by Ian Douglas
The chances were good that the language spoken by Rommel’s crew was Deutsch, not Français, but the message was unmistakable. The man, eyes bulging, dropped the pistol and raised his hands. Other men and women in the room were already doing the same.
Other Marines, guided by Achilles, were attaching nano-D charges to specific consoles and link stations, and Ramsey was jacking a small, heavily armored box into a particular computer access relay. Garroway and Chu, gesturing with their weapons, herded the PanEuropean personnel off of their link couches and across the compartment, lining them up on their knees, facing an empty bulkhead, their hands behind their heads.
This compartment, Garroway knew, was one of three auxiliary control rooms buried within the Rommel. Some of the others might be destroyed, or isolated by damage, or Marine assault squads might already be breaking into them.
All they could do now was wait. Garroway kept the POWs covered, while Ramsey worked his computer link and the other three Marines kept their weapons trained on the sealed hatch. They wouldn’t fire the nano-D charges unless they absolutely had to. The idea was to capture the monitor, not junk her…but they would render the huge ship harmlessly inert if they couldn’t force her to surrender.
“Okay,” Ramsey said after a few moments. “Achilles has interfaced with Rommel’s AI suite. We’re in.”
“Ooh-rah!” Garroway cried, and several of the others joined in. Sandre Kenyon was, by chance, standing close by. Keeping his weapon still trained on the kneeling POWs, Garroway reached out and gave Sandre an awkward one-armed hug, their black armor clashing as it came together like a pair of colliding tanks.
“It’s gonna be close,” Ramsey said a moment later. He was getting things on his tactical feed that weren’t funneling through to the rest of the squad. “We have three more enemy ships arriving from in-system. Another destroyer…and it looks like a couple of light escort cruisers, Pegasus…and Sagitta. Our fighters are reforming to meet them.”
His momentary rush of enthusiasm cooled, Garroway stood, covering the prisoners, and waited. Rommel, apparently, was still in the fight, though only intermittently now as more and more of her Net circuitry was shut down or compromised. Garroway tried to figure out what was going on through the platoon tacsit feed, but gave up after a few moments. The tangle of ships out there was hopelessly confused, now, with no fewer than thirteen major warships and well over a hundred fighters from both sides, plus Marine Ontos transports and shuttles, robotic sensor craft, and hundreds of circling, target-seeking missiles. Nukes were going off every few moments, and each blast tended to blank out the data transmission with momentary storms of white-noise static.
Someone was at the hatch. Garroway heard the thump, followed by a mechanical-sounding clank. Chu, Kenyon, and Delazlo hunkered down behind consoles and link couches, their weapons aimed at the hatch. Ramsey continued working with the computer feed relay. By now, a small army of artificial intelligences were being beamed across from the Lejeune and the Samar, downloading themselves into the Rommel’s computer net. If they could capture the electronic high ground in time….
“The hatch may be a diversion,” Achilles whispered in their minds. “I am detecting suspicious noises here.” The AI highlighted a section of bulkhead at right angles to the bulkhead containing the hatch.
“Right,” Chu said. “Kenyon! Keep covering the hatch! Laz, with me!”
Chu and Delazlo shifted positions to cover the new threat. A moment later, the hatch flared with a dazzling white light, metal dissolving under a high-energy assault of nano disassemblers. Kenyon opened up with her pulse rifle as soon as the hatch started melting away and there was no longer a threat of own-goal riocochets in the compartment, sending a steady stream of high-velocity fire through the opening and into the compartment beyond.
Five seconds later, a second gout of light and hot gases exploded from the other bulkhead, burning through a communications console. A heavily armored Sturmjäger appeared, stepping through the gush of incandescent gasses, his dark grey combat armor outwardly similar to the Marines’ 660-battlesuit, but with a flatter, more complex helmet and a different weapons loadout.
The German armor appeared to flow and distort as its surface Nanoflage blended with smoke and bulkhead, but the elite trooper’s battlesuit could not render its wearer completely invisible. As he moved, a general outline of the figure could clearly be seen, and certain things like the visual pick-ups and external sensor gear were still plainly visible. The Sturmjäger stepped through the molten opening into a double stream of high-velocity kinetic-kill rounds. One round in ten contained a charge of nano-D, but the impact alone was sufficient to shred the man’s plastron and helmet, opening the suit up in a shocking blossom of bright red blood. A second trooper came through behind the first, and was cut down.
After that, there was silence.
Ramsey, Garroway knew, was waiting with a coded thought-click ready. If he triggered it, the instrumentation in the compartment would dissolve. The enemy would hold off on using things like grenades, thermal charges, or nano-D because they didn’t want to destroy Rommel’s command-center electronics any more than the Commonwealth Marines did.
Stand off.
And then, four minutes later, the incredible, the impossible happened. A white rag appeared in the opening in the bulkhead. “Marines?” a voice said over a standard com channel. “Marines? Bitte. We surrender. The ship surrenders….”
“Stay back!” Chu demanded. “We want confirmation.”
But the confirmation came through moments later. At the order of Kapitän Walther Hirsch, commanding officer of the PanEuropean monitor Rommel, the ship was formally surrendered. Garroway learned later that the electronic assault AIs, feeding in through the relay, had overcome the ship’s electronic defenses and taken control of her computer net. Rommel’s captain, when he found he could no longer control his ship, had safed her weapons, then announced his capitulation.
The ship-boarding action turned the tide of the battle. Though the Marines in the assault teams wouldn’t learn the details until later, Rommel’s capitulation triggered a full-scale disengagement by the other PE ships. One of the PE frigates and a destroyer had been knocked out of action and were now helplessly adrift, but the others had broken off the attack and begun accelerating back in-system.
Over the course of the next hour, naval personnel arrived from the Lejeune to try to make Rommel operational once more, though that was clearly going to take time. The monitor had been badly mauled in the fight, and many of her weapons systems were off-line.
The situation was still extremely serious, however. Both Thor and Morrigan had also taken heavy damage, and six aerospace fighters out of the three squadrons engaged, one fighter in eight, had been destroyed. Both Samar and Lejeune had taken light damage as well. The original operational plan for Lafayette had called for at least three loads of ship, fourteen in all, to be translated into Puller space, and for those fourteen ships to then make a concerted assault against the PE ships while they were still in orbit around the gas giant. The Marine assault was to have been directed against the cruiser Aurore, which Intelligence believed was the enemy command ship, and which was believed to be the vessel where the Marines captured from the Puller listening post were being held.
A hostage-rescue assault was now out of the question, since the advantage of surprise had been lost.
Still, the capture of Rommel had certainly changed the tactical balance, somewhat. Admiral Mitchell elected to wait and see what happened next.
Some two hours after the end of the battle, Skybase translated in from distant Sol with five more ships crammed into her flight deck, the destroyers Kali and Bellona, and three escort gunships, Active, Amazon, and Avenger.
General Alexander entered into immediate negotiations with the PanEuropean commander and, before much longer, the Battle of Puller 659 officially was over.
USMC Skybase
Puller 695 System
2329 hrs GMT<
br />
General Alexander stared across the virtual table at the icon of his opposite number in the PanEuropean fleet, an older, diminutive, and bearded man whose personal software had introduced as Admiral Pascal D’Urville. Intelligence records indicated that D’Urville was better known in military circles by the nickname “Marlon,” meaning “Little Falcon,” and the man’s formal corona flammae actually held within it the faint image of a bird of prey with outstretched wings. According to the mil-history downloads, he’d won the nickname while in command of the battlecruiser Faucon during a nasty little naval confrontation between the PanEuropean Republic and the Islamic Theocracy at Ubaylah twenty years before.
“We do not want to be here,” Alexander was saying. “We have no wish to fight you. You are not our enemy. This is the wrong war, at the wrong time, with the wrong enemy.”
“But I note,” D’Urville replied with just a ghost of a smile, “that you are here, monsieur. Fighting us.” He was speaking Anglic, rather than having his words translated by AI interpreters, with only rare lapses into Français.
“We fought you, yes. We will continue fighting you if you don’t release our people.”
“What people?”
“The Marines you took from our listening post.”
“An illegal listening post, established clandestinely within PanEuropean territory.”
Alexander stared at the other’s virtual image for a long moment. There was no way to tell what the man was really feeling at the moment, no way to read his electronically created persona. That faint, somewhat sardonic smile might be reflecting what the man himself felt, or it could be something inserted by the AIs running the simulation.
“Admiral, I’m not going to argue with you about legalities. That’s for lawyers and politicians to decide. The fact is…you and I are here, and the politicians are on Aurore and on Earth hundreds of light-years distant. I suggest that we leave the politicians out of this, just for the moment. Just possibly, we can find a means of hammering out a peace without their…help.”
He gave a deep, Gallic shrug. “You must know, sir, that my own powers in that regard are limited. I am charged with defending PanEuropean space. I am scarcely what you could call a peacemaker.”
“Admiral, I am here for two reasons, and two reasons only. I intend to free my people which you are holding as prisoners of war, and I intend to assemble the rest of my fleet here, in this system, and then depart through that stargate yonder. We offer no threat to PanEuropean sovereignty. When we move through the gate, I doubt very much that you’ll see us again.”
D’Urville’s eyes widened slightly. “You hope to die on the other side?”
“No. Not if we can help it. What I hope is that we will find other ways home, after dealing with the Xul threat. In any case, it will take time. Quite probably years. Possibly decades.”
“A long war.”
“A large foe.”
“Monsieur…have you given thought to why the Republic has refused your fleet passage here? If you should succeed…if you should find the Xul on the other side of the gate, if you should awaken him, his planet-killer ships might well come through here, in PanEuropean space. My government fears your…your government’s impetuous nature. You don’t know what you’re dealing with beyond the gates. Your meddling might call down the Xul’s wrath upon la République. Have you given thought to the possibility that it might be better, far better, simply to leave the Xul alone…and pray that they never find us?”
“It’s too late for that, Admiral. You’ve seen the reports. About the Argo. If the Xul aren’t already on the way, they will be soon. And when they come, no matter where they come, no human world will be safe.”
He appeared to consider this. “Your Commonwealth is taking on a rather arrogant responsibility, you know, one involving the survival of all of humanity. Some of us believe that to be…short-sighted. And stupid.”
“And which is the more short-sighted, Admiral? To face what’s coming boldly? Even go out to meet it on its own ground? Or to hide our heads in the dirt until we’re taken and devoured? Admiral…the Republic can do what it likes, but we are not going to sit around doing nothing while those monsters roll right over us. We’ve lived in the shadow of fear for too long. No more.”
“Perhaps that is for the politicians to decide. We have other matters to deal with, eh?”
“The POWs. Yes.”
“You must realize, General Alexander, that I have limited authority here. Even if we held the people you mention—and we do not—I cannot simply hand over prisoners of war without some…reciprocity? Yes. Something from you in exchange.”
“Simple enough. I’m told that we hold nearly four thousand men and women, crewmembers of the Rommel. Including Captain Hirsch.”
D’Urville gave a sour expression. “Perhaps we don’t want Captain Hirsch back.” He shrugged again. “In any case, our main fleet shall be here within a day or two. It might be best if you withdrew with your small fleet now, while you still can. Details of a prisoner exchange can be handled by our respective governments.”
Now he knew the man was bluffing. “Admiral D’Urville, I’m not going to fucking play games with you. Perhaps you recognize these?” With a thought-click, he opened a data-filled window.
Hours before, when the Marines had been penetrating the Rommel’s electronic fastness, the uploaded AIs that had shut down the PanEuropean monitor had at the same time accessed a treasure trove of data stored in the enemy vessel’s computer net. The information included updated rosters on all of the PE ships in-system, their operational orders, archived orders going back for weeks…and the complete communications logs recording conversations between the Rommel and the Aurore.
Lejeune’s command constellation had already prepared a complete translation for Alexander, which included the text of an exchange between Admiral D’Urville and a Captain Hirsch, just before Rommel and the other PE ships had engaged their Alcubierre Drives for the run out to the stargate. We are on our own, Captain, D’Urville had told his subordinate. They can send us nothing more. It is up to you, my friend, to hold the line here.
We can do it if we can defeat them in detail, sir, Hirsch had replied. If we can destroy this small squadron before more Commonwealth warships arrive. If that happens, well…I fear our assets are stretched too thin. We would have to withdraw.
Do it. They are only four ships. Intelligence tells us that the two transports carry only a handful of fighters and Marines, a token force only. Kill them now, and we will be waiting for the rest when they arrive.
D’Urville was now reading those words.
Much had been written over the past few centuries regarding modern space tactical combat—especially the use of Marines in ship-to-ship actions such as the one that had taken down the Rommel. A tactic as old as the ancient empire of Rome, combat boarding actions seemed nonsensical on the face of it. Armchair strategists had repeatedly announced that using men to storm and board enemy ships had no more place in modern warfare than skill at swinging a sword.
But there were times when capturing an enemy warship was far, far more valuable in winning a battle than simply vaporizing it. The recovery and analyses of data from enemy computer networks constituted one entire branch of modern military intelligence. It was information that won battles, not mere firepower.
“We are not at war, Admiral,” Alexander told the other man. “Not yet. But you are not now in a position to play games with me…to delay…or to fight back. You will return my people to me and you will have your squadron stand down. If you do not, my Marines will board each of your ships in turn and shut them down.”
He didn’t add that Commonwealth AIs had followed communications pathways in from the Rommel to other ships in the PanEuropean fleet. It would take time for them to compromise the entire PE data net, but, like an insidious invasion of computer viruses, they were already piggybacking into the enemy’s network. At the very least, Alexander would know within another few h
ours exactly where any Commonwealth POWs were being held. He would target that vessel first; once the POWs were freed, he would take down the rest.
With luck, it would be simpler still. A single command from him would shut down the enemy fleet cold.
“You wouldn’t dare!” D’Urville declared. “As you said, there is no war, yet! You would not…would not…”
“Admiral, I am a Commonwealth Marine…a direct line descendent of the original United States Marine Corps. I do not make threats. And I do not make a request a second time. Surrender here, now, and retain the integrity of your fleet…or surrender to my Marines when they board your ship.”
The two men locked gazes for a long several seconds. Then, reluctantly, D’Urville broke eye contact. “You win,” he said.
And the negotiations were over, the war ended before it had even been declared.
19
0412.1102
USMC Skybase
Anneau orbit, Puller 695 System
0950 hrs GMT
The Galaxy is a hellishly big place.
Even that minute backwater pocket of the Galaxy that held all of the worlds of Humankind was immense beyond all human reckoning. Not even faster-than-light travel or the quantum miracle of instantaneous communications could make that volume of emptiness and thinly scattered suns small enough for any mere government to truly claim to own or actually to control it.
Admiral D’Urville was the local PanEuropean military commander, and while he continued to receive orders from Aurore, he was the man who had to determine how best to implement them in the distant and out-of-the-way cosmic speck that was the Puller system—or Anneau, as the PanEuropeans called it. Aurore might suggest—even order—but D’Urville, simply by virtue of his isolation, was the one who would decide policy here.
General Alexander stood on Skybase’s main observation deck, looking up at the world called Ring with something approaching religious awe. He’d assumed—like nearly everyone else within the Commonwealth who’d heard the name—that the world had been named Anneau, or Ring, and the red dwarf sun Ringstar, because of the location of the Stargate in the system’s lonely outer reaches. Clearly though, that was not the case…or else the presence of the Stargate was a coincidence that permitted an amusing double meaning.