Shell Game: 10/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Mitchell Edwards nodded briefly, glancing at his communications officer. "Call all the Squadron Leaders. Battle formation. Squadrons 14 and 15 are to move into a position to get a back view o' that planet."
"Aye aye, sir." The man bent over his board.
"Connect me with Osborne on the 'Nova'," the Fleet Commander continued.
"Yes, sir." The man's hand moved over his board. "Osborne on the line, sir."
"Osborne!" Edwards barked.
"Fleet Commander?" Osborne sounded harassed.
"You are ordered to surrender immediately or risk destruction! This charade's gone on long enough!" A feeling of exhilaration possessed him. That nagging sensation of something drastically wrong had vanished. This was right. All his instincts told him so.
"Sir?" Osborne both looked and sounded confused.
"Surrender at once, or we open fire!" Edwards snapped. He grinned savagely.
"I don't understand, sir." Osborne sounded utterly bewildered. "Of course we surrender ... but *why*?"
Edwards did not answer. He glanced at Morris, the Communications Officer. "Did you manage to pinpoint where that jammin' was comin' from?"
"Yessir." The man nodded. "As far as I can tell, it's coming from a spot in the southern hemisphere of the planet. A transmitter of tremendous power."
The communicator erupted at that instant into another ear-shattering burst of static. Edwards winced and Morris quickly switched off the speaker. The Fleet Commander turned to his Weapons Officer. "Lock a missile onto the source o' that jammin' and launch."
**********
Mark Linley scowled at the viewscreen. The transmissions from the 'Peacemaker' indicated that their time had just about run out. He swore softly to himself. "Alan, order out the skippers and one-man fighters in Section Nine to intercept those squadrons. Hit and run technique. We can't let 'em get too close to Lavirra."
"Order relayed," Alan responded instantly.
"Fleet's moving to battle formation," Lieutenant Kerry announced, rather apprehensively. "Do you suppose he's bluffing?"
"Not Edwards," Mark said, sourly. "I'd say he's just about added up two and two."
Sante jumped. "The 'Peacemaker' fired a missile at the base!"
"Their forcefield's up," Alan said, reassuringly. "Now what, Commander?"
Linley scowled at the tactical display. "If I was him, I'd pretty well figure out that we got ships hidin' in the asteroids. He'll start bombardin' us next. We better get out, I guess. We don't wanna be tryin' to maneuver in vaporized rock. Signal the ships to move to Position 2. Shields up and battle stations."
**********
Sublieutenant Surya, at the "Peacemaker's" scanners, turned suddenly to Edwards. "I read a forcefield coming on down on the planet."
"The transmitter?" Edwards asked, grimly satisfied.
"Yessir." The man paused. "Holy --!" He broke off. "Squadrons 14 and 15 are under attack, sir! Dozens ... hundreds of small craft! Skippers and scouts -- and one-man fighters by the readings."
"I thought that might flush 'em out," Edwards remarked. "Launch a message drone to the nearest Patrol base. Call for reinforcements. Tell 'em we've found what is most likely a major base of the Terran Underground and that the outlaws apparently have possession of Mombasa's squadron of Patrol cruisers and Lord Milthvar, too."
"Yessir," Morris responded, briskly. "Drone away."
On the tactical screen, Edwards saw the tiny blip moving away from the 'Peacemaker'. "That should do it ..."
"Sir! The "Nova's" launched a missile!" Surya was half out of his seat.
"There goes the drone," the pilot chimed in. "Well, I guess we know about Subcommander Osborne, now."
"Or whoever he is," Edwards remarked. "I doubt the real Subcommander Osborne had anythin' to do with it. Launch another drone at right angles to the last and signal our ships by laser com to cover it."
"Yessir."
"An' tell the other ships at the same time to start bombardin' the asteroid field. Two to one, they got more ships hidin' in it."
"They sure do!" The scanner officer sat up straight. "Ships, sir! Lots of 'em! They're coming out of the asteroid field!"
"Put it on visual," Edwards ordered.
The picture on the main viewscreen expanded suddenly as the scene was automatically adjusted. He stared at the mass of ships that had suddenly materialized from the obscuring clouds of rock. Big ships, little ships, and all sizes in between. He saw a huge Procyon battleship, a Terran light cruiser, a Tormheit dreadnaught, an Arcturian destroyer. A Cetan warship moved side by side with a Loangian heavy cruiser. There was a corvette of Terran manufacture, a larger ship he thought he identified as another Arcturian -- a cruiser this time -- and *that* one was unmistakably a Patrol battlecruiser! Besides the big ships, scattered among them were scouts, one-man fightercraft, and very ordinary-looking skipperships. Edwards was not fooled by their innocuous appearance. The Terran Underground had modified their skippers, as every patrolman knew to his annoyance, changing them from the relatively slow, low-powered civilian craft to lightning fast, highly maneuverable ships with a formidable array of firepower. He did not doubt that these ships were all of that.
The "Nova" and the remaining two of her sister ships were moving forward to join the motley fleet, forming up between a Terran destroyer and a second battlecruiser. Edwards frowned. "Identification on any o' those battlecruisers?" he asked, curiously.
"Yessir." Surya gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "The one in the lead is the 'Wolverine'."
The Fleet Commander pursed his lips. "Linley's ship. I guess that settles it."
"Undergrounders," someone murmured.
"Evidently," Edwards agreed, suppressing a little pang of nervousness. "Good-sized fleet, too. Looks like quite a batch of ships." He glanced at Martin. "What happened to that drone?"
"Launchin' now, sir." Martin was unperturbed. "We must outnumber 'em at least six to one."
"At least," Edwards agreed. "Still, it's a large fleet for just one planetary system. That rather confirms our assumption of a major base here. And we don't know what other surprises they may have in store for us. Remember, we're dealin' with experts in the art o' deception." He scratched his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble. "See if you can punch a laser com line through the static to the 'Wolverine'. It's kind of far, but maybe they can pick up the gist o' the message."
"Shot fired at the drone, sir," Surya announced, almost simultaneously. "Missed. The drone just converted to hyperspace."
"Com line open," Morris announced.
"'Wolverine', this is Fleet Commander Edwards," Edwards said. "You are ordered in the name of the Viceroy to surrender your ships."
No answer. The enemy vessels sat silently and menacingly before them, ranging themselves in battle formation -- Patrol formation, he noted with interest. Well, more than a few patrolmen had gone over to the Terran Underground at one time or another, for various reasons, and the outlaw organization had never been stupid. They would have been foolish to ignore the experience of battle-trained commanders such as Mark Linley, Ronald Griffen, Andrei Wolenski, Subcommander Kevin Bronson ... to name only a few. He had opened his mouth to issue a command when Snathvor jerked upright with a most undignified exclamation. Edwards turned quickly. "M'lord?"
"I am receiving a message." The alien's voice sounded distant. "From the Commander of the enemy fleet." He paused, then began to speak, his accent suddenly almost Terran. "This is the Commander of the Lavirran Warfleet. You have invaded our planetary system on a mission of aggression. You are warned to depart immediately. If you do not heed this warning, it will be considered an act of war and we will take whatever measures are necessary to defend ourselves. Any attempt to enter our planetary space will be met with full resistance, and do not let it be forgotten that we have in our possession five noble hostages, citizens of the Jilectan Autonomy, by name, Lord Milthvar, Lord Pilathzor, Lords Dilexvor and Brexvor and Lady Jorexzill. This is your last warning." The Jilectan stopped. "That is the end of the message."
"Terran psychic, sir?" Edwards inquired, unnecessarily.
The alien didn't answer the obvious. "Prepare to attack, Fleet Commander."
XXVII
"Enemy fleet's moving," Sante announced. "Splitting into two groups."
"Two-horned approach," Linley said. "He'll come at us from above an' below the plane o' the ecliptic -- put himself in a position to shoot at anythin' leavin' the planet. Order the counter maneuver, Exec. Have the minelayers lay down the circumpolar minefield to stop his pincer move. And send a couple more squadrons to help our mobile force get ridda those two squadrons he sent out earlier." He studied the tactical display as their own repulsers sounded again. For a moment, it flashed through his mind how strange this was. Nine years ago, the Jils had put him in command of the "Wolverine" -- and here he was in it, leading a fleet to attack the very organization that had given him his first military training, although he had studied the subject thoroughly in Terran schools since, and at his side was the Terran psychic whom he had pursued unrelentingly through the jungles of Midgard on the orders of Lord Salthvor.
Salthvor was dead, killed by that same Terran psychic to save both their lives, and he was now Fleet Commander Linley, no matter how motley the fleet, grimly determined to hold off his former allies to buy time for his fellows to escape.
Alan's eyes met his, and a faint, albeit slightly nervous smile curved his partner's lips. Linley threw a wink at him and turned his attention back to the tactical display.
The Patrol ships, as he had expected, were splitting into a two-horned formation. Clumps of six battlecruisers followed one another in long, curving arcs above and below the plane of the ecliptic, an approach calculated to put the attacking fleet in a position to fire at anything leaving the planet. Mark's fleet was moving into his previously planned defense for Edwards' favorite attack. He glanced at Alan. "Decoy fleet?"
"In position, Commander," Alan said, promptly. "The 'Avenger' and its attendant ships are in guard positions to cover the corridor. Evacuation fleet is standing by for new coordinates."
"Great. We'll give 'em the new course as soon as we engage Edwards. Minefield?"
"In position," Alan reported. "Minelayers report all mines inert, blanketing Edwards' approach routes. Ready for activation on your word."
"Okay. Tell everybody to try an' look like they mean it. Edwards has gotta think we're tryin' to keep him away from the escape corridor."
"Everybody reports ready," Alan said. His voice sounded unnaturally tight.
Linley didn't blame him. His own mouth was dry, but outwardly he knew he looked cool and confident -- one benefit of his famous poker face. His old Patrol crew had called him Old Blah-Face -- and other, less complimentary things -- because of that particular talent.
The Lavirran Fleet moved toward the tips of Edwards' double horns, to all appearances ready to fight to the death to hold back the invader. The "Wolverine", in the second wave, jolted slightly. Mark raised an eyebrow at his partner. "Well, there was the first shot. Tell our guys to make it good."
"Message out. What's he doing?"
Linley was watching the tactical. "Just what I expected. He's splittin' his ships into small groups, makin' us split up to handle 'em. Since he's got more ships, it's thinnin' us out." He grinned easily. "Navigator, got those new coordinates?"
"Yess, ssir. Coming zrough now," Zarriss, the young, Arcturian navigator responded, promptly. She somehow managed to look cool and unflustered, though Mark knew she had to be as nervous as the rest of them were. But that was an Arcturian for you.
"Good. Exec, transmit on my signal." Linley braced himself internally, and almost ducked as the battle erupted outside. Edwards had evidently given the order to fire. Brilliant flashes illuminated the screen, polarized out by the computer to protect the delicate vision of the beings within the ship.
"Coordinates sent." Alan's voice was almost an anticlimax, compared to the silent battle on the screens. "They acknowledge. Transport on its way up now. And the 'Pride of Galanthzor', too."
"Keep 'em comin'," Mark replied, his gaze fixed on the screen. "Tell 'em to double or triple 'em up as long as they can stay inside the corridor."
"Done," Alan responded.
The Lavirran fleet was returning the Patrol's fire. Deflector screens flared every color of the rainbow as beams struck or missiles strained their capabilities. Their ship jolted again, and the lights dimmed as the computer diverted power to the shields. Their own weapons computer returned fire. Mark glanced at Alan. "Tell the planet's guns to cut loose, kid, and tell 'em to arm the minefield in sixty seconds."
"Acknowledged," Alan said. "Three more transports on their way out."
"How many more?" Linley inquired, never removing his gaze from the tactical.
"They're moving them out as fast as they can," his partner reported, after a second. "About fifty percent still to go. Are we going to make it, Mark?"
"I hope so." Linley gave a one-sided smile.
"The fleet will be in the mine field in fifteen seconds," Sante reported.
"Yeah. Tell our guys to move back a bit. Concentrate our fire in front to hold them up until the ones behind catch up."
"Ships acknowledge," Alan reported. "Lavirra's guns are in action, Mark. The 'Sabreclaw' just took a bad hit. They're partially crippled."
"Good." Linley continued to watch the tactical screen. The sound of their ship's blasters was a continuous thrumming in the background. The viewscreen had cut out almost completely; the pyrotechnic display out there must be a spectacular sight for anyone on the planet who had time to watch. The lights dimmed and brightened constantly as the "Wolverine's" computer tapped power for the shields. On the tactical, he could see that a fair percentage of the Patrol fleet had entered the minefield. Five seconds, four, three, two ...
"Reverse thrust!" he ordered.
There were explosions out there, now. The viewscreen went black for almost forty seconds before the picture returned. "We got 'em!" Sante whooped. "At least fifteen battlecruisers completely disabled and nearly forty crippled!"
There was a cheer from the bridge crew. Linley grinned savagely, envisioning the chaos now going on in the enemy fleet.
"Receiving a message from the 'Leviathan'," Alan said suddenly. "They're just short of the minefield. Greg says congratulations, and reports he rigged an explosion in their engineering to simulate a hit. 'Leviathan' out of action."
"Good," Linley said. "That'll keep Sven out of trouble."
On the tactical display, the enemy ships were retreating, he noted with satisfaction. We ain't stupid, Father, dear, he vocalized silently. Your bosses ain't never met a bunch like us Terrans before!
The Lavirran ships were still firing an occasional shot after the Patrol fleet to discourage stragglers. They'd be back fast enough, though, just as soon as Edwards analyzed the situation and decided what to do about it. About now, he was probably realizing that he had been suckered in by a decoy and would start looking for the real escape fleet. That was what Linley would do in his place. Still, every minute won was that much more time for their people to evacuate. Linley glanced at his partner and gave a thumbs-up sign.
He wished he dared attack, but with a fleet one-sixth the size of the one facing him -- just to be generous -- it just wasn't feasible. He was fighting a delaying action, and both sides knew it. So far, he hadn't lost any ships -- not even the little skippers and one man fighters. Those psychic pilots were the best there was; he could vouch for that, personally. It was just as well that the Jils didn't go in for personal combat as a regular thing. They'd be incredibly hard to handle. Linley recalled, with a shudder, the elite corps that guarded the Jilectan Warlord during his one sojourn into the Rovalli Sector. They'd been devilishly hard to out-guess, he remembered, but even then the little Terran psychics had managed. The vision of the Jilectan leader's clothing disintegrating as he stood on the podium speaking to an adoring audience of billions made him smile.
Alan was watching him expectantly. "What now, Mark?"
Linley had been considering that, even as an irrelevant part of his mind reflected on other subjects. "Tell our small ships to move in, real careful. Keep 'em on their toes an' distract Edwards. I want his attention split. But, tell 'em not to take any big chances. At the most, this'll only delay 'em a few minutes."
"Pilots acknowledge," Alan responded, at once. "Susie Burke says it's about time, Colonel, sir!"
Linley grinned. "Tell Cadet Burke she better watch it, or I'll tell Lee on her. I'm still her superior officer!"
"She says to tell you she can handle her grandfather; don't think you can scare her that way," Alan relayed, dutifully.
"You just tell her to be careful! Lee'll skin me if somethin' happens to her -- an' Beth'll finish off what's left. *I* recommended her an' Jim as skipper pilots!"
The viewscreen was back on now that the pyrotechnics had temporarily ceased. The fleet of little ships was moving skillfully through the minefield, looking microscopic next to the huge battlecruisers: gnats beside Goliaths. It brought home to him what he had known only intellectually before -- how small his fleet actually was in comparison to what they faced.
The little ships swooped in on the big ones. Gnats they might be, he reflected a moment later, but they packed a helluva sting! The battlecruisers were forced to defend themselves against the annoying pests that were so tiny and agile as they buzzed about that they made the larger ships seem slow and clumsy beside them. He saw one pilot whip past a battlecruiser with what looked like centimeters to spare, firing almost directly into the big ship's gunports. He cursed softly.
"Who *is* that idiot?"
"Huh?" Alan had apparently not noticed. "Oh, that's Cliff Prescott."
"Oh." Prescott was one of the few Terran psychics that Linley knew who possessed no empathic talents, however the man was an extremely powerful telepath and clairvoyant. "Well, tell him to watch it!"
"He's being careful," Alan said, absently. "Two more transports on their way out, Mark."
Linley didn't comment. In spite of the diversion caused by the little ships, the Patrol fleet was once more beginning to move. He swore under his breath. Edwards had figured it out, all right. The movement of his ships told him that. The fleet had shifted the direction of its approach, still a double-prong formation, but with a skew motion to make it more difficult for him to predict their course. And it looked like he'd pinpointed the route of the escape fleet. The jamming from Lavirra was undoubtedly making things difficult for Edwards' ships, but obviously not impossible. Mark surveyed the opposition for a moment.
"Clever, Pop," he remarked. "Now, we get to see if I'm as smart as I thought. Give the order for 'em to shuffle the mines -- an' everybody keep back! Get our little guys outta there, too."
"They're on their way," Alan told him, busy relaying messages.
The pilots of the tiny ships were all psychics -- almost a necessity considering the jamming -- and would know where the mines were, now that they had been moved. The battlecruisers, however, once having mapped what they thought were safe paths through the field would meet this next very nasty surprise.
But this time, the fleet kept moving forward. Edwards was apparently willing to risk his smaller fighters and their pilots -- and his big ships, too, judging from the speed with which the fleet was approaching -- rather than lose more time. Or more likely, he amended, the order had been given by Snathvor. He glanced at Alan.
"Typical Jil. He's sacrificin' his ships to get at us."
"But not himself," Alan said, distatefully. "It looks like the 'Peacemaker' is well in the rear."
"What else?" Linley studied the tactical screen, his mind racing. The mines were taking their toll, all right, but the fleet wasn't stopping. Despite hideous losses, the Patrol ships continued to move forward.
Typically, they were not firing at the planet. A habitable planet like this one was a rare prize to the Jilectans, who would not wish to see it rendered uninhabitable, so except for fire that forced the base to keep its screens up, Lavirra would not be harmed. And, equally bad, within moments they would be within range of the second escape corridor as well. There was no other choice. Linley shrugged fatalistically. "Okay, kid, give the order. We hit 'em with everythin' we got. Go for broke."
XXVIII
Alan Westover had been in small skirmishes with single ships before, but a full-fledged space battle had been, until now, purely theoretical. He had excelled in the theory while still at Terran Space Academy, but having that theory come alive before his eyes was another thing altogether. He was devoutly thankful that his partner was in command. Mark appeared cool and calm, obviously very much in control of the situation. His own palms were sweaty both from excitement and nervousness as he relayed Linley's order.
From there on, things became too fast for him to follow, inexperienced as he was in real space warfare. The Lavirran Fleet accelerated to meet the enemy; an enemy still many times their size. The ships now were under the direction of their computers; no human could possibly give orders swiftly enough for this. Ships maneuvered with lightning speed. The blasters never ceased their thrumming and the lights dimmed constantly under the demands of the shields. Sometime in the confusion, he received word from the psychic aboard the MacArthur that the ship had been hit; Kurt McDougal was hurt, but still in command. Kevin Bronson's ship, the T'Freet, was also hit. Bronson sent word via Angela Westover that his ship was damaged but still operable; the T'Freet continued gamely to fight. The tiny fighters buzzed about through the battling giants, sniping here and there, wherever they could lend a hand to their enormous counterparts.
It couldn't last long; Alan knew it with a sinking sensation. Six to one odds were not promising. The best they could hope for was to give some of their people a chance ...
The 'Wolverine' jolted violently, the shock almost stunning him, and a siren began to blast with nerve-jarring shrieks. Somewhere along its battered sides, the 'Wolverine' had been hit ... badly.
Linley was issuing orders, his deep voice penetrating the hubbub without difficulty. Alan shook his head, trying to clear it. There was something ...
Then, he knew.
"Mark!" His shout echoed around the bridge. "They're here!"
"Huh?" Mark turned to look at him, distracted from his efforts to bring disaster under control. "Who's here?"
"The fleets! The other fleets! Look!" He pointed at the tactical display where, just beyond the system's asteroid field, two fleets, easily the size of their own, had materialized. They were coming in fast, already firing at the ships not broadcasting recognition signals via their psychics aboard. Alan laughed, feeling a little giddy. "The fleets from Shanandra and Kri'il! I'm getting a message now! It's Fleet Admiral Fannar and Prince K'Teech!"
He saw Mark's face break into a broad grin of comprehension and relief. Shanandra and Kri'il were the other two main Underground bases. Retired Fleet Admiral Fannar, formerly of the Arcturian Space Navy, now commanded the Shanandran fleet, and K'Teech, the Royal Prince of the Procyon Matriarchy, the fleet from Kri'il. Kaley had contacted the other two bases when all this had started. It had been an open question as to whether they would arrive in time to do any good, and they must have pushed their speed to the limits in order to do so, but they were here, and in the nick of time.
The Patrol still outnumbered them two to one, but the forces of the Terran Underground had the advantage of complete surprise. The Jilectans had never guessed the size of the fleets amassed by the Underground over the years, had never dreamed of one fleet, much less three. The newcomers swooped down on the Patrol from the rear and the Patrol fleet was forced to turn and face the new threat.
Alan looked at Linley, who let out his breath in a long sigh. "Looks like we got a breather," he remarked, turning to his Navigations Officer. "Status report, Lieutenant!"
"Our hypersspace engines are out, ssir," Zariss reported, reluctantly. "Zat shot hit zee shenerator. Estimated repair time, ssix hourss. Four casualtiess, none fatal. Damashe to our sstarboard shield and zee lifeboat deck."
Linley swore softly. "Better contact the others, kid. When one of the ships can, they'd better pick us up ..."
"Mark, look!" Alan interrupted. On the screen, coming rapidly toward them, was a battlecruiser.
Sante checked his instruments. "That's the 'Peacemaker'!"
"Comin' in for the kill," Linley said. Then Alan saw his face change and felt his spirits lift. He knew that look. Mark had an idea.
The Commander of the Lavirran Warfleet grinned suddenly. "Lieutenant Bearpaw, sound battle stations. I want everybody available for boardin' parties! If we can't get outta here in the 'Wolverine', we'll hitch-hike a ride!" He glanced at Alan. "Tell the others what's goin' on, Exec. Weapons Officer, we play dead until they grapple, then we grapple, too. I don't want 'em gettin' away when they figure out what we're really up to." He paused. "Alan, I want you to take over for me ..."
Alan stood up. "Oh no you don't, Mark," he said, quietly. "If you go, I go. Nobody says no to a psychic partner; not even you."
Mitch Edwards was also on his feet. "You'll need psychics. I'm goin', too."
Linley shrugged. "All right, all right. Get Nina Duvall up here to handle psychic communications for the ship. Lieutenant Wellin', take over. You know the drill we practiced. Let's go!"
**********
tbc
