“Then open the vortex,” Kat ordered. “Take us to Aswan.”
She braced herself as the eerie lights of hyperspace flickered around the freighters and the crippled warships. Her engineering crews had worked for days rigging their ECM, if only to make them look like enemy ships, but she knew they wouldn’t stand up to a close examination. A single shuttle flying past the squadron would let the cat out of the bag. She closed her eyes as shudders ran through the cruiser, then opened them as the gateway blossomed to life in front of her. The squadron streamed through, back into realspace.
“The lead freighter is sending the codes now,” Roach reported. “They should be up-to-date.”
Kat nodded. They were entering the danger zone, the moment when they could neither retreat instantly nor lunge forward in a suicidal attack. Commonwealth doctrine placed most emergence zones in that region, if only to prevent smugglers and raiders from doing anything stupid; looking at Aswan, Kat saw no sign the Theocracy disagreed. But then, they had fewer shipping concerns than the Commonwealth. Their spacers probably hadn’t noticed any additional security measures . . .
“Receiving confirmation now,” Roach said. “They’re trying to raise the cruiser.”
Shit, Kat thought. They’d gone through every scrap of recovered data, but there simply hadn’t been enough to fake a convincing message from the destroyed ship. Perhaps it would have been wiser to claim the convoy had been attacked, that the escorts had died saving the freighters, yet it would have forced the Theocracy to inspect the ships before they managed to get anywhere near a sensitive target. Now what?
“Hold the ships on course,” she ordered. The enemy shuttles were already departing the repair yard, heading towards the freighters. Even assuming the ECM held, and that was doubtful at close range, it wouldn’t be enough to stop the Mark-I Eyeball. “Send them back a message suggesting communications problems.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said. “I could have the freighter CO inform them that the cruiser lost most of her communications arrays.”
“Do it,” Kat ordered. The enemy wouldn’t be fooled for long, if at all, but it might just win them some additional seconds. “Do you have passive locks on your targets?”
“Yes, Captain,” Roach said. “Enemy facilities, not enemy ships.”
“Commodore,” the tactical officer said, “Freighter Number 5 is claiming that Holy Word has lost her communications arrays.”
Malian hesitated. The freighters were important, immensely so. They needed the weapons and equipment they carried, particularly the StarCom. Being able to coordinate their activities across the sector would make it easier to hunt down the raiders. But, at the same time, the freighters were behaving oddly and their escorts were showing a complete disregard for regulations. They’d sent their IFF pulses to the defenders, as they should, yet they hadn’t bothered to send anything else. He didn’t like it.
“Open direct links to the destroyers,” he said. If the cruiser had lost her communications arrays, he could at least speak to her escorts. And if he couldn’t . . . it suggested a number of unpleasant things, none of them reassuring. “I want to speak to their commanders personally.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
“Captain,” Roach said, “the enemy CO is demanding to speak to the destroyer commanders.”
“That’s torn it,” Kat said. She’d hoped to get closer before the enemy smelled a rat, but if they weren’t already suspicious, they would be the moment the destroyers also claimed to have communications problems. She glanced at the timer, then back at the main display. A dozen shuttles were closing in on the formation, their sensors probing at the ECM. “Are the missile pods online?”
“Yes, Captain,” Roach said. “They’re ready.”
“Fire,” Kat ordered.
It wasn’t common to bolt orbital missile pods to freighters, let alone warships. The pods rarely survived the launch sequence, while the missile drives could do considerable harm to the starship’s hulls. Indeed, Kat had seen several concepts for towing missile pods that had come to grief on the simple fact that any interaction with the starship’s drive field would be utterly disastrous. But if she didn’t care about losing the motherships, she could bolt hundreds of missile pods to their hulls and fire at will.
“Missiles away, Captain,” Roach reported. His voice turned darkly humorous. “I think the shuttles flinched.”
“Ramp up the drives, as planned,” Kat ordered. Her unmanned ships were unlikely to reach the orbital facilities before they were destroyed, but they’d give the enemy a fright. “And take out the shuttles before they get into engagement range.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said.
Commodore Malian stared in horror at the display, unable to move or speak. One moment, the convoy had been advancing into orbit; the next, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of red icons appeared, each one representing a missile heading towards his facilities. Most of them would burn out before they could enter terminal attack range, but there were so many missiles that it was unlikely his facilities would remain unharmed. And even if they went to purely ballistic trajectories, without a hope of altering course, they were still certain to hit the planet.
“Commodore,” the tactical officer said. “Request permission to engage with point defense.”
Malian had to fight to compose himself. “Granted,” he said. He’d never been in combat before. Was it always like this? “Take as many of them out as possible.”
He watched, grimly, as the red icons roared closer. Most of them appeared to be targeted on the repair yards, although a handful were definitely aimed right at his station. That made sense, he reluctantly admitted; wrecking the yards and the industrial nodes would render Aswan completely unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. His handful of ships was forming up into a single unit, but it was too late. The only good news was that none of them appeared to have been targeted.
“The shuttles are being engaged, sir,” the tactical officer said.
Malian glared at him. Compared to the storm roaring down on his facilities, bringing with it certain death for him personally, who cared? Admiral Junayd would order his immediate execution once he heard the news. If he’d kept the superdreadnoughts an hour longer . . .
But I sent the courier boats after the admiral, he thought. It was something to cling to, even as his command was ripped apart. At least he might make it back in time to take revenge.
“The cripples are engaging the enemy ships,” Roach reported. On the display, one of the cripples vanished, followed rapidly by a second. “I don’t think any of them are going to get through.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kat said. None of the ships were manned, save for Lightning herself, and she had no hope of getting them back home. And even if she did, they were too old and expensive to repair. Better they soaked up a handful of missiles rather than being scrapped or sold to poorer worlds. “Just keep watching the missiles.”
She smiled coldly as the stolen missiles homed in on their targets. The enemy point defense crews were good, she had to admit, and her missiles were starting to go ballistic, which made them easier to hit, but there were just so many of them. If only she had antimatter warheads, when even an intercepted missile could be deadly.
“The repair yards are taking hits,” Roach reported. Brilliant explosions flashed up on the display as the nukes started to detonate. “The enemy command station is under attack, but defending itself . . .”
He broke off. “The repair yard has been destroyed, Captain,” he added. A handful of icons winked out of existence. “Seventeen industrial platforms have been smashed.”
And, no matter what happens, they will know what we’ve done, Kat thought, feeling cold hatred pulsing through her mind. It was a shame the command post was likely to survive, but it would be immaterial with the system’s facilities destroyed. They’ll neve
r feel safe behind the lines again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Jump completed, sir.”
William nodded. It wasn’t easy being in command of a squadron—he’d had no time to work out a relationship with Commander Millikan—but he had no choice. He’d told the younger man that he was still in command of his ship while William would command the overall squadron. If Commander Millikan had a problem with that, and William rather figured he would, he’d been professional enough not to let it contaminate their working relationship.
“Engage the enemy defenses,” William ordered. “Scan for any traces of watchdogs.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
William rubbed his forehead. If it had been hard enough to command an entire fleet from Lightning, it was a great deal harder commanding six ships—four warships and two freighters—from a badly outdated light cruiser. There was no flag deck, no CIC; he’d had to take a console on the already-cramped bridge and prepare himself for either resentment or confusion. But there was no choice.
“Enemy defenses turning to engage us,” the tactical officer reported. “We’re taking them out now.”
“No trace of a watchdog,” another officer added, through the datanet. Oliver Kennedy didn’t have a proper tactical compartment either, so they’d had to improvise. “We seem to be clear.”
“That proves nothing,” William snapped. “Continue firing.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
William nodded, then studied Redemption as it appeared on the display. The icy world was right at the edge of the life-bearing zone, its atmosphere too thin to support human life without spacesuits or heavy genetic enhancement. It was unlikely that anyone would want Redemption, which was probably why the Theocracy had turned it into a POW camp. Even if the POWs managed to get out of the dome, they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere before they suffocated to death.
And they can blow the dome if the prisoners riot, he thought grimly. If we time this wrong, everyone in the complex is going to wind up dead.
“All orbital defenses destroyed,” the tactical officer reported.
“Good work,” Commander Millikan said.
“Deploy the Marines,” William ordered. “And prepare to launch the shuttles; I say again, prepare to launch the shuttles.”
He studied the planet in the display for a long moment. There were no settlements, save for the POW camp itself; there were no active defenses, save for a couple of scanners positioned near the camp. It struck him as odd, but it was quite possible that whoever operated the camp cared more for secrecy than active defenses. Or, given the Theocracy’s economic weakness, they simply didn’t have the money to defend the POW camp. He smiled at the thought, then watched as the Marines plummeted through the planet’s atmosphere. If they failed . . .
Captain Patrick James Davidson braced himself as he plummeted through the thin atmosphere, surrounded by his comrades. He’d practiced skydiving from orbit into the teeth of enemy defenses, or even sneaking through gaps in the enemy’s sensor network, but the enemy didn’t seem to be watching for incoming threats. They seemed to have relied completely on the orbital defenses, all of which were now gone. Patrick gritted his teeth, then triggered the antigravity system moments before he would slam into the ground. His fall stopped, allowing him to drop the last few inches to the icy surface.
“Over that ridge,” he snapped as the Marines fanned out. There was no incoming fire, which was both good and bad; he had time to deploy his forces, but at the same time, he knew the enemy might be keeping some forces in reserve. “Advance!”
The Marines advanced forward, weapons at the ready, until the POW camp came into view. It looked like a bubble, a dome of glass surrounding a handful of barracks; Patrick couldn’t help wondering just who had decided that such an insecure place was actually a good idea, even though it did have its advantages. Anyone who felt like running away would be able to get an eyeful of the unprepossessing terrain surrounding the prison camp. He led his men towards the small installation near the shuttlepad, then charged forward as a pair of enemy guards came into view. The guards had no time to react before they were knocked down and flattened to the ground.
“Get through the hatch,” he snapped.
A Marine leaned forward, hacked into the control module, and took command of the system. The hatch hissed open, revealing a processing center that looked as though it belonged in a prison. A handful of guards were running forward, carrying projectile weapons that wouldn’t have a chance of getting through Patrick’s body armor. Patrick lifted his rifle, switched to stun, and started to mow the guards down before they could react. Their stunned bodies tumbled to the ground, waiting for pickup. Patrick strode over them and led his team through the small complex, towards the other set of hatches. Despite his fears, he had to admit it didn’t look like a torture chamber.
He opened the second hatch and stepped into the dome. A handful of prisoners stared at him, their faces widening with shock. Did they think he was an enemy soldier? It was possible, he had to admit; the black armor carried no logos or insignia. He hesitated, then cracked open his suit. The POWs relaxed, very slightly, when they saw his face.
“I’m Captain Davidson,” he said, using the suit’s systems to boost his voice. “We’re here to get you out of this shithole. Get into lines and ready yourselves for the shuttles.”
The prisoners broke out of their trance and hurried towards the hatches, several dozen more pouring out of the barracks. Patrick glanced at a man who looked like a soldier, probably someone from one of the planetary militias, then motioned for him to join the Marines. He’d need to pick the man’s brain, if only to find out just how many people there were in the camp.
“Get the shuttles down to the hatches now,” he ordered.
He sucked in his breath as he glanced at the time. Twenty minutes before Aswan could pick up a radio signal from Redemption—assuming, of course, that there hadn’t been a watchdog in orbit. It wasn’t going to be easy to evacuate the complex. Unless he’d missed something, he hadn’t seen any spacesuits in the guard complex, save for the two worn by the guards on the outside. It might be hard to get the POWs into the shuttles unless the two airlocks could be mated, a depressingly effective security precaution none of them had considered until it was far too late. They might have to take the risk of cutting through the dome, praying it wasn’t rigged to shatter if the atmospheric integrity was broken.
“All right,” he said. “Name, rank, serial number?”
The POW looked badly shaken. “Corporal Wallis, Highland Brigade,” he said. “Planetary Militiaman M-482762.”
“Very good,” Patrick said. “Now tell me, how many prisoners are there in this complex and how many of them can move under their own power?”
“Twelve hundred,” Wallis said, after a long moment. “Some of the prisoners in the final barracks can’t move, sir; they were kept in isolation. They were never allowed to mingle with the rest of us.”
“We’ll deal with them,” Patrick promised. Lines of prisoners, male and female, were forming in front of the hatches. Thankfully, despite his nightmares, the guards didn’t seem to have molested any of the women. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any sex slaves in the guard complex either. “Was anyone planning an escape?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Wallis said. “I heard when I arrived that the complex is bugged to the nines. There was no way to plan anything without them hearing of it.”
A POW’s duty is to escape, Patrick thought. He’d been taught that, back at boot camp, and it had always stuck in his mind. But these POWs had nowhere to go.
He pushed the thought aside as the first shuttle came in to land. “Get in line,” he ordered as he keyed his communicator. “Platoon One: with me. Platoon Two: sort the prisoners and get them into the shuttles.”
Platoon One fanned o
ut around him as they jogged towards the final barracks. It looked pretty much identical to the others, save for the sign on the front barring anyone from entering without special permission. Patrick checked the door, then smashed it down with one kick from his armored suit. Inside, it was dark, illuminated only by red lights positioned in the metal ceiling. Patrick switched his visor to night-vision mode, then advanced forward. Instead of a set of bunks, as he’d been expecting, there were a handful of doors, each one firmly locked. It was a set of prison cells within the prison.
“Open that door,” he ordered, picking one at random. A Marine wrenched the door off its hinges, allowing him to peer inside. “Who are you?”
A brown-skinned man looked back at him, blearily. It was clear, given the number of bruises on his skin, that he’d been beaten repeatedly before being shoved into the cell. Patrick winced, then muttered commands. The prisoners in the barracks would be freed, then transported back to orbit. There would be time to sort them all out later.
“Roger,” the man croaked. “Roger Mortimer.”
The name was completely unfamiliar. Patrick considered it for a second, then checked the name against the files. His suit found nothing, but it relayed the request to the ships in orbit and came back with both an answer and an ID file. Lieutenant-General Roger Mortimer had been an officer in the Commonwealth Army, stationed on Cadiz. He’d been listed as missing, presumed dead in the chaos that had overwhelmed the planet when the Theocracy attacked. No one had considered the possibility that he’d survived.
The Theocracy separated the prizes from the common herd, Patrick thought as one of his Marines assisted Mortimer to leave the cell. They wanted to use Mortimer for . . . for what?
He shook his head. “Get the next shuttle in ASAP,” he ordered as he called for reinforcements. If Mortimer was any guide, it was quite likely that most of the remaining prisoners in the barracks couldn’t walk for themselves. “We need to get them off the planet as quickly as possible.”
Falcone Strike (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 2) Page 36