Salvage Conquest

by Chris Kennedy

  Zheta smiled. He knew their rules of engagement. The scout flyer would scream southward at least twenty kilometers and establish an overwatch position behind terrain capable of hiding it. From that concealed position, it would then vector the fighters in for close air support. The interceptors were not the best choice for the mission, but they had nothing else. If the scout picked a good position to observe and target from, depending on the enemy’s method of movement, the results of an attack could be staggering. Zheta didn’t believe the insects would be stupid enough to continue moving forward in a column of twos—two vehicles abreast—in a long line. Given the terrain and the wide visibility he had in all directions from the high ground, he felt they would likely spread themselves out to minimize the effects of both direct and indirect fire. In the low scrub fauna, there wasn’t much cover and concealment. Spreading out would be the intelligent maneuver, but over the last two months, Zheta had come to believe the insects didn’t possess such a thing.

  In skirmish after skirmish, the insects pursued the high terrain like beings possessed. When repelled, they would regroup and attack again and again. Charging forward, weapons blazing and without regard for their own losses, the insects fought as if only the high ground mattered. For Zheta, only one position did. With the smoldering colony to his rear, there was only one piece of ground the insects would want—the ground he defended. Yet, the insects had spent an inordinate amount of resources taking areas of high ground, only to withdraw. After a few iterations of this approach, Zheta couldn’t help but wonder if it was a game to them. As his forces took greater losses, he surmised it must be a type of attrition campaign they wanted to wage. Whittling down his forces bit by bit until there was no possible way he could stop their assault. Seeing the entire remaining complement of insect forces charging north, there was no mistaking their intent.

  Zheta glanced again to his left and right. His battalion element depleted, and with so many killed and wounded on both sides, he couldn’t help but wonder if this would be his last battle. The last elements of his forces versus the enemy’s final push of infantry amounted to the kind of battle he’d trained for years to fight. His orders were simple—protect the high ground and ensure that the enemy could not get to the unprotected civilians in the Crea colony. It would be a daunting task, but Zheta was a warrior, and he understood this. He believed in his troopers and their ability to hold out against interminable odds. He also knew he could not do it alone.

  With a series of taps on his slate, Zheta selected the frequency for the aviation commander and hesitated. In the normal conduct of operations, each element had a definitive chain of command. Aviation assets fell under the auspices of an aviation commander. Ground forces fell under a ground commander. Each commander controlled their own domain, and only in exceptional circumstances and at the direction of a central commander, could they work together. There was no central commander, and Zheta realized, with a sigh, that the circumstances were far greater than exceptional. They were critical.

  With a sigh, Zheta tapped the connect button and drew a deep breath. “Colonel Grane, this is Colonel Zheta. Over.”

  It took a few moments for the connection to establish, but Gran’s distinct, gruff voice came back. “What do you want, Zheta? Are you going to tell me how I ought to fight my battles?”

  Zheta laughed. “No. But given the situation, I think you might want to see what the drones can see. Your scout won’t be in position to observe for several minutes, and time is critical.”

  Grane grunted. “You can relay that to me? In the clear?”

  “Of course,” Zheta replied. He tapped his command console several times and set up the transfer of data over the communications frequency and waited. He heard Grane gasp.

  “There are thousands of them this time.”

  “I’m estimating four thousand. I think it’s the full complement of their remaining forces.” Zheta replied. “From here we can see their entire formation, it’s spread out across the valley and the dust cloud is getting larger. There is only one result from such an action.”

  It took a moment, but he heard Grane take in a great breath and exhale. “With three interceptors, I do not know how much damage we can inflict. They appear ready to roll your lines like paper, Zheta.”

  “With 24 tanks, I am in the same predicament. I do not know how much we can do. This is why I have called you, Grane. We must find a way to work together.”

  Grane did not respond for a moment. Zheta knew what he must be thinking. While the Withaloo possessed combat forces of great strength, there were too many times when their commanders failed to unify their efforts. Under a strong field commander, they did so by executing their orders to the utmost capability and ensuring that every subordinate performed the given mission. They’d worked separately, repelling attacks over the last several weeks. Each of them had achieved successes, but the enemy forces arrayed against them previously had numbered far fewer. Staring into the enemy’s last gasp to break the defensive perimeter, there was no choice but for the two Withaloo commanders to work together.

  Grane replied slowly, “What are you thinking, Zheta?”

  Zheta chewed on that for a moment. He hadn’t expected his counterpart to accept his proposal. Then again, he knew that Grane was smart and knew the score. Finally, Zheta replied, “I think it’s fairly simple. I’m down to one drone. Depending on how good their sensors are and how many surface-to-air missile systems they have remaining, we may have an hour before we lose eyes on them. That puts them just beyond our perimeter. Depending on how widely they deploy, they could encircle us easily unless you are able to attack them, and channelize them, in some way.”

  He could almost hear Grane thinking. After a long moment, Grane answered. “Look at your camera feed and select Sector Five and zoom in on the view. Do you see that?”

  Zheta did as asked and nodded as inspiration struck. “I do.”

  Sector Five was low ground in the valley where a wide, intermittent stream bisected the valley from north to south. Because of its depth and elevation, the stream bed could potentially allow the enemy to push much closer to the defensive perimeter—with adequate cover—than anyone wanted. The only negative for the enemy would be a restriction in their ability to operate, but it would be far outweighed by concealment and speed—the two things they’d never sacrificed in the last several weeks.

  Grane’s voice came through the frequency, “We’ll hit them from the west from our maximum effective range and then keep right on hitting them. We’ll stagger the attacks and peel back the aircraft for refit and refueling, then keep them rotating over the enemy as long as we can. If we hit them hard enough, they’ll push to the east. They’ll see that low ground and use it to move north. We can pin them down there.”

  “How are you planning to pin them down in that riverbed?”

  Grane chuckled, “Oh, it’s fairly easy. Block the first three or four vehicles in the front and do the same to their rear. Given the depth of the riverbed, they’ll have to move out over the sides. Doesn’t that give you a nice, clean shot at their undersides?”

  “It does,” Zheta agreed. He glanced at his map and quickly saw how the situation would play out. “Being unable to move the column forward, they won’t have much choice. Either push their dead vehicles out of the way, which takes time and burns fuel, or risk death by climbing out. I like it.”

  “Timing is critical,” Grane replied. “I’m relaying the plan to the aircraft now. They’ll attack the enemy in eighteen minutes. Stay ready.”

  Zheta nodded, impressed. “We’re ready. We have a plan and the high ground.”

  “Let’s hope our plan survives contact,” Grane laughed.

  They both knew that answer, but the two veteran commanders knew better than to say it aloud. Nor did they acknowledge that the coming fight might be their last.

  * * *

  In the cockpit of her Peregrine interceptor, Captain Serra adjusted her hands around the controls, low
ered the nose, and pushed her throttles forward to full military power. Accelerating to over seven hundred kilometers per hour over the scrub brush in the valley, she kept her eyes forward and followed the terrain ahead. Serra willed herself to be at one with the Peregrine and focused on flying. Low-level flying was the best. While she was an accomplished interceptor pilot and rated for exospheric and space combat, Serra relished terrestrial atmospheric combat missions. The use of terrain to shield, discourage, and protect became second nature. The Peregrine was a sleek, fast machine of death, and she loved flying it. Extremely low-level flight in her chosen aircraft made the mission perfect. There was no place she’d rather be.

  With a quick glance over both of her shoulders, Serra saw her two wingmen tucked into a combat wedge format. Each of them was a thousand meters behind her and offset by the same. The formation gave them security and demonstrated their combined power. As she checked them, she also saw the sixteen missiles hanging under each winglet. All of her aircraft carried them—they were the last of the powerful air-to-ground missiles in the Withaloo inventory. They’d have to do the job.

  The heads-up display in front of her chimed that the first waypoint approached. As she worked the fighter around the mesas, shadowing the rolling hills and tiny valleys, Serra saw the pillar-like rock outcropping they’d marked as the first waypoint. She risked a glance up at the red, cylindrical spire glowing in the early morning sunlight.

  Even on a battlefield there is beauty. She’d loved Crea, and being chosen to protect the colony had been a dream come true, until the enemy arrived. Seeing their disdain for the natural beauty and their reckless destruction of it gave Serra and her pilots even more cause to fight. Flexing her fingers on the controls, Serra felt the familiar, cold anger seep through her body and center her mind.

  “Stay with me,” she called over the radio as she initiated a twenty-degree turn back to the right without changing the throttle position. The Peregrine turned hard toward the spire, now only scant meters above her, and charged southwest toward the enemy formation and a wide, long mesa that would keep the enemy from seeing them approach. Without taking her hands from the controls, she designated the icon for her forward observer, callsign Eyes, and received their telemetry and status.

  Eyes appeared to be about forty kilometers to the south and nearing some significant terrain—the kind perfect for hiding behind to direct kinetic fires. The terrain there was higher and rockier, with a distinctly volcanic look. Several cone-like buttes dotted the landscape and would provide excellent cover and concealment for all their aircraft. By standard operating procedures, Eyes would position two of their soldiers at each observation point to assist with directing multiple laser-guided munitions. With any luck, Eyes would get at least two positioned so her three aircraft each had their own designated targeting system. Theoretically, her Peregrines didn’t need the support, but with a persistent, low-power laser to designate targets, she could worry about flying and simply fire her missiles when needed. As they passed the first waypoint, Serra retarded her throttles to forty percent to save fuel.

  “Serra, Eyes, dropping off Team One in three minutes.” Her forward observer’s voice was as clear as if he sat beside her in the cockpit. “Dropping off one more team a little farther south and east. I’ll take up a position north of them behind the largest butte. Expect to be on station, there, in 17 minutes.”

  “Sounds good,” Serra said. She nodded to herself that the forward observer, newly assigned to the job and new to the military out of the colony, was a fast learner. “Pushing to waypoint two and will orbit there.”

  There was another click on the frequency and Serra heard the gruff voice of her commander calling from what was left of their base. “Serra, I’m sending you a mission update.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Instead of hitting them hard in the face, you’re going to push them east toward terrain they won’t be able to pass up. When they reach it, we can hurt them badly. When you attack, have Two and Three follow you, in trail, at least ten kilometers behind, but at your briefed mission speed. This will give us the maximum chance to push their entire formation east. After you drop your entire complement of missiles, race back to the forward refueling point to pick up the last remaining rocket pods and as much fuel as you can carry. If we get them into the terrain, we’ll pinch off the head and tail of their formation and eradicate them once and for all.”

  “What terrain, sir?”

  “Sector Five,” Colonel Grane replied. “Do you see it?”

  Serra glanced at the map function, rocking her wing slightly to the right to avoid a rock outcrop. “I see it, sir. We’ll push them toward the ditch.”

  Her mind working, Serra decided they needed to spread themselves out further. “Okay, listen up, flyers. Standby for line in trail. Two will follow me, Three will follow Two. Spread is forty-five seconds at attack speed. Do you copy?”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  Satisfied she pushed her throttle ten percent further and looked over her left shoulder. As directed, Two slid from her left wing into position behind her and slowed considerably. Without checking, she knew that Three would be doing the same.

  “Serra, this is Eyes. Dropping Team Two in four minutes. Arrival at final position in fourteen minutes.”

  Serra clicked her microphone button twice. The gesture, a Human one from the early days of aviation, brought a smile to her face. Her father taught it to them as the Withaloo took to the skies. Two clicks of the microphone were an acknowledgment for a busy pilot trying to fly. With a few minutes to kill before assuming their attack orbits, Serra banked toward the mountains and selected a tight mountain pass. Two aircraft in tow, she rocketed through the pass and followed it a few kilometers into the mountains before turning back toward the wide valley. Over a placid mountain lake, she called up the video feed relayed from Colonel Grane and gasped. The enemy formation was almost completely line abreast and almost five kilometers wide.

  She tapped her radio transmit button. “Sir? Are there missile platforms with them?”

  “We have to assume so, Serra. They should be your primary targets.” Grane replied. “We can’t be sure without risking the drone. Our orbital assets are not in place to observe. You’ll have to pick them out as you go.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  Grane sighed. “Around four thousand. Mostly infantry on sleds and skiffs moving north at a high rate of speed. This is likely their final attack.”

  Four thousand?

  Grane continued, “Your job is to push them toward Sector Five. Get them into the low ground where we can attrit them.”

  “We’re ready as soon as Eyes starts targeting.”

  Serra understood. Her first salvo of missiles into the extreme western flank would get the enemy’s attention. The more she targeted there, the greater the chance the entire formation would either turn toward her or turn away. If Two and Three pressed the attack from similar angles, there was a chance the enemy would turn away and run straight into Sector Five. As they pulled away, the enemy would think the air threat was gone and use the riverbed as a high-speed avenue of approach toward the defensive perimeter. In order to catch them there, she and the others would have to race back to the forward refit point and get back to Sector Five before the enemy made it to the north end.

  “Serra, Eyes. Team Two is in position, on my way to final position.”

  “Roger,” Serra replied. “Give me a good kill zone.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Serra glanced at the map and the dug-in armored forces to the north. While there once was a full line protecting the ridge, several of the tanks on the extreme eastern end of the formation had withdrawn to the reverse slope of the hill. The northern end of the riverbed curled away from the hill into a deep canyon. There was a shallow incline pointing toward that side of the formation. By not having the full defensive line pivot toward the threat, Zheta
was doing the unthinkable.

  He’s giving them a door.

  A door we can close in their faces.

  * * *

  Colonel Zheta watched the last of the tanks to his left pull into their hasty defensive positions on the reverse slope of the hill. One by one, the tanks shut down their engines and waited. As they did, the three soldiers on each crew scrambled out of the tanks and cleared a path for their tracks. They did not bother to camouflage themselves. If everything went according to plan, they’d have to charge forward and keep the enemy’s attack on the exposed flank at bay long enough for the other two platoons to sweep around and attack the enemy’s exposed flank. The maneuver would be risky, but it was the best he could afford to do and still use the terrain to his own advantage.

  Satisfied with the position of First Platoon, Zheta turned in his hatch and observed the other two. Second Platoon’s vehicles surrounded his own, half of them on the eastern side of his tank and the other half stretching to the west. Third Platoon lay beyond the western tanks in an area of denser scrub brush. All of them could see the valley below, however, and that was most important. Zheta dropped into the turret of his tank and checked the systems at his position from experience rather than a checklist.

  A quick glance at his main command console showed that the enemy continued to advance at a high rate of speed. They would reach the maximum effective range of his cannons in thirty minutes. He tapped the console and showed the command and control relay screen from Colonel Grane where he saw the aircraft had dropped off two forward observer posts, and the observer aircraft had taken a third position hovering behind a large, conical butte in the valley. Above it, he saw a camera platform hovering so the aircraft, itself, was fully hidden. They were ready to call in the interceptors. Given the expanding dust cloud to the south, there was no way the aircraft could miss the enemy forces. With the observers targeting them, and the interceptors raining fire, Zheta believed it could work despite their not working together with the pilots before.