The 18th Race: Book 02 - In All Directions

by David Sherman

  “You, leg LT!”

  Again, he didn’t react to her, even though a soldier poked his head out of the bunker the leg lieutenant was standing next to and up looked at her.

  “Him!” she shouted, and pointed at the leg. The soldier said something to the leg, and pointed at Pentzer.

  The leg turned to look at her and mimed, “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes, you!” She pointed emphatically at the base of the laser mount, and hopped to the ground. The leg ambled over to her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said when he reached her. “What can I do for the captain?”

  “Mister, I should put you on report,” she snapped. “You deliberately ignored me when I called.”

  Greig blinked innocently. “Ma’am? I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear you call me. I did hear you call some leg LT, but I didn’t realize you meant me—I’m not a leg.”

  Her face turned red and she shoved her face up into his. “You’re infantry, right? That means you’re a leg.”

  He sauntered to her, shaking his head. “Mounted infantry, ma’am. There’s a difference.”

  “Is that a fact, now?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a distinction we take very seriously.”

  She ostensibly looked around, “I don’t see any vehicles. If you’re mounted infantry, where are your vehicles?”

  Greig went rigid. “Ma’am, most of Alpha Troop’s vehicles were lost when the Dusters almost killed the Juno Beach. The few that survived are with a platoon that is conducting patrols.”

  Pentzer flinched and the red in her face washed out. The 1045 Artillery Battalion (Laser) had been on the Wanderjahr, which had not been hit during the Duster attack on ARG 27. The battalion had suffered no losses, but she knew that many of the soldiers on the Juno Beach had been killed.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Did you lose many people?”

  “No, ma’am. I managed to get my entire platoon into a stasis station in time to save everybody.”

  “Outstanding. Now,” she reddened again, but with embarrassment this time, “I’m sorry, but what’s your name? I know we exchanged names when I arrived, but I had other things on my mind then.”

  “That’s all right, I sometimes have trouble remembering names myself. I’m Theodore Greig.”

  She extended her hand. “Patricia Pentzer.” They shook, all business now, “Have you heard the latest? A fleet, probably alien, is approaching Troy. It’ll reach orbit in a matter of hours. My lasers are going to be involved perhaps as soon as they’re in range. I strongly suggest that you move your people at least a kilometer away from my guns before then.”

  He blinked. “Why?”

  “Counter-battery fire will take out this entire base, that’s why. Where’s that MI platoon that’s supposed to be here?”

  “They’re out running recon patrols. If you’re concerned about counter-battery fire, why don’t you spread your lasers out more?”

  “Because we’re assigned to Firebase Gasson, and we’re spread out as far as its dimensions allow, that’s why.”

  Greig hesitated before speaking again; what he was about to say could be insulting. “You’ve never fired your guns in anger, have you? You haven’t come under fire yet.”

  If Pentzer was insulted, she managed to control it. “That’s right. Both counts. You have?”

  He nodded. “Not only on the Juno Beach. We’ve had plenty of action.” He turned in a circle, looking over the landscape beyond the perimeter. “You know, if you keep one gun here and move the other two to the other platoon firebases, you won’t have to worry about counter-battery fire taking you all out at once.”

  “But that’s outside where I’m supposed to be.”

  He looked down and nodded, as though thinking, then back at her. “Ma’am, your CO didn’t come here, did he? He doesn’t know how confined you are in this firebase. You’re the commander on the scene. The placement of your guns is your tactical decision to make. I’ll talk to my company commander. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  She studied him for a moment, then said, “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Greig. We just have time to move my guns before they’ll probably have to fire.” She looked for her platoon sergeant, and began giving orders to move two of the lasers.

  Captain Meyer’s only reaction to Greig’s request was an astonished, “Hell yes! Move those things.”

  NAUS Durango, Fleet Combat Action Center, in geosync orbit around Troy

  In the dimness of the CAC, Lieutenant Commander Rufus Z. Johnston scowled at the images on his status board. “Get me the Admiral’s Bridge.” His voice cracked like a whip over the soft pings emitted by the comps, and the muted voices of the techs manning the stations..

  “The Admiral’s Bridge, aye,” said Radioman 2 Edward A. Gisburne. Then into the fleet comm, “Bridge, CAC.”

  “CAC, Bridge,” Radioman 3 Matthew Arther immediately answered.

  Gisburne saw Johnston adjust his speaker and told Arther, “CAC wants to speak to the admiral.”

  “CAC wants to speak to the admiral, aye,” Arther said.

  Seconds later Johnston heard, “Avery, CAC. What do you have for me?”

  “Sir, the leading elements of the unidentified fleet are now within extreme range of the Durango.”

  “Let me know when they are within range of the Scott’s Meteors.” The fast attack carrier had almost closed to range; the slowing down of the Duster fleet had given her time to get close.

  “Let the admiral know when the bogeys are within range of the Scott’s Meteors. Aye.”

  “Avery out.”

  Johnston went back to peering at the board. How many of these vessels were warships? How many were transports? Or support ships? Those were the questions he most needed to answer. But the North American Union Navy had no information on the alien spacecraft. Even if they were close enough to make out details, he had no way to know for certain.

  But, if the Dusters’ navy was organized along lines similar to human, then he could assume—and, yes, he knew what “assume” did—that the ten ships in the front were similar to human frigates and destroyers, forming a screen for the eight ships following them, possible cruisers and battleships, even carriers. He wasn’t about to assume that none of them were carriers—just because the Dusters didn’t use any aircraft planetside, that didn’t mean they had no space fighters, analogs to the NAU Navy’s SF 6 Meteors. If he was right, that meant that the score-plus ships farther back were transports and, possibly, support ships.

  Although as profligate as the Dusters had been with the lives of their troops planetside, he wasn’t going to assume that they were any more concerned about the repair and rescue of their own damaged ships. He was willing to go only so far to risk making an ass of himself.

  He changed the board’s scale to close up on the bogey fleet, enlarged the view again to include the warships of TF 8. He wondered how much good the Kidd’s remaining Meteors could do when they launched a flank attack on the bogeys.

  An hour later Johnston contacted Avery again.

  “Sir, I have tentative identification of the bogey ship types.”

  “Give me,” Avery said.

  Johnston’s earlier estimate hadn’t changed; ten frigate/destroyer types, eight cruiser/battleship types, one or more of which might or might not be a carrier, twenty-four transports and/or support ships.

  “Range?”

  “Sir, they will be in range of the Scott’s Meteors in fifteen minutes. Ten minutes after that they will be in range of the Durango’s lasers, and in five minutes more the destroyers will be able to strike them. The Kidd should be close enough for her Meteors to strike their rear.”

  “Avery out.”

  Admiral’s Bridge, NAUS Durango

  “If it pleases Captain Huse, I would like to speak with him,” Avery said into his comm. Task Force 8 belonged to Avery, but the Durango belonged to Huse, and his position must be acknowledged.

  “Huse here, Admiral,” the captain’s
voice came back seconds later.

  “Captain, I am shortly going to have the Scott launch her meteors to strike at the bogey fleet. When the Meteors are halfway there, I want the Durango to give the fighters covering fire.”

  “Give the Meteors covering fire when they are halfway to the bogeys, aye.”

  “Avery out.” He turned to Lieutenant Commander George Davis, his communications officer. “Get me Captain Rush on the Scott.”

  “Captain Rush on the Scott, aye aye,” Davis said, and got on the ship-to-ship radio.

  It took twenty seconds for the message to go from the Durango to the carrier Rear Admiral Norman Scott and a reply to come back.

  “Scott Actual,” Rush’s voice came came over the ship-to-ship.

  “Scott, how soon can your SF 6 squadrons launch?”

  “The crews of two squadrons are in the ready room now. How soon they can head for the flight deck depends on the length of time it takes to prepare and deliver the operation order. Once they get the ‘go’ order, they can begin launching within ten minutes.”

  “The op order is brief. The bogey fleet is five hours from Troy orbit. The front row is a screen of frigate and destroyer analogs. Kill them. Durango and the destroyers will provide covering fire. Send all four of your SF 6 squadrons.”

  The pause before Rush replied to the operation order was longer than before. When he spoke again there was a thickness in his voice. The operation sounded to him like a suicide mission for his space fighter group. “Aye aye, sir. The Scott’s entire space fighter group will launch and attack the screening ships of the bogey fleet.”

  “Good hunting, Scott. Avery out.”

  Avery studied the big board, which covered most of the forward bulkhead and displayed all the elements on both sides. He watched the tiny flecks that indicated the SF 6 Meteors launching from the Scott and forming up, then heading for their targets.

  Distance between the bogey fleet and TF 8 was closing rapidly. But the Dusters hadn’t begun firing. Don’t they see the small fighter craft yet? Avery wondered. Or maybe they don’t see such small things as a threat. They’re alien, and we don’t have a grasp on how they think. He didn’t see any specks that would indicate Duster fighter craft. Maybe they don’t have any carriers.

  Time seemed to drag as Avery watched the fighters getting closer to the bogeys.

  Finally, the four squadrons were halfway to their targets, and the Durango opened fire with her lasers. A moment later, TF 8’s three destroyers did as well. They didn’t aim at where they saw the bogey fleet, but where they expected the ships to be in several seconds; what they saw when they fired was not where the ships were now, but where they had been a few seconds later.

  Lasers suddenly lashed out from the second rank of bogeys, the rank Johnston had tentatively identified as cruisers and battleships. The front rank didn’t fire.

  Avery looked to where his three frigates were stationed, high and to the left of his main formation, and ordered them to move in and attack the flank of the second rank.

  Glowing red began to appear on the bogey ships—hits from TF 8!

  Enemy lasers converged on the destroyer First Lieutenant George H. Cannon, and she erupted, her spine split through and her missile magazine exploded. Debris scattered everywhere.

  Avery felt the Durango shudder as she suffered multiple laser hits. Horns sounded throughout the warship, calling damage control crews to action.

  The Meteors finally got close enough to the first rank of bogeys to fire their missiles. A squadron concentrated its fire on one, and it burst open. The rest of the screening warships seemed to suddenly notice the small craft, and began flinging missiles at them. Avery watched stone-faced as six of the dots representing the SF 6’s blinked out, killed by enemy fire. He doubted that any of their pilots survived.

  “Bridge, CAC,” the call came.

  “CAC, bridge,” Davis answered.

  “Kindly inform the admiral the bogey fleet is accelerating.”

  “The bogey fleet is accelerating, aye.” Davis turned to Avery. “Sir—.”

  “I heard.” Why did they do that, Avery wondered. He watched as lasers and missiles killed another destroyer, the Rear Admiral Herald F. Stout and a frigate, the Sergeant Major Daniel Daly. The first rank blinked out another dozen Meteor dots, but the only significant damage to them was one that lost acceleration, and drifted, evidently powerless. The remaining frigates scored a kill on the left-most ships in the second rank.

  Firebase Gasson, near Millerton, Troy

  The lasers of fourth platoon, 1045 Artillery Battalion (Laser) had begun attempting to lock onto the approaching enemy fleet as soon as they were emplaced in all three of Alpha Troop’s platoon firebases. Finally, the warships were close enough to fix on a target; they all locked on one craft in the front row. Had it been a human warship, Captain Patricia Pentzer would have identified it as a frigate. Her three lasers should be able to kill it, even at this extreme range, a distance that would spread their beams.

  “Fourth platoon,” Pentzer ordered, “commence countdown to fire in five seconds.”

  Five seconds later, the air above the three lasers flashed with the heat of the beams they shot heavenward. Watching through her glasses, Pentzer saw three lines of light converging on the designated target. When they struck the warship she saw a red glow sprout in its center, and spread outward. Before the edges of the red could begin to dull, a second salvo hit, and the warship split in two.

  A cheer went up from everybody in Firebase Gasson who was looking up and saw the distant death.

  “New target,” Pentzer ordered, and gave the coordinates to what she tentatively identified as a destroyer.

  H Battery fired.

  Admiral’s Bridge, on the Durango

  “Sir, another message from CAC,” Lieutenant Commander Davis said.

  Avery turned his head to face his comm officer.

  “Twenty-two of the trailing starships are falling behind. They appear to be going into low orbit around Troy.”

  Transports, Avery thought. Planetfall will commence shortly. “Notify Commander NAU Forces, Troy.”

  “Notify Commander NAU Forces, Troy, aye,” Davis said, and got on the orbit-to-surface comm.

  The bogey warships were almost on TF 8 when lasers blasted up from Troy. Another of the enemy’s first rank died, and a second, larger warship staggered and lost weigh.

  All the warships on both sides were firing; lasers, missiles, and guns, as well as the remaining Meteors off the Scott. The Kidd’s Meteors launched and joined the frigates attacking the left-most ship in the Dusters’ second line.

  The planetside lasers ceased fire as the Duster fleet zoomed past TF 8, but picked up again as soon as there was space between the front rank and TF 8.

  The frigate Gunnery Sergeant John Basilone died in the close up exchange, and the Durango, the Scott, and the destroyer Hospitalman 3 Edward C. Benfold were injured. Half of Scott’s Meteors were gone. Two warships from the Dusters’ second rank died as well, and three others appeared to be damaged.

  The Duster fleet was losing more warships than TF 8, but the odds were still heavily in the aliens’ favor.

  “Bridge, CAC,” another report came in. “The bogeys are beginning to decelerate and are arching in an evident attempt to begin a parabolic orbit around the planet.”

  “How long before they come back?” Avery asked.

  “Best estimate at this time, six hours.”

  Avery looked at the big board. By then, the Kidd would link into the task force’s formation.

  “Instruct the Scott to retrieve her SF group and the Stout to begin retrieval rescue and operations,” Avery said ordered. “Durango, Butler, and Benfold, knock out those transports that are moving into low orbit.”

  Chapter 24

  Camp Zion, West Shapland, near Jordan, Eastern Shapland, Troy

  “Look alive, Marines!” Staff Sergeant Guillen bellowed. “We don’t know when or where or how many,
but we know they’re coming, and we had best be ready when they get here. Or be ready to go out and find, fix, and fuck them, whichever comes first.”

  The other platoon sergeants were shouting similar orders at their Marines throughout the firebase. So was Gunnery Sergeant Hoffman, while First Sergeant Robert G. Robinson stood watching, crossed-armed.

  There wasn’t the hustle and bustle one might normally expect in a Marine company when its senior NCOs, under the watchful eye of the company’s top sergeant were shouting orders. They’d known for a few days that a counter-counter-invasion was coming. It was only a question of when, where, and how many. So when they weren’t out running patrols in search of Dusters who might or might not—but often were—out there someplace, they’d been busily engaged in building up Camp Zion’s defenses. By this time, there wasn’t really all that much that still needed doing. Marines on the perimeter looked through the sights of their weapons, making sure they had clear views of their fields of fire. Fire team leaders checked their men’s positions. Squad leaders oversaw the fire team leaders and inspected their men’s equipment and weapons, making sure they all had everything they might need and all was in proper working order. The machine gun and mortar crews checked and rechecked their weapons.

  Being expeditionary, the Marines didn’t have the same heavy-lift capability that the Army did. One thing that meant in practical terms was the biggest artillery pieces, including laser guns able to fire on orbiting targets, belonged to the Army. Where the Army had lasers powerful enough to augment the Navy’s “shore batteries” in attacking enemy ships in orbit from the planetary surface, the Marine lasers couldn’t. The Marine lasers were most useful against ground armor, as anti-aircraft guns, and to shoot down enemy shuttles on their way planetside from orbit. A four-gun laser platoon from 2nd Marine Air Wing’s base defense squadron had joined India Company in Fire Camp Zion.

  Captain Carl Sitter came out of the command bunker and joined Robinson, looking over the company. “What do you think, Top?” he asked.

  “They look ready right now, sir,” Robinson answered. “But if something doesn’t happen soon, I think they’ll get over-wound.”