by Jay Allan
“All ships, increase thrust to 4g.” Chang wanted to close and finish off the Martian fleet before their heavy units could reverse course. Once the rest of the fleet was destroyed, he could hunt down the giant battlewagons at will. He knew the two ships were awesomely powerful, but they wouldn’t stand a chance against his whole fleet. Whatever the Martian commander was thinking, Liang was sure he had made a mistake, one that would cost him his fleet.
He was tempted to zip everybody up and blast away at full thrust, closing the distance that much faster, but he didn’t want to fight the battle from the tanks. The Martians were outnumbered, but they had a reputation for professionalism, and he wasn’t about to underestimate them. He knew his crews were no match for the Martians man for man, and he wanted them at their best for the battle. Naval commanders told themselves various things, but Liang knew that no crew ever made was as effective operating from the acceleration tanks, drugged up and half-crushed to death.
“Admiral Liang, we are approaching launch range.” Vladimir Lugarin’s voice was deep, his Russian accent thick. Stark had mandated English as the language to be used on his fleet, but there were many crew members, Liang himself, who were native to other tongues. Those who couldn’t speak English used portable AIs to translate, but Lugarin thought he spoke English better than he did, and his AI was rarely activated.
“All ships prepare to launch externally-mounted ordnance.” Liang spoke excellent English, like most of the elite classes in the CAC. It was an idiosyncrasy of CAC culture. The English-speaking Alliance had been the enemy for more than a century, and the United States and its allies before that. Yet, despite the almost xenophobic ethos the CAC had developed, and the mandated respect for ethnically pure culture imposed on the masses, it remained the custom for the upper classes to learn other languages, particularly English.
Lugarin worked his controls, sending the pre-fire orders to the ships of the fleet. Weapons crews were entering final missile plots and preparing to launch their deadly ordnance. In a few seconds, hundreds of gigatons of nuclear death would blast forth toward the Martian ships, and those vessels would respond with their own deadly volleys.
“All vessels report ready to launch, Admiral.”
Liang sat quietly for a few seconds, inhaling deeply. He’d spent most of the past two years dreading his ultimate confrontation with Augustus Garret. Liang had been the CAC’s senior admiral, the battle commander of its entire navy, but his inability to defeat the Alliance’s brilliant combat leader had cost him his rank and position…and almost his life. Li An had promised him an unpleasant death as the price of his final failure, and Liang’s only escape had been to throw himself on the mercy of her nemesis, Gavin Stark. He’d spent the years after in comfortable but total seclusion in Alliance Intelligence headquarters.
At first he’d thought Stark kept him alive just to annoy Li An, but one day the master spy came to visit, and he offered Liang an opportunity to return to fleet command. Liang jumped at the chance, but the realization that sooner or later he would have to face his old nemesis had weighed on him since. Liang was an experienced commander, but he knew he couldn’t beat Garret, not without a massive superiority he was unlikely to have. When he got the order to ready the fleet, he felt a flush of panic ripple through his body, but then he realized they were moving against the Martians and not Garret.
Relieved of the burden of facing the brilliant Alliance admiral, he welcomed the chance at a battle to redeem his reputation. Now he was back in the Sol system, facing the last major spacefleet other than his and Garret’s. When it was destroyed, the Shadow Legions would be one step closer to total victory. Liang wasn’t comfortable relying on Stark’s gratitude, but he was sure it was preferable to enduring his wrath.
He stared over at Lugarin. “All ships are to launch at once.”
Stark sat quietly on Spectre’s cramped bridge, as the ship zipped past the asteroid belt bound for Mars. The two other vessels of her class flanked her in a tight formation, moving at the same velocity on matching trajectories. Wraith and Ghost were on their maiden voyages, the two newest additions to Stark’s fleet.
The Martian Confederation controlled most of the outer solar system, and they had outposts and scanning stations on every planet and moon. But Spectre and her sisters were very special vessels, virtually undetectable to any known scanning technology. They had slipped past the Confederation’s detection net, and now they were heading straight for the Red Planet itself.
He twisted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Stark hated space travel. In fact, he hated being off Earth. He wanted to rule mankind’s colony worlds, but he didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary. The colonists were an unruly lot, prone to ask a lot of questions and argue when they were told what to do. That was something he would deal with decisively when he took control. The colonials would learn to obey their master, those who survived the transition, at least.
The one part of his plan he regretted was the complete destruction of Earth’s cities. He’d initially hoped to preserve some level of civilization, but Roderick Vance had wrecked that plan with his nuclear attack on the Dakota facility. In an instant, Stark lost more than two-thirds of the manpower he had to move against the Superpowers. His original idea had been to seize control when the Powers’ armies were on the verge of collapse, but before they started nuking each other’s cities. He’d had close to 1.5 million fully-armored clone soldiers ready to go, but Vance had cost him a million of those. The Dakota facility had been completely obliterated, and everyone there had perished.
He could still succeed with the 350,000 he had left, but he needed the Powers to destroy each other first. His remaining troops would simply sweep down over the post-apocalyptic hell and impose his rule on the scattered and stunned survivors. A few government installations would survive the holocaust, but 350,000 powered infantry was enough to deal with those. He would dig the surviving politicians out of their ratholes one by one, and when he was done, all mankind would serve him and his clone descendants forever.
He glanced down at the scanners. It appeared his little flotilla had remained undetected. They were on a carefully charted course straight for Mars. His ships engines were shut down, and he intended them to stay that way until they were about to enter orbit. He had no intention of giving the Martians any chance to spot him, not until it was too late. Once the deed was done his ships could run for it, and they were faster than anything in space, except perhaps one of the Martian Torches. But even Vance’s superfast craft would have a hard time catching one of his Spectre-class ships before they slipped back into stealth mode and disappeared from the Martian’s scopes.
Stark allowed himself a smile. Even as his little flotilla approached Mars, he knew his fleet was engaging the Martians somewhere in the outer system. Admiral Liang was probably on his flag bridge, Stark thought, even now working himself up into his own lackluster version of a battle frenzy. Liang was a mediocre commander at best, one whose former master had been trying for ten years to carry out a death sentence she’d placed on his head.
Thwarting Li An all those years had been its own special pleasure, but Liang had become useful in his own right. He wasn’t an Augustus Garret, nothing close, but he was the best Stark had available. Admirals with fleet command experience were hard to find, especially ones willing to see their old comrades sacrificed along with everyone else. Stark prized moral ambiguity in his subordinates. Men who were motivated solely by personal gain were easier to control. It tended to make things far less complicated.
Liang had enough strength to take out the Confederation’s fleet, but Stark was far from confident. The admiral could easily snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, and the Confederation had a reputation for placing talented commanders in charge of its fleets. But Stark didn’t care, not really. All he wanted was for Liang to cripple the Martian fleet, take them out of any future fight. If he suffered even greater losses himself, even if he lost the battle an
d retreated in disarray, it was of no account. Liang thought he was leading the attack to cripple the Confederation, and Stark had encouraged that belief. But the former CAC admiral and his fleet were a diversion, nothing more.
Gavin Stark was going to deal with the Martian Confederation himself.
“Admiral Ross is reporting heavy damage to all battleline ships, Admiral.” There was concern in Christensen’s voice, and sadness. The Martian Fleet wasn’t as large as those of the other Superpowers, and it was manned almost totally by career officers and enlisted personnel. Almost everyone on John Carter had friends and relatives on the other ships, and it was hard to think about what they were going through fighting against an overwhelming enemy. Especially when John Carter and Sword of Ares appeared to be running away, escaping while the rest of the fleet held off the enemy.
“Very well, Commander.” Campbell felt the worry and guilt as much as any of his crew, but he kept his voice calm and even. He knew if he didn’t set the example for his people, no one else would. Besides, they weren’t abandoning their comrades. Once Carter and Sword of Mars completed their slingshot move around Saturn, they would emerge behind Stark’s fleet, at close range with laser batteries firing full. Then it would be a fight to the death.
His ships had left a trail of buoys behind as they arced around the solar system’s second largest planet, so they’d been able to maintain communications and follow reports of the battle. The Martian ships had been hit hard by the enemy’s massive missile barrage, but they’d managed to score nearly as many hits with their own smaller volleys, and they’d destroyed one of Stark’s battleships with targeted attacks. The Martian capital ships were all damaged, but none of them had been taken out of the fight.
Campbell allowed himself a smile. David Ross was a brilliant officer, one Campbell had been confident to leave in charge of the main fleet while he led the flanking move. Whoever was commanding Stark’s ships, it was clear he was no match for Ross in an even fight. Campbell’s smile faded. Too bad it’s not an even fight, he thought grimly.
“We’re about to lose contact with the fleet, Admiral.”
The buoys had extended the time Campbell’s two ships could stay in contact with the rest of the fleet, but now they were entering the inner zone of Saturn’s magnetic field. They would lose contact for 18 minutes, and then they would emerge behind Stark’s fleet.
“C’mon, David,” Campbell whispered to himself. “Hold it together for another 20 minutes, and we’ll be there.” He closed his eyes, imagining the hell his people were going through. Twenty minutes, he thought. Just hang on for another twenty minutes. But he knew that was a long time.
Chapter 7
Front Lines
120 kilometers east of Paris
French Zone, Europa Federalis
Werner stared out from inside the heavy command vehicle. There were mushroom clouds in a long line stretching across the Europan lines, and more rising up in the distance behind. He’d hesitated as long as he could before launching the deadly barrage, but his orders were explicit, and they left him no latitude at all.
He’d been reluctant to escalate the conflict so significantly, but once he moved to execute his orders, he found the entire episode began to feed on itself, compelling him to increase the intensity of the attack even beyond the minimum requirements imposed by the high command. He knew his attack would almost certainly prompt a response in kind. Facing certain escalation, he realized he had to make his first strike count, and he actually added to the target list and increased the number of warheads used, hoping to gain as much advantage as he could from hitting first.
His forces were advancing now, moving almost without resistance through the shattered remnants of the Europan lines. He knew that wouldn’t last. He’d hit the enemy as hard as he could, but he knew they would still have enough surviving batteries and rocket launchers for a retaliatory strike. He was surprised it hadn’t happened yet, but he knew that only meant he’d taken the enemy by surprise. That would buy him a few hours, nothing more. Then his own troops would be bracketed by nuclear explosions and bombarded with nerve gas. His command centers and supply depots would be targeted and destroyed, and his surviving units would be scattered and disorganized.
His hospitals and rear areas would be flooded with wounded, soldiers with severe burns and radiation poisoning. Thousands would die waiting for care or for lack of medical supplies or adequate facilities. The roads that weren’t destroyed in the blasts would be clogged with stunned and wounded survivors, separated from their decimated units and straggling aimlessly through the countryside. He knew it was coming, he could see it in his mind, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.
His people were as ready as they could be, though there were limited options to prepare for a massive nuclear bombardment. He’d dispersed his command and control and logistics as much as possible. He was riding around the wilderness in a glorified truck, not a very impressive headquarters for an army group commander. But he’d chosen mobility and anonymity over trying to dig deep enough to survive the inevitable strike that would obliterate his headquarters.
His hospitals were fully staffed and stocked with all the supplies and medicines he could obtain, and he’d moved them as far away as possible from any likely military targets. He had disbursed extra food and ammunition to his units, in anticipation of them receiving nothing else for a considerable time after the assault.
The Europan armies were already struggling with that hell, he knew, and they’d been far less prepared than his forces. With any luck, his people would endure the nuclear hell better than their enemies. But, however prepared he was, he knew it would be bad nevertheless. Within a few days, the men on the front lines might be fighting with rocks and using their empty rifles as clubs. The few that were still alive, at least.
“Sir, General Hoffman reports his forces have reached the outskirts of Fontainebleau. He has encountered only light resistance, and his troops have taken 200,000 prisoners.” Potsdorf sounded excited. The aide was an experienced soldier, but he’d come so far, so fast, he couldn’t fully grasp the implications of what was happening. Hoffman’s army was halfway to Paris in just a few hours, and it looked like enemy resistance was falling away.
Werner nodded. “Thank you, Major.” His voice was terse, clipped. Maybe Hoffman’s people will get closer to Paris, he thought. The Europans would have to be a bit more careful right dropping nukes right around their capital, he thought. The front line might actually be the safest place to be right now. “Give General Hoffman my regards, and advise him to press on to Paris with all possible speed.”
Werner knew he should congratulate his army commander himself, but he just didn’t have it in him. He knew the angel of death would be calling on his forces soon, and he was waiting. Waiting to see who survived.
“Attention all units, attention all units.” All the com speakers crackled to life, a Highest Priority message coming through and overriding all other communications. “This is CEL detection station Gamma. We are tracking approximately 400 intermediate range missiles inbound for troop positions along the Europan front.”
Werner took a deep breath. At least the waiting would be over soon. The Europan launch sites were not that far away. He figured his people had 2 minutes, maybe 3 before the incoming missiles started dropping nukes on them. And less time before the atomic-armed artillery began dropping nuclear shells on his lines.
“Let’s find the closest thing to cover we can, boys.” The command vehicle was the safest place to be. Its shielding wouldn’t do much if a nuke landed too close, but it would offer some protection against radiation and minor blast damage. But most importantly, it was kilometers away from any headquarters or other priority target. “Over there, between those two rock outcrop…”
Werner saw the first flash and he turned away, putting his hands over his face. Fuck, he thought. The blast shield wasn’t down. “We’ve got to…”
Another wave of blinding
light poured into the cabin, and a few second later, the blast wave shattered the heavy supposedly unbreakable glass of the forward viewport, sending razor sharp shards flying around the interior of the heavy vehicle.
Werner fell forward, trying to reach around to his back, groaning at the stabbing pain. He struggled to get up and check on the rest of the staff just as a third nuke detonated, this one even closer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then the shockwave came, and it lifted the 40 ton vehicle, slamming it into the heavy rock outcropping like a child’s toy.
Axe stood on top of a mound of collapsed masonry, staring out over the rubble-strewn streets of the Manhattan Protected Zone. They’re going to have to change the name, he thought with a vicious scowl. It’s not very protected anymore. The elites who’d called this enclave home were mostly dead now, those who hadn’t managed to escape, at least.
Most of them hadn’t died easily. The Cogs of New York had been passive for a long time, generation after generation meekly accepting their position on society’s lowest rung. Caught between the oppressive government and the vicious gangs, they’d lived lives of fear and poverty for over a century. But now that had changed, and the anger and hatred, so long buried and kept in place by fear, erupted, and the Cogs went mad with rage and violence.
The mob turned into a wild animal, lashing out at all those who had oppressed them. The enraged Cogs stormed the government buildings, ignoring the losses as they threw themselves against the heavily-armed police. They dragged out the security forces who had gunned so many of them down, tearing them to shreds in the street. They chased the terrified middle classes and politicians alike, massacring them all in an orgy of bloodletting. Gang members were tortured to death by those they had victimized for so long, and the mangled corpses of the victims were everywhere.
It was vengeance for a century of suffering and oppression, and it was deadly and indiscriminant. The mob wanted blood. It wanted revenge, not justice, and it fell on anyone who reeked even faintly of privilege.