Chapter 29 - The Absolute Zero[]
CWS Selina Radick
Clan Wolf Mjolnir C Class Improved Cruiser
New Dallas Star System, Clan controlled Territory
February 19, 3159
Star Commodore Alina Cooper was snapped out of her reverie by an shout from one of the sensor techs on the Command Bridge.
"I've got something!! EMP and thermal bloom! Seven fifty Thousand Kliks off Portside bow, negative Z axis Forty two degrees! Neutrino spread!!"
"Helm! GO!!" She'd been waiting for this. A chance at vengeance, the enemy to make a mistake. "Point every array at that point and get me something to shoot at!!"
"Targeting...targeting. I'm identifying a Sampan-Class Mark IV Cutter and one unknown contac-how the ******??"
In the distance, a double flash. Half the displays on the bridge went snow with overload, before backups restored the image, showing a Lola III-well...no.
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"Savashri! That is a Caspar!!"
"He is firing, the cutter's under thrust..." reported the Sensor Tech
"Throw the coals on, Engineer! I want in there before that little boat dies!! CAG, put fighters in there!"
She could see the inevitable result of such a mismatched battle clearly in her mind-the Lyran 'cutters' aren't nearly tough or well protected enough to go toe-to-toe alone against even a corvette. much less a destroyer with the firepower of a cruiser. She knew the spec on the Mark IV, the ships could barely make four g's on their best day unloaded.
Speedy light fighters from the scout star streaked in, marking the enemy destroyer with TAG systems for the heavy anti-shipping loads from the Strike star. Keep him busy long enough, little cutter, and we can get there! thought the Star Commodore
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LCS Delphin, Sampan IV Class Cutter, under fire.
The cutter's own fighters were chasing missiles from the destroyer. a brief flash showed one of the little, cheap and outdated SB-27's exploding. "Load smallcraft for Search and rescue." she ordered, "I want that pilot in my sick bay before the end of the day!"
Hits flashed against the cutter. as the range closed. They were thrusting a sprinting race now, giants were sitting on her ribs, and only the Clan's selection for G-tolerance and physical fitness let her speak and give orders under the strain.
But the range was closing, the target was marked.
A stitching row of flashes spawled against the Caspar's hull. As the Strike Star's missiles scored hits in spite of the blanket of laser AMS fire protecting the obviously-upgraded drone warship.
The weapons officer groaned, "Star...Commodore...we...are...in range!"
"Engage."
The hull vibrated as the forward and starboard batteries opened fire, the thrum of coolant and the vibration of the ship's weapons giving an otherwise pleasurable rumble right through her command couch.
They marked you for us, we've got you you savashri surat spawn of a toaster...