by Jay Allan
“No question, General. Manufacturing these suits would require a purpose-built facility of considerable sophistication.”
Damian shook his head. “An impressive piece of work, Doctor, but not one likely to help us now.”
“Not in its full form, General. But perhaps we can come halfway.”
“Halfway?”
“Yes. I believe I can create a stripped-down design. It would lack the advanced AI control and the full trauma response system. The servos would be considerably less detailed, and consequently, they would not handle as well as the original version.”
“But you believe they’d still be effective?”
“I do.”
“And you believe we could actually build these? Some kind of version of them?”
“I do, as well. Haven produces considerable quantities of tungsten, and tungsten-carbide would be a suitable material for the armor. I would have to redesign the offensive systems—we’d never be able to produce the energy weapons, or even power them . . .”
“Doctor?” The expression on Holcomb’s face had twisted into a frown.
“Power. I’m sorry—I forgot about the power.”
“What about it?”
“The power system is another problem. In this design, the suit is powered by a miniaturized fusion reactor. It’s highly advanced, something I invented specifically for this project. There is no way we can build them with the resources we have.”
Damian felt the scant ray of hope he’d allowed himself to fade. “Powered armor isn’t much good without power.” He glanced back toward the entrance to the tent. He had tasks piled on top of tasks and no more time to waste discussing impossible weapons systems. “Do the best you can, Dr. Holcomb. You have already contributed far more than your share.” He shifted his foot toward the tent’s opening.
“Wait, General.” Holcomb looked up at Damian, a glimmer of hope in his eye. “We can’t build the fusion system right now, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a way. I can probably rig up a miniature fission reactor strong enough to power a stripped-down version of the suit. It would be a little primitive—we don’t use fission for much since the development of fusion reactors, and what I can put together quickly here will be very basic. But it might just work.” A pause.
“What is it now?”
“It might work . . . if you can get me some uranium or plutonium.”
Damian was silent for a moment. “That’s a pretty tall order, Doctor. But I have to believe we could find a moderate quantity if it was important. Do you really think that could work?”
“It will be less powerful. Since I’m already modifying the suit’s design, though, it wouldn’t take much more to cut out power-intensive features. I’d have to take out the particle accelerators anyway, and they’re one of the biggest energy drains. Fission power should be sufficient to power the suit’s movement and basic systems. Yes, I do think it would work. Though . . . there would be some drawbacks, as well.”
“Drawbacks?”
“For one, it would be considerably dirtier. The fusion reactor would produce relatively clean energy, and with a well-designed system to cut the reaction if the magnetic bottle is breached, it would be fairly safe. Fission, on the other hand, has a number of negatives. The fuel is considerably more hazardous, especially if its containment is breached. The risk to the wearer would be higher. Radiation poisoning is a distinct possibility. I doubt we will be able to create 100-percent-effective shielding on an expedited schedule. But yes, I do think I can make it work. At least some version of it.”
Damian imagined his soldiers in the new armor, enduring the dangers, not only of things like radiation leaks, but also simple malfunctions in the field. If the mechanicals stopped working, it wasn’t like a trooper could move himself inside a multiton monster of a suit.
“And you believe it is possible to build a number of these?”
“I do. But, General, you must understand. In normal circumstances, not only would vastly greater resources be available to a project like this, but the testing period would be extensive. I believe we can build a simplified version of the suit, but your people would be essentially testing them in battle. I will be as meticulous as possible, but with the expedited schedule and the lack of proper facilities and materials, the risk factor and the chance of malfunction will be enormously increased.”
Damian wanted to reject the proposal out of hand. The idea of putting his soldiers into an untested radiation-leaking hunk of metal sickened him. He would have detested some politician who’d put his comrades in that position years before, and his opinion hadn’t changed.
But his position had. He would do all he could to lead the army, but they couldn’t win without some edge, a surprise he could spring on the federals. He knew his old comrades too well. However much a fool he considered Semmes, the officers and troopers in the field knew what they were doing. They wouldn’t be lured into simplistic traps or goaded into foolishness. And if the intel reports were correct, if Colonel Granz was in tactical command, things were even worse. Damian had never met the colonel, but his exploits in the last war were already part of infantry lore. There was no way he was going to trick Granz . . . he had to outfight him. And he had no idea how he could do that.
But if we can actually build these things . . .
“Do it,” he said. “You have priority access to any resources. Take what you need, Dr. Holcomb, and whatever personnel, too. Build me these suits, as many as you can.”
Damian paused, pushing back the urge to recant all he had just said. Then: “As quickly as possible, Doctor.”
“Yes, General. I understand.”
Damian was about to say something else, but then Katia Rand came running through the tent flap. “General,” she said, her voice cracking.
“What is it, Katia?” Her tone said it all: that something was wrong. Very wrong.
“A runner just came in. Jamie sent . . . I mean Captain Grant sent him. The enemy is attacking from the south.”
“Doctor, I have to go.” He turned and gestured toward the opening in the tent, following Katia out into the cleared ground just outside. “Did he request reinforcements? Or can his people hold?” The enemy had been probing at his forces for over a week now, and Grant’s people and the other scouts had managed to repel them relatively easily.
“General . . . Jamie’s people are falling back. He reports enemy forces moving forward in strength. He said”—she hesitated a moment, clearly struggling to continue—“his people will delay the enemy as long as possible, but he warns he thinks this is a major attack.”
“Focus, Lieutenant.”
She swallowed, but her voice didn’t waver. “Yes, sir.”
Damian accelerated his pace, moving past Katia, leading her back to the command tent. He considered his options. His initial thought was to withdraw and avoid the enemy. But it was too late for that. His retreat could be only to the north, through kilometers of open country, with enemy airpower attacking from above and the federal troops on his tail. Besides, he knew the enemy still had considerable strength tied down in Landfall, dealing with Killian and his people. So even if this was a major attack in force, it might not be quite the all-out offensive he feared. Perhaps now was the time, the best chance he’d get to secure that early victory he needed. Prove to Kutusov the Haven Republic was legitimate.
“Sir?” Rand asked, awaiting his orders.
“Send word to all battalion commanders, Lieutenant Rand. All units are to go to full alert. The army is to prepare for battle.”
Chapter 20
Utility Conduit 307
Under Landfall
Federal Colony Alpha-2, Epsilon Eridani II (Haven)
Jacob North was bent forward, his back aching from scrambling through the low tunnel. He glanced down at his timer. His people were on schedule. No, actually, they were a few minutes ahead.
“We’ll stop for a few minutes, catch our breath.” And stretch out a bit. Before my spin
e snaps in half. “When we start up again, we’re right into it, so if anybody needs to review your part of the op, now’s the time to ask.”
North glanced back, his eyes moving as far down the ragged column behind him as he could see in the broken light of the battery-powered torch. Not a word was spoken.
He dropped low and let himself fall back gently, leaning against the wall and stretching out his legs. The ground was cold, the hard concrete unyielding, painful against his bruises. But it felt so good to extend his legs and straighten his back, he hardly noticed. He had only a minute or two, and then his people had to push ahead.
Every Haven soldier in the city was on the move now, the rangers, and the two battalions also under Colonel Killian’s command—those who were left after the feds’ series of purges, that is. Still, it was a sizable number—thirty teams were moving toward designated targets, all with orders to strike at precisely the same moment. The various forces were positioned to launch attacks at dozens of locations, diversions to sow confusion in the federal ranks. North had been stunned at the scope and meticulous organization of Killian’s plan, all the more so since the colonel had put it all together in just a few hours.
If the attacks were successful, the federal army’s logistics would be badly damaged, its ability to sustain offensive operations degraded or even crippled. North didn’t think total success was likely, but he hoped the teams could cause enough damage to at least disorganize the federals enough to cover their own retreat. Each team and support group had orders to slip out of the city after their operations were complete. With luck, many of them would make it to the cover of the woods in the north before the federals were able to launch an effective pursuit.
Whatever forces were able to make good their withdrawals were to move out on their own, harassing the enemy forces that had been moving north in pursuit of the main army, if opportunities presented themselves.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds. He’d been running constantly for the past forty-eight hours, helping to prep the night’s operations. He was exhausted, and all he wanted was to stay there with his legs extended and sleep. But that wasn’t an option, and sleep, in any case, was a long way off. Even if he survived his group’s mission—and he knew that was a significant “if”—he faced an immediate, desperate flight to the partial and fleeting safety of the forest.
“All right, let’s go. Rest time is over.” He could hear the groans of his people, but even more, he could feel them. They were tired, sore, scared. But they were here with him, and even as he pulled himself up, back into the agonizing crouched-over position to navigate the tunnels, he could hear and see them doing the same. Not one of them hesitated or argued.
He was proud of them. A few were rangers, and all were veterans of the last war, but except for him, none had real military experience before the rebellion broke out. They were amateurs of a sort, but they were dedicated and courageous, and he decided he couldn’t ask more from warriors than that.
He pushed on forward, the pain in his back and legs coming back almost immediately. The column continued for nearly another kilometer, moving as quickly as they could in the tight confines. Finally he extended his hand behind him and said, “Okay, halt.”
He dropped to the floor again, stretching his legs as he had done before. A glance at the timer on his wrist confirmed what he had already known. His people were early. H-hour wasn’t for another eighteen minutes.
“You’ve got a few minutes. Stretch out, but use the time well. I want everybody to check their weapons, make sure your spare magazines are accessible. Explosive teams, check your gear. You’re not going to have time to waste once we go in.”
No, we’ll be lucky if we can get you in at all. His eyes moved up to the metal hatch along the side of the tunnel, and to the markings next to it identifying the facility beyond as one of the main power transfer stations in the city. If North’s people were successful, half of Landfall would lose its power, for hours if not days. His mission was crucial to the success of a dozen others, but that hatch looked pretty strong. He shook his head at the negativity.
We’ll get it done.
It wasn’t just the hatch that bothered him, though. He stared at the sign next to the small doorway. It was an obvious target, too, and that meant it would be well defended. His people were going to have one hell of a fight on their hands in . . .
He looked down at the timer.
Eleven minutes.
He started checking his own weapons.
“I want these criminals and terrorists hunted down and destroyed, Major Brendel. The loss of supplies has been intolerable for weeks now.” Robert Semmes was sitting at his desk, his face an angry scowl as he vented his frustrations to Avery Brendel.
Brendel just listened, nodding occasionally in agreement but not interjecting her thoughts. Mostly because she had none. Brendel’s specialty was intimidating civilians, and the guerillas infesting Landfall might not be professional soldiers, exactly, but they weren’t shopkeepers and factory workers who could be intimidated by a few executions or some time in an internment camp. They would have to be rooted out one by one and killed, a process that Brendel knew took time. And one that was well under way already, even if slower than the spoiled Semmes wanted to see.
“I want you to take charge of the operation personally, Major.” Semmes finally said what she’d expected was coming, and what she’d hoped to avoid. Brendel wasn’t squeamish about killing enemy guerillas—she wasn’t squeamish about killing anyone—but this wasn’t a job she wanted. In the first place, she didn’t have enough of her Peacekeepers, which meant she’d need to use regular soldiers. And federal frontline troops were squeamish about killing civilians, and also persuading captives to rat out their allies. It would be a headache from beginning to end, and Brendel could tell right then that Semmes’s impatience was going to make any realistic result inadequate.
There was no way to avoid the assignment, though, so she didn’t even try. “Yes, sir. However I can be of the greatest assistance. It does seem that the efforts to date have been somewhat successful, at least the centralization of supply depots. Losses have declined considerably, have they not?”
“Yes, though they are still too high. But better safeguarding of supplies is not the same thing as eliminating the infestation of traitors and terrorists. We ‘control’ Landfall, and yet our troops are in danger unless they are in large, reinforced patrols. Not a morning passes without the discovery of some guard or messenger murdered. It is intolerable, and I want it stopped.” He stared across the desk, his eyes cold. “You have the authority to do anything you feel is necessary, Major.”
“Yes, sir.” Brendel wondered if Semmes understood what she was coming to realize, that Alpha-2’s people were different than the long-oppressed and terrified masses back on Earth. She’d expected her initial display of ferocity, the executions and the massacre of the mob, to go a long way toward breaking the will of the populace. But the typical deluge of tips had not occurred. Even prisoners who were aggressively interrogated provided a substandard flow of intelligence. Whatever Semmes had convinced himself of, she knew the rebel elements of the population were still committed to their cause. She wondered if more brutality would break them, would finally crush their spirit to resist . . . or if it would inflame the rebellion further, creating an endless stream of martyrs and zealots. Mentally she shrugged, because that wasn’t her concern. She’d hated the idea of coming to Alpha-2 at all, but orders were orders. As was still the case.
“I want you to start at once, Major. Obviously all of your own people will be available for your operations, but I will assign any other forces you require. Simply let me know what you need. There is no higher priority right now. I want Landfall pacified. At once.”
Almost as if in answer, the office shook, and a loud rumbling sound filled the air. Then another one, and a few second later, a whole series of what could only be explosions.
Then the sounds of distant—an
d not too distant—rifle fire.
And then the lights went out.
Brendel took a deep breath, even as Semmes leapt to his feet in the dim light of the emergency lamps, roaring for his aide to come into the office.
This assignment was going to be a nightmare . . .
“Let’s go. Move!” Jacob North stood alongside the shattered section of masonry wall, just about all that remained of the building that had housed the transfer station. He was shouting, his voice as loud as he could manage with his parched throat. His people had brought extra explosives with them, in case any were lost, and he’d ordered them to be emplaced. The explosion had been huge, and he didn’t imagine his people could hear any better right now than he could, so he compensated with volume.
He shook his head, an instinctive effort to clear the loud ringing in his ears, but it was no more effective than it had been the other half-dozen times he’d tried it.
He moved toward the edge of the broken brick wall, peering around. There were federal troopers everywhere, but they were disorganized. The explosion had taken out a good number of them, and the others had ducked for whatever cover they could. It wasn’t going to last long—in fact, the enemy soldiers were already reordering themselves—but it was the best chance his people would get. What was left of his people, at least.
“Let’s go. Across the street and through that alley.” He’d had multiple escape routes planned out, but there were too many federals around most of them. The path across the street would have been his last choice, but now it was the only one. “Now!”
It was easier said than done, though. His force had been fighting the federals since they’d emerged from the underground tunnel, and casualties had been heavy. Now there were more soldiers, reinforcements he could see rushing down the street. If his people didn’t get moving, they’d be trapped.
He reached out, grabbed hold of the trooper next to him, and pushed hard, out into the street. “Let’s go,” he shouted again, his voice hard.