Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  The flag bridge was silent, everyone waiting for Garret to speak. But he just sat silently, an emotionless, almost blank look on his face. He and Vargus hadn’t served much together, but he’d known the man for almost 40 years. He knew the attack ships would suffer terrible losses, and he’d been reluctant to send them in. But he had to know if the enemy fleet was armed with antimatter weapons. Combined Fleet had 21 capital ships and almost 300 cruisers, destroyers, and other vessels, by far the largest force mankind had ever put into space. Assembling this much power in one place was a massive gamble – if the fleet was lost, the war was as good as over. Garret was willing to take the risk for a straight-up fight, but he wasn’t prepared to throw humanity’s strongest concentration of military power into the teeth of hellish antimatter attack.

  Garret had needed someone he trusted, someone he could count on…someone with enough experience in the suicide boats to give them a chance to make it back. That was Vargus. The only man more qualified for the job was Terrence Compton…and he was still in the hospital, barely able to stand without help. He wondered, would you really have sent Terry? Compton was his best friend, his only real friend. Probably not, he thought. Compton was a fleet admiral, and the second highest officer in the Alliance navy. He’d probably have been Garret’s exec. Still, he was grateful that circumstance had relieved him of that choice.

  Finally he turned and spoke softly. “Commodore Harmon…” He frowned slightly. Stupid tradition, he thought. “…Fleetwide order. All bomber crews to their craft. We will be launching in 15 minutes.” Greta Hurley was another one…down in Lexington’s launch bay she was Commodore Hurley, but once her bomber blasted into space he could call her captain again.

  “Yes sir.” Harmon turned toward his com. “Attention all fleet units. All bomber squadrons are to be placed on alert. Projected launch in fifteen minutes…that’s one five minutes.”

  “And get me Greta Hurley.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harmon snapped out crisply. A brief pause. “I have Commodore Hurley, sir.”

  Garret looked like he tasted something bad. We don’t even have commodores anymore, he thought. “Greta, I just wanted to wish you and your people luck.” He hesitated, taking a quick breath. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I need to tell you. Except there is no one I trust more to lead this attack.” A brief pause. “No one.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Hurley’s voice was usually deadpan, but a little emotion crept in. She wasn’t one to be worked up by speeches and empty praise. But Augustus Garret didn’t give unwarranted tribute. She had tremendous respect for the fleet admiral, and his confidence in her stiffened her morale. “We’ll get the job done, sir.”

  “I know you will.” She was about to lead the largest strike force ever launched – over 600 bombers. Hurley had considerable experience fighting the First Imperium, but most of her crews were going against the enemy for the first time. Garret and she both knew how much pressure that put on her. The attack was critically important, and the admiral was confident she’d do whatever was necessary. “Now, Commodore Hurley…go make those bastards pay.”

  Squadron Captain Vernon was focusing on the tactical display, trying to concentrate on the attack run…and not the particle beam that sliced Wolverine in half a few minutes earlier. Vernon doubted Admiral Vargus and his crew even had the time to react. One instant they were alive…the next they were dead. And Alex Vernon found himself in command of the task force. What was left of it, anyway.

  He had 36 ships still able to attack. That was less than half, considerably less. But it was still a lot of firepower…and he wasn’t going to see it wasted. In all probability, they were paying with their lives for these shots. By God, he thought, we’re going to make them count.

  The bombers were moving up right behind his people, running the gantlet of the enemy point defense, just as his force had braved the missile and energy weapons fire. The bomber wings would hit the enemy right after the attack ships, a one-two punch designed to inflict maximum damage before any of the stricken vessels would withdraw or conduct meaningful damage control.

  “Lieutenant Yantz, put me on forcewide com.” Yes, they were going to repay the enemy in full…and it was time to make sure the rest of the taskforce felt the same way.

  It only took a few seconds for the tactical officer to set up the link. “You are on the line now, sir.”

  “Attention Task Force Gamma.” He tried to sound commanding, impervious to fear and grief…which he most certainly was not. He felt like a poor substitute for Desmond Vargus, but he knew his duty. “We all knew this was a tough mission, but now we’re finally getting a chance to hurt these bastards. This battle is going to decide if the Line holds…and probably if mankind survives this onslaught. We are fighting for our friends and comrades, our families, wherever they may be. We are here with our brothers and sister in arms, and our allies, old and new. Every blow struck in this battle could be the one that tips the scale. Every attack ship landing a torpedo hit – or missing one - could be the margin of victory or defeat. No one is unimportant…we need everyone in this fight. Each of us must now give our all. I’m expecting every ship to land two solid hits.” He paused briefly and added, “Now let’s pay these bastards back for everyone we’ve lost today. Time to avenge the admiral!”

  He didn’t have two-way sound, so he couldn’t hear the cheering on every ship of the task force. His people – though they’d only been his for a few minutes – were ready. It was time.

  “Woooo…” Hurley wasn’t sure who it was at first; then she decided it was Commander Farrelly. “They’re so busy fighting off the attack ships, we’re getting a free ride!”

  That wasn’t true, Hurley thought, not entirely. There was still plenty of defensive fire to go around. She’d lost about thirty bombers, but that was a lot less than she’d expected. They were still too far out to get accurate scanner reports, but whatever was going on up there, the enemy’s defense network were definitely sub-par.

  “Let’s stay cool, people.” Hurley didn’t want to clamp down too hard on anything that pumped up morale…but she wasn’t going to let her people get sloppy either. They had a long way to go. “Let’s check and recheck those weapons systems. Anybody who misses is going to have to answer to me when we get back.”

  She looked down at the tactical screen. She couldn’t even get her whole force to display. Fifty squadrons. Every one of them under her command. It was hard to wrap her mind around it all. And she had Martian and PRC bombers too. Different training, different systems. Now she had to forge it all into a single potent weapon. She knew Admiral Garret was counting on her, and she wasn’t going to fail him.

  “Scarlett, report on squadron formations.” Hurley still wasn’t comfortable with the AI, but she knew there was no way she could keep track of the massive force under her command without it.

  “All squadron deployments consistent with battle plan, captain.” Here we go, she thought. Her strategy was daring…some would say crazy. She’d been stunned when Garret rubber-stamped it, relying entirely on her opinion she could pull it off. The strikeforce had only six targets, with 8 squadrons assigned to each. Hurley was going after the Leviathans, the enemy’s massive battleships. There were ten of them in the Delta Leonis system, and if Greta Hurley had her way there would be only four left for Garret’s capital ships to face.

  Her forces had gutted one of the monsters in the First Battle of Sandoval. Now she was back to finish the job…and this time she wasn’t even going to leave burned out hulks. She was going to vaporize the things. She flipped on the main com. “Strikeforce, arm plasma torpedoes.”

  She leaned back in her seat as Lieutenant Potter went through the arming procedure for the command bomber. Half the officers in the strikeforce begged her to keep her craft back, but Greta Hurley had always piloted the lead ship, and that wasn’t going to change now.

  “Execute attack plan Zeta. All ships begin final approach.” One after another, the bombers e
xecuted short burns, changing their vectors and forming themselves from deep columns into lines approaching the target vessels. They would launch their torpedoes in six second intervals, targeting the entire length of the huge enemy ships from two sides.

  “OK, Lieutenant Potter. The strikeforce is on its own. Now let’s make sure we drop our bird right down their throats.

  “Yes, captain.” She worked the controls at her station. “Targeting info on your station now.” Potter didn’t need to be told. She knew Hurley was going to take the shot herself.

  The bombers were coming in close, well beyond maximum firing range. These shots were going to be point blank. It was costing more casualties, but the enemy fleet was still disrupted from the attack of the suicide boats…and Hurley wanted these torpedoes on the mark.

  “Scanners report considerable damage to target, captain.” Potter was staring at the screen, feeding Hurley updates. “It appears the vessel suffered at least two direct hits from the fast attack ships.” The damage was significant, but the Leviathan was enormous. It was going to take a lot more to knock it out.

  Hurley was focused on the targeting display. “Scarlett, countdown to firing position.”

  The AI responded to Hurley’s order. “Optimum firing point in twelve seconds…eleven…ten.”

  Hurley’s face was pressed against the scope. She was going to target these shots herself.

  “Seven…six…five…”

  The Leviathan was thrusting, trying to escape the approach vectors of the incoming bombers. But there were over 70 incoming, and they were zipping in from every direction. Hurley had allowed for every possibility. There was no escaping her squadrons.

  “Three…two…one…”

  Hurley held her fire, continuing the countdown under her breath. The target was moving, and her instincts told her to wait an extra beat. “Minus 1, minus 2…” She pulled the trigger, and the bomber shook from the force of expelling the torpedo.

  “Thrust plan Sigma-2.” She leaned back in her chair as the AI fired the engines. The thrust was a little under 3g, perfectly bearable without engaging the acceleration couch. Once the rest of her people had finished their attack runs they’d button up and blast full out for the fleet.

  “Direct hit, captain.” The excitement in Potter’s voice was clear. Their bomber, at least, had hit the bullseye.

  The AI was filtering scanning results and reporting in real time. It was hit after hit. Her people were raking the enemy battleships, savaging the behemoths with searing plasma. She kept her cool…until the Leviathan she’d targeted erupted into a massive fireball. Then Greta Hurley lost her control and let out a howling battle cry.

  “Take that, you pieces of shit!”

  Chapter 25

  “The Valley of Death”

  Planet Garrison

  Alpha Corvi III

  “The Line”

  “It’s fine. My medsystem stopped the bleeding, and the nanos patched my suit.” Heinrich Shultz spoke loudly, trying to compensate with volume for the weakness he felt. “I will not leave my troopers. Not now.”

  Horace opened his mouth then closed it without speaking. He’d been trying to get Shultz to go to the field hospital, but he realized it was futile. He knew he wouldn’t leave the field now either…and the CEL captain was every bit the fighter he was.

  Their two units had fallen back, first from Hobson’s Ridge to the Jackson River line…and from there through the ruins of Garrison City and its satellite settlements. The towns had been nuked hard, and only a few remnants of superhardened buildings had been left standing. They weren’t standing anymore.

  At every point the forces of the Pact fought the enemy grimly, extracting a price for each kilometer, forcing the enemy to twice land reinforcements. But they still fell back. They were inflicting heavy casualties, but they were losing the battle.

  Horace ordered his AI to give him another stim. The enemy would attack soon, and he needed to be 100%...especially with Shultz no better than walking wounded. The German officer could push himself as hard as he wanted, but eventually his body was going to give out. Horace knew he had to shoulder most of the load now.

  “Alright…stay.” Horace was doing the best he could. “But sit for a few…rest. Don’t be in such a hurry to tear those wounds open.” He turned and glanced down the hill where their interspersed units were positioning what was left of the heavy weapons. “I can supervise the deployment. You save your strength for the fight.”

  Shultz was going to argue, but when he turned to face Horace he could feel the ground coming up at him. He froze, and the vertigo started to fade. The suit had pumped its entire supply of blood substitute into him, but he was still woozy. Maybe a few minutes of rest will help, he thought, frustrated with his own weakness. “Ok, but just for a few minutes.” He looked over at the Alliance officer. “But you don’t need to nursemaid me. Get down there and make sure those weapons are well-sited. We don’t have long.”

  Horace smiled inside his armor and turned to head down the hill. “I’ll keep you posted.” He started to trot down the rugged slope.

  “And John?”

  Horace stopped and turned back to face Shultz. It was entirely unnecessary gesture – their suits were sealed, and their discussion was on the com. Horace heard Shultz through the speaker in his helmet, not from the direction of the CEL captain. But still, he paused and turned toward his companion. “Yes, Heinrich?”

  “Thank you.” His voice was soft, the exhaustion obvious.

  The two officers had known each other for less than five days, but a real kinship had evolved during that time. They had developed an almost-immediate trust for each other, and their units had fought superbly together.

  “Just get some rest.” Horace had grown to respect his CEL counterpart enormously. “I’m going to need your ass spitting fire when those Reapers hit us again.” He grinned to himself and trotted down the hill, wondering with amusement how literally the AI translated his English into German.

  Cate Gilson was a trim, erudite woman, the epitome of the cool, intelligent professional. She could have passed for a professor at any university in the Alliance. But Gilson wasn’t a teacher; she was a Marine, and on the battlefield she shed that refined veneer, and the curses flowed like water from a hose. There wasn’t a career sergeant in the Corps with a fouler mouth than General Catherine Gilson in the middle of a desperate battle.

  “Morton, tell that fucking lazy piece of shit I’m sick and tired of his motherfucking excuses.” She wasn’t shouting, not exactly, but she was getting her point across.

  “Yes, general.” Kevin Morton was used to the boss’ tirades. He’d seen her withering invective reduce 20-year veterans to sobbing wrecks, but he was as close to immune to it as a Marine could get. He loved Gilson and would follow her anywhere, but he’d never met anyone who drove people harder or demanded greater perfection. Of course, he hadn’t served under Erik Cain. He had heard the stories, though. He knew some of Cain’s people, and they’d compared notes in a couple of well-lubricated get-togethers before they all shipped out from Armstrong. The results were inconclusive – the title of hardest SOB commander in the Corps was still up for grabs.

  “I want those goddamned heavy weapons teams over here NOW!” She was pissed, no question…and with good reason. Colonel Lin’s heavy brigade had been making shitty time, and her people needed those autocannons and rocket batteries. It didn’t help that Lin was a CAC officer. Gilson had been fighting against the Central Asian Combine her entire career. She didn’t like Lin, and she didn’t trust him. But she didn’t have any choice but to depend on him…and it wasn’t improving her mood at all.

  “I’m on it, general.” Morton was a calmer sort than Gilson, which is probably why they worked together so well. He also knew how important it was to keep the Pact functioning and all the human forces working together. He’d even had a personal message from General Holm before they left for Garrison. The Commandant had asked him to try to k
eep Gilson as diplomatic as possible. He’d found the easiest way to do that was to interpose himself between the general and the targets of her anger. He was going to ride Colonel Lin hard for sure. Gilson wasn’t wrong; the CAC officer was a political crony and not a real soldier. He’d been dragging his feet all morning, probably scared shitless to actually go into battle. Still, he was going to edit Gilson’s remarks a bit. He knew she wanted him to give it to Lin loud and dirty, but he’d tone things down enough to avoid an international incident. He just hoped Lin listened this time…because if he didn’t move his ass Gilson was going to handle it personally. If she didn’t just find the SOB and shoot him herself.

  “We’re out of ammo, sarge.” Corporal Jahn leaned over the heavy autocannon, staring into the empty magazine as though his gaze could somehow fill it with fresh rounds. There were empty ammunition crates everywhere. The fighting had been hot all day.

  “We’re out too, sarge.” Corporal Carslon, 200 meters to the south.

  “We’re down to 12,000 rounds, sergeant.”

  “Just under 10k here.”

  “Supply dump’s got plenty of CAC shit, boys and girls, but none of ours.” Sergeant Hull’s voice was deep and gravelly. “So get your rifles out, Marines. And when you’re out of ammo for those, get your blades out. We fight with what we got.” Hull had no idea how long it would take to get more ordnance up to his people. Every time they’d tried to set up a decent ammo dump on the surface, the enemy took it out with a nuke or a cluster bomb barrage. The CAC troops had gotten to the party late, and they still had plenty of ammo. His Marines were armed with Alliance equipment, though, and the CAC rounds wouldn’t fit. What a clusterfuck, he thought, gripping his rifle firmly. The enemy would be coming soon. His Marines had kept them back with their withering fire, but as his teams ran out of ammo, it opened the door for an enemy attack to breach the line. If they got through here, they’d flank the units on either side…the whole battle line could be compromised. “Not on my watch,” Hull muttered softly to himself. “The captain’ll get supplies through.”