by Jay Allan
“All ships report missiles ready to fire, sir.”
Garret watched the range count down, the two masses of small icons on the display moving closer and closer. He’d held back his fighter squadrons, planning to save them for a launch just before the fleets entered close weapons range, but now he reconsidered. If that fleet launched as many missiles as the combined mass of its ships suggested, it could overwhelm his point defense network. He knew he’d lose ships to the missile attack, just as his would inflict losses on the enemy. But now he could see his entire fleet blasted to wreckage before a fighter launched or laser fired. He had no choice.
“Commander, I want all ships to reconfigure half their fighters for anti-missile operations.” He glanced at the chronometer, and then back at the range display. He was late with his order, and the time was tight. But his people could do it. Just.
“Yes, sir.” Starn’s tone suggested his aide had come to much the same set of conclusions.
“And get me General Cain on Armstrong, Commander.” Garret had planned to try to hold the enemy back from the planet, but as he looked out at the strength facing him, he knew that was impossible. The attackers had the numbers to tie all his ships down and still send a considerable force at Armstrong. The people down there had to be ready. For anything. An invasion…even a nuclear barrage.
“General Cain on your line, sir.”
“Erik, we’ve got a major attack coming in. I’m going to have to fight a hit and run battle up here, use whatever maneuverability I can.” A pause. “That means the enemy’s going to get ships through to Armstrong, and there’s no way I can stop them. You better get your people down there ready…for the worst.”
Garret waited while the signal traveled back to Armstrong at the speed of light, and Cain’s reply returned. While he sat, he took a deep breath, trying to push away the thought that he’d already failed his allies before he’d so much as fired a shot.
“I appreciate the heads up, Admiral.” Cain’s voice came through the comm about two minutes later. “I figured about as much. It’s pretty clear whoever the Black Flag is, they have enormous resources. The raiders we’ve seen the last two years are only the tip of the iceberg.” Cain paused, for so long Garret thought the transmission was over and he leaned forward to send his own response. But then the Marine’s voice blared through again. “Admiral, this war isn’t going to be won here. All we can do now is survive. If things go badly…” Another pause. “We can’t lose the whole fleet here, Augustus, no matter what. You have to retreat before that happens. If you can’t save Armstrong, go. Retreat. Get to the Nest and hook up with Darius and the Eagles. We’ve got shelters down here. They’ll never bombard us off this planet, and if they come down…well, that’s what Marines are made for.”
“Erik,” Garret said, but then he stopped. He’d been ready to argue, but he knew Cain was right. They were allies, friends, they shared a respect that ran deep and strong. But they’d both sacrificed comrades before when duty had demanded it. Garret’s mind flashed back forty years, to the final struggle against the First Imperium invaders. He’d detonated an apocalyptic explosive that day, cutting off the sole warp gate leading to First Imperium space…and trapping his oldest and best friend on the other side, surrounded by enemy fleets. Terrance Compton had been closer than a brother, and the wound he’d cut into his soul that day had never healed. But he’d done what duty commanded, as he would here.
“We’ll do what we can up here, Erik. We’ll try to push them back, keep them from getting too much through to the planet.” He hesitated, finally pushing himself to finish. “And if we have to pull out, we’ll be back.” He felt the emptiness of his words, even as he cut the line, but he’d had to say them. And, for whatever it was worth, however hard it would be to follow through, however little chance there was Cain and the Marines could hold out long enough, he had meant them.
“Admiral, anti-missile squadrons are ready to launch.”
Garret stared at the display, silent for perhaps twenty seconds. Then he turned toward Starn and said a single word.
“Launch.”
Chapter 12
Blacksand Plain
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
Earthdate: 2321 AD (36 Years After the Fall)
“Colonel Cornin, I want your Reds on the move, now!” Erik Teller stood on the black dust of the volcanic plain, thirty kilometers from Columbia’s capital city, watching armored Eagles pour out of the assault shuttles.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got the First Battalion formed up now. Second should be out of their landers and ready to go in ten minutes.”
“Very well, Colonel. Send First Battalion out now, and then follow with Second when it is ready.” But I’m calling bullshit on the ten minutes. Fifteen maybe. We’re Black Eagles, but we’re not wizards.
Teller turned and stared back toward the primary LZ. He’d been worried that his landing craft would encounter defensive fire, which would have been a real problem since every Eagle combat vessel that would have normally covered an invasion was fighting right now around the Nest. But whatever was happening on Columbia wasn’t over yet, and no one had been defending the approaches to the planet. His people had bought a break there. Any hostile forces at play in the aftermath of the assassination attempt hadn’t gained control of the defense grid, and that meant whoever was making a play to overthrow Tyler would get the chance to face the Black Eagles on the ground.
You hope it was just an attempt, at least. Teller had tried every way he could think to gather some information on Tyler’s condition, but there was nothing. His supporters might try to hide the fact that he was dead until they could prepare to fight for control, but they could also have simply shut down all information flow, locked down the networks, and dug in to face whatever was coming.
Teller didn’t know who was down here, or how the sides broke down, but he was confident his people could handle things, unless they were massively outnumbered. Still, he was being cautious, meticulous. And, despite all his efforts at focus, a good chunk of his mind was still back at the Nest. He’d had no updates since the landing had commenced, and the last one he’d gotten before that had been decidedly inconclusive. The Eagles at the Nest were inflicting massive losses on the attackers, but they were outnumbered too, and the invading forces seemed utterly unconcerned about casualties. Teller wanted to fall back on his usual confidence, but the hard truth was, the vaunted mercenary army had far less experience fighting in space than it did on land.
“Colonel Teller, White Regiment is on the way in. Their lead elements will be on the ground in four minutes.”
Teller turned toward the aide. “Very well.” Then: “Any word from the Nest?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
Teller heard the worry in the orderly’s voice too. Even the junior officers were thinking about their comrades. About their commander.
“I want Kuragina’s people headed out on the Reds’ left the instant they land. Cyn Kuragina was White Regiment’s commander, and there was no one short of Darius Cain himself who could whip a pair of reinforced battalions into shape faster than she could. Teller wasn’t worried about Cornin’s units, not really. He doubted there was anything on Columbia that could take out an Eagles regiment before he could get reinforcements in. But he didn’t know what was going on, and until he did, the only course of action was to get into the capital and find out what was happening with Jarrod Tyler. If Columbia’s dictator was still alive, the Eagles would make damned sure he stayed that way.
And if he wasn’t, they’d find whoever was responsible, and they would do what the Black Eagles did best.
* * * * *
The room was dark, blurry, nothing but blurry shapes in the distance. His head was fuzzy, his thoughts wandering, unfocused. Who am I? The question came abruptly, and for an instant, there was no answer. Then, it came. Jarrod Tyler. That is who I am. But why am I here? Where is this?
“What…” He started the question, but his
throat was dry. No, more than dry, it was parched, aching. He tried to raise his hand, but all he managed was a fluttering of his fingers. That was enough. An orderly saw the movement, and in an instant the room was wild with activity, lights, machines making all sorts of sounds, people shouting to each other.
“General Tyler, can you hear me?”
The voice seemed far away, but Tyler could hear it, and it made sense to him. Yes, I am a general…the general. Suddenly it was all clear. Columbia, he was its head of state, the commander of its military. And he’d been attacked. Assassination! I have to get the guards in position. Somebody’s making a move…
“Alert,” he choked out of his sore throat. “Must activate…alert.”
“All forces are on alert, General. We’re secure here. There are loyal forces deployed in this section of the city.”
“Here…this section. What is…happening?”
“Sir, please…you just came out of surgery, and you need to rest.”
“Tell me!” he roared, wincing from the pain as he forced the words out. “What?”
“There was an attempt on your life, sir. The assassin is dead. So are three of his accomplices. The army has remained loyal, most of it, but there has been some sabotage. Your officers are having trouble getting units into the city.”
“Most…”
A pause. “Yes, General.” A different voice, familiar. “It’s Major Clark, General. The Ninth Brigade has mutinied, sir. It seems like a plot run by the top commanders…we’ve had reports of troops deserting, and others shot trying to escape.”
“One brigade…should…not…be difficult to…suppress.”
Another stretch of silence. “There has been considerable sabotage as well, sir. Key facilities, power stations, transport hubs. I’m afraid somebody planned this whole thing, sir. We’re fighting to hold them off, but they’ve got us disrupted something fierce. And now, we’ve got assault landers coming in. We’re having comm troubles, but I think they might be Eagles, General. They could be coming to our aid. I’ve ordered all forces to avoid engagement, not to fire unless fired upon.”
“Good, Major…” Tyler took a deep breath…and winced from the pain in his chest. “If the Eagles are here, they’re here to help us.” He was pretty sure of that, at least. Darius Cain was likely capable of anything, of course, but Tyler had always been an ally, and the leader of the Black Eagles had never turned on a friend, at least as far as he knew.
“The doctor’s right. You’ve really got to rest, sir.”
“Rest? With an attempted coup in progress?” Tyler leaned forward, trying to get up again. The pain lanced through his midsection, but he kept pushing, forcing himself to a sitting position. He paused and gasped for air.
“General, please. If you insist on trying to get out of this bed, at the very least, you’re going to end up back in surgery…and at worst in the ground.” The doctor stepped forward as he spoke, his eyes fixed on Tyler’s abdomen, where a circle of fresh blood had soaked through his hospital gown.
“General, listen to the doctor, please.” The major sounded tense, worried, his eyes darting back and forth from eye contact to Tyler’s reopened wound. “We’ll keep things under control, especially if the Eagles are out there. The main comm is degraded right now, but we’re trying to contact them. Once we link up, we should be able to secure everything vital in a matter of hours.”
Tyler looked up at his aide, and then at the doctor. He was a hard man, a stubborn one, who wasn’t prone to accepting anything less than the very best effort, from himself as well as anyone else. But he wasn’t a fool, and he knew if he got up, he’d make it about as far as the door, maybe, before he ended up on the floor. He sighed softly, wincing at the renewed pain in his gut.
“Go, Major. Confirm the Eagles are out there, and then come back and report to me on the current status.” His voice was more forced than it had been…his effort to sit up had really increased the pain.
“Yes, sir.” The officer saluted and then turned and walked out into the hall.
“You’re in more pain now, aren’t you?” The doctor had pulled up Tyler’s shirt, and he was adjusting the bandages. “You almost pulled out your sutures. You have to stay still, General, at least for a couple days. I couldn’t fuse the incision, not in this location. So, you’re going to have to heal the old-fashioned way. I need two days from you, with the regeneration compound I’m giving you, that’s what it will take before you can get up and walk…at least a little. Now, by all rights, you should be in a box now. It was that close. So, listen to your doctor, and we’ll have you out of here and back to work in a couple days.”
Tyler looked up toward the doctor. Franks, the nametag read. The name was familiar, vaguely, the head of surgery at the capital’s main hospital. Of course, who else would operate on the dictator?
The man’s demeanor impressed Tyler. He wasn’t intimidated or afraid, even though his patient could order one of the guards at the door to shoot him where he stood, and that order would be obeyed without question. Tyler wasn’t that sort of ruler, of course. His only concerns were maintaining Columbia’s strength and defenses, and his brutality was reserved for those he considered traitors. Short of anything he considered too close to treason, the planet’s population enjoyed considerable freedom in their daily lives but, still, few of them had the courage to stand up to him the way his doctor just had.
Tyler never tried to hide his disgust for obsequious fools, those trying to curry favor with flattery and insincere expressions of loyalty. Conversely, he respected someone with the guts to stand up to him, and Dr. Franks made that grade.
Tyler leaned back, wincing again. “Alright, Doc, give me another shot of painkiller, and we’ve got a deal…nothing that will turn me into a zombie, just something to take the edge off.”
* * * * *
“Deploy into attack formations, now.” Antonia Camerici stood on top of a gentle rise, the closest thing to a vantage point the flat plains around Columbia’s capital offered. She’d been in combat before, many times, like most of the Eagles of her stature, but she’d never led so many soldiers into a fight. She’d been one of Darius Cain’s closest aides for several years, but even so, she’d been surprised when he’d handed her a small package with a rare smile. The box had contained her major’s insignia, and a small datachip, her formal appointment as commander of the newly formed Gray Regiment.
The Grays had a cadre of older veterans, but they also had a far higher proportion of new recruits, more than any other, save for the equally new Browns. But even Eagle recruits had a high level of training and skill, and if her people weren’t quite up to full standards—yet—she was sure they could handle anything they’d find on Columbia. Some of General Tyler’s troops were pretty good, she had to admit, but the best ones were also the most loyal, which put them on her side. Besides, it wasn’t in her Eagle DNA to acknowledge that anyone was a match for her people.
It was nothing but pure chance that had placed her regiment in the forefront of the action. It had taken a while, but Colonel Teller had finally managed to contact Tyler’s people. The general was alive, and likely to stay that way, at least as long as his people held the capital. And the biggest threat to that was a brigade under control of the conspirators, one that was fully armed and heading toward the city. Right in front of the Grays’ line of advance.
She watched as her people formed up, lines in extended order moving forward, other columns snaking north and south, extending the battlefront. She had to hit the enemy hard enough to tie them down, keep them from getting into the capital before the loyal Columbian units could reorganize and get into position.
The force in front of her outnumbered her regiment at least four to one, but that was never the kind of thing Eagles worried about. They were always better, and that had always been enough. It almost certainly would be here too. Less than a quarter of the Columbians wore powered armor, and none of them fielded anything that could match the Eagle’s
Mark VIII suits.
The Mark VIIIs were a major leap forward in battlefield technology. Camerici winced, thinking about the agonies of suiting up, one of the few drawbacks of the new armor. The neural probe was a crucial part of the suit, and Tom Sparks and his engineers had been unable to make its insertion feel much like anything but getting stabbed in the back of the neck. Eagles prided themselves on being tough, and few complained. But, perhaps irrationally, she’d come to dread the suiting up process.
Once the armor was on, it was a dream. All the cumbersome controls had become needless, still there, but only as a backup system. Even the old verbally-activated AIs the Marines used seemed outdated now. With the neural probe inserted into her spine—ugh—all she had to do was think, the same way she would to move part of her body. If she wanted to pick up something that weighed a ton, all she did was pick it up. If she wanted to fire her grenade launcher, a single thought could do it. The whole thing had taken a bit of practice to get used to…after all, moving a strengthened leg was one thing, intuitive enough, but firing weapons that weren’t part of your original body was quite another.
She cranked up her visor’s amplification to power five. She had a view of the enemy now, at least of their left wing. The Columbians were clearly reacting to the threat she posed. The next few minutes would tell if they knew what was facing them. If they thought her people were Columbians, they would most likely put out a screening force and drive the rest of the brigade into the capital. Time was of the essence in a coup attempt, and the capital was the key to gaining control.
If they’d discovered that they faced Black Eagles, that would be a different matter. They’d either run or they’d throw everything they had at her. She had no idea which, and she decided she might as well flip a coin. She actually hoped they’d come at her full. No screening force would hold her people, of course, but that didn’t mean she could get through it before the main force got to the city. It wouldn’t take a military defeat for the mission to fail, just a single bullet in Jarrod Tyler’s head.