Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six

by Gibbs, Daniel

  Hale’s unsmiling face appeared on David’s tablet. “Good morning, General.” Her tone was tight and direct.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, sir. I was actually about to ring you. What can I do for you?”

  Well, I can’t blame her for being upset with me. I did dress her down pretty firmly. “I wanted to discuss the tactical plan. I also wanted to apologize for my behavior. I briefly allowed my emotions to get the better of me. You have a right to see to the safety of your ship and its crew.”

  “While I thank you for that, sir,” Hale began, “I need to apologize to you as well. My comments to you about the Rabin were over the line, uncalled for, and I deeply regret them. I’ve come to know you well enough directly, and through reputation, that I know you care about the people under your command. Please forgive me.”

  “Something tells me we could all do with a little more forgiveness and less condemnation if the last six months have taught us anything.”

  Hale smiled sadly. “Quite, sir. I’ve reviewed your battle plan at length. I didn’t realize you planned to have the Ark Royal sit back at a safe distance. I can see no holes in what you’ve dialed up.”

  “While I appreciate that, no plan survives first contact with the enemy. The big question mark, of course, is how long it'll take the Leaguers to get their home defense fleet moving. We have no intelligence to speak of,” David said with a shrug. “This is still a fifty-fifty mission. At best.” He paused for a moment. “Colonel Amir tells me the Lion’s hangar bays can accommodate your entire small craft complement, though just barely.”

  “My people tell me the same thing,” Hale replied. “I’m ready to transfer them at your command, sir. All I ask is you bring them home. As many as possible.”

  David pursed his lips together. “I give you my word. I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  While her words were conciliatory, Hale’s general tone was one of discomfort. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I should be getting back to my duties, sir.”

  “Of course, General. Thank you again, and I look forward to celebrating the League’s defeat in the near future,” David replied, and forced a smile to his lips.

  “Godspeed and good luck.”

  “Godspeed.” David tapped the button on his tablet to terminate the vidlink and sat back in his chair. Well, that takes care of our internal problems—on to the external ones.

  13

  It had taken two days of mapping League of Sol patrol routes for them to get the right target. Mancini had started to worry, but in the end, the superior sensors and technology of the Growler class raiders came through once again. They’d waited for the single Cobra class destroyer to pass through twice and plotted how long it’d taken for it to complete its circuit. Assured it would be out of short-range communications range, and they’d have enough time to execute the plan, the boat now lay in wait.

  “ETA to projected reemergence, XO?” Mancini asked from his chair.

  “Two minutes less than what it just was, sir,” Godat replied. At the withering look he received in return, he continued. “Five minutes.”

  “Navigation, confirm our location.”

  “Twenty thousand kilometers from enemy ingress point, skipper,” the navigator replied and turned toward him. Her blonde hair got in her face for a moment before she pushed it to the side. “Thrusters are standing by to line us up on target.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Mancini replied. We only get one shot at this. He briefly reflected on the sentiment. There was something about being inside a small ship, with no transparent alloy sections, limited shielding, and stealth as a defense that had a ring of desperation to it. To heck with that—we’re the hunters. He’d requested posting to the raider corps directly out of officer training and made it, to his surprise. Twelve years later, he had his own boat.

  The seconds passed as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. Mancini took a moment to pray quietly, his voice a mere whisper. “Almighty and eternal God, protect the soldiers on this boat as they discharge their duties. Protect us with the shield of Your strength and keep us safe from all evil and harm. May Your power help us achieve victory over our foes and their evil. I ask this through Christ our Lord, who is powerful over all things. Amen.”

  “Conn, TAO! Aspect change, inbound wormhole,” Lieutenant Scott Oleson, the tactical action officer announced. His voice was jumpy and nervous. “League signature confirmed.”

  Right on time. Mancini leaned forward in his chair. “Type of ships?”

  The speaker on the CO’s chair crackled. “Conn, sensor room. ID confirmed, one Cobra class destroyer.”

  “Conn, TAO, contact designated Master One.”

  Mancini had been over the battle plan in his head, over and over. He knew it by heart. Now to execute. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One. Make tubes one and two ready in all respects. Set warheads for EMP overload, five meters from impact. Open outer doors.”

  There was a momentary pause. “Tubes one and two ready in all respects, sir. Outer doors open, firing solution set.”

  “Steady now. TAO, put the tactical plot on my viewer, please.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The plot of local space, thirty thousand kilometers around the Tucson sprang onto Mancini’s monitor. He stared at it with laser-like concentration. Closer and closer, the League destroyer approached, unaware of what was waiting. Fifteen thousand kilometers, then ten thousand, and onward it came.

  “Are we waiting for them to get into pissing range, skipper?” Godat asked with a snicker. “Much closer and our safeties will prevent a Hunter missile launch.”

  “We only get one shot, XO. I don’t want them getting away.” Once the Cobra was at twenty-five hundred kilometers, Mancini went to work. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, tubes one and two.”

  On a more massive ship, two missile launches were nothing. On a Growler class boat—it rocked their world. Coffee mugs sloshed, tablets fell off the stations of half the personnel in the control room, and the blue lights providing battle stations illumination flickered. “Conn, TAO. Units from tubes one and two running hot, straight and normal.”

  The League destroyer finally realized the mortal peril it was in. It accelerated and altered course at the last second as the two missiles closed in on homing trajectories. Concentrated red specks of point defense fire streaked into the void as the ship tried in vain to shoot the Hunters down. Bracketing the unlucky vessel, both warheads exploded violently, bathing local space for a moment with the brightness of two miniature suns.

  “Conn, TAO. Confirmed detonations on target, sir.”

  “TAO, firing point procedures, EMP gun, Master One.”

  “Firing solution set, sir.”

  “Match bearings, shoot, EMP gun.”

  A beam of purple energy shot out of the Tucson’s bow. It impacted the League destroyer and dissipated throughout the ship. Its engines ceased their thrust, and it started to drift.

  “Conn, sensor room,” VanDyke’s voice cracked through a speaker on the CO’s chair. “Reactor SCRAM detected on Master One. She’s dead in space.”

  Mancini shared a glance with Gadot. “So far, so good. Time to get the Marines rolling.” He punched a button on his chair. “Mancini to Demood.”

  “Demood here,” Calvin’s deep voice answered. “Heard some shooting—you guys ready for us do the real work and capture some Leaguers?”

  Gadot snickered. “Don’t get too cocky over there. You’ve still got to get home.”

  “Something like that, Colonel. Are you ready to disembark?” Mancini asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Then Marine shuttles one, two, and three are cleared to undock. Good hunting and Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed to you too, Major. We’ll let you know once the destroyer is secure. Demood out.”

  Gadot turned his head toward Mancini. “I hope this is as simple as they made it out to be, skipper.�
��

  “You and me both.” Because it never is, especially in combat. Mancini affixed his gaze to the tactical plot and waited for the next part of their mission to commence.

  * * *

  “Okay, you heard the man; time to go,” Calvin called out as he slid into the jump seat in the cockpit of the Marine assault shuttle he’d picked for himself. Aside from the destination as “One,” it was the same as the other two craft. Three full platoons of Recon Marines were tucked away in the cargo hold. Sixty warriors ready to kick some Leaguer ass. About time.

  The pilot, a young male warrant officer, glanced at him. “Yes, sir. We’ve got the green light from control. Space doors should be opening momentarily.”

  Just as he’d predicted, the hangar bay doors opened a few moments later, slowly traversing the track they were on. It wasn’t as impressive as the hangar on the Lion of Judah, but a rough old Marine like Calvin wasn’t about to admit he found anything in the CDF as impressive as a group of ready-to-fight ground pounders.

  Once clearance came in from the Tucson, the flight of three shuttles roared into the blackness of the void. Drifting haphazardly against it was the disabled League destroyer. It sat at an angle, slowly spinning counter-clockwise. Their shuttle zoomed away from the others and worked into position to attach the specialized docking collar the contractors had fitted to the shuttles. It took several tries, thanks to the spinning motion of the enemy vessel, before they achieved a hard seal.

  “Contact!” the pilot called out. “Locking us down.”

  “Are we good?” Calvin asked.

  “Yes, sir. You’re clear to ingress.”

  Calvin disengaged the harness in his jump seat and stood. “Once we’re in, dust off and beat it back to the barn. If that League ship comes back to life, I don’t want you guys getting caught with your pants down.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  He gave a withering stare. “I don’t give orders I’m not sure of, Warrant.”

  The young man turned bright red. “Of course, sir.”

  “I appreciate the care,” Calvin replied and slapped him on the shoulder as he walked by. “Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed to you too, sir.”

  Without further comment, Calvin walked through the hatch into the cargo area. Marines stood shoulder to shoulder, packed in like sardines in their bulky power armor. The shuttle had been modified with a hatch in the deck that led down into the docking collar—which was now firmly attached to the Cobra they intended to capture.

  “Colonel on deck!” Master Gunnery Sergeant Reuben Menahem, Calvin’s senior enlisted Marine, bellowed as soon as he saw him. A tall, burly man, he’d been assigned to the Lion of Judah’s MEU—Marine Expeditionary Unit—for the entire time it’d been in space.

  “As you were, Marines,” Calvin replied. “We ready?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” the assembled company thundered in reply.

  That brought a broad grin to Calvin’s face. “Outstanding, Marines. Okay, we’ve drilled this a thousand times. Our objective is the engineering space. Nothing matters except stopping their attempts to self-destruct the ship, which they undoubtedly will after realizing what we’re doing. Now move out!”

  An enlisted Marine next to the hatch leaned down and lifted it, then shone his battle rifle down the dark hole. The private next to him jumped feet first into the docking collar, along with two others. A short time later, he called out, “We’ve got access! No resistance!”

  “Move out!” Menahem thundered through the commlink linking the three platoons. Like a well-oiled machine, they jumped two by two into the enemy ship. In less than ninety seconds, it was down to him and Calvin. “After you, sir?”

  Calvin snorted and swung himself over the lip of the hatch, thudding after ten feet onto the deck of the enemy vessel. Marines were spreading out down the passageway in either direction. “Okay, Master Guns,” he said as Menahem appeared next to him. “We’re on the clock. Platoons, follow the directions in your HUDs!”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” those closest to him replied, while green lights indicating understanding and acceptance of orders lit up in his helmet mounted HUD from all three platoon leaders – a trio of Marine Second Lieutenants.

  Ensuring his battle rifle was in a safe position, Calvin moved forward until he was at the front. As he did, a voice came over his commlink.

  “This is Master Chief MacDonald. We’re in, top side, aft section. Passing objective point Charlie.”

  “I read you loud and clear, Master Chief. Commence attack,” he replied after cueing up the right channel. “Portside boarding team is one hundred meters from objective.”

  A few meters in front of him, the sound of boots hitting metal deck plating echoed in the passageway, and a group of at least ten Leaguer security personnel appeared from around a corner. They had their weapons up and immediately opened fire. Calvin, along with the rest of the Marines, returned it gamely, and the battle commenced.

  * * *

  Bullets flew so close to MacDonald’s helmet, he could feel the pressure waves as they went by. Alpha team had breached the aft of the enemy ship, one deck up from the engineering spaces, which were their objectives. Bravo team was with them, while the other two special operations squads were supporting the two Marine elements. With another eleven spacewalkers around him, it was tempting to feel invincible.

  Harrell sent fully automatic bursts of armor-piercing rounds down the passageway they were pinned down in, felling several Leaguers. A Beta team commando added several forty-millimeter grenades to the mix, which dropped behind the row of enemies firing on them. The resulting explosion silenced all organized opposition, and the teams surged forward.

  “Watch your corners,” MacDonald called into his commlink.

  A few more League security troops ducked out of a side corridor, firing pulse rifles as they ran. The ineffective weapons did little but scorch the power armor suits the commandos wore.

  MacDonald raised his rifle and put a burst of battle rifle bullets into the nearest Leaguer, while Mata did the same. In less than ten seconds, the latest wave of enemies lay dead on the deck. “Rostami, sitrep. Which way?”

  “Uh, these schematics are wrong, Master Chief. Give me a second.” Tablet in hand, the team’s resident electronics expert tapped away. “Okay, I think we turn left here, and there’ll be an access tube about twenty meters down.”

  “You think?” Harrell deadpanned. “Haven’t we told you before, no guesses, only facts?”

  There was a grunt in response. “It's my best guess, Senior Chief.”

  “Well, the kid’s right more than he’s wrong,” MacDonald said. “So you get point. Move out, Rostami.” Might as well let him sweat a little.

  The team advanced as one, with Rostami in the lead. The sound-deadening tech built into their power-armored suits rendered them quiet as church mice—quite a feat for a seventy-five-pound layer of alloy and electronics. The sounds of battle echoed through their commlinks, while HUDs showed the advance of the recon Marine element on the other side of the ship. Everyone on the assault force moved with purpose. Fifteen meters later, Rostami held up his hand and made a fist. They stopped behind him.

  “Tubes a little closer than I thought. It’ll dump us behind their main engineering spaces.”

  He was interrupted by another voice on the commlink. “This is Colonel Demood to friendly units. We’re encountering fierce resistance—get your asses in gear!” Battle rifle fire echoed in the background.

  “You heard the man. Down the tube!” MacDonald barked.

  Harrell was the first one to jump down feet first. Mata, Rostami, Harrell, and Bravo team went next, while MacDonald took up the rear.

  The drop took several seconds. He built up speed, but not as much as he would’ve in without the armor on, thanks to the friction caused by alloy on alloy contact. MacDonald found himself unceremoniously dropped on the deck plates after crashing out of the tube. A Leaguer dropped beside him, quite dead. As h
e stood up, it registered that they’d fallen into a group of League Marines, who were fighting for their lives just as hard as the commandos. He tried to bring up his rifle, but an enemy to his left brought an armored gauntlet on the weapon, knocking it away.

  The Leaguer raised his rifle, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a deafening shot rang out at close quarters, and blood exploded from the armored helmet. A moment later, the armored trooper fell. Harrell stood behind, his sidearm still smoking. “Sorry, Master Chief. Took me a second to kill the other guy.”

  With a smirk inside his helmet, MacDonald retrieved his battle rifle and surveyed the carnage. Several commandos from Bravo team were still pushing a group of Leaguers down the passageway in almost hand-to-hand combat, while Alpha team kicked weapons away from the fallen bodies before them. “Rostami! Are we at the right spot?”

  “Yes, Master Chief.”

  “Good. Get explosives set on the bulkheads, now.”

  The team worked quickly, seconds ticking away. High explosive directed charges were placed in a rough rectangle, about the size of a human, during a section where the schematics they had said no important machinery—or reactors—lay.

  “Ready, Master Chief,” Rostami said, his tone one of anticipation.

  “Clear the blast zone,” MacDonald barked. As soon as the team had backed away, he continued. “Fire in the hole!”

  A colossal explosion ripped through the corridor. Flames and smoke blew through the passageway and out of the new opening now evident in the corridor wall. Without the advanced power-armor the team wore, they’d be injured or worse. But thanks to good old-fashioned Terran Coalition technology, they were one hundred percent combat effective—and charged through the portal like the hand of God.

  MacDonald was the third in, behind Harrell and Mata. Enemy forces were everywhere. While there were few remaining members of the vessel’s security contingent, the engineers themselves had taken up weapons and fought like men and women possessed. A Leaguer holding a large plasma welder was shot down less than a meter from Mata. He appeared to be intent on cutting through their power armor with the tool.