The Great Theatre of Action

We were joined by the UNSC George Washington, one of the first Punic-class supercarriers built, as well as one of the finest ships I have ever laid my eyes on. It was as big as a city, and had about as many personnel as its standard complement. There were two(!) Super-MACs on the vessel, which meant that it was more than a match for any Covenant ship. I saw one used once, against a CAS-class Covenant ship. After one volley (with the help of the rest of the fleet’s MACs), its shields went down, and we tore it to bits.
I commanded the UNSC Władysław Sikorski, a Marathon-class cruiser, and a fine vessel in and of itself. The battlegroup’s flagship was, naturally, the Washington, commanded by Vice Admiral Kaela Schofield. She was one of the few vice admirals in service to have engaged the Covenant in battle more than once so far in the war, both of them fighting withdrawals. She was forced to abandon her birthworld, New California, as it was glassed by a Covenant fleet four times the size of her own battlegroup, with barely half of the civilian population of that planet in tow. That was a year ago, and understandably, she was eager to take the fight back to the Covenant. As was I, since I lost my in-laws on that world. They were good people who didn’t deserve to get blasted into ash, and I would keep on fighting not just for me, but for my wife, who had slipped into a deep depression after that. Before ending my letter to her earlier today, I wrote some encouraging words in the missive. I didn’t lie and say to myself that it was going to help. Plain old words rarely do. But perhaps a few Covenant ships burning in the depths of space would be a better consolation.
All the combat vessels in the battlegroup lined up neatly in combat formations, and prepared to synchronize our jumps into slipspace.
“Synchronization successful, Captain,” said the ship’s AI, Witold, dressed as a WWII-era Polish army officer. “We are ready to jump whenever the Vice Admiral gives the order.”
“Excellent,” I replied. “When the time comes, helmsman, make the jump.”
“Aye, sir,” said Lt. Estrada, who was seated at the Sikorski’s controls.
“I’m feeling pretty good about this operation, sir,” commented my second-in-command, Cmdr. Raymond Platt.
“That must be because of the Washington,” I replied.
“That too, sir,” replied Platt with a slight chuckle. Then, a notification sounded. “Looks like VADM. Schofield is hailing us, sir.”
“Open a channel, put it up on the viewscreen,” I said, leaning back in my command chair. Schofield’s face soon appeared. She was somewhat weathered, with noticeable wrinkles and bags in her eyes. She leaned on one of the armrests of her own command chair on the bridge of the Washington, which seemed far more expansive than my own ship’s bridge. Her fair complexion was noticeably tanned, clashing with her graying hair, and harkening to her extended time on New California, which orbited perilously close to its host star, but still barely lied within the habitable zone.
“Captain Nestorenko, we’re almost ready to jump into the Bannock system and engage the Covenant. I’ve already informed the other flag officers of this: if I go down, and you’re still in the fight, command of the battlegroup falls to you. The Sikorski is a tough mother, and you’ve been in more than one scrap with Covenant forces before. You’re more than qualified to be acting commander should anything happen.”
“I’m honored sir,” I replied. “But I think with a Punic, especially the Washington herself, we’re in good hands.”
“I’ve seen twenty ships melt away against a single Covenant cruiser,” Schofield quickly replied, with a hint of bitterness in her tone. “You know better than to underestimate these aliens.”
“Yes, sir. But we must also remind ourselves that when in doubt, MACs.”
“MACs are only as good as the crew manning them and the ships around them. Just remember the plan, remember your training, and maybe we’ll get through this day.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Schofield narrowed her vision at me. A pause followed, then she spoke. “Granted.”
“Sir, you seem a bit… fatalistic today.”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it Captain? We’re going up one against of the biggest Covenant fleets we’ve seen so far. Forty-four of their ships. I don’t even know if we have that many left outside this battlegroup in the Outer Colonies. And the powers that be need to show to everyone that’s left in the Outer Colonies that the UNSC can actually protect them, instead of leaving them for dead. I’ve had to do that twice before personally, and I’m ready to stop running.”
“I understand your sentiment sir, but… perhaps we should be more optimistic in our outlook?”
“Optimism is naivety. Just get ready for a pretty nasty scrap.”
“Understood sir.”
“And Maksim? Good luck.” The Vice Admiral’s face considerably softened, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, for a brief moment, I saw the eyes of a tender grandmother.
“You too, sir.”
Schofield nodded once, ever so slightly, and terminated communications. A nagging thought swam in the back of my mind, stemming from scuttlebutt shared between a few other ship captains in the battlegroup: the vice admiral allegedly fancied herself a female Preston Cole, and wanted to emulate his successes against the Covenant. Hopefully it wouldn’t be off the backs of us.
Two minutes and twelve seconds later exactly, the whole battlegroup jumped into slipspace. It was timed precisely, and fortunately for us, all our ships more or less appeared at the same time. Forty warships of all manners of classification, from the humble Gladius-class UNSC Thunderbolt, to the Paris-class UNSC Vicksburg, to my own vessel, and finally the supercarrier herself. The moment we came out of slipspace, I could hear jaws drop to the floor. Of the forty-four Covenant ships, thirty were destroyers, corvettes, and support vessels of various classifications. Five were CAS-class, while five more were CSS-class. Three of them were the huge ORS-class heavy cruisers, which were more than a match for any Marathon-class, even the Sikorski. Finally, there was what was undoubtedly the flagship of this Covenant battlegroup. It was a monster, eclipsing even the Washington in size – a CSO-class supercarrier. One of them could fight two Punics at once – alone – and this one had backup.
“All ships, execute Plan Maroon, I repeat, execute Plan Maroon!” ordered VADM. Schofield. We did so, with most ships concentrating their MACs on the assault carriers and heavy cruisers, while the destroyers and corvettes had additional duties of screening the rest of the fleet. The Washington targeted the supercarrier itself. The Sikorski’s MACs targeted one of the heavy cruisers, and fired, the recoil jolting everyone on the ship, a deep and violent shudder rumbling our vessel. The Covenant, meanwhile, almost immediately started shooting back, their shields brought up to full strength, or whatever measure they had.
“Confirmed hit, Captain,” said Witold. The ship we targeted had their shields shattered.
“Good, fire a salvo of Archer missiles! Now!” I said.
“Firing, sir!” cried out Cmdr. Platt. The missiles were away, and after a few moments – during which our hull received several hits from the armaments of smaller Covenant vessels – they slammed into the unshielded heavy cruiser. The enemy vessel seemed heavily damaged, but no doubt it still had its teeth.
“Registered hits, Captain,” said Witold. “However, I am detecting a significant buildup of energy from the Covenant vessel.” It demonstrated its capability to deal murderous damage when it fired its main weapon, a sort of plasma lance of the sort, against another Marathon-class in the fleet: the UNSC William of Orange. The William took a direct hit on its superstructure, and a significant chunk of it was blown apart. A few seconds later, the William accelerated forward, charging straight ahead into the Covenant battlegroup. It fired its MACs at one of the heavy cruisers, blasting away its shields, along with its entire complement of Archer and fusion missiles. That cruiser was destroyed, and several enemy destroyers and corvette sustained heavy damage from the William. Additionally, it unleashed what remained of its complement of Longswords, who flew into battle against Covenant strike craft.
As the Longswords did their best fighting the Covenant strike craft, the William’s fate was sealed: two of the Covenant assault carriers concentrated their fire on the beleaguered vessel. The William exploded as one of the Covenant assault carriers fired its main weapons at the engine.
As the battle dragged on, the Sikorski sustained more damage, but it was survivable and still in fighting condition. Scores of our own destroyers and corvettes were smashed to bits: the Thunderbolt and Vicksburg were lost about a minute after the William’s destruction. Our weapons were having an effect, but the Covenant simply outgunned us. Time went on, and more Marathons were destroyed, such as the Manzikert and the Santiago de Chile. Fleet casualties reached 50% when a crushing sight took place: the Covenant supercarrier, after absorbing a volley from the Washington’s MACs, unleashed its own armaments against our flagship. It landed a direct hit on the Washington with a brilliant purple plasma beam, the rod of light slamming into the front of the supercarrier. A volley of plasma weapons and armaments hammered the Washington, which continued to fight on, responding by firing virtually all of its ship-to-ship missiles at the Covenant supercarrier. The missiles exploded against the shields of the Covenant vessel, which fired its plasma lance again. The Washington was crippled. Then, VADM. Schofield sent a fleet-wide message. She said to us, “Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of Action.” A few moments later, the Washington exploded in a great blast, while in the midst of a number of light cruisers and strike craft that had surrounded it, firing at it from point blank range. The Washington took a final few cruisers with it.
“Sir, fleet losses are at over 75%!” noted Cmdr. Platt. “The Covvies only lost about a dozen ships! This isn’t going well!” His words rattled me as much as the Washington’s explosion. One of the biggest ships humanity has ever built was just blown up right in front of our eyes. Twelve-thousand servicemen and women gone. Our hammer was shattered.
“Goddammit!” I cried out in a melancholic fury, slamming my balled fists against the armrests of my chair. “Witold, send a fleet-wide communique: withdraw! Withdraw immediately! Execute Plan Violet! Make emergency jumps into slipspace now!”
“Affirmative, sir,” replied Witold.
“Sir,” began Lt. Estrada, “our slipspace drive has taken damage! I’m not too sure multiple emergency jumps is a good idea!”
“Fucking do it!” I barked.
And so, as the corpse of the Washington drifted in space, we turned tail and made emergency jumps, what little remained of the fleet hopping from system to system. Several Covenant cruisers and the supercarrier were in hot pursuit, but we lost them after the third star system. Unfortunately, more ships were left behind for one reason or another.
By the time we were sure we were no longer being pursued, just nine UNSC vessels remained. Nine. Out of forty. The Battle of the Bannock System was over within forty-six minutes, give or take a few seconds, and the Covenant handed us a nasty defeat.
“Witold,” I started. “Send another fleet-wide communique: we fall back to the Mu system. Now.”
Category:The Weekly