by Jay Allan
“Yes, sir.” Potsdorf pulled up the unitwide channel. “Attention all units…attack.”
“I want a full report, Captain. Any further progress on those subsurface contacts?” Admiral Young’s voice blared through the open com, and the impatience in his voice was obvious to everyone listening on Norfolk’s bridge.
“No further sightings, sir.” Captain Harcourt switched to his private com link. “Not since the first two, sir.” Harcourt was not an officer who took his duty as seriously as Young did. He was another privileged hack from a political family but, unlike Young, he’d have been happy to sit around and spend his family’s money with nothing to do. But his father had been a naval officer, another younger sibling who’d only ended up taking the family’s Senate seat when his older brother died suddenly from the X-2 virus. He insisted all his younger children serve as he had, and so far, at least, Harcourt’s older sister remained perfectly healthy and ready to take the Seat. It was an unfortunate situation as far as he was concerned, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Life as a naval officer had been barely tolerable before war broke out, but having enemies shooting at him was more than he could handle. And dealing with Admiral Young and his gung ho bullshit was really starting to wear on him.
“Well, they’re out there somewhere, Captain, and I expect you to find them. If we lose any of those troop transports, I will hold you personally responsible. Do you understand me?”
Harcourt almost felt Young’s eyes boring into him through the audio-only connection. He’d have tried to bully the fleet commander to get him off his ass, but Young’s family was even better connected than Harcourt’s, so that was a non-starter. “Yes, sir.” Harcourt tried to keep the whining out of his voice, with only marginal success. “I understand.”
“Very well, Captain. I’ll let you get to it. Young out.”
The com unit went silent, and Harcourt stared angrily around Norfolk’s bridge. His gaze settled on the officer at the scanner station. “Well, Commander…have you got anything for me yet?”
“No, sir.” Commander Simorino started to look up from his scope when he froze suddenly. “Wait a minute, sir…”
“What is it?” Harcourt’s tone was dripping with impatience.
“Sir, I have eight enemy contacts.” Simorino’s voice was distracted, and his face was pressed against the scope as he spoke. “It almost looks like they’re preparing to launch…” His voice stopped dead.
“Launch what, Commander?” Harcourt snapped.
Simorino hesitated another few seconds. Then his head spun around, and he stared at the captain. “The enemy is launching cruise missiles, sir.”
“What the hell do they think eight ships are going to accomplish…” Harcourt felt realization grab him like a cold hand gripping his spine. He poked at his com panel, connecting again with the admiral. “Admiral Young…I believe we have an incoming nuclear strike on the convoy.”
The hypersonic missiles streaked rapidly over the roiling waves, heading for the Alliance fleet at eight times the speed of sound. They would cover the nearly 300 kilometers from their launch platforms to the convoy in less than 100 seconds. By the time the Alliance fleet could react and get any significant interdictive assets into the air, they would have closed most of the distance.
Their flight pattern had been designed to bypass the escort ships deployed around the transports as much as possible, but the salvo couldn’t avoid them all. About halfway to their targets, the sky began to fill with clouds of metallic shards fired from the railguns of the Alliance warships. Missiles began to explode in midair. At almost 3,000 meters per second, it didn’t take much mass to obliterate one. But for every intercepted weapon, two made it through the defenses and continued on to the targeted ships.
The cruise missiles followed a zigzag pattern, trying to throw off the enemy defensive systems as they closed on the target zone. The random vectors were a highly effective defense mechanism during the early stages of the approach, but the Alliance commanders guessed that the troop convoy was the target, and they were able to get anti-missile ordnance up in a perimeter around the transports. The defensive rockets homed in on the approaching cruise missiles, knocking another 20 out of the sky while the target vessels submerged as quickly as possible.
But a third of the 200 missiles made it through the defenses and dove into the water after the target ships. They slowed abruptly just before breaking the waves, and the weapons split into 6 super-cavitating torpedoes, each one tipped with a 500 kiloton warhead.
The Alliance forces launched countermeasures and underwater interdiction systems, but it was too late to stop all the incoming warheads. They spread out, bracketing the target area and began detonating.
A massive plume of water rose from the surface, followed by another a kilometer south. Then another…again and again, until 138 nuclear explosions had roiled the South China Sea. Underneath the massive waves, submerged vessels were buffeted by shockwaves and their hulls were breached. The troopships were armored, but not as heavily as warships, and one after another they were torn open, their rent hulls quickly sinking to the sea bottom, 4,000 meters below. Every one that went down took 122 crew and 1,040 soldiers with it.
Damage assessment would be difficult and approximate at first, but two things were immediately clear. First, the CAC had seriously hurt the Alliance’s resupply efforts for the forces dug in outside Manila. And second…they had just massively escalated the conflict.
Francis Oliver sat at his desk, his head resting in his hands. There was nothing but bad news, wherever he looked. The Cogs were running wild in half the cities of the Alliance, and it was just a matter of time before that became every metropolis. The economic crisis had shut down their food supplies, and the government simply didn’t have the resources to replace them…not while keeping supplies flowing to the Political and middle classes too.
It was bad enough in Washbalt, but things were completely out of control in New York. The mobs had overrun an army unit sent to drive them away, and the murderous Cogs were right outside the gates of the Manhattan Protected Zone. He’d dispatched air transport to ferry the important families out of the city, but there were still hundreds of thousands of middle class residents – and the less influential Political families too, cowering in their apartments as the city police manned the Wall.
The police knew they’d be among the first the mob ripped to shreds, so they were grimly determined to hold the Wall. They mounted every heavy weapon they had along the top of the 20-meter bastion, and they blasted anything that came within half a kilometer.
The mob had lost thousands in the fighting against the army units, and hundreds more from the police fire from the Wall. But every loss just fueled their anger further, increased the brutal savagery and suicidal courage of the Cogs. The crowd was like an animal now, with its own will, its own white hot rage. It didn’t want to argue, it didn’t want to negotiate. Generations of brutal repression had turned to hatred, freedom so long denied now burst out of them as savage cries for vengeance. Oliver had originally tried to find food supplies to divert to them, but now he doubted it would matter. Things had gone too far, and it was going to take more than a few rations to put the Cogs back in their place.
The war had gotten off to a promising start with the naval victory in the South China Sea, but then things went downhill sharply. The Caliphate forces in northern Africa had launched an assault on the Alliance-owned provinces in the south and broken through in several places. The Alliance forces had withdrawn over 300 kilometers, and they were on their third commander.
Then, a CAC hunter-killer pack had targeted the Philippines troop convoy and its escorts with a nuclear attack, launching over 200 cruise missiles. The attack was clumsily executed, and almost half the transports survived to land at Manila, but that was cold comfort. The ship and troop losses were still severe, and the CAC escalation left him with a very difficult decision about his next step. Admiral Young was r
equesting an unlimited release to use nuclear warheads, and General Simpson on Luzon was insisting he be allowed to launch a chemical strike on the attacking CAC ground forces.
Oliver had forgotten how many aspirin he’d taken, and he threw back four more, washed down with cold coffee. He had just put his head back down when the buzzer sounded.
“I have Number One here, sir.” The voice of his chief of staff sounded loud on the speaker, though he suspected it was the pain in his head and not the actual volume.
“Send him in.”
The door opened and Ryan Warren, Alliance Intelligence’s new Number One, came walking in, his shoes snapping hard on the polished wood floor. He was hunched over with fatigue and moving slowly as he made his way to the president’s desk.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Warren.” Oliver’s voice was pleasant, respectful.
Warren knew immediately the president was scared…that he didn’t know what to do. That fact might have comforted him more with regard to their power dynamic if he himself had any ideas.
“Please have a seat.”
My God, Warren thought, he looks like hell. He took a breath and wondered if he looked as bad. One glance at Oliver’s expression told him he did. “Thank you, sir.” Warren flopped down into the chair with considerably less grace than he’d normally have shown in the office of the president. “Where shall we start, sir?”
“With the Cogs, Ryan.” The war was far away, at least for the moment. But there were two million Cogs rioting just outside the Washbalt Core…and it was the same at the other cities. “We have to do something to deal with these mobs.”
Warren leaned back into the chair. The soft leather was so comfortable, he had to resist the urge to yawn. Sleep was a dim memory, something he remembered doing ages ago…before popping stims had become his daily routine. “Well, Mr. President, I believe the time for half-measures has passed.” He paused. “I know the combat forces are in need of reinforcement on multiple fronts, but I propose we divert a large contingent of army gunships to deal with the Cog problem.”
“Genocide?” There was concern in Oliver’s voice, but Warren knew better than to ascribe it to any moral concerns. “I am not overly fond of the Cogs, Ryan, but we do need them back in their factories if we are going to pull the economy out of this depression and maintain the war effort.”
“Do we, sir?”
Oliver stared across his desk. “We don’t have times for games, Ryan. Nothing is being produced right now. The factories and mines are idle. With the Martian situation and the wars on Earth and in space, no shipments are arriving from the colonies. How can we restart the economy with no factory workers?”
“I’m not suggesting we kill them all, sir.” Warren reached inside his jacket and pulled out a data crystal. “We have known for some time that there is a surplus population of Cogs, above and beyond the numbers needed to perform required menial tasks.” He reached out and placed the crystal on Oliver’s desk. “I believe that we can return to pre-crisis production levels with less than half the current population. My predecessor commissioned the study on that data crystal. It takes into consideration an increase in cost-effective mechanization and a more efficient deployment of Cog labor.” He paused as Oliver reached out and picked up the small crystal. “The conclusion was that a minimally acceptable Cog population would be less than 45% of current figures.” He was calm and businesslike, as if he were discussing a factory’s need for raw materials.
“So you are saying we can kill half the Cogs and still revive the economy back to its pre-collapse levels?”
“Yes, sir.” Warren’s voice was eerily unemotional for someone proposing the mass murder of 60,000,000 human beings. Gavin Stark had chosen his people carefully, and moral ambivalence was one of the primary characteristics he looked for. “The mobs will have no defense against air attack…they will be forced to disperse or face annihilation.” A small smile crept onto his lips. “Culling out the population will also reduce the food supplies required to sustain the survivors. And losing so many of their number will be a lesson those who remain won’t soon forget.”
Oliver leaned back in his chair. “Very well, Ryan. You choose the units to be deployed, and I will sign the orders.” He looked up and stared at Warren. “But make sure they don’t get carried away. We need half of these animals back at their jobs…and we need it soon.”
“Thank you, sir. Yes…I will make sure the proper…ah…restraint is used.” He hesitated, but when Oliver remained silent he took the initiative. “May I assume you also wish to discuss the escalation in the South China Sea?”
Oliver sighed. It had been one thing after another, and it showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. “Yes, I would like your opinion on an appropriate response to the CAC nuclear attack.”
“In my opinion, sir, we have little choice.” Warren’s face hardened. “It is dangerous to show weakness to the Cogs…to show it to the CAC would be suicidal. We must leave them no doubt that any escalation by them will trigger a greater response from us.”
“What do you propose?”
“First, I think it is essential to authorize Admiral Young to utilize any weapons he sees fit. The enemy fleet has gone nuclear. We cannot leave the admiral’s hands tied when he must face an enemy who is already using atomic weapons.”
“I am inclined to agree with you.” Oliver didn’t sound as convinced as Warren.
“I also believe we must authorize General Simpson to utilize both chemical and tactical nuclear weapons.” He could see the surprise on Oliver’s face. “Sir, the enemy escalated at a time and place of their choosing, when their attack could cause the maximum damage to our war effort. We must respond in kind. Admiral Young is not facing imminent enemy attack, but General Simpson is. With the loss of almost 50% of his expected reinforcements, he is in a difficult situation trying to hold the Manila perimeter. If the enemy strikes first again with enhanced weapons, they could shatter his line and seize Manila before we are able react. The conquest of the Philippines would be a fait accompli.”
“So, you are suggesting we escalate first in the Philippines? Launch an enhanced strike of our own before the enemy can?” Oliver understood the rationale…he even agreed with it. But he was afraid too. Things were beginning to move too quickly. He could feel the situation slipping out of his control.
“If we do anything else, we telegraph weakness, sir. We invite an even greater escalation.”
Oliver ran his hand slowly through his greasy, disheveled hair. It felt like an age since he’d had time for a shower and a fresh change of clothes. He turned and looked out the window at the Washbalt skyline. There was a nasty scar on the majestic image, the gaping pit where Alliance Intelligence headquarters had been. He imagined CAC ICBMs streaking down from the sky, their megaton warheads obliterating the Alliance’s magnificent capital with nuclear fire. Was that where the escalation would lead?
He sighed and wrestled with his own frustrations and fears. Finally, he looked right at Warren. “OK, Ryan. We will authorize both Admiral Young and General Simpson to deploy any tactical-ranged enhanced weapons in their arsenals at their own discretion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Ryan?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m implementing plan Stonewall. Prepare your A-team for evacuation to the Bunkers.
“Yes, Mr. President. Immediately, sir.”
Chapter 25
Near the Sentinel
Planet Armstrong
Gamma Pavonis II
“It looks like a significant force, General Cain.” Ali Khaled spoke calmly, but Cain could hear the grave tone in his voice. “Our best estimate of the transport capacity is two Alliance divisions.” Khaled stood outside the portable HQ shelter, his massive, armored form silhouetted against the setting sun. The Caliphate armor was bulkier than the Marine equivalents, and the alloy was slightly different, giving the metal a darker look.
Cain sighed softly. Another 30,000 en
emy troops, and they’d reach Armstrong orbit in two days. He felt a wave of anger and frustration. He and Khaled had finally pushed the enemy back on the defensive, and now the bastards had fresh reserves and resupply on the way. “That will stop our offensive dead in its tracks.” Cain turned to face Khaled, his expression troubled. “You came to our aid, Lord Khaled, as a true friend…yet I fear you have now become embroiled in a fight to the death…with no means of escape.”
“Were there such means, I would refuse them utterly. I would not live at the cost of abandoning a friend and ally. Death would be far preferable to such dishonor.” He paused before continuing, his voice becoming softer, more philosophical. “We are but pawns of fate, General. There is little enough of our destiny we can control, but loyalty and courage are two that we can.”
Khaled could feel Cain’s guilt, the Marine’s genuine sorrow that those who had come to his aid and stood by him were now trapped, facing an enemy far stronger than they had imagined. “Who could have thought that I would fight my final battle – if such this is destined to be – alongside Alliance Marines?” Khaled breathed deeply. “Yet, if the hour of my death is nigh, I could ask for no more honorable companions by my side.”
“Nor I, Lord Khaled. It has been a privilege to ally with you and with your warriors, both out on the Rim against the First Imperium and here on Armstrong.” He still felt a pang of guilt. The First Imperium was mankind’s enemy, a force that struck from deep space. It was only fair and just that the Powers faced that grievous threat together. But Gavin Stark and his Shadow Legions were a creation of the Alliance…at least more so than any other Power. Cain wondered how he would feel if he and his Marines faced death fighting the overwhelming forces of a madman from the Caliphate. Would he be as gracious and supportive as Khaled? He wanted to believe he would, but he wasn’t sure.
