Guns of the Valpian (Survival Wars Book 6)

by Anthony James

“No,” said Rasmussen. “The artillery will not fit.”

  “Shame. It means rifles, repeaters and grenades only.”

  “We’re low on grenades, sir,” said Hendrix. “I’ve had a little play with the ones in the armoury – they’re different to the ones we carry. I recommend we do not attempt to use them.”

  Duggan accepted the recommendation and finished his briefing. “If I were the enemy, I’d have a troop transport coming our way immediately, so we’ll encounter hostiles if we don’t act quickly enough. The Antrajis station is holding us stationary and unluckily for them, the Valpian’s open hangar door is facing the breach we made in their hull. The range is extreme, but once we’re in the hangar, I can use the squad’s portable comms gear to activate the ESS Crimson’s self-destruct sequence. It’s carrying many conventional missiles as well as a large store of huge-yield nuclear warheads. The results of a detonation within the hull of the Antrajis should be spectacular.”

  The troops greeted this with enthusiasm. Duggan waved them to silence and ordered them to run for the sealed door that separated the open hangar from the rest of the Valpian. The Ghasts didn’t need to understand the words and they followed at once. Duggan joined his troops in the sprint. While he ran, he thought about the possibilities that could lead his plan to failure. There were many such possibilities and for once he pretended they didn’t exist. This was a final throw of the dice – not an unusual situation for him, Duggan reflected – and he wouldn’t countenance failure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THEY GATHERED at the door which sealed off the rest of the ship from the vacuum in the hangar. The torches lit the corridor well enough to see, but Duggan found himself wishing for the interior lights to come back on. There were soldiers who liked to fight in the dark. He wasn’t one of them.

  He took a look at the door. It was fairly standard-looking and designed as proof against escaping air and accidental explosions. The metal was featureless, sullen and probably several feet thick. Any hope Duggan had that the door possessed its own, separate power system which was somehow shielded from the effects of the Class 1 Neutraliser, were dispelled immediately.

  “The panel’s completely dead, sir,” said Barron. He made a couple of redundant swiping gestures to demonstrate his words.

  “Where’s Bonner?” asked Duggan.

  “Not here yet.”

  “Come on,” Duggan muttered to himself. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, aware his fidgeting gave a bad impression. The air seemed colder already, a feeling he put down to imagination.

  Bonner arrived, dragging a wheeled trolley behind her, upon which was a metal box with an open lid. “It doesn’t look as if these Dreamers do subtle,” she said. “There must be enough explosives in this box to blow a hole through ten metres of alloy.”

  “Can’t you use half?” asked Duggan drily.

  “I don’t know what the exact yield is, sir. I’ve got a few Space Corps charges left.” She cast a glance towards the door. “I’m not sure if they’ll get us through.”

  “Not sure isn’t good enough,” said Duggan. “We can’t spare the time for a second attempt. Rig up these additional charges and we’ll retreat through the ship until we’re far enough away.”

  “It’ll be quicker to let me try a smaller series of charges first, sir,” she said, not afraid to stand up for herself. “You’ll have to run halfway through the ship before you’re safe from these Dreamer explosives.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what the yield was?” he asked.

  “I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why it’ll be safest to get a distance that errs on the side of caution. That means a lot of distance.”

  “Very well, try your standard-issue explosives,” said Duggan. He turned to the others and spoke in a loud voice so that everyone could hear. “As soon as this door is open, the air in the ship will begin to escape through the hole leading into the hangar. You will be aware that your suits contain an emergency supply of oxygen and you will be equally aware that your suit cannot dispense that oxygen without a power source.”

  “Yeah, we’re pretty badly screwed,” said Camacho.

  “It gets better,” said Duggan. “There is a chance we will find enemy soldiers coming to meet us. If you put your suit helmets in place, you’ll be protected from the vacuum and there should be enough oxygen inside to keep you going for a couple of minutes.”

  A few of the soldiers gave resigned laughter.

  “We need to run more than a hundred metres and fight with the enemy, all on two minutes’ oxygen?” asked Berg.

  “That’s what you signed up for,” Duggan agreed with a smile. “Even if the enemy is right on the other side of this blast door, you’ll still need to come with me to provide cover while I send the signal. If it goes to plan, we should get power back immediately.”

  “Maybe their soldiers will be deprived of power like we are,” said Kidd hopefully. “They might just have to wait us out.”

  “For some reason, that’s not what I’m expecting,” said Duggan.

  Kidd snorted. “Nor I, sir.”

  “Won’t we still be in a vacuum once you’re done, sir?” asked Vaughan.

  “Yes, we will,” Duggan replied. “I’m hoping the suits will start working again. If not, we’ll need to get deeper into the ship and reach an area that’s pressurized. The doors should work by that point, so anyone who makes it will be able to reach an area of safety.”

  “The closest door is sixty metres back the way we’ve come,” said Cabrera, looking over her shoulder. “That’s a lot of extra running.”

  “If the suits stay powered off, we’re dead anyway,” said Duggan. “Is everyone clear on what we’re doing?”

  “Not them, sir,” said McLeod, thumbing over his shoulder towards the Ghasts.

  “They’re quick learners,” said Duggan. “I’m sure they’ll see what we’re up to.”

  Nevertheless, he spent a few seconds in front of Red-Gulos, waving his arms and acting out what he thought was an obvious description of the plan. The Ghast stared at Duggan as if he were mad.

  “He thinks you’re asking for his hand in marriage, sir,” said Byers.

  “That’ll have to do,” said Duggan, doing his best to ignore the quip. “We can’t wait any longer. Bonner, I assume you’re ready?”

  “I’m always ready, sir,” she said, pointing at a series of charges arrayed along the edges of the door. She waved them towards a branch in the corridor fifty metres away. “Everyone get around that corner.”

  The squad moved quickly back.

  “What if you only blow a small hole in the door?” asked Chan. “We’ll get the vacuum without being able to reach the hangar.”

  “Won’t happen,” said Bonner.

  “Yeah, but what if it does?” Chan persisted.

  “They’re going off in ten seconds anyway.”

  “Everyone get your helmets on!” said Duggan. He took two deep breaths and then put his in place, before manually tightening the neck seal with his fingers.

  A spacesuit was very good at excluding sound from outside. Consequently, Duggan didn’t hear the angry crackling of the shaped charges when they detonated. He did, however, see the blue light reflecting off the walls.

  Bonner poked her head around the corner. Evidently satisfied, she made a beckoning sign with her arm and then ducked into the passageway. Kidd and Havon followed, the Ghast having evidently decided he wasn’t going to miss out on potential action.

  Duggan came next, with Byers and McLeod close behind. They carried their comms gear over their shoulders and knew it was imperative they stay close. Without the internal comms on the helmets and without the movement or heat sensors, they had to rely on skill and discipline. Most of all, they were relying on luck.

  The passageway was lit by torchlight and by the glowing metal of the blast door. Bonner had done her work well and the door had fallen neatly away onto the floor, where it continued to smoke and burn. Duggan ig
nored the furious heat and leapt onto the alloy slab, idly noting it had been much less than a metre thick. He did his best to breathe evenly, not wanting to burn up his precious supply of oxygen too quickly.

  Lieutenant Ortiz’s description of what lay beyond the door wasn’t quite accurate. The corridor went straight, before cutting left at a right-angle and then turning immediate right. Duggan found himself in the room which lay just beyond the breach into the hangar bay. The light from several torches danced over the ragged opening. The metal was completely cool now, though it was black in colour and heavily scarred.

  Duggan glanced behind to check if Byers and McLeod were still with him. One of the two raised a hand in mock-salute and ushered him onwards. Duggan walked quickly to the hole in the wall and stepped into the gap, his gauss rifle clutched awkwardly in one hand and his torch in the other. The rifles weren’t made for one-handed use and Duggan told himself that if he ever got out of this, he’d put in a recommendation for the weapons to have clips fitted which could hold a torch to free up a soldier’s second hand.

  The hole in the metal was deeper than he remembered it, and the bullet-torn edges sharper and more eager to cut into his flesh. He saw it then – there was an enemy troop transporter in the hangar bay, thirty metres above the floor. He wasn’t sure if it was hovering or if, for that brief moment, his mind worked so quickly that time itself appeared to stand still, giving the impression the vessel was suspended in the air.

  His torchlight flickered over the transport’s nose, where a chain gun was mounted. To the right, the external hangar door was open in the position he’d left it, a yawning gap into eternal distances and the absolute certainty of death. He knew his thoughts were drifting and he tried to focus them, aware the shortage of oxygen was making him light-headed.

  That gun is pointing entirely the wrong way, he thought. If we run to towards the hangar doors, they won’t have time to stop us.

  He sensed movement behind and turned awkwardly. Byers and McLeod were there, with others edging into the hole afterwards. A voice, dispassionate and separate, warned Duggan he had only this one chance. Retreat wasn’t an option – it hadn’t been ever since the Excoliar arrived. The only way was forward, ever forward. He asked himself if he were being tested by a vengeful god he’d somehow, unknowingly insulted. It seemed that every time he thought he’d beaten the odds, he was given another trial each more difficult than the last, until he’d eventually meet an obstacle he couldn’t overcome. Or perhaps the final test has only a single available outcome – one in which I lose whatever happens, and everyone else dies with me.

  With a growl of anger heard only by himself, Duggan took the final strides into the hangar bay. The transport hung in the air, somehow protected from the Excoliar’s power drain. It didn’t move and Duggan wondered if the pilot was incompetent or if he were simply laughing at the pathetic efforts of the soldiers below. The thought made Duggan even angrier. He tried to put the fury aside, aware it was making him burn his irreplaceable oxygen at an uncontrollable rate.

  In the hangar, Duggan found the beam of his torch jumping from place to place, like it had a mind of its own. The light wasn’t nearly enough to illuminate the whole bay and it cast elongated shadows against the floor and the nearby walls. He caught glimpses of the ruined shuttle in the distance, a broken shell of metal and spent ammunition.

  He ran to the right, not caring if he depleted his oxygen supplies too soon. There was a single task for him and he was determined to finish it. The opening in the Valpian’s hull was vast and the closer he came to it, the less significant he felt. He reached the edge and stood there, fearlessly, looking out into the void of space. Distant stars, the names of which he would never learn, twinkled and once again, Duggan felt like a boy dumbfounded and awestruck by the magnitude of everything.

  Someone tapped him hard on the shoulder and Duggan stepped back from the precipice. Byers, he thought. She’s a little shorter than McLeod. Beyond, the transport vessel descended until it was only a few metres above the surface and it executed a half-turn, bringing its nose cannon closer to where Duggan and the others were standing.

  Byers and McLeod shrugged their cloth packs from their shoulders and placed them on the floor. There was a flap which could be pulled away to reveal the workings of the units within and the soldiers took only a few seconds to prepare for a transmission. Byers knelt beside hers and she beckoned Duggan to crouch next to her. She tried to nod to let him know everything was ready. The movement was clumsy, but Duggan got the idea. He pulled his glove off with a violent tugging action and felt his skin tightening immediately in the freezing air. He pressed his palm against the transmission pad on the comms unit for a split second, to send his authorisation codes to the Crimson. He withdrew his hand and looked at Byers for confirmation. Once his codes were accepted it would be time to send the self-destruct command.

  Byers looked at him, her reflective visor giving nothing away. She raised a hand to her throat and made an obvious cutting motion. There was no way to misinterpret the signal – something had gone wrong. Duggan tried desperately to think what it could be and then he guessed. The Antrajis station was holding the Valpian at a slight angle. Duggan had been confident there was a clear line across the fifty thousand kilometres between the open docking bay and the ESS Crimson. With the failure of the signal to reach the Crimson, he was sure the walls of the Valpian were impeding the transmission.

  There was only one solution. Duggan picked up the comms unit and took a step towards the edge, meaning to jump out in the hope he would be able to send his command to the Crimson. Before he could finish, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. It pulled him backwards with great force. He tried to resist but found his limbs weak and unwilling to respond. Byers pulled the comms unit from his hand and ran past him. She took three quick steps and leapt into the blackness.

  Duggan stumbled away and half fell onto his haunches. He felt exhausted and the pain in his hand was indescribable.

  McLeod pointed angrily at Duggan and then at the second comms unit. The words were unspoken but the meaning was clear. Don’t waste the gift of her sacrifice.

  Duggan fought hard against the effects of oxygen deprivation. He looked outwards, the enemy transport forgotten. He saw Byers, drifting and spinning slowly, with the comms gear clutched to her chest. The red lights on the unit were visible. They blinked slowly and accusingly at Duggan for his weakness.

  With a monumental effort, Duggan pressed his hand on the second comms unit and sent his codes to Byers’ pack for it to relay onwards to the Crimson. He had no idea how to tell if he’d met with success or failure. He looked to McLeod for help. The soldier lifted his hand to his neck and made the same cutting motion that Byers had made only a few seconds before. No connection.

  Duggan had never once in his life given up. He snarled and pressed his palm to the comms unit again. Without knowing what made him look up, he turned his head once more towards Byers. She’d drifted far away, though she was easy enough to see if you knew where you were looking. There was something different on her comms unit. Where before there had been a blinking red light, now there was a solid green one, from this distance no larger than a full stop on the page of a book seen across a room. McLeod raised his fist with the thumb pointing upwards.

  Duggan sent the command. He knew the Crimson’s mainframe wouldn’t accept something so calamitous at the first instruction, so he sent the command again, three more times in quick succession. He closed his eyes tightly and begged for victory or forgiveness.

  Nothing happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DUGGAN KNEW HE WAS DYING. He felt detached from his body and imagined his consciousness floating somewhere a few inches above his corporeal form. He was able to see – he observed the enemy transport as it touched down on the floor of the docking bay. He watched as its landing gear flexed under the gentle impact. The chain gun remained quiet and Duggan asked himself if the enemy were so confident of success t
hey’d chosen to minimise any additional damage to the Valpian.

  The mistake was theirs to make. Duggan saw three objects sail one after each other from the breach in the hangar wall. They travelled far and fast. Thrown by a Ghast, he realised. The objects clunked against the far side of the transport’s hull. Seconds passed. Then, one-by-one, they exploded. The small craft was lost in the whiteness of the blast and Duggan was forced to squint against the intense light.

  He closed his eyes, his oxygen-starved brain neither knowing nor caring if he’d ever open them again.

  John Duggan didn’t die. Time went by and a sound reached his ears. It was the distant chime of an alarm. His fragmented thoughts coalesced and he realised the alarm was coming from a place much closer than he’d first thought. With an effort, he opened his eyes. The HUD on his spacesuit was active and he tried to make sense of the words. There were many alerts relating to heat damage on the suit’s exterior. It had been in a bad way before the explosion and it was close to critical failure now. Amongst the sea of red was a single amber warning relating to the oxygen levels in his blood. Before his eyes, the alert changed to green.

  Duggan struggled to his feet. His hand hurt in a strange, remote way, as if it no longer belonged to his body. His glove was back on somehow. He couldn’t remember replacing it though it could have been no one else.

  Voices reached him. They were sporadic and filled with uncertainty.

  “Who’s left?”

  “Fall back! Get out of the hangar!”

  “Did we make it?”

  A violent hammering in his chest told Duggan the spacesuit had injected him with a cocktail of drugs to try and revive him. They reached into every corner of his body and mind, bringing clarity to his thoughts and adding strength to his limbs.

  The enemy transport was destroyed. It was a crumpled heap of metal, knocked many metres away by the force of the explosions. From the direction the vessel had been thrown, Duggan could see that its hull had protected him from incineration. Whoever hurled the explosive packs had done a good job, either by accident or design. There was no sign of enemy soldiers.