Jerry Pournelle - War World 8 by the Battle of Sauron (by Carr;Hawthorne)

Author:the Battle of Sauron (by Carr;Hawthorne)
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-04-04T23:20:12+00:00

Twenty-Six

I

“Getting a bit warm here, Mister Willoughby,” Hawksley informed his XO. Falkenberg was engaged on three sides, and dipping into Ostia’s atmosphere wasn’t discommoding her attackers overmuch. The severe attenuation of the Imperial lasers by Ostia’s thick upper atmosphere was helping to keep the Falkenberg’s Langston Field a dull brick red, but that would change as soon as more Imperials joined the engagement, which was bound to happen very soon. It also prevented the Falkenberg from returning fire with any effectiveness.

“Yes, sir, I’ll see what I can do. Helm, fifteen degrees hard right, up forty.”

“Hard right fifteen, up forty, aye.”

Falkenberg’s overpowered frame bucked like a thoroughbred and groaned in protest, but the Field operator was relieved to report they had shaken the Imperial above them. That left only the two to port and starboard.

“Helm,” Hawksley addressed the man directly, and Willoughby moved his acceleration chair aside reflexively; Hawksley was “on deck,” and, when he was, it was best to stay out of his way and find something to hold onto. “On my mark, cut Falkenberg’s forward thrust and rotate her ninety degrees.”

“Forward thrust to zero, starboard ninety, aye sir; awaiting your command.”

Hawksley turned to the weapons control officer. “Mr. Plunkett, arm the starboard array.”

Plunkett’s hands flew over his console. “Starboard array armed, sir.”

“Stand by to fire on my mark.”

“Stranding by; awaiting your command.”

“Field status, Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Field level red/two and holding, sir.”

“Brace for violent maneuvering, Mister Willoughby.”

Willoughby keyed the all-stations address system from the console of his acceleration chair: “Now hear this, all hands brace for violent maneuvers, all hands, brace for violent maneuvers.”

“Helm,” Hawksley was counting something down in his head, then “Mark.”

Nothing much appeared to happen. Falkenberg’s internal gravity disappeared along with the rumble of thrusters carried through her deck plates. There was a vague sense of disorientation as she rotated on her axis, the crew sensing their own centers of mass shift with adjustments in personal momentum.

“Stand by, Mr. Plunkett. Helm, six-G thrust on my mark.” Hawksley alternated between his tactical display and the Sauron-built immersion display. In the latter, the Imperial ships had stopped firing on the Falkenberg; the privateer now presented a much smaller target, and they obviously feared firing past her and into each other. All three ships continued their forward motion through Ostia’s atmosphere, except that the Falkenberg’s right angle orientation made her appear to be skidding. Both Imperial craft were vectoring to close-in on the Burgess ship.”Helm, mark.”

“Six-Gs. aye.”

Falkenberg’s engines roared back to life, and Willoughby would have sworn the ship was screaming until he realized that the sound he heard was coming from his own throat; going to six-Gs acceleration at a right angle from zero-G drift was, he’d heard, a pretty good way to die from heart failure.

“Dis-tance to star-burd targ’t,” Hawksley choked out the query against the punishing acceleration.

Plunkett’s head turned a half-an-inch, a heroic effort, “Eight . . hundred thousand.”

“Shoot!”

Plunkett’s thumb depressed the firing key and Falkenberg, already closing fast on an intercept course with the starboard Imperial, loosed her full starboard weapons array from a point-blank seven hundred and fifty thousand kilometers.

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