of an incoming missile, throwing up a wall of shrapnel that could take out anything that drove through its midst, especially something traveling at the five thousand kilometers per second that a missile carried at the end of its run.
At least, that was the hoped-for outcome. Given that the missile would be entering the shrapnel zone barely two hundredths of a second before reaching its target, it was a tactic that either worked perfectly or failed catastrophically. Still, more often than not, it worked.
Only in this case, with Phoenix's Number Two autocannon not tracking properly . . .
“You have an objection, Mr. Long?” Castillo asked.
Travis started. He hadn't realized he'd said anything out loud. “We've been having trouble with the autocannon, Sir,” he said. “I'm thinking . . .” He stopped, suddenly aware of the utter presumption of this situation. He, a lowly senior lieutenant, was trying to tell a ship's captain how to do his job?
But if Castillo was offended, he didn't show it. “Continue,” he merely said.
Travis squared his shoulders. He had been asked, after all. “I'm thinking it might be better to interpose wedge,” he said, the words coming out in a rush lest he lose his nerve completely. “If the missile comes in ventral, there may not be enough autocannon coverage to stop it.”
Castillo's lip might have twitched. It was hard to tell at that distance. But his nod was firm enough. “Helm, pitch twenty-six-degrees positive,” he ordered.
“Pitch twenty-six degrees positive, aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman acknowledged. “Pitching twenty-six degrees positive, aye.”
On the tactical, Phoenix's angle began to shift, agonizingly slowly, as the ship's nose pivoted upward. Travis watched the display tensely as the incoming missile closed the distance at ever-increasing speed, wondering if his proposed countermove had been too late.
To his relief, it hadn't. The missile was still nearly twenty seconds out when the leading edge of Phoenix's floor rose high enough to cut across its vector.
“Continue countdown to missile impact,” Castillo ordered. “Jink port one klick.”
Travis frowned as the helmsman repeated the order. A ship had a certain range of motion within the wedge, particularly at the zero acceleration Phoenix was holding right now.
But moving the ship that way was tricky and cost maneuverability. What was Castillo up to?
“Missile has impacted the wedge,” the tactical officer announced. “Orders?”
Castillo looked at Travis and raised his eyebrows. “Suggestions, Mr. Long?”
Travis stared at the tac display, where Invincible was now rimmed in flashing red to show that its position was based on the foggy gravitic data Phoenix was able to glean through the disruptive effects of its own wedge. For the moment, at least, the two ships were at a standoff. Phoenix couldn't fire at something it couldn't see well enough to target, and with its wedge floor interposed between them the destroyer was likewise completely protected from any weapon Invincible cared to throw at them.
But Phoenix was a ship of the Royal Manticoran Navy. Its job wasn't to be safe. Its job was to protect the Star Kingdom's people. However Locatelli was grading them on this exercise, that grade wouldn't be very high if Phoenix continued to hide behind its wedge.
“Recommend we reverse pitch and reestablish full sensor contact, Sir,” he said. “I'd also recommend we stand by to launch missiles.” He hesitated, wondering if he needed to add that they would want the practice missiles, not the ones with full-bore warheads. Surely they already knew that.
“Agreed,” the captain said. “Anything else?”
Travis frowned. From the tone of Castillo's question, he guessed there was indeed something else they should be doing. Wedge, sensor contact, missiles—
Of course. “I'd also suggest the autocannon begin laying down fire as we approach reacquisition.”
“Good.” Castillo gestured. “Pitch twenty-six degrees negative; prepare missiles and autocannon.”
“Pitch twenty-six degrees negative, aye, aye, Sir.”
“Prepare missiles and autocannon, aye, aye, Sir.”
Once again, the tac display began to shift. Travis watched, his thumbs pressed hard against the sides of his forefingers. From somewhere forward came a muted rumble as the autocannon began firing. The flashing red rim around Invincible vanished as the sensors reacquired contact—
“Missile!” the tac officer snapped.
Travis blinked. The whole thing had happened way too fast for him to see, but the vector line on the tac display showed that the incoming missile had come in right along the edge of fire from the misaimed Number Two autocannon, shot past the wedge floor as it pitched back down, skimmed past Phoenix at a distance of eleven kilometers, then continued on to disintegrate against the wedge roof.
He