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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Nine million kilometers, Herr Graf,” Basaltberg’s staff navigator Fregattenkapitänin Shuren Hasselreider announced.

Lisa looked at her chrono. Nine million kilometers out from Tomlinson; fourteen minutes since the Alpha Drone’s report was first received. It was nearly time for Travis to leave the flag bridge and take up his battle position in CIC.

“Very good,” Basaltberg said, turning to Travis and Lisa. “Lieutenant Commander?”

“Ja, Herr Admiral,” Travis said.

Lisa braced herself. Make that exactly time for him to go.

And the look on her husband’s face as he turned to her was exactly a match for the one she was trying so hard to hide.

Best for her to get in the first word. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” she assured him. As if a promise like that meant a single damn thing on a ship heading into battle. “You just stay clear of trouble yourself.”

“I will,” Travis said, making the same useless promise in return. “And remember why we’re here.”

“To make sure the Andermani abide by the rules of the Deneb Agreement,” Lisa said.

And that the Freets and mercenaries out there do likewise,” Travis added. “I can keep an eye on the data flow in CIC, but you’re the one who will hear all the communications.”

Lisa nodded. Which meant she would be the first one on the hot seat if the Solarian League ever came to investigate what happened at Tomlinson today and Emperor Andrew sent his two Manticoran observers to testify on the Empire’s behalf.

This had looked like a wonderful opportunity when first presented, a chance to see Andermani tactics and combat skill in action. Now, with battle looming and the specter of hard-eyed men and women in Solarian legal robes picking at their memories, it didn’t seem nearly as attractive.

The fact that she and Travis would be going into danger in entirely different parts of the ship just made it worse.

But that was how it had to be. They were here to make sure everyone followed the rules of warfare; and while duplicate observations and memories could be useful, overlapping ones were better.

The fact remained that, given the realities of warfare, this might be the last time they ever saw each other.

She wanted to give him a kiss good-bye. She really wanted to, and she could tell he did, too. But they were on an Andermani ship, surrounded by an awesome depth of social and cultural reserve, and she and Travis already felt like backwards, unsophisticated cousins.

And so they settled for a quick touch of hands, and an exchange of brave but strained smiles.

Then Travis was gone, headed to CIC and the aft engineering section of the battleship. Lisa watched until he had disappeared through the hatch, then turned her eyes to Korvettenkapitän Wuying Haberman and the TO’s spread of tactical displays. She had a job to do, and uncultured cousin or not, she was damned well going to do it.

Travis would be fine. She would be fine.

But in the back of her mind she could hear the whispered words of doom.

Damn all those teen-age dramas and tear-jerkers, anyway.

* * *

“They’ve stopped decelerating, meine Kapitänin,” Kistler’s voice came from Retribution’s bridge speaker. “Range from planet, nine million kilometers.”

“Interesting,” Hansen murmured, her image on Retribution’s com display looking thoughtful as she gazed at her displays.

“Is that good or bad?” Llyn asked Quint quietly.

“Not necessarily either,” Quint said, finishing her last sip of tea and resealing the flask. “Mostly just unexpected.”

“At least now I know how he plans to approach,” Hansen said, turning to look at the com connection to Retribution.

“Walk us through it, please,” Quint said.

Llyn smiled to himself. For the benefit of our resident ignorant civilian, she might have added. But Quint was far too classy for that.

“First, he’s not going to reduce to zero where we first projected,” Hansen said. “Which was, granted, always unlikely. But he’s still closing at thirty-six hundred KPS, which gives him plenty of acceleration advantage to catch us if we decide to run for The Cloud at this late date.”

“He still thinks we might do that?” Quint asked.

“Basaltberg likes to cover all his bases,” Hansen said. “More importantly—and probably of higher priority in his mind—is that he can still kill all his remaining approach velocity in about thirty minutes, which would allow him to stop advancing before he enters our missile range.”

“Sounds like the cautious type,” Llyn suggested.

“He is that,” Hansen agreed. “But don’t make the mistake of confusing caution with timidity. Once he’s decided on his move, he’ll fully commit himself to it.”

“Sounds like the kind of commander you like to have on your side,” Quint commented.

“No argument from me,” Hansen said. “Maybe when I’m Empress Florence and I’ve accepted his resignation the Quintessence can offer him a position.”

“Let’s get past this particular hurdle first,” Quint said. “So Basaltberg doesn’t panic. Does he expect that kind of behavior from his opponents?”

“Maybe not expect it,” Hansen said. “But he would certainly be open to the possibility.”

“Well, then.” Quint looked at Llyn, a tight smile on her lips. “Perhaps it’s time we did so.”

“I believe it is,” Hansen agreed, and her image on the com display turned in the direction of her com officer. “Oberleutnantin Braunstein, send the order.”

* * *

“Transmission from the Beta Drone,” Unterberger announced from the ATO position in front of the enormous plot in Friedrich der Grosse’s Combat Information Center.

“Acknowledged,” the battleship’s XO, Fregattenkapitän Lindauer, said from the command chair to her left. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Alphanumeric data began to scroll across Unterberger’s display. Floating at his assigned place behind the two senior officers, Travis took a moment to look around, trying to absorb everything.

There was a lot there for him to absorb. CIC was located between the battleship’s command deck and flag bridge, adjacent to Damage Control Central, serving the two command centers as the primary evaluator of every sensor reading and tactical transmission from the fleet. Every scrap of information coming in was processed here, then passed on to Admiral Basaltberg or Kapitänin der Sterne Sternberger as either of those senior officers requested.

For Travis, the most profound difference between this arrangement and standard Manticoran doctrine was the deployment of the senior officers. A battleship was big enough to survive damage that would destroy or mission-kill a smaller unit, and CIC’s physical separation from both flag bridge and command deck created a third command node that could keep Friedrich der Grosse in the fight even if Sternberger and Basaltberg were both killed.

Hence, the presence of XO Lindauer and ATO Unterberger. Not only would Lindauer be able to take up command if necessary, but being stationed in CIC also meant that he was fully up-to-date on the ship’s and fleet’s tactical situation. In addition, having an extra set of skilled and experienced eyes monitoring the data flow meant Lindauer could decide instantly if Basaltberg or Sternberger needed to be advised of something beyond the parameters they’d specified.

Still, impressed as Travis was, there were parts of the arrangement that he quietly disagreed with. During one of Carrino’s orientation tours during the voyage, he’d been surprised to learn that CIC lacked either of the two command decks’ direct ship controls. He could understand that, until a takeover was necessary, the personnel in here were to be totally focused on their primary function of processing information and presenting it to Basaltberg and Sternberger on clean, uncluttered displays optimized for quick evaluation and response. But if CIC was called upon to take command, that lack of direct control capability might slow the ship’s maneuvers and responses.

On the other hand, as Carrino had explained—and this time without any of his usual spread of good humor—if that situation ever occurred it was likely that Friedrich der Grosse’s maneuverability would already be severely limited.

Travis turned back to Unterberger’s display just as the alphanumeric data resolved into a cluster of angry red icons on the periphery of The Cloud. Lindauer regarded them through narrowed eyes for a moment, then punched a button.

“Herr Admiral, meine Kapitänin,” he said into his boom mic, “the Bravo Drone has just detected nine—I repeat, nine—destroyer-range impeller wedges accelerating out of The Cloud at one-point-eight-four-five KPS squared.”

* * *

“So now we know where the missing destroyers have been hiding, Herr Graf,” Kranz commented.

Ja, we do,” Basaltberg acknowledged. “Along with at least one more ship than we thought they had. The question, of course, is why they are where they are.”

Lisa rubbed a fingertip absently across her lower lip as she studied the flag bridge plot and the icons that had appeared simultaneously with Lindauer’s report. The admiral had a good point. From the insurgent destroyers’ current position, 1.23 light-minutes from Tomlinson, it would take them just over two and a half hours to make a zero-zero with the planet. If all they wanted was a bypass, they could achieve that in less than eighty minutes, shooting past at 9,280 KPS.

But none of those numbers or strategies made sense to her. Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader had shaved another million and a half kilometers from their own range to the planet, which meant that even without accelerating Friedrich der Grosse and her consorts would reach Tomlinson orbit in only another thirty-five minutes. If the ships in company with the planet headed to meet the newly detected destroyers and Basaltberg went in pursuit at two hundred gravities from his present overtake velocity, he’d still catch them over two hours short of the oncoming destroyers.

“On the face of it, this deployment makes no sense,” Basaltberg continued, his words echoing Lisa’s silent doubts. “Their destroyers have lost the element of stealth, and yet they can’t possibly intervene before we’ve decisively engaged the main force.”

“Perhaps Commander Donnelly Long’s reasoning for Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen being in command was flawed,” Kranz suggested, throwing a quick look at Lisa.

“I don’t think so,” Basaltberg said before Lisa could come up with a response. “If the insurgent commander wanted to repeat the ambush of Bayern, they would have begun falling back from Tomlinson no more than an hour after our arrival. They didn’t.”

He pointed at the display. “But note the timing. They’ve revealed their destroyers just about the time Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen would have anticipated our second recon drone would be approaching The Cloud.”

“You think they’re showing themselves to us on purpose, Herr Admiral?” Lisa asked.

“A distinct possibility, Commander,” Basaltberg said. “They could be drawing our attention there in hopes that we’ll miss something more critical.”

“Or else whoever is in charge simply panicked,” Kranz put in. Clearly, she wasn’t quite ready yet to accept the theory that Hansen was still in command. “Or else thought that if the planetary defenders hurt us badly enough, that many undamaged destroyers might be able to deal with our remnants.”

“What they might be able to do afterward seems to me to be an unwise reason to leave that many launchers out of the main engagement,” Lisa pointed out.

“It does indeed,” Basaltberg agreed. “We’ll just have to keep both our eyes and our options open. I’m sure that sooner or later the insurgents’ strategic reasoning will become clear.”

Lisa winced. “Perhaps at the point of a missile wedge.”

“Very likely,” Basaltberg said. “In the meantime, we’ll carry on as planned.”

“No changes, then, Herr Graf?” Kranz asked.

“Correct, Kapitänin der Sterne,” Basaltberg told her. He paused, gazing for another moment at the display, then nodded. “No. No changes.”

* * *

Twenty-nine minutes had passed. The range to Tomlinson had fallen to just under a million and a half kilometers.

And the tension on Friedrich der Grosse’s flag deck had hardened into something thick, dark, and very cold.

Lisa sat in her borrowed chair, her helmet in her lap, her gloved fingers drumming restlessly against it. She knew that tension. Knew it all too well. It was the anticipation of battle, the sharpness of focus, the hope of victory and the dread of defeat, the last chance to mentally run through all the factors and possibilities before the heat of battle plunged everything into chaos and uncertainty and trained reflexes.

Only here, for the first time in her career, she had no role to play in what was about to happen.

She wasn’t in control of even the smallest part of the ship or fleet. She had no authority, no responsibility, no way to affect the smallest iota of the outcome. She was passenger, observer, occasional sounding board.

She was dead weight.

She hadn’t expected to feel this way. But she did. And the knowledge that something was about to happen that was completely out of her control was stifling.

But she was a professional, and she would do her best to act like one. If for no other reason than to prove to the Andermani that she could.

“Launch in one minute,” Sternberger’s voice came in her earbud, and a countdown clock appeared in the master display, the seconds ticking downward with uncaring precision.

“Launching,” Schlamme said.

Friedrich der Grosse twitched slightly as fusion boosters flared and four missiles exploded from her after-launchers. Vergeltung and the battlecruisers added another eight missiles to the salvo, and ten seconds later, they fired yet again.

“Decelerating,” Hasselreider announced as a third salvo erupted from the launchers, the waves following each other as quickly as the launchers could reload, and went streaking toward Tomlinson.

“Good telemetry on the first salvo, mein Herr,” Schlamme confirmed, and Basaltberg nodded.

“Acknowledged,” Basaltberg said. “Stand by to pitch ship.”

* * *

“They’ve opened fire,” Bajer said sharply.

“Not a full salvo, though, meine Kapitänin,” Kistler said. “We show twelve point sources and—” He broke off. “Second salvo. They’re ripple firing, meine Kapitänin. Three salvos, twelve missiles each.”

“I see,” Hansen replied. “Return fire: Fire Plan Hohenfriedberg.”

“Jawohl, meine Kapitänin,” Kistler replied, and sixty-nine missiles erupted from First Fleet’s forward launchers.

“They’re decelerating, Captain,” Bajer reported.

“Of course they are,” Hansen said calmly, her eyes on the missile icons streaking towards Preussen and the waiting Quintessence ships. “Kistler?”

“Launching second salvo,” Kistler confirmed.

* * *

“They’ve fired,” Unterberger announced. “Sixty-plus incoming.” She paused twelve seconds. “Second salvo launched,” she amended.

“Acknowledged,” Basaltberg’s voice cam from the CIC speakers. “Main combatants, stand by to pitch on my mark.”

Travis watched the icons creeping across CIC’s master plot. Basaltberg had limited his attack to his after-launchers, despite the fact that doing so allowed the defenders to fire much larger, much more concentrated salvos in reply.

But there’d been method in that apparent madness. Accepting the lighter throw weight had allowed Basaltberg to begin decelerating the instant the final wave left his launchers. That meant that, with Friedrich der Grosse’s base velocity adding to their own acceleration, those missiles now had an effective powered range of 1,410,000 kilometers, whereas Hansen’s return fire had a maximum range of only 767,800.

Had Basaltberg maintained his original base velocity, the range would have fallen to 642,000 kilometers in the three minutes the Hansen’s missiles’ drives lasted, putting Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader well inside the insurgents’ missile envelope. Now, instead, the Andermani ships would be outside that range, allowing them to defend against a ballistic attack rather than one that was under telemetry control.

But this was warfare. What that advantage ultimately meant, only the next few minutes would tell.

Space was vast, and impeller-driven missiles were relatively small targets. Yet, as the opposing missiles hurtled toward and then past each other, two of them actually met head on and wiped one another from the face of the universe. Their brethren, undeterred, continued toward their own dates with destruction.

Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader’s attack reached its destination first. Eleven missiles hurtled into the defending starships’ teeth, and defensive fire came to meet them. Reaction-drive counter-missiles were pathetically slow compared to the incoming attack birds, with a maximum range from rest of no more than fifteen hundred kilometers, but they did give the insurgents some area defense capability. Fast though incoming missiles might be, they still had to run pretty much straight at their target over those last fifteen hundred kilometers.

The defending missiles raced outward, then detonated, spreading clouds of shrapnel in the paths of the oncoming attackers, and at the velocities involved even a relatively tiny solid object wreaked catastrophic damage. Missiles that didn’t simply break up might continue ballistically onward, but their threat value would instantly plummet to something very close to zero.

A third of Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader’s initial salvo died as the missiles slammed into those clouds of tiny solid objects. But the other eight screamed on, all of them heading for the same target.

Preussen.

The insurgents’ autocannon opened up as the remaining missiles blew past the counter-missile barricade, firing streams of rocket-propelled shrapnel shells that duplicated the counter-missiles’ proximity attack, but on a smaller scale. Together, Preussen and the Quintessence warships mounted thirty-three autocannon forward, a formidable defense against any missile attack. But in this case, only Preussen had the range to reach the incoming fire.

They did their best. But despite the withering torrent of defensive fire, two of Friedrich der Grosse’s birds broke through. One raced down Preussen’s starboard side and detonated just outside her sidewall. Sidewall generators screamed in protest as the megaton warhead smashed at them, but they held.

But the second missile entered the throat of the battleship’s wedge…and detonated less than a kilometer from her hull.

* * *

Alarms howled on Preussen’s command deck and the heavily armored battleship heaved in agony.

“Missile One and Two out of action!” Kistler barked. “Point Defense Three is down!”

“Hull breach at Frame Sixty!” Lieutenant Commander Vaznys, Preussen’s Tomlinson-born engineer snapped. “Multiple cell ruptures in Radiator One. Radiator One now offline, Captain. And Reactor One’s gone into emergency shutdown!”

“Acknowledged,” Hansen said, sitting motionless like a boulder at the heart of the tumult as the second salvo tore down upon her ship ten seconds behind the first.

* * *

“Pitch ship,” Basaltberg ordered.

In response, both of Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader’s battleships and all three battlecruisers raised their bows into a climbing attitude relative to the system ecliptic.

* * *

The radar and lidar of First Fleet’s fire control officers had to sort through the clutter left by the first salvo, and the heavy cruiser Crossfire suffered a power failure and was unable to launch in time at all, but twelve counter-missiles raced to meet the second Andermani salvo.

Ironically, despite their lower numbers, they were actually more effective than the first intercept launch had been, taking down all but five of the attack birds. Those five continued their merciless charge toward Preussen, and then it was once more the autocannons’ turn.

Despite Preussen’s damage and the targeting interference, the cannon killed four of the lethal quintet. The fifth got past them, and it, too, entered the throat of the battleship’s wedge, but at a steeply crossing angle that passed above Preussen’s hull. It would have continued onward, into the inner edge of her port sidewall, but its proximity fuse detonated it at the moment of its closest approach. The battleship bucked like a frightened horse as the outermost edge of the fireball’s periphery smashed into her forward hammerhead, and crimson damage control codes flashed.

“Heavy casualties in forward impeller room,” Vaznys reported sharply. “Forward ring…forward ring is down, Captain.”

“Missile Three and Point Defense One and Point Defense Two are gone.” Kistler looked across the bridge at Hansen. “Number Four mount’s the only one we have left forward, meine Kapitänin,” he added, his voice grim.

“Understood,” Hansen replied.

On the tactical, the counter-missiles launched to meet the last installment of Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader’s rippled salvo. Only five shipkillers got by them, but three of the attack birds howled straight down on Preussen, and her close-in defenses were at only quarter strength. Her single remaining forward point defense went to continuous fire, trying to fill the space between her and the threat with a solid wall of shrapnel.

Two of the incoming missiles hit that shrapnel and died.

The third didn’t. It charged across Preussen, once again above the ship but this time angling sharply to her right. Its proximity trigger was late, not detonating until just after it had crossed the hull, the blast knocking out the starboard sidewall generators, stripping the shuttles off her forward small-craft hard points, and opening four compartments of her habitat ring to space. All things considered, it was incredibly light damage.

The cruiser Black Knight was less fortunate. She survived, but only as a hulk haloed by voiding atmosphere and a ring of spreading lifepods.

* * *

“We’ve lost the feed from Preussen,” Commodore Quint’s com officer said.

“Not surprising,” Quint replied grimly. “That ship has definitely gone through the shredder.”

Llyn looked at Retribution’s displays, a hard knot settling into his stomach. “Is it as bad as it looks?” he asked.

“It’s bad enough,” Quint conceded. “But she’s still there, and Andermani battleships have a reputation for toughness. Let’s see how fast Hansen can clear away the mess and get on the secondary com channel.”

“It had better be fast,” Llyn warned. “Without Preussen this whole thing gets a lot dicier a lot faster.”

“No argument here,” Quint said.

“Wedge burnout,” Retribution’s tactical officer announced.

Llyn looked at the tactical display. Every missile in First Fleet’s first answering salvo had now gone ballistic, thirty-two thousand kilometers short of the decelerating Andermani ships, and nineteen thousand kilometers short of their counter-missile envelope.

Sitting ducks, in other words. Very fast, very lethal ducks, but sitting ducks nonetheless.

Two seconds later, the salvo ran into the Andermani counter-missile zone, and thirty-two of them died right there. The rest—

“And, damn,” Quint said quietly.

“What?” Llyn asked, searching the displays for the information his untrained eye had clearly missed.

“Basaltberg’s being clever,” Quint said. “Normal defense for non-evading targets facing up-the-kilt shots is to pepper the whole area with counter-missiles and autocannon and hope for the best. Instead, our Andermani admiral had his major ships pitch their wedges and turn their roofs to our barrage, dumping the full antimissile responsibility onto his screening units.”

“Seems reasonable, if a bit timid,” Llyn said. “What’s the downside?”

“The downside is that if any of our barrage had targeted those smaller ships they’d be toast,” Quint said. “Without the capital ships’ antimissile screen they wouldn’t have a prayer of stopping that big an attack. Basaltberg gambled a large percentage of his throw weight that Hansen would order us to concentrate exclusively on his two battleships and leave the rest for later.”

Llyn grimaced. “Which she did.”

Quint nodded. “Which she did.”

“Second salvo approaching,” the tactical officer spoke up. “Wedges still active.”

“But all of them still targeting the capital ships,” Quint said resignedly. “And already too close for us to change them to different targets.”

“Would you have done things differently if you were in command?” Llyn asked, lowering his voice.

“Probably not,” Quint conceded. She considered. “But I suppose we’ll never know.”

Floating side by side, they watched as the missiles followed their sisters into oblivion against the Andermani capital ships’ wedges.

* * *

“At least two hits on Preussen, Herr Graf,” Unterberger’s voice came from the flag bridge speaker. “Data feeding to you now.”

There was a stirring through the compartment, Lisa noted, a small lessening of the tension that had filled and permeated Friedrich der Grosse and everyone in it.

But only a small lessening. Hit was a highly elastic term when it came to missiles, after all. Two direct hits would have utterly destroyed the battleship, but direct hits were the exception, not the norm, and CIC was still sorting through the data in order to ascertain exactly how extensive Preussen’s damage was.

And even if it was as extensive as everyone hoped, Preussen was hardly all alone out there.

“There might have been a third hit,” Unterberger continued. “We don’t yet have clear evidence. But sensors confirm a steep drop in her wedge strength, which strongly suggests her forward ring is completely down.”

“Very good,” Basaltberg replied. He looked at Kranz and Lisa and raised his eyebrows. “Thoughts?” he invited.

“It sounds like she’s badly hurt,” Kranz said. “And if her ring is indeed down, we may be able to assume the damage is concentrated forward.”

Which, if true, would be a huge shift in the battle’s dynamics, Lisa knew. Like Friedrich der Grosse, Preussen mounted four twin-armed launchers forward, and she had much deeper magazines than the Iskra-class battlecruisers the Freets’ mercenaries had brought to the battle. With twenty rounds in her box launchers, an Iskra could throw an impressive weight in her alpha salvo, but she had nowhere near the sustained capacity of an Andermani battleship. If a couple of Preussen’s launchers had indeed been knocked out, and if they and their magazines were no longer available, the insurgents’ firepower had just suffered a significant blow.

Herr Admiral, passive sensors now suggest significant loss of atmosphere from Preussen,” Lindauer’s voice came from the speaker. “Nothing conclusive, but for us to detect it from here would suggest massive hull breaching.”

“Coupled with the change in Preussen’s impeller signature, that suggests serious damage, Herr Graf,” Kranz said. “The fact that they haven’t already fired another salvo suggests they’re reserving fire until we are closer.”

“So: badly hurt,” Basaltberg said. “Or at least badly enough to conserve ammunition.” He turned to Hasselreider. “Put the squadron back on approach profile, Fregattenkapitänin,” he ordered the astrogator. “But stay ready for additional helm orders.”

“Jawohl, Herr Graf,” she replied.

“And now,” Basaltberg continued, looking at Lisa as Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader turned its bows back toward Tomlinson. “Let us see just what surprises Kapitänin der Sterne Hansen has arranged for us.”

* * *

“Andermani fleet is moving forward,” Quint said. “It looks like Basaltberg intends to close the range before he resumes fire.”

“Agreed,” Hansen said calmly.

A calmness Llyn couldn’t help but admire. The image on Quint’s com display was not of the best quality, the mark of heavy com damage, and the fact that Hansen had donned her helmet suggested that it wasn’t just communications that had taken a beating.

Yet Llyn couldn’t see any of the tension or outright fear that he would be feeling under similar circumstances. Hansen was certainly smart enough to realize she was in trouble, but had chosen to hide the doubts inside, showing only confidence and determination to her officers and crew.

From everything Llyn had read, Gustav Anderman had been the same way. Maybe Hansen really was his daughter.

“Assuming he’s correctly identified your battlecruisers, he knows you’ve fired off two thirds of your missiles,” Hansen continued. “He’s also obviously aware we’ve been hurt badly.” Her mouth tightened briefly, a brief flicker of the darkness within her peeking out.

Again, Llyn knew, hardly surprising. He’d seen the casualty reports Preussen was sending over to Retribution, and those numbers weren’t good.

“So he won’t waste his own fire at extended range,” Hansen concluded. “He’s going to get closer, where he’ll have better sensor coverage and less transmission lag on his telemetry.”

“We always knew that Basaltberg’s battleships would give him a potentially decisive advantage,” Quint said. “Not just in launchers, but in telemetry capability and magazine depth. With Preussen’s damage, he must be feeling pretty confident by now.”

“Confident, but not arrogantly so,” Hansen warned. “He’ll be on the lookout for surprises.” Her image frowned, her eyes flicking back and forth, probably checking her displays. “Yes,” she murmured. “If Preussen hadn’t lost so many of our telemetry links, I’d recommend holding fire until he launches and we know the geometry he’s committed to. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure we have that option.”

“I agree,” Quint said, pointing Llyn at the correct display for the numbers she’d already seen and evaluated. “At this speed, he’ll be past us quickly, at which point the initiative will be back in his hands.”

“And we won’t be able to surprise him a second time,” Hansen said. “So do we accept that even more of them will be going in blind and start hitting him early? Or hope we’ll have enough time—and will last long enough—to be decisive as he over-flies?”

“For all the reasons you just stated, I vote for now,” Quint said.

“Concur,” Hansen said simply, and nodded to someone off-screen. “Fire Plan Bruchmüller.”

“Jawohl, meine Kapitänin.”

Llyn shifted his attention to Retribution’s tactical displays. Hansen’s command went out…

And the launchers in Tomlinson orbit, the hidden launchers that Basaltberg’s Alpha Drone had failed to detect, came to life.

* * *

“Lieber Gott!” Unterberger gasped.

Travis’s head twisted around to the plot, his eyes widening in disbelief. What in the name of hell—?

“Missile launch!” Unterberger snapped urgently. “Estimate two hundred fifty—repeat, two-five-zero! Correction—multiple launches. We have two—repeat two—salvos incoming.”

“Return fire,” Basaltberg snapped instantly. “All ships, yaw and pitch in twenty seconds.”

Third launch!” Unterberger called.

And in that frozen handful of seconds, seven hundred and fifty missiles began racing toward Gerechtigkeitsgeschwader.


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