by Chris Bunch
What arrogance, he marveled. And what would it matter if they did? This is the last time around, isn't it? There isn't going to be enough left of the First Guard to compose a suicide note.
Like you told Sten, he thought. All we're doing is building martyrs for the cause. And enough of that, Ian. You have work to do.
Mahoney pointed to an operator and was instantly linked to all surviving detachment commanders. “They're still coming in, people. Get your reserves out of their holes and ready to go."
The ground around Mahoney shuddered suddenly, and the lights flashed twice before finding a functioning emergency circuit.
The Tahn were hitting Cavite itself.
* * * *
The lead elements of Tahn ships were unmanned strafers. As ordered, the naval and Guard antiaircraft teams held their fire. Ammunition and missile reserves were almost nonexistent. Wait, they had been told, for the real targets: manned ships. That was expected to be the second wave.
But Atago's tactics were different.
The second element was made up of twenty small assault transports. The transports broke up, and from each ship, six troop capsules dropped toward the city below. In each capsule was a team of Tahn commandos.
Unlike the larger Imperial troop capsule that used wings and tear-away chutes for braking, these capsules were fitted only with retrorockets, set to fire when the capsule was pointed downward and very close to the ground.
Some of them never corrected, and the rockets sent the capsules pinwheeling before they crashed at full speed.
Even the ones that functioned correctly only slowed the capsules down to approximately 50 kph. The internal shock bracing was supposed to provide the rest of the cushioning—of a sort. Thirty percent of the commandos were able to stumble out of their wrecked capsules, form up, and head for their assigned objectives.
That was quite satisfactory—Lady Atago had anticipated and allowed for an eighty percent loss on landing. The Tahn cynicism had gone still further—none of the assigned objectives were expected to be taken. This had not been told to the commandos at their briefing. Nor was their real mission revealed—to pinprick the Imperial defenders, to distract them from the main force landings.
One team of commandos did reach its objective—the Carlton Hotel that Atago had theorized might still be used by the 23rd Fleet headquarters. But it had been abandoned weeks ago—van Doorman had returned to the Swampscott, which was sitting in the deep revetment near Cavite Field. And the commandos were distracting, but only to the Guard teams who had been ordered to maintain street patrols. The Tahn commandos failed, but in failing they caused casualties and ammunition expenditures. The Empire could afford neither.
The third wave was the heaviest. Four battleships, including the now-repaired Forez, Atago and Deska's flagship; twenty cruisers; and a horde of destroyers raved fire at the planet. In the center of the formation were seventy-five fat-bellied assault transports.
Previously hidden Imperial missile launchers rose from bare ground, out of buildings and sheds, and even, in the case of one particular inspired team, from an abandoned double-decked transport gravsled. It was almost impossible to miss.
But it was equally impossible to hit all of the Tahn ships. Sixty-three of the transports grounded in a ring some 400 kilometers outside Cavite City, and their sides clamshelled and Tahn assault troops stormed out.
Lady Atago allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. To her, all that remained was mopping up.
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CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
THE GAMBLE HUNG in space, hopefully hidden from the Tahn forces landing on Cavite by one of the world's moons. Sten's entire crew, less Foss, who was minding the sensors, was crammed onto the tiny mess deck reviewing the options.
The problem was that neither Sten nor Kilgour could figure out an attack plan against the Tahn that did not include their own destruction. As Alex pointed out, “As far ae Ah can ken, th’ job description dinnae ken kazikami, or wha'e'er th’ word is."
Sten might have accepted the military necessity of a suicide mission, given a strategic target that might stop the Tahn. But every idea that was suggested and run up on the battle computer showed that the Gamble had a ninety-nine-point-more-nine's chance of never getting through the Tahn outer destroyer screen; setting up and making an attack run on one of the Tahn heavies looked to be impossible.
"What about slingshotting?” Contreras, ex-cop, now the Gamble's bosun's mate, asked. “Full power around this moon, then around Cavite and hit ‘em when we come back through."
"Won't work,” Sten said. “The Tahn'll pick us up the minute we come out from shadow. That'll give them more than enough time to set up a prog and nail us on the way in."
Contreras tugged at her ear and sank back into thought.
"We can't just sit here, sir.” McCoy said. An ex-jailbird, he was now master's mate, engine room."Do we have any idea what's left of our fleet?"
"We're still picking up broadcasts that Foss says are from the Swampscott. And there seem to be a couple destroyers still in the air."
"Maybe we do wait,” McCoy tried. “Sooner or later, somebody down on Cavite's gonna try one. We hit the Tahn from the other side when they do."
Sten gnawed a fingernail. “Crappy plan,” he said finally. “Anybody got a better one?"
There were negative head shakes all around.
"Okay, McCoy. We'll give it a shot. Everybody not on watch get their heads down."
Hypno-conditioning let any of them go instantly to sleep and return to full alertness at command. But the ship's detector alarms went off before any of them had made it to their bunks. Sten sprinted to the command deck. Foss indicated one screen with a solitary blip to one side."That's the Richards, sir. Correct IFF response. And that ... “Sten didn't need an explanation—the second screen showed another, larger indication. Tahn, of course.
Probably a heavy destroyer.
Foss touched keys and moved the two images onto the larger center screen. “It's closing on the Richards."
Sten had the mike open and broadcast power at full, breaking com silence. The Tahn ship would certainly pick up his broadcast, but he might be able to save the Richards now and worry about his own skin later.
"Richards ... Richards ... this is Gamble. Bogey on intersection orbit. Closing on you. Bogey location—"
The Richards cut in. “Gamble ... we have him. I shackle ... X-ray delta ... Two. Unshackle. Over."
Lieutenant Estill—Sten noted that his voice stayed quite calm—was using a simple voice code. X-ray: main engine. Delta: damaged. Two: fifty-percent power loss.
"This is Gamble. Heading yours, over."
Sten hit the GQ alarm. “I want an interception course, Mr. Foss. Engines!"
"Ready, sir."Primary drive full emergency. Secondary drive full standby."
'Sir."
"All weapons stations report launch readiness."
"All live stations ready, sir."
"Mr. Foss. What do we have?"
There was now a third blip on the main screen. A red line threaded from the third blip—Sten's ship—toward the Tahn destroyer and the Gamble. Suddenly the dot on the screen that was the Richards shimmered, coming out of AM2 drive.
"Gamble ... this is Richards. Status now I shackle X-Ray delta four. I say again four, over.
"Main drive out completely."
"AM2 drives can't break down,” Foss said.
"Th’ hell they can't,” Alex said. “Tha's one that did. Now shut up and mind your screens."
"This is Gamble. I shackle Yankee alfa one break Mike tango echo, over.
"Yankee: secondary—Yukawa drive. Alfa: engage. One: full power. Mike: maneuver. Tango: toward. Echo: enemy.
"This is Richards. I shackle. Yankee also delta. Three."
Sutton hadn't been able to repair the Richards, or his repairs hadn't worked for long. There were three points of view: To the Tahn destroyer, the Richards appeared to come to a hal
t as the destroyer closed. To Sten, both ships moved across his main screen. A stationary observer, hanging in space, would not have mental reactions fast enough to perceive any of the three ships as they went past at many times light-speed.
Foss superimposed two time ticks on the main screen. The left was the estimated number of seconds before the Tahn ship would come within launch range of the Richards. The right showed time before Sten could attack the destroyer. The seven-second differential could doom the Richards.
"Kali. Stand by."
"Ah'm ready."
"Foss. Distress flares ready to launch."
"Distress ... yessir. Ready."
"Flares ... fire! Kali! Launch!"
The huge missile slid out of the Gamble's nose just as two distress flares bloomed, radiating through broadcast, radar, and visual wavelengths. One second later the Tahn ship launched two antiship missiles at the Richards.
"Alex ... don't worry about what I'm doing. Get that destroyer."
"Lad, Ah'm in a world ah m’ own. Dinna fash."
"Distress signals again ... launch!"
Sten was hoping that the flares would shake up the Tahn. Maybe the destroyer's weaponeers would divert their missiles toward the Gamble.
They didn't.
The Richards was far too sitting a quacker to ignore. But the failure wasn't complete. Possibly the controllers’ attention was broken for a critical quarter second. Because the first missile missed the Richards completely—not too hard, since the tacship wasn't that much bigger than the missile was.
The second missile went off close enough to the Richards to blank its blip on Sten's screen.
Clear screen—and the Richards was still there!
"Ah now th’ worm'll turn,” Kilgour murmured—and triggered the Kali. Sixty megatons blew the Tahn ship in two.
One-third of the destroyer—its midsection—ceased to exist except as raw energy. Some of the stern, pouring sparks and a flash of flame, pin wheeled on. The remnants of the bow started on a tangented orbit toward Sten.
"Richards ... Richards ... this is Gamble. Over."
Dead air.
"This is Gamble. Are you receiving me?"
Foss saw an ancillary meter flicker. “Sir ... there's a ‘cast from a suit radio on the Richards. Stand by."
He added another frequency. Finally:
"...this is the Richards. I say again, this is the Richards.” It was Tapia's voice.
"This is the Gamble. The destroyer's killed. Give status, over."
"Richards. Seven dead. Three wounded. XO in command."
"This is Gamble. We're matching orbit. Stand by for pickup."
"Negative on that,” Tapia said. “The main lock's crushed. We can't reach the emergency. And our secondary drive is going any second now. Stand clear, Gamble.” Tapia's voice was a monotone.
"Richards ... this is Gamble. Are survivors in suits?"
"That's affirmative."
"Can you reach the Kali inspection hatch?” With the Richards's Kali launcher down, the tacship's centerline launch tube was empty.
"We can"
"Can you open the outer hatch?"
"We have no weapons."
"The can opener is on the way, over.” Sten closed the com.
"Alex?"
Alex diverted control to a Fox countermissile and launched. The small missile sped far beyond the Richards at full launch speed before Alex could cut its power and bring it looping back toward them.
"We'll try quarter speed,” he said—and sent the Fox into the Richards. Even with the warhead on safe, the Fox still ripped nearly a meter off the tacship's nose.
"Ah would'a made a braw surgeon,” he said proudly.
Sten reopened the com. “Come on out."
Five suited figures oozed out of the launcher and drifted through space. It took only seconds for Sten to maneuver the Gamble alongside. McCoy was already suited and out of the lock. A magnetic line lassoed the survivors of the Richards.
Sten sent the Gamble away from the Richards.
How long it was and how far away they were when the Richards's Yukawa units blew varied in the later telling, depending on the audience's credulity and how many alks the teller was into the evening.
The five survivors were pulled onboard and treated. Sten personally unsuited Ensign Tapia and half carried her to his own bunk. He was being solicitous, he told himself, because she was a very capable officer and a friend as well. Not even his conscious mind believed that rationalization. But again, there wasn't time.
He had to return to Cavite. Without his main armament, there was little good he could do in space.
So all he had to do was slip through the Tahn net off Cavite, maneuver through the attacking forces, find a safe landing at Cavite Base, and then scuttle for a bomb shelter.
No problem, he desperately hoped. We're a lucky ship.
* * * *
The Gamble's luck ran out eight miles high above Cavite. A six-ship flight of interceptors jumped the Gamble. Sten tried to climb for space—but the battle computer showed three destroyers that could intercept.
The interceptors had speed and maneuverability on the Gamble. Sten sent his ship at speed toward the ground, zigging in a random pattern.
Kilgour sent three Fox countermissiles to the rear. Two interceptors sharded, and then the rest of the flight was in range. Sten saw the tiny silver flickers of light under the interceptors’ main airfoils.
"I have seven ... no ... observed launches,” Foss said, his voice starting to crack. “Intercept time..."
And three of the missiles hit the Gamble. Sten heard the hammer blows, saw flame flare from the control panel, noted the mist-hung mountains below filling the frozen main screen, and felt the manual controls go dead.
The Tahn interceptor flight commander pulled out of his dive and half rolled. He watched the smoke-pluming Imperial tacship vanish into the mist, then ordered his squadron to return to the mother ship.
It had been a very good day for him.
Five ... no, this would be the sixth Imperial his flight had downed.
He determined to order an issue of spirits as a reward.
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BOOK FOUR
TAKE EVERY MAN HIS BIRD
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CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
THE ETERNAL EMPEROR considered what would adequately describe his current mood. Angry—no. Far beyond that. Enraged. Not that—he wasn't showing any emotion. At least so he hoped. Standard Galactica wasn't helping much. He ran through some of the more exotic languages learned from equally unusual beings.
Yes. The Matan word “k'loor” applied, which could be loosely translated as a state compounded equally of worry, unhappiness, hatred, and anger, a state whose existence, though, allowed extreme clarity of thought and an ability to instantly reach and act on a conclusion.
Self-description didn't, however, improve the Imperial mood.
A lot of his ire was self-directed. He had miscalculated serially on when the Tahn would be ready to fight, the state of his own armed forces, and how weasely some of his most trusted allies would prove.
Add to that the fact that he was pacing back and forth outside a sports palace, in front of a stern-faced and geriatric guard armed with a huge, studded club that he had trouble lifting. Time was wasting.
Once again, the delay was his own fault.
The Eternal Emperor had set himself up with many fallback positions. Even if, for instance, the entire command center under Arundel had been destroyed, duplicate centers existed on a dozen worlds. There were also three secret centers known only to the Emperor.
He had allowed for other secondary centers, personnel, and instructions for the other elements of his administration. He had missed only one.
Perhaps hopefully, perhaps cynically, he had established no secondary hall for his Parliament. Possibly he had hoped that if the building were destroyed, it would contain the legislators whose presen
ce he found mostly abhorrent. But the building on the other side of the mountain was intact, if somewhat radioactive. And only a handful of parliamentarians had been in it when the Tahn missile struck.
Until the building was decontaminated, one of Prime World's sports centers had been commandeered.
That did not explain the Emperor's wait outside its doors. But that, too, was of his own making.
The Eternal Emperor felt that his people should get some flash and filigree with their government. So he had stolen a ceremony from one or another ancient Earth government.
In theory he was allowed to attend Parliament only at the indulgence of the majority. That meant that ceremonial guards would bar his entrance, he would insist on his right to enter as Emperor, and he would be refused. He would then insist on his right to enter with force of arms. Again he would be refused. Only on the third, humbly worded polite request would he be allowed in. All of the above drakh was done with flowery speech and equally absurd pirouettings.
The Emperor had been proud of this. He thought ceremony an idle tide of pomp and avoided it as much as possible. Entering Parliament was necessary only a couple of times a year for carefully choreographed occasions. The real work of governing was done at the palace, in committee meetings or by carefully negotiated edict.
But now, when he was forced by emergency to address Parliament, he was faced with this—this foofaraw of his own invention.
He looked behind him at Captain Limbu and his second Gurkkha bodyguard, daring them to show a slight glint of humor. The Emperor was well aware that the Nepalese found almost everything funny, especially if it involved a superior and embarrassment. Their faces were mahogany. The Emperor grunted and turned back to the front. Probably, he thought, just before the doors swung open and the ancient guard saluted with the mace, almost dropping it in the process, probably they were angry because they had been forced to disarm.
Again he was wrong. The Gurkkhas merely had excellent poker faces. And the loss of their normal willyguns, grenades, and the kukri knife wasn't important—both men had tiny mini willyguns in their tunics, guns that Imperial Intelligence guaranteed would pass through any inspection other than a complete shakedown.