Spooker
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Grass Eaters 2 | 67 | Broken
🕑 Added 2024-10-18 16:47:00 +0000 UTCTRNS Bali, Terra (0.2 Ls)
POV: Jakub Fiedor, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)
“Captain! CIC reports that the Corsica took a hit, midsection to rear! They’ve got at least two modules open to vacuum.”
“How bad?”
“They’ve lost primary comms! But sensors show they’re still cruising at 85% of maximum acceleration. We’re the second closest ship. Should we cancel our attack run and burn to assist? We can reach their position in twelve minutes.”
Jakub looked at the damaged friendly ship on the battlemap, noting their severed connection from the datalink network. In the maelstrom of thousands of incoming and outgoing missiles — mostly incoming — they weren’t going to stand much of a chance without assistance from the myriad of electronic countermeasures coordinated by the destroyer squadrons, trying their best to confuse the enemy sensors. Without connection, the damaged ship had minutes before it was exposed.
He glanced at the other side of the battlemap. Hundreds of enemy space superiority ships. With most of the command structure crippled, the remaining enemy ships were operating on autopilot — a few of them literally. But they could still hurt. Hurt the people he was responsible for.
Billions of them.
He had a job to do.
“Negative,” he replied, “They are on their own. Continue the attack burn.”
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TRNS Corsica, Terra (0.2 Ls)
POV: Ozawa Akane, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)
Ozawa ignored the pain in her bruised ribs as she coughed. “Sitrep, XO?”
“We took another proximity hit! Outgoing comms are busted. CIC says we’re out of the EW network, but we can still read backup signals. We’re trying our best to shadow our decoys, but it’s a matter of time before the Buns find us in this—”
“What about our missile bay? The fire—”
“The fire’s vented. Missile bay doors are still jammed. Damage control two is working on it.”
“Tell them to get to it. We’ve gotta get those warheads out!”
“Roger, Captain. They’ve got—”
BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwah—
Ozawa tightened her grip on her seat restraints in one hand, her armrest in the other. There was a deafening, ripping sound as the ship’s point defense hardpoints engaged the incoming threats.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr— Bang.
She looked at her exec, relieved that they were both still there. “Sitrep—”
“Another proximity hit! We’ve lost four woodpeckers in the top-aft quadrant!” he read off his console in rapid-fire. “Six casualties in the engine room, situation stabilized. Uncontrolled fires in two unoccupied rear modules. Automatic venting—”
“What about our missiles—”
“Damage control says they can blow the bay doors now, but that’d be a permanent remodel—”
Her trained instincts kicked in. “Do it! Blow it!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ten seconds later, there was another loud blast in the belly of the ship as the broken missile bay doors were forcibly ejected from their mounts. At least this one was intentional.
“Let the missiles out,” she ordered.
“Which targets?”
“They can figure it out on the way! Atlas Command will—”
“Yes, ma’am. Launching!”
The missiles separated from the ship, and Ozawa let out a mild sigh of relief as she watched their signatures disappear into a cluster of friendly outgoing signals on the battlemap.
At least we got another two out. Who knows how many lives that is?
“Now burn us out of here back to safety, somewhere in low or medium Terra!”
“No service docks available for us,” he replied. “All occupied for rearm as far as we can tell. And we’ve put ourselves out of range of all friendly assets with that last burn course—”
“Never mind that! Just displace us out of this volume! Where’s the closest blue ship to us now?”
“Propulsion says we might be able to get in the point defense bubble of the Mojave in eight minutes.”
“The Mojave?” Ozawa looked at him quizzically as the name temporarily eluded her in the adrenaline. “Is that—”
“It’s one of the new Pythons, Captain. Squadron 11. Just christened last week.”
“Ah, as long as her woodpeckers and EW work. Get us into their—”
BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Another pair of Znosian missiles flew by, missing the Corsica by just a few dozen kilometers as they ran out of propellant.
“How close are we?” Ozawa asked impatiently.
“Still eight minutes from the Mojave, ma’am.”
Time sure moves fast when we’re having fun.
“I don’t think we have eight minutes! Tell CIC to throw out whatever we don’t need — dump fuel if they need to — see if they can make us a little bit faster—”
“Ma’am! There’s a fresh cluster coming straight our way! Sixteen vampires! EW network adjustment missed our last burn!”
Ozawa slumped down a little in her chair. She’d been here before. Mostly in simulations and not the fun ones. “They found us,” she said, her mouth dry.
“Incoming! Sixty seconds!”
“All hands, abandon all efforts at damage control, and get to your armored modules! Brace for hard impact! Cut the engines on inertial device failure…”
BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwah—
Brrrrrrr— Bang.
The incoming missiles hit the ship near simultaneously. The rumbles in the ship hull were loud, and whatever the incoming munitions trashed, the ship finally had enough. The engines cut out. The dim lights on the bridge went out, replaced by the dim red emergency lighting. There was an unsettling crunch in the rear of the ship. And everything that wasn’t strapped down went flying… Which wasn’t that much; the Corsica was a disciplined crew.
Ozawa coughed again in her sealed helmet. Her ribs hurt, and there was blood in her mouth. Ignoring the discomfort, she glanced to the seat to her side. “XO, you there?”
“I’m still here, Captain. We’ve lost propulsion, reactor ejected…” he grunted. For a second, he turned his ears to listen to the hum of the machinery. “… And no APU, it sounds like.”
“Any other ideas?”
“Negative, ma’am. We… we did our best.”
“Then, I think… that’s all she wrote for us,” Ozawa said calmly as she flipped up the emergency panel on her now-battery-powered controls. Removing a safety hatch, she held down the large red button for two seconds.
The ship’s general alarm sounded seven short trumpet blasts and one long one on the reserve batteries.
Abandon ship! This is not a drill. Abandon ship! This is not a drill.
They undid their seat restraints and propelled themselves over to the bridge escape pods in zero gravity along with her officers in somber quiet. There were a couple of minor injuries on the bridge being attended to, but the armored module had been protected from most of the incoming fire. The hull began to thump as pods and shuttles from other sectors of the ship ejected into vacuum, away from the doomed Peacekeeper.
Ozawa waited at the status panel, making sure that the last pods from medical bay reported their successful launch before activating her own evacuation sequence. Her XO murmured to her as they strapped themselves into the seats, “The battle. Do you think we’ve won?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
“There were a lot of the alien ships.”
“All I know is one thing, XO.”
“Yeah?”
She pointed out the virtual windows of the escape pod, down towards the near-pristine blue marble occupying a good chunk of its view. The one they were fighting to protect. “It looks like they haven’t won yet either.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
TRNS Sonora, Terra (0.1 Ls)
POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)
The Sonora’s executive officer reported the latest fleet update to the bridge. “They’re firing again, but it looks like Znosian fleet discipline has broken down even further after their first few volleys. And their missiles seem to have extra trouble with our Raven-6 dazzlers, so we’re going to bring more of those in our next countermeasure load. Ship computer is reprogramming to optimize itself for the new loadout—”
“Casualty update?” Catarina asked.
Kyrylo glanced at his console again. “Several additional hits on our other ships after the initial volley. Two ships damaged in Squadron 4, three in Squadron 5, two in Squadron 6. All Peacekeepers so far. Those old ships are tough; good damage control, thank the Red Zone experience for that… They’re all still in the fight. Ah, actually, I think 5-3 — the Corsica — she just called it quits; they’ve launched escape shuttles and pods.”
The lifepod signals from the dying Corsica flickered on the battlemap as even the sensitive sensor suite of the Sonora struggled to track them. Like much of the frontline equipment in the Republic Navy, they too had been upgraded and coated in low-observability material. That particular design requirement had been controversial: the Navy weighed the risk of missing spacers against the possibility of capture or destruction by the Republic’s less-than-honorable enemies and narrowly decided to accept the former over the latter. Now, it was going to save the lives of those ejecting from the Corsica.
Catarina wrinkled her nose. “What’s the next volley projected to look like?”
“Based on telemetry from the other rearm depots in medium Terra, we’ll get two more in before most of them can launch another. Their outgoing volume is attriting by six squadrons per volley. Our missiles’ kill rate has improved by four percent since the start of the engagement, and we expect it to double again in the next volley. Atlas Command is bringing the static lunar surface batteries online in the next half hour. Statistically, we will lose one more, maybe two more. But unless the Buns recover coordination somehow, it looks like we’re going to pull this—”
“Don’t jinx it, Commander. It’s not over yet. We’ve still got thousands of orbital ship targets in the queue. How much more time is our reloading going to be?” She looked over his shoulder at the external camera. An automated munition depot in high Terra orbit was jamming anti-ship missiles and fresh railgun magazines into her internal weapons bay as efficiently as possible with mechanical precision.
Thunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Thunk. Ka-chunk.
“Six minutes, but we’ve just got new orders from Atlas, Captain.”
“What is it?”
“Electronic warfare mission.”
“What?! But we didn’t mount a dedicated EW suite!”
“Don’t need one. The Mississippi says she just needs to piggyback off our internal transceivers in about ten minutes. Captain Harris beamed over a new course for us.”
She sighed. “Roger, tell Chuck we’re on our way… once our missiles finish loading. I’m not going out there without a full load of Bunny kills on my internal pylons.”
Kyrylo nodded vigorously in agreement. “We already have the fewest number of total recorded kills in Squadron 9. We can’t fall further behind.”
“That is absolutely not the reasoning you will be putting in your after-action report, XO!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS 1928, Terra (3.2 Ls)
POV: Shortku, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)
“Eight Whiskers, the Digital Guide reports that fleet coordination has broken down entirely. In this contingency, you are now to exercise independent command.”
“What?! Independent command contingency?! What am I supposed to do?”
“The last surviving confirmed directive from the fleet was to ensure the survival of the critical orbital fire support and transport ships.”
“Do as it says.”
“We can’t, Eight Whiskers. All the highest priority transports and support ships we were supposed to escort to the enemy planet have been either confirmed destroyed or are missing from the network. All that remains are small-diameter fire support ships, munition ships, and troop transports.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?!”
“Wait, hold one— the Digital Guide says we’ve just got a new command. It’s another ship master with a higher fleet succession rank order than us! He is ranked 183rd on the list, and it turns out his ship is still active.”
“Oh, thank the Prophecy someone knows what to do! What is his directive?”
“Nine Whiskers Bleftrazn says a squadron of our orbital fire support ships have been boarded and compromised by the predators. We must fire on them immediately.”
“Do as he says. All missile batteries, redirect your fire to the new marked target!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS 3882, Terra (3.2 Ls)
POV: Dostre, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)
“Eight Whiskers, our squadron is taking fire from Squadron 23, which has been boarded by predators!”
“Boarded?! How is that even possible without our detection? We’re all at max burn!”
“I don’t know, but apparently the predators have taken control of their bridges and are using them to launch on us! Squadron Leader Dumnosian says— she says that when your leg is caught in a trap, you must be willing to chew it off to escape and survive. She is ordering us to return fire on Squadron 23!”
“What?! My leg?! Dum— Dumnosian? Who? That’s not a squadron leader I recognize! And what does that even—”
“Yes, Digital Guide reports she’s recently been automatically promoted after their previous two squadron leaders were killed! Her ship is now the new flagship of Squadron 62. This order is marked verified, with the highest priority!”
“Ah. Right. Exactly as we trained. Do as— do as… she says. Retarget and launch when ready!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS Transport 0281, Terra (3.8 Ls)
POV: Fkhurs, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)
“Why— why are our own escort ships firing on our transport shuttles, Six Whiskers?!”
“Digital Guide is uncertain! It thinks that perhaps they have been boarded by the enemy! Should we return fire?”
“What does the Digital Guide recommend?”
“It says our shuttle’s point defense guns don’t have nearly the range to hit the compromised missile destroyers. It recommends we order Squadron 31 to launch a salvo at it. Should we—”
“Do as it says! Send the order out! And tell Squadron 31 to hurry! Our transports are getting torn apart out here!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS 4510, Terra (2.4 Ls)
POV: Chozvro, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)
“Seven Whiskers! The Digital Guide is receiving four different sets of commands to fire on our own ships!”
“Are any of them legitimate, and if so, which ones?!”
“We’ve verified two of them manually with their captains using our line-of-sight communication, but those captains each claimed to have received orders from someone else, and we’re tracing the commands in a big loop. But at least three of our missile destroyer squadrons do appear to be boarded or compromised in some way because they are continuously shooting at our ships without any communications in or out!”
“What if their communications have simply been cut, Six Whiskers?”
“The Digital Guide is so confused that it didn’t initially consider that possibility. Now it’s saying we should fire on them anyway because the risk of them being compromised is still too great, and their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left—”
“Do as it says.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS 8883, Terra (1.2 Ls)
POV: Zdrifkosh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)
“Seven Whiskers, Digital Guide is reporting that several ships in our fleet have been opening fire on each other due to fake electronic signals from the predators! It is now disregarding all orders from the fleet. We are all on our own now.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS Transport 1220, Terra (115,000 km)
POV: Shashnizha, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Seven Whiskers)
“What in the Prophecy happened to our Navy escorts? Where did they all go?!”
“They shot each other! Some of our own ships launched at each other and at our transports, and the predators were pretending to be our chiefs and telling us to open fire on our own ships, Seven Whiskers. We must disregard all directives since the beginning of the engagement!”
“No directives?! What are we supposed to do now?”
“Digital Guide says that the last confirmed directive is all Marine carrier ships are supposed to get to orbit around the predator planet. It recommends that course.”
“Do as it says.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
ZNS Transport 5099, Terra (4,800 km)
POV: Fklipni, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Seven Whiskers)
“Are we supposed to drop now or not, computer officer?! Our shuttles are getting picked apart by the Great Predators in their medium and low orbit!”
“Seven Whiskers, the Digital Guide is uncertain which of the orders are genuine and which are not. A few of the other troop ships have begun to deorbit without orders. Most are still waiting for orders in orbit. We are trying to contact the other ships for—”
“We can’t just wait here like sitting predators. I have eight thousand Exterminator Marines in my hold and I can see my target! Begin deorbiting procedures now!”
“Yes, Seven Whiskers!”
A few seconds after the transport began its entry burn, the computer officer frowned as new text scrolled onto her console, “Seven Whiskers, the Digital Guide says we’ve just got new directives. They want us to land at… hm… they want us to land in the water instead.”
“Land in the water?!”
“Yes, I’m not sure why, but it seems that is the confirmed trajectory of our drop parameters. The surface destination would be two thousand kilometers away from the nearest landmass by—”
“Use your own brain for once, Six Whiskers! Think! That must be the predators giving us more fake orders!”
“Then where do we land, Seven Whiskers?”
“I don’t care! Just tell the Digital Guide to find us somewhere flat on that ugly planet that isn’t going to drown us, and get us down there!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Atlas Naval Command, Luna
POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)
Amelia observed as the last of the surviving enemy orbital transport shuttles descended into Terra’s atmosphere one-by-one, their destroyer fleet completely broken and their fire support ships frantically shifting orbits like headless chickens as they continued to be savaged by her ships, orbital batteries, and increasingly, anti-orbital defenses from the surface.
Target rich environment indeed.
“Admiral, Squadron 4 reports they’re dry, heading to rearm again. Squadron 10 reports that they are now loading additional munitions on external pylons.”
“Good thinking.” Amelia nodded in approval. “No need for them to hide their RCS anymore. Bun fleet is out of space superiority ships anyway. Relay the same recommendation to Squadron 11.” She looked at the enemy shuttles landing all over Terra. “How many of their troop landers made it into the upper atmosphere?”
“Not nearly enough. Only about twelve million troops combined by my count, but the district forces are responding, Air forces and sub-orbital defenses first. North American Defense reports that they’ve cleared their defense zone up to the Arctic Circle, and they’re requesting permission from the Senate to move suborbital operations south of the equator per provisions in Article 1 of the Treaty of Atlas. They can get started once the air refueling tankers are in the air.”
“Article 1? Get upstairs on the call, and have Havel expedite it. What about the rest?”
“Brussels called to tell us they’re low on suborbital stockpiles, but we expected that and had District 3 sail two of their carrier groups north last week to cover their orbits, and there was already one of those in the Baltics; there should be no problems there. On the other side of the globe, it’s still night in East Asia and the Buns that have independently deorbited were also smart enough to mostly dodge that part of the world to avoid night operations… Simulation computers currently project we’re going to catch most of them in atmosphere, except for some in the less militarized places. The few enemy shuttles that made it to the ground are— they’re just landing all over the place without cohesion and we are rushing reinforcements. Squadrons 9 and 10 will clear the way for orbit-to-ground operations soon enough.”
“Good. Switch all Peacekeeper squadrons to large diameter munitions. Just in case. And transfer over the fire support ships behind Luna… We should— we should have more than enough to stop them here.”
The control room cheered as another cluster of enemy fire support ships disappeared in a cloud of anti-orbital rockets launched from somewhere down in the Arabian Sea. A cluster of terrestrial ships from one of the district water navies, probably. There were a lot of them working down there today. Not… all together; humanity was not that desperate, and many of the age-old district rivalries remained. But today, for what must be a first in human history, everyone was shooting at the same targets at least.
Well, almost everyone, Amelia thought, glaring in distaste at the long-range imagery of Resistance parasite fighters using Znosian escape pods for target practice in the aftermath of the slaughter in the Red Zone.
Samantha put a hand on Amelia’s shoulder as she relaxed it. “You did it.”
The exhaustion suddenly setting in, Amelia plopped herself down in her chair for what felt like the first time in hours. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the suborbital battles that were beginning to play out in the atmosphere of Terra. A few symbols showed landed Znosian troops disembarking… and the local terrestrial forces not waiting for orders nor reinforcements before hungrily pouncing on them.
The ultimate home turf of the Republic.
The enemy, numerous as their dwindling troops still were, no longer had effective centralized command or offensive coordination.
No weapons of mass destruction. No orbital superiority.
And no idea just how long the people of Terra had been waiting for this exact moment.
She almost felt bad for the Buns, the few who were still alive.
Almost.
Should have stayed home on Znos.
Comments
Valdis Trautmanis
It's officially Wabbit Season for Elmer Fudd
AnAbsoluteVillain
"And no idea just how long the people of Terra had been waiting for this exact moment." North Americans maybe. Civilians have enough fire power to kill everyone on the planet TWICE. 12 million Bunz will need to be careful, some people just want to grill.
Nicolae
Love it
Nicolae
THAT IS EVIL
