by Daniel Gibbs
With his Marines strapped into their harnesses aboard four combat transport shuttles, Major Kosuke Nishimura took his place in the jump seat of the lead craft’s cockpit. The warrant officer pilots worked through a series of preflight checks and paused at the final liftoff command.
With going on twelve years in uniform, today would be Nishimura’s first actual combat experience. Something tells me the sims still don’t touch the real thing. Limited purely to boarding actions against pirates or a few vague “police actions” in which the Terran Coalition had involved itself in a conflict between neutral planets, the TCMC hadn’t seen sustained fighting since the Saurian Wars, just like the rest of the CDF.
Nishimura pushed it all out of his mind, allowing peace and balance to flow through him. He whispered a prayer in Japanese to Hachiman, the patron deity of warriors in the Shinto religion.
“Marine units, you are cleared to engage,” Wright announced, his voice crackling through the commlink in the shuttle. “Good hunting, good luck, and Godspeed.”
Nishimura sat ramrod straight and opened his eyes. “Take us out,” he said to the pilot.
“Aye, aye, sir. ETA is five minutes.”
Typically, a shuttle ride was smooth and relatively slow, thanks to numerous peacetime safety regulations. Not so when executing a combat insertion. Nishimura gripped the handhold next to him as the craft shot out of the Zvika Greengold’s hangar bay, pulling several Gs. I think the warrant is enjoying this.
The first couple of minutes were uneventful, precisely what one wanted when hurtling through space to attack an enemy installation. Then out of nowhere, the missile-lock-on warning buzzed in the cockpit.
“Hang on,” the pilot called over his shoulder. “It’s going to get bumpy.”
As it turned out, the warrant officer was selling his maneuvers a bit short. The shuttle bobbed and weaved like a raft going down a steep mountain stream, and at times, Nishimura felt like his stomach was going to erupt through his chest. The view of the stars through the window at the front of the cockpit spun with enough force that he got dizzy from the simple act of looking at it.
“Shuttle Four is down,” someone called over the commlink.
Nishimura cued the commlink integrated into his helmet. “This is Marine Command Actual to any friendly fighters. We are under attack. Our force can’t sustain further losses and retain the ability to win.” With the request delivered, he took a moment to whisper a prayer for the souls of the dead in Japanese.
“Hang on, Major,” Justin replied. “Red Tails are almost there.”
Two League fighters made a firing run on the lead shuttle, but unlike the last time when they only had to worry about shooting at unarmed—at least for space combat—shuttles, a group of four Sabres roared in. Nishimura took a few seconds to figure it out, but a fifth craft, another League fighter, had joined them. That must be Spencer. It got behind one of the attackers and blew the offending enemy apart with sustained plasma-cannon fire. The other enemy was bracketed by two friendly craft and destroyed with three missile hits.
“Major, you’ve got a lane to put down. Strongly advise you to take it. Another wave is already inbound.”
“Understood, and thanks for the assist, Spencer.” Nishimura turned toward the pilot. “You heard the man. Put us down at the closest ingress point.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The next thirty seconds were the most terrifying Nishimura had experienced. No fewer than three enemy LIDAR-tracked missiles were dodged at the last second, thanks to chaff and erratic maneuvers of the pilot. As they came in for docking on a flat portion of the squat, torus-shaped station, Nishimura was sure they were going so fast that the shuttle would crash into it like a bug on a windshield. At the last possible moment, the pilot reversed thrust and stuck the landing perfectly.
“Got a hard seal, sir. Shuttles Two and Three are ready to breach on your command.”
“Do it,” Nishimura replied as he disengaged the harness. “I’ll see you when we’re done.”
“Good luck, sir.”
“Nice flying, Warrant.” Nishimura slapped the pilot on the shoulder as he climbed into the cargo hold. The Marine boarding team was already out of their harnesses and itching to fight. Everything about them screamed ready, from body language to how they held their battle rifles. “Okay, gentlemen. In a second or two, the ramp will drop, and we will charge into the first offensive ground action to be had by the Terran Coalition. Who’s with me to send these commie bastards packing back to Earth?”
Their shouting shook the shuttle.
“Semper fi!” someone yelled above the din.
“The only good Leaguer is a dead Leaguer!” another screamed.
Nishimura grinned. Now that’s a TCMC war cry. “Hit it,” he called into the commlink.
A moment later, the ramp dropped, revealing a neat hole cut into the station’s hull and a passageway beyond. Unlike Terran Coalition space stations and vessels, it had shiny gray walls, and what appeared to be propaganda posters were festooned every few feet. The text was in different languages, none of which Nishimura could read, though he recognized Mandarin Chinese script in a few.
The Marines charged forward, sweeping out of the shuttle, half of the platoon securing the left side and the rest moving to the right.
Nishimura pulled up a partial map of the station on his HUD. It had the locations of all landed shuttles and the Marines attached to them and would fill in automatically as they moved throughout the area. “Second platoon has our left flank,” he announced. “We’ll proceed right, looking for the control center. Move out!”
Progress was easy for some time. The area was nearly deserted, and only token resistance came up in the form of a few League security troops here and there. None had power armor, and most used low-energy-pulse pistols. They would’ve seriously harmed unarmored targets, but the Marines shrugged off the hits and quickly silenced any defenders. Each encounter quieted his nerves, and Nishimura felt the performance of his platoon was solid.
As the platoon made its way around the station’s exterior corridors, he ordered them farther into the interior. They don’t appear to put the important stuff in the outer hull. Of course, that made sense from a military perspective.
The point man rounded a corner of a corridor leading to a four-way junction that again had foreign writing on the walls—and all hell broke loose. A flurry of energy- and ballistic-weapons fire hit the team from three sides, and dozens of Leaguers erupted from hiding places and hatches all around them.
We just walked into an ambush. Not allowing shock to set in, Nishimura worked the problem, ordering his men back as the entire platoon gamely returned fire. Numerous enemies went down, dead or mortally wounded from battle-rifle rounds shredding their light armor. But they had the numbers to absorb the hits and keep on coming. A Marine dropped to Nishimura’s left, and another behind him screamed in pain as multiple bullets pierced his faceplate.
Just when Nishimura thought they might have weathered the worst of it, two Marines went down to sustained enemy fire as the air came alive with the yellow and red pulses of automatic energy weapons. Anger came to the surface, but Nishimura had no time to ponder their losses. He cursed under his breath as one of the bolts hit his armor, causing little damage but delivering a bruising blow. “Get the SAW up here. Armor-piercing rounds,” he barked into the commlink.
It didn’t take long for the platoon corporal to arrive, cradling the squad’s automatic weapon. “AP locked and loaded, sir.”
“Fire for effect and suppress the enemy,” Nishimura replied. “Light those bastards up.”
The young Marine didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped to the deck in a prone position, aimed the weapon, and squeezed the trigger. The gun was rated for a thousand rounds a minute, and each second it sent sixteen bullets at the enemy. Almost instantly, incoming League energy pulses decreased, and with each passing moment, more of them dropped dead or dove for whatever cover they could
find.
“Pulse, over!” Nishimura shouted as he tossed a grenade toward the massed League security troops.
Others followed his example, and a shower of the devices descended on the cowered enemy. They detonated with a series of muted explosions, as the pulse grenade was more of a disorientation weapon than a death dealer, such as the fragmentation or plasma varieties.
“Charge!”
The entire platoon swept forward, like a human wave encased in power armor. Any lone Leaguer who tried to stand against them was cut down in seconds, while most threw down their rifles and ran. Nishimura noted with satisfaction that his men showed proper fire discipline and avoided shooting unarmed combatants in the back as they fled.
While they’d taken the junction, it wasn’t without a high cost. Five Marines lay dead or dying, and several others took enough hits that they couldn’t continue. However, given the station’s size, Nishimura believed they’d eliminated a significant amount, if not most of the League’s security team. “Okay, people. We’ve got them on the run. This is not the time to let our foot off the gas. We press forward and finish it. Are you with me?”
A rousing cheer went up from the Marines.
“Move out!”
After Justin confirmed that the Marines were safely aboard the League installation, he looped back around and skimmed the surface of the oddly shaped torus, which was larger than he’d expected. How many years did it take them to build this thing? He grinned. It’ll only take us an hour to destroy it.
The overall battle remained in flux. Waves of League small craft launched from the station, though so far, the Greengold and its aviation wing were holding the line.
The Boars had acquitted themselves quite well. They’d taken out most of the automated defense satellites and performed exceptionally against the League’s bombers. That left Justin to focus on the fighters. A couple zoomed into space close by and made the most logical next target.
Feldstein’s voice filled his helmet. “Spencer, how’s that Leaguer piece of crap holding up?”
“It still flies,” Justin replied with a chuckle. “How about Alpha?”
“We’re all in one piece. I’ve got more pockmarks for the chief to fix, but I’ll take it.”
“Be careful.”
“Back at you, Flyboy.”
Justin grinned as he tightened his fingers around the flight stick. Through the canopy, he watched the fight ongoing. Dots of red plasma-cannon fire were everywhere, coupled with blue bolts from the friendlies. Explosions blossomed every so often, either from small craft blowing up after a hard kill or impacts on capital-class vessels from anti-ship missiles by either side.
Settling behind one of the Leaguers who’d just launched, Justin squeezed his firing trigger. Plasma balls raced away and battered the enemy’s shields before the craft disintegrated.
“You think you good, capitalist dog,” someone said with a Slavic-sounding accent. “Make ruse with fake fighter. Come fight like real pilot.”
“Like you guys did by attacking us out of the blue with no declaration of war?” Justin replied.
“I kill you before battle over,” the same person spat.
“Better pilots than you have tried.” Justin quickly searched his targeting scanners for the nearest Leaguer. “And I’m still here. They aren’t, by the way.”
After a string of what Justin assumed were Russian curses, the other pilot went silent. The inbound-missile alarm sounded, and he determined two warheads were tracking him. So he’s backing up his threat. It took a moment for him to figure out the type of threat he faced—heat-seekers—and adjust his tactics accordingly. Justin triggered the flare launcher and pulled up hard on the flight stick, moving off at a different vector in hopes of confusing the weapons.
Justin kept his eyes on the threat display, expecting the heat-seeking warheads to veer off. They didn’t. Instead, both pressed on, heading directly toward his fighter. What the hell? Again, he pressed the flare-release button, and nothing happened. A kernel of fear crept up. Work the problem. He kicked the afterburner up, typically counterintuitive, since it only helped improve tracking for the enemy, but the tactic gave him a precious few seconds to dodge. With a series of violent maneuvers, Justin made one missile miss. The other dogged him turn for turn. He smiled as a solution hit him.
Meanwhile, the League fighter flung hundreds of plasma balls at Justin as he methodically followed his quarry. All of it combined to put him on the defensive.
I’ve got to regain the initiative. Justin rotated his captured fighter toward the Leaguer and poured on the speed. He reset every engine override and pushed the craft far past what its designers had intended as safe. Justin filled space with the deceptively small red balls of death. He killed all engine power at the last possible moment and let his velocity carry him past the enemy, who continued at full speed.
The heat-seeking missile that was tracking him homed in on the target putting out the highest energy signature—the other League craft—and blew it apart.
Justin let out a sigh of relief. That was too damn close. As he caught his breath, his HUD came alive with new contacts. A few seconds later, as the CDF tactical network updated, the unknown vessels were classified as League of Sol Cobra-class destroyers. The kernel of fear returned. We’re barely holding our own. How can we possibly survive until the Marines finish the job?
Sparks showered from the overhead above a bank of subsystem terminals in the back of the Zvika Greengold’s bridge, sending a couple of enlisted ratings scrambling. The deck shook, testing the chairs’ safety harnesses.
Tehrani gripped the sides of the CO’s chair tightly and turned to Wright. “XO, get more damage control parties up here. And a medic.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Another wave of enemy fire slammed into the Greengold, shaking them up yet again. Tehrani gritted her teeth in frustration. “TAO, time to energy-weapon-capacitor recharge?”
“Thirty seconds, ma’am,” Bryan replied, his tone clipped.
Tehrani grimaced. Ten seconds less than it was ten seconds ago. “TAO, designate Master Four as the priority target for our bombers.” The Maulers had disengaged from attacking station defenses to engage the League warships, while the Boars pressed the attack against the remaining hardpoints around the station—especially the defense satellites.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
On Tehrani’s tactical plot, the bombers shifted formation and accelerated, gaining distance from the destroyer they were instructed to attack. Good. This should come together nicely. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams, Master Four.”
“Firing solutions set, ma’am,” Bryan replied.
In what had become an almost-signature tactic for her, Tehrani waited until the bombers loosed their anti-ship missiles, then continued to close in to their energy weapon range. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams.”
Blue spears of concentrated neutrons raced out of their mounts on the bow of the Greengold and instantly connected with the shields of the enemy destroyer. They created a red skid effect on much of the port side of the ship. Unlike the frigate in the battle’s opening minutes, the Cobra seemed to have a more competent crew. It accelerated as the blue beams lashed away and opened up on the approaching warheads and bombers with every point-defense weapon available. While the tactics employed resembled what a Marine would refer to as “spray and pray,” they were effective. Half of the Javelin missiles were destroyed, and two Maulers took damage. The bombers scattered, going into guns-D maneuvering to avoid further point-defense fire.
“Gamma Three is declaring an emergency and ejecting, Colonel,” Wright interjected. His statement corresponded with one of the blue icons disappearing from the tactical plot.
“Damn,” Tehrani muttered and bit her lip.
“Conn, TAO. Moderate shield damage to Master Four,” Bryan began as yet another wave of plasma balls and missiles raked the Greengold. “We’re losing deflector-gene
rator cohesion in the forward and starboard quarters, ma’am.”
Tehrani stared at the tactical plot, running different scenarios through her head. If we turn aside and recharge the shields, our most potent weapon is off the table. She wished whoever had designed the Greengold in the first place had put more anti-ship weaponry on her. But I must make do with what I have at my disposal. As she opened her mouth to give an order, Bryan interrupted.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. I’ve got a sensor ghost coming in fast, on a direct-intercept bearing with Master Two.” He turned to face her. “It sure looks like artifacts I’ve seen before during stealth-raider hunting exercises.” Bryan turned back to the console. “Way to go, Astute!”
Before Tehrani could chide her tactical action officer on his unprofessional turn of phrase, a new blue icon appeared on her plot. Its IFF synched up as the Astute, and almost immediately, six new blue dots erupted from it. Starbolt missiles. They raced toward Master Four, bracketing it and forcing the League destroyer to divide its point-defense fire between several arcs simultaneously. Through the bridge windows, Tehrani watched in satisfaction as five miniature suns burst into being on the shields and hull of the enemy vessel. Several seconds later, it exploded into meter-sized chunks.
“Conn, TAO. Master Four destroyed, ma’am.” Bryan barely suppressed his excitement. “CSV Astute now designated as Sierra One. She’s moving off at flank speed.”
“Communications, send the Astute my compliments, and ask them to reengage Master Three as soon as possible.” Tehrani leaned forward and turned to Wright. “Thoughts, XO?”
“Rotate away from the last destroyer, recharge our forward deflector generators, and finish them off once our Marines are off that station,” Wright said. He furrowed his brow. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, though.”
“Oh?”
Wright frowned and crossed his arms. “Come on, skipper. They’re sending everything they’ve got here right now.”