Exodus: Empires at War: Book 8: Soldiers (Exodus: Empires at War.)

by Doug Dandridge

  “Sir,” said the Chief Medical Officer of the flagship on a side holo. “Everyone is going to get a little sick in about twenty-seven hours. And very ill just after forty-nine.”

  “Then we’ll just have to deal with it. Our brothers and sisters are about to get into the fight of their lives, and I want us right there with them as soon as possible.”

  Len sat back in his chair, realizing that a lot of people were going to second guess his decision. He was sure there was a lot of grumbling going on at this moment. As long as his people continued to do their jobs, he could deal with that.

  * * *

  “I’m not sure Len is thinking clearly about this one,” said McCullom, standing by the Emperor’s chair as they both looked at the trio of holos that showed the operation in several scales. The one to the right showed the planet, with the ships in orbit battling it out with the small force of Caca ships that were still fighting, and the representation of friendly versus enemy territory on the planet. The one to the left showed the entire New Moscow system, with the location of every ship that was boosting shown as a vector arrow, those that were not boosting but still known as icons, while the inertialess fighters were represented by blinking icons showing their predicted location.

  We could have used those aliens, those Klassekians, with those fighters, thought the Emperor, turning his attention toward the central holo that showed the entire area of operations. The fighters missed because there was no way to communicate with them, to let them know that the target was not at the point it had been predicted it would be. With the quantum connectedness of the aliens, they might have been able to contact them, and adjust their vectors and acceleration.

  “Len is doing what he thinks he needs to do to get his people into the battle as soon as possible,” said Sean, looking up and over at his CNO. “Can you think of anything that might work as well.”

  “No, your Majesty. But he is risking the safety and health of his personnel.”

  Sean studied the profile of his senior naval officer. She had been in command of Home Fleet before she had been promoted to CNO. While technically a combat command, Home Fleet had not in fact engaged in any combat action for over a century. Len had been CNO for over a decade, but before that he had commanded the Sector III Battle Fleet, facing both the Lasharans and the Fenri. He had seen a lot of action in that post, and had had to make some hard decisions, something the CNO had not had to do. And that was one reason she was now the CNO, which was more of an administrative position than a combat command.

  “His job is to win battles and kill Cacas,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “That is his only concern. His only concern. That’s the kind of person I want in command of my battle fleet.”

  Sondra looked at him for a moment, her mouth hanging open, then nodded her head. “You are correct of course, your Majesty.”

  “It’s best to let the commander on the spot choose his course of action,” said Sean, in the same kind of lecturing tone he had heard at the academy.

  The CNO smiled. “Even with wormholes that let everyone, including the Chief of Logistics, look over that commander’s shoulder and second guess him.”

  “Especially with those wormholes,” said Sean, who had on several occasions had to rein himself in when he wanted to second guess a commander on the spot. He sat there for a moment, then pulled up another holo that showed the disposition of Home Fleet. That massive formation was at only half of its pre-war strength, and Parliament was constantly raising hell that it had been weakened to that point, since it was the last line of defense, supposedly, for the core systems.

  “Can we take some task forces from Home Fleet and gate them to the New Moscow system?” Sean changed the main holo over to one that represented the wormhole gate system as it stood at the moment. There was a gate in the capital system, right next to the Central Docks. That led to a gate ring, a set of ship gates protected by forts and squadrons of ships, in orbit around the black hole at the center of the Supersystem. Those gates led to different systems around the Empire, but, unfortunately, none to the system they needed to go to.

  A light hour away was another gate ring, currently holding eleven portals widely separated so that nothing could take more than one out at a time. The distance between the rings was also there for that purpose. If an enemy came through a gate, the other rings would be too far away to attack except with missiles launched at range. That ring had a gate they could use, one that linked to one at the Sector IV Fleet Base. From there it was another hop to one of the systems that was a marshalling yard for the fleet that was sending ships to the near planet force. Sean traced that path, the shortest to get more ships into the system. There was no direct link into the systems that was supplying ships to the outer force, and even if there were, it would still take almost twelve hours to accelerate those ships on a path that would move them through the fast moving gates in the New Moscow system.

  “We can get ships there within twelve hours,” said Sondra, following the path the Emperor was tracing through the holo. “But Parliament will raise hell.”

  “Let me worry about Parliament, Sondra. They aren’t your worry, especially since you have already achieved the highest rank you possibly can, so their approval is not all that important.” Sean glanced at the holo again, then looked at the deployments to the planet that were already in the queue. Thanks to the destruction of two of the gates, it would take over eight hours to get the rest of the ships through. That would still mean a four hour period where no ships would be available for transit.

  “What if we start sending ships over from this second ring? Not all of them, just a couple of squadrons. Then we move the same number of squadrons over from this ring. And then when some of the ships come over from Central Docks, we can station them at that first ring. That way we don’t weaken the defenses of either of those rings, and still get the ships where we want them to be, with no delays in deployment.”

  “That could work,” said the CNO. “Though I’m not really sure why we’re so worried about the defense of those rings, as far behind the lines as they are. It’s not like the Cacas have any strike forces likely to force a gate further out.”

  After what they almost did to the Donut, I’m not about to take any chances, thought Sean, running the figures through his mind and seeing what he could send. He still didn’t think it was enough, but it would have to do.

  “The crews are going to be surprised,” said McCullom, pulling up a com holo so she could order the movement. “I’m not sure they’re going to appreciate the orders on such short notice.”

  “They’ll just have to deal with it,” said Sean, returning the central holo to a view of the operations area. “They’re Fleet, and they must be ready to go where we want and do what we say, no matter the consequences.” Just like it will be my job to agonize over every one of their deaths.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was my duty to shoot the enemy, and I don't regret it. My regrets are for the people I couldn't save: Marines, soldiers, buddies. I'm not naive, and I don't romanticize war. The worst moments of my life have come as a SEAL. But I can stand before God with a clear conscience about doing my job.

  Chris Kyle.

  PLANET NEW MOSCOW, MID DAY, APRIL 8TH, 1002.

  “The first of the reinforcements are coming in from orbit, Samuel,” said General Lucius Arbuckle over the com. Static still crackled through the transmission, despite the best the Army could do to cut through it.

  “That’s great news, sir,” replied Lt. General Samuel Baggett. “We can use them.”

  The plan had called for the third corps of the army to be delivered from orbit, along with a division’s worth of support troops, and two divisions worth of Imperial Marines. Unfortunately, only two assault ships, carrying a total of two brigades of heavy infantry, had arrived. And while the Fleet was finally in a position to provide orbital fire support, the Cacas had gotten most of their troops out of their barracks area and into the field. Most of their
aircraft were either in the air or deployed to hidden landing fields. And with all of the static being generated by jamming, the Fleet was having a time of trying to locate even the targets they knew of.

  “How is the evacuation going?” asked the Army Commander, who must have a pretty good idea already of how it was going.

  “Slowly,” said Baggett. “I’m afraid we miscalculated on how fast we could move the refugees. I don’t think we took into account how sick and weak they might be. The logisticians seemed to have thought they were dealing with healthy soldiers who could move quickly and surely to the gates and through.”

  “I know,” said the General in a voice that dripped with fatigue. “I know. And all we can do is keep plugging away and get as many as we can through the gates. We…”

  Baggett turned as he heard the warning siren that signaled an air attack. In time to see a missile come tracking in on one of the camps, moving at what had to be Mach twenty. Missiles rose from the ground, fired from the heavy suits of a weapons unit, or, in the case of one, a specialized antiaircraft vehicle. The missile was hit, though no one could be sure which counter weapon had struck. With a flash it went off in the sky, a mere five kilometers to the south of the camps edge, at an altitude of four thousand meters.

  Baggett’s faceplate darkened, protecting his eyes from the flaring light. The civilians had no such protection, and hundreds of thousands were blinded, which was not the worst by any means. No, that came when the thermal wave struck the camp and two hundred thousand civilians sustained severe burns. Fifty thousand were killed quickly from the damage, while the rest screamed in agony.

  “The bastards just fired at the camp, sir,” said Baggett, zooming in on the camp with his suit optics, grimacing as he saw the casualties. People crying, holding their hands over ruined eyes. A woman lying motionless, her clothing burned from her body to expose the horrific searing marks on her skin. A child stared sightlessly into space, her eyes ruined scar tissue in her face, her hands reaching for the woman, who must have been her mother, trying to find the comfort that would never be there again.

  “I need more med staff here, sir,” he told the General. “We’re going to be overwhelmed taking care of these people. And I need more air defense.”

  “And we’re short on both, Samuel,” said the General in a soft voice. “I’ll get you what I can, but I can’t promise much.”

  “I understand. But we’re going to have a lot of deaths here if we don’t get some help.”

  The General killed the com. Baggett couldn’t blame the man. It took one tough son of a bitch to look at suffering that they couldn’t do anything about without feeling totally inadequate.

  “General Klash'tar,” said Baggett over the com, connecting to the commander of the 512th Heavy Infantry Division. “We think the enemy has a fire base somewhere around this location. I want you to assign some of your people to seek it out and neutralize it. As soon as possible.”

  “How high a priority?” asked the Phlistaran Major General.

  Baggett sent a shot of the mass of casualties in the camp. “Does this answer your question, General?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll find the bastards, and terminate with extreme prejudice.”

  Baggett cut the com, still staring at the camp. That helpless feeling was still dominant in his consciousness. He had to do something.

  “I need air transport, and I need it now,” he said to his Adjutant over the Corps com net. If I can’t do anything myself, I can at least be there to watch the results of others doing something.

  * * *

  “Target’s in sight,” reported the Commando Scout over the com.

  “We’ve got it,” replied Lt. Commander Nahuel Runningdeer, landing on the side of a mountain that overlooked the valley the gun was operating in. Now that there were really no worries about the detection of electronic signals the commandos were in their light battle armor. Not with a major land to orbit battle going on, with both powers trying their best to jam all the sensors of the other side. Naval Commandos did not receive as much training on unarmored land operations Rangers or Force Recon. They received more training in armored operations in space, which could also translate into using the armor on the ground, like now.

  A couple of thousand meters below was what they had come to kill. It was really impossible to get a good look at it with all the holographic projectors it was using to simulate the landscape around it. Then it fired, a brilliant flash at the end of the hundred meter long barrel. The very air around that barrel caught on fire from the velocity generated friction of the massive round the gun had fired. A tunnel of fire appeared leading into the sky, seeming to instantaneously materialize.

  There was another flash in the sky, the antimatter loaded round hitting its target. Moving at point zero three light, or nine thousand kilometers a second, the target had less than a second to realize the round was coming its way, much too little for any kind of effective response.

  The gun moved an instant after the shot was fired, its supports rising back into the body, lifting on its grabbers and scooting away at several hundred kilometers an hour. The decoy it had deployed, a small bot that radiated heat and electronic noise, stayed in place a kilometer to the other side of where the gun had been sitting. While the gun was still moving a laser beam came thrusting through the dusty air to hit the decoy, which exploded in a ball of fire and sparks. Moments later a trail of fire much like the shot of the gun in reverse came down to hit a hundred meters from where the gun had been.

  “Down,” shouted Runningdeer into the com. The kinetic hit with a force of multi-megatons, a brilliant flash, a blast wave that leveled trees for kilometers in every direction, while the fireball of a mushroom cloud rose into the air. The Commandos all hugged the ground, getting behind what cover there was to take. Their armor handled the blast and the radiation from the hit that was several kilometers away, and the Lt. Commander was very happy that they had the use of the suits again.

  The gun moved a couple of kilometers and settled back on the ground, its supports shooting down like piston driven pilings. The gun elevated, its massive two thousand ton turret turned. A moment later two particle beams shot from the projectors to either side of the railgun. They only fired for a fraction of a second, before the main gun spoke again, sending another stream of fire into the air.

  “Why the hell did they build such a thing and bring it here?” asked one of the commandos

  “The Cacas didn’t build it,” answered Runningdeer, gesturing toward the case that contained his missile, while picking up the launcher. His com was showing him that the other missile team was also about the same stage of preparation. “They captured it from the New Muscovites, who had built it for ground defense, but never got to use it.”

  The entire device massed over ten thousand tons, and harkened back to the rail guns of the pre-space age. It used powerful warheads to let it hit well above its weight, doing more damage than any kind of dedicated particle beam or laser platform. Each of its antimatter warheads, massing five tons, carried the equivalent explosive power of thirty megatons. While not considered massive as far as naval weaponry was concerned, the mass of the warhead hit with considerable kinetic power to penetrate into the armor before the explosive detonated. The shells themselves were a considerable concern to the Commandos. If the attack went as planned, and the warheads remained stable, there would not be a problem. If several of them breached containment and five or six hundred megatons detonated in this valley, they were all dead men.

  The gun moved again, and the Commander hurriedly prepared his weapon, watching as his assistant loaded the missile, knowing that the clock was ticking, and this weapon was hurting the Fleet he had sworn to serve. He hefted the launcher onto his shoulder and sighted down on the gun. The gun looked like a blur in the sight, a bad painting of a landscape dominated by felled trees. From space or high in the air those holographic projections were probably perfect. Here, on the ground, not so much.

>   “On my command,” said Runningdeer over the com, his finger pulling the first trigger of the launcher and setting the target. “Fire.” He pulled the second trigger, sending the hypervelocity missile toward the target.

  The Cacas couldn’t have even known it was coming. In a fraction of a second both missiles struck, one just before the other. Both penetrated the heavy armor on the gun, not all the way through, but enough to aid the warheads in their task of killing the weapon. Forty megatons of explosive force erupted at a distance of five kilometers from the missile gunners. The Commandos all ducked down, covering behind the rocks while the wind of the blast wave blew past.

  As the blast wave decreased Runningdeer looked up from his position. He smiled as he saw the result of his attack. The turret was cracked open and was rising into the air, tumbling over and over. The hull was also ruptured, and everything that could burn was burning. And the shells onboard hadn’t breached containment, yet.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” the Commander ordered his people. In seconds they had lifted in their suits and were flying out of the valley, running away just in case those shells decided to breach after all.

  * * *

  “Keep those people moving,” yelled Captain Stella Artois to the soldiers in her company.

  The other companies of her battalion were still helping to construct hasty fortifications for the Rangers, leaving her people as the only ones, beside a couple of squads of medics, to assist the civilians into the drop shafts so they could get to the gate. The people could get there by themselves, that wasn’t the problem. Holographic signs floating in the air, pointing to the egress points, would lead them there easily enough. At least those that could see. But the real problem was the stampede that would occur if the people weren’t forced into some kind of orderly formations toward those points.