CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Jump completed, sir.” William nodded. It wasn’t easy being in command of a squadron— he’d had no time to work out a relationship with Commander Millikan—but he had no choice. He’d told the younger man that he was still in command of his ship while William would command the overall squadron. If Commander Millikan had a problem with that, and William rather figured he would, he’d been professional enough not to let it contaminate their working relationship.
“Engage the enemy defenses,” William ordered. “Scan for any traces of watchdogs.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
William rubbed his forehead. If it had been hard enough to command an entire fleet from Lightning, it was a great deal harder commanding six ships—four warships and two freighters—from a badly outdated light cruiser. There was no flag deck, no CIC; he’d had to take a console on the already-cramped bridge and prepare himself for either resentment or confusion. But there was no choice.
“Enemy defenses turning to engage us,” the tactical officer reported. “We’re taking them out now.”
“No trace of a watchdog,” another officer added, through the datanet. Oliver Kennedy didn’t have a proper tactical compartment either, so they’d had to improvise. “We seem to be clear.”
“That proves nothing,” William snapped. “Continue firing.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
William nodded, then studied Redemption as it appeared on the display. The icy world was right at the edge of the life-bearing zone, its atmosphere too thin to support human life without spacesuits or heavy genetic enhancement. It was unlikely that anyone would want Redemption, which was probably why the Theocracy had turned it into a POW camp. Even if the POWs managed to get out of the dome, they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere before they suffocated to death.
And they can blow the dome if the prisoners riot, he thought grimly. If we time this wrong, everyone in the complex is going to wind up dead.
“All orbital defenses destroyed,” the tactical officer reported.
“Good work,” Commander Millikan said.
“Deploy the Marines,” William ordered. “And prepare to launch the shuttles; I say again, prepare to launch the shuttles.”
He studied the planet in the display for a long moment. There were no settlements, save for the POW camp itself; there were no active defenses, save for a couple of scanners positioned near the camp. It struck him as odd, but it was quite possible that whoever operated the camp cared more for secrecy than active defenses. Or, given the Theocracy’s economic weakness, they simply didn’t have the money to defend the POW camp. He smiled at the thought, then watched as the Marines plummeted through the planet’s atmosphere. If they failed . . .
* * * * *
Captain Patrick James Davidson braced himself as he plummeted through the thin atmosphere, surrounded by his comrades. He’d practiced skydiving from orbit into the teeth of enemy defenses, or even sneaking through gaps in the enemy’s sensor network, but the enemy didn’t seem to be watching for incoming threats. They seemed to have relied completely on the orbital defenses, all of which were now gone. Patrick gritted his teeth, then triggered the antigravity system moments before he would slam into the ground. His fall stopped, allowing him to drop the last few inches to the icy surface.
“Over that ridge,” he snapped as the Marines fanned out. There was no incoming fire, which was both good and bad; he had time to deploy his forces, but at the same time, he knew the enemy might be keeping some forces in reserve. “Advance!”
The Marines advanced forward, weapons at the ready, until the POW camp came into view. It looked like a bubble, a dome of glass surrounding a handful of barracks; Patrick couldn’t help wondering just who had decided that such an insecure place was actually a good idea, even though it did have its advantages. Anyone who felt like running away would be able to get an eyeful of the unprepossessing terrain surrounding the prison camp. He led his men towards the small installation near the shuttlepad, then charged forward as a pair of enemy guards came into view. The guards had no time to react before they were knocked down and flattened to the ground.
“Get through the hatch,” he snapped. A Marine leaned forward, hacked into the control module, and took command of the system. The hatch hissed open, revealing a processing center that looked as though it belonged in a prison. A handful of guards were running forward, carrying projectile weapons that wouldn’t have a chance of getting through Patrick’s body armor. Patrick lifted his rifle, switched to stun, and started to mow the guards down before they could react. Their stunned bodies tumbled to the ground, waiting for pickup. Patrick strode over them and led his team through the small complex, towards the other set of hatches. Despite his fears, he had to admit it didn’t look like a torture chamber.
He opened the second hatch and stepped into the dome. A handful of prisoners stared at him, their faces widening with shock. Did they think he was an enemy soldier? It was possible, he had to admit; the black armor carried no logos or insignia. He hesitated, then cracked open his suit. The POWs relaxed, very slightly, when they saw his face.
“I’m Captain Davidson,” he said, using the suit’s systems to boost his voice. “We’re here to get you out of this shithole. Get into lines and ready yourselves for the shuttles.”
The prisoners broke out of their trance and hurried towards the hatches, several dozen more pouring out of the barracks. Patrick glanced at a man who looked like a soldier, probably someone from one of the planetary militias, then motioned for him to join the Marines. He’d need to pick the man’s brain, if only to find out just how many people there were in the camp.
“Get the shuttles down to the hatches now,” he ordered. He sucked in his breath as he glanced at the time. Twenty minutes before Aswan could pick up a radio signal from Redemption—assuming, of course, that there hadn’t been a watchdog in orbit. It wasn’t going to be easy to evacuate the complex. Unless he’d missed something, he hadn’t seen any spacesuits in the guard complex, save for the two worn by the guards on the outside. It might be hard to get the POWs into the shuttles unless the two airlocks could be mated, a depressingly effective security precaution none of them had considered until it was far too late. They might have to take the risk of cutting through the dome, praying it wasn’t rigged to shatter if the atmospheric integrity was broken.
“All right,” he said. “Name, rank, serial number?”
The POW looked badly shaken. “Corporal Wallis, Highland Brigade,” he said. “Planetary Militiaman M-482762.”
“Very good,” Patrick said. “Now tell me, how many prisoners are there in this complex and how many of them can move under their own power?”
“Twelve hundred,” Wallis said, after a long moment. “Some of the prisoners in the final barracks can’t move, sir; they were kept in isolation. They were never allowed to mingle with the rest of us.”
“We’ll deal with them,” Patrick promised. Lines of prisoners, male and female, were forming in front of the hatches. Thankfully, despite his nightmares, the guards didn’t seem to have molested any of the women. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any sex slaves in the guard complex either. “Was anyone planning an escape?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Wallis said. “I heard when I arrived that the complex is bugged to the nines. There was no way to plan anything without them hearing of it.”
A POW’s duty is to escape, Patrick thought. He’d been taught that, back at boot camp, and it had always stuck in his mind. But these POWs had nowhere to go.
He pushed the thought aside as the first shuttle came in to land. “Get in line,” he ordered as he keyed his communicator. “Platoon One: with me. Platoon Two: sort the prisoners and get them into the shuttles.”
Platoon One fanned out around him as they jogged towards the final barracks. It looked pretty much identical to the others, save for the sign on the front barring anyone from enteri
ng without special permission. Patrick checked the door, then smashed it down with one kick from his armored suit. Inside, it was dark, illuminated only by red lights positioned in the metal ceiling. Patrick switched his visor to night-vision mode, then advanced forward. Instead of a set of bunks, as he’d been expecting, there were a handful of doors, each one firmly locked. It was a set of prison cells within the prison.
“Open that door,” he ordered, picking one at random. A Marine wrenched the door off its hinges, allowing him to peer inside. “Who are you?”
A brown-skinned man looked back at him, blearily. It was clear, given the number of bruises on his skin, that he’d been beaten repeatedly before being shoved into the cell. Patrick winced, then muttered commands. The prisoners in the barracks would be freed, then transported back to orbit. There would be time to sort them all out later.
“Roger,” the man croaked. “Roger Mortimer.”
The name was completely unfamiliar. Patrick considered it for a second, then checked the name against the files. His suit found nothing, but it relayed the request to the ships in orbit and came back with both an answer and an ID file. Lieutenant-General Roger Mortimer had been an officer in the Commonwealth Army, stationed on Cadiz. He’d been listed as missing, presumed dead in the chaos that had overwhelmed the planet when the Theocracy attacked. No one had considered the possibility that he’d survived.
The Theocracy separated the prizes from the common herd, Patrick thought as one of his Marines assisted Mortimer to leave the cell. They wanted to use Mortimer for . . . for what? He shook his head. “Get the next shuttle in ASAP,” he ordered as he called for reinforcements. If Mortimer was any guide, it was quite likely that most of the remaining prisoners in the barracks couldn’t walk for themselves. “We need to get them off the planet as quickly as possible.”
The first shuttle took off, rocketing into the sky above the dome. A second one was already landing, extending its airlock towards the hatch. His men were well trained, thankfully; they hadn’t had any time to practice. He watched as two more prisoners were helped into the light, then half carried towards the waiting lines. They’d be taken onto the next shuttle and boosted to orbit, where they would be put in stasis. The next thing most of them would know, he hoped, was that they were back home.
He glanced at the timer. Seven minutes left . . .
“Get a move on,” he snapped. Another shuttle landed, ready to take the next consignment of former POWs. “Time is not on our side.”
* * * * *
“The Marines report that some of the prisoners were high-value targets,” the tactical officer said. “So far, they’ve recovered two colonels, a commodore, and a general. None of them are in good shape.”
“Get them into stasis tubes when they arrive,” William ordered. He suspected the Theocracy would have wanted to interrogate the prisoners, but most senior officers were equipped with implants designed to counter the effects of interrogation or, as a last resort, to kill them. “I don’t think we have time for a complete breakdown.”
He scowled as he looked at the near-space display. It was empty, but he knew that could change at any moment. Even if Captain Falcone had managed to distract the enemy, they could still spare a ship or two to respond to a distress call. There were five minutes left before they ran out of time.
“Tell them to hurry,” he ordered, finally. William forced himself to relax, thinking hard. There was something about the whole system that didn’t make sense, not to him. If the POWs—or some of them, at least—were high-value targets, they should have been kept somewhere with more security. Or had the Theocracy assumed that no one knew where Aswan was? Or would dare to attack it if they did? He fretted for a long moment, then tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. The puzzle would be solved, sooner or later, perhaps after the prisoners were interrogated. Their captors might have had good reasons for wanting to keep them near the front lines.
But anything they knew would be outdated quickly , William thought. We’d deactivate their command codes from the datanets, even if we thought they were dead. Trying to use a deactivated command code would sound the alarm.
The timer bleeped. “Commander,” the tactical officer said. “We’re out of time.”
“Keep moving the shuttles,” William ordered. There was little else they could do, not when they needed to wait for the Marines. “And see how many more shuttles there are to come.”
* * * * *
“Three more,” Patrick said. “I’ve got fifty-seven prisoners still to move, then the guards and us.” He cursed under his breath. The broken and battered prisoners had been moved onto the shuttles, thankfully, but many of the remainder were still waiting for a slot. His men had searched the entire complex, finding very little of any use. The Theocracy hadn’t mistreated anyone who had not been in the last barracks, as far as he could tell, but they hadn’t been very accommodating either. Even Commonwealth POWs were granted books and other forms of entertainment.
At least we took the datacores from the guard complex , he thought. He had a feeling they would be next to useless, but intelligence might be able to produce something interesting from them. And the guards them selves may be able to shed light on the complex and its purpose.
He watched the remaining prisoners depart, then motioned to his Marines to transport the guards into the final shuttle. None of the guards had recovered; they were secured, tossed into the shuttle, and finally latched to the deck to keep them still. Patrick took one final look at the POW camp, then followed his men into the craft. Moments later, the shuttle’s drives surged and the craft threw itself into the air.
“Mission accomplished,” he said, keying into the datanet. “All POWs recovered, sir; the POW camp is empty.”
* * * * *
“The POW camp is empty, Commander,” the tactical officer said. “Smash it,” William ordered, shortly.
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. “KEWs away; I say again, KEWs
away.” William nodded. The last of the shuttles was climbing through the atmosphere now, racing to catch the tiny squadron before it withdrew. Everyone else had already docked with their motherships; teams of medics and volunteer crewmen were helping to move the POWs into pre-prepared holds or sickbays depending on their condition. He smiled to himself—he hadn’t expected everything to go so well— then swore out loud as two gateways appeared in high orbit. A pair of destroyers dropped back into realspace, their weapons already searching for targets.
Too late , he thought triumphantly. The destroyers were modern; they might be able to give his squadron a very hard time, even though he had two light cruisers and a destroyer under his command. But he had no intention of standing his ground, let alone allowing them to enter engagement range. You’re far too late.
“The final shuttle is coming into dock now,” the tactical officer said. “Jump us out as soon as she’s latched on,” William ordered. “Signal to Mermaid; she is to jump back to Aswan and inform Captain Falcone that the mission has been completed. The remainder of the squadron is to make its way to the first RV point.”
“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.
“Enemy vessels are launching missiles,” the tactical officer reported. Too late, William thought again. We’re already on the move.
“Gateway opening,” the helmsman said. On the display, it seemed to lunge forward and swallow the flotilla, dragging them into hyperspace. “We’re gone, sir.”
“Then set course for the RV point,” William said. He forced himself to watch the display as the squadron swept away from the planet, knowing he was leaving his commanding officer behind. Her orders were inflexible, yet . . . yet he felt guilty for daring to abandon her. He wanted to loop back around the star and come to her aid, even though he knew it would be futile. She’d escape . . .
“Commander,” Davidson said through the intercom. “I’ve unloaded the prisoners from the shuttles, sir; we’re currently checking them against the record
s.”
“Good,” William said. Busywork would keep Davidson from pestering him about his commanding officer—and his lover. “Make sure you keep a sharp eye on them. Some of them may have been conditioned.”
“Yes, sir,” Davidson said. William nodded, then closed the channel. For better or worse, he’d completed his half of the mission. Now . . . all he could do was wait and pray that Captain Falcone escaped.
* * * * *
“Captain,” Linda said. “Mermaid has jumped out of hyperspace. Mission complete; I say again, mission complete.” Kat smiled, relieved. She had only two warships left, both badly damaged. The enemy ships were on their way, picking up their courage to confront the squadron . . . and, perhaps, guessing that some of the ships on their sensors simply didn’t exist. If the POW camp had been raided successfully, the mission was now complete and . . .
“Captain,” Roach snapped as alarms howled through the ship. “Nine gateways; I say again, nine gateways!” Kat sucked in her breath as an entire superdreadnought squadron slid back into normal space, escorted by a handful of smaller ships. She glanced at the text in the display; it was the enemy squadron that had been lured to Salvation, not the one heading to the front lines. And while they seemed surprised to see her, they were already charging weapons . . .
“Evasive action,” she ordered. “Charge the generator. Prepare to get us out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Admiral Junayd stared in horror at the nightmare unfolding in front of him. He’d pushed his ships to the limit from the moment the courier boat had caught up with them, but it had been too late to prevent the enemy from attacking Aswan. The facilities had been smashed, the giant orbital fortress was damaged . . . and the enemy ships were already falling back from the planet.
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