From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  A rap on the solid mahogany door broke the General’s attention.

  “Come,” he called out, looking up from his screen.

  The door swung open bringing with it the buzz of the office outside.

  “General, Sir, the reports you asked for on the Coma Berenices.”

  “Ah, come in Revar.”

  Revar closed the door behind him, blocking out the noises beyond and walked briskly over to the General's desk. He came to attention before placing the report in front of his commander.

  “Anything new?” asked Weston taking the folder from him and casually leafing through it.

  “Nothing important, Sir.”

  The Colonel was wearing a field uniform, with its swirls of brown and green suggesting an active involvement in his duties. The majority of his command staff, like the General, wore a more casual version of their dress uniform; khaki shirt with dark green tie and moleskin fatigues.

  Weston understood Revar's statement, “His first and foremost allegiance is with the grunts in the field, not behind a desk with a bunch of glorified secretaries who wouldn't know which end of a gun went boom!” Weston liked him for his “hands in the dirt” quality. He trusted him more because of it. When he gave or received an order he would know what the consequences were, not like some of those academy theorists in the next room who never stopped to equate “Destroyed Personnel” with widows and orphans.

  Weston looked up from his perusal to see Revar still standing to attention.

  “At ease. Take a seat Revar. What's the upshot?” said Weston

  “Thank you, Sir,” Revar pushed the chair into position and sat.

  His “at ease” was still more rigid than most officers' attention Weston observed.

  “We're alone Revar, you can relax a little,” the General tried to assure him.

  “Thank you Sir,” Revar nervously took his hands off the armrests and folded them in his lap.

  Revar found it hard having a commanding officer who was good at his job yet so informal. In his experience the relaxed ones were always the brainless ones. Weston was the exception. But Revar had decided to stay with what he found comfortable and not develop any slack habits.

  Weston closed the dossier and placed it on the desk, “Colonel, I've seen your service record. Like me you're career military. Two tours on Torka, two here on Neotra. I suspect that you applied for postings in the provinces because you knew that promotions are faster out here than back in the Terran Triangle.”

  Revar nodded ever so slightly and let General Weston continue.

  “I know it's unusual for anyone who's not academy trained to rise to your rank,” Weston sat back in his plush leather chair, “I know you got there with a lot of hard work and discipline but I won't demote you for showing a little humanity when we're alone.”

  “Yes, Sir I'll try my best Sir,” Revar replied, “I'm still a bit uneasy with my new role, Sir.”

  “Why's that Colonel?” Weston asked.

  “Well, Sir. General’s adjutants are normally graduates, Sir.”

  “And you're not.”

  “I know there are a number of officers who resent the fact that I was made up from the rank and file,” admitted Revar.

  “I chose you because you're the best man for the job. You wouldn't have made Colonel if you hadn't shown you were capable.”

  “It's not that, Sir. I'm a grunt, Sir, I've always had a company commission. I'm not a pencil pusher, Sir.”

  Weston smiled, “I know Revar, and that was the deciding factor in selecting you for the job. It's because of your affinity with the lower ranks. A pencil pusher might direct this war but its grunts like you that'll win it,” Weston stood up from his desk and crossed to the window, putting two fingers between a slat he opened the blinds a chink, “Do you know what the single most important factor will be in winning this war Colonel?”

  “Orbital Supremacy, Sir?” Revar offered.

  “Good answer, but there is one more element even more important than fire power,” Weston turned back to face Revar, “Morale will play the deciding role in Veruct's survival.”

  “Yes, Sir, I see. Our will to fight, to hold the line,”

  “Not only ours, but theirs. Now you have a feeling for the mood of our men Revar, that's going to prove invaluable if this war starts to drag out.”

  “You believe it will become a Sits Krieg?” asked Revar.

  “Without the reinforcements from the Coma Berenices we can't take the war to them and I don't hold out hope for a political solution.”

  “Pardon me asking but won't Earth be sending an Ambassador?”

  “No point yet. The Neotran President thinks he has the upper hand, why else would he declare independence? No, until we have some obvious tactical advantage there's no leverage for negotiation.”

  Weston walked back to the desk and still standing opened the thick brown folder leafing through the first few pages, “So Revar, what's the summary on the Berenices incident?”

  Without looking at the report he had presented, Revar outlined the main points.

  “At zero seven forty-four hours Captain Julien Patron of the T.A.V. Coma Berenices informed Squadron Leader Onfroi Fremier that they had detected enemy ships. No more contact was made with the Coma Berenices until the escort vessels arrived.

  “Upon arrival Squadron Leader Fremier reports engaging six or so enemy craft. After a brief exchange of fire two of the escorts were crippled. Only minor damage was sustained by the other six escorts. Of the half dozen or so enemy ships, four are confirmed destroyed, one surrendered and the other vessels were reported to have escaped.”

  Weston moved back round to his chair and sat down again.

  Revar kept on with his report, “A thorough search of the Coma Berenices revealed no survivors. Due to the lack of appropriate equipment on board, the escorts were unable to place the freighter under tow. As a result the ship was rigged with explosives and scuttled, as were the two inoperative escorts, to prevent them from falling into enemy hands.

  “Squadron Leader Fremier reports apprehending four prisoners from the craft that surrendered and that they are now en-route to Neotra. Due to their excessive fuel demands they are on an unpowered approach. As you will know this measure has considerably increased their return flight time.”

  Weston interjected, “Yes, damn annoying.”

  “The escort ships are reported to have had only minor injuries among the crew but, as I am sure you are aware, the crew and infantry compliment on board the Coma Berenices was near to six thousand, not to mention the forty thousand tons of supplies, equipment and munitions she was carrying.”

  “Why don't they have an exact count of the enemy vessels?” asked General Weston.

  “Their active sensors were the most widely disrupted. The Neotrans used E.M. warheads to cripple much of the ships' electrical systems. It was as a direct result of the E.M. weapons that our two escorts were rendered inoperative. The hardened and shielded systems on the other escorts succeeded in protecting them from the blast but the E.M. detonation did temporarily disable them.”

  “What's Admiral Jager's excuse, and more to the point, what's he doing to protect future shipments?”

  “His intelligence reports showed that the Neotran National Army had no offensive capability that far out, but from what we've learned from the Waden separatists, commercial vessels are being refitted by an orbital facility at Greda.

  “The Admiral is planning to deploy a force on Greda and use her as a support base for his escorts.”

  Revar looked down at the report sitting before the General. He had already anticipated Weston's reaction to the next part, “Jager's requested additional Special Forces support.”

  General Weston shook his head gently, “He knows half my S.F.'s are on combat ops and the other half are giving technical assistance to the Waden insurgents. The rebels will need some kind of help in their fight against the Neotrans if they are to be any use to us. And I'm going to nee
d those partisan troops even more so after his cock-up.”

  Weston rubbed his eyes, “See if you can get me a list of non-active combat units. We'll try and rustle him up a few extra platoons. How's Jager's fleet faring?”

  “Admiral Jager, except for the Coma Berenices, has met with considerable success,” Revar answered, “The orbital conflict has died down after hard initial fighting. The Neotran controlled orbital defence platforms...”

  Weston jumped in, “The ones which the Alliance helped to build in the first place.”

  “Yes, those ones”

  Weston shook his head, “I told High Command they were a threat but those idiot politicians went ahead anyway.”

  “Well they took their toll on Jager's ships, but cut off in space they soon crumbled.”

  “What about the Neotran fleet?”

  “Outnumbered and outdated, Jager has been able to neutralise them. Those that could took refuge on the planet's surface, of the larger vessels most have clustered into a few safe enclaves, small areas in geo-stationary orbit where ground based missile sites provide overwhelming cover.”

  “Well our Special Forces will soon give Jager the upper hand. Is everything in place for tonight's operations?” asked Weston.

  “Yes, Sir. All our ground forces are in place and Jager's ships are on standby.”

  “The Bavashee will take out their key radar station allowing Jager's ships to slip in close enough to destroy the missile sites.”

  “Sir, the Admiral was worried about the timing. He wanted me to stress how crucial it will be to attack before the Neotrans got their back-ups running,” Revar said.

  “No doubt he's edgy after the debacle with his escorts getting to the Coma Berenices. He needn't worry. You can tell him we have a Legacy in charge of the operation,” Weston said, “Our Neotran counterparts aren't dumb, they'll have contingency plans. What's Jager anticipating?”

  Revar replied, “His analysis is that no more than a handful of craft could escape. He expects that they'll do one of three things, scuttle their own ships, run for the ports on Greda or try to escape the system and take shelter in neutral Borlin.”

  “Borlin's a long way off. That will effectively take them out of the war. Doesn't he have estimates of numbers?” demanded Weston.

  “No, Sir he seemed rather glib about his preparations,” said Revar.

  “If the Neotran fleet scatters and makes a run for it will I lose orbital coverage as he goes chasing off across the solar system?”

  Weston pushed his chair back from the desk and looked up at the ceiling as if addressing his comments to the Admiral in orbit, “You should worry more about your own business!”

  “Will you be sending in a report to High Command about the Berenices?” asked Revar.

  “I'll have to. If you mean will I be pointing the blame at Admiral Jager, the answer is no.”

  “But, Sir, the blame lies clearly on his shoulders.” protested Revar.

  “I know. Which is why it weakens my position if it appears that I went crying to High Command. No, I'll let them make their own decision. Anyway there's nothing I can do about him.”

  “You mean that High Command haven't designated the conflict yet? It's obviously a land war, there's no doubt you should be in command of the whole theatre.”

  “I see it like you, but High Command are sitting in a bunker on Earth. They can see that our Naval presence will be decisive to holding the planet. So they're debating who has precedence.”

  “You or Jager. It's a nonsense, Sir,” offered Revar.

  “Well we'll just have to do our best for Mother Earth no matter who ends up in charge. Thanks for the reports Colonel. That will be all for now.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Colonel Revar stood, saluted and made his exit.

  Left alone again Weston considered the situation.

  He brought up a representation of the planet on his console.

  “The war on the ground is not going well,” he thought as he examined the data, “The Nationalist Neotran army have much of the popular support on planet. They also have the biggest army and control the terrestrial supply lines.”

  He toggled through to the Terran details, “This base at Veruct is the Terran Alliance's sole permanent garrison on Neotra and as such is in an almost indefensible position. It's the only focus for Neotran aggression. And without the reinforcements from the Coma Berenices how long can we hold out against that aggression?

  “We have to find some way to take the war to the Neotrans,” Weston said to himself.

  “But until reinforcements arrive, all we can hope to do is to hold our current positions,” Weston thumped his fist down on the table, “That's an unacceptable state of affairs. I have to find some way of taking the war to the Neotrans, I have to keep them off-balance.”

  Weston switched to an orbital view of the planet, “The only advantage we have is our Space Fleet. Our ships are faster, more advanced and better armed than the Neotran ships. At least in space we have a decisive advantage; but not an overwhelming one as the Berenices incident has proven.”

  General Weston switched off the screen and walked over to the window. He pulled the blinds open, then clasping his hand behind his back he surveyed the view of the spaceport his garrison protected.

  Before him lay an expanse of concrete hangars and landing pads. Wash walls surrounded the largest launch pads, acting as barriers that prevented the scorching ignition flames from damaging any of the surrounding buildings.

  They looked like a cross between craters and a circle of standing stones. They were a dark, muddy colour, stained that way from countless blastoffs.

  On Neotra there were only a handful of such sites, it was seldom economical to launch payloads of sufficient magnitude to merit expensive space ports.

  “OK, so we're hitting their launch sites,” Weston spoke out loud, “That will give us orbital supremacy. We'll train up the separatists and that will open up a second front on the Neotrans. But unless Earth re-supply us we'll run out of ammunition. The Neotrans just have to sit there knocking pieces off us until there's nothing left.”

  “What can we do to shorten the odds?” Weston said as he turned back to his console.

  Section 8

  A light drizzle fell straight down, the fresh rain collecting in shallow pools where the pavement undulated. Were it a clear night the fireworks display from the battle above would have been breathtaking, but the low cloud cover blocked out all the light from the heavens.

  From the alleyway Zinner heard yet another rumble as new batches of rockets were sent hurtling into orbit. He was grappling with a young Neotran who was wearing a dull, grey uniform. A swift wrench of the technician's neck sheared two of the man's vertebrae. There was a loud pop and a dull crunch. The technician shuddered and made a low gurgling sound deep within his throat, a sound muffled by Zinner's hand clamped firmly over the man's mouth.

  A moment later Zinner had stripped the corpse.

  He concealed the body, carefully placing it under a pile of rubbish at the far end of the alleyway.

  Zinner donned his victim's uniform. Tilting the cap low over his blue eyes he patted the dead man’s base pass and picked up a large aluminium briefcase.

  The shower was persistent but gentle as Zinner walked briskly through the rain-soaked streets. Small rivers flowed alongside the kerb and gurgled away down drains. From the alleyway where Zinner had found his prey it was only a short walk to the command bunker. It was a journey he had never taken but he knew it as well as if he had been born to these streets. The hours spent reviewing intelligence reports and satellite imagery were never a waste of time.

  Zinner walked through the entrance to the compound slowing momentarily to wave his pass at the men on the gate.

  He walked unchallenged up to the missile command bunker.

  The dark grey façade of the installation swept downwards onto the earth. Two soldiers flanked the entrance, their rifles at the ready.

  As Z
inner walked forward he brought his right hand over his shoulder to scratch his back and cocked his head to watch.

  On the back of his hand two green dots flashed. He viewed their pulsating encounter with his flesh and switched his attention ahead, happy his two best snipers, Speg and Yeng, were in position.

  Zinner was three metres from the men guarding the bunker and walking calmly.

  The man on the right hand side started to ask for identification but never finished his sentence.

  A light green dot appeared between the eyes on each of the two men's faces.

  Zinner felt the subsonic whoosh as the bullets flew past him.

  The two shots floored their targets and Zinner walked through the unguarded entrance.

  “I think,” Zinner said stepping over one of the slumped corpses, “you'll find my credentials are in order.”

  From a utility belt around his waist he pulled out a small wedge-shaped piece of metal.

  Reaching high above him he jammed the block into a long cavity in the ceiling. If not jammed the emergency blast doors could cut off his escape route, and Zinner was not in the habit of taking unnecessary risks.

  Ten metres further in were the elevator doors. The only other access to the command centre was the stairwell.

  Pulling out a second wedge, he called the lift.

  With an electronic ping the doors opened revealing an empty carriage. Zinner placed the second wedge between the door and the floor, jamming it open. With the lift jammed anyone leaving the bunker would have to pass him.

  Casually he turned and started down the stairs. As he jogged lightly down the steps he checked his timer. He peered down the gap in the stairwell to the bottom floor. There were a good six landings still to pass.

  The only sounds were Zinner’s soft breaths and the gentle echo of his footfalls.

  As he reached the last few steps his fingers released the flap on his holster. Ahead of him was the entrance to the Command Centre. He pushed against the door but it didn't budge.