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assume command as CINCCON. Continue mission to Prime World sector.
Further orders will be given at that time.
She had a fairly good idea of what shape the 23rd was in. Gregor had tried to
make his reports sound as favorable as possible. But since complete lies were
not permissible, Fraser expected a ragtag collection of limpers.
Fraser, an aggressive leader, believed the Nelsonian dictum that no one can
find himself in too much trouble if he steers toward the sound of the guns.
She would have cheerfully modified her orders, lifted, and gone to immediate
support of Gregor's wounded fleet.
But she could not. Combined AM2 available: not more than one half an E-day
cruising range for all her ships.
Fraser was not a happy admiral.
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The 23rd was coming home. Gregor's navigational section had suggested a
circuitous plot from the Honjo Sector to Al-Sufi. Gregor had rejected it.
He had some good reasons: the status of his ships, the poor skill-levels of too
many nav-decks in following the proposed multiple-point plot, and finally his
fear of inexperienced deck officers having to maintain convoy position. No, he
thought. He did not need the added calumny that would come, for instance, if
two of his battleships suddenly set collision courses.
Besides, Gregor was starting to regain some of his customary poise. He called
it confidence; his staff preferred "arrogance."
Who, in these times, could challenge an Imperial fleet? Even in its present
state of combat semireadiness? Almost no one. Who had the fuel to chance
battle? It took power to steal power. The course would be linear or as
"linear" as navigational trajectories could be under AM2 drive.
Watches passed. Gregor felt himself proven right.
Negative contacts. Except for two.
One was reported as a small squadron of light attack craft. System patrol?
Raiders? Gregor neither knew nor cared. The 23rd was far too strong for
them to attack.
The second contact was laughable.
A trading ship blundered across the 23rd's path. A destroyer matched orbits
with the ship. Nothing to worry about just a trader, from some unknown
culture called the Bhor. The ship's intelligence also mail, censorship, sports,
and recreational fund officer took the time to check a fiche. Bhor? He
whistled to himself. They were a very, very long way from home looking for
business.
Sten looked at the projection of the based mushroom. He spun it through a
couple of 360s, muttered, then brought the focus in to as tight as his "trading"
spy ship had managed to get. He ignored the immediate breakdown of
estimated forces on another screen. He had it memorized already.
A third screen lit: battle analysis ready.
Sten ignored that screen, too.
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He got up and started pacing back and forth. He had an estimated four E-
days, given the Imperial fleet's current speed, to come up with a Plan,
position his troops, and attack.
Kilgour and Otho sat nearby. Alex was busy at his own computer; Otho was
stroking his beard and looking at that mushroom.
"Straight in, straight on. They won't expect that," the Bhor chieftain said.
"No," Sten agreed. "Neither would I. But I'll bet I could figure out a response
before we got in range."
"It was a suggestion."
"Accepted as such, rejected as such."
He looked at Kilgour's screen. Kilgour was scrolling the hourly update from
Sten's fleet.
Fleet. Eighty-three ships. Most of them warships, but none of them lighter
than an equivalent Imperial cruiser-class, and all of them intended for cluster
security/inter-diction missions. Others were armed traders and armed
auxiliaries. Weapons, electronics, and countermeasure suites would be at
least one and more likely five full generations behind the Imperial warships.
Not good.
Worse: fuel status. Maximum range, at full drive: eleven E-days. Getting fuel
for the raid had stripped the Lupus Cluster nearly dry. At present the fleet
was "parked," with all nonessential systems off. They were masked from the
projected trajectory of the Imperials behind a collapsed star.
The status screen cleared, then added a needless worry:
MAXIMUM TIME REQUIRED TO ABORT& UNDER PRESENT CONDITIONS&
Meaning that if they stayed parked, they had the equivalent of two E-
centuries. under normal drive& eleven ship-hours& under battle drive&
Sten did not look at that figure. He concentrated on the mushroom. It would
not have been his choice for a convoy formation the heavies were
concentrated at the front. Better to carry them outside the formation near the
center, for ready response in any direction if an attacker feinted. Feinted.
Hmm. Yes, Admiral. With what are you going to pull your ruse? Eighty-three
ships, remember? Against& against too many.
On-screen, the mushroom's cap started sliding back and forth on the fleet's
"stem," like a winding-down toy gyro. Kilgour was beaming at him.
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"Dammit, Alex! Quit gamin'!"
"Thae gamin', ae y'put it, i' another suggestion, Boss. Or hae Ah noo leave't'
suggest?"
Otho rose. "By my mother's insect-infested beard, we must cure this bickering
disease." He owled a prox screen. "Nearest contact& we have lifetimes. Time
for stregg, time even for the hangover. I'll get the horns." He palmed a
bulkhead door and slid out.
"Sorry, Alex," Sten said.
"Dinnae fash. Y' want't' hear what I was thinkin't? 'Tis jus' a wee thought,
Boss. Ah nae hae a scheme." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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