Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “Yes, Councillor. Why is it a problem now?”

  “I think that … um … well, you know what the situation—”

  “Spit it out,” Polk barked.

  “Yes, sir.” De Mel took a deep breath. “It seems the Nationalists’ political warfare cadres have moved beyond simply suborning DocSec members into providing information. Now they’re actively encouraging desertions, telling people how easy it is, giving them advice on how to do it, which systems will take them, no questions asked. They’ve even established cells on Scobie’s to give the deserters off-world identities. Money as well, it seems.”

  “I did not know that, Councillor de Mel.” Polk’s eyes narrowed to an angry squint. “When was I to be briefed?”

  “Soon, sir. I just wanted to be sure of the facts.”

  “I don’t like surprises, Councillor. You should know that by now.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “I hope so. How bad is the DocSec problem?”

  “Bad, sir.” De Mel’s face had gone a nasty shade of gray. “We think the Nationalists may have penetrated the citizen identity knowledge base.”

  Polk sat bolt upright. “They what?” he shouted, voice a near scream, lips spittle-flecked, cheeks blood-red with anger. “How? When were you going to brief me on that little gem? DocSec cannot operate if people can wander around protected by false identities. You know that! By Kraa’s holy blood, Councillor, I am beginning to wonder what else you’re not telling me. What else, Councillor de Mel, what else?”

  De Mel had cringed backward as Polk’s rage poured over him, hands out and palms up, as if begging for mercy. “Nothing else, Chief Councillor, nothing. I swear it. We’re just not sure yet. That’s why I was holding back.”

  Polk forced himself back into his chair. He said nothing until the fury ran its course. “I want to know these things sooner rather than later, Councillor,” he said, his voice still ragged. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve already told the head of Section 99 that ensuring the citizen identity knowledge base’s security is his highest priority.”

  “Kraa’s blood!” Polk said with a shake of his head. “The Nationalists never give up, do they? Now listen. DocSec needs to be fixed. This government will only survive for so long as they are out there crushing all traces of heretic support. The moment they can’t do that, the mob will be at our throats. That, Councillor, would not be good for either of us. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, sir.”

  “Right, I want two things: Section 99’s confirmation that the security of the citizen identity knowledge base has not been compromised and a plan to reduce DocSec’s desertion problem to more manageable levels. A plan that will work, mind you, not one of your ‘more in hope than expectation’ snow jobs. And if that means sending the death squads to Scobie’s to clean out a few Nationalists, then so be it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Next, the riots in the Ronsonvale Island and Dechaineux gulags.”

  “Yes, Chief Councillor. As I said in my weekly report, we have identified the ringleaders, nine hundred seventy-eight in all. All were tried and shot yesterday. Emergency tribunals are now processing the rest.”

  “How many?”

  “Close to nine thousand.”

  “Kraa!” Polk said. “That many? Go on.”

  “Yes, as I was saying, I expect …”

  Sunday, September 16, 2401, UD

  FWSS Redwood, Commitment farspace

  Michael stared at the threat plot, a chaotic patchwork of red threat icons tracking the Hammer’s space-based defensive assets and their projected vectors. Chaotic or not, he liked what he saw. The confusion was superficial; behind it all, the patterns followed by the Hammer’s spaceborne defenses had become obvious to the point where Redwood’s threat assessment AI had been able to predict when the space over Camp J-5209 would be clear. Based on those forecasts, Warfare had made its recommendations. Ferreira and the rest of Redwood’s command team had concurred, and now it fell to Michael to make the final call.

  Michael took his time, officers and avatars sitting in silence around him. He had to get this decision right. The stakes were too high to risk failure. His concentration absolute, he worked his way through Operation Gladiator from beginning to end, checking every assumption he and the planning teams had made in building the ops plan, questioning, probing, testing, the process interrupted now and again by a question to one of the team. Slowly, an ice-cold clarity suffused his thinking, and with it growing confidence that the plan was a good one, a plan that gave him and his people the best possible chance of pulling off a mission no rational spacer would even contemplate. With a deep breath, he made up his mind: Redwood and her sister dreadnoughts would hit the Hammers in the early hours of Monday morning. The timing was as good as they were going to get: darkness, a serious tropical storm bringing heavy clouds and torrential rain, most of the Hammers asleep, those on duty at their lowest ebb.

  “Okay, guys,” he said. “We’re on. We’ll hit them two hours before sunrise. I want final system status reports to me at 01:00. Final briefing will be here at 02:00, all hands to attend. If all’s well, we’ll jump in-system at 02:30, hopefully catching the Hammers tucked up in bed. Any questions? No? Okay, carry on, please.”

  Michael waved at Ferreira and Bienefelt to stay back until the rest of the Redwoods had left the combat information center.

  “Last chance, Jayla, Matti. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

  Ferreira smiled. “I’ve seen my fair share of operations, but I’ve never seen one so well planned out. Yes, there’ll still be surprises, but we’ll cope.”

  “Matti?”

  “I agree with the XO, sir. This will work.”

  “I think so, too. How are the troops?”

  “Matti?” Ferreira said.

  “Like me, sir,” Bienefelt said. “Nervous, but they’ll be happy we’re getting under way. It’s the waiting that’s the killer.”

  “Tell me,” Michael said with feeling.

  “Knew you were doing it a bit tough.” Bienefelt’s frown made her concern obvious. “We’ve been a bit worried about you, I have to say.”

  “I’ll be fine, Matti, though I will be happy when we get started. It seems like a lifetime since I received that scumbag Hartspring’s surprise package. Shit, that was only a few months ago. Can’t believe how much has happened since then. Anyway, I’d better let you get on. I’ll see you both at the final briefing.”

  “Sir.”

  Michael watched the pair leave the combat information center, Ferreira dwarfed by Bienefelt’s enormous bulk, then returned his attention to the threat plot, one eye locked on the time-to-jump counter while the seconds ran off.

  * * *

  His walk-around finished, Michael stood back to look at Widowmaker, trying to ignore the excitement forcing its way up through the tension. “Goddamn it,” he murmured. “We are really going to do this; we really are.” All of a sudden, it felt good to be standing there on the brink of the most insane mission ever planned, a mission no reasonable spacer would ever have countenanced. It felt good to be taking the fight back to the Hammers. It felt good even to be going back to Commitment, a planet he had sworn never to revisit, because to go back meant Anna would be okay. Best of all, it felt good because the days of waiting, of wondering how to keep Anna out of Hartspring’s hands, were over.

  And you, he thought, are just the machine I want to ride into battle. A matte-black, blunt-nosed wedge, the light ground-attack lander was no work of art. Like its big sisters, it was a lethal machine, designed to do one thing and one thing only: dump death on the heads of Hammer ground troops. He patted an armored flank, not out of any affection—nobody could love something so brutal, so ugly—but out of respect. Widowmaker deserved nothing less. “Take care of us,” he whispered as he slapped Widowmaker’s flank again, “because today, my butt-ugly friend, we jam it right up those Hammers’ asses.”

  Half closing his
eyes, he patched his neuronics through to the lander’s AI. As tradition demanded, its avatar was that of a middle-aged woman, her pale hazel eyes set in a face the color of mahogany gazing at Michael with a directness he found unsettling.

  “Mother,” he said, wishing he had taken the time to get to know the AI in whose hands his life now rested, “all set?”

  “Yes, sir,” the lander AI replied. “All systems nominal, fusion plants are at standby, main engines at one minute’s notice, reaction controls at immediate notice, weapons tight, all pax loaded and in position, cargo secured, lander’s mass nominal for atmospheric reentry.”

  “Roger that,” Michael said. “Anything else I should know?”

  “No, sir. I have reviewed the operations plan and have found no errors or omissions. Widowmaker is ready.”

  “Good. One thing, though, Mother. I have not commanded a lander in combat … ever. So do not hold back. If you think something is wrong, for chrissakes say so. I’m a long way from being a command-qualified pilot.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mother said, the hint of a smile creasing the corners of her eyes, “but you’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see,” Michael said, doing his best to ignore a sudden cramping that banded his chest with iron, “we’ll see.”

  Giving Widowmaker another pat, this time to reassure himself that things really would work out, he pulled his awkward space-suited mass up the crew access ladder to Widowmaker’s flight deck one step at a time as he dragged his damaged leg behind him. Shutting the hatch behind him, he squeezed past the crew stations and dropped heavily into his seat, nerves jangling, his stomach turning over and over with the feeling of sick dread he always felt before combat.

  Time to get started, he said to himself. “All stations, command. Depressurizing in two, so faceplates down, suit integrity checks to Mother. We’ll be jumping on schedule. Command out.”

  Michael commed Petty Officer Morozov, Widowmaker’s newly appointed loadmaster.

  “Tammy, how’s my LALO team?”

  “Shitting themselves, I think, sir,” Morozov said from a jury-rigged seat atop a stack of cases holding shells for Widowmaker’s cannons, a ghostly figure through the skeins of mist chasing their way through the cargo bay as the lander depressurized. “I know I’d be if I was them; I hate LALO. But they’re ready to go. I have six personnel pods and four stores pods closed up, all nominal for launch, deployment system nominal. The only problem is Chief Bienefelt. She’s not happy, not happy at all, sir.”

  “Not happy,” Michael said with a frown. “That’s not like her. Why?”

  “Get this, sir. She’s pissed because we insisted she’s too big to share a pod, so she has one pod all to herself. She says she’s lonely.”

  “Oh! Is that all?” Michael laughed, struggling to envisage Bienefelt feeling lonely. “Tell her I’ll buy her a beer when we get dirtside. Assuming there’s somewhere to buy beer, that is.”

  “Don’t worry about that, sir. I don’t know of a single system in humanspace where you can’t get a beer.”

  “You’re right. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  Quick comms to Sedova and Acharya confirmed that everything was ready to go. Fidgety and pale, Hell Bent’s command pilot looked nervous; Sedova the exact opposite. Smiling, chatty, and bright eyed, she clearly relished the prospect of going back into action. He hoped all that cheerful anticipation would not be misplaced. He turned to Ferreira. “All set?”

  “Am, sir. Mother confirms Widowmaker is nominal; we have all green suits. Redwood, Red River, and Redress are nominal. Alley Kat and Hell Bent are nominal. We’re ready to go.”

  “Warfare?”

  “Concur. Ready.”

  “Roger.”

  The seconds dragged past in silence until, an age later, it was time. “All stations, this is command. Stand by to jump. Weapons free. Warfare has command authority.”

  “Roger, Warfare has command authority. Red River and Redress jumping now … Stand by to jump … jumping … now!”

  Twelve seconds behind her sister dreadnoughts, Redwood microjumped into and out of pinchspace. Michael jerked back in his seat, his heart battering at the walls of his chest as the vid from the external holocams stabilized, the ugly black mass that was Commitment planet filling the screen. They were committed; they had to go on. This deep inside Commitment’s gravity well, any attempt to jump back into pinchspace would be instant suicide.

  Warfare acted. Redwood shuddered as her main engines went to emergency power, lances of white-hot energy stabbing down toward the Hammer planet. Ahead of Redwood, Red River and Redress were already decelerating hard, their Krachov generators spewing millions of tiny disks, chased into space by the first salvo of missiles and their protective shroud of decoys. Redwood followed suit; a crunching metallic thud announced the dreadnought’s opening rail-gun salvo from her aft batteries, the huge swarm of tiny slugs racing toward Commitment. The dreadnoughts’ forward rail-gun batteries joined the battle, their salvos of slugs dumped into space to form a cloud of confusion expanding away from the dreadnoughts.

  Without knowing it, Michael’s mouth tightened into a savage rictus of sheer animal ferocity. He watched as the rail-gun slugs smashed into Commitment’s upper atmosphere, transforming it into an incandescent flaming mass of ionized air.

  “Suck that, you bastards,” he hissed, fierce joy engulfing his body in an exultant flood. After the stress of the last weeks, it felt so good to be striking back, even though he knew the slugs were too small to achieve much except a spectacular if shortlived fireworks show. But they would pressure the Hammer’s inflexible and rule-bound commanders, commanders for whom the price of failure was always the same: a DocSec lime pit. Everything the dreadnoughts did was designed to make those commanders stop, wonder just what the hell was going on, worry that they had missed something important, keep the awful image of lime-filled graves in their mind’s eye.

  So he hoped. Michael needed all the confusion he could get; Gladiator’s success depended on it.

  “Command, Warfare, sensors,” the AI responsible for integrating the dataflows from the three dreadnoughts’ sensors arrays said calmly. “Multiple missile launches from McNair missile defense system. Estimate one thousand Goshawk ABM missiles plus decoys now inbound. Attack is designated Golf-1. Time of flight 3 minutes 40. Task groups Hammer-1 and Hammer-2 downgraded, assessed no threat.”

  “Command, roger,” Michael said, thankful for small mercies.

  That still left the missile defense shield protecting McNair, the capital of the Hammer Worlds and a scant 100 kilometers from Camp J-5209; it was the major threat. Funded by a Hammer leadership concerned to the point of paranoia that renegade officers inside missile defense command might launch an attack on the seat of all Hammer power, it was the most elaborate antiballistic missile defense system in humanspace. The damage they could inflict on his ships made Michael cringe; massive confusion was the dreadnoughts’ only defense.

  “Command, Warfare, sensors. Multiple missiles from Space Battle Station 138. Confirmed Eaglehawks. Salvo designated Echo-3. Times of flight 3 minutes 36. SBS-155 downgraded, assessed no threat.”

  “Command, roger. Bastards,” he muttered. So much for confusing the Hammer’s commanders; their counterattack was the best the battle’s geometry allowed, and quick, worryingly so. The dreadnoughts would still be in space by the time the ABMs from McNair arrived on target; the Eaglehawk missiles fired from the closest battle station would arrive two seconds later. Somebody in Hammer nearspace control was paying attention. That meant they faced a thousand Goshawk ABM missiles and 350 Eaglehawks, a lot of missiles for three ships to fight off in the space of two seconds. Suddenly the chances of making a success of Gladiator did not look quite so good.

  He forced himself to sit back, to do nothing. If one believed the trashvids, space warfare was all action. The sad truth? It was mostly inaction, waiting for incoming missiles to crawl their way across thousands of kilometers
of space. When they hit home, it was all action, but that usually lasted less than a minute. Lifetimes of anticipation, seconds of terror, his mother always said.

  Warfare was doing its best to make sure the Hammers’ missiles would not have an easy run in. The dreadnoughts’ massive antistarship lasers had begun the job of disrupting the attack, but there were too many missiles and decoys to deal with, a rare success marked by a sudden flare when a missile’s fusion drive plant lost containment and blew, a racking sound announcing the launch of Redwood’s second missile salvo, this one pushed out well clear of the incoming Hammer attack. Seconds later the characteristic metal-on-metal crunching announced the after batteries’ second rail-gun salvo, the swarm pattern tightened to throw the largest possible number of slugs down the line of the incoming ABM missiles. Might as well throw pebbles at flies, Michael thought.

  The slugs lived a short but incandescent life. A handful were lucky enough—and that was all it was, pure, blind luck—to rip a Hammer ABM missile apart, spawning a brief flash as mass converted mass to pure energy, before the rest ripped into Commitment’s upper atmosphere, the slugs exploding in a dazzling fireworks display. Michael hoped they were not a metaphor for Gladiator: a short, brilliant, but ultimately pointless exercise.

  “Command, Warfare, sensors. Multiple missile launches from McNair missile defense system. Estimate one thousand Goshawk ABM missiles plus decoys. Designated Golf-2. Time of flight 1 minute 58. Salvo Golf-1’s time to target is 1 minute 30.”

  “Command, roger. Targets identified?”

  “Stand by … affirmative. Initial vector analysis suggests that the Hammers are targeting Red River and Redress.”

  “Redwood?”

  “No indication we have been targeted yet.”

  “Yes,” Michael muttered under his breath, much relieved. Red River and Redress were the bait Michael had dangled in front of the Hammers. And the Hammers had taken the bait by targeting their initial missile salvo—certain to be carrying fusion warheads—on the two leading dreadnoughts. Unless the Hammer nearspace commander was insane, there would be no more fusion warheads coming their way. The Hammer regime might be utterly disinterested in the welfare of its people, but even it had limits it could not ignore: Cooking off hundreds of high-yield fusion warheads inside Commitment’s atmosphere was an absolute no-no, which meant the odds of the three landers getting through to Commitment unscathed had improved dramatically.