by Jay Allan
“The rest of the rearguard will fall back now, Commander.” Striker pushed aside worries about tomorrow. All that mattered right now was getting his people out of there.
He felt the pressure as Renown accelerated at full speed, its course a zigzag pattern toward the transit point. He had the urge to order the engines to halt, to stay back and try to pick up some of the fighters closest to the flagship. But all that would do was doom Renown and its twelve hundred crew members. If it had just been him, he would have stayed. But battleships came first…and every pilot in the fleet knew that.
He watched the remnants of his fighter force, now surrounded, the enemy’s numbers finally coming into play. Then Renown shook hard, a massive cracking sound reverberating throughout her hull. He knew immediately his flagship had been hit by the new weapon, that she had suffered damage all down her spine.
And then he was lying on the ground, looking up at Hogan. His aide was leaning over him, saying something, but he couldn’t hear. There was nothing but the cold metal of the deck below him…and the massive structural support that had crushed his chair.
Was there pain? He wasn’t sure. All he knew for certain was despair, for his spacers, his ships…the Confederation. And then there was only blackness.
Chapter Forty-Two
Above Victorum
Palatia, Astara II
Year 311 AC
“Let’s go. You’ve all got your coverage areas. Let’s get in and do this, and take some of the pressure off those Marines on the ground.” Stockton nudged his throttle to the side gently, lining his ship up parallel with a long line of enemy troops. At least he hoped they were enemies. Colonel Rogan had been advised to keep his people in a tight perimeter, but if any of them slipped out of that, they could end up getting wasted by their own air support.
Stockton hadn’t been surprised when the call came to lead another strike. His people had obliterated the ground defenses, but those were Alliance troops down there, not Union conscripts, or even FRs. He suspected those formations had forced marched from every surviving barracks within fifty kilometers, and they’d done so in an almost impossible amount of time. Stockton had known Rogan’s people would be up against it, and soon. But not this soon.
He’d hoped to avoid the necessity of running close support missions. For one thing, they were hard on the city, and Commodore Barron had been clear about avoiding unnecessary collateral damage. But now there was no choice. Either he and his pilots could break up those advancing formations…or Rogan’s entire ground force would be overwhelmed and destroyed before they even had a chance to fortify.
He adjusted his angle again. The previous mission had refreshed his memories of flying in atmosphere, but it was still difficult, very different from handling a fighter in space. He knew at least some of the casualties on the last sortie had resulted from pilot errors. The attack had been made from low altitude, and it didn’t take much for a fighter jock used to open 3D surroundings to slam into the ground.
This attack should be easier, and a lot less costly. Last time, his people had flown straight into the ground defenses, but now those missile launchers and rocket batteries were nothing but piles of rehardened slag. The troops on the ground might have some portable rockets, but that was nothing compared to the firestorm his pilots had faced last time.
“Remember, the atmosphere’s bleeding off your laser power fast, so get in close and make those shots count.” Stockton could see the dense groupings of troops up ahead. It looked like Rogan’s forces were already under heavy attack. He was tempted to fly in close to Rogan’s line, to try to relieve the immediate pressure. But there was too big a risk of hitting friendlies. No, he had to take out the advancing units behind, cut off the flow of fresh forces and leave it to the Marines to take care of the enemies already in their faces.
“Let’s do this!” He angled his fighter down, cutting through the air at as sharp an angle as he dared. He saw the troops down below, watched as they stopped and looked up…and then began to run in different directions, seeking cover.
“There’s nowhere to run, you bastards,” he said as he tightened his finger around the firing stud. His laser cannons fired, again and again as he swooped down less than half a kilometer over the enemy formations. He could see the bursts slamming into the ground, wiping away enemy troopers in clumps. Then he pulled back on his throttle, angling his ship up sharply into the sky.
He looked down at the scanner, watching as his squadrons followed behind, a line of fighters, as close to wing to wing, he suspected, as any fighter force had ever come. And on the ground, chaos, death and destruction almost unimaginable.
But the units didn’t break. They didn’t run. Even where there were the greatest gaps, where as much as half a formation’s strength had been lost, the survivors regrouped and continued to advance. Stockton shook his head. No matter how much he hated his enemies, it was hard not to admire these Alliance warriors.
“Let’s come around and make another run here. I want those units running for the hills…or I want them wiped out. Follow me.”
He angled his controls again and brought his fighter into position. He was going to see this done, here and now. He was going to do it for Bryan Rogan and the Marines. And he was going to do it so he didn’t have to come back a third time. He was getting used to flying in atmosphere, but he had his own business, elsewhere. One day, probably soon, the Red fleet was going to transit into the system, and he had to be ready. Then the final battle would begin.
His battle would begin.
* * *
“No, Lieutenant. You can send out a harassing force for a few hundred meters, but I want no general pursuit. Position your company along the main line of fortifications. I want one-third on watch, one-third repairing the line, and one-third resting.”
“Yes, sir.” He could hear the disappointment in the young officer’s voice, and he understood it. His Marines had gone from staring certain defeat in the face to pursuing a broken enemy. It was only natural to want to exploit such a change in fortune, but he knew full well his people didn’t have the strength for moves like that. He needed every Marine he had, and then some, if he was going to hold back everything the Reds were likely to throw at him.
He switched his comm unit to ground to orbit and called up Dauntless. A few seconds later, Commander Travis was on the line. “Looks like you’ve got things under control down there, Bryan. Well done. Hold for the commodore.”
Rogan was going to thank Travis for her words, and admit that the fighter attack had at least as much to do with the result of the battle as anything his people had done, but she was gone before he could get it out.
“Nice job, Bryan.” It was Barron’s voice.
“Thank you, sir. We couldn’t have done it without the fighter strike. Those birds tore apart the entire attack.”
“And they’ll do it again if they have to, Colonel. I’ve got six squadrons on alert at all times, ready to launch when you give the word. You’ve got air support whenever you need it.” Barron’s tone grew more serious. “What shape are you in down there, Bryan?”
Rogan sighed softly. “It’s not good, sir. We took heavy losses taking the objectives, and more fighting off the counter-attack. I’ve got maybe fifty percent of my strength still in the line, maybe another hundred fifty walking wounded who can fight in a pinch.” He paused. “Sir, if you can get some shuttles down here, I’d love to evac some wounded. It would free up the Marines I’ve got guarding the aid stations, and if we could get some of our most shot up cases to sickbay, we might save a few.”
“Consider it done, Bryan. I’ll send down two squadrons to escort the shuttles, just in case.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’s the status on that comm setup? We’re going to need that when Imperator Vennius gets here.”
Barron didn’t even hint at a doubt about Vennius arriving, but Rogan knew better, and he heard the unspoken “if” in the statement. “The engineers
are working on it, sir. I’m afraid it got pretty badly shot up.”
“Stay on the engineering team, Colonel. Get them anything they need. We have to have that comm up and running. Our side’s been getting smeared so far, and this is our chance to even the score on that, maybe persuade a few Reds to switch to our side.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do all I can.”
“And, Bryan…”
“Sir?”
“That’s your last stand. We need everything you’ve taken down there, but if it comes down to the and the shit hits it, you hold that comm center and the emergency power source. It’s the only absolutely vital position. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
He did understand. Completely. And he would do everything in his power to hold it for Barron. Those Red bastards would have to kill the last Marine on Palatia before they took the comm center back.
Which they just might do…
* * *
“We’re taking you out of here, Lucius, Ariane. We’ll get you off-planet, where it’s safe.” Hursus was sitting in the front of the shuttle with the two children. Hargraves had expected them to fall to pieces, crying for the loss of the man he’d been told had been their caretaker since they’d been born. The old man had died well, Hargraves had to admit that. He’d given his life to save his charges, and there was something to admire in that.
“Leave Palatia? Never! We are the Rigellii, Optio. No usurper will drive us from our home like defeated cowards. We would die before we would suffer such dishonor.”
“Lucius, your Uncle Vennius was forced to leave Palatia. Do you consider him a coward? There is no dishonor in following the orders of your Imperator, is there?”
The boy leaned back, relaxing the tension he’d worked himself into, but still with a sullen expression.
Hargraves shook his head. As long as the little shit shut the hell up, he was satisfied. He knew the child was just a product of his culture, that his outburst had shown considerable courage for someone his age…but he was sick of Alliance attitudes despite the fact that, on a level he couldn’t quite wrap his head around, he knew they were not that different than those that drove his own beloved Marine Corps.
He was lying in the back of the shuttle, and the medic was working on him. He knew his wound was bad, but he could tell from the med tech’s silence, and the tension in his hands, his body language, it was even worse than he thought.
He was weak, lightheaded, and he found it increasingly difficult to breath. The medic leaned over and pulled an oxygen mask over his face.
I’m in trouble, he thought, suddenly finding it much more difficult to stay conscious. He knew the shuttle only had rudimentary medical facilities, but he’d figured he’d be okay until they got into orbit and docked with Dauntless. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He’d stared death in the face more than once in his career, lying in the mud and filth of one battlefield or another. He’d been sure he was dying on his third assignment, his small force completely surrounded by FRs. That had been the war before the current one, and he’d survived that day, and many more since then. He almost laughed at the thought of dying on some mission to retrieve two spoiled kids. For a few seconds…then the whole thing stopped seeming funny.
He felt farther from the shuttle, and a strange floating feeling took him. He couldn’t hear the kids anymore, just strange, distant sounds. The medic? Was he yelling, waving his arms?
His thoughts drifted back to Santis. Bryan Rogan had gotten them all through it, somehow. Not all…we left more than half our number there, dead on the frozen ground. Considerably more than half…
He realized somehow, in a way that only seemed partly real…he was dying. A lifetime at war, a history of brutality and battles, and he was going to die here, escorting two Alliance kids to safety, fifteen minutes from a sickbay that could save his life.
War, he thought. We can fight it, endure it, master it…but in the end, do any of us really survive it?
He was mostly satisfied with his life, his service. He had given all he had, done all he could. He thought back decades, to the half-frozen mud of his first training camp, the grizzled old non-coms who had trained him, told him what a disappointment he was bound to be. He’d been so scared of those Marines. They seemed so hard, so strong. Yet, he’d become one of them, and he’d gone on to terrify legions of young Marines himself. He dared to think those who had trained him would have been pleased at how he’d turned out, that they would have welcomed him to their Corps.
As they will welcome me again…
He’d fought for an entire lifetime, never yielding, never giving up. But he was tired, his strength gone. For the first time since he’d donned the uniform, Clete Hargraves stopped fighting and just slipped away.
Chapter Forty-Three
CFS Dauntless
In Palatia Orbit, Astara II
Year 311 AC
“We have a new report from Colonel Rogan, Commodore. He advises his people are holding, though they’re sorely pressed at several points. He’s requesting another airstrike.” Atara Travis sat on the opposite side of Barron’s desk, one hand pressed against her portable headset, looking across at him.
“I’ve told him three times, he doesn’t have to ask. All he has to do is advise flight control to launch whatever he needs.” Barron shook his head. Rogan had always been enormously deferential to him, flawlessly respectful. He’d written it off to Marine discipline, but over time he’d come to realize that Rogan truly admired him. As an officer who’d grown up amid the often insincere praise hurled at the descendant of the Confederation’s greatest hero, he’d developed a habit of insinuating a certain amount of cynicism in his view of such behavior. But not in Rogan’s case.
“You know Bryan.” Travis leaned back in the chair, trying to get comfortable. She tended to be a little less formal when it was just the two of them, something Barron always encouraged. His promotion to commodore had cost him some portion of the easy relationship he’d had with Travis, and, in truth, he missed it.
She looked tired. She’d been going through the motions, taking regular off-duty periods to “rest,” but Barron doubted she’d actually managed to sleep any more than he had. The mission had gone well so far, vastly better than they’d had any right to expect. They’d taken Palatia totally by surprise and found that Calavius had indeed stripped the defenses to bolster his attack fleet. The wild gamble had paid off, and they’d swept away the enemy flotilla and obliterated the vaunted Palatian orbital defenses without losing so much as a single ship. Then they’d taken control of every vital ground installation, and they still held them all nearly a week later, despite half a dozen counter attacks. It had taken countless sorties by the fighter squadrons to prop up the Marines, but the fleet’s strike teams had proven up to the task, even if the first run had been costly. Since that initial attack had obliterated the ground-based missile and rocket batteries, however, the enemy defenses had been minimal. The subsequent waves had faced little danger from the enemy, even if unfamiliarity with atmospheric operations had killed nearly a dozen and a half pilots.
But none of that mattered, not if the rest of the operation didn’t go according to plan. If Vennius and his ships didn’t manage to escape from Sentinel-2, it was over. If they didn’t get ahead of Calavius’s Red fleet, it was over. If the engineers on the surface didn’t have the Alliance’s comm nexus functioning in time, it was over. There were a hundred ways things could go wrong…and only one winding path toward victory. But, against the odds, that path was still open.
“Let’s send a double strike force down there,” Barron said. “Maybe we can buy some extra time for the Marines before…”
The main klaxon sounded, and Barron’s comm crackled to life. “Commodore, we’re picking up activity at the transit point. We’ve got ships inbound.”
Barron exchanged glances with his exec, and then almost as one, they snapped up to their feet. “On the way,” he said into the c
omm unit on the desk, and then the two of them walked through the opening hatch and onto the bridge.
“I want IDs as soon as possible.” Barron could feel the tension in his gut, the uncertainty. “And bring the fleet to battlestations, Commander.” Just in case. Either Vennius’s fleet was about to emerge, ahead of the Red forces which were no doubt in hot pursuit. Or the Reds got here first.
Or they already destroyed Vennius…
“Yes, Commodore,” Travis said crisply, sliding into her seat as she did. About half a minute later: “Sir, we’ve got ships coming through. We’re picking up ID beacons now. I think it’s…”
* * *
“We’re through, Your Supremacy. The rest of the fleet is right behind us.” Brutus Egilius was staring at the display as he made his report. Vennius knew his new fleet commander—he’d issued Egilius’s promotion to Commander-Altum during the trip from Sentinel-2 to Palatia—was concerned about Bellator being the first ship to transit. Egilius seemed to have taken on the responsibility for keeping the Imperator safe, which suggested a position farther back in the line. But Vennius would have no part of it. He knew very well Bellator might emerge into the teeth of Red ships, fresh from the defeat of Barron’s force, but that was of no consequence. If the Confederation ships hadn’t managed to seize Palatia, defeat was a virtual certainty anyway. Vennius had no wish to outlive his cause…or to see what a victorious Calavius would make of his beloved Alliance.
“I want a full report as soon as possible.” Vennius knew his words were needless. There wasn’t a set of eyes on Bellator’s bridge not trained on the still-dark main display. Vennius knew his warriors were courageous, that they would never let fear overcome them, or, for that matter, admit to feeling any. But he was also well aware that staring into the unknown was often worse than the face of any enemy.