The rest of the team snickered softly. When Rostami gave a thumbs-up signal, Ahmad swung into action. He stepped forward into the next passageway and hurled the improvised bomb with superhuman strength provided by his power armor—right smack in the middle of a group of League Marines.
Pandemonium broke out as the Leaguers realized what lay at their feet. The bulkhead hatch snapping shut aborted a mad scramble away from the device, except for a lucky few that were close enough to get out of the passageway. For added protection, Rostami had configured emergency forcefields—which crackled into existence with a burst of blue energy.
A loud boom echoed around the team, and the deck shook from the concussion waves of the explosion. This did not deter the small group of enemy Marines that made it to safety. They brought their weapons up and charged Alpha team, firing as they ran. Bolts of red energy slammed into the walls, and some hit power armor, leaving scorch marks.
Harrell brought up his mini-gun and charged the barrels until they spun at four thousand RPM. Then he unleashed hell itself. Dozens of armor-piercing rounds per second sprayed out of the weapon, cutting through the onrushing Leaguers like a mighty rushing wind. Men fell backward as dark red stains spread across the deck, knocked over like bowling pins without a second thought. Fifteen seconds later, he let go of the firing stud and lowered the gun to a safe position. “We’re clear.”
“There’s also some holes in the hull in the next section, thanks to that beast,” Rostami groused.
“Thanks, Corporal Obvious.”
Snickers and chuckles filled the team’s commlink. MacDonald cut in. “Okay, ladies, tighten it up.” He marched to the gravlift and punched the call button. “Pulse grenades and battle rifles out. We’ll hit these assholes from behind and save the cake eaters. Any questions?”
“Yeah, can I ask Goldberg out?” Rostami joked.
Mata reached over and slapped the back of Rostami’s helmet. “Did you get hit on the head? Enlisted doesn’t mix with cake eaters. Even a decent one like the LT.”
“I think she got promoted.”
“Because that makes it better,” MacDonald replied as he slapped a new magazine into his battle rifle.
* * *
The situation on the bridge had gone from bad to dire. David crunched next to an auxiliary tactical console, trying along with the surviving members of their impromptu defense team to keep the Goliath suits from overrunning the CIC. He fired a beam from his energy pulse pistol, hitting one of the hulking behemoths in the side.
Ruth glanced back at him. “Sir, do you need help?”
“Maintain focus on the enemy vessels, Captain.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
David took another shot. So easy to tell her to do that. The truth was, they had to keep the guns firing. With League vessels trying to take advantage of the chaos caused by the boarders, the fate of the Lion rested on a knife’s edge. Another power-armored enemy Marine charged in—headed straight for Ruth’s exposed back. David didn’t think—his muscles reacted. He jumped up and closed the distance as fast as he could on the hulking hostile. The energy pistol reached out and impacted the faceplate of the Leaguer. For a moment, he thought it might be enough.
And then, reality intervened. The armored power soldier brought his own weapon—a high-powered projectile rifle—to bear.
David’s brain realized he was about to be shot, and sent the requisite commands to his legs to jump to the side. He was too slow. White-hot pain seared through his torso, overloading his sensory nerves and causing him to scream as he fell to the deck. The pistol clattered out of his hand, and for a moment, memories of his first combat flashed through his mind. The concept of giving up never entered his thought process as he commanded his fingers to pick up the fallen weapon, even as his would-be executioner aimed at David’s head.
As the Leaguer’s finger went to stroke the trigger of the rifle, his helmet’s faceplate exploded from a bullet going through the back of it and out the front. Blood splattered everywhere, and the power-armored Marine, a moment from ending David’s life, collapsed.
“Get down!” a voice David couldn’t readily identify thundered. It was followed by the thunderous roar of a TCMC issue mini-gun firing. The League Marines still standing were mowed down in short order by the powerful weapon, most unable even to turn and fire on the threat. A few moments later, the same voice carried across the bridge. “This is Master Chief MacDonald, Alpha team. We took care of your Leaguer problem.”
Stunned to be alive, David tried to stand as a few seconds of quiet enveloped the bridge. He breathed in and out several times. Thank you, God. “Master Chief… we’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Despite the relief in his voice and the smile he portrayed, the pain in his side was nearly unbearable. He stumbled and almost fell. The quick grab of a nearby console was his only savior from face planting on the deck.
MacDonald popped up the helmet on his power armor as the rest of the team swept into the room. “Mata, tend to the General’s wound.”
Doing as he was told, Mata appeared at David’s side and ran a medical scanner over the wound that oozed red on his side. “Lucky. Clean in and out, no organ damage. I’ll apply some gel and put healpacks on it. You’ll be okay for now, but you should see a doctor in short order.”
“Thanks, Chief. Plenty of time for that after the battle. Please, take care of the others,” David replied. He shivered as the gel slid into the wound.
As they were talking, Harrell made his way over to the tactical station at the front of the bridge. “Hey, Captain. We were worried about you.”
Ruth glanced up. “Getting soft, Senior Chief?”
“Well, not every day Alpha team comes across a cake eater that can fight,” Harrell said with a smirk. “Though, for some reason, this ship seems to be infested with them.”
David chuckled. Back to the business at hand. “TAO, status report?” He found he had to inhale before speaking, as he felt light-headed and short of breath.
“We’re still here, sir. The civilian ships took a shellacking, but they broke up the League attack force. The situation has returned to a stalemate.”
The report from Ruth allowed David a few moments to take in the situation on the bridge. Bodies of his fallen crew littered the consoles around the hatch. He could make out at least fifteen friendly fatalities judging by the amount of blood around each one. Mata moved about the area, administering first aid to those he could help. The rest of the commandos had taken up positions around the hatch, except for MacDonald, who stood with Tinetariro. David hobbled over to them. “Master Chiefs,” he began. “Thanks for the assist, MacDonald. How many more Leaguers do we have to worry about?”
“We vented a couple hundred of them into space. Mostly power-armor sporting types. I think the bridge is in the clear, but we’ll stick around and post security until Demood gets a relief force here.”
David raised an eyebrow at the blunt and matter-of-fact manner in which MacDonald referenced killing a few hundred people. “How’d you do that?”
MacDonald grinned. “Ahmad blew a hole in your ship. Sorry.”
Both Tinetariro and David grinned despite everything. “I’ll let it go, just this once,” he replied and turned toward Tinetariro. “Master Chief, what about damage control status?”
“Teams are working, sir, but we’ve taken a beating. The Lion is still combat capable, though.”
With a final glance to the stacks of bodies—thankfully, mostly Leaguers—he forced it out of his mind as much as he could and walked to the CO’s chair. “This is General Cohen. I have the conn,” he said as formally as possible. “Communications, get me Colonel Amir.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Taylor’s voice was filled with relief, though an undercurrent of fear still ran through it. “On your monitor, sir.”
The screen above David’s head came alive with a cockpit view of Amir. “Salaam Alaikum, General.”
“Wa-Alikum-Salaam.” David flashed a grin. “How’
s it going out there, old friend?”
“My wing is down to fifty percent strength. The planetary-based stratofighters are at twenty percent.”
Dear God. David swallowed hard. “Bomber status?”
“Two squadrons remain.”
“Fall back to the Lion. We’ll keep you in reserve until an extra punch is most needed.” At least I can breathe now that I’m sitting down.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * *
In the bunker underneath the White House in Lawrence City, Justin Spencer occupied a command and control center, along with those members of his galactic security staff that remained behind, and General MacIntosh. They’d been there for what seemed like days, but in reality, it was only a few hours. The big displays and holoprojectors allowed the team to follow the battle in real-time.
Spencer had stepped to the side for a moment, his head bowed in prayer. He felt a hand on his shoulder. With a glance upward, he realized it was MacIntosh.
“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you. We’ve got Cohen on a vidlink, requesting you by name.”
“Of course, General.” Spencer stood and made his way to the communication center, a few meters away. David’s unsmiling face was on a large screen. His hair was matted, and he appeared exhausted with dark circles under both eyes. Dried blood and a recently applied bandage were visible in the lower portion of the frame. “General Cohen, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Mr. President.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Sir, it’s time to pull the fleet back. The League force has been degraded to the point it's at less than sixty percent strength. More importantly, they’ve lost most of their fighter coverage. Our carrier battlegroups would be decisive, but we have to act now.”
“The Exodus fleet is already six jumps out, General. It would take some doing and time. I’m not convinced we should risk it. Those people need the protection of the CDF if they’re to make it where they’re going.”
MacIntosh cleared his throat. He stood a meter away, slightly out of the camera’s field of view. “Sir, I have to agree with Cohen’s assessment. We’ve got a golden opportunity to deal a knockout blow to the Leaguers here. They sent everything they’ve got… if we could defeat this fleet, there’s no need for another Exodus. We’ll finally have our victory.”
Spencer shook his head. “Gentlemen, I understand your perspectives. But my task now is to ensure the continuity of our way of life.” He paused for a moment and glanced at a nearby tactical display. “How many ships do you have left, General Cohen?”
“That’s not quite the right question, sir. We’ve got over six hundred ships. But a lot of them are civilians or less than current generation warships from the neutral fleet. Less than three hundred CDF vessels remain.”
The losses were enormous. Spencer did some quick math in his head and realized that, depending on the classes of ships lost, they could be looking at causalities in the range of one hundred thousand soldiers. The very thought sobered him to the core. The idea those men and women died for nothing sickens me. “What other options do you have?”
“I can execute a pincer attack on the League fleet. We’ve encircled them, and they’re compressed into a sphere. I think our fleet would win, but with sixty to eighty percent losses.”
There were audible gasps around the room as the people in the command center took in what David was saying.
“And with the carriers?”
“You served for ten years as a fighter pilot, sir,” David began, and a smile creased his lips. “I’m sure you remember the effect bombers had on unescorted League warships.”
It was Spencer’s turn to grin. “Yes, I do. Like a sword cutting down tall grass.”
“Well, sir, we could use the sword. As I said, our fighters have successfully neutralized the enemies. They don’t have the coverage to stop our bombers. I’m convinced it would be a turkey shoot.”
The weight of the galaxy descended onto Spencer’s shoulders. He felt as if he made the wrong call, it would doom not only the Terran Coalition but the freedom of humanity at large. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Lord, please help me to make the right choice here. To follow Your will. Please, help us defeat this foe. Spencer’s eyes opened once more. “Okay, General. We’ll call them back. Not all… but enough. Would ten carrier battlegroups do it?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“Very well. Hold the line.” Spencer went to cut off the signal but thought of a question he wanted to ask. “How’d you manage to cause that ship to ram the League’s flagship, General?”
“It wasn’t us, sir. We’re still not sure what happened, but it sure came at the right time.”
Spencer smiled and struggled to keep his emotions down. “Perhaps God is on our side today.”
“I tend to look at it as us trying to be on His side, sir.”
“No argument here. Godspeed.”
“Godspeed to you too, sir.”
The screen went blank, leaving the communication center darker than it had been a moment before. Spencer sucked in a breath and turned toward MacIntosh. “Don’t tell me I’m shortsighted and impertinent, Andrew.”
“Not in the least, sir. I agree with Cohen’s assessment and your course of action.”
Well, that’s a relief. If a decorated officer as MacIntosh thinks it’s the right move, it probably is. Spencer allowed a small smile onto his face. “Let’s get the Vice President and General Barton on the line.”
“Excellent, sir. Give us a moment.”
* * *
Edwardo Fuentes glanced around the wardroom of the CSV Ark Royal. He’d ordered it turned into both a civilian and military command center a few hours before. A team of advisors, along with General Barton, monitored the situation with him as they raced away from Canaan. Each jump further left him with aching pain. We should’ve stayed—the Terran Coalition’s way of life has to continue. At least that was what he told himself. But the question wouldn’t leave his mind—Am I just a coward, taking the easy way out?
“Mr. Vice President,” the voice of a young lieutenant handling communications called, interrupting Fuentes’ thoughts. “Urgent message from President Spencer, sir.”
Is he calling to report Canaan has fallen? All sorts of worst-case scenarios coursed through Fuentes' head. “Put him on, Lieutenant.”
Spencer’s face appeared on a holoprojector to the back of the room. “Edwardo? Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Fuentes replied. “Thank God you’re still in one piece. How goes the battle?”
“It’s touch and go. We got a lot of help. The Saurians, independents from the neutral border area of the Trifid Nebula, somehow even those mothball ships we’ve been trying to refit for a year now.” Spencer wore a smile. “General Cohen has the Leaguers bottled up, but we need reinforcements. I want you to send ten Saratoga class carrier battlegroups back. Tell them to jump as rapidly as possible without endangering their ships.”
Fuentes furrowed his brow. “That’ll leave us mostly unprotected. Are you sure?”
“General MacIntosh assures me that Cohen’s tactics are sound. With the fighters and bombers from the carriers, he can sit back and cut the remaining League fleet elements to pieces, but sooner or later, they’re going to try for a decisive battle. If that happens before reinforcements arrive, it’ll be a blood bath.” Spencer crossed his arms in front of him. “I’m sure you may have some reservations, but it’s the right call. I’m certain of it.”
“Only one president at a time, Justin. I’ll send them back now. We’ll be praying for you and everyone else’s safety.”
“Thank you. Take care, and I look forward to issuing the recall order soon. Godspeed. Spencer out.”
The screen clicked off. A moment later, Barton’s angry voice spoke up. “You can’t possibly be considering sending our sole means of protection back to Canaan for a lost cause.” It was a statement, not a question.
“General
—”
“No, sir. I must protest,” Barton continued. “I respect the heroism shown by Cohen and those fighting back home. But that doesn’t change the score. If it’s not today, it’ll be tomorrow or the next day. The League will win. But we have a chance to get out of here with enough military force to safeguard our fleet, and eventually, find a new home.”
“And if we run into hostile aliens with superior technology? There’s no guarantees, General.” Fuentes stared at the older man. Within his mind, he debated the two courses of action. If I go along with him, I’m a coward. Another part of him retorted that they could create a better Terran Coalition, and escape the mistakes of the past.
“Perhaps not. But are you willing to bet the lives of two hundred thousand soldiers of the Coalition Defense Force on the League not being smart enough to have an operational reserve ready to jump on our carriers and wipe them out?” Barton walked around the table and stood next to him. “Sir, you can’t allow Spencer to do this.”
Fuentes found himself torn. Even though he knew it was wrong, part of him still wanted to keep running. I remember it was said somewhere that character is what you do when no one else is looking—or so you think. He set his jaw. “General, order the battlegroups requested to head back to Canaan. As fast as possible.”
“No.”
All eyes in the wardroom turned to Barton from the enlisted ratings, all the way up to Fuentes. It became very quiet, and an undercurrent of apprehension swept the room. “Excuse me, General?” Fuentes asked, his voice soft but the tone one of unmistakable anger.
“I said no. This fleet will continue on course.” Barton glanced between several of the junior officers. “We need to preserve our force as much as possible.”
I could give in, Fuentes pondered. No. Hell no. “Major Jackson,” Fuentes began, turning his eyes to the senior watch officer from the Ark Royal that had joined them. “Escort General Barton to his quarters.” He paused again and stared back at the older man. “You’re relieved of duty, General.”
Finish the Fight: Echoes of War Book Seven Page 24
