Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  General Mahoney wanted to make very sure that his new fort would remain undiscovered until exactly the right moment. His com line with Sten was via a ground-cable ULF transmitter. Sten responded with previously coded single-dit signals. Other than that, the fort remained completely passive.

  It took Mahoney four days to prepare his major offensive.

  A battle can have many objectives—to gain territory, to mask a second attack, etc. Mahoney's attack was designed to kill Tahn soldiers.

  He explained his battle plan very carefully to Admiral van Doorman. Once van Doorman understood the plan, he was ecstatic. He was sure that the battle would shatter the Tahn and force them to withdraw from Cavite—or at least to retreat into defensive quarters.

  Ian Mahoney wondered how van Doorman had managed to spend so many years in the service and still believe there was a pony in there somewhere.

  The most that could happen was that the Tahn juggernaut might be thrown back and stalled for a while. Mahoney saw no other strategy than the one he had begun with—to try to keep fighting until Cavite could be reinforced. This was a possibility that he viewed as increasingly unlikely. But in the meantime, he could make victory increasingly expensive for Lady Atago and the Tahn.

  And so, expecting nothing, the Empire attacked.

  The Tahn, of course, had air supremacy around the perimeter. Their constantly patrolling tacships made sure that any men or vehicles moving near the lines stood an odds-on chance of being hit.

  Farther back, closer to Cavite Base, Mahoney still had enough functioning AA launchers to keep off all but major Tahn air strikes. Under cover of darkness, he moved half of his available launchers forward and positioned them just inside the perimeter sector near Strongpoint Sh'aarl't.

  Van Doorman had very few warships left besides the carefully hidden Swampscott. But one of them was the destroyer commanded by Halldor, the Husha.

  The Tahn normally kept their tacships grounded during darkness, maintaining air superiority with destroyers equipped with warning sensors some kilometers beyond the lines. A night sortie by Imperial ships would bring an instant response, but the Tahn ground-support craft would not be worn out by constant patrolling.

  At sunrise, the Tahn tacships lifted from their forward bases toward the lines.

  At sunrise plus fifteen minutes, the Husha bellowed out of its underground hanger and, at full Yukawa drive, swept toward and then across the perimeter. Weapons yammering, the Husha shattered the flotilla of Tahn ships patrolling that sector. By the time the Tahn had cruisers and destroyers over that part of the perimeter, the Husha was already grounded and safe.

  Lady Atago and Admiral Deska asked why an Imperial ship would have made the sweep. The answer was obvious—van Doorman proposed an attack.

  They reinforced their aerial elements and sent them forward over the lines.

  The Tahn ships were easy targets as the Empire's AA tracks threw off their camouflage and launched.

  More Tahn ships, including one cruiser, were killed. The Tahn infantry was put on full alert.

  And the Imperial Forces made their assault.

  Atago was surprised—the first wave wasn't made up of Guard forces. Instead, ragtag soldiers of the naval provisional battalions went forward.

  For the Tahn landing forces, they were easy targets.

  The naval battalions held briefly, then reeled back, back beyond their original positions.

  This was the weak point that Atago had been waiting for. This was a chance to drive a spearhead through the Empire's lines and possibly take Cavite Base itself.

  The time was close to nightfall.

  Atago ordered her forces to consolidate their salient. At dawn, they would attack once more.

  Four hours later, both EliInt and Siglnt told Atago that Mahoney was reinforcing the defensive positions with armor. What few assault tracks were undamaged appeared, indeed, to be moving toward the perimeter.

  Very good, Lady Atago thought. Her own heavy equipment outnumbered the Imperial tracks by ten to one. Now was the chance to completely smash the Imperial Forces on Cavite. She stripped her own units bare, sending armor forward, organized by hastily established combat commands.

  The plan, she knew, would be that at dawn she would attack. General Mahoney would counterattack with his tanks. And her own mailed fist would rumble forward.

  There were three hours until dawn. Lady Atago slept the sleep of a heroine. General Ian Mahoney, on the other hand, slurped caff and snarled. From his side of the lines, things were very different. The attack by the Husha had been very deliberate, intended to destroy not only Tahn tacships but their reinforcements. That assault had indeed been made by naval battalions, but battalions commanded by officers from the First Guards, who had carefully choreographed the events. Attack ... and then fall back beyond the lines.

  The Tahn counterattack reached positions predetermined by Mahoney, positions that were actually indefensible.

  The backup armor that Mahoney had moved forward was mostly gravsleds equipped with noise simulators. They broadcast using call signs of the Guards armor and on Guards armor wavelengths.

  Only sixteen Guard assault tracks were on the front lines. At dawn, they went forward—and were obliterated.

  It was a disaster. But none of the Tahn investigated those smoking hulks and found out that they were remote-controlled. Not a single Guardsman died in those tracks.

  Atago sent her armor in to attack through the salient.

  The com grid hummed, and outside the Imperial perimeter, hydraulics hissed into motion and gun turrets ripped through turf, their cannon seeking and then locking onto their targets.

  Strongpoint Sh'aarl't was alive.

  Alive and killing.

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  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  NO ONE INSIDE the fort was entirely sure that the chaincannon, even though they looked functional, wouldn't blow up when the first round went down the tubes. Sten had ordered the crews out of the turrets and the flash doors sealed before he gave the firing command.

  The three cannon roared, sounding like, as Tapia somewhat indelicately put it, “dragons with diarrhea.” With a rate of fire of 2,000 rounds per minute, the sound was a wall of solid explosions.

  The chaincannon had been intended for defense against high-speed aerial attackers. So although the computer may have been primitive by Foss's standards, its ability to acquire the low-speed targets that were the Tahn tanks was infallible.

  The shells were supposed to be incendiary, but only about a third of them went off. It didn't matter—the solid sheet of metal simply can-openered the armor.

  Sten heard a squeal of “It works! It works!"—probably from Tapia—as he ordered the gun crews back into the turrets.

  Strongpoint Sh'aarl't worked very well indeed.

  The first wave of tanks was already rumbling through what had been the Imperial outer perimeter when Mahoney ordered the fort to open up. Meanwhile, three-man Guards teams armed with hunter/killer missiles came out of their spider holes and slaughtered the Tahn tracks within minutes.

  Sten had more than enough targets in the three kilometers between the fort and the perimeter.

  Lady Atago was holding the bulk of her armor back to reinforce the spearhead. Since the Tahn knew they had air superiority and were out of line-of-sight of the perimeter, they had the tanks stacked up along the approach routes bow to stern.

  Sten, or rather, Foss—or rather the fort's computer—let the chaincannon follow those jammed rubbled roads. The computer tabbed sixty tanks hit and destroyed, and then a series of sympathetic explosions sent fireballs boiling down the streets. The computer, a little sulkily, told Foss that it had lost count.

  A red light gleamed—the quad projectile turret, Alex in charge, was in action. The Tahn infantry had recovered from the shock of being hit from the rear and were attacking toward the hill. As long as the antipersonnel chaingun kept firing, it would keep the grunts well out of effecti
ve range. Nothing hand-held could punch through the fort's armor—or so the archaic specifications promised.

  "All turrets. You're on local control. Find your own targets."

  Finally Tapia had some power. She sat in the command capsule on the gunlayer's sight. It looked not unlike a padded bicycle sans wheels, with a hood atop its handlebars. The handlebars, backed by the turret's own computer, were slaved to the cannon.

  Four tanks blew apart before the attacking column was able to reverse out of sight behind a building. Out of sight—but not safe. Tapia shouted for the cannon's rate-of-fire control to maximum and chattered a long burst along the ruin's base. The building toppled, crushing the tanks.

  Tapia experimented. If she kept firing her gun at maximum rate, the fort would run dry—a gauge showed that the ammo lockers for the gun were already down to eighty percent capacity. She learned how to conserve. Set the cannon's rate of fire to minimum (about 750 rpm) and tap the firing key. Exit one tank.

  This was interesting, Tapia thought. She spotted six armored fighting vehicles crossing into the open, spun her sights, but was too late as another turret blew them into scrap metal. Tapia swore and looked around the battlefield again.

  The fort was surrounded by the hulks of burning tanks. Smoke plumed up into a solid column around the strong-point. Tapia switched her sights from optical to infrared and found something interesting. A track—and it ain't shooting at me. Very interesting. The track was in fact a command track housing the Tahn armored brigade commander. Since the CT had required an elaborate communications setup yet its designers hardly wanted the track to be readily identifiable as the brains behind an attack, the main gun had been replaced by a dummy. Tapia chortled, aimed carefully, and...

  And the fort shook and her ears clanged in spite of the protective muffs all of the sailors wore.

  In the command center, Sten hit a red control, and all of the turrets popped down, leaving nothing but a featureless hilltop for the now-positioned Tahn artillery to shoot at. The environmental system had finished venting the fort and had stored air in backup tanks. If Atago deployed a nuke or chemicals, Sten was ready to switch the fort into its own environment.

  Sten doubted that would happen—Lady Atago needed this real estate to attack through. And only in the war livies did soldiers choose to fight in the balky, uncomfortable, and dangerous fighting suits if there was any other option.

  "All combat stations. Report."

  "Turret A. All green."

  "Turret C. We're fine. Noiser'n hell, Skipper.” That was Tapia, of course.

  "Turret D. They're knocking up some dust. No damage."

  "No puh-roblems from the shotgun squad, boss,” Kilgour reported from the antipersonnel turret.

  Sten was starting to be a little impressed with whoever had built this fort, regardless of their obviously moronic inspiration.

  A screen lit. It was Mahoney. With the fort in the open, he had reverted to a standard com link with Sten.

  "Report!” Mahoney, in midoperation, was all efficiency.

  "Strongpoint Sh'aarl't,” Sten said, equally formally, “at full combat readiness. Expended weaponry filed ... now! No casualties reported. Awaiting orders."

  Mahoney cracked a smile. “Adequate, Commander. Stand by. They'll be hitting you full-strength next."

  "Understood. Sh'aarl't. Out."

  * * * *

  The Tahn assault tracks were pulled back out of range of the fort's cannon. Atago tried air strikes.

  Sten, not expecting any real results, switched the fire and control computer for aerial targets. Now on fully automatic, the guns elevated, whined, and spat fire.

  Tahn tacships were sharded out of the skies. This should not be happening, Sten told himself. I am manning an archaic weapons system. Hasn't technology progressed?

  Foss had the explanation. Archaic, was it? The guns were tracking, and the projectiles’ proximity fuses were detonating on, long-abandoned frequencies. None of the Tahn ships had ECM sets broadcasting on those frequencies.

  Sten was starting to feel a certain fondness for his ancient gray elephant.

  "Shall we abandon the attack, Lady?"

  Atago ran yet another prog on the computer. “Negative."

  Deska tried not to show surprise. “The attrition rate from that one fort is unacceptable."

  "This is true. However, consider this. That fort is quite effective. The Imperial Forces are weak. Therefore, if that fort can be destroyed, we should be able to punch completely through their lines. And all that is necessary is to change our tactics. Which I have already done. The first stage shall commence within moments."

  * * * *

  It was fortunate for the Tahn that Lady Atago had tried to prepare for any eventuality when she structured her battle plans. She hit Strongpoint Sh'aarl't with monitors.

  Monitors should not have been part of the Tahn fleet for the Cavite operation, since there would be no conceivable use for the single-purpose behemoths.

  Monitors were large, bulky warships. They were heavily armored and carried light secondary antimissile armament. Their only weapon was a single monstrous launch tube located along the ship's centerline, much as the Kali launch tubes on the Bulkeley-class tacships were located, but enormously larger. The missile—projectile—fired by the monitors was, in fact, somewhat larger than a tacship.

  A monitor was a miniature spacecraft powered by AM2 engines. It was guided by a single operator into its target, and was intended for offplanet warfare, to be used against fortified moonlets or planetoids only.

  Tahn intelligence had told Atago that no such space forts existed in the Fringe Worlds. Atago decided, however, to add two to her fleet, just in case. Now those two monitors were deployed against Sten's fort.

  One monitor hovered, nose down, just outside Cavite's atmosphere, and fire belched from its nose. The missile flashed downward.

  The reason that monitors weren't used against close-range targets became obvious. At full AM2 drive, it is almost impossible for the operator to acquire his target and home the missile in. Automatic homing was also, of course, too slow. The vast standoff distances of space warfare were vital for success, especially since the cost of each missile was just about that of a manned tacship.

  Atago was not concerned with any of that—if Cavite's fall was delayed much longer, Atago's own fall would be guaranteed.

  Still accelerating, the first missile missed the fort by only 500 meters—its operator was very skilled. The shock wave flattened what ruins were still standing near Strongpoint Sh'aarl't for almost a kilometer.

  Sten was getting out of his command chair when the missile landed. He found himself sprawled flat against a wall two meters away, in blackness. A generator hummed, and secondary lighting went on. Sten was seeing double. Dust motes hung in the air.

  He stumbled back to the board. “All stations. Report!"

  And, amazingly, they did.

  The impact, of course, had been even more severe up in the turrets. Tapia was bleeding from the nose and ears. But her cannon was still battle-worthy, as were Turrets A and D. The video to Kilgour's antipersonnel turret was out, but there was still an audio link to the center.

  By the time Sten had his status, Foss had analyzed what had hit them.

  "Very nice,” Sten said. Ears still ringing, he and everyone else in the fort were talking very loudly. “What happens if they hit us direct?"

  "No prog available,” Foss said.

  "Very nice indeed. Can you give us any warning?"

  "Not when they launch. But they'll be bringing those two monitors on and off station to fire. It'll take ‘em some time to reload. As soon as they get on-station, I'll hit the buzzer.

  "Speaking of which,” Foss said, looking at a screen, “that other clot's getting ready to try his luck."

  Sten had time to order all turret crews down into the ready rooms before the second missile hit. This one missed by almost a full kilometer, and the shock was no worse than, Sten
estimated, getting punched by Alex.

  The gun crews recovered and clattered back up the ladders into the turrets. There were targets waiting for them. Atago had started the second stage, sending assault units forward just when she saw the fort's turrets turtle up. Behind the tracks moved waves of assault infantry.

  But her plan became a bloody stalemate. The monitor's rounds did drive Sten's sailors from their guns.

  But they also destroyed anything around the fort that could have been used as cover for the tracks.

  And the monitors took a very long time to reload and fire. There was not time enough for the tracks to close on the fort after the missile exploded before Strongpoint Sh'aarl't was blasting back.

  They had reached a stalemate. It wasn't livable inside the fort, but it was survivable. And then two things occurred:

  The seventh round from a monitor hit about 175 meters from the fort. The blast was enough to smash the lock on the second, unmanned and inoperable, antipersonnel quad projectile turret. The turret popped up—and stayed up.

  And on Sten's central control board, no warning light went on.

  The second thing was that Tahn Superior Private Heebner got lost.

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  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  PRIVATE HEEBNER WOULD never be used on a recruiting poster. He was short—barely within the Tahn minimum-height requirements—somewhat bowlegged, and had a bit of a potbelly. Not only that, his attitude wasn't very heroic, either.

  Heebner had been conscripted from his father's orchards most reluctantly. But he knew better than to express that reluctance to the recruiting officer—the Tahn had Draconian penalties for and loose interpretations of draft resistance. He became even more reluctant when the classification clerk at the induction center informed Heebner that the military had no equivalent for “Fruit, Tree, Manual Gatherer of” and promptly made him a prospective infantryman.

  Heebner endured the physical and mental batterings of training quietly in the rear rank. Since he expected nothing, he wasn't as disappointed as some other recruits who discovered that an active duty battalion was run just as brutally as basic training. All Heebner wanted was to do the minimum necessary to keep his squad sergeant from striking him, to stay alive, and to go home.