Travere brought his plasma rifle to bear, but quickly realized he’d kill as many of his own men as the enemy if he fired. He let go and allowed the weapon to drop into its sling as he reached down for the sidearm attached to his thigh holster. The pistol was barely clear of his thigh when he fired two rounds directly into the groin of the nearest hostile. These guys must be ship’s crew. They don’t have armor.
The unlucky soldier in front of him collapsed as blood gushed out of the wound. He grabbed at the holes, trying in vain to stem the flow.
The pistol barked again, this time hitting the center of his chest, in the vicinity of the heart. Travere judged the target to be neutralized and raised the pistol higher as his Marines fought for their lives. He dispatched another unlucky Terran before the butt of a battle rifle smacked the weapon out of his hands. The next stroke dazed him as it hit the side of his head. Travere saw stars and fell backward.
The sound of a League energy pulse rifle on full automatic erupted, so close it drowned out all the other sounds of battle. The soldier who a moment previously was about to deliver the coup-de-grace was suddenly hit in the chest by repeated streaks of red superheated energy, shredding her ribcage and the organs within. The woman fell where she stood with surprisingly little blood—the cauterizing effect of the weapon seared the wounds closed.
With the realization he had been within a second of death, Travere shakily stood. He reached down and retrieved his sidearm as the rest of the CDF soldiers had been vanquished. “How bad, Sergeant?” he whispered to the older man.
“Lost two fire teams at the front of our charge, sir.”
Another eight Marines. His men and women. Travere had seen much death since being posted to the front. Each casualty bothered him, because he viewed it as his social duty to see them through and bring them safely home. “We’ve already lost a platoon trying to take their engineering room.” He set his jaw. “It’ll be worth it in the end, to have the same technology these individualists use against us. At least we’ll get something out of this war.” The exhortation wasn’t so much for the other Marines, but it was for him, to press on another twenty meters and end it.
A chorus of shouts and curses in various languages was the reply from what remained of his unit.
“Charge!” Travere shouted. As the word left his lips, he ran forward as fast as his servo-assisted power armor suit would go. Marines need to see their leader at the front. It was something too many League officers forgot. The meters closed rapidly, and when he was just about to order door charges set, suddenly, his feet detached from the floor, and Travere floated through the air briefly. With a bone-jarring thud, he landed on what had been the overhead. What the hell?! It took a moment to process the artificial gravity had been reversed, and a few more seconds to realize his entire platoon was in the same predicament. “Steady, men. We may be disoriented, but we can still win. Set charges on both hatches!” He forced confidence into his voice, even as his heart pounded in his chest.
The Leaguers started to move, but before the demolitions team could get in position, the emergency bulkhead at the far end of the passageway dropped into place. The sound of an onrushing wind registered through their bulky armor.
“Brace yourselves!” Travere screamed, guessing what was next. As he tried to implement his order, the force of the escaping atmosphere knocked him off his feet, along with dozens of others. The area quickly became a vacuum, but not before they were sucked fifteen meters down the corridor. Travere wildly grabbed at the walls as they rushed by, but couldn’t get a handhold. There was another thud as he went through an airlock—and then out into the black void. Virtually all of his team blew out after him. Calm. Focus. Our power armor has life support capabilities. The master oxygen alarm sounded in his helmet’s HUD. Apparently, not if it has a hole in it. The irony of the situation was evident as he tried in vain to find the source of the leak. So close. Yet, so far. As the final bit of air escaped, he died painfully and slowly from suffocation. At the last moment, everything went black, and Travere reached into the void, hoping against hope that someone would save him.
No one did.
* * *
“League vessels dead ahead, Cap,” Cera McGinty said from her station at the helm of the Liberator.
James Henry adjusted himself in his seat. He was off to the side of the CO’s chair, and while he did command the entire fleet, he tried to leave the operation of the ship itself to Captain Trang, the Liberator’s commanding officer. “Order the fleet to stand by for a massed alpha strike.” He glanced at the holotank one more time. “And tell escort group three to tighten up around the Beja. They’re not as close as they need to be to handle League missile fire.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral,” Trang replied.
A woman of Asian descent, Trang was short in stature but had wisdom beyond her years for capital ship combat. Henry consistently found himself impressed by her insights. It’s a small miracle we’ve gotten the fleet this far, and it shows the commitment of the neutral worlds to finally come together.
“It’s time, Captain. Execute,” Henry ordered, his voice calm and serene.
“Captain Lou,” Trang said as she cranked her head around to the communications station. “Order all vessels to engage. Weapons free.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Mei-Ling Lou, the youngest daughter of Frank Lou, one of the trillionaire backers of the Hestian contingent of the fleet, replied. A moment later, she continued. “All ships report readiness.”
“Helm, open fire,” Trang announced.
Cera grinned broadly as she depressed the button to open fire with the Liberator’s muonic weapons. “Aye, aye, Cap.”
Purple energy raced away from the Liberator, with her sister ships, and the rest of the fleet opened up with everything they had. Plasma cannons, neutron beams, magnetic cannons, xaser fire; the rag-tag grouping of civilian ships had nearly every type of weapon known to the local cluster. The practical effect on the League vessel was impressive. Hammered from multiple angles, the enemy fell back and took losses, especially among the escorting frigates and destroyers.
“Press forward,” Henry interjected. “We’ve got to press the attacks home and break their attack formation.” Tactics from his days in the CDF raced into his mind. First things first: save the Lion of Judah.
“Increase forward thrust to fifty percent, helm,” Trang called out in her slightly accented voice. “Continue firing on enemy ships in range. Concentrate firepower on heavy cruiser class warships and below.”
As the fleet surged forward, it caught one of the League battlegroups out of position. They hadn’t expected a group of several hundred ships to arrive in the middle of their formation, and for whatever reason—probably to do with the communications issues, Henry reasoned—they weren’t consolidating their flotilla properly. He watched on the holotank display as dozens more red dots blinked out. The butcher's bill will be high today, indeed.
“Cap, the bastards are flanking us,” Cera called out. “New group coming in, three battleships at its center. They’re splittin’ our lines!”
Henry punched a button on his chair to transmit to the fleet command channel. “This is Admiral Henry. Another League formation is trying to cut us off. Requesting assistance from any friendly capital ships in range.”
* * *
Blood pumped rapidly through Aibek’s veins; his sense of smell was heightened as he did what every Saurian was born to do: fight the enemy. The Resit Kartal had, so far, acquitted itself well against the League vessels they faced. The movement of the civilian ships, while initially successful, had introduced complications. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the holo tank. The Leaguers were beating back Admiral Henry’s force—and the neutral alliance, or whatever they were calling themselves—took horrendous losses. “Navigation, plot an intercept course on the closest League battle group to the civilians,” he rumbled.
“Yes, Void Captain,” the navigator replied. “Course computed.”
“Transmit it to the thirty vessels closest to us,” Aibek continued. “Then engage at maximum sub-light speed.” He briefly recalled a poem that David had once recited from the annals of Earth history. Boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell. Given the battle it referenced ended in defeat and the near destruction of the referenced unit, he fervently hoped to avoid the same fate. The closest League escorts stuck out like sore thumbs. Out of position, they made for easy pickings. Aibek grinned, and his teeth showed. “Tactical, prioritize League ships as they range on our magnetic cannons. Double load all mag-cannons with an EMP, followed by high-explosive rounds.” The goal was to batter the shields down with the EMP and blow the ship apart with high-explosive warheads.
“At once, Void Captain!”
Aibek stared at the holographic plot, teeth bared. The moment the first enemy vessel entered maximum weapons range, he shifted his gaze back to the tactical officer. “Kill League escort tracks with guns as they range, tactical.”
Determination was the watchword on the Resit Kartal’s bridge. The tension was palpable as they continued to close the distance between them and the Leaguers. The mighty battleship’s magnetic cannons spoke as one in deep, hurling projectiles that weighed more than a helicar into the void. The first target, a Cobra class destroyer, exploded violently when six EMP shells, followed by another six high-explosive warheads, slammed into it. A bright orange blast later, the hapless ship no longer existed except as debris. The next few League vessels suffered the same fate, and then the mass of Rand class heavy cruisers and Alexander class battleships entered plasma cannon range.
The deck pitched forward as a violent series of impacts against the Resit Kartal’s shields shook the mighty ship. Aibek gripped the armrests of his chair and bared his teeth. “Navigator, adjust heading to zero-nine-zero, twenty-five degrees up bubble on our Z-axis. All ahead flank. Tactical, kill heavy cruiser tracks with guns, beams, and missiles. Thin the herd!”
While the deflector power indicator dropped like a stone, the mighty battleship struck back at her foes. Again the magnetic-cannons spat twelve hundred kilogram shells, backed by a barrage of neutron beams. Forward and aft missile cells added to the maelstrom. Three Rands were taken down by concentrated firepower, while the rest focused their attention on the Resit Kartal. The void glowed red as thousands of plasma balls were lobbed at them.
“Void Captain, our forward and port shields are close to collapse!”
His tactical officer had a point. It didn’t matter. “Steady on course, Navigator. Tactical, continue to prosecute the targets.” A glance at the tactical display told him their escorts were about to enter optimal range. “Coordinate our attack with the rest of the battle group.”
“Yes, Void Captain!”
Again the massive magnetic-cannons thundered in the blackness of space, and they made the Leaguers pay. Destroyers and frigates blew away as if they were no more than matchwood. And then, after so much destruction, the three Alexander class battleships at the center of the enemy's formation came into focus. The entire Saurian flotilla let loose as one—mag-cannons, neutron beams, and missiles. The League vessel’s shields glowed red and held back the flood of fire for a time, but only for a few moments. One by one, the battleships deflectors failed, and the ship’s hulls broke apart from the bombardment. Two were destroyed outright, exploding in a cloud of debris, while one drifted, dead in space. Saurian losses were paltry; only a few escorting destroyers.
“Void Captain, incoming message from the Liberator. Admiral Henry sends his compliments, and thanks us for our efforts.”
Aibek bared his teeth in a wide grin. “Tell him we’re not done yet. Tactical, drop our forward and port shields, recharge them, and prepare to reengage.”
* * *
The smell of burnt propellant from projectile weapons hung heavy on the bridge of the Lion of Judah. David still crouched behind a console near the blown-out hatch to the rest of deck one. He cradled his battle rifle on his lap as he reloaded the weapon with a new magazine. That’s my last one.
There was a rustling as Tinetariro slid down beside him. “They seemed to have gotten tired of losing a dozen troops at a time.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” David replied grimly. “They’re massing for another push. How many have we lost?”
“Six dead. Two shot up bad enough they’ll die without further treatment, and another eight walking wounded. Don’t worry—we’ve got a lot of fight left in us, sir.”
The conversation was interrupted by a shout coming from the passageway. “Terrans! Can you hear me?”
David glanced at Tinetariro and shrugged. “I can hear you, Leaguer,” he shouted back.
“Why delay the inevitable? Surrender while you still can. Save your lives—allow the League of Sol to accept you into its family. There’s no need for this senseless slaughter to continue.” The voice was male and carried a subtle French accent.
Before David could reply, Tinetariro cut in. “Piss off, Leaguer!” Her voice carried across the entirety of the bridge.
There was something about the vulgar insult, combined with her posh British accent, he found hysterical. David laughed loudly, and as he did, that laughter swept the bridge. In a moment, the entire team was nearly in hysterics. It was a release he needed. One the whole team needed. “That was awesome, Master Chief.”
“You will all die! Capitalist pigs!” the French voice replied.
“They’ll be coming again soon,” David said quietly. His words were prophetic. A moment later, the sound of boots advancing across the deck plates echoed, and he broke cover to aim his battle rifle and squeeze off a shot. It caught a Leaguer in the neck, showering his fellows with blood. The sight of power-armored League Marines caused his heart to sink. There’s got to be twenty of them.
Bolts of energy from the enemy rifles peppered the bridge at large, catching several unlucky crewmembers in their extremities and a few in the center mass. Concentrated fire from the defenders felled two of the Goliath suits, but it wasn’t enough. For the first time, they breached the hatch threshold and got inside the CIC proper.
“Master Chief, time for our remaining grenades,” David barked.
“Pulse, over,” Tinetariro shouted, and flung the deceptively small round grey ball toward the advancing enemies. A couple of seconds later, it detonated with more an electrical noise than anything else and a bright flash of light.
Hoping he would be taking advantage of some momentarily blinded and stunned Leaguers, David emerged from cover. He discharged his battle rifle on full auto into one of the Goliath suits. Several bullets pierced the helmet, and the enemy Marine dropped in his tracks. Then David’s weapon clicked dry. He dropped it to the deck and felt for the energy pulse pistol on his thigh, breathing a sigh of relief when his hand closed around it. Before he could get it up and a shot off, the troops facing them overcame the effects of the pulse grenades and opened fire once more. God help us all. I don’t think we can hold much longer, he despaired, hoping against hope that help was on the way.
20
“One, I’ve got two hundred plus hostiles in passageway 1A, section 2,” Rostami whispered into his helmet-integrated commlink. “They’ve got a gravlift open. I think they’re going to deck one from here.” Alpha team had split up, searching for the main concentration of enemies attacking the bridge. MacDonald had explained to them they had to eliminate that group to save the bridge. Now he was face to face with them.
“Understood, three. Alpha team, form on Rostami,” MacDonald’s voice echoed through the commlink. “Maintain stealth approach.”
Rostami stayed out of sight, using a small insect-sized drone to maintain surveillance. A few minutes passed before MacDonald and Ahmad trotted up to his position.
“Good work,” MacDonald began. “Now, what are we looking at?”
“Loads of power-armored Leaguers. Heavy weapons. The whole shebang.”
“We can’t mount a frontal assault.”
“No, but we are close to the outer hull.”
MacDonald did a double-take and stared at the younger commando through his helmet visor. “You suggesting what I think you are, Rostami?”
“Blow the passageway and give our Leaguer friends here a first-class ticket to the void and the life ever after,” Rostami replied. “I can interface with the Lion’s security system, seal the passageway… but we still need to get a big enough explosive device in there.”
“I could fashion an IED from several rocket warheads,” Ahmad interjected. He was the team’s resident EOD specialist. “But it’ll take me a few minutes.”
“Get on it,” MacDonald rasped. “Two, where the hell are you?”
“Rounding the corner to your position now.” Harrell’s voice echoed through the commlink, and a moment later, he and Mata came into view. “This is bad. I think there’s more Leaguers than CDF personnel on this deck.”
“Demood’s Marines are pinned down three decks down by a blocking force.” MacDonald cleared his throat. “We’ll deal with them after we secure the bridge. The last transmission I got from up there sounded bad.”
Several minutes passed as Ahmad worked in silence. He carefully disassembled three warheads from anti-personnel rockets the team carried and removed the explosive material within. Wrapped together in a ball with a crude detonator, the device resembled a basketball—one with enough explosive power to kill them all in an instant. “Okay, I think I’ve got it, Master Chief.” His voice was quiet.
“Rostami, you ready?” MacDonald asked.
“Ready, willing, and frosty as shit, Master Chief.”
Finish the Fight: Echoes of War Book Seven Page 23
