The War for Profit Series Omnibus

by Gideon Fleisher

  The Mosh High Chief said, “We were looking for a habitual planet, and as luck would have it, it also happens to be inhabited already.”

  The Mosh Warrior Chiefs laughed.

  The High Chief said, “Men, if I may use the term so loosely, many of our warriors will have their chance to ascend to Valhalla before this is over. But have no doubt, we will be victorious.”

  Nods and assenting grunts. One Clan Chief stood and said, “This is not our traditional way. We are raiders, meant to land and conquer certainly, but then return home with our ships full of plunder and servants. I do not know if this strategy will persevere, if remaining here to make this our new home won’t invite retaliation. I think one day we will find ourselves defending this planet, fighting for our very survival, not unlike the fools we will conquer now.”

  The High Chief pointed. “Sit down!” He paced for a moment, stood facing the group with his fists balled on his hips. “Your point is valid. When that day comes, we will face it with courage. Until then, we need a home. Nearly a third of our cargo ships are filled with the women and children and livestock and servants we brought with us. Need I remind you that we were on a journey to settle a new world but when we arrived, we found that the terraforming had not been effective? I do not want to sit on this ship waiting for a day that will never come during my lifetime, waiting another hundred years at least for the terraforming to reach a level where it will support human life. We sent out exploratory jump ships. We lost all but one of them to the depths of unknown space. The one that did return had found this habitable planet and now we know it is already inhabited. We will conquer and settle here; it is our destiny. We have nowhere else to go.”

  Another Clan Chief stood. “The natural order of things will not apply here. We will have to be mindful of wonton destruction; will have to observe some conventions of formal warfare, to make the conquered people more receptive to our rule. Everything we destroy, we are simply denying ourselves later, as this will be our home. Certainly this deserves more planning than we have done.”

  The High Chief said, “Certainly. I will post our fleet behind the sixth planet of this system, a gas giant which can prevent them from observing us while we learn more about them and probe their defenses. This will give you time to instill discipline in your warriors, time to train them in a less barbaric way of conducting warfare. But make no mistake, we will be the masters of that land. In every society, there is a small ruling elite, and it makes little difference to the masses who that ruling elite is. Their little lives will be no less fulfilling with us as their masters. I do believe they will be better off under our rule. From what I’ve learned of civilized societies, the ruling elite burden the masses with excessive consumption of resources, and manipulate their people with lies and hidden agendas. We do not. We live simple lives, and we rule honestly. We need only to convince them of that fact to prevent insurrection in the future. But when we land, we must convince them with raw brutality that resistance is futile, that to submit is to live.”

  The Clan Chief said, “Yes. And only after we have conquered them will they learn that it is good, to serve the Mosh.” He sat.

  The Clan Chief behind him stood and said, “Land. How much will each Clan take?”

  The High Chief said, “At first the land will all be mine. Over time, as we learn more about the resources of the planet, I will divide the land evenly among your clans and retain only a single farm for myself. A big farm indeed, with a lodge large enough to accommodate my duties as the High Chief of the planet. And I swear before you now, I will take no longer than one year from the time we are victorious to divide the lands. Harald, you have been silent. Surely there is something on your mind.”

  Clan Chief Harald stood. “They seem an industrious people. I would like to embark on a program to have them design and build more advanced war fighting equipment. The day will come when we choose to strike out from here to conduct raids on nearby worlds. My sons, and their sons yet unborn, they will want to do this in the future.”

  “Certainly. This means not destroying the industrial base of our new home. All this I understand. Because we are making this our home, we must do things a little differently from tradition. What is the old saying? Do not defecate in your own bed? But make no mistake, this is war and we will kill and destroy. As much as necessary, and probably more than necessary, to win. When in doubt, destroy. Any questions for me at this time?”

  The Clan Chiefs sat, silent. The High Chief left the briefing room and returned to his office. A man no taller than a hundred and seventy centimeters tall dressed in dark gray technicians’ coveralls stood waiting. The High Chief sat at his desk and said, “Have a seat, tell me what you know.”

  The shorter man sat on the couch to the left and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Chief, the data from our probes shows that our enemy is mobilizing for a long, drawn-out defense. I’d suggest attacking in less than two weeks. That is how long I’ll need to work out the details for the landings. For now, a limited bombing campaign should be undertaken to disrupt their mobilization efforts and wreck key elements of their military infrastructure. I also believe a successful bombing campaign will reduce the confidence of the populous in the ability of their rulers to protect them. Perhaps the masses will revolt, believing that their rulers sacrifice them only to protect their own lives.”

  The High Chief said, “As you wish. You are the best operations specialist I’ve ever had the pleasure to serve with. Just keep in mind that this is our new home. Destroy only what we don’t want, and certainly don’t destroy anything we’ll need. Be selective.”

  “Yes, Chief.” The shorter man stood.

  “Dismissed,” said the High Chief.

  Chapter Five

  Flight Leader Major Johnston sat at his desk in the ops room and drummed his fingers. Bored. The ops room was on the first floor of the three-story barracks building that was built right onto the flank of the aerospace hanger. The Brigade’s twelve Interceptor aerospace craft were lined up along the tarmac in hardened bunkers. The first floor of the barracks was all admin and office space and a rec room and a chow hall and a briefing room. The upper two floors were rooms for the pilots and ground crews and support staff. The pilots were on standby, of course. Ground crews rotated out to the Interceptors on twelve hour shifts, waiting for the call to get the craft ready, to stuff the flight crew in it and send them off to the fight.

  Some Marines were here too. Their landing boat pilots were training, learning about the Interceptors. The Brigade had twelve more Interceptors coming, had put in an order to a Mandarin manufacturing plant, and needed more pilots. The Marines had excess pilots. Flight Leader Johnston wanted a mission, wanted to send the Marines along as observers in the seat right behind the pilot. That would give the Marines some combat experience in an Interceptor, would make them better pilots.

  Comms buzzed and Johnston acknowledged. “Flight ops. Major Johnston here.”

  “Hey, this is Miller at Brigade ops. I have a mission for you.”

  “Send it, over.”

  “Data inbound. It’s an intercept mission. T plus five hours, roughly.”

  Major Johnston looked over the data. “Thank you, I’ll get the ball rolling.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Miller said, “Handle your business, flight leader. I expect a back-brief within the hour. Miller out.”

  Comms shut off. Chief Rother, the Flight Ops NCOIC, said, “Thirty minutes, sir?”

  “Sure. Thirty minutes.”

  Chief Rother keyed his comms and got a response from the pilots, told them to be in the briefing room in thirty minutes. Then he got up from his desk and went to the briefing room to make sure it was ready. It was, always kept in a state to give briefings. He made sure the beverage machine was fully functional, then went to the chow hall and got a box of pastries and took them back to the briefing room and put them on the counter by the beverage machine.

  He then sat at the display controller table a
nd brought the screen out of standby. The Flight Command Logo showed. Pilots came in groups of two or three and took beverages and pastries and sat in the rows of chairs that faced the screen. Soon, Chief Rother saw all twenty four pilots. He slid back the dust cover of the data ports of the display controller and waited.

  Major Johnston entered and said, “Keep your seats, Ladies and Gentlemen and Marines.” He handed a data stick to Rother and then stood behind the lectern to the left of the screen. Rother inserted the data stick, found the presentation and advanced it to the first image. A Mosh bomber showed on the screen.

  Major Johnston spoke, “The Mosh launched a bomber group comprised of three hundred and four of these bad boys. They have fighter escorts now, but Mosh fighters are incapable of atmospheric flight so they aren’t part of our mission. The Mandarin Space Force will worry about them. I do, however, expect all the Mosh bombers to make it to their targets. The Mandarin fighters are somewhat superior to the Mosh fighters, and the Mandarin pilots are trained to a high degree of expertise, but they just don’t have the numbers. I don’t think it’s possible for them to get through the Mosh fighter escorts to attack the bombers. But that’s okay, the bombers are all ours.”

  The image changed again, showing a mountain range with a desert to its west. “The objective of the bombers has yet to be determined, but we think they will strike the mountains to the east of this desert, the Skeleton Desert, as a way to soften up the defenses prior to their landing, which we are sure will be on the Skeleton Desert.”

  The image changed to a forward view of a Mosh bomber. “These are what they look like right before you destroy them. They are aerospace craft but have limited maneuverability in the atmosphere. Analysis based on the assumption that they want to bomb and scan the defenses of the mountains makes us believe they will have to drop in sharply from space, at a high rate of descent, to get below the firing arc of Mandarin space guns as quickly as possible. Then they should level off at an altitude of fifteen hundred meters as they run along the desert toward the mountains.”

  Major Johnston took a sip of his beverage, cracked his knuckles. The image changed to a view of the bomber rotating. It was a long cylinder with short, stubby wings. The wings gradually extended to an 800 mil angle and covers along its belly slid back. “They have eight bays capable of carrying five thousand kilograms each. At this time we don’t know their capabilities or weapons types, target priorities or exact intentions. For that reason, the High Command wants us to let them have their bombing run, so that they can analyze what it is the bombers are trying to do.”

  A low murmur came from the group. Major Johnston said, “Shut up. The air corridor of the bombing runs will be hot with Mandarin anti-aircraft fire of all types. I’m not trying to get a belly full of friendly flak. Once the bombing run is nearly complete, the air corridor will be cleared for our attack. That is when we will engage the bombers, show them what we can do. Then the High Command can analyze our capabilities. Fair enough?”

  Nods, positive vocalizations. Johnston said, “Okay. Any questions?”

  A Marine pilot stood. “How many of these bombers do you expect us to destroy?”

  Major Johnston said, “Twelve. One each. As soon as they unload their bombs they will want to shoot straight up and out of our atmosphere. Meet them head-on and give them a face full of direct fire. That will take them out. I expect them to beat a hasty retreat before anyone gets a second shot.”

  “Can we pursue them when they go perpendicular?”

  Major Johnston said, “You could. We can out-climb them, and they would be easy targets. But we won’t. Follow them out of the atmosphere and your Interceptor will be set upon by an overwhelming number of Mosh fighters. So my answer is no, hell no, you can’t pursue them. As a matter of fact, your maximum flight ceiling for this mission is three thousand meters. Go above that and I’ll make sure you never sit in one of my Interceptors again.” He looked around the room, eye contact with each pilot. “Are we clear?”

  “Yessir,” in unison.

  “Good. You have two hours and eight minutes. After that, be seated in your birds and ready to blast out here at a moment’s notice.”

  The pilots left the room.

  ***

  Capellan Marine Pilot Stovall secured the respirator tight against his face and then loosened it a bit, for comfort. The display in front of him gave him pilot’s view at the moment but he could switch to rear, below, oblique in all corners…it was nice. The Interceptor was a bit more rugged and much more powerful than the Marine Assault Boat he’d been piloting.

  The pilot said, “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

  Stovall said, “Terra, originally. But my parents moved to Langston when I was a child.”

  “You didn’t join the Legion?”

  Stovall said, “Oh, I was in the Legion. I was with you all on Fairgotten, as matter of fact.”

  The pilot said, “Huh. How’d you end up in the Capellan Marines?”

  “I did such a god job for the Legion on Fairgotten, I was nominated for the Legion of Merit award. They gave me a free genome test. Turns out I’m only one eighth black, not black enough for the Legion of Merit or citizenship on Langston. So I took an early discharge from the Legion and joined the Capellan Marines. They don’t give a crap what race you are.”

  The Flight Leader’s voice came over comms. “Time to go.”

  The pilot taxied out to the end of the tarmac, lined up with the other three Interceptors of the first flight. They sped along in formation and then left the ground and retracted their landing gear and then shot straight up a thousand meters. They leveled off and found their mission vector. The other eight Interceptors launched and came up from behind, took positions to the right and left. Stovall looked at his display and saw that the flight was travelling along at three times the speed of sound, not more than three hundred meters above the ground.

  They slowed to mach 2 and spread out, on line with five hundred meters between each Interceptor. Ahead, Stovall saw bright flashes on the horizon. Bombers, bombing targets. Then he had visual of the bombers. They were in several rows of V formations, fifteen hundred meters above the ground. Lines of tracers and beams of lasers in red and green lanced out from the ground at the bombers. Missiles as well, long white and yellow trails of flame from their thrusters sending them toward the bombers. Some missiles went wild, their controls jammed by countermeasures from the bombers. Some missiles got close enough for the bomber’s defensive lasers to engage, sliced to explode prematurely.

  Some bombers took damage, flew erratically. Crashed, or dumped their entire bomb load immediately, abandoning the mission to tilt straight up and flee to the safety of space. But that was a very few, five or six perhaps. The bombers continued their grim task. The ground fire stopped, suddenly, all across the area. The air corridor was clear. The interceptors accelerated, gained altitude. They closed on the bombers head-on at the same altitude. Stovall’s pilot closed in to visual range and fired the 20mm rail gun and both medium lasers. The nose of the bomber shattered and the bomber peeled apart like a banana. The Interceptor pilot traded speed for altitude and went into a loop and flew upside down for a moment and then did a half barrel roll to level off and then accelerated to Mach 5 and flew back to the tarmac.

  Stovall checked his screen and saw that all twelve Interceptors were heading home. Not as a group, but individually. The Interceptor parked back in its bunker and the ground crew helped Stovall and the pilot climb out and began their inspection of the aerospace craft. Stovall walked with his pilot back to the barracks and sat in the briefing room and enjoyed a cup of hot noodle soup.

  After a few minutes, Major Johnston entered and stood behind the lectern. He looked around and saw that all the pilots were there. “Congratulations and welcome back. Any mission you can walk away from is a good one. Now it’s report card time. You done good. You shot down twelve bombers, and did it in accordance with mission parameters. That’s
nothing to be ashamed of.”

  A pilot stood. “Sir, I do think we could double that.”

  “How?”

  “We could have the Mandarins clear the air corridor ten seconds earlier, that would give us time to line up more shots.”

  Major Johnston said, “We’ll analyze all that and incorporate lessons learned. But just off the top of my head, don’t you think the debris of the first bomber might be in the way of lining up your second shot?”

  A few pilots snickered. The pilot sat.

  Major Johnston said, “Sure, the ground fire took out five bombers and damaged eighteen more. I do expect that next time the mission will be to attack the bombers before they can drop their bombs. So think about taking longer shots to avoid the debris of the secondary explosions from their bombs. We’ll work out if you can then circle back around after that for some shots at empty bombers. It’s a lot of very fast moving parts so don’t get your hopes up. If there are no more questions, you’re dismissed.”

  Silence. The pilots stood and made their ways back to their rooms. Major Johnston went back to the ops room and he and Chief Rother started reviewing the details of the battle.

  Chapter Six

  Colonel Galen Raper entered the conference room and said, “Keep your seats,” and then sat in his chair at the head of the table. To his immediate left sat Colonel Baek. To Galen’s right sat Lieutenant Colonel Miller. Around the table were Marine and Panzer Brigade battalion and detachment commanders. “Leaders, it seems we’re having a positive effect on the outcome of this war. The bombing has stopped, and it’s estimated the Mosh have lost as much as forty percent of its bomber forces. Congratulations.” Galen nodded at the Flight Commander.

  Major Johnston said, “There have been sightings of modified Mosh bombers. They have been refitted to attack singly or in pairs, to get in close and attack a single target. They have a much lighter bomb load but have increased maneuverability, the area of the control surfaces increased. They also have heavier forward-facing guns. We shot down one that had rapid-fire cannons pointing out the side, meant to pound a ground target while the bomber circles it. We’ve classified them as close air support. Not a big deal now, but later, as support for advancing ground units, they could be a real pain in the ass.”