Rostami examined the controls for the lift and pulled out his portable hacking tablet. “Give me a minute, Master Chief.”
MacDonald grunted. “Post security, and watch for any unwelcome party crashers.”
“Right, boss,” Harrell replied.
A few minutes passed as Rostami fiddled with the controls and used various gizmos on the device. The doors finally slid open. “That’ll be fifty credits per head,” he announced, a broad grin on his face visible through the helmet’s faceplate.
“Better idea: I won’t insult you for the next thirty seconds,” MacDonald said as he made his way into the lift. “Hey, the inside’s got a hand scanner too.” Leaguers, always paranoid.
The rest of the team crowded into the gravlift, with Ahmad, Mata, and Harrell pointing their battle rifles out the open doors, while Rostami kept working. Out of nowhere, a loud klaxon sounded an ear-piercing wail.
“Damnit, Rostami, what’d you do now?” Harrell grumbled.
“Wasn’t me, Senior Chief,” the younger man replied as he pressed buttons rapidly on the tablet. “The station just entered security lockdown.”
“Perhaps the Marines were discovered,” Ahmad interjected with his richly accented English.
“Or word of the fleet’s attack got back here. No matter, we press on.” As MacDonald finished speaking, the lift started to move. It dropped at least twenty meters before crashing to a halt. The impact sent all six commandos flying upward, and then they slammed into the floor. “What the hell, Rostami? Forget the Leaguers; you’ll get us killed before we even get to real combat!”
“Uhhh, sorry, Master Chief.” He picked himself up off the floor and fiddled with the controls once more. “I hit an electronic tripwire.”
“No, really?” MacDonald replied in an exaggerated voice. “I would’ve never guessed.”
The others laughed uproariously, and as they did, the lift started going up—the right direction. It smoothly came to a stop, and the doors slid open. A group of eight League security troops was directly outside, and everyone froze. Time seemed to slow for a second before Harrell raised his silenced battle rifle and uttered a guttural roar. He fired on full automatic, bullets spraying the unlucky Leaguers. Armor-piercing rounds flew through the air, slamming into and through the humans before them. The other commandos joined in, and before the enemy could get a shot off, they were all cut down.
MacDonald burst out of the lift, just as another patrol came around the left portion of the corridor. These Leaguers already had their weapons up and opened fire immediately. He dropped to one knee, exposed in the passageway, and lined up one of the men in his sights. With a quick squeeze of his finger, three rounds exploded from his rifle and felled the enemy officer. A single shot rang out—which he immediately recognized as Mata’s suppressed sniper rifle—and a second man dropped, the round going neatly through his forehead.
The third League trooper held down the trigger on his pulse rifle and sprayed the team with energy weapon fire. He might as well coughed on them. Leaguer pulse rifles were notoriously ineffective against CDF power armor, and even less effective against the advanced power armor worn by the commandos.
A burst from Harrell put the final enemy down. “Tangos down!” he yelled into his commlink.
“We’re right next to you, Senior Chief,” Rostami snarked, drawing a withering look from Alpha team’s number two.
“Now, anyone know where we’re going?” MacDonald asked, his tone gruff and direct.
“Main computer core is supposedly three bulkheads down, with an entrance on the port side. Then again, who knows, since half this crap won’t translate from Cyrillic.”
MacDonald checked the number of rounds remaining in his battle rifle. “Thanks, Rostami. Now let's move.”
Like a human wave, the commandos advanced through the passageway. Three at the front, three at the back, continually checking corners and the recesses of the structure. For thirty meters, all was well, and no enemies encountered. Then a patrol of four League security officers turned the corner and walked right into their line of sight.
As the point man, Harrell’s battle rifle was up and at the ready. He shot the first man in his sights through the head and moved with lethal efficiency. Before they could fell the entire group, one man turned and ran.
“After ‘em!” MacDonald bellowed into his commlink, charging forward and around the corner. He was greeted by dozens of Leaguers, including power-armored Marines. For the first time since the operation began, Alpha team was at a disadvantage. Bullets sprayed the bulkheads around him, showering the passageway in sparks, while a few pinged off his armor.
Harrell and Mata rounded the corner a second later, both snapping their rifles up and gamely returning fire. “Shit, it's the entire League army!” Harrell announced through the open commlink.
“Pull back! Pull back now!” MacDonald thundered as rounds continued to find his armor. He walked backward slowly, not willing to retreat before the other two found cover. Inside of his helmet, the HUD flashed red as the integrity of the armor plating started to fail. A moment later, the three of them got behind a bulkhead in the four-way intersection.
Mata tossed a fragmentation grenade toward the Leaguers, which exploded with a loud bang. It brought a momentary respite from enemy fire. “Okay. It looks like someone with a brain over there is locking down important sections of the station.”
“Leaguers with brains… miracles never cease,” MacDonald said with a snort. “I counted fifteen Goliath suits, and a few dozen of their security troops. Those guys aren’t a worry, but heavy suits are.”
“We could get some heavy weapons down here,” Harrell interjected. “A gauss rifle, maybe? Something to neutralize the power armor.”
“Not enough time. Every minute means more of these assholes mobilize, and the less likely we’ll be to break through.”
“I am carrying a single anti-armor rocket,” Kucuk said over the commlink. He was a few meters away, behind the vanguard of the team. “Perhaps if we used it to create confusion and destroy several heathen enemies at the same time, while we pressed them in a… how do humans say it, a pincer action?”
MacDonald and Harrell exchanged glanced through their helmet faceplates. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing better. Ballsy as hell, though.”
“That’s what we get for hiring a Saurian,” Rostami cracked through his commlink.
“I do not recall asking your opinion. Should you wish to challenge me,” Kucuk hissed before continuing. ”We may address it after this battle.”
Snickers filled the commlink between the commandos. “Okay, let’s stay on the ball, boys,” MacDonald interjected. “Chief, get the rocket up here. Harrell, Mata, Rostami—circle around two passageway junctions back and work your way up. Quietly.”
“You got it, boss,” Harrell quickly replied. “On me, spacewalkers.”
MacDonald leaned out a hair and sprayed full auto fire from his battle rifle down the corridor. A few Leaguers dropped from the fusillade, while the rest kept to the sides, seeking cover. “Go, go, go!”
* * *
A few hundred lightyears away, the bridge of the Lion of Judah remained especially tense. We’ve never watched while the League abandoned one of its primary space-borne assets, with us ready to destroy it. David sat on the edge of his seat, glancing between tactical displays, looking for the slightest hint of treachery. Pod after pod launched from the station, along with shuttles and small cargo ships.
Ruth leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Coming up on fifteen minutes, sir.”
“TAO, what’s your best guess on percentage of lifepods launched from Master One?”
“Seventy to eighty percent, sir,” Kelsey replied without glancing back. “I’ve tried to scan for lifesigns, but there’s so much background radiation from the battle, it’s no use.”
David grunted. “We’ll give them a few more minutes.”
“Sir?”
“They’re still actively
launching pods, and the station is no threat to us.”
Ruth remained silent, but her expression was neutral and cold. Her lips pressed together in a tight line.
Another four minutes passed before the escape vehicles stopped their exodus from the stricken shipyard. As they roared away from it as fast as their ion engines would go, David cleared his throat. “TAO, firing point procedures, forward particle beams, Master One. Target their main reactor cores.”
“Aye aye, sir. Firing solutions set.”
Before David could give the order to shoot, hundreds of plasma cannon bursts erupted from the station all at once in a coordinated attack. It only took him a few moments to determine the enemy was putting everything it had on one target: the CSV Marcus Aurelius. The most damaged of the six heavy cruisers, its shields were below the red line and critical on all quadrants. “TAO, extend shield sphere to encompass Sierra Six, now!”
The whine of the strained generators filled the bridge and the Lion as a whole as plasma ball after plasma ball slammed into them at high speed. Once he saw the strategy was working, David resumed his previous train of thought. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, particle beams.”
Four blindingly white beams shot out of the bow of the Lion of Judah, instantly impacting the Trotsky and her weakened hull. Boiling explosions of molten alloy blasted out from the station. For ten seconds, the beams pressed on before they penetrated out the other side. From the tactical display and the view out of the transparent alloy windows at the front of the bridge, David watched as progressively larger explosions broke out across the surface of the shipyard, before it finally blew apart in a pyrotechnic display that was momentarily blinding.
Whoops and hollers rang out across the bridge, as officers standing in the CIC area, and enlisted ratings high-fived one another and cheered.
After ten seconds, Master Chief Tinetariro bellowed, “As you were! Maintain proper bridge protocol, or I’ll have anyone who doesn’t removed.”
As calm settled in, David glanced around with a knowing expression. Not bad. Not bad at all. “Navigation, plot the fastest route to the Lawrence limit and avoid contact with remaining enemy defense platforms.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Hammond replied.
“Conn, communications,” Taylor began. “We received a final transmission from Master One. Text only.”
“What was it, Lieutenant?”
“Message reads ‘Well played, General.’”
David sat back in his seat and scrunched up his eyebrows, deep in thought. He realized the League commander stayed behind to fire the last salvo. Even as he struggled with the notion that the enemy deserved what he got, David was conflicted. Perhaps he was worthy of respect after all.
Ruth harrumphed. “Good riddance to another Leaguer.”
Her tone bothered him. “I think we have to acknowledge anyone who chooses to die under their guns, XO,” he said softly. “Maybe even respect them.”
“He’s a Leaguer, sir.”
“And you’ve encountered decent Leaguers before, haven’t you?”
She begrudgingly nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“There you go. Maybe this was another one. He saved his crew and went down firing. I’m not saying he’s a saint or a hero, but if the end came for me, I hope I’d do the same.”
There was no response from Ruth as she considered his words, and David glanced at the tactical plot. Two and a half hours until we can jump out, based on our current course. God help us. The intercom buzzer on his chair went off. He reached over and pressed the button to activate it.
“Conn, engineering,” Merriweather’s surprisingly cheerful voice said from the speaker.
“Go ahead, Major.”
“I thought you should know our port and aft shield generators overtaxed themselves when the sphere was extended. I’m unsure of their ability to perform under battle conditions until we can perform repairs.”
Oh, snap. “How long would the repairs take, Major?”
“Several hours, sir.”
David closed his eyes. There’s no way I can allow them to take half our deflectors off-line while we’re exfiling enemy space. I’ll have to play the odds. “Understood. Keep them online and monitor for further issues.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The intercom went dead, and Ruth glanced over. “Damage report from the fleet sir. The Marcus Aurelius has significant hull damage, as do two other cruisers. All ships except the Resit Kartal report reduced combat effectiveness.”
“Thank you, XO. Communications, signal Colonel Aibek to take point in our formation, with my compliments on a job well done.” David glanced once more at the plot. Two hours, twenty-six minutes to go.
* * *
Amir gently rocked his SF-106 Phantom from side to side, testing the onboard repair unit’s claim that his craft was fully operational once more. He’d taken enough fire during their run on the station that, at one point, forward shields failed, and a bolt of plasma hit the right side of his fighter. It seemed to check out fine. Thank Allah for a small miracle. A computer did what it promised. There were numerous gaps in the squadron readout. It was a sobering reminder to him of the cost of war. Most pronounced in the bomber squadrons, the absence of Major Hume’s transponder weighed on him. They’d become friends over the last year, since he’d stepped up during the disaster of the first battle for Freedom Station.
Now I should use this lull to rearm my craft, just in case the League decides to contest our withdrawal. “This is Colonel Amir to all bomber squadron commanders. Signal the air boss and prepare to land as she instructs. Reload all anti-ship munitions and prepare for immediate relaunch.”
Green lights of acknowledgment lit up in his helmet-projected HUD. It took fifteen minutes for the depleted bomber force to get inside of the Lion’s hangar, during which Amir cycled through his squadron's status. They had expended a lot of ordnance—especially the active homing LIDAR guided missiles designed to destroy enemy point defense. I’d better have them rearm too. “This is Colonel Amir to all remaining squadrons commanders in space. If you have less than fifty percent consumable munitions, signal the air boss and land as she instructs. Reload all munitions and relaunch immediately for combat space patrol activities.”
Again, green lights lit up across his HUD. There were only seven squadrons that didn’t land on the Lion, including the Grim Reapers. While Amir’s stores were down to thirty percent, he wasn’t about to get out of the fight while the men and women under his command were in harm's way. On and on they flew. This portion of a flight was the boring part to him, and probably every other fighter jock in the galaxy. With nothing to do but count the minutes, a part of his brain drifted to thoughts of home, and life after the war. To spend time with his wife and children. Especially my daughter—I won’t have to worry about her dying anymore.
Tactical icons indicating unidentified inbound wormholes lit up his screen. Out here, the only thing jumping in are more League forces. It was less than thirty seconds, more than fifty icons designating a contact as an enemy warship appeared. The one he was most concerned with was classified as a Napoleon class fleet carrier. It carried over four hundred combat spacecraft and could easily go toe to toe with the small Canaan Alliance fleet. Allah protect us. He gripped his flight stick with purpose and prepared for orders once more.
22
On the bridge of the Resit Kartal, the emergence of the League battlegroup caused Aibek’s heart rate to quicken and a feral grin to appear on his face. Finally, a real opponent. He also realized it would likely fall to them to engage the enemy and draw blood, while his wounded brothers and sisters in arms held back and avoided taking more damage.
“Communications,” Aibek rumbled. “Request an audio/video link with General Cohen at once.”
“Aye, sir!”
Ten seconds passed, and David’s familiar face appeared on the screen above Aibek’s head. “You must’ve read my mind, old friend,” David began. “How do you like your odds engagin
g those Leaguers head on, while Amir mixes it up with their fighters?”
“I never pay attention to the odds as humans do.” Aibek displayed his teeth as he grinned in the distinctive Saurian way. “We will engage them and cause the cowards to run from us in terror!”
“The Constantine and Justinian are the least damaged. They’ll go with you, while the rest cover our port and aft. Our shield generators are acting up, and I don’t want to risk a head-on engagement if I can help it. Bloody their nose, Colonel, then use your superior acceleration to get out. Are we clear?”
“I will not hunt for glory. But I will smash the Leaguers!”
David grinned fiercely. “Of this, I have no doubt. Godspeed.”
“Walk with the Prophet, sir.”
The screen blinked off, leaving the bridge in silence. Aibek stared at the tactical plot and quickly concocted a mental plan. “Navigation, plot an intercept course on Master One,” he called out.
“That is the enemy flagship,” S’stro grumbled. “You mean to charge it blindly, with only two ships as support?”
Once again in their short serving together, he bit off the desire to backhand S’stro and demand a blood duel. “Carriers lack anti-ship weaponry, and we already know their escorts are inferior.”
“You are forgetting the two battleships,” she hissed back.
Aibek ignored her and concentrated on the tactical plot. “Navigation, increase speed to flank. Tactical, obtain firing solutions on the nearest escorts. Prepare to clear the path.”
The League ships formed into a sphere. It was their standard battle formation, and one that offered the best in line fire support for protecting a large warship in the center—in this case, the carrier and two battleships that flew alongside it. Hundreds of fighters and bombers streamed out of the carrier, forming up into squadrons. They accelerated out at maximum velocity toward the Saurian and Terran ships.
“Vampire, vampire, vampire!” the tactical officer called out. “One hundred plus inbound anti-ship missiles.”
Run the Gauntlet: Echoes of War Book Six Page 21
