The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II

by Jay Allan

  Cranston stared down at the screen, and he felt a knot in his stomach. One lost ship he could buy…maybe. But icons were still coming onto the display as the scanners around the warp gate picked up new vessels emerging. They were all lost? None of them had active com systems? Not likely.

  “Bring the Nest to red alert, Captain.” Anders had already initiated condition yellow, one that had heightened the readiness posture of the Nest’s defensive personnel. But red alert was a full war footing, an order to prepare to repel an imminent attack.

  “Yes, sir.” The control center was bathed in the red glow of the battle lamps. The alarm sounded throughout the massive complex. On every level, in dormitories and quarters, in workshops and rec areas, the Black Eagles were being called to arms. The frontline regiments were gone, off fighting on Eldaron. But the Nest was far from defenseless. Cranston commanded an impressive force, and the Black Eagles base was well-armed and able to defend itself. But ships kept pouring out of the warp gate, more than twenty already, and the provisional commander began to worry.

  Who is launching an attack this size? Who would dare? Who even could?

  He leaned over Anders, reaching out and opening a com line. “This is Major John Cranston of the Black Eagles.” He’d almost added, ‘commander on site,’ but he’d stopped himself. There was no reason to broadcast that the Eagle’s feared field army was gone, off on a mission and unavailable to bolster the defenses of the Nest. Though he was fairly certain that whoever had launched this attack was well-aware of that fact.

  “You are hereby directed to decelerate at once and reverse course, returning to your warp gate of origin. If you fail to obey this command within thirty seconds, we will consider you intent hostile and respond accordingly.” He flipped a switch, cutting off the line. He didn’t have any interest in a reply, not a verbal one at least. If those bastards didn’t want to feel everything he had to throw at them, they could show it by turning around and leaving. Now.

  “All primary posts report combat readiness, Major.” Anders had been monitoring the status display, watching the updates while Cranston was sending his communique.

  “All missile stations, prepare to launch as soon as the enemy enters range.” Cranston’s eyes were on the chronometer, watching the last of the thirty seconds slip away. His choice of the term ‘enemy’ was clearly deliberate. The fleet, wherever it had come from, had gotten its last chance. Now the Eagles would treat it as an attacking force…and a deadly threat.

  Cranston watched as still more ships came through the warp gate, and any doubt he had drained away. This was an attack, one carefully planned to hit the Nest while the strike force was away. He could feel his stomach tighten, as he thought about it. Nobody had hired the Eagles for this mission. No one outside the organization had any idea that Darius and the strike force had left for Eldaron.

  Elias Cain. The thought popped into his mind, but he quickly discounted it. Elias knew his brother had gone to Eldaron, that the main Eagle forces were away from the Nest. Cranston had liked Elias Cain; he’d convinced himself to trust him. Now he felt a wave of doubt, a sick feeling that perhaps he should not have allowed Elias to leave.

  No, he thought almost immediately, it can’t be him. This is a serious operation. These ships left their bases long before Elias Cain got here. But then who…?

  He stared back down at the display. The lead elements of the enemy fleet were almost in range. “Missile status, Captain?”

  “All launchers report armed and ready, sir.”

  Cranston stared at the screen for a few seconds, watching as the first line of enemy ships entered range.

  “All missiles launch.”

  * * * * *

  “Strike force Alpha, form up on me. Force Beta, position for missile interception.” Christos Caravalla stared at the display, watching the waves of missiles moving toward the enemy fleet. His fighters had launched just after the fifth volley, staying close behind the cluster of missiles. With any luck, the enemy ships’ point defense arrays would be overwhelmed intercepting the incoming warheads, allowing his fighter-bombers to approach without heavy resistance.

  He’d intended to take the entire fighter corps in against the enemy fleet, but there were just too many warheads heading toward the Nest. Force Beta consisted of half of his forty fighters, and detaching them would seriously deplete the power of his attack. But if too many enemy missiles got through, the Nest’s surface installations would be wiped clean. Most of the vital areas were far below ground—living quarters, the AI processing center, the reactors. But if the surface was hit hard enough, they’d lose the missile launchers, laser turrets, docking facilities, scanning arrays. The Nest would be besieged, its ability to strike back against its attackers obliterated.

  If the fleet had been in port, the ten Eagle warships would have moved up behind the massive missile attack to meet the invaders. But the ships were all gone, dispatched to Eldaron with the strike forces…and the Nest had only its core defensive resources.

  Including my forty fighters…

  Caravalla was one of the oldest Eagles, an ex-Europan pilot who’d seen combat as far back as the Third Frontier War. He’d worked alongside Kevin Darryk to build up the Eagles’ fighter corps, but he had stepped aside and allowed his younger comrade to take command of the offensive element, the sixty fighter-bombers carried aboard the Eagle warships, while he led the forty craft permanently stationed to defend the Nest. The fighters were all the same design, though the older and more battered craft tended to rotate toward the defensive command. And there was no question, the best pilots were assigned the Darryk’s strike force, while those with less experience—or old vets like himself, past their primes—were assigned to the Nest-based forces.

  Nevertheless, any Black Eagle was a highly skilled fighter, and Caravalla was confident his people would fight with distinction. But looking at the large enemy fleet, he had a feeling that wasn’t going to be enough. There were already thirty ships aligned in battle array, and vessels were still coming through the warp gate.

  He had no idea who was attacking the Nest, but he couldn’t think of a world in Occupied Space that could field a fleet so large. Was it some kind of alliance? A pact of the other mercenary companies making a move on the Eagles? That didn’t make sense to him, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Getting the Eagles out of the way would open up some lucrative contracts to the others, but it couldn’t possibly make up for the losses they were sure to suffer in a protracted battle against the Nest’s defenses…not to mention the fact that Darius Cain was still out there, with the Eagle fleet and four crack regiments of troops. Caravalla was tense, focused on the battle at hand. But he shuddered to think of the revenge Cain would take against anyone who attacked and destroyed the Nest.

  He watched the display as the first wave of missiles closed on the enemy ships. The attacking fleet’s point defense had blunted the volley, destroying two-thirds of the incoming warheads. Now, Caravalla focused as the final dance began…the surviving missiles seeking to get close enough to cause damage to the enemy ships, and the vessels themselves firing their magnetic catapults, throwing out huge clouds of metallic projectiles, seeking to destroy as many more of the incoming weapons as possible before they detonated.

  He saw one of the tiny dots on the display expand into a larger circle…one of the warheads detonating. Then another…and another. He watched as the dozen or so missiles that had survived exploded all around the enemy formation. Most of them were too far out to cause significant damage, and they exploded without effect or inflicted minor exterior damage to a nearby ship. But four of them got close. Three detonated within two kilometers of enemy ships, bathing their targets with massive amounts of radiation, causing system failures, melting sections of the exterior hulls, and inflicting heavy casualties on the crews. The last missile got to within 400 meters of an enemy ship, and when the energy of the explosion began to clear there was simply nothing left. Missile and ship were both
gone.

  The 500-megaton warheads on the Eagle’s missiles were throwbacks to the wars of the Superpowers, weapons of a power and production cost that was out of reach to most of the colony worlds since the Fall. But Darius Cain had spared no expense in equipping his Black Eagles…and now this enemy would feel the effects of his wealth and foresight.

  Caravalla watched as the second and third waves moved in against the enemy line. Again, the defenders’ point defense arrays thinned each volley, but despite all their efforts, missiles were getting through…and as they did, more ships were damaged and destroyed.

  “All right, Alphas, prepare to begin attack run. We’re going in right on the tail of the fifth wave. We don’t give those bastards any time to adjust their point defense arrays.” He’d seen the thickness of the anti-missile fire from the enemy ships, and he realized immediately his strike force was going to suffer badly. If they’d been going in alone, without the missiles as cover, he doubted any of his twenty birds would have made it through. But the missiles gave them a chance, and the heavy plasma torpedoes they carried could gut one of the enemy ships with a single hit.

  He glanced down at the secondary display. The scanner satellites around the Nest were sending him a live feed as the first of the enemy missiles approached the base. The Eagles’ defensive fire had torn into the clusters of enemy weapons…and Strike Force Beta had plunged in as well, chasing down and destroying any warhead that evaded the Nest’s fire. In the end, only two missiles from the first wave got through…but the instant Caravalla saw the explosion on his display he felt his throat tighten.

  That was a big detonation. Like one of ours.

  His eyes stayed locked on the display, watching as the report filtered in. Estimated yield: 511mt.

  Fuck, he thought, quickly realizing that the one advantage he’d thought the Eagles enjoyed had just vanished. It wouldn’t take too many 500 megaton missiles to scrape the surface installations away. Including the landing bay for his fighters…

  He looked back toward the primary display. The fourth wave of missiles had just gone in. The front line of enemy ships had been hit hard, four of them destroyed outright, and another dozen damaged to various degrees. But the second echelon was accelerating, moving forward to support the vanguard.

  He tapped the throttle, and he felt his body pushed back into his chair. “Alphas, accelerate at five gees…begin attack run.”

  He angled his thrust, altering his vector slightly as he followed right behind the fifth wave of missiles. He stayed close…ten klicks behind, as close as he dared. If he moved up any faster he risked getting caught in the damage radius of a detonation. But if he drifted back, he’d give the enemy more time to target his ship.

  The rest of the strike force was all around him in a tight formation. But now it was time…

  “Strike Force Alpha, break. All ships target and pursue individual targets.”

  He angled his own throttle to the right. He’d spied an enemy ship on the display. It had taken a significant hit from a missile detonation, but it wasn’t a wreck either. Caravalla wasn’t going to waste his single plasma torpedo on an almost-dead ship…he had laser cannons for carrion work after his first run. But now he wanted to take on an enemy vessel that had combat power remaining, one that was still a threat.

  He leaned back in his chair, forcing breath into his lungs as five gees of pressure bore down on him. He did a quick calculation. The 5g thrust would put him on a vector directly toward his target in three minutes, twenty seconds. And he would reach the vessel in just under four minutes. That was cutting it close. But Caravalla had been in a fighter cockpit the better part of the past fifty years, and he wasn’t afraid of a pinpoint maneuver.

  He focused mostly on his own target…the strike force had its orders, and there was little he could do now to help them. But he glanced over at the wide area display anyway, taking a quick note of where his pilots were heading. The screen showed all of the fighter-bombers, with two lines extending forward from each. The first showed the current vectors and the second the courses to their projected targets. He allowed himself a brief smile. If all his birds got through and scored hits, they would obliterate the second line of enemy ships.

  Whether or not we’ll have any place to refuel and rearm—or even land—is another matter.

  He watched as a pair of warheads detonated around his target. One was almost ten klicks out, too far to have any real effect. The second was just inside five, too far to cause major damage, but enough to blast the vessel with a heavy dose of radiation…one strong enough to interfere with its scanner array, and it’s ability to target his fighter.

  Perfect, he thought, feeling the excitement he usually did as he approached a target. There was a touch of the predator in every good fighter pilot, and he was no exception.

  He pushed on the throttle, bumping the acceleration to 7g. It was damned uncomfortable, but the sooner he could reach his target, the more cover he’d have from the radiation…and the less chance the enemy vessel would manage to target his fighter before he fired.

  The enemy ship was growing, almost filling the screen. The range was displayed just below, the numbers moving quickly as his fighter raced toward its target.

  Fifty-thousand kilometers. Well within range…but not close enough to ensure a hit.

  The scanners were feeding him stats on the enemy’s activities. Their point defense had been completely offline right after the nuclear blast, but now it was coming back. He could pick up defensive missiles firing. Some were clearly targeted at the warheads of the sixth wave, but at least two were clearly aimed at him. His ship was moving at over two thousand kilometers per second, and at that speed even maximum thrust would take a long time to appreciably alter his vector. It was one of the realities of space combat that seemed illogical to those who spent their lives in the atmosphere and gravity of a habitable planet. In space, slower-moving vessels were harder to target, because their thrust could more quickly alter the vector of their movement. A ship moving at high speed was predictable, because its thrust could only slowly alter its trajectory.

  He put the missiles out of his mind. They would either detonate close enough to destroy his fighter or they wouldn’t. There was nothing he could do, certainly not without giving up on the target. And that wasn’t going to happen…

  Twenty thousand meters.

  His eyes dropped to the status screens on the panel in front of him. The torpedo was armed and ready, the bay doors open. One small tap on the firing stud, and it would be on its way.

  Ten thousand meters. Close range by any measure.

  But not close enough…

  Eight thousand. The enemy ship filled his display. He could see darker areas on the image, locations were the hull was breached, where atmosphere and fluids were escaping.

  Hold on…wait…

  Six thousand.

  Now!

  His finger squeezed hard, and he felt the fighter shake as the torpedo launched.

  He fought the urge to watch the weapon go in, to confirm that he had scored a hit…he was three seconds out, on a direct collision course for the enemy ship, and he didn’t have time. His hands moved rapidly, moving the throttle as if by instinct alone. He pushed forward, increasing the thrust to 9g. He felt the pain, the pressure of nine times his normal weight slamming into him. He held his breath, knowing if he exhaled he’d never manage to force another gulpful of air into his lungs.

  He knew only seconds were passing, but each one drew out like an eternity. A few seconds of thrust wouldn’t change his vector much, barely a few thousandths of a degree. But he didn’t need much of a heading change…just enough to clear the eight hundred meters of the enemy ship.

  He could see the icon of the vessel moving across the display, slipping off to the side as his fighter’s trajectory was altered slowly…and an instant later the image disappeared from his forward view as his craft whipped by barely a thousand meters away.

  He cut the th
rust at once, feeling the relief of free fall, sucking air greedily into his lungs. He’d found the effects of high gee forces harder to endure as he had aged, but that wasn’t a consideration, not in the heat of battle. But now, his attack run complete, he felt the effects, and he fought off a wave of dizziness.

  It took him a few seconds to regain his focus, but when he did, he could see the effects of his attack on the scanning display. There was no enemy ship at all, just the residual fury of a massive fusion blast, mostly likely the result of lost containment in the vessel’s reactor.

  Scratch one bogie, he thought, a wave of exhilaration sweeping over him. Fifty years of warfare, and he had never tired of the feeling of the kill. That vessel could have bombarded the Nest, killed his comrades. But he had destroyed it, and it would do no more harm.

  He gave himself a few seconds of private celebration, then he grasped the throttle again. He hated the idea of more high thrust maneuvering, but he had to bring his ship around…his laser cannons were fully charged, and there were enemy ships remaining to be destroyed…

  * * * * *

  Cranston watched on the display as the surface above the Nest was blasted by one massive explosion after another. The five hundred megaton warheads were ravaging the frigid surface, vaporizing the nitrogen snow covering the ground and gouging huge craters that filled instantly with molten stone. The heat didn’t last long, the lack of an atmosphere hastening its dissipation. But wherever the deadly weapons impacted, anything built by man was swept away. Silos, laser turrets, scanning arrays…all were destroyed as missile after missile slammed into the moon the Eagles called home.

  He had ordered all installations to maintain fire. The remaining missile silos continued to launch, and the functioning laser arrays kept up their defensive fire. But with each hit, the Nest’s firepower declined. Every laser turret obliterated by the fury of a thermonuclear blast, every missile silo buried under tons of caved in rock, reduced the Eagles’ firepower. Cranston knew his people were the best…but he also knew war was ultimately about mathematics. You could be ten times better than your enemy, but if they outnumbered you twenty to one, you were fucked.