Finest Hour (The Exiled Fleet Book 3)

by Richard Fox

  “It’s bedlam in their channels,” Marksman said. “Translation software’s off-line to protect bandwidth and…mother of God.”

  Wyman looked up as Indus Chakram fighters streaked out of the clouds and made a beeline to the city center and the golden Gurdwara. A glow grew in the clouds.

  “Oh, this is not good,” Ivor said.

  “Freak show, this is Cita-che, I mean, this is Ranbir,” came over the channel he shared with Ivor.

  Wyman wagged his wings to get Marksman’s attention.

  “I read you, Ranbir,” Wyman said.

  “Get below the air defense zone, now! Two thousand meters, now! Now!”

  Wyman repeated the warning and angled his nose down. Cobra squadron followed in a disorganized descent, two Typhoons almost bumping wings ahead of Wyman as they flew. The altimeter on Wyman’s HUD ticked down.

  They just crossed three thousand meters above ground level when the Daegon ripped through the clouds. Hundreds of teardrop-shaped fighters dropped, multiple formations in the shape of a guillotine’s blade. They opened fire as one, and yellow energy bolts rained down on the city and ripped past the Cobras.

  On the ground, air defense nests spread across Theni joined the fight. Rockets and proximity fused cannon shells stitched across the sky, and the Albion fighters were stuck in the middle.

  Wyman rolled his fighter around, desperately trying to avoid the ground fire as a Daegon bolt cut down the seam where his canopy met the fuselage. He pulled level just as an Indus shell burst overhead.

  “Goddamn it, don’t shoot me!” Wyman shouted.

  He roared over a high rise and wagged his wings at the gun crew in an air defense nest. When the barrel of the weapon didn’t slew to track him, he was reasonably sure they recognized the St. George’s Cross on the underside of his wings and realized he wasn’t Daegon.

  Dashed lines rose from bunkers and strong points across the city, all converging on the dark blades made up of Daegon fighters.

  “Cobras,” Marksman called out, “kick up and let fly. Missiles set to first lock.”

  “But sir,” Vulgar said, “if there’s any Indus still up there—”

  “Just do it! Reform over the embassy once you’re empty.”

  Wyman bore down on his abdomen and tightened his thighs. He cut power to his engines and brought his nose straight up. His Typhoon felt like it hit a wall as he lost forward momentum. He flipped off safety controls on his missile panel and beat a fist against a yellow and black striped button.

  Every one of his missiles ignited and slid off the rails, shooting up toward the Daegon formation on a trail of fire. More missiles from the rest of the Albion fighters joined the death blossom.

  Wyman cycled power back to his engines and swung the plane level with the ground. He descended to a few hundred meters above ground level, low enough to run the risk of hitting a building—and to avoid the Indus air defense artillery.

  Fireballs burst to life as the Albion missiles struck home. More and more Daegon ships exploded as the ground fire found their range.

  The Daegon formation shifted, pointing toward the Golden Temple. A ripple of energy bolts aimed right at the building.

  Indus fighters—already holding over the temple—didn’t break formation as Wyman thought they would, closing ranks instead and taking the hits meant for the Gurdwara. Chakram fighters flamed out and crashed into the icy river. Bolts struck the water, kicking up tall gouts. A series of Daegon fire hit the temple…and dissipated against a shield.

  “They put a ground shield on that thing?” Vulgar asked. “You know how much those cost?”

  “They’re breaking up!” Marksman shouted. Overhead, the Daegon guillotines flew apart into small groups of fighters and accelerated toward the ground, eager to get beneath the air defense artillery’s fire. “Embassy. Keep them off the embassy.”

  “Roger that,” Wyman said. “Ivor, any missiles left?”

  “Empty as my wallet after shore leave,” she said.

  “Same here. Guns it is.”

  “Behind us.” She pulled into an Immelmann turn and Wyman followed, pulling up hard and rotating his fighter level to the ground as he came about the opposite direction he’d been going.

  A Chakram fighter jinked from side to side, a Daegon ship on its tail. Wyman and Ivor opened fire, their bolts forming interlinking bands of fire just ahead of the enemy’s nose in time for it to fly through and get wrecked.

  “Thank you,” Ranbir said as he brought his fighter up to join them. “Just be careful where you shoot because—”

  “You want to tell the Daegon that?” Ivor snapped. “Because they seem to have run out of shits to give and are just using plasma bolts to communicate.”

  “Two bogies, four o’clock.” Wyman banked to engage.

  “The rest of my squadron…they are gone, I believe,” Ranbir said. “I’ll fly with you.”

  “Less talking, more shooting.” Ivor opened fire, the blasts from her cannons lighting up her nose as they left the barrel. Her shots went wide and loped toward the surrounding mountains.

  The pair of Daegon fighters sped away from them, then one spat ahead with a push from its afterburners. It angled to one side and the jet wash disrupted the flow of air over its fellow. The other fighter flipped over in the turbulence and fired.

  Wyman, caught flat-footed, lost a wingtip to a passing bolt as he struggled to get out of the line of fire. His fighter lost control and went into a nose dive. The controls were sluggish one moment and too loose to control anything the next as his onboard systems fought to regain aerodynamic control through adjusting his flaps and rudder.

  He put one hand on his eject lever as he pulled back on the stick…and the Typhoon finally responded to his commands. He shot over a neighborhood of low houses, positive the boom of his engines had shattered windows for blocks around.

  An energy bolt cut past his canopy and he realized he had an enemy on his tail.

  Wyman jinked from side to side, his Typhoon sluggish with battle damage. He had seconds before the Daegon realized what an easy target Wyman was.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a skeleton of an incomplete stadium. The gap between metal beams looked just wide enough for something insane, but not guaranteed to be suicidal. He banked hard, fishtailing, and flew straight for the stadium.

  “Freak, what the hell are you—”

  He didn’t hear the rest of what Ivor said as he shot through the structure. The tip of a rudder clipped a beam and it tugged his fighter back.

  The Daegon came through too fast and cut over the field of materials. The pilot tried to thread his way through the other side…but construction was more complete there and the fighter ripped apart into a wave of flame and ripped beams, leaving an ugly exit wound in the stadium.

  “I’m OK,” Wyman said as he leveled out and Ivor and Ranbir came up on either side of him.

  “We got the other,” Ivor said. “Can you still fly? You look like you’re holding it together with spit and wishes.”

  “Systems are…” Wyman tapped a blank screen. He smelled ozone through his mask, and a shower of sparks spat out from his weapon controls. “Not OK. Only way I can keep fighting is as a target to buy you two time to get a shot or I turn this crate into a human guided missile.”

  “You’re worth more alive,” Ranbir said. “Follow me. I’ll escort you back to the airport near the embassy…emergency crews are already waiting.”

  “That’s…that’s probably for the best,” Wyman said.

  “Freakish Show,” Ranbir said, “that was going to be the new cricket stadium.”

  “It’ll still be the stadium,” Ivor said. “Still under construction…just under a bit more construction now.”

  “Can we cut the chatter,” Wyman said as another panel blanked out. “I know we’re not far from a landing strip…but everyone just think positive thoughts right now.”

  He glanced up and saw golden skies as the dawn chased away the
clouds. The Daegon attack had ended, but this was far from the last battle for Theni City.

  ****

  An Indus soldier hurried into a hastily fortified building where steel plates were propped up against the inner walls and held in place by hydraulic braces. A machine gun pointed out a window and down the street, passing in front of the Albion embassy.

  A sergeant looked up from a steaming mug of tea at the new arrival. A half-dozen other soldiers were positioned around the room, all looking tired and stressed out.

  “Who’re you?” the sergeant asked.

  “Major Malhotra sent me from strongpoint East-19,” the soldier said and tucked his hands beneath his arms. “He wants me to get an M37 anti-tank weapon from you and relocate it to the other position.”

  “Does he now?” The sergeant frowned and looked the soldier up and down, his eyes lingering over his wrists. “Why didn’t he call it in? Putting you on the street in all this mess is dangerous.”

  “Officers, what can I tell you?” The soldier shrugged. “Do you have the M37? Because if you don’t then I’m supposed to go down the whole line of strongpoints until I find one.”

  “Of course we have the M37.” The sergeant put his tea onto a weapon case he was using as a desk and tapped the cup against the hard plastic. “But how can I trust you with a weapon like that when you’ve lost your kara.” He touched a metal ring around his own wrist. “You can’t do the work of God if you’ve lost your hands.”

  “That is an M37 case. All I needed to know.” The soldier’s hand flashed forward and the sergeant felt a thump in his chest. The hilt of a knife with a crystalline blade guard and handle stuck out from a seam in his battle armor.

  The sergeant’s knees buckled as his vision swam, and the other soldier yanked the blade out and threw it into the eye of one of the machine gunners, killing him instantly.

  The sergeant fell to the ground, his mouth moving but saying nothing. He watched as the Daegon infiltrator slaughtered his men with the knife and his fists in seconds before he slipped into darkness.

  The Daegon looked over the dead Indus, then kicked the sergeant’s corpse away from the weapon case and popped it open. He took out an olive-drab cylinder the length of his arm and popped a handle and optics off the side with a slap of his palm.

  “Well, Glycas?” he asked as he turned around. Coming down from the stairs, blood dripping from a knife, was another Daegon in Indus dress and a crow with a white back and breast on his shoulder.

  “Roof is clear, link set up.” Glycas tugged at his beard. “Can we end this charade, Pegarius? I feel sullied, dressing as these ferals.”

  “Eubulus was told to send infiltrators, not simple foot soldiers.” Pegarius touched the side of his ear and rapid clicks of Daegon battle code sounded in his ear.

  “Lord Eubulus has reavers that sow terror behind enemy lines. We don’t skulk about. I’m still shocked he seconded my team to you and your liege lord.”

  “Tiberian carries a writ from Assaria. Would you contest that?” Pegarius tossed the other Daegon a rocket launcher.

  “Never.” Glycas looked the weapon over with scorn. “This some kind of a toy?”

  “It will get the job done,” Pegarius said. “Your drone surveyed the target?”

  Glycas touched the bird’s foot and a 3D scan of the Albion embassy appeared, projected from the crow’s eyes.

  “The blueprints don’t match what we got from the city database…not a surprise,” Pegarius said. “If the target is here…then he will be in this bunker.” He touched a solid block in the projection. “No external air vents. Smart. We’ll burn them out with purka.” He touched a pouch on his belt. “The other teams are in position. You understand your orders?”

  “Take him alive…if possible,” Glycas said. “Dead is just as good.”

  “Alive, or Tiberian will throw us to the themata regiments as penance,” Pegarius said.

  “He’ll throw you,” Glycas sneered. “Lord Eubulus prefers targets dead. Easier to deal with.”

  “Then let this be a challenge to hone your skills,” the Daegon said and touched his ear. His eyes rolled back and his lips quivered. He shook his head quickly. “The rest have their instructions. For Assaria’s glory.”

  “For the great masters,” Glycas said and put the rocket launcher to his shoulder.

  ****

  “What was that?” Bertram asked, cocking an ear to the vault’s ceiling. Prince Aidan sat in a chair, feet dangling over the edge, a small stuffed tiger doll on his lap.

  “Likely just another ordnance strike or a plane crashed nearby,” Ambassador Carruthers said. Her dress and jacket were at odds with the Spartan interior of the emergency shelter, as if she expected to waltz out of the embassy and to a cocktail party soon as the fighting was over.

  The shelter was little more than a reinforced cargo container with integrated life support, a few cots, and a crate full of supplies. The sole toilet had a few boxes of freeze-dried food stacked around it for modesty. A large safe took up a back corner.

  “No.” Salis put a hand to the metal wall and the interlocking plates of her armor shifted up and down her arm. “Something hit the outer wall.”

  “What do the Marines say?” Bertram brushed the front of his uniform off and edged closer to Salis, not wanting to frighten Aidan with their talk, as the boy was engrossed in a cartoon show featuring a cat and three ill-behaved mice.

  “They’re not saying anything.” Salis touched the side of her helmet. “But there’s shooting. I feel the frequencies through the wall. A good deal of shooting.”

  “Then what—” Bertram looked quickly at the boy and lowered his voice, “then what do we do? There’s one way in and out of this box, and if…if it’s them then we—”

  “Too dangerous to try and evacuate now.” Small plates spun around Salis’ forearm. “The entrance is well hidden. Carruthers said this place was built clandestinely and the Indus shouldn’t even know about it. Our best bet is to stay quiet and wait for…”

  She turned her face up to the ceiling.

  “Miarda. Ambassador,” Salis said, pointing at the safe. “What’s that made of? Graphenium and ultra-dense diamond composites, correct?”

  “That’s an Albion state secret and I—” Carruthers backed into the wall as Salis stalked toward her. “Yes. Yes! It’s proof against tampering for days. We keep certain documents in there that—”

  “Open it. Now.” Salis went toward the door and stared at the ceiling. “Something’s burning through the ceiling.”

  “Did feel a bit warm, now that you mention it,” Bertram said.

  “Gas masks.” Salis opened a drawer and tossed the other two adults a pouch each. Then she went to Aidan and lifted his chin up with a finger.

  “I don’t want to,” Aidan pouted.

  “My Prince, it’s time to be safe,” she said. “You remember what I told you about principal externalized life support?”

  “Your special mask, young master,” Bertram said.

  “It’s too scary,” Aidan said, pulling his knees up to his chest.

  “I know, but now is not the time for negotiation.” Salis put the palm of her hand on the top of Aidan’s head and plates slid off and formed a helmet over Aidan.

  “No!” Aidan slapped at the plates, tossing the stuffed animal away, and Bertram had to pin his arms to his sides as more plates interlocked over Aidan’s face, muffling the boy’s cries. Salis reached behind her back and removed a small cylinder, which she pressed to the back of Aidan’s helmet where it sank into the metal. Eye holes lit up on the helmet.

  “Thirty minutes of air for him. Put your damn mask on,” Salis said to Bertram as she picked up the squirming boy and carried him to the back of the shelter. “Activate the emergency air flush if needed.”

  “Tigey!” Aidan screamed and reached for the doll laying by the door.

  “Ms. Salis will get Tigey.” Bertram maneuvered Aidan into a corner and looked at Salis. Though his fac
e was covered by the emergency hood, she could see his eyes were full of worry.

  Salis handed Bertram a pistol from off her hip, then detached the carbine locked onto her back.

  “You’re no Genevan, but you will fight to your last dying breath, won’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she hurried to the front of the crate.

  Carruthers had her hood on and the safe was open. Salis swept an arm inside and emptied the papers and several gold bars onto the floor.

  “Now just a moment,” Carruthers protested.

  “Shut the safe as soon as you can.” Salis stopped beneath a red glow forming in the ceiling. “You’ll know when.”

  “And what’re you going to do?” the ambassador asked.

  “They won’t get past me.” Salis saw the stuffed tiger in the corner by the vault door. She almost went to retrieve it to toss over to Bertram for some sort of comfort for Aidan, but her AI tightened the armor around her legs, keeping her from moving.

  Salis raised two palms up to the ceiling as the red spot changed to yellow, then white. Drops of molten metal fell between her hands and spattered against the floor, sending up thin lines of caustic smoke.

  Her AI shifted thin plates from her back and shoulders up onto her hands and forearms, forming mitts, just as something slammed into the vault door. A vibration from a drill sent a tremor through the floor.

  “Really wish Thorvald was here,” she said. “Double the Genevans for double the problems.”

  +Focus+ her AI sent. +We are all+

  “That we are.” Salis swallowed hard.

  A white-hot puck melted through the ceiling, black smoke roiling off it as it fell into her grasp.

  Salis gasped with pain as the extreme temperatures fused the plates of her thick gloves. She swung the breaching device around, fearing she wouldn’t be able to release it and get it into the safe. Her AI severed the links on her forearm armor and both fists went flying. The mass of smoke and melting metal hit the back of the safe and oily smoke poured out.