The sensor package on the Indy is the best on any fleet ship, and it doesn’t take very long for the computer to sort out the clutter between optical arrays, infrared, and radar.
“Can’t make out who it is, but there’s a bunch of ’em,” the tactical officer says. “Too far away for comms, but I don’t get any IFF verifications.” He cycles through a few windows on his display. “Three…four…five…six…make that eight, maybe nine.”
“Can’t be Lankies, then,” I say. “I’ve never seen more than one of theirs at a time.”
“Not Lankies,” the tactical officer says. “Too small for that.”
“I’m not sure that having to face an entire SRA task force would be a great improvement,” Colonel Campbell replies. “But I’ll take small blessings right now. Get me an ID on those guys the second they get close enough for an IFF ping.”
A short while later, we’re all congregating in the CIC again, watching the holographic orb projected above the tactical table like some sort of high-tech fortune globe. The icons for the newcomers are the pale red of “UNCONFIRMED, PRESUMED HOSTILE” contacts. They are steadily accelerating away from the Alcubierre transition area and straight toward New Svalbard.
“Still too far away for comms, but I’m getting some optical recognition matches now,” the tactical officer says. Both the XO and Colonel Campbell step over to the tactical console to look over his shoulder.
“It’s a whole mess of ships. System’s still drawing a blank on most of them. But the computer says the lead ship is definitely a Chinese 098D-class destroyer. There’s a seventy percent certainty the second is an Indian Godavari-class frigate.”
“Well, great,” Colonel Campbell sighs. The icons on the tactical display turn from faded red to the bright red of “HOSTILE” contacts.
“New contacts are designated Raid One. Two point five AUs, proceeding in-system at two gravities and accelerating.”
Colonel Campbell glances at the shot clock on the CIC bulkhead. “They’ll be in range right around the time the Gordon is at the turnaround point for the Lanky,” he says. “This will not do.”
“Can we explain the situation to them?” Dr. Stewart asks. “Surely they’ll see that blasting us out of space just when we’re about to take out a seed ship isn’t exactly in their best interests.”
“Maybe,” the XO says. “But I’d rather not reason with a Chinese task force commander right around the time we need to be glued to the remote in here.”
“If they don’t just blow us out of space the second we enter their long-range-weapons envelope,” I say.
“As long as we’re sitting here and maintaining telemetry with the Gordon, we can’t even go stealthy again,” the XO says.
“They’ll see us from a long ways off with our active gear running,” Colonel Campbell concurs.
“Then we need to run,” the XO suggests. “Follow the Gordon; keep out of range of the SRA task force as long as possible. At least until we’ve hit or missed our target.”
“You want to leave our troops down there without orbital cover?” I say, a flash of anger welling up in me. “Run like the rest of the task force?”
“If we had the Midway and her escorts here, we may have a chance,” the colonel says. “Against nine ships, maybe not a realistic one, but at least they’d think twice before taking on a carrier group head-on. With one OCS that can’t go into stealth? Forget it.”
He studies the plot for a few moments, lips pursed and hands on his hips. Then he shakes his head.
“Helm, get us out of here, flank speed. Same trajectory we sent the Gordon.”
“They have the acceleration on us, sir,” the tactical officer says. “They’ll overtake us sooner or later.”
“We’re not running indefinitely,” the colonel replies. “We’re just keeping out of reach until the Gordon does her job. Then we can drop off the plot again and figure out something else.”
I know he’s right. The combat power bearing down on us is far too much for one orbital combat ship to handle, even one as new and capable as Indianapolis. But I know what we’re leaving behind down there: three thousand troops without air/space support that will be easy pickings for a spaceborne regiment of Chinese marines with a full battle group in orbit.
I walk over to the comms console and tap into the network to raise the ops center on the moon.
“Colonial Ops, this is Staff Sergeant Grayson on Indianapolis. Do you copy?”
“Loud and clear, Sarge,” someone replies. “What gives?”
“Get me Sergeant Fallon. It’s urgent.”
There are a few moments of silence on the line, and then Sergeant Fallon’s voice comes on, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Fallon here. Go ahead.”
“We have an SRA task force headed our way from the Alcubierre node,” I say. “They’ll be on top of us in less than a day. Nine ships at least.”
“Goddammit,” she says, with what sounds like annoyance in her voice, and I smile. “Can’t catch a break, can we?”