“Mother, Alpha-One. Tally-ho. Break engage.”
“Mother, break engage.”
Rapier eased her turn to swing wide of the target, but Katja’s attention was focused on the rising column of smoke that was fast approaching.
“Alpha Team, Alpha-One: standard sweep upon landing.”
Seconds later, the strike pod thumped down on the road. Katja flew from her seat and raced down to the ground.
The air speeder was a charred, twisted wreck. A trail of debris was scattered back down the roadway. Katja swept her rifle over fields of red grass, looking for unusual movement, then focused in on the smoking remains of the speeder. Alpha-Two indicated a single immobile target inside the speeder. Katja closed in while the others maintained perimeter.
The man was dead. She wasn’t surprised—Rapier’s weapons were designed to take out aircraft and ground batteries. But she was disappointed. A dead prisoner offered little in the way of intelligence.
“Alpha-One, Mother. We’ve detected an emergency transmission from the strike sight. Stand by for pickup in three-zero seconds.”
Katja’s frown deepened. Her eyes scanned over the broken remains of the speeder’s passenger compartment, in the ridiculous hope that perhaps some vital bit of damning evidence might be lying on the seat. Part of her wanted to stay and search, but the local warlords were now alerted, and her team could not be officially sighted on Cerberus.
She pulled out her DNA scanner and reached toward the corpse, even as she gave her order. “Alpha Team, breakaway.”
The troopers retreated to the strike pod, Hernandez hanging back to make sure the officer didn’t get herself killed. She took the DNA sample from the corpse, and then hurried inside the pod.
They were airborne seconds later, climbing vertically to meet Rapier as the fast-attack craft swooped in for pickup. Within moments the strike pod was secure alongside its twin, and Rapier was climbing spaceward at inhuman speed.
3
The red landscape of Cerberus tipped as Rapier banked hard to port. Thomas Kane gripped both armrests tightly against the strain, watching his display as one of the strike pods maneuvered for pickup. The other was vectoring to the smoking wreck of the Cerberan speeder.
If Breeze had possessed any skill with the weapons, the speeder could have been saved. As it was, they’d be lucky to find anything in that charred mess. He angled the strike camera back toward the central square of the farm, and saw the last of the locals scrambling indoors for cover.
Sure enough, moments later he heard a frantic distress call broadcast from the farm. The game was up.
“Pilot,” he ordered, “bring us around to collect the second pod. Prepare for deep space.”
“Yes, sir,” Chief Tamma said, even as he turned Rapier again and throttled back. The black column of smoke on the road ahead came into view, and Thomas could just make out Katja Emmes’s strike pod beside it. He activated strike comms.
“Alpha-One, Mother. We’ve detected an emergency transmission from the strike site. Stand by for pickup in three-zero seconds.”
Thomas heard the distant thump astern as the first strike pod docked with his ship. He scanned his 3-D display for any suspicious movement from Cerberan vessels in the atmosphere. High above, the warlord patrol craft they’d previously fooled had altered course and was descending from orbit.
Emmes was still on the ground—what was she waiting for?
“I think we should go back to the farm,” Breeze said suddenly. “There’s lots of time before any of the warlords respond.”
Thomas bit down his sharp retort, reminding himself that she was just an intelligence officer, and had little appreciation for real tactics. He momentarily considered pointing out the patrol craft that was already en route, but knew he didn’t have time to waste.
“No,” he said simply. He was the captain, and didn’t have to explain himself to her.
“Second pod is inbound,” Chief Tamma reported.
Thomas looked out through the bridge window and saw a squat form sail over Rapier’s hull. Tamma had slowed their flight to a crawl for quick docking, and Thomas cringed at how exposed they were. One shoulder-launched missile hiding in those tall crops, and his ship was finished.
“Set AA weapons to auto,” he said, not trusting Breeze to respond quickly enough, and anything coming fast would be an enemy. He checked the 3-D display again. The warlord patrol craft was descending steadily, but was still high enough that it wouldn’t be able to properly scan the site yet.
No other activity.
“Both pods secure,” Tamma said.
Immediately Thomas tapped in a course that led away from the patrol craft, and pointed them spaceward. He forwarded it to the pilot.
“Steer this course, attack speed.”
Rapier lurched upward. Thomas was pressed back in his seat as they accelerated to escape velocity and beyond. Within seconds the pale blue sky began to darken, and the first stars became visible. He tried to watch the 3-D display as Rapier rocketed toward the orbital traffic zone, but things were happening too fast for him to track.
“Evasive maneuvers,” he ordered.
Tamma was a star fighter pilot by trade, and Thomas trusted that a pilot’s instincts would serve them better than his own as they closed on the crowded space.
“Intruder vessel.” The voice came from the warlord patrol craft. “This is Cerberan Orbital Authority. Stop your ascent and stand by to be boarded.” The patrol craft was ascending quickly, no doubt on full burn as it struggled to escape Cerberus’s gravity.
Rapier jinked right as Tamma maneuvered. Thomas saw a glint of metal flash by to port—some unknown Cerberan dhow. The 3-D display was glittering with contacts ahead, vectors pointing in every direction.
“It’s getting crowded, sir,” Tamma said as he eased them to port and up to keep clear of a hulking merchant tanker.
Thomas didn’t reply, watching as the patrol craft labored to catch them. If Rapier could just clear the traffic zone, he could get them to real speed and clear the area. If no one could prove that they’d been on Cerberus, nothing could be tracked back to Terra.
The top turret suddenly blazed to life. Tracer rounds shot forward into the blackness. Something exploded ahead.
“AA to manual!” he shouted. “Breeze, get control of your weapons!”
“You told me to put them to auto!” she shouted back.
Rapier lurched again to avoid the cloud of debris sweeping past them. It might have been a ship, a satellite or a cargo pod, but whatever it was it had come too close and too fast for Rapier’s self-defense computers.
Thomas cursed inwardly. A trail of wreckage wouldn’t help them hide. On his display, he could see the patrol craft entering the orbital zone, slowly gaining on them. Barked orders sounded over the public channel, instructing all craft to steer clear. He watched the vectors begin to change as civilians moved to avoid the patrol craft. Some of them, however, turned directly into Rapier’s intended path.
One of the symbols on the outer edge of the orbital zone suddenly flashed, and switched from neutral yellow to hostile red. Thomas stared at the readout—that “neutral” had just activated fire-control radars.
“Viper, three-four-zero mark zero-one-zero,” he said, “two thousand-k. Desig Tango-Two.” There was another warlord patrol craft waiting for them.
Breeze’s missile lock appeared on the target.
Thomas gripped his chair as Rapier swerved again, considering his options. It was hard even to maintain tracking on the two hostiles amidst the sea of clutter—and if it was hard for Rapier, it would be nearly impossible for the Cerberans.
He looked up through the bridge windows at a mass of civilian craft all within visible range. Several were clearly pointed spacebound. He dropped a waypoint right in the middle of the cluster of contacts.
“On my mark, go emission silent and steer for waypoint zero-one.”
“Roger,” said Tamma.
Breeze
fiddled with her controls. “Roger.”
“Mark.”
The 3-D display altered color, indicating that the contacts were no longer held live as Rapier’s sensors went silent. All vectors were maintained as dead-reckoning from the last information. The star field ahead swung to port as Rapier turned toward the waypoint, revealing the fast-approaching muddle of civilian ships.
“Slow ahead both engines,” Thomas ordered.
Tamma repeated the order even as he throttled back to something actually approaching a safe speed. Thomas leaned forward, studying the vessels ahead by eye. One of the contacts climbing toward deep space was a tug with a fat barge behind it.
Perfect.
“Pilot, get us in behind that tug and tow, high off the port bow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rapier approached the busy space lane and angled up away from Cerberus, easing over toward the plodding tug and barge. Cerberan civilian ships carried only the most rudimentary tracking systems, and Rapier’s black hull made her very difficult to spot visually with only the stars as backdrop.
The barge loomed ahead. Rapier nudged forward and down, coming alongside at barely a wingspan’s distance, and matched velocities. To any Cerberan sensors, she and the barge would show as a single, massive contact.
Thomas sat back, feeling the sweat in his spacesuit.
“Pilot, maintain position on the barge until we’re free of the orbital zone, then plot a safe course for a flank speed run.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a long moment of silence on the dark bridge.
Breeze turned in her seat.
“So that’s it? We’re not going back?”
Thomas’s reply was cut off by the sound of the hatch opening behind him. In the reflection from the bridge windows he saw Katja Emmes enter. She squeezed her armored bulk into the seat next to him, glanced at the view outside, at the 3-D display, then faced him.
“Strike team secure, sir,” she said. “No casualties.”
He nodded. “Very good, OpsO.”
“No, it isn’t good!” Breeze protested. “We have to go back.”
Thomas could see in her pale features that his OpsO had no interest in going back to Cerberus. And while he had no qualms about continuing the raid, he knew that it was an impossibility.
“Our presence is known to the Cerberans, Lieutenant Brisebois. We can’t go back today.” He looked straight into her eyes. “This discussion is over.”
She glared at him, then at Emmes, then swung back to face forward.
He understood her frustration. This was Rapier’s first operational strike since their deployment to Sirius two months earlier, and the first high-profile mission of his command. This six-month deployment might be the only chance he had to prove his abilities as a combat commander.
He couldn’t afford to waste opportunities.
The barge and tug were continuing their steady course—ten minutes or more until they cleared the traffic zone. With all sensors at standby, there was no way to track any approaching warlord ships, but the chatter on the civilian radio circuits suggested that the warlords were still clearing traffic out of their way as they climbed to pursue their quarry. It seemed as if his little hiding trick had worked.
He glanced at the tiny image he kept taped to his console. He and Soma stood on the observation deck at Olympus Mons. It had been taken the day after he proposed, and the smiles on both their faces were almost stupidly broad. It had been an exciting, romantic adventure, that trip to Mars, and the perfect, symbolic place for their engagement, sitting between his Earth and her Jupiter.
Well, Ganymede, actually, but Jovians didn’t like to distinguish between the moons these days, especially when it came to voting blocks in the Terran Parliament.
He figured he should send her a message—it had been a while. Not while Rapier was on patrol, of course, but when they returned to Normandy. If nothing else, he needed to confirm the date for the wedding, so he could invite his fellow officers. It was all going to happen pretty fast, when they got home from this deployment.
He sighed. Battle stress, command stress, and now wedding stress. Some days were definitely better than others, and now he had to write a post-mission report that wasn’t going to help his career.
“Lieutenant Brisebois,” he said suddenly, “do a quick walk-around of the ship. Assess any damage and check with all stations.”
She noisily unbuckled from her seat and pushed past him. He ignored her, turning his attention to his other officer.
Katja Emmes had been a last-minute replacement when Rapier’s previous OpsO had been sent home for a family emergency. She had joined the ship in-theater, and was still learning all the nuances of being shipborne. But he could see potential in her. She was young and full of intensity, and there were some real smarts behind her butchy façade.
She stared back at him, and let out a long sigh.
“I’m sorry, sir. I made a mistake.”
Her open admission caught him off-guard. A part of him admired her honesty. Another part immediately began assessing how much of the blame could be shifted to her. He studied her as he replied.
“First time in the shit is always tough. Things get messy.”
She shook her head, frowning deeply. “But it’s my job to keep things clean, sir.”
He understood her pain. “Katja—”
Her eyes snapped up.
He caught himself. “May I call you Katja?”
“Yes, sir.” Traces of amusement welled up from the depths of her eyes, and a smile tugged at her lips.
He felt a tiny smile shape his own lips.
“Katja, I’ve been on the ground, in the shit. I may be Fleet but I also did four years as a platoon leader in the Corps. On the ground we never have the whole picture, and we’re usually dealing with some very immediate threat to our health. We process the info we can, and we act on it. A strike officer never makes mistakes, she makes judgment calls.”
Katja pursed her lips. “What if her judgment isn’t good?”
“Then she learns. If she isn’t dead.”
She smiled, and focused on him with the full intensity of her gaze. She was actually quite pretty, he noticed suddenly.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll learn from this. I won’t let you down again.”
He glanced out at the looming tug and barge, and again at the display. “Go check on your team, OpsO. I expect we’ll be clear of Cerberus and sprinting for home in the next ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
She gathered her rifle and pushed aft to exit the bridge. He watched her go, once again thinking about the post-mission report he had to write.
He might ultimately be responsible for everything on his ship, but that didn’t mean that one of his subordinates shouldn’t share some of that responsibility. She was young, and would have plenty more opportunities to prove herself.
A twinge of guilt gnawed at him, but he pushed down the feeling. He couldn’t afford to look bad. She could.
4
Finding an object the size of a boulder in the vastness of space was no easy task.
This, Sublieutenant Jack Mallory concluded as he eased his control stick to the left and moved his little ship into another slow turn, was probably why micro-asteroid mining had never really taken off, despite all the Gaian propaganda over the years. He’d like to see one of those crazies suit up and try to even find—let alone rendezvous with—an actual space rock.
Jack centered his control stick and settled into his new course. Training automatically drew his eyes up to sweep the starry sky, then down to check his flight and hunt controls. Everything was clear. His new course had put Sirius astern of his Hawk, and it was a relief to not have the sun’s glare in his eyes. No sign of his quarry yet, but with a bit of luck that was about to change.
“Viking-Two ready for dip,” he said over the circuit.
“Rog, Two, go for dip.”
The other Hawk, flown by Lieutena
nt Dan “Stripes” Trifunov, was holding position at the edge of the search sector. Today he was just an observer, though. Jack needed to prove himself if he was to earn his anti-stealth wings. And today his target was a boulder-sized, automatic device that would simulate the movements of an enemy stealth ship. His job was to find it before it could launch a simulated assault.
“Deploying big dipper.”
Jack turned his attention to the multidimensional picture that was beginning to form on his hunt controls. Despite its innocuous name, the big dipper was one of the most sophisticated pieces of equipment in the entire Terran arsenal. It had already phased into the Bulk, and was relaying gravimetric information via its brane-straddling relay system. Jack did one last sweep of the controls, then focused in on the hunt.
Anti-stealth warfare hadn’t been Jack’s first choice in flight school, but once the choice had been imposed upon him, he’d learned to appreciate the wonder of it all. Perched in the three-dimensional brane that made up humankind’s perceived existence, Jack could look deep into the Bulk, where gravity ruled and the laws of physics displayed their true nature.
Humanity had known of the Bulk’s existence for centuries, but it was only in the last fifty years that men and women had begun to venture forth into it. Stealth ships risked their very existence every time they dove into the Bulk, but since it made them utterly invisible in the normal three dimensions, it made them powerful military weapons.
Terra had been the first to develop such ships, but some of the more advanced and ambitious colonies had been close behind. With the ships had come a whole new arena of warfare—one with which Jack had become fully engaged.
Studying his 3-D readout, Jack identified the knuckles in spacetime that indicated gravity wells. Viking-One was too small to have much of an impact, but because Jack had a recent radar fix he was able to pinpoint the minute knuckle she created. A larger one was moving slowly across the brane on a bearing low off the bow—Kristiansand, the Terran destroyer to which both Vikings belonged.
Virtues of War Page 3