Planetary Assault (Star Force Series)

by B. V. Larson

  In response the frigate ignited its own, much larger, drive engine. The edge of the stacked-plasma propulsion wave, a makeshift weapon, caught the StormCrow and flung her end for end like a twirled baton.

  Within the link, Vango fought to keep away from the torch of the enemy drive as it swung ponderously, a blunt instrument no less deadly for its unwieldiness. Lighting his engine in precise spurts, he both reduced their rate of tumble and kept Weaver out of the plasma fire until they were far enough away, amazing even himself. That software again, he thought. Thank you, Rick.

  “Damn, we lost two whole wingpods to that thing,” Helen swore. “Everything in three and four is melted to slag.”

  “At least that’s all we lost,” Vango responded. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  “I hate your cheery attitude, you know that, don’t you?” she groused.

  “How can you complain? Did you ever feel so alive?” Weaver stable once more, he looked for the nearest enemy frigate, checked his fuel supply – just under half – and lined up for another run.

  “You’re just happy because you got the biggest gun,” Helen grumbled.

  “Not touching that line,” he snorted. “Get ready, here we go again.”

  ***

  Absen watched the holotank, as each time a frigate died its Crows swarmed and pecked at others, chewing up still more of them. Enemy warships clawed frantically through the flock, murdering as they went, but only three won free to race for the Marine landing force.

  “Ford, retarget those three frigates, I want them dead!” Absen pounded his gloved fist on his chair as he watched the three vessels – small compared to his capital ships, but still dozens of times larger than the landing craft and a thousand times as deadly.

  Ford’s fingers played across his controls, physical and virtual, issuing instructions to the targeting computer that really aimed Conquest’s lasers – for nothing else was precise enough. Unbeknownst to him, Rick Johnstone’s mind brushed feathers of thought through the system, refining computer plots using his virtual intuition. Between the two of them their lasers destroyed the first frigate, the second – then the third was among the landing craft.

  “I can’t get it, they’re too close!” Ford yelled in frustration, then cried in shock as somehow his command to cease fire went ignored. “What the hell? We’re still firing!”

  Concentrating on the final frigate even as it threaded among landing craft slashing helpless assault sleds out of space, Conquest’s entire energy output channeled itself through her beam generators, cooking the enemy ship, along with one of the cargo pinnaces and an assault sled.

  “I have no idea how that happened!” Ford cried, pounding on his console. “We killed our own people!”

  A string of sailor’s profanity ended only when Admiral Absen brutally overrode him, “Get a grip on yourself, Ford. You destroyed the last frigate. You had to, or it would have eaten more of our ships and Marines. Two boats were a small price to pay.” The admiral glared at the weapons officer a moment more before sweeping his eyes across the bridge. “It had to be done.” They all have to believe it, or lose their souls.

  At CyberComm, Rick ran his hand across his board below his bowed head, wiping a few stray droplets from the glass and shaking his head to clear his vision. I had to do it, he thought to himself through hot tears of agony. That’s what the Admiral said. I had to do it, God forgive me, and don’t let it be Jill.

  Reaching out slowly with his mind, he intended to wipe the record of his interference – of overriding the weapons to keep them on target despite the cost – before letting the idea lapse. If I erased the evidence, I would be admitting it was wrong. At best it was an ugly necessity. At worst, I usurped command authority – but there was no time to ask permission. I’ll just have to let the admiral judge me, and take whatever punishment he gives.

  Ford called, “Sir, two dozen hypers…targeted at the landing. Must be all they have left right now. And their remaining ships coming toward us. Effective range in one minute ten seconds.”

  Absen replied, “Helm, move Conquest to try to pick some of those hypers off; Ford, get on that. They probably have nuclear warheads. Rick, tell those Crows to haul ass back to cover the landing and try to intercept those hypers. Warn the assault craft. Keep the battleships and cruisers harassing their fleet, if they’re healing damage they can’t be gestating more hypers. And now that there’s nothing sneaking up on us, send the assault carriers behind the moon, they’re a useless liability in a ship-to-ship fight. Tell them to go EMCON and rig for silent running.”

  Acknowledgements echoed around the bridge as the Admiral examined his shrunken combat command on the monitor. Mighty battleships Flensburg and York remained, cruisers Georgetown, Sydney, Kolkata and Oslo – and Conquest herself. Seven combat ships, his toughest, best – and luckiest – against sixteen cruisers and one superdreadnought. Absen imagined the fusion beams on that ship, a ship that dwarfed Conquest like a watermelon dwarfed an apple, and he shuddered.

  “Opening fire,” Ford called as the two fleets closed to within a million kilometers.

  “Stick to the plan, Mister Ford,” Absen said calmly.

  “Beams firing. Launching the warheads.”

  One specially-configured railgun on each ship launched larger shot, spreading in a pattern to widely disperse and overlap the enemy’s predicted course. These projectiles were massive, in the neighborhood of one ton apiece, big enough to be easily detected by the Meme, therefore easy enough to dodge. At the same time, beam cruisers burned holes in the enemy ships, forcing several to fall back behind the Guardian to heal.

  Now the two remaining battleships’ primary railguns, coordinated with those of Conquest, released streams of steel balls by the millions, chased by grav-plates into the hoppers, flowing down the feed tubes, and spat toward the enemy. Each round shot would take about thirty seconds to travel this distance, catching up and passing outside the large, slow shot just before those arrived.

  Absen knew the enemy could also detect those streams at these ranges, as densely packed as they were. Like great lines of machinegun bullets, the twisting strings of railgun shot forced the enemy to dodge, or be badly hurt.

  Dodge, that is, into the path of the special weapons.

  Most of those projectiles were simply what they looked like – balls of high-quality chromium steel laced with a matrix of ferrocrystal for strength. Perhaps one out of a hundred was something else entirely.

  Fusion beams lashed out from the Meme, some picking dozens of the heavy balls out of space at a time, some washing across clusters of thousands or even millions of ordinary rail shot, turning the metal briefly to gas before it cooled to fine molecular dust. With a quarter of a billion steel spheres to engage, however, the Meme simply could not destroy them all.

  “Come on, you sons of bitches. Come to papa…” Ford chanted as he caressed his console. “Now!” His finger mashed down on a large, somewhat anachronistic red button.

  Three seconds later two hundred neutron-enhanced nuclear mines, hidden among the thousands of large railgun shot, detonated in a rough globe that surrounded and interpenetrated the enemy fleet. When the EMP faded and the sensors cleared, only five enemy cruisers appeared to be alive but limping away. The rest drifted crippled through the void or were destroyed outright.

  All the bridge crew cheered until Absen waved a calming hand. “Good job. As I said, stick to the plan. But it’s not over yet. Reverse course and keep firing. Hold them at range as long as you can.”

  The Guardian, shrugging aside the deadly blasts with seeming indifference, still thrust forward at its maximum acceleration, intent on bringing its massive close-range weapons into play. Absen did not need to know their exact specifications to believe they would be devastating. Conquest was built to go head to head with a Meme Destroyer – a ship of a size equal to her own – and win every time, but this thing…he had not known fear for himself in some time, but now he felt as if death itself a
pproached.

  Worse even than death was failure, and he resolved, as always, that was unthinkable. At least a million human lives depended on him and his valiant crews.

  “The landing is down, sir,” Scoggins called, bringing Absen’s mind back to the greater battle. “They are all in the tunnel and the StormCrows killed off all the hypers.”

  “Then our job is to duel with this thing as long as we can, and buy them time.”

  ***

  Battle armor is almost as good as a crash couch, Sergeant Major Repeth lied to herself as the G forces squeezed her like toothpaste in a tube. Active link feeds from the assault sled’s sensors gave her a sense of place: one of hundreds of boats streaming down the kilometer-wide tube leading underground.

  Under full decel she could feel her eyes sinking in her sockets as Eden Plague and combat nano struggled to repair cellular damage. Gravity waves roiled her inner ear as the minimal grav-plates struggled to keep the Gs within human tolerances.

  Just barely.

  At least they’re not shooting at us yet, she thought as the forces moderated and Lockerbie put them on the surface of the tunnel in what could only be describe as a controlled crash. Drop-ramps slammed down front and back, venting residual air in a swirl of oxygen snow.

  Repeth stood up, hefting her PRG-45 and checking its action before yelling over the squadcomm link, “All right, everyone up and get off my sled! This ain’t a ruttin’ dayroom you sodding diggers. You got two choices: kick alien ass or chew bubblegum, but you ain’t been issued no stinkin’ bubblegum, so unless you want my petite size eight where the sun don’t shine you will un-ass this vehicle and get to it! GO GO GO!”

  Nine out of ten of the troops inside did just that, but one remained hunched over, suited arms wrapped around his armored knees. “Holsinger!” Repeth yelled, stomping over to shake him. “Get the hell up and moving.”

  The man just stayed there shaking, so she linked in to his suit and overrode his comms so she could hear him sobbing, blubbering. Snatching his weapon, she unbuckled him then placed a booted foot on his shoulder, shoving him sideways to tumble down the ramp. As soon as his battle-suited body rolled beyond the sled’s gravplates he bounced off the ground, to settle again slowly in the 0.1 G.

  Cursing at him, she slung her own weapon and grabbed his suit’s tow handle, setting him effortlessly on his feet. Projecting her words into his suit, she whipped him with her voice. “Holsinger, pull your head out of your ass and get moving. Your squad is already a hundred meters ahead of you. Are you going to let them down?”

  More blubbering was all she heard. Dammit, she told herself, every once in a while a newbie can’t hack it. Most are brave, but some are just cowards. Calling up the location of the medical sleds, she hauled the worthless troop through lines of Marines debarking from their craft until she found the one she was looking for. Throwing Holsinger roughly at the corpsmen there, she then stripped him of his back-rack and weapon, tossing it down near an empty sled for a better man to use.

  Hurrying after her troops, Repeth soon came to Bravo Company’s assembly area and informed the sergeant that her squad would be a man down. Squadcomm HUD showed her where Bull was, standing on top of a combat crawler, surveying the situation. Jumping lightly up, she clapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, boss. Had to deal with a troop issue.”

  Bull grunted and pointed at the ragged thousand-meter-high wall in front of them at half a klick’s distance, where the heavy transports disgorged the division’s six remaining laser bores. “Seismics say it’s only eight hundred meters to the nearest tunnel. They should be through in two minutes.

  The bores, enormous lasers on squat crawlers, disembarked ponderously from their carriers, then wheeled around in unison. Their carriers took off on minimum thrusters, clearing the area to the rear. Moments later the Marines’ visors dimmed to almost nothing as the blazing beams began to chew into rock and soil.

  At first there was no sound, only some trembling felt through boots as debris blasted backward to fall slowly to the ground, but as the tunnel filled with released gasses the Marines began to hear the rumbling hisses and pops of disintegrating materials. Within the predicted two minutes the lasers winked out, to reposition themselves and do it all over again. Soon twelve glassy tunnels, each twenty meters wide, stretched forward into the underground.

  Side by side the Marine armored vehicles lined up to enter: heavy tanks each with a railgun in its turret and four smaller lasers facing the cardinal points. There weren’t many of them –Marines were mostly battlesuited infantry – but there were enough to assign a pair to each tunnel.

  Of course, eight hundred meters was very close range for heavy weapons. So, over the heads of the tanks the laser bores adjusted to narrow beam and raised their beams to become support weapons. Repeth and Bull watched as they fired pulses every few seconds down the rapidly-cooling tubes, just to suppress whatever was at the other end.

  “Okay, here we go,” Bull said as the initiation order came over the command net. “Bravo Company, you know the drill, assault muster as briefed.” He watched as each line platoon took its place then broke into squads. Below him his heavy-weapons platoon picked up their two semi-portable beamers, squat crew-served lasers attached by heavy cables to fusion generators. Eight Marines carried each awkward two-part load with practiced ease in the low gravity: after all, they had trained in 1.4G for the planet below.

  Rumbling forward over the fused tunnel floors, the heavy tanks kicked up fantails of scree with their biting metal treads. As soon as they disappeared into the tubes, Bravo Company Marines streamed into the leftmost tunnel behind them.

  “This feels like a deathtrap,” Repeth said to Bull privately as they jogged. “We haven’t a clue what they have waiting for us. Sure wish we could just send a missile ahead and nuke the crap out of them.”

  “What, you wanna live forever?”

  “Yeah, I was hoping.”

  “You heard all the briefings, Smaj. We’re Marines, we’re here to assault and hold this thing. Too useful to just blow up.”

  “Teach your grandmother. Just wishing.” Another almost-invisible laser bolt flashed by, briefly igniting the flying dust over their heads, then the tunnel shook with concussion. Up ahead, one of the heavy tanks skewed sideways and burned, its main turret blown off and dangling by power cables. Flames blazed up, then snuffed as they used up all the oxygen leaking from the crew cabin.

  “Scheisse,” Bull cursed without heat. “First platoon, get up there and support that remaining heavy. Anyone see what got it?” A rush of armored troops covered the hundred yards at a bounding glide, the low gravity more of a hindrance than a help. Taking positions on each side, they began firing intermittently down the tunnel at unseen targets.

  “Some kind of rocket, sir.”

  Bull ordered, “Keep suppressive fire forward. Start popping some grenades at them, they should have almost no arc. Only four hundred meters to go.” He and Repeth moved forward next to the two semi-portables, half the company in front and half behind. Soon they could see sparkles beyond their own troops, though whether those were enemy muzzle flashes or friendly impacts there was no way to be sure.

  Incoming streaked over their heads then, to detonate against the ceiling behind them. Their instinct was to duck, but their battlesuits were proof against flying debris. Falling rock was another story. Screams and curses came over the platoon net, and Bull snapped to Repeth, “Go see to that. I’ll keep pushing.”

  “Roger.” Hurrying back, she grabbed Marines and turned them around in the direction of the rockfall that half-blocked the tunnel behind them. “Bravo Company, this is Sergeant Major Repeth. Everyone near this cave-in start digging our people out!” she ordered, then, “You too, Lieutenant, if you please, sir, get your people working!”

  The green officer looked torn between supporting the attack and doing what she said, so she switched to a private channel and went on, “Sir, do what I say or your people will never forgiv
e you, and neither will I. We have to clear the tunnel, we have to get our people out from under the rock.”

  “Right, Sergeant Major,” he responded shakily, turning toward the mound of rubble. “All right Third Platoon, you heard the sergeant major, start putting those fancy augmentations to use!”

  Marines swarmed over the mountain of rock, picking up and throwing hundred-kilo stones with cybernetic strength, digging loose dirt and gravel with their hands, and soon began pulling armored figures out. Repeth, now certain the rescue effort was well in hand, slapped the Third Platoon lieutenant on the helmet to get his attention. “Sir, you take charge here please, I’m going forward. I suggest you clear a path along the edges and direct the rest of the company to hustle by you and support the assault. Once you’re sure you have everyone, you’re the reserve.”

  “Got it. Good hunting, Reaper.”

  “You got it…Safari, is it?”

  “Sarfati. Close enough, I’ll take it.” He grinned through his faceplate. “Thanks.”

  “That’s your new handle then, butterbar sir.” Slapping his armored shoulder, she bounded off at full speed after Bull.

  Coming upon the second heavy tank, she could see most of its treads blown off but its gun was still operational. Unfortunately the Marine infantry had swept past, so it had no targets in the narrow corridor. Its crew was already outside the vehicle breaking track to effect repairs.

  Hopeless, she thought to herself as she jogged past the immobilized vehicle. No time. Ships are dying up there. Ahead she could see the tunnel exit, with one squad holding in place, weapons ready but not firing. “Swede,” she called, recognizing the stripes and name Gunderson painted on the back of his armor, “what we got?”

  “Boss said to hold until the rest of the company gets here. He took First and Second Platoons and the semis down that tunnel.” Swede pointed to the leftmost of three ten-meter wide tunnels exiting the large room their position overlooked.