KICKING THE DOOR OFF THE HINGES
The next fifteen minutes are the slowest ones of my life. The CIC’s holotable displays the tactical map at strategic scale to show both the task group and the Lanky fleet, as well as the two dozen blue V symbols that are racing from our cluster of blue and green icons to their cluster of orange ones. Far out in front of us, so close to the Lanky fleet that the icons almost touch at this scale, is the lone little blue icon that says “CINCINNATI OCS-2” next to it. Cincinnati is still in her forward-observer position, running under stealth, tracking all the Lankies optically and relaying the target data back to the task group, which in turn feeds the information to the Orions. So far, we have only fired Orion missiles at Lanky seed ships that were approaching Earth at high velocity, and those shots were much more difficult than this volley at slow-patrolling Lanky ships that are practically stationary to an Orion moving at one-twentieth of light speed.
All those beatings we got from you bastards over the last few years, I think. Let’s see how you like getting sucker-punched back.
On the tactical screen, the blue Vs are rushing toward the orange lozenges. The scale of the display means that the situational orb is half a million kilometers across, but the Orions are chewing up the distance between us and the Lankies like nothing I’ve ever seen moving through space, and their nuclear-propulsion charges are still accelerating them after they’re way past the halfway point. Fifteen minutes of remaining flight time turn to ten, then five, then two.
“One minute to intercept,” CIC announces.
With every second that passes, I expect the orange icons at the far range of our awareness bubble to scatter and rapidly change course, detecting the incoming Orions and throwing off our final targeting fixes. But however the Lankies perceive the space around their ships, sensing missiles coming toward them at fifteen thousand kilometers per second, which is what the Orions are up to in the last minute of their targeting run, doesn’t seem to be within their abilities. The Lanky seed ships continue their leisurely patrol pattern, unaware of the kinetic energy coming their way.
“Flight One impact in ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.”
It takes all the self-control I have to stay in my seat and not jump up and pace the deck.
“Three. Two. One. Impact.”
The two dozen blue V icons merge with the cluster of orange lozenges in quick succession. Then the tactical display stops updating the icon positions.
“Cincinnati has lost visual. FO is reporting multiple high-energy impacts. Stand by for poststrike assessment.”
Several minutes pass as the sensor suites on Cincinnati and the leading ships in our battle line seek to reestablish a picture of the tactical situation. The kinetic warheads are just big blocks of pykrete, ice mixed with wood pulp, harder than concrete and much less brittle than pure ice, but they release all their energy on impact, billions of joules.
“Getting a new fix from the FO now,” the tactical officer in CIC says.
On the plot, the blue missile icons are gone, and so are most of the orange seed-ship icons. Three missile icons are at the very far limit of the plot, streaking toward Mars.
“Multiple impacts,” the tactical officer announces, in a voice that sounds first amazed and then jubilant. “FO reports impacts on ten bogeys. Multiple hull breaches. Visual feed incoming.”
I waste no time tapping into the camera feed from Cincinnati that arrives just a minute later. The space in near-Mars orbit is littered with Lanky ships that are clearly mortally wounded. Several have their entire front thirds missing and are streaming chunks of hull as they careen through space with an obvious lack of controlled propulsion. Two of the Lanky ships are torn in half, the segments drifting away from each other slowly at this magnification, with clouds of smaller hull debris between them.
“We have high-yield impacts on Mars,” someone else in CIC says. “Three misses on bogeys. One went by the planet and burned up in the upper atmosphere. Two impacted the surface near the equator, five hundred fifty klicks apart. Megaton-class thermal bloom.”
“Ouch,” someone in my group says next to me. Three of the priceless Orions missed their targets, and two of them smacked into Mars at almost full speed, barely slowed down by the atmospheric friction upon entry. I find myself hoping fervently that the errant Orions took out a Lanky settlement or two instead of landing right on top of a bunker with human survivors in it.
“Two more misses,” the audio from CIC continues. “Orion 90 and 99 went wide and failed to impact. Self-destruct in one hundred seventeen minutes.”
The two Orions that missed their assigned targets continue on their trajectory past Mars and off into the deep space beyond, each having used up hundreds of the world’s remaining low-yield nuclear warheads for no gain. But most of the rest have done their jobs. There are a few minutes of tension and controlled confusion in CIC as the sensors from the task-group ships and the far-off Cincinnati attempt to sort out the optical, thermal, and radiation clutter in the section of space where we just unleashed planetoid-killing amounts of kinetic energy. Then the feed from Cincinnati burns through the noise, and the tactical display updates itself.
“Splash ten,” the tactical officer says, and he makes no effort to conceal the glee in his voice. “We have ten confirmed seed-ship kills.”
All around me, rousing cheers go up—not just in the Pod Country compartment, but also in the neighboring sections, so loud that they’re audible through the bulkheads. In the space of one second, we have destroyed more Lankies—both ships and individual creatures—than in the entire war against them so far.
“Knock knock, motherfuckers!” our Spaceborne Rescue sergeant shouts, and pumps his fist.
“Battleships are advancing to grid Delta Five-Seven for intercept,” the tactical officer in CIC narrates. I see the two battleships accelerating toward their assigned intercept coordinates on the plot, burning their fusion engines at flank-speed setting.
“Contact,” CIC warns. “We have two bogies incoming from bearing zero-two-zero relative by negative zero-one-three, and zero-three-five relative by positive three-zero. Designate Lima-11 and Lima-12. FO reports they have a visual on both Lanky seed ships.”