by John Lumpkin
He only wished the orders had explained why.
USS Apache
On the large holo in the center of the CIC the red arrow representing vector of the Maqiang suddenly shortened, and winked out. Then it appeared again, stretching in the opposite direction. Similar vector markers appeared on the other Chinese ships. New coilgun shell markers appeared near several of them, but their patterns of fire had changed. They were now simply firing at the nearest enemy, instead of trying to prevent the Americans from pursuing the remaining runners.
They’re all turning to head back to Long Nu and the wormhole, Neil realized. It’s a full-on retreat. Somehow, we won.
Chapter 19
TOKYO – Hailing the bravery of the Japanese Self-Defense Force, Prime Minister Katsura confirmed reports from the Pentagon that the Chinese space forces around Saturn have withdrawn after a brief battle there, leaving the planet’s valuable fusion fuel resources back in allied hands. The retreating Chinese forces are said to be vectoring to join their fleet in Venus’ Trailing Trojan point. Katsura declined to discuss any losses or the contribution of American forces in the battle, and he refused to answer questions about the condition of the helium-three and deuterium extraction platforms in low Saturn orbit. Nor did he address reports of heavy British losses in a separate battle near Entente.
Near Sycamore, Sequoia Continent, Kuan Yin
“Patterson’s squad just came back,” Aguirre told Rand. “Looks like they got into another scrape.”
Rand shook his head. She was supposed to be scouting likely LZs for our troops, not engaging the enemy. If she can’t follow orders, I should relieve her. But maybe she’s just unlucky.
“Any casualties?” he asked.
“Got a PFC with a twisted ankle, but nothing worse. Patterson’s eager to talk to you, Cap.”
“All right, send her in.”
She must have been waiting right behind Aguirre, because she strode past him and laid a heavy green metal tube on his desk.
“What do you got there, Sergeant?” Rand asked.
“Part of a Han rocket launcher, sir.”
“I can see that. Why is it on my desk?”
“Sir, I know you said to avoid contact, but we came on a squad of Hans setting these up in our patrol area. I was in brigade intel before everything went up, and we had some reports these were close to deploying before the war. This is a booster for what we call an LC-3 Stoat. It’s a crew-served surface-to-orbit rocket.”
Aguirre said, “Nice little ambush they’re setting up for our landing forces.”
“Not just the drop pods, Sergeant. These things have a range of three-hundred-fifty klicks or so. They can hit the assault carriers.”
Why don’t we have any Stoats of our own? Rand thought. He was silent for a moment. We’re still out of contact with the fleet, so we can’t warn them. That leaves only one choice, and it’s not one I want to make.
“Anybody know what kind of predator hunts stoats?” he asked.
“No idea, sir,” Patterson said seriously. Aguirre suppressed a smile and shook his head.
“Well, whatever it is, we’re now one of those. We’ve got maybe three or four days before the landings start. Let’s get the word out that we need to take these down. And Patterson, nice work.”
Her face lighted up.
One more fight, and then we’re done, Rand thought.
USS Javier Benavidez y Diaz
“A legendary victory,” Komarov said. “I deeply regret we did not take part in it.”
Donovan grunted. Must be diplomatic, even now. We still need them. “War is a matter of self-interest, isn’t it?”
“And not noble causes? That’s a cynical view, Mister Calvin, but based on my commanders’ behavior of late, one I must agree with,” the Russian officer said. “Ah, but now the Chinese have truly fled, and we’re a fully reformed fleet, ready to advance against the enemy planet. So all’s well, isn’t it?”
Except for seven hundred Space Forcers who were killed in the battle, and the losses of so many ships, Donovan thought. No, all’s not well, and claiming so is the first mistake Komarov has made in our verbal jousting. He must be under a lot of pressure to let slip like that. Is he truly unhappy the Russian fleet broke off and is trying to mend fences? Or is there something else on his mind?
“What,” asked Donovan, “do you think caused the Chinese to retreat? They seemed to have the advantage when they bolted for the keyhole.”
“That is an excellent question. Most likely they were more pessimistic about their chances than you were. They did suffer grievous losses. Perhaps the enemy admiral decided not to sacrifice any more ships for that questionable piece of territory we are fighting over.”
USS Valley Forge
“Thrust holding at twelve milligees,” announced the engineering officer in the CIC. “We’re back in play.”
Erin didn’t join in the weak cheer. Her whole body hurt; the docs thought she might have suffered some lung damage during the explosive decompression that threw her from the ship. Captain Mallett had offered to take her off duty to recover, but she refused.
The ship’s hurt, but we’re still in the fight. Valley Forge had taken a devastating hit during the battle, but the repair teams had patched the hole, and she was able to stay with the fleet. Unlike Olympic, Concord, Ramage, Sprague, Chinook and Kiowa, who wouldn’t make it home. Cayo Muerto and San Francisco were not combat effective, and the final casualty – the light cruiser Chicago – was being abandoned. Something was wrong with her fusion candle; it was putting out dangerous levels of radiation, and the repair team was eating rads and couldn’t stop it. The ship would remain a piece of interplanetary flotsam until the danger abated and a repair ship could rendezvous – if anyone bothered, way out here on the frontier.
USS Apache
One of the big assault ships was close enough that Neil could watch, without any magnification, dozens of little lights flitting away from its launch bay.
The lancers were going in.
Their target was a constellation of reflector microsatellites in low or medium Kuan Yin orbit. The sats could redirect Chinese laser beams from their territory on the surface to almost any target in below a certain altitude. Destroying them was a necessary prelude to invasion; once they were shot down, the American and Russian ships could set up orbits that avoided passing low over the eastern portion of Fengsheng continent, where the Chinese defenses were concentrated.
The lancers were simple in design: a meter-long needle with a chemical thruster on one end and a small coilgun on the other, with four cylindrical fuel tanks arrayed along the shaft.
The robotic drones were efficient if indiscriminate hunters, shooting or ramming anything that passed over Fengsheng. Entertainment, weather and research satellites died alongside scores of reflectors. The operation took some time, but eventually Fengsheng’s skies were cleared.
Some part of this operation is actually going the way it should, Neil thought.
Marines boarded manned installations next, in increasingly lower orbits. The civilian stations surrendered without a fight, and most of the military ones had already been abandoned. After a week, only the lowest transfer stations, and one other set of targets, remained in Chinese hands.
“Mercer, respond.”
Neil didn’t recognize the voice, but only a higher-ranked officer could override the “ring” on his handheld and just start speaking to him remotely.
“Go ahead, ma’am,” Neil said.
“This is Major Amanda Clark, XO of the Second MOAB,” a Georgia-flavored voice said. That’s the Marine Orbital Assault Battalion on Pontchartrain. “I’ve got a gunnery sergeant in one of my companies who speaks well of you, so we’re tapping you for our next mission. Get over here pronto.”
“Aye aye, ma’am,” Neil said. “What’s the mission, if I may ask?”
“We’re boarding Eagle,” she said. “Need some of you brainiacs along to see what the Hans might have done to your old flagsh
ip, maybe grab that software that fucked up your fleet so badly. We should have you back in less than a watch.”
Jessica was asleep, her first rack time in more than twenty-four hours, so he decided against waking her before the mission.
The jumper, still in the launch bay on Pontchartrain, blinked into darkness as it shifted from ship’s power to its own.
“Careful, Bobby’s gonna start cryin’. He’s afraid of the dark,” the engineering tech sitting next to Neil said.
“Frank, get your hand off my knee.”
“That’s not my hand.”
“And that’s not his knee.”
The lights came on, and Neil joined the laughter. Maybe morale is coming back.
Their craft launched and pulled in behind a line of six assault jumpers, carrying between them two platoons of Marines specializing in zero-gravity combat. They had no direct evidence anyone was on board Eagle, the ship was emitting heat from its cooling fins, suggesting life support was still turned on inside.
The battleship was otherwise in bad shape. She had taken a pounding in the Second Battle of Kuan Yin and been captured and towed back to the planet’s orbit. Her coilgun turrets had been removed, presumably for study. But she was a valuable hull, one of America’s five largest, and, with enough time, she could be restored to the fight.
Two assault jumpers landed first. Their Marines found no defenders waiting for them, and they quickly gave the all-clear for their immediate environs.
As Neil’s jumper rotated to dock, he had a brief glimpse of Kuan Yin’s equatorial ocean, glittering blue some three hundred klicks beneath them, and he thought of fishing with Tippy on Entente. That was a better day. I hope Tippy made it.
The bay’s electromagnets were responding to the jumper’s commands, and the craft docked. The other four jumpers would remain outside to serve as a reserve force in case their boarding was suddenly contested.
That doesn’t seem likely, Neil thought as he pushed off through the tube connecting the jumper to the bay’s ready room. He exited and grabbed a handhold above his head, twisting and flipping over backward to clear the way for a sandy-haired engineer from the Texas, who was right behind him.
The ready room was an expansive space, with connections for no less than six small spacecraft. The “floor” was well below Neil, but the room lacked a clear down because the jumpers had to park at a different orientation to fit inside the bay.
Immediately across from Neil was a sideways red-headed Marine, who was grinning lopsidedly.
“Gunnery Sergeant Harkins, good to see you again,” Neil said. Tradition was in the absence of a clear down, lower ranks had to orient themselves to those who ranked higher, but Neil respectfully pulled himself over to Harkins’ angle. “I guess I have you to thank for my being here.”
“You bet, sir,” she said. “I told Major Clark you were a quiet guy, but the fun always seemed to find you.”
Neil gave a half-laugh. “What does …”
The engineer from the Texas floated into him. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” he said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Trying to figure out what that thing is.” He pointed to a small metal box in one corner of the ready room, apparently bolted to the wall. It didn’t look out of place, exactly, but there was no discernible logic behind its presence.
Neil recognized it immediately, from his visit to the wreck of the Gan Ying. Something clenched deep in his gut.
“We have to go, right now,” he said evenly.
“What?” Harkins asked.
“That’s the casing for a Chinese scuttling charge. They can blow the ship any time they want.”
The engineer from the Texas turned pale. Harkins put a hand to her ear and thumbed her handheld.
“Everybody out!” she said fiercely. “Get to the jumpers, now!”
Neil, Harkins and the engineer were the first back into their jumper. Others poured in: mostly other engineers, plus a few Marines who hadn’t ridden over with them. When in it was full, the pilot unlatched from the electromagnet and thrust away.
Eagle exploded.
The jumper’s pilot thrust and turned, but a chunk of the battleship struck it anyway, sending it into a spin on two axes. Alarms screamed from the cockpit. Neil’s shoulders pressed painfully against his straps; the engineer from the Texas was thrown from his seat and into the opposite wall, his arms and legs flailing. A loose box of ammunition slammed into the shoulder of a Marine captain sitting at the front of the compartment, and he howled in pain, and then passed out.
Over and over the jumper flipped and rolled, until Neil felt some counterpressure as the pilot tried to correct the spins. Eventually she got most of it. Neil could at last look at who else made it on board; he saw a dozen faces through the yellow haze of the ship’s emergency lights. Harkins was there, looking angry; she unstrapped and began to tie down the body of the dead engineer.
Neil scanned everyone’s collars. He unstrapped and went up to the cockpit.
“Can you talk?” he asked the pilot, whose nametag read “Salter.”
She looked at his single silver bar. “You in charge here?”
“’Fraid so.”
“I can talk. Thanks for asking first, by the way.”
“Shove me aside whenever you need to do your thing,” Neil said. “And I was a pilot before I was an intel guy, so I can drive one of these if necessary.”
She relaxed a little, Neil saw, but her eyes were dead. “Meantime, how we doing?” he asked.
“Bad. The main thruster’s dead. We need a rescue, soon.”
“I thought these jumpers had something like two days of air reserves?”
“Yep, but that’s not our problem,” she said. “Our problem is that when I punched it away from the Eagle, I didn’t care much about our trajectory. We’re deorbiting, and with the rocket gone, I can’t stop it. I screwed up, and we’ve got all of two hours.”
“You didn’t screw up,” Neil said. “You bought us two hours. Did anyone else make it out?”
“I don’t know. What the hell happened?”
“The ship was a trap. They must have been watching us on a telescope, hoping we’d put more people on board before they blew it up. When they saw us launch, they pulled the trigger.” I should have thought of that, and had her wait until all three jumpers were loaded. Unless they were listening to our comms …
Second Lieutenant Salter swore.
“Yeah,” Neil agreed. “Any hope of fixing the thruster?”
“Trust me, no. Big hole, no patch, no EVA gear on board.”
“Then we need to call for help.”
“Comm laser, also busted.”
“Radio?”
She just shook her head.
Okay, no help here, Neil thought. He said, “We’ve got a team of engineering techs in the back. If anyone can rig up something, they can.”
Twenty minutes later, the chief tech floated over to Neil.
“Next time, give us a challenge,” she said. She gave him a code, which he entered in his handheld. He heard a brief buzz in his ear, followed by an annoyed voice.
“Vega One-Five, this is Ghost Two-Three. You shouldn’t be talking to us, but your chief said we’d have a dozen dead on our conscience if we didn’t help. What’s the story?”
Neil explained. “Who are you, by the way?”
“Not over an unsecure channel. Stand by; we’ll be airlocking in twelve minutes.”
Salter retracted the armor covering the cockpit windows, and Neil beheld the sleek outline of a Starhawk dropship as it rolled over for a belly-rub with the wounded jumper.
When the hatch opened, the face looking up at them was grim. “Let’s go,” the dropship crew chief said. “You guys have screwed things up enough already.”
They hurried through the connection, and Neil’s suspicions were confirmed: Ghost 23 was a special operations drop, carrying a reconnaissance squad down to Sequoia continent to scout landing sites for the main invasion force. The uni
t was mostly Navy SEALs, with a pair of Space Force Special Tactics operators thrown in. They glowered at the new arrivals until one of the operators saw Neil’s Apache patch.
“Thanks for the save up at Long Nu,” the SEAL team leader, a lieutenant named Costa, told Neil. “This was supposed to be HALO drop, well out of range of their triple-A. But because of the thousand kilos of dead weight you’re bringing aboard, we had to dump fuel, and we can’t get back to orbit from the drop altitude. General Grogan won’t abort the mission, so we’re going to have to land and wait for a fuel pod before we can take off again.”
Costa let the Marines bring their personal weapons along, but he insisted everything else be left behind, including the body of the dead engineer.
The jumper burned up in Kuan Yin’s orbit thirty minutes later.
Near Hill 2941, Sequoia Continent, Kuan Yin
Rand’s platoon was well southeast of Sycamore, in rolling hills that marked the boundary between the mountains and the high plains that dominated the center of Sequoia. Earth plant life had made few inroads into the native regolith, but great boulders sat on the hillsides, providing excellent cover.
Beneath the platoon was a long line of two-meter-tall Chinese Stoats, their nosecones pointed at the nighttime sky. The soldiers who operated and guarded them were busy enough: It wasn’t a sleeping night during Kuan Yin’s 16-hour-day.
Rand sighted his M7 on the woman who had done the most pointing during the fifteen minutes he had been observing the Chinese unit, thought for a long moment about Yancey, McKay, Pravitz, Ramirez, and Torren, and fired. The rest of the platoon followed his lead.
Ghost 23, over Kuan Yin
Neil knew what the alarms from the cockpit meant. We’ve been detected.
“Everyone double-check your straps and make sure everything is tied down,” the co-pilot announced over the intercom. “Bandits chasing us.”
The dropship jerked and rolled, and something like hailstones battered its side, but the alarms quieted.
“Our screen is clear,” the co-pilot said. “Han interceptors fired three missiles at us, and one burster got close enough to be a threat. But our screens read green, so we’re all right.”
