by John Bowers
"I had to," Henry told him listlessly. "I couldn't do a fucking thing about it. I had no choice."
"If it had been my daughter … " Rice sat shaking his head. "Jesus!"
"And now," Henry said, letting the tears fall for the first time, "I may never see her again. I don't know what I'll do if anything happens to her. She's my only child."
Rice didn't know what to say. Finally he looked up.
"At least she was successful," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"We found the leak. I'm assuming she was the one who identified Mister Lonely. Wasn't she?"
Henry shrugged helplessly.
"I suppose she was," he said. "I honestly don't know."
Chapter 53
Thursday, 1 November, 0232 (PCC) (Day One) - Orbit of Beta Centauri
The Federation task force arrived off Beta Centauri like a thief in the night. The first ships to break out of warp were small, fast communications ships that immediately swung into a powered orbit, beaming electronic signals that blanketed the planet from all directions. The signals were coded to avoid detection by human operators, and automated monitors that did detect them were instructed to ignore the detection. All communications receivers, including orbital satellites and Ladar installations, were flooded with the virus that had been designed to blind enemy Ladar to the arrival of the Federation fleet. The virus executed in less than three seconds in every computer receiving it, then erased itself to avoid discovery.
The damage was swift and complete.
Federation carriers began launching the moment they dropped out of warp, and the troop transports never broke stride as they dived straight into the stratosphere. Thunder rolled across the planet as the transports and scores of fighters penetrated the atmosphere, and that thunder was all the warning those on the ground needed to know that something was happening. The clock was now running, and every second counted.
The transports carrying 3rd Star Marine Division dropped down to fifty thousand feet and began firing landers. So far the sky was clear. The landers quickly formed a skirmish line and burned for deeper atmosphere, traveling at close to Mach 2, arrowing toward the eastern coast where Periscope Harbor waited. As they queued up they formed into waves; the lander carrying Delta Company was the fourth ship in the second wave. Rico Martinez lay in his infantry berth with his eyes closed, reciting every Catholic prayer he could remember.
The first wave surged on ahead, sixteen landers carrying 31st Star Marines. They would go in first, followed by a wave of fighters from 313th Squadron, then succeeding waves would touch down.
Onja Kvoorik clenched her teeth as Lt. Langley held the QuasarFighter in a screaming turn at ninety thousand feet. The QFs were too fast to accompany the landers, so had to circle until their time came. This not only kept them in position to follow the first wave in, but also gave them altitude in case they were needed to fend off a fighter threat. Onja's blood raced as she smelled action, and the minutes seemed to crawl as she waited for the designated moment.
SpectraWav traffic was at a minimum, to maintain enemy ignorance for as long as possible, but some chatter was necessary. Onja kept a close eye on her target holos, but no enemy fighters appeared. She didn't even see Ladar signals.
The first wave of landers leveled out at ten thousand and opened drag flaps as they lined up on the approach to the LZ. Periscope Harbor lay ninety miles ahead, and the drag flaps pulled their speed down under Mach 1, until they were traveling at roughly six hundred knots. The little ships bounced sickeningly in the heavy air currents, and as the seconds ticked by, over three thousand Star Marines rode the bouncing coffins toward their destiny.
The mountains that shielded Periscope Harbor from the west had a single weakness, and the landers were headed straight for it. That weakness was a depression in the peaks directly west of the harbor, a saddle that sank nearly three thousand feet below the peaks on either side. The high ridges were dotted with anti-spacecraft lasers, heavy batteries capable of bringing down a carrier if one came close enough. But anything passing below those weapons would enjoy the relative safety of knowing that, if the ASC tried to depress and fire, they ran the risk of hitting other ASC emplacements directly opposite. The landers would pass between them and hope for the best.
That was how it was supposed to happen.
The landers had reached forty miles and dropped down to eight thousand feet. Now they poured on full thrust, increasing to eight hundred knots to get through the saddle. The men inside sweated as they felt the thrust and heard the whine of engines winding up. They would be there in another minute.
At thirty miles, the unthinkable happened. Directly ahead, streaking out of the east, twelve Sirian fighters raced through the saddle and fixed the landers in their electronic gunsights. The lead section opened fire and held it for five horrible seconds, then twisted hard left to avoid the landers as they banked away. The second section opened fire and banked to the right.
In those few seconds, nine of sixteen landers either exploded and broke apart or began to spin out of control as heavy cannon shells shattered their hulls. The Star Marines of 31st Regiment spilled across the hillsides in a spray of burning debris and shattered bodies, dead before they knew what hit them. The remaining seven landers continued doggedly on course, streaked through the saddle, and hit braking thrust as they dived the last six thousand feet toward the city just beyond.
The airport lay wide open, five square miles squeezed between the mountains and the city; three runways formed a triangle, with parallel taxiways on two sides. Hangars and maintenance facilities lined the property nearest the mountains, facing a small terminal with a control tower and parking facilities that fronted the street. Across the street from the airport sat acres of homes.
The Lincoln landers descended steeply like geese landing on a lake. They hit the main runway and two parallel taxiways, all seven landing within thirty seconds. Before the first one touched down, a volcano of ground fire streamed up to meet them. One lander lost a wing and rolled out of control, crashing in a fireball fifty yards to the left of the runway. The rest landed safely, but were riddled with heavy ASC fire before they could disgorge troops. Four caught fire as they rolled to a halt, and one exploded. Star Marines poured out the exits and were shot to pieces on the ground, arms and legs catapulting every which way; panicked pilots poured on thrust and struggled to get airborne even as Star Marines spilled out. Three got into the air, still carrying part of their troop load, but two disintegrated as ground fire tore them apart. Only one reached the harbor, but as it banked left and tried to gain altitude, ASC fire from the offshore islands brought it down, sending two hundred men to the bottom of the harbor.
Of thirty-two hundred men in the first wave, fewer than fifty survived the landing, taking cover behind whatever wreckage they could find until help arrived.
The fighters of 313th Squadron had broken their circling pattern and were in a hard dive to follow the first wave in when screams came over the SpectraWav. Onja's blood curdled with horror as she heard the last words of dying pilots, and she dared not try to imagine the panic inside the landers as they went down in flames. She sucked oxygen to still her nerves and took a tighter grip on her weapons controls.
"This is Mad Man!" Major Madison yelled over the headsets of every pilot and gunner. "Do not engage the fighters! I say again, keep to the original plan!"
Onja's lungs strained as G forces ripped at her body. Langley was manhandling the fighter as if it were a wild horse, and she saw the saddle approaching on radar. She began training her weapons toward the peaks where the ASC batteries waited. The batteries didn't fire until they picked up the fighters on visual — the virus was working.
As the first heavy laser slashed by, Langley began an evasive maneuver he'd developed himself, which he called the Langley Roll. It was similar to the corkscrew that Johnny Lincoln had used in spatial combat, except it was disorienting as hell in the atmosphere. But Onja was accustomed to
inertial stresses, and kept her sights on target as the saddle approached with alarming speed.
She fired everything in her arsenal as the QF screamed down on the saddle. She targeted the peaks on the right — others had been assigned to hit the left — and released all her missiles at once, following with laser and autocannon as she sprayed the peaks and depressions. At the last possible second, Langley dipped to the left and dived through the saddle at over Mach 2, and Periscope Harbor appeared briefly underneath them as he rolled to starboard and began a climbing turn. Bolts of ASC laser from the offshore islands followed him.
The ASC emplacements covering the saddle were incredibly well constructed, but the missiles and lasers of the 313 ripped through them with explosive devastation. Fully two-thirds of the batteries were disabled or destroyed, and thirty seconds after the last fighter cleared the saddle, the sixteen landers of the second wave dived down to seven thousand feet and streamed through.
The fighters had done a commendable job, but it wasn't a hundred percent. Several batteries were still firing, and as the second wave swept toward them, they fired with deadly accuracy. The first three landers came apart under the heavy laser bolts, and the fourth began to stream fire as an engine was hit. The rest of second wave streaked through as the lasers tried to turn and track; two more were hit, and one crashed a few seconds later, but of the sixteen landers an even dozen were able to touch down.
Periscope Harbor Airport, Beta Centauri
Rico slammed against the side of his berth as the lander took a hit. His eyes jerked open and sweat poured into them, his mouth leaching dry as he waited to see if they were going down. The lander shuddered violently, seemed to skew sideways, but kept flying, though the ride was ten times rougher than before. He trembled with blind fear and prayed faster, too scared even to cross himself.
He heard the deafening shriek of giant lasers for a brief instant, then felt the craft dive steeply, and realized they'd passed through the saddle. They should reach the runway any second now. Deceleration shoved him forward; he heard men moaning and muttering curses.
"Fifteen seconds, Delta!" Captain Connor shouted in his headset. "We have an engine fire, so the minute we touch down, get moving. Remember the drill — everyone deploy to starboard. Ten seconds! Get ready!"
The second wave descended into an inferno of burning landers and ASC fire; shredded Star Marines decorated the pavement. The lead ship, carrying Delta Company, touched down heavily and began to skid as ground fire churned the pilot into hamburger. The co-pilot managed to fire reverse thrust, then he was killed, too. Converging streams of steel chewed into the lander from three directions as it swept sideways off the runway, the wing and nose jets competing for control. Hundreds of holes suddenly appeared in the fuselage and dozens of Star Marines were hit. Rico saw daylight and heard the popcorn sounds of slugs ripping through metal. Men shouted, others screamed – Rico rolled off his berth to the deck and strangled in his own saliva as centrifugal force pinned him against a lower berth.
The skid stopped only when ground fire blew off the landing gear. The Lincoln lander collapsed onto its belly and sat shuddering under conflicting thrust from its jets.
"That's it! Everybody get the fuck out! Go! Go! Go!"
Deafened by the volume of fire outside, Rico scrambled to his feet. The deck was awash with blood from dozens of casualties, but the survivors somehow made their way to the rear exits. The starboard ramp had buckled and was jammed; Star Marines in full combat gear slammed into each other in the narrow passage, blocking all movement. Men continued to fall as bullets ripped through the fuselage. Rico felt a rising panic as the smell of blood and sweat overwhelmed him; the little ship was shaking like a wet dog, the screaming jets pushing it forward and back.
“Get to the other side!” Capt. Connor bellowed. “Back up, goddammit! Use the portside ramp! Move it! Move it!”
Somehow, over the shouts and the panic, Connor’s voice pierced the consciousness of the trapped men, and they began to separate. Men fell back, looking for the access hatch to the port side, but the lights had gone out and few found it.
The starboard engine, already burning, exploded. Flame and fragments boiled through the front of the ship, adding to the confusion, but the lander shifted under the blast, and the starboard ramp suddenly popped open. Men saw daylight and, moving in an undulating wave, boiled out the rear of the ship, tumbling to the ground the best way they could. Rico hit the ground and rolled, catching a lungful of relatively fresh air. Above him, the Lincoln lander was almost completely engulfed in flame, though Star Marines were still pouring out like pills spilled from a bottle.
“Goddamn thing’s gonna blow again!” someone shouted. “Those fuel tanks – we gotta move!”
Rico looked around, his heart pounding in his ears. Ships still dropped out of the sky in the face of heavy ASC fire, other ships burned on the runways; every which way he looked he saw bodies. Bullets chewed the tarplast all around him, snapping like a Colorado hailstorm. Directly in front of him, at least ninety yards away, were the hangars and repair shops. The wrecked lander blocked his view of the terminal and parking lots, where the heaviest fire seemed to be coming from.
The portside engine exploded, washing him with choking heat. He glanced around and saw the lander shuddering backward, now pushed only by the nose nacelles, which were still firing reverse thrust. Over a hundred men hugged the ground, stunned into inaction, and Rico realized most of them would be barbecued when the fuel tanks cooked off.
“Delta Company!” he shouted, “Follow me!”
Leaping to his feet, Rico raced toward the hangars, dodging and weaving, bent low at the waist, bullets chewing the ground around him. Behind him, glad to get away from the lander, most of Delta began to follow, fanning out as they raced across open ground. A machine gun opened fire and several men fell. Rico had almost reached a small starcrete structure when he heard the whine of jets and glanced up to his left. A Lincoln lander was dropping straight toward him, and he realized in horror that he was right in the middle of a taxiway.
“Hit dirt!” he screamed, and dived headfirst out of the path of the looming bird, ripping fabric off his knees and elbows.
The Lincoln hit the ground with a shriek and the jets pitched higher as it tried to decelerate. Rico rolled into the shelter of the little shed and watched in horror as streams of bullets ripped through the ship. He jumped up and looked around the shed, sweat pouring down his face as he identified three separate gun positions among the maintenance sheds, all of them hosing the lander from stem to stern. The guns were barely thirty yards away.
Twenty men had caught up with him, including the Fearless Fourless, and crouched panting against the shed. Rico didn’t see any officers, and only a couple of sergeants, but they were both wounded.
“Listen up!” he shouted. “See those gun positions?” He pointed. “If we don’t take them out, we’re all gonna die here!” He pointed at the nearest six men. “Sling your rifles! Take four grenades apiece and get ready. When I give the word, launch them all at those guns! Two of you at each gun. Texas, Tiny, Gearloose, Maniac, on the flanks! Covering fire!
“The rest of you – fix bayonets! As soon as they throw, we all rush the guns! No prisoners!”
The guns were still hosing the lander, which had skidded to a stop facing the wrong direction. As men struggled to escape it they were cut down like wheat. Rico snapped his bayonet onto his rifle and checked the men. Those with grenades were watching him, and he nodded.
“Now!”
All six men darted forward a few yards and began throwing grenades; they hit the deck as the little bombs began to erupt. Several grenades fell short, but most were on target, and the guns suddenly fell silent. The Fearless Fourless hammered at the maintenance sheds. Rico waved an arm and led the charge, another dozen Star Marines on his heels.
They surged over the gun positions, shooting down survivors and bayoneting bodies. Rico sent men to the right and left to c
lear the offices, store rooms, and maintenance shops. Another forty or fifty Delta men surged into the hangars and took cover, panting with relief at getting off the killing field. But the carnage was mounting on the runways.
Rico checked the ASC guns and found that two were still operable.
“Anybody know how to operate these things?” he demanded. “Let’s get some fire on that terminal, give them something to think about beside shooting down the landers.”
Several men stepped forward and moments later one of the guns was spitting death back at the enemy. Rico stood watching for a moment, panting heavily, his entire body numb. He felt someone touch his elbow and spun around.
“Who the hell put you in charge, Martinez?” Capt. Connor asked quietly.
Rico blinked. “Nobody, sir. But somebody had to –”
“Relax. You did the right thing. Look, there’s still a bunch of gun positions on this side of the field.” Connor pointed. “Take a squad and start cleaning them out. I’m calling in a space strike on the terminal.”
“Yes, sir. But Captain … what about Sergeant Rags?”
“Ragsdale is dead. Never got out of the lander. You have Second Squad now.”
“Sir, Roberson is senior to me –”
“I need a squad leader, not a goddamned Sunday school teacher. Move out.”
* * *
Connor’s radio call to the commanders in orbit couldn’t stop the third wave from landing because it was already committed. But two squadrons of PulsarFighters streamed in ahead of it and demolished the airport terminal with high explosive, flattening the structures and killing most of the ASC batteries spotted there. The men of Delta Company worked the opposite side of the airport and, joined by scattered survivors of the first wave, butchered most of the enemy gunners hiding among the hangars and repair shops. By the time the fourth wave arrived, only a few gun emplacements at the far end of the runway were still firing, and a second space strike silenced them.