Part 28 (1/2)

”Obviously. That is why they haven't engaged us,” Warshaw said. He pointed to the display. ”They're staying well out of firing range.”

”But they are in an offensive formation,” Bishop added.

Warshaw shook his head. ”It's aggressive, but not offensive,” he said. ”They're still far enough apart to break and run if we attack.”

Bishop looked more closely, thought it over, and agreed.

”Where are the s.h.i.+ps we commandeered?” I asked.

”Over here.” Warshaw sounded distracted as he pointed to the center of the display. He'd parked the commandeered s.h.i.+ps in the center of the fleet. As he showed me the location, something struck me. Normally testy, the master chief was now showing a surprising amount of patience.

”There's something else, isn't there?” I asked.

Warshaw and Bishop traded a silent glance, then Warshaw gave me an embarra.s.sed grin. ”You were right about the Navy building a new cla.s.s of s.h.i.+ps. Our engineers found these.” He pressed a b.u.t.ton, and the holographic image of a s.h.i.+p replaced the tactical map on the table.

”Is this a battles.h.i.+p?” I asked quietly as I inspected the design. The three-dimensional image showed a long and slender hull. For the last hundred years, U.A. capital s.h.i.+ps had been moth-shaped wedges. This boat was shaped like a knife.

”We found plans for an entire fleet,” Warshaw said.

As Warshaw said this, a sailor came and saluted.

”What is it, Brown?” Bishop asked.

”Sir, the battles.h.i.+ps have changed course. They're coming toward us, sir.”

”Sound general quarters,” Warshaw shouted.

Bishop struck a b.u.t.ton on the table and Klaxons began. Warning lights were already flas.h.i.+ng when I came onto the bridge; now the ambient lighting faded, and the glow of blinking amber flashed across the bridge.

Bishop fiddled with a dial on the table, and the tactical view of the s.h.i.+ps reappeared, only more magnified.

”Scramble the fighters,” Warshaw ordered.

Bishop repeated the order.

”Scrambling fighters, aye,” an officer yelled.

”Send out all three carrier groups,” Warshaw yelled.

I might have only been a lowly Marine, but I recognized overkill when I heard it. Warshaw was sending thirty-five fighter carriers to intercept twenty battles.h.i.+ps.

”How many s.h.i.+ps are incoming?” the fleetCom asked.

Across the bridge, communications officers relayed orders as loudly as they could against the distant blare of the Klaxons.

”Keep your fighters in close,” Warshaw told Bishop.

Watching Warshaw, I thought he looked like a schoolboy spouting information he had memorized but did not understand. He'd spent his career as a deckhand, never expecting that he might one day become an officer. There was no strategy in his attack; he was simply throwing every s.h.i.+p in his fleet at the enemy.

But strategy would not make a difference in this near battle. Bright flashes appeared on the 3-D display. The enemy battles.h.i.+ps broadcast to safety before coming close enough for us to shoot at them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Earthdate: December 12, A.D. 2516

Location: Golan Dry Docks

Galactic Position: Norma Arm

We needed the three U.A. battles.h.i.+ps for several reasons. We needed s.h.i.+ps with broadcast engines if we ever wanted to travel beyond Terraneau. Commandeering Pers.h.i.+ng's self-broadcasting cruiser would have given us broadcast-travel capabilities, but it was a runt of a s.h.i.+p, and we needed cargo s.p.a.ce for what I had in mind.

We also needed s.h.i.+ps with the location of the Mogat home world stored on their broadcast computers because none of us had the slightest specking idea how to find the place. The Unified Authority Navy sent all of its self-broadcasting battles.h.i.+ps to fight in the final battle against the Morgan Atkins Believers. Before a s.h.i.+p can self-broadcast to any location, coordinates must be programmed into its broadcast computer.

The computers on the battles.h.i.+ps we captured yielded unexpected treasures. Along with the location of the Mogat home world, we found external diagrams of the new s.h.i.+ps and a tentative launch schedule. Over the next three years, the Unified Authority planned to swap out its old fleet for an all-new one. From what we could tell, the new s.h.i.+ps would be slightly smaller than earlier models. Our engineers were unable to decipher the weapons.

Hoping to glean a little more information about the new fleet, we decided to take a detour as we flew out to the Mogat home world.

Lilburn Franks-formerly a senior chief petty officer in the U.A. Navy but now an upper-half rear admiral in the Enlisted Man's Fleet-suggested we swing by the Golan Dry Docks on our way to the Mogat Fleet.

The dry docks sat in an otherwise-unpopulated corner of Norma, the smallest and innermost of the galactic arms. Long noted as the Unified Authority's most advanced s.h.i.+pyard, the Golan facility measured eight miles from top to bottom and included hundreds of cubic miles of construction s.p.a.ce. If the Navy had new s.h.i.+ps under construction, the Golan Dry Docks was where it would build them.

We broadcasted our newly confiscated three-s.h.i.+p fleet out to that remote corner of Norma. There were no planets within a light-year of the dry docks, just acres of star-riddled darkness.

I sat in an observatory just off the bridge with Warshaw and Franks-a high-powered conclave. With our field ranks in effect, I now had the rank of lieutenant general. Thanks to his visit with Brocius, Warshaw was an admiral. Franks was a rear admiral. We wore uniforms befitting our new status. Franks and I fit our uniforms perfectly. Warshaw's blouse strained around the bulging contours of his chest, shoulders, neck, and arms.

Warshaw sat ramrod straight in his chair, looking ma.s.sive and muscular. When he was sure Warshaw was not around, the late Sergeant Herrington sometimes referred to him as the ”Careless Hairless” because he shaved his head, eyebrows and all.

Beside him sat Franks, a man with an aggressive streak. Franks leaned forward in his chair, excitedly scanning the scene through the panoramic viewport. We had broadcasted in thirty-five million miles from the dry docks, far enough away that their sensors would not spot the anomaly of our entrance-far enough away to give our broadcast generator time to recharge in case the U.A. had s.h.i.+ps patrolling the area. The enormous generator that built up the energy for us to broadcast required eight minutes to recharge.

Warshaw and I chatted about the overall mission. Franks listened in while keeping one eye on the viewport and the other on a telemetry readout. If another s.h.i.+p approached, Franks would notice it before anyone else.

”Doesn't matter where you go, it always looks the same out here,” I said.

Franks disagreed. ”Spoken like a Marine,” he said.

This took Warshaw and me by surprise. ”Not all the same?” he asked.

”Of course not,” said Franks. ”We're in the Norma Arm, the stars are more closely cl.u.s.tered here.”

Warshaw laughed, and said, ”It doesn't look any different.”