“In-coming missiles,” the computer's voice was calm and flat.
“Visual on heads up display,” Ketser ordered.
The visor on his helmet washed over with a translucent computer screen. A cluster of red blobs represented the missiles closing in on the green of Ketser's troops.
“Commander, incoming missiles on an intercept course!” A worried trooper informed Ketser.
“Acknowledged,” Ketser calmly answered.
“But what do we do, Sir?” replied the nervous trooper.
“There is nothing we can do. Hold your formation, they're firing at the ships not us.”
A wave of dark specks broke through the cloud cover below and raced into the heavens, their blazing jets billowing white smoke behind them.
Ketser was right, the missiles were targeted on the ships in orbit but that was no consolation to the drop troops who got in the way.
“Hold formation,” Ketser radioed to his men.
He watched the missiles on his screen creep closer.
“Hold formation,” he commanded, “Hold formation.”
The missiles and his troops icons merged on the screen.
With their backs to the attack they were unable to see what was coming. His men could only hope their luck would hold.
The black cylindrical body of a rocket shot past Ketser, its burning jet washing him in flame. The suits computer bleeped frantically in his helmet. Ketser struggled, firing thrusters and twisting his armour clad body to regain control of his descent. The spin flipped him round exposed his unshielded side to the burning friction of re-entry.
“External condition in excess of suit tolerance,” the computer gently informed Ketser.
“Come on,” Ketser coaxed.
“Come on level out,” he strained against the controls, struggling to correct his flight.
“Warning. External condition in excess of suit tolerance,” the computer again reminded him.
“I know, I know,” Ketser cajoled his suit to stabilise.
“Yes!” he screamed as he forced his flight to even out. Without taking time to brood over the nearness of disaster he ordered up information on his computer, “Display unit I.D. information.”
On his heads up view screen a list of responding troops scrolled down. Ketser scanned the thousands of names mentally counting off the casualties.
“Good,” he thought, “Only fifty killed. Acceptable.”
The cruisers switched from their targets on the ground to open up on the approaching missiles. A small patch of dark space was lit up with a thousand flashes, each burst a missile destroyed. Still hundreds of warheads hurtled towards the Terran ships. Another volley of fire and another, and another, each wave obliterating still more missiles. Finally a pitiful handful of missiles pelted into the Terran fleet. The ships became awash with the flare of decoys.
An Alliance cruiser turned to avoid an incoming warhead. The missile twisted and swerved as it tried desperately to identify a target among the chaff. Suddenly it detected the cruiser through the fog and veered into it. The ship bucked against the explosion and was knocked off its evasion course. The detonation served as a beacon to the few remaining missiles which instantly changed course to intercept. Hot splashes of chaff gushed out from the ailing vessel as she tried to evade the last of the warheads. Escaping oxygen and fuel from the ship's hull ignited creating a trail of flame that billowed from her side. One incoming missile was confused by the sudden burst. It grazed along the cruiser's flank failing to detonate. The rest of the missiles had no such difficulty. In rapid succession they smacked clean into her. With a brilliant white flash the blast tore the hull to shreds.
The beleaguered escorts, exhausted from the weeks of fighting, trained their heavy guns on the revealed launch site below and without hesitation opened fire.
The glowing balls of energy hurtled past Ketser and his troops overtaking them in an instance. The salvo disappeared into the blanket of clouds before moments later striking their targets.
From this far up there was no explosion to hear but the tremendous force of the bombardment threw out a pressure wave that burst the clouds. Spreading out in a perfect circle the surrounding cloud cover vaporised revealing a rolling firestorm like the centre of a volcano.
The hangar doors on the Sequaloris opened and out flew the first of the relief landing craft. On board were the second wave of troops and essential supplies.
Alongside them came the three surviving fighters, the remnants of the Ptolemy's load. Like sheep dogs they ran alongside the flock of docile shuttles keeping them in check and protecting them.
Regiments of ground troops sat strapped into the landing craft, rifles ready, eager to disgorge into battle. In addition to the soldiers on board there were terrestrial fighter planes crated in the holds. Even though they were packed with their wings removed and boxed separately the aircraft could be fuelled and ready to fly in under an hour to augment the air support.
The last essential element in the initial wave was the medical staff, complete with a mobile field hospital to care for the injured.
Weston stood in the command bunker watching the action on one of the many screens at his disposal checking off each unit against his plan. The bright greens and yellows traced the positions of his forces. The command staff shouted out the status of the reinforcements.
“Convoy is in geosynchronous orbit.”
“Drop troops have entered the atmosphere. Reports of casualties.”
“The Sequaloris has released her first wave of landing craft. Preparing for second wave.”
“Neotran units have breached the Spaceport perimeter.”
The room went quiet.
Weston calmly walked over to the communications officer who had announced the intrusion.
Weston's voice was dry, “How many?”
“Unclear, at least a platoon of infantry and between ten and twenty tanks.”
“What's their exact location?” Weston quizzed.
As if the Gods had heard his question an explosion rocked the bunker from overhead.
As the inferno of re-entry died down, the night sky was replaced by a hazy blue. The heat shielded armour started to cool. Slowly at first, but as his falling body met with less and less friction from the slowing of his descent the red-hot ceramic lost its scorching glow.
Ketser watched the computer read-out display the falling temperature. His heatshield had done its job. Once more he called up a list of his troops. He took in the information and crossed off a further dozen. His tally was less than a hundred men lost so far.
“Acceptable,” Ketser again thought.
Unlike the soft, smooth free fall experienced in orbit, Ketser's body was being jolted and shaken by the ever more resistant air. Gentle twists of his torso kept his fall controlled and in formation.
“Keep your positions,” Ketser reassured his men.
With this many orbital troops coming down he knew that one mistake could kill a whole platoon.
And that, he reasoned to himself, would be a waste of resources.
Each man's shield now glowed a dull orange from the friction of re-entry. Viewed from Veruct below, the sky took on an eerie radiance. The explosions in orbit had been draped with a mesh of burning teardrops. It appeared as if the heavens had been set alight.
The descending troops plummeted to earth like comets, each one trailing a smoky black tail. Even with the nitrogen cooled ceramic shielding the crucible of re-entry scorched off a plume of dirty smoke.
Ketser watched his heads up display showing his orbital drop troops pouring down in their thousands. Like droplets of rain they fell, and like rain they darkened the sky.
“Bleep, Bleep, Bleep, Bleep,” Ketser's display let out a placid but tenacious alarm. Ketser turned his attention to the new information.
He sent a warning and his orders to his troops, “Incoming enemy aircraft. Do not deviate from your flight path. Permission to fire at will.”
The
bleeps became louder and faster. A Neotran fighter swooped below and fired off her load of missiles. The weapons exploded in the midst of a formation, vapourising dozens of men and piercing molten shrapnel into dozens more.
The fighter came by for another attack. The aircraft was firing indiscriminately with its nose cannon into the waves of troops. Ketser could see his men being gunned down around him. He did a mental run through of the possibilities for retaliation or defence; “The infrasonic weapons in my armour could easily shatter a building but they depend on sound waves travelling through air. At this altitude the weapon would be next to useless,” Ketser's mind raced, “The only other weapons are in the backpack which is near impossible to open in free fall.”
Ketser's computer displayed another attack on his defenceless men.
“Kamikaze?” he pondered on the thought of a suicide attack, “No, wouldn't work. The fighters are too fast, our drop suits couldn't target them.”
There was nothing he or his men could do until they were on the ground.
“Bleep, Bleep, Bleep,” came the tone again. The heads up display threw up a trajectory estimate.
“Warning collision imminent,” said the overly calm computer voice.
Ketser swung round to see the Neotran plane screaming towards him.
“This isn't Kamikaze,” Ketser thought, “This is just bad luck.”
“Target,” Ketser called into his mouthpiece.
“Target locked,” announced the computer.
“Track and fire!” Ketser commanded.
“Confirmed.”
Good though Ketser was, the computer was still a better shot in this situation.
The infrasonics purred into life as the Neotran fighter plane smacked into Ketser. At point blank range, even impaired by the thin atmosphere, the sonic weapon burst through the plane's wing.
A cold wind whistled threw a gash in his torn drop armour.
“Commander! Come in Commander!” Ketser's com' channel crackled.
Ketser woke up with a start, the impact had knocked him out. He shook off the disorientation.
“Please respond, Commander!” demanded his subordinate.
“Roger,” Ketser answered.
“Are you OK, Sir?”
“Still operational, continue as planned,” he replied.
Ketser looked down at the swiftly approaching ground.
“Computer,” he asked anxiously “Is the deployment system still functional?”
“Affirmative,” answered the computer.
His immediate fear had been quashed. He could make out the spaceport below quite clearly now. There were a number of large smoking craters, many of which tore into the enormous grey buildings and hangars. At least he wouldn’t become a human bomb.
“Display time to deployment,” a countdown appeared in Ketser's heads up display.
“Fifteen, Fourteen, Thirteen,” the numbers ticked by.
“Computer, damage report from collision?”
“Estimate armour is fifty one percent combat efficient,” the computer displayed a schematic of the suit and its damaged areas.
“Occupant is eighty nine percent complete,” a second line drawing appeared, this one representing Ketser.
He looked at the diagram and then down at himself. The shock and the adrenaline had masked the pain from his injuries. Even now Ketser found it hard to take in what had happened.
“That's eleven percent?”
A burst of machine gun fire made Weston look up.
He turned to the newly arrived Bavashee guard in the war room. “Report, Lieutenant!” ordered Weston.
“Neotran troops have penetrated the building,” said the Bavashee with his finger pressed over the ear-piece of his com’ unit.
“Yeng to Patterson. Come in, over,” the trooper shouted into his mic.
The firing outside the room was more frantic now and muffled screams could be heard through the door.
“Roger that, Patterson. Be advised that no backup is available at this time. I repeat, no backup. Over,”
As the Bavashee Lieutenant finished, an explosion shook the bunker and the firing stopped. The lights in the command centre flickered for a moment then died. One by one the computers blinked off, plunging the room into darkness.
With an audible click the backup batteries switched on, providing power for the emergency lighting.
In the dim red light Weston took a step closer to the door to hear better what was happening.
Yeng waved the two naval security guards away from their position flanking the entrance.
“Take cover,” he ordered as they moved away. The men positioned themselves behind desks facing the doorway.
“Patterson, do you read me? Do you read me!” Yeng called into his radio.
The airwaves were silent.
Incomprehensible shouts came from behind the door.
“This is Bavashee Lieutenant Yeng to all units in the vicinity of the command bunker. The command room is under attack. All active units are ordered to this location immediately!”
There was no reply.
Yeng pulled a grenade from his webbing and flipped the pin off while keeping the arm from flying open with the pressure of his grip.
A rhythmic thudding began against the door.
“They're trying to break in,” Admiral Stenel blurted in terror.
Yeng levelled his gun, not at the door but at General Weston's head.
“What are you doing man! Stand down at once!” As Admiral Stenel barked at Yeng beads of perspiration flew from the tip of his nose.
“Article One Nine Five section Eight Alpha authorised, and I quote, any and all action necessary should be taken to prevent sensitive material, data, equipment or personnel, which could be detrimental to the Terran Alliance, from falling into enemy hands,” Yeng's voice didn't betray his nervousness.
“For God's sake, somebody shoot him. He's gone mad!” Stenel cried.
The Naval guards looked at each other hesitantly.
“Belay that order,” Weston interjected.
He turned to face Yeng down the barrel of his gun, “If you shoot him he'll drop that grenade and kill us all.”
He addressed Yeng, “That is why you armed it.”
“Yes, Sir,” Yeng replied.
“Soldier,” Weston said in a firm tone, “You keep right on pointing that gun at me. But promise me one thing.”
“Yes, Sir?” asked Yeng.
“You don't pull that trigger until they're through that door, you hear me, son?”
“Yes, Sir!” barked Yeng.
The backup generators kicked in, lighting the room fully and providing the energy for the computers to come back on line.
A loud shout from outside was followed by an explosion that sent tremors through the room.
Yeng turned slightly to face the door but kept his weapon trained on the General.
The door slowly started to inch open. The command room was silent. Yeng's finger lay tense against the gun's trigger, ready to fire.
The door opened enough to see movement in the corridor but the lights there were blown. The dark figures hurried about their task.
The door slid further open still.
Yeng's grip on his gun's handle tightened. He squeezed the trigger gently finding the bite.
“Everyone all right in there, Lieutenant?” came a concerned voice.
“Identify yourself!” demanded General Weston.
“Commander Ketser, Terran Relief force,”
Weston turned to Yeng his voice strong and full of the air of command, “You can lower that weapon now, soldier,”
“Yes, Sir!” snapped a relieved Yeng.
The door jolted fully open and in walked Captain Ketser. Yeng froze for an instant. The Captain wore the same face as Zinner.
Ketser's blonde hair was barely visible under his helmet. His piercing blue eyes swept the command room like a hungry predator's.
The same lines, the same muscle tone,
the same skin. But it wasn't Ketser's doppelganger looks that compelled the room's attention. The soldier's right arm was missing from the bicep down. His camouflage smock was tattered and scorched from the shoulder with a charcoal black stump protruding from the end.
“Your arm, Captain?” asked Weston.
“An unfortunate accident on the way down, Sir, but I'm still eighty nine percent combat efficient, Sir!”
“Have a medic look at that, Commander.”
“It can wait, Sir. I still have the rest of the base to secure. Besides, it will grow back sir,” Ketser swung his rifle over his good shoulder and saluted with his left hand.
Weston reciprocated with a salute of his own.
In one smooth move Ketser swept the rifle from its rest, left hand lightly grasping the grip and the stock firmly against the crease of his shoulder, like he had been used to only one arm all his life.
“Corporal,” Ketser commanded the troops he'd mustered, “post guards in the corridor then sweep the command bunker for any remaining intruders.”
“Yes, Sir!” obeyed the corporal.
“Once that's done report directly to Lieutenant Yeng, he has authority in all security matters with the command staff.”
“Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!” the marine obeyed.
Weston turned back to the command console that still displayed the status of the reinforcing troops.
“What are the rest of you waiting for?” Weston called out.
The officers returned to their stations to carry on orchestrating the battle.
Weston leaned across and whispered to Admiral Stenel, “I've only served with a handful of Legacies in my whole career. But each time I look at those men it sends a shiver down my spine.”
“They're unnatural,” agreed Stenel, “They're engineered, not born,”
“No, it's not that. Those few are the last remnants from the Armageddon wars, the Bavashee, the Leananshee and dozens more. Atavistic names we echo in our own armies. Thousands of years ago when mankind almost committed suicide there wasn't just one, Zinner in a squad of Bavashee, there were whole armies made up of them. You've seen the havoc Zinner can cause. Imagine a million of him. The wonder is how did anything survive the Armageddon War?”
From the Torment of Dreams Page 32