Desperate Fire (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 4)

by Christopher Nuttall

  The Inquisition believes the locals would make good Janissaries, he reminded himself. And they’re probably right . . . if we could trust them.

  Gritting his teeth, he returned the datapad and stalked over to the planetary display. The Inquisition had reported dozens, perhaps hundreds, of rumors flowing through the ranks despite harsh punishments for anyone caught breathing a word of dissent. It was becoming harder and harder to conceal the gulf between official pronouncements and reality . . . and his men were growing increasingly aware of it. The insurgency had been proclaimed dead so many times that it wasn’t funny anymore. And then there were the newcomers from Ahura Mazda, a handful of men with orders so highly classified that he, the local commander, hadn’t been allowed to see them. All Ashram knew was that he had to give them whatever they asked for, without question.

  Hebrides was worthless, he knew. The planet’s industrial base had been destroyed during the brief struggle for control of the high orbitals and its population was too fanatical to be trusted with anything more complex than hewing wood and drawing water. The Theocracy gained nothing by committing so many troops to the surface, or two entire squadrons of superdreadnoughts to the high orbitals, but the high command was reluctant to abandon an occupied world. They’d been proud of capturing Hebrides . . .

  An alarm sounded. “Admiral, long-range sensors have detected a gateway opening, two light minutes from the planet,” a voice said. “We’re picking up a small enemy fleet.”

  And what, Ashram asked himself silently, aren’t you detecting?

  He turned and strode back towards his command chair, sitting down as the tactical display updated rapidly. The gateway was far too large for anything other than an enemy fleet, probably including at least one squadron of superdreadnoughts or assault carriers. Either one would pose a serious threat, perhaps a terminal one. His squadron was in no state to fight off a major offensive. But his orders were clear. He was to stand and fight—and die, if necessary—in defense of the planet.

  “Bring the fleet to full alert,” he ordered. His crews had been pressing their sensors too hard over the last month, ever since intelligence had begun warning of a major enemy offensive, but hopefully they would endure. “And order the courier boat to ready itself to leave orbit.”

  “Aye, sir,” Commander Farad said.

  Ashram sucked in his breath as the enemy fleet took on shape and form. The sensor readings weren’t entirely clear, thanks to enemy electronic countermeasures, but there were at least fifty ships advancing on his position. And there was something odd about their formation. He stroked his chin gently as he contemplated the situation. Enemy forces had come out of hyperspace too far from the planet to have any hope of taking him by surprise. Had they messed up their calculations? Or did they have something nasty in store?

  “The fleet is at full alert,” Commander Farad reported. “The tactical datanet is fully functional.”

  “Make sure the net stays up at all times,” Ashram ordered. Such a move ran the risk of allowing the enemy to identify his flagship and target her for destruction, but he saw no other choice. Too many of his ships had no fire control at all. They wouldn’t be able to do anything apart from shoot blind without the datanet. “Order the forces on the ground to brace themselves.”

  He cursed his superiors under his breath. If he ordered a retreat . . . his family would suffer for his crimes. He would have cheerfully accepted his own death by execution if he’d managed to save the ships and crews, but such an act would not save his wives and children. His adult sons would be killed, his wives and daughters parceled out to whoever wanted them . . . better to fight and die than condemn them to such a fate. No doubt his bravery would go down in history as a valiant last stand against overwhelming odds.

  “Picking up a message, sir,” Commander Farad said. “They’re calling on us to surrender.”

  “Do not reply,” Ashram said. Surrender? There was no way he could surrender! “Order the courier boat to leave orbit now.”

  He leaned back in his chair as the enemy fleet continued its advance. He was about to die, but at least he’d have a chance to hurt the enemy before he perished. Who knew? Perhaps his death wouldn’t be meaningless after all.

  And my family will survive, he thought numbly. That, if nothing else, will give my life meaning.

  “Commodore,” Commander Bobby Wheeler said, “there has been no response to our hail.”

  Kat wasn’t surprised. The Theocracy rarely surrendered. Even if the enemy CO had tried to surrender, she wasn’t sure she could have trusted him. The Theocracy seemed to regard attempts to surrender as just another way to gain a tactical advantage. Hell, Admiral Junayd, the lone senior defector from the Theocracy’s ranks, had confirmed that the Theocrats wanted to make sure that none of their personnel were allowed to surrender. They didn’t want them to think that there was any hope for a better life on the other side of the hill.

  “Prepare to flush the external racks,” she ordered. “Ready missiles.”

  There was a pause. “Missiles ready,” Wheeler said. “Tactical combat links ready and waiting.”

  “Good,” Kat said. She wondered absently what the enemy CO was thinking. He had to be wondering if she’d made a mistake. And he had to believe he still had time before the two fleets entered missile range. “Flush the external racks.”

  Queen Elizabeth shook as she fired a barrage of missiles. Kat leaned forward, never taking her eyes off the display, as the other superdreadnoughts flushed their own external racks. The new missiles might be too large to be fired from a standard tube, but there were still enough of them to give the enemy a very nasty surprise. And while targeting was often a problem at such long range, the recon platforms Thunderchild had emplaced could provide real-time data to the command missiles as they closed in on their targets.

  And the missiles are faster too, she thought as her fleet plunged onwards. The enemy won’t have time to react.

  “They fired,” Farad said in disbelief. “All those missiles . . . wasted.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Ashram growled. The Commonwealth wasn’t stupid. Their commanders wouldn’t have fired upwards of three thousand missiles unless they had a reasonable expectation of scoring hits. And that meant that the missiles probably wouldn’t burn out before they reached his ships. “Ready point defense, prepare to engage.”

  He braced himself. “And launch a spread of antimatter missiles,” he added. “Configure them for detonation within the enemy missile swarm.”

  Farad looked shocked. “Sir . . .”

  “Do it,” Ashram snarled. Antimatter missiles were expensive, true, and the squadron only had a handful of them after his ships had been stripped bare to support the last offensive, but they had to use them now or lose them. “Fire!”

  “Aye, sir,” Farad said.

  “The enemy is launching missiles,” Wheeler said.

  Kat nodded. The tacticians had worked their way through a number of prospective enemy responses to the new missiles, looking for ways the Theocracy might seek to tip the balance back in their favor. Using their own missiles to swat the incoming weapons out of space . . . it was certainly possible, if they thought of the maneuver in time. And besides, the tactic would waste more of their missiles before her ships closed to engagement range.

  But their desperate gamble wasn’t going to be enough, she noted, as the first antimatter warheads began to detonate, one by one. Hundreds of her missiles were blown out of space, but hundreds more survived. And even though their command network was disrupted, they were still drawing tactical data from the recon platforms. One by one, the missiles selected their final targets and closed in for the kill.

  “Their point defense is oddly sporadic,” Wheeler reported. “I’d say we grossly overestimated their efficiency.”

  “It looks that way,” Kat agreed. The enemy ships weren’t coping very well with the missiles, even though they’d had plenty of time to prepare. The enemy datanet seemed to b
e in a terrible state. And a quarter of the point defense fire they should have had was missing. “Ramp up our speed.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Wheeler said.

  Kat watched with grim satisfaction as the first of the missiles struck home. The drives and sensors weren’t the only things that had been improved, she knew; the antimatter warheads had been enhanced too. Enemy shields flickered, flared, and failed as they were pounded out of existence, the remaining missiles slamming into unprotected hulls. Seven superdreadnoughts were destroyed, blown out of space with all hands; five more were badly damaged, leaking atmosphere and plasma as they struggled to survive. Kat remembered the final minutes of HMS Lightning and shuddered. It was unlikely the crews of the damaged ships would manage to escape, even if their commanders ordered them to abandon ship . . .

  She winced as another enemy ship exploded. The enemy didn’t seem to be trying to escape, even though she knew their ships had lifepods. Were they that scared of being taken prisoner? Or were their commanders refusing to allow them to escape? The enemy ships couldn’t win the battle unless a relief fleet arrived in the nick of time. And Kat doubted, very much, that the Theocrats would make the effort.

  Should have recalled both squadrons before they could be attacked, she thought. It isn’t as if they were doing any good out here.

  “The remaining enemy ships are continuing their advance,” Wheeler reported.

  Kat made a face. What had the enemy crews done to deserve such a commander? He’d signed their death warrants without a second thought. What had they done?

  But there was no time for sentiment. “Signal all ships,” she ordered. “They are to engage the enemy as soon as they enter missile range.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Wheeler said.

  “Keep us on course,” Ashram ordered. “Prepare to engage the enemy.”

  “Aye, sir,” Farad said.

  “And order all ships to fall in behind us,” Ashram added. “We are to do everything in our power to get within energy range.”

  He kept his face impassive even though he knew he’d lost, and lost badly. Eight superdreadnoughts gone, four more so badly damaged that they couldn’t hope to keep up with the remainder of his ships. He had six superdreadnoughts left, against eighteen. Ashram had no hope of doing more than scratching the enemy’s paint before he died, taking his ships with him. But there was no alternative.

  The range was closing rapidly, the enemy tacitly accepting his challenge. Whoever was in command over there didn’t seem inclined to try to keep the range open, even though such a strategy favored him. Ashram’s opponent wanted the battle to end as quickly as he did. There was nothing subtle about his tactics, no desire to be clever . . . he’d brought a very big hammer and used it to smash Ashram’s squadron. Whoever was in command of the other side had set out to win, and he’d done it.

  “The gunboats are being launched now,” Farad said.

  “Finally,” Ashram snapped. He would have ordered the immediate execution of the unfortunate commanders of the two makeshift carriers if he hadn’t been sure the enemy would take care of that for him. But the modified transports hadn’t been designed to serve as carriers. “Order them to provide cover for the fleet as long as possible.”

  “Aye, sir,” Farad said. He paused. “We could send them against the enemy ships . . .”

  “They’re not ready for it,” Ashram snapped.

  And they never will be, he added silently.

  “The enemy ships are launching gunboats,” Wheeler said. “I count forty-five craft, Type-II.”

  So that’s what those ships were, Kat thought. I wonder why they didn’t launch them earlier.

  She pushed the thought aside as the range closed sharply. The enemy ships hadn’t flinched, even though they might have been able to escape if they’d opened a gateway and slipped back into hyperspace. Instead, they were pushing their drives so hard that they were on the verge of overloading one or more of their drive nodes. They were determined, truly determined, to hurt her as much as they could before they died. And she was equally determined that they wouldn’t have the chance.

  “Launch our own gunboats,” she ordered. “And then prepare to launch missiles.”

  “Entering missile range in two minutes,” Wheeler said. “Missiles ready; targeting programs laid in.”

  “Fire as soon as we enter missile range,” Kat ordered.

  She watched as the gunboats zoomed away from her fleet, closing rapidly with the enemy ships. Their gunboats fought back desperately, but clearly their pilots hadn’t had enough training. The Type-II gunboats had been outdated as far back as First Cadiz, yet they could be handled significantly better by skilled pilots. The Theocrats definitely didn’t know how to get the best out of their crafts. And her crews had received months of intensive training to hone their skills.

  Good, Kat thought savagely. Let the bastards die.

  “Entering missile range,” Wheeler reported. He tapped a switch on his console. “Missiles firing . . . now.”

  Ashram cursed under his breath as the enemy ships opened fire, each of his vessels targeted by two or three opponents. The barrage of their missiles seemed unstoppable, his missiles nothing more than a pitiful stream that evaporated as they flew into the enemy’s point defense network. He prayed, with a fervor he hadn’t felt since his first command, that something would survive long enough to reach the enemy shields and do damage, but God wasn’t listening. Or perhaps He wasn’t on the Theocracy’s side after all.

  His ship shook violently as a string of missiles struck home. Superdreadnoughts were built to soak up damage and keep going, but his ship was suffering from four months’ worth of poor maintenance. Red icons flashed on the displays as components overloaded and failed, some exploding within the ship itself. Ashram spun around in alarm as a console exploded, something he’d never seen outside bootleg movies. A crewman stumbled backwards and hit the deck, his uniform on fire. And then the shields failed . . .

  My family will be safe, he thought, closing his eyes. And that is all that matters.

  “The enemy ships have been destroyed, save for one,” Wheeler reported. “She appears to have lost power completely.”

  “Give her a wide berth,” Kat ordered. Normally she would have sent a marine recon team to board the enemy vessel, but right now she didn’t have time. They’d investigate the hulk later. “Take us straight to the planet.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Wheeler said. “We will enter high orbit in seven minutes.”

  Kat barely heard him. The Theocracy was terrifyingly ruthless, but this was a new low. The enemy had thrown away twenty-five ships for nothing . . . she’d lost four gunboats, a loss that would barely be noticed during the post-battle assessments. Would it have been so bad to withdraw before they were overwhelmed and destroyed? But instead the enemy ships had gone on a death ride with only one possible outcome.

  “And pass the word,” she added coldly. “As soon as we enter orbit, begin bombardment and insert the landing force.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Wheeler said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Sir, the enemy fleet is entering orbit!”

  “Open fire,” General Barak snapped.

  He cursed Admiral Ashram savagely as his officers struggled to carry out their orders. If the wretched bastard had done his bloody job . . . there were only two PDCs on the planet’s surface, both positioned within five kilometers of Lothian. Their force shields were strong enough to stand up to enemy bombardment—unless the enemy decided to wipe the planet clean of life in a desperate attempt to crack the defenses—but their ground-based weapons couldn’t shoot through the planet. There was nothing stopping the enemy ships from lurking on the other side while they landed ground troops to retake the wretched shithole.

  And here we are, stuck under a PDC, watching helplessly, he thought. The command center had very little to command. They have us on the ropes and they know it.

  “The enemy fleet is engaging our base
s with KEWs,” the officer added. “Sir . . .”

  “Order the ground troops to take up positions near the rubble,” Barak snarled. “Do it!”

  The command was already too late, he suspected. He’d never dreamed that Admiral Ashram could lose the battle. The Theocratic Navy was always bragging about its invincibility. But now they had lost control of the high orbitals, and the KEWs were raining down. Base after base, from the giant supply centers to the local garrisons, was being wiped out, their occupants unable to retreat in time. And he could do nothing to remedy the situation.

  “Deploy our remaining forces to hold Lothian,” he said. He had no illusions about their chances of ultimate success, but he could bleed the enemy as long as his men were covered by the PDC’s force shield. “And prepare to fight to the last.”

  He glanced at the two men in the corner of the operations center, both wearing featureless black uniforms. They’d arrived three weeks ago, carrying papers that ordered him to provide them with anything they wanted—and warning him not to ask questions. They could take command at any moment, he knew, yet they had done nothing but watch as the fleet was blown out of space. And yet he still didn’t dare ask any questions.

  “Enemy shuttles are entering engagement range,” an operator warned.

  “Target them,” Barak ordered sharply. Standard procedure for an orbital assault called for the capture of a shuttleport, which would then be used to bring in more and more supplies from high orbit. “And then order the troops on the shuttleport to destroy the base before withdrawing.”

  “Yes, sir,” the operator said.

  “Thirty seconds,” the jumpmaster barked. “Twenty seconds . . .”

  Colonel Patrick James Davidson moved forward as the last seconds ticked away, then jumped out of the shuttle and plummeted down towards the ground far below. His suit’s sensors reported a flurry of activity, from ground-launched missiles and energy weapons to Electronic Countermeasure drones trying to soak up as much enemy fire as possible. The Theocrats would never have a better chance to inflict mass damage on his men than when they were in their shuttles, terrifyingly vulnerable. And they knew it too. He cursed under his breath as two shuttles vanished, one taking two platoons of marines with it, then he pushed the thought aside savagely as the spaceport came into view. There would be time to mourn later.