by Jay Allan
* * *
“Hold! Maintain fire.” Rogan was bent low, keeping himself behind the ridge as he moved along the line. The enemy attack had shown signs of petering out, the enemy troopers stopping, looking for cover, firing back at his forces. He’d been worried the attackers would keep coming, heedless of the casualties his Marines were inflicting…and indeed they almost had. For a brief moment he’d considered ordering a retreat, but something had held him back. And the slackening of the enemy attack had put the thought out of his mind completely.
Then something changed. The enemy was moving again, rallied, driven forward. His best guess was his people had taken down seventy or eighty of the enemy. But his forces had taken losses too, and the enemy still outnumbered him close to two to one. They were right below the ridgeline now. If his fire didn’t drive them back in the next few seconds, they would be up and over.
And then it will be hand to hand…
Numbers would tell in that kind of fight. Every enemy his Marines took down now was one less when it came to close quarters.
He hadn’t known what to expect from the enemy, but he was wary about underestimating them. Their tactics were crude, wasteful of lives…but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t prevail. The troops were clearly well-trained and courageous, and that meant this was going to be a bloody day.
He glanced down and saw two of his Marines lying on the ground, both dead. His people had good cover, but the enemy fire was hot and heavy, and even behind the makeshift fortifications, more of his people were starting to fall.
He crouched low, going prone and bringing his own rifle to bear. There wasn’t a single one of his people to spare, including himself. He stared out, keeping his head as low as he could. There was an enemy trooper approaching, less than thirty meters ahead, he guessed. He stared down the sight, taking aim. Then his finger tightened, and a single crack rang out. The enemy fell backward, shot dead center in the chest.
Rogan sucked in a deep breath, struggling to focus, to stay calm. He’d been in a few fights before, but this was the first time he’d commanded this many Marines in battle.
Just do what you were trained to do…
He scanned the field in front of him, searching for another target. Then he stared down the sights and fired again.
* * *
“Let’s move it, Marines! Surprise is what we got!” Hargraves ran into the center of the enemy camp, his rifle grasped tightly in his hands as he looked back and forth for targets. His people had taken out six guards, and now it was time to finish the job. The camp had been lightly protected, the approaches not nearly as carefully watched as normal. He’d known the enemy had deployed most of their strength to attacking the newly-arrived reinforcements. But he was still shocked at how open they had left their camp.
They’ve underestimated us from day one…otherwise they’d have wiped us out weeks ago…
He jerked to the side, firing a three-shot burst as an enemy soldier ran out of one of the shelters. The man fell back the way he’d come, blood pouring from a trio of holes in his chest. Hargraves fired again…and again, whipping his weapon upward, firing over the dead man’s shoulder and taking the trooper behind in the side of the head.
He ran toward the building, standing to the side of the door. He doubted the walls of the light, semi-inflatable shelter would provide much protection against bullets, but he was acting on training now, on instinct.
He swung around, moving through the door and into the shelter. It was some kind of storage facility. Food, he guessed, looking around at the stacks of crates, confirming that he was the only one left alive in the room.
We could sure use this food…
He shook his head. No…his people were there to destroy the enemy camp. His eight Marines couldn’t hope to hold the place, or even carry off any of the supplies. They’d had enough trouble carrying the lieutenant with them. Hargraves’ thoughts shifted to Plunkett for an instant. His people had left the sick and wounded officer about a kilometer from the camp, in the most sheltered spot they could find. He’d been nearly unconscious, and Hargraves wondered if Plunkett would still be alive when he got back.
You won’t get back at all if you don’t stay sharp here…
He reached around, pulling a small sack from his belt. It was the last of the explosives, enough to take out this building for sure. But finishing off the camp would require finding the invader’s own weapons. He pulled the bomb up and looked down at it, his fingers flipping the timer to thirty seconds. Then he set it down on one of the crates and moved back out, looking in all directions before he lunged out into the makeshift street.
“Fire in the hole,” he yelled as he jogged forward, away from the storage hut. He counted down to himself. He’d gotten to three when the explosion erupted, sending debris all across the camp.
My timing’s off…
He was pelted with a few pieces of the shelter and the crates inside, enough to sting, but nothing that did any real damage.
“Sarge…”
Thoms was running down the street toward him, two of the others right behind.
“We found the main arsenal and rigged it to blow. We got maybe fifteen seconds…”
Hargraves turned, letting his three Marines move past him and then following them. The four of them ran hard, out of the small camp and over a small rise. Then Hargraves yelled, “Down…now!”
The Marines dove to the ground, covering the backs of their heads with their arms. A second later the explosion came. It was vastly louder than the one Hargraves had triggered, and the Marines felt the ground under them shaking.
Hargraves could feel the heat from behind him, and when he looked up he could see the plume of fire rising to the sky as the enemy arsenal consumed itself in a fiery spectacle.
The sergeant stood up slowly and looked back the way they had come. The camp was gone, nothing but fire and smoke. Their job was done.
“All right, Marines,” he said as he scrambled to his feet. “Mission accomplished…let’s get the hell outta here.”
* * *
Millius froze where he was, snapping his head around for an instant. The plume of smoke rising up over the hills told him all he needed to know.
The arsenal…
He realized immediately what had happened. The remnants of the original Confederation garrison must have snuck around his main force, and hit the camp. But how? There were only a few of them left, he was sure about that. And he’d left more than a dozen guards behind.
Who are these soldiers?
The Confeds were good fighters, that much was clear. But his troopers were too. It was the enemy’s tenacity, their stubbornness that had gotten the best of him. How had a battered force, frozen and exhausted, at twenty percent strength, pulled off an attack on his camp? Would Alliance stormtroopers have dared such an assault?
He turned to face forward. Whatever had happened to the camp, whatever the implications, it didn’t matter now. He had to get his troopers forward, over the hill…and destroy the Confeds.
He threw his assault rifle to the ground. He’d used all his cartridges. His hand moved down to his waist, pulled his pistol from the holster. But even in the heat of battle, his mind was wandering, dark thoughts creeping up from within.
I am disgraced. Half my soldiers are gone…and the rest are in a fight to the finish, one few on either side will survive. I had numbers, support, every advantage. Yet the destruction of these Confed soldiers eluded me.
He waved his arms, held the pistol above his head. “Forward,” he shouted. “Over the top, and destroy the enemy.” He took a deep breath, and he lunged forward. “Follow me,” he cried, not even looking back to see if his troops were heeding his urgings.
He ran forward, ignoring the enemy fire, leveling his pistol and taking careful, aimed shots. Then he reached the top of the ridge, and he drew his survival knife with the other hand. There was a cluster of Confeds right in front of him. He fired the pistol, even as he lun
ged forward, slashing with the knife.
His eyes darted to the side, toward groups of his soldiers, some fighting fiercely…but others…
It was inconceivable. He couldn’t accept what his eyes told him. His troopers were running, fleeing from the battle. Alliance stormtroopers routing. Under his command.
Even in victory, he knew there would be disgrace now. And from the looks of things, victory was quickly slipping from his grasp. But there was another possibility, one that offered its own mercies.
He took a deep breath…then he threw himself deeper into the Confeds, shoving his knife hard under the armor of the man nearest to him, feeling the hot blood pouring out over his hand, his arm. He saw another moving behind him, and he angled his pistol and fired three times, dropping the attacker. But there were more, all around. He felt himself being dragged down, loud cracks from enemy rifles…and pain, bullets piercing his legs, his sides. But he kept fighting, swinging his blade when his pistol ran out of ammo…even as more shots pierced his body.
Finally, he fell into the snow, feeling the wet, coldness on his back. And then silence, the pain gone, a gauzy, airy feeling.
He lay still, eyes gazing up at the ice blue dawn sky.
Chapter Thirty-Two
CFS Dauntless
Krillus Asteroid Belt
39, 000,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
Year 58 (307 AC)
“The enemy is stationary, Commander. They’re just sitting there. Waiting.”
“Very well.”
The display was telling Kat the same story Wentus had just reported. But that wasn’t right. She just knew there was something in the data she wasn’t seeing. The enemy captain was a smart one, and she was sure his ship had taken major hits to its weapons systems, damage that couldn’t have been repaired in a few days.
Why would he sit and wait for us? Why not run? If the Confeds are as we’ve been told, they should have withdrawn. He had all the time in the world to escape.
He’s up to something…
“Commander, we’re getting intense radiation readings throughout the asteroid field. Nothing dangerous, but it’s making our scans difficult.”
Is that it? Are you using the radiation to try and mislead me somehow? Or do you think I won’t follow you in there?
Wentus continued, “We’re also picking up a high density of dust and particulates around the enemy vessel, Commander. It’s almost as if…”
“As if what, Optiomagis?”
“As if several large asteroids impacted and destroyed each other.”
Kat looked at the data on her screen, confirming what her first officer had just told her.
Perhaps they sought out a particulate-dense area to make their stand. Do they think this will interfere with our targeting?
She knew it would indeed affect targeting. But only at longer ranges. If she closed to point blank range, even the radioactive dust would be insufficient to throw off her firing locks.
Is that it? Or is it something else?
“Optiomagis, I want all fighters prepared for an immediate launch. Gold Dagger, Red Banner, and Gleaming Shield squadrons are to be armed for anti-shipping strikes. Black Fist, Darkwind, and Hydra for interception and escort operations.”
“Yes, Commander.”
She leaned back in her chair. Her squadrons had suffered badly so far in the engagement, and now she was sending them on another mission. She’d seen the Confed fighters in action, and she knew her people would suffer badly. But she was concerned about what the enemy was planning. If her fighters could get through and launch a damaging strike, she would feel more comfortable about closing and finishing things.
She stared straight ahead. The tactical situation seemed clear, at least in some ways. She had every reason to believe Invictus was in superior condition, that a straight out fight to the finish would end with her victory. Alliance doctrine offered no choices in such a situation. A crippled enemy was to be destroyed.
But what about those primaries…could they have repaired them? Is that what they want? For me to advance to close range so they can fire their main guns again?
No, that wasn’t the answer, at least not solely. The enemy primaries were powerful, but there was no doubt many of its secondary batteries had been virtually destroyed. Even with the main guns it was doubtful the enemy could defeat Invictus.
The enemy captain is no fool. Indeed, do not underestimate him. There must be more, something I’m not considering…
Despite her concerns, Kat knew she had no choice. If her fighters failed to get through and cripple the enemy vessel, she had no choice but to advance with Invictus and begin the final exchange.
“Commander, squadrons report ready to launch.”
She nodded, sighing softly, allowing herself a moment’s hope the fighters would spare her from what she feared. But her people would have a hell of a fight on their hands to break through and reach the enemy ship. They might succeed—she had the best pilots in the Alliance with her. But doubts crept in from all sides, and cold thoughts about moving forward toward the enemy. She realized she’d allowed the enemy commander to get inside her head, and she wondered if that was insecurity on her part…or perceptiveness.
She pushed it all out of her mind. There was no point worrying about things she couldn’t change. If her fighters didn’t finish the job, she would have to. There was no option there, whatever risks might exist in the shadows of her mind.
“Commence launch now.”
* * *
“Here they come.” Stockton watched the wall of incoming dots on the small screen of his scanner. “Remember, we fight the interceptors, but the primary mission is to get the bombers. We don’t let them through, regardless of the risk.” His words were grim, not at all the lighthearted cockiness his pilots had come to expect. But “Raptor” Stockton knew the gravity of the situation. If his pilots let those bombers through, everyone on Dauntless would die. It was that simple.
“Looks like they’ve got the interceptors up front, Raptor. I’ve got fifty that says they’ll try to pull us off to the side, open up a lane for the bombers.”
“No bet, Condor. That’s exactly what they’re going to try. But we’re not going for it. Blast them if you can, but don’t let them pull you off station.” Stockton knew his orders would be difficult ones to follow. Restricting the maneuver of his pilots put them at a disadvantage in a dogfight. But the bombers were the priority.
“Alright, Blue…pilots…” Stockton realized he had a hodgepodge of Dauntless’s surviving fighters with him, not just his own Blues. “…right wing, you’re with me. Left wing, with Ice.”
Stockton would never acknowledge that Tillis Krill was his equal in the cockpit, but he had to grudgingly admit—to himself at least—that the Yellow squadron commander was number two in the roster. And the Blue and Yellow squadron pilots with them were the best Dauntless had. There were two lines positioned to the rear, but Stockton knew his people had to hit the enemy attack hard. They were the biggest force, and if they let too many ships by, the reserves simply wouldn’t have enough strength to stop them.
He watched as the symbols on the screen moved closer…closer. Then: “Now!”
He angled the throttle, turning his fighter and blasting the thrust nearly up to full power. He could feel the g-forces slamming into him, despite the best efforts of his ship’s dampeners to counteract them. His course took him right through the enemy interceptors…toward the bombers lined up behind.
He could see the enemy birds changing course, moving to hit him before he could get into firing range of the bombers. He thought about just blasting his engines at full, making a mad dash for the bombers. But he sighed and pulled back on the thrust. Even if he could outrun the enemy interceptors, his velocity would be too high. His fighter would zip right through the enemy bombers, and by the time he could decelerate and return, the attack force would be halfway to Dauntless. No, his people had to focus on the interceptors fir
st. If they could get enough of them, the second and third lines could hit the bombers.
He tugged at the controls, bringing his fighter around almost completely, and he hit the thrust again, decelerating this time. His eyes dropped to the screen, and he reached out, flipping two small levers on the control panel.
“Missiles armed,” the AI announced.
He’d intended to try to save his missiles for the bombers, hoping the enemy might be careless and position the unwieldy torpedo-armed ships too far forward. But the enemy formation was textbook, and that meant his people had one job right now. Destroy the interceptors.
“Forget the bombers for now,” he said into his com unit. “Clear the interceptors…leave the bombers to Lynx and the Reds behind us.”
He stared straight down at the screen, adjusting his controls, moving one of the small icons into the tiny crosshairs of his scope. He waited, staring intently, making minor adjustments. Then he fired and he felt the kick as his bird lurched and his left wing missile blasted forward.
He angled the fighter hard almost immediately, hot on the heels of target number two. He was focused on the second enemy fighter when the AI announced that the first shot had hit. Another kill.
It won’t be the last one today, not if we’re going to keep these bastards away from Dauntless…
He fired the second missile. And then he brought his ship around again, flipping a series of switches to activate his laser cannons. It was time for close work now.
“Enemy missile lock.”
The AI’s voice was disconcertingly calm, considering what it had just reported.
Stockton pulled back hard on the throttle, blasting at full thrust, even as he moved his vector wildly. He could feel the sweat, his hair wet, droplets beginning to roll slowly down his neck, his back. He was focused, with every shred of intensity he could muster.
But the missile was still on his tail…