In the bowels of the Scharnhorst—one of the seven hollow asteroids that some military bureaucrat had designated the Dreadnought class—Admiral Edward Schubert studied the now-distant thermal blooms that marked the position of the receding Arat Kur belt fleet. It was a sight he had been waiting to see for better than ten weeks. Ever since top-secret word had arrived from Barnard’s Star that the Convocation had not gone well, his naturally concealed craft had been compelled to shut down all its primary power plants. Although many meters of rock separated their modest emissions from hostile sensor sweeps, complete safety required a minimum energy ops profile, powered solely by batteries and a handful of fuel cells. But on this long-awaited day, the hiding was finally over.
So far, the day had gone largely according to the projected course of events. First, Schubert had received tightbeam confirmation that Case Leo Gap had been a success and that Admiral Lord Halifax’s Relief Task Force One had arrived. Then came the confirmation from Earth that the ground attack had commenced in Indonesia. Less than an hour later, the Arat Kur had made sudden preparations for departure, leaving two small frigates as a holding force, and not even stopping to recall any of the technicians and the modest military detachment with which they had occupied Vesta’s antimatter production facilities. After the frigates were dispatched, those paltry security troops would be simple fodder for Commodore James Beall’s SEAL Teams, formerly based on Mars, and which had arrived on Schubert’s hull a few days after the discouraging report of the Convocation’s outcome. Those overeager spec ops units shifted from bored and sullen to smiling and hyperactive when they were informed they had been given the green light to retake Vesta, now that the some unknown operative code-named Odysseus had shot the arrow that announced the successful culmination of Case Timber Pony.
Schubert turned toward Beall’s senior field CO, Commander Chris Berman, who was almost tapping his foot in impatience. “Commander Berman.”
The response was immediate, eager. “Yes, Herr Admiral?”
For Schubert, who had worked with SEALs before, Berman was a pleasant change: an American who bothered to use the honorifics appropriate to the nationalities of the persons he addressed. Schubert smiled. “Your men are in readiness, I presume?”
“For weeks now, sir.”
“Very good. Do you need anything we have not yet considered?”
“I could do with a few hunter-killer drones left behind, lying doggo. Only thing I’m worried about is if the Roaches have left any of their own drones on low-power monitoring missions. If they see us make a move for the antimatter facilities, I’d like to have assets to preempt their preemption.”
“Prudent. Operational compartmentalization protocols forbade me to reveal this earlier, but your request is already part of our plans. There shall be half a dozen drone-killing drones in close protective overwatch as you retake Vesta. Anything else?”
“Regular updates, sir.”
“Updates? I do not understand.”
“Sir, we’re on an important mission, but you know where all my guys want to be fighting.”
“Earth.”
“Right. They want to squash some Roaches and skin some Sloths down dirtside. They want payback, sir. But since they can’t be there themselves, they are really eager to know how that fight is unfolding, sir. We know that we’ve got to retake this asteroid antimatter facility, rig it to blow if the Arat Kur come back, take ourselves up with it if we need to. They understand the strategic exigencies, sir—but in their hearts, and heads, they’re all back home, fighting tooth and nail for everything they know and love.”
“I understand. Ms. Kauffer?”
“Ja, Herr Admiral?”
“Commander Berman is to receive hourly tightbeam updates on both our action against the enemy fleet, and events on Earth. I make it your responsibility.”
Kauffer smiled at Commander Berman and the three hulking SEALs behind him. “It would be my pleasure, Herr Admiral, Commander.”
Chris Berman tipped a salute at her. “Our gratitude, ma’am.”
Schubert feared his smile might start becoming maudlin. “Anything else, Commander?”
“When you come back, bring a case of Dunkelbier. We’ll have worked up a powerful thirst.”
Schubert laughed. “I will see what I can do. Now, I shall not hold you further, Commander.”
The American saluted. “So long, Admiral.”
Schubert stopped him. “We should not say so, Commander. Let us say, rather, Auf Wiedersehen.”
Berman let his salute fall away, put out his hand. Schubert shook it, hoped that the American would survive. Zero gee ops in hard vacuum had the highest of all casualty rates. To be hit was usually to be dead.
The American looked Schubert in the eye, smiled back. “Auf Wiedersehen.” He backed up, snapped a salute, turned to his men. “Let’s see if you guys are worth a case of good German suds.” They left the bridge, a muted “oo-rah” amputated by the closing of the lift.
Schubert turned, looked at the almost vanished thermal blooms of the Arat Kur belt fleet. “Weapons Officer?”
“Ready, Herr Admiral.”
“Release fifty of our hunter-killer drones. Target the two frigates the Arat Kur left at Vesta. I want them overwhelmed and destroyed within fifteen minutes. I require absolute local security.”
“Drones released, active, and seeking.”
“Very good. Commence extending launch tube.”
“Jawohl. Extending telescoping launch tube.”
“Engineering, crash-start fusion plants. Magazine, systems checks on all rail gun munitions.”
“Checked and green, Admiral.”
“Communications officer, send to Victorious, Yamamoto, Conte di Cavour, Iowa, Potemkin, and Dunkerque: ‘We have reason to believe that most of the Arat Kur vessels will soon be disabled for as long as half an hour, maybe more. But we commence our attack with the expectation that they shall remain uncrippled, ready for action, and will engage our dreadnoughts with their full armament and vigor. Stand by.’”
“All ship captains have acknowledged, Herr Admiral, and are standing by.”
“Ausgezeichnet. Helm, minimum attitude control to maintain a debris-clear sight-picture. Rail gun munitions shall be launched as predetermined: decoys and image-makers first, multidrone release pods next, multistage high-yield nuclear missiles last.”
“Ready, Herr Admiral.”
“On my mark—”
Schubert checked his watch. It would be good to know the precise second when they began to make history.
“And—mark!”
Flagship USS Lincoln, Sierra Echelon, RTF 1, cislunar space
Commander Ruth Altasso’s report started on a hushed note, ended on a shout: “The Arat Kur systems are—are down, Admiral Silverstein!”
Ira nodded, smiled.
“Does this mean their belt fleet is disabled, too?”
“Too early to say, Ex, so we presume it isn’t. We can always be happy to learn otherwise later.”
“Yes, sir. So what do we do with this suddenly drifting Arat Kur fleet, sir?” Ruth’s smile was wolfish.
Ira hated disappointing her, but did. He turned to the communications officer. “Mr. Brill, send signal to Tango Echelon: ‘Sierra Echelon's corvettes will retroboost, intercept, and commandeer all enemy shift-cruisers and select secondary craft. Tango Echelon is to ready its own corvettes, loading predesignated boarding parties and prize crews.’ My compliments to Admiral Vasarsky.”
“And in case the Roach-boats come alive again?”
“I was getting to that, Ex. We will retroboost also, just enough to give us a little more time in optimal engagement range, so we can keep the enemy covered with all weapons. Mr. Brill, once our corvettes are within fifty kiloklicks of the Roach-boats, start broadcasting the prerecorded capitulation orders Commander Altasso is now authorized to release to you. Send on all frequencies. Ruth, in case some of the enemy don’t or won’t get the message, we have strict
orders to vaporize any that come back to life without surrendering first. To that end, detail three of our stern wave of X-ray laser missiles to each of the enemy’s capital hulls. All missiles are to commence retroboost to match vector and close to one kiloklick from their individual targets. If any of those Arat Kur restart engines, repower weapons, or even turn on a toaster without our permission, the dedicated missiles are to fire on that target. Transfer control of those missiles to Tango Echelon as soon as Admiral Vasarsky’s van approaches and signals she’s ready for the handoff.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Once we’ve confirmed their hulls as prizes or destroyed, recall all our unexpended drones and missiles. We’ll need to scoop ’em up on the move.”
“Yes, sir. And when you’re ready to assess it, I’ve had Nav ready a plot to bring us around Earth and sternchase Admiral Halifax’s Foxtrot echelon. If we crowd on the gees, we’ll still be able to get close enough to lend him a hand against the bogeys inbound from the belt.”
Silverstein smiled at Ruth’s proleptic efficiency. “That assumes the Arat Kur get control back in time to dodge the shitstorm that Admiral Schubert is sending after them. And even if they do, they’ll have that shitstorm chasing them all the way into their engagement with us. Of course, all that assumes that they don’t turn to engage Schubert’s dreadnoughts—but if they do, they’ve just returned Earth to our possession without a fight.”
Altasso’s grin once again acquired a wolfish cast. “Seems like everything’s going our way, Skipper.”
Silverstein nodded and thought, Yes, it is. And that’s what’s worrying me.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
Caine reminded himself once again that, as an ambassador, he could not publicly smile at an enemy’s distress. So he somberly watched the chaos mount in the Presidential Palace’s command center. It had a strong undercurrent of panic as well, the kind which arises during moments of desperate improvisation.
With the possible exception of the now-silent Ktor, Apt-Counsel, the First Delegate was the only other calm exo in the room. “How many uninfected radios and translators have you found?”
“We had many reserve translators in storage, so that does not concern us. But we have only one functional long-range radio: it was disassembled for servicing. However, it would take at least thirty minutes to reassemble.”
“Judging from the rate at which the next wave of human missiles was approaching, that is fifteen minutes more than we have left. What else?”
“Only two personal sets and a number of smaller radios for suits, First Delegate. But without the computers to regulate signals traffic—”
“I understand. There will be many voices singing athwart each other. Activate the suit radios to contact any ground elements that may be activating backup sets they kept powered down. Use one of the personal sets to attempt to contact our ships in orbit.”
Urzueth’s claws hung in dismay. “Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, the range—”
“We must try. The ships will probably attempt the same before too long.”
“And the other personal pack, Hu’urs Khraam?” asked Darzhee Kut.
“We must use it to recontact the humans.”
First Voice rose up. “Why?”
“Is it not obvious?”
“It is not.”
“Then listen to the latest operational summary, First Voice.” Hu’urs Khraam turned to the communications technician who had been collecting and summarizing field reports at the time the virus hit. “What is the status of our forces?”
“Estimates only, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam. The loss of communication—”
“Understood. Give us your best estimates.”
“At least ninety-five percent of our remaining PDF systems are offline, pending a software purge and reprogramming. Our aircraft are in LOS communication with our orbital elements, not us, and so, given the delay, may be the last planetside systems to fail. They will have no sensors, no communications, and be reduced to manual piloting systems. They may not have any way to fire their weapons. Many that were operating at lower altitudes may crash before the pilots are able to switch to manual.”
“And the humans? What are they doing?”
“We have no reliable sensors to tell us. But one of our pilots who was reentering the atmosphere during the virus spike and whose lascom was off, reports that the human transatmospheric interceptors commenced rapid climb with full afterburners moments after our systems were incapacitated. He believes they released large payloads just after they exited the atmosphere.”
“Payloads?” Darzhee Kut addressed the question to Caine. “Missiles, then?”
“Probably drones,” the human answered. “I suspect our commanders intend to put a strike force right in amongst your orbital elements while you can’t respond. But don’t be surprised if there are a lot of missiles launched in the next few minutes, as well. Both at your ships and at us here in Java.”
Hu’urs Khraam thumped a claw. “But you said that Downing was moving slowly to give us time.”
“He was. He gave you time to consider the alternatives when both you and he had the ability to seriously injure each other.”
“And now?”
Riordan stood, bowed. “First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam of the Wholenest, I mean no offense in asking this, but how can you hurt us now? You can no longer hope to prevail on the ground, in the air, or in space. Without orbital interdiction or your PDF systems, our numbers—all those air units inbound from every point of the compass—will overwhelm your forces, even if they are technologically superior. But I must wonder if, deprived of their computers, your forces are still actually superior?”
First Voice’s ears flattened and quivered. “Riordan may be a liar—I remain uncertain—but he has more of a warrior’s mind than you, Hu’urs Khraam. He is right. The humans have the advantage and are capitalizing upon it. Swiftly.”
“And we have no means to counter,” Urzueth observed.
“We do,” First Voice snarled, “and we always have. There are still shuttles and reserve fighters on board our orbiting ships. Blow the landing bay doors with charges. Identify the craft that were powered down during the virus spike. Load them with nuclear weapons and sortie them.”
Hu’urs Khraam stared at the Hkh’Rkh. “That would be suicide, and pointless, besides.”
“It does not matter that it is suicide for those tasked to carry it out. And if the threat of additional attacks compels the humans to negotiate for something akin to our original terms, we will have salvaged this disaster. Your disaster, Hu’urs Khraam.”
Hu’urs Khraam rose up, and Darzhee Kut saw his antennae quiver into rigid anger—but then they drooped. “You are right in one thing, First Voice. This is my disaster. But what you propose will not work. Without orbital interdiction, the human defenses will overwhelm such an unsupported effort. And by the time we could mount the attack you propose, there will be no beachhead left to save. The human cruise missiles will be here in less than twelve minutes, their interceptors and troop-carriers right behind them. No. This debate is over. We must speak with Downing.” He turned to his communications specialist. “Have you reached the humans?”
“Hu’urs Khraam, my song is a sad one. The human jamming is absolute. What few systems we have left cannot penetrate it at all. We have no way of knowing if anyone is receiving our signals.”
Caine stepped closer to the command group. The two Hkh’Rkh who had rushed him earlier trailed him with a slow, menacing gait. “Urzueth Ragh, have you been making use of this building’s own satellite conference communication system?”
Urzueth Ragh seemed embarrassed. “No, we did not. It was too—” He stopped, seemed uncertain how to proceed.
Caine smiled. “The technology was too primitive to be useful. I understand. But that may be fortunate now. Because you didn’t use it, that system may yet save all our lives. So long as it was not connected to your elect
ronics and was powered down, the virus could not have infected it. Similarly, it should have survived the earlier EMP bursts.”
“Riordan is right,” agreed Urzueth Ragh eagerly. “We can communicate with them using their own equipment.”
Hu’urs Khraam rose up, his antenna swinging erect again. “Are our personnel adept at the human controls?”
“Two of them are. They were specially trained to be able to recognize and operate human machinery.”
“Activate the system. We must reestablish contact with Mr. Downing before their aerial attack waves arrive.”
West Java airspace, Earth
“Quite a view, eh, Dr. Wasserman?”
Lemuel, lost in his own private world of wonder and horror, nodded, forgetting that Captain Christine “Chris” Oakley, who was in the cockpit at the center of the attack delta, could not see into the forward observation blister where he was sitting.
They had crossed the Javanese coastline at the Anyer Light, staying low as the Arat Kur interceptors and even tac-air support systems spread out, preparing to take on the human aircraft despite being outnumbered twenty to one. Because Lemuel was precious cargo, Captain Oakley had kept her bird back in the rear of the formation, ready to cut and run at any second.
But then, everything had changed. Suddenly, the Arat Kur air vehicles were tumbling out of the sky, some ploughing into the overpopulated Javanese countryside, blossoming into roiling orange fireballs, setting off secondaries and torching whole kempangs in seconds. Others wobbled, swerved away like startled birds that flew without knowing where they might seek safety.
That was when the thin, original wave of human craft—the interceptors and fighters that had followed in behind VTOLs such as Dortmund’s and Thandla’s—raced forward, abandoning the careful, circumspect death dance they had been toeing through at the edge of the Arat Kur airspace. Like sharks detecting bloody prey thrashing in the water, they arrowed in without hesitation or apparent fear.
Moments later, there were so many friendly missiles in the air that the sky looked like a hyperactive child’s scribbling pad. The white lines and flashing pinpoints were literally everywhere. They rose from the ground, came from overhead, from behind, from in front, from the flanks—all seeking any airborne object that was unannointed by the UV sensitive dyes that they recognized as “friend.”
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