Novel Sneak Preview

This is a sneak preview of the upcoming Military Science Fiction Novel from Paul Honsinger, To Honor You Call Us, due out in October 2012 as a Kindle and Nook e-book and as an Amazon paperback.  The version you see here may differ slightly from the one that finally appears in print, due to editorial revisions.   

To Honor You Call Us

Book One of the “Man of War” Trilogy 

by

H. Paul Honsinger

© 2012 by H. Paul Honsinger

All Rights Reserved

The Man of War Trilogy

To Honor You Call Us (October 2012)

For Honor We Stand (Early 2013)

Brothers in Valor (Mid-Late 2013)

Hearts of Steel

(The Official Anthem and March of the Union Space Navy, with new verses for the current war, sung to the tune of the “Heart of Oak,” the official Anthem and March of the Royal Navy of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.)

To Stations my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,
Oh, sons of the Union, we fight without fear;
'Tis to Honor you call us, for Honor we stand;
We brothers in valor await fame’s command.

            (Chorus)

            Hearts of steel, that’s our ships; hearts of steel, that’s our men.

            We always are ready; steady, boys, steady!

            We'll fight, not surrender, again and again.

We’ll take payment in blood for the debt Krag must pay,
And carve them with cutlass when they come to play;
Our courage defiant ennobles the stars,

Stalwart sons of Ares, strong offspring of Mars.

            (Chorus)

We still make them bleed and we still make them die,

And shout mighty cheers as they fall from the sky;

So, to Stations me lads and let’s sing with one heart,

We will win this war if we all do our part.

             (Chorus)

Prologue

04:13Z Hours, 11 November 2314 (General Patton’s Birthday)     

            Lieutenant Max Robichaux, Union Space Navy, stood in the crowded boarding tube breathing the scent of fear-acrid sweat from the thirty-four other men he had been able to round up from the Emeka Moro.  With over fifty Krag boarders on his own ship, it seemed nothing short of insane to be counter-boarding the enemy vessel instead of defending his own.  Except that his shipmates were losing the battle for their own vessel.  Except that, unless the Krag ship could be disabled and the two vessels separated, the more numerous crew from the enemy Medium Battlecruiser would continue to flow into the Emeka Moro overwhelming the less numerous compliment of the smaller Frigate.  Except that, unless this desperate gamble worked, his own ship would be taken, refitted, crewed with Krag, and sent back into battle against the people who built her.  And, of course, there would be the small matter of the enemy brutally killing Max along with his shipmates and dumping their mutilated bodies into interstellar space.

            Call it an incentive to succeed.

            Max adjusted his gloves which not only chafed his large hands, but trapped his own nervous sweat against them.  “Five seconds, brace yourselves,” yelled the Engineer’s mate.  Every man covered his ears and opened his mouth to help prevent his eardrums from rupturing.  “Three, two, one,” Just as Max could see that the young man’s diaphragm was beginning the contraction that would allow him to utter the word “now,” the slowly telescoping boarding tube struck the outer hull of the Krag warship, triggering the breaching charge with a deafening THOOOOOOOM blowing a nearly two-meter opening into which the boarding tube penetrated just under an arm’s length.  Within a second, a polymer collar around the exterior of the tube folded out and adhered to the inside of the hull, making an airtight seal.  Just as the seal formed, the door at the end of the boarding tube dropped to form a ramp and the men under Max’s command stormed into the Krag ship. 

            They found themselves in a large cargo hold full of assorted containers, at least thirty meters square with a hatch on the far wall.  Immediately three men slipped off packs and pulled out three components which they assembled into a device, about a meter and a half square, which they activated.  Max noted that both the blue and green lights came on, indicating that, for now, the Krag ship’s internal sensors and coms were offline until their computer managed to decrypt the scrambling algorithm, which typically took from fourteen to twenty-three minutes.  He hoped it was long enough.

            A quick hot wire job by the Engineer’s Mate (what was his name, Tumlinson?, Tomlinson, Tomkins?) and the hatch slid open admitting the boarding party to a corridor.  Max was the first one through the door, sidearm in hand.  “After me,” he whispered hoarsely and the men followed him at a trot.  The Union had captured enough Krag ships in the decades’ long war for Max to know the general layout, and he was leading them to the Main Engine and Power Control Room.  The boarding party made its way quickly and without encountering any Krag up about sixty five meters of corridor and then turned a sharp corner into a short corridor that ended at the entrance to their destination. 

            There to be met by a hail of gunfire.  Ducking quickly out of the way of the bullets, Max pointed to three men behind him, then made a fist and a throwing motion, indicating that the three men were to use grenades.  They pulled the fist-sized devices from their web belts and yanked the pins while holding down the safety levers, then looked back at Max.  He held up three fingers and counted down silently:  “three, two, one.”  A full second after the “one,” and in unison, all three men threw their grenades hard against the far bulkhead of the corridor to land at the guards’ feet in a banking shot.  The three grenades went off about a tenth of a second apart.  Max and his men stormed around the corner shooting as they came, in case anyone was left standing. 

            No one was.  Four dead Krag lay bleeding near the door, pulse rifles in their hands.  “Remember men, once we get in, no shooting.  Boarding cutlasses only.  There are too many things in there that can kill us all if they get punctured by a bullet.”  He turned to the Engineer’s mate.  “Ready, Tomkins?”  That was his name.  Tomkins.  “Blow it.”

            Thomkins pressed and held two buttons on the side of his Percom, the green light on the small breaching charge he had just stuck on the hatch changed from green to red, and with a sharp BANG, the charge shredded the door.  Max led the way, his 63.5 centimeter boarding cutlass drawn, his men immediately joining in scores of separate one on one and three on two engagements with the twenty-five or so Krag engineers who had been manning stations in that space.  Spotting the panels that he needed to reach near the far end of the room, Max strode in that direction.  Immediately three Krag converged to block him.  The closest drew its own sword, a short, straight affair resembling a Roman gladius and stabbed at Max’s midriff.  With a powerful downward swipe of his own, longer, heavier blade, Max blocked the blow and struck his opponent with the back of his hand hard in the snout.  Stunned, the Krag staggered allowing Max to bring his cutlass back up and chop into the Krag’s neck, cutting about three quarters of the way through, severing its spine, and dropping it to the deck.

            The second, more skilled with a sword than the first, held its weapon in front of it like a fencing foil, ready to duel.  Max charged, leading with the point of his own weapon as if to accept the Krag’s invitation to a fencing match.  At the last moment, Max lunged forward and grabbed the end of the Krag’s sword in his gloved left hand, pushing the point away from himself while plunging his own weapon deep into the Krag’s abdomen and out its back.  Apparently, the Krag had not been looking for a point attack, as the Cutlass was primary regarded as a slashing weapon.

            Sensing rather than seeing the approach of the third Krag, Max quickly pulled his sword from the second and pivoted to his right to fend it off just as the one Marine Max had been able to find for the boarding party caught it from behind, stabbing swiftly into the Krag’s right lung with a distinctly non-regulation dirk.  The Krag fell to the deck on his back, gasping as its lungs collapsed from the air filling its chest cavity.  The Marine silenced the sound with a savage stomp to the Krag’s throat.  The way to the panels was now clear.  Max took a quick look around the compartment, seeing that all the Krag were out of the fight, except for four who were standing back to back mounting a last ditch defense.  Twenty or so lay dead or badly wounded on the deck, along with seven of his own men.  Confident that the remaining boarders would shortly overwhelm the four hold-outs, Max reached the panels he sought in three long steps, struggling briefly with the unfamiliar labels on the controls. 

            He pulled a small cylindrical device from his web belt, ripped off a piece of plastic film exposing an adhesive strip, and gave the end a quick half twist.  Max pressed the cylinder, adhesive side down, to the panel and stepped back.  He then repeated the procedure, attaching a second cylinder to a second panel.  A few seconds later, each made a loud, high pitched whine that started out near the top of the musical scale and rapidly ascended beyond the range of human hearing all the while emitting a brilliant red-orange glow that became brighter as the pitch became higher.  When the noise and the light both stopped, Max saw that all the displays in that entire area of the Krag engineering deck were dark, the delicate micro-circuitry of their components hopelessly fused.

            Until the Krag could bypass those units, a process that might take hours, their ship’s grappling field was off line and its motive power limited to maneuvering thrusters.  “Men, her claws are cut and her legs are broken.  Now, let’s get away before we overstay our welcome.”  Max had always been amused by the idea of boarding with a nuke rather than sabotage gear, but the thought of what would happen if the boarding party’s exit from the enemy ship were delayed didn’t bear contemplation.  Being caught inside the fireball of a nuclear explosion may be a quick and painless way to die, but it was also awfully damned certain.  Boarders always took or crippled the ship they boarded, but never destroyed it. That was best done at a safe distance from your own vessel.

            Max led the men the way they came, turning into the main corridor only to be met by about two dozen Krag marines, probably drawn by the sound of the earlier gunfire.  Each side fell back from the intersection too startled by the sudden appearance of its respective enemy to get off a shot.  Knowing he had only a second to act before the Krag got the same idea, Max pulled two grenades from his own web belt, one in each hand, extracted the pins with his teeth, and tossed them both around the corner.  As soon as they went off, he charged around the corner, his men behind him, the front rank of five men shooting from the hip and taking out about half of the Krag who were not felled by the grenades. 

            The two clumps of combatants merged in a close order melee, shooting at point blank range with side arms and hacking at each other with swords.  Max shot one Krag through the bottom of the jaw and was turning to meet another when he felt an odd tug at his left arm.  Turning, he saw a Krag sword slicing the back of his wrist, just as Crewman First Class Fong shot it through the back of the head.  As both groups started to thin from casualties and room between the fighters opened up, what had been an even balance between shooting and stabbing turned more and more to shooting with the advantage going to the slightly more numerous boarding party.  The remaining Krag ran with the Union crew shooting at their fleeing backs and bringing down four more.  Stepping over the bodies of friend and foe, Max led the remainder of his men, now numbering only nineteen, back into the cargo hold, down the boarding tube, through the airlock, and onto the Emeka Moro. 

            Tomkins pulled a large blue and yellow striped lever, sealing the boarding tube airlock then slapped a red button.  A loud WHUMP marked the detonation of the explosion that blew the tube cutting the near end loose from the Emeka Moro. 

            Max gave himself the luxury of half a minute—five quick breaths—to savor the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of being back aboard his own ship.  The boarding action had been a success, with the bonus that Max and most of his men were still alive. There were Navy crewmen left behind on the Krag ship, probably all dead by now, and there they would stay.  Sentimental notions about retrieving bodies of comrades had perished in the first weeks of this desperate war for the survival of the Human race.  But, if things continued according to plan, the fallen would receive the most thorough cremation known to Man.

             Leaning against the nearest bulkhead, Max hit the orange SND/ATN button on his Percom.

            “Robichaux to CIC.”

            “CIC,” the voice from the ship’s Command Information Center responded over the tiny device strapped to Max’s wrist.

            “Boarding party is Romeo Tango Sierra.”  Max said, informing the command crew that the boarding party had “RTS” or Returned To the Ship.  “Enemy Main Sublight Drive and grappling field disabled for estimated one hour minimum.  Nineteen effectives remaining.  Rest are Kilo India Alpha.”  Killed In Action.  Dead.  Almost half. 

            “Excellent work, Lieutenant.”  Max recognized the cool, well modulated voice of Captain Sanchez.  “Make your way to Auxiliary Control with your party.” 

            “Heading for Auxiliary Control, aye.”  Auxiliary control?  With enemy boarders to be fought?  Fighting the desire to shake his head at the order, he turned to the ragged remnant of his command.  “Men, we are ordered to Auxiliary Control.”  Down a corridor Max led his men, now huffing and puffing, up an access tube, down another corridor, up three more levels, and into another corridor that led about a hundred meters to yet another access tube that would let them climb two more decks to the level on which AuxCon was located.  Then CRACK-BOOOOOM.  A sharp blast followed by a long, deep rumbling shook the ship.  Max knew that sound.  It was the detonation of an implosion charge array collapsing a heavy spherical pressure bulkhead.  Like the one that surrounded CIC.

            Now the order made sense.  The Captain must have known that the Krag had taken the spaces surrounding CIC and were setting the carefully calculated arrangement of charges that, when detonated together, would crush the CIC pressure bulkhead like an eggshell, instantly killing everyone inside.  Everyone in CIC, which included every officer on the ship senior to Max, was now dead.  Captain Sanchez had just issued his last command.

            Max and his men poured out of the access tube onto Deck 8 and ran toward Auxiliary Control.  Dead men and dead Krag littered the corridor.  No one was left alive, save one Krag with a shredded right arm trying and failing to set breaching charge on the hatch.  Setting a breaching charge is a two-handed operation.  Max drew his sidearm and shot it cleanly through the head, absently kicked the body to the side, put his palm on the scanner, and keyed the access code. The hatch slid open admitting Max and his men to the room from which the ship could be fought if CIC were destroyed. 

            Only two Petty Officer Thirds were manning stations.  The rest of the crew who would ordinarily been there had probably been sent out to fight boarders.  Max threw himself into the seat at the Commander’s station and divided his attention between pulling up the displays he needed and putting people to work. 

            “Tomkins, Woo, and Lorenzo, take maneuvering.  Adamson, Tactical.  Marceaux, Weapons.  Fong, SysOps.  Montaba, Sensors.  Everyone else cover the rest of the stations as best you can—keep an eye on what’s going on and go where you are needed.  Don’t be afraid to sing out if you see anything, need anything, or have a question.  You’ve all got your Comets, so you know how to run every station in the ship, but you’ve never worked together doing these jobs, so you’ll just have to talk to each other, pitch in, and be flexible.”

            “Sir, you’re bleeding,” observed Montaba quietly.

            Max looked at his arm. His uniform sleeve was soaked with blood and he could see deeply into the muscles of his forearm.  The slash was deep, and yet, Max felt strangely distanced from the sensation of pain.  He pulled a First Aid Kit from an Emergency Equipment Bin, stuffed a volume bandage into the arm of his uniform, and then stuck his whole forearm into a compression sleeve, pulled the cinch, and tied it off.  The sleeve inflated to put pressure on the volume bandage and slow the bleeding, while a medication ampule in the bandage was ruptured by the pressure, releasing coagulants and an antibiotic cocktail into the wound.  Maybe Max would not bleed to death in the next few hours or die of an infection before he got to a doctor.  Just maybe.

            This took only about a minute.  People were moving quickly but efficiently to their assigned stations, getting their displays tied into working data channels and controls online.  Max stabbed a com button on his panel.  “Attention all hands, this is Lieutenant Robichaux in AuxCon.  CIC is gone and I have assumed command.  Ship is being conned from here.  All DC and Boarder Repel stations report your status by lights. I need two Marines to AuxCon.  Carry on at Condition One.  That is all.”  How the Marines in the ship were supposed to determine which two were to respond to this command, they would have to figure out for themselves, because Max had his hands full. 

            Indeed, Max had never commanded anything larger than a 350 ton System Patrol Vessel.  Now he was commanding a heavily damaged 25,600 metric ton Frigate in combat with a much larger and more powerful capital ship, light years from any hope of reinforcement or support, with virtually all of his officers and much of his crew dead.  The expression “over your head” didn’t even begin to cover it. 

            The crewman at the Damage Control Station sang out.  “Getting damage reports, sir. Relaying them to your board.”  It would take a few minutes before a complete picture developed.  

            “Boarders?” Max said to Lewis at the On Board Defense Station.

            “Only green lights so far, sir.  They are pretty well distributed throughout the ship.  Maybe we got them all.”

            “Maybe so.”  And maybe not.  Max stabbed the com button again.  “AuxCon to Engineering.” 

            A somewhat reedy but precise voice answered instantly.  “Engineering here.  Brown speaking.”

            “Werner!” Max responded gleefully, relief flooding through his every cell. He gave the name a German pronunciation, even though Engineer Brown’s accent was decidedly British. “Do you have any kind of engines working down there at all or am I going to have to order ‘out sweeps’ and have the crew row us home?”

            “Leftenant,” the Engineer exaggeratedly gave the rank the archaic British pronunciation, contrary to Naval procedure, “since your meager training still doesn’t encompass reading the Master Status Display, it is my duty to inform you that the Main Sublight Drive is available at up to 39.5 percent power, but I suggest you endeavor to keep that lower than 25. Compression Drive is available but no higher than 220 c.  Again, my strong recommendation is to approach that speed only in grave need—150 would be much more prudent.  The Jump Drive is nothing but scrap metal and molten pieces of abstract art.  Oh, and if I were you I shouldn’t want to pull anything more than about eight Gs because I don’t think that the inertial compensators are capable of more than 7.8 Gs.  That is, unless you wish to kill what little crew you have left.”

            “Understood, Werner.  If anything else of any importance breaks, let me know by com.  Master Status is down.  Would be nice if it worked.  Of course, it’s not like I expect you to fix it.”

            “I shall attend to it in my copious free time.  And, Leftenant, if you find yourself unable to remember the route to Lovell Station, feel free to ask me for directions.”

            “I’ll bear that in mind, Werner.  AuxCon out.”  Somewhere between a third and two thirds of the crew might be dead, one of the two star drives was gone for good, a vastly more powerful enemy vessel was just yards off the starboard beam, but Gallows humor was alive and well in the Union Space Navy.  Good thing. 

            He jabbed the com key once again.  “AuxCon to Casualty Station. . . . Anyone in Casualty, please respond.”  Nothing. “Anyone up here not insanely busy?”  An Ordinary Spacer Second Class stepped forward. “Shaloob, run on down to the Casualty Station, see what’s going on down there, and report back from the nearest working com.  With CIC gone, your Percom might not work.  And, we’re not sure the ship is clear of Krag so watch yourself.  Draw your sidearm and make sure you’ve got rounds in it and a spare mag.  Or three.”

            “Aye, Skipper,” the man said automatically.  He checked his weapon, drew two spare magazines from the AuxCon weapons locker, and went out the door, pistol in hand. 

            “Skipper,” Max thought.  “Maneuvering, open up some range between us and the Krag ship, in case they have any more ideas about boarding or they get their point defense weapons working again.  Get us out to 400 kilometers.  Course and throttle at your discretion, but take it easy on the old girl, she’s had a rough day.”

            “Aye, sir, 400 kilometers, course and throttle my discretion, taking it easy,” said Tomkins who apparently was the senior of the three at the maneuvering stations—one for yaw and roll, one for pitch and trim, and one for throttle. 

            “Tactical, what weapons do we have?”  Dear, God, please let there be some.       
            “I’m not getting any status, good or bad, from any of our pulse cannon. No lights at all. My opinion is that we should assume forward and rear batteries are out.  Number two and four missile tubes are available.  Tubes loaded, crews standing by, reloads at the ready.  But, I’ve got a red light on the main coils and amber on the auxiliary with the output driver showing at five percent, so it will almost be a dead tube fire.”  The magnetic coils that normally would accelerate the missiles out of their tubes at 61% of the speed of light were showing barely enough power to push them out of the ship at a hundred meters per second.  As a result, propelled only by their on board drive systems, the missiles’ speed would top out at about .30 c, making them far easier to shoot down.  “Tubes one and three show red lights across the board.”  Short pause. “I think their crews are dead, sir.”  Marceaux responded quickly and precisely, but his voice was shaking.  The Adrenalin was wearing off. 

            “God rest their souls,” he said softly.  “Good job, Marceaux.”  Then, in what the Navy called an Officer’s Order Voice, “This is a Nuclear Weapons Arming Order.  Arm missiles and warheads in tubes in two and four, and target the Krag ship.”

            “Nuclear Weapons Arming Order acknowledged and logged, sir.  Arming warheads in two and four, arming missiles in two and four, and targeting the Krag.”  Marceaux repeated his part of the time honored litany.

            “I plan to fire two while holding four in reserve in case two does not destroy the target or another target presents itself,” Max announced.  “Maneuvering, sing out when we get to 400 kills then turn to unmask the number two and four tubes.

            WHAM.  A hammer blow struck the ship rattling the teeth of everyone on board.

            “The Krag just fired one of their projectile weapons, sir,” Tactical observed.              “We noticed.   Mr. Adamson, give me a read on the projectile’s velocity.”

            “It was just over a thousand meters per second, sir.”

            “So, about ten percent.  Most of their acceleration coils must be out.  It will take a hit at the optimal angle for them to penetrate the hull.”

            “Unless they can zero in on one of our hull breaches,” Adamson muttered.

            “Glad you thought of that, Adamson. DC, do we know where our hull breaches are, yet?”

            “Affirmative sir, reports are tolerably complete.”  This from Arglewa.  Somehow he had acquired a nasty burn on his shaven scalp.  “We have two right together in Frame Eight at azimuth 205 and 212 and one in Frame Sixteen at Azimuth 223.” 

            “Thank you, Mr. Arglewa.  Get some burn foam on that shiny head of yours.  The glare is distracting me.  Maneuvering, do your best to roll the ship to present an azimuth of about. . . .” he took a rough average of the three azimuths and subtracted it from 360, “seventy five degrees to the enemy.”

            “Just passing 400 kills, sir, yawing to unmask tubes two and four and rolling to present seventy-five degree azimuth,” said Tomkins.

            “Very well.”

            Max’s comm. buzzed.  “Robichaux here.  Go ahead.”

            “This is Shaloob.  Casualty station is gone, sir.  I think the Krag blew the hatch and tossed in a satchel charge.  Looks like the place was full of wounded when they did it, too.  Nothing but debris and body parts now.  Nurse/Medic Salmons and Pharmacist’s Mate Cho have got a makeshift casualty station set up on the RecDeck.  I count fifty-three wounded there, thirty two look serious.  Salmons and Cho are performing surgery on someone right now so I didn’t interrupt them to get more information.” 

            “Good call, Shaloob, and good report.  When either Salmons or Cho get a second, ask them if they can use you there.  If so, lend a hand, if not hustle back here.” 

            “Aye, sir.”

            “AuxCon out.”

            WHAM.  Another Krag projectile slammed into the hull, this one causing two of the panels in the compartment’s false ceiling to fall to the deck.  A pre-pubescent Midshipman who had appeared in AuxCon without Max noticing calmly picked up the two panels and stacked them with the other debris he had quietly been arranging near the inoperable waste disposal chute, the look on his face as blasé as if he were policing a park for candy wrappers.  The boy had a short barreled shotgun slung over his shoulder and powder deposits on his face and hands proving he had made extensive use of it in the last few hours.  They grow up fast in the Navy.

            Max and Arglewa looked at each other and Arglewa shook his head.  The round had not penetrated.    

            Two marines with blood on their uniforms and fire in their eyes stepped into the compartment.  “Lance Corporal McGinty and Private Nogura reporting as ordered, sir,” said the older of the two. Both saluted smartly.

            “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Max, returning the salute with equal precision.  A Marine felt insulted if you gave him a sloppy salute.  “Take up station outside the hatch to this compartment.  You see any Navy, get ‘em in here.  You see any Krag, kill them.”

            “Aye, sir.”  The Marines did a perfect parade ground about face and took up their stations in the corridor. 

            “Tubes two and four unmasked, enemy targeted,” Marceaux reported.

            “Very well.”  Max responded.  “Mr. Marceaux, enable drives in missiles two and four.  Release warhead safeties.  Set for maximum yield.”

            “Enabling drives in missiles two and four.”  The weapons’ propulsion systems were switched from Off to Standby.  “Releasing warhead safeties.”   The safeties which inhibited ignition of the detonators in the compact H-Bombs at the core of each of the two warheads went inactive.  Once fired, and a last safety detected that the missile had traveled at least 10 kilometers from the launching ship, the warheads would become capable of exploding if properly triggered.  “Setting for maximum yield.”  Each warhead was dialed in for its maximum explosive power of 150 kilotons, more than ten times the power of the weapon that destroyed Hiroshima, Japan, three hundred and seventy years earlier. 

            “Open number two missile door,” said Max.

            “Number two open.”

            “Verify missile target.”

            “Sir,” Marceaux responded formally, “missile number two is targeted on the Krag vessel approximately 400 kills off our Port Dorsal Bow.”

            “Very well.  Weapons Officer, you have a Nuclear Launch Order.”

            “Confirmed, sir, I have a Nuclear Launch Order.”

            “Fire Two.”

            “Two away.”  The ship shuddered as the missile was accelerated marginally by the damaged coils in its launch tube and then continued to accelerate under its own power.  “Missile on course and homing on target.”  Marceaux sounded relieved.  He probably had never fired a live missile before.  “Impact in seven seconds.”

            There was an optical feed of the Krag ship on four displays strategically located around the compartment.  Every eye was glued to one of them as every man silently counted down the seconds, watching as the Krag ship slowly yawed, probably to unmask a just-repaired beam weapon battery and fire what was likely to be a killing blow to the frigate.  No one breathed, as it was always possible that the damaged Krag point defense batteries might pick up and destroy the missile, notwithstanding its own extensive countermeasures designed to prevent that from happening. 

            Three, two, one . . . Right on the mark, all four displays flared into almost painful brightness as the Krag ship disappeared in an incandescent sphere of rapidly expanding plasma slowly fading from a brilliant blue-white through the color-temperature spectrum into dull red and vanishing into infrared frequencies invisible to the human eye.  At last, there were only the cold distant lights of the stars set against the infinite dark of space. 

            Max spoke into the silence, just loud enough to be heard at the weapons station.  “Disable missile drive and Safe the warhead in tube four.”  Marceaux confirmed the order.

            To the whole room, “All right, people, the bad guys died.  We didn’t.  Excellent work.  Now, let’s see about getting the old girl back to Lovell Station.”