[EXCERPT] The Achilles Battle Fleet: Book One: Mei-Ling Lee
The following is an excerpt from the novel The Achilles Battle Fleet: Book One: Mei-Ling Lee by Brendan Wilson, now available via the Literate Ape Press Bookshelf.
PROLOGUE
A TIME FOR WAR
Rear Admiral Jay Chambers stood on the bridge of the Troop Ship Honolulu, his adjutant at his side. Chambers served as the inspector general for the Achilles flotilla, a motley grouping of starships that had recently been ordered to fall back from Achilles Nine, a contested sector near the Separation Zone. Chambers looked the part of an old warrior: past fifty, gray hair, a long scar down the left side of his face, and what was clearly an artificial left hand. Lieutenant Mei-Ling Lee, conversely, was a twenty-something Asian woman, small in stature but tough-looking. She wore her jet-black hair in a long ponytail that hung down her back.
They were on the Troop Ship Honolulu to conduct an after-hours, no-notice inspection. This was part of the admiral’s job as inspector general. Lee knew there was some sort of command problem on the Honolulu, and Chambers had decided to see first-hand what it was. They were waiting for the captain to arrive on the bridge, and Lee happened to be looking out at the fleet through the forward holoport when a vast, blinding light filled the screen.
It instantly polarized to save their eyes, but Lee was left with bright blotches in her field of vision. She’d been looking right at the flagship, wondering if she’d ever be assigned there, when it went up like a supernova. Blinking past the purpling afterimages, she froze as her mind tried to register what had happened, but it was almost too enormous to grasp. All around her, people began to make sounds of excitement, verging on panic. She realized she wasn’t that far from it herself as the initial shock began to wear off.
Chambers remained calm, she remembered later. She admired that about him. A warrior at heart, she thought. Years of conflict and training had so steadied his nerves that he was, in fact, unflappable. He addressed her calmly: “Lieutenant Lee.” She made no response.
Again, calmly, “Lieutenant Lee.”
She turned to him, still in a state of shock. “Yes, sir?”
“Please tell the captain that I am assuming primary command of the fleet and that you will be assuming command of this battle bridge. Until further notice, the Honolulu carries the flag.”
She stared at him numbly, unable to reply. A thousand people, at least, had just been vaporized in the nuclear fireball that had been the former flagship, the Human Alliance Battle Cruiser Iroquois. People she knew, had worked with, were molecular ash or dead of explosive decompression. Fleet Admiral Robertson … Oh, God.
“Please do that now,” said Chambers, still retaining his unearthly calm. “I’ll be in the ready room, transferring the flag.” That meant reassigning command and control to the Honolulu, issuing orders to his staff, and a dozen other things. He hurried toward a small door leading to a room off the command deck that was normally reserved for the ship’s captain.
Lee finally snapped out of it, turned to look at the screen, and saw that what was left of the former command ship was tumbling out of control, forward half completely gone, the rest streaming flames, flash-frozen liquids, and atmosphere. The surviving hull was more or less swiss-cheesed by shrapnel, with little if any possibility of survivors. Quick responders were already trying to stabilize the Iroquois and stifle the fires with tractor and pressor fields. No time to worry about that now, she admonished herself. She moved swiftly
to the task she’d been given, striding to the center of the bridge and announcing, “Shipwide channel. All hands to battle stations. Captain to the bridge.”
The watch officer, a young ensign, stared at her blankly, much as she had done with the admiral a moment ago. She looked hard at the young officer and saw from his tag that his name was Douglas.
She barked, “Ensign Douglas?”
He seemed to jump back to reality and turned to his console to make the announcements. A second later, she heard the three-tone attack alert, followed by the call going out on every channel: “Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands to battle stations! Captain to the bridge. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill.”
She waited a moment for that task to be completed and then announced briskly to the personnel on the bridge, “Listen up, everyone. Admiral Chambers has assumed primary command of the Achilles flotilla. I am Lieutenant Lee, his adjutant. This is now the flagship and command center, and I am the battle captain. Stations, report status in standard order.”
By taking strong control of the situation and ordering a well- practiced routine, her actions seemed to have a calming effect. Each station reported their status to her in the order prescribed by naval operating procedure.
The technician at one console responded, “Communications: internal, fully intact. External …” A pause. “The command net is jammed with traffic. Nothing from Flight Ops. Admin and log nets are open and quiet.”
“Assume all nets are compromised,” said Lee. “Emergency supersession. Establish this vessel as primary.”
Immediately, the technician broadcast, “Flash traffic, flash traffic, flash traffic. Alpha Six Log has assumed primary as Achilles Actual. Emergency supersession, all nets.” Alpha Six Log was Admiral Chambers’ call sign. Flash traffic was an emergency order used to clear all traffic from any communications net, to await urgent instructions due to contact with the enemy. Emergency supersession meant an immediate change of frequencies to a new, predefined set. Lee knew she was taking a chance on that one; since they clearly had
been ambushed, she had to assume their current com-nets had been monitored and, therefore, compromised, and couldn’t be used now. But changing frequencies after a battle had started risked losing some of the stations that missed the order to make the change.
The other stations on the bridge reported in.
“Weapons and Security: external load-out includes bow and stern lasers, fifteen short-range Sprint missiles, and limited point defense. Counter-boarding gun crews fore and aft are operational. The provost platoon is at 80 percent.”
Lee suppressed a wince at the light external weaponry but wasn’t surprised that the onboard weapons were minimal. That was standard for a troop transport. The provost platoon was designed to keep order on board, because troop ships normally carried jarheads, and they sometimes got out of hand. At the moment, though, the Honolulu was fielding only a few marines, with the balance of her living space taken up by civilian staff being withdrawn from Achilles Nine. No one had expected an ambush.
“Provost to the bridge. Have him bring one squad,” Lee barked. This order was a long-established precaution in combat. The command center for a fleet would always be protected. She snapped her head around. “Ensign Douglas, we’ll need to establish a flight ops function. Find a senior pilot and have him report to me.”
Sixty seconds later, an older warrant officer in a flight suit with master aviator wings above his left breast pocket strode onto the bridge. Lee saw a man past fifty with Slavic features, still fit and a bit grim-looking. He saluted in a relaxed but correct manner. “Ma’am, Master Warrant Officer Nemeth reporting as ordered.”
The man spoke with a slight Eastern European accent. Lee knew the Navy retained a few warrant officers, most of whom were assigned as technical specialists, master pilots, flight instructors, or test pilots, but she rarely saw them. WOs were considered officers, ranking below a lieutenant but above a master chief petty officer.
Lee returned the salute quickly and said, “Flight ops is out, as you can see.” They both glanced at the viewscreen, which still showed the Iroquois vomiting flames and debris into space. Nemeth nodded without emotion. Lee suspected he had seen a lot in his many years
of service. “You are now commander in chief, aerospace, for the flotilla,” she informed the WO, before turning her head to say, “Ensign Douglas, assign Mr. Nemeth a station and coms.” She turned back to Nemeth. “I need to know what we’ve got out there in terms of fighters, what we still have available, and what we’re facing. If you need help or additional personnel, the watch officer will get those for you.
“Now, who’s on operations?” Lee asked as she turned toward that station.
“I am, ma’am—Petty Officer Jones,” said a young man from the terminal.
Lee ordered, “Bring up the frigates to support flight ops. Warrant Officer Nemeth will give you coordinates.”
The flotilla had two frigates attached to it for security. They were slow, but the extra firepower from their big guns might be useful in the developing battle. She noted that the provost platoon had arrived and quietly taken up station at the two entrances to the bridge and realized that the captain of the Honolulu had yet to report. She glanced at her watch and saw that six minutes had elapsed since the call had gone out. That was far too long; something was wrong. She was about to do something about it when one of the provost guard finally announced, “Captain on the bridge.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Lee heard an angry male voice growl. She turned and saw a disheveled, overweight commander, only partially dressed, stumble onto the bridge, still struggling with his tunic. He looked around wildly, trying to take in what was happening. He set his eyes on the young watch officer and said, “Douglas, what’s going on? Who are these people? Why wasn’t I notified?”
Ignoring Lee, the commander stormed over to the watch officer. Lee could smell the alcohol on his breath. Not just his breath; actually, he was sweating it. Clearly, he had been drinking for quite a while and was still intoxicated, in flagrant violation of fleet regulations. Douglas came to attention and began to give his report, but the commander interrupted him. “Don’t give me that crap! How many times have I told you I don’t want to be disturbed during third watch? Are you an idiot?”
The rest of the bridge crew looked directly at their screens with expressionless faces. They had seen this type of behavior from their captain many times before, Lee suspected.
She was about to intervene when she heard Chambers say smoothly, “Captain Evans, a word, please.” Chambers had correctly addressed the ship’s commanding officer as captain, though his rank was commander. Per naval tradition, the commanding officer of any vessel was always addressed as captain, regardless of actual rank.
The commander spun toward Chambers’ voice, fury in his bloodshot eyes. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being interrupted during a tirade. He seemed not to have seen the admiral’s rank insignia or didn’t care, as he brusquely demanded, “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my bridge?”
Chambers drew a breath, nodded slightly, and said, as calmly as ever, “I am Rear Admiral Jay Chambers, primary of this flotilla. You, sir, are relieved of command.” Before the commander could object, Chambers turned to the chief petty officer in charge of the provost guard and said, “Mr. Sharkley, escort the commander to his quarters, where he is to be confined until further notice. Have the XO report to me immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the CPO. Lee could see the man trying to stifle a grin as he moved with two of his men to comply. This crew must have really hated their former captain.
Chambers said, “Now, let’s have a look at flight ops.” He walked over to the console where Master Warrant Officer Nemeth was working. Lee was surprised when Chambers put his good hand on Nemeth’s shoulder and said, “Good to see you here, Chief. Tell me what we have.”
Nemeth tapped some keys, and his display lit up to show a tactical readout. Lee could see a representation of the Iroquois, still listing and tumbling, trailing a comet’s tail of debris and frozen liquid and atmosphere. At least the fires were out. She saw red dots indicating enemy raiders, and a few blue dots representing the flotilla’s own fighters. The frigates were already maneuvering into position.
“Sir,” Nemeth began, “we have the remnants of the 514th fighter squadron fighting a containment action against about three times their number.”
“Looks like they’re doing well,” Chambers said. “Who’s in command?”
Nemeth said, “Baker, the ops officer. The squadron commander and about half of the recon element were taken out by the mine that triggered the ambush.”
Chambers’ face reddened; he shook his head and said firmly, “That should not have happened.”
“No, sir,” Nemeth replied solemnly, “it should not have.” Deploying your vessels too near each other was a cardinal sin in the Navy, for just such a reason.
Chambers asked, “Who do we have still in pre-launch?”
“We have the remaining two flights of the 514th that weren’t on patrol, the 319th recon squadron, and the 221st heavy lift squadron,” Nemeth said.
“Who’s in command of the 319th?” Chambers asked. “Commander Johann Schultz, but he is … was on the Nicky P,”
responded Nemeth. They could all see that the Medical Ship Nickolay Pirogov, which housed the central sick bay, was in pieces now. “Acting command will devolve to Lieutenant Commander Stephen Bowman.”
“Can he handle this?” Chambers asked.
“He can, sir. Very solid pilot,” Nemeth answered without hesitation. “What else?”
“Ops has moved the Alabama and the Guangdong into supporting positions,” Nemeth said, referring to the two frigates.
Chambers turned toward the young man on the operations console and asked, “Load-out on the frigates, Mr. Jones?”
“Each has one battery of six five-inch railguns, sir. They are at full complement and are within range,” responded the young PO.
“Let’s get them into the fight if they can get a clear shot,” Chambers said. “These bastards are going to fight to the last, and I don’t want to lose another fighter if I don’t have to.”
“Roger, sir,” Jones responded.
Chambers nodded, turned back to Nemeth, and said, “Send Bowman and as much of the 319th as we can get out. Hold everyone else back as a reserve.”
“We’re not going to be able to control the fight from here, sir,” Nemeth said. “We don’t have the right communications gear. Bowman will have to sort it out on his own.”
Chambers smiled and said, “Yes, I know. I’m counting on it.”
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