To Hell's Heart (Crimson Worlds)

by Allan, Jay

  Indianapolis had taken damage from two nuclear detonations, and one had knocked out a section of conduits near the power core. Jacobs hadn’t had to power down the reactor, but he’d followed the engineer’s recommendation and reduced output to 40% until the repairs could be made. The affected compartments were heavily radiation contaminated, and his damage control teams still hadn’t been able to get in there and repair the problem. We’ve got bots to do so much for us, he thought, but sometimes you just need to get men and women in there to fix things.

  He was running projections in his head, educated guesses on what his last missile barrage would do to the enemy. He added it up ten different ways, and it kept coming out the same. There were going to be survivors. He was going to have to commit some of the attack ships after all…or else go in with the cruisers and gamble on how many particle accelerators the damaged enemy craft still had functioning.

  “Commander Carp…” Jacobs’ voice was halting, hesitant. He didn’t want to do what he knew he had to. “Order Captain Mondragon to organize a task force of 20 attack ships and prepare to move against the enemy formation at my command.” Cleret was senior to Mondragon, but Jacobs wasn’t about to give the arrogant SOB the satisfaction. Jacobs respected Mondragon as an officer, and he definitely considered him the smarter of the two.

  “Yes, sir.” Carp pushed back an amused smile. He’d been pretty sure the missile barrage wasn’t going to get the job done, that Jacobs had given in to wishful thinking. He’d been confident the admiral would quickly come to the same conclusion, so he’d refrained from offering his own suggestions…especially after Jacobs’ exchanges with Cleret and Mondragon.

  Jacobs had rescued Carp from a lifepod during the fighting around Adelaide. The officer had served the admiral, then captain, ever since. His respect for his CO over that time had only grown. Jacobs wasn’t one of those officers who stuck to his guns out of useless pride and arrogance. When he was wrong, he admitted it, at least to himself, and quietly changed his course. The youthful lieutenant commander had only served under two captains…Jacobs, and before him, Captain Calloway, who’d sacrificed himself to give his crew a chance to escape certain death. He knew he was lucky; even in an organization with the history and reputation of the Alliance navy, officers like Jacobs and Calloway were rare.

  Carp had been one of the few survivors from the attack ship Raptor when it had been destroyed trying to defend Adelaide early in the war. The small squadron of attack ships under Captain Calloway never had much chance to save the planet from invasion, but that battle had produced extraordinary and unexpected results. Jacobs’ ship had miraculously survived, eventually to journey deep into unexplored space and locate the only known First Imperium base. That discovery now formed the basis of Pact strategy.

  “Admiral, Captain Mondragon reports he will have a 20 vessel attack force ready for action within five minutes.”

  Jacobs smiled. He realized Mondragon had already had some preparation in place. It took at least ten minutes just to get the plasma torpedoes out of secured storage. He might have been annoyed, but he couldn’t fault an officer for preparedness and initiative, even when it strayed close to insubordination. Jacobs would take doers any day over blindly obedient drones.

  “Very well, commander. Advise the captain to report in when his task force is ready.” Jacobs paused for a few seconds, then he turned to face Carp. “And commander…tell the captain he is under no circumstances to include his vessel in the force nor lead the attack himself.” Jacobs knew what Mondragon would want to do…he knew what he would want to do in his subordinate’s place. But he couldn’t lose a key commander to a freak shot from an enemy particle accelerator. Not this early in the campaign. Mondragon was one of the few officers he had whom he’d trust on an independent scouting mission. He would need him later; he was sure of that.

  “Yes, sir.” It was Carp’s turn to force back a smile. He’d been thinking the same thing, and he’d expected Jacobs’ command…though he didn’t think Mondragon would like it much. “Transmitting your orders now.”

  Francisco Mondragon could swear like no one else in the Pact’s combined naval forces. He had a seemingly unending list of curses from his Basque homeland, most of which only he understood. That was a good thing, because many of them were insulting enough to cause a fistfight at best and a blood feud at worst.

  A bit of that invective was silently directed toward Admiral Jacobs. Mondragon didn’t dislike Jacobs, in fact he quite respected and admired Scouting Fleet’s commander. Unlike Captain Cleret, Mondragon had no resentment over the fact that Jacobs had leapfrogged them both. He had achieved something incredible in scouting so deep into uncharted space, and Mondragon felt he fully deserved the promotion. But now Jacobs had ordered Mondragon to send his ships into battle, and he’d refused to let him go with them. He understood the admiral’s reasoning – and he would have done the same thing in his place - but he was pissed nevertheless.

  Mondragon had served in the federal navy since he was sixteen years old and, in a service riddled with bureaucracy and cronyism, he’d managed to rise in the ranks based solely on his ability. Few others had been able to attain a commission, much less command rank, without family influence or a powerful patron.

  In the days before the Unification Wars, Mondragon’s Basque brethren had been less than thrilled to be part of the nation of Spain. Now the entire area that had once been Spain was part of Europa Federalis, and a significant percentage of the former Spaniards were no more enthusiastic at the relationship. But it was the era of the Superpowers, and fractionalized nationalism within Europa Federalis had been brutally crushed for over a century. Many in the Basque areas still bristled at being part of the French-dominated Superpower, but they did so quietly, and only among trusted compatriots. Everyone, it seemed, had a grandfather or other ancestor who’d disappeared or been executed during one of the crackdowns. The age of rebellion, the struggle for freedom…they were long lost and dead, replaced by autocracy grotesquely masquerading as a republic. Technology had shattered the hopes of any would-be rebels. The governments controlled massive high-tech surveillance systems and enormously powerful weapons. The days of freedom fighters taking to the streets to push for change were a fading memory. Like it or not, they were all Europan citizens.

  Mondragon was a military professional who spent most of his time seeing to the needs of the men and women he commanded. He paid lip service to patriotism as required by his career, but he had no love for the massive nation he served. He’d felt no calling to follow any flag, and certainly not the Europan one. The navy had been an escape from a life as a migrant farm worker, one he was lucky to get, and he’d jumped at it.

  Now he felt something new. He was serving a cause, one he could believe in fully. All mankind was united, facing a common enemy, and Francisco Mondragon finally knew what it was like to feel something akin to patriotic fervor. He wasn’t fighting the unending and pointless war with the CEL, watching thousands die to determine whether Paris or Neu-Brandenburg would rule a few disputed colonies. Now he was fighting for home, for his mother and father and sister…for their very survival. It was a feeling he’d never experienced before…and it was making it even more difficult to sit and watch his people go into battle without him.

  Jacobs had fought a masterful running battle, expending ordnance, but keeping his fleet from suffering crippling damage. Now, Mondragon’s people were going in to finish the job. There were six enemy ships left, all the smaller Gremlins. Every one of them was damaged, but it was unclear how badly. The fast attack ships had to get in close to launch their torpedoes, running first through the enemy’s missile and energy weapon zones. If the surviving Gremlins were badly hurt and a significant number of their weapons systems were knocked out, Mondragon’s task force might keep their losses light. If those enemy ships had their full missile broadsides and particle accelerator batteries functional, the suicide boats would earn their nickname. Again.

 
“Enemy missile launches detected, sir.” Luigi Tomasino’s voice was loud and coarse. Like Mondragon, Tomasino was an unlikely candidate for an officer’s commission in the Europan navy, though he owed his position to the generosity of his father’s employer and not to his own initiative and ability. He’d been a poorly educated member of the Pleb class, roughly comparable to the Alliance’s Cogs. He’d have spent his life as a servant, working for the same Senatorial family as his father, but the elder Tomasino saved one of the Senator’s young granddaughters from a fire, losing his own life in the process. The grateful employer offered Luigi his patronage in a new career, and the young man chose to attend the Ecole Navale. Becoming a naval officer would significantly increase his social standing, and he would be allowed to retire to the colonial world of his choice, where he would have substantially better prospects than on Earth.

  He’d worked hard, and made the most of his opportunity. He was a solid officer, and while he showed no spark of tactical brilliance, he was diligent and reliable. “It’s a ragged volley, sir.” He paused, muttering softly to himself as he reviewed the data coming in. “Looks like fewer than 40 missiles, captain.”

  Mondragon let out a long sigh of relief. At least the missile barrage was manageable. The particle accelerators might be a different story, but if the enemy’s launchers are that badly hurt, he thought, maybe the energy weapons are too. “Keep me advised on anti-missile efforts.” The attack boats had fairly strong point defense systems. He knew his ships could handle 40 missiles. Something would probably slip through, but they wouldn’t take crippling losses.

  Mondragon sat quietly, listening to the occasional update from his tactical officer. Tomasino was on top of things, scanning the incoming data and feeding the captain the information he needed. Alliance commanders tended to be more hands on, often following the data on their own workstations even as their subordinates made their reports. Europan captains and flag officers tended to be more elitist, feeling it was somewhat beneath them to scan workstations themselves, and they utilized the chain of subordinates to relay them information.

  The task force’s point defense took out most of the missiles, only four getting through. Two of those detonated at extreme range, causing only minor damage to two of the vessels. The other missiles bracketed one of the attack ships at close range, completely destroying it. Mondragon winced when he got the report, but this was war, and he knew his people had gotten off lightly.

  The attack ships were thrusting hard, moving in at 0.07c and accelerating. The faster they could get through the enemy’s fire zone and launch their torpedoes the better. Mondragon sat quietly, watching and hoping the enemy ships had lost all their particle accelerators. He felt his stomach tighten when three of his ships were hit within seconds of entering the effective fire zone.

  Shit, he thought. If that fire keeps up it’s going to be a bloody day. He watched, staring directly at the screen, too impatient to wait for Tomasino’s updates. He watched for the other enemy ships to fire, but none of them did. Each second passed slowly, and Mondragon was tense, waiting for more of the energy beams to lash out at his ships. Finally he sighed and thought, it looks three is all they have. As the seconds passed he realized even those three weapons weren’t firing again. The chronometer went well past the recharge time for First Imperium particle accelerators, but still no shots came. Eventually, minutes after he’d expected, one of the batteries fired, then another. Even the functional weapons – or their power supplies – were damaged. They were shooting slowly, significantly below half their normal rate of fire. It was good news, better than he could have hoped.

  The attacking force blasted toward the enemy, altering their vectors slightly, splitting into six attacking groups. They lost another two ships before they were in range, but the surviving 17 sent 34 plasma torpedoes into the guts of the damaged Gremlins.

  They streaked by, turning to madly decelerate, and in their wake they left nothing. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 8

  AS Midway

  In Sandoval Orbit

  Delta Leonis IV

  “The Line”

  “I’m leaving in three days, four tops. Just as soon as we can finish loading and fueling the last of the ships.” Terrance Compton stood almost motionless, his voice calm and relaxed despite the seriousness of the discussion. “I’d like you to come with me.” He’d known just where to find Cain. The grim Marine general had all his people running around in a frenzy, but he had everything so well under control there was nothing else for him to do. Compton knew he’d be here, staring off into the blackness of space, one of the few things that soothed his nerves and relaxed him. He almost felt bad about cornering him here…Erik Cain didn’t have many refuges.

  Compton stood behind Cain and stared out at the bluish-white disk filling the lower half of the observation portal. Sandoval, looking beautiful and peaceful from 18,000 kilometers. You can’t even tell how we savaged her, he thought sadly as he looked. The teams were still assessing the ecological damage the two armies had done to the planet, and each report Compton saw was worse than the last.

  Cain didn’t turn, and he didn’t answer right away either. He was carefully considering Compton’s words, and trying to decide what to do. His gut, as always, wanted to charge right in. That was always an easy choice to make. But he was here covering for Holm, standing in as overall ground forces commander, and the Commandant wasn’t quite as recklessly aggressive as he was. He wanted to say yes, but he just wasn’t sure. “I don’t know, Terrance.” Cain’s voice was soft, distracted. He was still trying to think of what Holm would say.

  “Erik, I don’t like changing the plan any more than you do.” Their orders – both Cain’s and Compton’s – were to assemble and prepare the entire Grand Fleet to move out as soon as Garret and Holm returned. From the earliest whispers that an invasion was being planned, the strategy had been to move the entire fleet together. That’s why Jacobs’ Scouting Fleet had been created in the first place, to screen the way for the massed strength of all the Superpowers. Now Compton wanted to take half that force – the newest and fastest ships – and blast off full for the frontier, leaving Garret and Holm to follow with the rest of the fleet, mostly the older and slower hulls. “But Mike Jacobs ran into a lot of enemy resistance at Newton, and he went through half his ordnance taking it out.” He took a step forward, standing directly next to Cain, still staring out into space. “You know we need intel from him, so he’s got to keep going. His force is crucial, and if he runs into much more resistance, there isn’t going to be a Scouting Fleet…and Grand Fleet will be blind. We need to get some strength up there.” He paused, finally turning to face Cain. “Now.”

  Erik sighed loudly and turned his head slowly toward Compton. His eyes fixed on the admiral’s for a few seconds before he spoke. “You know I agree with you, Terrance.” His faced constricted into a frown - he was troubled, conflicted. “But General Holm has been telling me I’m too reckless for years. This is the biggest thing he’s ever trusted me to handle. What’s he going to say if he gets back here and sees I’ve taken off for the frontier with the cream of the Corps?”

  Compton didn’t answer right away, giving Cain a few seconds to think it through and formulate his own answer. No one was going to convince Erik Cain to do something unless he decided for himself it was the right thing. Finally, he put his hand on Cain’s shoulder and said, “Erik, don’t you think I’ve had the same thoughts about Augustus? Can you imagine I would do anything I wasn’t sure he’d approve of?” He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “But Garret and Holm are buttoned up in one of Vance’s transports, and we can’t reach them, not without considerable delay. Unacceptable delay.” He paused again before adding, “Have you thought about what Elias is going to say if we sit here and let Jacobs and his people go up against the enemy alone? If we let Scouting Fleet get hunted down and torn to shreds for lack of our own initiative?” Compton saw the change in Cain’s expression, and he knew h
e had him. He moved in for the kill. “When has Elias Holm ever left any of our people unsupported when they needed help?

  Cain smiled grudgingly, and he forced back a small laugh. He knew he was being played, but that didn’t matter. He also realized Compton was right. Holm would be the first to back up any of his people who were catching hell, and he’d do it no matter the risk and regardless of what effect it had on his plans. Cain knew what Holm would want him to do. “Alright, alright. Enough. I’m with you.” Cain saw the self-satisfied smile on Compton’s face, and the laugh he’d been holding back finally burst free. “So what’s the plan?”

  “It was nice of Terry and Erik to leave us every rust bucket in the fleet to deal with.” Garret was trying not to laugh, at least not too hard. He’d gotten the message from Compton through the Commnet system when their transport briefly stopped at Armstrong on its way to Sandoval. He’d been expecting the fleet to be nearly assembled when he got there, but instead he found out that Compton and Cain had taken the fastest ships – which also happened to be the newest and strongest – and took off for the frontier.

  “Yes, it was very thoughtless of them.” Holm had an odd smile on his face. He knew Garret approved of what his number two had done, just as he supported Erik Cain’s decision. If Jacobs’ fleet was running into trouble, they had to get support to him…and every minute counted. The whole point of the invasion was to shake things up and find some sort of weakness they could use against the enemy. Unless they found something, they’d never win this war. They’d hold out as long as they could, but once the First Imperium destroyed the last of the military, it would only be a matter of time before the enemy swept through human space, slaughtering everyone they found. “They didn’t even leave you one of the new battlewagons for your flagship, did they?”