Helfort's War Book III

by Graham Sharp Paul

  Rao nodded. “One thing is for sure,” she said thoughtfully. “With all the pressure Fleet’s under, the last thing those scum-sucking Hammers will expect is a battle fleet operation against a tough Hammer target like SuppFac27 only weeks after having their asses kicked at Salvation … well, so we hope,” she added.

  “That point had occurred to the admiral,” Michael said drily.

  “But even so, sir, why use the dreadnoughts?”

  “You know what, Kelli? That was my first question when the admiral told me we were tasked. The answer’s simple. Fleet is under enormous pressure; it’s barely holding the line against the Hammers. The dreadnoughts are the largest single tactical unit in Fleet’s order of battle that is not committed to current operations. Thirty capital ships, sitting around, not fighting the Hammers like every other ship in the Fleet. Everyone knows they are committed to Opera in just over a month, but beggars cannot be choosers. They are the only warships available.”

  Rao and Machar both nodded, though Michael could see that neither was convinced. He was not concerned. Good officers—and his two dreadnought captains were good—always had doubts. It was only the bad ones who let those doubts stop them doing what had to be done.

  “One look at Fleet’s current tasking,” he continued, “tells you why they need us. There is nobody else. Any way you look at it, the timing’s lousy. To take pressure off our trade routes, Fleet has task groups en route to twenty major Hammer targets as we speak. Even if Fleet recalled them, they cannot get to Salvation in time to be of any use. And with resources stretched so thin, there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of diverting ships away from planetary defense. Unless,” Michael added pointedly, “the minister issues a directive telling the commander in chief otherwise.”

  “Which,” Rao said, “Minister O’Donnell is not going to do … well, not if he wants a long career in politics. The voters would tear him apart when they found out.”

  “That they would, Kelli. Anyway, it does not matter what reservations any of us in uniform might have. No, thanks to a ministerial directive, it’s a done deal, so we just have to make the best of it. Let me tell you, guys. If our dreadnoughts cannot disrupt the Hammer attack on Salvation, nothing can. One more point. The Salvation operation will be of enormous value in getting all of us up to combat readiness. I’m not saying it’ll be a walk in the park, but it is a simple operation well within our capabilities.” Not like Opera, he wanted to add but did not.

  “I hope so, sir,” Machar said, trying to sound confident. “I’ve just checked the order of battle for Operation Paradise. Two planetary assault vessels have just been chopped to Admiral Jaruzelska’s operational control—Nelson and Tourville—and MARFOR-3 is on standby to embark.”

  Rao whistled softly. “MARFOR-3, eh? That’s what, thirty thousand marines? Well, that should be enough to get the job done considering that the intelligence reports say the Hammers are planning to use only fifteen thousand marines and five thousand DocSec troopers in the ground operation.”

  “But here’s a funny thing, sir,” Machar said. “Fleet’s not waiting for us to get there. They’re sending a small task group in under Commodore Kumoro twenty-four hours ahead of us. They leave within the hour.”

  Michael frowned. “I saw that. A cruiser, Sepoy, along with two light escorts, plus supporting units.”

  “Sir …” Machar hesitated for a moment. “It doesn’t make sense. Why? That’s a one-way mission. Those ships will not be coming back.”

  “I agree.” Rao’s concern was obvious. “Why send ships on a suici—”

  “Don’t go there, Kelli,” Michael said, cutting her off. “The decision’s made, so let’s just leave it at that. Fleet has its reasons, and whether they are good or bad is not for us to debate. If it turns out to be a bad decision, that will come out in the after-action inquiry. So do me a favor, do yourself a favor. Leave it, both of you. Okay?”

  “Sir,” Rao said. Machar just nodded. Both were grim-faced, mouths pinched tight.

  Not that Michael was any happier. The chances of Commodore Kumoro’s task force disrupting the Hammer’s attack on Salvation were at best remote. Throwing a heavy cruiser and two light escorts against a Hammer task group? It was ludicrous and meant only one thing: Fleet’s decision was motivated by politics. That made it a bad decision, one spawned by Fleet’s need to be seen to be doing something, even if that something meant sacrificing the lives of good spacers.

  “Okay, team,” Michael said. “That’ll do, so I’ll let you get back to your ships. I’m going to have a chat with the planners. Not that I don’t trust them, but I want to make sure my dreadnoughts will be used properly. I’ll see you both at 08:00. Any concerns, com me. This is not the time for surprises.”

  “Sir.”

  Michael watched as Rao and Machar left him to finish his coffee, thankful that fate—not to mention Jaruzelska’s ruthless selection process—had delivered them to him. They were outstanding young officers. If anyone could make the dreadnoughts work, it was those two.

  They had to. Life was demanding enough before Salvation. It was going to be ten times worse, what with the Salvation operation adding to the already intense pressure from Opera. But to his surprise, nothing about Salvation bothered him. Opera bothered him—a lot. He had spent enough time in the sims to know his chances of surviving the operation were not good, so taking Reckless and the dreadnoughts into action against a Hammer task group would be a welcome diversion.

  And DocSec would be there in force: more than five thousand of the black jumpsuited scum. With a bit of luck, he might get a chance to blow a few of the bastards to hell.

  Cheered by that prospect, Michael was debating whether another cup of coffee was in order when a soft ping announced the arrival of a com from Anna. What’s this? he wondered as he accepted the call.

  “Hi,” he said cheerfully when Anna’s face popped into his neuronics. “Thought you and Damishqui were on your way to Brooks Reef.”

  “We were,” Anna replied, grim-faced, “but we had a pinchspace generator problem, so we’re back. Have you checked the latest release of the Salvation operation order?”

  Michael swallowed hard. This did not sound good. “No. Why?”

  “Can’t say. Have a look and you’ll see why.”

  “Anna! What’re you telling me?”

  “Can’t say,” Anna said, shaking her head. “Just check the damn op order.” She stared directly at Michael for a moment, eyes glittering as tears started. “I love you; remember that, Michael. I love you and I always will.”

  Then she was gone.

  Frantically, Michael checked, and there it was. “Oh, no … please, no,” he whispered.

  Bad luck did not even begin to describe it. Plagued by main engine problems, Sepoy had been forced to pull out of Operation Paradise at the last minute just as the engineers had fixed Damishqui’s recalcitrant pinchspace generators. In desperation he commed Anna back: No link, the AI told him.

  Shocked, he sat unmoving as he came to terms with the shattering news.

  Anna was now en route to Salvation as part of Commodore Kumoro’s task group.

  Saturday, February 17, 2400, UD

  New Hope spaceport, Salvation planet

  With no lander movements scheduled, it had been a long night. Why would there be? Salvation was not exactly humanspace’s most popular destination. That left the controller on duty at New Hope spaceport with little more to occupy his time than counting off the minutes to the end of his shift while drinking more coffee than was good for him. Moodily, the man stared out of the plasglass window: Sprawled out in front of him was New Hope spaceport’s runway, a long strip of laser-fused rock traced out of a rain-drenched night by thin lines of lights, the wind chasing silver-slashed pools of water across its milled antiskid surface. He yawned as another squall hurled rain at the windows. Tonight’s storm was an unmistakable reminder that hurricane season was on its way. Not that anyone needed any prompting: Thanks to Sal
vation’s eccentric orbit, its seasons ran like clockwork.

  He yawned again. Hurricane season was a massive pain in the ass; he hated it. Spawned by fast-warming seas, huge storms ripped across the planet’s ocean, driving the inhabitants underground into the safety of their bunkers. When one storm exhausted itself, the next arrived, a relentless procession of energy and raw power that stopped only when Salvation passed perihelion and started to open out from its sun. It would not be long. Hurricane Alex, the first of the year, was developing nicely on the far side of the planet. Betsy, Charlie, Deanne, and all the rest would follow when what passed for summer on Salvation arrived, a nightmare of raging winds, driving rain, and mountainous seas. So he did what he always did when hurricane season threatened: wondered why he did not move to a more congenial planet. The only people who enjoyed hurricane season were the extreme sailors, suicidal idiots whose idea of fun was surfing down mountainous waves in a ceramfiber yacht; he had tried it—once—and it had taken him weeks to recover.

  Wearily, the duty controller rubbed eyes gritty from too little sleep and too much caffeine. Kraa, he was tired.

  Without warning, the holovid screen burst into light to reveal Salvation’s president framed by the flashing red lights reserved for the imminent arrival of a category 7 superstorm, and suddenly he was not tired anymore. What the hell? he said to himself. It was way too early for a Cat-7. Last time he had checked, Alex was a humble Cat-2 storm half a world away.

  “Citizens,” the president said. “This is a matter of the utmost urgency. I have just been informed by the Federated Worlds embassy that a Hammer invasion fleet is inbound. An attack on Salvation is imminent. Help is on its way, but it may not be here in time to stop them. I fear the Hammer’s target is those of you who follow the Faith of Kraa. All of you, irrespective of religion, return home, batten down your houses, and send your families into the storm bunkers. When they are safe, those of you who wish to fight—which I hope is everyone able to carry a gun—report to your neighborhood emergency station with whatever weapons you have. Team leaders will have instructions for you. Don’t wait. Do it now. I will issue updates on voicecomm channel 54 when we receive more information. May God and Kraa watch over us. Thank you.”

  The duty controller did not hesitate. Slapping a switch to plunge the spaceport into darkness, he shut it down and raced out of the control center, an initial frisson of fear buried by fast-mounting rage. The Hammers, all arrogance and hubris, had no fucking idea what they were walking into; if they imagined the people of Salvation were going to lie down and wait to be kicked to death by DocSec, they were idiots. “Kraa damn them all,” he swore, his anger replaced by an ice-cold determination to send every last Doc-Sec trooper to hell.

  One hundred fifty thousand kilometers out from Salvation, space was torn apart as ship after ship dropped into normalspace, bubbles of ultraviolet racing away to announce their arrival. Aboard the flagship of the Hammer task force, Rear Admiral Tu’ivakano allowed himself to relax a fraction while the threat plot crystallized. The two light patrol ships that constituted the Salvation Fleet’s entire order of battle wasted no time in running up the white flag, a single salvo of obsolete antistarship missiles the sum total of their defiance. More significantly, there were no damned Feds in Salvation nearspace.

  The task force turned end for end and decelerated hard to drop into orbit around Salvation. Tu’ivakano allowed himself to relax a touch more. Things were going according to plan. By Kraa, he would be glad to see the last of Salvation. Hanging around so deep inside the Fed’s sphere of influence was something he did not enjoy.

  With a thump, the flagship’s main engines shut off. With well-practiced efficiency, the two planetary assault ships following Tu’ivakano’s cruisers into orbit disgorged assault landers in a steady stream, their blunt-nosed armored shapes forming up into a loose cloud.

  Abruptly the admiral found out why hanging around in Fed space might not be such a good idea.

  “Sir,” Tu’ivakano’s chief of staff called, his voice tense, “Positive gravitronics intercept. Estimated drop bearing Red 70 Up 3, stand by range. Multiple vessels, designated hostile task group Foxtrot-1. Gravity wave pattern suggests pinchspace transition imminent.”

  “Roger.”

  “Shit,” the admiral murmured to himself. Feds, must be. Tu’ivakano forced himself to say nothing more. His chief of staff was a competent and combat-tested spacer; he and his captains knew how to deal with the incoming Fed counterattack without any prompting from him. And Tu’ivakano’s staff did know what they were doing: Ponderously, the cruisers in the task group turned to face the threat, Hammer missiles already driving away hard to meet the incoming Fed ships.

  “Admiral. Drop datum confirmed. Range 15,000 kilometers. Stand by, rail-gun salvo … now!”

  With a solid crunch, Tu’ivakano’s flagship unloaded a full rail-gun salvo at the Feds. That’ll make their eyes water, he said to himself, eyes locked on the command holovid, the green lines of missile and rail-gun salvos projected across the gap to intersect the drop datum, a scarlet lozenge tagged with the identity of the incoming ships: Foxtrot-1.

  “Get the landers moving,” Tu’ivakano said. “Don’t wait. The Feds will slice them up.”

  “Yes, sir,” the chief of staff replied.

  Main engines fired; savage deceleration dropped the landers carrying the ground attack force down Salvation’s gravity well like bricks. Tu’ivakano was happy to see them on their way. The Feds would ignore the capital ships in favor of the landers; the sooner they dropped dirtside with their precious cargoes of marines, the better.

  “Foxtrot-1 is dropping, sir. Datum is confirmed. Ten seconds to rail-gun impact.”

  Tu’ivakano held his breath, uttering a silent prayer that his ships had calculated their rail-gun swarm geometry right. “Sons of bitches,” he hissed. They hadn’t. The swarm sliced right through the drop datum, but the Fed ships were too widely dispersed, a single impact on the bows of the leading ship—Damishqui, a heavy cruiser—the only payback for all that effort. But a dispersed formation was vulnerable to missile attack, and barely seconds later, Hammer missiles accelerated to full speed, the Fed ships disappearing behind Krachov shrouds even as they dumped their own missiles into space to take the attack back to the Hammers.

  It was chaos. As Tu’ivakano expected, the incoming Feds ignored his ships, a decision that signed their own death warrants. Going to full power, their missiles chased after landers plunging in desperation for the safety of the planet. Only the Fed’s rail guns—useless against small, fast-moving landers—targeted the Hammer task group; with a time of flight of only seconds, the Hammer ships were forced to soak up the rail-gun swarms, the slugs’ enormous kinetic energy transformed into enough heat to blow huge craters in the ships’ bows. Tu’ivakano’s body was thrown violently from side to side as his flagship struggled to absorb the shock; his head snapped forward onto his helmet so hard that his eyes watered in pain.

  Then the Fed’s first salvo was over. Tu’ivakano, blinking tears out of his eyes, took stock, mentally tallying losses and gains. His lander losses, bad though they were, were nowhere near enough to make him quit and run for home. Only two of his ships—light escorts—had suffered missionabort damage, but both had survived; hulls intact, their part in this operation was over. The rest of his task force was still very much in the fight.

  That was more than could be said for the Feds. He shook his head: They might be the enemy, and by Kraa he hated the Feds and all they stood for, but he admired their insane bravery. With only a handful of ships, they were no match for his cruisers. His first missile salvo ripped the guts out of three heavy patrol ships and two heavy scouts, uncontained fusion plants blowing them into balls of white-hot gas in a matter of seconds, their lifepods running away in all directions.

  One more salvo was enough to destroy the rest of the Feds: a carefully crafted attack that saw missiles and rail-gun swarms arrive on target within seconds of eac
h other, a blizzard of close-in defensive fire marking the Fed ships’ frantic attempts to keep death at arm’s length. One by one, the Fed ships died, fast-expanding spheres of hot gas and orange-strobed lifepods the only things left to show they had ever existed.

  Tu’ivakano grunted his approval and detached four of his heavy patrol ships to go round up the Fed lifepods. So far, the operation was textbook perfect, though he knew he had been damned lucky the Fed task force had been so understrength. He switched the command holovid back to track the lander assault. In an incandescent blaze of fireworks, the landers smashed into the upper atmosphere, the controlled violence of ballistic reentry spawning hundreds of white flares heading into the clouds of rolling gray murk that covered the planet.

  Tu’ivakano switched the holovid screen to show a schematic of Salvation overlaid with lander icons. Protected by a screen of heavy ground attack landers, the marines rode their craft down until, with a precision that impressed Tu’ivakano, the attack opened out. A handful of landers headed directly for the spaceport; the rest dropped to establish a secure perimeter around the city of New Hope. Tu’ivakano switched the holovid to take the feed from the ground assault commander’s lander, watching spellbound as it burst through the clouds into the leaden predawn murk. The long runway of Salvation’s spaceport opened out in front of the lander’s nose. Twin streams of depleted-uranium rounds from belly-mounted cannons ripped the spaceport’s squat ceramcrete buildings into thousands of angry fragments, the ground on either side of the runway disappearing behind boiling clouds of mud and dirt thrown up by suppressive fire from the ground attack landers escorting the assault stream.