by Jay Allan
But even a ship jockey like Compton could see that Preston didn’t have enough Marines to cover every approach. The bots were already shifting their axes of attack, moving toward the most vulnerable areas. Preston was moving his own people to compensate, but it took too long to reposition heavy guns…and his reactions were lagging behind the enemy’s actions. And the First Imperium forces weren’t dying alone. These weren’t ancient warriors charging with spears. The bots were armed to the teeth, and they blasted the Marine positions mercilessly as they charged. Compton was sitting in the quiet calm of his bridge…but he knew on the ground Marines were dying.
And Hieronymus is still down there…
“Sir, Admiral West is on the line for you.”
Compton turned toward Cortez, tapping his display and bringing up West’s task force as he did. My God, he thought…she’s already almost in position.
“Admiral West?”
“Admiral, my ships are almost in position. Request permission to open fire as soon as we have targets.”
“Granted. Those Marines are in rough shape…we need to help them any way we can.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll help them.” Her voice was cold, angry…utterly frozen. “Request authorization to use specials.”
“Things are pretty tight down there, Erica. We don’t want to take out our own people.” Compton felt a wave of doubt. He had no problem blasting the First Imperium with nukes, at least not in theory, but the thought of frying his own Marines…
“I’ll aim them myself, Admiral.” West’s voice was cold as ice. Compton almost shivered at the sound of it. “You have my word, sir. I won’t miss.”
“Very well, Admiral West. Permission granted…at your discretion.” He felt a burning pit in his gut, a taste of how he would feel if a less than perfectly-targeted nuke killed hundreds of Marines. But Erica West wasn’t a bullshitter, she wasn’t ruled by false bravado. Indeed, she was probably the only one in the fleet he’d have allowed to drop nuclear weapons all around his Marines…himself included.
“Thank you, sir. Bombardment commencing in one minute.”
“Very well. Good luck, Erica.”
Yes, he thought grimly. Good luck.
* * *
“Doctor Cutter, I want you on the first shuttle that touches down. This is no place for you.” Preston realized his tone had been unduly harsh. Hieronymus Cutter had become somewhat of a hero to the Marines, ever since he’d saved several of them from certain death in the tunnels. There wasn’t one among them who would banish him from their ranks as unworthy to be there. But Preston knew Admiral Compton would hang him up by his heels if he let the brilliant scientist get himself killed. And the admiral’s orders had been clear.
“You have to go, Hieronymus,” he went on, his voice softer, less hard-edged. “You are perhaps the one person the fleet cannot lose, save for Admiral Compton himself.” A pause. “Please.” Don’t make me order a couple Marines to drag you there…
Cutter just nodded. In his mind he was wondering how long it had been since Colonel James Preston had followed up a command with the word ‘please.’ A long time, he suspected.
“Very well, Colonel. I realize I don’t offer much to the fight here.” Cutter had felt a compulsion to remain on the planet while Almeerhan remained, fighting against their mutual enemy. But the First Imperium warrior—or the essence of him that had remained—was gone now, passed on to whatever awaited his people. There was nothing keeping Cutter here any longer, nothing save his discomfort with leaving the Marines behind, fighting to cover his escape.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Preston sounded surprised that Cutter had agreed so easily. The scientist had adamantly refused to leave earlier.
They don’t understand, Cutter thought. But how could they? I will explain it to them all later. Assuming there is a later.
He looked out toward the perimeter. The sounds of combat were everywhere. The enemy was probing all along the perimeter, looking for the weak spot. Cutter wasn’t a soldier, but he knew if the bots got through, the battle would quickly become a slaughter.
“Colonel, I give you my word. You don’t need to nursemaid me. I know you have more important things to worry about right now.”
“Very well, Doctor. I will see you on Midway.” The Marine turned and ran off toward the front lines.
Cutter just nodded. I hope so, Colonel. I hope so.
He heard a roaring sound overhead, and he looked up. It was a group of shuttles, coming in over the battlefield, heading toward the landing area. They were taking fire from the ground, and more than one was hit coming in.
Cutter stood, watching, willing the ships to make it. But he knew they weren’t all going to get through, and a few seconds later, he saw one pitch wildly to the side and crash hard into the ground, erupting into a plume of fire.
He stood firm, transfixed on the fiery scene as the other shuttles flew over the defensive perimeter and made rushed landings. One of the ships hit too hard, shattering its landing gear and tipping partially over. But no more were destroyed. Cutter felt anguish for the lost ship, but deep down he knew that one bird destroyed and another damaged was a light toll…at least considering the fire they’d passed through coming in.
He moved toward the cluster of ships, still feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving so many Marines behind, but free now of the earlier compulsion he’d felt to stay.
He could see Marines moving back too, heading toward the ships themselves. Cutter knew there was no other way to evacuate the position, and he felt like he had the slightest idea of how the Marines heading to the shuttles felt, leaving their brothers and sisters behind in the line.
He wondered if he’d ever see Duncan Frasier or James Preston again. He knew both men well enough to be sure that neither one would step onto a shuttle while they still had Marines on the planet. And Cutter couldn’t see any way they’d all get off. Each group detached and sent back to the fleet just weakened the line more. And the losses the shuttles took would wear down the capacity of each wave. At some point, the enemy would break through…and that would be the end for the rearguard. Even if they weren’t all slaughtered immediately, there would be no LZ remaining, no place for the transports to land.
Cutter just sighed. He longed for the days when his world had largely been restricted to his lab, even when that lab had been on Midway, hopelessly lost and exposed to the deadly dangers the fleet faced every moment. He’d gotten a taste of what Compton and Frasier and the others dealt with, the way they were so often compelled to choose who lived and died. Cutter had learned to control his own fears, more or less, developed more courage than he’d ever imagined possible for him. But he didn’t think he could take on the terrible responsibility command carried with it. He’d respected Compton already, and men like Preston and Frasier. And Almeerhan too. And he was grateful not to be standing in their shoes.
He knew leadership wasn’t an exact science, but he could see similarities in those commanders that men and women would follow, even to their deaths. And he realized, amid the terrible misfortune to be stranded, lost forever, the spacers and Marines of the fleet were fortunate indeed to have such leaders as they did.
And perhaps we should also be thankful that the First Imperium had—men?—like Almeerhan, who outlasted all others of his race to endure and to pass the knowledge of his people on to those who would succeed them.
He was still deep in thought when he stepped up onto the shuttle and walked inside.
* * *
“Duncan, you’re going up with the next group.” Colonel Preston was standing next to his second in command, putting as much authority as he could muster into his tone. He knew Frasier was going to argue with him, and was trying to cut it off as quickly as he could.
“Colonel…”
“Not now, Duncan. We’ve got two more trips to get everybody off. And we both can’t stay. If one of us doesn’t get off, the other has to be there to command the rest of the Marines.” It so
unded reasonable, but both men knew the last group of Marines was likely to be overwhelmed before the transports could return. Staying wasn’t a suicide mission, not exactly. But it was close.
“Which is why I should stay, sir. You are the overall commander. This is a job tailor made for an exec.”
Preston hid a little wince. Frasier was right. By every rule in the book, a second in command was far more expendable than the commander, and the logical choice to lead any dangerous mission. But Preston didn’t care. He’d chosen who escaped, and who had stay…who was likely to die. And having consigned his Marines to their fates, he wasn’t going to leave them. It was that simple, book or not. They would all get off together or none of them.
“Don’t quote the book to me, Major. The regs are also clear about obeying your commander’s order without questioning them. Now you are…”
“Attention Marine forces. Attention Marine forces. This is Admiral West. We are commencing ground bombardment operations against the forces facing your lines. All Marines are ordered to take whatever cover is available at once. The bombardment will include specials. Repeat, the bombardment will include specials.”
Specials? In this kind of a close-in fight?
Yes…I guess things are desperate enough…
Preston turned and looked out toward his lines. The makeshift wall was virtually gone, only a few small sections left standing. But the Marines still held the trenches, though in a few places where the fighting had been fiercest, they were mostly collapsed.
“All units, take cover immediately.” He turned back to Frasier. “Major, I suggest we continue this discussion under cover.”
“I agree, sir.”
He gestured toward the closest section of trench, and the two Marines jogged toward it. They dove in and hunkered down, just as the missiles started coming down.
The field in front of the trench erupted into a vision of hell. Explosions, conventional at first blasted all along the front of the trenchline, barely fifty meters out from the Marines’ positions. Then the ground shook with an unprecedented fury as nuclear warheads began impacting all around the camp. The first detonations were tactical in size, mostly fission bombs with yields of ten to fifty kilotons landing just under a kilometer out. They would have obliterated everyone in the trench if they’d been unprotected, but Marine armor was built to withstand the punishment of the nuclear battlefield. Then the tremors became harder as a ring of heavy thermonuclear warheads landed around the perimeter obliterating everything within their massive blast zones.
Temperatures that would have killed unarmored men and women were a minor inconvenience for the heavily-protected Marines, as long as they didn’t exceed the melting points of their osmium-iridium armor. And the radiation that would have given lethal doses to everyone in the vicinity were blocked by the shielding built into the fighting suits. Still, there was a limit to what even heavily armored Marines could take. And West’s ships were absolutely savaging the entire area.
Preston knew the assault had only been going on for a few minutes, but by the time the impacts stopped, it felt like it had been hours. He stayed hunkered down, crouched low behind the berm of the trench for at least a minute after the explosions stopped. Then he heard West’s voice coming through his com.
“All clear, Marines. That should ease things up…buy you some time until the shuttles get back down there.”
Preston rose slowly, peering over the edge of the trench. It was dark as night, massive clouds of billowing smoke and dirt blasted up into the sky blocking the midday sun. The nightmarish scene was illuminated only by the fires, burning fiercely in the few places where anything flammable remained. Most of the enemy bots were just gone, vaporized or blown to bits. The few that still remained recognizable had been reduced to blackened and twisted wreckage.
He stood up, climbing higher on the edge of the trench to get a better look. He’d never seen a more precise bombardment. For 360 degrees, all around the camp, there was a zone of total and utter destruction. And inside the defense perimeter, as far as he could tell, not a Marine position had been hit. His eyes flashed to his display, watching as his AI updated the data feeds. The information coming in was far from conclusive, but so far it was telling him not one of his people had been killed in the orbital attack. He found it difficult to even believe.
And the enemy attack had stopped, the advancing forces just gone. He doubted West had destroyed every First Imperium bot on the planet, but the assault that had been so close to pinching out his stronghold had been wiped out, utterly obliterated.
He turned toward Fraser. “Well, Duncan…it looks like Admiral West just saved our asses.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Colonel Preston before leaving X48II, the last human to depart
One more stinking shithole…just the kind of place Marines always seem to fight and die. The only question now is, did it mean something? Or were the lives of the fallen wasted? Right now, I don’t know.
Command Fighter A-01
18 light seconds from the X50 warp gate
The Fleet: 100 ships, 25780 crew
Hurley’s eyes were glued to her scanner display. She knew something was out there…she could feel it. She didn’t believe for an instant the enemy had botched its pursuit, given them time to get out of the trap. No, there was no way. There were enemy forces, either in this system or waiting to transit in. Or both.
The first part of her suspicion had been confirmed, partially at least, with the word that the pursuing enemy fleets had begun to transit in from X49. That wasn’t unexpected at all…those forces had been chasing them through four systems, pushing them all the way back to X48. Indeed…leaving them no open route save back to this very spot. And that meant there was something here.
Hounds to the hunters…
“John, I want to check out that dense area. The dust is heavy there, and it’s blocking our scans. See how close you can get without plunging right in.”
“Yes, Admiral.” She felt the almost immediate thrust as Wilder adjusted the fighter’s vector, putting them on a direct course for the edge of the heavy cloud.
Hurley closed her eyes for a second. She was exhausted and they burned with dryness. She stretched her neck, trying to loosen her aching muscles. Then she opened her eyes and saw it.
An instant later, Kip Janz turned and almost shouted at her. “Admiral! We’re picking up ships. Dozens of them.”
She was staring straight ahead, at the lines of small icons on her display. It was a fleet, no question. And a big one.
It was what she’d expected to find, what she’d plunged into the dust cloud to seek. Yet, still, she felt a wave of shock run through her…or was it fear?
“Hurley to Midway…Hurley to Midway. She was tapping at her com, almost frantically, but it wasn’t doing any good. The dust was too heavy…it was blocking her transmission.
“Get us out of here, John. We have to report to Admiral Compton immediately.” She turned her head. “And Kip, see if you can raise the other fighters. Tell them to get out of the cloud…to head back to the fleet by the fastest possible route.” She felt a pit in her stomach. He people were flying right into a massive enemy fleet. If she couldn’t reach them…
“No good on ship to ship com, Admiral. The dust is blocking all signals.” Janz paused, poking at his controls, trying again. “No,” he repeated. “It’s no good.” Then he turned and looked toward the command station. “Admiral, even if we get out, they’re all still in the cloud. What if we can’t…”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I know.” She hesitated, thinking about the three brand new squadrons she’d led here. Each bird was on its own now. It would depend on each pilot’s judgment, initiative. If they found the enemy and pulled away in time, they might make it out. If not…
“But notifying the fleet is our top priority,” Hurley said, her voice firm, cold. There was no time for what ifs. Not when the survival of the entire fleet was on the line.
Th
e ship jerked suddenly, as Wilder pushed the throttle forward, accelerating, trying to reach the closest edge of the area of heavy dust concentrations. With a little luck, they could get there in three minutes…maybe four. Then they could warn Midway.
Hurley took a deep breath, but before she finished exhaling the ship shook hard. She knew what it was immediately. They were under attack.
* * *
“The shuttles are all in the air, Admiral. Best estimate is twenty minutes until they are all docked.”
Compton nodded, following it up a few seconds later with, “That’s good news, Jack.” Cortez was looking right at the admiral, and he returned the nod. It was the first truly good news they’d had since finding the expedition more or less intact.
Though West’s pinpoint bombardment was pretty damned good news too.
Compton moved his hand toward his display, but he stopped before he touched the controls. He was going to check the Marine casualty reports, but then he decided to wait. By all accounts, the final fighting had been brutal, and he knew Preston had suffered heavy losses. Reading it now wouldn’t change anything, and he had plenty to think about besides dead Marines. Useful things, things that could help save the fleet…and all the live Marines and spacers aboard.
“I want every ship ready to depart in forty minutes, Commander. No exceptions.” That was cutting it close, not giving the landing bay crews more than a few minutes to unload and stow the shuttles. But they didn’t have much time.
His eyes darted over toward the system map, pausing on the cluster of approaching ships. They were accelerating now, closing the distance much more quickly than they had been at first.
The fleet inbound from X49 was moving at 0.01c. That was fast enough as velocities went, but Compton had expected them to accelerate full right at his ships…and they hadn’t done that. He knew just how much thrust those ships could produce, and he was well aware that they could almost have reached the fleet by now if they’d blasted at full…instead of being almost fourteen hours out. If they maintained their current acceleration and didn’t increase it, the fleet could still get to the X50 gate before the enemy closed to firing range. But they didn’t have a second to waste.