Helfort's War: Book 1

by Graham Sharp Paul

  The massive overpressure from the slug’s plasma blast wave was enough to smash Michael back into the surveillance drone air lock. For a moment he could only half stand, half kneel there, unable to move as waves of pain racked his body, his tortured back and ribs screaming at him, until the urgent shrieking of his suit alarm and a tightness in his chest told him that he’d lost suit integrity and had better do something about it quickly. He couldn’t work out why Warrant Officer Ng was half sitting crumpled in her heat-seared suit at his feet, helmeted head hanging awkwardly to one side, her suit front gaping open and strangely slick in the swirling murky aftermath of the slug’s passing.

  Then he got it. Ng was dead. Somehow, it didn’t mean anything, so Michael pushed the unresponsive Ng away and quickly slapped bright red suit patches out of the dispenser on the bulkhead behind him. In seconds, his fumbling efforts guided by his suit AI, he had sealed a gaping hole in the upper left leg of his suit, a smaller one lower down, and a small but dangerous-looking crack in his plasglass visor. The hole in the left leg of his suit was strangely shiny, surrounded by a sort of crystalline sheen that some dim recess of his mind told him must be heat-carbonized blood. But apart from a numbness in his leg, he felt no pain. With a huge effort, he forced his mind back to work and tried to decide what to do next.

  With no air to hold it up and only residual hot spots spewing metal vapor into the compartment, the plasma fog filling the hangar cooled and cleared quickly. It revealed a scene of utter devastation, the sight so awful that Michael saw it without understanding any of it. Evidence of the fury of the slug’s passing was everywhere, with almost every surface, every bit of equipment, every fitting, baked by intense heat and scarred and slashed by the metal splinters that had been thrown up as the slug had passed. Collapsed in untidy stiff heaps on the deck was his team, the last tendrils of gas spewing from ripped and torn space suits.

  Only Bienefelt had been left standing, her suit a mass of hurriedly applied red patches.

  Michael forced himself to put the comm through to Mother. “Medics and crash bags, surveillance drone hangar. Quick, for God’s sake.”

  And then, pulling another wad of suit patches from the nearest dispenser, he made his way out of the corner that had shielded him from the full fury of the slug’s passing, climbing over Warrant Officer Ng. A quick check confirmed that she was dead, and he started trying to seal endless gashes in suits, ignoring the stinging prickle of wound foam as his suit tried to stop the bleeding in his leg.

  Even as he did that, medics erupted from the hatch.

  In seconds, helped by Michael and Bienefelt, the worst of the casualties were shoved unceremoniously into crash bags, zipped up, and pressurized before being manhandled hurriedly down the hatch on their way to the ship’s tiny sick bay, the only part of the ship still with pressure inside its triple thickness of ceramsteel armor.

  Numbly, Michael watched as the shattered remains of Ng, Strezlecki, Leong, Carlsson, and Athenascu were taken below. Their suits were so badly ripped that he knew in his heart that they weren’t ever coming back.

  Finally, Maddox and Karpov, both clearly in pain and badly hurt but at least with suits more or less intact—Michael couldn’t begin to work out how—were helped down the hatch. He began to tremble as the awful shock of it all hit him as he stood there with Bienefelt amid the metal-splintered, flame-seared, black-blood-spattered wreckage of the hangar.

  Michael was shaken out his trance by Ribot, his voice soft but firm. “Michael, this is the captain. Your people are in good hands now, so it’s time to do what you’re paid for. I want that slug crater over Weapons Power Charlie fixed before the next attack, so get moving. Main propulsion’s been shut down, but watch out for no-notice maneuvers. I’ll keep things steady for as long as I can, but Mother’s going to do whatever she’s got to do to keep us out of trouble, so make sure you’re well clipped on.”

  “Sir.”

  With a heavy heart but grateful that he had something better to do than stand around waiting for the ax to fall, Michael commed Bienefelt to follow him. At least, he thought, he didn’t have to wait for any damn air lock to open. There wasn’t one anymore, just a fucking great big hole. Wearily and more scared than he’d ever been in his life, he clipped his safety line onto a handy stanchion. With a deep breath, a kick, and a heave, he was safely past the ripped and torn remnants of the forward personnel air lock and out into the awful darkness, heart pounding and mouth dry.

  “Command, Mother. 166 reports two hits. Moderate damage only, hull has lost integrity in two places; all combat systems nominal but unable to jump. Casualties. Three dead and twelve injured but none critical. Time to repair, ninety minutes maximum.”

  “Command, roger,” Ribot said. Shit, shit, shit. Now neither of them could jump. This couldn’t go on. But it could and it would, and with a conscious effort, Ribot forced himself to face whatever would come next.

  “Command, Mother. At pinchspace jump speed.”

  “Roger,” Ribot said with a heavy heart. Too late.

  With both 166’s and 387’s hulls ripped open, it was all academic now, anyway. The mass distribution model used by the nav AI to compute 387’s pinchspace jump parameters was hopelessly compromised by the gaping holes in 387’s hull. The ship was hours away from being jump-capable; any jump now would destroy it and kill them all. Ironically, they were safer staying put, where the chances of death and destruction weren’t quite 100 percent.

  “Command, Mother. Rail-gun launch from Gore. Swarm of 48,000-plus decoys. Target 387.”

  Good old Gore, Ribot thought. It finally got its act together. Better late than never. But what the Hammer was doing still didn’t make sense.

  “Mother, Command. Why no missiles? Gore’s got missiles and plenty of them. Why doesn’t she use them?”

  “Command, Mother. Uncertain. Only clue is given by the missile salvo from New Dallas. I believe it confirms orders to conserve missile reserves for the decoy assault, which is now their primary objective.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.”

  Ribot pulled up the standard incoming salvo report. It was not good reading.

  Shit, Ribot thought, get a grip, man. He was definitely losing his edge when he forgot that 387 and 166 weren’t just receivers but givers as well. For a few seconds he felt good about what his missiles might do to the Hammer ship. 387 and 166 weren’t just sitting there like sacrificial lambs waiting for the ax to fall. Ribot zoomed the holocam as far in on New Dallas as it would go, the ship’s size losing nothing in the process.

  His feel-good moment didn’t last long. “Don’t think our missiles are going to hurt that big bastard very much.” Ribot’s voice reflected his pessimism.

  “Can but try, skipper.”

  As ever, Holdorf’s voice was bright with optimism, and not for the first time Ribot wondered how he managed it in the circumstances. Space warfare had often been compared to standing with one’s feet stuck in concrete boots, watching a homicidal maniac walk slowly toward you, meat cleaver in hand, with every intention of hacking you to pieces. And so it had turned out. Waiting as death rushed toward you was the hard part, the entire process made worse for 387 and its crew by knowing there was almost nothing they could do to hit back. How Holdorf always managed to sound so damn cheerful was a real mystery.

  And then the holovid began to flash as, too fast to count, the missiles and decoys from 387 and 166 began to die useless deaths at the hands of the Hammers’ defenses. But just as Ribot gave up hope that any would get through, there was a single red-yellow bloom on New Dallas’s upper hull, a short-lived plume of ionized gas marking the impact point.

  “Got the fucker! And it was one of ours.” Hosani’s voice rang with triumph. “Suck that, you Hammer bastard! They must be asleep over there.”

  The combat information center team watched the holovid with furious concentration, hoping against hope that the missile’s shaped charge warhead had shot its plasma lance far enough into the huge
ship to reach something vital.

  But it was not to be.

  The Mamba antistarship missiles carried by light scouts were too small and had too small a warhead to have any chance against a Hammer heavy cruiser. Even hitting the New Dallas had been a minor miracle. In seconds the bloom had darkened, and then just as quickly it died, leaving only a tiny hot spot on the ship’s hull. New Dallas continued on as though nothing had happened.

  Ribot sighed in resignation. “Can’t win them all. Mother, tell 166 to close on me for mutual support. How long until the missiles from New Dallas arrive?”

  “Command, Mother. Two minutes.”

  Ribot grunted. Two minutes before they lived or died, assuming of course they survived Gore’s rail-gun salvo, which was due in—he did a quick check—less than a minute.

  “Roger that. Tell—”

  Ribot could only watch open-mouthed as Gore’s port side, flayed by the enormous power of FedWorld long-range antiship lasers, suddenly ripped open. It was almost as if somebody had taken a huge knife and cut the ship open from stem to stern. A huge plume of incandescent gas and debris spewed out into space as the shattered hulk began a slow spiraling tumble to nowhere, automatic distress alarms sounding frantically in Ribot’s neuronics until he commed them off.

  Jesus, Ribot thought. Jaruzelska’s ships must have cracked the armor and hit a fusion plant. Big one, too. Main propulsion by the look of it. Great targeting considering the range.

  “But we can win some,” Ribot said jubilantly. “Maria, tell the troops. I suspect they could do with some good news. And get the XO to confirm when she expects to have the drone hangar foamsteeled. I’m sure I don’t have to remind her that we can’t jump with it ripped open.”

  “Sir.”

  As Mother confirmed that 166 was closing in, Ribot settled down once again to wait. At least there were only two more rounds to go, and neither would be as bad as what they had gone through before. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get out of this.

  He was quickly disabused.

  “Command, Mother. Final vector analysis on Gore’s rail-gun salvo indicates very high probability of impact.”

  “Command, roger. Maria, how’s Michael doing?”

  “It’s slow, sir. That’s one hell of a big hole out there. They’ve got the emergency ceramsteel generator secured and are putting the supply feeds in place now. Michael estimates another two minutes will see the job done.”

  “Tell him he doesn’t have two minutes.”

  “He knows, sir.”

  Desperately aware that they were standing directly in front of an oncoming rail-gun salvo, Michael and Bienefelt had dragged the ceramsteel generator and a bolt gun out of the forward emergency repair stowage. Their back-mounted personal maneuvering units were working overtime as they manhandled the awkward heavy lumps of metal across the hull to the lip of the huge crater that had been blown deep in 387’s armor, its walls still glowing with residual patches of red heat. As Bienefelt worked desperately, punching explosive bolts deep into 387’s hull to hold the generator in place, Michael, struggling to connect the generator to its high-pressure supply feeds, took a moment to marvel that 387 had been able to withstand the violent explosive release of so much energy. Finally, Bienefelt got the last bolt home. Working with frantic controlled haste, Michael helped Bienefelt run hoses into the crater. The armored hoses were awkward and stiff to space-suited hands, and a terrible feeling of panic threatened to overwhelm him as the seconds ticked remorselessly away.

  But finally, all the feeds were in place. Bienefelt’s massive frame was braced against the crater wall as she tightened the last connector.

  “Done, sir,” she said laconically.

  She could have been talking about the damn weather, Michael thought. One last check and Mother brought the generator online, gray-black ceramsteel sludge already pouring out of the generator ports to bond instantly with the walls of the crater. Looking good, Michael thought as the crater began to fill at an impressive rate.

  “Okay, Benny. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “Not before time, sir.”

  As they cleared the rim of the blast crater to start their frantic dash back to safety, Mother ran out of time. As she simultaneously fired main propulsion and rolled the ship, Michael and Bienefelt were hurled back along the hull until, with a vicious slamming snap, their safety lines brought them to a dead stop before the recoil threw them back where they’d come from, skidding and sliding uncontrollably along 387’s hull before swinging out into space and back again to hit the ship full on with a sickening crunch that tested their suits’ crashworthiness to the fullest. With a despairing lunge, Michael grabbed Bienefelt as she cannoned into him and snap-hooked his suit harness onto hers, all the while desperately fighting to reel in his safety line.

  A quick check with Mother, and Michael saw that 387’s violent maneuvering had destroyed any chance of getting back inside the ship. They didn’t have time to get back to the personnel air lock; they’d have to snap into the nearest hard point, secure their safety lines, and wait it out. There was nothing more they could do. They were going to ride out the next attack locked out of 387, hanging on the end of monofil safety lines with only combat space suits between them and God knew how many oncoming slugs.

  If their monofil safety lines failed, at least they’d die together.

  And then they waited. As Michael hung there, Bienefelt’s massive bulk tightly locked alongside him, he knew he was about to die. He had never been more certain of anything in his life.

  Ribot glanced across at the XO, who had just arrived from the surveillance drone hangar to report. He hoped she had good news. Restoration of jump capability in the next ten seconds would qualify.

  But he waved her back. She’d have to wait.

  The final rail-gun salvo from the now-crippled Gore hurtled toward 387, the bright red icons on the plot closing the gap with remorseless intent.

  Mother did her best, driving 387 up and to port to escape the slug swarm. But the task was nearly impossible. With the Gore and 387 now barely 60,000 kilometers apart, the battle geometry was heavily weighted in favor of the rail-gun attacker, the slugs having a time of flight from launch of only eighty seconds.

  And eighty seconds did not give Mother enough time to shift 387’s bulk out of the way before turning the ship back to put her heavy bow armor facing the slugs. Worse, and probably more by luck than good judgment, the Gore’s rail-gun targeting team, probably dead now, had gotten it right. The slugs in the swarm were perfectly lagged and spread, and the decoys were well positioned to confuse and overload 387’s sensors. 387 had nowhere to run.

  And one slug’s vector was exactly right.

  Even as 387’s short-range lasers belatedly flayed it, the killer slug’s surface literally bubbling as platinum/iridium boiled off into space, it smashed into the ship’s starboard upper bow, precisely where one of the slugs from Shark had gouged a crater in 387’s frontal armor. The metal slug smashed through the still-setting emergency ceramsteel repair and the remaining armor as though they didn’t exist, turning to plasma as it sliced through the inner pressure hull and down into Weapons Power Charlie. Microseconds later, the plasma containment bottle erupted in an enormous secondary explosion that ripped the upper bow of 387 apart into a mass of shredded ceramsteel and twisted titanium frames.

  The slug, now a concentrated lance of pure energy, plunged unopposed down into and through 387’s combat information center and then on into the hangar, through the bows of 387’s lander, and finally out into space.

  Michael didn’t remember much of what had happened.

  Gore’s attack was over in seconds. Afterward, all he could recall was a smashing impact as the blast wave hit, a ripping, tearing blur of heat and intense white light, a hoarse scream from Bienefelt followed by a soft bubbling moan, and then a crunching collision with 387’s hull that bounced the two tangled spacers out into space before their safety lines jerked taut. Michael’s head
was driven forward hard into his armored plasglass visor and snapped forward nose first onto his collar ring with brutal force.

  And then silence. Deathly, deathly silence.

  Oh, Jesus, he thought, Bienefelt’s dead. She should be breathing, but she’s not. Frantically he spun her massive frame around, and there it was, a long rough-edged gash ripped across the lower back of the suit, moisture-laden gas spewing ice crystals out into the black night. Even as he slapped suit patches out of his thigh-mounted dispenser onto the gash, he knew he couldn’t help her.

  Calling for help and with an urgency born of desperation, Michael unclipped from the sorely tested hard point and reeled in his safety line, the inertia of Bienefelt’s body making the process agonizingly slow. As he got to the gaping hole in 387’s hull that had once been its forward upper personnel access hatch, a first aid team emerged. Within seconds, Bienefelt had been crash-bagged and taken below.

  For a moment, Michael just hung there. He didn’t care too much anymore what happened next. He went below only when the coxswain grabbed his arm and dragged him bodily down through the wickedly sharp-edged hole in 387’s hull.

  Only later did he find out how lucky they’d been. The curve of 387’s hull had been just enough to protect him and Bienefelt from the worst effects of the Hammer attack.

  The flag staff’s increasingly heated debate about what to do with the New Dallas task group was rudely interrupted.

  “Flag, flag AI. Missile launch from flotilla base fixed defenses. Stand by vector and attack profile.”

  “Flag, roger.”

  “Taken them a very long time, Admiral,” her chief of staff said. It was what they’d all been thinking. All the sims had assumed that the Hammers would get their fixed missile defenses into action inside the thirty-second launch window laid down by Hammer standard operating procedures. Something had to have gone very wrong, not that anybody on Jaruzelska’s team was complaining.