Issue In Doubt

CHAPTER Ten

Destroyer Lance Corporal Keith Lopez, Approaching the Enemy Missiles at Flank Speed



Commander Ernest E. Evans, captain of the Lopez, studied his sit-board. It clearly showed three dozen bogeys coming on, with VSF 114 turning to chase them, and VSF 218 closing with the bogeys head on. The range to the bogeys was short enough that the Lopez could open fire now and get most of them. But VSF 218 was in the line of fire; no matter how good the firing solution was, some of the 218’s spacecraft were sure to get killed by a salvo from the Lopez.

“Radar, Captain,” Evans said into his comm, “How long before 218 clears our LoF?”

“Captain, Radar,” came back Lieutenant (jg) Frederick V. McNair. “At current velocities, 218 will pass through the bogeys and clear our line of fire in twenty-seven seconds.”

“Weapons, Captain. Did you copy that?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Guy Wilkinson Castle answered. “Firing solution being calculated. We will be ready to fire the new solution as soon as two-one-eight clears.”

As soon as two-one-eight clears wasn’t exact; at the distances involved there was relativity to factor in, and VSF 218 was already through the formation of bogeys by the time Radar gave its estimate. What it did was give the fighters a margin of error to clear out of the way of the Lopez’s fire.

“Weapons, fire when ready,” Evans ordered.

“Fire when ready, aye, sir.”

That was before the alien missiles split.



Destroyer Commander Herald F. Stout, Pursuing the Enemy Missiles at Flank Speed



“They’re getting away from us, ma’am,” Lieutenant Edouard V.M. Izac said shrilly, shocked at how the enemy weapons had suddenly multiplied.

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Izac,” Lieutenant Commander Jane D. Bulkeley, Stout’s captain, replied.

The Stout was on an intercept vector, but the missiles she was chasing were going faster than she was, and there was no maneuver scheme that would close the distance to optimal range for a firing solution. The enemy missiles would be past wherever the Stout’s weapons intercepted their paths no matter how the ship maneuvered.

“Weapons,” Bulkeley said into the comm, “do you have a solution for hitting those bogeys?”

“Affirmative, skipper,” answered Lieutenant Edward H. O’Hare. “It’s at extreme range, but I think we can hit a few of them.”

“‘I think’ isn’t good enough, Mr. O’Hare. Can we hit them?”

“Ma’am, I’m sure we can hit some of them.”

“But not all.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think we can hit all.”

“Try for all.”

“Aye aye, ma’am. I already have the firing solution programmed in.”

“Do it.”

Seconds later, the Stout shuddered as her tubes ejected Beanbags, Zappers, and rockets at the enemy missiles. None of the Stout’s missiles could accelerate faster than the enemy’s, but they could reach a point in space within a fraction of a second of when their targets did. It wasn’t likely that the weapons would physically destroy any of the enemy missiles, but the beanbags might damage some of them enough to slow them down, or deflect their courses; the same went for the rockets with proximity or timed fuses. The better chance was that the zappers would fry some of the missiles’ electronics, possibly with shock enough to explode their hydrox—or whatever they used for fuel.

Then the tension on the destroyer was palpable as everyone who could see a display watched their ship’s weapons heading toward the enemy.

Several hundred kilometers to port, the destroyers HM3 Edward C. Benfold and First Lieutenant George H. Cannon also loosed their weapons at the enemy missiles.



Destroyer Chief Gunners Mate Oscar Schmit, Jr., Approaching Enemy Missiles at Flank Speed



Commander Eugene B. Fluckey, the Schmit’s captain, gritted his teeth at the view he saw on his situation display. The Meteors of VSF 114 and 218 were doing their best to knock out the oncoming enemy missiles, but already 114 was down to less than half strength, and 218 was being severely punished as well. Fluckey wished he knew the names of the squadrons, so he could pay them proper respect. But he didn’t, so their numbers would have to do. It was a pity that there weren’t enough of the interceptors to stop the attack on the ARG. Far to the rear of the approaching furball, he saw the missiles fired by the Stout, the Cannon, and the Benfold chasing the attackers. He could tell that many, perhaps most, of the their weapons wouldn’t catch up with the enemy.

The defensive weapons being launched by the Schmit, and the Lopez to starboard and ahead, were taking their toll on the oncoming missiles. But not nearly high enough a price. Many of the missiles speeding toward the two destroyers, he knew, would strike them. Probably enough to kill both warships. Then others would batter the following cruisers, Coral Sea and Ramsey Strait.

Which would leave the transports of ARG17 defenseless, except for the carrier Kidd. And the Kidd had virtually no weapons other than her two space squadrons, which were already fighting the enemy.

It didn’t matter that the wormhole the ARG had come through had closed; the starships were too far away from where it had been to reach its safety before the attacking missiles arrived even if it had still been open.



NAUS Durango, Flagship Task Force 8, Admiral’s Bridge



Admiral Avery helplessly watched the action taking place more than two light minutes distant. At this remove, there was nothing he could do or say to affect the battle. Anything he saw had already happened, any orders he gave to the warships protecting the ARG would arrive more than four minutes after whatever he responded to had happened.

Four minutes in a close-fought space battle might as well be an eternity.

Avery forced his jaw to unclench, his shoulder muscles to unknot. He did it without thought, it was a skill he had developed during the course of nearly four decades of standing watch and commanding ships.

Bright lights that sparked soundlessly in the visual spectrum told of enemy missiles being destroyed by fighter fire. Brighter flashes showed the deaths of interceptors from VSF 114 and VSF 218.

The section of sky short of the approaching convoy suddenly speckled with sparks, the sparks of missiles being killed by fire from the destroyers Avery had sent to aid the defenders of the convoy. But they couldn’t kill all of the missiles; there were too many of them.

There weren’t enough bright flashes; there were too many of the brighter flashes.

Then came a light that blossomed far larger than any of the missile or fighter deaths he’d already seen—an escort warship exploded, her spine broken by strikes from multiple missiles that had gotten through the screen of defensive fire and interceptors. Then another bright blossom. The Lopez and the Schmit, the two destroyers in the van of the ARG, were gone.

An even brighter flash heralded the death of one of the cruisers, followed immediately by the brilliant death of the other. Now there was nothing but a few out-classed interceptors left to shield the transports of Amphibious Ready Group 17—and they were chasing the missiles.

Avery didn’t allow himself to hang his head; he continued to watch the displays. In another place and time, a fleet commander in his situation would retire to his cabin and commit ritual suicide. But in the here and now, he remained alive and in command, doing whatever he could to salvage the situation, until another admiral arrived from Earth to relieve him.

“Fleet CAC,” he demanded into his comm, “have you found where they come from yet?”

“Sir, we know they came from behind Mini Mouse. We’re analyzing their trajectory to determine exactly where. We should have the location shortly.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Aye aye, sir.”



NAUS Durango, Fleet Combat Action Center



Lieutenant Commander R. Z. Johnston scowled, visibly upset that the enemy had sneaked an attack past him. He already had his people back-tracking the trajectory of the missiles to determine exactly where they originated. They came from the far side of Mini Mouse, that much was obvious. The small moon wasn’t tidally locked to Troy, so the launch site had moved since the missiles went up. That meant the launch site—sites?—had moved, relative to where the moon’s “far side” was now. Elementary to calculate. And they had a complete map of the surface of the small moon. Two analysts were examining the maps, and one of them was plotting the possible site/sites against known gravitational anomalies.

Johnston suspected the launch site was on or just below, the surface put in place after the initial attack of the aliens. He didn’t see any way they could have brought in the heavy equipment they’d need to dig in deeply without being noticed from the planet’s surface—or the digging operations noticed by approaching starships even if they were able to shield the operation from surface-based observers on Troy—before the original attack. Ergo, Johnston concluded, the site must be on or near the surface, and camouflaged.

It was just too bad Mini Mouse hadn’t been thoroughly mapped earlier. Then it would have been an easy job to compare that against the navy’s maps that showed what was there now.

“Sir,” Senior Chief John C. McCloy interrupted Johnston’s thoughts, “I think we’ve hit paydirt.”

“Show me.”

McCloy toggled one of the analyst’s displays to the CAC head’s display. It showed four surface soft spots with something with variable density immediately below.

“Bingo,” Johnston murmured. “Admiral’s bridge, CAC.”

Avery was waiting for the call. “Speak to me.”

“Sir, we’ve got four probable targets. Each shows distinct features of camouflaged artillery positions.”

“Can their locations be hit by the Scott or the Durango?”

“Negative, sir.” He looked at McCloy.

“Working on it,” McCloy said softly, and turned to the analysts to get them to work on initial plots to move the two warships into position to strike the enemy sites.

“Sir, we are working on vectors for Scott and Durango to take to be able to strike at the Mini Mouse sites.”

“Keep doing it. Let me know when you have the vectors. I’ll order them to follow them, and have their CACs coordinate with you. Avery out.”



NAUS Peleliu, Flagship of Amphibious Ready Group 17, Commodore’s Bridge



Rear Admiral Daniel J. Callaghan, commanding ARG 17, and Lieutenant General Joel H. Lyman, commanding VII Corps, stood at the control bar separating the commodore’s station from the officers overseeing the fleet’s operations. The main display that hovered before them showed a ninety-light-second-diameter, three dimensional sphere to their front. Callaghan was in his crisp khaki duty uniform. Lyman, who a short time earlier had expected to be making planetfall in his corps’ second wave, was in his eye-fooling camouflage field uniform. Where their arms almost touched, Lyman’s nearly blended visually into Callaghan’s.

Callaghan’s mouth was dry. It didn’t take any understanding of orbital mechanics to see that Catfish and Lionfish squadrons— what was left of them—had virtually no chance of destroying any of the fifty-eight missiles still homing in on the nineteen transports and supply ships of ARG17, and that most if not all of the starships of ARG17 were going to be hit, possibly—probably—killed. Even a six-year-old playing “Deep Space Fleet” on a child-size HUD could see that.

His only consolation was that he probably wouldn’t survive to face a board of inquiry.

He’d long since given the order for his starships to take evasive action, maneuvering in patterns of random movement; he knew it was a feeble attempt to trick the oncoming missiles into missing them, but it was better than nothing. Starships, particularly the transports and support vessels of a gator navy, don’t maneuver very nimbly. Feeble or not, the maneuvering might save some of his ships—and the troops they carried.

His mouth was dry, but he stood erect, hands clasped in the small of his back, head held high, expression neutral. He didn’t look like a man facing imminent death. Next to him, he barely heard General Lyman murmuring; likely prayers to whatever god he might believe in.

On the main display two icons, representing Landing Platform, Shuttle, LPS8 Phillips Head and the logistics support ship Richmond merged, then shattered into pieces scattering away.

There goes several hundred sailors and an army brigade, Callaghan thought grimly.

The Phillips Head and the Richmond hadn’t been hit by enemy fire; they’d collided with each other.

Lyman emitted a groan and squeezed his eyes shut.

Seconds later, the oncoming enemy weapons began impacting the starships of his flotilla. Callaghan didn’t look away from the main display; he owed the officers and men of ARG17 and VII Corps that much respect. He saw four missiles strike the amphibious landing ferry Yorktown, breaking her in two. He watched two missiles hit the amphibious landing dock Saratoga, not death-dealing hits, but certainly crippling. The Grandar Bay was staggered by one hit. The escort carrier Kidd was pummeled by three missiles; Callaghan wondered if she would be able to retrieve her Meteor pilots—if any of them had survived. He only saw one missile strike the Kandahar, but she exploded—the missile must have found its way to the power plant.

There were hits on more of the starships of ARG 17, but Callaghan didn’t see them. He spent his last seconds standing at attention as he watched five missiles close on the Peleliu.

Rear Admiral Callaghan died with his eyes open. Lieutenant General Lyman opened his eyes in time to die the same way.



Troop Compartment A-43-P, NAUS Juno Beach, ARG17



Before the now-hear-this message even finished its first go-through, Second Lieutenant Theodore W. Greig bolted from the officers mess and raced, twisting side to side to avoid collisions with sailors and soldiers going in the opposite direction in the narrow passageways, to the compartment where his platoon was quartered on the amphibious assault ship.

“Sergeant Quinn,” he huffed into his comm unit, “where are you? I’m heading for the platoon.”

“I’m almost there, LT. I already put out a call for everyone to report in.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Hey, it’s what a platoon sergeant does.”

“The good ones, anyway.” Greig snapped his comm off and twisted past a last few sailors before he reached the door to his platoon’s compartment and headed in. A glance showed him that Quinn had just arrived, and only two or three of his soldiers weren’t present.

“‘Toon, a-ten-hut!” Quinn bellowed when the officer entered.

Greig gave his men a few seconds to come to their feet and begin moving into the posture of attention before shouting, “At ease!” He turned and stepped aside at the sound of thudding footsteps in the passageway behind himself, just in time to dodge two soldiers who grabbed the doorway combing and spun into the compartment.

“Is that everybody?” he asked.

Quinn had already called for a squad leaders’ report. In seconds, he had it. “Second platoon, all present and accounted for,” he barked.

Greig nodded. “Good,” he said, then took a couple of seconds to organize his thoughts. “As you just heard on the Juno Beach’s PA system, the fleet is under attack. That’s this fleet, including the ship we’re on. There are two fleets, the troop transfer fleet we’re in, and a warship fleet. The warships are fighting off the attackers. But, if history’s any indication, some of the attackers are going to be successful.” He paused to let that sink in. “What this means in practical terms, is the Juno Beach might get hit, maybe even destroyed.” He had to raise his hands and voice to quell the tumult that rose.

Quinn’s roars of “Knock it off and listen up!” probably had more to do with the sudden silence than the lieutenant’s shout.

“Yes,” Greig snapped. “That means we could all get killed before we even make planetfall. But—” He again had to call for quiet. “But it doesn’t mean that we will get killed. First, because the enemy might not hit this ship. Second, because there are stasis stations available. We are going to one. All of second platoon. If the Juno Beach gets hit, even destroyed, we’ll be safe until we get rescued and brought out of stasis. If we don’t get hit at all, we’re still safe and alive until someone releases us from stasis.

Sergeant Quinn and I know where the nearest stasis station is. We are going to take you there now and we are all going into stasis. We’ll be out of the way of the ship’s crew, and we’ll be safe in case the Juno Beach gets hit. You’ve all been through a stasis drill, so you know how it’s done. Squad leaders, get your troops together, and follow Sergeant Quinn.” He nodded at his platoon sergeant. “Lead the way.”

Second platoon of Alpha Troop, First of the Seventh Mounted Infantry, 10th Brigade, headed to the nearest stasis station, which was close enough that the lead soldier entered it before the last soldier left the platoon’s compartment.

It took less than fifteen minutes for the twenty-four troops of the platoon to get into the individual units, hooked up, and checked by their squad leaders. Greig and Quinn checked the squad leaders.

Before they got into their units, Quinn asked, “LT., did the captain tell all the platoon commanders to head for stasis?”

Greig looked his platoon sergeant in the eye and said quietly, “You can’t get in trouble for what you don’t know. Remember that, just in case I’m wrong.”



NAUS Durango, Admiral’s Bridge



“If it pleases Captain Huse, I would like to speak with him,” Rear Admiral James Avery said into his comm. Task Force 8 belonged to Avery, but the Durango belonged to Huse, and his position must be acknowledged.

“Huse here, Admiral,” the captain’s voice came back seconds later.

“Captain,” Avery said, calling him by his rank rather than his given name as he normally would to make totally clear that he was giving orders, “thanks for getting back to me so quickly.” As if there was any doubt that a captain wouldn’t answer an admiral’s call as fast as possible. “Those bogeys attacking the ARG came from Mini Mouse. Fleet CAC has identified their points of origin. I want you to maneuver into a position where you can continue giving cover to the planetside Marines, and simultaneously fire on the moon. Have your CAC coordinate with mine.” The Durango’s Combat Action Center directed the ship’s fight; the Fleet CAC coordinated the fight of two or more of the fleet’s ships. “I’m sending the Scott to attack the identified locations from where the enemy launched its missiles. When you are in position, I will send further orders to Durango and Scott to coordinate your attacks.

“Questions?”

“Negative, sir. I will inform the admiral the instant I am in position.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Avery broke the connection, and settled back to watch developments.



NAUS Durango, Bridge



“Comm,” Huse said to Lieutenant Commander George F. Davis, his communications officer, “get me CAC.”

“CAC, aye, sir,” Davis answered.

Seconds later; “CAC, Lieutenant Hudner, sir.”

“Mr. Hudner, has Fleet CAC given you the locations on Mini Mouse the enemy fired from?”

“Yes, sir. They are coming in now.”

“Good man. The admiral is about to order a counterattack. Make a priority list with coordinates for bombardment, and send it to me instantly. Remember, we have to maintain cover for the Marines planetside.”

“Aye aye. sir, you will have it immediately.”



NAUS Durango, Admiral’s Bridge



While Huse was giving orders to his CAC, Avery was in communication with Captain William R. Rush, skipper of the Scott. The Scott and the Durango were two of the most powerful warships in the NAU Navy, and the most powerful in TF8.

It took several seconds longer for Rush to answer Avery’s call than it had Huse, during which time the plot arrived from the CAC. But Huse was on the same starship as Avery, while Rush on the Scott was more than 100,000 kilometers distant; in space, distance equals time.

“Scott Actual here, Sir.” Rush’s voice when it came was clear and crisp. Identifying himself by position rather than name indicated that he anticipated that he was about to receive action orders.

“Scott Actual, I believe that you are in a position from which you can launch Kestrel strikes on Mini Mouse.”

Seconds later Rush replied, “That’s affirmative, sir.”

“Be advised, the Durango is maneuvering into position to strike targets on Mini Mouse. When she is in position, I will give orders to the two of you to coordinate your attacks. In the meantime, launch your squadrons and have them take up parking orbits on the limb of Mini Mouse, where they will wait for orders to strike at these targets which have been identified by Fleet CAC.” He pressed a “transmit” button to send the plot to the Scott.

“Sir, Scott maneuveringto launch Kestrels.

“Launch as soon as you are ready, Scott.”