“Vaahn?” she asked, her antennae bobbing in genuine curiosity. “Ensure the forward units understand that spoils are authorized.”
The Jivool stared at her for a moment. Regaa knew the thoughts racing through his mind started and ended with Kr’et’Socae. He’d not left them specific instructions to the contrary, and since the mercenaries, to her knowledge, weren’t receiving more than typical pay from this fear-induced mission, allowing them to reap the spoils of war provided a powerful incentive. “You will provide a portion for our efforts?”
Regaa kept her antennae from shaking with laughter. Faced with the probability of significant profit, away from the oversight of their commander, he’d proposed a cut for the leaders. So much for the fear of Kr’et’Socae.
“Relay a standard minimal percentage to them.” A two percent cut from all captured supplies and equipment would be more than enough for her and Vaahn’s command compensation.
The Jivool’s maw widened to show his teeth, a horrifying expression of satisfaction. “And when Kr’et’Socae arrives?”
Regaa consulted her master timetable. The Equiri was at least two days away. They’d complete operations on Victoria Bravo within twelve hours, at worst, and jump forward to a place of her choosing, under the guise of chasing Human survivors. That would give her time, and an acceptable forward location, to fence the stolen property and pad her credit accounts. Running from Kr’et’Socae wasn’t possible. The Equiri’s reputation for finding the unfound preceded him. Yet, if she collected and banked her funds, there was little he could do about her order to pillage the planet.
“When Kr’et’Socae arrives, he will find this planet defeated, its citizenry dead, and its tenable property collected. He will understand what we have done, and why.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Vaahn asked. His question wasn’t entirely innocent. His black eyes glimmered in amusement as if daring her to answer flippantly. Testing her.
Regaa narrowed her compound eye covering slightly and brought her antennae to rigid attention. “I am in command of this mission, Vaahn. The success of our forces is all that matters. If success comes because our forces decimated this planet in pursuit of their own riches, so be it. These Humans possess nothing special. Even their powered armor suits are primitive in their design and asinine in their employment. They are children inside of their toys.”
Vaahn gestured at his display. “What of the Buma ship? The one broadcasting a diplomatic code? It will arrive at the gate before the Strong Arm.”
“Let it go,” Regaa said. “They are not part of this, and whatever they intend to do at the gate will not matter once we arrive. If they attempt to intercept the Strong Arm, clear the weaponeers to destroy it. Diplomacy has no place where Humans are concerned.”
The Jivool grinned. “Your final orders, commander?”
Regaa turned and pointed to her Tri-V. “Assault speed. As fast as the ships can handle. Prepare suborbital targeting on their command and control nodes and give the landing craft the drop order as early as possible.”
Vaahn nodded approvingly. “Permission to engage at maximum effective range?”
“Affirmative.” Regaa let her antennae dip in appreciation. “I want them stamped out in minutes. The Humans believe they can war? We will teach them how to war on our terms.”
* * *
Command Center—Victoria Forces
Victoria Bravo
Tanks made poor artillery pieces. By design, a tank round carried as much kinetic energy as possible into a relatively small impact point on an enemy target. Even high-explosive anti-tank (HEAT) rounds were little more than high-speed, shaped charges carrying lots of force into a small space. Artillery rounds, ideally, burst in a wide ellipse with significant force and an abundance of shrapnel designed to kill, maim, and burn everything in the larger area. Modern artillery rounds could be “flown” toward a target, thereby increasing their accuracy. Traditional artillery pieces still used laser designation when possible, and with the Cochkala missile systems having swatted his aerial platforms from the sky, Ibson made the decision to ground his aerial assets until the two remaining missile platforms could be eliminated.
Those platforms, however, stood eight hundred meters from his command post, behind multiple rows of shipping containers, a semicircular position of enemy armored skiffs, and a supporting infantry battalion. The avenues of approach through the shipping containers were kill zones. Jumping over them would expose the advancing CASPers to direct fire. They were looking at a slaughter unless they could shoot, move, and communicate better than they ever had.
“Thunder Six, Hammerhead Six, first salvo away, prepping second salvo,” MacFollett called. “Shot out.”
Ibson nodded. The plan called for four salvos. Each round would arc up more than 3,000 meters and drop onto the Cochkala position. Timed ten seconds apart, the intent was simple. Get them to put their heads down, then keep them down long enough for the CASPers to move out from their protected positions and establish their attack corridors.
“Keep firing, Mac,” Ibson replied. He swiveled to look at the Tri-V bank displaying his forces. He keyed on the CASPer of Captain Allison Blake, Liberty Six. She’d been the second in command to Lieutenant Colonel Tirr of the MinSha when they’d defended Lovell City a few weeks earlier. The young leader had come a long way, and there was no one else he wanted to lead the initial attack.
“Liberty Six, Thunder Six, on your shoulder,” Ibson called. He’d linked his terminal so he could watch her camera systems and monitor the attack’s progress virtually.
“Thought I smelled something,” Blake replied.
Ibson laughed. The kid was feisty. A good match for her tactical capabilities. “Standby to move.”
“On the third, roger.”
“Thunder Six, Hammerhead Six, third salvo prepared. Shot out.”
Ibson felt the tanks firing their rounds from the hangar complex six hundred meters away. “Go, Liberty Six.”
“Liberty Six on the move!” Blake replied. Ibson watched her leap from behind the command center, land effortlessly on the tarmac in front of it, and race toward the smoking hulk of Saber Six in the center of her attack corridor. On the tactical display to Ibson’s right, four icons blinked on. A split second later, their callsigns and personal data appeared on the screen. Liberty One, piloted by Sergeant Blackard, took up a solitary position to Blake’s left. To her right were Sergeant First Class Mata in Liberty Three and Specialist Conly in Liberty Seven. They ran forward, jumping over the hulk of Saber Six just as the third salvo of tank-fired pseudo-artillery slammed into the Cochkala position.
Perfect timing. Ibson nodded to himself and tried to relax, but watching Blake and her forces bounding across open space caused every muscle in his body to tense. Watching over Blake’s shoulder didn’t help. The jostling movement and the sense of speed made Ibson’s adrenaline flow, almost to the point of forgetting the plan.
“Salvo four, shot out!” MacFollett called. He’d violated radio protocols, but Ibson brushed it aside. Everyone knew who was firing the artillery and what the last salvo meant.
Ibson reached for the transmit button but heard a familiar voice drawl, “Thunder 6, Warthog Six. Preparing to move.”
“Good hunting, Hawg Six.”
“Bring the cavalry right behind us, will ya?” Hogshead replied.
The view on Blake’s cameras jumped hard to the right. A host of small flashes appeared on the feed.
“Liberty Six taking fire!” Blake called. From her camera feeds, Ibson watched Blackard cut in front of his team leader, shielding her for a split second as they moved. Darting side-to-side wasn’t something taught at the CASPer schools on Earth, but they’d implemented the moves as part of their training. Anything that could be done to confuse an enemy or to avoid fire was a technique worth attempting.
Blackard’s CASPer stumbled forward. Weapons continuing to fire, the pilot recovered and came up with his MAC firing at the center of the C
ochkala position. The first line of shipping containers, their first assault position, was two hundred meters away.
Inside Liberty Six, a warning alarm sounded. Ibson turned to the tactical display. Liberty Seven’s icon turned red, then gray. The mecha was down, and Specialist Conly was dead.
“Warthog Six on the roll!” Hogshead whooped into the frequency. Ibson’s eyes, however, stayed with Blake and her deteriorating situation. Blackard’s CASPer staggered backward as a Cochkala missile sheared off the mecha’s right arm and MAC. The young pilot brought up his left arm with its handheld cannon and kept moving forward, though much more slowly. Medical data showed he was badly wounded.
“Get out of there!” Ibson said to himself. He pushed the transmit button. “Warthog Six,” Ibson yelled, “cover Liberty Six at your nine o’clock. Get them out of there.”
“Moving,” Hogshead replied.
Ibson looked up as Blake’s feed shorted out. Her CASPer fell face forward onto the tarmac and slid to a stop. The icons for Liberty One and Liberty Six disappeared. Liberty Three’s was yellow and stopped. Ibson pulled up the command and control cameras around the airfield and saw the CASPer lying on its left side, its back toward the Cochkala position. The cockpit opened, and the dark-haired, young woman crawled out and curled up on the ground behind the CASPer.
“Hawg Six, where are you?” Ibson called. “Got a fallen angel, repeat fallen angel. Liberty Three.”
“Twenty seconds, Thunder Six,” Hogshead replied. “We’ll get her. You get those fuckers off our airfield.”
Ibson leaned forward in his chair. “Avenger Six, that’s your sign. Move. Force 25? Standby to attack from your position with Hammerhead Six in trail.”
Tara Mason’s voice was calm and steady. “Roger, Thunder Six. Force 25 prepared to move. Monitoring the situation downtown. Peacemaker needs assistance.”
Not now.
“Understand, Force 25. Her situation is not critical at this time.”
“Copy, Thunder Six,” Mason replied. Her response was so curt, Ibson wondered if she was going to disobey orders and go after the Veetanho Peacemaker. He watched the two CASPer icons for a long moment, but they didn’t move.
Good.
Ibson looked back at the tactical display. Hogshead and his team of CASPers had reached Mata and pushed forward to a hasty assault position, effectively drawing the Cochkala fire away from the downed pilot.
“Thunder Six, request immediate evac. Liberty Three is hurt badly. She won’t make it without an immediate medevac,” Hogshead replied. “I couldn’t get her vitals, but she’s conscious and bleeding from multiple wounds on her chest and abdomen. You’ve got to get her out of here.”
Ibson scanned the Cochkala position and saw the missile platforms searching for targets and firing on them. Aware that Avenger Six bounding forward might draw the Cochkala fire, he considered ordering a dropship evacuation. He shook his head. The Cochkala would kill it as quickly as they’d killed his flyers.
“Thunder Six, this is Mako One Three.” On his table of organization and equipment were two dropships specifically setup and crewed for personnel evacuation. Lieutenant Becky Stallings was the section’s commander and one hell of a pilot.
“Negative, Mako One Three. You’re not cleared to launch. It’s too dangerous.”
“Thunder Six, Mako One Three. We’re not flying, and we’re already on our way,” Stallings replied. “Tell Hogshead to keep those fuckers’ heads down so we can get our fallen angel out of there, over.”
“You got it, Mako One Three,” Ibson replied. He looked out the window toward the crew hangers.
What are they doing?
* * * * *
Chapter Nineteen
Dropship Mako 13
Victoria Bravo
Watching Liberty Six go down, and her wingmen falter and collapse, Becky Stallings gripped the dropship’s controls and tried not to cry. Her tears weren’t from sorrow. After the first defense of Victoria Bravo, they all knew another attack would come. It was a matter of time. Fury filled her. Alison Blake was one of her best and oldest friends. Now, she and two other good pilots were dead, but their wingman was still alive. That mattered.
“Launch checklist,” she said over the intercom.
There was no response. Stallings whipped her head to the right and stared at her frozen copilot. “Carter?”
Carter turned. His mouth hung slightly open, and there was confusion in his eyes. The bright, young pilot hadn’t seen much warfare close up. As a medevac crew, they often came in after the conflict or behind friendly lines. Watching people die seemed much further away than it really was. Seeing the tanks and the CASPers fall in front of them hurt deeply. Stallings knew from experience.
“Ma’am?” Carter finally managed to stammer.
“Launch checklist,” she replied. Carter looked at the checklist mounted on his kneeboard, then back at her.
“We’re grounded.”
“Fuck that,” Stallings replied. “We can—”
“We won’t last ten seconds!” Carter replied. The confusion in his eyes was gone. His comment came from rationality, not fear. “The flyers couldn’t evade those missile systems, Becky. We can’t expect to get out of the hangar, much less rescue Liberty Three.”
Stallings clenched her jaw and brushed her long, red hair from her face. “We can’t just sit here.”
“I’m not saying there’s nothing we can do. But we can’t go out there in this ship.”
She squinted. “What are you talking about?”
A new voice came over the intercom. Vattakanavich, the youngster they’d nicknamed Alphabet, spoke quickly. “There’s a cargo skiff eighty meters from the rear deck. I can grab it.”
Stallings turned on the rear camera system and watched the picture resolve on her forward, multifunction display. The skiff was long and rectangular, and it operated on wheels. It had an empty mount for a motorized forklift that had just enough of a lip to cover the driver’s position immediately behind it, sunk between the wheels. The remainder of the skiff was empty.
“There’s no cover for you, Alphabet.”
“We load that container on the middle of the skiff and it protects both you and me. But you won’t be able to see. Carter can guide you. We just have to get that thing loaded fast.”
“You’ve never driven a forklift,” Stallings replied.
Carter spoke softly. “I have. I worked these docks as a teenager, remember?”
Carter’s family had arrived on the first transports to Victoria Bravo twenty years earlier, and his father had been the spaceport’s initial commander. He’d grown up around the facility and knew it better than anyone. Stallings nodded.
This might actually work.
“How fast can you get it loaded and strapped down?”
“A minute, tops.” Carter grinned. His bright blue eyes and tight smile showed confidence. “Tell Thunder Six what we’re doing so no one shoots us.”
“Way ahead of you, buddy.” Stallings jerked a thumb in the direction of the rear deck. “Take Alphabet and go. I’m on my way.”
“We can do it, Becky.” Carter’s smile faltered.
There was an unasked question on his lips. While not much younger than she, Carter hadn’t been with Victoria Forces more than a couple of years and only had the defense of Victoria Bravo under his belt. Stallings had come to Victoria after a decent career in Earth’s mercenary forces, but CASPer pilots tended to get all the good contracts. While dropship pilots were necessary, the common opinion was that anyone could drive a flying box. It wasn’t a matter of ability, it was a matter of trust. Being a good “stick and rudder” pilot wasn’t of much use inside powered armor. It was easier to drop a Human inside a suit, give them a weapon, and send them out to die. Dropship pilots couldn’t be trusted because they weren’t CASPer pilots, and that was bullshit.
“I trust you, Carter,” Stallings said. “Get that thing ready to go. Mako One Three is going on a mission, toge
ther, and we’re going to bring that angel home. Got me?”
Carter’s grin returned. “Loud and clear, Boss.”
“Move out,” Stallings replied and immediately shut down the dropship. By the time she turned off the cameras, Carter and Alphabet had already loaded the container and were strapping it in place. Flipping the switches and control mechanisms from memory, Stallings keyed her radio to the command frequency and waited for a break in the flurry of updates. When one came, she pressed her transmit button.
“Thunder Six, this is Mako One Three.”
He’s going to say no.
Ibson’s voice came back sharp and direct. “Negative, Mako One Three. You’re not cleared to launch. It’s too dangerous.”
“Thunder Six, Mako One Three. We’re not flying, and we’re already on our way.” Stallings replied. “Tell Hogshead to keep those fuckers’ heads down so we can get our fallen angel out of there, over.”
Stallings knew from the delay that Ibson was trying to figure out what they were doing. As a commander, he was as good as they came, and he knew the score. A wounded pilot needed to be rescued and, against whatever the odds were, she had a mission to perform.
Ibson’s voice was softer as he replied, “You got it, Mako One Three.”
Stallings crawled out of her command seat, hesitated for a moment, and looked back as if seeing her cockpit for the first time. She’d never recovered a fallen angel in a truck, and she wouldn’t want to do it again, even if they were successful.
Deathangel Page 21
