Kim heard Holsey pass on her orders to fire control, looked over at Baudouin.
“Chief, give the defensive fighters the coordinates as well. Tell them to prepare for a missile strike. Lieutenant,” Kim looked down at Urquhart’s back. “Increase our speed to maximum, get us in a higher orbit. I want as much—”
“They’ve launched! Missile incoming!” Fowler shouted over the rumble of the main guns firing again.
“Flak screen, now!” Kim looked down at her screen, rifled through camera views until she found one facing toward the planet. The deck plating beneath Kim’s feet vibrated as the secondary turrets opened fire, throwing a curtain of small explosions against the bright disc of the planet beyond. Kim strained her eyes to pick out the missile, couldn’t find it.
“Impact in one minute!” Fowler yelled.
Where is the damn thing?
Kim spotted a bright spot in the top right corner of her screen. It was growing larger every second, an orange-red splotch against the blue of an ocean below. She zoomed in, made out the dark shape of the missile within the fiery halo of its engines.
She had only a basic familiarity with these missiles from training. After all, ground-to-space missiles were the Army’s concern, not the Navy’s. She knew that they were huge, had their own ordnance deflection system, and were very hard to take down.
She knew enough to fear them.
The missile was passing the enemy ships now, and Kim’s insides tensed. Huge didn’t begin to describe it.
“Twenty seconds.”
She saw the Verdun’s defensive fighters swoop past it, peppering it with fire. Their rockets and bullets missed — it was so damn fast! — or warped around the missile, exploding uselessly in space.
“Come on, take it down!” Urquhart called, a hint of fear in her voice.
“The flak will do it,” Stetler responded.
Kim hardly heard them. She watched as if spellbound as the missile approached the flak screen. It was coming straight toward them, unwavering, then began to break up.
“See!” Stetler said, and Kim heard a thump as Stetler smacked Urquhart on the back. “Told you.”
Kim felt a wave of relief, then her heart plummeted into her feet.
It wasn’t breaking up. It was separating.
The missile blossomed, its nose splitting apart and releasing what looked like a tight coil of smaller rockets, each of them about the size of one of the Verdun’s fifteen-inch shells. The rockets spread out from each other, their own engines sputtering on, racing toward the Verdun even as the main body of the missile continued forward. There were at least a hundred of the damn things. They were passing into the flak screen, and Kim watched as the main missile body and some of the smaller rockets were caught and exploded by the hail of fire from the Verdun and the fighters trailing them.
Not good enough.
A cloud of rockets emerged from the screen, only seconds between them and the hull of their target.
“All hands, brace for impact,” Isabelle announced coolly.
Kim saw some of the rockets begin to warp around the Verdun as the ordnance deflector bent their trajectories—she pitched forward, caught hard against her safety belt. A machine-gun blast of explosions merged into a roar that filled the air. The lights flickered, and she heard someone scream.
Kim shook her head, looked down at her static-washed screen.
“How bad?” Kim spun around in her chair, checking on each of the bridge crew in turn. At least none of them seemed to be hurt, except for Stetler, who was shaking his bloodied left hand, a shattered screen next to him attesting to what had caused the injury.
“The MOD deflected most of them,” Fowler said. “We have some impacts amidships, near the gaps in our defenses from our previous engagement. A couple sections are reporting fire, and we have one area that has decompressed. There’s minor damage across the ship from the explosions of the rockets that were bent off course. They’ve opened a couple more gaps in our MOD coverage.”
Kim shook her head. One missile had caused all that?
“Baudouin, dispatch damage control teams to the affected areas,” Holsey called from over Kim’s shoulder. “Captain?”
Kim turned around, saw a trail of blood coming down from Holsey’s eyebrow.
“They’re going to chew away at our deflector until we lose coverage. If we take a full strike without the deflector, we’re cooked.”
“Agreed.” Kim faced the bridge crew. “Fowler, what were the speed readings on those warheads? Can we outmaneuver them?”
“No Ma’am. And we can’t outrun them without faster-than-light capabilities.”
“Could we withdraw from the area?” Stetler asked.
Kim shook her head. No way were they going to retreat. Not yet.
“Ma’am?” Fowler’s voice cracked as he called out again. “They’ve still got target lock on us.”
“There’s no knowing how many of those things they have.” Holsey’s voice was soft so that only Kim could hear it. “Maybe we should withdraw.”
Kim weighed the options for a second longer. If they ran, they’d be back hiding in that gas giant, waiting for the enemy fleet to regroup, reinforce itself, and come after them — and that’s assuming they could outrun the next missile. There was no way they could ever reach the nearest Alliance station during their lifetime without their main engines.
“We make our stand here, Commander.” Kim swallowed, her mind made up. “Hard over, Ms. Urquhart. Charge down on the enemy fleet. Get us among them.”
“Ma’am?” Stetler turned around, cradling his injured arm.
“You heard me. Chief, have the fighters regroup and close in around us. We’ll be fighting in tight quarters. Load all secondary guns with anti-armor warheads. Stetler, keep us moving within the fleet. I want them confused.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Kim felt the ship’s inertia shift beneath her as the Verdun banked and descended on the enemy fleet, a stream of shells preceding it and exploding among the enemy ships that were rushing up to meet it.
Like a pack of wolves.
“They may be able to maintain target lock even when we’re among that fleet,” Holsey said.
“But we won’t make it easy for them.” Kim adjusted her safety belt. “And besides, I’m hoping these ships will lend us a hand in absorbing some of those missiles.”
“They’re launching another one!” Fowler called out.
Kim gripped her armrests, felt the air close in around the bridge as everyone’s nerves tensed together. “Maintain your course, Mr. Stetler. Get us into that fleet.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gordon ignored the stream of cusswords spewing from Lieutenant Garrett’s mouth as the air above the forest roared and a blinding light streamed down through the branches, bringing a brief moment of daylight to the inky night. The light faded away, and Gordon strained to see his feet in front of him.
Another missile had launched from the silos behind the fort.
“Son-of-a-bitch! Mother fuck! Cunt-smacking asshat—”
“Save your breath for running, Lieutenant.”
Truth be told, Gordon had a few choice words in mind as well. But they wouldn’t help anything now. They had to give the attack force time to take the fort. And that meant taking care of the enemy army trailing a few dozen yards behind them.
Ward, Garrett, and Gordon had met the rest of Garrett’s platoon in their rush through the woods. They’d worked to stay just ahead of the enemy force, turning now and again to fire into their ranks or send a grenade their way, keeping them sufficiently pissed off to maintain the chase. The ground was sloping up now as two thickly wooded hills rose up in the darkness on either side of them, forming a sloping valley. It wouldn’t be far now.
Thank God, because Gordon couldn’t handle much more of this. His legs burned from the exertion, and his abdomen felt like it was crushing inward from the pain of his barely healed wounds. Under normal circumsta
nces, this operation would have been a strain. But with his injuries from the Triangle? He’d been in bed so damn long that he’d clearly fallen out of shape.
Focus, Gordon!
Gordon concentrated on his breathing and on threading a path through the trees and brush that grabbed for him in the darkness. The woods were thinning out, yielding to tall, silky grasses. He stopped in his tracks, waved for a couple of Garrett’s troops to join him while the rest ran past, and fired a few shots into the darkness. Screams. The crack of rifles. Muzzle flashes. The whiz of bullets through the air. The shriek of shells passing overhead. The rangers copied Gordon, firing a few shots before resuming their sprint through the woods. Gordon coughed, tasted blood, and ran after them.
The ground rose ever more steeply, straining Gordon’s already tired muscles. The air opened up around him as the last trees gave way to a huge open meadow. To the left and right, steep, rocky slopes reared up, their jagged tops dark against the sky. Ahead, the ground continued to slope upward toward a patch of boulders strewn across the meadow, the black wall of the forest behind it.
“Come on! We’re nearly there!” Gordon shouted, as much to himself as to the others. Corporal Ward, more burdened than the rest of them under his radio set, was slowing down. Gordon planted his hand firmly on the man’s back and pushed.
“Whose idea was this?” Ward gasped.
“Shut up and run.”
The buzz of bullets in the air increased. Without any more trees to conceal them, Gordon and the others were much easier targets than before. Clods of dirt kicked up in front of him, to the sides, all around him. One of Garrett’s troops screamed, clutching her arm, and fell forward. Gordon barely broke his stride as he hauled her to her feet and pulled her along with him. An explosion to the right. More sprays of dirt. Corporal Ward stopped in his tracks and fell over.
“Go!” Gordon pushed the wounded ranger on, stopped to help Ward. He pulled the man upward, saw a gaping hole where his face had been.
“Fucking son of a bitch!” Gordon took off running again, wincing at the angry swarm of bullets in the air.
“Save your breath for running, sir.” Lieutenant Garrett’s voice drifted back to him, almost lost under the scream of ordnance passing overhead. The explosion of the shells as they struck the fort behind them were a distant rumble now.
Gordon bit back his remark, peering ahead of him in the darkness. They were only a few yards from the boulders now, and Gordon could just make out the sandbags of the positions in front of him, the glint of starlight on steel. Only it wasn’t just starlight. Gordon glanced upward, saw faint flashes and streaks of light falling across the sky like clusters of shooting stars. They were telltale signs of a battle in orbit, of wrecked ships burning up as they fell toward the planet. Could it be from the Verdun?
Gordon shook the thought from his mind, put every last ounce of energy into reaching the positions ahead. Just a few more yards. Another ranger fell in front of him and lay still. Gordon jumped to avoid tripping on the man’s body, held back his anger. The enemy would get theirs in just a moment.
Gordon saw Garrett and the remaining members disappear into the shallow trench ahead of him, and then jumped down into it as well, grateful to be out of the crackling air, to not be running anymore.
“Glad you made it, sir.” Lieutenant Rankin was beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “We’re in position.”
Gordon coughed again, felt as if he was about to throw up. He looked up at Rankin, whose face was dark against the fire-streaked sky. “Light these fuckers up.”
“Copy that.”
As he stood back up and rested his rifle on the sandbags that capped the trench’s parapet, Gordon heard the order pass down the line, heard a radioman speaking it into his handset. Gordon took aim into the dark mass of approaching soldiers. A wave of noise assaulted him as the weapons of the Alliance soldiers opened fire.
They had prepared this position well. Rifles and heavy machine guns flashed from their breastworks up on the rocky hillsides to the either side of the valley, sweeping the enemy with enfilading fire. A second later, the pop of mortars, positioned on the hilltops and behind the trench, broke through the din of gunfire. Explosions blossomed across the valley floor, casting the toppling, tumbling, running bodies of the enemy into light for an instant. To Gordon’s right and left down the trench, the rangers opened fire. Rifles, light machine guns, and heavy machine guns scorched the air with the fire of their reports. Tracers sliced through the air, and a flare arced into the sky from one of the hilltops. Gordon could see the enemy, who were filling the valley and rushing forward and to either side, no doubt trying to storm the Alliance positions. Even as they fell in droves, more of them poured into the valley from the forest below.
There are so damned many of them!
Whatever happened, they were going to hold the Legion here. They wouldn’t yield this position, and they wouldn’t let the enemy retreat back to the fort. They would succeed, or die trying.
Gordon knew which of those two he preferred. He lined up his rifle’s sights, tasting blood in his mouth again, and fired.
“Get him to the rear and get back into the fight!” Christine yelled at Hartnett as she dragged a wounded marine — Private Douglas — back from the corridor junction.
Not that it mattered. It was so damn loud that she doubted anyone could hear. Individual gunshots, shouts, and explosions all blurred into a continuous wave of sound that assaulted her ears, pushed against her sinuses, and rattled her bones. An entire battle bottled and crushed into the concrete box of the fort’s cramped hallways. Even the noise cancellation of her headset was not enough to stop the din.
Christine watched Hartnett drag Douglas back down the corridor to the right, past the line of marines and rangers who were scrunched up against the concrete wall, ready to storm around the corner and face death. They hadn’t made it far into the fort before running smack into its defenders. Christine couldn’t guess how long they’d been fighting now, pushing the enemy deeper into the fort, demolishing their defenses barricade by barricade, locked door by locked door, but she knew it was longer than Wilcox wanted. They were taking too damn long. After the last barricade, they’d forced the bulk of the enemy force onto the top level, where the command center was located. Sending Lieutenant Colion and his platoon to secure the lower level, Wilcox had ordered the attack to press forward — only for the marines on point to run into a hornet’s nest of gunfire at this T-junction.
Christine kept her back firmly against the concrete, the hard press of steel against her spine reassuring her of her armor’s protection. The alarming lightness of the magazine pouches on her belt, however, was not so comforting. She had already expended half of her ammunition, despite her efforts to conserve it. If this fierce resistance continued…
Well, she always had her bayonet.
She looked ahead and to the left, at the splatter of concrete being chipped away as bullets dug holes into the wall. Directly across from her, the corridor continued and turned another bend, heading toward the big artillery turret. It was empty, as far as she could tell. Around the corner, the hall led into the superstructure of the fort, going past the upper barracks block, and to the command center. There was also, apparently, an army there.
“Captain? Captain!” Wilcox’s shout was almost inaudible.
Christine looked to see him walking toward her along the line of waiting soldiers.
“What’s going on up here?” Wilcox scrunched against the wall next to Christine, one hand around his rifle, the other holding the brim of his helmet.
“They’re set up pretty good around there, sir.” Christine flinched as small bits of concrete were blasted from the corner of the wall, bouncing off her shoulder pad. “Just how good, I don’t know. Douglas got hit coming around the corner, Hartnett was able to drag him back, and we took cover.”
“Get us moving again as soon as possible.”
Christine looked past Wilcox at Néri
. She waved to get his attention, then made her hand flat and tilted it back and forth. Néri knelt down, rummaged in his musette bag, and pulled out a small mirror with a short, plastic handle. He passed it down the line of soldiers.
“Old trick of yours?” Wilcox handed it to her.
Christine nodded. “Whatever works, works.”
She scooted close to the edge, wincing again as another round struck near the corner. She held her left hand out, slowly moving the mirror past the edge of the wall and angling it so she could see the reflection of the space beyond.
“Those busy little bastards.” She shook her head.
On the small, dirty face of the mirror, she could see what looked like a wall blocking the hallway. It was about six feet tall, and had netting strung between it and the ceiling, no doubt to keep grenades from being thrown over it. Moving the mirror back and forth, she realized that the wall wasn’t continuous. Rather, it was a barrier jutting out from the corridor’s left wall, leaving a space just wide enough for one person to walk at a time. Behind it by a few yards was another barrier, this one jutting out from the right side. Both had loopholes built into them at about waist height, and judging by the muzzle flashes coming out of them, there were machine guns set up back there. Christine gasped as the mirror shattered. She tossed the broken tool to the ground and looked at Wilcox, who had been joined by Lieutenant Arnot.
“They’ve built overlapping stone barricades back there,” Christine shouted, holding up her flattened hand to illustrate the idea.
“What?” Arnot’s brow furrowed. “Overlapping?”
“One barricade goes across most the corridor from one side,” Christine continued, doubting whether or not Wilcox and Arnot could hear more than every other word. “A few feet behind that, another one blocks the corridor from the other side. You have to run a zig-zag to get through them. Get past one, and the other is still there. Each one covers a section of the hallway.”
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