“Twenty seconds to impact,” King called over the radio. “We’ll be geostationary in twelve minutes, Boss.”
“Copy all, King. You’re cleared to engage all targets of opportunity.”
“Understood. Ten seconds to impact.”
Snowman verified the keel camera systems were engaged and recording. They’d need every amount of data they could muster to defend against litigation, should any of the Tortantulas survive. From all appearances, the Tortantulas had annihilated an entire moon, and while his justification to save his friend wasn’t really enough to legally excuse orbital bombardment outside of the Union’s rules for combat, the spiders had gone too far. They’d go no farther on his watch.
The first of the plugs slammed into Target Reference Point 7, twenty kilometers from the southern space port, on the western edge of what Snowman’s observation software called an army of Tortantulas. The estimate of fifty thousand of the bastards in the target range seemed absurdly low. At impact, the plug drove deep into the ground at a speed over Mach 10 and relayed the concussive force of five million kilograms of TNT. A concentric ring of supersonic winds tore away from the impact site and obscured the swirling, seething black mass of spiders. Another plug hit a few kilometers away, adding to the confusion at the southern end of the Solus plateau. Within seconds, the other six plugs erupted into fountains of dirt and sand around the entire arcology.
“Targets obscured,” Dupont called. Imagery from the Macon was worthless. The terrain around Solus was a swirling brown and black smear of soil and debris.
Snowman studied Ping’s helmet feed as the Valdosta dropped into the swirling maelstrom. The view from her CASPer swung and buffeted wildly. The Valdosta’s bay doors opened, and the first CASPers took their positions. He watched the red jump lights come on. He sucked in a breath and held it, counting down silently, until the first CASPer leapt from the platform and descended toward the objective.
“Forward security deployed,” Ping relayed.
Snowman punched the transmit button, radioing Coggins. “Hammerhead Six, Hauler Six. SITREP, over?”
“Landing in one minute. LZ is clear and unoccupied. Shockwave will clear the target before we land. Out.”
There was very little he could do but wait. The Macon had another four minutes of dwell time over Solus. The dust plumes from the orbital bombardment continued to rise in Shaw Outpost’s thin atmosphere. He saw Oglethorpe’s guns firing a volley in rapid succession from her starboard ports.
“Incendiaries enroute. Shot, over.”
“Shot. Out,” he heard Coggins reply. The ground forces were aware more artillery rounds were falling in their general vicinity.
Ping’s voice came over the radio, her words almost drowned out by heavy static. “Target is obscured. Thirty seconds to contact!”
As if on cue, Coggins was next. His transmission was slightly clearer than Ping’s as he was farther from the multi-impact areas near the city. “Hauler Six, Hammerhead Six—we’re down. Repeat. We’re down. Deploying security forces now! The Witches are away!”
Snowman watched a new set of icons appear on the screen. The flyers, all twelve of them, swept to the east then gently arced toward the south on a path consistent with hitting the designated breach point. Timing was everything. Inbound incendiary rounds would clear a large path the flyers could further exaggerate to hold off the Tortantulas long enough to get the breaching team into the city.
“Splash, over,” King called. Along the western side of Solus, a series of explosions rippled and blossomed into white-hot fireballs over the terrain. At the fringes of the destruction, he could see the moving carpet of Tortantulas scatter and flee from the approaching fire.
“We’re go,” he called. “Breach the city!”
Through his Tri-V feed, Snowman watched Ping’s CASPer leap through a troop door and push up the embankment along the western slope of Solus. Clouds of dust swirled past her as she moved and, while there were a few laser rounds coming from the city’s walls, the infantry met much less opposition than he’d feared.
“Hauler Six, Mako Six. Moving into the city now,” Ping called. He heard her change frequencies and direct her troops up the hill, through the city walls. More fire erupted in front of the CASPers, but still not the volume he’d expected. “Meeting light resistance. Tortantulas—more without Flatar than with. Looks like a couple of companies at most.”
He watched Ping’s icons on the command display as they moved steadily into the city, found the first thoroughfare, and turned south toward the space port. Through her cameras, he saw that the interior of the city was a wrecked, smoldering wasteland. Bodies lay scattered around what had once been pretty streets. The lack of security personnel in the carnage suggested the Tortantulas had come in fast and overrun the city, then had cordoned it off to isolate the remaining mercenaries and deter any rescue attempts. They’d underestimated the Haulers.
“Five hundred meters to the objective,” Ping called. Snowman swung the camera back to the high-rise building and the still-firing CASPers. They weren’t moving, but they continued to fire their cannons at targets so embedded the Macon’s sensors couldn’t track the location of any of the weapon systems.
Ping continued to move toward the building they’d identified as their objective. She looked at the roof and Snowman followed her gaze. The cannon fire from above seemed too sporadic and undirected to really damage anything. The view from Mako Six’s camera lowered, and he saw two corpses dressed in Peacemaker battle gear surrounded by the bodies of more than a dozen Tortantulas and their Flatar riders. Unconsciously, he gripped the armrests on his chair. One of the Peacemakers was a Lumari, and the other was a Sendal. Something was wrong with the entire scene, and it threatened to set off his paternal panic button. He closed his eyes for a brief second.
Gods, Jess. Be safe out there, honey.
“I’ve got CASPer wreckage at three o’clock.” Ping said. Snowman opened his eyes, seeing what she saw on his Tri-V, and his heart sank. Max Alden’s familiar Mk 7 CASPer lay sprawled in the street. The shoulder markings and the bright red bands on the mech’s arms and legs confirmed the identity before Ping closed the distance.
“Dammit, Max,” he swore under his breath.
Ping’s voice came over the radio. “Moving forward elements to the building. Going to combat download and system check him.”
Through an external port, she could download the CASPer’s pertinent data and analyze it, much like they could do with a flight recorder. She’d also be able to check for vital signs. Ping found the port on the exposed left shoulder, pulled a connecting cable from her CASPer’s right leg and snapped it in place.
“Relay on, Boss.”
Data spilled onto his screens. There were no vital signs, and the onboard recorder battery was at less than thirty-three percent. He blinked. There was no sign of damage to the recorder component, itself. He glanced at Dupont. “Pierre? What’s the lifespan of a Mk 7 data recorder?”
“Six months, Boss. Give or take.”
He stabbed the transmit button. “Mako Six? Combat extraction.”
“There’s no vital signs, Boss.”
“I know that! Open him up.”
Ping activated the combat extraction system, opening the upper rear of the CASPer so she could theoretically reach in and grab Alden’s body. She stepped closer and looked inside. “Oh, gods.”
Max Alden was indeed dead and had been for a very long time. The amount of decomposition indicated at least a couple of months. There were no reports of Peacemakers killed in action in the last six months, and their guild never left them on a battlefield. This was more than a lie, it was a carefully laid out, meticulously-seeded trap. Snowman spun to Dupont. “Emergency evacuation! Now!”
Over the command frequency, he heard a young CASPer pilot screaming. “Mako Six, Forward Three. Friendlies up here are all dead. Their CASPers have been—”
The building they’d thought was a friendly outpost ripple
d with explosions down its internal spine. As it crumbled from the top and fell, Snowman saw the icons of most of Ping’s company wink out. “Mako Six, get out of there!”
Ping emergency jumped to the north. In mid-flight, Snowman watched her spin on her vertical axis and turn her cameras to the northeast. Across the roofs of the buildings underneath, several platoons of Tortantulas watched her flight without firing at her. At the edge of her camera feed was something that shouldn’t have been there based on what they’d seen.
A squad of Veetanho huddled around what looked like a communications relay. They were surrounded by Tortantulas, so they were either allied in the fight or the Veetanho were holding the spiders off with an ultrasonic device. One of them raised a small dish and aimed it at Ping. A second later, every relay system between her suit and the Macon failed.
Snowman looked down at the city and saw Ping’s CASPer fall, impact a roof, and tumble off the side. Helpless, he watched until she crashed to the ground.
“Warlock Six, hit that target!”
The flyers swept toward the Veetanho and fired a full barrage of missiles. As they fired, the entirety of the Tortantula defenses appeared. The bastards rose on every rooftop Snowman could see, firing a wall of anti-aircraft missiles and laser bolts. They’d been hiding in the upper floors of every building in the arcology, waiting to spring their trap. The flyers never stood a chance. As they fell in scattered explosions, an icy rivulet of sweat raced down Snowman’s spine. He’d bought the oldest lie in warfare hook, line, and sinker. The honeypot.
“Hammerhead Six, this is Hauler Six. November, November, November! I say again, November, November, November.”
The brevity code for immediate evacuation, every CASPer and vehicle should have retreated at the three words. There was no response.
“All CASPer communications are down. Our people aren’t moving.” Dupont said. “I’ve got nothing between us and them. No EMPs, no evidence of any energy signatures at all.”
Around the northern and southern corners of the plateau, a swift carpet of Tortantulas raced toward his two ships and the remains of his ground units. Loss of contact and inability to defend themselves meant one final thing according to standard operating procedure. That they’d never had to do so in the entire history of Intergalactic Haulers gnawed at Snowman’s gut.
“Redleg Six, Hauler Six. Fire the FPF.”
“Rounds out.”
Final protective fire sent as much fire onto an attacking enemy force as possible, in the hope of providing time and space for any survivors to evacuate for pickup. The wave of spiders swept over the Valdosta and all through the city. Every CASPer icon inside the arcology winked out in a matter of seconds.
Coggins and his company were four kilometers away, frozen in their suits, watching a tsunami of Tortantulas race across the plains. There was nothing they could do. The flood would swallow them in less than a minute.
“Anything, Pierre?”
“I can’t get through, Boss.”
Bukk leaned forward. “They don’t deserve this death.”
The Oglethorpe’s cannons continued firing into the forward edge of the Tortantulas with little effect. Every hole punched in the assault filled with more of the things. Behind the assault, he saw the Torts ringing the Decatur, undoubtedly wanting to use it or chop it up for parts.
“King, destroy the Valdosta and the Decatur,” Snowman ordered.
“We’ll hit our own, Boss.”
“Godsdamnit! Hit our ships. Drop on our people. I’d rather kill them before those fuckers rip them apart. Do you get me?”
King replied a second later. “FPF fired. Dropping everything on all Hauler positions. Plugs out.”
In quick succession, the Oglethorpe dropped six tungsten plugs. Snowman watched them start to fall and saw movement against the disk of Shaw Outpost. Small ships ascended toward them.
“Defensive systems to active,” Snowman ordered. The big ship shuddered under impacts along the top of the fuselage. “What the—”
“Space borne contacts are firing,” Dupont called. “The ones that were NORDO.”
Snowman snapped his eyes to Ryu who was sitting back in his chair as if watching a movie. The young man’s face was calm and composed. “You.”
“It’s over, Snowman,” Ryu said. “My parents told me how you profited from the deaths of Human mercenaries. You’ve given the Mercenary Guild enough ammunition and secrets about how we can fight them off. That’s why the war is coming. You’ve given them the advantage.”
His jaw clenched. “Salvage is how this company was founded. We’ve saved more Human lives than any other company. The equipment we salvaged made your parents as rich as anyone, Ryu.”
The young man laughed. “That’s why they left you! They realized you were nothing but a traitor and—”
A laser bolt ripped across the bridge, and Ryu slumped sideways into the navigation console. Snowman looked over his shoulder and saw Bukk holster his weapon and sit down. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. That man betrayed us. Emergency jump calculations complete. Boosting for the gate in ten seconds.”
Snowman gulped a quick breath. “King, emergency jump SOP is in effect. We’ll see you soon.”
In case of an emergency jump, the company would scatter in every direction. Depending on the code phrase, they’d meet at one of their outposts in a certain amount of time. “See you soon” meant they would rendezvous at Marek Four in three weeks.
“Five seconds.” Bukk said. “All ships destroyed. Null CASPer reports.”
His company lay shattered on the planet below. The Macon pivoted on its axis and pointed directly at the stargate in the distance. They’d boost the engines to max approach speed and enter the gate. He’d pay a hefty fine for breaking from procedure, even under duress. The engines spooled up, and he felt the first rumbles of thrust in his seat. Above him, the Oglethorpe also swung toward the gate, two Veetanho ships closing on her stern.
A series of defensive cannons fired from the Oglethorpe’s rear emplacements, but they weren’t enough to stop the attackers. The two ships closed over the soft targets of the gunship’s spine and fired. The Oglethorpe tore in two, then detonated spectacularly.
Snowman released his restraints and used the minimal gravity from being under thrust to pull himself forward to the navigator’s console. He unstrapped Ryu’s body and pushed it violently under the console. The course insertions for the gate were all wrong. He adjusted the course with a series of taps, better aligning the Macon, and filed a flight plan for Marek 4.
>Denied.<
Damned Gate Masters and their chicken shit games. Only credits talk. He tried again, changing the proposed destination and included a five hundred thousand credit bribe.
>Denied.<
“They’re firing on us.” Dupont called.
“Defensive countermeasures engaged,” Buck replied. They had a handle on the fight for a few seconds at best. Snowman glanced at his chair and pulled himself back to it. He tore off the left armrest cushion, revealing a rectangular connection port. In the chest pocket of his coveralls, he felt for and extracted the Dusman chip. No one really knew what it was capable of. When Jessica had plugged it into a Raknar control panel, it had cold-booted the giant mecha. The Besquith believed the chip was a beacon—a safety device that could call assistance to his position. For that reason, he’d built a powered connection port into his chair, but he had never activated the chip. Out of options, he couldn’t help thinking it could be the key.
He snapped the chip into the port and pushed off toward the navigation console as the Macon shuddered and yawed under the attack from above. He keyed the emergency navigation message to the gate.
>ACCEPTED.<
It’s a damned Swiss Army knife!
He grabbed the helm controls and shoved the throttle forward to 104%. “Hang on!”
They approached the gate much faster than was safe, with the Macon off axis when she passed ten kilometers t
o the gate. With as smooth an action as he could muster, Snowman realigned the ship and slammed his fist on the emergency boost button.
The Macon shot into the gate at more than three times the fastest recommended speed, and Snowman wondered if the Veetanho would follow them through the gate. The bridge cameras showed the familiar blankness he’d seen in every hyperspace transit in his life. He wouldn’t know how bad things truly were until they emerged at Marek 4.
Floating in the microgravity of interstellar flight, Snowman raised his hands to his face and wept.
* * * * *
Chapter Sixteen
Deep in the Weqq Jungle
Night fell as the TriRusk ran into the jungle. Jessica’s abdomen ached from the constant shaking and impacts against the alien’s bony shoulder. Try as she might, she couldn’t escape his grip. All she could do was hang on for dear life. The movement almost lulled her into a stupor until the TriRusk stopped abruptly. Jessica’s head snapped up from the TriRusk’s neck, and she looked at the ground in front of them. The stream they’d followed emptied into a much wider river with rushing rapids like those she’d seen as a child. The TriRusk put her down gingerly, allowing her to stand on her own legs. Jessica stretched and rubbed her aching stomach.
“What now?”
“Cross.” The TriRusk said and pointed across the rock-strewn waterway. The river was about thirty meters wide, and the noise from the rapids covered every other sound in the dim jungle. The heavy, moist air was cool, and she shivered, rubbing her hands together as she plotted a route across the river. Selecting a route was easy, provided the rocks didn’t move too much under her weight. Mental map in place, she stared at the far side of the river. There were four large, male TriRusks looking back at them. Higher up on the slope behind them was a lone female sitting at what looked like the entrance to a cavern.
Honor the Threat Page 17