“Get artillery on the belt, now!” Watson called.
Jessica heard the radio operator calling the artillery commander, using the traditional callsign of Redleg Six, telling them to fire for effect. Preplanned fire missions left their gun tubes on the far side of Lovell City a few seconds later. The MinSha hesitated, then pressed forward into the field, but instead of going straight into the line of tanks, the MinSha pushed farther to the north, toward a company of CASPers on the forward slope of the city.
She tapped her slate, called up the unit’s information and snorted. The commander’s name was Matzke, but his choice of callsign was unusual. She tapped her headset. “Trogdor Six, this is Peacemaker.”
“Roger?”
“Watch the MinSha massing on your extreme left. They’re going to come your way.”
The voice on the other end laughed. “That’s the best news we’ve heard all day. We’re ranging and prepared to fire.”
Another voice broke in, and with a glance at her slate, she realized it was Novotny, the armor commander. “Command, Saber Six. MinSha pushing north. They’re massing between our lines. Request deactivation of the field for counterattack.”
Jessica glanced at Watson. The bald commander was already shaking his head as he tapped his headset. “Negative, Saber Six. Maintain engagement from your positions.”
She kept looking at him. “If they push through that spot—”
“They won’t, and I’m not letting the tanks charge across the line with their cannons blazing. They hold the main line to the city.” Watson frowned.
“Command, Trogdor Six. They’ve broken through the mines!”
A flurry of radio commands filled the channel. Artillery shifted to cover the narrower, concentrated area where the lead MinSha were coming up the hill from the minefields. The MinSha wounded or killed by incoming fire fell to the ground and were trampled by those behind them. She saw a mine detonate under a fallen MinSha. The heavy infantry armor dissipated the blast away from the skiffs and infantry around it.
Not trampled, they’re bridging over their own dead. That’s how they crossed the mine field so damned fast.
“Deactivate the field!” Jessica snapped. “Bring the tanks across or they’re going to cut through Matzke’s forces and get into the city.”
No sooner had the words come out of her mouth, then Novotny’s tanks poured forward from their positions and charged into the MinSha flank. Skiffs turned away from the infantry and confronted the tanks. The two armored forces exchanged fire like dueling thunderstorms. Vehicles on both sides detonated as they maintained their rates of fire. The MinSha infantry pivoted and charged toward the tanks, their weapons raised.
“Trogdor Six, this is Warthog Six. Hold your ground, we’re on the way!”
Jessica recognized the callsign. Lieutenant Hogshead was one of the kids she’d wanted on the defensive line. He knew what keeping the initiative meant. His CASPers rose from their concealed positions to the right of Matzke’s line and charged forward.
“Peacemaker, Mako One Three. We have Colonel Tirr on board. Moving to Rebel Lead. Still no vital signs.”
Jessica bit her lip. There hadn’t been any vital signs when Tirr’s icon flashed out. Rebel Lead was down, but there hadn’t been any sign of fire or detonation. The MinSha forces engaged with Ibson’s Thunder elements hadn’t reached her yet. There was still a chance the young flyer pilot was alive.
“Mako One Three, proceed to Rebel Lead’s location. Break. Thunder Six, your move.”
“Roger, Peacemaker,” Ibson called. “Thunder Six is on the roll.”
Watson came over to Jessica. “What do we do with Ibson?”
“Focus on the main effort. Once Mako One Three is clear, we’ll have whatever Thunder elements are left close the door behind the MinSha,” Jessica replied. “It’s time to get the non-essential personnel and a defensive force up on the rim, Watson.”
The majority of Lovell City’s 20,000 residents were long evacuated, but the families and children of Watson and the planetary governor hadn’t wanted to leave. Sequestered near the escarpment to the east, Watson believed they were safe, even though he’d established an evacuation point ten kilometers to the east. His forethought in planning was commendable, but he had to remember to use it. Fail-safe positions were only viable if used.
Watson shook his head. “That takes my last flyers out of the fight.”
“I know.” Jessica nodded. “But they’re the only thing we’ve got to get your family out of here if the MinSha break through.”
“Break through?” Watson laughed. “We’ve got them surrounded, Peacemaker. This will be over in a few minutes. All we have to do is close the door.”
Jessica looked at the Tri-Vs. Like a giant V, the tanks on the left and the CASPers on the right charged toward the bottlenecked MinSha. Artillery flashed and fell on them, but they kept coming. “Have they deployed all of their infantry?”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Watson glanced at the display. “What do you think they’re going to do?”
“Attack.” Jessica frowned. “Harder than anything you’ve ever seen.”
There was a chime in her earpiece. She tapped it immediately. There was no connection. She tapped the Tri-V at a station labeled ATMO and gasped. The MinSha fleets, both Drehnayl’s and Chinayl’s, were virtually destroyed. One MinSha cruiser remained somewhat operational, but the bulk of the force under Lucille appeared to be under thrust and oriented toward the wounded cruiser’s position.
“Lucille, report.”
There was nothing. Jessica tapped her slate, activating the interface. The operating system displayed a loading symbol, then the text:
NEW MESSAGE
Jessica tapped the icon and opened the simple text message on her screen. As she read, her vision blurred with sudden tears.
It’s best that I go. This ends here. I was always your friend, Jessica. Your father is in grave danger at Remote.
Backing out of the interface, Jessica tapped the system functions application and searched for Lucille’s backup folders. There was nothing in the usual locations. As she searched, a chill ran down her spine and there was a hitch in her breathing for a moment.
She’s gone. Jessica closed her eyes and hated herself for the flush of relief mixed with the genuine grief of losing what could only be called her closest companion. There was another copy, but for the moment, Jessica was on her own. An empty feeling came over her. For the first time in her life, she was completely alone.
What in the hell do I do now?
Exactly what you have to. You’re not alone, and we can still win this fight.
Jessica stared at the Tri-V as the icons for the remaining ships in orbit, friendly and enemy, coalesced. One by one, the icons for active scans and operational systems winked out. The in-orbit battle was over, but the ground fight was far from it.
Jessica squared her shoulders and nodded silently to herself. “This ends here.”
* * *
Southeast of the Sentinel
Victoria Bravo
The Stinger-class dropship descended over the terrain from the north, aiming for the spindle of rock. At the controls, pilot Becky Stallings pushed the throttle forward to the stop and leveled the artificial horizon indicator. Barely five meters off the ground and screaming toward the pitched battle at three hundred knots, Stallings disabled her command radios and focused solely on the frequencies for Liberty Six and Thunder Six. The rest of the battle didn’t matter. Dropping her ship on a precise target, pulling out the wounded commander, and returning him to the evacuation zone for medical treatment was all she cared about. He’d fought alongside the Humans with distinction, and he was a friend of Peacemaker Francis, but that didn’t matter either. He was wounded, in need of assistance, and she wasn’t going to let him die.
“Carter, get back there and help Alphabet get Colonel Tirr aboard.” She looked at her co-pilot and nodded. “Take a weapon, too.”
Carter
grinned, and his eyes twinkled in amusement. “You know he hates the new callsign, right?”
Stallings grinned. “I do. Go help him out.”
Carter unstrapped and squeezed Stallings’ shoulder as he exited the cockpit. They’d been a team for years, mainly rescuing stranded tourists and inept rock climbers who tried to do things they were woefully unprepared for. Their motto, “Smooth and Gone,” encompassed how they approached the job—her father’s influence from a career in special operations. He always said “smooth was fast and fast was smooth.” All the practice, all the crew drills, and all the experience they shared made them the best search and rescue crew in the system. Being smooth was everything.
She tapped her crew intercom system. “Alphabet? Carter’s on his way. He’s gonna give you cover while you get Tirr on board.”
She heard Vattakavanich sigh. “My name’s not that complicated, Becky. Carter’s here and we’re ready. Opening the door now.”
Stallings saw the rear door indicator flash from secured to open. “Inbound turn now.”
Coming in from the west, Stallings sighted Tirr easily in the brush. He was well concealed from the MinSha ground forces, but he wasn’t in a great landing zone. They’d have to crush some of the scrub brush, and it might not be possible to put the ship down fully on the ground.
“Gonna have to hover, guys,” Stallings said. Her left hand retarded the throttle, slowing the craft until she was barely maintaining eighty knots. Pulsing the ship’s reaction control system, she kept the nose up as they passed over Tirr.
“Visual contact!” Vattakavanich called over the rushing thrust from her vectored engines. “Ready to retrieve!”
“Three meters.” Stallings kept the ship level and worked with her left hand to tweak the thrusters to a fully down position while lowering their thrust. “Gear down. Two meters.”
“Subject moving. Alphabet’s out the door,” Carter called.
“One meter.” Stallings blinked as laser fire glanced off the cockpit’s protected windows. “Taking fire.” Through the fuselage, she felt the scrub brush pushing against the ship’s hull. She couldn’t descend much further. “Ready position.”
“Ten seconds,” Carter called. “They’re five meters out. Standby.”
The microphone connection stayed hot, and she heard distorted voices and grunts as Carter bounded down the ramp. “Liberty Six is onboard! Door closing!”
Stallings shoved the throttle forward, increasing the thrust and pitch of the engines as she turned the dropship toward the open, clear ground to the west.
That’s one.
“Peacemaker, Mako One Three. We have Colonel Tirr on board. Moving to Rebel Lead. Still no vital signs.”
* * *
Ibson heard Mako One Three’s ascent over the vibrations of his command track and the ongoing battle outside. “Mako One Three, Thunder Six, give me five mikes to clear the road.”
“Thunder Six, roger. Five mikes, out.”
“Mako One Three, move to loiter position. Break. Thunder Six, your move,” Jessica called.
“Roger, Peacemaker,” Ibson called. “Thunder Six is on the roll.”
With his right thumb, he switched to the crew intercom system. “Let’s go. Bearing zero seven three.”
The tank roared to life, bounced across the scrub brush, and accelerated toward the MinSha. With all four weapons pylons firing and the main gun cycling through the magnetically-accelerated rounds, the tank charged the surprised MinSha. Whatever hesitation they had evaporated in seconds. Almost as one, the MinSha infantry charged toward the tanks, their two operational skiffs firing high-velocity rounds and laser beams behind them.
Racing forward, Ibson’s tanks mowed through the infantry. Blue blood sprayed the camera feeds on the exterior of the tank. He heard the muted impacts of MinSha bouncing off the hull as they pushed forward. Across the radio, he heard scattered reports and screams, both human and inhuman. Ibson swung the main gun to target a skiff and—
KA-WHAMM! KA-WHAMM!
Ibson’s helmeted head bounced off the extension of the main gun’s sight and into the side of the tank. Bright stars flashed at the edge of his vision, and the world shifted violently to the left. Smoke filled the turret and clouded his sight. Interior lights, controls, and displays went dark. The tank was dead. He shook his head and ran a hand under his visor to try and clear his watering eyes. There was a hum. A vibration in his seat. The discordant thoughts came together in his clouded mind. The tank wasn’t dead. It was still moving forward, slowly, but it was on a bearing of 073. Everything around him and in the hull was silent.
“Crew report!” He called out. There was no response. “Crew report!”
Caution and warning systems showed the vehicle was on fire. Ibson looked down into the hull and saw no movement from the crew in the thick, black smoke. The smell of burning flesh rose as he saw a glow through the smoke. Flames engulfed the lower hull. Breached power cells threatened to detonate the ammunition stored below the weapons pylons. The crew was dead, and there was nothing he could do for them. A loud crash and a shower of sparks below his feet spurred Ibson to action. He swung open the commander’s hatch, pulled himself up on the tank’s turret, and tried to stand.
Cannon fire erupted on the ground around him. Instinctively, he flinched, flailed, and fell from the tank. Landing squarely on his back knocked every bit of air from his lungs. Struggling to breathe, Ibson looked up and saw Mako One Three streak off toward Lovell City. A half second later, two missiles sliced through the space the dropship had vacated. There was no other incoming fire, and Ibson heard a thrumming noise growing louder every second. In the early morning sky, a dark shape slowly passed over the battlefield.
Ibson froze.
The familiar shapes of MinSha dropships hovered barely a hundred meters overhead and lazily moved east toward Lovell City. There were six of them. As they passed, Ibson regained his ability to breathe and slowly checked the movement and feeling in his limbs. Everything appeared to be in working order. He turned his head to the right and saw a particularly craggy boulder less than a meter away from his outstretched arm. A few more seconds into his escape, he would have fallen, back first, onto the rock, and things would not have ended well.
The dropships accelerated eastward, and Ibson rolled shakily to his feet. Around him, where there had been a hundred MinSha and his own tanks in a heated battle, was silence. Vehicles burned behind him, setting the scrub brush aflame and blotting out the sky with columns of black, acrid smoke. Ibson turned toward Lovell City. Across the valley, there were rumbles of artillery and direct fire weapons. He checked his pistol, still secure in his tanker’s shoulder holster, and drew it. Working the action, he chambered a round and stiffly walked to the east. There was still a fight to be had.
* * *
Forward Defensive Position Alpha
Victoria Bravo
Novotny smashed the transmit button with his right thumb. “Saber elements, this is Six. Un-ass your defensive positions. Standby to attack. Good hunting, out.”
He looked across the tank at his communications specialist, Curran. “Back us out, Moose.”
“You got it, sir,” Curran replied.
Novotny touched the display in front of him and tapped the communications frequencies. He found the unit commander he was looking for in seconds and tapped the icon. Instantly, he could hear Hogshead talking to his troops. He pressed the transmit button and released it. Pressing it again and holding it, he knew they could hear him above everyone else. “Warthog Six, this is Saber Six. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Saber Six, go.” Hogshead replied.
“How about you meet me in the middle? We protect Matzke’s ass and clean house out here where the bugs can’t get traction,” Novotny said with a grin. “Bastard’s gonna buy me drinks for years.”
Hogshead laughed. “Us, Saber Six. He’ll be buying us drinks—or we’ll be drinking at Fiddler’s Green. Whichever comes first.”
/>
Novotny’s eyes flitted to an ancient metal canteen glued to the turret’s hull by his right shoulder. The canteen was perpetually empty and never filled, as was the cavalry tradition. If a trooper died with an empty canteen, they wouldn’t reach hell and would slake their thirst forever at a place called Fiddler’s Green. There was no way he’d miss that in eternity. “See you on the Green or in the bar, Warthog Six.”
Hogshead’s voice came back over the command frequency. “Trogdor Six, this is Warthog Six. Hold your ground, we’re on the way!”
Novotny engaged his machine guns and spun the twin barreled .50 caliber weapons toward the MinSha infantry. “Driver, move out. Don’t stop till we’re through these fuckers. Guns up and watch for friendlies coming from the west. We wanna pinch the MinSha, not kill our friends. You all get me?”
Novotny swung open the commander’s hatch and grabbed the firing handles for the cannons. The perfectly-balanced, cradle-mounted cannon responded in every direction and orientation. Hands on the dual grips, Novotny laid fire into the MinSha infantry. Their heavy armor plating stopped most traditional Human bullets, especially under-powered rounds like the 9mm and 5.56mm, but the .50 caliber machine gun penetrated their armor and knocked the gangly mantis-things on their asses.
“Saber Six, Saber One. We’re dead in place,” one of his younger lieutenants, a tall kid named Carey, called. “Close the line around us.”
Novotny spun to his right, still firing into the MinSha. His tanks pressed forward in a line, but the middle of the line sagged. MinSha closed in on the damaged tank like sharks to chum. Dropping into the turret, he touched the display. “Saber elements, hold the line at Saber One. I say again, hold the line at Saber One.”
“We’re taking as many of them with us as we can, sir.” Carey said. “See you on the Green.”
Novotny didn’t want to reply, but as the MinSha scrambled up Saber One’s front slope and slashed at the armor with their protected claws and weapons, he knew he had to. “Save us a round, Saber One. Alpha Mike Foxtrot.”
Stand or Fall (The Omega War Book 4) Page 33