Spooker
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Grass Eaters | 41 | Best Laid Plans
🕑 Added 2024-04-07 19:48:46 +0000 UTCDatsot
Like most in his Datsot Invasion Fleet, his flagship did not have a name; the fleet referred to it by the last four digits of its serial: 1841.
Ten Whiskers Ditvish watched the frenetic activity of 1841’s flag bridge. There was the staccato of his computer officers tapping away at their consoles, interspersed with random pitch changes of the inertial compensators as his flagship put itself into formation. Several subordinates were speaking into their communicators, coordinating the rest of the ships in the fleet.
Unlike the Lesser Predators, the Znosians were not so foolish to combine the functions of fleet and ship command for their offensive fleets as they do. The flag bridge was separate from the ship bridge. Ditvish had his own flag staff, separate from the regular crew of the ship. This allowed the captain of the ship to focus on the functions of the ship without worrying about the overall fleet movement, operations, and strategy, which Ditvish handled as the overall master of the fleet with his own, separate staff.
The blink into the Datsot system had proceeded without incident, so far at least. There was always a chance the enemy would be there waiting for their blink in, by accident or the result of detailed espionage, or one of his ships might materialize itself in a large space rock or another ship. Space is big: it was a miniscule chance, but not theoretically impossible.
“Ten Whiskers, our bait battlegroup has completed post-blink procedures.”
He looked at his computer officer, who bowed respectfully in his presence. She would make a good second-in-command one day, he thought. She has thus far exhibited no extraordinary creativity or insight, or if she did have such taboo talents, she kept them buried so deep in her bag they were irrelevant. But by the Prophecy, she knew how to execute, and she did it well. Quiet competency was such a rare quality these days…
Ditvish nodded proudly at her. “What about the enemy? Have the Lesser Predators responded yet?”
She made a negative gesture. “Not yet. They don’t have FTL-radio equipped sensor platforms this far out. At four light hours out, it will take them a while to know we are here. We can see what they were doing four hours ago: their fleet over Datsot appears to be conducting a mass evacuation.”
“Interesting,” he muttered, his mind racing as he stared at the enemy ship formation. “They are evacuating, you say?”
“Yes, Ten Whiskers.”
“Their scout ships must have detected our battlegroup coming in the last jump. Remind me that we will need to comb through our sensor coverage recordings to assign responsibility. Are our intelligence estimates regarding their fleet numbers still accurate?”
She replied, “They are… very close, Ten Whiskers. Ninety-six enemy frontline missile ships and a capital ship in orbit near Datsot.”
Close enough. They shouldn’t be a problem once they commit to a fight and the ambush battlegroup blinks in. Time to finally put an end to this pesky Lesser Predator Sixth Fleet.
“Good, good. Let me know when they start moving towards us.”
---
Ditvish was taking a short power nap when he was suddenly jolted awake by his computer officer. “Ten Whiskers, wake up! The Lesser Predators are running away!”
“What in the galaxy?” Ditvish exclaimed, rubbing his crimson eyes. “Did they sniff out our ambush battlegroup?”
“That’s not— that seems highly unlikely, Ten Whiskers. Our ambush battlegroup hasn’t even moved into the system yet.”
“Where are the Lesser Predators going?” Ditvish asked, now fully alert.
The computer officer scratched her head. “Unsure. They are boosting towards the primary star, their white dwarf, possibly for a powered gravity assist. They can come out anywhere, but combat computers evaluate they must be retreating… They’re dragging all their assets with their fleet: support ships, orbital defense platforms, heavy transports.”
“Why are they fleeing battle in the face of our mere three squadrons?” Ditvish wondered aloud.
“Combat computer calculated during preparations that there was a six percent chance that the enemy figures out the trap and avoids battle. Maybe they just got lucky.”
Ditvish snorted. In his extensive experience fighting against the Malgeir, he’d known no such thing as luck, only incompetence. “Regardless of why they are leaving, this means that much of our battle planning here is no longer relevant. Have the combat computer simulate new scenarios from this point on and identify new weaknesses in our deployments. And keep the sensors on them: I want to know where they are going.”
---
A few hours later, his computer officer reported the fleet’s arduous progress through the system. “Ten Whiskers, we have established control of high orbit over Datsot. Fire support ships are commencing fire against ground-to-space batteries.”
Ditvish nodded his acknowledgement as he peered at the planetary battlemap. Most of its defense sites were still knocked out from when the Malgeir retook the planet eight months ago. On the other hand, the enemy had plenty of time to clear out the Znosians’ ground troops from the previous invasion, but there were indications that some holdout units were still covertly operational, especially in the rural areas, with even a few hardened veteran units interspersed in their urban centers.
Zooming out to look at the rest of the system, now considerably emptier than a day before, he asked, “What about the combat fleet? Any luck triangulating their exit vector?”
“We are still confirming the solution, Ten Whiskers. But it looks like they are heading towards the vector of their home planet.”
The Lesser Predators fleet’s refusal to engage in battle was odd. And it looked like they were going to live to fight another day because of it. Ditvish evaluated the enemy’s recent decisions dispassionately: it was logical, smart even.
That meant it was new behavior from them. Interesting.
Ditvish mused to himself that perhaps the foolish predators had finally recognized the ultimate threat to their home planet and were saving their fleet strength for its final defense.
In any case, an undefended planet was an undefended planet.
“Connect with the transport fleet. Tell them we have established control over the system and are ready for their arrival.”
---
“Gather around and listen up! Our battle directives are here!” Skhork bellowed, his voice booming above the clanking and whirring at the rear of the transport cargo bay. His five whiskers gathered around, forming a loose semi-circle around him.
Skhork whipped out his datapad, flashing them a map of Datsot. “We are landing in four major theaters. Theater one: the large island continent in the southern hemisphere has excellent spaceport infrastructure but is lightly defended. We occupied it without much trouble in the last invasion, so we are sending a small force there to secure it.”
He zoomed in on the eastern part of Datsot’s main landmass. “Theater two: regional capital in the northeast. Theater three: regional capital in the southeast. Twelve combined arms divisions each. And when they’re done there, they’ll link up with each other and join us on our objective.”
Skhork focused on the team’s planned objective. “The western planetary capital— I can’t pronounce that Lesser Predator name: that’s our target. We will be dropping in with the main force, twenty divisions, about a hundred fifty kilometers north of the capital city. It looks like some of our holdout troops are still in the northern parts of the city, so our objective is to establish a beachhead north of it, then cross the farm and marsh land north of the capital into the city, and link up with them.”
Skhork believed in keeping his team in the loop. In war, you never knew where you’d end up. In particular, the ship and its cargo did not always land where it wanted to. He eyed his Longclaw commanders. They all nodded, ready and clear on the mission. He’d covered everything in his previous briefing. Even if they had not known how the situation on the ground looked like before entering the system, their computer estimates turned out to be fairly accurate again.
One of his commanders piped up. “I heard the timeline was revised?”
Skhork grimaced but gave her an affirmative gesture. “According to orbital surveillance, the Lesser Predators appear to have deliberately flooded the northern marshes approach to the capital. It’s a mess, but we’ll manage. We will need to rely on our Longclaws’ gravity engines to cover all that mud, which will tax our power supplies, logistics, and slow down our advance. But there are no easy ways around it. The Digital Guide recalculated that we have lower than even odds of being able to overwhelm and capture the capital city before enemy reinforcements arrive, so we are preparing more for the siege scenario. Tell your crews to be prepared for the long haul. And for the colder season.”
There were some uneasy glances among his commanders. The siege scenario was going to cost them a lot more troops and resources according to the initial projections. They were all glad that they were not commanding one of the infantry conscript platoons who would have to sweep the city block-by-block. The Lesser Predators did not shy away from fighting to the death, and in the urban confines of the battered city, that was deadly for both sides.
“Who is responsible for this?” one of them grumbled.
Skhork bowed his head. “The master of the fleet, Ten Whiskers Ditvish, has taken responsibility for not foreseeing this possibility. But make no mistake! This scenario was always a possibility, and it is unlikely that the stubborn resistance of the Lesser Predators will change the outcome of this invasion.”
He took a deep breath to fill his lungs to rally them. “Liven up people! We’re not some conscript troopers constantly asking when our service date ends. We are Longclaw Marines! The enemy trembles in fear at the whine of our engines. Trust in your herd! Trust in your machines! Awoo?”
“Awoo awoo awoooooooo!”
As they excitedly completed their final checks and got into their vehicles, Skhork followed his crew into his Longclaw. Inside, the cabin was alive with the hum of machinery and the buzz of anticipation. He knew they were ready as they could be.
His eyes flicked to the battlemap screen. The screen glowed with an array of symbols and icons, and the triangles of the first conscript infantry transports moving steadily towards the enemy planet. The Gunner, with a practiced eye, explained the unfamiliar symbols of the space fleet to the rest of the Longclaw crew, her voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of excitement.
She pointed at the triangles. “The infantry transports are going first. They are landing two at a time. These two are going to the southern island continent. They are aiming for a relatively lightly defended area in the night-time. They are deorbiting now… Firing rocket boosters… Medium orbit… They’ve just reached low orbit. Just six more minutes to land.”
The Driver leaned back towards them from the front seat. “This is a good sign, right? Usually, the enemy would engage transports in medium orbit if they had any ground-to-space batteries in range, but it looks like the fleet is suppressing them from upstairs.”
The Engineer, frowning slightly, chimed in, “What about the enemy combat fleet? There wasn’t any mention of them in the updated briefing earlier.”
“They bolted,” Skhork replied, eyes still on the screen. “Ran off without firing a shot.”
“Huh, that seems unusual for the Lesser—”
The Gunner cut in, her voice tense. “It looks like they are getting ready for the final descent. The second pair of infantry transports is now getting into position to—”
Suddenly, the first pair of triangles on the screen stopped moving, their signals no longer updating. The Longclaw cabin fell silent.
That was not supposed to happen.
---
There was a thick tension on the flag bridge as everyone’s eyes were glued to the main screen, replaying the twin explosions in low Datsot orbit.
Ditvish’s icy voice penetrated the silence. “What hit them?”
The sensor officer spoke up after a moment at his console communicating with the fleet. “Ten Whiskers, we found them! Two of the satellites in low Datsot orbit near them turned out to be armed. They fired the autocannon volleys that destroyed both our transports. Should we ask the Digital Guide how to proceed?”
Ditvish glared frostily at the unfortunate subordinate for the idiotic suggestion. “That would not be necessary. Weapons, tell 1841 to put two railgun shots through each weapons platform.”
He watched on the optics as the outgoing rounds splashed the two defense platforms a moment later, sending debris flying in every direction in low orbit. He suppressed unearned satisfaction as a dozen or so enemy lifepods streamed out of the station and slowly burnt to deorbit toward the planet.
“How did we not find these stations?” Ditvish asked the bridge coolly.
The sensor officer bowed so low he could kiss the floor. “I take full responsibility for this mistake, Ten Whiskers. There are hundreds of thousands of satellites of all sizes in Datsot orbit, and I did not correctly identify the danger they posed to our transports before they were attacked.”
“Your responsibility is noted.” Ditvish stared at him, running through the appropriate options for punishing this error in his mind.
Then he took a deep breath, calming down.
There would be time for this later.
“This is a new trick from the enemy. Your responsibility is partial, and you may still redeem yourself. Consult with your combat computer on how to prevent this from happening again in the future.”
“Yes, Ten Whiskers. Thank you.”
Comments
Spooker
Argg. I mis-scheduled this chapter. Sorry for the delay, folks. The next one is correctly scheduled for Monday.
