NationStates Jolt Archive

The Fleet had been on continuous alert for sometime now. Long enough for the World to get used to it being that, in fact. Especially with the near constant warfare the Ally had been undergoing. But now it was time to solemnance to become action, hatred to become vengeance.

The Fleet moved.

All seven Battle Groups. One was on its way from the outsystem shipyards, heading in system. The other six had been floating serenely in orbit of the World. They were outnumbered, true. But they had surprise. Three Battle Groups moved in each direction, 240 ships sweeping around the World to crush the Enemy within their embrace.

On the waves below the skies, twelve battle groups moved, speeding southward at seventy knots, escorted by swarms of fightercraft. They escorted a third of the Ground Force, numbering 2 million, in a massive number of transports, both space borne and water borne.

With so many enemies to the South, it was not clear to those watching who the strike would be aimed at. But it was clearly a massive thrust down the Atlantic. The Enemy lay near the bottom of the World's second largest ocean.

At home, the strike wings not based with either the Surface Naval or Space Naval Fleet were readied. Missile crews prepared themselves. The Fleet, the Ground Force, and Defense Force would all be ready.

The Confederacy was going to war. The Enemy would be crushed, as all others had been. Now was the time. Vengeance was at hand, and that hand was the Fleet.

{Tag; For Intelligence Purposes}

Central Command, Purple Mountain, Late Watch

Captain Renia Jothosi watched as the holographic Earth spun in the gigantic main display. The SSM was on the main secondary display, and they could be interchanged at a moments notice, depending on where the fighting was.

The winking green icons of Battle Fleet in orbit, with the Anglachel's, undergoing repairs from the recent conflict with ADK, sat as silent testimony to the firepower and strength of the Federation.

The light speckling of green dots around the Earth told a further tale, for they were the massive satellite network that fed the Intelligence Division and provided the Federation with its first line of defense against strategic bombardment or other such threats.

Renia Jothosi was in charge of it all, for the moment. As the Space Naval Force was the senior service, watch officers for Central Command came from it. There were, of course, Ground Force officers on watch as well, along with enlisted personnel from both services.

But here, under Purple Mountain, was the nerve center of the Federation Military. The Peoples' Military.

Like most officers, a student of military history, Jothosi thought the irony of that hilarious. The Peoples' Military. Routinely the name of the militaries of Communist nations, nothing could be further from the truth.

The Democratic Facist Government of the Federation was not going anywhere. For a long time.

Something moved on the plot. From the massive gold icon representing the bane of the Space Navy's existence, Orm Embar, two hundred and fourty signals were moving, the orange of nominally hostile ships.

A second later, they were confirmed to the Confederacy of Lost Americans Space Forces. Some sort of manuevers, apparently. Renia watched as they split into two groups and began to circle the planet.

Interesting move. I wonder what they are practicing for. Probably the same thing they always are. Envelopment and destruction of smaller space forces. Or maybe an even numbers exercise. Vector projections appeared on screen. Or they could be doing a flyby on Battle Fleet. More information blazed to life in tiny holographic letters. Targeting scanners? Odd, and rare. But they wouldn't be...

The ships continued to circle the planet, their course bringing them closer and closer to Battle Fleet, and the least damaged of the three Anglachel's, S.P.S.S. Anglothel.

I assume they've got them on the scopes up top... Icons blazed to life as the Battle Fleet and the station came to life in response. A close tracking exercise. That'll be good. Wait, why is the LA Fleet launching fighters? Oh my God.

The orange icons of a non-friendly fleet suddenly morphed to blood red as missiles salvoed forth. War was upon the Federation again.

OOC: Written in conjunction with Lost American's player.

The Fleet nearly maintained the element of surprise until they fired. But the necessity of targeting meant that complete surprise could not be obtained. Not in World Orbit. Too many other things might interfere, and so, active targeting had been required.

But it appeared that what had actually given the Fleet away was the launch of the strike wings. But they could not have been reserved until after firing. They could not be caught on deck if missiles came in early.

And so, the move exquisitely timed, both Fleet groups fired as one. Slightly heavier throw weights were paid for with smaller magazines and larger ship size, but the sheer about of firepower washing towards the Enemy should be more than enough.

With fangs bared, dual off bore broadsides roared in on the Enemy, totally unprepared for any combat, much less that much.

And in the wakes of the missiles came the fighters, swooping in towards capital ships guarded by only the tiniest of fighter screens.

Surprise was the only tactic the Fleet had. In World Orbit, its greater acceleration could not be used. No maneuvers would be enough to save it. The hit had to work the very first time, to at least even the odds.

[tag]

S.P.S.S. Anglothel, Central Computer Core

She had seen the ships. She had tasted, had felt, their targeting scanners. But she had not reacted fast enough. Her defenses were still spinning to life as the Lost Americans ships fired. Luckily, though, she had been holding position, and her drive field was online.

That would help.

Point defenses reach out, blotting missile after missile from the universe. But it was too slow. Not fast enough.

Anglothel shuddered, and then she screamed in pain as the missiles began to punch through the buckling drive field. Laser after laser ripped into her skin, tearing apart battlesteel, cutting out compartments, weapons, defenses.

She called upon herself, drawing all she was, carefully planning, and just as many missiles roared back at her assailants as had just ripped into her.

Anglothel was wounded, and badly, but she was not out of the fight.

Bridge, S.P.S. Capella, Late Watch

Lieutenant Commander Jason Revnash had command of the Battle Fleet Flagship during the Late Watch. In fact, he could, in theory, give orders to the entire Battle Fleet. And until someone figured out those orders were coming from him, they would probably be obeyed.

As it was, Battle Fleet was holding position, drive fields burning, over the Federation, three hundred kilometers below. And so, Jason watched the Fleet, massive firepower in seried ranks, awaiting the command that would unleash it.

Ensign Beatriz Lopez was assigned to tactical for the Late Watch, and she muttered something under her breath. Swinging the command chair around, Jason regarded her. "What is it, Ensign?"

"These manuevers, sir. That the Confederacy Fleet is making. They're going to run right over us."

"I don't like it. Bring up the point defense, but leave the targeting scanners down until..." As the young woman's hands flew over her controls, another light strobed, indicating that someone, revealed a second later to be the Lost Americans' Fleet, was attempting to get a target lock on them. "Light 'em up." Spinning the chair forward again, Jason keyed in the command for the Captain's cabin. Captain Hackman answered promptly, looking wide awake. It was said, among the crew, he never slept.

"Go."

"Sir, Commander Revnash, here. We've got the entire Lost Americans' Fleet on practice manuevers, and they are lighting us up, and sir,.... Holy Shit."

"I'm on my way."

The strident howl of the General Quarters alarm sounded, fit to wake the dead. But the missiles were already in final lock, and less than five seconds out.

Bridge, S.P.S. Kursk, Late Watch

Captain Eliza Dubrick was on the bridge, running a tactical exercise, to help train replacement crewmen from the losses incurred versus ADK. Then, the displays blanked as the Lost Americans' threat registered to the Kursk's EI.

"Captain, we are being targeted by... we are under attack."

"Sweet Mary, mother of...." and the world exploded. General Quarters or no, no destroyer could stop that hurricane of fire. X-ray lasers tore deep into the ship, and the unmoving vessel was a perfect target. The first couple missiles wasted themselves harmlessly against the drive field, but it was at just enough strength to hold the ship in place. The next missiles tore through it with ease. The first punctured deep into the ship, tearing apart foreward weapons, and cutting through the magazine. Kursk bucked like a wounded bull. The next missile tore into the core of the ship, lasers boring deep. The side bulkhead to the bridge exploded. Razor sharp elements of battlesteel whirred through the room like lethal tops. The tactical officer was torn from his chair, a meter long piece of metal through his chest, his blood spraying over his ratings. Captain Dubrick started to move, and then felt her shock frame clamping down on her shoulders. But it didn't matter. Another piece of battlesteel hit her chair from behind, ripping it from its mountings. But still, the ship was not out of the fight.

The next missile changed all that. Kursk was fighting against the pain of her wounded body, and still trying to stop the missiles. She failed with the one who counted. Its laser blew deep through the already shattered armor of the foreward half, and it slashed through Fusion One, melting and destroying control runs. The reactor went critical...

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Capella

Farragut looked at the master plot, showing his fleet, and the vessels still sweeping in towards it. Antifighter missiles were roaring out of the tubes, as his own ships struggled for time to get their fighters off.

Some ships had simply returned fire on their attackers, as well, missing the fighters in the confusion. But the plot told how much surprise had cost Battle Fleet. Where there should have been 240 ships, there were 210, of which 206 were damaged to varying degrees, including 27 basically destroyed.

Missiles continued to fire and Farragut squeezed his eyes shut. This combat was not up to him anymore. It was up to the ships, the captains, and most importantly, it was up to fate.

*Taggage*

The Fleet continued with its plan, as it had no other choice. They were commited now, though it appeared that the damage had not been as great as hoped for. The weapons fired in reply were few, and two spread out to cause much damage, though the return fire from the station was lighter than hoped for. Two frigates fell from formation, battered apart, and some were damaged. But that was their job.

But the atmosphere and the massive change in emissions from the Enemy units seemed to indicate serious damage. So it might have worked enough.

The fighters were the next wave of attack, and they soared in, taking unexpectedly high losses from Enemy counterfire, and the few fighters the Enemy did have launched.

But the majority of the strike wings got through the flames, and behind them, the Fleet belched another dual broadside.

Presidential Residence, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Lips soft on each other, heated flesh pressing on heated flesh. A soft moan of pleasure. A steadily rising pressure...

The Emergency Comm buzzed.

"GODDAMNIT!" D'ron roared, the mood destroyed, as he hung his head down against his chest. He rolled out of the bed, eyes blazing with anger. Whoever had called was in for a royal chewing out....

He hit the answer key. "What?" he barked.

"Mister President, the Space Naval Force has come under attack. We are at war with the Confederacy."

D'ron's anger immediately vanished. "I'll be down in five minutes." He looked apologetically at Lesley, and she nodded. She understood, she knew. Her eyes sparkled with love as D'ron began to find the clothes he had dropped on the floor just an hour previous.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Capella

Farragut watched the plot with growing agitation. The Confederate fighters were going to get through. And some ships were still struggling to get point defenses up.

Battle Fleet was beginning to get in motion, the most damaged ships withdrawing from the outside, the lesser damaged ships moving to replace them. Or that was the intent. They were moving too slow still.

"Launch all fighters as they are ready." Without organization in their ranks, fighter losses would be horrible, but he had to get them launched. The Americans' Diablo was too capable to go unopposed.

Missiles still roared out against the fighters, ships beginning to fight together now. The TacLink was coming back up. Three more ships died in the next salvo.

And then the enemy fighters were amoung the ships of his command.

Longsword Aerospace Fighter, Hanger Deck, S.P.S. Capella

Flight Officer Robin Calesiti waited. She'd been the first pilot in her squadron to the hanger, the first in her flightsuit. She had made it through the ADK conflict, and now, she would be the first pilot from the Capella to launch.

If my greasemonkeys hurry it up a little...

The acceleration hit, and her attention went back to her fighter, and her mind was consumed as the neural link began to transmit the information she needed. She banked and fired.

My God, they're everywhere... She kept firing...

Some Wazzu youths, fed up with work, came and tagged the thread with spraypaint.

The Fleet was still moving forward. The damage to the Enemy was not as great as hoped, but their distraction seemed to be holding.

And the incoming fire had dropped to only that from the battle station, whose point defense seemed to be depressingly intact. Fleet elements One, Two, and Three would engage at close range, and shifted course to match this directive. Its point defense would not stop energy fire.

Missiles continued to pour outward towards the Enemy, but the Enemy's point defense seemed to be getting better, not worse. The strike wings had made their first run relatively unopposed, tearing into lesser damaged ships, but the Enemy was launching fighters, and the Fleet's small fighters were dying too quickly now.

Continuing to shed damaged ships from the Enemy station's fire, the Fleet continued forward, closing the two Fleet elements on the Enemy, trapping them.

Briefing Room, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

D'ron strode in, cloaked in black fabric. His voice was full of command. "Cortana, report."

Cortana, Director of the Intelligence Division, National Security Advisor, blinked into existence. "43 minutes ago, the Confederacy of Lost Americans Main Fleet initiated a series of maneuvers that carried them around the Earth, with the now obvious intent of interpenetrating two minutes from now. Thirty-eight minutes after departing from Ardan Space and Orm Embar, they opened fire on Battle Fleet and the S.P.S.S. Anglothel. Those units suffered heavy damage in the surprise attack, and are currently engaged with the Confederate forces."

D'ron nodded. "And?"

"It does not appear than the Confederate forces caused enough damage in their attack to determine the outcome of the engagement, but the first rule of combat is Murphy's."

D'ron nodded again, and watched the display, showing the battle in passionless colored bits of light.

Central Command, Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Cortana blinked into existence deep underground as well. "Captain Jothosi." It was not a question.

Jothosi looked away from the plot displaying the massive battle above them. "Yes?"

"We have a problem."

"Yes, we certainly do, Cortana."

"Not the ships currently engaging Battle Fleet." Cortana spoke with authority to the rest of the room. "Bring up the System Scale Map on the Main Display." It was done so, the displays blinking as their information was exchanged. "These ships are the problem." The out-system group of ships from Lost Americans blinked. "If those ships remain unengaged, we will lose. They can simply bombard our oribital assets into non-existence."

"Of course, we must hit them with something." Cortana nodded at Jothosi's deduction. Jothosi studied the display for a second, and through her neural link, manipulated the data patterns a bit. She smiled hungrily. "The Third and the Fourth Task Groups can intercept the Lost Americans force an hour and twenty-two minutes from now. The Second Task Group can be in position fourteen minutes later."

Cortana smiled, matching Jothosi's. "Very good, Captain. See to it."

Jothosi's mind blanked as her neural implant began to link to the Central Command computers, preparing to send the orders...

S.P.S.S. Anglothel, Central Computer Core

Anglothel would have blinked in surprise if she had had eyes. And in fact, that is what her avatar did. They couldn't be. They wouldn't.

The Lost Americans seemed to be closing for a knife range energy engagement. But then, they didn't know that her energy weapons were mostly untouched. They apparently had interpreted the damage as nearly total. And in truth, there was no reason to suspect otherwise.

And her missile launchers were more than ninety percent destroyed. But over ninety percent of her energy weapons were still operational. If they wished to engage at close range, Anglothel would let them come.

The Fleet continued forward. The strike wings were almost completely destroyed now, and were being recalled. There was no point to them continuing to die without weapons to fire off.

The Fleet continued to close the vise on the Enemy. The Combined Second Fleet Group was closing with the Enemy station. Its damage should make it easy target. They would wait to fire until they could use the broadside arrays. The last elements of the Fleet were in range, and the first would begin to fire any moment...

On the other side of the Enemy's formation, the Fleet was still firing dual broadsides, hoping to kill as many of the Enemy as possible.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Capella

Fleet Admiral Farragut watched the display. The Confederacy Fleet was about to realize their mistake, but hopefully, by the time they did, half of them would be dead.

"Hold the fighters with Battle Fleet. Have them reform into some semblance of squadrons. Switch targeting priorities. Kill Group LA-1."

Battle Fleet stopped firing, for just a second, as the missile queues changed about, and ship-killers slotted into position. A massed broadside followed from every operational tube. Thousands of X-ray laser warheads roared through space towards the oncoming vessels.

S.P.S.S. Anglothel, Central Computer Core

Anglothel distributed targeting assignments to those grasers still in her TacNet. But many were not. Orders were transmitted to them over the comms.

And then, in one precisely timed salvo, every graser still under central control fired, thousands of beams of coherent gamma ray death spearing out into the Lost Americans Fleet.

Graser Bay #9033, S.P.S.S. Anglothel

Weapons Tech Second Class Audrey Macniti was the only one of her crew to make it to her duty station before the graser bay was sealed off by enemy fire. Her energy mount was now under local control, as she was no longer connected to the Anglothel's EI. And so, she watched as the Confederate vessels, flying by within visual range were assaulted by the graser batteries.

Then, her target identified blipped, and she noted that a small frigate was moving directly across her mount's firing arc. She waited until it lined up, and fired her light speed weapon of death.

The Fleet had not expected this. It would not do. Not at all.

But it did not matter. Half of the Fleet had strayed unprepared into energy range of the Enemy battle station. And they died there as graser beams tore at them, ripping into their drive fields, which quickly collapsed. The massive energies shredded the hulls of the ships of the Fleet. Five ships made it through, none undamaged. Some had even managed to fire before they died.

On the other side of the Enemy, the Fleet was just as surprised, but more prepared for the missile salvo from the Enemy Fleet. The missiles burned away like chaff in front of the Defensive Frigates, but enough missiles got through, and they killed where they did.

The possibly even odds suddenly dropped.

The Fleet had lost this engagement. But it had no choice but to carry through. More missiles roared outward.

Graser Bay #9033, S.P.S.S Anglothel

Audrey Macniti had a brief moment to realize she was dead as the gleaming railgun shell sped towards her. She had nowhere to go, though.

The shell smashed into the graser mount, ripping it apart, adding to the casualties, already very high, on both sides of this battle.

S.P.S.S. Anglothel, Central Computer Core

Anglothel felt the final assault of the Second Lost Americans group rip into her already broken hull. Missile launchers, fighter bays, weapons pods, energy mounts all died under the brutal return fire.

Assessing the damage, she knew she was out of the long range engagement. Too many missile launchers had been destroyed. Too much firepower had rent and twisted her battlesteel skin.

She was alive, and if the enemy were foolish enough to stray into energy range again, she would slaughter them like sheep before the shear, but she could not affect the outcome other wise.

And so, she turned her attentions inward, to heal, to help, to find those personnel locked in airless compartments.

Sickbay One, S.P.S. Falconstar

Surgeon Lieutenant Commander Fransisco Montain squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled on another pair of surgical gloves. There were so many wounded here, they were just placed anywhere they could fit.

Sickbay Two had taken a laser right through it, and was gone. So everyone had to come here. He bent his attention to the missile tech on the table below him. He pulled out the laser cutter, and began to cut into the chest cavity. The piece of bulkhead had to be extracted, and fast.

Too slow. The man died, and the harsh wail filled the room. A sound repeated far to many times already, and they had only been engaged for six minutes.

Montain refused to think about it. He could not think about it. He nodded to the two attendants, and they took the body away, as two more attendants replaced the young man with a new person. A young woman, point defense tech, gut would, shrapnel, full penetration. He stripped off his gloves and began to pull new ones on.

The door to the sickbay opened again...

Flag Bridge, S.P.S Dreadstar, Third Task Group, Mars Orbit

Rear Admiral Mahan glanced over the orders from Central Command. He looked up. "Alright, let's do it. Astro, give me the course we need to hit that lost Americans group." He looked down at the screen by his knee, showing the flagship's captain. "Fight your command, Andres."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The eighteen ships of the Third Task Group accelerated out of orbit, drive fields burning, and through out the system, thirty six more ships, the Fourth and Second Task Groups, under Rear Admirals Murphy and Ruswick respectively, began accelerating towards the same point in space.

They would intercept the Lost Americans group there.

The Fleet was dying. The Fleet had, in fact, probably lost this battle. Down to just groups Four, Five, Six, and Seven, it was now facing more than twice its numbers.

This... was bad.

More missiles flew from the Fleet. Thirty seconds to Energy Range.

Fleet Group Seven picked up Enemy forces closing on its vector as well. It would not avoid action, it would not affect the course of the combat. It would not survive. But it would be over an hour after the last Fleet unit in World Orbit died before Fleet Group Seven came under fire.

Something had to be done, yet the Fleet had no more resources...

But perhaps they could win on the ground. Perhaps the World combat would not suffer the Fleet as greatly as the Space combat had. The Enemy... had to be destroyed. There was no other way.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Capella

Farragut watched the display carefully. He had a decision to make. In twenty-five seconds, the Lost Americans Fleet would be in energy range.

His dilemma was simple. Did he meet them head on, and and allow full broadside to be fired at the smaller targets of his ships's bows, followed by full broadsides as the fleets interpenetrated, or did he meet them broadside to broadside, as his ships were currently arrayed for maximum firepower and defenses. In ten seconds, the choice would be made for him. Battle Fleet could only rotate its ships so fast.

He waited, as another missile salvo lanced out from his own vessels, and they burned down the incoming missiles.

He glanced at the plot. Five seconds. Forty-six Federation vessels were missing from the display. None were not circled by the blood-red bands of combat damage. But they still nearly had twice as many ships as the Lost Americans, even if twenty more were unable to fire a single weapon.

But this was a battle for the heavy combatants, not the lighter ones, and the Capellas were still mostly intact.

Time was up. He was committed.

"Fire as you bear."

Thirteen seconds later, Battle Fleet demonstrated just how bad an idea it was for battlecruisers to venture into energy range of dreadnaughts. They fired.

The Fleet fired simultaneously with the Enemy. Full broadsides, every undamaged weapon. But the Fleet’s heaviest units were lighter than those of the Enemy, with less power in each broadside.

And there were less of them.

The Enemy’s weapons tore past drive fields, ripped through bulkheads, armor, weapons, and opened compartments to space. Still worse, the weapons of the Enemy killed the Fleet’s organic backups with coherent gamma radiation and focused particle beams.

The Fleet died. But the individual, air streaming hulks that penetrated the formation of the Enemy still possessed a few weapons. Everything functional struck back with lethal ferocity. But it was a pitiful showing from the once mighty Fleet. And still, even a few of the Fleet’s smallest vessels had escaped the dreadful fusillade of fire. They turned their weapons upon the World below, firing every missile they could down towards the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended.

But of the Fleet’s two hundred and forty vessels which had orbited the World, two hundred and twenty-nine had died, joining their energies with that of the universe around them.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Capella

Energy range combat, fleet interpenetration, was the true killer of starships, the equivalent of sub-machine guns at five paces. And Farragut had watched this battle prove that fact yet again.

As the final weapons fire streaked after the few remaining operational Confederate warships, the Admiral of the Federation Fleet, highest ranking officer in the Peoples’ Military, was able to do something he had not wanted to do. He was able to view the damage reports more closely. Forty destroyers, thirteen light cruisers, five heavy cruisers, and one battlecruiser destroyed. Twenty-seven destroyers, fifteen light cruisers, nine heavy cruisers, four battlecruisers, and two dreadnaughts damaged beyond combat capability. Battle Fleet’s fighter losses were unclear, but early estimates were on the order of two thousand. And such early estimates were invariably low.

Then there was, of course, the Anglothel. The station’s damage alone would take months to repair. Battle Fleet’s would take just as long, with yard capacity so reduced, and replacing the losses suffered would take even longer. Fortunately, or unfortunately, to train the replacement crews would possibly take even longer. Over a fifth of the Fleet Marine Force dead, and well over a quarter of Battle Fleet’s personnel. Casualties on the Anglothel were estimated at half the Army Group and forty percent of the crew. A quarter million Federation dead in eight minutes of combat.

The losses of the Confederate fleet did not bear thinking upon. This had easily just surpassed the conflict with ADK as the Federation’s most costly. But, Farragut knew, it was far from over.

Defensive Emplacement #1724, Commonwealth of Peitha, Federation of Sentient Peoples

Already having begun to spun up from the time the first missiles had launched, DE1724 began to track the incoming missiles as they angled down into the atmosphere. First, the motion canceling bubble flashed to life around the targeted missile in the upper atmosphere, forcing it to rebuild its velocity from nearly zero.

Then an interceptor missile fired, charging upwards for the kill before the oncoming weapon could begin to move at speed again. It liberated both itself and the ground below as it rammed into the enemy’s missile, destroying them both.

DE1724 noted this with a certain satisfaction, all its partial sentience could understand, that satisfaction of accomplishing its purpose, as it and its brothers returned to vigilantly watching the now missile-free skies.

Central Command, Purple Mountain

Captain Jothosi smiled as the defenses burned the last missile down high in the atmosphere, and the last missiles streaked at the surviving Confederate vessels. “Cortana, what was it that allowed the Confederate fleet to get off so many missiles at the beginning of the engagement? It didn’t look like prespotting.”

Cortana smiled unhappily. “Intelligence had indications, rumors, that the Confederacy was developing a way to fire off bore broadsides.”

“Why didn’t we know?” Jothosi demanded, ‘we’ being the military as a whole. “If anyone should have been told, it was the Fleet!”

“Because they were unconfirmed rumors. And it seemed very unlikely, at the time. But so much for believing in the superiority of our own technology, as we’ve just seen that the rumors were very much true.”

“I’m going to suggest to Admiral Farragut that we collect what is left of the Lost Americans fleet, to see what can be learned of their technology.”

“A good idea, Captain. And good job tonight.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Jothosi spoke to empty air, as Cortana had already vanished.

The Fleet was lost. Ten vessels had been captured by the Enemy. Soon all the Fleet’s secrets would be known to the one group that could not be permitted to know. The Enemy. But even that would not affect the outcome of the next engagement. And probably not even the course of the war.

Hopefully, on the surface, the Fleet’s fortunes would be change for the better.

Vengeance still must be obtained. The Enemy must be destroyed, its Land Which Must Be Defended torn asunder by the weapons of the Fleet.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group, Accelerating out of Mars Orbit

“Andres?”

“Yes, Admiral?” The flag captain’s face flashed to life on the panel beside Murphy’s knee.

“Tell the ships. At forty minutes to maximum missile range, I want to break from General Quarters. Send the hand to mess, and put some food in their stomachs. Then, at twenty minutes until missile range, recall to General Quarters.”

The flag captain smiled. “Aye aye, sir.”

Dining Room, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

D’ron sat at the dining table, sipping a mug of hot chocolate, his face the very image of annoyance, exhaustion, and depression. Then Lesley entered the room, and his face brightened, his smile returning.

“D’ron, you’re not fooling anyone. You need to sleep, you’re no good dead on your feet.”

He squeezed his eyes shut before responding, and took another sip of the cocoa. “I know. But I can’t have people out there, fighting for our country, while I do nothing but sleep.”

“You have your job, and they have theirs, my love. Neither of you can do it without sleep. They will understand.”

D’ron muttered under his breath. “A quarter million…” He had never expected that kind of carnage. And he knew it could have been far, far worse. “The Third Task Group will be engaging the remaining Confederate forces in forty-nine minutes,” he told her.

“I know. I checked on my way down here. You still need your sleep. You made those men Admirals because you could not do it all yourself. Trust them, trust yourself.”

D’ron nodded. He was tired, after all. “Alright.” He stood, and left the mug of hot chocolate slowly cooling on the table.

Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group, Accelerating towards the Lost Americans Fleet

“Captain, all stations report at General Quarters,” the executive officer said, her soprano echoing softly through the bridge from the speaker mounted on the bottom of the screen at the captain’s right knee.

The Communications Officer spoke up then. “Sir, all ships report at General Quarters.”

Andres nodded. “Admiral, the Task Group is ready for combat.”

“Time to missile range?”

“Five minutes, Admiral.”

"And the other Task Groups?" The questions were strictly pro forms, for Murphy could have found the answers by simply examining his own display.

"Task Group Four will have the range in six and a half minutes, and the Second will be within missile range thirteen minutes later, sir."

“Very well, Captain. You may fire when ready.”

The Fleet was still cruising in-system at about a tenth of the speed of light, its course unchanging. Even with its higher acceleration rate, it could not indefinitely evade interception. Not without simply running. And so, its goal was to destroy as much of the Enemy as possible. Slowly, the range to the closest Enemy spun down, edging towards extreme missile range.

Powered missile range was a little over a million kilometers. The Fleet belched a dual broadside at the closest units of the Enemy, approaching four times the weight of fire the Enemy could return. If the Fleet could seriously damage or destroy that group before the others found the range, it might stand a chance for a little bit more time alive.

Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group, Engaging Lost Americans Fleet, Between Solar Orbits 3 and 4

“Deploy decoys, Guns.” Captain Andres Torres snapped as the missiles flashed outward from the Lost Americans vessels.

Lieutenant Stan Samuel Stover, who had been abused all his life for his unlikely name, depressed the buttons on his console. Decoys sprang to life, and ECM called out its false songs to the incoming missiles.

The range spun downward. Torres wanted to be as close as possible before he gave the order to fire. And then…

“Fire.” The eighteen ships of the Third Task Group of the Federation Space Naval Forces spat fire, a full broadside, powerful, though weak compared to the torrent rushing down upon them. The engines did not fire on those missiles as the ships of the Task Group frantically rolled on their long axes to spit another broadside less than two seconds after the first, effectively doubling their fire.

The dual broadside roared down on just four Lost Americans frigates.

And as some incoming missiles were spoofed, still others were engaged by the active defenses. Counter-missiles flashed out, charging hard on wakes of gravity curdled space, their speed their only weapon as they sought self-annihilation to save the ship which spawned them. Point defense laser clusters were next, flashing outward, having to destroy those missiles before they got within 5000 kilometers, or they would spawn their lethal cloud of X-ray lasers.

Even still, it was not enough. Some missiles got through. And, for now, they wasted themselves harmlessly on the drive fields of their targets, decreasing their maximum acceleration.

The Enemy’s concentration on such light units was unlike them. Normally, their procedure would have dictated maximum fire on the Fleet’s heaviest units.

And as such, the Fleet was unprepared for what happened. The missiles roared in, and the defenses of the entire Fleet could not be brought to bear because of the Enemy’s targeting. And those four frigates, while designed to defend the Fleet, had never been expected to face such a storm alone.

They died, the Enemy’s lasers tearing into them, ripping, shredding, and then, one by one, the fusion plants went critical. The Fleet began to redeploy to prevent this from occurring again.

Four eye searing glares lit the dark of space, and the Fleet continued on, unleashing another dual broadside, this one concentrated on the Enemy’s two largest ships.

Central Computer Core, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group

Dreadstar immediate noticed the change in the firing pattern, the concentration on her and her sister, Firestar. And so, she directed the others in how to engage.

The song of the decoys of all the ships shifted to that of the battlecruisers, seeking to blind and confuse the incoming missiles with too many targets.

And for the most part, it seemed to work, and little more damage was done this time than before. But it would only be a matter of time. But…

Bridge, S.P.S. Redstar, Fourth Task Group, Engaging Lost Americans Fleet

“Fire!” The captain’s voice cut across the bridge like an explosion, and the dots of light on the plot of the task group were surrounded by rapidly speeding away specks, those of a missile broadside...

They would help even the numerical odds, and their separation from the Third would prevent any sort of concentration of fire than the Confederacy’s first two broadsides had seen.

Hopefully, it would be enough.

The Fleet had not managed to disable or destroy any of the Enemy’s forces, though their acceleration was dropping slightly, indicating a fair bit of damage.

Missiles continued to fire, dual broadsides still focused on the original Enemy group, and defenses continued to blaze defiance. The missile duel would continue, and the Fleet went to rapid fire on all missile tubes. Like sand under water, the levels of the magazines began to fall.

The Fleet’s vector began to curve around as well. If close range combat could be limited to one Enemy group at a time, there was a better chance of survival. Of victory. Of Vengeance. And so, the Fleet maneuvered to close with the first Enemy group, and to try and keep the range op with the second. The Fleet had to ignore the third for now.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group

Closing his eyes briefly, Read Admiral Murphy tried not to groan. His decoys, EW capabilities and active defenses were more capable than the Confederacy’s, but the overwhelming firepower concentration on his command was beginning to take its toll.

Only six of his ships were undamaged, and the missile storm, which showed no sign of abating, was becoming more difficult to deal with as damage mounted, with defenses and sensors being destroyed. The Task Group’s acceleration was beginning to drop, and with it the passive defenses of the drive field and the ability to hold open the range.

“Andres, change course. Hold the range open as much as we can.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” There was a pause. “I think two-eight-zero is our best bet, sir. We can’t out run them, though. Their accel advantage is too great.”

“I know, Andres. But we have to try.”

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Redstar, Fourth Task Group

Rear Admiral Mahan cursed loudly as the Lost Americans’ group turned away. As long as they has kept coming, his task group could have intercepted easily. They were going to have to work for it now, though.

“Captain.”

“Yessir?”

“Pursuit vector, maximum military power. Cut the chord.”

“Aye sir.” The next set of orders was still audible through the comm link. “Task Group to Formation Alpha.” That would bring the heavy units into a wall formation with the lighter units covering them, maximizing the amount of firepower brought to bear. “Bring the Group to vector three-three-seven at maximum military power.” The flag captain’s image turned back to Mahan. “Sir?”

“Very good, Captain.” Mahan had worked with his flag captain long enough to know what he wanted. “Do it.”

“Rapid fire on all tubes.”

The Enemy had gone to maximum rate fire now. But it was not the group the Fleet was bearing down on. That group still appeared to be rolling to present dual broadsides to the Fleet. Clearly the second Enemy group was trying to distract the Fleet from the first before the Fleet killed them.

This could not be permitted, but the higher rate of incoming fire call for a change in formation. More defensive frigates shifted to the side of the formation closest to the second Enemy group.

Then the Fleet began to launch its small attack craft. The massed attack wave, of eighty percent of the Fleet’s organic strike wings speared outward to delay and harass the second Enemy at over one thousand World gravities of acceleration.

Bridge, S.P.S. Redstar, Fourth Task Group

Captain Enrique Torres watched the display as the Lost Americans continued to pour maximum rate fire into the task group where his twin brother fulfilled his own position as Flag Captain. But for the moment, that was Andres’ responsibility.

“Launch fighters,” he snapped as the Lost Americans’ fighters swept towards his Admiral’s command. “Hold fighters with the task group.” The enemy fighters swept closer. “AFMs… now!”

Anti-fighter missiles lashed out.

Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group

At approximately the same time, five light seconds away, the other Captain Torres gave the same order. “Launch fighters. Offensive strike.”

As the smaller light codes of fighters began to speckle the tactical plot, they formed into their squadrons, and headed towards the Confederate fleet, where they would have a four to one advantage over the enemy’s fighters retained for defense.

The Fleet had not expected that response, and the fighters died. But these were the newest and least experienced Fleet units. Unfortunately, there was no time for them to learn from mistakes.

Anti-fighter missiles roared out towards the Enemy strike craft, and the Fleet’s fighters died under the Enemy’s fire. Then the fighters of the Fleet, the few retained for self-defense advanced to meet the Enemy strike wings.

The Fleet had to survive to energy range. That was the only way to stop, to kill any of the Enemy capital ships, which were showing increasing signs of damage. But so was the Fleet.

Longsword Aerospace Fighter, Attached S.P.S Redstar, Fourth Task Group

Flight Officer Del Mifflin watched out the cockpit, at the increased visual display, showing what was happening at range, though the fireballs of fusion batteries ripping themselves apart were visible without enhancement.

Over the TacNet came the order, and he felt, through his neural link to the fighter, his squadron powering around him. He goosed the drive up to a couple hundred gravities, and watched as he began to speed towards the enemy. This was the first time he’d ever been in combat.

He could feel the shakes threatening to overcome him. Remember your training, and come back alive. It was the mantra of the pilot, of the soldier. It made it better, for now, even if it was not true. The explosions in the forward display died away. The Task Group had stopped volleying fire at the Lost Americans fighters.

“ENGAGE!” Mifflin gunned it, and fell into the groove. He lined up. Tone. Pressure. Fire. The missiles roared out.

Broadsword Aerospace Fighter-bomber, Attached S.P.S Dreadstar, Third Task Group

Flight Officer Ray Mifflin had time to briefly wonder if his brother was still alive in the Fourth Task Group’s fighter wing before the flashing of incoming fire consumed all his attention.

“Ready, Jenny?” he called back to his backseater.

“Yeah, Ray. Everything’s green. Point this baby at the target, and I’ll put the weapons on target.”

He smiled grimly. The Broadsword squadrons had taken no losses as they closed through the Confederate range envelope, at the back of the fighter strike. Their heavier firepower made them to valuable to put out front.

The Longsword’s dedicated to defending the striking wings were doing their job, and paying hard cash for it. But it worked. One squadron of Broadswords roared in on two of the LA Battlecruisers, the huge two kilometer long targets filling the display. Two squadrons of Longswords equipped for anti-shipping roared in on each of the other two.

All the units fired nearly as one, unleashing a curtain of fire down upon the heaviest Lost Americans ships, missiles and energy weapons blazing away.

On their heels were still more missiles from the Fleet units still two light seconds away.

The Fleet reeled from the attacks. The layered fighter tactic had smashed its way into effective range, and the launch had been devastating. The missiles that had broken through had finished the job for them, then. Three of the Fleet’s remaining battlecruisers had vanished in eye-searing explosions of fusion reactions out of control, and the last battlecruiser was an air-streaming hulk, its drive field dead as the Fleet left it behind.

The remain ships struck back with nearly renew ferocity, but there was something missing. A coordination had vanished with the last of the battlecruisers. There was nothing left of the Fleet that stood a chance of defeating the Enemy. Unified defense and attack fell away, and the smaller groups dropped into local command.

The Fleet’s fighters were dying, dying quickly, too fast. One on one, against prepared capital ships, they were dead, and those that broke through did not have enough weapons to cause the damage they needed to cause.

The Fleet, which relied on cohesion for success, had lost its ability to fight as a single unit, and the next group of missiles ripped into the formation. It was now outnumbered by the forces arrayed against it, and even more horribly outgunned. But it would fight. That was what the Fleet did, until it died.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group

Read Admiral Mahan looked at his display, frowning, then it hit him. They’ve lost coordination. “Andres!”

“Yes, Admiral?” the flag captain replied from the screen down near Mahan’s knee.

“Close the range. Bore in hard. Killing the battlecruisers did something to their coordination. And go to rapid fire on all tubes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The Third howled about, through a course change and began to bore in, spitting broadsides out at the maximum rate.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S Darkstar, Second Task Group

The Second Task Group had the range as well now, finally. The angle was bad, and their targeting was poor. But they could fire, and expect some hits. The flag captain spoke out of screen to Rear Admiral Rickman. “Permission to engage, Admiral?”

“Permission granted, Captain. You may fire when ready.”

The order echoed like a gunshot, through the group and through the flag bridge, carried by the screen connecting the Admiral to his tactical deputy.

“FIRE!”

The Enemy was closing in at last. The first two groups would hit the Fleet at nearly the same time, while the third continued to pump missiles into the Fleet. They continued to fire, futile though it might have been, still focusing all their fire on the first group, which was showing signs of significant damage.

But without the battlecruisers, the Fleet had no chance. Most of its numbers were the Defensive Frigates, wonderful for dying in an offensive role. Their energy weapons would help, but nothing would be able to stop the Enemy now. The Fleet had failed the Land Which Must Be Defended, and now little remained to stop the Enemy from sweeping them away.

The new vector curved around. The Fleet would split the difference between the Enemies. And the Fleet would survive as long as possible.

OOC: Written in conjunction with Lost Americans’ Player.

Bridge, S.P.S. Dreadstar, Third Task Group

Captain Andres Torres watched the display as the Sentient Peoples Task Groups slid towards the Lost Americans. The range was down to just over a hundred thousand kilometers, and they would be in energy range soon enough.

His eyes wandered across the plot. Missiles poured outward from the enemy’s ships, but a much greater number lanced inward. The Lost Americans small frigates were all but one gone, and their fleet acceleration had dropped significantly, indicating heavy damage.

But the enemy was not the only one to suffer damages. Andres was wrapped in his vacuum suit, protecting him from the huge gaping hole drilled through his ship to the outside. Tactical was under Auxiliary Control now, as was Communications, for both of those stations had been destroyed, their crews mangled by flying battlesteel. When he glanced down at the plot again, tearing his eyes away from the gaping maw that had consumed ten of his bridge crew, he saw that his ship had in fact, gotten off lightly. Of the screening vessels, only two light cruisers remained operational, of the remained, one light cruiser and five destroyers were gone, the rest disabled completely. And so, eight of the task group’s eighteen ships still closed with the enemy.

But on the other side of the Lost Americans was the Fourth, and the Second was still closing. Forty-four against twenty.

Ten seconds to energy range.

Bridge, S.P.S. Redstar, Fourth Task Group

Enrique Torres could see the terrible damages that the Third had received, and he spared a short thought for his brother, hoping he was still alive. The Fourth’s damage had been much lighter, for only a few fighters had broken through to strike at his ships, and his two leading destroyers had borne the brunt of it.

But they had survived, and testament to the men and women who crewed them, and to those who built them. Part of him was glad it had been those ships, and not his own, so he had not had to listen to the damage reports, the screams into the comm system. But a part of him hated himself for that relief.

But now they would engage those who forced him to lead his people into battle, forced him to decided who lived and died. Now, they would kill them.

Five seconds to energy range.

Lost Americans Fleet, Between Solar Orbits 3 and 4

The Fleet was lost, but they would fight to the very last. None would survive, but the inferno would not take them alone. Energy weapons along their flanks charged, ready to pour every bit of firepower they had into the Enemy.

The computers at the heart of the Fleet calculated, time and velocity vectors constantly being recalculated. Some semblance of central control had been restored, but it was fragile, and slow, compared to the Fleet’s usual lethal efficiency. But they would do their best, for the Land That Must Be Defended expected no less of the Fleet. They would engage in four seconds.

Graser Bay 27, S.P.S. Firestar, Third Task Group

Mount Captain Petty Officer Second Class Gustav Tanner checked over his crew as the computer before him beeped two soft tones over his comm. Sensor check completed. Targeting data received.

It had to beep those tones over the comm to him, because the compartment had no air, and no sound would transmit. The sensor check was ready, so that his crew could find a target on their own if they were cut off from the internal network.

”Remember, if you get cut off, just keep firing at something. We’ll be passing through their fleet, so pick out targets by eye if you have to. But under no circumstances, while you can be firing, should you not be. Is that understood?” That had been the last transmission from the bridge, and Gustav intended to follow those orders.

Lord, prepare us for what we are about to receive.

Two seconds to energy range.

Between Solar Orbits 3 and 4

One second to energy range.

The two fleets slide towards each other, spinning to present their broadsides as they covered the last few thousand kilometers to energy range. The Federation’s second task group stopped firing, not wanting the missiles to target their own ships.

Zero seconds to energy range.

And down the sides of the Federation ships a spark ran like the very breath of God, but instead of bringing life, it brought death. Beam after beam of coherent gamma radiation tore outward, reaching for the Confederate vessels. At it tore across the intervening distance in less time then it took to blink and the massive beams tore into the enemy’s ships, blowing past the drive fields as if they were not even there, and shredding battlesteel into lethal splinters. Energy transfer caused massive expansion of the air, as it rose in temperature, and tore apart still other bulkheads in secondary explosions.

But the Lost Americans had fired the merest second later, and they tore into the Federation ships with particle beams and close range railguns. The damage the wreaked in return was just as horrible, and vac suits were no protection at all against meter long splinters of the Federation’s best armor. The Hades was saved as its fusion reactor shut down just in time, but was lost a split second later as a red hot railgun shell tore through its hydrogen bunkerage. The ship snapped in half. But it was not the only ship to die in that volley. Six others joined it.

The two fleets interpenetrated, and again, the weapons lashed out, those that were left. More explosions pocketed space with the terrible vengeance of fading stars, bringers of both life and death in the cold vacuum.

As the remaining twenty ships slid out of energy range, there was not one that was not battered and broken, streaming air and blood. None would have been considered combat capable, and the hulks that had been the Confederate Fleet were fit for nothing but salvage. But there were only four. The Federation ships, those that could, began to decelerate as damage reports flowed in.

Press Room, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP, The Next Morning

D’ron stepped up behind the podium in front of the reporters, and he looked out silently over them. He had reviewed the loss numbers before this. He had never imagined that sort of carnage. Even in all the battles he had fought when he was younger, when he had commanded the armies of the Federation in the desperate battle against the Manilowian forces, and brought them to victory, never in that time had people died so fast.

Thousands dead every minute. And it had not been a bombing run, or missile attack, lasting only a minute or two. The battle had lasted for nearly two hours by the time you added in the second fleet element’s destruction out near Mars.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Citizens of the Federation, last night, at 12:43 A.M. local time, the Federation Battle Fleet, riding in high orbit over Earth, was attacked by the Fleet of the Confederacy of Lost Americans. Our Fleet was very nearly destroyed in this surprise attack, and only by the skill and training of the personnel of our military did we manage to stave off utter disaster. It is my intention to press the House of Delegates for a Declaration of War against the Confederacy of Lost Americans in response to the attack on our forces. My heart if with those who have suffered losses, but I encourage you to be strong.

Take heart in our military, our country. Know that those who died, died for the Federation.” He smiled coldly. “I know it is a cold comfort, but it is all I can say. But we will emerge from the fire victorious. We will carry the day, and the Federation will survive. May Father Eru watch over us all.”

D’ron stepped back from the podium, emblazoned with the seal of the Federation, and lowered his head as he walked from the room. He knew the details of the battle would leak.

There was no need for him to tell them how bad it really was. They would all know soon enough.

tag

http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2977956#2977956