Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(27)
Indy counter-burns her engines at full thrust to correct her path, then swings around to the new heading, which has us racing alongside the Lanky ship going roughly the same direction. The Lanky is going at a steady two hundred meters per second, but Indy is accelerating at maximum gravities, streaking through space like a guided missile. We are so close to the seed ship that it feels like I could open an airlock and touch their hull. Two more seconds of uncorrected trajectory, and we would have shattered against that hull at thousands of meters per second.
“Come to new heading zero-five-zero by negative four-five,” Colonel Campbell orders. “Give this asshole some space.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” the helmsman acknowledges.
Behind me, Dmitry curses in Russian again. We pull away from the Lanky ship—not nearly quickly enough for my taste—and the Indy turns slightly, pointing her bow at the space below and to the left of the Lanky. Despite our difference in speed, we are still not completely clear of the seed ship.
“Too close,” the tactical officer warns. “They spotted us, I think. I see activity on their port hull.”
The camera feed shows the flank of the Lanky from an upside-down angle. I can clearly see movement—not the mechanical opening of missile tubes like on a human warship, but rather dilations, small holes opening in the side of the Lanky ship in a cascading wave of what looks like contractions on the flank of an animal.
“Go active on all sensors,” Colonel Campbell shouts. “Weapons, set the CIWS to Condition Red. All hands, brace for incoming.”
I turn around and grasp the railing of the CIC pit. More displays come to life as the various stations around the pit have their functions restored, the ship regaining her eyes and ears, and what few teeth she has. The CIWS, the ship’s close-in weapons system, is designed to swat enemy missiles out of space before they can reach Indy and blow her up. I don’t know if they work against Lanky penetrators, which don’t show up on radar and move at insane speeds, but anything is better than no defensive measures at all.
“Bogey One and Two are changing course,” the tactical officer warns. “They’re starting to come about.”
“Cat’s out of the bag now,” Colonel Campbell says. “Get us the hell out of this neighborhood.”
“Incoming,” the tactical officer shouts. “Visual launch confirmation. Vampire, vampire. All hands, brace for—”
There’s a series of thundering bangs, and Indy shudders perceptibly. All over the CIC, warning lights and alarms start going off.
“Multiple impacts! Explosive decompression in multiple compartments.”
“Roll the ship,” Colonel Campbell orders. “Come to new heading one-zero-zero by negative four-five, zig and zag evasive pattern. Weapons, go active on the rail gun and return fire. I’ll be damned if I let them shoot holes in my ship without shooting back.”
“Aye, sir.” The weapons officer activates the ship’s rail gun mount. I can’t see the control screen, but I can hear the metallic clang of the projectiles transmitting vibration through the hull as they leave the electrified rails of the cannon barrel at Mach 20. Then I see the impacts blooming on the hull of the nearby seed ship. The super-dense penetrators from the rail gun would shear through a fleet frigate from bow to stern at such close range, but as far as I can tell, they’re not even scratching the hull as they shatter into stardust on whatever unearthly material the Lankies use for armor plating.
“We took some major hits,” the engineering officer says. “Half the damage board is red.”
“Collect reports and have damage control stand by. We’ll sort this shit out when we’re in the clear.”
“Incoming,” the tactical officer warns, not quite as urgently as before. “They’re spraying blind at this point. We’re out of their weapons envelope.”
“Keep our course and don’t let up on the throttle,” Colonel Campbell orders. “And go full EMCON again. Visual kit only.”
“Aye, sir.”
Whatever the Lankies hit, the propulsion system and main reactor are not among the destroyed systems. Indy is running from the area around the Alcubierre node as fast as her fusion drive allows, and that’s all that matters right now. The Lanky seed ships keep circling around in irregular search patterns, but it’s pretty clear from the optical tracking that we’ve turned invisible to them again. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. After twenty minutes of sustained maximum acceleration, the seed ships are small enough in the optical feed to not invoke a feeling of imminent demise in me anymore. All around me, there’s hectic activity in the CIC as department heads collect reports from their subordinates and issue orders.
“Throttle back, let us coast for a while,” Colonel Campbell says. “Damage reports.”
The XO consults her display. “Looks like we took two hits. Both penetrators nailed our lower aft starboard side and went right through to the top fore port side. We have decompressed compartments on Alpha, Bravo, and Echo decks, and seven compartments forward of frame twenty-five are open to space.”
She scrolls through the data on his display with the flick of a finger.
“Missile tubes one and three are gone. The secondary data bus got shredded. We lost the forward water recyclers and the entire port-side freshwater tank. Officers’ mess is gone. And the auxiliary neural-networks cluster is offline. We have four KIA. Would be more if everyone hadn’t been in vacsuits.”