“Here, Ma'am,” Travis said, moving out from the partial concealment of a thick coolant pipe.
“Captain wants you on the bridge,” Bajek said shortly. “I'm taking over here. Go.”
“Yes, Ma'am.” Maneuvering past her, Travis floated his way down the corridor toward the bridge, pulling himself hand over hand along the wall grips, a sinking feeling joining the resident tension already in his stomach. He had no idea what he'd done now, but for Castillo to be bothering with him at a time like this it must have been something big.
Like the other officers aboard Phoenix, Travis had been part of the bridge watch rotation ever since the early days of his assignment. But he'd never seen it during combat conditions, and the first thing that struck him as he maneuvered through the door was how calm everyone seemed to be. The voices giving orders and reports were terse, but they were clear and well controlled. Captain Castillo was strapped into his station, his eyes moving methodically between the various displays, while Commander Sladek held position at his side, the two of them occasionally murmuring comments back and forth. All of the monitors were live, showing the ship's position, vector, and acceleration, as well as the status of the two forward missile launchers, the spinal laser, and the three autocannon defense systems.
In the center of the main tactical display was the approaching enemy.
It was a warship, all right. The signature of the wedge made that clear right from the outset. It was pulling a hundred twenty gees, which didn't tell Travis much—virtually any warship could handle that kind of acceleration, and most could do considerably better. The range marker put it just under four hundred thousand kilometers out, a little over twelve minutes away on their current closing vector.
His first reaction was one of relief. There was no way a warship could sneak up that close without Phoenix's sensors picking it up. Fornier had been right: this was indeed a drill.
But what kind of drill required Travis to be hauled away from his station onto the bridge? Was Castillo testing Bajek's ability to run the autocannon? That seemed ridiculous.
“Analysis, Mr. Long?”
Travis snapped his attention back. Castillo and Sladek had finished their quiet conversation, and both men were gazing straight across the bridge at him.
Travis swallowed hard. What were they asking him for? “It's definitely a warship, Sir,” he said, trying frantically to unfreeze his brain as he looked around the multitude of displays. The sensor analysis should have spit out a data compilation and probably even an identification by now, but the screen was still showing nothing except the preliminary collection run-through. Probably another of Phoenix's chronic sensor glitches. “But it's not being overly aggressive,” he continued, trying to buy himself some time. “The hundred twenty gees it's pulling is probably around seventy percent of its standard acceleration capability.”
“So far, there's been no response to our hail,” Sladek said. “How would you proceed?”
And then, to Travis's relief, the sensor ID screen finally came to life. The approaching ship was indeed one of theirs, a Triumph-class battlecruiser. Specifically, it was HMS Invincible, flagship of the Green One task force.
He had a fraction of a second of fresh relief at the confirmation that this was, indeed, just a drill. An instant later, a violent wave of fresh tension flooded in on him.
Green One was commanded by Admiral Carlton Locatelli. Uncle of Ensign Fenton Locatelli. The junior officer Travis was continually having to write up.
And here Travis was on Phoenix's bridge, being asked advice by his captain while Locatelli charged into simulated battle.
What the hell was going on?
“Mr. Long?” Castillo prompted.
With a supreme effort, Travis forced his brain back to the situation. “Do we know if she's alone?” he asked, again looking around the bridge. Everything he could see indicated Invincible was the only vessel out there, but he wasn't quite ready to trust his reading of the relevant displays.
“Confirmed,” Sladek said. “There's nothing else within range—”
“Missile trace!” someone barked.
Travis snapped his gaze around to the tactical. A new wedge had appeared, the smaller, more compact wedge of a missile tracking straight toward Phoenix. “Acceleration thirty-five-hundred gees; estimated impact, two minutes forty seconds,” the tactical officer added.
“Stand by autocannon,” Castillo ordered calmly. “Fire will commence fifteen seconds before estimated impact.”
Travis drew a hissing breath. That was, he knew, the prescribed response to a missile attack. With an effective range of a hundred fifty kilometers, the autocannon's self-guided shells were designed to detonate in the path