by A J Marshall
And then came the flak; it rose from the ground like a spectre materialising. “Incoming fire!” someone shouted – it was Tardier!
Multiple, glowing, sublet tracers streamed towards them. Plasma pocklets exploded in front of them, electrifying Space like sparking ripples opening from a stone in a pond. And sonic grenades blurred the horizon. The barrage was like an angry swarm of bees: condensed, stinging, persistent.
Instinctively, Richard twitched forwards on the nose of his craft and dropped the Formation to twenty feet above ground level – the wall of flak was over them and in front of them, but the line held and behind them the dust and the debris swirled and rose into a crest like a great tidal wave flooding down the valley. Controlling the fighters became difficult; they shuddered and bounced in the bombardment and Richard felt the Swiftsure absorbing shrapnel.
And then he saw the opposition and their battle line across the valley – humanoid shapes in the kicked-up dirt. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Humatrons, scores of them, running north-east and making good ground. His heart sank, as they too were dispersed across the entire valley floor, a tactic that made collective targeting impossible. The scene was set. This would be no hit-and-run raid.
It was hell on the Moon. The barrage rained down on them. The pilots flinched at the closeness of it. “Steady!” Richard called to his men. “Steady . . . standby . . . fire!”
CHAPTER 26
The Battle of Putredinis
The valley floor became a bubbling, seething cauldron of deactivation. For a few seconds the weight of concentrated fire from the fighters made the ground shake and rumble as if by Moonquake. It was like a volcano had vented precisely below the robots. Instinctively, each pilot twitched back on his control and slightly climbed his craft before disappearing into the rising cloud of pyroclastic turmoil. And it wasn’t just a smoke of dust and dirt and filth that erupted into the air; it was mechanisms and cyber-parts and oil and artificial intelligence.
A second later and like flashes from a brooding thunder cloud, the line of fighters emerged intact. They seemed to be survivors escaping from a towering, tumultuous Black Death – but there was an unrequested reception party on the other side. Like an agitated swarm of flies over a piece of meat they waited for Richard and his men at arms – a cluster of Humatron fighters lurked ready to pounce.
Immediately, Richard instructed: “Break formation! Break now! Break! Not above three hundred!”
Three fighters turned abruptly left and climbed, and three the same to the right, and as they did brilliant beams of laser-light struck out towards them. Now it was a free-for-all and, turning incredibly tightly, each fighter zoomed over the ridge line and into the fight.
Overhead, Doug Winton’s ‘Alpha Section’ whooshed past making numerous kills. The enemy fighters manoeuvred in the most amazing way, turning corners so tightly as to appear to make right angles. But it quickly became apparent that they lacked the top speed of the larger Delta Class. Richard saw a Delta take a hit; the laser beam severed its left wing and the craft exploded. Simultaneously, however, Winton’s second wing, ‘Bravo Section’, running in higher and from the east, easily picked off the Humatron fighter that had made the kill, as its momentum had taken it up into their territory.
In his peripheral vision, Richard saw the silhouette of another Humatron fighter. He ordered Thomas to take an image of it so as to better understand what they were fighting. Richard noted the design as an elongated oval shape with two stub wings, like a human hand with three centre fingers held together and the thumb and little finger spread slightly at an angle of approximately twenty degrees. Towards the front of the craft was a spherical cockpit, like a clear glass ball set within the thin, silver-coloured fuselage and with an equal proportion protruding both above and below, giving superb all-round visibility. Inside the bubble cockpit sat the unmistakeable figure of a Humatron.
Thomas quickly took an image of the ship as it turned towards them and magnified it on his tactical screen. Richard’s eyes widened at its turn rate and speculated an induced g-force of at least twelve – he knew even the most conditioned human pilot would blackout in that turn. The thought made him shudder and he instantly snap-rolled the Swiftsure to the left and tracked the incoming fighter in order to prevent it positioning behind. For a split second the Humatron fighter was in his sights and Richard fired his cannon. The red stream of sublets streamed away and Richard tried to tighten his turn so that the smaller fighter would fly through the line, but by another remarkable turn it evaded them. In that instant, Tardier’s ship zoomed past Richard’s nose; it was firing pulse torpedoes at something unseen. From left to right it soon disappeared into the fray. The Swiftsure juddered in its wake.
Richard reversed his turn and dived down into the valley. As he did he looked up; the sky was awash with spacecraft. White, smoky exhaust trails criss-crossed the blackness of Space and red and white laser beams flashed in all directions like spontaneous lightning bolts. Never had Richard been involved in aerial combat of such intensity. In that moment he thought of the historic Battle of Britain, where numerous white vapour trails against a backdrop of blue sky and occasional cloud evoked memories of a similar fight for survival.
Richard rolled inverted and scanned the valley floor. Two Delta fighters from his formation were already on their second pass; they were strafing groups of Humatrons and some way in front of them explosions and plumes of dust erupted. Over the radio and above the medley of heated exchanges, Richard heard: “La chasse . . . ! La chasse . . . !” He knew that was Borghine.
Richard skimmed along the steep escarpment so close that he could have touched it with an outstretched hand. Suddenly a crashing Humatron ship tumbled down the vertical wall of dark rock not more than six hundred metres in front of him – it broke into pieces and burst into flames. Richard narrowly avoided it with an instinctive movement. Then, as he looked back over his left shoulder for targets, a laser beam passed so close as to illuminate his cockpit and drench him for an instant in brilliant white light. There was a fighter behind him. Richard strained to see it – but he couldn’t. Immediately, he dived again and followed the contours of the valley, turning all the while onto a north-easterly heading. He would rely on Red Wing for protection and continue with his objective. Now Richard could see the result of Black Formation’s first pass: the robot force had scattered and groups were still making their way along the valley towards Andromeda, but behind them the ground was awash with metallic carcasses and it smouldered.
Meanwhile, Thomas sent the image of the enemy ship to Richard’s sensor screen. He focused on it momentarily as he dropped to 30 feet – it was the bubble-cockpit that he was most interested in. The robot’s seat appeared to be ingeniously set on gyroscopic gimbals that maintained the pilot in a head-up position as the craft itself manoeuvred – it was an inspired design. The propulsion appeared to be a conventional rocket motor with a single, directional nozzle, and one laser initiator in the nosecone.
Richard caught sight of a glinting object in his ten o’clock position. It was another Humatron fighter and the red light that simultaneously illuminated on his instrument panel indicated that there was a weapon lock on the Swiftsure. In the centre of the valley, Richard rolled his wings level and commenced his run in. Against all his instincts he ignored both the approaching fighter and the red light on the panel and focused again on the ground force.
Richard heard the voice of John Mayard: “Number four and five requesting formation!” he called.
“Granted!” barked Richard.
Within seconds Richard became aware of two Deltas drawing up, one on each side; they had joined as a pair from the east side of the valley. With his visor down he checked each wingtip as the fighters established a tight echelon left and echelon right and then eased forwards the final few metres until the three ships were in a line. In the heat of battle and the sweat and with adrenalin and a cool stare, each pilot jostled and twitched and held their posi
tion.
“Target approaching . . . large ground force. Three Ks on the nose. Stay with me!” snapped Richard over the combat channel.
Suddenly there was an explosion on his left side. Richard glanced across. The flames quickly subsided to reveal a gaping tear in Chris Quarrie’s right wing and simultaneously another laser-burst flashed between them. Richard looked forward and then across at his wingman again. With smoke streaming from the hole, Quarrie looked back – he nodded sharply and held his line. Another laser-burst flashed past his cockpit. “Damned fighter!” blurted Richard over the intercom.
Thomas twisted his neck and looked behind. “One on our tail and another joining from the right,” he reported.
Richard broke tactical radio silence. “Red One from Black One, triangulate my position. Transmitting, one, two, three, two, one . . . we need help!”
Immediately Doug Winton replied: “I see you! Red Seven . . . Red Nine . . . follow me! We’re on our way!”
Richard breathed a fraction easier, but not before another shrapnel tear opened in his own left wing and near to the fuselage – he felt the disturbance on his control column. On the other side, Mayard held wingtip to wingtip so close that they could have been joined.
“Standby to target!” called Richard, and he prepared a volley of sonic eruptors and quickly selected the heavier armour-piercing shells for his cannon.
At that moment, the targeted group of about twenty Humatrons commenced rear-guard fire. The flak wall quickly approached. Richard dipped the Formation down again. The ground streaked past; senses were heightened and hearts thumped.
Unseen and overhead, Winton attacked the trailing enemy fighters. Richard was unaware of his success, only that it gave him some breathing space. He took final aim. “Five seconds!” he called. Quarrie and Mayard selected magma shells – high-energy exploding shells filled with iron ore pellets that became molten during the delivery phase, heated by a contained, effervescing phosphor charge.
“Fire!” called Richard, and simultaneously he pressed the trigger of his cannon. With his right hand he pressed a selector that released the sonic pulses. Away went the magma shells from Quarrie and Mayard – devastation would follow in their wake.
Richard watched the tracer shells from his cannon stream away from him in an unwavering red line, and then he saw their rampant, explosive impact in the dust seconds later. He tracked their percussive progress towards the line of robots and then the carnage they caused as they penetrated the group. Mechanical bodies were tossed like ragdolls high into the air and shredded limbs flew at the wave of unfettered shrapnel. Finally, the magma shells, expertly on target and merciless, exploded in the midst of the robots that remained standing; each launched a thousand searing pellets. The machines that fled were chased down and caused to disintegrate in an instant. And then the Formation flashed by. What little remained of the platoon floundered in the dirt and the dust.
“Break formation!” ordered Richard, and he pulled up steeply into a vertical climb to escape the area.
Andromeda Operations Room – simultaneous
“Give me the situation to the north!” shouted Eddie Lieven, the Chief Operations Officer, from across the Operations Room. He was red-faced and sweating.
Herbie Smith sat at his console staring at his sensor screen. He repeatedly referred to another adjacent screen on which constantly changing text updated information from the various battle fronts.
“The 1 Regiment is falling back from the Fresnel escarpment, sir – indicating heavy casualties. A number of Humatrons have already been sighted from lookout positions on the northern biodomes; maybe thirty minutes and they will be here. The 2 Regiment under Colonel Randle are forming a defensive line to the east, but their report suggests minimal numbers and they are being harassed by enemy fighters. The Colonel thinks that there could be a thrust from that direction imminently.”
“And the Third!?”
“Some good news there at least, sir. We are getting reports of men arriving back from the Rima Hadley area; it seems our fighters are mopping up the robot surge from the south-west . . . and the other half of the Third are engaging a hit-and-run platoon five Ks south-east.”
“What about support troops from Earth?”
“All our sensors are down, but I’m expecting three S2s with assault pods any time now – they left Canaveral more than four hours ago . . .”
“Three S2s . . . sixty troops! Is that the best they can do! God damn it, we need more than that!”
The Operations Room was packed with personnel. Many were sitting at consoles. Others rushed between them. And officers paced the raised section that was the Lunar Security Control Centre. There was an air of dread.
“Nanobots . . . we must not forget the Nanobot threat, Chief!” interjected Dimitri Nurevski, from the primary security console. He looked up momentarily. “They are overrunning the Western Biodome Complex.” His voice trembled and many stopped and stared at him as a result.
“We need fighter support in the north . . . call Colonel Winton,” said Lieven. “Request that he sends a fighter section north . . . immediately!”
“Aye aye, sir,” replied Herbie Smith and buried his head in his computer.
Richard commenced a turn to the right and then violently reversed it into a steep left-hand turn that had his wingtips well past the vertical; he changed his energy status by constantly working the thrust lever and used the Swiftsure’s two manoeuvring retros to increase the rate of turn. ‘In combat, never fly straight and level for more than thirty seconds’ – that was his tenet and it had served him well in the past. He assessed the situation below. He had heard Herbie Smith’s call over the control frequency, requesting support on the northern flank and Doug Winton had promptly dispatched Bravo Section – less a few good men – saying that he would follow ASAP. Other warning calls over the combat frequency heightened the tension in the arena.
“Bogey six o’clock . . . Red Five, he’s on you!”
“Watch that one . . . he’s turning!”
“Fire! Take him! Take him!”
“I’m hit . . . going down . . . arghhh!”
“Red Nine! In your ten o’clock, turn right now . . . now!”
“Eject! Eject!”
The Humatron fighters were swift and agile, proving deadly adversaries, and they had brought down a number of Deltas – but they had an Achilles heel. They were short-range fighters designed primarily for ground support and they lacked endurance. Being held in close combat in the Rima Hadley area for some time now was beginning to tell, and several were peeling off – desperately short of fuel. But Doug Winton and ‘A Section’ harassed them all the while. Turning north for a fuel stop made them highly vulnerable.
Richard watched the energetic clash between a Humatron fighter and a Delta Class that was taking place south of him by a few Ks. He watched the Humatron pilot pull some incredible manoeuvres and speculated on the role of human pilots in the coming years. Many of the specialist close combat tactics the machines were using caused Richard to think that the robots had the benefit of strategic computer programming – programming that utilised decades of aerial combat experience, as some of their manoeuvres were typical of the Second World War era.
Suddenly the Humatron craft exploded, being caught by a second Delta who had launched a coordinated attacking run at exceptionally high speed and subsequently zoomed off into the distance.
Flying inverted and using a skidding technique to hamper an attack from behind, Richard caught sight of Borghine’s Delta Class making another low level strafing run at the head of the Rima Hadley – as there were still a number of robots moving out of the valley and onto the Putredinis Plain.
Suddenly he saw a Humatron fighter manoeuvring into Borghine’s seven o’clock position in order to attack from behind. Richard slammed open his thrust levers and pulled the Swiftsure into a near vertical dive in support of Borghine. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another black-coloured Del
ta Class flashing along the valley. The fighter jinked right, reversed the turn left and then quickly rolled inverted, pushing up to get the Humatron in his sights, and then cleverly loosed a sonic torpedo as he pulled a clearing turn back to the left. This trick eliminated the possibility of the torpedo locking onto his colleague. It worked; the enemy fighter exploded moments later into an effervescing ball of sparks.
“Merci, mon ami!” called the familiar voice of Borghine, and Richard knew it was Tardier who had come to his rescue.
Suddenly a Humatron fighter streaked past Richard’s cockpit close enough to make his ship shudder, and then, in the blink of an eye, Black Six shot past in hot pursuit. Canales fired a pulse torpedo, but both ships were out of sight in an instant and Richard was unable to see the outcome.
“A rapid turn to the right at this moment will avoid the incoming fighter gaining a weapon lock,” said Thomas calmly.
“What the . . . !”
Richard didn’t see the threat but turned immediately – instantly two brilliant beams of light flashed past. Richard tightened the turn – another beam of laser light illuminated his cockpit. He pulled up into a vertical climb, used the forward retro to push over his nose, and entered a spin; he closed the thrust levers and dropped like a brick.
“Black leader, one on your tail!” someone shouted over the radio.
