by Jay Allan
It had been a risk coming back to Manhattan, but Axe had to see for himself what was going on. He wore the rags of a Cog worker, and he carried a pistol he’d taken off a dead cop. He knew the mob would tear him to shreds if they realized he’d been one of the gang leaders, but be stumbled through the streets looking lost, like a Cog who had come into the Protected Zone with the mob and was just walking around.
He’d left the rest of his small group behind, in the mostly-abandoned areas that had once been called Queens. He’d told them to scavenge whatever food and equipment they could find and wait for him. He knew his few remaining men were loyal, but most of them were stupid too, and he couldn’t take the risk of bringing them into the Zone. One hint that he and his people were former gangers, and the mob would be on them in an instant. He wasn’t willing to risk one of them saying something foolish or giving way who they were. No, he thought, Tank and the others are good in a fight, but that was close to useless against 100,000 screaming Cogs worked up into a bloodlust.
He’d come to satisfy his curiosity in part, and also to scrounge up anything useful from the Protected Zone. The wastelands of Long Island had been abandoned for over a century, and there was very little useful to be found outside the city itself. The fall of the Protected Zone was an unmatched opportunity to plunder, though he realized he had arrived rather late to the party. The Cogs had lived in squalor and poverty for generations, but when they broke into the neighborhoods of their former masters, they proved to be skilled looters.
Axe was heading to Sector A, the elite enclave where the wealthiest and most powerful citizens of Manhattan had lived. He knew the rioting Cogs had worked the place over already, but he suspected there was still swag to be gained on the upper levels of the super-luxury buildings. The government had shut down the reactors, leaving most of the city without power, and it took a very determined looter to climb 300 flights of stairs to the top of a kilometer-high building. There was probably a lot of virgin territory up there, and those apartments up in the sky would be the homes of the most powerful Politicians and Magnates, filled with valuables he could only imagine.
There were probably residents still hiding on those upper floors too, locked up in their luxurious apartments, hoping against hope the government would crush the rebelling Cogs and save them. He gripped the pistol tightly in his hand and readjusted the sack he’d slung over his shoulder. He had half a dozen weapons in there, and some spare ammo too. He knew he might have some fighting to do, and he wanted to be ready.
He took a few more steps before he heard it. The sound of engines from above, approaching rapidly. Gunships. He swung his head back and forth, looking for someplace to take cover. He started toward a large building, rushing for the open hole where the main doorway had been.
“Here, this way.”
The voice came from behind, and he spun around. It was a Cog, an old man, filthy and disheveled, but wearing a cashmere overcoat that had cost its original owner more than its present wearer had earned in his entire life.
“Come,” he repeated. “To the tunnels. We’ll be safe in the tunnels.”
Axe hesitated, but just for an instant. Then he followed his instincts and ran toward the man. The Cog led him around the corner and pointed. “There, he said.”
There was a large hole in the pavement, and below Axe could see tunnels stretching off in both directions. Of course, he thought, the ancient train lines. There were subterranean tunnels stretching all over New York City, artifacts of an age when the city was vastly larger with a population 7 or 8 times what it had now. His gang had used some of the ancient tunnels in Brooklyn to store supplies and get from one place to another. They were deep in places. A perfect place to take cover.
He heard the sound of autocannon fire. The gunships were attacking, blasting down everyone in the streets. The old man motioned again, and he crouched down, carefully extending his leg into the hole. Axe moved over to the edge, looking down. There was a ladder, stretching down to the ground 6 or 7 meters below. It was a rickety looking affair, but the sound of gunfire was getting closer, and Ace decided he didn’t have a better choice. He waited for the old man to climb down a couple meters, and he lowered his foot carefully onto one of the rungs and climbed down into the semi-darkness.
Warren walked slowly into the dark room. His agents had located the president almost immediately. It hadn’t been difficult. The entire government was operating under Stonewall protocols, and that meant everyone of significant importance was in the massive federal complex deep under the Virginia countryside. Oliver’s people had tried to get to him, but they’d been too timid to demand entry to his private quarters, fleeing in a panic when he cursed them and threw things at the door.
Warren’s agents were considerably less squeamish, and they had their orders. He suspected there would be repercussions from arresting the president’s guards, but he’d deal with that when it became a problem. With the way things were going, it didn’t even make his top ten list of concerns.
“President Oliver? Warren let the door close behind him, and he turned on the lights.
“What is it?” The voice was slurred, angry. Oliver was lying on the floor, one leg propped up on the sofa. He was wearing a suit, but the jacket had been discarded and the rest of it was stained and wrinkled.
Warren took a few steps forward then he recoiled at the reek that suddenly hit him. It was alcohol and vomit and days-old sweat. “It’s Ryan Warren, sir.” Dammit, Warren thought. He’s cracked completely.
“Warren?” Oliver growled. “I said I was…wasn’t to b…be disturbed.” He struggled to sit up, and he glared at Warren.
“Mr. President, the situation in Europe is dire. The CEL Chancellor was trying to reach you. They launched a massive tactical nuclear strike on the Europan positions several hours ago.” Warren paused, trying to determine if anything he said was getting through to Oliver. “Sir, we just got word that the Europans retaliated with their own bombardment. Over 1,000 nuclear warheads and shells have been detonated across northeastern France and Southwestern Germany.”
“Why wasn’t I informed immediately,” Oliver roared. He tried to stand up, but he fell back down and stared up at Ryan.
“Mr. President, we have been trying to brief you for hours. We…” Ryan stopped abruptly. Oliver was clearly incapable of handling the current situation. The Alliance was entering the greatest crisis of its existence, and its president was drunk and strung out. There was no time to deal with him in his current state, no room for any mistakes right now. Not if the Alliance was going to have any chance at weathering this storm.
There had been no news from the Europan-CEL front beyond word of the shared nuclear exchanges. Warren had no idea which power would emerge from the cataclysm in the stronger position or if, indeed, either power still possessed any meaningful military strength in the affected areas.
Mutual destruction would be a win for the enemy. With no hope of reinforcing the makeshift forces the CEL had cobbled together to delay the RIC armies, its collapse was almost certain. A quick victory in the west was their only chance, but it seemed unlikely they would still possess the strength to deal with the growing Russian forces. A CEL capitulation would leave the Alliance and the PRC alone, fighting the rest of the world. Warren knew the Alliance could take any other single Power, but sooner or later, a five to two struggle had to end in defeat.
He took a deep breath and pulled a small gun from his pocket. There was a silencer attached to the short barrel. All his life he’d dreamed of acquiring power, of imposing his will on others. Now he was on the brink of assuming total control over the Alliance, or at least making his play for absolute power, and he wished for anything else. The Alliance was crumbling. Indeed, the entire world faced a crisis like none before in its long and troubled history.
Oliver looked up and saw the gun. “What the hell…”
Warren pulled the trigger. The president of the Alliance fell back, his body rolling off the co
uch and landing face down on the floor. Warren knew Oliver was dead, but he believed in being sure, and he put two more shots into the back of his head. “Consider yourself impeached, Mr. President.”
He stared at Oliver’s body, watching the pool of blood around his head slowly expanding on the polished wood floor. Shooting Oliver was the easy part, he knew. Next, he had to consolidate control, and he had to do it immediately. The Alliance was full of ambitious politicians and generals, and he had to have everything locked down before word got out that Oliver was dead.
He turned and walked back the way he had come, tapping the plate to open the door. He looked toward the cluster of agents standing around the in the hallway. They were his best operatives, his inner circle. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He spoke softly, gravely. “No one gets into this room until I say so. I want a dozen guards posted. Intelligence security, and men of unquestioned reliability.”
“Yes, Number One.” The title was more traditional than specifically accurate. Warren hadn’t had time to reconstitute the Directorate, and he was the only one in Alliance Intelligence who currently bore the traditional numerical title. Still, he thought it had a nice ring to it.
“We need to round up all Presidential Security. It won’t be long before someone realizes the duty guards are missing. We need to find every one of them, on and off duty.” He paused, and sighed. “And liquidate them all. They’re too big a security risk.” It was no time for carelessness or half-measures.
The senior agent nodded. “Understood, Number One.”
“And we need to get control of the nuclear arsenals and bring the top military officers onboard. Let’s review the files on all the key generals and admirals and come up with an action plan on how to control them.” Warren was a big believer in using a well-crafted combination of bribery and threats to control people, something he’d learned working under Gavin Stark.
“Stay here until you can get this door properly guarded and then meet me in the command center. There is much to be done.” Warren turned and headed toward the elevator bank. It was going to be a busy night. By morning he’d either be the unquestioned master of the Alliance…or he’d be dead.
Chapter 8
Flag Bridge
MCS Rhodes
Near Saturn
Sol System
David Ross stared straight ahead, through the haze and smoke hanging in the air of his flag bridge. Rhodes was badly damaged, and there were internal fires and multiple systems down. But one of the reactors was still online, and half her laser turrets were still operational and blazing away at the enemy. She had fight left in her yet.
Ross’ subordinates had tried to convince him to transfer the flag, but he’d refused every time. If Rhodes still had a weapon to fire and a reactor left to power it, her admiral would stay with her, and if she succumbed then he would go down with her. Ross was a bit of a romantic, and he tended to personify his ships. Abandoning a vessel that was still giving its all to the fight just seemed wrong to him. His staff tended to think he would have been more at home on the deck of a wooden ship, cutlass in hand, fighting to the bitter end.
“Report from Celestia, Admiral. Captain Pharris is dead. Celestia’s bridge is destroyed, and the 1st officer is running the ship from the emergency control center.” Janet Randall had been Ross’ tactical officer since his first ship command, and she’d come with him on every posting since.
“Very well, Commander.” His voice was like iron. Neil Pharris had been his classmate at the Academy, and a good friend in his younger days, though they’d grown less close as duty and responsibility took more of their time. He felt for the men and women dying on his ships, and their comrades struggling to keep tortured machinery working, but they needed one thing from him now, above all else. Strength. They could have their own fears, cry for their own pain, but they needed to see their commander as a pillar of solid stone.
“Order the reserve squadrons to attack.” He’d kept back 2 groups of fast attack ships, six boats in all. It wasn’t much against the 10 remaining battleships of the enemy line, but the strategy was unorthodox, and he would have surprise on his side. The ships were small and fragile, and they would earn their “suicide boat” nickname making close in runs at battleships. But their plasma torpedoes were extremely powerful weapons at point blank range. A few well-placed hits could gut a capital ship, especially one already damaged in the protracted fight.
Ross sat in his chair, impassive, watching the battle continue to unfold. He brushed aside thoughts about Pharris’ daughter and what he would tell her about her father. His living crews needed him now. There would be time to mourn the dead later. If anyone survived.
The fleets had approached each other at low velocities, and now they were in a protracted energy weapons duel. In normal circumstances, he’d have had his smaller fleet come in at high speed, trying to overcome his numerical disadvantage with superior maneuver. But that wasn’t an option here. The Martian fleet had one overriding mission. At all costs, they had to keep Stark’s fleet away from Mars itself. Even a few warships could wreak havoc if they got through. The Martian cities were covered with hyper-polycarbonate domes, protecting their citizens from the planet’s extreme conditions. They were incredibly strong under normal circumstances, but an attack from space would destroy one completely, exposing the city below to the harsh realities of the Martian surface.
He sat and watched the data streaming in from the fleet. He’d lost two cruisers already, and half a dozen smaller ships, and most of the other vessels in the fleet had suffered varying degrees of damage ranging from serious to catastrophic.
He watched the scanners, his eyes focused on six small blips. He knew he was sending those crews, most of them at least, to their deaths, but there was no choice. He needed to break up the enemy attack to buy some time…and the attack ships could do just that.
He saw them streak toward their targets, accelerating at 30g right for the enemy battleline. Their crews were zipped up in their tanks, and Ross couldn’t imagine a worse way to die if they were hit.
“The enemy line is diverting fire toward the attack ships.” Randall’s tone told him that she too realized just how little chance those crews had of making it back. “Our battleline units are reporting reduced fire.”
Ross winced as he saw one of the attack ships disappear on the scanner. Then another. A third of the force was gone just like that, but the others closed to attack range. He watched as they concentrated on a single enemy battleship. It was a big vessel, an Alliance Yorktown class, and it was already heavily damaged and trailing atmosphere and fluids.
The attack ships came on in two waves of two, blasting their thrusters at full power in a zigzag pattern, trying to dodge the battlewagon’s heavy point defense. Ross’ eyes were glued to the scanner, watching as they approached firing range. One of the attack ships disappeared just before it fired, but the other three launched their torpedoes and blasted away at full thrust, altering their vectors to clear the close-range defensive fire of the target. One of the blips flashed brightly, but it didn’t disappear. The ship had been hit but not destroyed. Whether it was still capable of escaping – or indeed, if anyone onboard was still alive – was still unclear.
Ross’ eyes darted to the big red oval representing the enemy battleship. He watched three tiny dots move into it one after another, and the AI began displaying damage reports to the side of the map. A few seconds later, the oval vanished, and the AI reported the complete destruction of the ship. The Alliance Yorktowns were the biggest warships in space besides the Confederation’s two monster superbattleships, and now the enemy only had one left. The flagship.
The flag bridge erupted in cheers as the report came in, and another when all three attack ships blasted through the enemy’s intercept zone and into the clear. A 50% survival rate was far higher than Ross had expected, and he sighed quietly in gratitude.
He glanced up at the chronometer. Less than five minutes left, he tho
ught, thinking about Campbell and the two massive dreadnoughts now working their way around Saturn. He took a deep breath and stared at the tactical screen. He knew five minutes could stretch out like an eternity.
“All batteries, prepare to fire.” Campbell was sitting on the front edge of his seat, leaning forward, his hands gripping the sides of his chair like vices. The posture was bad, and his back hurt like hell, but he didn’t care. It was almost time.
The last 17 minutes had stretched on like an eternity, one long second slowly yielding to the next. His mind had been running wild with scenarios of hell unleashed on the rest of his fleet. He could see the nuclear explosions in his head, gargantuan warheads detonating in space all around his ships. The blasts wouldn’t look like much in space, just a brief flash of intense light. But any ship within a few kilometers would be hit with a massive burst of radiation. Hulls would melt, armor would buckle. Men and women would die.
The missile exchange would be over by now, he realized. Whatever damage it had wrought was done, and whatever was left of the Confederation’s navy would be fighting a laser duel with Stark’s fleet. The Martian ships had strong energy weapon complements, and he knew that would help. But numbers would tell the tale in the end. Each of his ships would be facing two or three enemy vessels, and that kind of mathematics usually asserted itself before a battle was over.
With any luck, Campbell hoped, the enemy commander assumed the two biggest Martian battleships had fled, the Confederation unwilling to risk their most powerful and modern vessels in a losing fight. If the fool bought it, Campbell would have a precious few moments of total surprise. He hoped it would be enough.
John Carter and Sword of Ares had picked up a lot of speed whipping around Saturn’s gravity well, and in a few seconds, a targeted blast of thrust would send them heading right toward the rear of Stark’s fleet.
