Cerberus loomed below, its reddish surface dotted with occasional white clouds. Jack waited until the access light switched to green, then eased his plane forward. He accelerated forward, and the Hawk was flying free.
He took a moment to study his planetary navigation screen and confirmed his intended landing zone. The computer displayed the recommended entry path, and he saw no reason to disagree. So he nudged his controls forward and dipped the Hawk into a gentle dive.
Kristiansand quickly fell astern as the Hawk began its descent on a path that opposed the Cerberan rotational direction. In essence, by flying “backward” Jack was using his own thrust to bleed off the Hawk’s geo-stationary speed while getting additional braking from the atmosphere. The reverse-orbit entry was standard for all atmosphere-capable spacecraft, and Jack had no desire to buck the system.
The entry was uneventful as the Hawk shed altitude and slipped across the terminator to the Cerberan night-side. Jack kept a careful eye out for other ships, knowing that orbital dhows were notorious for quickly changing course and speed. On any of the Terran worlds he would have checked in with Orbital Control, but out here in the colonies such organizations rarely existed.
It was every ship for herself.
The first signs of atmospheric braking were subtle—a slight change in the rate of deceleration, and a slow rise in the temperature readings from the heat shield. Jack tightened his grip on the controls.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said over the internal circuit, “stand by for turbulence.”
Then the Hawk started to vibrate. The dark Cerberan horizon far ahead began to glow red, then orange. Temperature readings switched to yellow. The blinding orb of Sirius exploded into view in a sunrise far more dramatic than any back home.
The orange glow of super-heated air began to flicker at the edge of his vision. The sky began to brighten. The Hawk lurched to port, but Jack fought it back to a level descent. Sirius climbed higher in the sky, out of direct view. The orange glow began to fade. The heat shield readings began flashing red. The buffeting increased.
Jack struggled to get the feel of his flight surfaces. The Hawk leaned to port, then lurched to starboard as he overcompensated. Shouts of alarm rose dimly behind him. He leveled the Hawk amidst the steady vibrations. Wisps of cloud flashed by his canopy. He checked his altitude—archons ten. He checked his speed—two thousand kph. He checked his entry path.
Right on target.
He eased back on his throttle and continued his slow descent. The Hawk was an aircraft now. Pale blue sky stretched in all directions, dotted by white wisps of distant vapor. Jack eased his jittery control stick to starboard, still bleeding off speed as he moved into a long, curving descent toward the settlement known as Free Lhasa.
The air was filled with ships, all moving with unique courses and speeds, and all much too close for comfort. He brought a map of the terrain up on one of his hunt displays and peered out through the canopy to get his visual bearings. Everything in the soup of air was close—often too close for sensors that were used to dealing in millions of kilometers. The radar was already a mini-galaxy of blips and symbols, and Jack quickly dismissed it as useless.
He used the map to chart his course, and used his eyes to not smash into anything. Terran rules of flight ordered all craft to move at a safe speed based on the traffic density and prevailing weather conditions. As a military pilot Jack had some license to bend those rules, and he had learned long ago the advantage of speed. At twice the speed of sound, the only way he would run into another craft would be if he purposefully aimed directly at it. Otherwise, everything fell behind him, drawing left and right out of his way.
At that speed, however, Free Lhasa came over the horizon very quickly, and Jack pulled back hard on the throttle as the outskirts flashed past underneath him. He overshot, but used the broad turn to drop altitude. Turbulence over the city was troublesome, but he quite enjoyed the challenge, now that he was getting used to atmo again. A quick glance at his terrain map showed the landing point, approaching quickly, and he further reduced speed and altitude.
No doubt the locals had been impressed by the sonic boom of his first overflight. Jack intended to match that with a fast, crisp arrival.
The landing point was the center of a large city square, and Jack picked an unpopulated spot between a dry fountain and an empty amphitheater. He came in fast, then swung the Hawk through a tight half-turn right over the landing spot, using his engine thrust to kill the last of his speed. Six or seven g’s later, all he had to do was gently lower the craft out of its hover to touch down.
With the gentlest of bumps, Jack Mallory landed on Cerberus.
He looked back over his shoulder, grinning. Carmen was white, and struggling to breathe. Behind her, someone had puked all over the medical supplies. There was silence from the supply team.
Well, he had warned them about turbulence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said matter-of-factly, “welcome to Free Lhasa.”
As he faced forward again, he heard Carmen unstrap herself and rise from her seat. She spoke quietly but firmly to her team, and there were a few quiet replies in turn. The industrious sounds of straps being removed mixed in with the squish of cleaning fluid being sprayed on the containers. Jack hit the release for the cargo door, and moments later the hiss of hydraulics was accompanied by the waft of pressure change as the door slowly lowered.
Looking out through his cockpit windows, he saw a delegation of locals walking toward the Hawk. He quickly scanned for any good-looking women, and came up disappointed. No children, either.
Around the edge of the square he could see small crowds of other people—maybe that’s where the media were being cordoned.
He powered down the Hawk and unstrapped himself, moving aft to see how the unloading was going. Carmen had already disembarked to greet the locals. Members of the supply team were efficiently rolling the crates down the ramp and onto a motorized dolly brought along especially for this trip. Jack held back, giving them their moment of glory as the heroes of the day. Then, once the cargo had been cleared from the ramp, he stepped forward to survey the scene.
There were seven members of the local delegation, all dark and wiry and short. Jack had trouble distinguishing one from the other, but he guessed they were all at least as old as his grandparents. They looked on with expressionless faces, all eyes on Carmen as she spoke slowly and clearly to them. When one local finally did answer, his voice was too quiet for Jack to hear.
He descended the Hawk’s ramp and sidled up to Carmen. She glanced at him, but otherwise kept her attention on the local.
“That is very kind of you,” she said. “We would be happy to share a toast with you at the medical center.”
The local looked at Jack. He looked at Jack’s face, then at his shoulders. “You are very young to be the next-in-command. You must be very skilled.”
Jack didn’t really know what he was talking about, but he recognized a compliment when he heard one.
“I’ve worked hard on my skills,” he said with great modesty. “Thank you.”
“You and your commander will be our honored guests.” He turned back to Carmen. “Have your team come with us.”
The locals started walking back in the direction from which they had come. Jack guessed that the low building at the edge of the square was the medical center. Carmen instructed one of her team to stay with the Hawk, motioned for the rest to follow her, then took Jack’s arm.
“Nice going, Jack,” she said, her voice low. “I was going to leave you to guard the Hawk, but how could I not bring along my ‘next-in-command’ for the ceremonies?”
“Yeah, what was that about?”
“These folks aren’t stupid, Jack. They recognized your rank and saw that you’re technically senior, after me. It wasn’t quite the moment to explain logistics versus pilots. So congratulations, Subbie—if I get killed you’re in charge.”
“If you get smashed, you
mean,” he replied. “We’re just going for drinks, aren’t we?”
“I think so. Maybe they have something arranged at the medical center.”
As they walked behind the group of locals—who were pretty spry for their age—Jack glanced around at the square. It was big, but otherwise unremarkable. There were no buildings above four stories, and every structure showed the wear and tear of this windy, dusty land. He noted again the dry fountain, and wondered if Free Lhasa suffered from water shortages. He’d heard stories about people in the colonies struggling to produce all kinds of basic needs, but he’d never suspected water to be one of them.
There were quite a few people making their way past buildings on the far side of the square, and the same groups of onlookers at the edges, but no one seemed to be paying the team much attention. The entire square had the look of faded glory, and Jack abruptly remembered that he and his passengers were bringing humanitarian supplies. This was not a happy place.
The medical center was three stories tall with long rows of rectangular windows embedded in molded plastic walls. Sturdy and functional. There was a group of locals clustered by the open doors ahead of them, each one watching the Kristiansand delegation with the same expressionless faces Jack was beginning to believe were standard on this planet. No one spoke as he followed Carmen through the doors, but Jack certainly noticed that all eyes followed the supply officer.
Had they never seen a blonde woman before?
Inside the doors, a broad lobby was filled with locals, all watching without speaking. The supply team were told where to put the medical supplies. In the strange silence, Jack began to feel uncomfortable. There were probably forty locals in the lobby, including those who had followed the procession in from outside. They were all dressed in nondescript civilian clothes, and ranged in age from young to very old. There was, however, what looked like a news camera.
That made him feel better—nothing bad would happen if there was someone to record it.
Carmen stepped to the middle of the room, and offered her most welcoming expression.
“Thank you for receiving us here today,” she said loudly enough that all could hear. “It is an honor for the Terran Astral Force to work closely with the people of Cerberus, and to have the opportunity to come to Free Lhasa.” She indicated the crates. “I hope that these supplies will find good use in your city, and I hope that we can work together for many years to come.”
A wizened man stepped forward—Jack thought he might be the leader of the delegation who had spoken to him at the Hawk. He stared at Carmen, but did not speak to her.
“Thapa, is this the same woman?”
A new man separated himself from the crowd. Short and grizzled like all the others, he approached Carmen carefully, studying her. He came right up to her face, having to look up quite a bit to meet her eye.
“No,” Thapa said finally, “this woman is too tall to be her.”
“A shame,” the first man said. “It would have been justice.”
Thapa stepped away from Carmen, his face growing cold.
“It will still be justice. I find this acceptable.”
“Very well.”
The leader moved to stand in front of Carmen, turning to face the news camera. The camera operator gave him a thumbs-up.
Jack heard a scuffle behind him, followed by shouts of alarm. Seconds later, he was grabbed by two pairs of impossibly strong hands, and dragged down. Too shocked to resist, he winced as his knees struck the hard floor. He vaguely saw Carmen thrown down beside him.
“Murderers of Terra!” the leader said to the camera. “For too long you have terrorized and butchered the people of Cerberus! You drop from the sky at will, thinking that we have no defense or recourse. You bring your battles to our soils, and it is our people who die!” He motioned back toward Jack and the others. “Now that will change. Now it is time for justice.”
Beyond the leader, Jack saw Thapa take a rifle from one of the other men. Fear twisted his stomach and squeezed his lungs. He tried to breathe, but could focus only on the barrel of the gun as it rose to point at him.
Thapa stepped forward.
“For Pradeep.”
He turned the rifle and fired three rounds into someone behind Jack. There were screams, and Jack heard a loud, wet thud on the floor behind him.
“For Shamsul.”
Another shot. Jack heard what sounded like an egg crack and then another thud behind him.
Thapa stood before Carmen.
“For Anni.”
He spun the rifle and smashed its butt into Carmen’s stomach. She lurched forward, but was held up by her strong captives. He struck again, and after the reflex lurch Jack saw Carmen slump, a pitiful whimper escaping her lips. A tiny part of Jack’s brain screamed at him to fight, but no part of his body dared respond. He was frozen.
Two butt-strokes to the face and head, and Carmen was dropped to the floor, a bloody, mangled heap.
Thapa loomed over Jack. Jack tried to speak, but his throat was seized shut. He faintly heard Thapa say two words:
“For Quan.”
Then the rifle butt slammed into his stomach, and all he knew was ringing, stars, and endless pain.
18
Thomas first learned that something was going very wrong in Free Lhasa when Rapier received flash traffic from Kristiansand that violence had erupted in the square around the Hawk. Orbital footage of the mob jostling the Hawk and pelting it with rubble had sent diplomats system-wide flying to their comms panels.
Then the mob had somehow produced rocket launchers and blasted a hole in the Hawk’s side. The lone Kristiansand crewmember had been hauled out, beaten, strung behind a truck, and dragged to her death around the square. Hundreds of Cerberans had cheered while others began to loot the craft.
Thomas signaled Kristiansand, offering assistance. The two ships were close enough for video communications and he had actually managed to get her on the screen.
“Kristiansand,” he said, “Rapier can be in Free Lhasa in twenty minutes, and my strike team can recover the body.”
Avernell’s face had been a stone mask of suppressed rage. But her voice had been as calm as ever.
“Rapier, this is Kristiansand. Maintain your mark on the VOI. There is no need for a recovery.” She had then looked off screen and raised her voice slightly. “Fire.”
On his other screen, Thomas watched the devastating effect on the central square as Kristiansand’s orbital bombardment batteries opened fire. The first shots tore into the truck that was dragging the dead crewmember. It crashed to a flaming stop as doors and wheels were flung into the crowd. The next shots targeted the mangled remains of Avernell’s crewmember, immolating the body and saving it from further abuses. The final shots pounded into the Hawk, smashing it across the square and destroying any sensitive information and technology aboard.
Less than a dozen rounds, pinpointed specifically to stop the direct attack on Terran assets. Thomas watched as the Cerberans in the square fled for their lives, but there was no follow-on attack, and he assessed that fewer than twenty had been killed.
On the first screen, Avernell gave him her attention again.
“Rapier, the situation is under control. I am not going to escalate this. My top priority is finding out what happened to the rest of my crew. Maintain your mark and stand by. Kristiansand out.”
* * *
That had been five hours ago. Now Thomas could barely pull his eyes away from the screen. The terrified faces of the Astral Force personnel. The manic intensity of the Cerberans. The blood and screams as bullets flew and bones shattered. Thomas knew enough about close-up violence from his days as a platoon commander, but he’d never seen such brutal, premeditated savagery.
Neither, he figured, had most of the Terran population—until today.
The footage of the slaying and torture of Terran troops crossed the light years in hours. It was sent by the Cerberan terrorists to a local office of one of th
e Terran news majors, immediately transmitted back via the jump gate to head office, broadcast to the entire Terran system, and then released in its entirety to the military.
Since then Thomas had wandered restlessly between his cabin and the bridge, waiting for news or orders. And the entire time his ship had crept silently through space, thirty thousand kilometers astern of the smuggler.
Then, finally, the footage of the terrorist kidnapping had made its way back through the channels. Thomas was the only person in Rapier to have seen it so far, and he knew that Avernell was probably seeing it for the first time as well. He rewound the footage, noting that in the initial ambush, two people were shot dead—each time right after the shooter mumbled what sounded like a name. Then the same attacker said another name, and began to savagely beat Kristiansand’s supply officer. She crumpled immediately, but was beaten until her graying hair was matted and red.
The attack switched to the young man crouched next to her. He looked familiar, but Thomas couldn’t remember from where. The beating was just as brutal, the butt of the rifle striking down long after the man had slumped into unconsciousness.
He shut off the screen, sickened. Pushed away from his desk, feeling his fists clench.
Something had to be done. He was the commander of a Terran fast-attack craft, right at the scene of the action. He doubted he would ever forgive himself if he sat back and did nothing. Action now could save those people, and make his career.
He opened a channel to Kristiansand and requested Avernell once again. When she appeared on the screen, her carefully neutral expression was betrayed by her ashen complexion.
“I assume you’ve seen the footage,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. Do we know where they’re being held?”
“Negative. I’m trying to get the local warlord to communicate right now.”
Virtues of War Page 13