Kennedy Hudner - Alarm of War

Douthat raised her eyebrows in surprise. “He actually predicted the Dominion would offer military escorts?”

Teehan chuckled. “No, not that good. Actually, he guessed it would most likely be Cape Breton, but I won’t hold that against him. I showed the report to Admiral Giunta, who told me to bring young Brill along for the briefing.”

“Well,” Douthat said slowly, “all honor to young Brill. And what does the prescient Lieutenant Brill predict will happen next?”

Teehan grimaced. “Yes, well, that’s the thing, you see. He says Tilleke will invade Arcadia. Quite emphatic about it.”

“Oh, crap!” said the Commander of Home Fleet.

Teehan gave a ghost of a smile. “From the mouths of babes, eh?”

Outside, Admiral Skiffington was walking with his newly appointed aide, his son, Lieutenant Grant Skiffington. The Admiral saw that his son was frowning. “What’s the matter?”

Grant shook his head. “I don’t know, I mean, what happens if the Tilleke do attack. We have no idea what we’ll be up against. Admiral Teehan said-”

“Teehan’s an old woman, afraid of his shadow,” Admiral Skiffington said dismissively. “Don’t worry, Second Fleet can take anything the Tilleke throw against us. Our ship building and design is years ahead of the Emperor’s.”

“But you just said you needed Third Fleet,” his son protested.

The Admiral was a little disappointed, but tried not to show it. “Every situation is an opportunity ,” he explained patiently. “If the Tilleke attack Arcadia, I’ll see to it that Third Fleet is put under my command. At the end of the day, not only will I defeat the Emperor, but Third Fleet will be mine for good.”

Grant Skiffington digested this thoughtfully. The Admiral saw the expression on his face and barked a laugh.

“Always remember, son: Victory goes to the bold.”

P.D. 952

In Victorian Space

It was during her third month aboard the missile cruiser New Zealand that Emily discovered she could be a devious bitch…and enjoy every minute of it. But before she got there, she was in constant torment.

Her chief tormentor was a short, fat, balding, cheerful lieutenant borrowed from the Destroyer Cape Town. He was the instructor for the twenty new Tactical officers aboard the missile cruiser New Zealand . His name was Alexander Rudd, and as he stood at the podium in the Training Room, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He sweated. His cheeks were always flushed and he constantly mopped his brow.

How did this guy ever make it through Camp Gettysburg? Emily wondered in bemusement. Sergeant Kaelin would have eaten him alive.

Lieutenant Rudd unbuttoned his tunic and wiped his face. “Okay, listen up. Welcome to the Home Fleet. This is kiddy school for new Tactical officers. For the next three months, you will learn about basic tactics, weapons load outs, combat maneuvers, use of weapons and decoy combinations, and combat under a variety of scenarios, from one-on-one skirmishes to task force size engagements. For the next month or so, each of you will be the “captain” of your very own destroyer.” He smiled. “Your first task is to name your ship. Once you have done that, I want you to select a weapons load out, arm your ship and prepare to attack me.”

“One at a time or all of us?” Laura Salazar asked boldly. She was tall, with striking red hair and pale skin. She made Emily feel frumpy and too short.

“Entirely up to you,” Rudd replied. “You can coordinate with each other if you want to. In fact, I would urge you to do so.”

One of the students, Andrew Lord, stared dubiously at his screens. “How will we know which ship is yours?” he asked.

“For now,” Rudd explained, “all the ships are color coded: blue for friendly, red for hostile, yellow for unknowns and, of course, flashing orange for dead.” A bemused chuckle ran around the room. After their months at Camp Gettysburg, they were all too familiar with flashing orange. “Only here we don’t indicate a destroyed ship by using ‘FOF” or anything else cute and pretty. When a Victorian ship is destroyed, it automatically sends out a special, high speed courier drone that broadcasts a ‘Code Omega’ message. That means the ship is dead. Its crew is dead.” He paused for a moment to let this sink in. “The Code Omega drone will transmit the last hour of data from the ship’s bridge and sensor systems so that we can learn what happened.”

Each officer was assigned to his or her own “ship,” a cubicle filled with sensor screens and a simple control panel. Emily sat at a console that gave her control of a computer generated destroyer. By moving a joy stick she could “fly” her ship in any direction and fire its weapons. A screen showed her a simple sensor display, while another displayed the condition of her ship. It was about as simple as a computer game display. As an added feature, however, there was a large holographic display in the middle of the room, showing all of their ships suspended in three dimensional space. She put on a pair of headphones and worked out how to talk to the other trainees.

“Okay, here’s what we do,” Laura Salazar said crisply, assuming command of the ten trainees without discussion. No one objected, mostly relieved that someone was taking charge and had a plan. “Each of our destroyers can launch ten missiles at a time, with a total of thirty spares. If all ten of us load all missiles — skip the decoys and crap — and shoot at the same time, we’ll have one hundred missiles headed for him at the same time. That should overwhelm his defenses and take him out.”

Emily was scanning through the defense systems for her destroyer. It seemed to be based on short-range lasers. She wondered what the recycle time was to recharge before she could fire the lasers a second time. A frown wrinkled her forehead: How many hits could a destroyer absorb before it was killed? A lot she didn’t know yet.

Ten minutes later they were ready, their ships moving across the holograph as tiny blue specs. For several minutes, nothing, then a red triangle popped up on Emily’s sensor screen. “Got him!” she alerted the others. They had him, too. “Let’s nail the bastard,” Salazar snarled. “Tally ho!” Lord shouted, then ruined it by laughing. The ten ships wheeled towards their target, formed a ragged line and advanced to weapons range.

Moments later a hundred missiles were in the air, accelerating rapidly toward Rudd’s ship.

Emily sighed, folded her arms and sat back. Too easy, she thought to herself. Much too easy. She wondered how he’d do it. Then she frowned and wondered how she would do it if she were in Rudd’s shoes. She thought about how to sucker ten untried tactical officers on their first mission, ten trainees eager to show they could be more aggressive than the next guy. Ten trainees who would charge at the enemy at the very first opportunity… Oh, bugger me! She toggled her communicator so that she was talking only to Rudd.

“We who are about to get thoroughly screwed salute you,” she said ruefully. There was a moment of silence, then a dry chuckle sounded in her headphones. “Tuttle?” Rudd asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Well…your file said you were bright. Figure it out yet?”

“Not all of it,” Emily admitted. “But I know that we’re about to get creamed.” She smiled. “You must be a very busy person just now, with ten ships to target.”

“Nah, Tuttle, not as busy as you might think. After all, you guys are doing all the hard work for me,” Rudd said cheerfully. “Got to go, Tuttle. Things to do, ships to kill and all that.” He switched off.