Graham Paul - The battle of Devastation reef

Inside the Hammer missiles, traps holding the warheads’ antihydrogen payload collapsed. Antimatter annihilated matter, releasing a tsunami of gamma radiation into space. Tufayl and her sister ships did not stand a chance. For all their reinforced armor, the dreadnoughts were too close to withstand the prodigious wave of energy released by the missiles. Impulse shock waves bludgeoned the ships with lethal force, battering critical systems to the point of failure and beyond. Seconds after the attack, the enormous fusion plants powering the dreadnoughts’ main propulsion power plants lost containment, transformed into blue-white flashes of raw energy that consumed the ships from end to end, leaving nothing but a few shattered fragments of ceramsteel armor and writhing tendrils of ionized matter to mark the passing of ten once-powerful ships.

There was complete quiet, the command holovid flashing “SHIP DESTROYED” in letters that flooded the combat information center with bloodred light. Then the holovid displays that curtained the combat information center went blank and the lights came on.

Michael stared, stunned, unable to move. The weight of yet another failure was close to unbearable.

“All stations,” a disembodied voice announced. “This is control. End of exercise. Hot wash-up in Conference Room 4 in thirty minutes. Control out.”

“Shit, shit, shit. What a bloody disaster,” Michael muttered. The day had been bad enough without having to sit through the humiliation of a debrief chaired by Vice Admiral Jaruzelska, the Fleet’s most respected, experienced, and successful combat commander.

Why me? he asked himself, throwing off his safety straps. He forced a body stiff with tension and stress to its feet. All he had ever wanted to be was an assault lander pilot, not some damned cruiser captain, a job he had not asked for, a job he was beginning to think he should not have. He smiled for an instant, his mouth twisting into a grim gash devoid of any humor. Well, look on the bright side, he told himself dispiritedly. After today’s performance, there was every chance he would not be Tufayl ’s captain designate much longer.

Someone else would have to make dreadnoughts work.

“So, to sum up, the critical command error occurred here, at drop plus fifteen seconds, a mistake compounded by the warfare AI’s failure to communicate effectively with the command. The Hammer capital ships in task group Hammer-1 were too close to our ships to deploy antimatter missiles. Conventional chemex and tacnuke-armed missiles were their only options. That made them the lesser threat. The auxiliaries and their escorts in Hammer-2, on the other hand, orbited far enough away to launch and survive an antimatter attack, and that is exactly what they did once our ships committed to the attack. After missile launch, command had the option to jump to safety but elected to ride out the attack. That was the wrong decision, and as a result …” The analyst’s voice trailed off; she appeared somewhat embarrassed.

Michael squirmed in his seat. In the cold light of day, it was all so easy, so damn obvious. Why was he so stupid? His head slumped onto his chest, the shame nearly unbearable.

Vice Admiral Jaruzelska’s voice cut through the hush. “Okay, folks. I think that’ll do. I want department heads back here, Monday morning, 08:00. We’ll review lessons learned from this week and your recommendations for improvement. No top of the head stuff, either. Detailed proposals. I’ll also com you a list of specific areas I want checked. Any questions?”

There were none, and the meeting broke up, the mood subdued and-to Michael’s mind at least-the atmosphere heavy with the smell of failure.

Jaruzelska called Michael over.

“Sir?”

“My office in ten.”

Unable to speak, Michael nodded. For all his could-not-care-less bravado, he did care. He wanted to be the one who transformed dreadnoughts from a bright idea into the weapon that would drive the Hammers into the ground. But maybe he was not the one; maybe Jaruzelska was keeping him back to tell him just that.

Jaruzelska waved Michael into a seat in front of her desk. She stared at him for a long time before speaking.

“Been a bad week, Michael,” she said at last.

“You might say that, sir.”

“Ridden you pretty hard, haven’t we?’

Michael nodded. “Yes, sir, you have,” he said, unable to conceal a sudden bitterness.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to own up.”

“Own up? I don’t underst-”

Jaruzelska’s hand went up, cutting him off. “You weren’t supposed to. You see, Michael, the point of this week was to see just what one of the best tactical brains in Fleet was capable of unaided. And you showed us. Quite understandably, you saw this week’s sims as just one failure after another, and it’s true. They were. But we saw the week differently. For us, the sims shone the spotlight on the things we need to do to make dreadnoughts work.”

Jaruzelska paused; she studied him thoughtfully. “So let me ask you something, Michael,” she continued. “There are thousands of lieutenants in Space Fleet. Know how many come even close to you?”

Michael shook his head. What a dumb question. After one of the worst weeks of his life, probably most.

Jaruzelska half smiled. “None that I know of,” she said, “none. You are one of the few spacers I’ve ever met who can hold an entire engagement in his head. All those ships, not to mention missiles, rail-gun swarms, decoys, and all the rest.” She shook her head. “We don’t know how you do it, Michael, but you do. Problem is, there’s no point in watching you do well, there’s no point designing tactical exercises we know you can cope with. Success doesn’t teach us squat. What does teach us something is failure, watching you make a complete dog’s breakfast of things. Thanks to you, we know how to help you become the best damn squadron commander this side of deepspace.”

“Shit, sir! You might have told me!” Michael said, his face twisted into a grimace of pained frustration. “Oh, sorry, sir.” In his limited experience, admirals-even the good ones-did not appreciate overly familiar junior officers.

Jaruzelska let it pass. She nodded indulgently. “Don’t worry about it, son. Would not have worked if we’d told you. Anyway, I have some good news for you. The first thing is to give you what every cruiser captain has sitting alongside him.”

“Operations and threat assessment officers?” Michael replied, looking doubtful. “Far as I know, warfare officers are thin on the ground after Comdur, so where will we find them?”

“We don’t.” Jaruzelska smiled broadly. “We’re bringing two cruiser AIs out of retirement to do the job. What you have been missing, Michael, is not AIs to make decisions; I know you’ve got plenty of those, and I’ve never met an AI that’s not ready, willing, and able to make decisions … never mind whether they’re right or wrong. No, what you’ve needed is the advice and support the two senior warfare officers sitting alongside their captain have always provided. Problem is you can’t have people. So instead of real live spacers, you’ll have two AIs. Proven ones, ones with a lot of combat experience. They’ll never be as good as real people, but they’ll be one hell of a lot better than two empty chairs.”

Michael considered the idea for a while; he nodded slowly. “Sounds good, Admiral. Hope it works.”

“We think it will. In fact, I’m kicking myself we did not pick it earlier. Anyway, we’ll find out.”

“Can’t wait, sir,” Michael said with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm at the idea of spending more time in the simulators.

“Cheer up, my boy. It’ll work. Right, moving on,” she said, her voice brisk. “I’m giving you a week’s leave. I suggest you go see a certain junior lieutenant I know you’re fond of. Personnel will have your travel authority. Okay?”