No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) Page 22

  The Incumbent-class Destroyer was generally not equipped with plasma cannons, but combat variables were as fluid as they were varied, so Middleton knew he had no need to order Sarkozi to re-run the tactical simulations in order to find the optimal course of action. Regardless of her character flaws, the woman was a top-notch—if inexperienced—Tactical Officer and the Captain knew he could trust her to do that part of her job as well as anyone else on the ship, including him.

  The Pride rose above the planet’s atmospheric veil and the background of the tactical overlay on the main viewer was replaced with a visual representation of the Cardinal’s Wrath.

  “Enemy range is increasing,” Sarkozi reported, “I estimate we’ll get five more salvos before they’ve gone to extreme range.”

  “Make your shots count, Tactical,” Middleton said calmly as he verified the destroyer’s course had followed his predicted path. It would be a close thing for the Pride to bring the Wrath’s shields down, assuming the destroyer maneuvered properly to present its freshest shield facing to them. And while Rodriguez could be called a reckless man, he was at the very least a competent officer, so Middleton doubted he would be on the receiving end of any further blunders by his opponent.

  The Pride’s forward laser batteries lanced out in unison and impacted on the Wrath’s starboard stern quarter, after which the destroyer predictably rolled to present its port stern quarter while continuing on its same course uninterrupted.

  “Nine of ten hits,” Sarkozi called out bitterly, apparently taking umbrage with the lone miss, “enemy starboard stern shielding is down to 16% with critical spotting.”

  “Steady on, Tactical,” Middleton chided before adding, “we wouldn’t want them to make this too easy for us, would we?”

  “Of course not, Captain,” Sarkozi replied awkwardly, but Middleton could feel the focus of his crew sharpen as they pursued the enemy vessel.

  “Engineering,” Middleton activated his com-link, “we need a full overdrive on my mark.”

  “We’re ready, Captain,” a junior Engineering officer named Alexander replied, “just give the word and we’ll give you a six minute burst.”

  “Six minutes?” Middleton repeated, remembering from a previous report that the engines could handle eight minutes’ overdrive safely.

  “Sorry, Captain,” Alexander said, “the Chief had to take a few power relays over to the Wings, so the best we can do now is six minutes before we reach failure.”

  “Understood,” Middleton said before catching Commander Jersey’s eye, “let’s close this acceleration gap a bit.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied hungrily before turning to the helmsman, “you heard the Captain: open her up!”

  “Yes, Commander,” the helmsman replied, and there was the barely perceptible increase in acceleration before the grav-plates compensated for the unexpected surge. “Engines at one ten…one twenty…one twenty eight…one thirty four…one hundred thirty nine percent rated output, Captain,” the helmsman reported.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Cardinal’s Wrath would continue to increase its distance from the pursuing Pride of Prometheus, but the longer the destroyer remained within optimal firing range of the Pride’s big guns, the better things would go for Middleton and his crew.

  Another series of impacts registered on the Pride’s forward shields, and Sarkozi reported, “Mixed plasma and laser fire; forward shields down to 52%, Captain. Light spotting detected.”

  “Attempting to compensate for the spotting, sir,” the Shields operator said quickly.

  “Captain,” Fei Long’s calm, serene voice called out, “I would like permission to jam all communications frequencies. The Cardinal’s Wrath is sending out a transmission, which I believe I can temporarily obstruct by occluding all channels.”

  “Do it,” Middleton ordered, spinning his chair to face the Comm. section and giving an approving nod.

  “I believe our newly-connected transmitter will overheat within twelve minutes of such sustained activity,” Fei Long continued, unfastening himself and standing from his chair, “but I can extend that to forty minutes if I physically attend the equipment for a few minutes. Missile jamming protocols are pre-programmed to this console; any officer can execute them with the press of a button.”

  “Jardine,” Middleton said after less than a second’s consideration, “accompany Fei Long and assist him.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Ensign Jardine replied, and within seconds the two had left the bridge, and a new stander assumed the Comm. station.

  The Pride was shaken by another round of fire from the Cardinal’s Wrath, and Sarkozi reported, “Forward shields down to 41%, Captain; no spotting detected.” The Pride’s forward battery arced out and the Wrath’s shields flared briefly, causing Sarkozi to declare, “Enemy port stern shielding has collapsed!”

  “That was unexpected,” Middleton muttered, running silent calculations as he tried to understand what might have just happened.

  “Agreed, Captain,” Sarkozi said tensely before adding, “I’m now reading ship-wide power fluctuations from the Wrath. Their grid is on the verge of collapse!”

  “The destroyer’s engines have cut out,” the Sensors operator reported, “I’m reading significant coolant leakage from their primary manifolds; they’ve engaged their maneuvering thrusters to present their bow.”

  “If their engines remain down for two minutes and we maintain overdrive for the maximum duration, we can bring their shields down before they leave medium range,” Sarkozi said eagerly.

  “It’s too easy,” Middleton said with a shake of his head. “Helm, discontinue overdrive,” he instructed before turning to face the Engineering officer. “Have Alexander return the engines to standard combat output.”

  “Yes, sir,” the crewmen acknowledged.

  “But Captain,” Jersey said, stepping up from the Tactical pit, “this could be our chance to put them down.”

  “They want us in close,” Captain Middleton replied. “Rodriguez might fall for such an obvious trick, but I won’t.”

  Several tense minutes passed as the Pride of Prometheus continued to bear down on the Cardinal’s Wrath.

  “Incoming!” the Sensors operator reported suddenly. “Reading thirty two Starfire missiles inbound, Captain.”

  “Confirmed,” Sarkozi said, and Captain Middleton was pleased to hear that at least her composure had improved since their last instance of taking fire. “Estimated time to firing range is twenty seconds.”

  “Comm.,” Middleton whirled to face the new stander, “initiate countermeasures as soon as those missiles enter firing range.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Comm. stander replied, leaning toward Fei Long’s station and holding his hand over the countermeasures activation icon. The countdown ticked by until reaching zero, at which point the Comm. stander activated the countermeasure protocols.

  “Decompression detected on deck six,” the Damage Control operator reported.

  “Cause?” Middleton demanded. The Pride hadn’t taken fire for several seconds, so a spontaneous decompression was more than slightly alarming.

  “Atmospheric pressures in adjacent sections show to be within normal limits, Captain,” the operator said in confusion. “I’m not detecting any breaches in the hull, either.”

  “It looks like we vented an airlock, Captain,” the Engineering liaison reported.

  “I’m reading a small field of debris spreading to either side of the ship,” the Sensors operator reported. “Composition…it appears to be made of tiny metal fragments composed primarily of duralloy, sir.”

  Just then the missile icons on the main viewer sailed into their represented zone of fire, and they flashed in unison as the Pride of Prometheus lurched forward under repeated laser impacts. Several consoles flashed and began to reboot as a system-wide power spike affected half of the bridge’s apparent systems.

  “Damage report!” Middleton snapped. He was uncertain he knew t
he cause of the unexpected airlock venting, but if his suspicion was correct then he was going to have a little chat with Fei Long regarding adherence to the chain of command.

  “We may now proceed to the main dish relay,” Fei Long said after the ship lurched and shuddered from several distinct laser strikes, indicating that his countermeasures had proven at least partially effective. If he could have just opened one of these ‘Starfire’ missiles up and broken down its software, he was certain he could do much better than simply interrupt their fire-linking protocols, but the past was the past—and he had a new job to do.

  “We should have told the Captain before doing this,” Jardine said, clearly fearful of reprisals from his commanding officer for their errant trip to an airlock, where they had loaded metal fillings and other random debris in an attempt to confuse the visual targeting systems on the Starfire missiles.

  “I fear my jamming signal also interferes with ship-board mobile com-links,” Fei Long explained as they made their way to the lift which would take them to the hyper dish’s main relay.

  “We could have stopped at a hard-linked console,” Jardine growled.

  “Which would have taken more time than we had,” Fei Long countered smoothly. They had only managed to load the metal filings and other debris into the airlock some thirty seconds prior to the missiles’ impact.

  “I’m going to have to file a report on this,” the Ensign said bitterly as they entered the lift and the door closed behind them.

  “You must follow our Lord’s military command, of course,” Fei Long replied as he gestured to the lift’s handheld micro-breach containment device. “We must bring this with us.”

  Ensign Jardine arched an eyebrow incredulously. “That’s not a cryo-pump,” he said, as though Fei Long was unaware, “that’s an expanding foam unit; what good will it do us with overheating electronics?”

  “Please,” Fei Long gestured as the door opened onto the deck of their destination, “I will explain along the way.”

  Looking doubtful, Jardine did as he was advised and removed the fire-suppression unit from its bracket before exiting the lift behind Fei Long. Fei Long held his hand out expectantly without breaking stride, and when Jardine gave it to him, the younger man said, “The issue with our converted equipment is not heat generation, but rather with heat retention. The orbital satellite from which we salvaged it was designed to function behind a shield comprised of solar radiation-harvesting cells. Those cells block the satellite itself from direct sunlight, thereby providing a relatively stable environment for thermal radiation.”

  “I do have multiple degrees in particle theory,” Jardine said impatiently, “so I understand how energy transmission works.”

  “Of course,” Fei Long replied as he removed the safety pin from the cylindrical device just as the ship was rocked by another series of impacts that caused the lights to dim for several seconds before returning to their usual luminescence. “I have read your personnel file, Ensign Jardine; you have a competent grasp of energy theory, which is why I am bothering to explain this to you at all.” Fei Long turned the canister upside-down and tapped it on the upturned bottom several times as they made their way toward the sealed door labeled ‘Restricted Access.’ “If you please,” he gestured to the access console, which Jardine used to unlock the door as Fei Long continued, “there is a little-known quality of the pressurized propellant utilized in the manufacture of these devices which, when in the presence of an oxygenated atmosphere, allows it to ignite within a very narrow thermal band. This is why my world stopped usin—.”

  “What?!” Jardine snapped, whirling on Fei Long and interdicting his path with his arms. “We’re here to cool the transmitter off, not set it on fire!”

  Fei Long sighed as he shook his head. “The quantity of propellant present is barely enough to create a persistent, visible flame, Ensign,” he said, gesturing for them to continue, “and each second we waste here costs us ten seconds of continued signal jamming, should we fail to control the transmitter’s thermal state; I suggest we continue with all haste.”

  Jardine narrowed his eyes and grudgingly turned while keeping Fei Long in his view as they continued down the narrow passage.

  “The foam-like, breach-filling material within in this particular unit,” Fei Long continued, “will, when exposed to an ignition source, not be ‘set on fire’ but rather will begin to liquefy in a chain reaction thereby creating a thin, thermally-conductive layer of material. This material will serve as a temporary—essentially ablative—heat sink, distributing unwanted thermal energy to the nearby duralloy of the tube.” He raised the canister and placed his thumb on the trigger mechanism as they neared the Jeffries tube where Chief Garibaldi had installed their makeshift transmitter.

  “Hold on,” Jardine scoffed, but this time he did not interdict Fei Long’s path, “you’re going to set a fire and melt the foam inside that thing on purpose so that it can gum up the transmitter with residue that you think will conduct the excess heat away?”

  Ignoring the other man’s incredulity, Fei Long reached up and plucked a handful of long, jet-black hairs from his own head, which he then handed to Ensign Jardine. “Place those on the transmitter’s distal housing, please,” he instructed. “And then step back.” Human hair has fairly predictable properties when it came to heat and after years of working with electronics operating at maximum output, Fei Long had learned to differentiate the various smells associated with burning hair to the point he could guess temperature within five degrees based on smell alone.

  Looking more than a little wary, Jardine did as Fei Long had instructed. A few seconds passed, until the all-too familiar aroma of burning hair filled the air and Fei Long pressed the trigger of the device.

  Just as he had expected, there was a barely-visible flare as the propellant ignited, causing his hair to do likewise. The rapidly-expanding, foamy substance spread across the transmitter’s housing as he waved the nozzle left and right to encompass the entire surface of the Jeffries tube surrounding the transmitter housing. As he did so, the foam liquefied precisely as he had predicted and quickly hardened, forming a thin, shiny layer of glassy material through which the transmitter could be easily seen.

  Having emptied the contents of the canister, he discarded it to the floor and wiped his hands emphatically feeling rather pleased with himself.

  Jardine’s eyebrows were raised in surprise as he turned to Fei Long. “You’ve done this before, I take it?”

  Fei Long actually did a double-take, having turned to exit the relay junction before the Ensign had spoken. “Of course not,” he scoffed incredulously, before adding with a shrug, “but it was theoretically possible; I gave myself an eighty three percent chance of success, with only a two percent chance of starting an uncontrollable electrical fire here in the main dish junction. I suggest we return to the bridge, as there is nothing more to be done for this,” he waved his hand at the foul-smelling Jeffries tube as he wrinkled his nose in disgust, “apparatus.”

  He made his way toward the exit, hiding a satisfied smirk as he noted Ensign Jardine’s—quickly-concealed—slackened jaw.

  Chapter XXV: Closing the Trap

  “The Destroyer’s forward shields are down, Captain, and she’s re-oriented to present her stern to us,” Sarkozi reported. “She’s burning her engines at 220% their rated output and she’s making for the hyper limit. Stern shields read…32% with moderate spotting.”

  Middleton thumbed his com-link as he saw that the Destroyer had assumed a course which was markedly different than the one he had predicted. “Alexander,” he said as soon at the junior Engineering officer had received his call, “I need those engines for another burn, and I need that burn right now.”

  “We’ve had to re-route power, Captain,” Alexander replied. “I can give you the burn, but there’s no guarantee with the grid’s current alignment that the forward shields will withstand another attack without blowing the relays.”

  “
Just do it,” Middleton ordered, “without that burn we won’t be able to keep them in range long enough to finish the job.”

  “Destroyer is passing out of long range and into extreme, Captain,” Sarkozi reported as the Pride’s forward array fired as one. “Five hits,” she reported urgently, “the Wrath’s stern shields are down to 12% with critical spotting—one more salvo should cripple her engines.”

  “Overdrive ready, Captain,” Alexander said over the link.

  “Burn it, Helm,” Jersey snapped before Middleton could do so, “and adjust course seventeen degrees to starboard.”

  “Aye, Commander,” the new Helmsman replied, and the ship’s lighting dimmed as the vessel’s precariously-aligned power grid sagged under the combat draw.

  Their icon pursued the Destroyer’s on the main viewer for several seconds, until Captain Rodriguez apparently realized his new course would allow Middleton another full-strength salvo while they remained within the Pride’s heavy laser firing range, so he adjusted his course precisely where Middleton had wanted him to go.

  “Without communication we’re going to have to trust the Chief’s judgment,” Jersey said after approaching Middleton’s chair.

  Middleton snickered softly. “The Chief’s never been one to miss an opening,” he assured his XO. “He won’t need us to give him the order to fire when they’ve entered range.”

  “The Destroyer’s forward shields are still down, Captain,” Sarkozi reported hungrily, and a few seconds later there was a flash from the heretofore-grey icon representing the powered-down Elysium’s Wings.

  Chief Garibaldi had gone over to the corvette after their senior staff meeting to re-rig the emergency battery system to the corvette’s plasma cannons, which while possessing extremely short range, were absolutely deadly up close—especially when their target’s hull was unshielded.

  The team aboard the Wings had powered down all systems aboard the corvette, including life support, and Garibaldi’s crew had gone over in power armor so as to minimize the ship’s energy emissions. In fact, he had taken the four Tracto-ans over to manually fire the plasma cannons, since none of the gunners were confident they could make the extremely difficult shots without computer assistance.