Re: Battle of Zebes, Chapter Thirteen
Posted: 2010-12-23 01:57am
Recommended Listening: The remainder of the first movement of Nielsen's Fourth Symphony
Undisclosed Location, Sector H-12
Boskonian Sector Command Dome
July 10, 3400
High Admiral Natalya Zokolova nodded to the being reporting the situation at Zebes to her.
"Report accepted. Begin Contrecoup Stage Three."
Missile Frigate Gacknik
Ventral Flank Group, Zebesian Fleet
1421 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time
"Hey, chief, look at this, It's like they said- we're pulling out." Nugak pointed to the fire mission monitoring display, which showed the fleet: the swirling clouds of reassuring aqua light codes for the light ships reaching out to pincer the human fleet from above and below, and the less mobile constellation of heavy arsenal ships and laser monitors in the center.
The flank groups were dancing less and pulling back and away more, breaking away from the plane of the ecliptic.
"Festering dung of every imaginable herd beast! The center isn't moving!"
Everyone stood shocked and silent for a moment. Finally, Nugak asked what everyone had to be thinking. "Does... does that mean this is desertion?"
"Sure looks like it. If this were the plan, Frugus would be pulling out too."
"What are we gonna do?"
"I don't know, Nugak. I don't know. If the boarding troops are in control, and it sure looks like they are, there's not much we can do, not without getting our heads scissored off."
"But why would they pull out two thirds of the fleet and leave the heavies behind to get blown up?"
"I'm beginning to wonder... gimme some time to think. For now, let's just make sure our launchers are in order. Like that bastard with the arm cannon said, keep our heads down and do our jobs. Maybe we'll have a chance to escape, or figure out what the hell is going on, later."
This stinks. I sure wouldn't want to be Marshal Weavel or Admiral Frugus right now...
Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1421 Hours
"WHAT?"
Weavel's balled fist crashed down on a shelf overhanging one of the control room consoles. The thin plastic cracked, but the Urtraghan was too upset to notice.
"I'm telling you, sir, the flanking groups are pulling back!"
"Put me through to Frugus! None of our plans called for withdrawing the fleet this soon!"
"Yes, sir!"
The communication officers adjusted their relay hookups, trying to cut through the maze of ECM and ECCM around the battlefleets. Within a few seconds, Frugus's face appeared. He looked... agitated.
"Frugus! What in Zarquod's name is going on?"
"I was going to ask the same thing, sir. The flank groups are-"
"I see it too. You didn't order the retreat?"
"No."
A chill ran through Weavel's veins. "Those units were sent to us straight from Home Fleet; how could they mutiny like this?"
"I don't know. They aren't answering my hailing signals either."
"Losing the flanks puts your center in a terrible position. Can you pull out?"
Frugus clacked his pincers in frustration. "I don't think so. Breaking for the hyperlimit is going to be impossible, and my heavy units can't outrun the Prussians."
"I could order..."
"No, sir. They're still too far from the planet for your defense batteries to range on them, and you don't have enough of them to make a difference. Better to hold fire and use the planetary defenses to oppose the troop landings, like we planned."
Weavel knew that with those words, the bright young captain he'd appointed to command the Zebesian defense fleet had just signed his own death warrant. What can you say to that?
"I will inform the homeworld of the flank groups' defection. You may yet be avenged on the traitors, once we get to the bottom of this."
"Goodbye, Marshal. It's been a pleasure."
"Goodbye, Admiral. Zebes Command out!"
Valkyrie-class Battlecruiser SMS Brunhild
Flagship Sixth Battlecruiser Squadron
1423 Hours
Siegfried Kircheis frowned at the plot. "Reinhard, they're definitely falling back, and I don't think they're just opening the range. Can you think of a reason for this I'm missing?"
"No. But it's not a general retreat. The center isn't falling back."
"I doubt they could."
The corner of Reinhard's mouth lifted slightly in bemusement. "Not unless they have a lot more engine power in hand than we've seen. Certainly not the monitors."
Siegfried thought about it. "Perhaps... perhaps the enemy commander is sacrificing the improvised ships in the center to cover the retreat of the dedicated warships on the flanks, to fight another day? Especially if he's already expended his missiles from the bombardment cruisers..."
"That doesn't make sense. The enemy's plasma-gun ships are still largely intact, and far enough away to dodge the bulk of our fire, and are still capable of harassing our forces, especially the troopships and cripples. Why retreat now, when we have damaged ships for them to finish off?"
"It may just be a mistake, or poor advance planning."
"...I think you must be right, but in that case, I doubt we've seen the last of those ships. The enemy's supreme commander must be on them, and if he's that ruthless, I suspect we'll be crossing swords with him again at an inconvenient moment. I hope his next mistake is so conveniently timed, though."
"That would be nice."
A signals rating called across the bridge. "Communication from the flagship: Battleship and heavy cruiser squadrons are to advance and engage the enemy with missile barrage. Battlecruiser elements continue harassing fire on the enemy flanking groups."
Reinhard blinked, then scratched his chin. "Hmm. Kircheis, you were right earlier."
"About...?"
"About what would happen if it weren't for the crossfire from the flanking ships. I've underestimated von Mückenberger."
"It's all right." A devilish thought struck him. "You do have a way of achieving the unlikely, sir."
Reinhard chuckled. "For which backhanded compliment I thank you."
Arsenal Ship Hurgaa
Zebesian Flagship
1427 Hours
Here it comes. Not much for it but to die with dignity. The best he could do was... yes. He didn't have enough ships left to do meaningful damage to the enemy fleet; he could still make a further dent in the enemy landing forces, though.
"Laser ships to continue fire as long as possible on enemy transports. Concentrate on the damaged ones. Missile ships forward to draw enemy fire, frigates to ripple-fire remaining missiles at enemy battleships. Plasma destroyers to fall back, also while firing on enemy transports."
The enemy battleships were advancing, at a deliberate pace, probably because of the two ships with engine damage. Two of the enemy's five-ship cruiser squadrons were keeping up with them. Emissions suggested the missile armed Schwerkreuzer type... probably a missile barrage, something his forces were ill prepared to deal with...
"Arsenal ships go to full barrage jamming, emergency power." Those jammers were Boskone-supplied and hard-wearing- or, on emergency power, capable of being driven much harder than their design parameters for a few minutes.
That would be long enough.
Frugus decided that, all things considered, he would rather meet death on his feet than in an armchair. Thus, he stood impassive as the first Hellfires rolled out the tubes of the Prussian battleships. As following barrages leapt out, in a storm nearly as heavy as the one he'd thrown at Second Fleet, and more sophisticated. As his own ships' energy weapons ignored the missiles and their launchers, continuing to carve into the enemy troop transports, trying to thin out the enemy invasion force as much as possible.
There was nothing more to say. He watched the missiles fan out, watched a second Prussian transport break up under concentrated laser fire, while others slowed and trailed haloes of debris. Watched the incoming missiles shuffle in confusion as his barrage jammers began to confuse them... then decide, by the dozen and then by the hundred, to home in on the jamming sources. Good.
The Prussian barrage came closer; his ships' relatively light point defense rigs blazed away with a mix of whatever they'd had to hand: gatling mass drivers, pulse plasma weapons, a handful of light countermissiles. Two of the laser monitors, against orders, began using their main batteries to throw rapid-cycling, low power bolts at the missiles bound for his flagship. He should be angry, he supposed, but he found he couldn't be; it was the greatest compliment he'd ever been paid as a military officer.
Then the massive antiship warheads washed over Hurgaa and her sister ships. The first two blasts took his flagship at a range of five kilometers, sun-bright flashbulbs flaying at her shields. Four more bracketed the ship from ahead and behind, as the ship's forward shield generator burned out explosively, the lightly built deck flexed once again, and hurled the Urtraghan admiral off his feet.
Milliseconds later, the seventh strike came in, less than a kilometer off the arsenal ship's spine.
The lightly built missile carriers didn't have the kind of heavy armor belts incorporated into an ordinary warship of their tonnage. With the shields down and magazines empty there was nothing between the initiation and the bridge capable of standing off that heavy a dose. Frugus died in a hail of X-rays, cooked before he hit the ground.
SMS Brunhild
1440 Hours
Those poor soldiers. Siegfried shook his head.
The steady beam fire from the Zebesian ships ahead wasn't nearly as bad as the missile barrage had been, but concentrated on the damaged transports from the previous attack it had killed many more of the Prussian ground contingent.
Sixth Battlecruisers, along with the other battlecruiser squadrons left behind to cover the transports, had done its considerable best to confuse the Zebesians' targeting or at least force them to shift fire onto the transports with intact shields, the ones that could hold off the attack best. Even so, total casualties had to be over two hundred thousand already, and they hadn't even hit groundside. Reinhard's face was outwardly impassive, though Siegfried recognized the little quirks of tensed facial muscles that showed the same dismay he felt at the losses.
The admiral turned to the signals section. "Order Reuental and Mittermeyer to start picking up surviving emergency bubbles from the troopships; we won't be needing their escort now." Reinhard's eyes flicked back to the main plot, and Kircheis followed his gaze. Von Mückenberger's battleships were finally finishing off the last of the Zebesian monitors, while the destroyers blazed away at the retreating plasma-gun ships that had been attached to the enemy's center.
The laser ships had proven as tough as Reinhard believed, practically immune to the lighter guns of the destroyers or the Valkyries, and to spherical-burst nuclear strikes even at point blank range. Against the far more massive railguns of the battleships, though, the thick appliqués of rock were unavailing. The monitors' armor was smashed to gravel and vapor, a few hectares at a time, by repeated broadsides... and their lasers were nowhere near heavy enough to reply effectively against the battleships' shielding.
It was over.
Within a few more minutes, another order came from the flagship:
"All capital ships, approach the planet and take up preplanned positions to commence bombardment."
Undisclosed Location, Sector H-12
Boskonian Sector Command Dome
July 10, 3400
High Admiral Natalya Zokolova nodded to the being reporting the situation at Zebes to her.
"Report accepted. Begin Contrecoup Stage Three."
Missile Frigate Gacknik
Ventral Flank Group, Zebesian Fleet
1421 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time
"Hey, chief, look at this, It's like they said- we're pulling out." Nugak pointed to the fire mission monitoring display, which showed the fleet: the swirling clouds of reassuring aqua light codes for the light ships reaching out to pincer the human fleet from above and below, and the less mobile constellation of heavy arsenal ships and laser monitors in the center.
The flank groups were dancing less and pulling back and away more, breaking away from the plane of the ecliptic.
"Festering dung of every imaginable herd beast! The center isn't moving!"
Everyone stood shocked and silent for a moment. Finally, Nugak asked what everyone had to be thinking. "Does... does that mean this is desertion?"
"Sure looks like it. If this were the plan, Frugus would be pulling out too."
"What are we gonna do?"
"I don't know, Nugak. I don't know. If the boarding troops are in control, and it sure looks like they are, there's not much we can do, not without getting our heads scissored off."
"But why would they pull out two thirds of the fleet and leave the heavies behind to get blown up?"
"I'm beginning to wonder... gimme some time to think. For now, let's just make sure our launchers are in order. Like that bastard with the arm cannon said, keep our heads down and do our jobs. Maybe we'll have a chance to escape, or figure out what the hell is going on, later."
This stinks. I sure wouldn't want to be Marshal Weavel or Admiral Frugus right now...
Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1421 Hours
"WHAT?"
Weavel's balled fist crashed down on a shelf overhanging one of the control room consoles. The thin plastic cracked, but the Urtraghan was too upset to notice.
"I'm telling you, sir, the flanking groups are pulling back!"
"Put me through to Frugus! None of our plans called for withdrawing the fleet this soon!"
"Yes, sir!"
The communication officers adjusted their relay hookups, trying to cut through the maze of ECM and ECCM around the battlefleets. Within a few seconds, Frugus's face appeared. He looked... agitated.
"Frugus! What in Zarquod's name is going on?"
"I was going to ask the same thing, sir. The flank groups are-"
"I see it too. You didn't order the retreat?"
"No."
A chill ran through Weavel's veins. "Those units were sent to us straight from Home Fleet; how could they mutiny like this?"
"I don't know. They aren't answering my hailing signals either."
"Losing the flanks puts your center in a terrible position. Can you pull out?"
Frugus clacked his pincers in frustration. "I don't think so. Breaking for the hyperlimit is going to be impossible, and my heavy units can't outrun the Prussians."
"I could order..."
"No, sir. They're still too far from the planet for your defense batteries to range on them, and you don't have enough of them to make a difference. Better to hold fire and use the planetary defenses to oppose the troop landings, like we planned."
Weavel knew that with those words, the bright young captain he'd appointed to command the Zebesian defense fleet had just signed his own death warrant. What can you say to that?
"I will inform the homeworld of the flank groups' defection. You may yet be avenged on the traitors, once we get to the bottom of this."
"Goodbye, Marshal. It's been a pleasure."
"Goodbye, Admiral. Zebes Command out!"
Valkyrie-class Battlecruiser SMS Brunhild
Flagship Sixth Battlecruiser Squadron
1423 Hours
Siegfried Kircheis frowned at the plot. "Reinhard, they're definitely falling back, and I don't think they're just opening the range. Can you think of a reason for this I'm missing?"
"No. But it's not a general retreat. The center isn't falling back."
"I doubt they could."
The corner of Reinhard's mouth lifted slightly in bemusement. "Not unless they have a lot more engine power in hand than we've seen. Certainly not the monitors."
Siegfried thought about it. "Perhaps... perhaps the enemy commander is sacrificing the improvised ships in the center to cover the retreat of the dedicated warships on the flanks, to fight another day? Especially if he's already expended his missiles from the bombardment cruisers..."
"That doesn't make sense. The enemy's plasma-gun ships are still largely intact, and far enough away to dodge the bulk of our fire, and are still capable of harassing our forces, especially the troopships and cripples. Why retreat now, when we have damaged ships for them to finish off?"
"It may just be a mistake, or poor advance planning."
"...I think you must be right, but in that case, I doubt we've seen the last of those ships. The enemy's supreme commander must be on them, and if he's that ruthless, I suspect we'll be crossing swords with him again at an inconvenient moment. I hope his next mistake is so conveniently timed, though."
"That would be nice."
A signals rating called across the bridge. "Communication from the flagship: Battleship and heavy cruiser squadrons are to advance and engage the enemy with missile barrage. Battlecruiser elements continue harassing fire on the enemy flanking groups."
Reinhard blinked, then scratched his chin. "Hmm. Kircheis, you were right earlier."
"About...?"
"About what would happen if it weren't for the crossfire from the flanking ships. I've underestimated von Mückenberger."
"It's all right." A devilish thought struck him. "You do have a way of achieving the unlikely, sir."
Reinhard chuckled. "For which backhanded compliment I thank you."
Arsenal Ship Hurgaa
Zebesian Flagship
1427 Hours
Here it comes. Not much for it but to die with dignity. The best he could do was... yes. He didn't have enough ships left to do meaningful damage to the enemy fleet; he could still make a further dent in the enemy landing forces, though.
"Laser ships to continue fire as long as possible on enemy transports. Concentrate on the damaged ones. Missile ships forward to draw enemy fire, frigates to ripple-fire remaining missiles at enemy battleships. Plasma destroyers to fall back, also while firing on enemy transports."
The enemy battleships were advancing, at a deliberate pace, probably because of the two ships with engine damage. Two of the enemy's five-ship cruiser squadrons were keeping up with them. Emissions suggested the missile armed Schwerkreuzer type... probably a missile barrage, something his forces were ill prepared to deal with...
"Arsenal ships go to full barrage jamming, emergency power." Those jammers were Boskone-supplied and hard-wearing- or, on emergency power, capable of being driven much harder than their design parameters for a few minutes.
That would be long enough.
Frugus decided that, all things considered, he would rather meet death on his feet than in an armchair. Thus, he stood impassive as the first Hellfires rolled out the tubes of the Prussian battleships. As following barrages leapt out, in a storm nearly as heavy as the one he'd thrown at Second Fleet, and more sophisticated. As his own ships' energy weapons ignored the missiles and their launchers, continuing to carve into the enemy troop transports, trying to thin out the enemy invasion force as much as possible.
There was nothing more to say. He watched the missiles fan out, watched a second Prussian transport break up under concentrated laser fire, while others slowed and trailed haloes of debris. Watched the incoming missiles shuffle in confusion as his barrage jammers began to confuse them... then decide, by the dozen and then by the hundred, to home in on the jamming sources. Good.
The Prussian barrage came closer; his ships' relatively light point defense rigs blazed away with a mix of whatever they'd had to hand: gatling mass drivers, pulse plasma weapons, a handful of light countermissiles. Two of the laser monitors, against orders, began using their main batteries to throw rapid-cycling, low power bolts at the missiles bound for his flagship. He should be angry, he supposed, but he found he couldn't be; it was the greatest compliment he'd ever been paid as a military officer.
Then the massive antiship warheads washed over Hurgaa and her sister ships. The first two blasts took his flagship at a range of five kilometers, sun-bright flashbulbs flaying at her shields. Four more bracketed the ship from ahead and behind, as the ship's forward shield generator burned out explosively, the lightly built deck flexed once again, and hurled the Urtraghan admiral off his feet.
Milliseconds later, the seventh strike came in, less than a kilometer off the arsenal ship's spine.
The lightly built missile carriers didn't have the kind of heavy armor belts incorporated into an ordinary warship of their tonnage. With the shields down and magazines empty there was nothing between the initiation and the bridge capable of standing off that heavy a dose. Frugus died in a hail of X-rays, cooked before he hit the ground.
SMS Brunhild
1440 Hours
Those poor soldiers. Siegfried shook his head.
The steady beam fire from the Zebesian ships ahead wasn't nearly as bad as the missile barrage had been, but concentrated on the damaged transports from the previous attack it had killed many more of the Prussian ground contingent.
Sixth Battlecruisers, along with the other battlecruiser squadrons left behind to cover the transports, had done its considerable best to confuse the Zebesians' targeting or at least force them to shift fire onto the transports with intact shields, the ones that could hold off the attack best. Even so, total casualties had to be over two hundred thousand already, and they hadn't even hit groundside. Reinhard's face was outwardly impassive, though Siegfried recognized the little quirks of tensed facial muscles that showed the same dismay he felt at the losses.
The admiral turned to the signals section. "Order Reuental and Mittermeyer to start picking up surviving emergency bubbles from the troopships; we won't be needing their escort now." Reinhard's eyes flicked back to the main plot, and Kircheis followed his gaze. Von Mückenberger's battleships were finally finishing off the last of the Zebesian monitors, while the destroyers blazed away at the retreating plasma-gun ships that had been attached to the enemy's center.
The laser ships had proven as tough as Reinhard believed, practically immune to the lighter guns of the destroyers or the Valkyries, and to spherical-burst nuclear strikes even at point blank range. Against the far more massive railguns of the battleships, though, the thick appliqués of rock were unavailing. The monitors' armor was smashed to gravel and vapor, a few hectares at a time, by repeated broadsides... and their lasers were nowhere near heavy enough to reply effectively against the battleships' shielding.
It was over.
Within a few more minutes, another order came from the flagship:
"All capital ships, approach the planet and take up preplanned positions to commence bombardment."