The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX

by Jay Allan

  “Mr. President, the situation in Europe is dire. The CEL Chancellor was trying to reach you. They launched a massive tactical nuclear strike on the Europan positions several hours ago.” Warren paused, trying to determine if anything he said was getting through to Oliver. “Sir, we just got word that the Europans retaliated with their own bombardment. Over 1,000 nuclear warheads and shells have been detonated across northeastern France and Southwestern Germany.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed immediately,” Oliver roared. He tried to stand up, but he fell back down and stared up at Ryan.

  “Mr. President, we have been trying to brief you for hours. We…” Ryan stopped abruptly. Oliver was clearly incapable of handling the current situation. The Alliance was entering the greatest crisis of its existence, and its president was drunk and strung out. There was no time to deal with him in his current state, no room for any mistakes right now. Not if the Alliance was going to have any chance at weathering this storm.

  There had been no news from the Europan-CEL front beyond word of the shared nuclear exchanges. Warren had no idea which power would emerge from the cataclysm in the stronger position or if, indeed, either power still possessed any meaningful military strength in the affected areas.

  Mutual destruction would be a win for the enemy. With no hope of reinforcing the makeshift forces the CEL had cobbled together to delay the RIC armies, its collapse was almost certain. A quick victory in the west was their only chance, but it seemed unlikely they would still possess the strength to deal with the growing Russian forces. A CEL capitulation would leave the Alliance and the PRC alone, fighting the rest of the world. Warren knew the Alliance could take any other single Power, but sooner or later, a five to two struggle had to end in defeat.

  He took a deep breath and pulled a small gun from his pocket. There was a silencer attached to the short barrel. All his life he’d dreamed of acquiring power, of imposing his will on others. Now he was on the brink of assuming total control over the Alliance, or at least making his play for absolute power, and he wished for anything else. The Alliance was crumbling. Indeed, the entire world faced a crisis like none before in its long and troubled history.

  Oliver looked up and saw the gun. “What the hell…”

  Warren pulled the trigger. The president of the Alliance fell back, his body rolling off the couch and landing face down on the floor. Warren knew Oliver was dead, but he believed in being sure, and he put two more shots into the back of his head. “Consider yourself impeached, Mr. President.”

  He stared at Oliver’s body, watching the pool of blood around his head slowly expanding on the polished wood floor. Shooting Oliver was the easy part, he knew. Next, he had to consolidate control, and he had to do it immediately. The Alliance was full of ambitious politicians and generals, and he had to have everything locked down before word got out that Oliver was dead.

  He turned and walked back the way he had come, tapping the plate to open the door. He looked toward the cluster of agents standing around the in the hallway. They were his best operatives, his inner circle. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He spoke softly, gravely. “No one gets into this room until I say so. I want a dozen guards posted. Intelligence security, and men of unquestioned reliability.”

  “Yes, Number One.” The title was more traditional than specifically accurate. Warren hadn’t had time to reconstitute the Directorate, and he was the only one in Alliance Intelligence who currently bore the traditional numerical title. Still, he thought it had a nice ring to it.

  “We need to round up all Presidential Security. It won’t be long before someone realizes the duty guards are missing. We need to find every one of them, on and off duty.” He paused, and sighed. “And liquidate them all. They’re too big a security risk.” It was no time for carelessness or half-measures.

  The senior agent nodded. “Understood, Number One.”

  “And we need to get control of the nuclear arsenals and bring the top military officers onboard. Let’s review the files on all the key generals and admirals and come up with an action plan on how to control them.” Warren was a big believer in using a well-crafted combination of bribery and threats to control people, something he’d learned working under Gavin Stark.

  “Stay here until you can get this door properly guarded and then meet me in the command center. There is much to be done.” Warren turned and headed toward the elevator bank. It was going to be a busy night. By morning he’d either be the unquestioned master of the Alliance…or he’d be dead.

  Chapter 8

  Flag Bridge

  MCS Rhodes

  Near Saturn

  Sol System

  David Ross stared straight ahead, through the haze and smoke hanging in the air of his flag bridge. Rhodes was badly damaged, and there were internal fires and multiple systems down. But one of the reactors was still online, and half her laser turrets were still operational and blazing away at the enemy. She had fight left in her yet.

  Ross’ subordinates had tried to convince him to transfer the flag, but he’d refused every time. If Rhodes still had a weapon to fire and a reactor left to power it, her admiral would stay with her, and if she succumbed then he would go down with her. Ross was a bit of a romantic, and he tended to personify his ships. Abandoning a vessel that was still giving its all to the fight just seemed wrong to him. His staff tended to think he would have been more at home on the deck of a wooden ship, cutlass in hand, fighting to the bitter end.

  “Report from Celestia, Admiral. Captain Pharris is dead. Celestia’s bridge is destroyed, and the 1st officer is running the ship from the emergency control center.” Janet Randall had been Ross’ tactical officer since his first ship command, and she’d come with him on every posting since.

  “Very well, Commander.” His voice was like iron. Neil Pharris had been his classmate at the Academy, and a good friend in his younger days, though they’d grown less close as duty and responsibility took more of their time. He felt for the men and women dying on his ships, and their comrades struggling to keep tortured machinery working, but they needed one thing from him now, above all else. Strength. They could have their own fears, cry for their own pain, but they needed to see their commander as a pillar of solid stone.

  “Order the reserve squadrons to attack.” He’d kept back 2 groups of fast attack ships, six boats in all. It wasn’t much against the 10 remaining battleships of the enemy line, but the strategy was unorthodox, and he would have surprise on his side. The ships were small and fragile, and they would earn their “suicide boat” nickname making close in runs at battleships. But their plasma torpedoes were extremely powerful weapons at point blank range. A few well-placed hits could gut a capital ship, especially one already damaged in the protracted fight.

  Ross sat in his chair, impassive, watching the battle continue to unfold. He brushed aside thoughts about Pharris’ daughter and what he would tell her about her father. His living crews needed him now. There would be time to mourn the dead later. If anyone survived.

  The fleets had approached each other at low velocities, and now they were in a protracted energy weapons duel. In normal circumstances, he’d have had his smaller fleet come in at high speed, trying to overcome his numerical disadvantage with superior maneuver. But that wasn’t an option here. The Martian fleet had one overriding mission. At all costs, they had to keep Stark’s fleet away from Mars itself. Even a few warships could wreak havoc if they got through. The Martian cities were covered with hyper-polycarbonate domes, protecting their citizens from the planet’s extreme conditions. They were incredibly strong under normal circumstances, but an attack from space would destroy one completely, exposing the city below to the harsh realities of the Martian surface.

  He sat and watched the data streaming in from the fleet. He’d lost two cruisers already, and half a dozen smaller ships, and most of the other vessels in the fleet had suffered varying degrees of damage ranging from serious to catastrophic.

  He
watched the scanners, his eyes focused on six small blips. He knew he was sending those crews, most of them at least, to their deaths, but there was no choice. He needed to break up the enemy attack to buy some time…and the attack ships could do just that.

  He saw them streak toward their targets, accelerating at 30g right for the enemy battleline. Their crews were zipped up in their tanks, and Ross couldn’t imagine a worse way to die if they were hit.

  “The enemy line is diverting fire toward the attack ships.” Randall’s tone told him that she too realized just how little chance those crews had of making it back. “Our battleline units are reporting reduced fire.”

  Ross winced as he saw one of the attack ships disappear on the scanner. Then another. A third of the force was gone just like that, but the others closed to attack range. He watched as they concentrated on a single enemy battleship. It was a big vessel, an Alliance Yorktown class, and it was already heavily damaged and trailing atmosphere and fluids.

  The attack ships came on in two waves of two, blasting their thrusters at full power in a zigzag pattern, trying to dodge the battlewagon’s heavy point defense. Ross’ eyes were glued to the scanner, watching as they approached firing range. One of the attack ships disappeared just before it fired, but the other three launched their torpedoes and blasted away at full thrust, altering their vectors to clear the close-range defensive fire of the target. One of the blips flashed brightly, but it didn’t disappear. The ship had been hit but not destroyed. Whether it was still capable of escaping – or indeed, if anyone onboard was still alive – was still unclear.

  Ross’ eyes darted to the big red oval representing the enemy battleship. He watched three tiny dots move into it one after another, and the AI began displaying damage reports to the side of the map. A few seconds later, the oval vanished, and the AI reported the complete destruction of the ship. The Alliance Yorktowns were the biggest warships in space besides the Confederation’s two monster superbattleships, and now the enemy only had one left. The flagship.

  The flag bridge erupted in cheers as the report came in, and another when all three attack ships blasted through the enemy’s intercept zone and into the clear. A 50% survival rate was far higher than Ross had expected, and he sighed quietly in gratitude.

  He glanced up at the chronometer. Less than five minutes left, he thought, thinking about Campbell and the two massive dreadnoughts now working their way around Saturn. He took a deep breath and stared at the tactical screen. He knew five minutes could stretch out like an eternity.

  “All batteries, prepare to fire.” Campbell was sitting on the front edge of his seat, leaning forward, his hands gripping the sides of his chair like vices. The posture was bad, and his back hurt like hell, but he didn’t care. It was almost time.

  The last 17 minutes had stretched on like an eternity, one long second slowly yielding to the next. His mind had been running wild with scenarios of hell unleashed on the rest of his fleet. He could see the nuclear explosions in his head, gargantuan warheads detonating in space all around his ships. The blasts wouldn’t look like much in space, just a brief flash of intense light. But any ship within a few kilometers would be hit with a massive burst of radiation. Hulls would melt, armor would buckle. Men and women would die.

  The missile exchange would be over by now, he realized. Whatever damage it had wrought was done, and whatever was left of the Confederation’s navy would be fighting a laser duel with Stark’s fleet. The Martian ships had strong energy weapon complements, and he knew that would help. But numbers would tell the tale in the end. Each of his ships would be facing two or three enemy vessels, and that kind of mathematics usually asserted itself before a battle was over.

  With any luck, Campbell hoped, the enemy commander assumed the two biggest Martian battleships had fled, the Confederation unwilling to risk their most powerful and modern vessels in a losing fight. If the fool bought it, Campbell would have a precious few moments of total surprise. He hoped it would be enough.

  John Carter and Sword of Ares had picked up a lot of speed whipping around Saturn’s gravity well, and in a few seconds, a targeted blast of thrust would send them heading right toward the rear of Stark’s fleet.

  “All personnel prepare for thrust.” He watched as Christensen relayed his command. They were going to fire the thrusters at 8g for 30 seconds. That was a lot to handle outside of the tanks, and he knew there would be injuries. But his people could take it for half a minute, and it would send the two massive ships on a direct line to the rear of the enemy fleet, already in energy weapons range.

  “Thrust in 3, 2, 1…now.” He held on to his chair, feeling the crushing pressure as Carter’s massive engines blasted the vessel ahead at 8g. He struggled to breathe, sweat trickling down the side of his face as he forced air into his tortured lungs. His spine felt as if it would sever in his chair, torn into two pieces by the massive force of the acceleration.

  His eyes moved toward the chronometer, and he realized that only ten seconds had passed. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain and discomfort, counting down to himself. Ten, eight. “He turned toward Christensen’s workstation, ready to give the command as soon as the engines disengaged.

  Four, he thought, desperately sucking in another breath. Three, two, one. He felt the relief almost immediately as John Carter went briefly into free fall and then fired her positioning engines, restoring a reasonable facsimile of gravity to the occupied areas of the ship.

  “Commander Christensen…” Campbell’s voice was cold, and in his eyes he held death itself. “All batteries, fire.”

  “It looks like a battle going on, Erik.” Teller sat next to Cain in the Torch’s wardroom, looking at the display on the wall. “Near Saturn.”

  Cain sat stone still, his eyes staring across the room at nothing in particular. “Of course. It all makes sense.” He turned to face Teller. “Garret’s at Columbia supporting the invasion there.” His voice was like granite, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt in his tone. “Stark could bring his fleet out of hiding without fear of Garret finding and destroying it. So he made his move on Mars.”

  “Mars?” Teller looked confused. “Why would he pick a fight with the Confederation when he’s already dealing with the situation on Earth and the war in the colonies?”

  Cain took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Because he’s already won in the colonies.” Cain’s words were grim, with a brutal edge to them. “Cate Gilson will probably manage to retake Columbia, but what will be left of the Corps? The casualties there will be enormous, and the supplies expended impossible to replace.” He stared at Teller for a few seconds before continuing. “The truth is, we’re done, James. The Corps is finished. The men and women Cate is leading down to the surface of Columbia are the tattered remnants, and half of them will never leave that planet. How many have we lost? How many are left from the survivors of the Third Frontier War? Ten percent? Is it even that many?”

  Cain’s words hit Teller like an avalanche. Erik Cain had a dark side. That was nothing surprising to anyone who knew the man. But Teller had never seen him so utterly convinced the Marines couldn’t prevail. Cain was one of the pillars of the Corps, a man who might be Commandant right now if he hadn’t chosen to chase after Gavin Stark instead. He’d never lost hope before, not even during the lowest nadir of the First Imperium War.

  “But even if the casualties on Columbia are heavy, we can always rebuild. The Corps has suffered losses before, but as long as a cadre remains, we can go on and regain our strength.” Teller was struggling to convince himself as much as Cain, but he couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of his voice.

  “Rebuild? How? Where?” Cain’s tone was relentlessly grim. “The Academy is basically a ruin, and all the arms production industry that had sprouted up on Armstrong was destroyed in the fighting.” He turned back, looking off aimlessly across the room. “Stark is systematically destroying every facility capable of supporting the Corps or the fleet. When the Superpower
s begin their last dance and start nuking each other into the dark ages, there will only be one place with high tech military production facilities left.”

  “Mars.” Teller stared at Cain. “Vance would supply the Corps and Garret’s fleet too if he is able. Stark has to destroy the Confederation’s industry, or his plans can’t succeed.”

  Cain nodded slowly. “We always forget two things when we’re dealing with Gavin Stark…how smart he really is and just how far he is willing to go.” There was icy hatred in Cain’s voice, but a strange note of perverse respect as well. The grim Marine would sacrifice his own life to destroy Stark, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit of amazement at a human being so capable. Cain wondered what Gavin Stark could have accomplished if he’d put his genius toward something more useful than the single-minded pursuit of power.

  He sighed softly. Cain knew humanity shared the blame for that, and man had sown the seeds of his own destruction. Stark was a creature of the perverse world into which he was born. The endless political games, the oppression, the jealously-guarded class-structure. Erik Cain was a Marine through and through, and the Corps had his complete and eternal loyalty, but in his heart he believed that humanity had created the nightmare that was destroying it. If they’d stood up and fought for their freedom somewhere along the line, if they’d taken the time to see and understand what was happening to them instead of listening to platitudes and blindly following leaders, perhaps the world would have been different. Perhaps his world would have been different…or Sarah’s.

  Cain was only 50 years old. Even without rejuv therapy, his mother and father should still be alive, and his sisters as well. But they weren’t. For him, his parents would always be 40, and his sisters just nine years old, the ages they were when the stark violence that haunted the lives of the Cogs struck his family.