Conflict: The Pythan War, Invasion

by DK Williamson

  “That’s right, sir. We keep it between the Pythan vehicle and us once we get in close enough. Farther out we use any piece of rock we can keep between us and them.”

  “What’s the transit time from the point we exit the nav lane to Jasbar?”

  “That will depend on what we have to contend with in the asteroid field, sir. Eighteen to twenty-four hours I’d estimate.”

  “How long to the nav lane?”

  “Thirty minutes, sir.”

  “How long down the nav lane?”

  “You mean time, sir?”

  White nodded.

  “Six hours, fourteen minutes at standard acceleration. We exit here, sir,” he said tapping at a point on the table.

  “All right.” The major looked across the table to First Lieutenant Lex Tortelli, the Weapons crew chief. “What’s your plan for taking down the Pythan cruiser?”

  “We carry sixteen missiles, sir,” Tortelli said. “My initial thought was to send them all.” Bud White smiled. “But we don’t know what defensive systems the Pythans have on their vehicles. I propose we fire twelve with kinetic kill heads. We keep two similarly equipped onboard along with two tipped with nuclear warheads in case we have to find an alternate solution.”

  “When my father taught me how to play football, one of the first things he told me was this, ‘When you hit someone, you hit them’,” White said pounding his two fists into each other. “‘Make them remember that hit into next week and beyond. Make them fear whatever number you wear on your jersey. Make’em have nightmares about that number coming to tackle them.’ That’s what I want here. We hit the Pythans hard, only they won’t be remembering anything because they’ll be dead. I like your ideas. My gut says fire the lot, but we haven’t tangled with these guys in three centuries, so having a backup plan is wise.”

  “We’ll still have our complement of mag guns available, sir, but firing twelve missiles in short succession may play havoc with that until the piloting crew gets things squared away,” Tortelli said with some concern.

  White looked to Blakely. “That hotshot piloting crew of yours up for that, lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. We can deal with the momentum imparted by the missile launches. The thrust compensators in the missile tubes will take up most of that and we’ll adjust on the fly.” Blakely smiled. “If we could get refitted with the new recoilless systems, it would make things a whole lot easier.”

  White glared at the lieutenant, then smiled. “Unless you have a construction station you can pull out of your ass, you’ll just have to make do.”

  Blakely laughed. “We’ll make do, sir.”

  -(o)-

  Twenty-four hours later Buford closed on the Brute, the Pythan vehicles blind to their approach until the Coalition vehicle cleared the giant rock.

  White and his section leaders gathered around the plotting table. All wore their space combat suits, tough pressure suits that could handle the rigors of space without being so encumbering as to interfere with vehicle operations. Connected to an independent life support system within the crew chairs, vehicle crew might survive if their vessel was severely damaged to the point the interior was torn open in combat, or even if they got ‘spaced’, a common term for instances when a person ended up floating in space without a vehicle.

  “When we come out from behind the Brute, I want a course taking us directly at the Pythan vehicle,” White said to Blakely.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied.

  “As soon as we clear the rock field I want missile and mag gun targeting completed as soon as possible. Got me, Tortelli?”

  “Got you, sir.”

  “I want to know the location of the Pythan patrol vehicles as well,”

  “Yes, sir,” Tortelli replied. “I have the defensive gun crew ready to do just that.”

  White made the plan clear to the crew. “It’s simple,” he said. “The best plans usually are. We clear the Brute and fire missiles at the big Pythan vehicle. We close and go after the two patrol vehicles. If all goes well we get not just the first hit, but also the first several hits. This is not a suicide mission. We are not going to fight fair. We are going to hit them with everything we have and keep hitting until we win. When we make it back, you’ll never have to buy a drink in a Space Forces bar again. Just say you served on the Buford in Jasbar.

  “Stand by action stations. We bring war to the Pythans.”

  -(o)-

  Buford came out of the cover of the Brute, a twinkling speck in an expanse of rock and the dark of space, closing fast on its opponent.

  Had Pythan sensors, detectors, or even a keen eyed crewman with optics, been pointed in the right direction they might have seen the Lancer coming at them, but for the time being, they were blind to the threat.

  Buck White was in his command chair, strapped in place like all of Buford’s crew. He scanned his readout screens. The big Pythan vehicle was just sitting there. It’s got power, he thought. He could see that.

  “Where are the patrol vehicles?” he asked over the headset.

  “They’re docked with the heavy, sir,” Tortelli replied. “Sending data. Sending targeting.”

  White looked at a screen to his right. Tortelli was correct about the patrol vehicles. White shook his head.

  They don’t think anything is going to happen. They are sitting in an end-of-the-line system and think nothing is going to happen. They don’t realize mayhem is loose and death is coming. They’re watching the nav gate terminus. This just might work.

  He looked over the targeting and navigation data and scanned the tactical display.

  “We close for sixty more seconds, then we maneuver to fire missiles.”

  A minute later Buford’s engines ceased thrusting. Blakely and his piloting crew executed a ninety-degree pivot to port, bringing the starboard side to face the Pythan target as they continued closing.

  “Maneuver thrusters off. We are in position to fire missiles, sir,” Blakely said.

  “Lieutenant Tortelli, fire when ready,” White said.

  “Yes, sir. Executing now.”

  The ship vibrated as the missiles launched, two at a time, a quarter second between pairs.

  “Twelve missiles away, sir,” Tortelli said. “All are tracking with passive sensors.”

  “Blakely, get us turned and thrusting again,” White said. There was an edge to his voice.

  “Yes, sir!” Blakely said.

  Buford rotated ninety degrees to starboard.

  “Maneuver complete, resuming thrust.”

  White unconsciously leaned forward against the straps that held him in place as he scanned his screens.

  “Sir, one of the patrol vehicles is powering up,” Lieutenant Tortelli said.

  “Any indication they know we’re here?”

  “No active scans. I would think all three vehicles would become active if that were the case. Continuing to monitor.”

  A minute ticked by, then another. To many of the crew it felt like an eternity.

  “Ninety seconds to impact, sir,” Tortelli said.

  Buck White felt the same as when he was in the midst of a blitz on the football field. He was through the line and in the backfield closing on the quarterback from behind. If they’d left a running back to block or pulled the tight end around for protection the bastard might have a chance, but they didn’t, he thought as a primal rush coursed through him. I’m going to tear his body out from underneath his head. The pulsing sound in his head was the same, but the helmet was different now. Instead of a polymer faceguard, he had a tygon glass faceplate that would keep him alive if the Buford was ripped open.

  The quarterback is sitting in the pocket, oblivious and comfortable and looking for a receiver, his arm poised to throw.

  “Sir, the heavy is doing something,” Tortelli said. “Thermals indicate heat increasing, but I don’t know what it means. The other patrol ship is powering up. They’re on to us!” There was a brief pause. “Set missiles to active scans,�
�� he ordered the missile crew.

  The quarterback senses me. He moves forward in the pocket trying to get the pass away. Get the shoulder down, White, drill him right between the shoulder blades. Impact!

  “Impact, sir!

  White made a facial expression, half grin and half grimace.

  “The heavy is dead, sir. Coming apart,” Tortelli said.

  “One patrol vehicle is also destroyed,” Captain Jaeger said. “The other is pushing for the navigation lane.”

  White grumbled. “Tortelli, do something about that. I want it dead, without a doubt.”

  “Undoubtedly dead, you got it, sir. Mag guns firing.”

  White got what he wanted. The last Pythan vehicle was nothing but small pieces whirling away into the black.

  “Blakely, bring the ass around and get us slowed down so we don’t punch a hole in Hava.”

  The major had three concerns now that the battle was over, did the Pythans hold Estacado station; were there any survivors on the Winslow; and where would they go from the Jasbar system.

  The first two were simple enough to answer. The liberation of Estacado took place shortly after the Pythan heavy met its end. “When you hit the cruiser, the Pythans on the station ran to the portals and observation plates to see what was happening. We hit them fast and hard. It was a fight, could have gone either way, but we’re here and they aren’t,” was the account they heard from one of those on board Estacado.

  The Winslow was a different story. Scans and sensors found any remains of the vehicle they could locate to be cold, and cold meant lifeless.

  Buford docked with the space station and Major White and some of his crew went aboard. They learned that the Pythans had not put any soldiers planetside. The enemy knew little of Hava and decided to maintain control from space, bringing in ground troops at a later time.

  Officials arrived from Hava via in-system shuttles to discuss the situation. It was clear Space Forces’ control over the Jasbar system was only temporary. It was only a matter of time before the Pythans realized what had occurred and sent force enough to reassert control.

  At a public meeting, they discussed various options. White and some of his officers, along with station and planetary officials stood before a few hundred Coalition citizens in a large room on the station.

  Numerous proposals were brought up, but the two most people wished to talk about were surrender and escape.

  Many voiced the opinion they would never surrender, they’d take their chances trying to blitz down nav lanes and through systems until they reached Coalition controlled space. White knew the only vehicle in Jasbar that might possibly pull off such a feat was Buford, and even then, it would be a desperate and suicidal venture.

  “We could try to make a run through the nav lane system, but that’s some long odds, sir,” Lieutenant Blakely said. “We could try and disable the last nav gate to slow the Pythans arrival, but I’m not sure how we could pull that off, and it wouldn’t keep the Pythans out of Jasbar forever.”

  “There’s another way,” a raised voice in the crowd said.

  White looked at the gathering. “Let’s hear it, any ideas are welcome.”

  A grey-haired man pushed his way through the crowd to the front.

  “The Gerox Mining Combine Transit Gate,” he said. “Jump to Frisco or Dodge. Jump farther if you think you can guess how far the Pythans went into Coalition space.”

  A murmur went through the people in the room.

  “What’s he talking about, sir?” Blakely asked quietly as the man approached them.

  “Out in the asteroid field. Gerox is one of the bigger independent operators out there. They have a jump hole they use to send materials to a processing center in the Dodge system.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the grey-haired man said when he stopped beside White. “The old man must be crazy, right?”

  “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I am wondering how you think a mining transit gate is of use to us.”

  “You figure it isn’t big enough to jump your Lancer or that supply vehicle? You’d be wrong. We move some big rocks, and jumping a rock isn’t any different than jumping a vehicle. Some of those rocks we move are worth more than that Lancer of yours.”

  White crossed his arms and thought for some time. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked looking at the man.

  “Poul McCormick, company rep for Gerox both here and out in the rocks.”

  “I guess it shows how desperate our situation is when your proposal is the best option available.”

  “Desperate times, major. The question is, how many people can we get out?”

  The desperate option became the only option.

  The rest of the day and most of the next were spent deciding who would be selected to escape. Planetary officials thought there would be some volunteers, enough to fill the few vehicles available, but were sure most people would not want to take such a risky transit. They were wrong. Throngs of people wished to leave and it led to unrest.

  Most of the people who would actually be leaving would be those already on the station. Shuttles going groundside risked being overrun by crowds or being hijacked by the desperate.

  The supply vehicle was emptied of its cargo and provided space for a few hundred people. A smaller Gerox supply vehicle had space for a few dozen, a navigation gate maintenance vehicle a dozen, and the Buford twenty, squeezed into the already cramped spaces of the combat vehicle.

  As they prepared to depart, Major White and Lieutenant Alonzo watched video from Hava, seeing desperate people still trying to find a nonexistent berth on already full vehicles.

  “We’re leaving an awful lot of people to the Pythans, sir,” Alonzo said

  White nodded, grim-faced. “What do you want to do, die in a glorious suicidal defense of the planet and her citizens? That assuage your conscience?”

  “No, sir. I was just saying… well, it’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, it is. I assume Coalition Command has a plan, a plan that brings us back here and eliminates the Pythan presence. I’d like to live to see it, hell I’d even be willing to help. You’re stating the obvious, lieutenant. Some people feel the need to do that, but I find it irritating as hell.”

  The vehicles left Jasbar and moved down a corridor in the asteroid field. It was safer than maneuvering through the field itself, but the corridor was far from stable. This asteroid field was more dense than most, and as such, somewhat more hazardous. Buford led the way, using its sensor capabilities to find any errant rocks that might create a threat to the rag-tag convoy.

  Three days later, they arrived at the Gerox Mining Combine station, built inside a mined out asteroid. Bud White accompanied Poul McCormick to meet with the residents of the GMC station, mining and asteroid harvesting workers, and the people that supported their efforts.

  “Watch yourself around the miners,” McCormick said as they walked through the walkway carved into the interior of the asteroid. “They’re an independent bunch and don’t like being pushed around or told what to do. I’m the company rep here, so they’ll listen to me, but don’t be shoving Space Forces authority in their faces.”

  “I’ll let you do the talking. I’ll just answer questions if they have any.”

  “Who did you select to go look at the transit gate?”

  “Master Sergeant Cruz. He’s our engineering chief.”

  The two men walked into a large room with a high and domed ceiling. A loud and boisterous crowd awaited.

  McCormick quieted them down and explained the situation to them.

  The response was not what Major White expected.

  “It’s bullshit. It’s the Coalition trying to get us out of the asteroid field,” a voice yelled.

  “A lot of us are out here because we want to be clear of folks like you.”

  McCormick’s arms went up and he was able to quiet the gathering once again.

  “I was on Estacado when the Pythans showed up,” he said. “
You can talk to the Gerox people who were with me on Estacado to confirm that. Ask yourselves this, why would those vehicles parked out there be here? The Pythan invasion is real. I’m not saying you have to leave, but as the Gerox rep here, I’m shutting down operations until this thing is over. You wildcatters want to stay on, do so, but the Gila River and most of the other Gerox vehicles are pulling out.”

  The Gila River was the largest vehicle at the station. Used primarily for maneuvering rocks out of the asteroid field and into the station area for processing or pushing the rocks to the transit gate, the Gila River was large enough to transport all of those that called the Gerox Mining Combine station home if they so wished.

  The large majority of people at the station decided to leave, but some stayed. Some because they had to, a skeleton crew to maintain the station and the transit gate operators for instance. Others stayed because they still didn’t believe the invasion was real, or all they had in the world was there.

  MSG Cruz returned from his inspection of the transit gate with one of the gate’s crew and spoke with Major White.

  “How does it look?” Whites asked.

  “It looks like the most ramshackle piece of gear I ever saw. That said, it is fully functional, sir. It’s in spec, but I question the accuracy.”

  The crewman glared at MSG Cruz. “Maybe it ain’t accurate by your standards. We figure it ain’t great, it ain’t good, it’s good enough, and good enough is… good enough. Put a beacon on a rock and send it through. They always find it on the other end. Ain’t never used it to jump a vehicle, but it’ll work.”

  “That is not a regulated transport gate,” Cruz said.

  “Of course it ain’t. What regulating body has authority out here. Nobody, that’s who. It’s us mining companies and wildcats that are pushing into the beyond. Us and ain’t nobody else.”

  “Fair enough,” Cruz said. “Sir, I think it’s doable. We just need to figure out where we’re jumping.”

  “Frisco,” White said. “It’s the closest, so we’ll have the least margin of error. We have civilian ships and citizens to watch over. That is hard to do if we get spread all over space.”