Hunter emerged, her face and hands covered in red marks. She fell to the deck and rolled on her back. “Field is engaged, sir. Mission accomplished.” Her breathing was labored, and after a moment, she turned to her side and vomited.
The last thing Hanson saw was a group of soldiers in radiation suits climbing down the ladder, all carrying portable stretchers and equipment to isolate them. Their voices were blurry, as if far away, and he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Merriweather was there too, her voice distinctive, even through the heavy radiation protection suit she wore. She knelt next to Hanson. “We’re getting all three of you to the medbay. Don’t worry, Major. Stay with us.”
The darkness took him.
* * *
In the operations center onboard the LNS—League of Sol Naval Shipyard—Trotsky, Captain Anatoly Konstantinov sat at his post, a raised platform in the center of the room. He wore a pair of boxers and a striped T-shirt. There wasn’t enough time for him to change when the emergency alert came in of Terran Coalition ships jumping out of wormholes well within the range of what they ought to be able to do. Damn Terrans. They always seem to have another technological marvel to attack us with. He’d served for twenty years in the Sagittarius arm, fighting against the CDF. The Trotsky was a reward of sorts. A mostly ceremonial post, but one he took seriously. Large red lights flashed. The alert klaxon had shut off after five minutes. Anyone who hadn’t heard it was either too drunk to wake up or dead.
“Tactical, display the enemy ships course overlays,” Konstantinov ordered.
“Aye, Captain.”
The holotank to his right lit up with a projected image of local space, red icons representing the CDF ships. They’d jumped in three separate areas. A bold commander to split what appears to be an already small force. “Analysis of ship classes?”
“The six identical ships don’t register in our database, Captain. They appear to be heavy cruisers in size. We’re reading anti-matter on board all of them.”
Konstantinov’s eyebrows shot up. I thought they only had one anti-matter-based warship—the Lion of Judah. Of course, it’s here too. He still couldn’t make heads or tails of how close they’d jumped to planetary bodies. That’s not supposed to be possible. “Signal our garrisons to launch all fighters, immediately.”
“Fifteen minutes, if we’re lucky,” his executive officer interjected, his Russian thick with a French accent. “Thirty if the crews were napping.”
“Captain, I’m reading a significant energy buildup out of all six enemy vessels,” the tactical officer called out.
“Show me.”
The holotank zoomed in to the closest fighter base and the two ships approaching it. Particle beams erupted from both vessels and struck the station. Its shields held for several seconds before they failed, and the thick blue lances of energy speared the garrison along its length. Magnetic cannon and neutron beam emitter fire added to the maelstrom, and a few seconds later, a series of explosions broke out across the surface before the entire station exploded in a blinding flash of white light.
“In the name of Lenin,” Konstantinov breathed, his jaw wide open and eyes wide. How can we hope to stand against them? He forced himself to remain calm in the face of the overwhelming power of their adversary.
“Sir, they’ve destroyed all three. How did they know? How could they possibly know where to attack us?” Panic sounded in the tactical officer’s voice.
She has reason to panic. The political commissar will of course assume a traitor. “Steady yourself,” Konstantinov barked. “Get me Admiral Hartford immediately.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The wait seemed like the most prolonged period of time Konstantinov had to endure in his life.
Hartford appeared on the screen, his uniform pressed. In the background, his office was visible. He raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. “Captain, why aren’t you in a proper uniform?”
“I apologize, Admiral, but we’re under attack by the Terran Coalition. There’s a force of eight ships here. All capital class vessels, led by the CSV Lion of Judah.”
“In Teegarden?” he asked as his eyes seemed to bulge out of his head.
“Yes, Admiral. They jumped in closer than the FTL limit and destroyed our fighter bases in orbit. They’re on approach for Trotsky. We need reinforcements, sir.”
“Can you launch any of the ships in your repair docks?”
“I’ve already got the crews attempting just that, sir. But, sir, these ships, they’re all powered by anti-matter reactors. They have weapons that cut through our stations like they didn’t exist. Bring the fleet, sir.”
Hartford set his jaw. “I’m coming, Captain Konstantinov. Hold the line until we arrive, whatever it takes. Do not allow them to capture your station or land Marines on Teegarden III. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on, Captain. To the glory of the League!” Hartford made a fist and touched it to his chest.
Konstantinov returned the League salute before the screen went dark, and silence reigned in the operations center. He turned to his executive officer. “Roust all available crews. I want every ship we can undock in space within thirty minutes.”
“Aye, Captain!”
Staring at the plot, Konstantinov watched as the six dots belonging to the CDF’s heavy cruisers burned for higher orbits on an intercept course with the Trotsky. Another ship, showing as a Saurian battleship, had jumped in system further out, and was making what he assumed was flank speed for the rest of the enemy fleet. Why is their flagship sitting there, unmoving? If only we had a fleet to give battle and find out. “Tactical, get all of our weapons online. Charge the plasma energy capacitors and ensure point defense is in standby mode.” As the crew scurried about carrying out his orders, he maintained the calmness of a Zen master, his hands carefully folded in his lap. I suppose I should go change. It wouldn’t do to get killed by the CDF in my underwear.
* * *
“Lieutenant, get me someone in engineering,” David barked from the CO’s chair. Beads of sweat coated his forehead as their situation became more dire.
“One moment, sir,” Taylor replied.
They were running with shields up but had no power for weapons unless the engines were secured. With the anti-matter reactor down, the Lion was effectively fighting with one arm tied behind its back. The destruction of the fighter garrisons had temporarily tilted the battle in their favor, but disaster still loomed.
Taylor’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve got Major Merriweather, sir.”
David punched a button on his chair. “What’s going on down there, and why isn’t Hanson answering?” he asked, his tone direct.
“I’m sorry, sir. We had an exotic particle release that damaged the anti-matter containment system. We’ve got our tertiary backups online, and the reactor is powering up. I’ll be able to give you full power in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Major,” David replied, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now where’s my chief engineer?”
There was a pregnant pause on the line. “He was exposed to extremely high levels of gamma rays, along with Doctor Hayworth and many other engineering personnel. They’re all in the medical bay receiving treatment. I’ve got decontamination teams working, but I’ll have to ask you to keep engineering sealed until we’ve cleaned up the mess.”
David was silent for a moment, shocked at her words. First Sheila, now more friends. No, Doctor Tural will see to it they recover. Doubts roared to the surface as he considered if his actions were rash, pushing the technology beyond its limits. He shoved the dark thoughts that welled within him down, deep into his soul. “Thank you, Major. Carry on as acting engineer until Hanson and the others can return to their posts.”
“Aye aye, sir. Merriweather out.”
The next few minutes passed uneventfully, but time seemingly crawled for David. He stared at the tactical plot on his viewer, going over and ov
er his strategy. The massive shipyard, while an impressive feature on the battlefield, wasn’t as heavily-armed as say, Unity Station. He was more worried about it launching the ships held within.
“Sir,” Ruth said, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m showing main power restored. The energy weapons capacitor is charging.”
Thank you, Lord. “TAO, double-load all magnetic cannons with EMP and armor-piercing shells.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Kelsey replied.
“Navigation, intercept course on Master Six.”
With a final glance to the plot, David confirmed his target: the nearest defense station orbiting the League shipyard. A familiar feel—the humming of the engines, pushing the mighty warship through the vacuum of space. He smiled as calm returned with the capabilities of the vessel restored. “Communications, signal the air boss. Launch all fighters.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Taylor called back.
David sat back in his chair, watching as the range to the enemy closed steadily. We’re coming for you, Seville. Without these yards, you won’t be able to replace the ships we destroy. Today, we end the League.
* * *
Below decks in one of the starboard launch tubes onboard the Lion of Judah, Major Richard Hume sat patiently in his bomber. He’d switched from a Phantom heavy superior fighter to a bomber squadron at Colonel Amir’s request, given how vital maintaining proper cohesion of the jumbled small craft wings would be in the coming battle. They had personnel from two different carriers, plus the Lion. In short, it was a mess. Every craft that could fly was on ready five and had been for the last hour.
A deep, accented voice cut in from the commlink in his helmet. “Colonel Amir, to all squadrons. Launch in order as the boss calls. We are green to engage. Fighters will form on me, while bombers form on Major Hume.”
Finally. I was starting to get claustrophobic in this confined space. “Venit Horas, stand by for launch,” Hume said, the commlink set to his squadron. He’d adopted the Latin name a few weeks earlier. It meant “The hour has come.”
His pilots signaled their understanding, and the waiting resumed.
“Major Hume, this is the boss. You are cleared to launch, along with your squadron.”
“Confirmed, ma’am,” Hume replied. He switched the commlink channel. “Venit Horas, launch, launch, launch!”
With the press of a button, the electromagnetic sled under his bomber came to life and flung the craft down the launch tube. Twenty meters in, he fired his engines for additional thrust. The trip only took a few seconds, but Hume made use of them nonetheless. “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” he began. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the League. May God rebuke them, I humbly pray. Come to our aid, God our Father, fight this day our battle for us, together with the holy angels, as You have promised. Carry our prayers to the throne of God, that the mercy of the Lord may quickly come and defeat the serpent of old, Satan and his servants in the League of Sol. Amen.”
Open space beckoned before him, and Hume looped his bomber around to observe as a continuous stream of small craft exited the Lion. Hand tightened on the control stick, he prepared for battle.
17
Calvin checked the firing control on the unfamiliar League energy rifle one more time. Crap League tech. I’d rather have a knife and nothing else than use this shit. The black and gray uniform he wore felt offensive, and he hated every moment of it. It was a viable tactic to fool the guards, though. I can take one for the team. He stood, along with sixty other Marines and the commando teams from the Lion, in the passageway leading to the aft cargo ramp on the captured destroyer they’d flown in on. The plan was to disembark in teams of four without raising suspicion.
“Demood, this is Mancini,” a now familiar voice crackled into the commlink earpiece he was wearing.
“Go ahead, Major.”
“I’m lowering the ramp. External cameras show a lot of activity in the loading bay we’re in, but not much in the way of armed security. Remember, your objective is to secure the control room for this bay and lock it down.”
“I wasn’t sleeping during the briefing, Major. TCMC’s got this; you fleet boys just sit back and have our ride ready.”
There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. “Whatever, Colonel. We’ll be here to collect your Marine rear ends when the going gets tough.”
Calvin turned serious. “Take care of yourself, Major. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed, Demood.”
He marveled for a moment. A year or two ago, that was just something I said. Now it’s something I mean. Calvin dropped the League rifle into its one-point sling, as they’d observed the Leaguers do, and glanced down the passageway. “Okay, Marines, let’s do this. Remember, blend in, do not arouse suspicion, and spread out. Your objectives are marked in your HUDs. Go loud only as an absolute last resort. Are we clear?”
“Hoorah!” the dozens behind him called back in a muted tone.
“Team one, with me,” Calvin replied. He turned and marched off the ship, down a short portable stairwell into the hangar bay. It was massive. The space made the Lion’s hangar appear downright microscopic. Lots of hostiles in this joint. Hundreds of Leaguers in jumpsuits and uniforms swarmed the deck. As he got down to the deck, he observed as much as he could to see if they were carrying weapons. None were in evidence.
“Comrade!” a voice behind him called.
Calvin turned to see a man in a black and gray jumpsuit holding a tablet. “Yes?”
“Back so soon?”
“Engine trouble,” he replied, his voice cocky. “You know how it is.”
“Da, unreliable.” The man shifted on his feet.
“I’ve got to go turn in our log, Captain’s orders. See you around, Comrade.” Calvin touched his hand to his chest in the salute of the League. Ugh, I’d rather chop my hand off. As the man wandered off, seemingly without purpose, Calvin gave a knowing nod to the three other Marines standing in the gangway. They set off toward the front of the hangar. A small control room was set into the bulkhead, directly next to the doors leading to the interior of the station. He rapped on the hatch.
“Yes?” a voice from within asked.
“The Captain ordered me to turn in a supplies request.”
“Go to the quartermaster, fool.”
Not sure if he was on video or not, Calvin affixed a harsh frown to his face and tried again. “Look, pal, the Captain told me to come here. I’m not interested in losing my rations for the day.”
“Lost rations? What ship are you serving on, comrade?” The voice laughed. “I can’t remember the last time someone was even punished on this station. You should put in for a transfer.”
“Can you help a comrade out or not?” Calvin did his best to inject some levity into his voice.
“Oh, why not.”
There was a harsh buzzing sound, and the hatch unlocked. He grasped the handle and pulled it open, then walked in. Calvin glanced around the small room, which could be described as a booth from its small size and suppressed the urge to PT the sorry excuse for a solider in front of him. The place was a pigsty with discarded food wrappers on the floor and a multitude of items strewn about.
“Do you have the file for me, comrade?”
Calvin flashed a smile, stepped forward, and held out a League-issue tablet. As the man stared and reached for it, Calvin grabbed his hand and, in a moment, flipped him around. His arm slid around the unlucky Leaguer’s throat before he could make a sound and tightened.
His victim wildly waved his arms and tried to punch him in the face, to no avail.
With a quick flick of both hands, Calvin broke his neck in one motion, and the lifeless body fell to the floor. “Demood to Alpha team. I’ve got control of the hangar’s control center.” He breathed heavily, in and out. “Are you guys ready? I need your electronics expert.”
“One nerd, coming right up,” MacDonald’s voice replied. “Chief Rostami will be there shortly
with a couple of my guys to post security.”
“Understood. Demood out.”
What would’ve given him great joy only a year ago now turned his stomach: the sight of a dead Leaguer, spit trickling out of his mouth by the force of gravity. Calvin reached down and closed the man’s eyes as a small pang of remorse reverberated inside him. A special patterned knock at the door turned his attention away from the body, and he turned the handle to find a trio of commandos outside.
They pushed past Calvin wordlessly and quickly hid the corpse under a desk while draping trash and paperwork around to complete the camouflage.
“Give me some space to work here, gents,” Rostami said as he plugged in a small ruggedized tablet into the League console’s dataport.
“How long is this nerd crap gonna take?” Calvin asked, his tone one of a light razzing.
Rostami glanced up. “The fewer interruptions, the less time I’ll need.”
Calvin shook his head and muttered “smartasses” under his breath. He walked past the three of them and stuck his head out of the door. The hangar was alive with activity, as active loading and unloading of ships continued unabated.
“I’m in!” Rostami called out, his voice filled with glee. “I have control of this entire deck’s security layout, door controls, and communications.”
“All teams, this is Demood. Move out in groups of eight. I say again, move out in groups of eight. Head to points alpha, beta, and delta as planned. Secure the hangar. Use stun rounds on non-weapon carrying hostiles.” Calvin glanced back at Rostami. “It’d be easier to vent this joint into space… but ROE doesn’t allow for it.”
“Yeah, Colonel. It’s all good. We can go loud at your discretion, in the hangar bay.”
Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six Page 17
