“Contact the other shelters and inform them we are launching a fighter strike,” he said eventually as he walked back to Four C’s central chamber. “We have to know,” he commented to Reynolds as he passed her.
Twenty minutes later the four of them were watching the main display. The green blips represented the twelve Raven space fighters from one of the two squadrons stationed at Douglas, climbing out of the planet’s gravity well. On the command platform, Eulenburg had his hands clenched behind his back and was having to force himself not to do something as unbecoming as fidget.
The atmosphere in Four C was tense. After the brief violence of the thirtieth, followed by the long calm, Eulenburg guessed that a lot of people had hoped that the Nameless had decided they weren’t worth the bother and would leave them to wither on the vine. Truth be told, he had been among them.
“We have laser hook-up to the other shelters, sir,” Gillum said quietly in his ear. “We’ve had handshake from Anshan and Endeavour’s mainframes. We’re ready to run analysis on whatever we get.”
“Thank you Captain. Is the Governor…”
“In Number One Observation Lounge, sir,” Gillum replied nodding towards one of the viewing sections on the second level of the Four C. “She’s not entirely happy about being up there. I think she thought she’d be down here.”
Eulenburg merely nodded.
“Ground Control, this is Flight Leader Bussell,” intoned the main speaker.
“Flight Leader, this is Ground Control. We’re receiving you,” Eulenburg replied without waiting for the nod from the communications officer.
“We’ve exited atmosphere and are now orbiting towards the target. I intend to fire as soon as the target crests the horizon. See where stand off range firing takes us. Estimate five minutes to firing.”
“Understood, Flight Leader.”
It was a long five minutes watching the green blips approach the blue. So far there had been no sign of activity from the closest escort satellite.
“This is Flight Leader. Target acquisition in ten seconds. Prepare for targeting data.” The radio signal wasn’t intended for the ground and Eulenburg had no wish to interrupt or distract those who were doing the real fighting.
“Have lock on… fire!”
On the main display a dozen new contacts separated from the fighters and accelerated toward the target. On the visual display the escort satellite also burst into life. Panels blew away revealing the nose cones of banks of missiles which immediately launched en masse.
“Bloody hellfire,” Gillum muttered as the two lots of missiles converged. The twelve human missiles disappeared. “We were right about them being escorts.”
“Tactical?” Eulenburg asked.
“Nothing got within a hundred K of the target, sir,” the officer at the analysis section reported. “We estimate one of the escorts blew off an eighth of its payload.”
“The fighters still have one more cap ship missile each. Although if the first salvo was ineffective there is no reason to think the second will be any more use,” Gillum said. “We could launch the other squadron, make a mass attack.”
Eulenburg ran his hand through his hair as he stared at the display.
“Sir?”
“I heard you Captain.”
“What do you want to do sir?”
“Give me a moment.”
“Sir, the second object is entering orbit on the opposite side of the planet.”
“Ground Control, this is Flight Leader. We can make another pass. Go close this time. We’ll launch anti-fighter missiles at the escorts as we go in, smother them in targets and launch the cap ship missiles at close range.”
“That will put them in range of the escorts, sir. We’ll lose fighters too.”
Eulenburg continued to stare at the display. Could they afford to lose fighters this early in the game without knowing what they were attempting to take out? It could be a feint or a main move. Could the fighters be replaced? Not from their own resources, so only if the fleet brought them in from Earth. Was that likely to happen any time soon? Lots of questions, very few answers.
Then things got more complicated.
“Command, this is Coms. The first object is starting to transmit on FTL frequencies. It’s transmitting across three of the bands.”
“What?” Gillum muttered as he dashed across to the Communications Centre. He shoved the officer out of his way and peered at the display before turning back to Eulenburg.
“Admiral, it’s not transmitting, it’s jamming! It’s already blanketed the FTL’s A, B and C bands and a third of the useable radio frequencies!” he shouted.
“Hell,” Eulenburg murmured. “Erm… Coms. Send an FTL signal to Earth: Enemy deploying FTL jammers in orbit.”
“The second object is coming online. We’re losing the last three bands,” the coms officer reported.
No chance they could have got the message out. The FTL transmitter needed ten minutes to spin up.
“Can we punch through the interference?” Eulenburg asked.
The communications officer checked a display before turning back to him and giving a terse shake of the head.
Gillum hurried back up to the command platform.
“Sir, we have to inform Earth.” When Eulenburg hesitated Gillum continued: “sir, they are blanketing all six FTL bands with only two jammers. There are five more en route to us. If we don’t get the message out within the next couple of hours, we aren’t going to get it out at all.”
Eulenburg nodded.
“Flight Leader, this is ground control. Make a second pass on the target. Flight Leader we have to destroy that target.”
“Understood, Ground Control.”
“Captain Gillum, arm the second squadron for a strike. Contact the military heads at Anshan and Endeavour. Ask them for their co-operation on a joint strike should the first fail.”
The second strike against the jammer proved as ineffective as the first and cost them two fighters. Furthermore Squadron Commander Bussell’s fighter broke up as it made re-entry, its heat shield apparently damaged. The third strike was delayed for three-quarters of an hour while the Americans and Chinese armed their own space fighters. The joint strike succeeded where the first two had failed but cost another two fighters. The pay-off was a fifty-minute window to transmit what they had learned back to Earth, then the next jammer got close enough to Landfall to take effect and once again the planet was cut off.
The conference room of Four C was once again abuzz with people. This time however nearly a third of the participants were physically present, with the balance represented by holograms of those individuals currently in the other two shelters. With this second move by the Nameless, there was now no doubt that Landfall would not be left alone. In truth with the shelters so widely separated, their ability to provide mutual support was limited to air strikes. But from a psychological angle they probably all felt the need to reach out to someone beyond their immediate locale, now that they were cut off from the humanity’s birthplace.
Eulenburg rapped the table.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can we get started?” When no one dissented he continued: “I have requested that Generals Xiaochuan and Arlidge, military heads of Anshan and Endeavour join us.” The two men nodded to the table at large. Xiaochuan was a large man, long since run to fat with sleepy looking eyes. Taken at face value he was a has-been, if not a never-had-been. Eulenburg had known him long enough to know that face value was wrong. Anshan was in good, if slightly podgy hands.
“As you are all no doubt aware, we now have six FTL and radio jammers in geostationary orbit above the planet. We are now cut off from Earth and we are going to suffer communication problems on the planet.”
The French Representative, Governor Gambon, spoke up.
“Do we have plans in place to destroy these?”
“We have plans alright,” replied General Arlidge, “just not necessarily to smoke those things.”
&nb
sp; “General, this has to be the highest priority,” the American Representative said across the table to his senior military officer.
“Respectfully sir, no it isn’t,” Arlidge replied with a decisive shake of his head.
“General, I…”
“There is presently no reason to destroy them,” interrupted General Xiaochuan. His English was heavily accented but his voice was powerful in a way that demanded attention. “We must calmly analyse the situation. We needed to inform our superiors of this development, this we have now done. Unless we have something important to pass back to Earth, there is no further requirement to act against the rest of these satellites.”
“We also can’t receive transmissions from Earth,” Reynolds pointed out.
“At this moment I believe Earth is only capable of offering, shall we say, moral support,” Xiaochuan replied calmly. “Comforting certainly, but no more than that.”
“There is also the consideration of our fighters,” Eulenburg added in support. “Further strikes would mean further losses.
“We’ve run an analysis,” Arlidge said. “We think we should count on losing three fighters for each jammer we take out.”
“Our analysis says five,” Eulenburg commented.
“Either way,” Arlidge continued acknowledging Eulenburg with a nod, “we’d have to knock down five of the six and that means we’re talking about losing a half to a third of our available fighters, and burning through a lot of our munitions.”
“That brings us to the important matter of supply. Whatever we use, we cannot replace. Our resources must be carefully husbanded.” As Eulenburg made his final point both Xiaochuan and Arlidge nodded their support.
With the three military heads in agreement, they presented a formidable block against the civilian leaders. Just as Eulenburg had hoped.
“What about the radio jamming?” someone asked.
“That’s more of a problem,” Arlidge agreed. “It’s going to start to degrade our communication between the shelters.”
“I don’t understand,” said Reynolds, “if we can talk like this now, what’s going to change?”
Just then, as if to illustrate his point, the hologram of Arlidge and the other four Representatives in Endeavour blinked out.
Eulenburg felt his heart freeze. There was consternation around the table. He wondered if Endeavour had been destroyed. As he spun round toward Four C, Gillum was already dashing out the door. Then just as suddenly Arlidge and the rest were back.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “One of the satellites we’re bouncing our signal off got too close to one of theirs. They smoked it.”
“For my part I am less concerned over the loss of this manner of communication,” Xiaochuan said waving his hand to encompass the room. “Communication lasers will allow data burst transmission. Tactical communications are more of a concern to me and my officers. Those satellites are actively seeking the radio frequencies we use, so our battlefield radios will now be less dependable.”
“Is there any solution to that?” Gambon asked.
“Hard lines,” Eulenburg said. “We’re digging them in now. They’re more vulnerable to damage and less flexible but they can’t be jammed.
“These are very practical concerns gentlemen,” replied Reynolds after a moment. “The three of you are far better qualified to make these kinds of decisions than we.” There were various nods and muttered agreement from around the table.
This was a surprise to Eulenburg as he hadn’t expected such an admission. It appeared that the arrival of these satellites had reminded the civil authorities of the precariousness of their situation. Their sudden show of trust in him probably wasn’t entirely warranted. Every time he thought he’d got to grips with the situation, something happened to remind him just how far out of depth he was, in this case the need for buried hard lines. He’d been so distracted by the loss of the FTL capability, it hadn’t occurred to him that the radio jamming was a more imminent threat. Digging in the hard lines had been at the suggestion of one of his marine officers.
Reynolds had continued speaking while he was thinking.
“I suppose our concern is… what’s next?”
The three military officers exchanged looks.
“On that point the three of us disagree.” Eulenburg admitted. “General Xiaochuan believes a ground invasion is imminent, General Arlidge thinks the Nameless will be content to isolate us. I… I lean towards General Xiaochuan’s position.”
“Does this mean that different directions are being given for the defence?” Gambon asked.
“It is my opinion that to win this war, the Nameless need to channel their resources towards destroying Battle Fleet and Earth. As long as we look like eliminating us would be more trouble than we’re worth, we’re reasonably safe.” Arlidge said.
“I do not dispute my colleague’s facts but I disagree with his conclusions,” Xiaochuan politely countered. “I believe that the Nameless will not be willing to leave an enemy stronghold in their rear area. For fear than we might become a thorn in their side, we cannot be allowed to remain. Whether it be by ground assault or bombardment, that is the only question to which I remain unsure.”
“Which of these predictions you favour makes little immediate difference,” Eulenburg said. “We are doing what we need do: digging in, contesting the space around Landfall and standing ready.”
“And perhaps praying,” Gambon added.
Chapter Nine
Our Man In…
20th February 2067
Jeff Harlow let go of the camera in mid-air and for a moment it stayed where he wanted it. Then there was a split second rumble from somewhere astern and in obedience to the laws of physics the camera started to drift sideways. Why was it that things were never easy? Jeff thought to himself. All he wanted to do was a small explanation piece and things had to be difficult. This certainly wasn’t what he had expected.
When the network manager told him they’d received permission from the fleet to embed a journalist on a starship, he’d volunteered without a second thought. That had definitely been his first mistake. Suzie had not been happy, really seriously not happy, that he hadn’t talked to her first. But if you wanted to get anywhere in the news industry you had to get your face onto people’s screens. Time was against him though. He was already thirty-three, and while the news broadcasts were one of the few bits of the entertainment industry where you could still command top dollar when old and grey, you needed to get your foot in the door before you got to that state. Newscasts of the war from our man at the front - that was the sure fire way to get ahead.
Problem was that as time went on, it started to look like less of a good idea. First there had been the gene therapy to reduce, although by no means eliminate, bone decalcification from time spent in microgravity. Then there was basic training and the signing of documents, which effectively made him subject to fleet authority while on their ships. He’d been kind of nervous about that last one. He didn’t want to find himself drafted so he’d had the network lawyer look over it first. Then finally he was dispatched to a ship. That was definitely the point at which Jeff decided he’d made one hell of a mistake.
He’d been expecting a battleship or at least a cruiser, something chunky. It certainly wasn’t going to be the flagship of the Home Fleet since Admiral Lewis had made no secret of his dislike for journalists, embedded or otherwise. But he’d hoped for something like the Titan, or the Deimos. Instead he found himself directed to the K7. At first he’d thought it must be a brand new ship that hadn’t been named yet. He’d planned a number of recordings, a new warship, a new crew, their training and their hopes and fears for the future as they learned what their new ship was capable of. It would have been great, except for the slight wrinkle that K7 wasn’t a new ship. Indeed Jeff struggled to think of her as a ship at all.
K7 was a K Class courier, a type that was only thirty-eight metres long with an eight-metre diameter. It had no armour, n
o guns and not even a centrifuge, just a very lightweight hull wrapped around a humongous engine. This was what they expected him to enter a war zone in. She’d been reconfigured for deep reconnaissance, which basically meant that a collar containing countermeasures equipment and a winch for a towed array had been bolted on. It made an already ugly ship look pregnant.
He’d immediately complained to the network. They were of course hugely supportive in that special, if-you-don’t-do-this-you’re-history-here way. The only concession he’d won was that as soon as K7 got shot at while he was on board, they’d pull him out. Assuming the courier survived that first shot long enough to get him home!
“Mister Harlow.”
Jeff jumped at the voice behind him. The magnets in the soles of his boots lost their connection with the deck plating and his head collided with the deckhead. He turned awkwardly. Petty Officer Jacqueline Utzon was floating in the access way to the courier’s accommodation area, looking impatient.
“The Skipper wants the camera confiscated, you in a suit and on the bridge,” she said, holding out her hand.
“What? Again!” he complained as he handed it over. “How am I supposed to do anything if every time…” he trailed off. As soon as she had the camera, Utzon turned with a great deal more elegance than he could manage and headed back to the bridge, leaving him to complain at the receding soles of her boots. Jeff sighed and started to pull on his survival suit.
The bridge of the courier was a small module at the front of the ship. There was a quite a large viewing port that provided a spectacular panorama of the cosmos, with two blisters on either side that allowed a person to look back down the length of the ship. In contrast to the vast emptiness beyond the reinforced glass, the bridge itself was stuffed full of equipment and people, and already darkened as Jeff pulled himself through the hatch. The only source of light was the three sensor displays, with much of that blocked by the crewmembers hunched over them. Lieutenant Douglas Driscoll, or at least the shadowy blob in the centre of the bridge that Jeff knew to be the Lieutenant, nodded to him as he came in. PO Utzon pushed past him as she headed aft to engineering. Jeff made his way over using the handholds in the deckhead.
The Landfall Campaign (The Nameless War) Page 17