Chapter 11
Chapter 11
1856 hrs, July 19th 2557 (Military Calendar)/
UNSC Navy BBBG-Class Battle Group 'Alpha'
En Route to Unknown System (Location Classified—ONI X-ray directive)
The Iowa-Class battleship New Jersey (BB-02) was a new class of space-faring warship. Named after the famous US Navy vessel that had served in four major American wars, it was slated to replace the UNSC's aging fleet of Marathon-Class cruisers as secondary flagships (carriers being the first choice for a flag). The New Jersey had two MAC guns on either side of her 1,400 meter long superstructure and an even larger one around which the superstructure was built, the second largest MAC in the UNSC arsenal. Besides her massive coil-guns, New Jersey carried a payload of nearly two thousand Long Bow missiles (replacements for the Archers), fourteen Shiva warheads, and two NOVA bombs. As if the designers decided she wasn't powerful enough already, New Jersey also had several batteries of turrets, ranging from 50mm CIWS for anti-fighter duties to 95 inch cannons designed specifically to smash Seperatist armor plating to fragments. She also had squadrons of C709 Longsword fighter/bombers and the new FA/S117 Katana air/space superiority fighters. Defenses included a highly sophisticated EM package that could scramble most CIS missiles and the latest jamming software. The CIS Intelligence division scoffed when they heard that there were only seven active Iowa-Class vessels. What they didn't know was that seven Iowas was massive overkill.
New Jersey and her sister ships Iowa (BB-01)and Missouri (BB-06) were leading a battle group of seven Marathon-Class cruisers, fourteen Apoc-Class frigates, twelve Gorgon-Class destroyers, six Phoenix-Class super carriers, eight Firefly-Class 'baby' carriers, two Prowler-class stealth vessels and twenty four Roberts-Class corvettes, a fleet of seventy six vessels and one of the largest fleets ever assembled, against a CIS fleet of an undetermined size at a Forerunner planet, ONI codename: Necropolis.
Not too long ago, Admiral Vasily Borodin would have given both of his legs for a chance to place his flag on an Iowa. Now he was sitting in the ultra-new bridge of New Jersey, basking in the honor of commanding what was most likely the second-most powerful warship in the Navy. He had been waiting for a chance like this ever since the Iowa line of battleships was proposed in 2554, and now he had it, along with some of the best and brightest in the Navy's officer pool.
"ETA to Necropolis is twenty minutes, sir," said Captain Zachary Eaton, New Jersey's commanding officer.
"Good," said Borodin. "Raise alert status to Combat Alert ALPHA. No point dropping in half-prepared."
Eaton grinned as he gave the order. "Hell sir, I doubt anything the Seps have is good enough to scratch us, let alone cause any significant damage."
"Maybe, but there's no harm in being prepared." Secretly, however, Borodin agreed with Eaton's sentiment. The CIS's most powerful ship, the 1,088 meter long Providence-Class cruiser, was nowhere near the firepower range of the New Jersey. And their largest vessel, the 3,170 meter long Lucrehulk control ship, was little more than a glorified cargo hauler; not even an actual warship! No, the CIS would most likely fold like a deck of cards. Borodin hoped they didn't, though; prey that fought back was more fun to kill.
Almost twenty minutes later, Morpheus, the battleship's AI, appeared as a figure made of stars whose eyes were bright blue points. "All vessels are at Combat Alert ALPHA," he replied in a dreamy voice. "Estimated time of arrival is now thirty seconds and counting."
The bridge lights darkened to a red hue, and alarms sounded gently yet audibly throughout the ship. Borodin knew what was happening: All personnel were rushing to battle stations. The New Jersey's Marine contingent was probably in the middle of grabbing their weapons and giving curse-laden pep talks. Navy Air Corps pilots were rushing to their fighters and bombers, weapons were being loaded. The gun batteries' safety locks had disengaged. The rest of the fleet was following suit.
"Exiting Slipspace," said Morpheus, "in five, four, three, two, mark."
There was a sudden deceleration. New Jersey had arrived almost a hundred kilometers "east" of the CIS fleet, which was pounding the UNSC and Sangheilian ships that were trying—and failing—to hold a perimeter around what had to be Necropolis. The CIS fleet was far larger than Borodin had expected. There had to be at least a hundred and fifty of them, maybe even more. But the arrival of Battle Group Alpha would distract them for a while, perhaps long enough for the Covenant and UNSC ships around Necropolis to regroup and reform their battered perimeter.
"All vessels," said Borodin clearly, "pick your targets, power up MAC guns and prepare to fire on my mark."
As Captain Eaton relayed the order, the Admiral could see that he had indeed caught the attention of the CIS; several vessels were peeling off the main fleet and powered towards BG Alpha. Dumb, he thought. They hadn't encountered a UNSC battleship before. It was time for a formal introduction.
"All guns powered up, sir," said Morpheus.
"Mark!"
"Firing!" shouted Eaton. "MAC rounds away!"
The ferric-tungsten shells, sizes ranging from 600 ton frigate rounds to 1200 ton rounds from the battleships' "Big Ouchie" MAC guns streaked across space at 0.4/10 of the speed of light. The CIS ships, heading right into the salvo, had no chance. The multiple rounds shredded the attackers to bits.
The New Jersey moved forward gently as the engines fired a counter-thrust to act against the recoil of her main guns. "Increase to attack speed," said Borodin. "All ships: scatter, pick your targets and go. Fire at will."
Battle Group Alpha abandoned fire discipline, firing as they came on the enemy. The Seperatists, to their credit, did not fold as Borodin had expected them to. This was General Grievous' fleet, and they were better trained than their other comrades.
New Jersey, Iowa and Missouri fell upon the enemy like wolves on sheep. Their huge guns did awful things to the enemy ships, pounding holes right through their weakened shields. The battleships took hits as well, but they had 10 meters of Titanium-A battleplate, as well as improved shielding, courtesy of ONI Section III. Their furious charge threw the enemy into disarray, and the CIS was forced to let off the pressure on the Covenant/UNSC defenders to deal with the new threat.
Commander McDougal ignored the gash on his forehead as he tried as best as he could to rally the defenders. The unexpected but wholly welcome surprise intervention by Admiral Borodin and his beautiful battleships had given him enough time to reform the task force and the Covenant fleet. Now that the CIS fleet was otherwise occupied, McDougal could redirect his attention to the hundreds of enemy transports descending to the surface.
"Lock on to those bastards and fire away," he said.
"Nothing would please me more," his weapons officer said. Archer missiles, plasma torpedoes, MAC rounds and pinpoint lasers wiped out the invasion force, dotting the horizon with wreckage. As if they were finally winning the tug-of-war-style battle, things had turned to their favor once again.
000
ERROR! TIME/LOCATION ANOMALY
There wasn't much time. The HUD timer on the Chief's helmet indicated they had a little over half an hour before the rift closed, and it didn't look like they could open it up again on this side. The good news was, they had finally located their people.
Captain Ordo was dressed in the scarlet livery of his rank, standing tall and straight. Only one other person was there: Lieutenant Commander Randall-148, a Spartan II. The Spartan III team, Bowie Team, had been killed by a Mandalorian ambush. They had taken a lot of the mercenaries with them by exploding a Mk56 Incendiary bomb.
There was no time for recollections or explanations, though: only time for running. Like most people, they could talk as they ran.
Randall, it appeared, had never been lost. He had been kept secret by ONI, as a last line in case the Master Chief ever bought the farm. He was wearing a new variant of the Mk VI armor, what he called 'Recon'. It was new, and only available to a select few individuals, namely Spartan IIs. He immediately relinquished his temporary rank and reverted to Petty Officer, First Class; like Fred, he firmly believed that the Chief was always the true leader.
Captain Ordo, however, behaved in a manner very much unlike the commandos of Omega Squad. He was almost arrogant, at least to the Chief, and was not pleased at all when the Spartan had informed him that he had tactical command over the senior officer. He had not spoken anything other than, "Well, get your shiny shebse moving".
The jump through the portal was just in time, it appeared; just as they got through, the rift collapsed. The Chief then had to contend with another problem: that of a lot of droids.
The Chief was directing artillery fire on an enemy position when he felt a gauntlet on his shoulder. It was Captain Ordo. "With respect, sir," said the Spartan, "I'm busy."
"You can shove your respect," said the clone. "I don't give a mott's backside about your 'tactical command'. You do not give me orders."
"My orders come directly from NAVSPECWEP," replied the Chief. "You don't have the authority to countermand them. Sir."
"I only obey one man, and that's my father, Kal Skirata."
The Chief ignored the lie about the man being the captain's father; he was a clone, after all. "Then you don't deserve to wear the uniform, sir. Perhaps you can make use of yourself somewhere else." It was a first for the Chief, insulting a superior officer. But this man was not worthy of respect in the Chief's eyes if all he did with his rank was use it when it suited him.
Ordo didn't press the matter. He casually blasted droids along the battle line, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. He kept on thinking about what the Chief had said. Maybe it was time for him to shed the uniform. He could become a mercenary like Kal'Buir, with a set of real Mando armor. But then again, he didn't want to abandon his clone brothers in the field who would die without the intelligence he usually gathered. Would it be so bad to obey other officers? Kal was his father. But other soldiers had fathers too, and they obeyed orders when given. He would have to ask Kal later.
The battle was relatively short, although hectic. The Allied lines had held perfectly, and the Chief wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. It was time to leave the Forerunner planet, and the Spartan hoped he would never have to visit another one.
00000
A/N: I'm afraid that this will be the average length of chapters for a while, boys and girls. On the bright side, more awesome reviews!
"Are you licking yourself?!"—stranger in Wal-Mart
"Am I getting paid for this?"—Sean Penn
"Dude! War Stars is, like totally awesome and cool and…shit, I think I just pissed myself."—Crackhead
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store now."—security guy at Wal-Mart