Designated Targets

“Shit,” he muttered as he scooped up his own flexipad. He dropped the file transfer into the background and brought up the communicator, scribbling out a quick message.

He needed to check out Brasch’s story.

HMS TRIDENT, THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

The Trident’s defensive stocks had dropped to 13 percent of capacity. The previous day’s attack by ME 262s had sliced through the destroyer screen and pressed in on the ship, requiring her Close-In Weapons Systems to respond.

The Metal Storm pods had chewed up the incoming fighters in less than four seconds, but all the defensive sysops in the ship’s Combat Information Center had red warning lights displayed on their screens. Ammunition for the pods had dropped past the critical line. Back home, the Trident would have been assigned protected status, and would have been shielded by other ships connected via the Cooperative Battle Link. Or she would have withdrawn from hostilities altogether.

Neither of those options was available to Halabi now.

She caught herself chewing at her bottom lip as she reviewed the situation. It wouldn’t do to look as though circumstance had the better of her. But she was growing concerned that that was exactly the case. News of the missile strike on Hawaii had jolted the ship’s complement, but not as much as the message from Kolhammer that arrived shortly afterwards, warning her that the Trident might come under attack from weapons stripped off the French cruiser. It was unlikely, but it forced her to revise down their chances of survival. How difficult could it be to remove a cruise missile from the Dessaix and rig it up for a land-based launch against her command? Very difficult, she supposed, but not impossible if a few key crew members had helped out.

And the chances of that?

She had no idea.

She could feel the increased tension in her CIC. Nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. The first blows of Sea Dragon had already been struck. The two attempts by the Luftwaffe could no longer be seen as probes. They were hammering at Britain’s shield. The Wehrmacht was moving into position for an assault across the Channel.

Thousands of men dueled and died in the skies above them as the RAF and the Luftwaffe clawed at each other for supremacy. Neither side had unleashed any additional jet fighters, since the ME 262s had been destroyed attacking her ship, but there had been some nasty surprises for everyone, nonetheless.

Some of the conventional German fighters had been modified to allow them much more time to wreak havoc over England. ME 109s with modified propellers, drop tanks, and even a few with DKM-type rotary engines had been shot down and recovered. Some carried primitive radar-seeking missiles.

In reply, Spitfires with mods designed by her own engineers had climbed into the air to meet them. Bomber Command sent waves of B-17s and Lancasters across the Channel to rain high explosives down on the staging ports and airfields of northern France. Radar-controlled triple-A raked them from the sky.

Halabi had slept four hours in the last thirty-six. Thank God for stims. The Trident remained poised to deliver Prince Harry and his commandos to Norway, but they hadn’t moved away from the Solent, waiting while London tried to decide whether or not to scrub the mission.

It seemed to her that the stealth cruiser was needed more right here, to help coordinate the immediate defense of the realm. Sixteen newcomers had invaded her CIC. Top brass from the Admiralty, the RAF, and General Staff, all of them blundering about, getting underfoot, and generally hampering the very effort they had come to “supervise.”

She was just about to ask a knighted rear admiral to get his fat arse out of her way when the intel section reported incoming traffic, for her eyes only.

“To my viewscreen, then, Mr. Howard.”

“Right you are, ma’am.”

It was a short text message from a skin job. Müller.

Target Brasch acquired. Claims to have delivered data by encrypted subroutine in the last twenty-four hours. Please advise.

Halabi had to call up his mission profile, and that required her DNA key for access. She placed her palm on the reader and waited for the ship’s Combat Intelligence to unlock the data.

“Access granted,” said Posh.

“What the hell’s going on here,” asked an air vice marshal.

Halabi couldn’t remember his name. She held up one hand to silence him while she skimmed the mission brief.

“Don’t you wave me away, young lady!” he blustered. “I’ve got every fighter wing in the country up there right now. If the fat’s in the fire, I need to know.”

“Mr. McTeale,” she called out, trying to concentrate on the screen in front of her.

Her executive officer appeared at the shoulder of the RAF man. “The captain is extremely busy, sir. Please step away from her station.”

Halabi typed out a quick reply to Müller.

Transmission confirmed. Stand by.

“Mr. Howard, to the ops room, please.”