To Hell's Heart (Crimson Worlds)

by Allan, Jay

  Khaled understood immediately. “I’m afraid that is more of a rank than a real title, Catherine. I was born the bastard son of a housekeeper in New Cairo. Had I not been recruited by the Janissary Corps, I would no doubt be cleaning the gutters…or, more likely, dead by now.”

  She smiled. “Well, I think I will still count you as my first lord.” Her face turned more serious. “Would you mind talking shop for a while?”

  His eyes found hers. “No, of course not.”

  “Good. Because I have a feeling Erik Cain is going to get himself into trouble, and I want to be ready for whatever we run into when we get to Sigma 4.”

  Chapter 12

  Bridge – AS Midway

  Sigma 4 System

  Approaching Sigma 4 II

  Terrance Compton sat in the command chair on Midway’s flag bridge, his mind focused like a laser, despite the tension gnawing at his guts. The newest of the Yorktown class battleships, Midway was the ultimate expression of the Alliance’s might and power. In a war against another Superpower, she would be an almost irresistible weapon, an unmatchable instrument of military strength. But this fight wasn’t against other humans, and Midway would have a massive fight on its hands facing off against a First Imperium Gargoyle, a vessel barely one-third its size. Compton couldn’t shake the feeling he was a mortal in some ancient myth, steeling himself and his warriors to challenge the gods themselves. But now he and his people weren’t struggling to survive some divine onslaught on their homelands…they were assaulting Olympus itself.

  The enemy base lay ahead, the small enemy task force deployed to defend it. Mike Jacobs and his entire fleet had scoured the system for three days, and they didn’t find so much as a single additional vessel. The 21 ships formed up ahead of Midway and her cohorts seemed to be the only enemy presence in the system…besides whatever fortifications waited in orbit and on the surface of the planet itself.

  Compton still had doubts. His gambler’s instincts had told him to go for it…that the forces of the Grand Pact needed to take risks if they were going to find some way to defeat the First Imperium…or at least force some type of peace on the xenophobic enemy. When he’d gotten word from Jacobs that the enemy strength at Sigma 4 was far below expectations he realized this might be the chance they needed. Maybe luck had smiled on them for once; perhaps they’d caught the enemy redeploying or repositioning. His caution, built up over a lifetime at war, was there too, urging him to be careful…but restraint wasn’t going to win this war.

  He was nervous about attacking with only half of Grand Fleet, but if they had stumbled on an opportunity, they had no way of knowing how long it would last. He knew it was a risk, but Compton was resolved to attack now, with the forces he had available. If he waited for Garret they could end up facing a massively reinforced enemy.

  He did have the elite of the human navies, the newest ships and most experienced crews. Even without the forces Garret was now leading forward to join him, Compton commanded the most awesome array of naval power that man had ever assembled. Midway and her two sister ships were the first Yorktown B’s, upgraded versions of the Alliance’s newest battleships, extensively modified and equipped with all the advanced weaponry Tom Sparks and his researchers had developed from examining First Imperium technology.

  Compton had 31 capital ships in all, including 3 Yorktown A’s backing up Midway and her newer sisters. That massive battleline was supported by over 200 cruisers, destroyers, and other escorts…the newest, fastest, and best the allied Superpowers had to offer. Compton had been reviewing the OB constantly during the trip to Sigma 4, and he kept coming to the same conclusion. The fleet was so massive, it was going to be nearly impossible to effectively command.

  His plan was straightforward. First he was going to take out the enemy fleet and the base’s orbital fortifications. Unfortunately, he didn’t have as much data on them as he would have liked. Jacobs’ scouts couldn’t get close enough to the planet to perform an effective scan. The truth was, no human force had ever assaulted the First Imperium’s fixed defenses, and no one had any idea what types of weaponry and defenses they’d be up against. Any thoughts on what his fleet was about to encounter were the wildest guesses. Many on the admiral’s staff were confident, feeling they’d caught the enemy with their pants down. Compton was considerably more circumspect…he assumed he faced a significant and dangerous fight, not a walkover…and his gut agreed.

  After the enemy space forces were destroyed or forced to retreat, Compton was going to drop Cain’s Marines onto the planet and then move toward the outer system and the single egress warp gate Jacobs’ people had been able to find. Depending on what scouting reports came back from the adjoining system, Compton planned to deploy on one side of the warp gate, setting up a defensive position between the planet and any possible relief from deeper into enemy space. With any luck, Garret and the rest of the fleet would get there before they faced a second battle. And there wasn’t a doubt in Compton’s mind there would be another fight.

  “We are approaching Point Blue, admiral.” Max Harmon’s voice was sharp and crisp. He sounded calm, but Compton knew otherwise. Anyone who was truly calm minutes before launching an attack on a First Imperium world was either heavily medicated or outright insane.

  Compton smiled. He knew exactly where the fleet was, but Harmon had done his job in reminding him, and he’d done it right on time. “Very well, Commodore Harmon.” He took a deep breath. It was time. “Bring the fleet to condition yellow. And please instruct Admiral Hurley to bring her wings to pre-launch status.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harmon relayed Compton’s orders. An instant later, the flag bridge glowed with a soft yellow hue as Midway’s status indicators reflected the upgraded readiness condition. “Admiral Hurley acknowledges, sir.”

  Compton nodded. “Very well.” Hurley was the last one he was worried about. He hadn’t even planned her strike with her. He’d told her what he wanted to achieve and left her alone to work it out. Greta Hurley was the greatest expert on fighter-bomber tactics he’d ever known…far better than he was, Compton realized. He’d given her total control over the fleet’s massive force of fighter-bombers, and he was grateful to have her to lead it. In a few minutes, the largest bomber strike in history would launch.

  “All fleet units report condition yellow in effect, admiral.”

  “Very well.” Compton sat quietly for a few minutes, his mind reviewing every aspect of the battle plan. He didn’t like launching an attack against a base with no idea of what kind of defenses it had. But that couldn’t be helped. There was no way to get close enough to scan with the enemy fleet in position…and no way to get rid of the fleet without attacking. It was just another risk; a necessary one. He knew the die was cast. They were going in.

  Admiral Greta Hurley sat in the specially installed command chair, trying to keep track of the massive strike force displayed on her screen. It was cramped in the cockpit, even more than usually. Fighter-bombers were not built to accommodate an extra passenger, even an admiral in command of the entire strike force. Admiral Garret had wanted her to run the squadrons from a control room on one of the capital ships, but she’d looked him right in the eye and told him she’d refuse the star he was offering if that was the condition of accepting. There weren’t many people who could claim to have stared down Augustus Garret and gotten their way, but Hurley was one of them. Garret finally relented and agreed to allow her to command strike force operations for Grand Fleet from a fighter’s cockpit. No one in any of the navies had anything close to Hurley’s skill or experience at fighter-bomber tactics. She was the greatest living expert on fighter operations, especially against the First Imperium, and Garret had to respect her insistence on being out there with her crews.

  The fleet admiral hadn’t surrendered entirely, however. Hurley’s craft was heavily modified, stuffed full of electronic gear, most of its weapons removed to make room. There would be no more high-velocity attack runs for the strike fo
rce commander, no personally targeting plasma torpedo shots from knife-fighting range. Hurley had strict guidelines on how close to the enemy she was allowed to fly…and the pilot of her ship had strict orders - directly from Fleet Admiral Garret - to ignore Hurley if she attempted to supersede those restrictions.

  She was edgy – she would have called it scared shitless. Not of the enemy, but of the crushing responsibility on her shoulders. There were 720 fighter bombers approaching the enemy task force, a number that boggled her mind. Her command included bombers from seven different Powers. There were 11 models of ships, with 3 different primary weapons systems. Language wasn’t an issue – the AIs could easily translate – but training, experience, equipment, and tactics all varied widely. Not to mention lingering resentments from years spent fighting each other.

  Hurley had tried to run some training exercises before the fleet set out. Her people needed to work together, to gel as a single force. But then Admiral Compton moved up the timetable and blasted off with half the fleet, herself included. Now they would have to pull themselves together under fire, in the face of the enemy. It wasn’t ideal, not by a long shot. But Greta Hurley had always taken the hand she was dealt, and that wasn’t going to change now. At least it looked for once like her people had the strength advantage.

  “Attention wing leaders, this is Admiral Hurley.” She’d divided her force into 12 wings, each consisting of 10 squadrons. She stayed within national groupings wherever possible, but she still ended up with a few that were hodgepodges of equipment and doctrine. She was going to have to keep a closer eye on those wings; their commanders had a difficult job.

  “All A wings are to load and arm plasma torpedoes now.” Not all the Superpowers had bomber-deployed plasma ordnance. It was a relatively new system, and only the Alliance, Caliphate, CAC, and PRC had widely adopted it. “B wings, fall into pre-designated support positions.” The bombers armed with rocket-packs were far less effective, particularly against targets as tough as First Imperium ships. Hurley had positioned half of them in the rear of the formation, where they could use their lesser weaponry to finish off targets seriously damaged by the plasma torpedo attacks. The other half had been placed in the front. A far colder calculus was at work with these wings…they were there to divert point defense fire from the far more valuable plasma-armed squadrons. Hurley didn’t feel good about it, but someone was going to be upfront anyway, and she had to make the most tactically useful decisions possible. Even if did make her feel like a cold-blooded martinet.

  “All wings have acknowledged your order, Admiral Hurley.” The AI had a non-descript voice, female, but not overly feminine. It was a new unit, one Hurley hadn’t named yet, and it was specifically designed to help her control hundreds of individual fighter-bombers.

  Hurley watched the tactical plot as the squadrons executed her orders, some of the B Wings decelerating to fall back to the rear, while others thrusted forward, taking their positions in the vanguard.

  “Projected entry into enemy point defense envelope in 14 minutes, 30 seconds.” The AI’s reports were fed directly into Hurley’s earpiece.

  Well, she thought, 21 ships shouldn’t put out too much fire for a strike force this big…but what the hell do those orbital facilities have to dish out? She was still thinking about that when all hell broke loose.

  “The strike force is under fire, admiral.” The AI’s voice was calm, eerily so considering her people were under fire from 20,000 klicks outside maximum enemy point defense range. What they thought was maximum range.

  Hurley felt the tension grip her body. A new weapon, she thought? “Damage report.”

  “Still compiling data, admiral.” The AI’s voice was maddeningly calm. Hurley began to understand the reasoning behind the personality modules…at least those AIs had the decency to act like they were concerned when things were going all to hell. “It appears that 7 units have been destroyed.”

  Hurley’s temper flared. “Units…those ‘units’ are full of my people!”

  “I intended no insensitivity, admiral. I am merely attempting to ensure that you have complete data. Would you prefer an alternate designation for individual fighter-bombers?”

  “No.” Hurley was getting control of her frustration. She didn’t have time to be upset with her AI over foolishness. “I need an analysis of the method of attack immediately.”

  “Yes, admiral. We have inadequate data to…” The AI paused for a second, then continued, “Additional fire, admiral. Another 3 units destroyed…5 units.”

  “What the hell is firing at us?” Hurley’s fists were clenched, her heart pounding hard in her chest. “I need to know.”

  “Preliminary readings suggest an area effect weapon, admiral…a railgun or coilgun, superficially similar to our area effect interdiction systems, however the velocity of the individual projectiles is far beyond anything we have been able to achieve in our own ordnance of this type.”

  “Shotguns.” Hurley muttered softly, almost inaudibly. “But faster and much longer-ranged than ours. Fuck.” She sat silently for a few seconds. “All wings, dispersal pattern Alpha…now.” She had to get more space between her fighters. They had a long way to go through this weapon’s area of effectiveness…and she couldn’t have them taking out multiple units with each shot.

  “Orders transmitted, admiral.”

  We’ve got to close the distance, she thought grimly…now. “All wings, prepare for maximum thrust in one minute.” She took a deep breath, taking a second to center herself. She had to be 100% now. “And get me Admiral Compton.”

  “I want those attack ships thrusting at full in one minute.” Compton was pissed; that was obvious to anyone listening. “Is that clear, Admiral Zhang?”

  The signal took almost a second to reach Zhang’s ship and another second for the reply to get back to Midway. “Admiral Compton, your order would place my command in an extremely exposed position. I must renew my protest.”

  The AI translated Zhang’s Mandarin into perfect English. The translation did not reproduce any emotional embellishments, but Compton’s mind filled in the surly and arrogant tone he knew had been there in the original version. He sensed his anger building, and he felt the instinctive urge to ball his fists, to slam his hand down on the arm of the chair. Fuck the Grand Pact, he thought, seething…I’ve had it with all this diplomatic bullshit.

  Zhang was a pompous ass, the youngest son of a powerful CAC family. He wore an admiral’s uniform only because his father had bought it for him. Compton’s father had been well-placed too. The illegitimate son of a Senator, Terrance Compton had taken nothing from his father, whom he casually hated for the way his Cog mother had been discarded and sent back to the London slums. He’d earned the stars on his collar himself…through years of blood and sacrifice, not by the decree of his father. Political creatures like Zhang infuriated him, and he looked at them all as parasites.

  Compton had already overrepresented his own people in the top command positions, so he’d reluctantly agreed to put Zhang in charge of the fast attack ships. He hadn’t expected to use them en masse anyway, so he figured it was as good a place as any to stick the arrogant SOB. Someplace he couldn’t do much harm. But things had changed now. Greta Hurley’s fighters were getting massacred by a previously unknown enemy weapon. Her wings had to divert from their strike on the enemy fleet to go after the orbital launch platforms that were tearing them to shreds. Compton couldn’t leave the enemy ships unoccupied, free to go after Hurley’s flank.

  His first impulse had been to bring the entire fleet in at full thrust in an all-out attack, but he couldn’t risk his capital ships until he had a better idea of what they were facing. Not even to save Hurley and her people. It was the kind of decision commanders made all the time, and Greta and her fighters were more expendable than the battleline. Hurley and their people knew that too.

  “Admiral Zhang, you are relieved.” Compton’s voice was thick with icy contempt, most of which would be
filtered out during translation anyway. “You are to stand down at once and report immediately to your quarters, to which you are confined until further notice.”

  Compton could imagine the apoplectic look on Zhang’s bloated face, and he let a fleeting smile slip onto his lips. “Commodore Harmon, put me on universal com with the fleet.” He knew he should contact Captain Duke and let him know he was now in command, but he wanted to address the entire fleet first…just in case Zhang tried to pull something.

  “You are on universal com, admiral.”

  “Attention all personnel. This is Fleet Admiral Compton.” He spoke clearly, authoritatively. “Admiral Zhang has been relieved from duty for gross insubordination and other infractions. Squadron Captain Duke is hereby placed in command of Task Force C, effective immediately. All personnel in Task Force C are to act accordingly. Compton out.” Compton made a gesture, moving his hand across his throat. Harmon nodded and cut the line.

  Compton knew there’d be hell to pay for this when they got back home. He’d not only relieved Zhang; he’d humiliated him in front of the entire fleet, which, in CAC culture especially, was a grievous offense. But Compton didn’t give a shit. He was far from certain any of them would even get home…and he didn’t care anyway. He wasn’t going to chance Zhang causing any disruptions. Not now. Not when the lives of Greta’s people hung in the balance.

  “Admiral, I have Captain Duke for you.”

  Compton smiled again, not at all surprised to hear from the man who’d just learned he was in command of 103 fast attack ships. “Put him through, Max.”

  Harmon flipped a switch and gestured to Compton. “He’s on your line, sir.”

  “James, what a surprise.” His sarcasm was mild, a friendly mocking tone. Compton had followed James Duke’s career for some time. He’d been very impressed with the younger man’s achievements, and he’d mentored him as he rose through the ranks. Now he was about to throw him into a firestorm. “Congratulations on the promotion.”