by Jay Allan
She felt the ship shake hard, buffeted by air currents it was never intended to navigate, and she compensated as much as she could. She glanced at the hull temperature readout. It was 1100 degrees and rising. Damn, she thought, I’m going to have to throttle back on the speed.
Her eyes were locked on her screen, and her moist palms gripped the controls. She had her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied tightly in a knot behind her head. Her neck was hot and moist with sweat, and she could feel her heart pounding in her ears. Her ego had told her she could do this, and now she had to make good on that.
The Lightning-class attack ships carried a normal complement of 68 officers and crew, but she’d cut that down to a barely manageable eight per vessel. She had no engineering crew, no backups of any kind. The mission was stunningly dangerous, and she didn’t want to risk anyone needlessly. But the lack of support staff meant any damage, even a routine malfunction could be fatal. And the Lightnings weren’t built to withstand the rigors of atmospheric flight, so an overtaxed system could fail at any time.
She felt a twinge of guilt. Her people were volunteers, 39 other men and women in the five ships now streaking toward the LZ. But she didn’t fool herself. When an admiral asked for volunteers, especially when she too was going, she knew there was tremendous pressure to step forward. She truly wanted to be at the controls. She was scared, certainly, but the thought of leaving more comrades behind was unthinkable to her. She wondered if the others were as committed as she, or if they were just following their admiral out of loyalty and duty.
“Attention, attack wing Flaming Death.” She had come up with the name, something she thought the leathernecks on the ground would appreciate. “Spread out into attack positions.” She hadn’t had time to make too many mods to the ships, but her engineers had managed to attach ground attack pods to the birds. It made them even harder to fly in an atmosphere, but the cluster bombs were deadly against ground targets.
“We’re each going to hit them with one plasma torpedo.” The attack ships’ primary weapon system was deadly in space, but she had no idea how it would perform in an atmosphere. “Drop those in the enemy rear. We’re not here to fry our own guys.” She’d personally shoot the careless son of a bitch who hit the Marine positions out of carelessness.
She took a deep breath. “Then we’ll turn once and come back low over the close in enemy concentrations and hit them with the cluster bombs.” She nudged the throttle, bringing her ship into the lead position for the attack. “That’s it…then we’re out of here, so make those shots count.”
She swung her ship around, angling for a group of columns marching up from the enemy rear. “OK, gunner, let’s nail those bastards!” She struggled to hold the ship steady, bringing it around to cross over the heaviest troop concentrations. She held her breath, waiting for Specialist Samars to let loose the plasma torpedo. It was a dangerous plan. If the atmosphere proved to be too hard on the fragile containment system, the thing could blow the second it left the tube. If that happened, Typhoon would be gone, vaporized by its own malfunctioning weapon, with nothing but a few surviving chunks left to hit the ground.
The ship shook hard as it released its deadly ordnance, and her eyes flashed to the display, watching the weapon descend toward the ground. She let out a breath, and watched the blip move directly to the target area.
“Alright!” The cheering along the line was deafening, and Callahan instructed his AI to reduce the volume on the unitwide com. There was a second sun on the horizon for a few seconds, a billowing white cloud of energy and death that engulfed the enemy rear areas.
Callahan hadn’t known what to make of the massive craft that had passed overhead, but he was pretty sure now they were friendlies. Ground pounders didn’t see the outsides of spacecraft very often, so none of his people recognized their own fast attack ships. But they’d just vaporized hundreds, no thousands of the enemy, he thought, and that was good enough for him.
“Alright you grunts, stop watching the show and keep firing.” The big aircraft had slammed the enemy rear areas, but there were still plenty of troops closer to his lines, enough to overrun the whole LZ, especially if his people let up their intensity, even for a few seconds.
He set the example himself, leaning toward the front of the hole and whipping his rifle around. He had been picking targets before, but the enemy’s lead elements were getting closer now, and he switched to full auto. He focused on a group of enemy troopers and fired, hitting at least two and sending the others scrambling for cover.
His elation at the air bombardment began to fade as he realized there were still too many enemy troops moving toward his troops. They’d been firing as they advanced and bombarding Callahan’s positions with mortar fire. Three of the six Marines sharing his foxhole had been hit. One was dead and two wounded. One of the injured Marines was still on the line, firing along with her comrades. The other was barely conscious, and his medical AI and trauma control system were the only things keeping him alive.
“Marines, this is Admiral Arlington.” The voice came through on his com. He could hear stress in her voice but elation as well. “Keep your heads down, guys. We’re going to do another run closer in.”
Admiral Arlington, he thought with a shock. What the hell is the task force commander doing down here? “You heard the admiral. Everybody down.” He slipped back and leaned down, covering his head with his arms as he did. He could hear the sounds of the ships approaching again, and he could only imagine what they were about to unleash on the hordes of troops out on that plain.
He waited, listening to his own breath and waiting for the attack to begin. Each second dragged out for an eternity, and it seemed like he’d been waiting forever when he heard the ships roar by. It sounded and felt like they were directly overhead, and in their wake came the explosions. It started with a few, out in the field, less than 500 meters from his position. Then the intensity increased, hundreds of bombs landing all along the enemy lines. He imagined the cluster bombs tearing apart the enemy formations, cutting the attackers down by the hundreds.
He knew he should stay low, but he couldn’t resist taking a look for himself. He stared out at a vision of hell itself, a roiling smoke filled nightmare of death and destruction. There were a few hundred of the enemy still standing, mostly those closest to his position, but the rest of the field was gone, engulfed by the flames.
“Up, now. All of you.” He opened fire on the closest group of enemy survivors. They were stunned, trapped between his line and the fires. But he’d be damned if any of them were going to get away. “Fire. Kill the sons of bitches before they get a chance to run.”
It only took a minute for his people to wipe out the trapped enemy troopers, and another two or three for the hellfire on the field to begin to dissipate. Callahan stood and looked out over the blackened and blasted plain. The enemy forces were shattered, at least two thirds of their numbers down, the rest reeling in retreat.
He felt a rush of elation, but it cooled quickly when he saw the columns of smoke rising in the distance to the south. Two of the attack ships had been unable to pull out of their low altitude attack runs, and they crashed a few kilometers to the south. Those crews had saved his people; they had salvaged the entire invasion, but they had paid for it too. He was still staring when his com unit crackled back to life.
“Attention Marines, this is General Gilson, inbound with the second wave. We estimate landing in one-eight minutes.”
The cheering was even louder this time, and Marines were holding their rifles in the air and waving their arms. Callahan smiled and took a deep breath, but his eyes were still staring back off to the south, toward those towers of thick, black smoke. The next Marine he heard talking shit about the navy was going to get a hell of a beating.
“All units, you heard General Gilson.” It was General Heath, and his voice was edged with steel. “All units are to advance and clear the enemy from the field.” He paused for an in
stant. “It’s time to expand the LZ.”
Chapter 10
Front Lines
120 kilometers east of Paris
French Zone, Europa Federalis
The light was hazy, cutting in and out. Werner tried to focus, but he couldn’t shake himself out of the heavy daze. He was confused, his mind fuzzy, disconnected. He was lying on his side, and he became aware of pain in his legs, his back. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t manage it. Then he realized a heavy support had fallen on him, pinning him to the side of his overturned vehicle.
He could hear sounds. They were coming from different directions, but he couldn’t place them. He could feel pulling, sense someone tugging at him. His body moved, and a wave of pain took him. He cried out and the pressure stopped. He looked up again. He could see everything around him a little better, and his mind began to clear. It was his men, his escort. They were leaning over him, trying to get him out of his stricken vehicle.
Yes, he remembered slowly. The command vehicle. The explosions. The last shockwave had slammed into the big truck, smashing it into one of the rock outcroppings. He turned his head slowly, looking around, his vision coming back, gradually at first then more quickly.
He could see the truck had been badly damaged, and there was debris everywhere. The driver was still sitting in his seat, and Werner could tell the man was dead, even with his still-fuzzy vision. His head was turned at a grotesque angle, and there was blood covering his entire upper body.
“General…” He heard the voices. They seemed soft at first, far away. “…General Werner…” He tried to concentrate, and he could hear the sounds, closer, louder. “…sir, can you answer?”
“Status?” His voice was raw, and the word scraped its way coarsely from his parched throat. His memory was coming back, and he wanted to know what had happened to his army.
He felt something on his lips, something cool, wet. “Here, sir. Drink. At least a little.” He felt the water on his mouth, pouring down the side of his face, his neck. He tried swallowing, hard, painfully. The water slid down his throat. The coolness felt good, driving back the pain a little.
“Status,” he repeated, his voice clearer and louder this time.
“Unknown, General.” It was a different voice. Werner looked up and saw an officer looking down at him, a familiar one. “They hit us hard, sir.” Potsdorf stared at 1st Army Group’s commander in chief, his faced caked in filth and his shoulder covered with a rough bandage, half soaked through with blood. The aide took a deep, painful breath. “We’ve got to get you to the field hospital, sir.”
Werner felt some strength returning, and he pulled himself up. “No. I need to get an idea of the overall situation first.” He looked down at the chunk of metal lying across his legs. “Get this off me.” He could tell his legs weren’t severely injured. His back hurt like fire though, and he could feel the slickness of blood everywhere. He reached around and ran his hand over his back. When he pulled it back it was wet, red. “Just get my doctor in here. I need these cuts on my back fused or stitched up.” He still felt weak, lightheaded. He could see from the slick redness all around that he’d lost a lot of blood.
“I’m sorry, sir. Doctor Hoffen is dead. He was crushed by the command vehicle.” Potsdorf was waving as he spoke, directing several soldiers to move the structural support off Werner’s legs.
Werner closed his eyes for a second. Just like that, he thought. I’m in one place, Hoffen is a few meters away. I end up with cuts and bruises and he is crushed by 40 tons of armored vehicle. He knew wars were won by men and tactics, and materiel too, but sometimes he was still stunned by the random nature of it all. One man stands on a line and survives a battle, the solider next to him is torn to pieces by enemy fire. It doesn’t matter that both are veterans, equally skilled at combat. Fortune still smiles on one and smites the other.
“Mmmmmpph.” Werner felt a sudden wave of pain as three soldiers struggled to pull the heavy chunk of steel from his legs. The three men picked it up and moved it to the side, letting it fall again with a loud crash.
“Are you OK, sir?” Potsdorf was alarmed at the outburst, but he looked down and was immediately relieved when he saw Werner moving his legs. “You really need some rest, sir.”
“Rest, Potsdorf?” Werner was almost amused at the suggestion, proof that a touch of levity, however brief, could make its way into any situation. “Do you really think I have the time to rest right now? That any of us do?” The battered general pulled himself up, sitting on a chunk of metal that had once been a workstation. “Now, I need somebody to stitch up my back before I bleed to death, and I don’t care who does it.” His eyes settled on his aide. “You, Potsdorf. You do it.”
Potsdorf looked like he might panic for an instant, but he nodded and reached to his side, pulling a small first aid kit from his belt. The doctor would have used the fuser, which was a quicker and better solution, but all his instruments were under the command truck, crushed as flat as their owner.
Potsdorf moved around behind Werner, slowly pulling off the general’s jacket. His shirt was soaked through with blood, plastered to his skin. Potsdorf took a small pair of scissors and gently cut the back of the garment. He barely held back a gasp when he saw Werner’s back. There was a single deep gash right between the shoulder blades, where a big shard had hit him. It was surrounded by at least a dozen other cuts, less deep but still gushing blood.
“Sir, I don’t have any anesthetic or painkillers…” His voice was tentative, uncertain.
“Potsdorf, we just got nuked. There are almost certainly hundreds of thousands dead out there. We don’t even know if we still have an army.” He started to turn to look back toward the aide, but a wave of pain changed his mind. “Do you really think some stitches are going to be more than I can handle?”
“OK, sir.” The aide still didn’t sound very confident, but he picked up a pair of forceps and started pulling shards of glass from his commander’s back. Werner twitched once or twice, but he didn’t say a word about the pain.
“I need some coms,” he said, his voice tight as Potsdorf sewed up his wounds. “Who is still in action out there?”
“Steiner is trying to set up the portable comlink, sir.” The aide spoke slowly, his mind focused on Werner’s back. “It was damaged, but he thinks he might be able to manage a temporary fix.”
Werner stared at the ground while Potsdorf finished his attempt at first aid. He needed coms more than anything. He had to find out what was going on with his armies. He was out of the net, and he figured they’d be looking for him, if there was anyone left to look, that is. For all he knew, no one was on the net. He tried to imagine the nightmare out there, the apocalyptic hell covering the entire battlefield. How many of his people were dead? How many were straggling around, wounded, sick from radiation, trying to find their way to an aid station? How many of the survivors would still be alive in a day? A week?
He clenched his fists. He had to get on the com and find out what had happened to his armies.
“More reports from the Europan-CEL front, Number…excuse me, Mr. President.” The agent nodded respectfully to Warren.
“Yes, go on.” Warren didn’t really care what they called him. Besides, whatever else he was, he was still Number One. He had no intention of trusting anyone else with control of Alliance Intelligence, whether he was president or not. He knew just how deadly a tool the agency was, even in its shrunken, post-Gavin Stark incarnation.
He’d taken the office of the presidency simply because if offered some semblance of continuity for public consumption. The official story was simple. Warren had assumed the interim presidency after Oliver’s untimely and tragic death following surgery for a long time genetic illness. It was at least moderately believable, and it had only required a few additional liquidations, Oliver’s doctor among them, of course.
Convincing the generals and admirals, and a few other key personnel, to go along with his assumption of power had be
en easier than he’d expected. Most of them were more concerned with whether they’d be alive in a week than worrying about their own ambitions. Warren was amused at the dousing effect fear had on the lust for power. He felt it himself. He’d tried to give Oliver every chance, but the man had lost control, and it wasn’t a time to be tolerant of weak leadership. After a lifetime of craving power for its own sake, he’d ended up taking it out of fear. Fear of what would happen if the mentally broken Oliver continued to lead the Alliance.
He stared down at the ’pad, reading the latest dispatches. The Europans had responded in kind to the CEL’s nuclear attack. By all accounts, the entire battlefield was a nuclear and chemical hell, and there was little hard data on what formations were still in the field, if any.
“This is where we’re going to lose the war,” he whispered softly, mostly to himself. The Alliance and the PRC might be able to defeat the Caliphate and the CAC, and hold the South Americans at bay while doing it, but if the CEL was destroyed, Warren knew he’d have Europa Federalis and the Russian-Indian Confederacy on his ass too.
He sighed. He didn’t know what, if anything, had survived from Werner’s victorious armies. But even if the brilliant general managed to push forward through the maelstrom and seize Paris, it was very unlikely he’d have enough strength left to turn around and salvage the situation on the CEL’s eastern front. Taking out Europa Federalis would be helpful, but the CEL was exhausted after its death struggle with its longtime enemy, too prostrate to mount a prolonged defense against the growing Russian-Indian armies. Worse, he’d been hearing unconfirmed rumors that a Caliphate army was forming up for an invasion of the CEL from the south.
The world was on the brink of an unmitigated disaster already, but Werner couldn’t think of anything to do but escalate further. The CEL was going to have to go nuclear on its eastern front as well, and the Alliance was going to have to help. The list of potential repercussions was sobering, but he couldn’t come up with another plan that didn’t ultimately lead to total defeat.