Alliance: The Orion War

by Kali Altsoba

  “Hello Lee. I know you just finished for the day and if I know you, and I do, you’re about to scarf down some of the good stuff. Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that the drink’s gonna havta wait.”

  “Hi there, Fil. Hell, I knew when I joined up that the NCU toast is ‘May I die a dry death!’ I just didn’t know they’d be coming after my scotch. What’s up?”

  “It’s pretty bad down there, doc.”

  “What happened?”

  “Still preliminary, but it looks like two companies from 1st Battalion, 7th Assault, walked into a minefield. Same outfit that stumbled into a bot-sniper eight days ago and lost a bunch of rookies. The bastards waited ‘till everyone was inside the perimeter before they blew up hidden fougasses, staccato-style. We can probably blame the mission commander on this one.”

  “How bad is it, Felipe? How many down?”

  “As of last report, we have 82 KIA and over 200 wounded, many of them pretty cut up, inside and out. That’s in addition to the MTCs already en route to you. They’re from a separate action. They got hit two hours ago.”

  Lee puts down the scotch. That many wounded means he will be needed in surgery, either straight down the hall from his quarters in the real thing or in a cyber-cubicle two decks below.

  “The dead include both company commanders ... umm, so maybe I shouldn’t have said anything too bad about them, about how they got their troopers killed. Sorry about that. It’s my job, you know. Takes over sometimes, mugs the better angel of my nature.”

  Lee reassures his old friend. “Just because a man’s dead, Fil, doesn’t mean you should stop speaking truth about what he did in life. Especially in your job. Especially about combat leaders. Too many lives are at stake.”

  “Yeah? Maybe. Anyway, KIA or WIA are four-out-of-six lieutenants and all medics. We’ve got eight Pods en route. The first should touch down pretty soon. Ten minutes or less. At three beds each, even flying at flank speed, that’s eight round trips at 24 minutes per, back to the field hospital. Plus loading and unloading at both ends. Nearly three USH to get ‘em all out.”

  “Fil, you should know that kind of time means we’re going to lose a lot more people, if as many are as bad off as the first triage reports are telling you.”

  “I know, I know. How many dya think we’ll lose? What’s your best guess, doc?”

  “I wouldn’t want to say, officially. But between us? Maybe 50 or 60 more aren’t going to make it out of the 200. Not with major trauma like I’ve seen from big fougasse. And no medics left to shoot them up with enough suspensor or give them synthetic blood before they bleed out.”

  “Damn! That many? Don’t answer. We’re both just guessing. Though you of course guess better than I can when it comes to a cluster-fuck like this.”

  “Real sorry, Fil.”

  “Look, the truth is that we wouldn’t get half the kids back that we still might if you hadn’t pushed so hard to get extra Pods and REMOTEs working right at the frontline, down at the company level where we need ‘em most.”

  “You had something to do with that as well.”

  “Yeah? Maybe. Anyway, there’ll be time for mutual congratulations later.”

  A long pause. “Lee, there’s more.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve got a real security issue developing in the area. Independent reports of RIK units moving toward the blown minefield. At least battalion strength. Probably more. They’re coming from two directions that we picked up so far. The explosions got their attention. We think they were auto-detonated or maybe triggered by a center-field suicide bot. We don’t know for sure.”

  “What’s the ETA on backup? If the Pods are caught out in the open we won’t get any wounded out, not even the light cases. Trauma Pods are unarmed and unarmored. They’ve got basic evasive capabilities but they’re really built to move fast and carry the field REMOTEs. If a battalion of locust gets there first and gets line-of-sight on them, they won’t last two minutes.”

  “We know,” Mendez says quickly. “That’s why General Yupanqui’s going in fast and heavy with four battalions to meet any enemy counterattack or recce-in-force.”

  “Yupanqui?”

  “Nadine Yupanqui, commander of 7th Division. You know, the ‘Enthusiastics.’ You met her once before the war. Steel gray eyes, close-cropped, dyed-red hair? Anyway, she’s rushing a heavy weps company in first, in five small assault-hovers. They’ll set up a perimeter defense around the evac LZ, but will not engage unless first attacked. Strictly defensive perimeter stuff.”

  “That’s going to be a tough job for one company if a battalion of RIK are on the way.”

  “Like I said, maybe more than 200 MTCs before this is over. Either way, Yupanqui says the heavy weps company is goin’ in. It’s just gonna havta hold.”

  “Will they?”

  “Aye, they’ll hold. They’ve got long-distance mortars and mounted masers. Those are heavy guns. They can burn holes through hills if they havta, if the enemy’s on the other side. I think they’ll be OK until reinforced or relieved.”

  “Good to hear. What about on-site medics? You said they’re all dead?”

  “Yeah, but we’re sending in ten more with the heavy weps. That should help you out.”

  “Where’s our tactical sky force in all this?” Lee asks, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

  “Army sky support’s committed in several other, bigger fights planetside and can’t pull out of ‘em in time to help. We thought this would be a quiet zone. General Juan Castro, the new Expedition Commander, is committing five Yellowjackets from III Corps sky reserve to fly CAP over the Pods during the evac.”

  “Good man, Castro. I never went to the Academy, but I’ve heard all the stories. Are his creases still as sharp? Who the hell is his tailor? I wonder what the bet’s up to now?” Lee’s sorry he says it as soon as it escapes. Mendez doesn’t answer the irrelevant and irreverent questions.

  “Yellowjackets are en route now. They left right after the Pods. Might even overtake ‘em before the Pods get to the evac LZ.”

  “Doubt it,” Lee corrects. “Pods are pretty damn fast in emergency-burn mode.”

  “Right … hmmm.” Mendez pauses for just a second. “Well then, the helos will havta catch ‘em up at the LZ. Then they’ll hover on-site until all Pod runs are done. When the last med case is clear and away, the helos can lift out any non-walking but lightly wounded. The rest will havta pull back on foot when Yupanqui withdraws. If she withdraws. Knowing Nadine, she’s not gonna want the 7th Assault to bleed over the same ground twice. She’ll reinforce and hold.”

  “How long before the heavy weps company gets help?”

  “It’ll take at least two hours to get all four battalions into position on the perimeter. Lead elements to arrive sooner, then we’ll feed in the rest. The heavy weps and helos must hold firm.”

  “Fil, you should know that the Robobears the Pods carry are pretty good at combat triage. They’ll get all the worst cases out and staunch bleeding by those the Pods have to leave behind.”

  “That’s good to hear. Those bears are cute, too. I bought my daughter a toy one. Goes inside its own little Pod and hides.” It’s Lee’s turn to ignore irrelevance in the face of urgency.

  “It’s a matter of how many ‘worst cases’ there are. We’ll do what we can while the Pods are flying, but I’m going to order blanket suspension for all cases. All of them. We can decide priority surgeries later, at Base Hospital or up here on board the hospital ships.”

  “That sounds like a plan. We’re in agreement then, doctor.”

  Another pause. This one is unnaturally long.

  “Fil? You still there? Anything else? If not, I need to talk to my team.”

  “Aye, sorry. It’s all ‘need to know,’ intel shit. I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  “Right. OK then ... but you want or need to, right?”

  More silence. Lee knows his friend has to say something important.
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  “Wait, let’s see … Maybe if I ask you a question? OK, let’s do it this way. How many of your cubicles or beds, or whatever you call ‘em way up there, are available for new cases?”

  “Red Rover is fully loaded with 4,000. After we transfer yesterday’s casualties to Relief and Mercy at the L4, they’ll be full, too. My last patient is on the daily shuttle from 4th Division. Two more medivacs are en route from the 9th and 7th to Esperanza del Mar. She’s at the L3 and two-thirds full, but with 2,000+ free beds. She’s a lot bigger than my other med ships.”

  “We’ve had lot’s more casualties than that. Where did you put the rest of ‘em?”

  “Well, non-suspends we keep planetside in the three divisional hospitals. ‘Patch ‘em up and send ‘em back.’ It’s not a pretty thought but the closest thing to a slogan Med Corps has.”

  “OK. That’s what we thought. Look, I’m going to say this off-the-record, ‘cause it affects how you havta do your job over the next few days.”

  “Off-the-record then, old friend. Go ahead.”

  “General Castro will order transfers of all your suspends back to Union space within 48 hours. We need your hospital ships here and open for fresh incoming. Ummm, let me just say that we’re probably gonna need all available cubicles and all of your people rested and ready to go.”

  “OK, I think I understand.”

  “Good. Figured you would.”

  “So, what do you need from me right now?”

  “Fleet’s giving Castro four fast transports to medivac all suspends, take ‘em off your hands. You’ll get the word in about 12 hours. Act surprised, yeah? Then tell HQ where they should go. They’ll have a strong escort, two light cruisers and 14 destroyers for the first ten bohrs back into home space. Should be clear and safe after that, even from phantoms lurking at the LPs. We’ll get your civilian colleagues to work on these hard cases back home. It’ll even help our kids recover faster, back with their families. I think you told me that once.”

  “I did. It helps some, anyway. But not all of them recover, even when we fix them up.”

  “I know. It’s a tough business we’re in, Lee. People should really die in the right order, but in war they don’t. The young go first.”

  “Always.”

  “Oh well, it’s the life we chose. Can’t complain about it now.”

  “I suppose we can’t, by rights and your logic. I like to anyway.”

  “Aye, me too. OK, I gotta go, Lee. Get me those medivac destinations stat, as you med guys like to say. I’ll get them to Castro, off-the-record. Then we can move fast. Mendez out.”

  Lee dictates medivac codes for homeworld facilities, then closes his personal access. He knows what it means, that last bit Mendez said about clearing berths on hospital ships. His old friend knows that he knows. ‘Another big offensive is coming. We’re going in deeper. Damn!’

  He doesn’t like it. Not because of the extra work or even the terrible wounds that are coming to young, healthy bodies that will splay over his operating tables. He’s more worried about the general direction of the war effort. Lee is very well-informed about strategy by two old friends in Military Intelligence. So well-informed they’ll all be in big trouble if he ever slips up.

  ‘We’ve been bogged down here for nine weeks. Five divisions in the desert against just two of theirs, and still we’re getting resistance on this scale? Every time we advance we run into in-depth ground defenses our generals didn’t expect and we take more casualties. Like today.’

  All that’s bad enough on a single world, a minor planet like arid Glarus in the hot interior of the strategically unimportant Braunwald system, barely six bohrs over the Grün frontier. Lee’s concerns are more informed and therefore more profound. ‘Why have they let us come across in this sector? My friends in MI on Kars say our thrusts are over 50 bohrs deep. That’s just crazy!’

  Something is seriously wrong. Lee might be a doctor but he has solid military training. And he’s an exceptionally smart man who taught himself how to read a strategic starmap better than several generals he knows. Kaigun admirals simply shouldn’t let Alliance fleets encroach this deep into the central provinces. ‘Is it a trap, or are we just that good? I think it’s a trap.’

  He fears what’s coming, a dark surprise from the Dual Powers. But he has urgent work to do, so he stops thinking about big picture war and hurries to brief his surgical team on incoming casualties and to ready to perform more surgery. He even stops thinking about Susannah Page.

  A neat glass of Orion’s finest scotch glints where he left it, on a tidy wooden desk as the study lights auto-dim behind him. An oak bureau holding up the scotch was the last unofficial luxury permitted by Red Rover’s captain. Its grains match the inner walls of a retreat Lee only shares with a few friends among the ship’s officers. Notably the captain, who also likes to drink the best scotch blended anywhere in Orion. And Lee always serves his very best, to the captain.

  ***

  The whiskey is still there three full days and nights later when Lee stumbles back into his chambers for the first time since he set the crystal down. He sees it wait as he enters. He doesn’t remember pouring it, but then he’s been busy. Real busy. He slugs it back then pours and gulps a second glass. Not the usual way he drinks. His need almost slaked, he pours a third glass to sip.

  His hands finally stop shaking as the warm illusion of well-being he desires fills his gut and clouds his thoughts. He sprawls onto his bed still in surgical kit, on top of his blanket. He sleeps the deep sleep of a just man. Well, of a man who downed three quick and full scotches after three days and nights with no sleep and a … shipload of stress. Close enough, yes?

  Lee’s respite lasts four hours, an eternity of sleep compared to the hurly-burly of the last three days. Then he awakes abruptly, jaggedly, with uncertain awareness of where he is or why or when. There’s an astonishingly loud ship’s clarion jangling, hauling him to full consciousness like he’s an anchor pulled up from the deepest ocean. He leaps off the bed, standing stupidly and teetering on a wood-tiled and tilting deck. It’s not really tilting. He’s still drunk.

  “This is the captain. Battle Stations! All hands to Battle Stations! Engine Room, ready All Flank ahead, on my mark. Steering, Evasive Action. Navigation, plot course for the nearest bohr-zone. Emergency jump-protocol. Imminent fleet action. This is no drill! Red Rover is about to be engaged! Fleet-to-fleet battle imminent. All medical personnel report to surgeries and cubicles. Fire Control, make ready! Lock down! Prepare for hard evasives. Battle stations!”

  Lee has the same sinking feeling he gets when proven right about a terminal diagnosis. Something is going terribly wrong on Glarus and in orbit. Maybe even in the wider war.

  ‘Gods, are we heading for a black swan?’

  He thinks he hears cracking of blue ice. He looks out the tiny scuttle in his office wall. He sees a loud flash of silent light in near-orbit. Then another. Then three more in quick succession.

  Red Rover suddenly lurches, as emergency fusion-drives kick in. It’s running for the bohr-zone. Lee presses his face against the small scuttle in the outer hull-wall of his office. He sees a NCU cruiser hit by a white plasma blossom. It breaks in half almost in slow motion.

  As it recedes from vision he knows it’s falling into Glarus at an angle and speed that mean there’ll be no survivors. He also knows it’s going to make a very large crater when it hits.

  Defeat

  At first all went well with the Alliance double-offensive over the frontier. Just across the southern border, Zug was overrun and Glarus and six more straight-ahead systems saw a string of Alliance landings that looked on a starmap like the shaft of an assegai stuck in Pyotr’s gut.

  There was even more success with the northern pincer, where the thrust penetrated too easily. Then resistance hardened as the pincers pushed deeper. The spear-tips of the dual thrusts wore against a system-by-system and strategic defense-in-depth, waged by an enemy who almost seemed to know wh
at was coming and where and when. Spies? Traitors? Nothing so dramatic. RIK looked at the same starmap and saw hinges of a bulge that must invite the Alliance to strike. It stacked its forces there, dug in, and defended every inch of even worthless deserts like Glarus.

  Each advance of Alliance armies and fleets wore down with lost offensive momentum, against the inescapable friction that slowed the physical and moral effort called war. Forces were shed from the points of attack to shore up ever-longer and badly-exposed flanks, more were lost to chance encounters, breakdowns, mistakes, to unpredictable fortunes and misfortunes.