by Daniel Gibbs
“Aye aye, sir,” Astrid replied as she pulled herself up to her full height. “What are your orders, Admiral?”
“Signal my flagship to return. I intend to take command of her and engage the enemy fleet in ship-to-ship combat. While you’re at it, tell the rest of our fleet to return at once. We can still catch them in a pincer movement and crush the Terran Coalition once and for all. The Saurians along with them too.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Astrid parroted back to him and moved off.
Strappi walked up to Seville and quietly spoke into his ear. “Admiral, I fear our fleet may take too long getting here. Most ships are still in the cool-off period following a jump.”
“I share your fear, Colonel. But we must act with the tools remaining at our disposal. Be sure you join me when the Annihilator returns,” Seville whispered back.
“Of course, sir.” Strappi touched a closed fist to his chest in the salute of the League.
A few minutes later, Singh got the first indication the League was alerted to their presence when he got a communication call from Charlie team.
“Alpha leader, this is Charlie leader. Goliaths just engaged us. We’re holding position.”
Singh scanned his eyes around the control room. “It would appear they’ve finally figured out they have some uninvited guests onboard, gentlemen. Prepare for close quarters combat.”
“Alpha leader, this is Charlie leader. We’ve got a company-sized force engaging us. Request permission to fall back to the control room and activate our claymores.”
Singh quickly answered, “Permission granted, Charlie leader. Double time back to the control room. Delta leader, head on a swivel. I expect them to hit us from both sides.”
A moment later, Singh heard the loud report of the claymores going off, and the room shuddered, just a tad. He knew they could hold off the League troops for a time, but without a planned egress point, they had to wait for reinforcements. Until then, they’d have to hold the line.
“Master Chief,” Singh said toward MacDonald. “Prep all teams for defense. We can soak up a lot of fire in here if we plan our lanes of fire right.”
“Aye aye, sir!” MacDonald yelled back at him, already assisting another commando in moving a console they’d laser cut out of its mounting platform.
Singh switched communication frequencies to the CDF fleet channel and cued up a high energy burst. “This is Captain Singh to General Cohen on the Lion of Judah. We’ve been discovered. Our teams will hold until the Marines arrive. Singh out.”
28
David stared at the tactical plot in the big holographic projection array on the bridge of the Lion of Judah, bathed in blue light. There just wasn’t enough data to tell him what was going on outside of the ship. CDF combat doctrine focused around having superior information, superior training, and excellent management of the battlespace. The only thing going for them right now was their training. Weapons fire was being exchanged at extremely long range, but he doubted either side was hitting much of anything except by blind luck. He’d ordered all missiles prepped for combat, but specifically disallowed their launch from all ships in the fleet. At least until local space conditions improved and the sensor packages were able to track their targets once again.
“TAO, any improvement in sensor resolution?” David asked.
“Marginal, sir, we still can’t determine where the enemy is with a close enough margin to get an affirmative firing solution.”
David grinned. “That means they can’t shoot at us either, TAO. Distance to Master One?”
“Best guess, less than ten thousand kilometers, sir.”
“Communications, get me Colonel Demood.”
“Aye aye, sir. Patching him in for you, sir,” the backup communications officer replied.
A moment later, David heard Calvin’s voice coming out of the speaker on his chair. “General, what can I do for you?”
“You ready to light up some Leaguers, Colonel?” David asked.
“Anytime, anywhere, always ready, always there, General,” Calvin said, his cocky Marine attitude shining through brightly.
“We’re ten thousand klicks off the enemy station, and neither side’s sensors can penetrate the background radiation effects from setting off a few thousand mines. We’re not getting a better chance to send you in. We received a burst communication from Captain Singh not too long ago… things are heating up over there, and his boys need your help. Your mission remains the same: storm Unity Station, capture it for the Terran Coalition. And if you find Seville, bring him back, dead or alive.”
“Understood, General. I’ll send some Marines to bail out our commandos, and we’ll press the attack.”
“Good hunting, Colonel, and Godspeed. Cohen out.”
“Same to you, General. Demood out.”
David leaned back in his chair, looking out of the transparent metal windows that were directly ahead of the tactical and navigation stations.
“You want to be out there with them, don’t you?” Aibek asked in a quiet voice that didn’t carry, far from his usual jovial tone.
“Yeah, I do, XO. I know my place is on the bridge, overseeing the battle as a whole. But I’d like to be on the sharp tip of the spear for this one. There’s a part of me that would like to personally even the score with Seville,” David replied in an equally quiet and somber tone.
“Aren’t you always telling us not to let it get personal, and not to give in to hating the League?”
David grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I do. It’s good advice… and I think we all struggle to take and use it. Dehumanizing our enemy is the first step to hating them. I’ve always tried to avoid taking the first step down that dark road.”
“Time to launch our fighters, I believe, sir.”
David glanced at Aibek and nodded. “I concur. Communications, patch me in to Colonel Amir.”
Major Richard Hume sat in the cockpit of his SF-106 Phantom, having just completed the pre-flight checklist. The entire air group was on alert five, and they’d run through their pre-flight checklists every thirty minutes to ensure all craft were ready for launch. He glanced over the readiness report in his HUD for the squadron of fighters he inherited when he accepted the role of temporary XO for the Lion’s flight wing. Nicknamed the Black Cats, they had a respectable kill-to-loss ratio but suffered the death of both the squadron commander and her XO. Plugging pilots from other squadrons into the holes left, he felt they were as in good a fighting shape as they could hope for.
Amir’s voice cut into his communications feed. “Major Hume, can you read me?”
“Affirmative, Colonel Amir.”
“Are you ready?” Amir asked.
“Yes, sir. Black Cats are ready to purr,” Hume said with a slight laugh; squadron names could be so odd. “The wing is in better shape than anyone honestly had the right to expect, Colonel.”
“I agree. I hope to see you again when we’re done here today.”
“That makes two of us, Colonel.”
“I meant to ask you, Major, I’ve never seen a flag like the one on your shoulder. What state is it from?”
“It's not from a nation-state. It’s the flag of the Knights Hospitaller, which is a Catholic military order. We trace our lineage to the seventh century AD on Earth.”
“Our ancestors once fought each other, then,” Amir observed.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s not a hereditary order, but I suppose it’s possible. A pity it took having to flee Earth for us to figure out we’re not each other’s enemy, though.”
“I can’t imagine a world in which people of faith fight each other.”
“Thankfully, we don’t have to, Colonel. We do, though, get to fight for our right to have faith in the first place.”
There was a pause in the conversation as Amir clicked off the communications channel. He returned a few moments later. “Major, General Cohen has given the order to launch. We’ll go in the pre-planned order. Black Knights first, followed by
the Black Cats. Insula Allah, and good hunting!” Amir said in his rich baritone voice with just a trace of Arabian accent to his English.
“Understood, sir. Good hunting and Godspeed!”
Hume clicked the communications channel over to his squadron. “Attention, all pilots, the order has been given. Stand by to launch! Sensor conditions are still horrible, so we’ll be flying by the seat of our pants. Stay close to each other, watch out for our fellows, and we’ll come home together. Hume out.”
In a few minutes, Hume would be hurtling through space at incredible speeds, doing his best to stay alive, and also to kill every enemy pilot on the battlefield he could find and engage. In the time between being ordered to launch and being able to, he took the time to put his mind and soul at ease.
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” Hume began to pray. “Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. Lend me, Lord, Your powerful aid in every difficulty and above all do not forsake me in my last struggle with the powers of evil manifested in the League of Sol. Amen.”
As Hume finished the prayer and looked back at his HUD, the launch light turned green, and a second later, his fighter was zipping down the tube pulling 15-Gs. As he was thrust into space, the proximity alarm sounded, causing him more than a moment’s concern, which faded when he realized the sensors were so confused, they couldn’t tell where anything was. Craning his neck around to maintain situational awareness, a general vector order was given from Amir’s fighter, and the Black Cats zoomed off in the direction indicated. They quickly closed the range with Unity Station; it was such a mammoth-sized installation, they didn’t need a computer system to make it out against the black of space.
Steadily closing the distance, Hume watched as the wings from the Lion of Judah, and all remaining carriers, fanned out across space. Some escorted the Marine transports and shuttles, others flew close support to the bomber squadrons. Still others, including his squadron, searched for enemy fighters to engage.
Streaks of red plasma balls shooting by his cockpit were the first indication League fighters had found them; looking up and into the direction enemy fire was coming from, Hume could make out a group of League interceptors. Pulling up on his flight stick, he adjusted his fighter so it was pointing at the enemy, before triggering his communication system. “Cats, break relative up, the enemy is less than five hundred kilometers away. Weapons free!”
Following the plasma balls back to their source, Hume pulled the trigger on his miniature neutron cannons, sending beams of blue energy searing toward the enemy craft. At the range they were at, there was almost no way to aim, given the lack of accurate sensor data. A League fighter exploded, and Hume couldn’t be entirely sure if it were his shots or one of the others in his squadron… but a kill was a kill.
“Not sure who got that one, but good shooting, lads. Full volley fire! Right down their throats!” Hume roared into the communications system.
With two wingmen in close formation next to him, Hume pushed up the throttle to maximum burn, feeling the G forces push him back into his seat. For just a moment, his targeting computer cleared, and he had a split-second lock on a League fighter flying right at him. Muscle memory took over, and he pulled the firing trigger back. He was rewarded with a quickly destroyed League interceptor exploding into a bright orange fireball.
“Cat one, kill one League interceptor!” Hume called into the squadron communication channel. Looping his fighter around, he scanned space visually for another target, while realizing that one of his fighters had been destroyed by enemy fire, its icon blinking red, indicating a total loss of vehicle. I can’t believe that at some point in the distant past, fighter pilots fought like this. I feel entirely blind out here without our technology. He glanced around, straining to see the enemy.
“Cat one, this is Cat eleven, I’ve got a flight of three League interceptors coming across our formation. They’re angling for your six!”
Warned, Hume pulled back hard on his flight stick while hitting the accelerator to the maximum thrust position. Pulling 17-Gs, he rocketed around in space, inverting his position and flying back toward the League interceptors. He pulled the firing trigger and prayed that his weapons fire would find its target. While he didn’t hit any bandits, one of his wingmen, who looped around slower, took advantage of the disoriented League pilots and knocked all three out, one after the other. Checking over his squadron status display, he noted another icon was blinking red.
“Cat leader, this is Cat eleven. I think that’s all of em. Scratch one League squadron!”
Twelve to two; not a bad rate of exchange. What is a good kill ratio, when two more people were snuffed out by an all-consuming war? “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” Hume whispered as he rolled his fighter and pointed it back toward Unity Station, searching for more League craft to engage.
29
Singh ducked behind the doors of the control room they were holed up in; incoming energy weapons fire smacked the frame of the door and the air around him. Ejecting an empty magazine from his battle rifle, he reloaded with a magazine of armor piercing ammunition. He glanced across the doorway at MacDonald. “Ready, Master Chief?”
“Frogmen are always ready, Captain,” MacDonald replied, invoking the old term for sea-based commando teams.
“Shoot them down!” Singh ordered. He leaned back and fired his battle rifle in full auto mode. At the range they were at, he couldn’t miss; the rounds punched through the Goliath suits like they didn’t exist. A dozen League Marines collapsed under the weight of their combined onslaught. Peering down the passageway, he could see dozens more right behind them.
“Rostami!” Singh shouted. “How’re you coming with gaining access to the stations’ security system?”
“I’m not, sir. They’ve cut all links between this room and the central computing core!” the electronics expert shouted back above the din of battle.
“Then get the automatic grenade launcher and get over here!”
A stray energy blast caught one of the commandos in the helmet as he perched behind a console and fired on the enemy. The commando next for him called for a medic, but Singh had been in more than enough firefights to know there was no hope for that kind of wound.
Rostami picked up the forty-millimeter grenade launcher and dragged the ammo bag for it with him, over to Singh’s position. “I’m thinking we use beehive rounds at this range, sir.” Beehives was a nickname for what amounted to grenades filled with hundreds of armor-piercing flechettes. The flechettes were coated in a sturdy artificial material, which made them highly effective as an armor-piercing weapon.
“Agreed, PO. Let’s wait for the next wave, then light the Leaguer bastards up.”
They didn’t have to wait long; within seconds, another wave of League Marines in their gleaming battle armor rounded the corner. It was almost like shooting ducks in a barrel as Rostami stepped forward, and the whump-whump-whump of the grenade launcher sounded. The flechettes shredded the incoming Leaguers, decimating their ranks and causing the rest to scurry for cover as fast as they could. Finishing out the six-round rotating cylinder of death, Rostami picked off most of the survivors with well-placed grenades.
Taking advantage of the lull in the battle, MacDonald made his way to Singh. “Captain, how long you think they’re going to keep throwing bodies at us?”
“My thoughts exactly, Master Chief. Even the worst Leaguer commander is smarter than to send his troops piecemeal into the buzzsaw of the best we have to offer… something else is going on here.”
As Singh finished his thought, there was a loud explosion that rocked the room, from the opposite side end of it. The lights suddenly went out, which wasn’t a problem as the heads up displays in their helmets immediately engaged night vi
sion. After that, though, everything went nuts. Another explosion erupted from directly above them, and Singh heard someone—he couldn’t tell who thanks to the concussive blasts—shout, “Stun grenades!” He triggered the light filter in his helmet just in time; multiple stun grenades went off, temporarily blinding many of the commandos.
League Marines fast-roped down from the ceiling; the explosion opened up a hole they jumped down from, while more Leaguers rushed both entry doors. Momentarily stunned, he rolled to his right side as bullets found his power-armor suit. Picking up a squad automatic weapon from a soldier who’d dropped it, he stood and unleashed the machine gun on full automatic, sweeping the enemy troops with armor-piercing rounds.
MacDonald added to the mix with his battle rifle, using precise three-round bursts to fell each Leaguer he sighted down on. Between the two of them, the fusillade caused enough pause amongst their attackers for the remaining commandos to reset their helmets and rejoin the fight. It only took forty-five seconds to regain control, but dozens of combatants were killed on both sides.
The eerie silence after combat is deafening. What had just happened would have broken the unit cohesion of literally any other combat unit. But Space Special Warfare Command operators weren’t any other combat unit. Singh and MacDonald made eye contact, then scanned the room as those who remained alive took stock of the situation. There were several injured, but thankfully, they still had a medic.
MacDonald walked over after completing a quick assessment of the wounded and motioned to Singh. “Captain… we’ve got eight KIA and three wounded but able to fight. I believe this position is compromised beyond our ability to hold it.”