Deploying Terran Defense Force to the Outer Rim could not be done without the Fleet. The Fleet typically provided escort forces. This was strategy straight from the 1940s. The Navy shipped soldiers across the English Channel, and the Navy provided some gunnery, but the ground forces needed additional air and sea support. Fleet air forces served a singular purpose: to defend the Fleet battle platforms. Terran Defense Force fighters, once dropped or flown to the surface, were on their own. That was no way to fight a war, and what happened during the Great War and the Battle of Libretto proved that once and for all. Tying air forces to ground units for lift and fire support was critical to success.
Yet no one wanted to talk about it. As good as the TDF cavalry did there, it wasn’t enough. Yes, they had stopped an armored attack on Libretto, but to take the fight back into the devastated Outer Rim, we’d have to do things differently. Moving a big force out there would take time and resources, and time wasn’t on our side. We’d have to integrate air and land forces in a way that hadn’t been done since the Air Force belonged to the army. Almost four hundred years of division would have to come together in a small, cohesive force designed to take ground, hold it, and pass it on to a follow-on unit while moving to the next piece of ground.
“One Nine, Elysium. Winds are negligible, as always, out of 274. You’re cleared to runway twenty-seven right, taxiway three, to hangar five.”
I clicked my microphone twice, leveled the Skyhawk’s wing, and watched the glide-slope indicators to make sure I was centered and ready to land. When I was connected to the aircraft with Lily, it pretty much landed itself. Over the threshold of the runway, there was a little spike of ground effect from the thin Martian atmosphere, but it was nothing worrisome. The little extra lift and decreased drag generated by the Skyhawk’s wings made it feel as though I floated just above the runway. The nimble little exocraft settled to the runway with barely a thud. I let the nose wheel fall to the surface and throttled back until taxiway three, where I turned left and headed toward hangar five.
Lily? You’ve got a recording of most of what I was thinking?
<
Thank you, Lily. Anything else?
<
Give me the complete text, please. The words appeared across my retina display and disappeared with a blink. Crawley was in danger, and that meant that danger would trickle down to my wife. I was sixty million miles away from Earth, so the amount of trouble that could come my way was limited, outside of Commander Bussot. Crawley would be their target. Berkeley, as invisible as she was at the moment, was still a known name and Nobel-nominated scientist. My wife wasn’t out of danger. Far from it. We’d known from the moment I came back from the dead, so to speak, that things could change in a heartbeat.
Our prearranged codes confirmed that. It was time I let the commandant know that Bussot and others had tried penetrating my files. He’d also have to know about my confirmation of their cheating, but there was little he could do about it. If Bussot found out who I was, the only option I had was to unleash my protocol and provide clear proof of everything. That would reveal my identity to too many people and get me killed by the council. As a result, Lily was already changing my encryption and connectivity levels. She would address the physical security of my room and future aircraft, too. Short of a catastrophic, unplanned failure of a system, I’d be safe. It was a start.
At my parking spot in hangar five, I shut down and safed the aircraft’s systems before turning it over to Master Sergeant Veer.
“How’d it go, sir?” she asked.
“Great.” I shook my head. “Until she had to cheat to win.”
Veer’s face contorted slightly. There was something she didn’t want to say, so I said it for her.
“They do that all the time, don’t they?”
She exhaled and squinted up at me. “Yes, sir. They’ve ordered all of my crew to keep it quiet. Bussot has transferred people to the Outer Rim because they’ve threatened to tell the commandant.”
“She doesn’t have that kind of power.”
“She knows someone who does, sir. Think about what you’re doing.”
Her words stunned me. For the first time, I realized this situation went much higher than an aggressor squadron commander. Veer took her clipboard, thanked me for not breaking her jet, and got to work getting it ready for the Styrahi joint exercise starting in the morning. The first brief was set for 0900, and I already knew I was going to have a problem with the battle plan. The TDF and Fleet were going to lose again because they refused to work together.
<
Wonderful. I rolled my eyes. The exercise would kick off at 0800 or so, and the first three hours of an exercise were usually a series of briefings and wargaming. Not only was she taking me out of the initial fight, but the Terran Defense Force hardly fought at night despite its capabilities. I’d sit on my heels for the first two days of our simulated “war” with the Styrahi. By the time I got into the fight, the Styrahi would already be decisively winning. Knowing my schedule, though, had its advantages. After a shower, I’d grab a notebook and head to the bar for a beer and some food.
Creating a reaction squadron was going to take more than some thought and a beer. Reaction squadron. The term filled my memory with vibrant images and discussions with friends in Afghanistan three hundred years before. I’d given my concept that name, and while it was sound in theory, this strange future would require some thought to succeed. At the start of the exercise, I’d see the same old tactics try and fail. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a way to inject this idea for the sake of doing something different. Dying in the same old ways in training was not a solution for fighting a war on the enemy’s terms.
The locker room was empty as I shrugged out of my flight suit and stowed my gear. In the shower, my racing mind kept putting the pieces together. Instead of trying to logistically support a large force moving from planet to planet or, in the case of history, from one conflict to the next, try to send a smaller combined arms force for a brief mission to quickly control the situation and allow the time for a more concentrated, appropriate response to be fielded by the government or a coalition of nations. The Joint Task Forces of the twenty-first century had this in mind, but the operational control really revolved around what service was in the command seat at the time and how they could pad their foxholes for future conflicts. They went into hotspots, established control, and built relationships, but then they hunkered down in poorly located bases too far apart to really support operations capable of doing the most good. There was too much effort involved to have the different services working together with as little supervision as possible. No one really wanted to integrate forces under asymmetrical commanders and structures. The tried and true “we take care of our own” service bullshit was the order of the day, and that was precisely why it would not work.
I threw on my flight suit and went out into the passageway. The noise from the Brass Anchor echoed down the mostly empty tubes of the hangar complex. All of the newly arrived Terran Defense Force soldiers were likely there, having a last beer before they headed into the field for the exercise. A crowd was the last thing I needed. I had to have time to think.
The whole idea, everything that I’d dreamed up a lifetime ago, was so blindingly simple. Create a small, highly mobile force with inherent ground and air assets. For the ground, maybe a battalion, or a task force structure, with an extra platoon or two for good measure. For the air, have a squadron of navy jets, a minimum of twelve divided into three flights of four aircraft each—on
e flight for interception, one for close air support, and one for suppressing enemy air defenses. Attach some lift capabilities. Since we didn’t use helicopters anymore, I’d need to learn about drop aircraft like the Rhino, but the idea was sound. We wouldn’t even need a Fleet battle platform to launch operations from—a smaller ship, such as a corvette, would do. I figured maybe five hundred personnel would make up the unit, but I could have been wrong. It would take more time to flesh out.
For the first two days of our exercise testing, I’d have lots of time on my hands, so I couldn’t complain. Research was calling my name. After I’d worked out the specifics of a reaction squadron on paper, I’d feel a little more secure in going to the commandant with all of the information I had about Bussot, the training platform, and the war in general.
Warm from the bonfire, Berkeley reclined on a towel and took in the scene, recording it with her neurals for Kieran. He’d love to see his friends telling stories, both the insane and the sorrowful. Downy’s recalling of Stick’s death and Kieran’s reaction was funny and poignant at the same time. She’d heard the story a dozen times and seen the footage saved by Mally, but other people had seen the same event from a different perspective. The incredulous emotions and respect they had for what Sleepy-Kieran had done was immeasurable. In their eyes, he was more than just a man. They claimed he had no fear and that he would do anything for anyone at any time. Berkeley smiled, knowing that they were more correct than they knew.
“I’m telling ya,” Downy said with a shrug, “never seen nothin’ like that in my life.”
Turk chuckled, and it grew to a short, barking laugh that drew everyone’s attention.
“What the hell’s so funny?” Downy asked.
Turk shook his head. “Thinking about Sleepy’s goofy ass the first time he got out on the break. Right after he…”
Came back, Berkeley filled in, remembering the two days after he’d nearly died at Mountain Home—after she thought he was dead in her arms. Her crushing loss had been replaced in an instant with gratitude, her anger and shock disappearing as he stepped through Allan’s door. Until that moment, Crawley and others had used considerable deceit to keep her in the dark. The boys—at least Downy and Turk—knew only a little of what had happened because Allan had told them. Even a half-dozen beers into a party, they kept their wits and protected Kieran.
Downy laughed and shook his head. “Oh man, I forgot about that.” He looked at her. “So, Berk, we get him back out there, and the first thing he does is paddle straight out into the break. I’m yellin’ at him to watch the coral, and he yells back he’s tryin’ to outrun a shark.”
Turk guffawed, an absolute rarity. “He’s swimming like hell into the break and just gets pummeled. We see the shark fin about the same time, and Downy’s screaming for the boat. He takes the tow sled and flies out there as Sleepy comes up from the chop. There’s a two-meter-long great white not ten meters away. The damned thing’s head comes up out of the water like he’s looking at Sleepy. Downy pulls out his shark-repellent gun and shoots…” He broke into laughter.
Downy, more embarrassed than anything, talked through choked-up laughter. “Hell, Berk, I’m so damned scared I pulled the trigger. The shark tears ass away from Sleepy, and I’m thinking I got the son of a bitch. I pull up to get Sleepy on the sled, and his right hand is bleeding.”
“And the next thing we see,” Turk managed to choke out, “is Downy falling off the back of the sled after Sleepy punched him right in the face. He hits Downy, screams ‘Oh, shit!’ and hauls Downy out of the water. Bastards laughed all the way back to the boat.”
In his laughing fit, Downy howled and pointed at the sky. “You got a good left, you crazy bastard! I’m flailing around in bloody water, sharks nearby, and I’m trying not to laugh about the fact that I’d shot him in the bloody hand!”
Berkeley laughed with them. “I never heard that story.”
“He probably didn’t want you to know he’d been swimming with sharks,” Downy said. “Damn, I miss that bastard.”
Berkeley sighed. “Me, too.”
“He owes me a case of beer,” Downy said with a laugh. Turk threw a crushed aluminum can at him, and the storytelling dissolved into smaller conversations. Music blared again from speakers Berkeley could not see. After midnight, Allan trundled down the beach and sat heavily in the sand next to her.
“You stayed later than normal,” she said.
“Busy night.” Allan sighed. “Not staying long, and neither should you.”
“I’m not. It’s been a long few days.”
“Long and fruitless?”
“Something like that.” She shook her head. “I passed the message to Kieran. Haven’t heard back yet. They’re in exercise mode right now, so I probably won’t hear from him for a few days.” She held back the sigh that wanted to escape. She’d known this would be part of the deal, with Kieran in uniform, but that never meant she had to like it.
“Long enough for this thing to run its course?” Allan said.
Berkeley frowned. “It may not run its course for a long time, Allan.”
“Crawley is worried about you.” The two men had become close friends over the last year, even sharing a deep-sea fishing expedition a few months earlier. “He’s afraid that his plan isn’t going to work.”
Berkeley snorted. “And I’m assuming you know as much of the plan as I do?”
“You know he wouldn’t share that with anyone.” Allan chuckled. “He’s carried a large burden for a very long time. It’s about time for him to set it down for a while, I think.”
“He won’t go willingly,” Berkeley said.
“Maybe that’s what he’s counting on.” Allan reached out a large hand and patted her knee. It was a fatherly gesture, the significance of which was not lost on her. He viewed Kieran as a son, of sorts. Unlike the love of their other friends, this was focused and determined, the kind of love that wanted the best for her and Kieran.
The sea crashing against the shore and the warmth of the fire touched her heart. She did not want to lose this. In the morning, without any other word from Crawley, she would be ready to leave for a variety of destinations. Protecting herself and Kieran was the first priority. Her work could be done from almost anywhere in the known universe with a solid cyber connection and enough bandwidth. Traveling wasn’t the problem, nor was the feeling of being on the run. What bothered her was that she would no longer be in Esperance. The place was more than a quiet little seaside town. It was their home. For it to remain that way, she knew that she could not stay in the short term. The lovable bastards around the fire and the strong, gentle man to her right would be in danger, too. Once the Terran Council starting tearing into the layers of Crawley’s deceit, it could end badly for all of them.
She pushed the thoughts away for an hour. As the sea swelled toward high tide and the breakers crept closer and closer to the fire, the crowd disbanded. Berkeley walked in darkness to the home she shared with Kieran. Along the way, she tagged and laid out information to hack cameras so that she could watch her path and the area around their home. Any warning time was better than none.
She was climbing the front-porch steps when a neural notification flashed that a search parameter had been triggered. The low-priority search entry for Livermore came from an anonymous server in North America. The requestor delved into information that was in the public domain through the Terran Defense Force, accessing details about General Crawley and any references to Livermore but not at a level that anyone would care about. Most military press releases and information were lifeless, prose-inflated documents anyway. She cataloged the search information as a low-level threat and retained a record to share with Crawley when he resurfaced.
Tossing her shirt and jeans into the chair across from their bed, Berkeley turned down the covers and stretched one final time. She sat on the bed and froze, looking at th
e simple clock Kieran had insisted on, which read 0155 hours. She wondered what time it was on Mars. Then she shook her head. Like it matters, she thought with a tired grin. Sleep was more than a necessity in her state—it was a requirement.
At 0156 hours, just before her head hit the pillow, Berkeley’s urgent newsfeed alarms rang inside her mind and jolted her fully awake. A priority search engaged, and Berkeley clapped a hand over her mouth and swore silently. How could I have been so stupid! Nobody searches for the Livermore program anymore! A connection with a history profile equivalent with Kieran’s original protocol had been reestablished and caught by the Terran Council. Whatever triggered the connection deleted itself within nanoseconds, but the recipient’s neural path accepted the message. The message led to what she thought was a protocol address in Memphis.
Chastity.
Oh my God, she’s alive. Berkeley shook her head. How in the hell did that happen? Shock turned to the realization that she’d failed to protect every possible angle. Crawley had been correct—that was impossible to do. She triggered a neural connection only to find Crawley offline. Completely offline.
Another standard search was triggered for news from Sydney. She froze and felt her body tremble. All hell had just broken loose, and it was worse than she’d ever imagined.
Six hours after appearing in orbit around Ethi Prime, the Grey Jack’s orbital track took it right over the Styrahi strongpoint defense. In typical fashion, the Greys deployed to the ground forty kilometers to the south. Satellite imagery showed their twenty thousand vehicles in a line-abreast formation as they rolled across the planet. All at once, they charged.
Da’adstri and her brigade were ready. As the Greys raced toward them, her artillery officers timed their approach and prepared to fire. She watched the ginger-haired artillery officer, Trianne, stand in anticipation as her countdown timer ticked down to zero.
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