Designated Targets

Halabi couldn’t entirely suppress a smirk at that. Posh was an AI with the voice of an unborn pop star, and every time they got bossed around by the “glorified abacus,” as they called her, the Royal Navy captains couldn’t help getting their knickers in a twist.

Deck crew helped secure the lighter and get the ’temps on board as she compressed the formalities of her return into a quick salute and a brisk recommendation that everyone get below ASAP.

She moved quickly but without apparent haste. It just wasn’t appropriate for one of His Majesty’s stealth destroyer captains to be seen rushing about like a giddy schoolgirl, and she felt the keen responsibility of setting a good example.

“Chief Waddington, escort our guests to the mess for a cuppa. They’ll be with us for the next little while.”

Her senior enlisted man ushered them toward a hatch at the rear of the teardrop bridge as the Metal Storm pods deployed from their recessed containment cells with a whirr. “This way, Bumpy, Freddie,” he said. “Keep out of the captain’s way now. She’s got Nazis to be killing.”

The ’temps were obviously torn between fascination and the feeling that they were hopelessly out of place. They’d both been through a tour of the ship, but they’d never seen her in action before.

“Not, today, I think, Chief,” Halabi said as she pushed past them on her way to the CIC. “I’ve got a pound says we don’t fire a volley.”

Waddington gave it a second or two before nodding brusquely. “Done then, ma’am. For a quid. Right you two, follow me.” The chief left with his guests in tow, and Halabi hurried on.

A leading seawoman announced the captain’s arrival, but she bade everyone to keep working. It was always reassuring to get back into the CIC, even with the ship’s offensive capability so drastically diminished. On the forward bulkhead of the hexagonal shaped center, six giant flat panels had been linked into one theater-wide display.

Four of the panels were presently devoted to the attack on the Trident. Two remained fixed on schematics of Axis deployments on the mainland. She could see as soon as she entered the soothing blue light of the center that even more units had been moved toward the French coast. Another Waffen-SS division had been billeted at Brugge in Belgium. Two regiments of Panzer Grenadiers had moved north from Amiens to Douai. And more radar-controlled antiair units had appeared around the ports of Le Havre, Dieppe, and Calais.

“Looks like they’re warming up for the Cup, Mr. McTeale.”

“Aye, ma’am,” said her executive officer. “It’s beginning to look like a right fucking teddy bears’ picnic. The RAF is chopping into those wee beasties right proper, though.” He nodded at the screen where multiple windows of cascading data clearly indicated that a substantial toll had already been levied on the attackers.

Before Halabi could concentrate on the readouts, however, her chief defensive sysop called out. “Captain, we have a development. Three hostiles approaching at low altitude, from one-forty-three relative, airspeed of eight hundred eighty kilometers per hour.”

A low-grade jolt ran through the combat center—nothing that a stranger would notice, but enough for Halabi to pick up.

“Jets,” she said without showing her surprise. “Ms. Burchill, reassign Drone Zero Three to the new contact.”

A new window opened up on the four screens feeding coverage of the air battle. A real-time feed appeared, from a Big Eye that was keeping station at 110,000 feet.

“They’re Two-sixty-twos,” said Halabi. “A little premature, I would have thought. Intel, quickly, give me the E! News version.”

A young lieutenant worked his keyboard, calmly but quickly. “In the Original Timeframe, first jet flight July eighteenth, nineteen forty-two, ma’am. Tests proved engines to be unreliable. They mostly remained so. Used as a bomber rather than a fighter. Not very maneuverable. Long, straight-line attacks with cannon when engaging Allied bombers.”

“Posh indicates a ninety-eight percent probability that we are the target, ma’am,” said Lieutenant Burchill.

“What does she say about the air screen’s chances of knocking them down?”

“Less than thirty percent, Captain. She recommends that we designate for Metal Storm.”

The big screen showed the three prototype jets slashing across the Channel at nearly twice the speed of the Hurricanes fighting it out thousands of feet above them.

“Designate them,” said Halabi, “but let the destroyers and the shore batteries have a go first. They might have been able to jump-start these jets, but I doubt they’ve been able to build a decent Exocet yet. It might be another dummy run. A ploy to trick us into using up more of our war stocks.”

“Posh is resetting the air screen, ma’am, based on probable attack vectors.”

“Thank you, Ms. Burchill.”