by Jay Allan
Something hit him, on the back of the shoulder. He fell forward, stumbling twice before he fell to the ground. He heard his rifle skittering away, out of reach, just as he saw the soldier, standing at the bottom of the stairs, a large crowbar in one hand . . . and a pistol in the other.
Withers reached around behind him, going for his own pistol. But even as he did it, he knew it would be too late. The federal had him dead to rights. It was over.
Crack!
Withers closed his eyes instinctively, knowing he’d been shot. But there was no pain, nothing at all. He looked down, ran his hands across his chest and midsection. No blood . . . nothing. Then he saw the federal double over and fall down at the base of the stairs.
He whipped his head around, looking behind him. Sawyer was standing there, his assault rifle still aimed at the spot where the federal had stood.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Withers sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Yeah, Sawyer. I’m okay.” He stood up slowly, groaning as he did. “Thanks to you.”
The soldier smiled and nodded. Then the two turned and walked back to the storage shed.
“And, Sawyer . . . I’m no ‘sir.’ I’m a sergeant just like you.”
CHAPTER 28
ARMY OF HAVEN HQ
VILLAGE OF DOVER
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“Well, Dr. Holcomb . . . what can you tell us about this jamming?”
Damian struggled to keep the worry from his voice. None of them needed to hear that from the commander in chief, even if he was at his wit’s end about how he was going to supply his army, recruit the reinforcements he needed—hell, even how he was going to move them more than a few kilometers from where they were. He needed communications, and right now the escaped prisoner, haggard and badly shaken though he might be, was his best chance to get it.
Holcomb did look terrible, but given what Damian had heard about his treatment and Jacen’s impressive rescue, he wasn’t surprised. He wished he could let the man rest—hell, he wished he could let them all rest—but they had no time. The doctor stepped forward.
“Well, it appears they are employing a selective interference wave, one that blocks all communications except specific frequencies they designate—in this case, the channels used by their own forces. They would have to change those frequently, though, or we would be able to find and use them, which means they are utilizing a sophisticated AI routine to manage it all. It is actually a very ingenious operation. I am impressed that they have managed to implement it so effectively.”
“I’m glad you find it interesting, Doctor, but men and women are dying because of it. How do we stop it?”
“Yes . . . sorry . . . I understand. Stopping it is crucial. But I’m afraid it will be very difficult. I believe I can cripple the system . . . but there is one problem.”
“Yes?”
“Well, General, the federals are undoubtedly using the orbital platform and its array of satellites to broadcast the wave—though even with the station’s resources they must be getting extra power from somewhere—”
“Which means . . .”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m afraid it means that there isn’t a way to cut the jamming from the planet’s surface. I would have to be on the platform itself.”
The hope fled.
“So much for regaining communications. As you can see, Doctor, we’re pinned down in these woods. We might be able to sneak you into Landfall, but there’s no way to get you onto that platform.”
And that means no communication. They can call me general all they want, but without comm I can only lead them to destruction and defeat.
“I can get the doctor up to the station.”
Damian heard the voice, but it took a second for it to sink in. He turned toward a woman standing on the far side of the table.
“Excuse me?”
“I said I can get the doctor to the station, General.” The woman was tall, her long hair tied tightly behind her head. She was about his own age, perhaps five years older. Her clothes were filthy and worn—it was clear from her look she’d had a rough few days.
I guess I could say that about most of us.
Danforth had introduced her to him the day before. Her name had seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t remember why.
“And how can you do that, Captain Ner—”
“I can do it with my ship, Vagabond. But there’s just one problem. The feds have seized it. We would have to go to the spaceport and . . . persuade . . . them to give it back.”
“Medic! We need a medic . . . now!”
Jamie had been carving staves for the palisades, not really in a condition to patrol or dig trenches. But he had to do something.
When he heard that cry, though, he put down the pole and looked up to see Withers coming out of the woods, shouting as he raced toward the middle of the camp. His troopers were just behind him, and they looked like they’d been through hell.
Katia!
He looked around frantically, trying to see her face, but the group was quickly surrounded by men from the field hospital. They looked exhausted, having worked around the clock since the battle.
Jamie couldn’t care less about them. He moved as quickly as he could, making his way to the group.
His heart caught in his throat when Withers ordered two of his men to lower a body to the ground: it was Alexi. Once more, his eyes darted through the group, trying to find the only face that mattered to him.
And then he saw her.
Katia was just behind the two men carrying her father, and she now dropped down to her knees next to him, putting her hand on his face. Tears streaked down her face.
Just as they were doing down his. She’s alive.
“Katia!”
“Jamie!” She leapt up and ran into his embrace. Burying her face into his chest, she said, “I’m so glad to see you.”
He didn’t even notice when Damian ran up and stopped at the edge of the circle that had formed around Alexi.
“I think we can save him, sir, but it will take a lot of blood substitute.”
Jamie saw not only his friend, but Danforth, Jacen, and a number of the other leaders of the rebellion. He knew Damian and the doctors had been making harsh decisions over the past few days, rationing dwindling medical supplies. And Alexi wasn’t even part of the army . . .
“Do it. Do whatever you have to, but save him.”
Jamie heard Damian’s voice. His friend spoke firmly, but he could hear the discomfort there, too. Was the army’s commander consigning some other soldier to death to save his friend?
“Yes, sir. We have to get him to the hospital . . . now.” The medic pointed out to Withers’s men who had carried Rand. “You two, help us move him.”
The soldiers reached down, taking hold of Rand’s unmoving form, lifting him up. They followed the medics across the open area to the field hospital and disappeared inside.
Katia pushed off Jamie and ran up to Damian, throwing her arms around him. “Thank you, Damian. Thank you.”
Jamie just stood where he was, though, looking over at Damian. Their eyes met, and he knew he had communicated his gratitude to his friend.
Damian put his head down into his hands. The pain in his skull felt like a runaway train had bored its way through his brain, but he wasn’t about to requisition so much as an aspirin from the army’s overtaxed medical supplies, not when there were wounded men and women in real pain being denied sparse drugs. He’d done that once already, for Alexi Rand. The blood he’d ordered the medic give Alexi was a precious resource, and he’d let his emotions trump the needs of his army.
Never again.
He was glad Withers had made it back with the Rands, and he was grateful Alexi would live. But he’d been stupid, and he couldn’t afford to be stupid. The rebels couldn’t afford him to be stupid.
Especially now.
The meeting was smaller than t
he earlier one, and he decided that was something to be thankful for. The plan Sasha Nerov was proposing wasn’t just risky; it was downright insane. Worse, it was really the only option, a wild gamble that he knew was their only chance. That was better discussed in front of as few people as possible.
He looked up, staring right at Nerov. “Captain Nerov, I appreciate your proposal, but I’m still not sure how we can do it. Let’s assume for a moment we can get a strike force to the spaceport and take possession of your ship long enough for you to blast off. How are you planning to get close to the station? That thing’s got enough firepower to blast a federal task force to atoms. With all due respect to your vessel, you won’t last more than a few seconds once you enter weapons range.”
“We won’t have to deal with the weapons at all, General.”
“And how is that, Captain? Do you think they will just let you approach?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘let,’ General, but yes—if we come in at the right angle I believe we can reach the station without exposing ourselves to hostile fire.”
“Go on.”
“The station was built to defend the planet, General, not to fire on it. Its energy weapons are all positioned outward . . . to fight off an attacking fleet. Even the fire arcs of the secondary batteries can only target vessels in orbit.”
“But wouldn’t your ship be in orbit? I would think the secondaries would be more than enough—”
“No, General—Vagabond will not enter orbit. We will launch directly at the station, coming up from below. We will stay in its fire shadow, and we will dock on the underside.”
“How would you do that? There are no ports on that side.”
Nerov smiled this time. “Vagabond is a special ship, General. My people hauled cargo. Controversial cargo.”
“You’re a smuggler.”
“I’m an entrepreneur. Regardless what you call me, trust me when I say my ship can do the job. During the last war she had some special enhancements. Including a forced boarding portal.”
“You were a privateer during the war?”
Nerov didn’t answer. She just stared back, a noncommittal look on her face.
Damian just nodded. Federal America had issued letters of marque to any ship owners who were willing to arm their vessels and prey on union or hegemony shipping. Now he remembered the name, why it had been familiar when Danforth had introduced him to the smuggler. Nerov had been the terror of the outer colonies, capturing over a dozen enemy freighters. Until something happened . . . some kind of scandal that had ended her career as a privateer. He’d never known what it was, but he found himself feeling more confidence in Nerov’s abilities. Damian nodded at Nerov. “I am not a spacer, Captain, but if I am not mistaken, what you are proposing would require some extremely difficult and dangerous maneuvering.”
“It is a . . . complex . . . liftoff, General. But if your people can get us to Vagabond, my people can manage it.”
Damian nodded, not sure whether he was reading confidence or bravado in her voice. Then he looked out at the others. “Okay, so let’s assume Captain Nerov can get Dr. Holcomb to the station. We need a strike team strong enough to defeat any security at the spaceport . . . and also to board and take the station if . . . when . . . Captain Nerov is successful in docking.”
“I will lead it. My people will take the spaceport.”
Damian knew the voice instantly, and he felt his stomach tighten. Patrick Killian was a veteran, a warrior of unquestioned ability. But he was also crazy, driven to the edge of insanity by some kind of injustice he’d suffered. Damian didn’t know the details, only that Killian had been dishonorably discharged, which had been a shock for such a decorated and experienced veteran.
Damian held back a sigh. “Thanks for volunteering, Captain Killian, but I don’t believe your rangers will be sufficient.” He turned and looked down the table. “Colonel Morgan, you will go as well. Put together a force of fifty of the veterans to bolster Captain Killian and his people . . . and another fifty to take the station. You will have overall command of the operation.” He’d hastily conferred field promotions on several of the veterans, and Luci Morgan had been the first to gain the kind of massive increase in rank he’d experienced. Damian knew he had to take a more comprehensive look at the forces under his command, to make more thoughtful and informed decisions, but for now he just needed a few people he could trust in key positions.
“Yes, General.”
He looked at Morgan . . . and then at Killian. “I don’t have to remind both of you how crucial this mission is . . . and how dangerous. You may carry the success or failure of the rebellion with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Morgan’s response was sharp, disciplined.
“Understood, General.” Killian answered crisply, too, but his eagerness gave Damian a chill.
“Very well . . . go now and prepare. You will leave for the spaceport tomorrow just after dark. Dismissed.”
Damian watched the others file slowly from the room. He stayed in his chair until everyone had gone, and then he put his face back in his hands and sighed.
Is this crazy plan really our best chance?
CHAPTER 29
LANDFALL SPACEPORT
JUST OUTSIDE LANDFALL CITY
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“All right, I’m only going to say this once. When I give the word, we move out. And we don’t stop until we control the entire place.” Killian stood behind a wall on the outskirts of Landfall Spaceport. It was just after midnight, and the area was almost deserted. Landing and liftoff of spaceships was a daylight affair, at least on a colony like Haven.
At least until tonight . . .
“Yes, Captain.” Ash Tull nodded as he replied, his voice preceding the others by half a second. Tull was one of Killian’s closest friends, and he was generally considered to be the only one among the rangers who was as certifiably insane as their commander.
Not that he considered himself insane. Just really, really angry.
“I can’t overstate how important this mission is to the rebellion. If we do not get Vagabond off the ground, the cause is dead. Not today, maybe, but soon . . . and any hope for freedom will die with it. There is no failure, do you understand me?” Killian paused as his people responded with a series of nods.
“And that means there is no room for half measures, no weakness. No pity. You see any federal troopers, spaceport security—any armed personnel—you scrag them. If you shoot, you shoot to kill. Any spaceport staff, unarmed civilians, you . . . take prisoner.” He had argued they shouldn’t leave anyone alive, that even a nonmilitary staff member could be dangerous, but Danforth had insisted . . . and Damian Ward had ended the debate in no uncertain terms. He liked Danforth, but he still might have shrugged him off. Damian Ward, though—there was no question about following his orders. So unarmed civilians who surrendered were to be spared.
But if one of them pulls out so much as a pocket knife . . .
“Anyone else—if they have a weapon and they don’t surrender immediately, you take them out.” Killian was pushing General Ward’s authorization to the limit, and perhaps beyond, but he’d be damned if he was going to let some federal functionary in the airport delay an operation that depended on speed for success.
“Colonel Morgan’s people will be right behind us with Captain Nerov and Dr. Holcomb, so there’s no stopping. They’re counting on us, so we go in, take over the control center, and secure the area around Vagabond. No stopping, no matter what. If you get wounded, you’re on your own.”
Killian looked down at his rifle, double-checking it, making sure the cartridge was firmly in place. He dropped one hand to his side, confirming his other weapons—two pistols and four blades—were there.
“Everybody ready?”
The rangers had been checking their own equipment, and they looked up, nodding to their commander as they did.
“All right, then . . . let’s
go!”
Damian sat in the chair, staring at the battered wall of the field hospital as the vial attached to his arm filled slowly. The blood donations had been Holcomb’s idea, something he’d remembered his parents talking about when he was a child. The antigovernment forces had been desperate in the closing stages of the civil war, and they’d resorted to using actual blood to treat wounded fighters. It was archaic, an almost ancient custom that predated mass-produced blood substitutes, one that seemed almost barbaric to Damian. The old practice required careful blood-typing and was rife with danger for spreading communicable diseases, but his army was almost out of blood substitute, and they had no way to get more, not while they were trapped in the woods around Dover. And using real blood was a hell of a lot better option than watching his soldiers die when they might be saved. He’d ordered everyone in the army to donate a half liter . . . and now he was giving a second one himself.
It was late, well past midnight, but he wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight, not while his people were moving on the spaceport. He’d wanted to go with the strike team, to lead it himself. His days as a lieutenant at the head of a platoon were over, though. Being responsible for every man and woman under arms meant he had to be here, even though he suspected the rebellion’s very survival rested on the success of the op.
“That should be good, General.” The medic reached out to Damian’s arm, slowly pulling out the long needle. “You’ve donated a whole liter in less than twenty-four hours, sir. You need to wait at least four or five days before you give any more.”
Damian just nodded.
And will that kill one of my soldiers, that four-day delay and half a liter of blood?
He stood up, but he paused, grabbing the armrest of the chair to steady himself.
“Are you dizzy, sir? Perhaps you should sit for a few more minutes.”
“I’m fine.” Damian found himself annoyed, not really with the medic, though he suspected it had sounded that way. He was tense, worried about the men and women he’d sent to get Vagabond. Beating himself up over sending his people on a near-suicide mission was bad enough . . . but he’d be damned if he was going to sit in the hospital nursing a little dizzy spell.