Enter the Sandmen
Page 33
“Explains why so much combat takes place in open fields.”
Reynard defers to the cadet’s experience. “The dropship dumps us outside the capital city?”
“The less fuel cells we burn, the better. We’ll need the energy for the plasma cannons once we unrack our missiles. Use the projectile cannons last on damaged craft with broken armor.”
“Missiles, plasma, projectile. Got it.” Reynard rechecks all power levels in the energy weapons. “No air support for many dropships.”
“Not even those privately owned by Lances.” Mark reruns his preflight checklist. “Those ships are their lifeline to get off-world.”
Reynard’s never thought to ask: “What happens if the Lance is employed by the losing side?”
“They don’t get paid. They may not be able to afford to jump off-world. Depends on the terms of surrender. Most victors let the Mercs leave unscathed. Never know when you need to employ them, and if you slaughter a losing group of mercs, it doesn’t create good relations. I’ve heard of losing mercenaries being employed to secure the soldiers of the losing side.”
“Mercs are loyal to credits, not congress.”
Mark asks, “Commander, you have a reason you want to pilot a Mecat? You’d do just as well piloting the Dragon.”
“If I’m anything, I’m now a soldier. Maybe not the jump-in-the-trench-and-march-twenty-miles kind, but I won’t push papers. I’ve no stomach for assassinations through a rifle scope. I want to meet my enemy head on.”
The seatbelt harness presses into Reynard’s chest. The artificial gravity of the jumpship shift to the gravity of the planet as the Mecat falls out of the launch bay. The shoulder straps dig into his skin as the Mecat’s thrusters fire. No simulation has prepared him for this. Gravity shifts again, and he fights with his stomach to keep his last meal down as well as keep his moistening hands on the joystick controllers. With it being his first drop, he knows he’d crash. Mark will keep the craft in flight; all he has to do is point and shoot.
The craft accelerates, burying him in his cushioned seat.
Everything moves so swiftly Reynard has no idea what to do. His brain wants him to halt the craft. Slow down. Figure out what to do next. Worse, since Mark pilots, he has no control over the vehicle.
Shrapnel from missiles pelts the metal hide of the vehicle. Mark keeps them a moving target. They have to stay moving in the air.
Mokarran attempt to destroy them before the surface landing.
A wounded Mecat crashing could still function as strategic emplacements doing just as much damage as a missile. A pilot could still release his payload in a last-ditch moment to wound the enemy and assist his Lance. Mecat power cores will level half a city block.
They must be demolished in the air and pulverized to nothing before the pieces hit the ground.
Battle Analyst Computers chirp as targets fill the screen. Reynard flips up the trigger guard on his joystick and twists. Crosshairs light up on the holographic display hovering before his canopy windshield. Now he targets and fires.
“Wait ’til we get lower!” Mark screams. “The recoil will slow my descent.”
Despite all his reading about piloting a Mecat, so much seems to have been left out of his training. Reynard won’t question the expertise of the cadet. The kid will go on to train the elite Mecat pilots when he graduates from the Academy. Reynard figures Mark will tell stories of how he fought in the Summersun battle. Might even brag.
He exhales. Gloves. I need to get some gloves. His palms—slick with sweat—grease the joysticks. Releasing them to wipe them dry on his flight suit would take too long.
The Mecat’s metal legs crack the dry earth. They only pause for a millisecond before the Cat sprints forward.
“Fire on any visible target,” Mark orders.
Mark bobs and weaves the Mecat across the field. Plasma bolts flash past the cockpit. Dirt, metal, blood rain everywhere. Lubrication oil sprays from a dying Mecat.
Chaos.
Nothing prepared Reynard for pandemonium.
Plasma. Missiles fire. Missiles explode. Soldiers die. Soldiers kill. Soldiers move forward. Soldiers die.
No amount of training prepares a person for this. The rocking explosions, the ping of metal, the heat of constant weapons fire echo even in the insulated cockpit.
Reynard fought. He killed. He has had plasma bolts fired at him, but nothing like this.
Target.
Fire.
Target.
Fire.
Target.
Fire.
Crafts explode. Death controls the battlefield.
“Where’s my crew?” Reynard spits.
“Keep firing,” Mark orders.
No time for sentiments, only trigger pulls.
Warning alarms flash. The main plasma cannon must cool before firing resumes. Reynard activates a missile array.
Mark halts his advance. Other Mecats drive forward into the Mokarran lines.
Reynard locks onto several Mokarran Mecats and releases a barrage of missiles. They pleat the craft, sending black smoke fireballs into the air.
The computer records three confirmed kills. All his. Three dead at his hand. Three dead he will get paid for if he lives long enough to collect.
Mark swings the Mecat around and uses the thruster jets to lob the craft into the air to avoid the raining death of Mokarran rockets.
The plasma cannon indicators show coolant leaves lowering the temperature, but the number counting down is at thirty-seven. Allowing for one blast.
Too long.
They must pull back.
Fresh Mokarran Mecats land, surrounding Mark.
Warning alarms—target locks jar the cockpit.
Reynard cooks in his seat. Missiles impact the Mecat. Explosions mushroom on the durasteel. Before they shatter the cockpit, Reynard finds himself propelled upward. The ejection unit launches.
Mark overloads the energy cells, turning his Mecat into shrapnel. The attacking Mokarran Cats splinter.
The second the ejection unit reaches an apex Reynard witnesses the battlefield in its entirety. More Mokarran Mecats land on the field to replace their defeated ranks. Somehow they kept more in reserve.
Orbital missiles rain down on the battlefield. They target Mokarran, but the blast radius doesn’t discern the close merc Mecats.
Valuable crops reduce instantly to charcoal.
Reynard’s stomach leaps into his throat as the escape capsule free-falls back to the surface.
KLAXON!
Emergency alarms.
Emergency lighting.
Electrical smoke.
Burnt flesh.
Kantian would hear the screams of the dying if not for the ringing in his own ears. Fragrances of cooked meat burn his nose. He grabs the arm of his chair, using it as a crutch. His left pant leg is soaked red from his blood. Seatbelts only function when more than half the chair remains intact. The pain from a shattered femur reminds him he lives. Unlike his crew. Bodies that should be at their posts have scattered across the room. An arm remains at its station, secure in the locking unit.
The shift in gravity when the last boulder struck the Deliverance left her permanently crippled.
Kantian falls into his chair’s remains.
The main view screen displays the degenerating hulk of a Mokarran battle cruiser. He got one. He got one with the help of the Celesta. The smallest of Zayar battleships made short work of the already wounded cruiser.
Kantian doubts even a forty-year-old Zayar ship has any leverage over a new Mokarran ship.
“Status report.” What the hell—might as well remain captain minutes longer.
No answer.
No response.
“Computer,” Kantian locks the remaining shoulder strap into place. “Full voice commands to my orders.”
“Authenticating request,” slurs across the comm.
“Hurry.”
“Voice command at your control.”
With all the damage, the Deliverance gravity presses him into the chair as acceleration sends her at the Mokarran cruiser.
Kantian debates whether to send out the abandoned ship. Evacuation would give his remaining crew a chance, but Mokarran don’t take prisoners. UCP troops must be on the surface to lay claim to the planet, adding incentive to target life pods.
“Computer. Lock all weapons on the Mokarran cruiser. Fire at will.”
Plasma bolts fill the growing battle cruiser on the main view.
“Give the evacuation order,” Give my crew a fighting chance.
The Celesta swings under the Mokarran, blowing holes in her engine mounts and leaving her structural integrity vulnerable.
Kantian knows the entire event transpired over seconds; it hangs over him like an hour.
Life pods launch.
Not as many as he hoped. Are so many of my crew dead, or would they rather take chances on the Deliverance knowing the Mokarran use escape pods as target practice?
Lift doors swoosh open. Medical teams scramble around him.
“Captain, glad you’re alive, Sir,” some eager Ensign chirps. He opens a medical scanner to examine Kantian’s leg.
“There are others worse than me. Get them to the sick bay.” If we live through the next few seconds. “Brace for impact!”
IMPACT.
Crunching, twisting metal shears into the body of the Mokarran cruiser. The two ships fuse together. The T-bone maneuver gives the Deliverance the advantage. Her main guns cut into the Mokarran hull while placing the ship where only the Mokarran secondary cannons are able to discharge.
Gravity shifts.
The medical staff are thrown to the ground.
Hull buckling reverberates through the Deliverance.
Thrusters propel the ship forward, grinding metal on metal.
Kantian slumps in his chair disappointed in the lack of a massive career-ending explosion.
The Celesta brings her weapons to bear on the Mokarran bridge. The Zayars are committed to war. Kantian is committed to the UCP. He wonders how the surface battle transpires.
The medical teams scamper to their feet attending the bridge crew.
Engine warnings bleep. They overheat due to the inability to move further through the Mokarran cruiser.
“Incoming transmission,” the computer reports.
“From where?”
“The Celesta.”
“On screen.”
Admiral Maxtin fills the view screens. “Captain Kantian. You’re alive. Cut your engines.”
Kantian presses a button on his station. The grinding metal scraping ceases. Several alarms discontinue.
“Are you on the Celesta, Sir?”
“The Zayars have ratified the UCP Constitution. More importantly, the Mokarran are positioning for a new armistice. They have agreed to withdraw from Summersun as a show of good faith. The battle is over.”
Hundreds in his crew are dead.
Speechless.
Hell, thoughtless. Kantian has no response to the news. It’s what he wanted. But somehow his victory seems overshadowed. He did all the heavy lifting and Admiral Maxtin with the arrival of Zayars into the UCP will receive his notoriety.
“Cut engines.”
Certainly thousands dead people on the surface and Kantian’s only thought is how he won’t be credited for prompting the armistice. Admiral Easter’s plan to name him as her successor won’t carry the same weight. He murders his crew for naught.
“I have more wounded than medical staff, Admiral.” Worry about the crew first; he’ll fix his career later. He doubts they will court-martial him with the arrival of the VP-Admiral in the conflict.
“UCP reinforcements are en route.”
Zayars may have accepted the UCP alliance, but they are far from amalgamated with non-Zayars. Those medical teams could save his people now.
“We need to disconnect the Deliverance from the Mokarran cruisers. Do you have thrusters?”
“My bridge crew needs attendance. Time to assess damage.” Kantian wants to berate his commanding officer. He has wounded needing attending, and Maxtin wants to placate the Mokarran while his own bleed out.
“If we want to secure Summersun as part of the armistice, we get all Mokarran out of system.”
“Admiral, I understand the importance of the political situation, but I don’t have a command crew.”
“Shuttles are retrieving your escape pods. I’ve directed all medical crews to accompany me. I’ll take command of the Deliverance when I arrive.”
Assume command of my ship. “Admiral, the damage is extensive. We have breaches on nearly every deck. Your safety is paramount to the UCP.” You won’t get my ship. “Give me a few minutes, Admiral. I’ll remove the Deliverance from the Mokarran battle cruiser.”
Kantian cuts off the transmission.
Medical teams work on those few bridge crew still alive. Dar’Jeryd props himself up at helm control; a facial gash decorates the left side of his face, running over his eye. “Orders, Captain?”
“Get yourself to medical or you’ll scar.”
“With respect, Captain, we must withdraw our cruiser.”
It seems unspoken: Dar’Jeryd doesn’t want the Admiral to assume command either. It would be seen as an unwritten failure. Worse, it would be a stain on those who perished under Kantian’s command during the battle.
Scraping metal reverberates through the hull.
“Minimal thrust,” Kantian orders. “Ease reverse thrust slow until we pull back.”
The hole in the Mokarran cruiser divulges skeletal framework around the mass driver. It won’t be able to fire again without complete replacement. Permanent damage will keep her off the front lines for a year.
Kantian notes the engine identification signature. He wants to know this ship’s registered name. When the UCP locks horns with the Tri-Star Federation again, he will finish this battle. The cruiser limps away until it escapes the planet’s gravity well.
“Bring us into orbit and get yourself to sick bay, Dar’Jeryd.”
A medical tech scans Kantian’s leg. “Sir, we need to stop your bleeding.”
“I won’t leave the bridge.”
The med tech doesn’t argue. He cuts open the blood-soaked pant leg. “I’m unable to repair it here, Sir.”
“Stop the bleeding. Get Dar’Jeryd to sick bay and attend to his face. I need him back up here functional. I won’t give the Admiral reason to assume command of my vessel.”
“Immediately, Captain.”
I DON’T CARE how much advanced medical science has achieved. Being knocked unconscious three times in the past few days can’t be good for my brain. I’ll have to get JC to run assessments on my neural pathways.
The ejection unit activated thrusters to soften his crash landing. Since it was part of the cockpit, it has a reinforced durasteel bathtub enclosure to protect pilots from projectile weapons. It has an encoded retrieval call, but in the midst of battle, recovery could invite capture. The Mokarran don’t take prisoners. No transporter escape possible with the Dragon in another solar system.
Nothing for him to do now but contemplate his errors the past few days and life of another cadet. It all happened so fast.
Arguably, Mark pushed Reynard into joining this battle. Ultimately, Reynard’s choice—one costing Mark his life.
Two minutes—the average life span of a Mecat pilot’s first battle.
He just remains in the ejection chair.
He’s still not sure what occurred on Ki-Ton’s planet. They found the shuttle, and Leahla’s dead. No time to consider or think. The tiger riders ended her. JC acted and released some kind of aberrancy. It could take months to refit the Dragon. Reynard meditates. Determining whether he has experience enough to lead this crew.
Plasma fire.
Not from Mecat cannons—small-arms plasma bolts. Mark said t
here were commando squads designated to wreak havoc on Mecats.
Air seals hiss as the canopy releases. Reynard pushes it open manually to the charred smells of battle.
Burnt wires.
The strong odor of melted plastic.
Chemical and even scorched metal hang in the air.
Worse, he recognizes the untranslatable chatter of Mokarran. He drops his gear bag before sliding out of the ejection unit. He doesn’t need a translation to know the cleanup crew is slaughtering down mercs in their crashed Mecats. Even with a dozen clips he hasn’t enough ammo to take out five warriors. He doubts even with his dexterity he’ll empty enough durasteel into one before they finish him.
Reynard stumbles forward. If forward’s the correct direction. No sane person moves toward the sound of weapons fire. Light-armed plasma weapons are distinct among the rapid-fire surging cannons. The attraction they offer brings allies. He hopes. It’s still a better choice than five Mokarran.
Rockets designed to reach orbital attack cruisers bombarded Mokarran Mecats. None of which had the armor rating to withstand. Logically, the sound of fighting involves some of his allies; perhaps some of these ground forces Mark spoke of assist downed mercs.
Through the wafting smells of burning vehicles flows the distinct smell of bar-b-que. A pork aroma breezes through the destroyed Mecats. Strange such a smell would cover the melted plastic in flames around him. Curiosity of the odor draws at him. Sprawled near a shattered cockpit remains what could have been a humanoid. Now the charred blacken mess shudders as a dark hand reaches for a dagger just out of reach.
The lizard creature inches its hand toward the blade. Reynard keeps his finger on the trigger of his magnum. Even near death, this creature could want to bring one more enemy into the afterlife. Gun fire might attract the Mokarran.
It halts its struggle. One untranslatable word spills from the uncooked side of its mouth. Reynard guesses its meaning. On the exposed unburnt side of its body, a silver flask stands out.
Reynard offers a word of comfort. He unclips the flask and before fully removing the twist cap, the stench of turpentine sears his nose. He gives the creature a swig. Most of it spills from its gums. With a last drink, it points to a spot where an Osirian kidney would be. Reynard scoops up the dagger and places the point in the spot. With the last surge of strength and pain, the creature wraps its cooked fingers around Reynard’s hand and assists in ending its life. The dagger plunges into cooked meat much like a knife through Sunday ham. Whatever organ it pierced there had little blood and was a quick death.