09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Do it,” Susan ordered.

  She thinned her lips in disapproval. Whoever had given the alien homeworld such an absurd nickname was going to be scrubbing toilets, when she caught him. Maybe humans couldn't pronounce the planet’s real name. It was still no excuse for attaching an absurd moniker to the alien homeworld. And it ran the risk of encouraging the analysts to underestimate their enemies.

  The display steadily filled with icons, blinked red, orange and yellow as the analysts sorted through the tidal wave of incoming data. Giant industrial nodes, orbiting shipyards, asteroid mining stations and settlements, cloudscoops ... ES-1 was heavily populated, countless installations scattered over the entire system. Some of their industrial nodes seemed to be located amongst the asteroids, according to the analysts. Susan puzzled over that for a long moment, then decided the Foxes would be less concerned about enemy raiders. Their ... alien ... way of war didn't call for striking the enemy’s industrial base.

  But that’s probably changed, given how badly we struck ES-11, she mused. Or do they view us as uniquely barbaric for smashing harmless shipyards?

  “Launch probes,” she ordered, shortly. “And keep a close eye on all possible attack vectors.”

  She leaned forward as the star system continued to reveal its secrets. Thirty enemy starships, including three fleet carriers ... she hoped, despite herself, that they’d been the ships that had escaped them at ES-11. No battleships, oddly ... had they dispatched their battleships to ES-12 or had they decided the front needed them more? Or were they lurking in cloak, waiting for a chance to spring an ambush. Admiral Naiser had planned to catch the enemy fleet against the planet, but if the enemy was careful the situation could easily be reversed and he would be pinned against the planet instead.

  We can break off ahead of time, if we’re watchful, she reminded herself. And we can do immense damage to the system before they take us out.

  “Update from the flag,” Parkinson said. “New tactical details for the offensive.”

  Susan glanced down at her console, then nodded. “We’ll be ready,” she said. “Commander Mason, ensure the tactical staff have the details.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said.

  The minutes became hours as the task force continued its advance on the planet. There was no doubt the Foxes - and the Cows - knew they were coming, Susan thought. She wondered, absently, just what was happening on the world below. There had been panic on Earth, when people had realised there was an alien fleet inbound ... what was happening, she wondered, in the warrens and fields on Vixen? Was there panic? Or were they relishing the chance to come to grips with a frustratingly stubborn foe?

  “They’re massing shuttles,” Charlotte warned. She sounded doubtful. “At least, I think they’re shuttles.”

  They may be gunboats, Susan thought. And that would tip the balance against us.

  “Continue to monitor them,” she ordered. Given time, a regular shuttle could be fitted with a warhead and turned into a suicide runner. She looked at Jean Granger. “And make sure the point defence crews are ready to resist gunboat attack.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jean said.

  Susan kept her face impassive. The analysts had run all sorts of simulations, then forwarded their worst-case scenarios to the point defence crews. She’d watched their exercises, realising - as they lost the engagements time and time again - that the gunboats were a very deadly threat, even to a battleship. She hoped the analysts had exaggerated the gunboats as a threat, but she suspected she wouldn't know for sure until they met the gunboats in battle a second time ... and by then it would be too late.

  Not that they’re the only threat, she thought, grimly. Those battlestations pack one hell of a punch - and they’re sweeping space with active sensors. We won’t catch them on the hop a second time.

  “Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said, as red icons flickered to life on the display. “All fighters are to launch, all battleships are to advance forward and engage the enemy.”

  “Understood,” Susan said. On the display, green starfighters were racing forward. “Lock missiles and railguns on target, then fire at will.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said. “Firing ... now!”

  Susan felt a low rumble running through the hull as Vanguard fired the first set of long-range missiles. The other battleships fired a moment later, then reloaded their tubes and fired again, hoping to blanket the alien point defence in missile fire. Susan gritted her teeth as the aliens returned fire, launching missiles from the nearest orbiting battlestations and - seemingly - empty space. Putting missiles in orbit, programmed to remain quiet until ordered to engage, was an old trick. It looked, very much, as through the Foxes had overdone it.

  “Captain,” Charlotte said. “I’m reading over five hundred missiles heading towards us!”

  “Stand by point defence,” Susan ordered, curtly. The railguns were switching from target to target, blasting out streams of pellets that would be devastating to anything smaller than a destroyer. A number of orbiting missiles would be destroyed before they could bring up their drives and attack. “Engage as soon as they enter range.”

  She cursed under her breath as the automated platforms opened fire, pouring plasma bolts into their cloud of missiles. The railguns would get most of the platforms, she thought - a number had already been blasted into dust - but they’d provide cover for the battlestations, at least as long as they lasted. And they would soak up fire that would be better directed at other targets. Not that the battlestations themselves were any slouches, she noted grimly. Their point defence was even more effective.

  They don’t need to mount drives, she mused, sourly. The only upside was that the stations were easy targets, if they could get a missile into attack range. They can cram more weapons and missile tubes into their hull.

  “Enemy missiles entering point defence envelope,” Jean reported. “Point defence engaging ... now!”

  ***

  John watched, fighting the urge to bark useless orders, as the first wave of enemy missiles crashed into his defences. Hundreds died, dozens lived long enough to get into engagement range and detonate. He forced himself to watch, grimly, as the damage mounted; four destroyers and a light cruiser blown out of space, two battleships and a fleet carrier lightly damaged. It was less, in fact, than he’d expected, given the reported new warheads. Perhaps there hadn't been too many of those either.

  Or perhaps they can only be mounted on gunboats, he thought. They might be too large to fit on a standard missile.

  “Battlestation One has taken damage,” Regal reported. “Battlestation Two appears to have escaped the first barrage ...”

  “Redeploy the starfighters to weaken her point defence,” John ordered. The enemy starships, at least, were keeping their distance. Their starfighters were another story. “And then order the battleships to continue firing.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Regal said.

  John barely heard him as more and more icons flashed up, flickered and died. The automated weapons platforms were largely gone, but the battlestations were still fighting despite soaking up a great deal of damage. Their point defence was good, very good. He’d hoped he wouldn't have to match his battleships directly against the battlestations, but it was starting to look as though he didn't have a choice.

  “Battlestation One is weakening,” Regal reported. “I think ...”

  He broke off as the battlestation’s icon vanished from the display, replaced by an expanding sphere of debris. John leaned forward, trying to determine precisely what had happened. A nuclear warhead exploding inside the station, perhaps. The enemy’s point defence had been weakening badly ... they might have been unable to stop a missile before it flew into a gash in the hull and detonated. But it was impossible to be sure. There had been so many explosions in the vicinity that sensor readings weren't entirely trustworthy.

  That’s not going to be good for the population below, he thought, sourly. Or for us, when w
e land the marines.

  “Order the fleet to come about and engage Battlestation Two,” he ordered, instead. New alerts were flashing up in front of him, warning of the presence of ground-based defence stations. “And target the bases on the ground with KEW strikes.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Regal said. He broke off. “Sir, the enemy starships are withdrawing.”

  John wasn’t surprised, not really. No alien starships had materialised out of cloak to strike at his rear. The enemy had to know he’d brought enough firepower to make his victory a foregone conclusion. No, the smart move was to fall back, slip into cloak and then wait for reinforcements to arrive. It was annoying - the chance to pinch off and crush a small enemy detachment wasn't one he wanted to miss - but inevitable.

  “Detail a pair of scouts to track them,” he ordered, curtly. The enemy carriers, at least, were largely harmless until they obtained more starfighters. “And launch another shell of probes to watch our rear.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Regal said.

  ***

  “Captain,” Jean said. “The enemy battlestation is targeting us.”

  “Open fire,” Susan ordered.

  Seven battleships opened fire as one, slamming hundreds of plasma bolts into the alien battlestation. It fought back savagely, its plasma cannons blowing point defence systems and sensor blisters off Vanguard’s hull as it searched for weak spots, but it had to know it was badly outgunned. Susan suspected, although it was hard to be certain, that the alien armour was inferior to Vanguard’s. But there was so much of it that it hardly mattered.

  “Minor damage, section seven,” Mason reported. “She’s targeting us specifically.”

  “Continue firing,” Susan said. They were locked in a death match now. “And keep firing missiles.”

  The hull shuddered, time and time again, as enemy weapons slammed into Vanguard. Susan watched, keeping her expression under tight control, as the damage started to mount. The battleship was tough, but even Vanguard couldn't endure such a pounding indefinitely. She had no idea what would happen if the patchwork repairs failed, yet she had a nasty feeling that it would be fatal. Thankfully, the drive section was on the other side of the hull from the bombardment.

  “Captain, Turret Two has jammed,” Mason said. “Damage control teams are on the way.”

  “Good,” Susan said. She doubted they could do much, not when there was so much energy crackling over the hull, but she could hope. There was nothing else she could do. “Helm, alter course to allow Turret Two to bear on the targets ...”

  The alien battlestation started to disintegrate. The waves of incoming fire slackened, then fell off altogether. Susan stared, torn between relief and an odd kind of pity, as the battlestation died. There was no giant explosion, merely a series of small explosions and failures that ended in the entire structure coming apart. Giant chunks of debris rocketed in all directions.

  “Tactical, target any piece of junk that looks like it’s going to head into the atmosphere,” Susan ordered. There were people who would probably call her soft, if they heard, but she had no interest in accidentally causing an atrocity. “Sensors, confirm that Battlestations Three and Four cannot target either us or the planned spacehead.”

  “They can hit us with missiles,” Jean said. “We’re out of effective plasma cannon range, even if they can bring their weapons to bear on us.”

  “But that wouldn't be true for shuttles,” Mason commented. “Or ...”

  A new alert blinked up on the display. “Texas took a nasty hit from the ground,” Charlotte reported. “They’ve mounted mass drivers on the surface!”

  “The flag is ordering all ships to take the ground-based weapons out,” Parkinson said. “And then commence bombardment.”

  Susan turned to watch as KEWs fell through the planet’s atmosphere. A ground-based mass driver could pack one hell of a punch, enough to wreck a battleship or vaporise a smaller ship if it scored a direct hit. Hell, the Indians had deployed something similar to make the reconquest of Clarke difficult. But the Foxes didn't seem to have built enough of them to make a difference. Clearly, they’d reasoned that any enemy who got close enough to land on their homeworld would be unstoppable anyway.

  And they probably expended as much resources as they could on building their fleet, Susan thought. Orbital battlestations and ground-based mass drivers can defend a world, but they can’t take the fight to the enemy.

  “The mass driver has been destroyed,” Charlotte reported. She cursed, just loudly enough for Susan to hear. “They’re deploying their shuttles into attack formation.”

  “Stand by point defence,” Susan said.

  She silently gave the enemy points for timing. Vanguard’s point defence had been badly weakened, her hull scorched and broken in a dozen places. Her crew were experts at patching up the damage by now - they’d had plenty of experience - but there was no way they could repair the ship in time to stand off the alien shuttles. And if they were gunboats instead, the task force might be in deep shit.

  “They’re shuttles,” Charlotte said, as the aliens crashed into the CSP. “They’re not mounting any point defence.”

  Thank God, Susan thought. The Foxes were brave, but their desperate flight was futile. They don’t stand a chance of getting close enough to ram.

  “Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said, as the last of the shuttles died. “The bombardment is to continue.”

  “Understood,” Susan said.

  ***

  The Royal Navy - and its counterparts - had learnt a great deal about breaking a heavily industrialised society during the Age of Unrest. It might have been nearly two centuries since Iran and Argentina had been brutally crushed from orbit, after pissing off their enemies one too many times, but the lessons remained useful. John had studied both campaigns in preparation for the operation, learning how best to weaken a developed world and prevent effective resistance. The Foxes might be alien, but they weren't that alien.

  Spaceports and airports, rail lines and roads, bridges and ports ... military bases and power distribution networks, he thought. KEWs were cheap, thankfully. Hundreds of targets had already been hit; hundreds more were still on the list, just waiting to be assigned to a starship for destruction. We’ll smash any hope of organised resistance for hundreds of miles around the spacehead.

  He told himself, sharply, not to get overconfident. The Foxes would be armed, according to the POWs. Even the Cows would fight, if they thought they had no other option. And while he knew he could blast anyone stupid enough to use a radio, it was impossible to locate landlines buried deep underground. The fleet could pick off any aircraft moving to attack the spacehead, but that wouldn't last. He couldn't afford to be pressed against the planet when the alien reinforcements arrived. There were mass drivers he couldn't reach, on the far side of the planet. They would pose a major headache if he kept his ships within range.

  And there’s another problem, he reminded himself. We don’t want them to feel we’re cheating.

  It was an odd concern. The Royal Navy had long since lost any compassion for Third World fanatics. There was no point in showing compassion, they’d eventually realised, when law itself was turned into a weapon. And yet ... here and now ... they had to beat the Foxes on even terms. Cheating - making it impossible for the Foxes to actually mount a challenge - might cripple the entire mission.

  But it feels absurd, he told himself. It went against everything the Royal Navy had learnt, for better or worse, in the wars. And it is absurd.

  He pushed the thought aside. “Deploy the bombardment platforms,” he ordered. Time wasn't entirely on their side. The sooner they landed and set up, the better. “And then signal General Ross. He may commence the landing as planned.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” Regal said.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  George hadn't been entirely sure what to expect, when she’d walked back into Marine Country after her interview with Captain Onarina and seven hours of restles
s sleep in a privacy tube. A lecture from Major Andres about her conduct on Black Hunter, a million press-ups supervised by Sergeant Tosco, mockery for losing an entire starship in a mission ... her imagination had provided too many possibilities. And yet, when she’d walked back through the hatch, she’d been pulled into a whole string of exercises and simulations that somehow blurred into mission preparations. It had been so odd, to her, that it had taken her several days to realise that they’d accepted her.

  And yet, as the shuttle undocked from Vanguard, she couldn't help wondering if returning had been such a bright idea after all.

  “This is your captain speaking,” the pilot said, as the shuttle jerked. “Please strap yourself in as this will be a very rough flight, with a high risk of someone trying to kill us. Ground fire is surprisingly strong, despite the best efforts of the tea-sipping spacers. And there are millions of pieces of debris falling down too.”

  George winced at his tone, silently cursing his mocking cheer She could have flown the shuttle - she’d certainly flown a shuttle on Unity - although she had been shot down over enemy territory. Now, with countless Foxes below, all plotting an offensive against the human spacehead, she knew she was falling into danger. It was worse, somehow, to sit in the seat in full body armour, knowing that the slightest hit would destroy them. A glancing blow, something Vanguard would shrug off, would shred the shuttle into confetti.