Chapter 13: Blackbeard’s Ghost

Flag Admiral Office
Triad Naval Base, Mars Orbit
Wednesday, January 3, 2148

“Good morning, Blackie, Whitey. Ready to launch?” Admiral Matt Belting was sitting at his desk at Triad Naval Base. Sitting to one side was the Squadron Commander, Stealth, Captain Brett Ingram, Commodore. Sitting in front of them were Commander Blackwell Sparks and Commander Whitey Sucksall. Sparks was the skipper of the MSS Middle Finger and Sucksall bossed the MSS Assfucker, both captured Owls.

“Ready to go, Admiral,” answered Sparks.

“Same here, sir. You have our orders?” said Sucksall.

“That’s what we’re here to discuss. Your formal orders will arrive when you are going to launch, but I wanted to discuss them ahead of time. This is not a routine mission.”

Sparks and Sucksall looked at each other and then turned back to the admiral. “How so, boss?” asked Sparks. Both commanders had taken their ships to Earth orbit carrying a bunch of MPG intel types, spending their time monitoring WestHem and EastHem naval maneuvers while the intel weenies probed the WestHem satellite network and read WestHem mail.

“You’ve both been training on the simulators for anti-shipping combat and convoy attacks, correct?” asked Ingram.

“Of course, sir,” Sucksall replied. “The only ship to beatAssfucker was the Finger. Not even Sugi on Ballbuster beat us.”

Ingram smiled at that. “Don’t worry about Sugi. I am sure he’ll fix that little problem next time he’s on the simulators.”

She looked at Sparks and smiled, as did he. “Sure thing, Brett, sure thing.” Like that would ever happen!

“Time to get serious,” said Belting. “For reasons you are not cleared to know at this time, the Martian Navy is going into the piracy business. This has been cleared all the way up to the Governor. You two are going to be the pirates.”

“Pirates? Sir?” said Sparks.

“Like Space Pirates of the Solar System, sir?” asked Sucksall. Space Pirates of the Solar System was a popular EastHem vidshow about a heroic EastHem anti-stealth craft battling WestHem asteroid pirates. Accuracy was not a strong point, especially considering there were no asteroid pirates.

Belting and Ingram laughed at that. “Congratulations, you get to be the first space pirates,” Ingram said. Belting motioned him over to the monitor. Ingram picked up the remote control and a schematic of the Solar System came on the screen.

Belting said, “We’re calling this Operation Blackbeard. Your job is to intercept a tanker convoy enroute from the WestHem gas refining facility on Ganymede to the WestHem reception facility at Departure City. We want those tankers.” Departure City was the floating space city belonging to WestHem, much like Triad was for Mars.

Ingram continued, “Timing is tight, but manageable. There is a WestHem tanker convoy leaving Ganymede in two days, heading for Departure. The convoy consists of two tankers, both belonging to Jovian Gases, being escorted by a pair of Seattles and one or two stealth ships. That part is a bit iffy. They never publish the convoy makeups, but only because it’s not big news. They’re just fucking freighters. If it was a Martian invasion, InfoGroup would give us the ships and their crews. Anyway, you will depart Mars orbit and meet them between here and Jupiter.” He threw a pair of orbital tracks on the schematic. “Upon intercepting the convoy, you will neutralize the escorts and take control of the tankers. Then you will escort the tankers back to Mars.”

“You want us to kill the escorts?” asked Sparks.

Belting responded, “We are still in a state of war, Commander. There has been no armistice or treaty. WestHem naval vessels are legitimate targets and commerce interdiction is a legitimate naval function.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“I suggest you familiarize yourself with a pre-WestHem naval theorist named Mahan. It’s been about two-hundred-and-fifty years, but his work is still valid. Regardless, do you have qualms about taking this mission?”

Sparks shook his head. “No, sir. You just took me by surprise. I’ll do my duty. It’s not an issue.”

Ingram took over again. “Blackie, you are senior, so you are in command of Task Force Blackbeard. You won’t be carrying the usual signal intel troops. Instead, you will be carrying a mix of intel and MPG specialists. Once you have neutralized the escorts, they will be the ones who take control of the tankers. WestHem won’t have anybody in range to interfere, either before or after the interception. You bring those tankers back and rejoin the Navy, so to speak.”

Sucksall smiled. “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, Commodore. That’s what pirates say, right? Assfucker is in, sir.”

“Same with the Finger,” grinned Sparks.

“Then let’s review the details.”

MSS Middle Finger
Midpoint Mars-Jupiter Transit
Sunday, March 3, 2148

“Blackie, I’m getting something at extreme range, two somethings. Sending you the feed, now.”

Blackie Sparks looked over at his Tactical Officer, Angeline Hanover. Angeline had been a laundry technician in the WestHem Navy when she had been liberated after the MPG had taken Triad Naval Base. Like most of the other officers in the Martian Navy, she had been vastly underutilized in the WestHem Navy. However, before he could say anything, there was another report.

“Blackie, Comms. Assfucker reports two bogies, extreme range. Coordinates match what Tac is seeing.”

“Angie?”

“Roger that, Blackie. Assfucker found them, too.”

Sparks nodded and looked at his monitor. The two ‘somethings’ were too distant to be identified, but they were on the least-time orbit between Jupiter and Earth. MPG Intelligence was reporting with ‘high confidence’ that WestHem was looking to build up their reserves of hydrogen before launching Martian Justice. They were selecting least-time orbits rather than least-fuel orbits.

Sparks had once asked the Admiral what ‘high confidence’ meant. He had been told that if Intel wanted him to know anything more, they would send somebody out to tell him. In the meantime, don’t ask. High confidence was the highest level of reliability that MPG Intelligence gave. When he mentioned it to Whitey Sucksall, she told him that they only gave out that kind of rating for something where they had agents in place or signals intercepts.

“Get me Assfucker, Janice.” Janice Wesley was as white-collar blue-blooded as most of the crew wasn’t, but she was as loyal Martian as any other Mars-born Greenie.

“Yes, sir.” She clicked on her display, making sure the extended long-range laser communicator was on target to their sister ship and said,” Assfucker, sir.”

“Whitey, Blackie here. We saw it, too.”

“Right where Intel said we should be intercepting them.”

“Agreed. Now I guess we get to see if the simulations really work,” he told her. “The only reason we can see them at this distance is because of their size and the constant heat signature. No way can any WestHem ship see us. Let’s do a waste heat dump and get in position. We’ll select final positioning once we locate any escorts.”

“Just like in the sims,” she replied.

“Plan your fight, fight your plan.”

Sparks nodded. “Roger that. Let’s split apart and take position.”

“I’ll have my people talk to your people,” he said, smiling. He flipped a switch and said, “Tactical, take it from here. Plan Alpha Three.”

“Roger, Skipper. General Quarters?”

“Too soon. Let’s find the escorts first.”

“Yes, sir, Alpha Three.”

Within minutes, every sailor and soldier in the task force knew that their captains had found the WestHem convoy right where they were expecting it. The overall mood was positive. The people leading them into combat knew what they were doing. It was one thing to go into combat, but when the enemy walks blindly into your ambush, the odds went up considerably.

Alpha Three was the combat scenario Blackie and Whitey had been hoping for. Alpha meant that the convoy was exactly on the least-time course. One meant they were ahead of schedule, Two was behind schedule, and Three was on schedule. Alpha Three meant the convoy was where they expected it to be, when they expected it to be. Other scenarios involved different orbits or different arrival times, and a significant amount of simulator training had been involved in planning combat for each situation. It wasn’t simply single ship combat. The two Owls had been digitally linked during training and had practiced combat maneuvers together.

It took another six hours for the tactical picture to get clearer. The two tankers were running in line, nose to tail, with a standard distance of one thousand kilometers between them. Two Seattle-class anti-stealth ships were escorting them, one five thousand kilometers above the ecliptic at the midpoint of the two tankers, the other at the same distance below the midpoint. Angie said, “Blackie, these guys are flying dumb. One of them is moving in a figure-eight pattern once an hour and the other is staying in position. Then they drift along for three hours and switch, with the other moving and the first staying in position.”

“They’re switching every watch, every four hours,” he told her.

She nodded. “I am also getting hints that something else is out there.” He raised an eyebrow and she said, “I think they have a stealth platform or two.”

“Owls?”

“Skipper, I don’t know. At this distance I shouldn’t be seeing anOwl, but I should be getting a lot more return from a Seattle or even an older anti-stealth platform.”

When she said that, Blackie smiled. “You just answered your own question, Angie. Check your databases and see what you can find out about the Cheneys.”

“A Cheney? For real?”

“You tell me, Tactical Officer Hanover.”

He left her to her computers and called down to the Intelligence Office. Once there, he spoke to the head of the MPG Intel group. “Mack, you got anything more on the WestHem mothball fleet?”

Mackenzie ‘Mack’ Bongwater looked back at Sparks’ image. “Just what I told you the other day.”

“Just checking. Next time you call Mama, double check.”

“Roger that, Skipper.”

Fifteen minutes later, Angie turned to face Blackie. “How’d you know, sir? I am showing two Cheney-class stealth ships, one ten-thousand kilometers ahead of the tankers and one ten-thousand kilometers behind.”

Sparks snorted and shook his head. “These guys don’t have a fucking clue what they are doing. Both those ships should be out in front of the convoy, one close in and one further out. It’s a hell of a lot more difficult for somebody behind to try and catch up.”

“And the Cheneys?”

Blackie grinned. “I cheated. MPG Intel got word they were pulling some Cheneys out of the mothball fleet. They’re being put into low-probability-of-conflict areas to free up the more modern Owls.”

“So, they’re stuck doing convoy escort. Cute, sir. Remind me not to play poker with you.”

“Angie, the only poker I play is strip poker.”

The Tac Officer blushed, remembering a weekend spent with the captain in Eden the last time they were docked. The rest of the bridge crew laughed at her.

“This is good news. Those ships were obsolete the day they were designed. The only reason they got built was that WestHem Shipbuilding paid their sponsored politicians to order them. When Ares Incorporated bought WestHem Shipbuilding, they were retired, and the Ares design was built. Ares built the Owls like the Finger and Assfucker.”