by Chris Hechtl
The Meat Grinder
Walking into the briefing room, Jenkins turned to see Walker and Perkins waving him over to their usual spot. Smiling, he passed Sergeant Higgins, the platoon medic before sitting next to the Native American Walker and the tall gangly corporal Perkins.
Nodding, he listened to Walker tell a joke and felt the unease and tension in the room. Most of the group were privates, young ones under twenty years old. They were meats, just out of boot camp, like many in the room. They had graduated only a few months before but had been in stasis for the trip out to the empty space where the fleet gathered to attack an alien enemy.
Sometimes he wondered why he was here. After all, his family had money, and he could have taken a job in the family business. He had tried the common explanations to others who had asked him, that he was doing it for honor, tradition, but they had fallen flat and hollow. He just wasn’t sure why he needed to be here, just that he did.
“Attention on deck! All right listen up, you meats!” A familiar scratchy rumble broke the chatter like a knife. “I won’t repeat myself, and some of this stuff you need to know!”
Jenkins quieted down with his squad buddies and turned to view the podium and the standing sergeant Hillery. The tall grizzled sergeant looked like a classic recruiting poster with starched and crisp uniform. The only thing that marred the image was the stogie she had in her mouth. She flipped a switch and the room went dark and a holo appeared over the podium. “This is Columbia, ladies, and we are going to rescue some damsels in distress.” Quiet tittering at that cut off abruptly as she gazed across the room.
“This is the enemy,” she pulled up a grainy, shaky holo of a warrior attacking a group of civilians. The shot was from a distance, so details couldn’t be made out too clearly, but the grim savage pain in the room at the unwarranted slaughter of civilians dropped the room temperature.
“We don’t have a lot on them. We have known about them for over twenty years, but all attempts at diplomacy have been rebuffed. They call themselves “Zerinoth” and seem to be some form of six limbed, three- to twelve-meter tall aliens.” The holo zoomed to one of the Zerinoth warriors and then froze. The image began to spin slowly showing the winged creature, and the computer filled in missing details by mirroring existing ones and highlighting them.
“As you can see, we have little to go on, so we don’t know their weaknesses. Their lack of powered armor may give us an edge. Also their lack of communications gear pointed to a possible coordination problem…At least that is what intelligence thinks.”
“You mean intelligence thinks? Isn’t that an oxymoron, Sarge?” a heckler called from the back, creating a stir of muted chuckles.
The Sarge snorted and looked out over the crowd. “I wouldn’t know; words like oxymoron are past my pay grade, Higgins.” Chuckles from the troops at her answering sally. She turned to the holo. “The brass tried to insert a special ops team in to gather more intel and mark our LZs. They were destroyed.”
Grimly, she approved of the groups sudden quieting. She knew they realized that the special ops squads were some of the best, and if they had been spotted and taken out, it wouldn’t be quite as easy as some had thought. She knew, just as they knew, that going in virtually blind was suicidal. “Their backup has stayed outside the system and has been keeping an eye on the things and relaying it to us.”
She waved a hand. “I won’t bore you with stuff past your pay grade, but to ease your worried little minds, here is how things are going to play. The enemy is in an equatorial orbit. We will come out of hyper here,” she pointed to space directly opposite the planet. “A second task force is set to emerge on their side at the same time. The hope is to draw them off long enough to land us.” She gave them a grim skin lipped smile. She pointed to the holo with her stogie. “We will deploy as soon as the carriers deploy the fighter and AWACS screen. We will come in over the ocean here and here…”
>---{}---<
The admiral smiled grimly and switched to the hangar feed. The briefings were shaping up well. Columbia was the first of the outer colonies to be invaded, and her high population and large industrial infrastructure had warranted an immediate relief force to take the planet back. What little of the planet was still useable, he grimly thought as he felt the pain of the civilian death toll flood through him.
When the freighter Titus had been entering the system, the aliens had attacked, and only the fast thinking of the captain had made certain they had gotten away to warn the Federation. The colonial government had sent an omnidirectional feed out as the enemy attacked, and the kinetic attacks on entire cities had left a sick dread and burning rage in everyone who had seen it. Shaking himself out of the revere, he turned to another feed. A pair of drop-ship pilots looked like they were doing the final preflight inspection of their craft. A harried drop boss was watching them.
>---{}---<
“Looks like you got the port stabilizer fixed; what’s with the pitting around the landing gear assembly?” The harried boss turned to run a knowing hand along the metal plate. “Looks like you picked up some debris…most likely in space. See the angle?”
Major Jen Smith bent and fingered the pitting he indicated. “Will it cause a problem in reentry?” She asked as her copilot Lieutenant Jorge Valdez continued the inspection. The five-foot-one-inch Major had been a drop-ship pilot for six long years. She turned to the boss as he ran a scanner over the pitting.
“No, it looks like it didn’t get through the ablative, just scored the paint and dug in a little. You will be fine.”
“All righty then,” she stood up and brushed her hands, then eyed the hangar. Pilots were doing similar preflight chores all over the crowded deck. In less than an hour, the deck would be crammed with grunts.
“Major, a moment of your time?” Jen looked up from her clipboard to study Lieutenant Colonel Alexander.
“Aye, sir?” she asked as she absently handed the clipboard to Chief Turner, her drop chief. The colonel waved her to follow him under the wing of her bird. Arching an eyebrow she followed.
“Jen, the admiral needs commanders for corvettes. I put your name at the top of the list, and he approved it.” Annoyance began to show on her face, and he waved her down. “Yes, I know all you wanted to be was a pilot, but you are a good leader and we need you. Besides, you are getting past the mandatory retirement for shuttle pilots,” he warned. They both knew that either one of them shouldn't be in the hot seat anyway; drop shuttle pilots were normally warrants positions. But the Colonel was a hands-on guy, and as his executive officer, she got to keep her hands dirty too.
She nodded curtly as that last comment went home. “All right. I’ll think about it.”
She turned to leave, and he grabbed her arm. “Jen, be careful down there. Don’t let the thought of your family down there go to your head.”
Her eyes widened as he calmly gazed at her. “I didn’t know anyone knew, sir,” she said carefully, keeping her tone even and professional. He studied her and then patted her arm.
“We all know you grew up here, Jen, and that your family is down in that mess. Just don’t let it get to your head, okay?” She nodded mutely and stared to the side as she got her feelings back under control. He started to continue but a harried plane boss waved him over. “I gotta go. Just think about the promotion, Jen.”
She turned and came to attention, saluting him. He returned the salute then held out his hand. “Good luck down there.” She nodded, and he turned to jog to the plane boss. She watched him go, smiling slightly as he arrived and listened to the boss and then began tearing into the open panel. Colonel Alexander was a good commander, and he always dug in and got his hands dirty. He wasn’t about to lead from the rear either; his would be the lead plane in this drop. Turning, she climbed the ladder to her cockpit and future.
>---{}---<
“Admiral, we have received a report from the intel ship, they reported Task Force Six point One has exited hyper on target and th
e enemy has begun to maneuver against them.”
Looking up, Rear Admiral Walter Brentworth, Commander of Task Force Six point Two, frowned. Captain Hiro Hidoshi calmly waited as the admiral got his thoughts in order. Smiling slightly, the admiral stood and paced the command deck, one hand behind his back as the other clenched his pipe. He had started the habit as a captain to gain some culture and to keep his hands busy.
Tapping the AI he had it give him the raw feed and watched the data scroll with only half his attention. Coming from a military family, it was only natural that he would be in command. Eleven of his ancestors in the past one hundred years had achieved flag rank after all. None had had to face a foe with this little to go on though. Humanity had fought itself since time immemorial and would continue to do so no doubt. This was the human races first war with an alien race, however, and the complete lack of psychological understanding alone was a major handicap.
He smiled grimly as the updated information began to scroll and the tactical plot changed. It looked like they did have one thing in common; they couldn’t resist the bait. Task Force Six point One led by Rear Admiral Rogers was deliberately understrength. Rogers had swapped out his two dreadnaughts for four of Walter’s cruiser divisions, making his task force light but fast.
“Sir, it looks like…yes, sir, the enemy is deploying fighters,” a voice said, sounding concerned. Turning to Lieutenant Commander Richards, he grimaced as he read the vague feed. They had fighters all right, but like their capital ships they were distinctively hard targets to lock down with sensors at any long distance.
“Looks like our fighter pukes won’t be bored after all, sir.” Marine General Questar Benn commented before she smiled grimly from across the room as he turned to regard her. Snorting, he punched up the feed from the pilots’ ready room.
>---{}---<
A towel was tossed across the room to smack into Lieutenant Warner’s face. Sheepishly, he grabbed it and balled it up. Laughter from across the room made him look up and shake a fist at his old academy roommate, Bryers. Snorting, he turned his attention inward to his brief.
The download was scant of any enemy intelligence; most of the technical side was filled about the planet and colony. Sighing in frustration he closed the file and looked up. The brunette Lieutenant Bryers was distracted, flirting with his honey blonde wingman, Lieutenant JG Quina Destra.
Smiling wolfishly, Warner pitched the balled towel like a softball, watching it bounce off the back of Bryer’s head. Laughter erupted and the annoyed Bryers turned to glare at the innocent grin on Warner’s face.
They had just finished the verbal briefing and were supposed to be going over the implant downloads; however, the scant detail was of little use. They had received most of the information in similar briefings over the past two months in hyperspace while training in simulators. Captain Valiant, their squadron commander, waved them out the door with a mock “Now now children,” he said. Morale was high; pilots loved to goof it up and play pranks on each other in their downtime to burn off tension.
>---{}---<
Like a great explosion the fleet exited hyperspace and took up formation. Tendrils of plasma tumbled off into the dark reaches of space. Hyperexits were a truly spectacular sight to see with an explosion of light and plasma, but that explosion also emitted enough gravitons, neutrinos and tachyons to form one hell of a beacon the admiral mused grimly as he sat in his chair.
He had changed into his battle suit a half hour before exit so wouldn’t have to leave the bridge to suit up. The strident alarms of Condition One echoed through the compartments. Red strobe lights pulsed the battle stations condition at the top and bottom of each bulkhead.
He turned to the view screen and used his implants to call up a status report. A hologram erupted before him swinging out as it showed his fleet and all other ships as the sensors picked them up. The enemy was deeply engaged with Task Force Six point One, with savage fighter battles all over the area clouding it and making detailed scans almost impossible.
Not bothering to try to track the fighters, he turned to his aide. “Mark, get me a status report from Admiral Rogers and General Benn. Also, get our Intel people to download the specs from Roger’s intel group, I want more details on the enemy for our people as they go in.” Lieutenant Mark Roberts nodded to this as he jotted it down on tablet.
“Sir, do you want an enemy status report as well?”
Annoyance flickered across the admiral’s face, but he quickly suppressed the biting remark with a tight “Give.”
Swallowing, the lieutenant cleared his throat and began. “So far, our tracking and the upload from Task Force Six point One confirms a total of one hundred enemy fighters, with six fleet carriers, two dreadnaughts, sixteen cruisers, twenty-three frigates, and what appears to be two hundred disk-shaped drones. So far we have discovered that the enemy ships are difficult to lock up at any distance beyond twenty kilometers, so fighters are having to go in with guns.”
The admiral grimly tapped his implants and called up the stats. “Sir, it is turning into a real fur ball out there; without the long-range edge, our fighters are getting chewed up. The enemy has better ECM and shields then we do; however, our fighters are faster with longer legs and thicker armor,” the lieutenant reported.
Nodding, the admiral called up the fighter files and compared them. Holos of the enemy fighters appeared. He silently ordered his implants to send the file the lieutenant just read off to him as well as the technical stats of the enemy to the squadron commanders. He made certain that the CAG and each of his pilots got an update as well. Roger's people had gone in cold, but his people would have the benefit of their hard-won experience.
He looked up. “Have the squadron commanders tap the tactical feed from Resolution’s fighter wing; make sure they listen in to the combat chatter and work out what tactics work and what doesn’t. Contact the Resolution’s CAG and have him pull out at least one or two commanders for a few moments to detail off the information to the squadrons. We don’t want them to go in cold,” the admiral ordered. Nodding, the lieutenant turned at the dismissive wave and went about his orders.
“Sir, it looks like the enemy is splitting up,” a rating reported. Looking up from the tablet he was reading, the admiral studied the plot. Red tags sprung up, highlighting enemy vessels leaving the battle. Getting a sick feeling, he noted that almost half the fleet was heading in his direction. One dreadnaught, a dozen cruisers, half the frigates, fighters, and drones were remaining behind.
He had four fleet carriers, four dreadnaughts, six cruisers, two dozen destroyers, and a gaggle of unarmed troop transports and colliers to cover, not to mention the hordes of drop-ships about to launch. He sighed in thought. It would have been good, defeat in detail, but the enemy's confidence in splitting up and the fat transports he had to protect changed that equation.
“Give me a vector on the enemy fleet and ETA. Punch up the tactical sitrep to the fleet. Move the fleet into defensive formation Baker three,” he ordered. The ships began to move out, the slower unarmed transports and colliers heading to the center of the fleet. The dreadnaughts took point with the cruisers covering the flanks. The two unarmed fleet carriers covered the rear. The destroyers spread out into a wedge shaped screen in front of the fleet, and the entire task force went to flank speed as it changed vectors.
“Okay people, the name of the game is time. We need to get our ships in and out of danger as quickly as possible,” the admiral said firmly. The computer pulled up a vector map, and a point on it began to blink. “This is our drop point. Once we get past this point and our drop shuttles deploy, the fleet will change vector away from the planet here.”
Pointing out the strategy to the flag staff for the final briefing, the admiral felt their anxiety. Even with what little they had to go on, the enemy was still an enigma. They had little to go on for their thought processes, so enemy strategy predictions were out the door. Mentally dragging himself back on track, the admir
al continued the briefing.
>---{}---<
On the flight deck of the troop transport, Ambuscade Major Smith fondly smacked the side of her drop-ship. “She’ll bring us back safe,” she said softly as her copilot tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin. The smack was about as close a ritual the Major had before going back into combat. She didn’t have the lucky rabbit’s foot like he did.
“You can still get a rabbit’s foot, Skipper, if you need it,” he teased her, holding it up. “Want to kiss it?” he asked with a grin.
She gave him a long look and then snorted. “Wasn’t so lucky for the rabbit now was it?” she asked him. He chuckled as her sally hit home and heard the chuckles over the open line. The grunts were still loading, marching up in their armored suits and locking into their drop positions. He didn’t want to ever have to ride like they did, stuck in a coffin in the back with no view and no control like a crate. Sighing, he finished strapping in and began clipping the implant cables to his implants.
Jen’s hands flashed as she too strapped in and linked in. Drop-ship pilots were fortunate. Even though they had most of the same implants as a fighter pilot, they were downgraded a bit, and the drop-ship had a series of AI to help handle things so the pilot didn’t have to multitask as much. With a ship four times larger than a fighter, they were not nearly as maneuverable, so they lacked the high G inertial dampeners, but they had longer legs and fuel reserves then a dinky fighter did…even if they had to haul around a bunch of apes.
Flicking her awareness to her implants, she felt the AI flash through the boot in procedures then give her a status report. She nodded reflexively as the status was all green. The number two intake was still at 95 percent, and the hydraulics was at 94 percent, but it was within tolerance specs. Hell, there was no way she was missing out on this ride, she thought. The drop chief signaled that the grunts were in and the ship was secure. She flashed over the tactical net and checked for new orders. The CAG wanted them outside the ship but to hold tightly to the hull.