Star Crusades Uprising: The Second Trilogy

by Michael G. Thomas

  “Admiral, we are receiving a message from an approaching ship, the recognition codes are from the CCS Aurora, one of the Leander class frigates that defected at the start of the uprising.”

  “What is their course?” she asked.

  “They are in high orbit around Khimaira and en route to reach our position in less than thirty minutes,” replied the tactical officer.

  “How did they get so close?” asked a confused sounding Captain Tobler. He’d only just transferred from the 7th Fleet. He was possibly the most experienced warship commander in that Fleet, but he was still getting used to the ship and its crew. The Admiral had seen the reports on the epic escape of the survivors of the Fleet. She had tried her best to keep the crews together but she’d desperately needed an exceptional officer to replace the losses on the Crusader.

  “Unknown, Sir, they just appeared on the scanner.”

  Captain Tobler looked concerned and moved quickly to the right of the CiC, where Lieutenant Nilsson was at her communication console.

  “Lieutenant, respond with audio only. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  She turned to the display and tapped her earpiece.

  “This is the Battlecruiser CCS Crusader to unidentified vessel. Please respond.”

  Commander Andrews, now promoted to the position of Executive Officer, stood a short distance away, observing the situation from his own tactical console. Unlike the Captain, he was at home in the CiC, having spent the last two tours as the ship’s senior tactical officer. There wasn’t another person on the ship with his skill and knowledge of the flagship of the Fleet. Lieutenant Nilsson continued to broadcast, but after four more attempts turned back to the Captain.

  “Nothing, Sir. They are receiving us but not replying. It’s as if there isn’t anyone on board the ship.”

  “Keep trying, Lieutenant. If they are not replying, it must be either because they are unable or unwilling to.”

  That was enough for Commander Andrews, who pulled the intercom from the computer terminal in front of him and hit a button on the control board. The lights in the CiC dimmed and were quickly replaced by red emergency lighting.

  “This is the XO, we are under possible attack. Battlestations! All crew to their stations! This is not a drill! All gun positions ready in sixty seconds! Secure outer sections and open the gun ports. Prepare for battle!”

  Admiral Jarvis, from her position in the middle of the room, examined the vertical tactical display. This was the strongest Fleet she had yet been able to assemble and it seemed odd to send a single ship this close to them. Captain Tobler approached and checked the disposition of the Fleet with her.

  “Thoughts?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen this before. Sometimes they send a single ship packed with weapons, possibly nukes for our vessels. We split up and the blast causes confusion. That’s usually when the raiders move in for the kill.”

  “I agree, Captain. Get Wasp to send her CAP to intercept. If the ship has friendly intentions it can stay at a safe distance, otherwise she can burn. If what you say is true, this ship could have the equipment on board to cripple half my Fleet!”

  “Burn? Are you sure, Admiral? We can always try and force them to a safe location.”

  “No, we don’t have time for this. Either they stop, or they burn. There are no other options. I do not have a single ship I can spare. The loss of one capital ship could be the end of our counter offensive. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” he replied curtly. He wasn’t completely happy about the attitude of the Admiral. He had seen just as much combat against the Zealots and their allies, perhaps more, yet the Admiral seemed to be taking the war personally. He could understand her argument, but he was just as concerned at the possible loss of the frigate to overzealous gunners. A frigate was hardly a major ship, but it had its uses and could be carrying hundreds of valuable military or civilian personnel.

  He looked carefully at the tactical display and checked the disposition of the Fleet. A quick scan and he found the correct ships and also noted the icons showing the three groups of fighters circling the Fleet. He tapped the visual representation of CCS Wasp, the Fleet’s main carrier, and requested a video link with the captain. It took just seconds before the image of Captain Hardy appeared.

  “Captain, the Admiral wants birds in the air to intercept the hostile. How close is your CAP?”

  There was a brief pause before the Captain replied.

  “Already on the way. I have four Lightning fighters roughly three minutes out. They have orders to perform a full scale reconnaissance.”

  “Understood. The Admiral’s orders are to move the ship to the outer marker or to fire on her. She is not to be allowed inside the defence perimeter. If she does do so, then our guns will be turned on her.”

  “Sounds sensible, we can’t take the chance. Let the Admiral know two of the fighters are equipped with Skua anti-ship missiles. They have the firepower to do the job. They are already patched into your tactical systems. The Admiral can monitor the operation from your CiC. Wasp out.”

  Captain Tobler lowered the intercom, still slightly surprised at the brisk, almost indifferent response he had received from the senior officer of the Fleet’s carrier. He watched the officers move about the CiC, each of them helping organise the escorts and fighters to screen the battlecruiser from the potential threat. He looked back at the screen, double-checking the dispositions and noted that the Fleet was properly spaced. He must be missing something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Surely the enemy wouldn’t waste one of their ships in a futile rush towards the large number of warships, unless they had a trick up their sleeve?

  * * *

  Commander Anderson stood in the roughly repaired command centre. The bloodstains from the fighting had gone, but it still looked nothing like a Confed installation. Bishop, Kowalski and Gun were standing near him as they watched the large video screen. In the middle, was the oversized and slightly distorted image of General Rivers.

  “Commander, good to see you again. I have read your report and understand you have confirmed our agreement with Representative Gun?”

  “Yes, General. As per your instructions, all combat units are being loaded onto the ships and prepared for battle. So far, we have nineteen hundred Biomechs woken and the same number still in their capsules. The first group have agreed to the proposals and Gun here has an understanding with them.”

  “I see, go on?”

  Gun looked to the Commander and then at the screen. He appeared a little confused at the image, perhaps wondering how the General was able to speak without being there. Either that, or he was just thinking about something else.

  “General. My people fight for two reasons. We fight to be free, we fight for revenge!” he snarled.

  “I understand. I will do my best to ensure you get both. Commander Anderson, what is the status of the nineteen hundred? Are they ready for combat?”

  “Not quite, Sir. Their discipline is, well, a little unorthodox and they have only the basics of firearm control. They will follow orders though and can fight.”

  “How about officers?”

  “I have selected a team of officers and NCOs from the people I have here to provide a full complement of twenty companies. You have your two battalions, Sir.”

  “Excellent. You have been allocated the civilian heavy transport, the Yorkdale. She has been drafted into service and is the largest and toughest civilian ship in that sector. Ensure the Biomechs are loaded and ready to leave in twenty-four hours.”

  “What about the rest, Sir?”

  “They can stay on the site until they are ready. I assume that is acceptable?” he asked, looking specifically at Gun.

  “Yes, they are the last. We are not Biomech!” he stated firmly.

  “I’m sorry? What?”

  “General, I forgot to add. During our discussion, the term Biomech was raised. It is offensive to Gun and
his comrades. They are not happy with the same name used for the enemy.”

  “I assume they have something in mind?”

  “Yes, Sir. One of the techs here made a joke and referred to Gun as a Jötnar. Apparently it is the name of some kind of mythical giant. The Biomechs have already started calling themselves Jötnar. Most of the personnel here have started doing the same.”

  “I see. Well, you presented me with a fait accompli. Jötnar it is. It was the intention to name the units as the 1st and 2nd Biomech Battalions. I assume the 1st and 2nd Jötnar Battalion will be the correct nomenclature?”

  Gun nodded and then turned and grinned towards Bishop, who did his best to try and avoid looking directly at him.

  “There is one final thing I wish you to all consider, especially you Gun. As the leader of your people, and the most experienced warrior amongst them, it would be useful to give you a position in the Confederate Military. Command structure is important and this will integrate you into our military system.”

  “What position?” asked Gun.

  “Leaders of allied or mercenary units have been called many things in the past. We have not done this before in the Army or Marine Corps, though. My suggestion is we make you their Commander. You are both a leader and a warrior. This will ensure your people, and ours, understand your status.”

  Gun looked at him with a confused expression.

  “Ko’mandor?” he asked with difficulty in pronouncing the word.

  “No. It is Commander,” repeated Commander Anderson.

  General Rivers interrupted them both, seemingly irritated by the time being taken on semantics.

  “Ko’mandor is just fine.”

  Commander Anderson looked less than convinced at the news.

  “Is he being given an honorific title, Sir, or is this an actual military position?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Anderson. The Admiral and I are concerned that if the Biomechs, no, I mean Jötnar, are to integrate into our forces they will have to join us formally. Commander Gun and his Jötnar will be an important and valued part of the Confederacy.”

  Gun looked to Anderson and the others, smiling in his own crooked and slightly sinister way.

  “Ko’mandor Gun. Yes, that is it.”

  General Rivers moved to the side of the screen, presumably to access an onboard computer on his ship. One of the displays in the room flashed and a map displaying ship dispositions appeared. He continued speaking.

  “The Promethean Fleet and all ground forces will leave the colony in twenty-four hours. You are to leave a token defence force, we need everybody you can muster for the counter offensive.”

  “May I ask the destination, General?”

  “You’ll know shortly, Commander, in the meantime get your people ready. One day and you move out.”

  “Understood, General. Is there any news from the Fleet, Sir?”

  The General paused for a moment before leaning in closer to the camera, the consequence being his head appeared to grow even larger. Gun stepped back, uncomfortable at what looked like a giant General Rivers.

  “The Fleet is assembling and in good shape. We have enough ships and ground forces to start the fight back. Admiral Jarvis has established a plan that once put into practice, will start the slow and steady reversal of our fortunes. I don’t know how long it will take, son, we will return every colony to the Confederate fold though, I promise you that.”

  “Excellent, that’s what we wanted to hear.”

  The officers saluted and the screen faded out to black. Gun started to laugh, the low rumble from his throat filling the room.

  “What’s so funny, Gun?” asked Bishop.

  “Ko’mandor!” he said with a pause in the middle of the word. He then turned to leave the room. It was just a subtle alteration of a common word, but in Gun’s voice it sounded like something new and alien, a perfect companion to the even stranger sounding Jötnar.

  Bishop and Kowalski looked in confusion at Anderson. The officer shrugged and smiled back at them.

  “Don’t ask me, you’ve spent more time with him than I have!” he laughed. “Just make sure the ships, weapons and troops are ready. You heard the General. There’s a big operation coming and we need every fighter on the front line. Kowalski, I want tech teams to double their efforts on the defensive systems. How far away are you from integrating the compound’s defences to our own tactical network?”

  “Well, the estimate was another three days. I’ll see what we can cut out and get as much online as possible.”

  “Good. If we’re taking most of our forces away from here, we’ll need as much of the automated defence system operational to keep this place secure.”

  “Yes, Sir,” replied the two men who saluted and then marched off, leaving just the Commander in the room.

  “Jötnar Battalions? They won’t know what hit them!” he said to himself.

  * * *

  The journey from the surface had been uneventful. The shuttles were already making their way out of the atmosphere and into high orbit around the planet. As the glow from the planet faded, it was possible to make out the flicker of stars in the blackness of space.

  “There she is!” said Teresa happily.

  Spartan tried to lean towards the window, but the combination of the harness and the acceleration forced him down into his seat. He turned his head and strained to see in the direction she was pointing.

  Marcus, who was sitting behind them, tapped Spartan on his shoulder.

  “Watch yourself, Lieutenant, you might strain something!”

  Spartan twisted behind. “Funny!”

  He looked out through the small viewport on the vessel, where he could just about get a glimpse of the ship. The CCS Santa Cruz was massive, easily the size of the major capital warships and bristling with antennas and dishes. She had been a civilian vessel earlier in her life, but her conversion to a Marine transport had transformed her hull. The retrofitted armour, weapons and point defence systems had been installed to protect the crew and passengers from attack. To improve the vessel’s operational capability, the cargo space had been converted to a fully automated hangar and loading bay, allowing the use of landing craft and shuttles. It wasn’t the prettiest conversion job, but the end result was a vessel perfectly suited to carrying large number of marines throughout the Confederacy. There was even space on board for training and combat practice.

  “She looks different to the Santa Maria,” said Teresa, as she carefully examined the lines of the ship.

  “How can you tell?” asked Spartan, himself unable to spot any noticeable changes.

  “Their hull sections are different lengths. The Cruz is longer and thinner, especially right there, to the rear,” she pointed.

  “What else?”

  “The loading bays on the Cruz are larger, she can move more marines and faster. The Santa Maria has more space and dedicated training facilities. Cruz, she is a true ship of war now.”

  “You reckon we’ll get some R&R when we get back? We’ve been in action more than we’ve been on the ship!” asked Marcus.

  “We’re at war, Marcus, what do you expect? At least we’re going back to the ship. I would think the platoon will get re-equipped, a few days off and then back to wherever the General decides we should be going.”

  “Have you heard from the General since we all got back?”

  Spartan looked out of the window, thinking of the bloody fighting back on Prometheus, when they attempted an insurrection to escape the prison. The General had been there, right in the thick of things and had come back even angrier and more scarred than before.

  “Not since we left the Cruz. He has a lot of work to do getting ready for the counter-offensive.”

  Teresa twisted around to look at him. “You think there’ll be one?”

  “Of course. We can’t just sit about waiting while the enemy gets stronger. The longer we wait, the harder our job will be. If I know the General, he is already getting resour
ces together to start a major operation, and when he does you know who he’ll be calling!”

  “Yeah, great, thanks, Spartan. So we have our new shiny unit that every commander is going to want to use.”

  “Well, that’s what the unit is for. With the armour and firepower our Vanguards have, we can turn a battle around in minutes and with minimal casualties. It’s the right thing to do.”

  A clunk reverberated through the vessel as the hydraulic grapples extended from the craft. From the window, the hull of the Santa Cruz crept ever closer, the thick metal ribs now evident as they drifted. Massive rotating sections along the length of the ship showed off the state of the art artificial gravity of the transport.

  * * *

  Spartan pulled himself out of the shuttle, making his way along the ladder and through the collapsible tube. It was fully transparent but sealed and safe from the cruel, airless section of the ship used by machines, robotics and shuttlecraft. He moved a little further, until reaching the multi-layered airlock seal. As he reached the first level, a blast of warm air rushed down towards the shuttle. He turned back to see Teresa close behind.

  “What’s up LT?” she asked, now ever careful to avoid his name in public.

  “Nothing, just checking you’re all awake.”

  He turned back, continuing along the ladder and through the final airlock segment into the sealed section of the landing bay. As he emerged, he reached a spider-shaped section with poles and ladders extending out to the hull. It was odd, the structure moved slowly in the centre, but if he looked off to the sides of the ship he could see the outside moving move quickly. Grabbing the first pole, he pulled himself along with the speed and timing of a man that had done it many times before. It didn’t take long before he reached the end and dropped to the floor. As his feet hit the solid surface, he felt a little shaken, the movement of the metal sending a shiver through his body.

  “You okay, Lieutenant?” asked a familiar voice. Spartan straightened himself up and looked towards the voice.