The briefing concluded with words from the captain.
“This is a quick mission,” Commander Rossato said quietly but firmly. “Get down, get the hostages, get back up to the ship. There are no other Astral assets in the area so we’ll be providing you cover fire. And we will hold our position in low orbit”—she glared down at her bridge officers—“until you return. That means Frankfurt will take a pounding, so don’t dawdle on the ground.”
* * *
The fires of atmo entry had faded and Jack manhandled his controls against the wall of tortured air through which his Hawk plunged. Switching to terrestrial reckoning he noted his altitude at ten kilometers, dropping fast, and speed slowing to hypersonic. His controls rattled against the air rushing over the Hawk’s flight surfaces. He calmed himself with a slow breath and reacquainted himself with the feel of atmo flight.
“It’s gonna be bumpy the whole way,” he said to Singh, seated over his left shoulder at her tactical console. “It’s not like space flight.”
“Roger,” she said, the tension clear in her voice.
Up ahead, Jack saw the flashes of Frankfurt’s orbital bombardment batteries pounding known rebel anti-aircraft positions. Like a precise, focused meteor shower, dazzling orbs struck down from orbit. Jack was still too high to see the results of the impacts, but there was no doubt the rebels knew he was coming. Dawson’s Hawk was in the lead. They were dropping fast and maintaining speed, attempting to get under the rebel defence network before it got organized.
The Hawks leveled out at one kilometer, the landscape flashing by in a brownish blur splashed with green. Jack felt comfortable with the controls and knew he had a few moments to look ahead. It was always risky taking his hands off the stick and throttle to manipulate his sensors, but then he remembered Singh behind him.
“Project battlespace,” he ordered.
It took a few moments, but then his canopy was lit up with tactical symbols of rebel positions and units that were being tracked by Frankfurt in orbit. Jack scanned the augmented view of the landscape.
An alarm sounded in Jack’s headset, indicating hostile weapons tracking. He jinked right then left, ignoring the g-forces that wrenched him. He saw Dawson’s Hawk break left and launch countermeasures. Jack dropped to five hundred meters before settling out on course. The alarm faded from his ears as hostile tracking was lost.
The hostage location was fast approaching. Dawson’s Hawk was still ahead to port, nearly a thousand meters higher. It was starting to drift backward as Dawson reduced speed for landing. Jack scanned his own approach vector and the area to the south of the target position. At this altitude, he wanted a bit more space between Hawks.
He hauled his stick to the right, then reversed his turn and brought the Hawk around in a wide arc, bleeding off speed while never settling onto a new course. If there were hidden rebel guns down there, they’d have a hell of a time getting a lock.
He finally steadied up, due south of the landing site—a small farm surrounded by open fields. The final ridge flashed by beneath him and he visually surveyed the farm, watching as Dawson landed in the closest field to the cluster of buildings. Seconds later, he fired thrusters and burned off the last of his speed into a pair of scorched trenches in the Thorian ground. The Hawk thumped down.
“Open the rear hatch!” he ordered.
There was a familiar hiss as the aft ramp decoupled from its locks and dropped to the ground. Jack felt a breeze of warm air wash through the cabin, tinged with the strange, oily quality unique to Thor’s atmosphere. Through the canopy he saw armed crewmen emerge from Dawson’s Hawk, advancing cautiously forward toward the enemy farm. From around the bulk of his own Hawk he saw four crewmen shuffling forward, rifles up.
There was one dead body within easy reach of his Hawk, a rebel with a slit throat. Closer to the farm were the splattered remains of at least three other fighters who had clearly been hit with Astral exploding rounds.
“Axe flight,” came a new, deep voice in his headset, “this is Astral Special Forces. We see you outside and we are exiting the farmhouse with hostages, over.”
Jack heard Dawson acknowledge, then saw the main farmhouse door open. A large figure emerged, his muscular bulk clear beneath some sort of pressure suit, hands raised cautiously as he walked forward. His face was hidden beneath a form-fitting helmet, and his head moved in a slow, careful scan of the two Hawks. Behind him, a gaggle of civilians began to emerge, many limping heavily and at least two being carried.
Jack had to fight to stay in his seat. Torturing hostages was still in fashion with the rebels, it seemed. And what was his own crew doing, standing there watching?
“Axe flight,” he barked over the mission circuit, “get over there with stretchers and help those hostages!”
Stretchers were collected from within the two Hawks and hurried over to where the wounded were gathering outside. The large, unarmed man was clearly in charge and within moments the hostages were being loaded up and carried back toward the Hawks. Jack watched as another Special Forces operative emerged from the building, hefting an assault rifle. The two operatives waited until all the hostages were in motion before each headed for a different Hawk. The larger of the two, still apparently unarmed, escorted the evacuees into Jack’s Hawk.
Jack turned in his seat, looking past Singh toward the main cabin. The first of the crew and hostages were ascending the rear ramp, but Jack watched for the operative. His bulk quickly came into view and he slipped with surprising grace through the crowded cabin. His pressure suit was black, with no obvious external life support, no control systems and no markings. He loomed over Singh and stared down at Jack.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Mallory.”
Jack saw the surprised look on Singh’s face which no doubt mirrored his own expression. Then he looked more closely at the operative and realized that they had met before, on a Research ship in orbit around Earth just hours before the opening battle of the war.
“Sergeant Chang.” He wondered if some sort of witty remark was expected in moments like this. Something world-weary and withering? His imagination failed him. “Ready to lift off?”
Chang paused before answering, staring absently into space. Then he nodded as he took the seat next to Singh, over Jack’s right shoulder.
“Yes, sir—both Hawks are loaded. Heavy casualties amongst the hostages.”
“Closing rear hatch,” Singh said, reaching for her controls.
Jack turned forward in his seat and saw Axe-One already lifting into the air.
“All personnel buckle in,” he announced as he eased open his own throttle. “We’re airborne.”
With a full load of passengers, the Hawk was noticeably sluggish as Jack gained altitude, but he tucked under Dawson’s wing and continued accelerating. He heard Dawson report, and Frankfurt’s response that rebel forces were closing the area in force. Up ahead, orbital bombardment pounded down on scattered positions.
“Axe-Two, this is One,” he heard Dawson call, “prepare for hard ascent.”
Anti-air fire was already lighting up the sky ahead of them. Multiple tracking alarms sounded in his headset. They needed to get out of here, and fast. Flak and tracers exploded past them.
“Axe-One on ascent!”
The other Hawk nosed upward into a vertical climb, engines firing on full burn as countermeasures launched. Jack pulled back on his own stick and pushed open the throttle.
“Fire counter—”
His words were cut off by a bang against the hull. The Hawk shuddered and lurched to starboard. Another bang knocked him in his seat. He fought the stick as his own craft started to roll. The horizon came into view at the edge of his vision, swinging wildly. A series of thuds wrenched his stick and alarms lit up across his flight surfaces panel. His view suddenly filled with the mottled brown of the surface as the Hawk began to dive.
His flight surfaces were shredded, turning his Hawk into an unguided bomb strapped to a pair of rocke
ts. He throttled back and switched to thruster control. Ill-equipped to fighting air resistance, the thrusters strained to push him out of his dive. Leveling out at under a kilometer, Jack blinked the sweat from his eyes and took stock of the tactical symbols still projected on the canopy before him.
There were too many hostiles—way too many. Looking up, he saw the blue symbol for Frankfurt in orbit, but no sign of Lieutenant Dawson.
“Location Axe-One,” he snapped to Singh.
“Zero-four-five, fifty kilometers,” she replied.
“Altitude?”
She didn’t respond immediately. He repeated the question.
“No reading,” she finally said.
He didn’t have time for this newbie’s confusion. Hauling on his stick he turned the Hawk toward the northeast to get a visual. His sightline was cluttered with enemy symbols scattered across the landscape.
“Clear tactical!”
The sea of symbols vanished.
And amidst all the anti-aircraft fire, Jack spotted a single, black trail of smoke tracing down.
“Axe-One this is Two,” he said, “confirm status, over.”
There was no response, except new targeting alarms.
“Singh, you fire countermeasures whenever those bastards get a lock on us!”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
He repeated his hail to Dawson. He hailed Frankfurt.
“Forest this is Axe-Two, confirm Axe-One status?”
“This is Forest. Lost tracking on Axe-One,” came Frankfurt’s reply. “Assess she’s down.”
“Sir,” rumbled Chang in his ear, “there are survivors at the Axe-One crash site.”
Jack had no idea how the operative knew that, but he didn’t question it.
“Forest this is Axe-Two. Roger, I’m closing to recover survivors.”
“This is Forest. Assess rebel forces closing Axe-One’s position in brigade strength, leading elements ETA ten mikes.”
Ten minutes until Axe-One was overrun by rebels. Ten minutes until the survivors of the crash were prisoners once again. Visions of horror flashed through Jack’s mind of his own captivity. He scanned his instruments. Fuel was draining fast, either through the constant thruster use or something more ominous. If he didn’t break for orbit soon he might never make it at all. But there were survivors on the ground, and he knew what fate awaited them if they were captured. In ten minutes.
He pushed his throttle forward.
“This is Axe-Two, roger. Expediting recovery.”
There was a long pause from orbit before, finally: “Roger.”
“Display tactical,” he said to Singh.
The growing swarm of enemy contacts filled his vision again. There were dozens of them, but with sudden clarity he realized that not all were a threat.
“Give me weapons ranges of the nearest hostiles,” he ordered quietly.
Shaded hemispheres appeared over the three rebel positions within range. The Hawk was headed through all of them.
“Stand by with countermeasures.”
“Standing by,” she said.
Jack pushed the stick forward, plunging toward the surface. Leveling out at an altitude far below what any spacefaring craft was ever designed to maintain, he weaved between outcrops. Rebel trackers followed him, but couldn’t lock on.
Over one more ridge and Jack spotted the dissipating smoke of Axe-One’s final dive. The Hawk was mostly intact, but a trail of debris was scattered across the rocky ground. Normally he’d conduct a flyover to assess safety before landing, but with only eight minutes left he flew straight in, thrusters screaming as he killed his speed and thumped down next to his broken wingman.
“Get that ramp down and load survivors,” he shouted, unstrapping and climbing out of his own seat. To Singh he said, “Check for any critical failures in propulsion systems.”
Pushing past the stunned crewmembers in the main cabin, he grabbed an engineering satchel and ran down the ramp. He coughed as the hot, oily air filled his lungs, shielding his eyes from the brilliant orange light of Asgard low in the sky. He saw a woman emerge from the Axe-One wreckage, her uniform revealing her as one of Frankfurt’s crew. Bright, terrified eyes stared at him through a dust-caked face.
“How many survivors?” he demanded.
“Eight,” she croaked.
Crew from Axe-Two were running up with stretchers. As more survivors pulled themselves clear of the wreckage, Jack did a quick calculation. His Hawk was already weighed down with sixteen souls, and it was rated for no more than twenty. He had no problem exceeding official ratings for his bird, but between them the two Hawks had thirty-two people—there was no way he could carry a payload sixty percent in excess of tolerance into orbit.
He grabbed the nearest crewmember with a stretcher, but shouted loud enough for all to hear above the wind.
“Survivors only—we don’t have the power to get the deceased to orbit.”
The frantic activity around him paused, and Jack knew that in that moment he’d just earned the hatred of some of the crew. But no one argued.
He scrabbled over loose rocks to inspect his Hawk visually. As expected the stubby wings were mangled, but he was getting out on brute engine power. The nose was scraped but intact. The port side, however, was riddled with dents and holes.
And from one of them, he saw, dripped a dark liquid. The Hawk was losing fuel. Ripping open the satchel he grabbed a sealant can. He pressed it to the leak and watched the thick, grey putty ooze across the tortured metal. He had no idea how much was enough, but in seconds the dripping had ceased.
A scrape of rock alerted him to Singh’s approach. Her dark skin shone with perspiration and her features were locked down in a mask of shock.
“Engineering report,” she gasped. “Starboard main engine is good but port engine is showing alerts in some relays. It’s reporting eighty percent efficiency but I don’t know what’s wrong and whether it will get worse.”
Jack nodded, rising to his feet and running his hand along the warm surface of the hull. He didn’t see any more punctures amidst the scarring, but there was no telling what the impacts might have done to internal systems.
“Thrusters?” he asked quietly.
“Operational.”
He reached the stern of the Hawk, watched as the last survivors from Axe-One were carried aboard. The second Special Forces operative darted up the ramp, too fast for Jack to get a look at the face, but a light build and graceful movements suggested Chang’s partner was a woman. Chang himself stepped into view down the ramp.
“We’re loaded, sir. Twenty-four souls including you two.”
Jack ascended into the Hawk’s dark interior, stepping carefully over the wounded on the deck and the other crewmembers crouched over them. Other crew strapped themselves into the seats lining either side of the cabin. Most wore expressions of shock, but more than one glare followed him as he weaved his way forward.
“Close the ramp,” he ordered Singh as he sat down and surveyed his control.
Even before he heard the aft hatch seal he nudged the throttles forward. The Hawk’s engines increased in pitch, but the craft didn’t move. Jack increased power and fired his thrusters. Through the rattling he felt the Hawk lift off the ground, but not by much, and not for long.
He pulled back and let the Hawk settle down again. On the tactical projection ahead he could see the first red symbols of rebel ground forces coming over the nearest rise. He had less than four minutes before his position was overrun. The ship was too heavy, and one engine was already weakening.
He glanced over his left shoulder at Singh, then over his right at Chang. The only one way the Hawk was getting airborne was if it lost some passengers. Hating himself anew, Jack climbed out of his seat and faced Chang.
The operative stared back at him, face as hard as granite. Beyond him, the cabin was crowded with frightened crewmembers and hostages. Everyone had noticed that the pilot was out of his seat when he should be flyin
g them to safety, and soon all eyes were on him.
“Sergeant Chang,” Jack whispered. “We’re too heavy. I need to lose a couple of passengers.”
Chang’s eyes flickered back toward the cabin. After a moment he nodded. “I’ll assess the two most badly injured and get them unloaded.”
Jack felt his jaw drop, and for a moment he struggled to even understand the cold calculation in Chang’s simple statement. The operative was moving to rise, but Jack pressed a hand against the huge man’s shoulder. “No, Sergeant. I need you and your partner to get off the Hawk.”
Real emotion flashed over Chang’s features for the first time. A tiny part of Jack was terrified at what an operative might do if threatened, and he suddenly wished there was a lieutenant here to start barking orders. But Lieutenant Dawson was dead, and any other help was high in orbit.
“Sergeant Chang,” Jack forced from his lips, “I am the commander of this mission and I’m ordering you and your partner to disembark.”
Chang stared at him in silence, but something in his eyes indicated that he was engaged in far more than just listening to Jack.
“I’m sure you have an alternate escape route,” Jack persisted. “None of my people do. And there is no fucking way I’m leaving any of them to the mercy of the rebels.”
Chang rose to his feet, towering over Jack in the tiny space. Jack took a half step back into his own chair, trying to match stares with the operative and wondering if, after surviving his own time as a hostage and countless combat missions, he was going to die at the hands of Astral Special Forces.
“Good luck, sir,” is all Chang said, before ordering Singh to open the rear ramp.
Amidst cries of alarm the ramp hissed open once again, but before anyone could protest Chang and his partner descended to the dusty ground outside.
Jack avoided the stares of the assembled passengers, glancing at Singh. She looked up at him in horror.
Infinite Stars Page 60