Drake's Rift: Taurian Empire

by Nate Johnson

  He grinned to himself again. To get through, the Scraggs would have to come in at the edge, work their way to the center. Not going to happen, he swore to himself as a picture of Alicia Miller and her people jumped to his mind. Nope. Not going to happen.

  Sighing, he sprinted back to his men, fighting to pull his mind away from the temptation that was Miss Alicia Miller and back to the responsibilities in front of him. But no matter how hard he tried, she was always there. Always hovering in the back of his mind. A presence that constantly reminded him of what they were fighting for.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Admiral McKenzie studied the screen and slowly shook his head. All his plans, all his preparations were useless now. Instead, he had twenty separate battles going on. The alien fleet had scattered to the four corners of the solar system. His ships in hot pursuit of almost every one of them.

  “Steadfast,” he said into the command channel. “Break off and make for their jump point. I want you sitting there, stopping anything from getting through.”

  “Sir,” the Steadfast’s captain began. “We can still fight, I’ve got six working guns. We can take these bastards.”

  Admiral McKenzie took a deep breath, he didn’t like his orders being questioned. Even if it was because the skipper wanted to keep fighting. But this was the heat of battle and this was one of his best men. Sighing, he said, “Jim, put your ship where I told you to. I’m more worried about something getting through and warning their home planet. The last thing we need is another fleet jumping in on us.”

  There was a momentary pause before the skipper responded. “Aye, aye, Sir. We will make sure nothing gets through.”

  “Good,” the admiral said. “Let me know when you are in position.” Turning, he ignored the man’s response and focused on the fleet.

  “Sir,” the York’s captain said. Mac glanced up at his wall of monitors and scanned until he got to the York screen. The captain looked disheveled, his hair was singed and his clothes had been ripped.

  “We’ve got to abandon ship,” the captain said with a sad frown. “We’ve got more holes than we can fix and we’re leaking like a sieve. Ten minutes and we’ll be on suit air only. We’re done.”

  The admiral nodded slowly, as his heart went out to his men. He knew very well the love a spacer had for their ship. The thought of abandoning her to the blackness of space would tear at their souls.

  “Roger, understand,” he said. “Pine, move in and take the York’s crew off. Captain Silver, see if you can get your ship headed for Intrepid, maybe we can pick her up later and fix the old girl up.”

  The captain nodded slowly as he turned to start issuing the necessary orders.

  “Admiral,” the Pine’s young commander interjected. “We might have a problem. An alien ship has broken off engagement with the Durable and is headed straight for us and the York. I’ll try to hold her off while we pick up survivors. But I thought you should know.”

  “Durable?” the admiral said through gritted teeth.

  “Sir,” the destroyer’s skipper began, “he outmaneuvered us. Caught us when we jagged, he jigged. I’m turning now, but I don’t think I’ll get there in time.”

  Mac’s heart jumped. His men would be exposed during the transfer. And the Pine was limited to one gun. She wasn’t built for this kind of battle.

  “Sir,” another captain interrupted, “we’ve finished off our target. Now we’re just punching holes in a colander. I can break off and be there in time.”

  “Which vessel?” he asked, upset at the lack of communication protocol.

  “Sorry, Venturous, Sir.”

  “Roger, permission granted.”

  Biting down at his rising anger, he took a deep calming breath. The battle was getting away from him. Captains and crews were fighting with damaged ships. The aliens continued to hit them, their lasers finding weak points.

  But, we’re killing more of them than they are of us, he reminded himself. He just wished that he could use his fleet as one entity instead of twenty separate battles.

  Shaking off his anger, he focused on the large battleship the Churchill continued to chase. The ship was making a long, turning arch, probably headed back towards the jump point for another try while trying to get away from the pesky humans.

  “That’s not going to happen,” the admiral mumbled under his breath.

  Sitting back, he watched as the number in the corner of the screen steadily decreased the number of guns throughout the fleet. That was the key. They needed to keep enough guns to finish these monsters off. But at some point, if that number got too low, the aliens would be able to approach close enough to do some real damage to his ships.

  His eyes tracked the number and his heart winced every time it dropped. It had been an hour and a half so far. An eternity. But could they finish the job?

  Glancing over, he caught Janet giving him a concerned look. He gave her a quick smile to try and reassure her, then turned back to his monitors. He’d just reoriented himself when a quick yellow explosion lit up the screen. The bright stabbing color wiped everything else off the screen. Leaving him momentarily blind.

  He knew that color. That unique mixture of yellow and a deep purple. That was a Higgs engine exploding. The color most hated by every spacer in the universe.

  “Evans,” he called out. His screen was still blank, the sensors overwhelmed by the explosion.

  “The Durable,” the commander said. “It was the only vessel in the area.”

  His heart fell. All those men. Wiped out in an instant. Probably before they even knew they were in danger. Gritting his teeth, he nodded.

  “Pine, when you’re done taking off the York crew, make a pass through the area just in case there are any survivors.”

  “Aye, Aye, Sir,” the Pine’s skipper said with a touch of sadness. Admiral McKenzie knew in his heart that it was a useless gesture. But he also knew that every man in the fleet would appreciate it. And one thing he knew for sure, his men deserved everything he could give them.

  Biting down on his lip to stop himself from saying something stupid, he turned back to his screens with a heavy heart.

  “Sir,” Captain White said, stepping up next to his shoulder. “Both the Reliance and the Dauntless have destroyed their targets. They are quite a ways off, in the opposite direction. I was thinking, maybe we could divert them to Intrepid, help Admiral Webber and the Marines. They still don’t have any air support.”

  Admiral McKenzie studied his chief of staff for a second, as he considered the suggestion. He should have thought of it himself. What was wrong with him that he hadn’t seen the opportunity? Sighing, he tried to forgive himself. He couldn’t be perfect, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Yes, Captain, that is a good idea. But only those two. Everyone else, if they finish off their target, are to assist the next closest Imperial ship.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the captain said, smiling, obviously pleased that his recommendation had been accepted.

  “And Scott,” Admiral McKenzie said. “get word to Webber. I don’t want him thinking he is being attacked. Let him know the two destroyers are on their way.”

  “Aye, Aye, Sir,” the captain said as he stepped back over to his station to relay the orders.

  Admiral McKenzie sat back and folded his arms across his chest. What else was he missing? he wondered. What should he be doing that he wasn’t? This and a thousand other thoughts flashed through his mind as he reran the events of the last two hours.

  “We’re winning,” he said to no one in particular. “But things could still change.”

  Everyone in the command room looked at their leader. They quickly realized the old man was talking to himself. But they just as quickly forgave him. He was right after all.

  .o0o.

  Onboard the Imperial Tender Pine, Lieutenant Commander Frank Marks glanced over at the two Merchant Captains sitting in the corner of his bridge. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had picked them up from
their vessel hurdling towards the alien ships orbiting Intrepid.

  He gave them a quick nod of acknowledgment and refocused at the task on hand.

  “You’re getting awful close,” One of the captains said with a raised eyebrow. Frank had to fight from rolling his eyes. These men were used to piloting vessels thousands of feet long. It took a week of Sundays to get them to turn. Well, now they were going to see what an Imperial tender could do.

  “We’re not getting close. We’re docking,” he said as he turned to study the numbers on his screen.

  The second merchant captain raised both eyebrows. “All that damage,” he said, pointing at the York on his screen. “This isn’t a shuttle. You’ll never get close enough to lock on.”

  Frank ignored them as he put his hand on his helmsman’s shoulder. “Steady,” he whispered. The young spacer nodded as both of them watched the giant destroyer slowly come closer. Filling up the screen.

  “Okay, hold it there,” the young skipper said, then turned to check his clearance both port and starboard.

  “Now, slowly engage the forward port and aft starboard thrusters.”

  Again, the helmsman nodded, his hands moving the joystick the smallest fraction.

  “Hold it,” the skipper said. “Right there. Bring us down.”

  Slowly, on the screen, the York grew bigger and bigger as the Pine lowered herself. A nasty screech told the universe that they’d scraped something. Oh well, it wouldn’t be her first bruise, he thought to himself.

  He remained focused on the screen and the merging ships until the view was blocked by the shadows. A heavy clank and slight shake echoed through the ship as she made contact. Frank smiled to himself and said. “Lock her down, run the tests and report.”

  Within seconds, a voice reported, “Tight lock.”

  He turned and gave the two merchant captains a quick smile. They both dipped their heads in acknowledgment of his skills. Smiling, he grabbed a microphone and informed the York’s skipper they were ready to start taking off his men.

  The York’s captain said, “I thought that was you knocking. Open up. We’ve still got pressure in that section of the ship. It’s one of the few areas left. We’ll load our wounded and dead first.”

  Frank’s stomach tightened. Here he’d been showing off. In the meantime. Men were dying. Shaking his head, he told the executive officer to take the con. He’d meet the York’s crew and her Captain.

  When the first stretcher was carried through, he had to push back the bile rising in his throat. The smell of burnt flesh mixed with charred electronics and scorched mechanical oil was one of the most disgusting smells ever imagined.

  “Seavers, Bush, take them to sickbay. Use the wardroom if you have to, for the overflow. Tell Doc there are more coming.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” both young spacers said, eyeing the crewmen carrying the stretchers. Frank studied the men coming through the hatch. Burns, singed uniforms, several of them coughing, probably from smoke inhalation. The bloodshot eyes and burst capillaries on the nose from the sudden loss of atmosphere.

  These men had been through hell and back. But they kept their heads up and silently carried out the grim task of abandoning their ship.

  His chest swelled with pride at his fellow servicemen. He could only pray that he would perform as well in their place.

  The wounded were followed by the black body bags. Fourteen of them, each carried by two men.

  “Take them down to the forward hold,” he said quietly to his chief. Chief Robbins nodded and Frank could have sworn he saw a tear in the old man’s eye. A thought that would have seemed impossible before today.

  “Captain Marks,” a senior officer called out from onboard the York.

  Frank nodded and made his way through the throng of crewmen to the senior officer.

  “Moncrief,” the commander said, holding out his hand, “the XO. Captain Wilson will be down in a minute. He’s gathering the logs.”

  Frank nodded. How it must hurt to abandon your ship. He couldn’t imagine abandoning the Pine, they’ have to tear him away, clawing and scraping.

  “Are you going to have enough room for us?” the commander asked with a sad smile.

  “I hope so,” Frank responded. “Because I have a feeling that you guys aren’t going to be the last. Not by a long shot.”

  The commander nodded slowly as he looked around his dying ship.

  “She was older than dirt and her pipes shook every time we changed speed. But I loved her. I really did.”

  Frank grimaced and nodded. What could he say? Nothing would make it right.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dex watched as the shadows fell away. The sun was cresting the eastern ridge and would be up in a few minutes. He swallowed hard, the Scraggs had held back all night. Why? Because they were waiting for the sun, he knew it in the bottom of his soul. There could be no other explanation.

  Taking a deep breath, he fought to calm his racing heart. Casting his senses on a wide arch, he took in the morning. The distant call of some strange bird. The dusty, grass smell that would always remind him of this valley. The solid feel of gravity under him. No chance of it going away. No vacuum sitting on the other side of a thin piece of metal.

  There could be worse places to die, he thought as he glanced back towards the redoubt and the absent Alicia. But not today.

  The burn on his back was irritating. The damn Scraggs had left a mark, that was for sure. Twisting he tried to get into a better position but the wound was located in a spot that just couldn’t be ignored.

  Instead, he concentrated on the immediate future. So much would depend upon the next few minutes. So much would depend on him doing his job correctly. General Smyth, Alicia, his men. Their very continued existence depended upon the decisions he would make.

  The thought sent a wave a crushing depression through him to be followed almost immediately by a rising anxiety.

  Pull yourself together, he said to himself. Shake it off and do your best.

  He’d no sooner regained control of his emotions when a lone voice called out from the far end of the trench. “Here they come.”

  Dex gulped, then pushed himself up to peek over the lip of the trench.

  It looked like a wave of giant rats swarming out of a sewer. Hundreds of aliens jumping from the fighting holes. Running as a mass down the village street. Their shiny armor reflecting the sunlight. They passed between the buildings, past the still smoldering shuttle, firing as they ran, their blue lasers seeking and searching for a target.

  “Open fire,” Dex yelled into his radio and sixty rifles exploded, sending lethal rounds down range. Dex watched the aliens get hit. They took a serious pounding, as slugs slammed into their armor. A square shot would knock them down, but within moments, they were up and running forward. Most of the shots were glancing blows. Enough to slow them down but not enough to stop them.

  He saw a laser rifle get smashed, the human slug tearing it into three parts. The Scragg just dropped it and kept on charging. A few steps later, the Scragg reached down and grabbed a weapon from a fallen comrade.

  In another instance, a shot caught an alien at the shoulder joint and removed his arm as clean as if it had been cut by a surgeon. Red blood spurted. The alien twisted in a circle, spraying blood all over his comrades. But as Dex watched, the aliens suit adjusted, squeezing around the stump, shutting off the blood loss. The rat-faced alien stumbled, pulled himself together, then continued charging, shooting his rifle from the hip with one hand.

  Damn, how were they going to stop them? It was like a wave of death, a continuous onslaught. A sick feeling of despair fought with the fear rising inside of him. They had to stop them.

  Dex brought his own rifle to his shoulder and slowly sifted his sight to an alien’s neck. Pulling the trigger, he watched as the monster’s neck exploded, the beast kept running, then fell face first into the dirt. Shaking off the image, Dex sighted on his next victim. Cool and calm, he reminded
himself. One shot at a time.

  But there were too many of them he realized. Hundreds, maybe as many as a thousand. They must have brought up reinforcements during the night. Squeezing the trigger, he moved to his next target. Not wasting time to see if his shot had been effective.

  “Sir,” Sergeant Smith called as he duck-walked towards him. “We’re running low on ammunition.”

  Dex took another shot, then nodded to his sergeant. He’d purposely not restocked last night. He didn’t want to evacuate the trench and leave anything behind. It was time anyway. The Scraggs had gotten to within forty yards. Much closer and his men wouldn’t have time.

  “Okay, take third platoon back to the wall. Check with Daniels and Obamway. take their wounded with you. We’ll give you cover.”

  Sergeant Smith nodded that he understood and returned to his men without a word.

  Dex returned to firing. The smell of cordite and burnt flesh hung in the air. Men were calling out to each other, some were screaming in pain. His stomach clenched up when he thought about what was happening to them.

  Dropping down below the lip of the trench, he kneeled and quickly changed magazines. Hundreds of years of technology. And we’re facing aliens with rifles. It just didn’t make sense, he thought as he stood up and began firing again. Where was the damn Navy? Military doctrine called for him to request air support. In situations like this, the Navy was supposed to pound them into oblivion.

  Swallowing hard, he continued to fire. There would be no Navy. It was him and his men. That was all he could rely on.

  Third platoon gathered on the back slope, each of them looking at their sergeant, waiting for the word to go. Several Marines were being helped by their teammates. Two of them were on stretchers. Dex’s insides turned to stone when he saw the heavy bandages holding a face together.