***
“There she blows,” Williams said, quietly.
Ginny watched, wordlessly, as Pournelle Base disintegrated. The alien craft scattered as a series of explosions tore the base apart, throwing pieces of debris in all directions. None of the chunks looked large enough to make it through the atmosphere and cause damage on the ground, but she kept an eye on them anyway. Her sensors picked up a number of lifepods, all trying to remain unnoticed. She hoped, grimly, that the Tadpoles didn't decide to use them for target practice.
All my gear is gone, she thought. She travelled light, like most starfighter pilots, but she’d kept some souvenirs with her. And some of my photographs ...
“Admiral Mountbatten has assumed command,” a different dispatcher said. The voice caught her by surprise for a moment, before she remembered that the old dispatcher and his staff would have been on Pournelle Base. She hoped they’d managed to get off before the base exploded. There was no way to know. The Tadpoles had torn up the base’s interior pretty good before finally blowing it to atoms. “Prepare for new orders.”
“And keep shooting at the aliens until we get the new orders,” Ginny muttered. The aliens were already racing away from the remains of the base, thankfully not hanging around long enough to start shooting at the lifepods. They didn't need to shoot at the lifepods - or the remaining starfighters. They’d already accomplished their goal. “Squadron, form up on me.”
She forced herself to survey the battlefield as the command network struggled to update itself. There was always some confusion if someone new assumed command in the middle of a battle - she knew that from grim experience - and it would cost lives. All the emergency drills they’d done since the war had begun had left out the emergency. She’d never met Admiral Mountbatten, but no one - not even Grant or Sherman - could have taken over smoothly. The confusion wouldn't abate in a hurry.
The alien starfighters were racing to catch up with the bombers, while their CSP was moving to confront them. Ginny winced. The bomber pilots were going to get caught between two fires, forced to blow through the CSP with the remainder of the enemy starfighters breathing down their necks. And yet ... she spun her starfighter around as a trio of alien craft flashed past her, heading towards a smaller industrial node. The aliens hadn’t recalled all their starfighters. They’d left enough behind to deter the remaining squadrons from racing after the retreating craft.
We can't go on like this, Ginny thought numbly, as she threw her starfighter after the alien craft. She needed a shower and a few hours sleep - even one hour, in the sleep machine. She was pushing the limits of what she could inject into her bloodstream to keep reasonably alert. They’ll grind us down if we don’t manage to get some rest soon.
She eyed the alien carriers on the HUD, holding position far too close to the planet for comfort. They had to be forced away, somehow. Where was Home Fleet? What were they doing? Jerking off while the aliens systematically wrecked Earth’s defences and industrial base? How many people had died on the planet while Home Fleet concentrated its forces and prepared to move?
“Prepare to engage the alien carriers,” the dispatcher said, finally. Updates flashed up in front of her, providing precise targeting orders. Hitting an alien carrier with plasma guns might be effective ... she supposed they were about to find out. “New squadron orders ...”
Ginny nodded, feeling sweat trickling down her back as the dispatcher rattled off a new set of makeshift formations. If nothing else, the battle had concentrated a few minds on the importance of working together. Pilots flew with whatever wingmen they could find and to hell with national formations. But it was starting to look as though they’d hang together and get hanged anyway.
“Understood,” she said, when the new formations had assembled. Only four of her friends had survived long enough to join her new squadron. The remainder were all strangers to her. But they were starfighter pilots and they’d have to do. “Let’s go.”
***
There wasn't enough data to be sure, the analysis sub-factions reported, but it did look as though the human command-and-control network had been thrown into brief confusion. The starfighter installation the Combat Faction had marked down for destruction might actually have been more important than they’d realised at the time, although the humans were clearly already recovering from the chaos. If they’d known in advance what they were targeting ...
The Combat Faction dismissed the thought as it studied the endless series of updates. The raid on the lunar installations had been largely successful, silencing most of the lunar mass drivers. The remainder were still a problem, but they could be handled. And that meant that it would be easier to bring the fleet closer to Earth, allowing them to accelerate the destruction of the human industrial base. Taking and holding the high orbitals would be difficult, as long as the human fleet remained in being, but they would weaken the humans to the point where further resistance was impossible.
And then we can put an end to the engagement, the Combat Faction stated. The Song rose again as the various factions rededicated themselves to their task. There was consensus, once again. And the war itself will soon be won.
And then the next set of updates arrived ...
Chapter Eighteen
Sin City, Luna
“There’s been no response to any of my pings,” Brian said. Nearly thirty minutes had passed since the colony had been attacked. The telltales on the hatch remained red. “I think we have to assume that no one is coming.”
He glanced around the compartment. It hadn't been easy to assume command - damn civilians kept wanting to argue - but it had managed to keep everyone from arguing. And yet, half of them wanted to stay where they were and the other half wanted to move. The only one who hadn't expressed an opinion was Abigail and she’d grown up on the moon.
“We can slip through the hatch without venting the air,” he added, after a moment. “Anyone who wants to come with us is welcome.”
The heavyset man - whose name had turned out to be Paul Farrakhan - frowned. “Can you guarantee finding a way to the surface?”
“Of course not,” Brian said, dryly. “But if they don’t even know we’re here, they’re not going to come looking for us.”
He kept the rest of his speculations to himself. Sin City was not a military target. If the aliens were willing to target non-military colonies and installations, it suggested that the military installations might have already been taken out. And that meant that there might be no one left to help them, even if they wanted to help. He had no idea what they would find, when - if - they reached the surface, but he knew they couldn't rely on finding help.
“We’ll get ready now,” he said, reaching for the spacesuits. A couple looked to be about the right size for him; one might fit Abigail, although it would be a little loose. “If any of you want to stay here, we’ll try and send help back for you when we reach the surface.”
Abigail donned her spacesuit with practiced ease. Brian eyed her carefully - she looked bored, rather than frightened - and then checked her life support system. Everything looked to be in order, although he wasn't sure how far he trusted the city’s spacesuits. Sin City clearly hadn't spent as much money and time on their safety precautions as they should have done. The Luna Federation would be pissed, if there was still a Federation left. They took safety precautions seriously.
“I’ll come,” Farrakhan said. He glanced at his wife. “I’ll send help back for you, all right?”
“You’d be better coming with us,” Brian said. He pulled his own spacesuit on, then waited while Abigail checked the telltales. “We don’t know how long it will be before help can be organised.”
He picked up a set of emergency equipment and dropped it into a bag. Hopefully, they wouldn't have problems reaching the lunar surface, but he knew better than to assume anything. They weren't on the uppermost level. If the colony had vented completely, all the airlocks and hatches must have failed. Or ... something had punch
ed right through several layers of rock and concrete. He wasn't sure which option bothered him the most.
“I’m ready,” Abigail said. She paused. “Shouldn’t we carry weapons? We might run into aliens up there.”
Brian shrugged. He had a shockrod, but it wouldn't be any use against an alien in powered combat armour. Or even a man in a spacesuit. Projectile weapons weren't exactly banned on Luna, but it was unusual for a civilian to carry one. The risk of someone putting a shot through the dome and causing a leak was too high. Brian doubted it was that high, but it hardly mattered. Projectile weapons wouldn't make much of a difference either.
“I don’t think they’ll pay much attention to this colony,” he said, finally. “There’s nothing here they’ll want.”
“Wine, women and song,” Farrakhan commented. He seemed to be having problems with his spacesuit. “They might want to take some time off to relax too.”
“Hah,” Brian said. He doubted the Tadpoles would be particularly interested in what the human race considered relaxing. They were hardly human. “Lean over here. I’ll check your suit.”
He glanced at Abigail as soon as Farrakhan was suited up, then looked at the others. “Keep a sharp eye on the air gauge,” he ordered. “If it drops too low, suit up yourselves and follow us.”
The airlock opened at his touch, somewhat to his surprise. He knew it was designed not to open both doors at once - that feature was engineered into all airlocks, wherever they were - but he’d expected to have to crank the hatch open so they could walk into the chamber. He walked inside, checking the hatch carefully, then pulled his helmet over his head. The short-range transmitter seemed to work perfectly, much to his relief. At least they could talk once they were through the airlock. The hatch hissed closed behind the others, once they joined him. Brian let out a sigh of relief, then started to work on the outer hatch. It opened, allowing the chamber’s air to vent into Sin City. He suddenly felt very cold.
“No atmosphere,” he said. He’d half-hoped the telltales were lying. Some of the civilian models were so over-engineered that they reacted badly to even a minor drop in the local atmosphere. “Keep your helmets on at all costs.”
“I grew up here,” Abigail said, tartly. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Good,” Brian said. He looked down the corridor. “Stay behind me.”
The main lighting had failed, he noted grimly. Emergency lighting had come on, thankfully, but it was flickering alarmingly. Either the power distribution net had collapsed completely or the Management had skimped on the system. Dark shadows flickered at the corner of his eyes as the lighting dimmed still further, worrying him more than he cared to admit. The chances were that anyone not in a shelter was dead, but ... he knew he couldn't take that for granted. Someone might have managed to get into a suit or a life support bubble before it was too late.
He inched down the corridor, checking the channels one by one. His suit was sending out an automatic distress beacon, but there was no reply. There weren't any other beacons either, as far as he could tell. The local datanet seemed to have failed completely. He gritted his teeth as he reached the door and peered into the casino, then swore. The room was a nightmarish horror show. Dead bodies lay everywhere: on the floors, on the tables ... gathered around the rear hatches, as if they’d open and provide succour. Men and women, young and old ... they were all dead.
“My God,” he said. He fought down the urge to throw up. A modern suit was designed to cope with vomit, but he had no idea how the older design would cope. “How many people died here?”
Farrakhan moved up behind him. “There were ten tables in the room,” he said. “Each of them had seven players and dozens of spectators ...”
Brian shook his head as he looked around, treating the room like a crime scene. The position of most of the bodies suggested a panicky flight to safety, wherever that was. There didn't look to have been any safety ... the damage to the bar and tables suggested a major impact, but not one big enough to knock the light fittings from the ceiling. He looked down at the closest body and shivered. The poor bastard hadn't had a chance to grab a facemask, let alone a spacesuit, before he’d died.
You have to be near life support gear, his instructor had said years ago, when he’d talked about dealing with explosive decompression. If you’re not, you’re dead.
“Stay back,” he ordered, tersely. He hoped Abigail wouldn't throw up, when she saw the bodies. “I just need to check around.”
He left the two of them behind as he circled the room. The rear hatches remained solidly closed, even when he banged his gauntlet against them. Someone might be alive in there - it was the logical space for an airtight compartment - but there was no way to be sure. It certainly didn't look as though anyone was interested in opening the hatch. He checked behind the bar, silently noticing the number of shattered bottles and glasses on the ground, then walked back to the others. There was nothing left for them in the casino, but death.
“They could have run to the shelters,” Abigail said, plaintively. “Why didn’t they run to the shelters?”
Brian shrugged. It was clear that no one, up to and including the Management, had taken the crisis seriously. Sin City wasn't a military target, ergo it wouldn't be attacked. And that had been a disastrous mistake. His thoughts raced, churning in circles. Why had Sin City been attacked? It had no military value whatsoever ... hell, it had no industrial value either. The death of so many guests might have an economic effect, but he couldn't imagine the Tadpoles caring about that. Besides, it would take longer than a few hours for it to take effect.
“I imagine they just wanted to keep gambling,” he said, finally. “Let’s move on.”
They made their way slowly towards the stairwells, glancing into each chamber as they passed. Some were as nightmarish as the first - dead bodies littered everywhere - and others seemed abandoned, as though the inhabitants had been smart enough to run for cover before the hammer came down. The damage was getting worse, too. Two corridors were blocked by cave-ins, forcing them to find alternate ways to reach the stairwells. Brian didn't like the implications of that. A kinetic strike or a tactical nuke? If the latter, they might be walking through a radioactive field. His skin crawled, although he knew it was psychosomatic. If they were at risk of radiation poisoning, they wouldn't know until later.
The lights were growing dimmer as they finally reached the stairwell and looked up. Brian swore, inwardly, as he saw the stars high above them. There shouldn't have been any breach in the colony’s dome, which meant ... something had punched through and detonated inside the colony. Or maybe just punched though ... he felt a wave of relief as he realised that it had been a kinetic strike. There was no real risk of radiation poisoning.
And we’re going to have trouble getting up, he thought. There was just too much damage to the stairwell. The piles of rubble suggested that the stairwell’s upper layers had been smashed. But we don’t have a choice.
“Follow me,” he said, softly. “And don’t look back.”
Farrakhan coughed. “What about my wife?”
“We have to get to the top if we’re going to call for help,” Brian said, patiently. He checked his radio, again. Still nothing. That worried him, more than he cared to admit. Luna wasn't Earth, but there was normally enough bandwidth to let him establish a solid connection to the datanet anywhere on the surface. If the orbiting relay satellites and ground-based nodes were out ... he didn't care to think about the implications. “If you want to go back to her, go back.”
He half-wished the man would go back, even though he knew it was wrong of him. An untrained civilian wasn't exactly helpful, was he? And yet, Farrakhan had done reasonably well so far. Brian felt his lips twitch in cold disapproval. Perhaps he was just being an ass. Besides, he had the feeling he'd be glad of Farrakhan’s help when the shit hit the fan.
“Come on,” he added, looking at Abigail. “Let’s move.”
He walked up the stairwell, fe
eling pieces of glass and plaster shatter under his feet. The impact had done a lot of damage, smashing roofs and destroying airtight chambers closer to the surface. No wonder so many safety precautions had failed. A system designed to seal off a single venting compartment wasn't designed to deal with a disaster on such a scale. Add poor maintenance to the list of problems and they were lucky they had survived.
And the rest of the shelters might be full too, he thought. But they won’t know what to do either.
He reached the top of the stairwell and looked up. There were two more levels to go, but the stairwell was in utter ruin. He looked down a darkened corridor and shook his head in grim disbelief. The lights had failed completely. There had to be other stairwells leading up to the surface, but where were they? He had no idea.
“I never saw them,” Abigail said, when he asked. “I used the lifts.”
“Good thought,” Brian said. “We should check out the lift shafts.”
The Longest Day (Ark Royal X) Page 18