into the middle of the fight and our ships were getting a fearful drubbing.  It looked like the Imperials might just chase us home with our tails between our legs.  The moment our power and our systems came back on line, I turned to look at the skipper and ask her where she wanted to go, like back to the edge of the battle maybe.  But she grinned like she was having the time of her life and said, 'Cox'n, see that big mother of a flag-ship ahead.  What say we give him a surprise.'  Now the idea was crazy.  A tiny scout ship going up against a huge Imperial flag-ship.  Sort of like David and Goliath, or, like the skipper put it a moment later, like Don Quixote tilting against a windmill.  I dunno, but her madness infected all of us in the time it took to breathe a few times."

Guthren shook his head, still feeling the emotions of that moment, five years ago.  "We upped shields, deployed guns and opened missile launchers.  Then, with all running lights on and us singing
Man of La Mancha
, we charged the
Gur Varig
, flag-ship of the 4th Imperial Deep Space Fleet.  Buddies of mine who were there on other ships said everything stopped the moment they realized that a tiny scout was taking on the mighty
Gur Varig
.  They thought we were fucking nuts.  I guess we were at that.  Even the crew of the
Gur Varig
thought we were nuts because they just looked at us come, pop-guns blazing, tiny missiles burning space ahead of us.  They tried a few shots, more for fun than anything else.  Still shook us bad, but we got within a few metres of their shields.  I don't know who was more surprised that we got that close, them or us.  Anyways, at the last moment, the skipper has me shear off just as she dumps the anti-matter bottle on the flagship.  It hit the shields and collapsed."  Guthren stared at Pushkin, a strange fire in his eyes, as if the Chief was back aboard the
Don Quixote
. 

"You ever see the reaction when a full load of anti-matter fuel intersects a power shield, sir? We just about didn't see it either.  Fucking Imp shields overloaded and broke down in a fraction of a second, but the reaction was far from over.  It just kept on going, eating up the outer hull. The
Gar Varig
started breaking up in front of both fleets, destroyed by a tiny scout under the command of a crazy Lieutenant.  We got tossed around by the ship's death throes.  Damn near got wiped out ourselves, but Cap'n Dunmoore has the devil's own luck when it comes to fighting."  Pushkin could read the unmistakable admiration in Guthren's eyes.  The Cox'n stood up and stretched his heavy frame.

"Anyways, with the destruction of their flag-ship, the fuckers didn't know which way was up any more and pulled out, so that was the end of the battle.  The
Barracuda
found us drifting among the wreckage, more wreck than ship ourselves, and threw us a tow.  Towed us all the way back to Dordogne, as a matter of fact.  Admiral was so impressed that he decided we should lead Task Force 3A from the emergence point in Dordogne system to Starbase 30.  We patched up our sub-light drive during the jump and painted an almighty imperial dragon on our hull, a kill-mark, and when we cast off the tow a few million klicks out.  The old
Don Quixote
rode for the last time."  There was genuine emotion in his voice now.  "We got permission for a fly-by and a full reception when we docked.  They pinned the fucking Medal of Honor on Cap'n Dunmoore's chest there and then, and the rest of us got the fucking DSC."  Guthren shook his head again.  "Those were times, Mister Pushkin, those were times.  Aboard the little
Don Quixote
, tilting at every goddamn imperial windmill.   Anyways, since then, nothing our very own Dona Quixote does surprises me anymore.  Yeah," he smiled at Pushkin's expression, "that's what we used to call her, Dona Quixote.  She and the Don would have made quite a pair.  Both as crazy as loons and as honorable as they get.  You mark my words, Mister Pushkin, she'll cover us with glory on this one too.  Any skipper who can beat a flag-ship with a scout can do just about anything."  He winked, "including playing a good game of chicken with any bastard who gets too close."

Then, without a further word, Guthren left a thoughtful First Officer alone in the conference room, happy that he had finally been able to tell the story and let the buggers on this tub know their skipper was one of the best there ever was.  And that they were damned lucky to have her.

"Interesting."  Siobhan steepled her fingers.  The passive receptors, less accurate and suffering more from time-lag than the active scanners, had recorded the
Tol Vakash
's random gyrations as it moved up to the reorganized convoy.  Chief Penzara was playing the tape for the Captain's benefit now, adding a few comments culled from the depth of his experience.  "A Shrehari commander who thinks.  I could almost believe it's Brakal, or one of his apprentices.  See how he vanishes from view here,"  she pointed at the timeline display, "and here, going silent and listening, instead of bulling his way in our last known direction.  Can we get a make on the ship?"

Penzara shrugged, a grimace creasing his weathered features.  "It's pretty indistinct, Cap'n, but I give it a good chance of being a Gorgon-class cruiser.  The electronic signature is close, and the Gorgons are the most common rated ships in their Navy."

The
Tol Vakash
was a Gorgon-class cruiser.  By Commonwealth standards, Gorgons were more like heavy frigates than true heavy cruisers, but they still packed a mean punch, as she remembered only too well.  Siobhan knew it was wishful thinking to imagine the chase ship being the
Tol Vakash
.  Revenge was not only a dish best eaten cold, it was also a dish rarely eaten.  The Gorgon was the most common patrol type in the Imperial Deep Space Fleet, and a very successful design by their standards.  The Chief could be wrong, and it could be another type.  Like the larger and deadlier Basilisk-class cruiser, though the Imps usually kept those in heavy assault forces, not on detached duty.  Siobhan liked enemies who followed their own rules closely.  It meant she could throw away her rulebook and confuse the hell out of them.

"He's placed himself in a good strike position.  If he coordinates jumps with the convoy, one or the other'll be able to keep watch in normal space.  Except," she smiled knowingly, "the convoy commander will want to get to Cimmeria quickly and won't be under the orders of the Gorgon commander, so we'll get a few brief windows to manoeuvre in close.  Look at the trace:  no inter-ship coordination.  The convoy's keeping the same jump-rest-jump pattern as before.  We just have to time our jumps well."

"Pretty difficult, sir," Pushkin commented pessimistically.  "The Gorgon's been moving randomly enough to make any hidden approach impossible to time well.  He's made jumps as short as fifteen minutes and as long as seventy-two.  God knows what that's doing to his drives."

"There's nothing scientific about this, Mister Pushkin.  Gut instinct is the only way to go. Risky, sure, but it's just as risky for him to move towards us as soon as we pop up on his scanners. He'll be guessing too, remember that.  And the one who makes the least mistakes will take the prize."  She looked at the time display and rose.  "Let's go look for our window of opportunity."

Penzara and Pushkin followed her out on the bridge.  The varsity team were back at their stations after a short rest and Siobhan's instincts told her it was time to move on.  Or, part of her suspected, she was simply impatient to get back to the fray before the odds increased with the arrival of the Cimmeria assault force.  Was she really out to earn her ship glory, she wondered, or were the ghosts of her past driving her headlong into a situation she might not be able to handle?  She shrugged it off.

"Status."

"The convoy is still moving FTL, sir," Devall reported. "The other ship is still tooling along at sub-light."

"Looking for us, no doubt."  Siobhan relieved Shara, who had the watch, and slipped into her seat.  "Wondering how long we're going to wait.  In this we have some advantage.  He has to react to our moves.  As long as we keep the initiative."

A soft beep caused the Gunnery Officer to glance at his screen.  "He's jumped, sir."

"Time to go, people.  Mister Shara, make our course one-nine-seven mark three-one, ten minute jump at max.  Mister Pushkin, up systems."

"Laid in."

"Ready."

"Engage."  Nausea gripped them and vanished.  "Mister Pushkin, the moment we emerge, rig for silent running.  We're going to take this slow and careful."

Pushkin raised his eyebrows.  Pushing the jump drives to max sure as hell wasn't slow in his book.  Too much of that would bring complaints from the Chief Engineer, and with good reason. The
Stingray
's older engines had a definite limit on high-speed sailing.  But Siobhan Dunmoore had a hard gleam in her eyes.

"Active scan."

"On screen, sir."

"Still moving on exactly the same headings.  Good.  Chances are he hasn't emerged and still hasn't had a chance to pick us up.  Go silent."

The minutes ticked by slowly as they waited for the Shrehari to go sub-light for a scan.  He did, ten minutes after the
Stingray
, and came up with a blank.  The convoy remained in its bubble, confirming Siobhan's suspicions that the cruiser's commander couldn't work out a mutual search-jump-search arrangement with the convoy commander.  Too bad for them.  He jumped again and so did the frigate, slowly overhauling the line of transports.

"The convoy's due to emerge soon," Siobhan said, three hours of tense hide and seek later.  "He has to tack at least once before making a bee-line to Cimmeria.  My guess is the Gorgon's skipper will use the time to move nearer.  He's lost some ground and knows our strike window is closing."  Siobhan studied the display in silence for several minutes. She picked a point on the convoy's course and pointed it out to Shara.  "This is his optimum tacking point, both for time and fuel consumption.  How long is a red-line jump from here to there?"

"
Red-line
?"  Shara and Pushkin turned to her at the same time.  Red-lining the engines was a definite no-no, forbidden except in cases of extreme emergency.  It reduced the life-span of the huge drives considerably, and on an older ship like the
Stingray
, had a chance of burning them out totally.

"I don't recommend it, sir."  Pushkin frowned.  "We've already had enough troubles."

"They'll take it this once.  How long, Mister Shara?"  The Sailing Master queried her navigation computer.

"Six minutes."

"Our friend's still FTL?"

"Aye, sir," Penzara replied.  "Has been for eleven minutes now."

"And the convoy?"

"Going on five hours and fifty-one minutes."

Silence enfolded the bridge as Siobhan pondered her next move.  If the convoy commander held to his standard pattern, something a human would never do after an attack, he was due to emerge in nine minutes, at the optimum tacking point for a home-run to Cimmeria.

"Mister Shara, lay in a course for the point I've indicated -"