The first pumping station was twelve kilometers away. She’d not been running or exercising much in Andy’s company. She cursed herself for being lazy and used her anger to fuel the pace. Running as fast as she dared in the diminishing darkness, Tally cued her neurals to a basic mode only, just a clock and a compass ring swinging wildly. The Greys were jamming the navigational grid, as expected. The ritual of practice had familiarized her with the ground before she left for Earth. She’d practiced this several times a year. Her last duty. The final line of defense to secure some of the oil reserves and perhaps save Libretto from the Greys. Across the planet, sixteen hundred others were doing this same ritual. Running into the darkness bent on destroying stations the Greys coveted. The Grey’s technological superiority didn’t allow for a machine or program to destroy the oil supply. So they’d trained and practiced as they built the planet, hoping the day would never come for this, but intent on protecting what made Libretto important to the Legion.
And important to her. Libretto must survive, if not for her, then for Mairin. For the others who loved it, and for those soldiers yet to be created who needed it. Tallenaara darted through the thickening forest and let her eyes adjust to the thin bands of infrared a Styrahi could see in the dark. Within moments, she was reacting by trained instinct and watching the clock slowly ticking. Thirty-eight minutes at this speed and she’d reach the first station.
Run, eschessa. She chided and sang to herself.
Run.
* * * * *
Fifty-Eight
The Greys are attacking conveniently at dawn, Coffey thought with a smirk. Like something out of the movies. Dawn or dusk was when the Indians always attacked. Bet old Talvio is having a hoot with this one. Probably even has his cowboy hat on, thought Coffey. Through the extension of his gunner’s sight, Coffey saw the inky black shapes of the Greys moving slowly in the distance. Familiar columns began to form. Who taught these guys how to fight? The Greys came in massive numbers using outdated doctrine as a playbook and, until recently, had decimated TDF forces on the ground. The bastards in Fleet air operations fared much better. Why fight a ground battle at all? What is so important on this stinking planet?
“Sir, the Grey CRP has been destroyed. First battalion reports its lead company has no casualties and is green on all resources.” The Combat Reconnaissance Patrol was the typical lead element of a Grey movement. Three to four vehicles moving in a loose diamond formation would travel roughly ten kilometers in front of the next element. The Forward Support Element would be next. The main attack was a half hour away.
The lead company commander, whoever he was, was going to get a promotion if Coffey had anything to do with it. He’d simply engaged and destroyed the enemy without any grandstanding or trying to win the whole goddamned war himself. Fucking Shields. Hope she’s rotting in that broken drop bay. Pressing his face to the eyepiece again, Coffey had to use his command control of the turret to locate the Greys again.
“How fast are they moving?” Coffey growled. A typical speed would be about fifteen klicks per hour. If they were deviating from it, the attack would either be later or sooner. “Let me guess. Fifteen? Seventeen?”
<
Coffey shook his head. “Say that again?”
<
“Shit!” Coffey chinned over to the command frequency. “All Bullet Elements, this is Bullet Six. Lock and load all weapons. Kill everything that moves as soon as you’ve got a weapons lock.”
The regiment’s operational and intelligence network lit up with frantic conversations and orders to fill the lines, shifting targets and sectors, and adjusting frantic battle plans. Coffey wasn’t listening. He scanned the horizon with the infrared optics trying to discern Grey vehicles. The rising sun should be having more of an effect. The whole damned forest was black in his visor. “Interface, where is the main body of the Grey attack?”
<
Sonuvabitch! Coffey toggled all of the power supply systems for the Intimidator to “on.” “Listen up! Prepare to move, I’m un-assing this position to move to position Bravo. When the repulsors come up get us to Bravo as fast as you can.”
No one said anything among the crew of four. They knew better. The crew engaged their appropriate systems and began to pull the Intimidator back into the tree line and move around to the secondary position. From position Alpha, Coffey had a sweeping view over low scrub oaks of the entire valley to the south of the ridgeline. Below the forests was very little cover and concealment. A killing field. Bravo was certainly more fortified, but would limit even the traverse capability of the main gun.
“Sir, I have one hundred thirty-five degrees of fire control here,” the gunner said. “At Bravo, we’ll have less than sixty. This is a good position.”
Coffey kneed the gunner in the back. “Not good enough. We move to Bravo. That’s an order.”
“Sir, I—”
“That’s a goddamn order!” Coffey roared. “One more comment from any of you and you’ll be placed under guard. I make the decisions in this tank and all over this battlefield. Is that clear?”
<
“Driver, move us out now!” Coffey popped open the hatch and cool moist air rushed into the turret. “Command net only,” he growled. “This is Six, I’m moving to Bravo now. Bullet Five you have command of the regiment until I can re-post communications.”
“Roger, Six. Five out.”
The first rounds impacted the ridgeline as Coffey’s tank swerved uphill towards position Bravo. The first several rounds fell long and short of most of the regiment’s positions. For all their numbers and technological advantage, they still fired ranging shots. Coffey chuckled as he heard the first of the regiment’s rail guns open fire.
“Laser communications are down. Working to reacquire on UHF.”
Coffey heard static take over the connection on all frequencies but the internal vehicle communications system. “Why can’t I talk to anyone?”
“Line of sight,” the communications specialist said without turning from the radio.
Coffey bit back a comment about finding someone better for the job as he stood on the commander’s seat and looked out of the turret. The Intimidator was nearing the crest of the hill. A thousand simultaneous impacts shook the vehicle. Looking across the front slope, the crest of the hill approached and then fell away. The green fields at the bottom of the valley were black with vehicles. Clouds of dust and smoke rolled up the ridgeline obscuring huge swaths of the field.
“My God,” Coffey said to himself.
The radio came to life in his ears. “Bullet Six, this is Bullet Nine. Where are you?”
Madness. This is madness. There’s no way to win this fight.
Get down there and fight this battle.
I can’t...too many...look at all of them.
Rounds fell near his tank, and still Coffey stood in the hatch mouth agape. The first impact of a round through the front left repulsor nacelle failed to catch his attention. There were hands on his legs trying to pull him down. Someone inside was hurt. Maybe dead. The driver. Must be. Repulsor failure and the vehicle isn’t moving. Nose in the air. Perfect target. Dirt exploded up around the tank and showered him. Rock fragments tore at his coveralls, his facemask. The other tanks fired into the mass of Greys but there were far too many. He felt his bladder release and scared piss ran down his leg.
Get away.
A round impacted near the turret opposite him and shook the vehicle so hard he toppled out of the hatch onto the top of the tank. Fear took hol
d. Coffey rolled from the top of the tank to the rocky ground. Pain exploded in his side. Broken ribs, maybe more. Damned rocks. Get away.
He crawled behind the tank and crouched to run down the exposed trail to its rear. He felt a rush of heat on his neck. Eardrums ruptured as he felt himself picked up and strewn down the hill, branches and limbs raking him as he flew. His tank exploded violently before he even hit the ground. A fist-sized sapling occupied the place near where his forehead met the ground and he recoiled from the impact clearly seeing stars around his face. He peeled off his cracked combat helmet and tossed it aside. On any previous planet he would not have survived the first attempt to breathe. There was something good about being here.
His neurals were offline. The hill shook with continuous impacts of artillery and tank rounds. The battle raged on the far side. Ears ringing, Coffey sat slowly and cursed his broken ribs. Need a medic, he thought. Screw that. The division rear headquarters was to the west another ten kilometers. He could make it there. He looked out across the lake and towards the shattered rim of Libretto City. He walked in short pain-ridden strides to the east, away from the battlefield and towards the remnants of the city. The curved dome was visible along the horizon, and black smoke billowed from a thousand fires inside. If he went back to Division, they’d give him another mount and send him back to the un-winnable fight with a smile and pat on the back from that disgusting wannabe cowpoke.
No, I’m injured. A head injury. Something I can fake. The medicos loved that shit. We can blame anything on a lump on your head anymore, he thought with a snort that hurt his head. Find his way into the city. They’d believe him. He was an exemplary field grade officer after all and could do no wrong in this army. There was no choice for anyone but to believe whatever he told them. Holding his left arm tight against his injured chest, Coffey unholstered his sidearm, loaded a round and returned it before limping away. I can always shoot anyone in my way, can’t I? No one’s gonna miss me in that shit. For all they know right now, I’m dead.
And that sounded good enough as his walk turned to a trot and then into a frantic arms-thrashing sprint towards Libretto City. Impacts rang in his ear. He could feel them. Just behind him. They’re coming. Run faster. Faster. He screamed into the brush something unintelligible and nearly inhuman. Chest heaving and throat burning, he crested a hill and ducked behind an exposed rock outcropping. Tears ran over his eyelids and gathered at his dirty chin before falling away. Panic gave way to fear, and fear gave way to certainty. There was no going back now. Going back was death. Down the incline from his position, Coffey heard the unmistakable whirr of machinery. He fumbled the water bottle to his lips with trembling hands. He held it with both hands like a baby and drank between rasps for breath.
Mid-swallow, whatever was down the hill from his position exploded. Coffey sputtered and screamed again, pressing himself into the rocks. When there was no second detonation, Coffey rose to a sitting position. Down the hill, a tall woman in a black outfit ran quickly through the trees on a path to the northwest. She’d destroyed whatever it was. Thick black smoke rose up in a wide column from the site and stained the trees and sky above. He lost track of the woman...no, Styrahi, he corrected himself with a sneer. Goddamned barbies! He’d never catch her at this pace. But he could follow her. Track her down. Find out what she blew up and then kill her for treason. Supporting the goddamned Greys!
Rousting himself with a sore, overexerted groan, Coffey stumbled down the hill and found what he thought was the Styrahi’s trail and began to follow. Thoughts of revenge fueled him as much as his panic ever did.
* * * * *
Fifty-Nine
Human beings are inherently ignorant. Tony Richards chuckled in the cockpit of his Hurricane interceptor seventy-five kilometers ahead of the Ticonderoga. The black, starless sky of planetary space dominated his view. The fact that there was a time when human beings assumed every picture of space was a forgery because it didn’t show any stars was ludicrous. People can’t see past the sun in their eyes, he grinned. Heading past the terminator and into the dark side of Libretto, Richards squinted into the sky and could indeed make out a few very faint stars as well as Concerto, the sixth planet of the Helios system some two hundred eight million kilometers away. None of them were bright enough or on the correct orbital plane for what Richards waited for with growing impatience. Don’t get fixated on the target, he told himself silently as he gripped and re-gripped the flight control system for the hundredth time in the last two minutes. Stay loose. Stay...
The bright spot of the Grey Jack emerged from the thin veil of Libretto’s atmosphere in the distance. Richards chinned the command frequency. “Looking Glass this is Lancer One, visual contact time now.”
“Roger, Lancer One. Be advised there are multiple birds tracking the target. Maintain present course and speed.”
Sure enough, a moving streak of light caught Richard’s eye. The first of the outbound missiles rocketed past him on an intercept trajectory with the Jack. Another followed. The barrage of missiles flew past Richards and his wingman on their way towards the Grey platform. Richards grinned with one side of his mouth and keyed the radio. “Looking Glass, permission to rejoin my mates?”
“Lancer One, permission granted. Blackjack Four is twenty kilometers behind you and closing on your station now. You are cleared to divert to briefed holding point and await coordination with Saber Six. Looking Glass out.”
Richards pointed the nose of the Hurricane into Libretto’s atmosphere and nudged the reaction control system in preparation for a short burn to atmospheric interface. “You can’t call this flying,” Richards chirped on his direct comm system with Lancer Two off his right wing.
“Falling is more like it.” His wingman chuckled.
Richards laughed until his vdar came to life. “I’ve got multiple targets at two seven zero below us and descending. Looks like six of them. You think the Greys are trying to sneak a few fighters down there for close air?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” his wingman called.
Richards thought Michelle Boyd was right and smart for an Australian. A veteran of the Jabnah campaign several years before, she’d fought more than her fair share of the bastards. The Greys didn’t make a habit of sending their Darts into atmosphere. They were hilariously unmaneuverable with turning radii of hundreds of kilometers. The best they could hope for were direct descents as bombing runs. Richards’ mouth opened. “Bloody hell.” Did the Greys have nukes?
“Looking Glass, this is Lancer One preparing to divert. Have multiple contacts in the atmosphere on a descent approach to Libretto City by the look of it. Permission to engage?”
There was a pause of about six seconds and Garrett’s voice filled Richards’ ears. “What are you thinking, Tony?”
“Sir, do those bastards have nukes?”
“Not that we know,” Garrett paused. “It’s two against six if you go after them.”
“And they can’t turn for shit, sir.”
He heard Garrett chuckling as he answered. “Permission granted. Good hunting, but get your ass to Saber Six as soon as you can.”
Richards clicked his microphone button twice and engaged the twin main thrusters after the Greys. By the vdar, they were moving incredibly fast. He’d have to hustle to even get in weapons range before they dropped whatever they were carrying into the remains of Libretto City. “Let’s push it up, Two.”
“I’m standing on it, Lead.”
Richards chuckled. I’ll never understand that girl. Off the rounded nacelle of the nose, light wisps of plasma began to curl. Richards waited another fifteen seconds before engaging the atmospheric flight controls. “Got air.”
“Two,” came the reply. Boyd also had aerodynamic control.
Dogfighting is energy management, Richards thought with a grin. He and Boyd had more energy than they knew what to do with. A sweeping turn to the north would dissipate most of it and bring them on an almost perpendicular inter
cept course. Not a textbook application, but the Greys were carrying far too much speed to do any better. With any luck at all, he and Boyd could get off multiple shots as they intercepted and knock the Darts out of the sky. “On my wing, Two.”
Richards felt the Hurricane buffeting in the upper atmosphere. The curving horizon of Libretto spread to both sides of the nose and he thought he could see lights from the smaller communities below, then realized he was looking at thousands upon thousands of fires. They’ve managed to set fire to most of the planet. Dipping the Hurricane’s wing, Richards started a neural clock and swung the Hurricane in a wide hypersonic turn. Almost like flying the space shuttle, er...orbiter. Richards smiled at the memory. Why have a spacecraft that nobody knows the correct term for?
Marking the departing Greys with a cursor in his heads-up display, Richards went through his pre-combat rituals as the Hurricane turned autonomously. “Right, dear.” He engaged the Hurricane’s interface, “Set inertial gravity to half a gee.”
<
“Lock harness.” He felt the straps over his shoulders tighten and lock down against his shoulder.”
<
“Comm set button one command, button two Saber Six, button three Squadron main.”
<
Richards smiled. “Tempted to play a little Iron Maiden right now.”
<
“No.” Richards smiled. “Increase turn rate five percent. Estimated time to intercept?”
<
Richards flexed his gloved hands a final time. “Okay, dear. Manual control on my mark. Mark.” There was a slight wobble, the onboard computer being infinitely more accurate at predicting buffeting and adjusting the control surfaces than even a pilot as experienced as Richards. “Two, follow my lead. This is something called a low yo-yo. You might have heard of it.”
Runs In The Family Page 32