Deathangel

by Kevin Ikenberry

  The fireball of debris careened into the Cochkala position, scattering infantry and armor.

  * * *

  Victory Twelve Shuttle Molly

  Lovell City Spaceport

  Victoria

  From inside the open bay doors of the shuttle, the explosion of the flyer looked much worse than it sounded. Rains felt the concussion and closed his eyes, expecting a tremendous detonation. The heavy bulkhead to his right protected him as the pressure wave roared past. The young medic working on his leg stayed perfectly still and jabbed Rains in the knee with a pneumatic syringe. Fire like from the depths of Hell spread through his knee.

  “Ow!” Rains said. “What was that?”

  “See for yourself.” The medic smiled at him and slung his bag over his shoulder. He was already running for the fight. “We need every good man we’ve got right now. Get up off your ass, sir!”

  Rains flexed his knee. There was no residual pain. What the fuck?

  The instability was still there, but muted. It was as if his injured tendons and soft tissue had suddenly knitted themselves back together with steel cabling. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. He stood and took two quick steps outside the hangar door. Tara Mason ran toward him with her hand to her earpiece.

  Rains stopped as she ran past him, and he realized what her intentions were. He spun and saw the two CASPers in their racks. Vannix stood between them looking at him. She and Tara exchanged words, but he didn’t know what they were. Without thinking, he walked toward them. When his knee didn’t bark in pain, he jogged. When that didn’t cause any adverse effects, he ran. He reached the cockpit of Alpha 1 and saw Mason staring at him.

  “The kid gave me a nanite shot in the knee,” Rains yelled over the sounds of the battle outside. “I can do this.”

  “Vannix,” Tara yelled. “Get to the cockpit. You and Maarg prepare to evacuate immediately.” She turned to Rains and stared at him for a long second. “We’ve got one chance, Rains. One. That’s right now.”

  “On it!” Vannix yelled. Rains saw her draw a pistol and assume a covering position by the open bay door.

  Rains climbed up the front of the CASPer and backed in. As he did, he flipped the switches for master power and engine startup. The mecha whined around him. His legs settled, he reached for the command headset and plugged it into his left ear. He worked his arms into the straps, then closed the canopy and watched as the instrument panel and exterior camera systems flickered on. It was just like the simulations, and he smiled. He really hadn’t expected anything different. The effect was familiar. Ready.

  “Alpha One is up.”

  “Copy you loud and clear,” Tara responded. “Spread out, right echelon but trail me by ten meters. We’re going at the flank of the Cochkala position.”

  Rains jabbed the transmit button with his thumb. “Roger that. Moving now.”

  “Take your first steps slowly, Jackson.”

  The urge to quip back at her stopped the moment he realized she’d called him by his first name. He snorted softly and tried to walk. Moving the beast was different; the center of gravity was lower. He remembered a similar feeling from his days on the football practice field. In a fully weighted vest, moving was a chore. The CASPer wasn’t a weighted vest, though, and it could do the work for him. He had to remember to let it.

  His next several steps were more confident.

  “I’m good, 25.”

  Tara replied. “Brace when you jump and try not to juke too hard. She’s a lot more responsive than you think.”

  Rains snorted but understood. The ability to move quickly in any direction didn’t always mean a Human being should. More times than not, he’d failed spectacularly on the football field while learning that lesson. He’d heard a sportscaster says something about a player juking another one right out of their underwear.

  Not me. Not today.

  “I said, I’m good, 25. Let’s go. Now’s our chance.”

  My chance.

  He grinned. The last several weeks hadn’t been any easier on him than when he’d graduated from Peacemaker U. Yet during his risky mission into the prison system at Karma, and here on the high plains of Victoria Bravo, he felt better. He needed the action. Craved it. He hadn’t felt alive since his confirmation mission on Cetla.

  Not now. He pushed the memory away. Kr’et’Socae wasn’t here. Even if he was, there were more important things on the line.

  “Moving. Weapons tight and green.” Tara’s CASPer moved forward toward a group of shipping containers on the wide tarmac.

  Meaning make sure it’s the enemy and light it up. Done.

  Arming the CASPer’s MAC and external weapons took a millisecond. Rains withdrew a hand cannon from the mount on the mecha’s left thigh, but kept the right hand empty and cued the MAC to his eyes via the control toggles. To his left, Deathangel 25 loped out of the bay into the daylight.

  With a widening grin on his face, Rains followed.

  Tara ran toward the fight. She had guns in both hands, and the MAC on her right shoulder was firing rounds into the Cochkala flank. Rains sprinted, at Tara’s side, and directed his weapons fire into the fray. From what he could tell, the furry little fuckers hadn’t seen them yet.

  Rains brought up the cannon in his left hand and fired. He saw Tara using her MAC to hit two Cochkala skiff-things on the end of the horseshoe-shaped line. The things, which looked like heavily armored sleds, returned fire. The vehicles’ strange, angular edges appeared to deflect the rounds and their kinetic energy. Something wasn’t right. Cochkala armor had never stood up to human MAC rounds. Based on the design of the sleds—something he didn’t remember from any of his classes on vehicle recognition—this wasn’t an ordinary Cochkala force.

  He fired again, aiming the MAC at the small space where the sled’s moving turret separated from the hull. Even then, as precisely as he could aim the cannon, there was no sign of appreciable damage to the sled or the turret.

  That’s impossible.

  Rains aimed lower and to the rear. Tanks and other armored vehicles always had better armor in front and along the sides than in the rear or on top. As the sleds started to pivot toward the charging Victoria Forces, he targeted the rear quarter of the closest one and clenched his fist inside the CASPer’s arm. Five MAC rounds fired in rapid succession. The first went high, and the second followed. But the last three were on target and tore into the minimal armor on the rear of the sled. One of the rounds clipped something important. The rear sled detonated spectacularly. The short, main gun and turret sections separated in the explosion and tumbled to the tarmac, smoking violently.

  “Aim lower, Tara! At the rear!”

  “Copy,” Mason responded. The volume of fire in their direction increased threefold in a matter of seconds. More skiffs appeared. Tara darted right, and Rains followed. They took shelter behind a set of stacked shipping containers.

  “We’ve got to get behind that armor,” Rains said. “That’s where they’re weakest.”

  “MAC rounds were worthless from the front,” Tara said. “We’ve got to let the friendlies know. Open your comms and find their frequency.”

  Rains brow furrowed. “Can’t Lucille do that?”

  “She’s on the ship,” Tara replied. “I took her out of Deathangel for now.”

  “Sounds like we need her back, Tara,” Mason replied.

  After a long couple of seconds, Tara responded, “Lucille is on her way. Scan the frequencies until she can download. We’ve got to warn Ibson about their armor. Something’s not right.”

  “Cochkala armor doesn’t hold up like that.”

  “No,” Tara grunted. “I’m pretty sure that’s Jivool or Besquith armor. We’re fucked if Ibson can’t stop them.”

  Rains thumbed his transmit button but kept the words to himself. If they charge in there, full frontal, a lot of folks are going to die.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lovell City Spaceport

&nb
sp; Victoria Bravo

  In the command center, Ibson stomped up to the central command dais and grabbed his personal headset. “Tri-Vs up.”

  Instantly, the three displays mounted in a horseshoe around his position lit up. On their feeds, he saw the complete situation at the airfield and in the inner city behind it. The Cochkala ship had targeted a two-block area centered on the Cartography Guild’s temporary offices in the Wandrey Complex. Fires burned in the surrounding buildings, but Watson and the civil response teams were clearing the area. The wounded Cochkala ship continued to limp toward orbit. The gate had already restricted outbound flights. They couldn’t get away unless they had their own hyperspace shunts. Regardless, the ship barely had enough power to lift off the planet much less jump. There was plenty of time to get it, too.

  For now, though, the fight was on the ground. At the airfield, the landed Cochkala freighter was the beachhead. Around it were deployed two dozen angular sleds and skiffs with movable turrets. Infantry scurried around their hasty fighting positions. Behind the forward line of armor and infantry were three missile platforms. Ibson glanced at the strength displays. The flyers were all gone.

  Fuck.

  The lack of air power left a hole in his operations. Rath and her fliers would have been the first line of defense for such an attack. The coordinated actions of the Cochkala, combined with their missile platforms, meant they were well versed on the Victoria Forces, and they had executed their first move with deadly precision. He considered the employment of the armored forces and decided there wasn’t time for fun and games. It was time for his armored forces to do what they’d been created for half a millennium before—assault.

  “Saber Six, Trogdor Six, this is Thunder Six. SITREP. Over.”

  Novotny replied first. In the background of the transmission, Ibson could hear the tank’s engines and systems whining. “Thunder Six, Saber Six. We’re green across the board and leaving the revetment now. Orders?”

  “Thunder Six, Trogdor Six. Holding the line. Engaged with Cochkala infantry and armor. Minimal offensive contact. Orders?”

  Ibson suppressed a grin. The boys want to fight. Let’s give them one.

  “Saber Six, Trogdor Six, assault the objective. I say again, assault the objective. How you do it is up to you. Punch that line. Break.” Ibson let go of the transmit button for a second and a half to prevent the enemy from finding the transmission source. “Liberty Six and Warthog Six, you’re the main effort. You’ll have Avenger Six in reserve. Once armor pierces the line, you’re on.”

  Captain Hogshead was the first to respond. “Thunder Six, Warthog Six. Roger that. We’re all over it.”

  “Thunder Six, Liberty Six,” Captain Alison Blake called. “We’re up and ready. Sound the charge.”

  Ibson grinned. His eyes were still on the stores page. Vuong and his company of CASPers showed a red status icon—less than 50 percent of their mechas were up and running. He considered radioing but hesitated. A new voice came over the frequency.

  “Thunder Six, this is Mantis Six.” Ibson clenched his jaw. Rumor was that it was Hogshead who’d talked the MinSha infantry commander into choosing her callsign. Despite the smiles and cajoling it brought in staff meetings, Lieutenant Whirr and her MinSha forces were more than ready to do what they’d promised—defend the colony. “Moving to a flanking position at the extreme east.”

  Ibson turned to the center Tri-V and pulled up a graphic depiction of the area. He could see the MinSha forces moving under cover. They could get within few hundred meters of the Cochkala line without much risk of direct fire. Whirr had a plan, and Ibson nodded. It was brilliant.

  “Mantis Six, roger on your intentions. Get to your assault position, and we’ll have the target all teed up for you.” Ibson grinned. “Saber Six? Trogdor Six? Once you’re in the open, you’re clear to attack.”

  “Saber Six, on the roll!” Novotny replied. On the screen, the icons for the four Saber tanks created a line abreast formation with Trogdor Six, Captain Matzke. All eight of the vehicles moved forward. Ibson couldn’t watch them, though. His eyes still on the MinSha forces and the CASPer icons, he reached for the transmit button on the headset.

  “CASPer elements, standby to attack. Break.” Ibson let go of the transmit button with the intent to clear the frequency for a short moment. His finger froze on the transmit button as one, two, three of the tank icons winked out. The Cochkala volume of fire approached a level he’d never seen. Smalls arms, missile platforms, and the angular skiff/sleds all raged against the assaulting armored forces. He pressed the button. “Saber Six, get the fuck out of there!”

  * * *

  Novotny watched as the tank on his left, Trogdor Four, and the tank on his right, Saber Two, erupted. On his own weapons station, laying heavy machine gun fire into the Cochkala vehicles, he heard his crew going through the litany of coordinated actions.

  His gunner, Sergeant Moorefield, was new to the task but more than capable. The young kid had been a command and control specialist until the last battle. With combat forces needing support, he’d volunteered for the assignment and had done well through his training. With the driver, Specialist Woods, they ran through the complete targeting litany with ease.

  “Driver, ten degrees right. Standby to fire,” Moorefield called.

  Woods juked the tank the prescribed amount, placing the center of mass of the turret in the way of potential incoming shells, and responded instantly, “Set!”

  “Firing!” Moorefield called. “On the waaaay!”

  The main gun did not recoil, but the metal cap for the sleek round ejected onto the floor, and the autoloading mechanism slammed another one into the open breech. As it did, the onboard computer stated, <>

  The whole thing took less than five seconds, and they were firing another round. Then another round. Like clockwork, they selected a Cochkala tank in the center of the line. The main gun flashed again, and the skiff was still there. Still firing.

  What the fuck?

  Novotny looked across at Curran, his communications specialist. Part of the young man’s job was to monitor the ammunition stores. “Are we firing sabot or HEAT, Moose?”

  A sabot round was a dart encased by two “sabots” or shoes that held it centered in the gun tube. On firing, the shoes blasted out of the tube with the round and subsequently fell away. The round was a three-foot-long rod, tipped with depleted F11 and uranium, and harder than anything on Earth. It should have been more than enough to defeat the Cochkala sleds. A HEAT round, high explosive anti-tank, was like a shaped charge and should have had some effect.

  “Sabot, sir,” Curran said.

  Novotny glanced back to the front. Again, the main gun fired, and the Cochkala skiff appeared none the worse for wear. “Index HEAT! Load HEAT!”

  “We don’t have any aboard. Saber Three tried that,” Moorefield yelled over his shoulder. “Nothing works!”

  Novotny leaned forward and studied the skiff-things through the forward sight extension. He saw exactly what Moorefield saw. The angular leading edges of the turrets were unique and designed to bounce away almost every type of ammunition used in modern ground combat. The damned things were Besquith designed, Jeha built, and nearly impervious to anything from the front.

  Time slowed. His display indicated two of his tanks had already succumbed. Dammit! He touched his intercom button. “Driver, break off the attack! Emergency gear and find cover!”

  Novotny felt the tank accelerate and turn hard right, across the space Trogdor Four had occupied, in search of cover and concealment. He selected the command frequency.

  “Trogdor Six!” Novotny radioed. “Break off! Break off!”

  Back on his weapons station, Novotny turned his machine guns toward the Cochkala skiffs and infantry, raking fire across them as the tank raced toward salvation. Main gun firing, Moorefield kept them moving as the Cochkala rate of fire rose to something like a heavy rainfall. Thousands of impacts, both beamed wea
pons and traditional propellant-fired rounds, impacted the tank’s hull as it raced forward. Novotny looked outside again and saw Matzke and his crew stop their tank and allow Novotny’s remaining two tanks to pass behind them. As they did, Trogdor Six detonated with a force Novotny felt in his chest.

  “Go!” Novotny screamed into the intercom. For a moment, his eyes met Curran’s. The comm specialist jumped up on his seat, swung open his hatch and began manually firing his small machine gun. Novotny grabbed his own weapons. Moorefield continued to fire, and it made him grin as he yelled, “Come on, Woods. Put that fucking hammer down and—”

  * * *

  The detonation of Saber Six rocked their position. Tara and Rains took turns leaning around the container stack and firing at the Cochkala forces. With the skiffs oriented on the Victoria Forces, they had an opportunity, but they couldn’t move without Lucille making a valid connection to the network. While it should have been obvious to Victoria Forces that she and Rains were friendlies, without a definitive way to communicate, there were far too many variables to consider. Tara decided it was better to wait.

  “How much longer?” Rains called from Alpha One. “I’m down to seventy percent ammunition, boss.”

  On her instrument panel, Tara saw that her ammunition stores were at seventy-two percent and the MAC had a temperature warning. There was also an indicator showing Lucille still had one hundred and twenty seconds of download time remaining.

  “Two minutes, Rains,” she replied.

  “This shit’s going to be over by then, Tara. The Cochkala are killing off our armor too fast.” Rains fumed. “We have to do something. Can we get closer to that flank?”