by Jay Allan
“I am transmitting all navigational and scanning data via this drone, and I am posting two vessels near the warp gate with orders to send ongoing updates through.” He paused for a few seconds, considering if he wanted to add anything further. Finally, he just said, “Mondragon out.” Then he cut the line. “Lieutenant Tomasino, download all scanning data into the drone and launch at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant Santini…status on incoming thrust plans?” He turned toward her as he spoke.
“Still coming in, captain.” She was staring at her screen as she spoke. “I have 18 so far.”
Mondragon frowned. The Alliance and PRC ships again. He didn’t even have to check; he knew. “Lieutenant Tomasino, advise all ship commanders that anyone not getting their thrust plan to the flagship in two minutes will be relieved.” His voice was ice cold.
Tomasino hesitated for an instant before stammering a response. “Yes, sir.” Mondragon had always had a temper, but there was something different in him now. He was more demanding, but it was cold, meticulous…not the fiery anger he’d sometimes displayed in the past. It was far more menacing. The old Mondragon might have made angry, empty threats to shoot a subordinate; this new one would probably do it.
Mondragon leaned back in his chair, clear eyes boring into the backs of his bridge crew as they executed his orders. He’d never before served with officers like Terrance Compton and Erica West, and their cool competence had made an enormous impression on him. There was no reason, he thought, that the Europan forces needed to cede such a performance gap to the Alliance and Caliphate. It was the officers, too focused on acquiring and preserving their own perquisites and privileges, who accepted sub-par standards and efforts. But Francisco Mondragon had no intention of playing that game anymore. And the sooner his officers and crews realized things had changed, the better.
He knew he could probably avoid this combat, in spite of the fact that he couldn’t get all his ships out ahead of the enemy. If he scattered his fleet the enemy would have to disperse to give chase…and superior technology or not, no 7 ships could effectively pursue 42. He wondered again if he should try to avoid battle…if he should give his fleet orders to scatter. A fight would be no easy victory. Seven First Imperium ships, even Gremlins, were going to be hard to fight with nothing but attack ships. His only useful weapons were short-ranged, meaning his ships would have to take everything the enemy could dish out before they got their turn.
But if he let them pass…if they got through to the next system, they’d be able to scan the rest of Scouting Fleet. With the enemy’s advanced communications capability, the functional assumption was that if any First Imperium vessel knew something, they all did…straight up the line. Mondragon’s job was to scout forward and to gather information for Compton; that was true. But it was also to deny that same intelligence to the enemy, to screen Grand Fleet and keep the First Imperium forces in the dark about what was happening. He could do that. He could do it by destroying these ships before they reached the warp gate.
“Lieutenant Santini, do you have all the thrust plans?”
“Yes, sir.” She was bent over her workstation, running the plans through the navigational computer. “Working on those now.” A short pause, then she added, “They look good so far.”
“We’ll have to take the rest on faith.” He took a deep breath. “Order all ships to execute in three minutes.” He turned to face Tomasino.
“Lieutenant Tomasino, bring the fleet to battlestations.”
The enemy missile barrage had hurt, but it could have been much worse. The Gremlins didn’t have external emplacements and, overall, they had a relatively small broadside of missiles. The fleet had, for the most part, cleanly executed the complex series of maneuvers Mondragon had ordered, and they were able to meet the incoming volley with a combined point defense grid. Most of the incoming weapons were intercepted by the combined countermeasures of the task force, and the ones that got through were all nukes. Mondragon suspected they had all been standard atomic warheads - he guessed the Gremlins lacked antimatter ordnance altogether. Still, even with the successful defensive effort, the enemy attack had destroyed 2 of his ships and taken another 3 out of action.
The particle accelerators had been worse, much worse. The Gremlins mounted lighter weapons than the Gargoyles, but it didn’t take much to wreck a fast attack ship. Mondragon brought his force in on a random zigzag pattern, each shift altering a ship’s thrust and vector by tiny increments. Particle accelerators, like lasers, were point to point weapons. They had to actually strike a vessel to cause significant damage…and an attack ship was a very small target at 250,000 kilometers. It took some period of time to aim the projector – and maybe a second for the beam to reach the target. If the ship's thrust or directional heading varied the tiniest amount after the fire lock was established, even enough to move it a boat length out of the projected location, a shot would probably miss.
Despite Mondragon’s aggressive evasive maneuvers, another ten of his ships were destroyed or seriously damaged. Normally he’d have come in fast, reducing the time his force spent in the enemy’s kill zone. But this time he’d kept his velocity low, less than 0.01c. If he came in at high speed and didn’t destroy all the enemy ships on the first run, the Gremlins could escape. He’d never be able to decelerate and turn around before they got to the warp gate and into the X1 system.
“Lieutenant, repeat my order that no one is to fire until I give the command.” He was worried some of his captains would fire too early. The hit percentage dropped off sharply outside the short range band, and Mondragon wanted these torpedoes right on target.
“Yes, sir.” Tomasino was nervous; Mondragon could hear it in his voice. They’d been in combat together before, but nothing like this. He knew it was the same throughout the fleet. This was a rite of passage for most of his people. Except for the Alliance ships, none of them had ever faced the First Imperium before. Hearing stories, reading reports…it was enough to scare the hell out of them. But nothing truly prepared anyone to face this enemy…nothing but actually doing it.
Mondragon and his people had fought the First Imperium a couple months earlier during the battle in Newton’s system, but there Jacobs had masterfully worn the foe down with fighters and laser buoys. In the end, Mondragon had led just 20 ships into that fight, mostly his Alliance and CAC units. For the bulk of his Europan vessels and crews, this was their true baptism of fire.
“Lead ships under 100,000 kilometers from enemy vessels.” It was clear from his tone that Luigi Tomasino would already have given the order to fire. But Tomasino wasn’t in command; Mondragon was.
“All ships continue to close.” The enemy weapons were still firing. He knew getting in tight would cost him more ships. But he needed those plasma torpedoes on target. They were a potent weapon, even against First Imperium vessels, but they still needed to hit.
“Lead elements at 90,000 kilometers.”
Mondragon was trying to decide if he thought Tomasino’s tone was getting a little shakier every 10,000 klicks. He leaned back in his command chair, but he remained silent. They still weren’t close enough yet.
“Griffe had been hit, sir.” Tomasino was reading from his display. “Her reactor’s out, plasma torpedoes disabled…but Captain Elysee thinks she can save the ship.” He looked up from the screen. “Passing 80,000 kilometers, captain.”
Mondragon sat back in his chair, not saying a word. To anyone’s gaze he seemed totally at ease, though in truth his stomach was clenched into a knot. It wasn’t easy sitting there, listening to casualty reports, wondering every second if your ship was going to be hit…if you’d even realize you were dead before it was over.
Jacobs had shared a story with Mondragon, one he’d been told by none other than Terrance Compton. Jacobs had expressed concern about having the coolness under fire to lead Scouting Fleet, and he wondered out loud if he had enough of what Compton and Garret did…whether he
could do the job they expected from him. Compton laughed and told him that none other than Augustus Garret had excused himself after every battle for at least 20 years so he could go back to his cabin and casually heave up his guts. Supposedly, he’d done it so forcefully after one especially grueling fight, he’d pulled a muscle in his back.
It had clicked right then and there for Mondragon. At that moment, he understood. The heroes weren’t born that way, they didn’t have anything inside them he didn’t…they just resolved to do what had to be done, and put the fear and hesitation in its place until they could deal with it. Francisco Mondragon decided that being a middling Europan commander was no longer enough for him. Especially not now…not when the best of mankind was rallying to face the enemy.
“Requin and Chasseur have been hit, sir.” Tomasino’s voice was beginning to crack. He was a good officer by the standards of the Europan attack ship flotilla, but the pressure of this fight was pushing him to his breaking point. “Chasseur is remaining in the line, but Requin is not responding, captain.” He turned to face Mondragon. “Passing 65,000 kilometers, sir!”
Mondragon took a deep breath. “All ships may fire when ready.” He spoke softly, with apparent – but entirely faked – calm.
Tomasino relayed the order at once. “All ships, fire when ready.” He was gripping the sides of his workstation and almost shouting into the com. “Repeat, all ships, fire when ready.”
Chapter 16
Launch Bay Gamma – AS Midway
Sigma 4 System
Orbiting Sigma 4 II
Erik Cain stood rigid, immobile, waiting for the final launch authorization. His thoughts drifted back through the years, to missions and days long gone by. The landers hadn’t changed all that much since he climbed into a launch bay for the first time. The old Gordons had only carried five Marines; the newer Liggetts held ten. Everything in warfare had expanded in scope since Cain was a cherry, and the landing craft were no exception.
Besides the larger size, there wasn’t much difference. Designed to carry troops in powered armor, the Liggetts were simple open landing sleds, just like the Gordons. The wave about to launch had already been coated with heat-resistant foam, and the armor power systems were activated. If all went well they’d be on their way down in 30 seconds.
More than a few people had been surprised – some outright shocked - when Cain announced he was going in with the first wave. A number of officers had tried to convince him to wait until a landing zone was secured, but they were all told – with rapidly eroding levels of politeness – to mind their own fucking business.
Terrance Compton had remained silent when Cain announced his intentions. He didn’t like the idea any more than the others. Losing Cain would be a disaster for the operation and, beyond the pure military considerations, Compton considered the stubborn Marine one of his few real friends. But he knew Cain well enough to understand this was something he had to do. Compton was worried, of course, just like everyone else, but he also knew Erik Cain was a survivor.
“Final authorization granted.” The tactical computer sounded almost identical to the one on his first mission. He was trying to decide if it was the exact same voice. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but now he wondered, is it possible they’ve been using the same voice for 25 years? “Launch in 30 seconds.”
Cain took a deep breath, too deep. His suit was filled with standard pre-battle oxygen-rich mixture, and he made himself mildly dizzy. His eyes were closed, and he was thinking of another battle…on Farpoint. He’d lost a lot of comrades over the years, but the fight on Farpoint had claimed his best friend. It was that battle, not the far larger one on Sandoval, that had cemented his hatred of the First Imperium…that fed his longing to grapple with the enemy, to battle them for as long as it took to destroy them.
He wore a small silver pendant around his neck. He’d found it when he was cleaning out Jax’s quarters, and he’d held on to it. It was the only thing he’d kept from Jax’s possessions; he’d seen the big Marine wear it during every battle the two had fought for 20 years. It had been a violation of regulations, but somehow Jax had managed to sneak it under his armor every time, at least until his rising rank made subterfuge unnecessary.
Cain had been stunned to find it in a drawer…for some reason Jax had gone into his last battle without the tiny talisman. If Cain had been superstitious, he’d have blamed Jax’s death on the big man leaving his lucky charm behind. But he knew better. Jax didn’t die because he forgot to wear a lump of silver around his neck…he died because of Cain’s prejudices, his arrogance.
Now Cain was wearing the charm. He was wearing it for his friend, to honor him…to avenge him. They were about to bring the war to the enemy. He didn’t know what to expect on the ground, and he didn’t care. Whatever the enemy had down there, Erik Cain and the Marines were coming…and when they were done there would be nothing left but the silent remains of a world that had once been part of the First Imperium. Cain had lost the early fear of the enemy, and his Marines had followed his example. They were ready.
“Fifteen seconds to launch.” The bay depressurized, matching the pressure of the upper atmosphere.
Cain took another breath, a little less forcefully this time. He’d lost count of how many bays he’d launched from, but he’d never completely shaken the claustrophobia. He was always glad when they hit ground, and the locking bolt released him from the lander.
“Ten seconds to launch.” Cain felt the rack moving, carrying the line of Marines to the launch track. The attack wave was combat loaded, so Cain was sharing a lander with a standard squad. His other senior officers were similarly spread throughout the landing force. There was no way Cain would allow a lucky missile shot to decapitate the entire command structure.
“Five seconds to launch. Four, three…”
Cain gritted his teeth. No matter how many times you did it, a combat launch was a rough ride.
“…two, one…” The catapult blasted the lander down the track at 30g. It only lasted a second, but that much force hitting you slammed into your chest like a sledgehammer and forced the breath from your lungs.
The first wave was strong, 6 battalions of crack Marines and 4 ortas of Janissaries. Just over 5,000 veterans were on their way down simultaneously. Normally, Cain would have wanted the surface of the planet blasted hard to soften up the defenses, but not this time. They weren’t here to win a battle or grab some real estate…they had come to find a way to defeat the First Imperium, and blasting everything into radioactive dust wasn’t going to help with that. They had to capture the enemy installations intact…or as close to it as possible. Cain knew this would be a brutal fight; so did the men and women in the strike force. No one on the way down to the planet’s surface was under any illusions as to what they faced.
The sky was filled with every manner of debris to distract the enemy ground fire. Compton’s people were firing every type of purpose built ECM shell…along with bits of wreckage from the damaged ships of the fleet. There were clouds of sickly green haze everywhere, the radioactive, metal-laced steam the Caliphate called Smoke. Cain had never understood why the Alliance hadn’t adopted the system…the Caliphate had always deployed it with great success to interfere with scanners and detection systems.
The countermeasures were the strongest ever employed during a planetary assault. No one liked sending the landing wave down against unsoftened targets, but no one could think of a workable alternative either. So with no bombardment preceding the assault, it was all ECM and deception protecting the vulnerable landers.
“Well Hector, it’s you and me again.” Cain’s AI had been upgraded a number of times, but the system had used the same personality module since the day Cain left the Academy, first in his class and a newly minted captain.
“Yes, General Cain. This is our 37th landing under combat conditions.” Cain’s AI had long sparred with him, having determined that such a persona was best suited to working successfully wi
th the stubborn Marine. In recent years, however, Hector had modified its behavior. The continued losses and constant warfare – and the ultimate death of General Jax, compounded by Cain’s subsequent guilt over the incident – had made a change appropriate. The AI had gradually evolved into a more suitable assistant for the grimmer, older Erik Cain. Marines often complained about the personality quirks of their virtual assistants, but the interaction modules were actually extremely sophisticated and, on the whole, they worked quite well.
“Activate tactical display.”
“Yes, admiral.” The AI obeyed at once, projecting the schematic of the landing force inside Cain’s visor. “Please be advised that the accuracy of our scanning is subject to the effects of our own interdiction methods currently being employed.” In other words, Compton’s ships were filling the sky with all sorts of materials designed to interfere with First Imperium ground fire, and it was playing havoc with the Marines’ scanners too.
Cain had planned a precision landing, a luxury he could afford himself with a purely veteran force. The intel from the surface was sharply limited, but what they’d been able to put together supported his decision. They were coming down around what seemed to be the ancient remains of a town or small city. Cain’s forces would occupy and surround the long-deserted site, creating a secure perimeter so General Sparks and his team could transport down and begin analyzing the ruins.
Cain watched as the landing force descended. It looked like their formations were spot on, but none of that was totally reliable. Compton’s interference measures seemed to be working well, which made any readings highly unreliable. There was fire from the ground, but losses had been light…less than 2%. The entire strike force was on total communication silence until they hit ground – there was no point in helping the enemy ground to air batteries find them.