Admiral Augesburcke hit a single coded switch, sending the Terran defenses into full motion.
“Ladies and gentlemen here we go.”
Beyond the terminator, for the moment out of sight of the Golkos bombardment squadrons, two hundred and twenty-three “Stratofortress,” “Bear,” and “Vulcan” bombers hung in space awaiting orders. Each of the bombers carried up to twenty nuclear tipped weapons. Above them a similar number of fighter-drones waited. Though the fighters carried but a single nuclear charge their purpose was to ram, and hopefully detonate the bomb at close proximity, or if possible within the Golkos ships. In the lead B-52 Colonel Johnny Page waited impatiently for his name to be called. As had every member of the Terran defense force he had the Iowa’s battle-bridge frequency tuned up. It was an idea uniquely his own, sprouting from his days as one of Alexander’s advisors. His thinking was that the overall situational awareness of every member of the defense force could be heightened immeasurably if they saw what Alexander saw. That would allow them to act with some reference to the overall scheme of things and act all that much quicker to opportunities. As Alexander depended upon the initiative of his troops he fully embraced the idea, and even expanded upon it.
Within the nerve center of the Iowa, and every command ship in the fleet, there were etherlinks set up to receive the battle-displays from every other squadron and contingent in the operation. Only the most hard-bitten and trusted officers were assigned to coordinate the information from these nerve centers, as it was their responsibility to pass on crucial information to Alexander on the bridge. Many of these officer’s came from what became known in the military as Alexander’s “warrior” list. It was a list of people who had won Alexander’s admiration and respect in his previous military experience. It was definitely a kudo to an officer’s career to be so considered, and certainly much more advantageous than being on the “gallows” list. If Alexander remembered those whose qualities he appreciated he also recalled those political and bureaucratic officers whose talents, he thought, were detrimental to the cause. Alexander had those individuals tracked down and either put into positions of responsibility or relieved of them, depending on his opinion. There was very little argument either way.
General Page, who had flown B-52’s with Alexander, felt himself fortunate indeed to be suddenly rescued from a dead-end desk job at the Pentagon, promoted and assigned to Alexander’s staff. From there he was quickly put in charge of his own brain child, serving as Alexander’s SCO, Strategic Coordination Officer, on the Iowa. It was a prized position, and Page appreciated the opportunity. As soon as he had the system working to his satisfaction, however, he asked for a different assignment. Being tucked away in the bowels of a battleship, however prestigious, was simply too far from the fight.
Alexander of all people could understand Page’s desire, and he promised to think about it. As he told Page at the time, “I’ll look around and see where you might be most suited Johnny, but I’ll tell you right now you’re too valuable to me where you are to just stick you in the trenches. If I hear of something, though, I’ll let you have first crack at it.” Page agreed, and for the next several weeks he slaved at his job, tinkering and improving. When Alexander turned up during one of the Colonel’s innumerable battle drills he knew his opportunity had come, and that Alexander was not happy about it at all.
“Johnny, something’s opened up,” Alexander told him, and he put his hand on Page’s shoulder. Alexander was silent for a moment, and he didn’t take his old comrade’s eyes for quite a while. Page wondered what was up, but Alexander finally looked him in the eye and told him, “I know I told you I’d give you first crack at something, but I’m afraid what we’ve worked out has your name written all over it. It’s dirty Johnny, really dirty. I’ll tell you up front I don’t think many of you will come back.” Then Alexander told Page of the plans for the B-52’s. The idea, when fully explained, was a tough one; and it almost turned Page’s coal black features as cold white as Alexander’s. In the end, though, he simply saluted and smiled.
Page looked around him at the mass of bombers. Despite his predicament he could not help but grin. They were his babies, and it was time to do a job. True the situation was even more desperate than Alexander had envisioned. The bombers only defense was their small size and speed. Since they carried only minimal shielding the bombers had to make their runs as fast as the pilot’s dared. Full impulse was out of the question as there was no way the pilots, or the computers, could navigate through formations of ships at those speeds. Furthermore, the bombardiers needed time to target and launch the weapons. There was no time to automate the systems, and the attempts they’d made thus far fell far below the capabilities of Terran-computer hybrid systems. Therefore, the bombers carried an extra crewmember to handle the weapons. Further complicating matters was the actual time it took to get the weapons away. The bombers started their runs at a range of one thousand kilometers, out of range of all but the biggest projectors, and slowed to a sobering eleven kilometers per second when within a couple hundred kilometers of the target and finally to about five hundred meters per second for launch. Even so the actual attack run lasted twenty seconds at most. The maximum number of weapons the bombers could release during that time was two. This meant a necessity of four runs for the “Bears” and “Vulcans,” and a staggering ten runs for the B-52’s. Each run meant the bombers had to endure ship-to-ship fire, collision and negotiating their own minefields and planetary batteries. There was no safety margin built into the attack profiles or the rules of engagement. Results were all that mattered.
Colonel Page could appreciate Alexander’s reluctance to send an old friend on so hazardous a mission. Alexander, who was single at the time Page knew him, volunteered to sit alert for Johnny every Christmas and Thanksgiving so Johnny could be home with his family. Alexander then enjoyed post holiday dinners with Page, his wife and three daughters. It was a tough thing to command, but both Page and Alexander knew it and understood its priorities. When General Page saw his panel turn red with the alert warning he simply kissed the picture of his family which he always carried on the glareshield. Then he pressed his mike switch.
“Alright this is the big show; let’s not disappoint the home crowd! All bombers follow me!”
When Page led the bombers around the terminator the entire panoply of battle opened up to his eyes. The massed Golkos bombardment squadrons were already opening up on the planet below. The enormity of the Golkos fleet was such that at any one moment Page could count fifty or more projectors firing on specific points on the planet’s surface. The planetary shields over North America pulsed and glowed as they absorbed the innumerable hits. Streams of plasma leapt from the clouds to stab at the warships above. There were fewer of these, two to three at the most at any moment, but they were obviously far more powerful than the ship based projectors. Even at this early stage Page could see several Golkos ships staggering beneath the weight of the projector fire. Adding to the conflagration was the staccato fire from the asteroid batteries. Like machine gun tracers they sprayed the Golkos fleet from above, cutting through invader’s dorsal shields with telling effect. It seemed an eternity before the surprised Golkos diverted power to deflect this unexpected attack. Just above the orbiting Golkos, Page could see the remainder of the Golkos fleet and the Seventh Fleet locked in battle. The Golkos hovered over their charges, but the Terrans maneuvered in wide swinging arcs, engaging and breaking off continuously. It was an awesome sight, and there was so much blaster discharge that fireworks paled in comparison. Soon a dim veil of red and blue plasma congealed over the space field, like powder from some ancient land battle.
“Here we go! All wings engage attack profiles! Good luck!” Page ordered, throwing the throttles up to the attack gate. He glared into the screen on his cockpit console which offered him a variable telescopic view of the path ahead. Without computer guidance he had to pick and fly his own path far in advance. The controls at such speeds
were far too sluggish to effect quick maneuvers, so it was imperative that he choose a free path through the target ships as far in advance as possible while still maintaining the required firing parameters. Page chose his route and held the yoke firmly on course. “Take that big bastard low on the left and the cruiser above!” He ordered, as the ships bloomed in his scope. He switched the magnification to a lower scale, and then still lower. Ducking, dodging and weaving like a race car on ice Page fought to maneuver the unwieldy spacecraft through the most hazardous maze imaginable. Finally the window opened and the nose pointed at the battleship. In the frantic melee of light and eerie silence he locked his course.
“Steady!”
Plasma streamers wove around the B-52 in a deadly intoxicating dance. The ship bucked and shook, but it stayed the course.
“Steady!”
A huge flash of light blinded the displays, and Page involuntarily turned his head away, but his hands gripped the yoke firmly. When the glow faded the battle scene returned. The battleship loomed, a huge rounded tube of mottled steel and ugly blaster projectors. It pounded away at the planet below.
“Missile away!” called the bombardier.
“That’s one!” Breathed page, pulling up over the dorsal spine of the shark nosed Golkos battleship, and then ducking beneath an escort. Immediately he was in the center of the formation, surrounded by the alien leviathans, and innumerable blaster streams both friendly and otherwise. He fought the urge to ram, instead sighting his course on a small patch of stars beyond the maelstrom.
“Number two’s away! You’re clear Johnny!” The bombardier called.
Page jammed the throttles past the attack gate, and the bomber lurched forward. Suddenly he was in a tunnel and the enormous Golkos ships passed by all around him, like ghost ships riding the winds of a hurricane. They rushed by too quickly for him to focus, and his eyes darted uncontrollably at the flashing rust torpedoes. Blaster plumes surrounded him, buffeting the bomber and blurring his screens. It was too fast. He simply could not take in all the sensory input at once. His fists gripped the yoke harder and his teeth ground in his skull. Space turned completely white, and for a moment everything disappeared. Then suddenly he was through the plasma cloud and in the midst of the whirlpool again. Desperately he sought for a visual cue; a debilitating vertigo gripping him. There was too much, too fast; but then he caught that tiny patch of stars again. He grasped it with his sight like a drowning man and willed his ship to it. He found the safety of the tunnel again, steadfastly ignoring the blurred visions of the enormous alien warships as he flew by them. Lights and explosions danced all around, and shock waves shook the B-52’s frame wildly; but all he saw was the faint patch of stars. The eternal span of time ticked away like drunken drums in his head and suddenly they shot out of the battle and into the blackness of space.
Page pulled up and around the planet, returning in a few moments to the relative safety of the opposite side. He breathed again. The adrenalin rush faded, leaving him feeling like he’d flown a ten hour mission. He closed his eyes, now wanting only to land and go to sleep, but the crackling of battle over the ethernet said otherwise. Wearily he punched his comm switch.
“All bombers prepare for the next attack run!” He bellowed. Then softly, only to himself, he whispered; “Only nine more and you can go rearm, Johnny!”
#
Doggedly the battle dragged on through the Terran day. As the terminator swept across the Americas the Nived Sheur rocked; her shields absorbed a full broadside from yet another Terran battleship squadron. Grand Admiral Khandar doggedly ignored the flickering lights, the acrid smoke and the flurry of the medical techs as they pulled burned crewmembers from their shattered panels. His one goal at the moment, his only goal, was to try and keep pace with the Terran battleship on his screen and trap it within the crushing arms of his fleet. The initial confusion of the melee settled into a cauldron of seething combat. Here and there individual engagements flared, as pieces of the Golkos fleet became entangled and separated from the main body. These elements could not realize their mistake at first, bent on pursuing stricken Terran ships, but the end result was always the same. Rarely were the Terrans so wounded as they seemed, and when the Golkos advanced beyond the covering fire of their fleet the Terrans would turn upon them. The brave Golkos showed no dismay at this sudden turn of events, but soon found themselves engaged not only with the Terran capital ships but surrounded by an angry swarm of the damnable Terran subs. The Terrans seemed to have a knack for noting any sudden weakness of the Golkos, and more ships would join the slaughter on their own initiative. To make matters worse Khandar couldn’t respond in kind. Grand Admiral though he was Khandar was helpless to react. The Golkos were simply not flexible enough in either execution or initiative to deal with the impulsive and aggressive Terrans. Even now his tactical hologram was centered on a doomed packet of twenty of his ships cut off from escape. He could not help them, and they could no longer help themselves. The morbidity of it drew a wry twist upon his lips, showing sharp canines biting down and drawing his own blood. With the sobriety of a commander he accepted that their loss would at the very least bleed the Terrans, and bring them one step closer to ultimate triumph.
Almost as maddening were the Terran heavies. The squadron of Terran dreadnoughts did not disperse into the Terran squadrons after their initial rush through the Golkos fleet. Rather they stayed together in a potent hammer of devastating firepower. Alexander used them as a mobile and deadly reserve. Any time one of his squadrons got into trouble there were the heavies to extract them and turn the momentum. Five times in the first tenth of a decurn Khandar watched his superior numbers isolate a Terran squadron, but as soon as the “Enterprise” and her sister ships arrived the tide turned decidedly and irrevocably. The Golkos had nothing to stand against them. Khandar had no choice. The heavies were wreaking havoc on his covering fleet and from all reports his bombardment fleet was being effectively repulsed. Alexander’s strategy was working to perfection. The planet could defend itself admirably, and the Seventh Fleet was using Alexander’s hit-and-run attack mode. Theoretically the Seventh could hammer away at Khandar’s forces without coming to grips with his superior numbers. Terra and the Seventh would fight a running fight, jabbing at Khandar until the firepower of the Second and Fifth could arrive to finish him off. Khandar was in a quandary. He could not maneuver with the Terrans, and he could not overwhelm them in isolated packets. Khandar needed to centralize the battle. Only then would his numerical advantage come to bear. Strategically the decision was a sound one, but it would work only of the Terrans wanted it to.
Khandar’s view returned to the main screen where he watched a Terran battleship slowly pulling away. A hail of fire followed her and her consorts, but the Terrans likewise fired in response with their rear turrets. Khandar bit back a curse. They would get away again! The damned Terran style of fighting kept his gunners busy and drained his shields. They, on the other hand, due to their superior speed and their use of maneuver, had the distinct advantage of disengaging for as long as it took to recharge their capacitors and accomplish battlefield repairs. As it had in the past the Terran maneuvers were showing distinct advantage in combat. Unable to alter the course of the battle in space Khandar hailed the commander of his bombardment force. The grim hologram of Admiral Jekruul spoke otherwise.
“It has been difficult thus far, and I beg to report we have made little headway against the Terran shields,” she told him grimly. “The planetary shields are greater in number and significantly more powerful than any we have experience with. It will take some time to get through them. The Terran planetary projectors are also significantly more powerful than we anticipated. A battleship or cruiser can absorb one or two simultaneous hits, but the Terrans are quite adept at fire control. I’ve lost six of my battleships to coordinated volleys. One moment they were there and the next they were gone. We are also facing significant nuisance fire from smaller batteries. In itself it is not
overly dangerous, but the secondary fire is just potent enough to prevent us from recharging our shields in between volleys. Beyond these conventional defenses the Terrans are using extremely small ships to make torpedo attacks on us using the same form of fusion weapons we experienced upon entry to the system. We have decimated the attacking forces, mostly through blind volley fire from our secondary batteries, but we have taken damage. Some of these small vessels have foregone torpedo attacks and proceeded to ram our ships. The Naghat took a suicide attack to her bridge. She should have survived it Grand Admiral, but the Terran was apparently carrying a fusion bomb. Once he penetrated her hull she was literally consumed in a fusion fireball. In addition we have taken extensive damage from Terran fusion mines. They are extraordinarily plentiful, and nearly undetectable. Our sensors are nearly useless against objects so small with all the interference and debris of the battlefield.”
Khandar kept a tight rein on his temper, telling her, “I appreciate the difficulties you are facing Admiral Jekruul, but this is war in all its terrible splendor. We are trying to deprive the Terran race of their Homeworld, and they are fighting us with all of their strength. That is the challenge. Persevere, Admiral. Fight their ferocity with equal fortitude, for if we do not, if we fail here, then it will be our people who fight to the last in defense of our homes.”
Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy Page 88
