Armored Tears

by Mark Kalina

  Feldman's ace tank commander pulled forward again to fire. The War-Hammer's burst caught a UEN tank across both forward track pods, bringing it to a dead stop, but not preventing it from shooting back. Two other T-66s added their fire, so that three 44 megajoule bursts converged on the overly-aggressive War-Hammer. Half a dozen rounds hit before the War-Hammer could reverse. Three or four penetrated, reducing the War-Hammer to a burning wreck —spewing white-hot fire from its gun-tube, its crew hatches and its exhaust vents— in less than a second.

  "Shit!" Tara cursed. Whoever it was had been damn good, anyway.

  "Gunner, engage that pisser tank!" she ordered, setting the acquisition marker on the immobilized T-66.

  "Engaging," the gunner replied, carefully picking his point of aim and sending a burst of 41 megajoule fire into the stationary T-66. Fire and a single survival pod shot out of the wreck.

  Another few salvos of fire flashed back and forth across the open space between the battalion and the retreating UEN tanks, but by now the pissers were sending out constant salvos of concealment grenades and evading so much they could barely shoot back. As the range opened back up, targeting became less and less effective.

  Tara selected a fleeting target in the dust and smoke, ordered her gunner to fire again, but saw no evidence of a hit. Another War-Hammer was hit in the frontal armor, but the armor held. And then the engagement was over.

  "We held them," Tara said, mostly to herself. "We stopped them."

  "OK, people," Tara sent on the all-units battalion push. "Damn good work! We just smashed a whole UEN armored battalion's balls in. Now let's get back into our firing positions. Damaged tanks back off into the rear positions. Any intact tank who had to fall back, drive back forward. And sound off. Who's still with us?"

  There were twenty functional tanks left in the battalion, if she counted the one that was likely to be repaired and ready within the next few hours. Twenty tanks, out of thirty-one she's started with this morning. Twenty.

  It made very little difference that a total of twenty-four knocked-out or burning enemy tanks littered the ground in front of her position; most of them marked with pillars of black smoke rising into a cloudless sky, scattered out over half a dozen kilometers across which the battle had raged.

  In exchange she'd lost eleven tanks, and over thirty five men and women of her battalion. An entire company worth of tanks lost. Everywhere she looked there were burning tanks, hers and theirs, sending up wind-blown columns of smoke; a nightmare forest of black tendrils against the brownish red of the desert.

  She felt exhausted, looking across the battlefield; tired on a level that went beyond fatigue or sleepiness. It would be a while yet, Tara thought, before there could be any rest.

  "How many have you got left, Feldman?" she asked as the major came over to report in person; at times like this, both officers knew, meeting face to face was worth the extra effort of walking.

  "I've got seven left, Tara," he said, looking, if anything, more weary than she felt.

  Tara blinked. She could count the number of times Feldman had used her first name on her hands.

  "Your company did good, Feldman," she said. "They gave a lot better than they got."

  Feldman blew out a breath. "Yeah," he said. "They did. Three of the seven are damaged, but all of them can still fight. Ammo is getting low, though. Down below 50%, for a few of them."

  "Younger," Tara said, turning to the huge captain as he came over and joined them, "how about your boys and girls?"

  "I lost three, Boss," he said, and for just a second Tara could hear a hint of anguish in his voice. But then his voice was calm and controlled again as he went on. "One of those might be repairable, but no time soon. I've got two more damaged but still in it. That gives me eight tanks; two platoons worth. And since Lieutenant Wasserman got himself sprayed across a couple hundred meters of terrain, I figure I might as well split up what's left of his platoon and fill out mine and Lieutenant Wing's."

  "OK, Younger. It's your company. Do what you think best," Tara said. "And tell 'em all 'good work.' The managed their part well. The whole battalion did well. If I'd twigged to the missiles a few seconds sooner, we wouldn't have the sorts of losses we do."

  "Bullshit, Colonel," Feldman said. "Pure bullshit. You're good. You're not clairvoyant. Salvoing missiles over their own formation was a good move for the pissers, and it cost us. That's all. Sometimes the enemy makes a good move.

  "We killed better than two to one, and that was with your plan, Colonel. And I didn't notice your tank holding back, either. So spare me the bullshit guilt."

  "Well," Tara said, blinking "Insubordination, profanity and emotion, all in a single breath, Feldman. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

  "Yeah," Feldman said bitterly. "Hope. You know that tank in my platoon? The one that took out four of the enemy?"

  "Yeah," Tara said. "I saw that. He was good, whoever he was. Or she?"

  "He. It was my sensors operator, Corporal Velazquez. Hernan Velazquez. I put him in charge of #2 tank in my platoon. I guess he was a natural."

  "Yeah," Tara agreed.

  "A shoe-in for Officer's School... if he'd made it," Feldman said.

  "Yeah," Tara agreed. "A good one. I'm sorry."

  Feldman said nothing.

  30.

  The mood around the table was getting critical, General Stirling thought. Arcadian forces were holding the UEN forces inside the perimeter, but since the perimeter was centered on the gate dome, that only meant that it was a matter of time before the UEN managed to get the gate open again and flood through reinforcements.

  It could have been worse; a push from the UEN to take the gate power and control facilities had been stopped cold, though Defense Force losses had been heavy. The UEN's anti-tank missiles had improved in the previous seven years, and though it seemed that only a single platoon of UEN tanks had been spotted in the failed attack on the gate control facility, they had been a bad surprise to the Defense Force troops. If the UEN forces had —or got— more armor, it would be hard to hold them back.

  Two full Armored Corps tank battalions were on their way to the fight, but it would be some hours yet before they arrived. Three more reserve battalions were being mobilized, but that would take at least a day before they could even start to move out.

  For now, the Arcadian line was being held with several companies of frame infantry, a single, scattered understrength battalion of tanks, and a lot of troops from other Corps acting as light infantry.

  Both sides had set up multiple anti-air laser emplacements, and nothing bigger than a ground-skimming mini-drone could last more than a minute in the air. The Aerospace Corps had tried to get 'ghosts' into the sky above the enemy positions, but they'd lost two more of the expensive planes in the attempt. There were only three more 'ghosts' left in the Aerospace Corps' active inventory; reserve aircraft were being readied and would be on line in a few days. No one at the table thought they had a few days.

  "We still don't know how the pissers opened the gate for the second time, do we?" asked General Cooper.

  "No, sir," replied Major Villers, the Technical Corps liaison.

  "So we have no idea if they can do it again, or when? Right?"

  "Yes, sir, that's correct."

  "Fan-fucking-tastic, Major," Cooper said, glaring.

  "Let's keep this focused, people," General Stirling interjected. "We know the UEN forces have deployed new technology. Bickering about it won't help.

  "Now," Stirling went on, "what about our communications? That's hurting us worse than anything else."

  "Sir," said, the Aerospace Corps liaison, Colonel Farber, "we've confirmed that the satellites are down. All of them. The comm-nav birds and the weather birds."

  Everyone at the table looked grim. The loss of the communications satellites was a present disaster, but the loss of the weather satellites had the potential to be worse, in the long term. Arcadia's agriculture depended on warning to protect its cr
ops from the rare, mildly toxic rains. The water wasn't poisonous enough to be dangerous to people caught in a rain storm, but it could destroy crops, endangering the entire colony's food supply.

  On the other hand, General Stirling thought, it might be overly optimistic to worry about a long term problem just now.

  "How?" he asked. "How did they manage it?"

  "Sir, we're not 100% sure, but we are pretty sure," Colonel Farber said.

  She was managing to keep her voice icy calm, Stirling noted, which was better than General Cooper, the Infantry Corps liaison, was managing.

  "We think the UEN transited an OSV... an orbital security vehicle, a combat spacecraft... through the gate," Farber said. "It was hard to spot it in orbit; we don't have an extensive array of ground telescopes. But we think we have found it. We think it's deployed several UEN info-warfare satellites —which would explain the jamming— and that it's been used to engage our own satellites, as well as our 'ghosts.' An OSV would mount a very powerful laser array; enough to burn down a 'ghost' or easily slag a satellite. And looking down from orbit would give them a substantial positional advantage in terms of sensors placement, as far as air superiority combat is concerned."

  "Is there anything we can do?" General Stirling asked. "We can't just cede aerospace superiority to the UEN. Can we take it down with ground-based lasers?"

  "Not with the anti-air lasers we have. It's too high and too well armored. OSVs are built to endure high energy laser engagements. They're not as armored as a tank, say, but a lot more armored than a satellite or a 'ghost.'

  "But," Farber went on, "we do have an idea. But it's a desperate one."

  "I'd say everything is desperate, just now, Colonel," Stirling replied.

  "Damn straight," echoed Cooper.

  "Well, sir," Farber said, "we think we have a way to shoot down the UEN OSV. But it will cost us both of our remaining weather satellites. We have two solid-fuel launchers and two reserve weather birds on hand. In case we had a malfunction from one or more of our weather birds. We can launch them with not much more than a few hours’ notice."

  "We need weather satellites!" exclaimed Major Villers. "We could starve without them."

  "We could all be UEN slaves if we don't take down that OSV," Farber shot back, her voice suddenly not at all calm. "If we lose the fight for the gate..."

  "Let's keep it focused, people," General Stirling snapped, trying to keep his own voice controlled.

  "Sir," said Farber. "In the case that we manage to win this fight, we can use our remaining 'ghosts' for high altitude weather patrols. If we lose, what does it matter if the rains kill our crops?"

  "Damn straight," General Cooper said again.

  "What is this plan, then, Colonel?" Stirling asked.

  "Sir, the UEN OSV is in a very low orbit. About two hundred kilometers high. That's necessary for them to be able to use their lasers against our 'ghosts,' but it's too low for safety in an orbital battle."

  "As far as I know, Colonel, there's never been an orbital battle, has there?"

  "No, sir," Farber agreed. "But there's been a lot of speculation, and simulation, and doctrinal debates. And the Aerospace Corps has kept up with the issue. In a low orbit, there's very little time to deal with something that comes at you over the horizon. If they were up at a thousand kilometers, this wouldn't work. We have no orbital weapons per se, but any satellite in orbit has enormous kinetic energy. At orbital velocities, a fleck of paint has enormous kinetic energy. And we can use that as a weapon.

  "The plan —and Aerospace Corps is getting it ready right now, in anticipation of your permission, sir— is to launch the weather birds on a retrograde orbit to that of the UEN OSV. We're in the process of fitting small bombs into the weather birds..."

  "You said that the OSV is well armored," interjected General Cooper. "Will small bombs be enough?"

  "They're not there as warheads, General," Colonel Farber said. "They're there to break the weather satellites up into fragments. Hundreds of fragments, all of which, because of the retrograde orbit, will be moving at twice orbital velocity with respect to the OSV. It's not that well armored. Nothing is."

  "God damn it, I like it!" exclaimed Cooper. "It's innovative, it sounds effective, and the UEN isn't likely to expect it. Didn't the Earthers stand down from an orbital battle a few years back, because they were afraid of the cost in lost satellites?"

  "Yes, sir," Farber said. "China and India came pretty close to an orbital space conflict, back in the late '60s, but both sides pulled back."

  "Which means the UEN probably won't even be thinking in terms of using satellites as weapons," Cooper said, grinning.

  "We certainly hope so, sir," Colonel Farber said, looking for a moment as predatory as the Infantry Corps general.

  General Stirling was silent for many long seconds. "Very well," he said at length. "The Aerospace Corps' plan is approved. Make it happen."

  "Yes, sir!" said Farber.

  "Meanwhile," Stirling said, "we have to hope we can get enough forces in place to go on the offensive and take back the gate. Again."

  ***

  "UEN OSV is over the horizon," reported one of the Aerospace Corps technicians.

  "Very well. Begin lasing all detected UEN satellites," ordered Major Patrick Newman.

  He'd joined the Aerospace Corps to follow his dream of piloting a "ghost," and almost quit when that hadn't happened. Now he was glad he'd stayed in. Satellite operations wasn't the glamorous job he'd wanted when he'd joined the Aerospace Corps, but since it was his job, he was about to become the officer who launched the first counter-attack in the first space war in human history.

  The trick, Major Newman thought, was to make sure the UEN didn't get enough warning to do something about what was about to happen. Because one way or another, there would only be once chance to do this.

  "We are lasing all known enemy sats," reported another Aerospace Corps technician.

  There was no way to damage the enemy satellites with ground-based lasers... at least not with the ground-based lasers they had; anti-aircraft arrays that lacked the power to project killing energy density into orbit. But the glare of laser light would, the major hoped, be enough to blind the enemy birds, which would be enough.

  "Initiate the count-down," he ordered.

  "Count-down initiated."

  Almost a minute's wait, while the launch computers ran a systems check and the trajectory was checked one last time. And then the final ten-count. No one in the control bunker counted with it.

  The count came down to zero.

  Outside, a few kilometers away, two rockets flared to life, briefly burning brighter than Arcadia's huge, looming sun. Technicians working outside lowered dark-tinted glasses and tracked the two rockets as they rose, but the major's eyes were locked on his displays.

  "Orbit achieved on both birds," one of the technicians reported, about seven minutes later.

  "Very good," replied Major Newman. "Is the detonation timer running?"

  "Timer is running on both birds," confirmed the technician.

  "Then that's it," the major said, suppressing a desire to run his hands through his hair. "Now all we can do is pray."

  ***

  It was quiet aboard UEN OSV-11, the Yang Liwei. The environmental system gave a constant background hum, but the crew had learned to tune it out long ago.

  The commanding officer was watching his display with a certain degree of relaxation. They were done with their latest pass over the Arcadian landmass. They had confirmed the destruction of the one enemy satellite they had been unsure of; it had been possible that it had not been fully destroyed, but this last orbit had allowed them a good look, and now there was no question; all of the Arcadian satellites were dead.

  They still hadn't found any more Arcadian aircraft, but by now it was increasingly likely that the Arcadians had simply landed them and gotten them under cover. There had been a burst of laser-blinding of his deployed satellites a li
ttle while ago. It would have given the Arcadians adequate cover to land and hide their remaining "ghosts."

  Still, the fact remained that nothing could now fly in the Arcadian sky, including Arcadian orbit, without the permission of the Yang Liwei.

  "The first space war in human history," the commanding officer said to his executive officer.

  "Yes," the other man agreed. "Not only the first space war, but also the first interstellar war as well. And we... you... have won it. Surely a great honor, sir."

  "Indeed," the commanding officer agreed.

  "Sir!" came a cry from one of the sensors operators. "Sir, we're picking up something. Some sort of thermal signature. Maybe some debris. It looks like it might intersect our orbit, sir!"

  "None of the destroyed satellites were this low," observed the executive officer. "Do you have a clear signature?"

  "No, sir," the sensors operator replied. "Just a thermal signature rising above the horizon. Indistinct."

  "Hmm. Shall we activate the radar?" the executive asked the commander.

  "Yes, very well. And stand by maneuvering thrusters. We might have to shift orbit. How quickly is our orbit converging with the orbit of these supposed debris?"

  The sensors operator looked into her display, activating the OSV's radar and watching the results. The woman's eyes went wide as she read the results; there was a cloud of debris heading at them, converging at two times orbital velocity.

  "Converging at 16.3 kilometers per second, sir!" the sensors operator whispered.

  "Impossible! Check again!" the commander snapped.

  "Radar confirms, sir! It's... it's coming at us on a retrograde orbit!" the sensors operator exclaimed, realization striking.

  "What?!" shouted the executive officer.

  "Begin evasive maneuvers!" shouted the commander. "Time to convergence?"