The Phoenix Reckoning (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 6)

by Richard Sanders

  “So you’re Lafayette Nimoux,” said the leader; in briefing, Calvin had mentioned a Grady Rosco, Nimoux assumed this was him.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” said Nimoux. Although the Rosco bodyguard company was certainly more comely than the fatigues, helmets, and armor that Nimoux and his men wore, he doubted the handmade suits would be very protective in an actual fight. For that matter the submachine guns, despite their high-capacity magazines, were an older make and Nimoux knew that—if they weren’t properly and regularly maintained—were prone to jamming. He sincerely hoped the rest of the Roscos’ defense consisted of weapons and armor a bit more substantial.

  “I’ve heard of you,” said the leader, pointing his cigar at him. “You’re some kind of legend, the way they tell it.”

  “They do me a disservice,” said Nimoux. “I’m just a normal man, doing his job like everybody else.”

  The leader gave him a scrutinizing look then smiled. “Modesty. I like that. I think we’re going to get along just fine. The name’s Grady, Grady Rosco,” he shifted his cigar to his left hand then thrust out his right. Nimoux shook it. “Good,” said Grady. “Now that introductions are out of the way, if you gentlemen will please follow us, we’ll take you to the command center.”

  With a wave, Grady and his escort moved toward the terminal’s exit. Nimoux walked alongside Grady while the rest of his team followed.

  “A station like this has a command center?” asked Nimoux. As they exited the terminal and entered an empty hub-like room that branched into a series of wide corridors, Nimoux got the distinct impression that the station had been cobbled together out of decommissioned starships and spare parts.

  “Well, we do today,” said Grady. He led them down one of the corridors and, after winding a few corners, they entered a large gambling hall emblazoned with the words The Rodeo Den. Although the vast gambling hall was deserted, the smell of smoke remained pungent. Grady took them inside a back room; it had caged teller windows and clearly was meant for handlers to exchange Q with chips during business hours. Nimoux also noted a series of safes along the side wall, and one on the floor facing upwards. Above it had been placed a four legged table, and on its surface were various documents, including what looked like schematics for the entire station.

  “And here we are,” said Grady. “This is the most defensible spot in the whole casino.”

  Nimoux glanced around, noting the protective measures which, with its metal caging and steel door, at best, seemed designed to prevent a hostile patron from robbing the house. There were also red-button alarm switches all along the bottom of the forward-facing panel, no doubt so a distressed employee could call for help, but Nimoux knew those would be of no use to him today. In fact, the entire room made him uncomfortable, it felt more like a deathtrap than a defense bunker, and it violated Calvin’s orders to make certain he had an escape route to the hangar. Once they shut that steel door, he wouldn’t.

  Still, he had to work with what he had.

  “Come take a look at this stuff,” said Grady.

  Nimoux approached the table and began sorting through the documents, mentally cataloguing them. Most would not be useful, however the schematics—which seemed very comprehensive—would be invaluable. “This,” he said, pointing to the primary blueprint, “this is good.”

  “I thought you might like that,” said Grady with a smirk. He took a long drag of his cigar and then breathed out the disgusting smoke as if he’d just tasted a small sliver of heaven. Despite trying not to, Nimoux coughed.

  “Oh, where are my manners?” said Grady. “Would you like one?” he drew a pack of cigars from seemingly nowhere and thrust them toward Nimoux. Nimoux, still coughing, raised a hand to reject the cigars.

  “And none for my men, either,” he said, as soon as he was able. Much to the chagrin of First Lieutenant Ferreiro—who’d been extending out a hand—and possibly the others.

  “What about drinks?” asked Grady.

  Nimoux spoke before his men had a chance to. “Nothing for me. And nothing alcoholic for my men. I need them to have their wits.”

  “Okay then, how about some fresh brewed coffee?” asked Grady.

  Nimoux nodded. “None for me. But that’s fine if they want some.”

  They did.

  “Jackson, go fetch four coffees,” said Grady.

  “And one hot tea,” added Nimoux. He looked at Grady, “I changed my mind.”

  “And one hot tea,” Grady confirmed. Jackson left. Once he was gone, Grady tapped the schematics twice and looked up at Nimoux. “So tell me, Legend of Korrivan, do you approve of my plan?”

  Grady had marked where all of his soldiers were positioned and, for the most part, he hadn’t done a terrible job. He knew the basics, to favor positions of strength, to remember to keep exits and means by which to fall back. He took excellent advantage of chokepoints. Really, there were only a handful of flaws with his plan that Nimoux could see, though one was glaring.

  “I like it,” said Nimoux. “But there re a few changes that need to be made.”

  “Then change them,” Grady said with a shrug. “If you’re as good as Calvin says, as good as everybody says, then I trust you. Just tell me how you want it done and I’ll make it happen.”

  Nimoux was grateful to see that Grady was willing to be cooperative, rather than defensive or argumentative about the plan he’d pre-drawn.

  “You see these points, here and here?” asked Nimoux.

  “Yeah,” said Grady.

  “These are the places where the cutter-class transports are most likely to saw their way into your station, implant a seal, and then begin boarding.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Grady. “I would expect here and there instead.”

  “Those are not bad choices, and certainly both need to be defended. But, if the enemy knows anything about this station—which I’m going to assume that they do—they will prefer to board you here or there,” he pointed to each place. “It gives them easy access to early cover, and gives us the fewest means by which we can pin them down or ambush them as they exit their ships.”

  “So we set up everything in those two places,” said Grady with a shrug. “No big deal, right?”

  “Well, while that’s tempting,” said Nimoux, “I’m only assuming that they have good information and that they are making the most logical choices available to them. We might find that you were right initially, and that they will invade there and there instead. Or maybe even just right there,” each time he mentioned a spot he indicated it by pointing.

  “So, what are you suggesting?” asked Grady. “Because that is a lot of places to try and cover. I don’t think we have enough people.”

  “You are probably right,” said Nimoux, biting his lip as he thought. “Okay, what about this? We position a group of defenders, as best as possible, at every one of those points. And give them instructions to fall back before they are overwhelmed. We’ll hold a force of men in reserve here, at this hub, with easy access to any point, and once we know where the attacks are happening, these men can rush to reinforce the defenders. Then, once their ships have cut their way in, so long as we still control the main access corridors—which is imperative, I cannot stress that enough—we can move our forces to wherever they are needed. The defenders need only to stall the enemy long enough.”

  Grady nodded. “That sounds good.”

  “Now there is another thing we need to be careful of, something your current defensive positions have not taken into account.”

  “And what is that?”

  “A tactic that is often used by a cutter-class transport is to breach the hull, allow the explosive decompression, and then seal the breach only after the defenders have been blown out into space, or else blown out of position.”

  “Wouldn’t that mean there wouldn’t be any air for the attackers when they board?”

  “No, they would still have air, the air would equalize with the rest of the station, unless that s
ection is cut off for some reason. For a small window of time there would not be any breathable air, but it would return. And I’m guessing the Enclave’s Strigoi soldiers only need very thin air, if any, anyway.”

  “That’s a good point. So where does that leave us?” asked Grady.

  “That depends on your equipment and how much time we have until they attack,” said Nimoux. “But we can either hand them the invasion points outright and then be waiting to oppose them in the corridors—”

  “I don’t like that; it lets them get their boots on the ground unopposed.”

  “But we’d still have the advantage of the chokepoints,” said Nimoux. “Which can pin them down considerably—if the men know what they are doing and are properly armed.”

  “I still don’t like it. What’s option two?”

  “Option two is to anchor your cargo at those points—especially anything that may be used for cover by your people, and then give your people climate gear, the ones you position at those landing zones, and anchor them to their spots, so they won’t be carried away by the explosive decompression.”

  “That’s doable,” said Grady, nodding his head. “I like that.”

  “Just make sure the people anchored down have a way to un-anchor, so when they are inevitably overwhelmed, they can retreat into the corridors where we will still have people ready to use the narrow passages as chokepoints to contain the enemy.”

  “I’ll set it up,” said Grady. “Now, what about your men? Do you need them here as your own personal bodyguards or can they help in the fight?”

  Nimoux considered it. He didn’t want anyone to be his personal bodyguard; he felt undeserving of such a protective measure. Besides, if it came down to it, he still intended to open the steel door and retreat, should the station be about to fall.

  “They can be used in the action,” said Nimoux. “But you have to keep them as a unit and only assign them where they volunteer to be assigned.”

  “Done,” said Grady.

  As Grady began making commands over the radio, seeming to execute Nimoux’s plan to the letter, Nimoux let out a sigh and hoped he’d made the right judgment calls. He wasn’t used to fighting an enemy like this, and so he’d planned his defense as if he were being attacked by Polarians, Rotham, or even humans. Not Strigoi—who were neither understood nor predictable.

  I don’t know if my idea is the best one, thought Nimoux, I only know that it’s my best idea.

  ***

  She was dead. She lay on the coroner’s table, cleaned and drained of fluids. She seemed paler than she had before—a nearly impossible feat—and her naked corpse was riddled with holes. She’d been shot twenty-one times, to be exact, in seemingly everywhere but her head. Her face was unharmed, perfectly recognizable. Other than the gauntness of her flesh, and the fact that her eyes had rolled back in their sockets, she looked the same. And so he knew the corpse before him was undeniably her. He’d even had her injected with Xinocodone before they’d killed her, just to be certain it was really her. It was. Which made the naked, gaunt, bullet-riddled corpse before him perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a great long time.

  Mira Pellew is finally gone. Forever. Thank the universe that one thing, at least, has gone right, thought Raidan.

  “Captain to the bridge,” a voice reported over the morgue’s loudspeaker. Unless some unexpected emergency had arisen, Raidan knew what it meant. It meant they were there. They were summoning him just like he’d asked them to.

  “Goodnight, old friend,” he said, giving the corpse one last look. “You were a worthy foe. And, honestly, a total bitch.” He nodded for the coroner to close the body bag and, as the man did, Raidan swept away, leaving the morgue.

  Once he arrived at the bridge, his suspicions were confirmed. Stars filled the windows and, on the 3D display, he saw a familiar planet with many tiny objects encircling it—orbital structures.

  “Sir, we have arrived in Capital System,” reported Commander Mason. Ever since Raidan had given the man a battlefield promotion from 2O to XO, he had taken it upon himself to give Raidan a full report whenever Raidan entered the bridge. So Raidan held his silence for a moment and simply listened.

  “The majority of the battlegroup has dropped out of alteredspace, about seventy-five percent, with the rest of the ships scheduled to arrive any minute. So far the local defenses have taken notice of us, and the defensive starbases have changed their orbits accordingly, but no weapons have yet been fired.”

  “General Quarters,” said Raidan. “And clear for action.”

  “Clear for action!” Commander Mason yelled as he ran the length of the bridge, making sure that each station chief, and their lieutenants, had heard him. Mr. Gates transmitted the order to the other decks. A few seconds later, the emergency lights snapped on and the klaxon could be heard.

  Raidan went to the command position, but remained standing. “Mr. Frederickson, I want you to monitor our shields, double-strength forward.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Demir, arm all weapons and confirm with each gunnery crew that they are ready at their stations.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the defense chief.

  “Mr. Gates,” said Raidan, looking at the comms chief. “Send a warning to those starbases and orbital platforms; let them know that I am willing to accept their surrender. If they refuse, then I must, rather unfortunately, destroy them.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “And Mr. Watson, bring us nice and close to those starbases so they can get a good, long look at us. Once we’re close enough, then hold position. Mr. Gates, have one of your lieutenants relay that command to the entire battlegroup.”

  “Yes, sir,” both men acknowledged.

  Raidan looked at the 3D display and watched as it adjusted, zooming in on Capital World’s defense structures. They were not something to be meddled with lightly, they had the force of several battleships and were crewed by professionals. But Raidan also could not allow them to stand in his way. And if he showed restraint now, then no one on the surface would take his threat seriously. And they needed to. They really needed to. So this damned war would finally end.

  “Mr. Ivanov, has the rest of the battlegroup arrived yet?”

  “Yes, sir. The final ship is just descending from alteredspace now, sir.”

  “Mr. Gates, command the entire battlegroup to follow this ship, but order them to disperse more, so we’re not all one big fat target.” He looked at the formation of his ships on the tactical 3D display, compared it to the starbases visible on the main 3D display, and determined that a dispersed formation would be best to minimize casualties on his end.

  “Mr. Ivanov, what other ships are out there?”

  “When we first arrived, sir, there was a heavy amount of civilian traffic, as well as the presence of several sentry and destroyer class warships.”

  “And now?” asked Raidan.

  “The civilians have been ordered to take close orbit around the planet or else to jump into alteredspace. As for the warships, they’ve been escorting the civilian vessels into orbit. They should be on our scopes again any moment.”

  Only a few moments after he said the words, several tiny vessels could be seen on the main 3D display, apparently taking up a defensive position within the safety of the starbases’ shields.

  “If they think that will save them, they’re wrong,” said Raidan. Then he looked to Mr. Gates. “Any reply from the starbases?”

  “They reject our demands and order us to heave-to and surrender our vessels, in the name of the king.”

  “In the name of the king…” muttered Raidan, scornfully. “Honestly, I can’t think of a person less kingly than Caerwyn Martel.”

  “You’ve got that right, sir,” said Commander Mason.

  “Very well then, if it’s our teeth they want, it’s our teeth they shall have,” said Raidan. “Mr. Watson, give us some velocity and then yaw hard to starboard.”

  “Aye, sir.
”

  “Mr. Demir, order all portside guns to fire on Starbase One. Mr. Gates, give the same order to the battlegroup, but inform them the starbase is to be crippled only, not destroyed.”

  Both men acknowledged. And, after a few seconds, Raidan could see their beam weapons crashing against the starbase’s shields, while many tiny missiles lit up the tactical 3D display, and flashes of gunfire could be seen.

  “They are returning fire, sir,” reported Mr. Frederickson.

  “Of course they are,” said Raidan. “Frederickson, you keep those shields double front; Demir, have your crews prioritize enemy missiles—especially those not aimed at this ship—Ivanov, siphon as much power as you can and redirect it to the shields.”

  All men acknowledged, and began giving orders to their crews and stations. Blinding flashes of light appeared as the starbase’s many beam weapons slammed into the Harbinger’s shields. The second starbase joined in the fight, it too targeting the Harbinger with its weapons.

  “Shields down to fifty-five percent,” reported Mr. Frederickson.

  “Steady,” said Raidan. “Any moment now.”

  Then it happened. Starbase One went dark, seeming to go completely offline. It stopped firing its weapons, its shields were gone, and extensive battle damage could be seen on its exterior.

  “Order the battlegroup to cease fire.”

  “Aye, sir,” acknowledged Mr. Gates; he sent the order and the firing ceased. Except for the weapons fire coming from Starbase Two.

  “Order all ships that took fire, except this one, to rotate behind the others in the battlegroup,” said Raidan. “I want fresh ships attacking Starbase Two.”

  “Aye, sir, relaying order.”

  “Mr. Watson, hard to port, if you don’t mind. Let’s give our port shields a chance to recover and our starboard gunners a chance at some target practice.”