NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Continued from here (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=124339).

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

As D’ron strode into the briefing room, the displays flickered to life, holograms coming online. Numerous displays on units, readiness reports on bases and fleet groups, satellite intelligence reports, and sensor displays of sub systems and the solar system.

In addition, four humanoid holograms were present. Fleet Admiral Farragut, CO-FSPSN, Field Marshal Adrian Tenai, CO-FSPGF, John-117, Minister of War, and Cortana, Intelligence Division.

It was the afternoon following the night time surprise attack on the Space Navy.

D’ron allowed his gaze to float across the room, absorbing all the displays without concentrating on a single one. “What is our current status?”

Cortana spoke softly. “The House voted two hours ago declaring war on the Confederacy of Lost Americans, freeing us from budgetary constraints imposed in peace time, and granting wartime powers to yourself, Mister President.”

That was a pleasant fiction of course. The Imperial President of the Federation had unlimited power anyway. But pretenses had to be maintained.

She continued. “Early polling indicates that the population is in general outraged by the attacks and is willing to accept anything required, at least in the short term, for fighting the war.”

D’ron nodded. “Very good. Status of the Peoples’ Military?”

Farragut nodded. “The Space Navy is ready to continue operations, despite severe losses.”

“How bad, Admiral?”

“Forty-five destroyers, sixteen light cruisers, five heavy cruisers, and one battlecruiser destroyed, with thirty-one destroyers, fifteen light cruisers, eleven heavy cruisers, five battlecruisers, and two dreadnoughts damaged beyond combat capability. Approximately twenty-five hundred fighters were lost as well. That does not include the damage to the Anglothel or the damaged suffered by the Anglachel in the ADK conflict still under repair.”

“So thirty-seven percent of the Fleet’s mobile units are out of commission or destroyed, and only one battlestation is combat operational?”

“Yes sir, that is correct.” Farragut did not sound happy about it, but then, those were his people.

D’ron’s gaze shifted almost fearfully to the Grand Marshal. “And the Ground Force?”

Tenai let out a sigh. “Between the ADK conflict and the surprise Confederate attack, we’ve lost basically an entire army group, and a little more than that. Unfortunately, from one point of view, those losses were split between two army groups, rendering both of them fairly useless. For the time being, we only have one strike capable army group in orbit, and of course, the six intact groups still in the Federation, but without an easy way to deploy them for the time being.”

D’ron nodded. “Alright, Field Marshal, what do you propose?”

“According to the repair schedule, the Anglachel should be fully operational in another week, and I’d like to move the Fifth Army Group aboard it at that time. At the same time, I’d like to move the remnants of the Eighth and Ninth Army Groups to Fort Francon, where the Fifth will be deployed from. We’ll reorganize them into a Tenth Army Group, deactivating the Eighth and Ninth for the time being.”

“Makes a certain about of sense. Anything else?”

The Field Marshal shook his head. “No, Mister President.”

“Okay, what’s our current strategic situation and plan for striking back?”

John spoke up. “Mister President, we had originally planned to kick off Operation Crying Rock against ADK tomorrow. Do you still wish to do that?”

D’ron nodded. “If we can.”

“We can. In that case, I’ll let Cortana bring you up to speed on current deployments.”

Cortana’s hologram flickered as she moved forward, calling up a display of the Atlantic Ocean. “As you can see, the main threat now comes from the Lost American Fleet coming down the Atlantic at us. Intelligence estimates approximately two million soldiers in both sub-orbital and oceanic transports. If not engaged and stopped, they will reach the Federation’s Northern coastline in approximately fifty-seven hours.”

D’ron nodded. “Continue.”

“Additionally, Lost Americans maintains an orbital network of approximately seven hundred satellites, about half the size of our own, and then their shipyards at Jupiter. Additional facilities are maintained in Orm Embar, but we are not currently in a position to engage and destroy those, nor do I suspect we will be for some time. Fortunately, to the best of our knowledge, the Confederates have no surviving Fleet assets besides aerospace fighters and surface vessels.”

D’ron nodded again. “Alright, what is our plan of operations?”

John spoke up again. “In addition to Crying Rock, three operations are currently planned. The first, Bat Blind, is an elimination of all Confederate assets in Earth Orbit, whether satellite or otherwise, excluding Orm Embar, as it is not really a Confederate National Asset. Assigned forces will be fighters from ground bases. The second operation is Fury Swarm, which will be an aerial assault on the Lost American Surface Fleet. Again, this will be carried out by ground based fighter squadrons. Third, Operation Ring Lord is the elimination of the Lost American Shipyards at Jupiter. The Fourth Task Group, while lightly damaged in combat, will be assigned to that operation, and should be able to take care of things.”

“Very good. I don’t think we need to strike back just yet. Let’s eliminate the threat first, and then see if they’ll negotiate a settlement. No need to fight more than we have to.” D’ron’s eyes slid back to the purple hologram of the EI. “Have our allies been informed?”

“Yes, Mister President. EOTED and ENEM both have been informed and expressed condolences for our losses. They also offered to give any assistance they could and was requested.”

“Very good. I think we can handle this ourselves, but let’s not toss out the option.” Cortana nodded as D’ron eyes swept the group. “Is there anything else?”

Four heads shook. “Alright. Let’s make this work. Keep me informed.”

<Tag for reading>

<Tag>

"...and so the Empire stands ready to protect and serve its allies, as ever. The Watchers on the Walls are with you, Sentient Peoples."

~ Empress Rialla ux-Rihad II (excerpt from the usual exceptionally long Daily Address Speech)

Operation: Bat Blind, Phase One, Earth Orbit

PA0710 floated silently in space, gravity guiding it along a steady path through the vacuum. Had it been alive, it might have noted the uncomfortable feeling of weightlessness due to its state of freefall. Or it might have noted the clarity of the stars, non-twinkling points of light unaffected by the distorting presence of the atmosphere. And there was always a chance that it might noticed the subtle mosaic of greens, blues, and browns that covered the surface of the sphere below its orbiting mass.

But PA0710 was not alive. It was a weapon, born and bred to the vacuum, an extension of the Federation’s military might, orbiting the planet that the Federation of Sentient Peoples called home. A planet torn by constant war and bloodshed, a planet on which death and destruction were the ever present companions of those who toiled without gain under the ceaseless, unforgiving sun. And for some of those souls, PA0710 would be seen as the harbringer of their doom.

The lethal looking five meter long satellite bristled with weapons, but nearly all were defensive. Only one had any true striking power. But the orbiting weapon was quiescent, silent, watching and waiting for the commands that would wake the sun inside it, bringing the miniature fusion reactor to life. Meanwhile, the satellite drew energy from small solar panels, converting them into the tiniest trickle of power to run its passive scanners. The Ansible communication system buried in the satellite’s heart connected it into a near instantaneous response through the Federation’s Tactical Network.

But nothing was ordered at the moment, and the satellite swung onward, silently noting its nearest neighbors. Another orbit passed, then another, and the satellite swung from day into night and back again.

Another few orbits later, the a signal blazed to life inside the ansible, bringing with it TacNet’s orders, and PA0710 responded as it was designed. Hydrogen met hydrogen, and an invisible star blazed to new life in the Earth’s skies. Energy blazed through dormant systems, and system checks completed with the hungry ferocity of a waking predator.

As PA0710 tied more fully into the system, linkages limited by light speed began to feed it more information, as sensors began to seek out a individual point of light. Tied into TacNet, PA0710 became a single instrument in a multifaceted orchestra of death, as target information filed into its electronic brain.

Space bent and warped as the satellite’s tiny drive field blazed to life, bringing its orbit to a halt, and protecting PA0710 from harm. Scanners reached out, confirming the target, mass and composition, electronic signature, all seeking through the curdled space of the drive. But the drive was not the only system that awoke. Two point defense arrays charged, lasers and tiny EM accelerated shots ready to intercept incoming fire. But they were not used, and neither were they the reason that PA0710 was awakened.

The half meter wide laser beam was the reason that the satellite was awakened, and as it charged from the power of the sun blazing behind its lenses, targeting data flowed up from the ground, and in from scanners.

Electrons flowed back and forth across the molecular circuitry, and the drive field reached out, curdling space, rearranging it, shifting itself, and bringing the single offensive weapon to bear. Lidar flashed, picking out the target from among the clutter of satellites orbiting with it, and then….

Coherent energy raced across the gap between the two satellites, one Federal, one Confederate, reaching out to destroy.

And PA0710 was not alone. Nearly two hundred other such satellites fired with it, each with their own target, one for each armed satellite that the Confederacy of Lost Americans possessed.

The Fleet had known it would come, but some warning had been expected. And there was none at all.

Like the Enemy, the Fleet kept its weapons satellites in a powered down standby mode to conserve hydrogen, by not wasting it when needed. But any attack on the FleetSatNet was expected to come from fighters, or at least be given away by Enemy fleet movements. Something that would provide the vital seconds needed to bring the reactors online and the drive fields up. But that something had not come.

As it was, the Enemy was attacking someone else entirely, its fighters blazing into the skies of a foreign land. Apparently, the Enemy believed it could fight both nations at once. Perhaps that confidence could be used to the Fleet’s advantage. Scansats watches and waited, tracking the glowing orbs of energy that were the Enemy’s fully powered weapons platforms.

Far below, the surface Fleet continued advancing. The Enemy only had three days to stop them, before they reached the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended.

And had the Fleet believed in Fortune, Fate, or Luck, it would have argued that the Enemy seemed to be favored by it, and that it was about time for one of those entities to switch sides.

But no such foolish ideas distracted the Fleet from its only purpose. Defense of the Land Which Must Be Defended.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S Redstar, Operation Ring Lord, Opening Phase, Asteroid Belt, Half a Radian Behind Jupiter

Sixteen starships of the Fourth Task Group blazed as green dots of light in the Master Tactical Holodisplay, configured to a five light second radius. Gravitic sensors showed massive objects, and EM ones showed what those objects were to Rear Admiral Mahan, CO4TGFSPSN, to the best of his well trained crew’s and computer’s knowledge. Another, smaller plot showed the Jupiter sub-system, broadcast in through the ansible TacNet, from the sensor arrays of the nearby out system ring, which had more exacting sensor than the ring closer to the Sun, whose powerful presence limited the sensitivity of the passive sensors.

On that plot rested the goal Mahan’s task group was accelerating towards, the Lost Americans’ Jupiter Station Shipyard. On the same view, a thick green line represented the projected vector of the task group. It intersected the shipyard’s orbit twice.

Mahan manipulated the display, by virtue of his implants, directing it to display exactly what he wanted. The holodisplay zoomed in, and the light code of the enemy shipyard became an external image of the shipyard, and the broad band of green light separated into sixteen different traces, all intersecting different parts of the station.

He frowned. That required his ships to reach sixty-five percent of the speed of light to make that intercept, do it soon, and there was no way that it would. That was thousands of kilometers per second faster than his drive fields could withstand, and as such, an impossibility.

Mahan grinned, the slow, lazy grin of a predator, as he plugged new variables into the plot, as fortunately, his ships would not have to reach that speed.

Operation Bat Blind, Phase Two, Earth Orbit

PA0710 spun under the influence of its drive field, rotating towards its next target, which was a Confederate communications satellite.

TacNet’s orders were clear, and flashed simultaneously to every satellite involved thanks to the ansibles, and there were no mistakes, for this data had been being gathered for a long time. Hydrogen met hydrogen, and became helium deep inside the battlesteel skin of the Federation weapons satellite. Power flowed out from the fusion reaction, charging the capacitor rings that fed the offensive laser, and the rest of the energy flowed into the drive systems, keeping the satellite wrapped in its protective bubble.

Sensors sought the new target, and then its electronic signature registered in PA0710’s simple computer brain, and it locked it in. And as all the ansibles reported a target lock, TacNet flashed a new command.

Two hundred beams of coherent light reached out to just as many targets to blot them from the sky.

And below, in Federation airspace, serried squadrons of aerospace fighters hovered, waiting for their own command.

Again the Enemy picked off its targets, and FleetNet nearly shattered. Communications faltered and went down momentarily…

And then the Fleet reconnected to itself as the FleetNet backups came online, bringing the units of the Fleet back together as a whole.

From ground bases in the Land Which Must Be Defended, missiles burst forth, targeting the Enemy satellites, blazing with fury as they swept up through the atmosphere.

On the missiles’ heels came the Fleet attack wings, those based in the Land Which Must Be Defended. The remaining satellites had to be protected by the Fleet, or the long range FleetNet would collapse completely.

That could not be permitted.

Operation: Bat Blind, Incoming Fire, Earth Orbit

PA0710 continued its spinning maneuver sequence, rolling hungrily towards its next target…

A new order flashed over TacNet, shredding the perfect sequence of the attack. The satellite’s electronic brain took the new information and redirected the energy from the fusion reactor away from the offensive laser’s capacitor rings.

Energy rushed into new systems, and the smaller, multilensed laser turrets dedicated to defense blazed to life, spitting coherent energy beams at the incoming missiles.

In the two seconds it took for the missiles to cross the engagement range, PA0710 pumped out nearly four thousand EM assisted shells and twenty laser beams, all seeking the incoming fire. Even still, two missiles made it through everything the tiny satellite could throw at them. The first clawed away the drive field, nearly stripping the satellite bare, but the second was too close behind the first, and the drive field had not yet completely failed on impact.

If PA0710’s electronic brain had known of agony, it would have cried out with it at the second missile’s impact, as energy raced along systems not meant to the handle the surge load. Containment failed, and the death cry of PA0710 was the mute fury of a fusion explosion in a vacuum.

Operation: Bat Blind, Fighter Wings, Federation Airspace

At instant readiness the fighters sat, poised to leap into vacuum at a mere moments notice over TacNet.

And in one of those fighters sat Gregory Howell, a Flight Officer fresh from flight school, in his first combat deployment. He watched with growing frustration as the satellites did the work he wanted to be doing, unleashing destruction with his own hands. Then he saw the Confederate fighters rising, and knew, from the training drilled into him, what they had been waiting for.

Twinkling lights indicated the death of still more satellites, some Federation, some Confederate, and the deaths of many missiles besides. And as the Confederate fighters lined up on their runs at the satellites, the order came from TacNet, and the fighters lept upward, blazing out of the ground clutter into detectability with the ferocity of their drive signatures.

Howell felt a sensual delight as his mind, augmented by his fighter’s sensors, reached out and caressed its target. He had it now. Two missiles blasted free of his wings on wings of gravitronic acceleration, seeking self-immolation to kill their targets.

The Fleet was not taken by surprise when it happened, but the timing of the Enemy could not have been worse.

The tracks of rising missiles, followed by the larger signatures of the Enemy attack craft, showed that the Enemy had predicted the Fleet’s use of the strike wings. Some missiles were avoided, but many ripped glaring holes in the Fleet’s formations, which further dissolved into Chaos as FleetNet released the attack craft to engage independently.

They would no doubt lose. But the resources of the Land Which Must Be Defended were not infinite, and the attack craft had to be conserved.

The Fleet’s organic attack craft strength has gone, and fifth of the remaining units were deployed, between the satellite protection mission and the surface Fleet.

The rest had to remain safe for now. Vengeance and Victory were not yet assured, but the Fleet had not lost them yet either.

Heavy missiles, designed to kill Enemy capital ships, speared upward to take attack craft with them as the blossomed into balls of nuclear flame. Area of affect would hopefully keep losses at least close to even.

Operation: Bat Blind, Space Dogfight, Earth Orbit

Howel slid his fighter sideways, slipping out of the path of an incoming missile, then flipped end for end and engaged with his forward guns.

Combined energy and ballistic fire toe his attacker apart, and shredded fine pieces of metal pinged off of Howell’s drive field in sparks of blue. It was his third confirmed kill, showing for the first time the natural talent his instructors had observed in his training.

A massive ball of light ahead of him tore into his consciousness, even as his cockpit polarized, and reduced the young pilot for the merest instant to a gibbering, mindless primitive overwhelmed by the destruction as four of his squadron mates were snuffed from the universe. It was followed by rage, and then a deadly calm of training flooded Howell’s system.

“This is Flight Officer Gregory Howell,” he spun his fighter as another explosion pocketed the eternal night in his field of vision, “reporting usage of high megaton,” he fired as an enemy fighter blasted across his firing arc, “nuclear weapons by,” Four kills echoed in his brain, “Lost Americans Forces as anti-fighter weapons.” He flashed his energy guns at an oncoming fighter. Miss came the report over his neural link. As a fellow Federal pilot charged up in the fighter’s wake, Howell did not curve about in pursuit. Continuing in a straight line, he loosed a missile at the satellite in front of him at an urging from TacNet, as, in the back of his mind, he felt the whispers of the fighter’s rudimentary AI bring his point defense cluster online to engage an oncoming pair of missiles…

Operation: Bat Blind, Satellite Rings, Earth Orbit

PA1710 watched emotionlessly as the death occurred around it, and it began to engage the heavy missiles that were being launched from the Confederacy. TacNet needed the fighters clear of the threat, and so the satellites began to operate for their primary focus. The heavy missiles were fairly simply to burn down, and they died in swarms.

PA0711 was also watching, and receiving orders from TacNet. The Defense satellites seemed to have the missiles well in hand, and so, the offensive satellites went back to work, so that the fighters could concentrate solely on their opposite numbers. And its half meter laser blazed out again, targeting yet another Confederate satellite, still intent on destroying them all.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S Redstar, Operation Ring Lord, Primary Phase, Between the Asteroid Belt and Solar Orbit 5, Quarter Radian Behind Jupiter

Rear Admiral Mahan glanced down at the plot as he felt, through his neural feed, his flagship’s acceleration die away, leaving naught but the velocity gained, and the shielding effect of the activated drive field.

“Admiral?” came the flag captain’s voice through the holographic link to the main bridge.

“Group orders, all cruisers. Charge Gauss cannons, for firing on flagship’s mark, in approximately six minutes.”

“Aye sir. Target?”

“Lost Americans’ Jupiter Station.” The Admiral’s smile was cold, for that was the station that had built the ships that had killed so many friends that fateful night.

The crew was rested now, and alert. But the Confederacy had nothing left with which to threaten them.

In nine and a half minutes, twenty 7.5 ton shells would reach the same point in space as the station, and would be moving at sixty five percent of light speed. They would be invisible to all but the most delicate gravitic sensors, which the enemy’s base would not have, so close to such a massive planet as Jupiter.

Mahan forced himself to wait patiently as the guns charged. They needed five minutes of full load to be able to accelerate the shells that fast. As he waited, he attempted to diminish the value of the people awaiting this barrage on the other end, the same way the he knew the Confederacy did. But he could not, and killing defenseless people, even if they were warriors of a nation against his own, held no appeal to him.

He slipped his consciousness into the Redstar’s network, and the EI greeted him with surprise as he flowed through the systems to the ansible communications array. He would do it himself, give the order to fire at the same time, to all his ships. His mental fingers reached outward, and he felt the charges building in ten of his ships. Then they reached peak load.

Fire.

The Fleet watched as its attack craft and satellites continued to be blotted from the sky, but the Enemy was dying as well. But not as fast. They were organized, something the Fleet, with its disasterous losses and surprises, no longer was.

No organized force is ever outnumbered by a mob. Standard doctrine. But the problem was, the Fleet was the mob, and was outnumbered to begin with. The Enemy was winning, and it was only a matter of time.

They continued to fight, and then…

FleetNet froze as a massive surge of energy blossomed inside it. The shipyard, Mother of the Fleet, tore apart as kinetic energy slammed into Her, tearing apart bulkheads and circuitry, and all manner of things. Energy sparked off secondary explosions as plasma conduits lost containment, capacitors blew, and then one of the reactors went unstable as the energy surge formatted its memory, wiping the software controlling it. It blew, and the chain reaction began to take the others with it until the entire station vanished from the FleetNet.

The Enemy would be damned to Hell for this.

IDFI, as usual, was watching via the newly online TASA-G (Tatya Advanced Satelite Assessment Grid) uplink system. TASA-G - the replacement for the old MISAT-A/DCaS system (Magnetic Impetus Strategic Advanced Tactical Asset Data Collection and Storage) - was faster, and both more effective and more efficient. Controlled as it was by an ASI, things ran a whole helluva lot smoother.

This was bad news if you were a SatOps officer.

Tela was one such officer, doomed to boredom behind a terminal which only ever did anything if the TASA-G thought it ought to. She had no control over her own work any more - only the SatOps Controllers had that sort of control. Yet she was expected to diligently watch the system work - via a second, secondary terminal - and make sure it didn't mess up.

Except...

She wouldn't know if it did mess up, because nothing was actually in place to tell her. Yet.

Which made her entire existance at this point in time somewhat useless, really - most of the time. Currently, she was monitoring an old portion of the network - the part not yet controlled by Tatya - and, strangely, this portion was tied into the critical cislunar defence observation units, the CDOU-type MISATmk1as out in cislunar space.

Actually, that was incorrect: they weren't in cislunar space entirely. Some of them were orbiting above Farside - silently. Those were merely passive observers, however - nothing but monitoring systems, really, although in wartime they could go 'active'.

But she was watching space. Specifically, watching FSP assets. Dutifully, she relayed fleet movements (even the really minute and insubstantial ones) through to her Controller, who then relayed key data through to the Tactical and Strategic Warfare Division, who then analyzed the data and decided if there were any valuable lessons to be learned.

And so... Tela and a dozen others simply watched.

*Tag* for future reference.

-Ruhrian DIA Agent

Operation: Bat Blind, Space Dogfight, Earth Orbit

Howell was one of six members of his squadron still active. Since the defense satellites had engaged the missiles, losses to the huge ship killers had gone down, but they still remained.

He had broken away and found his wingman, still alive, but floating in the cold vacuum of space, ejected as his fighter had been torn apart by a pair of heterodyning lasers from an enemy Diablo.

Flight Officer Howell was down to one missile and a few hundred cannon shells before he would be limited to his energy weapons. The more powerful drives, heavier weapons loudouts and greater numbers were gleaning a three to one kill ratio, in the Federation’s advantage, despite the Confederacy fighter’s greater acceleration and maneuverability.

“How you doing, James?” Howell’s fighter floated ten meters from the extravehicular pilot, cockpit pointed so the two young men could see each other.

“It’s a bit cold out here, Greg, but I’m good otherwise.”

“’Kay, I’m gonna keep watch out here, buddy. Sit tight, and we’ll pick you up soon.”

They were floating some distance away from the main fighting, and Howell was carefully watching for fighters coming to close. An activated drive field running into a pilot would merely flash with energy overburn as it converted the mass. That, at least would not be a slow death, and would be much to fast to hurt. But all through training, James had been partnered with Howell, and he was not going to let him go that way.

And all around them, defensive and offensive satellites of the Paur-Angainor system continued to sweep the sky with invisible coherent beams of death.

The Fleet strike wings dedicated to the defense of the satellites had not been beaten. They had been destroyed. Not a single attack craft remained in orbit of the World.

The Enemy had accomplished its goal, and FleetNet was broken, its satellites gone, wiped from the universe by the horrid beams from the uncaring Enemy satellites. Additionally, a full third of the strike wings that were supposed to have been committed to the assault on the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended were now gone.

But then, with the loss of the Fleet’s satellites, it became extremely difficult to monitor any action over and in the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended.

And there was no point in wasting any more missiles.

Flag Bridge, S.P.S. Redstar, Operation: Ring Lord, Secondary Phase, Solar Orbit 5, Entering Jupiter Sub-System, Through Outer Moon Orbits

Rear Admiral Mahan looked at the visual sensor images his fighters were transmitting back to him from closer planetary orbit, where the Lost Americans Jupiter Station Fleetyard was.

Or would have been, had it still been intact, had it not been shredded by the absurd firepower of the Task Group’s forward guns, which had torn the structure into very small pieces. Or had the fusion reactors not lost containment in a chain reaction and turned the small pieces into even smaller free floating molecules.

Mahan had been on the flag bridge when they had encountered the visibly blue shifted energy wave some time before, soon after the fighters had been launched to finish the job.

Their mission had been changed to searching for survivors.

But the images confirmed what the energy pulse had led Mahan to suspect. He sighed heavily, and there no way anyone would have survived the silent violence of the station’s death. “Group orders, stand down from Condition Red. End General Quarters.”

He glanced down at the plot. Twenty or thirty thousand people at least must have worked on that station. Possibly five or ten times that many, like the Federation’s own major shipyards.

“Recall the fighters. Once we have them aboard, decelerate, and set course for Mars Orbit. I’ll be in my quarters if I’m needed.”

Rear Admiral Mahan, Commanding Officer, Fourth Task Group, Federation of Sentient Peoples Space Navy, walked off the flag bridge of the S.P.S. Redstar with the deaths of tens of thousands weighing on his shoulders.

But he would sleep soundly tonight. He always had when he had done his duty.

Operation: Bat Blind, Cleanup Operations, Earth Orbit

“Greg?”

“Yeah, James?”

“It’s really cold out here. Really cold.”

“Alright, let me see if I can get somebody up here to help you out. I’ll have to switch to the rescue frequency though.”

“Okay, James. Just get ‘em here fast.”

Howell flipped frequencies. “This is Flight Officer Gregory Howell, I need…”

A burst of static interrupted him, then a harassed sounding female voice came on. “Flip your beacon on, Howell, and we’ll get to you as soon as we can.”

“Ma’am, I’m not extra…”

“Then is your fighter disabled?”

“No, ma’am, I…”

“Then clear this channel!”

“Ma’am, I need to report a floater. His beacon’s out.”

“Sorry, Howell. Little stressed at the moment. Where is he?”

“He’s ten meters off my nose. I’m holding position.”

“Alright, I’m routing a dropship your way, e.t.a. about five minutes. And keep talking to your new friend, to keep his mind off the fact that he’s floating in space.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Howell snapped back to the other frequency. “Help is on the way, James.”

There was no response. Howell shouted into the comm. “JAMES!?”

“What?” The reply that came back was shaky and soft, and very tired sounding.

“No passing out on me, buddy. Help’s on its way.”

“Good. It’s colder than I though it would be.”

“Just keep talking to me.”

“Okay.” There was a pause, nearly long enough for Howell to become concerned, before… “What do you want to talk about?”

How’s your sister?”

“Jenny? Or Jess?”

Howell was more interested in the Jenny, the older sister, who was only two years younger than the two pilots, and she was currently in the Naval Academy. She was also rather attractive, blond hair and gold flecked green eyes making a striking contrast when she was in the Navy’s space black uniform.

“Both,” he replied, not wanting to make his wingman suspicious.

“Well, they’re both doing well in school. I think Jess wants to follow in Jenny and my footsteps, and go to the Academy.”

“She on track for it?”

“Yeah, she’s…”

Howell managed to listen, keeping James talking for another few minutes until his proximity sensors jangled silently in his head. “Head’s up, buddy. We got company. Looks like a Buffalo.” He could tell James was trying to twist around to see the dropship. “It’s behind you, about five hundred meters. Sit tight.”

“Alright.” A moment passed, then two, then the sensor readings spiked as a tractor beam speared out from the dropship, wrapping itself gently around the extravehicular pilot. James began to wave as he was pulled away. “Thanks, Greg. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, see you, James.”

The comm system crackled. “Thank you for your assistance, Flight Officer Howell. We’ll see you back at base. Head home for your debriefing.”

“Aye. On my way.” Howell rolled his fighter over and headed for the dirt, and home, the battle over, the mission, complete.

The Fleet had taken much more brutal losses than had been expected by this point in the Operation, while the Enemy continued to operate with a brutally standard doctrine. For all the greater power of its economy, the Land Which Must Be Defended simply did not have the infrastructure needed to sustain the level of military equipment and training that the Enemy did.

But it appeared that the Enemy had delayed its next move too long. Seventeen hours were all that separated the Fleet and the Ground Force from the shores of the Enemy Land Which Must Be Defended.

The Fleet moved into its new formation, expecting the attack to be soon. Three diamonds of four battlecruisers each anchored the corners of a protective double of triangle of the Fleet's warships, surrounding the more vulnerable, but still armed, assault transports.

Some of the strike wings were ordered back to the Land Which Must Be Defended, and fresh ones moved forward to take their places. It was imperative that everything be completely ready when the Enemy attacked.

The Fleet had to get through.

Junior Officer Quarters, Crandelburg Aerospace Fighter Base, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

The door slid open and Gregory Howell awoke with a start at the soft sound. “Who the… James?!”

Flight Officer James Ketril stood in the doorway to his and his wingman’s quarters, looking good as new. “Yep, it’s me. Good as new, the doctors say.”

“Excellent. You okay from the experience?”

“Yeah, a little frostbite, but nothing they couldn’t fix up with regen and some rest.”

“Good. Then hit the sack, buddy, and lets both get some sack time before they think up some new magnificent way for us to get ourselves killed.”

James sat heavily on the bed. “Sounds like a plan.” He did not even shed his jumpsuit before he was unconscious on the bed, dead to the world.

Main Briefing Hall, Montgomery Aerospace Fighter Base, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Captain Sarah McKinley, who had been a Colonel in the air force less than a year earlier, looked out over the assembled pilots of the Montgomery Aerospace Fighter Base. Her pilots. Twenty squadrons of fighters and ten of fighter bombers under her command. Five thousand people depending on her for their orders.

Fifteen of the these bases were scattered through out the two commonwealths and the two dominions on Earth, with five more to be constructed under the planned expansion just authorized by the Imperial President.

McKinley drew her thoughts back to the present time frame though. She had a mission to conduct, and pilots to brief on it. Four hundred and eighty pilots and back seaters ready to launch to defend the Federation from the massive Confederate fleet sailing southwards.

Their attention was on her now, expecting her briefing, expecting her to tell them what to do, as she had many times before.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, this is the situation as it currently stands. The Confederate fleet is less than fifteen hours from the mainland, and probably within weapons range in twelve, for longer ranged weapons.”

A holo display of the Earth popped to life behind her, ringed with red and green icons. “As you are probably aware, and as you can see here, Operation: Bat Blind has given us complete control of space. Unfortunately, much of Battle Fleet was damaged or destroyed, and the rest of it is tied down in other operations, and so, stopping this…” The display zoomed in quickly on a set of icons in the South Atlantic. “…force is up to us. It consists of twelve Confederate class battlecruisers, quite possible one of the most deadly warships ever designed, one hundred and twenty Diabolic class frigates, and a huge number of transports, vast beyond true comprehension. It is covered by seven hundred and twenty Diablo class aerospace interceptors for a combat air patrol.”

As McKinley spoke, each item flashed on the display. “The goal of Operation: Fury Swarm is the destruction of the transports. The warships are secondary targets. We have no idea whether or not they will keep coming if the transports are destroyed or not, but the national defense grid should be enough to handle them on their own.”

The display shifted to three dimensional mode. “This is our general plan of attack. Three green icons flashed to life. These groups are the Longsword squadrons from Montgomery, Camden, and Vornhold Airbases.” As the Captain spoke each name, the corresponding light code flashed. “They will attack along these vectors, straight at the middle of each side of the triangle, hopefully forcing the Lost Americans to split their fighter cover, which is concentrated here, over the center of the transports. At this point, the combined Broadsword squadrons of all three airbases will come straight down the middle from directly above and hit the transports, hopefully crippling the assault element in the process, as they will have rounded the planet ballistically, and hopefully unnoticed due to our destruction of the CLA satellite network. If the Lost Americans concentrate their fighters against any of the first three groups, the bombers will assist that group or groups, and the other fighter groups will go for the shot on the transports.”

She looked around. “Assuming all goes to plan, the Longswords may not even engage, and indeed, that is the preferred goal. If everything goes to hell, fighters from Oriole and Memorial Airbases will be waiting as backup, but they will be some distance out to avoid detection. So if you get yourself into trouble, don’t count on someone to bail you out. So don’t do anything stupid, people. I want you all back here.” McKinley smiled at them. “We go in three hours.”

Off Xegame Beach, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Naval Defense Platform Alpha 1789 rose silently out of its underwater cocoon, drifting towards the surface. Its simple minded computers had already completed its first task of making sure nothing floated above it before deployment from the ocean floor.

And none had, and so, the cocoon had cracked open, and out floated a deadly floating fortress, completely unmanned and armed to the teeth. It was backed by shore emplacement, but again, it did not care about that, as it only cared about two things. Destroying the enemy and protecting itself. Radio and ansible communications reached out and wove the platform into a tight web with its fellow platforms, and such selfish considerations faded away as NDP-A1789 became subordinate to the will of TacNet.

Much as a whale, it broke the surface of the southern Atlantic, and its sensors swept outward, seeking that which awaited them, looking for those things at which it was set its task. Death and destruction were the trade it followed, and it followed them well.

Energy turrets and missile launchers rotated slowly, testing their systems as defensive weapons crackled to life, filled with power.

The foreboding, silent sentinel stood watch over the waves, ready to face the oncoming tide of the Confederate Fleet. Ready, and eager.

OOC: Post Written with Lost Americans’ Player

Low Earth Orbit, Over the South Atlantic

Commander Reynard glanced down at his plot, TacNet keeping it updated with the positions of all eighteen hundred aerospace craft involved in the operation. Admittedly, the display in his fighter was much to small to display all those craft in detail, but it could, and did, list squadrons.

He send a silent command over his neural link, and the display shifted, showing his squadrons of Broadswords spread out behind him. One hundred and twenty fighter bombers, ready to sow destruction among the Lost Americans’ transports.

He switched back to the strategic display, and slipped it more commands. The enemy fleet should be picking up the diversionary Longsword squadrons just about…

“Ready to burn, Dave?”

“Yes, sir. Engine is prepped for immediate start, and weapons are hot, active sensors offline.”

…Now.

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

Captain Jothosi watched the plot showing the steadily creeping icons of the massive aerospace wings sweeping in towards the Lost Americans’ fleet. Ten groups of craft, five numbering one hundred and twenty, five more numbering two hundred and forty. The fighters were moving in closer, and as she watched, TacNet updated itself constantly. They would be at Point Luck soon. Very soon in fact, as the countdown spiraled towards zero on the bottom of the master holographic plot.

Three… two… one… zero.

Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

The Fleet was slightly startled by the sudden appearance of the incoming assault craft. Only eleven hours off the shore of the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended, some elements had been beginning to suspect that the Enemy did not plan to intercept the Fleet.

It now appeared those elements were wrong. The Fleet’s strike wings whirled overhead as FleetNet considered its options. If even half of the Enemy forces could be destroyed, they would be unable to carry through on their mission, as they would not possess enough firepower to engage the intact fleet. Two thirds of the Fleet’s strike wings would be dispatched, split between the three Enemy groups. Their goal would be to destroy at least one Enemy craft before their own destruction.

They had to. The Fleet had to survive, the Enemy’s mission fail, Vengeance must be had.

Point Luck, Northern Approach, South Atlantic

Captain McKinley let out a slow breath as the Confederate Fleet reacted, and removed any one’s doubts as to their competence to do their jobs. They were holding back a reserve of fighters, something that the battle plan had allowed for, but was not favorable to the rest of the operation, as it did not seem to fit the pattern of Confederate operation so far, none of which has held back a reserve.

This one had, though, and that was that. It would have to be dealt with. She double clicked her microphone, sending the prearranged signal for this contingency. The aerospace wings from Oriole would join the main strike, doubling its size, and meeting every Confederate Diablo retained with a Longsword.

Low Earth Orbit, Oriole Fighter Wings, Over the South Atlantic

Flight Officer Lee Ann Potter sent the signal over her neural feed, and felt the reassuring tingle of her drive field coming back online. Three… two… one… go.

She wheeled her fighter over and dove for the waves, the drive field’s atmospheric enhancement flashing to life as she pierced the envelope, slipping into the welcoming embrace of atmosphere. Her sensors went live, and the cascade of drive sources all around her told the comforting story. She dived with her companions, headed for the Lost Americans reserve fighters as her weapons came online.

Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

The new Enemy group was a surprise to the fleet, as it appeared to be three times the size of the other groups oncoming, and appeared to contain more of the Enemy’s heavier attack craft.

It was also three times the size of the Reserve maintained to defend against such an unfortunate event, but there were off setting factors.

The warships opened fire with anti-fighter munitions, as the Reserve blocked the fire of the transports. Missiles and energy weapons streamed upward, turning the Fleet triangle into a deadly tetrahedron, as the Reserve swept upward, seeking the downward moving Enemies.

Diving over the Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

Reynard watched as the first waves of missiles and energy weapons tore into the screening Longswords, and explosions rolled through the air, sending shockwaves as the stored power overloaded and blew the fighters apart. And then the fighters were among the Confederate fighters, rising to meet them, and the ship weapons could no longer target them, which meant it was the fighter-bombers turn.

Reynard was leading one of four, one hundred and twenty craft, Broadsword elements that made up the attack, and he watched as his wingman vanished in a flash of smoke, hit by something the Commander never saw.

Orders to the his group and the others, flickered over TacNet, silent communications from him, leading the entire strike overall, and from Central Command. Four hundred and eighty fighter bombers slammed into the dogfight like a tidal wave.

Point Luck, Northern Approach, South Atlantic

McKinley snarled into her pickup as she watched what happened. If she ordered the Longsword groups to break off, the Confederate Diablos would wheel about and fall on the Broadswords like hungry dogs.

“Engage the enemy!” she ordered, and unleashed two missiles from her underwing weapons pods. There would be too many empty bunks in the base barracks tonight.

But she had no choice at all if the mission were to possibly succeed.

Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

The Fleet was enveloped in flame from all sides as the Enemy’s larger number of strike wings opened fire, sending Death to the Fleet. Flame came in, and flashed around and through the Fleet, and the Fleet spit the fire back out in return.

As the strike wings began to mingle with the Enemy, the Fleet continued to fire, the warships spreading their fire out to the oncoming Enemies, while the transports, in their greater numbers, but with less weapons, opened fire on the dogfight as the Enemy smashed down through the Reserve.

Dogfight, Above the Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

Flight Officer Potter rolled hard to the right as the missiles flashed by underneath her fighter. Nosing over, she flipped end for end, and fire, nose cannons flickering out shells, reaching to destroy.

Another missile tore by her, spoofed just enough off course by her ECN, screaming out to confuse and befuddle the enemy fire control, especially as the energy weapons flickering up at near light speed from the ships below could not be avoided.

Lee Ann spin her fighter, the rolled with the shockwave as superheated air expanded in a roll of thunder, rattling all the nearby aerospace craft, Federation and Confederate alike.

Dogfight, Northern Approach, South Atlantic

Less weapons, with less power, flashed among the dogfight here as Captain McKinley lead her pilots into battle, but a much small section of the Lost American ships and fighters intercepted the Montgomery Longsword wings.

Targeting tones and lights flickered at the edge of her senses, conveyed by her neural link, and kinetic missiles dropped free of the wings, energy states burning towards self immolation.

Missiles flashed and balls of flame pockets the sky over the South Atlantic.

Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

The Fleet switched to energy weapons only, as the missiles were being expended too fast for far too little return.

Unfortunately, the Reserve and the strike wings were both melting like moths before a flame, and so FleetNet knew that all too soon the Enemy would be upon the Fleet, and without its own attack craft, the Fleet would be far too vulnerable. The missiles no longer being expended would be needed very soon.

At home, more strike wings launched, but they would arrive too late to matter in this battle.

Dogfight, Above the Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

Reynard guided his fighter bombers through the dying Confederate interceptors as the screening Longswords engaged them, distracting them and the fire rushing up from the ships below. He could hear the song of his ECM in his mind, and could feel the atmosphere shifting with each energy blast. He reached out to his secondary personality.

Ready, Dave?

Yessir. Right, left, jink, roll… and breakthrough. Contact.

:Lock it in.

Done.

Fire when ready. And the backseater unleashed the Broadsword’s weapons as it tore downward through curdled air toward the massive collection of Lost American transports, burning the sky with energy beams in a desperate attempt to delay or destroy their attackers.

And with Reynard came the dogfight survivors of four aerospace bases, all blazing forth with a deadly rain of fire.

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

D’ron unblinking watched as the display dispassionately told the tale of the horrific price his warriors were paying in their mission, as green icons died again and again. In fact, the only acknowledgement he showed of the losses was the steady tightening of his grip around Lesley’s shoulders, as her flame crowned head rested against him

Entire squadrons were dying, and even TacNet and the satellites could not keep up with the losses, as fighters died in ever increasing numbers, nor could they track what was going on beneath the hundred of square miles of rolling, murderous dogfight, threshing the pilots and squadrons fed into it like a harvester of souls.

“D’ron.” Lesley’s soft voice broke into his concentration on the battle.

“Yes, dear heart?” His gaze never left the display.

“Why do you force yourself to watch this?” When Lesley had been the elected Empress of Peitha, she had never taken much interest in military operations, leaving such things to the professionals.

“Because I can, and those people are dying to protect us and our nation.” D’ron kept up a good pretense. He was an accomplished politician now, with five years of experience under his belt, and with an expectation of an easy hundred more, and he fell into that mode so easily that sometimes it was hard to remember what had gotten him elected.

He had been a military officer first, a promoted to Field Marshal when he one the war against the Dominion of Barry Manilow. He knew warfare, and its cost firsthand. “I watch because it is my duty to protect, even more than it is the soldiers and pilots, my duty to protect to two and a half billion who live under my authority.”

“There is one more you need to protect now, D’ron.”

He blinked, not understanding, and turned his head to her face. She nodded. “Yes, I’m pregnant.”

His jaw fell open, and his lovely wife giggled at the sight.

Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

Defeat of the strike wings and the Reserve was total, but the Enemy had bled for that victory, and done so profusely.

But now the Fleet was bare to the Enemy’s attack craft, and they were swooping upon it like giant, flaming birds of prey, breathing fire from their beaks. Kinetic munitions flashed among the transports, and guns tore into hulls, slashing and snapping transport after transport apart.

But there were more transports that the Enemy had weapons to kill remaining, for their fighter mounted weapons were too small, and they had too few of the heavier craft and their more powerful missiles.

There were no more detected Enemy forces in range to continue the assault before the new strike wings arrived, and these Enemies would soon have their missiles exhausted, and while guns would damage a transport, they would not kill on the massive behemoths.

The Fleet would survive this day, and perhaps even make it to the shore of the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended. Vengeance could still be had.

Attack Runs, Above the Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

Reynard communicated silently through the TacNet with McKinley as they flew high above the waves, the smaller fighter taking the lead position. Missiles and gun ammunition were beginning to run low, and in fact, missiles were gone. They had a decision to make now, the two of them.

But first, a general query flashed out over TacNet. Doesn’t anybody have any missiles left?

There was no response, and Reynard flickered back into the private channel with McKinley.

Reserve.

Yes.

“Memorial, you are go.”

Memorial Aerospace Group, Low Earth Orbit, Over the South Atlantic

After over an hour of combat, their time had come. Three hundred and sixty new drives blazed to life and sliced down into the atmosphere above the Lost Americans’ Fleet. Every one of those drives carried with it a fully armed fighter or fighter bomber, loaded to maximum with missiles, held back against need, and for this contingency if needed.

And it was.

Flight Officer Patrick O’Hale rode the outer edge of the massive wedge, pouring downward in the atmosphere like a glowing blue rain. An order flashed to him over his neural link into TacNet. Fire.

He launched as the hundreds of fighters below scattered away from the Confederate fleet, blazing away at full speed to avoid the wave of fire from the heavens as every missile fired in the space of two seconds, the timing and targeting taken care of the by the simple minded AIs riding in each aerospace craft.

Patrick pulled up, clawing for vacuum, as his energy states left behind sought death and destruction.

Lost Americans’ Fleet, South Atlantic

The Fleet writhed under the fresh, unexpected assault from above, transports and even a few warships torn apart.

But still, the Fleet survived the experience, and was mostly intact, though the transports were is horrible shape. A third had perished in the attack, slipping themselves and their cargo beneath the waves forever, and another third were heavily damaged. Not a single transport had gotten through unscathed by the Enemy attack craft.

But yet, half the allocated Ground Force had survived, and it would be ready, weaker members already being plucked from it into death.

The new attack craft would arrive soon, and Vengeance would begin.

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

D’ron was still staring open mouthed and silent at Lesley, missing the end of the battle, his lovely wife giggling and grinning at him, until the personal moment was broken with a voice.

“Mister President.” The inflection and tone was obvious to anyone who knew her. Cortana continued as D’ron finally turned his gaze from Lesley, and onto the purple hologram that had appeared. “The attack was only partially successful. A full third of the Confederate transports have been destroyed, with a great many more damaged, and even a handful of warships gone. But most of their fleet still survives.”

D’ron gazed at her, still in shock. “That’s not good.” Understatement of the year. Good job, D’ron.

Cortana nodded. “It’s worse than that. By the time we could organize a second strike, the Confederate Fleet will be in range of the coastal defenses, and we need to keep enough aerospace groups fresh for that event.”

Lesley looked concerned. “But if they’re going to engage the coastal defenses, doesn’t that mean they are close enough to land troops?”

Cortana nodded solemnly. “Yes, it does.”