“Can we detect the skimmers?” she asked.
“Not on passives,” the sensors officer replied. “It would take heavy active scanning to reveal them.”
“Good. If we can’t, they can’t either.”
She wondered what the enemy ships were thinking about the prizes they’d grappled. The Breaker transport captains had orders to passively resist all attempts to break in and board—at least until go-time.
2300 hours was the next half-hour mark after the final transport had been grappled. If the final transport had been captured after 2300, the op would have kicked off at 2330, and so on.
Engels watched with long-range optics and drone cameras. First, the enemy matched up hatches with the transports. They sealed them together with temporary airlocks, then they demanded entry. When they didn’t get it, they began to blast through with their ship’s smallest weapons, or cut through with tools.
Straker was prepared for these moves. He’d figured that if the enemy hadn’t destroyed the transports in space, they probably wouldn’t go in with guns blazing to board. Not against a bunch of civilians. There was no hurry. They’d already won an easy victory, though they’d let the Breakers military contingent get away on the Independence. Niedern would be rubbing his hands and gloating about his hostages.
In fact, she expected a call soon to try to twist her arm. Within minutes, the call came in.
The comms officer swung around in her chair. “Vidlink hail from the enemy flagship, ma’am.”
Right on time. “Everybody remember your briefings and your roles. Ready?” She gave them a moment to compose themselves. “Accept it.”
Admiral Hayson Niedern appeared on the main forward holoscreen. He looked unhealthy and ten years older than when she’d last seen him, but he was the same short, weasel-faced political animal she remembered. He’d been court-martialed right after the Hive War, but had managed to cut a plea deal that preserved his commission and rank. After all, he’d been a “hero” for supervising one successful battle against the Opter-Crystal alliance. He had his supporters.
Since then, he’d become an enthusiastic creature of the Victory Party. Apparently, he’d been rehabilitated and rewarded with this important command.
“Niedern? What do you want?”
“I have your civilians, Lieutenant Engels.”
The man was so petty, he refused to acknowledge the rank she’d earned during the Liberation Wars. Of course, he was trying to get under her skin—but she would play along as the seconds ticked down. Around her, the bridge crew, some of whom would be visible to Niedern, showed shock and concern.
“Admiral Engels, if you please, Admiral Niedern. What’s the meaning of these unlawful actions?”
“It’s you Breakers who’re acting unlawfully, Miss Engels. I order you to stand down and be boarded. You and your personnel are still subject to military law, and your equipment is Republic materiel, not your personal property. That includes the flagship you’re sitting in.”
“We received no lawful orders until now, so we’re not in violation of anything.”
I look weak by playing his game of words, she thought, but the longer I keep him talking, the better.
“You’ve received them now. The orders come straight from the Prefect.”
“I don’t know any Prefect. The Prefect of the Victory Party? Is that an office specified in the Constitution?”
“The Prime Minister, then. Same thing. You know what I mean. I order you to stand down in the name of the duly elected civilian government.”
Engels snorted. “Duly elected my ass.”
“The results were certified. We’re military officers, Carla. That means we follow orders.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I can’t guarantee the safety of the... guests we’ve recently picked up. Many of my people are itching to get their hands on some traitors.”
“You’d threaten children?”
“Oh, the children will be fine, I assure, you. Their parents, now, might be at risk from some of my more… enthusiastic ground troops. You know how the grunts are—hard to control in the heat of battle once they get their blood up.”
“Funny, Straker never had that problem with his grunts.”
Niedern scowled. “Times have changed. I can only guarantee civilian safety if your military forces stand down. Then, your families can all be together and happy. I promise that everyone will be treated well. You’ll be resettled on a nice, pleasant, safe planet.”
“To never leave again.”
“Individuals might be rehabilitated, assuming the Party approves. We can’t very well have traitors running around the Republic causing trouble, can we?”
“I don’t know, Hayson—how do you do it?”
Niedern folded his hands on his paunch. “You know, Carla, I think I need to talk to someone who’s actually in charge. Is Assault Captain Straker around?”
“You’ll talk to me, Niedern. I’m in charge.”
“Not in charge of much, it seems to me. You’ve got one warship, even if she is a beauty. A ship you stole from the people of the Republic.”
“That depends on who history will judge as the real traitors here, Hayson. I’m betting on you and your jackbooted thugs in blue. Or is it Mutuality red this week? Gives new meaning to your ‘checkered past.’ The colors change, but the assholes never do.”
Niedern’s scowl deepened, and he cut the audio and turned away, talking to someone off-screen. Probably getting instructions from his Loyalty Officer.
One more minute. Just one more minute. If troops from the captor ships had cut through into the transports by now, they would be finding the airlocks deserted, and more sealed doors. Then they’d have to cut some more, and some more. It would take time for enemy marines, probably led by Hok cannon fodder, to break down every hatch and search the transports.
Only one more damned minute.
The chrono ticked down.
Keep him talking, keep him involved, she told herself.
Engels continued, assuming Niedern could still hear. “We’re not going to give ourselves up. You don’t have everyone, and no matter how it pains us, we won’t be taken prisoner by your brainwashed jackbooted thugs. If you’d been smart, Steel would’ve sent someone like Admiral Benota, someone I can trust. Someone I might have listened to. But I know what an animal you are, Hayson, and I swear, when I get my hands on you...”
Niedern sneered. “You’ll what?”
Engels straightened, dropping the fearful, fretful act. “No, strike that. What I meant to say was, when Derek Straker gets his hands on you, I think you’ll find you’ve made grave mistake.”
2300 hours.
Engels grinned. “See you soon.”
Aboard Niedern’s bridge, all hell broke loose. She deliberately did not cut the vidlink, but instead sat back to watch.
Chapter 5
General Straker, aboard the militarized transport Caribou.
When Straker’s HUD chrono hit precisely 2300 hours, he opened the cargo bay door on the transport ship where he’d been waiting—number 20 out of the 21 vessels, the Caribou. Number 21, the rearmost, had been empty, on robot control, in case the enemy decided to destroy them one by one. It would’ve been the first to be attacked, and so provide a warning. In that case, the Ruxins would’ve had to swoop in and attack, and the Independence would’ve hurried back to cover the transports’ escape.
The entire op had been an enormous gamble, but it seemed it was paying off—so far.
The cargo bay doors swung open to show the curve of an armored dreadnought hull twenty meters off. Straker leaped into space and flipped his body around. He put his boots forward and land with a clunk. Magnetics allowed him to race along the surface toward the nearest cargo bay door.
Behind him, a full company of Breaker battlesuiters followed.
Across the task force, grappled Breaker transports would be opening their doors. Every voluminous cargo bay would be vomiting
forth hundreds of troops—some were his tame Hok, some were marines, the most critical were those mechsuiters in borrowed battlesuits. Behind the initial assault surge, every combat-capable soldier he had, every vehicle driver and gunner and clerk and supply sergeant, had come armed and wearing spacesuits. Every Breaker who could carry a weapon was out here in open space.
Straker found the cargo bay doors of the enemy ship. The armor was far too thick to blast through without a nuke—and a nuke would kill the assaulting Breakers. But he’d long ago considered this situation, and Annex Zulu covered it.
Next to the external access panel he set down a square module the size and shape of a forty-kilo kettle-bell weight. It was mostly power supply, but at its heart was a short-range transmitter designed to blast an overload of electronic demands straight into the shielded computer that controlled the doors.
In other words, a fast, forcible hack. The devices had been designed by Indy, Frank Murdock and Zaxby.
The hack could never have worked if the dreadnought had its reinforcement field active, but that was impossible with the transport grappled onto its hull—another advantage of Annex Zulu.
Straker triggered the thing. A moment later, the warship’s hull split along its seam and the cargo doors swung open, allowing access to the vulnerable interior.
Each transport carried about a thousand troops. The average dreadnought had a crew of around the same number, but only fifty to a hundred of them would be ground troops, like Hok or marines. Straker had the advantage, but as some ancient philosopher once said, “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Inside the ship, Straker used his blaster to blow open the cargo bay’s internal airlock. His troops were vacuum-capable, so letting the air out of the interior would work to his advantage. He hammered the twisted metal farther open with one armored gauntlet and led the way inside.
He was immediately smashed back by railgun impacts, and his HUD screamed warnings at him. His battlesuit’s sensors registered pain in his right arm, which quickly subsided. His suit’s right arm seemed to be completely down.
What could aim and fire so quickly, and be unaffected by vacuum? Must be an autogun, possibly a battle-bot. Somebody, or perhaps the ship’s SAI, had reacted quickly, activating the internal defenses.
Straker triggered his wide channel and broadcast to everyone who could hear, “Full breach, full breach. Hard resistance, automated, so no holds barred, Breakers. Maximum assault protocols.”
Following his own orders, Straker waved forward a battlesuiter with a rocket launcher. The soldier angled the weapon at the opening and triggered it. The smart projectile should stabilize itself in the passageway beyond and try to destroy any threat. It would be computer against computer.
The autogun computer won, this time, and the next—but not the third.
While others took point on the assault, Straker examined his damaged suit, holding up his right arm—he thought.
Unfortunately, his arm now seemed to end at the elbow.
Yet, he felt no pain. The suit had injected pain-blockers and had tightened in tourniquet mode, but even so... he’d been badly hit in battles before, and never felt this sense of detachment, this... nothingness. It was as if his brain and body simply didn’t care about the trauma, and had already moved on, like he’d never even had that arm in the first place.
At some level he knew what was happening, but he might as well have a pane of glass between him and the real world. Yet, this strange detachment allowed him to keep functioning. He felt nothing, and simply didn’t care.
His blaster. It was on the deck, damaged and useless. It had been in his right hand when he’d been hit. He’d been foolish to charge in, he now realized within that odd calm. He’d been relying on surprise, but machines couldn’t be surprised. Somebody had been clever enough or diligent enough to tell the ship’s SAI to activate internal defenses, and it had cost him an arm—and momentum.
“Sir—you’re hit!” Sergeant Steiner came into his field of view. He seemed to be at a loss, since his boss was still on his feet, not at all perturbed. “We need to medevac you.”
“I’m fine, Sergeant. I can’t even feel it. Must be the new biotech. Watch my back—and don’t let me do something stupid like that again.”
“Roger that, sir,” Steiner said. “Regen tanks will fix you right up again. Until then, stay behind me.”
“Yes, mother. I’m still on my feet.”
Think, Straker, think. Your days of playing point man are long gone. You’re a commander now. Issue orders and coordinate. You can still do that.
But he found he didn’t need to. Heiser was already giving instructions to the troops in this fight, adjusting the plan to fit the new threat. Instead of trying to battle through doors and hatches, battlesuiters blew holes in the cargo bay walls with their blasters, rockets, or cutting charges. With full breach, maximum assault protocols, they’d make no effort to spare the enemy or equipment. They’d pound everything in sight and expend ordnance prodigiously, then push through in order to keep the momentum going, knocking the enemy off-balance.
Networked HUDs allowed the Breakers to build a coherent picture of the battlespace on the fly. As soon as a ship defense fired or activated, the smart network added it to the common operating picture. In response, the leading Breakers, the elite battlesuiters, attacked the devices from unexpected directions—the other sides of bulkheads, below or above decks. Sometimes they were able to blow holes into maintenance spaces and cut the power. In this way, they methodically burrowed through the dreadnought toward the bridge.
A few live enemies fought back, but clearly, they’d been surprised. Most of the ship’s contingent wasn’t suited up or armed. They lost precious minutes opening armories and trying to prepare to repel boarders—the last thing they’d expected.
As Straker moved inward and forward, his command HUD linked up with more and more Breakers. It appeared that the dreadnought had grappled with four transports, numbers 18 through 21, three of which were full of Breakers. So, they’d invited three thousand enemy troops onto their ship, expecting only helpless civilians.
One squad of crew, unaccountably brave, managed to man a semi-portable heavy laser and cut down two battlesuiters before being fried by blaster plasma. The automated defenses wounded sixteen Breakers and killed five more, but by the time Straker set foot on the bridge, he counted it a cheap victory. He’d never even fired his replacement blaster, salvaged from the fallen and now carried in his left hand.
Annex Zulu had paid off... so far.
But his FTL comlink seemed inoperative, so he had no idea what was happening elsewhere, in space.
“You,” he said, pointing at a quivering enemy lieutenant, “open the ship’s network for access.”
A pinch-faced man in a fancy, deep-blue uniform with red piping snarled back. “Belay that! Don’t collaborate!” His tabs and armband identified him as a Loyalty Officer, and his face twisted in rage as he pointed his sidearm—not at Straker, but at the lieutenant.
Straker put one blaster round into his chest, and his body fell smoking to the deck.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he said through his amplified speakers. “Today, everyone in the Victory Party made themselves my mortal enemy. They threatened my family. Regulars who surrender will be treated as prisoners of war and exchanged, but Party officials are traitors to the Constitution, and thus to the Republic. Anyone not surrendering, I will assume is a Party loyalist.” He lifted his blaster. “Now open that fucking network!”
The lieutenant tapped out commands on his console with shaking hands, and Straker’s HUD registered an open connection with the dreadnought’s systems. ERS Trollheim, the ship’s SAI announced as it reported to Straker.
“Trollheim, register me as this ship’s commander, under my biometrics,” Straker said.
“Acknowledged.”
“Lock out all existing crew functions and accesses. I am now the sole individual authorized input.”
“Register the following additional personnel as authorized to access command functions.” Straker uploaded a list of key Breaker officers and their identifying data.
“Acknowledged.”
“Put me on shipwide public address.”
“Public address, open.”
“This is General Derek Straker, also known as the Liberator. My troops have taken this ship. If you continue to resist, you will be killed. If you surrender, regular military will be treated in accordance with the laws of war.” He didn’t mention what he might do to Party members—but he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over that omission.
“Breaker fleet officers and watchstanders, report to the bridge. I need people to run our new dreadnought. Fleet noncoms, sort yourselves out and take control of appropriate sections. Ground troops, search all spaces, confine all prisoners, and reorganize for further combat.”
A spacesuited Breaker stepped up to him, doffed his helmet and flipped a casual salute. “Lieutenant Gustav, sir. I’ll take the conn, if you please.”
“Ian, good man. You’re Captain Gustav now. Carry on.”
Gustav sat in the command chair and began issuing orders to the Breaker crew trickling in to take bridge stations.
Straker stayed in brainlink space and continued to interface with the ship’s SAI. “Send a message to the flagship Independence.”
“Acknowledged. Waiting for message.”
“Message begins. Straker here. Carla, we’ve taken one dreadnought, ERS Trollheim. Trying to establish C4I with the rest of the Breakers. Coordinate via this datalink to the SAI and work your fleet magic. Straker out. Message ends. Transmit.”
“Transmitted.”
That should get move things along.
“Synthesize me an operating picture compatible with my suit and brainlink protocols,” he told the SAI. “Download to my HUD.”
“Acknowledged.”
Soon, an imperfect but useful display of the situation bloomed in Straker’s headspace.
Straker's Breakers Page 5