Nine minutes later the first of the East German scat-ships came out of warp. In the five seconds allotted him, SubCaptain Hessler located the target, aimed and fired his missile, and broke off again into e-light. The automated batteries aboard the Dreadnought picked up and analyzed his presence, aimed a ruby laser and fired: too late. Also too late were the bursts it fired at the lightning-fast projectile, sent in a curved trajectory at its more vulnerable underside.
The neonuclear explosive hit home with a violence that even the emptiness of Space could not diffuse, penetrating seven of the Carrier's sixteen layered shields.
Within the ship there was a sudden, jarring concussion, and the corridors of every vessel inside it resounded with the drone of a battle-stations alert. For the briefest instant the lights of the studio went out; and when they returned Hayes saw that his speech was ruined. A pitcher of water had spilled across it, and the liquid inside blurred ink and paper together into an unrecognizable wrinkle of smeared sheaves. The man in the booth made a quizzical motion, in the form of a question drawing his finger across his throat. But Hayes shook him off angrily.
"All men to your posts," he barked gruffly. "Maybe now you'll see that this is no game." He himself hastened to the uppermost bridge, furious at this sneak attack, and even more at his own men for having allowed it to happen.
"Damage report!" he shouted, entering the circle of men and equipment that scrambled with sudden activity like an ant-hill beaten with a stick. "How many ships!"
"Damage report coming," said a voice, calm and professional.
"Just the one," came another.
"It only slowed to sub-light long enough to fire the projectile, then broke off again just as fast." This last belonged to Gen-Admiral Frank, commander of the Fleet.
"Why didn't the robot-guns get him?"
"They weren't set for full kill intercept. With so many Alliance ships in the vicinity, they had to analyze—-"