Helfort’s War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “It’s not that, Anna. I just wish I knew this would all work out.”

  “It will.”

  Michael shook his head. “You don’t know that, Anna. Nobody does. I’m beginning to think that we’ll still be here in ten years wondering if we’ll ever get home, if any of the Feds here because of me ever will get home.”

  “Is that so bad? You and me. We’ll be together.”

  Michael snorted. “You know the life expectancy of an NRA trooper?”

  “No, Michael,” Anna said, “and I bloody well don’t want to. What’s done is done. Stop beating yourself to death. Hey”—her voice softened—“I’ll be careful, I promise. No stupid risks. I’ll see you in two weeks’ time when the battalion’s pulled back for training, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Anna lifted her face to his and kissed him long and hard, and Michael’s world folded into the moment, an instant of intense intimacy, an instant in which the two of them became the entire universe.

  Anna pulled away. “Love you,” she whispered. She turned and without a backward look climbed into the sled.

  “Love you, too,” Michael replied.

  He watched the sled accelerate; banking to one side, it disappeared into the tunnel, the soft squealing of its wheels fading as it raced away, swallowed by the darkness.

  Back at his desk, Michael killed time until Adrissa’s daily brief—called, in time-honored tradition, morning prayers—kicked off, the cramped conference room dominated by a single holovid screen filling with her staff and any Feds who might happen to be passing through. As he sat down, tucked away at the back, Sedova and Acharya walked in. Michael waved them over.

  “Was wondering when I’d see you guys again.”

  Sedova grimaced. “You’re one to talk. I’ve been through ENCOMM’s after-action report on Tappet. You were lucky. Landers and Alaric air-to-air missiles are a bad combination.”

  “Don’t we know it,” Acharya added. “Bastard Hammers nearly nailed us last week. As it was, we only just outran their attack. Still, pity about poor old Widowmaker.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said. “We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens. I was sorry to lose Widowmaker. She was a good ship. And it’s a … oh, hold on. Looks like we’re starting. You guys staying around?”

  “Yep,” Sedova said. “Coffee later?”

  “Sure.”

  Michael settled down while Adrissa started the proceedings before handing over to her intelligence officer, a young lieutenant Michael did not know. Mitchell Davies was his name, one of the few spacers to make it off the dying al-Badisi, a stringy beanpole of a man with a shock of thick black hair and intense eyes.

  “Good morning everyone,” Davies said. “ENCOMM’s full intelligence summary as of 06:00 is available for download, so I won’t waste time repeating it. There is, however, one thing that needs highlighting. You all know that there has been a significant reduction in the tempo of Hammer operations all across the northern front, and NRA sources inside DocSec confirm that their operations have been cut back also. I think we were all looking forward to a period of quiet.

  “Well, ENCOMM thinks it now knows why the Hammers have cut back on operations. If you look at the holovid, you will see a summary of Hammer activity over the last week. Here is Amokran marine base to the northeast of us. It’s home to the Hammer’s MARFOR 6 plus a raft of logistics, maintenance, and support units. Amokran is crowded at the best of times, and as you can see, it’s getting more so. NRA sources have reported the arrival of MARFOR 8’s forward elements from Yamaichi. Sources there say the rest will follow over the next two weeks. That means there will be three full-size marine forces—MARFORs 6, 8, and 11—less than a thousand klicks from where we sit by year’s end.”

  A buzz of concern rippled through the room.

  “ENCOMM believes,” the intelligence officer continued, “the reason for all this activity is that we will be facing a marine operation against the Branxtons some time early next year, a large one. The NRA’s highest intelligence priority is finding out what those Hammers’ plans are. More details as and when they come to hand. ENCOMM’s hoping DocSec’s security will be its usual leak-prone self, enough to give us plenty of warning. Captain?”

  While Adrissa made her way to the lectern, Michael checked the math; his heart sank. If the Hammers deployed three marine forces, that meant an attacking force at least one hundred thousand strong, maybe more if the marines forgave the PGDF for the Perdan disaster and allowed them to join the party. Either way, with or without planetary defense forces participating, it was an ugly prospect.

  Adrissa looked around the room before speaking. “I’m sure,” she said, “I don’t have to tell you that a marine group attack on the Branxtons will be a major problem. ENCOMM has established an operational planning group to draw up the NRA’s response; they’re calling it Operation Counterweight. Its first session will be later today. Some of you will be tasked to take part, and I’ll let you know who you are once this briefing’s over. Turning to other matters. Manufacturing. I see that there has been a problem with …”

  Mugs of scalding hot coffee in hand, Michael sat with Sedova and Acharya in an alcove well clear of any senior officers roaming around looking for underemployed spacers to dump crappy little jobs onto.

  “Can’t say that’s the best news of the year,” Sedova said, her face twisting into a despondent frown; Michael did not blame her. His sprits were at rock bottom, too.

  “Something tells me we will be busy,” Acharya said with a glum frown.

  Michael nodded. “Think so, though quite what two heavy landers can achieve against a full marine battle group, I’m not sure.”

  Sedova laughed, a bitter, cynical laugh. “The usual,” she said. “A lot, but never enough.”

  “Hey, Kat,” Michael said. “Let’s not get too miserable. The Hammers have tried this twice before, and both times the NRA kicked their asses back where they came from.”

  “I know that, and you’re right,” Sedova said. “Problem was that it cost the NRA dearly. Worse, it set back offensive operations for months. We all want this war to end, and there’s only one way that’ll happen: We have to take McNair. The NRA must defend the Branxtons, they have no choice, but let’s not kid ourselves. Every day, every trooper, every bullet, every bomb they use to secure these caves is one less the NRA can use to take McNair.”

  There was a long and gloomy silence. Michael could not fault Sedova’s analysis; in a few words, she had summed up the problem. The NRA could conduct the offensive operations needed to open the road to McNair and final victory or it could defend the Branxtons.

  It could not do both.

  “Let’s see what ENCOMM comes up with,” he said. “Anyway, changing the subject, your ships. How are they holding up?”

  Acharya’s face brightened; there was a man, Michael realized, who loved his job. “Chief Chua and his manufacturing teams are the closest thing to miracle workers I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Now that the microfabs are getting the raw materials they need, we’re beginning to get the spares we’ve been waiting for. So okay, to answer your question. Hell Bent’s in good shape.”

  “Alley Kat’s the same,” Sedova said. “It’s one hell of a shame that dreadnoughts didn’t carry a macrofab. We need a squadron or two of new landers. Very handy.”

  “A macrofab?” Michael said. “A macrofab capable of turning out a heavy lander? Those things weigh, what, 10 kilo-tons? Would have been a tight squeeze getting one of them into poor old Redwood.”

  “Never mind that,” Acharya said. “What about the fusion plant to drive it? Huge!” he said, spreading his arms wide.

  Sedova lifted her hands in mock defeat. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Wishful thinking. I asked Chief Chua if we could build another lander from microfab-produced spare parts. He said it was the dumbest question he’d ever been asked. Cost me a beer, and you know how hard beer is to come by, so it—”

  Michael and Acharya laug
hed.

  “—cost me an absolute fortune. Anyway, spares aren’t the problem. Ordnance is. We’re out of decoys, we have no missiles or attack drones left, so we are down to anything we can get from the Hammers: iron bombs, clusterbots, and cannons … when the NRA is able to steal them for us. They’re good at it, but supplies are tight,” she added.

  “Microfabs can’t help?” Michael asked.

  “For all the inert components—casings, logic boards, power supplies, wiring, and so on—yes. The NRA’s supply system is working well, so raw materials are no problem. They’re unbelievable; if it’s not bolted down, they’ll steal it. But when it comes to fuses, high-yield explosives, and missile propellants, no. Too complex, too difficult, too damn dangerous to even try. We’d need dedicated fabricators for them, and sadly, we don’t have any. So we’re stuck with explosives that aren’t much good in modern ordnance.”

  Michael nodded. Missiles warheads in particular had shrunk dramatically thanks to the ever more powerful explosives packed inside them. The stuff the NRA produced was good for blowing DocSec trucks off the road, but that was about all, though he had to admit their fuel-air weapons were as good as anything the Hammers deployed.

  “That’s the problem,” he continued. “Before we committed to Gladiator, we asked ourselves if we could make a difference. We decided we could, and we have. The microfabs are making a huge contribution. The NRA is starting to get decent comms gear, we have upgraded their squad and crew-served weapons, their chromaflage is better than the Hammers’, their body armor and helmets are almost as good as ours, they have proper medibots. I could go on and on. The problem is—”

  “The problem is,” Sedova said, cutting him off, her finger stabbing out to make the point, “that the small stuff might help, and it does. It makes a big difference, but the small stuff does not win wars. Big stuff wins wars, and that we cannot make: battlesats, kinetics, landers, air-superiority fighters, large-caliber artillery, decoys, drones, and heavy armor. Christ! The list is endless. If the NRA had enough big stuff, this war would be all but over. They have enough people, they have the will, they hold the moral high ground, they have the support of close to 80 percent of those poor bastards out there in Kraa land, but they don’t have the big guns. You can’t win a war with an assault rifle, even if it’s a Fed assault rifle.”

  “So tell me, Kat, was it a mistake?” Michael’s face was grim.

  “Coming here, you mean? Being part of Gladiator?”

  Michael nodded.

  Sedova looked at Acharya for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Like you said, we asked ourselves if we could make a difference, and we have. The landers, the microfabs, Kallewi’s marines, they all help. It’s just not enough. But that’s the rational view, and my decision never was all logic; emotion played a big part, a very big part, if I’m honest. A large part of me wanted to kick the shit out of the Hammers, and now that I can, I’m happy … very happy doing what I spent so much time and effort training for. Otherwise?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Otherwise, I’d be sitting around while Fleet and the politicians wrung their hands and prevaricated. Wait for another five years until the Hammers rebuilt that antimatter plant of theirs and blow us all to hell? Not bloody likely! Anyway, I have my own reasons for wanting to make a go of Commitment.”

  “Let me guess,” Michael said smiling broadly. “Trooper Zhu?”

  “Yes, Trooper Zhu, and don’t you say another word! My love life’s my own business.”

  “Okay, okay,” Michael said, putting his hand up to fend Sedova off. “What about you, Dev?”

  “We’ve talked a lot about this, obviously,” Acharya said, “and I agree with Kat. Doing what I became a Fleet officer to do—killing Hammers—is better than waiting to be slaughtered like some damn sheep. I worry about one thing, though.”

  “What?”

  Acharya’s face creased with concern. “Whether I’ll feel the same way in a year’s time, especially if there’s no end in sight. I don’t want to die here. I want to go home sometime,” he added softly.

  Don’t we all, Michael said to himself. Don’t we all. “I’d better go,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Adrissa has a project for me. No idea what it is, but I’d better start off looking keen. When are you guys flying next?”

  “Tomorrow,” Sedova said. “The Hammers might be taking a break, but the NRA isn’t.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Sedova shook her head. “Nah,” she said, “the usual. Hammer forward operating bases. Hit and run. Get in quick, dodge the surface-to-air, beat the crap out of the Hammers, and head for home before the Kingfishers and their Alarics turn up. One day the buggers are going to wake up and mount standing air patrols over the Bretonville-Daleel front, and then we’re in trouble. Until then …”

  “Take care,” Michael said, shaking hands with both of them.

  “We will.”

  Back at his desk, Adrissa commed him to come to her office.

  “Take a seat,” she said when he entered what was little more than an alcove laser-cut out of the limestone and screened off by a flimsy plasfiber partition.

  Michael sat. “Yes, sir?” he said.

  “First, I know perfectly well that you’d rather be with the 120th, but trust me when I say that there are more important things for you to be doing right now. So please spare me an endless succession of transfer requests. I’ll let you go when we’re finished. Is that understood?”

  Michael nodded. “Sir.”

  “Good,” Adrissa said. “Now that’s out of the way, let me talk about what I need. If you look at the holovid, you’ll see that …”

  “So that’s the background. Here’s what I want, Michael. I won’t set a deadline because I want it done right. That doesn’t mean you can loaf around daydreaming. Ideally, no longer than two weeks, but if you need more time, you can have it.”

  “Understood, sir,” Michael replied.

  “Good. There are two parts to the assignment. Part one: a detailed strategic assessment of the NRA’s prospects of defeating the Hammers.”

  “No problems there, sir. I spend most of my waking hours thinking about that.”

  “I suspected as much. You have reason.”

  “Yes, sir. I have. Part two?”

  “Part two is the bit you may not have spent so much time thinking about. If part one confirms what I think we already know—that the NRA cannot win unless things change—I want to know what they need to defeat the Hammers.”

  “Okay, Captain, but isn’t that … isn’t that, you know, just …”

  “A meaningless exercise,” Adrissa said with a faint smile. “Is that what you were trying to say?”

  Michael’s face reddened. “No, sir. That wasn’t quite what I meant.”

  “Pleased to hear it, Lieutenant Helfort. Officers of my rank and experience are not in the habit of conducting meaningless exercises.”

  “No, sir. I know that, but even if we work out what the NRA needs, where does that get us? They are the best scroungers in humanspace. If they can steal something from the Hammers, they will. We know that.”

  “Yes, they are,” Adrissa said, shaking her head. “They’ve turned it into a fine art. That operation last week was a killer. Eight complete Gordian surface-to-air missile batteries complete with reloads out of Kortenaer Defense Systems’ plant. What a gem.” She shook her head again, eyes wide in open disbelief. “And what about the convoy of trucks? Not once were they checked, not once. Hundreds of kilometers they covered, trundling along through the countryside cool as you like all the way to the NRA’s front door. Unbelievable.”

  “Wonderful what corruption can do for you,” Michael said. “I liked the way the duty manager was bribed with stored-value cards stolen from the Hammer of Kraa Bank. Just a pity DocSec caught up with him before he could spend any of it. It was a great operation, but the problem is this. The NRA needs Gordian batteries to keep marine landers away from thei
r troops on the ground, lots of them. Eight systems is great, but that only brings their total inventory up to … let me see, yes, forty-one, and most of those can only fire one salvo.”

  Adrissa nodded. “True enough. Doesn’t alter the fact that I want to know what they need. When we understand that, we can look at the next question.”

  “How to get it for them,” Michael said, a tiny flame of hope flickering into life. Had Adrissa found a way out of the mess she—and the rest of the Feds—were in? Please let it be so, he said to himself.

  “Exactly so. How we get it for them. General Vaas and the NRA are doing their best, so I think it is going to be up to us, and before you ask, because I can see it in your eyes, no, I don’t have any solutions to that nasty little problem.”

  “Oh,” Michael said, masking his disappointment.

  “One thing at a time, Michael, one thing at a time. Let’s get parts one and two finished. When they are, we’ll turn our minds to part three: how the NRA gets what it needs. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael replied.

  “Well?” she demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Sorry, sir. Permission to carry on?”

  “Go.”

  “Sir,” Michael said.

  He made his way back to his desk. Knowing that Adrissa had no magic wand to wave was frustrating, but at least she was not sitting on her ass moaning about being trapped on Commitment thanks to the actions of a mutinous young officer. Who knows, he decided, there might just be a way forward. As the man responsible for the Feds’ current predicaments, who better than he to work out what that way forward was?

  Energized and excited, he sat down. Closing his eyes, he started work.

  Friday, December 21, 2401, UD

  FLTDETCOMM, Branxton Base, Commitment

  “… and that concludes my presentation,” Michael said. He scanned the faces of Adrissa and her staff. “Are there any questions?”

  “I have a couple, but I’ll ask them at the end,” Adrissa said. “Anyone else?”