by Jay Allan
“Bull, it looks like we’ve got another attack coming in…I’d guess brigade strength this time.” Dan Sullivan’s voice blasted into Bull’s helmet. Sullivan was another over-achiever, a platoon commander who had taken over company command on Lysandria…and performed brilliantly. Cyn Kuragina’s entire White Regiment had been deep in the fiercest fighting on that world, when the Eagles had been surprised by several thousand well-equipped troops emerging from hidden positions. Just like now. Only there were a hell of a lot more this time.
“The boys are ready, Cap. They come out of those trenches and we’ll blow ‘em to hell.” There were both men and women serving with the Eagles, but Bull Trent had his own way of speaking…and nobody tried to change it. Darius had long decided it was a pointless effort, and the last thing he wanted to do was tinker around with a natural fighting machine like Trent. And there weren’t more than a handful of others with the guts to try, even in an outfit as known for ferocity and bravery as the Black Eagles.
Sullivan glanced up at his display. He knew Bull was the kind of fighter who never gave up, never even admitted the possibility of defeat. But he could also read the data in the shimmering projection just in front of him. There were a lot of enemy troops over there. A lot.
The captain took a look down the line his company had formed. Bull had them just behind the ridgeline…great cover against an attack from the enemy’s position. The ground rose slowly from their hasty trench line to the high ground his people occupied. There was very little undulation, and that meant there wouldn’t be much cover for the enemy forces if they attacked. It was a textbook killing ground, one he knew troops as good as his would use well. But he still doubted they could beat back a truly concerted attack. Not unless the enemy broke and ran.
And that won’t happen…not with this enemy.
There was something too familiar about these enemy soldiers. He had seen it before…the discipline, the equipment.
“Bull, do these guys remind you of the enemy on Lysandria?”
“Yeah, Cap. I’d bet it’s the same crew, whoever the hell they are.”
Sullivan sighed softly. It was the same force…he was ready to bet his last credit on that. But what did that mean? What did Lysandria and Eldaron have to do with each other? They were far apart, almost on opposite sides of Occupied Space. Lysandria was a backwater, a democracy of sorts that had brought invasion on itself by provoking a stronger neighbor, one that could afford to hire the Eagles. Eldaron, on the other hand, however poorly its military forces had acquitted themselves, was an economic powerhouse, a strong world ruled by an absolute dictator.
So where are these soldiers from? There must be 25,000 of them here, at least. Who could field such a force?
“Cap, it looks like we’ve got some activity over there…”
Sullivan snapped out of his thoughts…just as something exploded fifty meters behind him. A huge spray of dirt blew up into the air, landing all around.
“Mortars,” he heard Bull shouting in the com. The sergeant had recognized the activity along the enemy line…and he’d been the first one to shout out the warning.
Sullivan ducked low, pushing himself forward, into the soft dirt of the hillside, just as shells began landing all along the line. Mortars weren’t an enormously dangerous weapon for fully-armored troops. It pretty much took a direct hit to kill or seriously wound a powered infantryman. But enough of them could drive a force to ground, stalling an advance…or suppressing defensive fire.
“Alright boys,” Bull said harshly, “these bogies are going to be coming our way soon, so I don’t care how many firecrackers they send over here, your fucking eyes better be where they need to be. ‘Cause if you don’t blow these bastards away when they’re out in that nice open ground, you’re gonna be fightin ‘em right here…ten of them to one of you.”
Sullivan nodded to himself. He’d been thinking the same thing, but once again, Bull had beaten him to it. He wondered if he’d ever seen a more natural soldier than the hulking non-com. He was still wondering when his com unit went crazy, and his whole line opened fire.
His eyes snapped to his display. There were waves of enemy soldiers moving forward. They were all powered infantry, as well-equipped as the Eagles themselves, or nearly so. The moved quickly, covering ground like only powered-infantry could. Their form was excellent, and they moved ahead side to side, keeping themselves low and offering as small a target as possible as they advanced.
His soldiers raked the open plain with fire. Enemy troops began to fall, a few dozen at first…then hundreds as they came closer. The dead soon covered the field, the heaviest concentrations in the lines of fire of the big autocannons. The SAWs and SHWs spat death all across the field, but still the enemy came on. And behind the first wave, fresh lines moved up.
Sullivan peered over the ridge. He knew every shot counted, so he added his own rifle to the fire of his company. He was a crack shot, one of the best in the regiment, and every time he squeezed the trigger, an enemy soldier went down.
But the approaching force just kept coming, despite losses that would have sent most armies reeling in retreat…if not an outright panicked rout. Sullivan couldn’t help but be impressed by the courage that was on display. This was a dangerous enemy…that much was obvious. But there was something strange about them, or at least a doctrine that was utterly foreign to the Black Eagles. He had to grudgingly admit that their training and drill was as close to that of his own troops as any enemy he had faced. Yet there was a difference, one that was downright chilling. The Eagles were as fierce as any fighting force that had ever existed, but they valued the lives of their soldiers. Every plan was created to minimize losses. The equipment, tactics, support services…they were all designed to keep casualties as low as possible. Darius Cain set the standard, and down the ranks, every officer, every squad leader…they spared no effort to keep their men and women alive.
This enemy—and Sullivan was sure now it was the same force his people had fought on Lysandria—didn’t seem to care about losses. They were willing to incur enormous casualties in their operations…and their soldiers seemed immune to fear. They pushed ahead into withering fire, entire lines serving as little but human shields for those who followed. He wondered how such a force could exist, why well-trained soldiers would follow leadership that valued their lives so little.
Sullivan watched, and his confusion grew. The first wave that had crested the enemy trenchline was almost gone. A thousand soldiers, perhaps, had first stepped off into the no man’s land between the armies, advancing quickly under the cover of the mortar barrage. They used cover where it was available, crouched low behind undulations in the ground to block the Eagles’ fire. But the terrain was wide open most of the way, and Sullivan doubted more than a hundred of the original thousand were still standing. The others were scattered across the field…dead, wounded, suffering from severe armor damage. But more had come up behind them. And yet more behind that second wave. And they all kept coming.
Sullivan knew his people couldn’t hold the ridge, not against such fanaticism. The enemy was almost there, and when they reached the defensive line, their numbers would decide the issue. His company would fight, and he had no doubt they would kill two for one or three for one. But there were just too many of the enemy.
He wanted to pull back, to retreat now to the secondary line a klick behind. But he couldn’t take his company back, not while the rest of the battalion remained. He had to wait for Colonel Kuragina’s orders. His people would live or die with their comrades.
He kept firing. His desperation pushed him ever harder, and he directed his rifle with even greater speed and accuracy. He was on full auto now, gunning down every enemy he could. But still they came on.
This is it, he thought. This is where we will die…
“First Battalion, this is Colonel Kuragina. You are to withdraw immediately to the secondary battle line.” Sullivan could hear the stress in her usually calm voice
, and in an instant he knew what was going through her mind. Did I wait too long?
“Alright, let’s go,” he yelled into his com. “Evens, fall back halfway to the second line. Odds, stand firm and continue to fire.” He paused for an instant. Then: “Bull, I want you with the evens…go!”
He turned and brought his rifle to bear. He and the odds had to buy time, to keep the enemy under fire until their comrades were in position to cover their own retreat.
He pulled the trigger, watching as a cluster of three enemy troopers went down under the withering fire. He tried to stay focused, but the same question hung in his mind.
Did she wait too long?
* * * * *
“All ships, execute nav plan two…now!” Gaston Allegre’s voice was hoarse, dry. Eagle One’s bridge was smoky, the air heavy with the caustic smells of chemicals and burnt machinery. The Eagle fleet had never fought a battle this intense in space…but Allegre had. The former Europan officer had served under Augustus Garret, against the forces of the First Imperium and the Shadow Legions. He’d been a junior officer during those early battles, and he’d had no real contact with the legendary admiral then. But he’d returned to Garret’s service during the Second Incursion, and he’d moved up to command one of the great admiral’s task forces before that war was won.
He still remembered the inspiration he had felt, the way the aura of Garret’s skill and confidence bolstered the morale of those who served under him, how it pushed the fear back. He tried to live up to that ideal now, to lead his men and women as he thought Garret would have, to keep them confident and unintimidated, manning their stations with total focus. His people were Black Eagles, some of the bravest and best trained spacers anywhere. But they were also outnumbered. Badly. And they were losing.
Allegre leaned back into his command chair as he felt the 4g of thrust slam into him. There was a good chance the maneuver would surprise the enemy and give his people an opportunity to hit the flank of the enemy formation. The invading ships had slowed considerably since their initial attack run, but the Eagle ships were using most of their initial velocity, only altering their trajectories a moderate amount. The enemy would have to decelerate almost to a stop and then start accelerating in the opposite direction. It would give his people an edge. For a few minutes at least…long enough to inflict considerable damage.
He took a deep breath, his lungs struggling against the gee forces pressing down on him. His eye had caught the opportunity, and he knew the maneuver was just the kind of thing Augustus Garret would have done. But he also knew the advantage would only be temporary. The attacking fleet was simply too powerful. Eventually, the mathematics would prevail. His ships would be destroyed, and the planet—and the entire Eagle ground force—would be laid bare.
He knew his brethren on the planet would fight to the end as well, but losing the fleet would hurt them grievously. The enemy ships would destroy the satellite network Allegre’s people had deployed, and the soldiers on the ground would lose most of their intel and communications. At the same time, the enemy forces would regain theirs. The Eagles on the ground would be without resupply, without air support. However well they fought, they would eventually run out of ammunition. The field hospitals would fill to overflowing, with no evac possible.
And eventually, they will fall. Or, even if they somehow win, they will be stuck on the ground, blockaded. And with the Eagle fleet destroyed, there will be no rescue. So, in the end, even victory will turn to bitter defeat.
“We’re coming into attack position now, Admiral. Twenty seconds to firing range.”
The tactical officer’s voice pulled him from his introspection.
“Very well, all batteries are to fire as soon as they are within range. And they are to continue firing at maximum output.” Allegre stared straight ahead. “We’re going right down their throats on this run, and I want those guns firing until they melt.”
Chapter 33
CNS Lucia
Eta Cassiopeiae VII Outer System
Near the Second Moon of Eos, “The Nest”
Earthdate: 2318 AD (34 Years After the Fall)
A Columbian officer and two Marines met John Cranston in the landing bay. They all wore dress uniforms, and they greeted him warmly as he wiggled his armored body through the hatch and stepped off the shuttle. After brief introductions, they led him to an area where he was able to take off and store his armor. Pounding through the corridors of the Columbian flagship in a fully-powered combat suit would be cumbersome at best…and impossible at worst, depending on Lucia’s exact layout. And it would certainly be inappropriate, downright rude even. Certainly not the way to meet an allied head of state who had extended an invitation. Cranston wouldn’t normally have been wearing the suit at all, but the Nest’s docking facilities had been virtually destroyed in the battle, and the only way he’d been able to link up with the Columbian shuttle was to meet it out on the moon’s frigid surface.
Cranston had brought a small bag with a change of clothes, and he slipped quickly into the uniform he’d brought with him. The Eagles’ full dress garb was sleek, devoid of much of the pomp and frill that so often adorned similar attire, but it was striking nevertheless, a black jacket over pristine white trousers and knee-high leather boots. The rank insignia and sparse trim that adorned the shoulders and sleeves were platinum. Cranston paused before rejoining his—what were they? Minders? Honor guard? Probably both, he decided as he looked into the mirror, running his hand down the leg of his trousers, trying to straighten them as much as he could. He frowned as a few of the wrinkles resisted his efforts. A head of state like Jarrod Tyler rated a pressed uniform at the very least, but the situation had been far from ideal, and this would have to do.
The shuttle had picked him up spot on time and ferried him to Lucia’s docking bay, exactly as Tyler had said it would. He’d had a bit of a fight on his hands back at the Nest when he’d declared he was going alone. His officers had argued fiercely for him to at least take an armed escort with him. But Cranston would have none of it. He wasn’t about to play a game of ‘who’s more important’ with Jarrod Tyler over nonsense like that. And, if nothing else, going alone would be a show of trust toward the Columbians.
Who, after all, just saved our lives.
Cranston followed the escort through Lucia’s corridors. The Columbian flagship’s interior was drab, even compared to the Spartan standards of the Black Eagles. He and his companions walked a long way through non-descript surroundings, mostly corridors with endless gray metal walls. Warships tended toward the practical…few fighting vessels wasted productive space on nonsense, but Tyler’s flagship took it even further. It all fit in with what Cranston knew about Columbia’s dictator. Tyler had a reputation as a dour leader, a hard-driving taskmaster, utterly incorruptible, but also capable of enormous brutality to those he considered enemies. Not the kind of man to approve warship designs with wasted tonnage or needless frills.
Cranston didn’t know the design of the ship, but he had the feeling he was being led by an indirect route. Probably avoiding areas with heavy damage. He suspected Lucia had some sections that were still in rough shape. A damaged spaceship could be a hazardous place, with depressurized compartments, degraded structural integrity, and radiation leaks just a few of the potential dangers.
He’d expected to be taken to a large conference room or some other meeting area, but as he looked around, he felt like they were moving into a quieter section of the ship, far from any formal areas. He looked side to side, noting the large number of doors he was passing. He guessed they were walking through an area of crew quarters, probably officer’s country.
The Columbian fleet had fought well in the recent battle—very well indeed—and their skill and armament had proven to be too much for an enemy already weakened in its fight with the Nest’s defenses. Tyler’s fleet had suffered significant damage—and a fair number of casualties too, Cranston imagined—but they had only lost four ships outri
ght. Given time for repairs, the Columbians would be ready to fight again.
And I don’t doubt another battle lies ahead.
The Eagles were accustomed to thinking they didn’t need anyone else to fight their wars, but Cranston had shed that bit of personal bravura. Darius Cain’s warriors knew they were the best, but they were realists too. The Nest’s provisional commander was well aware he’d be dead right now, along with all his people, had it not been for Tyler’s intervention. Pride was one of his sins perhaps, but not ingratitude.
The commander of his escort stopped in front of a small door. A single guard stood at attention just to the side. The entry was unadorned, save for a small circle of stars just below eye level on the right. His escort nodded to the sentry and punched at the keys on the access panel. The door slid open.
The lieutenant turned and said, “The General is waiting for you inside, Major.” He stepped back and stood alongside the guards, and Cranston understood immediately. Jarrod Tyler wanted to see him alone.
He glanced over at the lieutenant, who nodded in confirmation. Then he turned and walked through the open doorway.
“Thank you for coming, Major Cranston. I am aware that free time is not a resource you possess in any quantity right now. I’d have come to you, but I think if I’d said I was going down to the surface, my security team would have had seven different kinds of fits.” Jarrod Tyler stood a few meters inside the doorway, and he stepped forward immediately, extending his hand. Tyler was a tall man, trim with neatly cropped brown hair, fringed around the outside with a light frosting of gray. He looked like a healthy and active man of fifty, but Cranston knew Columbia’s ruler was a few months shy of his eightieth birthday.
“Of course, General Tyler. It was no trouble at all. I’m quite certain my people can handle the repairs while I am absent for a few hours.” Cranston took Tyler’s hand and the two shook firmly. “We are greatly in your debt, General. If not for your forces, I fear the Nest would have been completely destroyed.”