by Chris Hechtl
Running the damage past her specs was a simple affair. Marshall and the CIC rating put it up on his display as an overlay. Based on their assessment, he judged she wouldn't survive to get to Dead Drop—not leaking fuel like that he judged with a trace of satisfaction.
The other ship though, the Clydesdale, he shook his head. He had no idea what her fuel state was. He frowned thoughtfully, ignoring the cheering going on in the bridge while his thoughts toyed with the future.
If they pulled the fuel, remaining atmo, and crew off the wounded ship, would they make it? What were the assets in Dead Drop? What about if they headed to Nuevo Madrid instead? Was there a pirate fleet presence there? Or even just a damned courier boat? Damn it, he thought, sighing in frustration. He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. Again, a lack of intel he swore, shaking his head in exasperation.
There had been no way to prevent their escape with the assets he'd been given. He made certain to point that out in his report; he knew it was a bit of ass covering but did it anyway as a reflex action. He also dispatched the frigates to remain on the jump point as pickets while he turned his attention to the post battle chores and the waiting supine planet.
Chapter 12
General Busche got the report that the naval force had been driven off and snarled as she handed the tablet back to the private. “It figures. The navy drops the ball, and we're left picking up the pieces.”
“Ma'am? General, what do we do?”
“We fight of course,” she said eying the man. He was good; otherwise, she would have gotten rid of him long ago. But they had never experienced such a situation. They were used to being the victors she thought, accustomed to it, as they should be.
She, however, had made contingency plans the moment Gumel had reported the enemy's arrival. She was glad now she had had the foresight not to trust the pompous idiot. Of course he couldn't hold! “Order to all commands. We're going to be fighting a guerilla war, one on two fronts, against the native population and the enemy above. Get everyone into hardened shelters, in the mines or caves. Get our hardware and people dispersed; I don't want any nice fat targets for them to rock bomb into oblivion. Set up the decoys like I ordered. Get that sorted out now.”
The private nodded, jotting out the orders quickly.
“Order every major prisoner to be executed now. Clean out the work camps and cleaning camps now and then blow them to hell.” The guards wouldn't be much against a determined enemy, but at least they were something. The native quislings she didn't trust at all. She was tempted to execute them just in case they turned their coats again but put the decision off. “Get any captured hardware we've got underground. Anything we can't hide and use later, we either take apart or reduce it to ash so they can't use it against us.”
“The spaceport, ma'am?”
She grimaced. She didn't like giving up the air power so easily. “Order the shuttles to secondary strips. They are already in their flight plans or damn well should be,” she said, eying the private. He nodded but gulped. She gave him the stink eye for a moment then let him off the hook. He wasn't responsible for such planning; her officers were.
“Get the fuel containers dispersed too. Near the shuttles so we can use it later. Dig in.”
“And the natives, ma’am?”
“We'll see if we can use them as hostages and leverage. If they are bleeding hearts, it might buy us some time. If not, well, it's on their heads,” she said with a shrug.
---<>---<>---
Ensign Lovejoy grinned as he saw the wreckage. “Now that's what I'm talking about!”
“What, that? So?” Jamal asked. “I know it's cool and all, but you realize that could have easily been us if the tables had been turned? I'm starting to regret taking a shipboard assignment over a yard job.”
“Oh poo. You just don't appreciate the fine art of salvage,” Lovejoy replied with a smirk. His fingers danced as he entered parameters to estimate the wreckage based on the known mass of each ship. He also pulled up a search on the materials used.
“You're not serious,” Jamal said dubiously. “There is no way, NO way we can get any of that flying again.”
“No,” Lovejoy replied, shaking his head. “No, not what I'm after. Not at all,” he said, checking the materials against the material list needed for the transhab station he had in mind. The plastics were a problem he noted. He'd have to find a fix for that. Perhaps the gas refinery? If they did a bit of judicious tweaking … he frowned thoughtfully.
“What are you after then? What are you playing at Owen?”
“Oh, this and that,” Lovejoy replied as he worked. A hand reached out and grabbed the tablet. “Hey!” He lunged for it, but Jamal held it over his head and pushed him away. After a moment he sulked and backed off to let the other officer read the tablet.
“Let's see … a space station? Are you serious?” Jamal stared at the tablet then up to meet Lovejoy's blue eyes.
“Well, they didn't give us one. We need one, so why not build one?”
“You are making more work for us, you realize that, right?”
“Maybe. You got a better idea?”
“Yeah, let the brass deal with it,” Jamal said sourly.
“And guess who they'll dump it on once they figure out there is a problem, eh?” Lovejoy replied. After a moment he took the tablet back and thumbed it off. He pointed to himself and then Jamal. “Us. He'll dump it on us. Or should I say me since I'm the chief engineer of this tub.”
“Ah, hell.”
“Right.”
“Does that mean I'll get my quarters back then?” Jamal asked hopefully. Owen snorted.
---<>---<>---
Two days later the victorious Federation force met up with the incoming fleet train near the orbit of the planet. Their engineering crews were exhausted, but they had done their best to make good on the ship's damage. Spares they didn't have were waiting on one of the tenders, however. As soon as they were in, range shuttles moved out to get the parts they needed.
This is when they needed a damn replicator and engineering officer with keys, Amadeus thought, shaking his head. He had a couple of industrial replicators but only a few basic keys. Fortunately most of their damage would be set to right with the parts they had. He made another note to get John to send an engineering team out. He'd have to pry it out of the yard, but they needed every ship back in full fighting trim ASAP.
Yris'ka'th, Viper, Hecate, and Cutlass had each taken minor damage. Two of the corvettes had also taken some damage. One of the other frigates had an overloaded shield node. They had two spares, though he hoped they could tear the overloaded node apart and possibly rebuild it or at least refurbish it and use it for spares.
Seven fighters had been lost, another six damaged. Five pilots had been killed, another two had been wounded. One fighter had been forced to fly back to Cutlass through her AI when her pilot clocked out. She'd sat there off the ship's starboard side while a group of EVA techs hurried over to her pilot to save her. She'd lived, but her exposure to vacuum had cost her an arm. She was in a stasis pod waiting to be transported back to Antigua.
They had gathered up a dozen wounded Horathians. Many were critically injured; two had been so injured they had succumbed to their injuries shortly after being taken aboard. None were ready to talk despite their recent exposure to vacuum.
An intel team went EVA to sift through the wreckage. Amadeus estimated it would be days, possibly weeks before they had anything useful for him. Most of it would be about the people he'd just vanquished, which would only be good for the historians he thought.
Once Cutlass had her repairs settled and the small ships finished their search and rescue patrols, he intended to offload the last two squadrons of fighters. He wasn't certain where he would fit them all, however. Perhaps one squadron? Save the other as a reserve or assign it to planetary duty supporting the marines? Once they took the space port, they could base out of there. They wouldn't help much if things got dicey in spa
ce but at least he'd have them out and about doing something not collecting dust.
He frowned and then made a note to explore the idea further. The flight mechanics insisted they could get all six of the damaged birds back into space eventually. He shook his head. For the moment he could put the decision off.
The transport had a short platoon of marines along with a host of mechs and drones to supplement the organic soldiers. Only a few of the marines were combat veterans, however, something that worried him. All of the jarheads were eager to go but wary. They did have plenty of drone and mech support, and of course with the navy in control of the orbitals, they held the high ground advantage.
Some of the marines and naval enlisted joked about Lewis's forlorn hope being able to take on a Horathian battalion. To the greenhorns it seemed like one big joke. “If they can do what they did with thirty, we can do better. This should be a breeze,” Private Bailey said in the mess. Sergeant Snorkle boxed his ears for jinxing them.
That bravado quickly faded when they mapped the planet and its communications. The intel shop started to get a better picture from the various puzzle pieces and raw data, and it was ugly. From what they had picked up, there were indications of a battalion or more on the planet. The Horathians no longer held the orbitals, but they did have a planet full of hostages.
---<>---<>---
“Think they can handle it?” Marshall asked, looking expectantly at the captain.
“Major Gustav trained the marines who took Hidoshi's World. They should be fine. And we'll be here for support,” the Naga replied. “Do the marines have the target lists sorted out?”
“Yes, sir,” the JTO stated, waving a tablet. “We're working on which to hit now, sir.”
“Good. Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir. The timing they want will make things tricky. We don't want to hit our own shuttles. That is what they consider a bad thing.”
“Yes indeed. And trust me, the paperwork involved will make you wish you'd been on the shuttle if that happened—not to mention what I would do to you,” the captain said, all four eyes locked on the JTO so hard he gulped. “So get it right.”
“Yes, sir.” the JTO said with a nervous nod.
"Make sure you take those dirigibles out."
"Sir?"
"The flying blimps. The Horathians are using them as platforms for surveillance, bombing, sniping, and moving troops. We can't have that."
The JTO nodded. "No, sir. We're on it." She made a note to target the blimps. Since they were moving, they would have to be hit when a ship was in line of sight and could target them with a railgun or energy weapon. She frowned slightly.
"Good. And find the facilities where those things came from. Make sure you target them. Undoubtedly, there are Horathians in that area or their supporters."
"Yes, sir. On it."
---<>---<>---
“Let's do this people! Smartly! We've got a performance today and one chance to get it right!” Captain Gustav said, eying the marines. They were ready he thought, ready and willing. He was glad he'd gotten out of the Maine for this. He'd insisted on taking command; he knew he could handle it. He owed the Horathian bastards, and this was just the start of the ledger.
He'd trained the marines the best he could, taking many veterans who had gone through hell on Bounty with him, as many as he could get away with. He'd gathered some of the noncoms that had come in from Agnosta to help the greenhorns, but he was pretty sure that everyone knew their jobs.
Lieutenant Tricia Ebensher was one of his rare exceptions to the bounty rule. She'd done outstanding during the boarding actions in the aftermath of B101a1. He'd gotten to know her during their run to Antigua. Despite her injuries during the boarding, the young woman had insisted on doing her duty. He'd come to respect her and her skills.
“Remember your training. Don't frack it up or I'll have your ass on toast! Lock and load and move out!”
“Ooh Rahh!” the marines bellowed as they boarded the shuttles.
“First guy to puke or pucker himself buys the beer!” Sergeant Snorkle called out as the marines boarded. The smiles were grim with anticipation. There were a few people worried, but they hid it well. Getting down was the easy part the Sergeant thought.
---<>---<>---
“Sir, the marines are on the shuttles. Drop is commencing on schedule,” Jojo reported.
“Let's call this, General. Let's see if she's smart enough to know she's between a rock and a hard place,” the Admiral stated.
“You aren't afraid of alerting her, sir?”
“No. She should know all hell is about to break loose on her,” the admiral stated. He shrugged. “Let's see if we can get her to give in before we lose any more people,” he said.
“You want me to trace the call?” Marshall asked. “To target her? If she answers, sir, you can hardly consider her smart.”
“We'll see. Put the call through,” the Admiral ordered with a wave of his hand.
After a moment the communication's rating touched his left ear and then nodded to the AI. The AI's avatar on the “flag bridge” turned to the Admiral. “A General Busche is listening, sir.”
“General Busche. This is Rear Admiral White.”
“I thought you were Irons?”
“Fleet Admiral Irons is a different officer. I am also a sleeper, however.”
“Ah. I see.”
“You obviously know how the deck has been dealt. Your forces are significantly outmatched. We hold the high ground. In the interest of preventing further bloodshed, it is best you surrender.”
“Or you'll what? Destroy this city? This and other population centers? All filled with the planet's industry and population?”
“The population you have been picking through to kill people like me. I can't and won't leave it in your hands,” he growled.
“Ah. Well, we'll see about that, shan't we?” she asked almost whimsically.
Jojo put the countdown for the drop as well as the orbital bombardment. He flicked a finger over the accept key and then his finger hovered over the red execute button. “Last chance, Busche. You will live longer. I can't guarantee how long. We'll have to investigate for war crimes, but seeing one more sunrise in prison is better than death's all hallow,” he said.
“Why don't you come here and try it yourself,” she laughed. He shrugged and pushed the execute button.
Missile ports in the destroyers opened up. Small swarms of metal were kicked out by the missile tube's gravity generators. They fell in a steady rain towards the waiting blue marble below.
“Is it a pretty planet?” the admiral asked mildly.
“What kind of question is that?” the general asked then chuckled. “I suppose so,” she said.
“Pity,” the admiral replied.
“Why's that?”
“You'll see,” he said, watching the countdown.
“Oh I will, will I?” She asked, voice sharpening ever so slightly. “We'll see about that,” she said.
As the fire rained down, charges went off in the capital city. They cratered the spaceport out of spite and to keep it out of the marine's hands. Then hidden SAMS and energy weapons lanced up from the forests and hills to take on the dropping shuttles. The shuttles weren't repurposed civilian craft, however. When their threat receivers screamed, the pilots acted just as their training dictated. Some dropped like stones to the deck to get under the horizon and out of the range of the energy weapons. Those who were targeted by the surface-to-air missiles popped decoys, chaff, and flares and climbed for the safety of the heavens.
One shuttle didn't make it, however, and a squad of marines, Captain Gustav, the flight crew of three, and a dozen mechs perished. It was a harsh blow to the command structure of the marines.
With the captain's death, First Lieutenant Tricia Ebensher was thrust into command.
It all happened in seconds just as the orbital bombardment started. Then a few apartment complexes went off, and the buildings imp
loded as an exclamation point.
“What were you saying about it being a pretty planet?” the General asked whimsically. “See? I can redecorate too,” she said.
“My God! There were people in there!” Jojo said in shock. Amadeus's lips twisted in a snarl. According to the lieutenant's fast estimate, she put the death toll above a thousand. A thousand lives snuffed out to make a point.
“Now you see just how determined we are,” the General said and then cut the connection.
“We've lost a shuttle, sir. And one shuttle has crashed.”
“Frack,” the admiral murmured. He turned to look at the AI's avatar expectantly.
“I didn't get a trace, Admiral, sorry. She bounced the signal around too many sources,” Marshall stated.
“Damn. You have to admit, she's good. A ruthless hardball bitch, but good. But we're better.”
“Yes, sir.”
---<>---<>---
The naval forces settled into the star system once they had cleaned up the fighters and had full control of the orbitals. While the ships got their damage control wrapped up and the transport started her work discharging the marines, one freighter was dispatched to the B-95a3 jump point to resupply Hecate and her sister ship. It also deployed assets around the jump point to B-95a3. The medium freighter didn't have a lot of mines, but she did have a couple of orbital weapons platforms, missile packs, two command and communication satellites as well as four precious weapon drones for the picket forces to use. They were relieved to see the early Christmas gifts.
A second tender parked in an equatorial orbit around the local gas giant and deployed an automated gas giant refinery platform. Antigua was going to continue to ship in new supplies in convoys, but assuring a local supply of whatever materials they could find on site was vital.
As soon as they could, the engineers on board the ship had orders to create a fuel tank farm with any surplus fuel the refinery produced. Until then any surplus would go into the tanker. Something told the rear admiral there wouldn't be much initially. Not with the ships moving around so much. It couldn't be helped, however.
