Star Crusades Uprising: The Second Trilogy

by Michael G. Thomas

  “Captain, we have two minutes until impact! We’ve got three ships with no power, and Bellerophon’s life support has just cut out,” said the XO.

  Two minutes!

  “Listen up!” he called out to his crew. “We have seconds to make a decision. If anybody has any kind of a plan, now is the time.”

  There was silence, just the sounds of alarms, and the continuous audio traffic from those stations still functioning and the other ships in orbit. Captain Cornwall looked to his XO to see nothing but his second in command shaking his head.

  That’s it then, all we can do is sit and take the punishment.

  “Sir, I have the source of the weapons on the surface, and they are based in a hexagonal shape around this one point. We could go to the surface?” suggested the tactical officer.

  “The engines are out. We can’t manoeuvre, and this ship would burn up on re-entry.”

  The XO nodded at the suggestion.

  “He’s right, Sir. If we head to the boats, we could evacuate the ship and land as close as we can to the weapon sites.”

  The Captain looked as though he’d just woken up.

  “Yes, we could then disable or destroy them, and potentially find the source of the ship control or communication.”

  He looked over to the tactical officer. “How much time do we have?”

  “Seventy-two seconds, Sir.”

  This is going to be close!

  He nodded to the XO and pulled at his straps. Luckily, the artificial gravity was still operating, and that would speed up the escape.

  “This is the XO, abandon ship! This is not a drill! Commence evacuation procedures. You have less than one minute to leave the ship. Landing zones are being sent to the nav units on all boats. I repeat. This is not a drill. Evacuate the ship!”

  With that, he unstrapped himself and made for the nearest escape lifeboats. In case of emergencies there were pods and boats situated at key areas along the outer skin of the rotating section. While the pods were very small, the lifeboats could carry up to twenty people. By the time Lieutenant Nilsson, the ship’s communication officer reached the nearest boat, she could already feel the reverberation through the metal plating of them ejecting from the ship. Their powerful retro-thrusters would blast the side of the hull as they moved away as quickly as possible. As she reached the door, she glanced back to see just three people left behind, and they were also moving for the door. The Captain and the XO were barking orders, and one marine guard was doing his best to manhandle them from the CIC towards the last lifeboat.

  “Captain!” she shouted as loudly as she could.

  He looked over to her, a look of disappointment on his brow.

  “Get off the ship, Sir!” she added and turned and threw herself into the escape pod. The door hissed behind her and with just a three second warning, the unit unbuckled from the ship and fired its engines. Her breath was forced from her lungs as the brief moment of acceleration forced her into her seat. Two other crew were already inside, and all of them groaned at the feeling. Then as quickly as it had started, the engine cut and the pod used its micro-thrusters to manoeuvre. She pulled her head around and looked out through the auto-block glass porthole. It was very small, not much bigger than her head and triple plated for protection. She could see the Santa Maria as well as the other two cruisers that appeared complete dead in space. Scores of small shapes continued to blast away from the cruisers as well as a two larger landing craft that were following close behind her lifepod.

  “Look!” said the young ensign sat opposite. He looked barely old enough to serve, and yet his face betrayed exposure to terrible events. She recognised him as one of the new replacements that had joined Santa Maria’s crew at the same time as her. She watched his gaze and looked through the other porthole to see the glowing orbs of energy coming up from the surface. They must have been more than halfway to the ship now and showed no sign of slowing down or changing direction.

  Gods no!

  As she watched, even more life pods continued to eject from Bellerophon’s hull. They were taking too long, probably due to the loss of power to their habitation unit. With little or no gravity, it would take them much longer to reach the boats. In the seconds it had taken her to watch the ship, the projectiles had reached a height of just a few kilometres from the ships. They were out of time. As the glowing orbs reached a thousand metres, the automated point-defence turrets opened fired. Thousands of metal shards were showered on the approaching objects, yet they seemed to achieve nothing, and the seven shapes slammed into the remaining taskforce.

  “Come on, get out!” she shouted uncontrollably.

  Bellerophon never stood a chance. The first orb struck her underside and towards the bow. With a bright flash, a chunk the size of a landing craft was blown off, and the bow of the ship tore off into space. The cruiser might have survived had the second not struck her centre. Fuel cells or ammunition must have been struck because the entire vessel vanished in a bright orange flare of energy that quickly dissipated to reveal large chunks of drifting debris. Lieutenant Nilsson turned away, unable to watch the rest of the assault upon the now defenceless and powerless ships.

  * * *

  Spartan paced outside Admiral Churchill’s office with his patience now reaching breaking point. He considered booting open the door but was saved from the indignity by it opening from the inside. A marine guard beckoned for him to enter. Spartan needed no further encouragement and was inside and stood in front of the Admiral before he even had time to turn around.

  “That will be all, Lieutenant,” he said to the guard who saluted and stepped outside. Spartan tried to speak, but the Admiral lifted his hand for him to be silent.

  “I know, Spartan, I know exactly what you are thinking and what you want. Hell, I agree with you, but not even I can force ships to be sent to the area for a rescue mission.”

  “But, Sir! You’re an Admiral!” answered Spartan bitterly.

  “Yes, I am, but even an Admiral has to work through the chain of command, and I have been given instruction that I am not to conduct ship-based operations without the express authorisation of the Defence Secretary.”

  Spartan tied to speak, but Admiral Churchill lifted his hand once more and walked to his personal computer unit. He turned the display around to face him. It showed the ANS Santa Cruz, one of his old ships in orbit. Spartan looked at the image for a few seconds. The shape brought back memories of the war, but also more recently, of the special operations he had been running. The Admiral turned back around but kept the image up on the screen.

  “The Senate is doing what it does best, talking. At some point, it might be today, it might be next month, but eventually, they will send a force to investigate. Don’t forget, we have lost a major civilian ship and now potentially a complete five-ship taskforce. They will just say, in fact they are already saying, we can’t just throw another ship into the same situation. Right now, the assumption is still that the area is dangerous to enter due to the frequent solar flares. My opinion of that? It’s all bullshit. You know as well as I do that our ships can stand a beating. Even the storms of Prometheus weren’t enough to hold back Confed ships, not back in the day!”

  He spotted Spartan desperately trying to speak and once more had to nod to let him finish first.

  “Now, I want you to take a team of specialists, perhaps a few with the right kind of reputation to run an inspection of the Santa Cruz and kick her into shape. You will appreciate that a number of exchange platoons are currently settling in, and she’s not expected back in the line for at least another six months. Major Daniels was supposed to be taking leave, but I have asked him to join you for a shakedown crew due to the current crisis. It is dangerous with us having no rapid reaction force. I have decided to post a number of training ships not far from here to help ready crews and troops for potential security issues. You run a series of readiness drills, you never know when the order might arise to leave orbit, and there are pl
enty of destinations that would be perfect for the training of these men and women.”

  Spartan could easily read between the lines of the somewhat distinctly unsubtle approach put forward by the Admiral. In his experience, it was often best to give politicians well-prepared solutions to problems. A ship with a team of the best people and equipment, and already waiting in orbit, would be a priority for use in any kind of reconnaissance or rescue operation.

  “You’re probably aware we are well down on our numbers right now. Most of our senior officers are on leave, retired on in training. The War really hit us hard, and it will be at least another nine months before we’re back to anything like full strength. Our ships are spread thin and crew numbers are low. It is in my power to grant you a temporary promotion, and for this operation I think you’re going to need it. As of twenty minutes ago you are now Captain Spartan, second in command of the 2nd Alliance Special Operations Group, with duties to help increase fleet readiness in case of emergencies.”

  He moved a file over to Spartan’s datapad, and a low beep indicated the arrival of the high-level encoded material.

  “That is authorisation for temporary transfer of non-commissioned Alliance military personnel for the training mission under the supervision of Major Daniels. Now, get moving, Spartan, and get boots on that ship...fast. When I am able, I will give the order for your deployment. I have already transferred the information on your new mission to the Major, and he will be in touch shortly.”

  * * *

  Teresa had been lucky. Of the craft that had left the Santa Maria, hers had been the last and the most at risk when the enemy weapons struck the nearby cruisers. She’d seen one landing craft destroyed completely by a direct impact that scattered the craft in chunk of shattered metal. She could only hope and pray that the majority of the crew and marines had made it out before the end.

  “You okay?” asked Sergeant Lovett.

  It was odd, but since the devastation of the small fleet, he seemed to have awakened. It was as if the pain, desperation and tragedy had forced him out of his stupor and back to being the marine she was used to. She was well aware of his loss, but right now they had their own problems.

  “Yeah, I’ll live. Don’t know about the rest of the marines though. We’ve just lost a lot of good people. Did you see what happened to the Santa Maria?”

  Sergeant Lovett shook his head.

  “No, last thing I saw was the cruisers getting hit. They were all blasting away with their turrets. You think she could have survived?”

  Teresa looked at the window, but there was nothing but the flames of re-entry. She looked back to the number of computer screens, but all of them were showing the same image, digital distortion of the planet’s thick atmosphere.

  “Make sure you’re strapped in, people. We’re coming in to the marked landing zone, and we’re coming in hot.”

  Sergeant Lovett looked surprised.

  “What? Why the rush?”

  With almost perfect timing, they broke through and to the cloudy skies of the planet. The landing craft bumped and buffeted through the thick air, and moisture hissed over the superheated exterior of the vessel. At the same time, the built-in countermeasures suite activated.

  “What the hell, now what?” asked one of the marines further back in the craft.

  Teresa checked her straps and looked up to the fixed weapon rack above her.

  “It means we’ve been detected. If they have surface to air weapon systems, we can expect them any moment. Why do you think we came in so fast?”

  A fast sequence of flashes rippled from the sides of the craft as it released scores of superheated flares to distract any head tracking weapon systems. Almost simultaneously, a dull crump shook the landing craft and threw one man against the ceiling.

  “You heard the pilot, make sure you’re strapped in. This is going to get ugly!” shouted Teresa.

  On cue, part of the port armour plating ripped off to expose the side of the landing craft. Howling winds screamed in and sucked out anything not bolted or welded down. Teresa stretched out her arms and grabbed the rails above her for extra grip. Through the breach she could see yellow streaks of gunfire flashing around them.

  “Will this never end!” she muttered under her breath.

  More alarms sounded through the craft but were entirely pointless. Shells and bullets ripped into the flanks until holes started to appear in the metal. Teresa had been in crashes before, and she remembered the jokes she’d shared with Spartan about how few successful landings either of them had ever made. As far as she was concerned, any landing from space was usually destined to end with them being shot down. She looked about the cabin with a calm stoicism that would have done Spartan proud.

  “Marines, remember your training. Keep your heads down and hands up. When we hit the ground, I want a fast dispersal. Get your arses out of here and establish a secure perimeter. Do not stay inside under any circumstances, or you’re likely to find yourselves in the middle of a burning bird.”

  The men and women nodded to her, but she saw a few look past her and to the breach. It was understandable, but she knew that any marine not focused on the mission was a liability.

  “Hey, Corporal! Yes, you! Get your eyes away from there and check your gear. We’re landing soon.”

  The woman stared at Teresa for a little while longer, and as if she’d been struck about the head, woke up. She looked down to her right and went through her equipment checks. A crackle and a quiet voice in her helmet was the first contact she’d had off the boat since they’d left. She tapped a button to increase the volume.

  “Sergeant Morato, report in,” said the voice, but with the crackling and howling noise it was hard to identify, even with the noise reduction filters.

  “This is Morato. I have one uninjured bird, setting down on the landing site. Who is this?” she answered.

  “Excellent. Captain Carlos here. We’ve just landed three hundred metres north of the landing coordinates. The enemy strongpoint is somewhere within fifty kilometres from here. Watch yourselves, there are...” his voice was drowned out by the sounds of shouting and then it cut.

  Always the damned same!

  “Thirty seconds!” called out the pilot.

  Teresa knew that the lack of information from the cockpit wasn’t down to negligence. With the damage sustained and ground fire coming up at them, she had no doubts the two pilots were under immense strain just trying to get them on the ground safely. The readout in her helmet showed the current atmospheric pressure was with acceptable tolerances, but she couldn’t remember off the top of her head what the air situation was on the ground. Her suit showed a ninety-seven percent level for now, and that was more than enough for a day’s normal use.

  “Brace!” shouted the pilot, but it was too little too late. The landing craft struck the ground harder than any landing Teresa had ever experienced. The initial impact would have broken her back had she not been encased in the protective PDS suit. The breach of the side of the hull ripped open and tore away to split the landing craft into two sections. She felt her body being thrown about and then it stopped. Internal sensors flashed on her suit to warn her about the pressure changes and a slight leak in her leg armour. It required no attention, as the suit was capable of projecting small amounts of adhesive to the damaged section. It was quickly fixed and would last for a number of hours.

  “Okay, we’re down, now it’s time to get out!” she said and pulled the lever that maintained the seat locks. The belts snapped off, and she slid out of the seat and towards the ceiling of the landing craft. It hadn’t even occurred to her she was upside down. Just in time, she lifted her hands and crashed heavily into the metalwork. Incredibly, nothing was hurt and she rolled over, looking about the craft. This section consisted of two-thirds of the cabin, and already a large part was filling with muddy water. Outside the craft were lines of thick trees, but they must have found one of the few reasonably open clearings. Even so, the gro
und was waterlogged and maybe a metre deep in places. Tree stumps and foliage made establishing who was where almost impossible. To make matters worse, a wisp of fog hung over the ground like a permanently running smoke generator.

  “Sergeant!” called out a marine to her left.

  She turned around and spotted a dozen marines already pulling gear from the wreckage and helping to pull the wounded from the twisted metal. She noticed four had stopped moving, and one was pinned to his seat with two snapped metal bars pushing through his chest. The sight of the body reminded her of Sergeant Lovett and his never-ending question to find his fiancée.

  “Lovett!” she shouted, half-expecting to find his to be one of the bodies. She was pleasantly surprised to be replied by a hand tapping her shoulder.

  “Here.”

  She looked around to see the familiar face of the Sergeant covered in mud. Scratch marks ran down his armour, yet there were no signs of major damage and more importantly, no signs of blood.

  “Good. How many made it?” she asked, almost dreading to find the answer.

  “Thirty-two came down, twenty-three made it out in one piece, including the two of us. The front section took one hell of a pounding in the landing.”

  She made to move forward to check, but he held her back.

  “Trust me, it’s a mess up there. Leave it to the medics. We need to protect what we have left.”

  Teresa wanted to see the damage, but the two of them had seen plenty of action and the consequences of that. There was nothing interesting or glorious about the smashed bodies of their friends and comrades. Either way, her interest was overridden by the sound of gunfire to the west of their position. She listened for a second, instantly recognising two distinct tones.