“It’s going to be hours before I can get anything on optics or radiation tracking again,” the tactical officer says.
“That fireball is fifty-five thousand Kelvins,” Dr. Stewart says. “We just caused a two-hundred-gigaton energy release. If there’s anything left in that area of space other than vapor, I’ll eat every last diploma on my office wall.”
Colonel Campbell sits down in his command chair and activates the Indy’s 1MC.
“Attention, all hands. This is the skipper. You are now crew members of the first fleet ship to ever destroy a Lanky vessel. Operation Doorknocker was successful. Our extermination has been postponed. Not bad for a little OCS, people. Carry on.”
Another cheer goes up in the CIC.
“I don’t suppose alcohol is allowed on military ships?” Dr. Stewart asks the colonel. “I could really go for a strong drink right now.”
“No, it’s not allowed,” he replies. “And of course we have some.”
It takes a while for the Indy’s sensors to poke through the noise from a two-hundred-gigaton explosion. All that’s left in the vicinity of the Lanky ship’s projected turnaround point is a superheated debris cloud that is slowly expanding. The light from the fireball gradually decreased after the collision, but even a few minutes later, it’s still impressive to look at.
“All right, people. Helmsman, bring us about and back on course toward New Svalbard,” Colonel Campbell orders. “Tactical, get me the word on our SRA friends. Weapons, check stores and warm up the nukes. We’re going stealth again.”
The thought of an imminent hopeless engagement with the far superior SRA force approaching New Svalbard is like a cold shower after the heated excitement of our destruction of the Lanky seed ship. We may have bought the colony some time, but if we have to take this ship into battle against an entire carrier group, there’s no question we’ll lose.
“There they are,” the tactical officer says a short while later. I watch as the tactical orb display expands in scale. New Svalbard is a hundred million kilometers away, and the SRA task force pops up on the screen almost a hundred million kilometers on the opposite side of the moon.
“We have the acceleration advantage,” the XO says. “We’ll be back over the moon before they get there, but not by much. For whatever good it’ll do.”
“This is odd,” the tactical officer says. On the plot, the tags for the tactical icons change as the computer starts to identify the first of the SRA units conclusively.
“What’s that, Lieutenant?” Colonel Campbell asks.
“Well, the ELINT profiles are strange for some of those ships. I know for sure that the lead ship is the Chinese 098D. That’s that Godavari right here.” He marks the icon on the tactical display briefly. “That third one there? The computer doesn’t have it yet, but I’m eighty percent sure it’s one of their older assault carriers. Maybe Kiev class.”
He highlights two of the ships in the back of the group.
“But those right there? I could swear that one of them looks like a Hammerhead cruiser.”
The display changes, and the icon he is pointing out changes to the pale blue of an “UNIDENTIFIED, PRESUMED FRIENDLY” contact as the computer appears to concur with the lieutenant’s assessment. It’s impossible for us to capture one of their warships in space, or for them to capture one of ours—there are multiple safeguards in place, right down to DNA locks on the control consoles—but seeing friendly units in a task force with enemy ones seems even less likely.
“Captured and forced to tag along?” the XO wonders aloud.
“Possible,” Colonel Campbell says. “That would explain why they came through our Alcubierre node.”
“But why would they have to set off the minefield on the way in?”
“Beats me.” The colonel scratches his chin as he watches the plot.
“Go to turnaround and decelerate for New Svalbard,” he orders. “We’ll see what’s going on when they’re in comms range. Any sign of our carrier group?”
“No, sir. They’re not within two AUs of us or the moon.”
“Smartest sons of bitches in the system right now,” the XO mutters.
A few hours later we’re in communications range with the colony again, and I contact Sergeant Fallon as soon as I can get a stable comms link. At this range, the signal takes five minutes to get to New Svalbard, and my excitement over the news makes the wait for a return reply agonizingly frustrating.
“The Lanky ship is destroyed,” I send. “Fine stardust. We are coming back to the barn to assist with the defense.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all month. Hell, year. Make that ‘decade,’” she sends back. “I’d buy that science crew a shitload of drinks if they had any to buy down here.”