by Jay Allan
“I’ll do my best, sir.” His voice was weak, his tone uncertain, but Heath knew at once he’d gotten through to him.
“I know you will, son.” He turned and started to climb out of the shell hole. “Good luck, Major,” he said as he crouched low and scrambled back toward the command post. There was an art to rallying fighting men, and Heath had learned from some of the best. The only thing they hadn’t taught him was how not to hate himself after he did it.
“General, we have reports of fighting east of Weston.” Hal Richmond came running into the tent, the excitement obvious in his high-pitched voice. He caught himself and straightened up. “I’m sorry, General. Request permission to make a report.”
Jarrod Tyler was sitting on a small folding chair, wearing a pair of gray fatigue pants and a t-shirt that had once been white but was now some indeterminate shade of brownish-gray. His face was twisted into a frustrated scowl, the same expression he’d worn for months now. He’d failed to defeat the invaders who had come to ravage his world, and then he’d led his people into the swamps and badlands, seeking any fate for them save surrender. It was a choice that appeared noble, a soldier’s last stand, but it had also thrown them all into a hellish nightmare, one it seemed few of them would survive.
The Columbians, most of them at least, had avoided capitulation, and they were still maintaining the fight. The war had become a guerilla battle now, Tyler’s remaining warriors primarily engaged in raids targeting enemy supplies and patrols. But the cost had been staggering. They were short of everything – food, drugs, basic survival gear. Civilians began dying almost immediately, and the daily toll still continued. Diseases that could be healed with an injection killed for lack of proper medicine. Civilians weakened by malnutrition and unused to living outside in the cold and damp were easy targets for a variety of pathogens, and the overworked doctors and med techs did what they could as their supplies dwindled to nothing. Yet the people remained steadfast behind their leader, most of them at least.
There had been a few stillborn rebellions against his authority as dictator, but most of the Columbians were still with him. They lived their miserable lives in cold, leaky tents, watching their families slowly starve to death, but still they gave him their loyalty. He was grateful for the support, but it tore at him as well. Part of him wanted the people to hate him, to rise up and cast him aside. In many ways, their loyalty was his greatest source of pain, and it prevented him from shifting any responsibility for the holocaust on Columbia away from himself. With total power came total responsibility.
He bore the guilt, all of it. For failing to defeat the enemy in the field, for leading his people into the nightmare of continued resistance in the wildest areas of their world. He’d led them here, and they had followed, placing their trust in him to get them through this greatest trial.
Richmond’s excited words pulled him from his deep retrospection. “Oh…Hal. Come in.” Hal Richmond was his aide, or a makeshift assistant, at least. Tyler wouldn’t have enlisted a 15 year old kid, but he took the boy in after his parents and sister died of infectious diseases that hadn’t killed anyone in civilized societies for centuries.
“General, we have multiple reports of fighting east of Weston.”
“Multiple reports?” Tyler’s eyes widened. He’d thought he’d seen a few strange flashes in the sky the day before, but he’d discounted them. His people had been waiting for relief for a long time, and he’d just about given up. He knew the Marines would have come if they could have, so he assumed this enemy, whoever they were, had attacked other worlds as well. He’d assumed the Marines were committed elsewhere. Or worse, defeated.
“Yes, sir.” Richmond was nervous and excited, but he held his composure well. “Two different hunter teams have reported in.” His voice became darker. “And three more deployed to that area failed to check in and are missing.” He paused. “Sir, could it be the invasion?”
That’s what they’d been calling it. The invasion. Not Tyler, but his soldiers and the civilians of Columbia. Through all the death and hardship, they’d continued to believe the Marines would come and liberate them once again. Tyler had less faith. His didn’t doubt the dedication of the Corps, but he also knew the Marines were only men and women. They’d gone right from the Third Frontier War into the Rebellions, and the survivors had poured their blood into the sands of a dozen worlds fighting off the robot legions of the First Imperium. The few who’d made it through that holocaust had returned to this new struggle. Tyler didn’t doubt the Marines would come if they could; he doubted there were any Marines left.
Tyler looked back at his young aide. “It could be a lot of things, Hal. Maybe a separate group of refugees launching an attack.”
“Or the Marines!” Richmond’s eyes were bright with excitement. “It could be the Marines too, couldn’t it?”
“I suppose it could, Hal.” Tyler didn’t want to let himself believe. He’d waited each day for help to come, watching his people die in these miserable swamps. But it was possible. He tried to force back his own excitement at the prospect.
“Hal, go get Lieutenants Paine and White.” He waved toward the flap of the tent. “Tell them I’ve got a mission for them.”
If the Marines had really landed, it was time to launch his own attack to support the landing. It would cost him all his remaining supplies and leave him nothing to defend the civilians. It was a last roll of the dice for Tyler and the remnants of Columbia’s army. He had to be sure the Marines were actually here before he issued the order.
Paine and White were his two best men. If anybody could get to the bottom of what was going on, it was them. If they came back and told him there were Marines on Columbia, that would be enough for him to risk everything.
“But the LZ is surrounded, General.” Arch Mantooth had been with Gilson since the beginning of the First Imperium War. She’d given him his eagles at the beginning of that conflict and his star after Arcadia. “You think we suffered heavy losses to the landers in the first wave, fresh after the bombardment and with whatever level of surprise we had?” His voice was raw. He hated counseling caution when fellow Marines were in trouble, but it wasn’t going to help the men and women on the ground if they got another wave blown out of the sky.
“So what do we do, Arch? Send down a load of bodybags and say, ‘so sorry! We can’t get any help down to you?’” Her voice had been harsher than she’d intended. She knew Mantooth would be the last to abandon fellow Marines. And he was right. Getting a whole new batch of men and women shot to pieces wasn’t going to do Heath’s people any good.
Mantooth took a deep breath. “So what do we do, General?” There was a brittleness to his tone, a sensitivity that told Gilson her outburst had found its mark.
“We go in.” The gravelly voice came from the far end of the table. Sam Thomas stared right at Gilson as he spoke. “It’s what we do. We don’t count the cost, we don’t worry about shit we can’t change. Liberating Columbia is important enough, but by God, there are Marines down there under fire.” His volume had risen steadily, and now his roar practically shook the table. “That’s all we need to know. That’s all that’s ever mattered.” His eyes remained locked on Gilson’s. “That’s all Elias would have needed to know.” Thomas knew he wasn’t being fair using Holm’s memory to manipulate Gilson, but he didn’t care. He was too old for bullshit games, and he’d be damned if they were going to leave those Marines down there to be overwhelmed and destroyed.
“Sam, you know I would never abandon our people down there.” Gilson knew he was working her, but that didn’t stop his words from having exactly the effect he’d intended. “But how can we drop more troops into a pinpoint zone like that with the enemy on all sides?” She was staring at the map projected onto the table. “We’ll have to set up a new LZ.”
“For that to do any good, we’d have to set up the new zone at least 200 klicks from the first. Otherwise, we’ll still be coming down right on top of the heav
y enemy concentration.” Mantooth was staring at the map as he spoke. “We’ll just end up with two groups surrounded.”
“There’s no choice.” Sam Thomas flashed his eyes toward Mantooth then back to Gilson. He slapped his hand down hard on the table. “We have to reinforce the original LZ.” Thomas was well into his 80s, but years of rejuv treatments had taken at least 20 of those off his effective age. Still, he had every one of those years’ worth of ornery stubbornness. “This is like Persis all over again.”
Everyone present knew the history of the battle that ended the Second Frontier War, but Sam Thomas had actually been there. “It was Elias Holm and his battalion trapped down on the planet then, and by God, Viper Worthington wasn’t about to leave any of his Marines behind, and damned the cost.” He didn’t add that Worthington had been killed in the final stages of his rescue mission, but everyone knew that already. Worthington’s story was woven deeply into Corps legend, and first year boots knew the story of Persis.
Gilson sat quietly for a few seconds. “If only we had some atmospheric fighters,” she said quietly. “A few squadrons could lay down a bombardment to provide close cover to the transports.” She shook her head. It was pointless to wish for something she knew they didn’t have. All their fighter wings were gone, destroyed in the endless series of battles they had fought.
“I can give you close support.” Elizabeth Arlington had been sitting quietly in the corner while the Marines debated their next move, but now she spoke up.
Gilson turned to face her longtime friend. “How, Lizzie? There’s not an atmospheric fighter in the fleet.”
“No, but we’ve got plenty of fast attack ships, especially the Lightning-class birds.”
Gilson looked confused. “Those ships aren’t streamlined for atmospheric flight, Lizzie.”
Arlington just stared back at her friend. “Not officially, no. But they’re pretty sleek craft, and they have a tougher frame than most ships their size. With a good enough pilot…”
“You can’t be serious. The risk would be…”
“No more than your Marines are taking, Cate.” Arlington looked around the table. “I came up through the suicide boats, and my piloting stats were the best in the wing.”
“You want to go yourself?” Gilson’s tone was one of shock. “You’ve got a whole task force to command, and you’re talking about taking a suicidal run in a fast attack ship?”
“I’m the least essential officer in the fleet. I’ve got Admiral Garret on my flagship. That makes me as extraneous as an appendix.” She took a deep breath. “And I’d wager I could find 3 or 4 other volunteers to pilot some additional ships.”
“Lizzie…” Gilson’s voice was hoarse, her throat dry. Arlington was one of her closest friends, and she was talking about throwing her life away on a desperate strafing run. But the men and women on the ground were her Marines, and they needed help.
“I’m OK, Cate.” Arlington knew her friend was worried about her, as she had been since Terrence Compton and his people were trapped behind the barrier, stuck in First Imperium space facing almost certain death. Her halting and fitful romance with Compton had been one of the worst kept secrets in the fleet, but only Gilson and a few others knew just how much she had loved him, and how badly his loss had hurt her. “I can do this.” She locked her eyes on Gilson’s. “And I will come back. I’m not trying to commit suicide.”
Gilson closed her eyes and nodded. There wasn’t any other choice. Without some close air support, her second wave would be decimated before it even hit the ground. And if she did nothing, Heath and his people would be wiped out.
“OK, Lizzie.” She fought to get the words out. “When can you be ready?”
Chapter 6
Flag Bridge
MCS John Carter
Near the Saturn Relay Station
Sol System
Duncan Campbell stood on the flag bridge of John Carter, staring at the incoming vessels on the plotting screen. Carter had been his ship, and he’d captained her for two years before Roderick Vance sent him to Earth to destroy Gavin Stark’s main clone production facility. He’d completed that mission without a hitch…unless you considered hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians dead from radiation poisoning to be a hitch.
Vance had known the consequences of his orders, and Campbell had as well. John Carter’s ex-skipper had done what had to be done, and the nightmares that had invaded his sleep since were his problem, one he kept to himself. The scar on his soul was no less a battle wound than a bullet would have delivered, and he knew he would carry it the rest of his life.
Campbell had completed another mission for Vance, a wild, all caution to the wind race to the planet Armstrong to deliver a warning to Erik Cain. He’d burnt out his ship in that one, barely managing to get through to the planet and crash land. He was badly injured, but he delivered his message as ordered. Sarah Linden had tended to his wounds, saving his life and putting him back together with remarkable efficiency. Now he was back, and his reward was waiting for him when he arrived. Admiral’s stars and command of the main fleet.
Campbell wondered if the massive promotion was based on his skill as a naval officer or the fact that Roderick Vance could count on him to follow his orders no matter what, even to slaughter millions if his command required it. He didn’t know, but he suspected it was a combination of the two, with a bit of his father’s influence thrown in as well.
He leaned back in his chair, shifting, trying to find an angle where his back didn’t hurt. Dr. Linden had done remarkable work just saving his life, and she’d wanted him to stay in the hospital for at least another month. But duty called, and Campbell insisted on leaving as soon as he was able. The ride back to Mars, trapped in the tanks while another one of Vance’s Torch speeders tore through space at almost 50g, hadn’t helped his partially healed spine any, and now he often found himself in considerable pain.
“Scanner report?” He glanced at the communications console. He’d taken Lieutenant Christensen with him when he moved to the flag bridge, bumping her up to Lieutenant Commander in the process.
“The unidentified ships are still on an intercept course, Admiral.” She paused, looking down at her workstation. “Estimated time to extreme combat range, 23 minutes.”
Unidentified my ass, Campbell thought. Those are Gavin Stark’s ships. Vance had warned him they might be coming, a sudden and urgent communique that was short on details. He’d managed to concentrate the fleet just in time.
He’d been surprised at first, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Admiral Garret was at Columbia with his combined fleet, supporting the Marine invasion of the planet. It was a perfect time for Stark to make a move against Mars, and there he was, right on schedule.
“Bring the fleet to red alert, Commander.” Campbell took a deep breath. Stark’s fleet outnumbered his by a considerable margin, but Campbell had faith in his people. They were free Martians, defending their planet against a tyrant who would make them into slaves. They would do whatever had to be done.
“Yes, Admiral.” She paused a few seconds before continuing. “All ships report red alert status.”
He stared at the screen watching the enemy ships approach. The formation was standard, unimaginative, but it was also solid, right out of the textbook. John Carter and its twin, Sword of Ares, were bigger and stronger than anything the enemy fleet had, but Campbell only had another 4 battleships. The incoming armada had 12, and enough punch to take out every ship in Campbell’s fleet.
“I want every weapons crew on the fleet to conduct full diagnostics on their targeting systems.”
“Yes, sir.” Christensen relayed the command.
Campbell could practically hear the groans on the other ships. Naval crews hated routine tasks, especially right before entering battle. But Campbell didn’t give a shit. A minor recalibration of a targeting system could be the difference between a miss and a critical hit, and if the Martian Fleet was go
ing to survive the next few hours, it was going to need every pinpoint shot it could manage. Besides, he’d rather have them scrambling to run superfluous tests than sitting in their seats for 20 minutes staring at the massive enemy fleet bearing down on them.
He looked down at his workstation, punching the keys to bring up a tactical map. He knew he was facing a hell of an introduction to fleet command, and if he was going to win, he had to think outside the box. His two massive battlewagons had the heaviest laser armaments of any ships in space. If he could get them close enough, their x-ray lasers would cut Stark’s older capital ships into scrap. But the enemy knew that too. The Carter and the Sword of Ares would attract missile fire from every ship in the enemy fleet. They’d be gutted before they entered laser range.
His eyes moved to the large circle on the edge of the battle map. Saturn. Maybe, he thought…just maybe. He punched in some calculations, programming a simulation. It was close, but if he timed it just right, and if the enemy didn’t alter their trajectory, it just might work.
“Commander Linken, plot a course for John Carter and Sword of Ares directly toward Saturn.”
Linken was another refugee from Campbell’s old bridge crew who’d followed his commander to his new post. He turned and glanced back at the admiral with a quizzical look on his face. “Yes, sir,” he stammered.
“Transmit your course calculation to the helm and to Sword of Ares when you are ready.” He turned his head and looked over toward Christensen. “Commander, get me Captain Oswald on Sword of Ares.”
Maybe, he thought. Just maybe this will work.
Liang Chang stared at the main display. The enemy fleet was dividing into two sections. Its two biggest battleships were detaching from the main force, heading for the protection of Saturn. Their battleline was already outnumbered; without the superbattleships they didn’t have a chance.
