Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  “Moving out in one minute.” Weld replied crisply. “Good luck, Eliot…and thanks.”

  “I can’t let you get all the glory, can I?” Storm smiled again. Somewhere along the line he’d started to really liked Weld. How, he wondered, is this guy not in the Corps? “We’ll be ready.” He flipped his com to the battalion-wide circuit. “Attention 11th Battalion, this is Captain Storm…”

  “They did what?” Cain’s voice was stunned, but behind the surprise was understanding…and admiration.

  “Sir, a detachment of General Merrick’s tanks have sliced through the enemy force advancing on the Tewksbury Steppe. They’ve turned about and attacked from the rear.” Carter paused, staring down at the incoming data. “It was Captain Weld, sir, leading the remnants of Merrick’s first wave.” Carter was silent for a few seconds, still reading. Suddenly, he looked up and snapped around to face Cain. “General, Captain Storm’s battalion is with them. They’re reporting losses over 75%.”

  And they’re still attacking, Cain thought. That was extraordinary in any battle, but against the First Imperium it was unprecedented. Amid the shock and excitement in the command center, a tiny smile crept across Cain’s lips. His officers were finally learning how to lead their units…and keep them in the line against the enemy robots. Morale would still be a problem, but Cain knew they’d turned the corner. The fear of the mysterious, of the cold and relentless new enemy was slowly giving way, overcome by the fighting spirit of the Marines and their allies. It would start slowly, with scattered units like this. But Cain was sure of it…mankind was learning to fight the First Imperium.

  “I want a full report.” He returned Carter’s stare. “Get me Merrick now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carter whipped around and worked his controls rapidly. “Sir, I have General Merrick on your line.”

  “Isaac, what’s up with the officer of yours?”

  “I assume you mean Weld, sir?” Merrick phrased his response as a question, but he answered it immediately. “They were overrun…it was problematic for them to retreat, so Captain Weld requested permission to advance to the enemy’s rear.” Merrick’s voice was a bit tentative. He wasn’t sure Cain would approve…but that was only because he hadn’t known 1st Army’s commander as long as some of the others.

  “Brilliant. Great work, general.” He was skimming the reports coming across his screen as he spoke. “It looks like they’re raising hell back there.”

  “Yes, they’ve disrupted the entire enemy attack.” Merrick’s voice was halting, tentative. “But the losses…”

  “Don’t worry about the losses, Isaac. Not now.” Cain’s voice softened. He was trying to help Merrick, show him the way to keep himself going as a commander in a battle everyone knew was going to be a bloodbath. “We’re going to take heavy losses here…you and I both know that.” He paused, then he added sadly, “There’s time later…there’s always time later to mourn the dead.”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was a confused mass of emotion. Exhaustion, gratitude for Cain’s words, shock at how coldly detached 1st Army’s commander could be.

  Erik Cain was an enigma, even to those who knew him best. His small circle of friends and loved ones had seen the way he tortured himself, tormented by guilt for the Marines he’d lost, the ones he’d sent to their deaths, the ones he felt he’d failed. But that was after the battle…always after. When the fight was raging, he turned it off completely. If men and women needed to die for the combat to be won, Cain coolly sent them to their deaths. He would punish himself later, but on the field of battle, victory was all that mattered to him.

  There was a long pause. Cain could hear the distant sounds of battle from Merrick’s end, but neither man spoke. Finally, Merrick broke the silence. “It looks like the enemy is pausing, sir. They’re very disordered, but there are still a lot of them.” Merrick took a breath, holding it briefly before exhaling. “My corps is really shot up, and we’re low on ammo.” He hesitated again. “And if any of Weld’s and Storm’s people are left, they’re still stuck behind enemy lines. What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “I want you to attack, general. My orders are attack across the line. We’re not abandoning heroes.”

  Major Hal “Iron Hand” Desmond banked his fighter bomber around the rocky hillside. He was flying fast and low, far too low according to all his training. But Desmond had thrown away the book. Against the First Imperium, the book would get you killed.

  The Marines usually went to war without significant airpower. Transporting planes, and the vast tail of support services it took to keep them armed and flying, simply wasn’t feasible…not across the vastness of interplanetary space. Major forces had a few support squadrons, but nothing more. But the transport resources marshalled to fortify the Line were unprecedented. Cain’s First Army had fifteen squadrons of fighter-bombers, the largest concentration of air units to go to battle since the Unification Wars over a century before.

  It would have been a commander’s dream in any of the battles the Marines had fought over the past century…but the First Imperium’s anti-aircraft capability was enormously effective. They didn’t appear to utilize aircraft themselves; they just shot down anything that dared fly near them. The casualty rate on sorties had been off the charts. Cain had been conservative in deploying his air assets, and he’d still lost half of them already.

  “Alright, ‘Stalkers, stay tight with me…and for fuck’s sake, keep low.” Desmond was one of a few pilots starting to develop effective tactics for dealing with the enemy. He’d had some success, but his style of flying required extremely skilled pilots. His Deathstalkers were one of the best squadrons, and he’d been training them for months. His per-sortie loss rate over five missions had been 30%, less than half the average for 1st Army’s air corps.

  “I’m with you, major.” Lieutenant Franz was tucked in just behind Desmond’s plane. Franz was probably the best pilot in the squadron after Desmond. She was young – there were definitely more experienced flyers in the Deathstalkers – but she was a natural.

  “I’m here major.” Captain Renner was Desmond’s exec. General Cain had ordered the best on this mission and, by God, that’s what Desmond was giving him.

  “One minute to target.” The last 30 seconds were going to be the toughest. It wasn’t easy to fly through the rocky hills at high speed, but at least the terrain gave cover against the enemy’s defenses. In a few seconds, the three planes would come out over the open steppe…and they’d be targeted by every First Imperium unit within 20 klicks.

  Desmond rubbed his hand along his right leg three times. It was an affectation, a habit he’d had going back nearly as long as he could remember. His rational mind thought superstitions were foolish, but that didn’t stop him from having a few of his own. Most of the pilots did. And if they didn’t, they usually picked up a couple after facing the First Imperium.

  The sleek F-2000s ripped through the dense lower atmosphere, flying out over the steppe, only a few meters above the tanks and Marines fighting below. The hypersonic aircraft cleared the friendly lines in just a few seconds. Now there were enemies below…hundreds of the battle robots…no, thousands…and the hulking Reapers, turning to bring their anti-aircraft defenses to bear.

  “Evasive maneuver Beta.” Desmond was counting softly to himself. “Execute.” The three planes banked hard, spreading out as they abruptly changed direction. Desmond wanted a random pattern…it was the best way to confound the ground defenses.

  The air filled with missiles and anti-aircraft drones, but this low to the ground they’d have a hard time targeting the three fighters. The enemy canister was the real danger this low…and the Reapers were already beginning to fire. The name was an informal one, borrowed from Earth history to designate the small, multi-projectile coilguns the larger enemy robots used as an anti-aircraft defense.

  “Maneuver Theta….execute.” Desmond banked his plane again, pushing his craft to full throttle. The cockpit shook wildly, an
d he gasped, trying unsuccessfully to force a breath into his screaming lungs. The gee forces were almost unbearable, but they only lasted a short while. Desmond had developed the maneuvers to escape the enemy fire, not to make his pilots comfortable.

  “Arm PBS system.” The plasma bombardment system was an enormously effective new weapon. Indeed, it was the only thing that made air attacks worthwhile despite the enormous casualties.

  “PBS armed, sir.” Franz’s reply was sharp, immediate.

  “Armed, maj…”

  Renner’s response was cut short. Desmond’s eyes shot down to his display. His exec’s icon on the plot screen was flashing red. “Fuck,” Desmond muttered under his breath. He couldn’t tell if Renner had managed to eject, but he knew the answer in his gut. It was almost impossible to bail at this altitude. His exec would have been lucky if he even realized he was hit before his plane slammed into the ground at 1,800 meters per second.

  Desmond forced his head back to the mission. He could see the target area on the plotting screen. There they were…a small group of Marines and tanks, virtually surrounded by the enemy. “Let’s fuck these bastards up…break!”

  Storm could hear the cheering on the comlink. He was going to tell them to shut up, but he realized he was doing it too. The planes were coming in quick, so fast he couldn’t focus on them…they were more of a blur. They were low, really low. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a plane flying so close to the ground.

  There were two of them…one streaking across the enemy line to the east, the other to the west. “Battalion…hit the deck. Visors off.” Storm knew what was coming. It’s just what they needed, but they were close. They were awfully goddamned close.

  He dove to the ground, sliding a few meters in the soft, slippery clay. His visor was blacked out, and he watched the attack unfold on his monitor. “Everyone down,” he repeated.

  The planes flew across the enemy positions, dropping their payloads. All along the lines of Reapers and battle robots, the small PBS packages dropped…and almost immediately they erupted into enormous clouds, emitting searing white light. Inside the expanding, superheated plasmas, the enemy robots, even the fearsome Reapers, were blown to bits, melted, vaporized. The planes barely kept ahead of the small bits of hell they dropped, and then they whipped around, flying southwest, back to their base. To the front and rear of Storm’s position, the enemy forces were virtually annihilated…dozens of bots just gone, consumed by the fury of the plasmas.

  Storm’s monitors told him how close his people had come to joining the enemy in death. The outside temperature was over 2,000 degrees…nearly the maximum his armor could withstand. He rose slowly, carefully reactivating his visor and glancing around at the nightmarish aftermath of the air attack. He had just about given up hope, but now his people – the few that were left – had a respite. Maybe they’d get back, after all.

  The enemy forces to the east were badly disordered, and they began to fall back toward the landing zone, abandoning the attack. The surviving units to the west were caught between Weld’s and Storm’s remaining troops and Merrick’s main body.

  “Captain Storm?” It was Weld, on the comlink.

  “Yes, captain?” Storm had almost forgotten the tanks for an instant. He was glad to hear from Weld…at least he’d made it. He didn’t know the melting point of the tanks’ armor, but he suspected it had been a close call. He tried not to think about how uncomfortable it was inside those vehicles.

  “I just got a communication from General Merrick.” He paused, taking a labored breath. “We are to attack to the west. Immediately.”

  Chapter 14

  Critical Care Unit 3

  Armstrong Joint Services Medical Center

  Armstrong - Gamma Pavonis III

  He could see something. It was far away, a fuzzy light…distant, very distant. No, it was close, moving closer. And brighter. There was sound too. Was there sound before? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember.

  “Admiral?” The words were soft, close. “Admiral Compton? Can you hear me, sir?”

  The words were clearer; he could understand. Someone was calling him. The light was closer too, and shaper. It was over his head, on a field of white…the ceiling. It was the light on the ceiling. Where was he?

  “Admiral Compton, squeeze my hand if you can hear me…”

  He was confused. It was coming back, slowly, partially. Then he remembered. Pain! He was hit, he could feel his body pierced in a dozen places, the strength leaving him…the searing agony as he fell to the cold deck. He was dying…yes, now he remembered. But the pain was gone…and the sound and the burning, smoky smell too. He was somewhere else, someplace clean, someplace warm. There was pressure on his arm…someone was touching him.

  “Admiral Compton?”

  His eyes focused. He saw a head leaning over him. A woman. She was dressed all in white. “Yes…that’s me.” He croaked out a reply. His throat was raw, dry…the words scratched their way out slowly, painfully.

  The white-clad figure smiled. “Welcome back, admiral. You are on Armstrong, in the hospital. You were wounded at Point Epsilon. Do you remember?” She spoke slowly, clearly.

  It was coming back. He’d been on the flag bridge. The battle…the enemy missile barrage. They were hit. “The fleet?” He swallowed hard, forcing the words from his parched mouth.

  “The fleet successfully transited out, Terry.” Another voice, deep, authoritative, but there was concern there too. “Your people performed brilliantly.”

  He tried to turn his head, tried to find the new voice. The room spun wildly…he was falling, spinning. His guts wretched, but there was nothing to come up.

  “Don’t try to move, admiral.” The first voice again, gentle, calming. He could feel warmth, pressure…hands on his arms, touching him, holding him lightly. “Your body needs a few minutes to adapt. You have been unconscious for over two months.”

  Compton lay still, listening. He understood the words, and the memories were coming back…the battle, the impact, the ship rolling and shaking. The ship! Elizabeth! “Bunker Hill? Elizabeth?” His voice was still weak, barely audible.

  “Bunker Hill made it out, Terry. Captain Arlington worked wonders…and she got out of there too.” The man’s voice again. He was closer now, leaning in. The face was familiar…

  “Augustus…” Compton’s eyes moved slowly, finding Garret’s. “…it’s you. I guess I made it myself too.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was exhausted; even speaking was an effort. “Barely, it looks like.”

  “Barely is right, my old friend.” Garret’s voice relaxed…he was relieved to see Compton really coming out of his coma. “Captain Arlington’s people got you in medical stasis just in time.” Garret looked down at his oldest friend and smiled. “She’s on the way here, by the way. I didn’t want to take her off Bunker Hill until the ship was safely berthed at Wolf 359.” He paused and let out a small laugh. “I’m afraid your flagship is a little worse for wear. She’s going to be laid up for quite a while.” Another laugh. “Just like you.”

  “She’s coming here?” Compton took a deep breath. He was exhausted, but there was so much he wanted to know, needed to know.

  “I presume you are referring to our good Captain Arlington.” Garret’s smile widened. “Yes. She should be here sometime next week. I’m afraid I’m going to have to deprive you of the good captain’s services. I’ve got a star in my desk for her, and this time I’m going to order her to accept it.” He paused, looking down at Compton. “Her conspicuous skill and coolness under fire have become far too obvious to ignore. I’m giving her one of the task forces in 1st Fleet under Admiral Harmon.” He gave Compton a sly look. “I’m sure you will miss having her on your flagship, but I daresay you may be able to find some advantage in that.” Garret knew very well how Compton felt about his now former flag captain. He’d been completely prepared to look the other way on any relationship that developed, but Compton was too much a creature
of duty to let his personal feelings get in the way of his job.

  “We’ll see.” Compton was a little uncomfortable with the topic. Changing the subject: “How about Max Harmon?”

  “Garret smiled. He wasn’t going to push, not now. Later maybe, when Compton was stronger and they had a good bottle of Cognac to make the talk flow a little freer. He owed his friend one on matters of the heart. Compton had tried to save Garret from a tragic mistake once. It was a lifetime ago and, when Garret didn’t listen, Compton nursed him through the heartbreak. It was time to repay the debt, and Garret had no intention of letting his friend make the same mistakes he had. Of course, that assumed any of it was relevant. They had to survive the war first.

  “Max is fine. Your whole staff is billeted on Armstrong. God knows, I could use them elsewhere, but I want your team ready to go as soon as you’re out of here.”

  “And when is that going to be?” Compton had a disgusted look on his face. “I can’t even move my head.”

  “It will be faster than you think, Admiral Compton.” Compton could see a hazy image in the doorway, at the edge of his peripheral vision. “I will have you out of here in six weeks…a month if you follow my instructions to the letter.”

  Compton tried to turn to face the new visitor, but the room started spinning again almost immediately. “Can I get that in writing?” He let his head fall back onto the pillow and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to retch.

  The newcomer walked across the room and stood next to Compton’s bed. “I assure you, admiral…you will be back to duty in 4-6 weeks. Normally, I’d insist on a longer therapy period, but I understand the exigencies of the situation. We are a military hospital, after all.” He was looking at the bank of monitors on the wall behind Compton. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Thomas Lazenby. I’m the acting chief of staff of the hospital.” Sarah Linden was the normal CO of Armstrong Medical, but she was heading up the field hospitals on Sandoval. Lazenby was her exec and filling in while she was absent.