today. If you die, I die. It is therefore required that every one of you perform his individual task to his supreme abilities."
She swept the room with her never changing eyes of absolute zero.
"It goes without saying," she hammered home, "that if there is a failure today, it would be best for any of you not to be among the few survivors."
She dropped her eyes and flicked at a crumb left on the otherwise spotless mess table in front of her. The crew was dismissed.
The drone tacship drove toward the Zhenya at full power. Between the robot and the minelayer hung a cluster of the newly developed mines. Lady Atago stood behind the mine control screen, watching closely.
"Report."
"All mines report incoming ship as friendly."
"Change the recognition code."
Sweat beaded one tech's forehead. It was at this point that the accidents had occurred. All too often, when the IFF code was changed, the mine either refused to attack a no-longer-friendly—according to the recognition code—ship or launched on every ship within range, including the minelayer.
This time the control board barely had time to report the change in status and register that the mine was reporting an enemy ship before six mine-missiles launched.
The drone tacship fired back with antiship missiles. Two of the mines were exploded.
The third mine hit the robot and tore out its hull. Less than a second later, a score more were hunting the debris. The rest made note of the kill and returned to station.
"Did the mines show any response to the drone's electronic countermeasures?" Atago asked.
The tech consulted a nearby screen. "Negative. All transmissions from the enemy were ignored once it had been identified."
The Lady Atago turned her attention from the screen to Admiral Deska. She allowed one perfect eyebrow to raise a millimeter.
"You may inform the council, Admiral," she said, "that we will begin full production."
A half hour later the flagship was once again the Forez .
Lady Atago went quietly back to her maps and battle plans.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
S ten landed on Cavite, central world of the Caltor System, as a commander without a fleet.
Among the other shortcomings of the tacships was that their tiny supply holds limited their range. Their delicate engines also required far more frequent maintenance intervals than did most Imperial craft. So the four tacships that were to be Sten's command had been berthed in a freighter and now were somewhere between Soward and Cavite.
Sten made the long haul from Prime to Cavite as a liner passenger. He spent the voyage going through pictures, sketches, abstracts, and envelope projections, as besotted with his new assignment as any first lover.
Part of the time he devoted to a quick but thorough study of what was going to be his base planet. Cavite was about two-thirds the size of Prime World and sparsely settled. There was little industry on Cavite—mostly it was an agriculture-based economy, with a little fishing and lumbering. The climate was also similar to Prime—fairly temperate, with a tendency to snow a bit more than on Prime.
The rest of the time Sten pored over details involving his ships. It did not matter that at present his command consisted only of four brand-new Bulkeley-class vessels and himself. He was to man his ship on arrival on Cavite.
Under separate covers, a fax had gone to Admiral Doorman, requesting full cooperation.
Sten had arrived on Soward just before his four ships were "launched." There wasn't a great deal of ceremony—the hull builder had signed the ships over to a secondary yard, a transporter gantry had picked up the ships, complete less armament, electronics, controls, and crew compartment, and had lugged them across the huge plant.
Incomplete as they were, Sten was in love the first time he had seen the sleek alloy needles sitting on their chocks. To him, the entry in the new Jane's update fiche was poetry:
6406.795 TACTICAL ASSAULT CRAFT
Construction of a new
She swept the room with her never changing eyes of absolute zero.
"It goes without saying," she hammered home, "that if there is a failure today, it would be best for any of you not to be among the few survivors."
She dropped her eyes and flicked at a crumb left on the otherwise spotless mess table in front of her. The crew was dismissed.
The drone tacship drove toward the Zhenya at full power. Between the robot and the minelayer hung a cluster of the newly developed mines. Lady Atago stood behind the mine control screen, watching closely.
"Report."
"All mines report incoming ship as friendly."
"Change the recognition code."
Sweat beaded one tech's forehead. It was at this point that the accidents had occurred. All too often, when the IFF code was changed, the mine either refused to attack a no-longer-friendly—according to the recognition code—ship or launched on every ship within range, including the minelayer.
This time the control board barely had time to report the change in status and register that the mine was reporting an enemy ship before six mine-missiles launched.
The drone tacship fired back with antiship missiles. Two of the mines were exploded.
The third mine hit the robot and tore out its hull. Less than a second later, a score more were hunting the debris. The rest made note of the kill and returned to station.
"Did the mines show any response to the drone's electronic countermeasures?" Atago asked.
The tech consulted a nearby screen. "Negative. All transmissions from the enemy were ignored once it had been identified."
The Lady Atago turned her attention from the screen to Admiral Deska. She allowed one perfect eyebrow to raise a millimeter.
"You may inform the council, Admiral," she said, "that we will begin full production."
A half hour later the flagship was once again the Forez .
Lady Atago went quietly back to her maps and battle plans.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
S ten landed on Cavite, central world of the Caltor System, as a commander without a fleet.
Among the other shortcomings of the tacships was that their tiny supply holds limited their range. Their delicate engines also required far more frequent maintenance intervals than did most Imperial craft. So the four tacships that were to be Sten's command had been berthed in a freighter and now were somewhere between Soward and Cavite.
Sten made the long haul from Prime to Cavite as a liner passenger. He spent the voyage going through pictures, sketches, abstracts, and envelope projections, as besotted with his new assignment as any first lover.
Part of the time he devoted to a quick but thorough study of what was going to be his base planet. Cavite was about two-thirds the size of Prime World and sparsely settled. There was little industry on Cavite—mostly it was an agriculture-based economy, with a little fishing and lumbering. The climate was also similar to Prime—fairly temperate, with a tendency to snow a bit more than on Prime.
The rest of the time Sten pored over details involving his ships. It did not matter that at present his command consisted only of four brand-new Bulkeley-class vessels and himself. He was to man his ship on arrival on Cavite.
Under separate covers, a fax had gone to Admiral Doorman, requesting full cooperation.
Sten had arrived on Soward just before his four ships were "launched." There wasn't a great deal of ceremony—the hull builder had signed the ships over to a secondary yard, a transporter gantry had picked up the ships, complete less armament, electronics, controls, and crew compartment, and had lugged them across the huge plant.
Incomplete as they were, Sten was in love the first time he had seen the sleek alloy needles sitting on their chocks. To him, the entry in the new Jane's update fiche was poetry:
6406.795 TACTICAL ASSAULT CRAFT
Construction of a new
Similar Books
