The last two missiles came in on the same target, one of the stealth/attack ships with an attached gate. The ship was almost helpless, unable to bring its own defensive weapons to bear due to the portal being in the way. A battleship was in the process of transiting the gate, the fifteen million ton Queen Elizabeth III. Half of the ship was through, but it was still in no position to defend itself or the gate. Still, the forwardmost laser ring was able to get in a pair of shots. One hit a missile square on the nose from a hundred kilometer range, detonating the missile at a distance from which the radiation load was minimal. The second missile was hit by the stern, causing it to go into a tumble that caused it to detonate a kilometer from the gate.
The battleship would have handled that close a blast with little problem except for some surface damage. The gate itself was much more fragile, and the frame couldn’t handle that heat. Two hundred meters of the outer portion of one frame side boiled away into vapor, destroying the connection that kept the magnetic field operating that held the wormhole open. The wormhole collapsed, shearing through the section of the ship that was still transiting the hole as if it didn’t exist. The forward end of the ship separated from the hole and flew out into space at two kilometers a second. One of the missile magazines had been cut in two, and a warhead breached containment a moment later, causing a gigaton class explosion that ripped through that part of the ship. Thirty more warheads went off in sympathetic detonation, a brilliant flare that blinded every visual sensor for thousands of kilometers around. The safety systems had engaged a microsecond before, sending more warheads out into space sealed in protective cases, their emergency com systems blaring for a pickup by a friendly ship.
The forward section of the Queen Elizabeth III disappeared in a cloud of fast expanding vapor, taking what was left of the gate portal framework and the stealth/attack ship Grampus with it. Fortunately for that area of space, there were not many particles left above the size of a molecule, so all the other vessels in the area were able to weather the blast.
The stern fared no better, and it was much worse on the whole for the surrounding area than that of the front. The wormhole pinch that severed the vessel in half cut through the front section of engineering, where the matter antimatter reactors were housed. Two of the containment vessels were ruptured at the front end, releasing their antiprotons into the region. The forty gigaton blast ripped the rear half of the battleship apart, and the other containment capsules ruptured in the blast, adding their antimatter to the fury, boosting the forty gigaton blast up to three hundred gigatons. Warheads breached containment microseconds later, adding almost two hundred more gigatons to the small star that birthed in the middle of the gathered force that had been waiting for transit.
Later analysis would show how fortunate it was that the rear, antimatter rich section of the ship exploded in that system almost a thousand light years away. If it had gone off thirty thousand kilometers from the inhabited planet, the radiation wave could have killed a hundred million of the humans on that world. As it was, it caused heavy damage to dozens of the nearer vessels, moderate damage to scores more, and lighter hull scaring to hundreds of more. Four thousand crew, beside the five thousand four hundred who had been aboard the battleship, died in the blast, while tens of thousands more were injured.
The worst of it was the destruction of the gate, which should have been allowing all of the ships in this gathering to transit into the battle zone. Now they were separated from the battle area by a thousand light years, with no way to get there in any conceivable time frame that would be helpful to the ship fighting for their lives over New Moscow.
When the forward part of the ship detonated Seastag was sitting two hundred kilometers away. Seastag was far enough from the blast zone that there was little in the way of physical effect, just a slight shake that lasted for less than a second. She was hit by heat and radiation, and warning klaxons went off on the bridge.
“We’re losing magnetic containment on the gate,” called out the Assistant Engineer, his voice panicking. “That radiation wave has disrupted the superconductors.”
“What can you do about it?” asked Suttler, hoping there was something, or the force would have lost half of their gates in minutes.
“I can get a crew out and route new superconductor cable through it. It will take some time, but I think we can save the gate.”
“Odds of the gate collapsing before you fix it?” asked the Commodore as he watched a light cruiser come through the gate, one of the specialized missile defense ships they had been waiting for.
“I really can’t give you better than a good guess,” said the Assistant Engineer, who was in charge of this task while the Chief Engineer handled the engines that were providing power to the gate. “But I would say eighty percent.”
“Get on it then,” said Suttler, looking over at the Com Officer. “Get me the Admiral on the com.”
Moments later the face of Vice Admiral Patrice Ngumo, the flag officer in charge of this stage of the operation, appeared before him. Suttler explained the situation and gave his recommendation.
“We’ll keep moving ships through that gate, Commodore,” agreed the Admiral, a worried look on her light brown face. “I know it’s a risk, but it’s more of one to leave it idle while you fix it.”
“Very well, Admiral. We’ll try to get it done as fast as we can.”
“We have missile launch, sir,” called out the Tactical Officer. “Two thousand one hundred contacts. Range, sixteen light minutes. Acceleration eight thousand gravities. ETA approximately two hours, twenty-one minutes.”
That was a huge mass of incoming missiles, but not insurmountable, especially if they got sufficient ships in place before they got there. One thing in their favor was that the enemy fleet was still moving outbound, and the missiles had to overcome that velocity first before they could come inward, giving them a little more time.
“Second launch,” called out the Tactical Officer. “Same density and acceleration.”
That was different, since the missiles could adjust velocity for a short period of time, so the entire wave came in as one. And the ships were not the only target in their zone. In that region of potential targets was the planet they were here to liberate, and all of the humans on that planet. A couple of dozen misses that happened to hit the planet would render that world lifeless. Some of those in armored suits would survive, but none of the unprotected humans had a chance.
“Third launch,” called out the Tactical Officer. Twenty seconds later it got even worse as the Tactical Officer announced the fourth and final launch, and eighty-four hundred weapons were heading their way.
* * *
“Turn…..” The static that was blotting out the signal from the Great Admiral blotted out the rest of that sentence. “…fire.”
“Get a better signal,” ordered High Admiral Lisantr’nana to his Com Officer. “I need to know what is going on.”
What he did know was going on was more enemy ships were appearing around the planet every moment. He was picking up their graviton emissions, but could not tell where they were coming from. He wasn’t sure what to do. The enemy force, the larger force, was still ahead, and he was accelerating toward them. He was planning on launching on them in another couple of hours, giving the other task groups in the system the time to coordinate their attacks.
“That is the best I can do, my Lord,” said the frightened Com Officer. “There is too much static. The enemy is generating jamming across all frequencies.”
“Fool,” screamed the High Admiral, storming over to the com station and smacking the officer in the head with a powerful lower arm. “I need to know what the Great Admiral wants.”
The High Admiral stormed back to his command chair and threw his heavy body into it. He sat there for a minute. The Great Admiral should have sent a message through on grav wave, but no such communications had arrived. And standard radio was being jammed beyond recognition.
“We
will continue out toward the larger enemy force,” he finally ordered. “It must be dealt with, and I mean to do just that.”
“What about the planet, my Lord?” asked the Tactical Officer in a soft voice, glancing over at the Com Officer, who was cradling his injured ear.
“Fire a couple of volleys their way, with missiles set on recognition target seeking.” The High Admiral thought for a moment longer. “Make it four. I want to swamp that force with too many missiles for them to survive.”
“What about the station, my Lord?” asked the horrified Tactical Officer. “What about the planet?”
“I doubt the station will be there by the time those volleys arrive,” said the High Admiral. “I couldn’t give a Gods damned for that planet. Let it burn, and I’ll apologize to the Gods at a later date.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head.
Euripides.
PLANET NEW MOSCOW, MID MORNING, APRIL 8TH, 1002.
Walborski squatted with his men in place, just outside of the fighting position the engineers had dug, waiting for their next orders. He looked up at the sky, wondering where their air support was. Taking the perimeter of the camp was the easy part of the task. Now they had to hold it, while simultaneously protecting and evacuating the civilians in the camp, while the Cacas were sure to throw other forces at them.
The first lines of refugees were coming out of the camp. He looked back at the nearest line, two kilometers away, zooming in with his suit vision to see the poor scarecrows stumbling along, guided by some of the people from Second Company, keeping them on the path through the minefield, all of which should have been cleared, but there was no use taking chances.
It was six kilometers from the camp to the jungle covering the lower slope of the mountain range. These people would be herded through that distance and into the caves that had been built for the troops, giving them some shelter as they were led through the wormhole. It would take days to get everyone out of the camp and through the gates. And that whole time the Cacas would be trying to stop them.
Of course, defending and protecting the refugees was only part of the plan, and Cornelius was kind of irked that he and his men had been assigned this duty. Smashing the Cacas was the job of other units, mostly heavy infantry and armor. Their job was to be hunters, not set in a fixed position, targets.
“Look at that, sir,” came the voice of the company First Sergeant over the com.
Cornelius turned to the direction of the cursor on his HUD and swore under his breath. There were several bright flares in the sky, with the look of explosions beyond the atmosphere. Really big, powerful blasts that were still expanding as he watched. Another expanded with light that would have damaged his optic nerves if he hadn’t the protection of his faceplate.
The Captain looked back at the line of refugees, sure that he was going to see something he really didn’t want to. Sure enough, many of the civilians had stopped and were looking at those explosions. Within moments there was yelling and screaming as civilians put their hands over their now blinded eyes. The people guiding them tried to prevent any more of them from looking, to no avail, and soon the line was made up of mostly blind humans with no idea of their heading.
“Gonzalez,” he shouted out to his second platoon leader. “Get your platoon back there and help to guide those stupid fuckers.” Walborski chided himself for calling people names who did what just about any untrained human would do, look at the most noticeable thing around.
The LT took his suited men and flew toward the line, skimming low over the ground. One of the men hit the sensor area of one of those mines that was not supposed to be there anymore. The disc flew up into the air, to the waist height of the Ranger, throwing out its monomolecular wire snares on the end of a floating ball, while the disc spun, hitting the soldier with what were essentially sweeping blades. An unarmored soldier or civilian would have been sliced in half, then sliced again as the disc spun in a swift circle.
The strands wrapped around the soldier, whose suit protected him from the cutting action, its armor tough enough to stand up to even the molecule wide cutting wire that had no real mass behind it, unlike a knife or sword blade. Another soldier hit the disc with a blast of fast moving protons that blew it apart, and the Ranger who was wrapped up pulled out his own monomolecular knife and cut the strands that were wrapping him. The rest of the platoon continued on, sweeping back and forth to trigger any mines that might still be hiding. They landed next to the line of civilians and started to organize them, tying a nylon rope to the leading soldier from the other company, and linking other climbing ropes so they could lead the blind civilians. Others, still sighted, were coming out of the camp and were being led around the unfortunates who had looked up and stared at the sky.
More bright points appeared in the sky, and Cornelius turned his attention back to that phenomenon. Someone up there was pounding the hell out of someone else, or both the other, at energy levels that a grunt couldn’t even really comprehend.
The ground rumbled, and a mushroom cloud rose in the distance. That was a force that the Ranger Captain could understand, since he had used such weapons in the past. A second mushroom cloud rose at what his suit indicated was a little further away and about fifteen kilometers further north.
“Incoming,” yelled the voice of one of the men on outpost duty over the com.
His HUD showed the objects arcing through the air, and his suit comp quickly identified them as mortar rounds, coming from a launcher about twenty kilometers away. The targeting indicated that the first line of civilians was what they were aiming at.
“Air defense net activated,” he yelled out over the com, watching as the suits assigned to that duty acknowledged and slaved their weapons to that net. Those suits took over and aimed the particle beam rifles of their wearers at the objects as they flew in. The beams came on at just the proper moment, a pair of beams crossing high in the air and intersecting on the rounds, which detonated with terrific force a thousand meters up. The close sky filled with explosions, the defensive net working as planned. But eventually a round would get through if the mortars kept firing.
“Tango A-1,” he said into his com. “This is Ranger Charlie Actual.” At the same time he sent the targeting information that was coming in over his suit comp to the contact.
“Ranger Charlie Actual. This is Tango A-1. I have received your coordinates. Will engage the target with HE.”
One of the massive tanks that sat in hull down position, having dug itself in so that only the turret was sticking out, turned that turret until it was pointing toward the designated target. With a loud hiss it sent the high explosive shell through the barrel of its accelerator cannon. It travelled at nowhere near the velocity of the penetrators they had fired earlier, but then they didn’t need to. It still took less than a second for the shell to arc over the horizon at a low angle, bursting its small antimatter charge directly over the target, the mortar unit that was trying to murder civilians.
There was a flash at the horizon as the twenty kiloton shell detonated, sending most of its energy into the ground. It still raised a mushroom cloud that climbed high into the atmosphere. The two tanks directly beside the leader fired their own guns, their shells bursting a kilometer to either side of the initial blast. Making sure.
“We have movement,” called out one of the outposts, which was ten kilometers closer to that enemy than the defensive line. “Estimate three hundred battle suited Cacas, along with twelve combat mechas. Advancing at forty kilometers an hour.”
“Bug out and get back here as soon as we get you some cover,” he told the men. Then got back on the circuit with the tanks. “You got that, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. Firing.”
All five of the tanks fired, sending their shells into the long line of enemy identified on their battlefield tactical holos. Two of the shells reached their target, detonating in twenty kiloton blasts that destr
oyed the suits, and their wearers, who were within two hundred meters of the blast. Those out to five hundred meters sustained some damage to their suits, not enough to put them out of action for the most part, but enough to degrade their combat capabilities. The other three were taken out by the defense net of the enemy, exploding well before they reached their targets. The closest was only ten kilometers from the Imperial line, and the blast wave washed over the men in their fighting positions.
“We can’t afford to have those shells detonate so close,” shouted Cornelius over the com, looking back to see the line of civilians laying on the ground as the hot wind of the blast wave kicked up dust around them. He didn’t think any had been injured, but a closer blast would have resulted in many wounded, as well as some killed.
The Cacas came into line of sight of the Rangers, whose suits allowed them to see through the swirling dust that now encompassed the battlefield. The Cacas had their own suits to full stealth, shimmering behind invisibility fields that were partially disrupted by the dust hanging in the air, projecting holos of suits around them, even deploying decoys that mimicked the heat signature of their armor. The suits of the Rangers were doing the same, as were the tanks with them, while portable electromagnetic field generators erected an augmented field around them.
“First platoon, fire at will,” commanded Cornelius over the com.
Forty-three Rangers opened fire at the same moment, particle beam rifles, heavy beamers, grenade launchers in the hands of the rangers. The Cacas fired back, their suits running along the ground at a hundred kilometers an hour, dodging from side to side. The mecha ran with them, keeping up easily. They were hard to hit, and the particle beams that could convert half an unprotected sentient to steam and ash were only effective against the medium suits of the Rangers with either a sustained contact or multiple contacts of individual beams. The Cacas were wearing their equivalent of heavy suits, slightly tougher than the ones the Rangers were wearing.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 8: Soldiers (Exodus: Empires at War.) Page 25
