Fleet Action (wc-3) William Forstchen (fox in socks read aloud .txt) 📖

and four destroyers were poised to leap deep into the Heart of the Empire. Their mission was to strike far into the rear to destroy convoys, shatter bases, and smash construction yards. It was a tactical innovation evolving out of Vukar Tag which appeared to be bearing fruit, a constant harassing of the enemy that some claimed was actually beginning to wear the cats down. He could only hope that the politicians were not about to blow it as latest rumors indicated they would.

"Hunter, we got traffic, vectoring in on 032 degrees your heading true, plus 060 degrees."

Hunter looked at his short range tactical scan and saw the swarm of red blips snap on.

"Blue squadron, you on them?"

"Lone Wolf here, sir, vectoring in, you're covered."

"Get that double ace strip, boy, good hunting."

"Don't worry, you'll get your bottle of scotch off me when I do," Lone Wolf replied. "Wish it was a carrier in my sights instead."

Hunter chuckled to himself. Admiral Tolwyn's nephew was eager for this fight and he could understand why.

"The kid's been going nuts trying to get that strip."

Hunter spared a quick glance to Griffin, his co-pilot, and nodded. Kevin Tolwyn's escort carrier, Tarawa, had joined up with the strike group after the mission had already set out. In the skirmishes leading into Munro young Tolwyn had drawn a blank hand in half a dozen fights and was eager for a kill to round up his number to ten. Such eagerness could get a pilot wasted but Hunter could understand it.

Hunter looked back down at his computer information screen, which showed the other two Broadsword strike groups lining into position. All three groups hit their jump-off marks precisely and started in on the final attack.

"Range one thousand clicks, speed down to 110 kps," and Griffin started the chant, marking off range and speed. The computer could do the job as well, but a machine could always glitch off at a key moment and besides, he preferred Griffin's soft feminine voice.

Hunter watched straight ahead, the planet filling space before him. He could make out a sliver of reflected light, standing out against the blue-green ocean below. The light shifted into a thin pencil-like form.

"Target is turning, following standard evasive maneuver alpha," Griffin announced, "coming about to a heading 002 positive 80 degrees."

"Right on to a broadside target for us," Hunter chortled. That was the beauty of a well timed attack on the three axis points, no matter which way the enemy turned, someone would have a full broadside strike.

A low piercing hum echoed in his headset, the initial locking tone for his torpedo.

"Range fifteen kilometers, closing speed eight hundred fifty meters a second and holding."

He was damn near hanging still in space, sparing a quick glance to his tactical display, filled now with a swarm of blue and red dots. A Kilrathi Gratha heavy fighter flashed by, followed by a Rapier. He heard Jonesy in the turret behind him, stammering out a curse as she snapped off a quick volley. His Broadsword shuddered, damage information blipping red for his rear starboard stabilizer. A spray of mass driver rounds arched up from the carrier as it twisted away, and he nudged up the throttle to follow the ship as it continued to turn.

The tone in his headset started to slide up the scale, signaling that his torpedo guidance system was breaking through the Kilrathi carriers phased shielding distortion defense, the weapon gaining a secured lock.

The Broadsword to his right disappeared in a flash. He tried not to think about the friends inside. A split second later Jonesy let out a whoop from the rear turret.

"Got the furball bastard. Burn, damn you, burn."

Damn, she was bloodthirsty. But then, who could blame a nineteen year old girl whose brothers were all dead in the war?

The tone in his headset started to warble and then set off three high pitched beeps, the last beep going into a steady tone, indicating that the heavy Mark IV torpedo was locked and armed. He felt his ship shudder as the torpedo broke free from its pylon and streaked off towards the target. Nearly a score of silver blips appeared on his tactical screen, showing the inbound strike. The timing was damn near perfect.

Now was the time to test out the new weapons system

He slammed up throttle, yanked the stick into his gut and punched straight up, exposing the laser guidance system strapped on to the belly of his Broadsword.

"Have laser lock on torpedo," Griffin announced quietly, hunching over her read-out screen. The new laser system was designed to provide in-bound guidance for the torpedo, the designator locking on to the torpedo's tail. If target lock should be lost, the weapons officer could now guide it in, while also providing evasive for any anti-torpedo missiles and shield jamming by the target's defensive systems. The only problem was that it meant that the Broadsword had to loiter in the target area, belly exposed, until impact.

It might work, Ian thought, but I'd like to take the idiot who designed it and have him fly the wait out with me to see what it's like.

The Kilrathi carrier's point defenses slammed on miniguns sending out sprays of marble size mass driver bolts. Several torpedoes detonated. Anti-torpedo missiles streaked out from launch bays mounted fore and aft on the ship.

"Still tracking, still tracking," Griffin chanted, grimacing slightly and swinging a small joy stick over to put the torpedo into an evasive as two anti-missiles closed. The evasive threw them off and they continued on.

Still tracking, impact in five, four . . ."

And suddenly it didn't seem quite right. They were using their old single bolt anti-torpedo missiles. Hell, for nearly six months now Kilrathi carriers had been carrying their damn new sub-munitions anti-torpedo missiles which could break into half a dozen shots. The damn things had been a nasty surprise. Ships armed with them were almost invulnerable to torpedo strikes if they could get enough of them out there.

Fleet ordnance had been