Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  “Launch all missiles.” Harmon had held back her first volley, waiting until the last possible moment. The fleet was moving at .03c, and every minute brought them closer to the enemy and increased the accuracy of the strike.

  But she couldn’t wait any longer, or her own defenses would degrade her barrage. In four minutes her ships would open up with their shotguns, filling space all around the fleet with clouds of metal shards moving at 3-5% of lightspeed. At that velocity, even a tiny piece of depleted uranium could obliterate an incoming missile…or an outgoing one.

  “Yes, Admiral.” Givens pressed a button, sending the launch order to the entire fleet.

  Yorktown shook a few seconds later as it launched its externally mounted missiles. Harmon knew the same thing was happening on all the ships in the fleet, and she waited half a minute to allow her units to finish their launches. “Put me on fleetcom, Commander.” Harmon’s voice was hard, cold.

  “Yes, Admiral.” Givens worked his controls. “You are connected, Admiral Harmon.”

  “Attention all fleet personnel. This is Admiral Harmon. As you all know, we are facing an enemy that outnumbers us by a considerable margin.” She was staring straight ahead as she spoke, eyes fixed on the main screen. “But we have never allowed that to deter us from our duty.” She paused for a few seconds. “We are going to exceed even our top performance in this battle. I expect the absolute best every one of you has to offer, and I will accept nothing less. We are going to launch our second volley in 8 minutes. That means we have to clear the external racks by then…and we need to do it while the enemy strike is coming in and our interdiction efforts are underway.” She paused again, for only an instant this time. “You all have my complete confidence. Now let’s get to work.” She cut the line abruptly.

  Throughout Harmon’s fleet, her crews flew into a frenzy, maintenance staff clearing away the external racks while gunners manned the shotguns and other defensive systems targeting the incoming enemy missiles. She had asked more from her people than conventional wisdom deemed possible. But Camille Harmon had learned her craft from Augustus Garret, and the word impossible wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  She sat in her chair, emotionless…as she had been since the day she led her ships through the X2-X1 warp gate, leaving her son behind with Terrance Compton and thousands of Alliance naval crew. But now a small grin formed on the corner of her mouth, its origin deep within the darkest part of her soul. I am here, Gavin Stark, to face your fleet. And I am Death Incarnate.

  Holm twisted and turned, trying vainly to get comfortable. The acceleration couches could keep a man alive at g forces that would smash him into a broken and bloody piece of meat, but no one ever said they were comfortable. But Holm wanted to get to Armstrong as quickly as possible, and that meant accelerating halfway and decelerating the other half. Now they were just about there.

  He’d ordered the ship’s AI to feed him updates on the naval battle taking place in the middle of the system. Harmon’s people were outnumbered…almost 2-1…but Garret was still betting on her coming out on top of the enemy. She was one of the fleet admiral’s very best lieutenants…the best since Terrance Compton was lost out at X2. The two forces had exchanged several missile volleys, but they hadn’t closed to energy weapons range yet. Harmon’s direction of the close-in point defense had been flawless, and so far the Alliance fleet had taken less damage than it inflicted.

  “Prepare for depressurization.” The transport’s AI made the announcement, interrupting Holm’s thoughts. The task force was approaching Armstrong, and the ships were reducing thrust prior to orbital insertion. Holm lay back, feeling the crushed, bloated feeling slowly dissipate as the AI normalized the pressure in the chamber and administered drugs to counteract the pressure-equalization cocktail it had injected at the start of the journey. Holm’s mind was still a little fuzzy, but then he felt another small pinprick – a shot of stims – and his head cleared up immediately.

  “Get me General Gilson,” he snapped out at the AI, suddenly feeling more energetic and aware. The stims were helping push out the last vestiges of the hallucinogenic side effects caused by the drugs injected during acceleration and deceleration.

  “Yes, General Holm.” The troop transport AIs had relatively rudimentary personality systems. The tone of their voices sounded human enough, but the unnatural cadence gave them away. “General Gilson on your line, sir.”

  “Yes, General?” Gilson sounded a little woozy. Her ship was a few seconds behind Garret’s in coming out of heavy deceleration, and he could tell she was still feeling residual effects.

  “I’m launching a spread of scanner drones to get an idea what’s going on down there. I want you to get your people ready to land as soon as the reports come in.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a noticeable delay in the communication. Gilson was on a ship 60,000 kilometers from Holm’s. Not a sufficient distance to meaningfully interfere with communication, but enough for a noticeable hitch. “We’ll be ready to go.”

  “Very well. Garret out.” He looked around the room at Marines climbing out of their acceleration couches, staggering around trying to regain their balance as quickly as possible. “Let’s go, Marines,” Garret yelled, clapping his hands as he did. “Shake the shit out of your heads. Our comrades are facing God knows what, and we’re going to get out asses down there to help.”

  Liang sat in his command chair, staring at his screen in disbelief. It just wasn’t possible. The Alliance fleet had held its missile fire until the last possible instant…and then released 4 volleys in less than 20 minutes. He couldn’t understand how the enemy had managed to clear their external missile racks so quickly while fighting off his own incoming volleys. Yet they had defended against his missiles very effectively while savaging his fleet with their own, perfectly-targeted barrages. Despite his advantage in hulls and missiles, he was in far worse shape than his adversaries.

  What do I do, he wondered…do I stand and fight, or do I run for it and preserve the fleet? His orders were crystal clear. He was not to risk a catastrophic defeat under any circumstances. Preserving the fleet was his primary consideration.

  But Gavin Stark was on Armstrong by now, and breaking off and fleeing the system meant leaving him behind. How would Stark react if his lieutenant fled and abandoned him on the planet? Would Spectre be able to escape the system if the fleet withdrew? In theory, the stealth vessel should be able to sneak out undetected, but it really hadn’t had much testing.

  Liang imagined – for a brief instant – what would happen if Stark was lost. The Shadow forces would still be there, along with all Stark’s preparations. Would Liang have the chance to take control? To take Stark’s place and make himself an emperor?

  It was a seductive thought, but Liang knew he didn’t have the capability or the tools to hold Stark’s immense operation together. Liang hated Stark; he feared Stark…but he had no illusions about the man’s superhuman genius. There were former Alliance Intelligence spies everywhere, and Stark was the only man they would follow. And Liang shuddered at the thought of what would happen if he made his own bid for power and Stark got off Armstrong and returned. Gavin Stark knew an almost infinite number of ways to dispose of enemies…most of them very unpleasant.

  Liang made his choice. He knew what would happen if he got Stark’s fleet shot to pieces, and it wasn’t likely to be a very pleasant outcome for him. His overriding order was to preserve the fleet at all costs. So he had two choices. Stand and fight it out to the end, or run for it now while he still had time to disengage.

  Even with the damage he had sustained, his fleet was still stronger than the Alliance force. But Liang felt a sense of hopelessness. When he’d seen the size of the enemy fleet, he had discounted Garret’s presence. But the enemy fought the way they did under their legendary commander. Was it possible Garret was on the enemy flagship after all? Perhaps he had detached a portion of his fleet for another purpose, and it was him on that enemy battleship leadi
ng a reduced force.

  He turned and looked back at his tactical officer. Liang didn’t have confidence in his people…and he knew how good the Alliance spacers were. And if that was Garret out there, he’d not only destroy the Shadow fleet, he’d chase down the troop transports and destroy the reserve legions too.

  Liang swallowed hard. “The fleet will withdraw at full speed. All personnel to the couches. Maximum acceleration in ten minutes.” Yes, he thought…I will live to fight another day. Or at least until my reckoning with Gavin Stark.

  Chapter 27

  City of Nancy

  French Sector, Europa Federalis

  Earth – Sol III

  Hans Werner was sweating like a pig. The heavy rubberized material of his protective suit was stifling. He could feel the sweat pouring down his neck and back. He wanted the rip his way out of the bulky coverings, suck in a breath of fresh, cool air…but he didn’t dare. The Europans had escalated things late in the battle for Nancy, bombarding his advancing troops with chemical weapons in a last ditch attempt to hold the city.

  His detectors showed a non-lethal, but still potentially dangerous concentration of nerve gas in the city itself, so his forces were all operating under full chemical warfare protocols…even though the fighting had ended, and the enemy was in headlong retreat.

  His forces had taken Nancy, but the battle had been a brutal one. He’d hesitated before reporting the chemical attack, knowing exactly what HQ’s response would be. Most of the major powers had automatic response policies in place, making escalation unavoidable when one side employed a proscribed weapon. Werner was now authorized – no, expected – to use his own chemical weaponry…and the high command was rushing him additional enhanced ordnance.

  The hard-fought victory had earned Werner his third star, and an upgrade for his hastily-assembled and heretofore haphazardly organized force. He now officially commanded the 12th Army, and reinforcements were working their way forward to bring his formations back up to strength.

  He climbed up and over a pile of wreckage that had been part of someone’s home a few days before. He knew he shouldn’t be up this far. One enemy sniper left behind could deprive the army of its commander. But in his mind he was still a lieutenant-colonel commanding a single battalion, and he had a hard time adapting to the exalted rank his well-timed successes had bought him.

  He scrambled down the pile of rubble and spotted a cluster of dead soldiers…and two who were still alive. He pulled himself back up onto the mound of debris, looking toward a crew searching for wounded. “Over here…there’s two wounded over here.” His voice was dry and hoarse from yelling. He knew he was dehydrated, but it was such a pain in the ass to get a drink in the CBN suits, he tended to ignore the thirst as long as he could.

  He pointed as the soldiers scrambled toward his position carrying two stretchers. The streets were too pockmarked and full of wreckage to get the transports through, so his troopers were carrying the wounded to the edge of town and loading them onto the trucks there. Werner had moved the field hospitals back, farther away from the chemical weapons zone. He knew every extra kilometer cost lives, but he couldn’t take the chance that one of the hospitals might get hit with a gas attack.

  The city had been badly damaged in the fighting, at least half its buildings now little more than shattered facades and piles of smoking rubble. It was hard to tell, but it looked to him like Nancy had been a pleasant community, without the dense ring of slums that surrounded most cities in both Europa Federalis and the CEL. Whatever it had been, he thought sadly, it was mostly a ruin now.

  That ruin had cost him 50,000 casualties. The field hospitals were bursting at the seams, and his support teams were scouring the battlefield, looking for disabled tanks they could get back in working order. His soldiers were exhausted and mourning their legions of dead. But they weren’t going to get a rest. He already had his orders. The new 12th Army was to move north toward Metz and take the ancient fortress-city, opening the way for an advance against the Europan capital at Paris.

  He had walked among the troops, rallying them and urging them forward. The CEL’s military hadn’t had any real veterans when the war began…no nation’s had. Yet his people had pushed relentlessly forward, fighting battle after battle and suffering devastating losses. He didn’t know how he was going to keep them going. He’d been assigned internal security companies, special formations intended to follow the army and round up and summarily execute any soldiers who ran, but he had no intention of deploying them. His people deserved better.

  But that meant he’d have to keep them moving himself. If the army failed to advance, the high command would compel the use of brutal force to push them. And the thought of his soldiers rounded up by death squads and executed in front of their units was more than he could bear to imagine.

  Jim Larson crouched down in his foxhole, peering cautiously over the edge. He was waist-deep in muddy water, holding his rifle out over the soggy ground. He’d been one of the lucky ones in the convoy…his ship had escaped the nuclear attack and landed safely at Manila. But he had friends who weren’t so fortunate. At least half a dozen guys he knew well from the barracks were on one of the destroyed vessels. He hadn’t had time to mourn…or even think much about it, though he knew intellectually, at least, that they were dead, lying 4,000 meters below the ocean in a dark, watery tomb.

  His unit had been hustled off the ship and loaded right onto transports bound for the front. Three hours after landing he was crawling through the sopping mud, falling back the way he had come along with the rest of the army.

  Crawling through a steaming, muddy, insect-infested jungle…he didn’t think it could get much worse than that, but now they’d gotten the orders to don their CBN suits. He reached around, pulling the rubber pouch off his pack and unzipping it. He couldn’t imagine how hot it would be inside the heavy rubber of the protective suit, but he knew damned sure he didn’t want to be caught without it if the enemy hit with enhanced weapons.

  He climbed clumsily into the suit, splashing muddy water inside as he did. He was right…it was hot as hell, and wet and heavy too. He zipped it up and took a deep breath, inhaling the industrial smell of new rubber and the pungent odor of his air filter. If something had been designed specifically for discomfort, he thought, it couldn’t have hit the mark better than this piece of shit.

  “Larson, team status?” It was Sergeant Garcia, the squad leader.

  Larson turned his head, trying to check to see if the four privates in his team had gotten their gear on properly. He should have done it already, but it had taken him forever to get his own suit on, and he’d completely forgotten.

  “Yes, Sergeant. We’re all set.” It was a lie. Grover and Litton were both still struggling to climb into the unwieldy suits. But Larson didn’t want an ass-chewing, and he figured the two slowpoke privates would pull it together in another few seconds. They did, but it took a few minutes, not seconds.

  He flipped to his team com line. “Let’s go you two fucking idiots! How many times did you practice putting those suits on?”

  The two snapped back excuses while frantically slipping resisting limbs into the heavy rubber. Larson was staring back at them when he heard the barrage begin. It was coming from near Manila, from the heavy batteries emplaced there. The shells sounded strange to him, different than the explosive rounds he’d heard since arriving at the front. Then the impacts…soft, muffled. Not like high explosives at all.

  He wondered for a few seconds then suddenly he realized. The Alliance forces were firing nerve gas at the CAC positions. He self-consciously checked the seals on his suit. If the Alliance was using gas, it wouldn’t be long before the CAC responded in kind.

  Larson laughed caustically. “And you didn’t think it could get any worse,” he muttered softly to himself.

  “Squadron 117 reporting. Approaching southern tip of Manhattan Island.” Squadron Captain Raymond Marston gripped the controls of the lead gunship as
he guided the squadron into attack position. “Request authorization to commence attack run.”

  Marston was looking ahead, over the shattered wreck of the Statue of Liberty toward Manhattan itself. The crumbling skyscrapers of the abandoned financial district blocked his view of The Crater, but he knew it was there. That had almost certainly been the deadliest day in New York history…perhaps until today, he thought darkly.

  Marston was a member of the Political Class’ bottom rung, and the lowest-ranked of the privileged were often the most arrogant, clinging desperately to their status. So it was with Marston, and he regarded the Cogs now rioting outside the walls of the Protected Zone with utter contempt. One thing he was certain about…in a few minutes they would learn their place again.

  “Squadron 117, this is central command. You are cleared to begin your attack.”

  “Alright, people. We’re going in.” He pushed forward on the throttle, guiding the heavy gunship forward. The large aircraft zipped over the waves, and angled around the ghostly towers, streaking northward. Marston could see the surging masses camped just south of the southern wall of the Zone. They were milling around, but there were small groups making runs at the Wall and taking potshots at the police manning the defenses.

  “All weapons armed, Captain. The squadron reports ready for action.” Sergeant Sanger was the chief gunner on Marston’s bird, a job that came with the task of monitoring the status of the other ships of the squadron. Sanger’s voice was strange, tense, angry…but Marston was too focused on the mob of Cogs to notice.

  The ship whipped around the financial district towers, flying over the Crater and swinging around 180 degrees to set up the east to west attack run. The crew felt the g forces as the craft swung around over the East River and began descending rapidly.

  “Commence firing…all ships.” Marston’s voice was anxious, excited. He hated the Cogs, and resented their willingness to rise up against their betters. Now they were going to get their lesson.