Constitution: Book 1 of the Legacy Fleet Trilogy (11 page)

“What happens when the computers go down?” Haws glanced up at him sideways.

“The electron energy orbitals in the smart-steel are regulated by a central processing unit. Or some physics shit like that. Makes it a thousand times stronger than regular steel, and far more than that for short periods of time in anticipated impact zones. All I remember from my briefing is that if the computers go down, or if the attacker knows the quantum modulation patterns, the smart-steel becomes very, very dumb.”

“I can’t imagine CENTCOM would have cleared smart-steel to be used in starships if it’s not safe.”

Granger eyed his XO. “Abe, we’re talking about the same CENTCOM that has agreed with the Eagleton Commission about the need to strip down the fleet. I’m not sure I’d put all my faith in their judgement these days.”

His XO’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think the fleet is at risk?”

“Of course it’s at risk. Whether it’s at existential risk remains to be seen.”

Lieutenant Diaz raised his head towards the captain. “Sir, Lunar Base reports that most of the civilian transports are loaded and ready for evac.”

“How many?”

Diaz glanced at his display. “Most of the political delegation came on the
Winchester
, but we’ve also got the
Roadrunner
, the asteroid mining ship
Redeye One
, and the
Rainbow
, along with a handful of merchant and industrial freighters that requested our escort back to Earth. The total caravan should be fourteen ships.”

Fourteen ships. That’s a lot to defend
.
 

“Available armaments on any of them?”

“Negative, sir,” said Diaz, with a downward glance.

Granger sucked in a painful breath, careful to let his face remain steadfast. “Very well. We go to escort duty with the caravan we’ve got.” He stood up and called back to Diaz as he passed through the doors to the bridge. “Lieutenant, inform me immediately when all ships report ready. I’ll be in the fighter bay.”

“Aye, sir.”

The corridors were strangely silent, except for the occasional bustle of activity as a crew member ran past with whatever urgent business they had to get the ship on a war footing. Hardly any of them stopped to salute the captain as they sprinted past, but Granger didn’t care. In an hour, they could all be dead anyway.

No. He couldn’t think that way.
She’d pull them through
, he thought as he traced a hand down the corridor wall. The
Constitution
had performed admirably in the first Swarm War, suffering substantial damage, sure, but she’d always pulled through. After each battle, after each skirmish, the Old Bird carried her crew home—one of the only ships during that war to do so.

But times had changed. The Swarm had changed, if the early sensor readings and intelligence were accurate. It was either a completely new enemy, or the Swarm had radically overhauled its technology and ship design in the past seventy-five years.

Granger strode through the doors to the fighter bay, saluting the two marines stationed at the entrance.
 

“Captain, we’re nearly done restoring about a dozen fighters back to operational condition—alterations had only just begun on those. But we’ve still got over forty fighters down,” Commander Proctor called out to him breathlessly from the command station near the side wall. The entire maintenance section—several hundred meters long and almost a hundred wide, was a bee’s nest of frenzied activity. Maintenance crews and whoever else Commander Proctor had managed to deputize were busy on about fifty fighters, frantically working to restore them to operational status. Granger was actually impressed at the scale of the operation that Proctor had managed to put together in such a short period of time.

“Very good, Commander. Excellent work. How many birds will I have in forty-five minutes?”

A hint of a grimace tugged at her brow. “Just shy of fifty, sir.”

Granger breathed a curse. “We’ll need more than that, Commander.” He saw her steel her jaw slightly. “Even so, excellent work,” he added with a curt nod.

“Thank you, sir. In another hour and a half we should be up to sixty fighters total. Unfortunately the twenty or so that have been completely stripped and outfitted for simulator service will take quite a bit more time.”

“Understood. Carry on.” As Commander Proctor turned back to her assistants, Commander Pierce came bounding up.

“Captain, you realize we don’t actually have fully trained pilots for all these fighters, don’t you?”

Granger half-smiled, and turned to leave. “Define
fully trained
, Commander.”

Pierce followed him out the door. “We basically only have a half-complement of full-time pilots. The rest are trainees. Assigned to the
Constitution
fresh out of IDF Flight Academy. They were supposed to finish a six-month tour here before officially earning their wings.”

Granger continued down the hallway towards the bridge. “And?”

Pierce huffed. “
And,
sir, these boys simply aren’t ready for combat. I’ve only had them for about a month.”

Granger stopped and turned, letting two technicians rush past before staring his CAG in the eye. “You go to war with the army you have, Commander. They either die out there in their birds defending the
Constitution
and the rest of the caravan, or they die in here with their fat asses in their bunks. Ask them which they prefer and get back to me.”

He could tell his CAG still hadn’t quite understood the gravity of the situation, which mystified him a little. “Commander?” he asked, letting his voice soften a hair.

“Sir, it’s just that I still haven’t heard from my father. The
Gallant.
Word is that the entire third British fleet is ... missing.”

Pierce’s voice wavered slightly. Granger reached out to his CAG’s elbow. “I know. CENTCOM thinks ... well, let’s just say they don’t have high hopes that the third fleet survived its encounter with the Swarm.” He looked Pierce in the eye. “I’m sorry, Tyler.”

“So it’s confirmed, then? CENTCOM knows the third fleet engaged the Swarm?”

“No. Nothing’s known for sure. But given that we now have a Swarm fleet bearing down on Lunar Base within half an hour, I’d say the chances your father is alive are slim. But now is not the time, Commander. Right now we need to give these bastards a good old-fashioned whoopin’. Let’s hand their asses to them. Exterminate them. Then, when Earth is safe, we’ll grieve. Agreed?”

His CAG steeled his jaw and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” Granger turned once again to return to the bridge. “I want every available fighter ready to launch in forty-five minutes, Commander. And if you have to deputize the shuttle pilots, do it.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply from down the hallway.
 

But Granger hardly heard it over the red alert klaxons that sounded shrilly through the corridor.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Earth’s Moon

Fighter Pilot Briefing Room, ISS Constitution

Commander Pierce stormed into the fighter bay’s briefing room where the pilots were still assembling. Running through the numbers, he knew there were simply not enough pilots for the ships that Proctor would have ready for him, even counting the trainee pilots fresh out of the academy. In addition to his regular crew of twenty, and his twenty new trainees, he still had up to forty more spots to fill.

And that meant anyone on board who had any flying experience whatsoever was fair game, and the captain had given him a blank check to draft who he needed.

Most of them had arrived—a handful of former freighter pilots who’d joined IDF as mechanics or gunnery sergeants, and of course the entire ship’s complement of shuttle pilots. He nodded a quick greeting to Lieutenant Miller, who’d seated herself alongside the rest of the fighter jocks.

The room fell into a hushed silence as he reached the podium. None of them had joined IDF expecting war. Becoming an IDF pilot usually meant one was preparing for an eventual career flying the giant tourist spaceliners, or colonial transport ships, or merchant freighters.

But war was upon them, whether they were ready or not.

“I’m sure by now you all know this is not a drill. The Swarm is back and they’re out for blood.”

One of the fighter jocks interrupted, Lieutenant Volz. “Same ships as last time? Like what we’ve trained against?”

“I don’t know, Ballsy. All we’ve been told is that the entire Veracruz Sector has been laid to waste, and they’re on their way here.”

As the gravity of his words sunk in, he turned to the group of newcomers. “As you can see, the situation is grim, and we need every available fighter. That means some of you who are joining us now are being called up as pilots—”

“Sir,” began one of the enlisted crew, a mechanic, who was still greasy from working on a bird. “I haven’t flown a freighter in five years. What good will I do out there?”

“You’ll do better out there than you will in here. All that matters now is firepower. Plus, not every fighter is ready to go—there are thirty-odd birds still being brought back into service. That means we’ll start with the most experienced of you lot, and get the rest of you into simulators in the meantime. Each newbie will be paired with an experienced pilot, and two pairs will form a squad for a total of twelve squads now, twenty squads when all fighters are brought into service. Your assignments have been made and are now on your consoles.”

The pilots all looked down at the tiny computer screens on their armrests.

Lieutenant Volz nudged Lieutenant Miller, “Look at that, Fishtail, you’re with me. Try to keep up.”

She looked stunned, but managed to murmur, “Sure thing, Ballsy.”

The CAG continued. “You’ve got one hour. Newbies, get to the simulators. Experienced pilots, go with your trainees. Teach them the essentials. How to fire, how to cover, basic defensive and offensive patterns. Nothing fancy, just the tried and true.”

The red alert lights and klaxons blared behind him. It was showtime.

“Go! Be in your birds in one hour!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Earth’s Moon

Bridge, ISS Winchester

Vice President Isaacson stormed out of the captain’s quarters and raced down the hall. The two secret service agents assigned to him jumped out of their chairs and bolted after him. Ambassador Volodin followed close behind, huffing and struggling to keep up. “Where are you going?” he called.

“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” yelled Isaacson.

Volodin huffed something else but was breathing so hard Isaacson couldn’t understand, and before he knew it he was approaching the two marines stationed outside the bridge who held up their hands indicating that they stop.
 

“I’m sorry, sir, only authorized personnel are allowed on the bridge.”

Isaacson bristled. “Then you get the hell in there and tell the captain that Vice President Isaacson wants to come on his bridge!”

“Yes, sir!” One of the marines disappeared through the door, and reappeared within moments. “This way, sir.”

Isaacson barreled past the remaining marine and strode onto the bridge, which was humming with activity. The ship was only a smaller Cincinnati class corvette, mainly used by IDF for transporting personnel and dignitaries around the solar system, but they apparently were gearing up for battle.

“Vice President Isaacson, we’re a little busy here, sir—”

Isaacson interrupted. “Captain, we need to get to Earth immediately.”

The captain shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but the
Winchester
does not currently have q-jump abilities.”

Unbelievable. “Currently?”

“That’s correct. As such, we’ll be escorted in by the
Constitution
.”

“THE
CONSTITUTION
?” Isaacson yelled. “You’re telling me that the oldest ship in the fleet, the same one we decommissioned today and is missing half its engines and is being flown by a bunch of washed-up failures is the ship that will be escorting the second-in-command of the government of Earth?”

Captain Day shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir.”

“Get Yarbrough on the comm. Now.” He pointed to one of the consoles. The captain nodded to the officer at the comm station, and within moments, Admiral Yarbrough’s voice boomed over the speakers.

“Yarbrough. What is it, Mr. Isaacson?”

“Admiral, am I to understand that the
Constitution
is the only warship escorting us back to Earth?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Isaacson. We simply can’t spare any modern cruisers. If there’s any chance we can stop them here at Lunar Base, then that’s what we’ll do. I need all available ships—”

“Preposterous, Admiral. I demand you send another, more modern warship as our escort. Not just that bucket of bolts out there.”

Silence came over the speaker as Admiral Yarbrough weighed her options. Finally, she sighed. “Very well.”

“Send the
Qantas
.”

“But, Mr. Isaacson, that’s the flagship of IDF. We need her defending Lunar Base.”

“We need her defending the Earth, and her elected leaders. End of conversation.”

Another silence. “Fine. Yarbrough out.”
 

Isaacson nodded in approval. Good—it was time the admirals learned to listen to him—they’d better get used to it.

“Now, Captain Day, tell me why we can’t just make the q-jump. Tell me why we don’t
currently
have that ability.”

Day walked around the tactical station to face the Vice President. “The problem, sir, is that while we do have a q-jump drive, the need for it has not existed for years—at least for this ship. We mainly take on duties involving short-range transports and missions within the solar system. If we want to re-engage the drive, we’ll need a functioning quantum field coupler, and you don’t just find those lying on a shelf somewhere. It’s a delicate, expensive piece of equipment, and it doesn’t make sense to maintain them on vessels that—”

“Then
find
one.”

“Excuse me?” Captain Day looked confused. Isaacson rolled his eyes—were all fleet officers this dense?