Salvage Conquest

by Chris Kennedy

  The three interceptors appeared to be flying an orbit away from the valley in a long trail formation. Zheta watched them for a moment, trying to ascertain why they were doing so. After a moment, he decided their method of attack was Colonel Grane’s decision. Though he was an aviator, he was a professional. He knew both exospheric and atmospheric tactics like the curve of his own horns. Grane could be trusted, and that was enough for Zheta. There was no doubt he would give everything he could to the fight. Zheta knew the older commander would have preferred to be out in the sky, but he’d taken severe shrapnel wounds in a fight a few weeks before and grounded himself. Zheta watched the three interceptors, the last of their fighting aircraft, circling and hoped the pilots were as good as their commander.

  Zheta flipped the console back to the systems of his own tank and reached forward to tap his gunner, seated ahead and below his seat, on the left shoulder. “Gunner, status.”

  His gunner, Sergeant Egom turned slightly to his left and grumbled. “Sixty-five rounds aboard, mixed. Good bore-sight on the cannon. All sensor platforms are green and active. Auto-loader is ready—four rounds per minute.”

  Zheta curled his lips under in a tight smile. “That going to be fast enough for you, Egom?”

  The old veteran was the master gunner of the remaining forces, and there was no one better to handle the massive 150mm cannon to their left. “Oh, sir, I think that will be fast enough.”

  Zheta cued the intercom. “Driver, status?”

  From the hull, a young voice stammered in reply. “S-sir?”

  “I asked for your status, Sergeant Mrane.”

  Zheta stressed the young man’s newly acquired rank as a method to slow his driver’s brain down and get him ready for the business of combat. As the young Withaloo spoke, Zheta felt better about his condition.

  “Yes, sir. The armor is good. Engine temps are normal, and the tracks are within tension. We’ll see if that holds.”

  Zheta snorted. “Just keep us from any position where we might throw a track, Mrane.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “You do that, Sergeant. You do that.”

  Content with the condition of both vehicle and crew, Zheta bantered with them for a few minutes. He wasn’t one for speeches, nor was he the kind of officer to tell his soldiers exactly what they should do and when they should do it. Just letting them talk was better for calming their nerves than anything he could say. Besides, it was always better to learn a little more about his soldiers. He knew how they performed in training, and he could surmise how they might act in combat, but when their guards came down, he could see what they were really made of and that made him proud.

  He glanced at the mission console and saw the enemy’s estimated time of arrival was now only twenty minutes. Zheta took a deep breath and cued the radio.

  “All ground elements, this is Colonel Zheta. The enemy is deployed forward of our position and moving this way. They’ll be in range of our guns in twenty minutes. Orient your guns on them, by sector, and be prepared to commence firing at my command.” He cleared his suddenly tight throat. “I’m not going to attempt to make this situation any easier, nor will I sweeten it. We’ve stood for weeks awaiting reinforcements. The enemy has pushed us, and we believe, themselves, until the very last. We few who remain must hold this ground. The consequences of failure are unimaginable to our families and to our people. I have faith our friends will come for us, but our focus must remain on the enemy approaching from the south. There are four thousand infantry charging us with sleds and skiffs. I’m working with the aviation assets to try and thin them out before they reach our lines. The plan is very simple. I am located with Second Platoon. First Platoon has moved back to the reverse slope of this hill in an attempt to draw the enemy in their direction. As of now, here are your orders.

  “Second Platoon, when the enemy reaches the maximum effective range for your gun tubes, you will begin to fire. Keep your rate of fire slow and methodical by taking only the shots you are certain will hit. Third Platoon, you will not engage immediately. I repeat, you will not engage immediately. Your goal is simple. As Second Platoon fires, be prepared to move forward and to the east. I expect the enemy to attack the extreme eastern flank of our position where First Platoon hides in wait on the reverse slope. As the enemy approaches, First Platoon will charge forward and hit the enemy with the maximum force our tanks can give. The enemy will slow and spread out further, trying to envelope us. That is when Third Platoon will strike fast into the enemy’s flank and rear elements. It will not be easy, and I expect us to take casualties, but this fight matters.”

  Zheta paused again as his emotions flared. Jaw tight and hands clenched, he took a deep breath and waited for his mind and body to steady themselves. His forces had been through so much. They’d seen the horrors of combat in ways many of their brethren would never see. Alone, forward, securing a colony emplacement should have been an easy duty. But the enemy hadn’t allowed that. They’d wanted the entire planet of Crea for themselves and attacked everything in their way. Only the Withaloo remained steady in deterring them.

  “To say that I am proud of each and every one of you would be inaccurate. My brothers and sisters, you have protected the herd in ways our fellow Withaloo have never seen. They will sing your names at the council gatherings for lifetimes to come. You have kept the faith we’ve asked you to keep and fought like warriors of the First Kind. But our fight is not over yet. You must be at your best once again. I expect no less, and I promise to give you my very best in return. We do this together. Get your vehicles in order, ensure your weapons are ready, and we will take the fight into the enemy’s face and rip their hearts from their chests.”

  * * *

  “Serra, this is Eyes. Over.”

  Captain Serra glanced over at her radio monitor then back to the map projected on the inside of her cockpit window. She knew what the young forward observer was going to say before he said anything. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m in position. The enemy is fifteen kilometers from the engagement area. I’m showing they are moving slightly east north-east. If we can push them a little further, they’ll run right into Sector Five.”

  Serra nodded in her cockpit. “Copy, Eyes. We are on station and prepared to attack. Vector me in when you are ready.”

  “Affirmative. We’re designating your first targets now. Turn 090 in thirty seconds.”

  Serra flexed her fingers. “Copy, 090 in thirty seconds.”

  Ahead of Serra’s interceptor, the rolling terrain gently increased in altitude. She kept the nose as low as possible, streaking over the scrub brush and prairie at seven hundred kilometers per hour. Concentrating on the points ahead and not watching the ground pass by at high speed, she’d never felt more in tune with a flying machine. Low-level flight exhilarated her. A glance at the mission timer started a countdown in her head.

  Ten. Nine. Eight.

  “Standby for exit turn,” she called.

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  Three. Two. One.

  Serra yanked the interceptor into a tight, left turn swinging the nose from south to east. The Peregrine’s nose never left the tops of the trees below. “Eyes, is there any indication they’ve seen you or me?”

  “Negative, Serra. They are continuing to move. There are two mobile missile platforms near the western edge of the formation. Intel supports they would have some in the middle of their formation and on the opposite edge.” Eyes kept his voice level and professional. His performance, so far, had been outstanding.

  So much for first mission jitters.

  “Missile platforms are my first targets. Two lasers each.” Redundancy was a necessity for her wingmen to execute their missions. If she failed to take out the missile platforms, the enemy would sweep into the defensive line of the Withaloo armor with deadly force.

  “Copy. Your targets are lit.”

  Targeting information fed to her displays a millisecon
d later. The seeker heads on her missiles had identified and locked on their targets autonomously. Serra tapped the control cursor on her throttle and designated the missiles for her first salvo. Two missiles to each platform would have to be enough. There hadn’t been any indication the enemy used shield technology for their ground forces, and one missile each should have been enough, but Serra was not taking any chances.

  “Targets identified and locked,” Serra replied.

  “You are clear to fire.”

  Her mission timer chimed indicating the Peregrine had entered the maximum effective range and was ready to fire, but she waited. At treetop level, with no indication they’d seen her or any sensors warnings, there was an opportunity to get closer and really slam them from close range. She rocketed past the waypoint without firing.

  “Serra? What are you doing?” Eyes asked.

  “I’m pushing in closer,” she replied. “They can’t see me, and I can punch them right in the face from close range.”

  “Understood. I have visual on you now. No indications they’ve seen you.”

  Serra pulled the control stick slightly toward her, and the nose pitched upward. The Peregrine immediately gained altitude, and she could clearly see the enemy formation in front of her. “Here we go!”

  As fast as she could, she fired the missiles at their targets. Four missiles streaked from her rails and accelerated into the enemy formation. Serra watched them.

  “Missiles away!”

  Warning klaxons sounded as the missile platforms engaged their search radars, swung them toward her, and locked on. No missiles left their rails before Serra’s missiles slammed into both of the platforms. The skiffs detonated with impressive secondary munitions explosions. She wasn’t watching, though, as she designated other sleds and skiffs on the western edge and continued to fire.

  “Missile platforms are down,” she called over the radio. “Adjust targets and hit them hard.”

  Within thirty seconds, she released all of her missiles. Pushing the throttle forward, she banked hard left to the north and raced to the refueling point. Tracer rounds arced up at her, but none got close. She was too low and fast for direct kinetic weapons to engage her. Ahead of her, the terrain dipped, and she disappeared into the small valley before the enemy forces could grasp what had happened.

  “Two, designate your targets and adjust your angle of attack.”

  “Two.”

  Serra leaned forward and tried to see Two’s attack but could not.

  “Missiles away!” Two called.

  She glanced at her monitor and punched up the direct camera feed from Eyes. Serra grinned. The entire western section of the enemy’s formation seemed to detonate simultaneously. Through the dust, she saw vehicles burning and others stopped with their infantry spilled all around them.

  “Three, on station,” she heard Three’s pilot call. “Missiles away!”

  As Three’s missiles streaked toward the enemy, the entire formation turned hard to the east and the low ground in Sector Five.

  “Grane, Serra. Enemy is turning to Sector Five. Over.”

  “We see it, Serra. Good work. Get to the refit point and prepare to do it all over again. This fight is just beginning.”

  “Understood, sir. We are buster. ETA is four minutes, fifty seconds,” she said as she slammed the throttle forward to its stops. Maybe she could shave a few seconds off the computer’s time. Being low to the ground and fast, racing the computer seemed like a perfect way to pass the time until she could rain fire on the enemy. Perhaps it would be the last time.

  * * *

  Colonel Zheta slammed one fist into his opposite palm in excitement. He couldn’t help it. The interceptors had not only pushed the fighters eastward on the first salvo, but the enemy had seen the low ground and taken the bait. Things were going perfectly. Zheta pressed the transmit button. “Grane? My compliments. Your pilots have done exactly what we asked them to.”

  “Zheta,” the gruff older voice came back, “I have them returning for rearming now. You can expect the first of the interceptors to return over your position in seven minutes. They’ll hit the riverbed in succession.”

  Zheta considered the video feed from his drone. In seven minutes, the leading edge of the enemy formation, now a column of twos, would reach the northern end of the riverbed and be within two thousand meters of the perimeter. When they emerged, they would charge directly at the eastern edge of his position. They would see no immediate threat in front of them and advance as they’d always done. When they did, he could swing the company into them from two directions at once.

  “We’re ready to intercept with direct fire.”

  “Understood,” Grane replied. “Good hunting.”

  “You, too,” Zheta replied and disconnected the transmission.

  He reached forward and tapped Egom on the shoulder. “Power up the turret, gun to standby.”

  “Turret to power, gun to standby.”

  Zheta checked the feed mechanism on the autoloader, then returned his focus to the command console. He relayed the power command to the rest of the tanks silently and watched as the icons indicated they were ready to fight. All twenty-four tanks showed good power systems and gun platforms. There was nothing else he could wish for. Next, he relayed a command to First Platoon to remain silent, with no engine power. Fearing sensors, he didn’t want the enemy to know the tanks were there until it was too late.

  “Driver, power up the tank.”

  “Powering up, sir.”

  The tank thrummed to life under him. As a young trainee, Zheta had loved the armored beasts of warfare, and his fondness for them only amplified during his career. There was nothing like them and, while every engagement brought the threat of death, he’d never felt more alive than when he wrapped the armor around him like a cloak and waded into combat. If he were meant to find the light today, so be it.

  Here we go.

  The enemy poured into the riverbed and accelerated northward.

  Seven minutes may be too soon. I wish we had some artillery.

  But the limited artillery they’d had was targeted in the very first attacks, the same as they’d done to almost all of the aviation assets. The enemy wanted to slug it out on the ground.

  Come on then. We are ready for you.

  * * *

  Captain Serra touched the interceptor down in a clearing and cycled the engines to idle. From what appeared to be all sides, Withaloo refuelers and armorers raced forward pulling and carrying weapons and fuel for her Peregrine. The armorers drug large missile pods carrying twenty smaller rockets each. There would be two pods for each winglet. While nowhere near as powerful as her guided missiles from the previous run, they should be able to target the enemy infantry with ease. As she watched the armorers remove the empty missiles racks from her winglets and hang the rocket pods, the maintenance chief tapped into an intercom connection under the nose of the aircraft. She looked over the cockpit rail to her right and saw him.

  “Captain, how’s your machine today?”

  Serra smiled. “Everything is green. She’s a sweet bird to fly. Just get me back on the attack as fast as you can, Chief.”

  “What’s your fuel state?”

  “Forty-five percent.” Serra tried not to frown. If she pushed too hard to get back to the fight, she might not have enough fuel to return to base.

  “Let me get you more fuel,” the chief replied and waved frantically at the refuelers to move a bladder and high-speed pump to her wing. Watching the four refuelers struggle with the heavy equipment, she realized it was pointless.

  “There’s no time,” Serra replied. “I’ll manage, but I might have to put this thing down someplace other than home. Make sure Two and Three get gas. Position the bladders forward so they can land closer to them, Chief.”

  “Yes, Captain Serra,” the chief replied. “We’ll get them fueled.”

  “How long, Chief? I need to get back out there.”

  The chief
looked at the armorers on both sides of the aircraft. “Sixty seconds, Captain.”

  Serra nodded and flexed her fingers before reaching down to a small compartment by her left leg and withdrawing a bottle of water. Moving her oxygen mask away from her face, she drank from the bottle and drained it in four quick swallows. Serra wedged the bottle back into its compartment and sat back against her seat.

  The maintenance chief gave her a thumbs-up thirty seconds later. She checked both winglets and saw the crews were moving away to a safe distance. She heard the disconnection as the chief unplugged his headset from the port and moved straight off her nose to safety. He turned and raised both arms out to his sides, parallel to the ground. Serra moved her throttles forward. As she did, the chief raised both arms straight up from his shoulders. The Peregrine lifted off the ground and hovered in position. The chief dropped his left arm and his right hand pointed into the sky. Serra pushed the throttle from hover to full power, adjusted the thrust vectoring engines to forward flight, and the Peregrine shot into the sky.

  She tapped her helmet in salute, which the chief returned with parade ground precision as she slammed the throttle forward and raced toward the fight.

  “Two, approaching refit.”

  Serra replied, “Load fuel and missile pods, Two. Get back on my six as soon as you can.”

  She reduced her throttle setting to save fuel and allow Two to rejoin her on a similar interval. “Set at 350. You and Three are authorized supersonic to catch up. Don’t be late.”