“Whaddya figure?” asked Barkowski, who had sheltered in a doorway.
Winfield shrugged. “Two megaton, maybe. Really high up. Doubt we’ll get much wind out of it.”
“Why’d we launch it?”
“Maybe to hit them with some EMP, although that one didn’t get anywhere near close enough.” He looked at Ayala. “Of course, they might have been trying to drop it on Java.”
“Lieutenant, last time I checked, we’re still standing on Java.”
“And last time I checked, Commander, we’re still considered expendable. Let’s keep going, but stay near cover.”
Barkowski lingered to look at the almost vanished brightness of the nuke. “So. Not the last?” His tone made it a statement, not a question.
“Nope,” answered Winfield, “and if I were a betting man, not the closest, either.”
It was then that a much brighter flash opened high overhead.
Chapter Forty-Three
Wholenest flagship Greatvein, Earth orbit
Tuxae kept panic out of his voice. “First Delegate, please repeat.” Nothing except the falling squeal of static produced by an atmospheric nuclear detonation. “Esteemed, Hu’urs Khraam do you receive our signals? Are you still there?” There was no evidence of a ground strike, or a near-surface airburst, but with so much sensor noise—
“I—we—are still here, Sensor Coordinator Skhaas. But that missile exploded only ten kilometers away, albeit quite high. Can you not intercept them farther out?”
“My apologies, Hu’urs Khraam, but that missile exploded the instant before we would have intercepted it. Evidently, the humans are using the rockets being launched from Asia to generate EMP attacks upon your electronics.”
In the background, Tuxae Skhaas heard a Hkh’Rkh—probably First Voice—interject: “They have succeeded. All my communications gear is useless, as are our sensors and targeting. My troops must now rely on hand signals, iron sights, and brave blood.” He sounded oddly, if grimly, satisfied.
“And the PDF arrays?”
A new voice: Darzhee Kut, if he was not mistaken. “Thankfully, Hu’urs Khraam gambled to take them offline. There is some further degradation, but not much. Tell us, are the missiles from North America and Europe heading for us, as well?”
“No. They are almost all inserting to orbit and deploying drones.”
“How long before the drones reach you?”
Fleetmaster R’sudkaat leaned in toward H’toor Qooiiz’s console. “They are not heading toward us. They are sternchasing the ships we sent to intercept the human fleet.”
Hu’urs Khraam’s response was immediate. “Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, deploy all the remaining drones in your orbital flotilla to pursue the human drones. They must overtake and eliminate them. Otherwise, our counterattacking ships will be struck from both the front and the rear.”
“I will do so immediately. Tuxae Skhaas, I need trajectory data on the human drones.”
But Tuxae, staring into the holotank and then at his screens, barely heard the senior Arat Kur.
“Tuxae Skhaas, will you comply?”
“Fleetmaster, Hu’urs Khraam. We have a new problem. There is a new human launch site—no, two new launch sites.”
“So? There are hundreds of human launch sites already. How bad can two more be?”
“Very bad.” Tuxae turned to look up at the Fleetmaster. “These two launch sites are in the middle of the water. One is only ten kilometers south of Bawean Island, near the middle of Java’s northern coast.”
Hu’urs Khraam voice was preternaturally calm, almost as if he already knew the answer to his question. “And the other?”
“Forty kilometers north of Jakarta. If you look out an upper story window, you should be able to see the launch plume now…”
Flagship USS Lincoln, Sierra Echelon, RTF 1, cislunar space
“Admiral Silverstein, Lord Admiral Halifax on tightbeam secure line two.”
Ira nodded, tapped his collarcom. “Silverstein, here.”
“Ira, Tom Halifax. I just received a lascom from the sensor chaps in Plesetsk Cosmodrome. The big thinkers in joint force intel have high confidence that the enemy’s planetside situation is deteriorating.”
Silverstein nodded. “Which means they’ll either shore it up by keeping their interdiction assets in orbit, or they’ll engage our fleet with everything they’ve got and sacrifice their beachhead. Any indication which way they’re going to go?”
“We just got a whistle from the Big Blue Marble on that. Groundside observation indicates no new enemy transfers out of orbit and no decrease in orbital interdiction.”
Ira nodded. “So they’re digging in to save their beachhead and letting their screening force take its lumps from us.”
“Seems so. Big Blue has also managed to launch a handy little fleet of drones to help us exterminate these damn Roaches, so I’m activating contingency Delta and taking First Echelon to flank speed for a high energy half-orbit and then all the way out the other side.”
“A gravity-assisted slingshot toward Vesta?”
“’Fraid so, Ira. The muddy-side brain trust seems to think we’re a bit too mobbed up here in cislunar. It’s possible we have more force than we need to do the job. So after my first echelon boxes the Arat Kurs’ nonexistent ears during our approach, we’re going to boost again and run the gauntlet—right through them.”
A cheery, confident tone, but if the drones didn’t get close enough to the rear of the Arat Kur to divert some of their firepower, Halifax’s maneuver could be a messy—and grim—business. “Orders, sir?” Ira asked.
“The enemy orbital flotilla has launched drones to intercept ours. We’ll need to employ the Mousetrap contingency to keep that from happening. But after you’ve sprung the Mousetraps, do what you think best, Ira. I hope to be in touch again, but frankly, we can’t know what happens next—other than this: once my echelon is engaged, the battle for cislunar space is in your hands and the laps of the gods. Despite all the scenarios we’ve run, there’s no knowing what happens next. So if you don’t hear anything more from me, you’ll have to play it as it lies, old boy. When you’re done trouncing them, do catch up if you can. I expect those of us in the first echelon will be stepping lively with their inbound belt fleet in a day or so.”
“I’ll try to be there, Lord Halifax.”
“I know you will, Ira. Keep us apprised. We’ll be looking over our shoulders for you, and happy to see you coming on. Cheerio.”
Ira turned to Ruth Altasso. “Commander.”
“Sir?”
“Have the commo officer signal all conns in second echelon: adjust vectors to assume assault cone Echo. Double our deployment of antimissile drones. I want our leading defensive edge fixed at point four five light-seconds from our main van. Signal Rear Admiral Vasarsky to reconfigure her third echelon for heterogeneous operations. She’s to make ready for orbital interdiction after probable fleet engagement. And send the Mousetrap signal. I want to make sure the drones launched by Big Blue reach the rear of the Arat Kur fleet.”
“I assume we’re going to have the Mousetraps target the Arat Kur chaser drones?”
“Yep. That’s how we trump their trump. Don’t save any ’traps; use ’em all.”
“Aye, sir.” Altasso turned away, smiled. For some reason, Silverstein always thought of her as a bride when she wore that expression. “Sounds like we’re going to have our hands full today, Admiral.”
“It does indee Low Earth Orbit d, Ex, it does indeed. Activate the Mousetraps on my mark…and, mark!”
Low Earth Orbit
Seven hundred twenty kilometers above the earth, the CellStar IV satellite continued in the same lonely orbit it had been following since its deployment in 2068. In its time, it had been a miracle of miniaturization and communication efficiency, fusing another link in a tightly interconnected world of wireless communications.
But time and technologies march on. The adjectives with which Cel
lStar IV was embellished faded from “prodigy,” to “workhorse,” to “old standby,” to “outdated,” and ultimately to “defunct.” Several relays shorted out in 2095, seven years after the end of its projected operational lifetime, and the little satellite that could became the little satellite that couldn’t.
But in 2113, it had a visitor. An orbital maneuver vehicle, or OMV, supposedly on a routine maintenance mission to much a larger, newer, and better communications satellite, detoured and rendezvoused with the big, dark box that had been CellStar IV. A single robotic ROV emerged from the OMV’s payload bay and set to work on the inert satellite. It removed most of its internal and core components, replaced them with a large black box—maneuvered with some difficulty out of the OMV’s payload bay—and left, taking along the original innards of CellStar IV.
Which continued in its dull orbit for seven more years.
But then, on January 12, 2120, Lieutenant Commander Ruth Altasso, turning away from Admiral Ira Silverstein, entered the Mousetrap code into the command computer on board the battle cruiser USS Lincoln. The Lincoln’s tightbeam commo array sent a single phased laser pulse to another derelict satellite in a fast polar orbit. Inside that dead object, new innards, also emplaced in 2113, fully awakened after their seven-year doze and performed their one function. A high-power omnidirectional broadcast of a set of routinely updated target parameters and a single command that, as understood by CellStar IV and its many derelict cousins, was simply “awaken.”
The new machinery in CellStar IV illuminated and sought to fulfill its purpose. It scanned the recently updated targeting parameters that had been sent by the triggering satellite, activated its sensors, and looked for a match. Sure enough, a new high-priority target—an enemy drone—was in very close range. It polled the secure frequencies for any priority overrides indicating that some other Mousetrap had sprung upon this as its target and, finding none, launched.
The missile that ripped out of CellStar IV’s frame, and thereby discorporated it, was almost all fuel and guidance. It aimed itself at the Arat Kur drone, which crowded gees to elude it.
But the little human missile was built for sprinting, and although the drone could have ultimately outpaced and left it far behind, it did not have enough of a thrust-spike to break away from the speedy, stern-chasing missile.
Which died doing what it had been created to do: destroy an enemy craft. As did the dozens of other Mousetrap missiles in the course of the next five minutes.
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
Darzhee Kut felt the wiggling sensation in his abdomen subside. “You are sure the first of the two submarine missiles went south of us?”
“Quite sure,” confirmed Urzueth Ragh. “It is following a very shallow arc and will hit soon. At least we were able to destroy the launching submarine with orbital munitions.”
“And the other launch?”
“Possibly converging on the same general target area. However, we could not intercept that submarine. It was too deep.”
“How deep?”
“It must have launched from almost two hundred meters and then dove immediately.”
Darzhee Kut looked at Yaargraukh, who had just returned to report that his logistical tasks were completed. “I am no expert in military technology, but—”
Yaargraukh bob-nodded. “Your conjecture is quite right. We will not be able to reliably interdict submarines that can fire from that depth. Lasers are essentially useless against submerged targets. And a kinetic warhead is insufficient: the projectile expends its kill-decisive energy in the first one hundred meters of immersion. Besides, the rail-gun response time is much longer. After target acquisition, the warheads must be fired and make their descent. During which time the human submarine is diving, and probably leaving behind decoys which it can remotely activate if we send down a smart munition.”
Urzueth’s voice buzzed with anxiety. “So what shall we do?”
“Continue to shoot down their other missiles and make submarines our new priority targets.”
Hu’urs Khraam rose from his couch. “Can we not trust to the PDF systems to ward off their missiles?”
“That depends upon how many missiles make their terminal approach at the same instant, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam.” Urzueth Ragh waved a claw at the contact-cluttered map of Java.
“It also depends upon the range at which they launch,” added Yaargraukh. “Our concern for submarines was primarily due to the short flight times of their missiles. And those estimates presumed all our PDF systems to be functional. We are not in that enviable position now.”
Graagkhruud pitched his combined neck-head sharply. “Well, what of the special airphibian attack craft you Arat Kur designed for this purpose? Use them to drive off these submarines.”
Urzueth Ragh folded his claws together. “We can no longer do that, First Fist.”
“Why in rotting meat not?”
“Do you not recall? When our CAP missions were overtaxed, we withdrew our airphibian craft from submersible operations.”
“Well, if they came out of the water, can’t they go back in?”
“Not as they are currently configured. They are now airborne, carrying ordnance loads on external racks. They cannot make immediate transition to marine operations.”
“Well, land them and—”
“Apologies, First Fist, but you may recall that Surabaja airfield is inoperable and Soekarno and the other Jakartan fields are backlogged rearming ground-support aircraft and servicing interceptors to send out against the approaching human air vehicles. Which will arrive in less than half an hour, if they hold their present course and speed—”
On the map of Java, the white line tracing the progress of the first submarine-launched missile bloomed into a red globe, two hundred kilometers east-southeast of Jakarta.
A nuclear device had landed in Indonesia.
A moment later, the white line denoting the second missile stopped over Jakarta, then vanished. Darzhee Kut held his breath as Urzueth made his report. “The two submarine missiles each discharged three independent warheads. The red globe indicates that the missile which flew inland made a ground or low airburst strike. The missile launched at Jakarta does not appear on the display because it airbursted high. It deployed three one-megaton warheads.”
“An EMP strike,” Caine Riordan commented, confirming what most of then had already conjectured.
“So it appears. This eliminated almost half of our remaining PDF arrays. The missile that went inland deployed three independent, high-speed two-hundred-kiloton devices, which detonated in an overlapping trefoil pattern.”
First Voice stepped toward the map, toward the fading red ball. “Where is that?” His voice sounded like he already knew the answer.
Hu’urs Khraam closed his lids and settled into his couch. “We have been fools.”
“It can’t be—” started Darzhee Kut.
“It’s the mass driver.”
Darzhee, like the rest of them, all turned to look at Caine.
Graagkhruud took a long step toward the human, claws ready. “You knew—?”
“Of course I didn’t know,” Caine replied calmly. Darzhee Kut admired Riordan’s ability to sit unmoving before the rush of the immense predator. “But it’s obvious now, isn’t it?”
First Voice sounded careful, wary of stepping into a trap made of words. “What is obvious, Riordan?”
“That the mass driver didn’t matter. The object you were so convinced you were holding hostage? And that we will drop a nuke on our own land, our own people.”
Yaargraukh’s tongue came out briefly.
“There is humor in this, Advocate?”
“Not the kind that elicits laughter, First Voice, but that shows us our own folly. They planned this from the first, my suzerain.”
“Planned what?” asked Graagkhruud.
But First Voice was nodding. “Yaargraukh is right. This is akin to the human trickery at Barnard’s Star. T
here, we fought and saw the outcome we expected. Here, we studied Earth for a target and found the mass driver on the kind of island we wanted and yet distant from the great powers. It was the perfect choice.”
“Too perfect,” agreed Hu’urs Khraam. “It was bait in a trap. Now we feel the jaws of the trap closing about us. Did you know of this ruse, Riordan?”
“No.”
Graagkhruud looked around at the calm faces that listened to the human. “And you believe him? Stab this creature and it will bleed lies. It is made up of them.”
First Voice waved him down. “Be still, First Fist. Riordan’s case is not so clear as you would draw it. And if he knew of this ruse, why did he return here several days ago—to commit suicide?”
“But—”
“And how could he know where he would be housed, upon his arrival planetside? His species’ megacorporate traitors might have chosen to hold him at their mass driver facility. Had they done so, what would have become of him in this last minute?”
Graagkhruud, rumbling unpleasantly, turned his attention to the map of Java.
Hu’urs Khraam rose from his couch. “We must reassess our situation.”
CoDevCo security compound, Jakarta, Earth
“Mr. Astor-Smath?”
“Yes, Eimi?”
“You have a visitor.”
Astor-Smath stubbed out his cigarette, pushed the ashtray and lighter off to one side, and looked up from his spreadsheets long enough to inspect his assistant’s waifish lines. “Is the visitor expected?”
“He says he does not have an appointment, but that he is always expected. And sir, I think he has either traveled to get here, or is leaving immediately after speaking with you: he has his luggage with him.”
Ah. Him. “Show our guest in, Eimi. And you may leave for lunch now. Better yet, take the rest of the day.”
“You mean I should—leave, Mr. Astor-Smath?” She glanced about nervously: even here, in the fortified bowels of CoDevCo’s Indonesian Bank complex, the sound and vibration of rippling explosions were discernible.
Trial by Fire - eARC Page 50