by Jay Allan
The two Alliance forces had fought their way toward each other, and alarms went off in headsets warning against firing on friendly targets. Their comlink encryption protocols made it difficult for the Scots to contact the new force without knowing who they were. But Frasier only had to wait a few seconds.
“Colonel Frasier?” The voice coming through Frasier’s comlink was rock solid, though the speaker was clearly fatigued. “This is Brevet-Lieutenant Anton, sir. Colonel Cain sends his regards.” He paused for an instant. “And the thanks of the entire 1st Brigade.”
Chapter 22
WAS Saratoga.
Epsilon Eridani System
In the asteroid belt past the orbit of Epsilon Eridani V
Compton’s head ached. A rough bandage was tied around his temple, crusted with blood and hanging loosely on one side. The crude dressing was less than an admiral rated, certainly, but he’d flatly refused to allow one of the surgeons to take the time to treat him. There were over 400 casualties on Saratoga, and many of them needed attention far more than Compton did.
The helmet that had saved his life sat next to his command chair, nearly split in two. He’d barely managed to get a replacement before the stricken flag bridge lost its pressurization and life support. The hull integrity had since been restored, but the debris was still strewn around, including the heavy conduit that had come close to depriving the fleet of its commander.
Compton was proud of his staff. They worked diligently at their posts, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem and destruction surrounding them. Damage control bots wheeled around, making whatever repairs were feasible under the current, difficult conditions. Saratoga remained at battlestations, and the Battle of Epsilon Eridani, though in a brief lull, was still raging.
The fleets had exchanged devastating missile barrages. The Imperial and Europan forces had far less combat experience than either their CAC/Caliphate allies or their Alliance enemies, and it showed. With forces from four different powers, the enemy fleet had a hard time syncing data systems and coordinating their attacks, while Compton’s strike was precisely targeted and flawlessly executed. But the Alliance volley was only half the size of the one they faced, and even with the enemy’s poor targeting and data synchronization, Compton’s ships took as much damage as they inflicted. He’d done about as well as he could have hoped, but he also knew he couldn’t win a battle of attrition.
The enemy bombers came in right behind their missiles, but they were mostly South American wings with no recent combat experience. Compton had held back a force of his veterans as a combat space patrol, their ships configured as interceptors. They obliterated the inexperienced enemy attack force, which managed to inflict only a few hits, none causing serious damage.
When the forces entered close range of each other, the energy weapons duel began. Laser batteries opened fire, ripping into armor plating and slicing through compartments and vital systems. Compton’s fire control was superior, and his ships were scoring a higher percentage of hits than their opponents. But they were also outnumbered two to one in hulls, and they were losing the overall contest. Cambrai was especially hard hit; she was an older design, with fewer angel dust launchers and an outdated ECM suite – and she was still suffering from some of the damage she’d taken at Gliese. Captain Arlington had worked wonders keeping her in the fight.
Compton had waited. He sat on his flag bridge, silent and impassive, as the laser battle raged, an unshakeable block of granite. He’d waited until the enemy ships had closed to knife-fighting distance of his own, decelerating to a crawl to remain in close firing range and finish off his outgunned force.
Only then did he utter a word. “Joker, execute Straight Flush.”
The bomber crews had been following the fleet at a constant velocity, back just far enough to remain undetectable as long as they kept their power output to a minimum. Now they received the words they had been waiting for…Straight Flush.
Reactors fired up to maximum power output, and engines came to life. The crews were strapped into their couches, the only way they could endure the 18g acceleration they would experience as their squadrons thrusted hard toward the fleet.
The enemy detected the massive power outputs almost immediately, but they were already heavily engaged with the Alliance fleet, and there was little they could do to react in time. Compton’s bomber squadrons ripped through the enemy forces virtually unopposed. The pilots knew the situation, and they could see on their scanners the damage their comrades had taken. They closed to point blank range and ravaged the enemy capital ships with plasma torpedoes, then decelerated and returned for a second pass before the two fleets had completely disengaged.
The bombing runs had saved Compton’s fleet, inflicting enormous damage on the surprised enemy ships and disrupting their laser barrages. The Bolivar, already severely damaged by Saratoga’s heavy laser cannons, was destroyed outright, and the rest of the enemy battleships were hard hit. The bombers took few casualties on their first attack, but the enemy ships were ready for the second, and the squadrons suffered heavy losses as they sliced back through.
After the engagement, Compton ordered his fleet to decelerate and regroup in the asteroid belt, and damage control parties worked feverishly to get weapons and ship’s systems back online for the second round of battle…which they all knew would be soon. The roughly fifty percent of the bombers that survived had a more circuitous route to change their vector and rejoin the fleet, and they were landed and rearmed as quickly as possible.
The enemy fleet also needed time to regroup. Compton had ordered the bombers to focus on the engines of the targeted vessels, and many of the enemy ships were suffering from seriously degraded thrust capacity. The strategy had given the enemy commander a choice. He had clear firepower superiority, but not all his ships were able to exert the required thrust levels to quickly regroup. If he chose to force the engagement immediately, many of his ships would be unable to revector and join the formation, and he would surrender the numerical advantage. Conversely, if he decided to attack with the assembled fleet it would take time to make repairs and position all his ships, giving Compton a respite to get his own battlegroups back in fighting shape.
Compton knew what he would do – he would attack with whatever he could as soon as he could, pressing hard no matter what the cost. They could still hit him on better than even terms, and that would leave them with reinforcements to send in later, while all of his strength would be committed. But he was banking on the enemy admiral making the other choice. CAC commanders tended to be conservative and to value numerical superiority, and the allied Imperial forces were green and likely to feel better if they had overwhelming strength, especially after the shock his bombers had inflicted and the loss of one of their battleships.
He didn’t know what he would do with the extra time. Work the damage control teams to death, of course. In the end he was playing for time, but he didn’t see how time could really help him. There was no cavalry on the way, none that he could think of. Certainly, the high command would try to scrape something up, but it could be months before they got here, and he definitely didn’t have that kind of time. Neither did General Holm. His strategy was ultimately futile, but it was all he had. Why die today, he thought, when you can die tomorrow instead?
In the end, he had more time than he’d expected. The bombers’ attack has severely disordered the enemy, and several of their battleships required considerable field repairs to get engines back online. The CAC commander was indeed hesitant to reengage without all of his strength, and it was almost a week before the reformed enemy force was bearing down on Compton’s waiting ships.
He planned to utilize the asteroid belt defensively to blunt the expected missile attack. The enemy had cleared its external racks and expended much of its ordnance in the first engagement; their volley would be much smaller this time. Compton was in the same position, but he preferred to fight it out at energy weapons range; his primary strategy for th
e missile exchange was simply to survive it.
He’d deployed ECM probes on a number of the asteroids. Once activated, they broadcasted the scanner image of an Alliance capital ship. His actual ships would fire their own missiles, then shift laterally and deploy directly behind four of the larger asteroids. Hiding behind a 50 kilometer hunk of rock felt a little like a soldier crouching in a foxhole, and the effect was similar. The positioning increased the difficulty for the targeting AIs, in essence giving his ships some cover. Missiles would lack a direct line of sight to effective detonation range, forcing them to decelerate and revector to get close enough to their targets, exposing themselves for an extended time to interdiction from the escort vessels.
When the attack finally started, the regrouped enemy fired their volleys as they entered launch range. Garret’s ships responded, sending their own missiles on a lengthy trek toward the enemy. As he watched the plotting of the enemy missiles on his scanner, Compton waited to see how his strategy would pan out.
In the end, he couldn’t have been more pleased. His plan worked better than he’d dared to hope. The enemy missile strike, already smaller and more ragged than the previous one, was largely ineffective. Some warheads targeted the asteroids with the ECM generators, wasting megatons of destructive force on massive chunks of barren, unmanned rock. Other missiles hurriedly modified their thrust to attempt to close with the Alliance battleships lurking behind the asteroids, exposing themselves to the devastating point defense of the escort ships.
Saratoga was the worst hit of the capital ships, taking damage from a warhead detonation 6 kilometers distant. The ship shook violently, and one of the reactors was scragged. Another 100 or so of his people became casualties, but the ship was still marginally battle capable, and that was all he was thinking about right now. A few escorts and one of his cruisers were destroyed, targeted by missiles that could not lock on to any capital ships.
Compton’s barrage was more effective. He’d concentrated his fire, targeting only two of the enemy capital ships. A wall of missiles bore down on them, and they and their escorts frantically engaged their point defense, savaging the incoming weapons. Still, they could not stop them all, and the target vessels were engulfed in thermonuclear fury. The already-damaged Lu Chow was bracketed by close range detonations less than two kilometers away, and she broke up under the furious impact of the shockwaves, with all hands lost.
The Prince de Conde was also hit hard, and she was streaming atmosphere and reaction mass. Her engines almost destroyed, she was unable to maintain the acceleration rate of the fleet and drifted behind the main force, her decimated crew struggling to save the ship.
Compton had eighteen hours before the fleets reached missile range of each other, which meant his people had less than nineteen hours to live. They spent the time on feverish damage control efforts, focusing on repairing anything that could shoot.
Three hours before the fleets entered laser range, Compton’s bomber wings launched. They were going to repeat their unconventional attack, but this time there would be no surprise, which meant that most of them would die. Even if they survived the assault, it wasn’t likely there’d be any landing platforms left after the fleets engaged each other. The launch bays were silent as the crews manned their craft. They were grim and determined, and if they were going to die they were going to do it with pride, and they were going to take a lot of their enemies with them.
Well, this is it, Compton thought. We’ll make them pay, at least. Enough so this fleet is in no condition to attack anywhere else. The war will go on, and that much we owe to our comrades in arms. He was calm, resigned to the situation. Part of him hoped to win the fight, of course, and he was sure that, one on one, his people were more than a match for their enemies. But it wasn’t one on one, and the hard mathematical reality of warfare would assert itself. Twice as many weapons firing at half as many targets; it was simple math. He hoped for victory, of course, but the forty year combat veteran knew he was really fighting to inflict as much damage before his people went down. He wondered what Leonidas thought that last morning at Thermopylae, before the Persian masses launched the final assault.
“Sir, major energy spike at the warp gate.” Commander Simmons’s voice pulled Compton from his grim contemplations. “Something is transiting into the system.”
Compton’s mind raced. Who could it be? The warp gate was 120 light minutes away, so whatever transited had actually been in the system for two hours. He couldn’t imagine how they could be friendlies; he was sure there was no significant force the high command could have sent here so quickly. He wondered grimly, could the enemy actually have more ships to throw into this fight? Not that they needed them.
Sir, we’re getting a message now.” Simmons turned to face Compton. His normally calm voice was high-pitched and he spoke quickly, excitedly through the broad smile on his face. “I don’t know how, sir. It’s Admiral Garret!” He paused, still listening to the incoming transmission. With four Yorktown class battleships.”
Chapter 23
East of the Lysandra Plateau
Epsilon Eridani IV
Cain stood outside the blasted entryway to the underground complex. There were shards of blackened plasti-steel and shattered rock strewn around the large opening. He was silent, still digesting Captain Teller’s report. Teller was still being vague about the cavern, preferring Cain to see for himself.
Teller’s people had cut their way through the large steel door, but when they were fired on they fell back and blew the entire thing. The firefight had been short; the troops inside were some type of security force the Marines had never seen before, but they were no match for Erik Cain’s special action teams. Teller had been about to hit them with some heavy ordnance when the troops shooting at his people suddenly ceased fire and a woman contacted him over his comlink.
“This is Christine Cole, project manager of this facility, contacting the Marine commander.” She spoke in perfect, unaccented English. “I have instructed our security forces to stand down immediately. This is an Alliance installation. You were fired upon in error. Please cease hostilities.”
“All units, condition green 7.” Teller’s command directed his forces to hold in position and stay on highest alert. It also authorized them to fire if they felt threatened. “Attention, Christine Cole. Your people have attacked Alliance Marines and ignored our orders to cease fire and stand down. You are to surrender this facility at once and your security force is to deactivate weapons and march out immediately. Failure to comply will result in an immediate resumption of hostilities, and we will take the installation by force without further notice.”
The voice on his comlink tried to negotiate with him, but he cut her short, giving her one minute to accept his terms. When her continued attempts at persuasion were not only ineffectual, but outright ignored, she finally agreed to surrender. She ordered the security forces to power down weapons and obey the commands of the Marines. Teller was listening on the com line. She doesn’t speak like an engineer, he thought. This woman is used to giving commands, and she did not like being refused. Not one bit.
“Security force personnel, listen carefully.” Teller had waited for Cole to finish transmitting her surrender order then he jumped on the line. “This is Captain James Teller, 1st U.S. Marine Division, Alliance Space Command. You are ordered to deactivate all weapon systems immediately and remove your helmets. You are to march out in single file and follow the instructions of any Marine personnel. Failure to follow instructions or the detection of an activated weapon will result in the immediate resumption of hostilities.”
The surrender was completed without incident, and over 200 security troops and 2,500 workers marched out. Teller had called for reinforcements from the search teams in the area, and he detached several newly arrived platoons to administer and guard the prisoners. Christine Cole came out with the last party, which clearly consisted of managers and supervisory personnel. She was wearing a protectiv
e suit, not quite armor, but something more than the normal gear worn by the other administrators. As per Teller’s command, she had removed her helmet, revealing a tangled mass of golden blonde hair.
“Captain Teller, I am Christine Cole.” He was shocked to find a beautiful woman standing there, her blue eyes focused right at him as she spoke, despite the fact that his own were masked by his helmet. Most people found it disconcerting to look right at someone in full armor during a conversation, but not her. “I must insist that your troops remain outside the facility. This is a highly classified project.” Her voice was pleasant, but there was something else there. Something commanding, even threatening.
“I am sorry,” Teller said, “but that is out of the question. This planet is an active battle zone, and I have to investigate and occupy this facility. I can assure you that any secure information will be safeguarded with appropriate care.”
She started to argue with him, but he cut her off again. She is a manipulative one, he thought. Teller was a cold fish, though - a bit of a martinet and immune to her charms and pleas. Finally, he called Sergeant Sawyer over and had him remove her from his presence. Sawyer was the perfect choice, he thought with an amused grin. She might as well try to charm a block of frozen helium.
Teller assembled a team and entered the facility, but they only got about 100 meters before they stopped in their tracks. “God damn,” Teller drawled, staring dumbstruck at what he saw. “OK, everybody out.” His stern command broke the stunned silence on the com. “Now!”
The search team turned and walked quickly back the way they had come. Teller posted guards at the entry with orders to allow no one to pass; then he called Cain.
The climactic battle for the plateau was in full swing, and Jax had just gone down, so Cain ordered Teller to hold fast and guard the cave until he could get there. Teller wouldn’t discuss what he’d seen over the comlink, and Cain accepted the captain’s judgment on that and didn’t press him.