by Jay Allan
He pushed the indecision out of his mind and went with his gut, maintaining his new vector to go in with Stockton’s Blues. Tactically it didn’t matter. He had three of the best squadrons in the fleet leading the assault, and none of them needed him to direct their actions.
He glanced down at the scanner, watching as the image of the enemy tanker grew larger. He was less than ten thousand kilometers out, close range by normal standards…but this time he was going much closer.
Eight thousand. He shoved the throttle forward, decelerating hard, slowing his approach. The attack was all about precision. Normally, his pilots were targeting entire ships, but now they had to hit individual weapon emplacements. And any shots that hit the ships elsewhere were worse than misses. It would have been beyond easy for his squadrons to destroy the vessels, but disabling them while leaving their massive cargoes intact required a degree of precision few fighter formations could match. But if the pilots with him now couldn’t do it, no one could.
Six thousand. He reached out, flipping a switch, pouring full power into his active scanners. The image on the display changed, sharpened, as the AI fed in new data. One by one he could see small sections highlighted, the locations of defensive weapons on the tanker. The supply ships didn’t have any guns that threatened a battleship like Dauntless, but they had enough firepower to blow away a fighter, especially if the pilot got careless. This wasn’t the kind of deadly fight his people had experienced at Santis, or even here against the enemy battleships, but it wasn’t a milk run either. Especially since his people had to hold their fire until they were almost close enough to reach out and touch the hull.
Four thousand. The enemy guns were all marked now, courtesy of the weapons opening fire and giving away their locations. That fire had also taken its toll. Two fighters were hit, one from the Direwolves and one from Dauntless’s own Blues. As far as Jamison could tell, both pilots had managed to eject, though whether they were wounded or not he wasn’t sure. He’d seen the recovery boats pull in the body of more than one pilot who’d been dead before he’d even cleared his stricken fighter.
Two thousand. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel the sweat pouring down his back. He’d never come this close to a target before, or moved so slowly in the face of incoming fire. He angled his throttle slightly to the side then back again, putting enough unpredictability into his approach, he hoped, to shake the enemy targeting AIs. He doubted a tanker had any really skilled gunners, but at this range, even the unassisted AIs were a deadly threat, a fact that hit home again as another fighter blinked off the screen, this time without any detectable ejection.
His eyes focused on the screen, zeroing in on one of the tanker’s forward guns. His hand was tight on his controls. He breathed deeply, slow controlled breaths as he stared at his chosen target. Normally, he’d have opened fire by now, blasting again and again until he scored the hit he was after. But not now. He couldn’t just blast that ship all over, not without risking doing serious damage. The tritium fuel the tanker carried was highly flammable, but that was a secondary concern in the vacuum of space. Any fires would be quickly extinguished when they used up the ship’s limited oxygen supply. But simply blasting open the great tanks would release the condensed liquid into space. And Dauntless and Intrepid needed that fuel.
He held his stare even as he heard a small bonging sound, his AI warning him he was less than one thousand kilometers from the target. He ignored the warning, staying motionless save for the occasional tap to the throttle. His concentration was total. There was his fighter and that gun emplacement, and nothing else in the universe. Not now. And he held that iron focus even as his AI announced, “Warning, less than five hundred kilometers to target. Collision imminent.”
He ignored the warning. At normal battle velocities, he’d already be a dead man, far too close to alter his vector and clear the enemy ship. But he was moving at a fraction of that speed. That made him an easier target for the enemy fire—a risk he and his people had to take—but it also gave him time to get closer. Close enough to plant his shot exactly where it had to be.
He pressed his finger tight over the firing stud and pulled it back immediately, firing only a single shot. The targeting was ninety-nine percent mathematics computed by his AI, but that last one percent was the touch of a veteran pilot…and it made all the difference.
He angled the throttle hard to the side and pulled it back, engaging his thrusters to push his vector away from the collision course he’d been on. For an instant, a brief fraction of a second, he thought he was too late, that he’d pushed it just half a second too far. But then his fighters zipped by the tanker, coming within three kilometers of the big ship before he spun his bird around and began to decelerate.
Only then did his eyes drop to the display. He felt a rush of excitement, his fists clenching involuntarily. He’d put the shot right on target, not only hitting the laser turret dead on, but practically scooping the thing right off the tanker’s hull, almost without leaving a scratch behind on the ship itself.
“Yes!” he shouted to himself. Then he glanced down at the display, watching his veteran pilots go in one after the other, scoring hit after hit, stripping the enemy tanker of every gun it had. The second and third waves would come on next, but there wasn’t going to be much left for them to do except pick off a turret or two that had escaped destruction. Then the Marines could go in and take those ships.
* * *
“It looks like the fighters did a perfect job…real precision work. Remember, the ships are intact, and that means their defense forces are at full strength. They know we’re coming, and they’ll be waiting for us.” Bryan Rogan was strapped in along the wall of the assault shuttle along with forty of his Marines. The ship was overloaded, carrying half again its normal payload, but Rogan didn’t have any idea how many defenders they’d have to face, or if the enemy would be some kind of naval security force or the dreaded FRs.
“We’re making our final approach, Marines. If all goes well, you’ll be boarding within two minutes.” Rogan frowned at the sound of the pilot’s voice, not out of any animosity or concerns about his confidence, but only because the lieutenant sounded so young. He’d known war was coming for a long time, of course, and he was well aware that it had already begun, but listening to the junior pilot’s voice reminded him that half his Marines were in their early twenties. War was a terrible thing, but it was also his business. He’d take the risks his duty required, fight with every scrap of strength he could muster. But the hardest part, he knew, would be watching the young Marines and spacers die, men and women barely into adulthood. Before this war was over, they would die by the thousands. No, millions.
“I want everybody ready. We move through the boarding tube quickly, quietly. We get onto that ship, and then we move slowly and cautiously. Remember, we’re invading their ship. They know their way around, and we don’t. Do your duty, but by God, I don’t want anybody turning up dead because of carelessness.”
He knew no matter how many warnings he gave, he’d end up in his quarters writing letters to parents and husbands and wives, but he was going to do everything he could to cut that number down to the minimum possible.
He slammed his helmet’s faceplate down and gripped his assault rifle tightly. Then he sat silently, waiting as the shuttle made its final approach.
The fighters seemed to have silenced the enemy gun turrets, but the shuttle pilot wasn’t taking any chances, and the small ship bounced around, its thrust pushing in one direction and then the next, making it more difficult for any weapons to get a target lock. Rogan was a hardened Marine, used to assault craft and the rougher aspects of space travel, but even he could feel the churning in his gut. He suspected that some of his people, especially the transfers from the Archellia garrison, were about ready to lose the contents of their stomachs.
A little vomit wasn’t the worst thing he’d see today, but he also knew a sick Marine wasn’t as alert and focu
sed as one whose feet were firmly planted on unmoving ground. Spacesickness would kill some of his people too, he realized.
The shuttle lurched hard as the pilot decelerated rapidly to come to a stop right alongside the tanker. Then another hard shake, as the boarding tube extended and slammed into the enemy ship’s hull. For an instant, there was silence, only the breathing of his Marines breaking the eerie quiet. Then a series of muffled booms, explosives piercing the tanker’s hull. He knew the pilot had chosen his spot, and that the entry point was almost certainly into the ship’s interior itself and not one of the huge tritium tanks…but he held his breath anyway. If that expectation was wrong, there was enough oxygen in the shuttle to feed one hell of a conflagration when the explosions set off the vapors rising from the liquefied hydrogen fuel.
He slapped his hand to his chest, releasing the harness that held him in his seat. It wasn’t regulation—it wasn’t even smart—but he was going to be the first man into the enemy ship. He’d seen too many of his Marines die on Santis, and before he exposed any more to the dangers of combat, he was going to be right there himself.
“Behind me, line up by squad. We’ll probably come out either in a compartment of a corridor. Whatever it is, we’ve got to get every approach covered immediately…and if anything shows itself, blast it. We’re not after non-combatant spacers, but nobody gets killed trying to figure out who’s who. So, if it moves, take it down.”
He shuffled toward the heavy metal door at the end of the compartment. He could hear sounds on the other side, metal twisting, squeaking. He knew the assault tube was securing itself to the tanker’s hull and filling the gaps with expandable foam sealant. His Marines had survival gear, pressure suits that could keep them alive in a vacuum for a while, and about an hour’s oxygen, but that was only for emergencies. Rogan wouldn’t put it past the defenders to selectively depressurize compartments and hallways where his people were advancing, and he intended to save every breath of stored air in case it was truly needed.
The door had a light above it casting a red glow over that end of the shuttle’s bay. Perhaps half a minute later, it changed to green…and five seconds later the hatch slid to the side.
Rogan lurched forward, leaning down, waddling through the cramped confines of the boarding tube. It was difficult, especially with a full combat kit and survival gear, but he’d done it a dozen times in training, and twice when he’d conducted boarding actions on smugglers’ vessels. He moved down the tube with a practiced waddle, and a few second later he was leaping down onto the deck of the enemy ship.
He spun around, his eyes darting back and forth. He appeared to be in a compartment of some sort, perhaps housing support systems for the destroyed gun turrets. It was empty, at least it seemed to be. He moved forward, clearing the way for more of his people to come up behind him. There was a bank of machinery a few meters away, big enough for several soldiers to hide behind. He ran forward, his gun ready, leaping around the side. Nothing. His people were alone.
“Let’s go! We’re getting a break, but there’s no telling how long it will last, so move your asses!”
He waved his arms, a gesture to the Marines climbing through the tube and into the compartment. Half a dozen had leapt down to the deck and fanned out when he heard a metal on metal sound. A hatch opening.
His people had gotten a break…but it hadn’t lasted long. He spun around and brought his rifle to bear, just as the shadowy figures in the doorway opened fire.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bridge
CFS Intrepid
Arcturon System
308 AC
“The lead fighter squadrons are on their way in, Captain. We can confirm, total casualties in the entire strike force six ships. It appears three of the pilots successfully ejected. Dauntless has sent her rescue boat out to recover them.”
“Very well, Commander.” Sara Eaton sat in her chair, looking out over her bridge crew. The destruction of the enemy convoy was a complete success, every ship gone save the three targeted for capture. She didn’t feel good about blasting poorly-armed ships with crews she knew must have been civilian or, at best, some kind of conscripted reservists, but they were hauling military supplies, and Dauntless and Intrepid had nowhere near enough Marines to occupy them all. Brutality was an unalterable facet of war, and she had no choice but to accept that.
“Status of probes?” She and Barron had launched spreads of probes and positioned them at every entry into the system. They both knew enemy forces could appear at any moment.
“Negative, Captain. No activity at any of the transwarp links.”
“Very well. But I want those fighters refit as soon as they land. I wanted them ready to launch, Commander, and I do mean in record time.” It had been a risk launching every squadron to strafe the three enemy ships, leaving the two battleships without even a CSP if new enemy forces appeared. It had also been overkill as things had turned out. The first wave had almost completely destroyed the enemy defenses, and the second group had finished them off. But she and Barron had agreed they couldn’t take any chances. If they lost the assault shuttles, they would have lost the Marines too, and any chance of capturing the supplies they needed so badly.
“Yes, Captain. The bay crews are on standby, waiting for the first ships to land.”
Eaton looked over at the display her eyes focusing on the three red ovals, the enemy ships where her Marines, and Dauntless’s, were fighting even now to take control. She knew their mission was a difficult one, that they had to restrict their use of weapons and take care not to seriously damage the ships or their cargoes. It was the kind of thing Marines trained for, but also a type of mission that rarely occurred. Boarding operations were more common in peacetime, against criminal and renegade traffic. But against enemy ships in time of war, there was no telling what kind of defensive forces they would face. Whatever happened, she knew it would be bloody business.
“Any word from the boarding parties?”
“No, Captain. Nothing from the Marines. The assault ships have all reported back. All forces have boarded the respective target vessels.”
“Very well.” She leaned back and sighed. There was nothing to do but wait.
* * *
“First squad, stay in place and cover that entry. Second squad…around the back to the other door. Get it open, now! Blow it if you have to.” Rogan was crouched down behind a large metal structure in the center of the room. It looked like some kind of control panel or workstation, but as far as the Marine was concerned it was cover…big enough to protect him and another three of his people. He’d dived behind it when the enemy troops attacked through the room’s far entrance, and he and the others had returned fire from their covered positions, driving the Union troopers back out of the room. It had been a standoff for the last two or three minutes, the soldiers in the corridor—and he had no doubts now they were indeed Foudre Rouge—holding their position and sniping at the Marines. They’d taken out three of his people before the others had taken cover or ducked back in the boarding tube. He’d gotten at least one of the FRs himself, the body still lying just inside the doorway. He thought his people had taken out one more, but he couldn’t be sure. If there was another dead enemy, the body was in the hall, out of sight.
He leaned around the edge of the metal rectangle and fired a burst of shots, hitting the edge of the open doorway and sending a few out into the corridor itself. He didn’t think he’d hit anyone, but his tightly-aimed shooting served its intended purpose and pushed the FRs back, shutting down their own fire for a few seconds, just as his Marines were racing around behind him, rushing for the room’s second exit. He didn’t know if that door opened into the same hallway the FRs were firing from, or if it led to another compartment. But he didn’t really care. Anything was better than having to rush the defended doorway. He’d lose half a dozen of his Marines at least, and a lot more if there was a significant force of enemy soldiers waiting outside. He’d order the c
harge if he had to—the FRs were accomplishing their goal just by keeping his people penned in—but he was going to exhaust every alternative first.
“Captain, the door’s jammed shut. The wall must have gotten wrecked during the fighter attack.” Billos’s voice was loud and clear. And calm. Rogan was struck by the matter-of-fact tone of the veteran non-com, even as enemy fire sprayed around the room.
“Blow it, Sergeant. We need that hatch open, and now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rogan turned his attention back to the other door. The FRs were pushing forward, leaning in to try and get a shot at Billos and his team. Rogan snapped his rifle around and fired, but even as he did, the enemy troopers pulled back. He saw a spray of blood—he thought he caught one of them in the arm—but the others ducked back.
“Hurry, Sergeant,” he shouted, firing another burst through the open door.
“Ready, Captain…” But before Billos could set off the charge, the FRs at the door lunged forward, pouring into the room, firing on full auto as they did. Rogan was stunned, but he reacted immediately, opening fire at the advancing soldiers. He hit one, two…then a third. The Marines next to him hesitated a bit longer than he had, but they too opened up when the FRs were out in the open, taking down another three. But they kept coming, and their fire began to take its own toll. One of the Marines next to Rogan grunted and fell back hard. The captain wanted to turn to check on the casualty, but he didn’t dare. There were at least a dozen FRs in the room or coming through the door.
He couldn’t understand the abrupt change in tactics. The enemy had been conducting a conventional defense, taking advantage of cover and bottling up the invaders. Then, almost as if someone had thrown a switch, they’d abandoned all caution and launched a semi-suicidal charge. He figured they were after the boarding tube, that they were trying to cut it off before most of his Marines could get through. It made sense, in a sick sort of way, but he couldn’t imagine ordering his people to throw their lives away with such recklessness. He’d heard enough about the FRs, but suddenly what had just been words before began to coalescence into true understanding. The Union soldiers weren’t like other warriors. They were programmed, almost like machines, conditioned from birth to obey orders without question. They were charging because someone in their chain of command had decided that if enough of them sacrificed themselves, the others could cut the tube. It was that simple.