* * * * *
Trexler stood back from the displays, deep in thought again. He felt like he had missed something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He believed he was up against Juster, the Queen’s brother, who was by all accounts a serious, level-headed leader. He would be here personally, and he would have his finger on the pulse of preparations and of the fighting itself. What did he have up his sleeve?
He put himself in Juster’s shoes, his thoughts mulling the situation over from the perspective of the Rebels. They believed they had clear and absolute ownership of the airspace for 50 miles in all directions from the plateau. Josh had said the plateau defenses had no blind spots and they did, in fact, provide a true shield. As Rebel commander, Juster would not concern himself with the plateau itself. That was probably the reason he had chosen to set his shield around the whole planet.
Still, planets are big and ships are small. 1,000 squadrons was a lot of firepower, but it did not provide an impenetrable shield no matter how Juster placed them. He got to wondering why, if the shield was not impenetrable, had it been formed at all? Clearly, from a military perspective it made sense to defend the planet that housed your headquarters. But just as clearly, from a military perspective the planet was not at risk. Juster knew his sister. He knew she would control her military forces with an iron fist. She would not permit them to attack defenseless cities, and she would gain little by attacking military facilities. Her only purpose would be to speak to the assembled senators, then get out.
Juster believed he had the plateau locked up. Between the gleasons and the gun installations, the plateau was impregnable as far as he was concerned. He didn’t need the shield.
If the Rebel shield did not make sense from a military standpoint, did it make sense for some other reason? He kept himself in Juster’s shoes, considering things from his perspective. He was the number two man among the Rebels. Could he want to be number one? Or perhaps a more defining question was how badly did he want to be number one?
Trexler considered the worst case scenario they’d modeled, the scenario in which Struthers ordered the Queen killed even if it cost him his own life. They’d modeled it based on the assumption that the Rebels operated as a cohesive group and that such a command would only be given as a last resort.
What if their model was wrong? What if the whole intent here was to kill both Struthers and the Queen? It might cost the entire Imperial Senate, but the Rebels had proven they had no compulsions against mass killings.
Trexler sucked in his breath, knowing he could right. They were looking at a coup within a coup. Juster wanted to be number one. Juster wanted to be Emperor. The shield was a sham. It was only there to convince Struthers that his military was going all out to protect him.
Juster had opportunity, and he had any number of ways to get the job done: another bomb like the one used during the first coup, or assign a few gleasons to target Struthers rather than the Queen. Maybe the ground defenses could take out the Senate Chamber, or maybe a few smaller ships might be detailed to come in at low altitude with all guns blazing. Maybe even a big ship. He looked over to Chandrajuski and M’Coda busily orchestrating their forces. He suddenly believed they might have an easier time of it than they knew.
But he couldn’t be certain. In fact, he could be very, very wrong. He pulled Steve Brinson away from the planning display. A senior admiral, Brinson normally commanded a fleet, but they had brought in as much of their A team as they could for this operation.
“Hey, Steve, remember how you figured out the Rebel wing formations at Aldebaran I?” Trexler asked him. “I need you to do it again, but with a different flavor this time. Forget the main battle. We’ll take care of that. Your job is to find one particular ship, the command ship. If you can do it, we might be able to end this war right here.”
“Jeez, let’s put a little pressure on a guy,” Brinson said with a grin.
* * * * *
Otis was in trouble. A swarm of gleasons closed in on his main group. Most of his Great Cats had already fallen, and he was down to mostly Terrans now. He had no idea how many gleasons remained.
The rest of his battle, then, would be fought by Terrans. He raced through the tail end of the killing zone and heard the command from Colonel Lawrence, “Delta, make like the Red Coats!”
A skirmish line formed from one side of the corridor to the other. Two ranks of Terrans knelt behind portable shields. Otis knew that the shield bearers in the front row would probably not survive the assault. The second row might, but it, too, was not likely. They had been asked to give all that they were, and the time had come to deliver.
A mass of Terrans stood behind the shield bearers. Long-barreled blasters and several stunners pointed toward the oncoming horde. Three gleasons made it through the killing zone before Colonel Lawrence activated it. When he did, the green pencil lines of lasers reached from one side of the corridor to the other. Suddenly, gleasons were visible everywhere, writhing in pain and frustration.
The Terrans had not been able to carry lasers strong enough to kill, not unless a gleason stood in its beam for too long. The lasers were, however, capable of injuring and maiming. Their purpose was to slow the gleasons and remove their invisibility. Instinct forced the gleasons to the floor, some of them missing eyes, ears, or limbs. As long as they stayed below the lasers they were okay, but crawling was a slow business even for a gleason. Blasters spoke from behind the shield bearers. Multiple hits took out one gleason after another. Shots from the gleasons pounded against the line of shields, but the men held. If one fell, another moved into position.
Some gleasons turned around, but a similar shield line had formed behind them with the same results. Gleasons panicked, running or crawling every which way. Some had the intelligence to blast the lasers, and lasers began falling one by one, but it was too late for the gleasons.
Otis had expected the skirmish line to conduct a steady retreat, but to his amazement, Colonel Lawrence ordered his men forward. The shield bearers inched their way forward, soon having to work their way through dead bodies. Colonel Lawrence himself shot out the wall-mounted lasers as his men closed on them. The rear line held its position, and Otis suddenly realized they’d planned poorly. The gleasons, if they decided to retreat, would overwhelm the smaller force of Terrans back there.
He forced his way through the fighters to Colonel Lawrence. “Reverse direction,” he ordered. “Have the rear guard move forward if they can. We will hold here.”
Lawrence instantly understood and issued the order. What had become a thinning line of gleasons suddenly thickened, but the gleasons were forced to crawl or crouch. Massive firing continued from the stationary skirmish line. Grenades came their way, but they were quickly thrown back into the gleasons.
Fighting creatures with telepathic abilities always presented problems, and this was no exception. Without warning, all surviving gleasons stood up and rushed the skirmish line. Weapons fired non-stop, and grenades flew into the gleasons steadily. The air became so fouled that it was impossible to see, almost impossible to breathe.
Colonel Lawrence ordered a retreat. No one in command ever discovered if the order was disobeyed or simply not heard, but the skirmish line held. So, too, did the men shooting from behind it. Contrary to Delta ways, shots could no longer be aimed, but even a gleason could not make it through a solid wall of energy. Several gleasons made it to the line of skirmishers, essentially falling lifeless into the shields. None of them penetrated the line.
Colonel Lawrence called a cease fire, and this command was eventually obeyed. Everyone waited for the air to clear. As they waited, their hearing slowly returned. An occasional figure loomed through the thinning smoke, and multiple blasters didn’t hesitate.
When the air finally cleared, Otis questioned his vision. Mountains of gleasons littered the corridor, many of the corpses still cooking in the laser beams. He looked across the corridor to Colonel Lawrence in awe.
Lawrence ju
st shrugged and pushed his way through his men to reach Otis. “Someone needs to make sure they’re dead, but we have another fight to fight, Sire.”
Otis stared at him, for once at a loss for words. This man was ready to start over? They didn’t even need the last trap that had been set up outside for the gleasons.
“I’ll send cats to finish them off,” he finally said. “Prepare to move the rest of your men outside. I’ll find out what we’re up against out there.”
* * * * *
Trexler was surprised at Juster’s response to the attack from space. He sent every ship in his shield to intercept them. Half of Chandrajuski’s ships raced through the comparatively thin Rebel shield with their beacons off while the other half attacked the shield. Rebel forces would seriously outnumber them, but it was beginning to look like the fighting would take place in space. He smiled. His crews would be able to dart in and out, hit hard, then pull back. Such tactics had the effect of doubling or tripling their numbers.
So far the scree had not been felt, and it was Empire crews doing the fighting. Trexler was certain, however, that Terrans were in the net providing guidance. They had become the true experts at actual space battles.
Major Barnes called Trexler and reported all three control centers successfully taken. “Sir, one of my teams is still inside their control center. I’ve ordered them to blow it up and retreat, but they’re telling me I have to confirm those orders with Lady Reba. She apparently approved an unofficial operation without informing me.”
Trexler pulled the headset from his head and stared at it. Had he heard right? He put it back on. “Uh, Major, how long have you been out here?”
“I’m new, sir. I reported directly to Brodor for training.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. Any time a Knight issues instructions, they’re official. Whatever she approved is official. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. What are they up to?”
“They want to go into its net, sir.”
Trexler blinked. The implications staggered him. “Uh, who exactly is in charge, and can I have direct contact with him?”
“Captain Stevens is in charge. Lieutenant Walters is in the net, sir. No, I have the only radio, and I’m still in the trenches if you get my meaning.”
“Would they be the same Stevens and Walters I met on Aldebaran I?”
“Yes, sir. The story is pretty well known among us.”
“Those are small teams. Can you reinforce them?”
“Yes, sir. My other teams will be here shortly.”
“Major, this is important. Reinforce, and bring your radio with you. I might have instructions for them. They are not to make their presence known unless their help is needed urgently, but I want as many of them in the net as possible. Pass the word, and get back to me when you’ve reinforced.”
“Yes, sir.”
Trexler went back into the net. Rebel ships were just now starting to engage his own outer shield. So far their efforts were paltry, though to anyone on the ground it was probably an amazing sight, not unlike dogfights of old on Earth. Some dogfight! These ships were larger than aircraft carriers. It would look like two mountains duking it out.
Twenty minutes went by. Major Barnes reported back in, breathing hard. “We’ve reinforced, sir.”
“Okay, I need to talk to Stevens.”
Stevens came on the radio. “Sir?”
“Listen carefully, Captain. The Rebels designated a no-fly corridor with a radius around the plateau. It extends all the way out into space. Our guys have orders not to enter that corridor, but some Rebel ships might have authorization. Anyone coming into that area will be the enemy. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. We don’t want the Rebels to know you’re in there. Do not - I repeat - do not show yourselves until you absolutely have to, but do not allow any ship to approach the chamber until I give you the word that it’s ours. I include here any civilian ships. Can your guns see down into the spaceports around Crystal City?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve been pulling security. Let me get Walters out here.”
“Never mind. I want as many of you in the net as you can spare without losing the center. If your guns can see down into the spaceports, shoot down any ship that lifts. Any ship. Got it?”
“Uh, yes, sir. Are you sure?”
“If you can find a way to warn them, and you probably have a command override somewhere in there, give them fair warning. But I don’t care if it’s a trader or a cruise ship. If it lifts, shoot it down.”
“Yes, sir. It doesn’t make sense, sir.”
“Fair enough. I hate saying this over the air and I could be wrong, but I suspect the Rebels are going to pull off another coup. They’re going to take out the chamber and everyone in it, including Struthers and the Queen. They might use a nuke.”
“Thank you, sir. It makes complete sense now, and it will help me make better decisions. I expect to have targets of opportunity soon. I won’t act on them until I have to.”
“Use your best judgment, Captain. Try to stay in touch.”
Minutes later Stevens called him back. “Sir, we see a lot of Rebel ships. Our computers are tracking them. I think we have more than a 50 mile range with our guns. Want some help?”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. Now that you mention it, I’ll bet the 50 mile range was an arbitrary number. No change to your orders for the moment. I have ships there that you can’t see. Understand?”
“I know exactly what you mean sir. Thank you.”
* * * * *
Otis made his way wearily up through the ranks of Terrans filling the stairwell. Two Terrans carried Nancy Shaw on a stretcher, but she and Krys remained inside the building for safety. Otis did not, nor did most of the men.
When he reached the outside, he felt as if he’d been delivered from hell. Puffy clouds in a bright blue sky greeted him. He looked to his right and saw the sun lowering. There were a couple of hours of daylight remaining, but no more than that. He hoped his Queen would not be long-winded on this particular day.
He ignored the sounds of fighting for another minute. He felt so invigorated, so free, and he reveled in the feeling.
A lot of men had died today, a lot of good men, and they were not done fighting. But . . . the worst was over. The gleasons were dead, every one of them far as he knew. A cloud passed beneath the sun and he glanced up sharply, a shudder passing through his body. Then he sighed. He would always have his own personal demons to deal with, but he had no time for them today. Future generations counted on his leadership, a consideration he had not lost sight of since the very beginning.
He forced himself to shift his thinking. Gleasons were no longer his task. Now he had a more standard battle to fight. Rebel troops were pouring through the great gates of the Palace. Intermingled with them were scores of stingers. Josh’s reconnaissance teams reported that stingers and troops were also coming from the other direction through the main opening in the Palace City wall, headed toward the main entrance to the Senate Chamber. Sharpshooters were forcing them to move carefully.
Otis looked to the sky. Where was Waverly? He should have been here. He was supposed to have secured the grounds. They needed him and his heavier weapons to counter the stingers.
Reba came up behind him, almost numb with what she had just been a part of. These men had fought with fierce efficiency against overwhelming odds, their composure as a group never failing. She had heard the stories about Special Operations soldiers, but what she had just seen could never be adequately portrayed in words. The battle would live on in their minds forever, but no one who had not seen them in action this day would ever truly comprehend what these men had done.
And they were not finished. Before them lay another force of overwhelming odds. Still, these men did not falter, they did not complain, they just quietly picked new fighting positions and prepared to fight. None of them needed guidance, no one shouted orders to g
o here or there. Each of them knew what to do.
Otis opened a channel to them. Some Great Cats prowled among the Terrans, but most of the Great Cats were dead. His words were mostly for the Terrans. “The Queen has begun her speech,” he informed them. “You have fought bravely and well. We have succeeded in our mission against the gleasons. Now, we focus on the rest of our mission. Our job is to hold, hold until the Queen is away, hold down to the last man if necessary. Our reinforcements have not come, so once she is gone we will form into squads and retreat, taking our wounded with us whenever possible. We will retreat as fighting units in an orderly fashion. You are all exceptional, and I am proud to have fought with you. Disperse to fighting positions of your choice. I will sound the retreat when the Queen is clear.”
“Hey, not so fast, Otis!” they all heard over their headsets. “We’re on our way. Do you have room for us?”
Otis howled with pleasure into his communicator.
“I take that for a ‘yes,’” Waverly replied. “Are we in time?”
“Barely! What took you so long?”
“Our ships were under attack, and we had to delay. Where do you want us?”
Otis looked up into the sky, but he saw nothing but sky and clouds. “Stingers are coming through both walls. We’re pretty beat up, and we don’t have heavy weapons. Your first men should come to us at the chamber. Plan a flanking action with others. It’s your call about encircling them. I’m inclined to provide them a retreat corridor. I don’t want them feeling like they have to fight to the last man.”
Otis called Chandrajuski for air support. Trexler answered and said he’d be there as soon as he took care of six Rebel cruisers that had broken through and were headed his way. Otis’ eyebrows rose in concern. Were things bad everywhere?
He settled into a prone position, his wounds protesting, and fixed a Rebel soldier in his sight. He squeezed the button, then moved onto another target, then another, never pausing. No stingers had, as yet, zeroed in on him, but not all of his men were so fortunate. These men were all survivors, and fighting positions moved frequently while they continued nonstop fire toward the advancing Rebels.
Voice of the Chosen (Spirit of Empire, Book Three) Page 43