Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  He looked at his grinning comrades and turned the tablet around. There was a photo there, a newborn baby, all red with puffy cheeks. His son, the other news Lise’s letter had delivered.

  “He’s cute, Sam…must have gotten most of his DNA from mom.”

  The engineers in the hold laughed, jockeying to get close and have a look.

  “Congrats again, Sam.” Billings was a wise ass, far more likely to give him a hard time than a serious emotion. But now his voice was sincere. “That’s why we’re working so hard…so we can get this tub fixed up and get the hell out of here. So you can give your son a kiss.” The others nodded, and gave him a ragged round of applause.

  “Thanks, guys. Really. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say about what? Why I have half a dozen engineers standing around like they’re at some kind of picnic? Can I assume Dauntless is one hundred percent operational again?” Fritz stepped into the room, holding a section of heavy duty cable. Her uniform was covered in black dust, and it had a large tear down one side. She looked like she’d just been crawling around somewhere in Dauntless’s guts…which Carson knew was probably exactly what she had been doing.

  “Sorry, Commander…we were just…ah…”

  “Carson was showing us the kid, Commander.” Billings looked a little startled still. “We kept at him until he gave in.”

  Fritz stepped forward, an ominous presence approaching like some dark shadow. “So, I can assume that all of you have work you should be doing, correct?” Her eyes focused on Billings.

  “Yes, Commander…we’re on it.” Billings looked around at the others. Then they all started moving toward the exit.

  “Not you, Sam.”

  Carson stopped, feeling like he was trapped in a spider web, watching as his comrades fled through the doorway and out into the corridor.

  “Commander, I’m sorry. They kept asking me, and I finally…”

  “I don’t care about any of that, Sam.”

  Carson struggled to hold Fritz’s terrifying gaze. “Yes, Commander.”

  “I don’t want to hear about that pack of lazy dogs chasing you around, distracting you from your duty.”

  “No, Commander.”

  “No…what I care about is getting a look at that tablet myself. Congratulations, Sam, you’ve got the best reason of all of us to get through this…and back to Archellia.”

  Carson stared back, trying to hide his stunned surprise. Then he caught the smile on Fritz’s face as the fearsome engineering chief walked over and held her hand out for the tablet.

  * * *

  “This is an important mission, more than any normal combat space patrol. I think we have a good chance to defeat the enemy ship, but half our systems are hanging by a thread.” Barron’s words were a bit more optimistic than his thoughts. He had a plan now, at least, which was better than just sitting and waiting. His people did have a chance…but he wasn’t sure though it was a good chance. “The asteroid field is going to reduce their effective range to less than fifty thousand kilometers. But if any of their fighters get through and launch a successful attack…well, that will probably be the battle. It won’t take much to knock the reactors down or take more of our guns offline. I’m not even sure what’s keeping the still-working ones functional.”

  Jamison turned toward Stockton, exchanging nods with his friend. Then he returned his gaze to Barron. “We’ll see it done, sir. Whatever it takes.”

  Barron sat impassively. Jamison was his strike force commander, and he was downright dour by the standards of the fighter corps. But even he was prone to the bravado Barron knew was an essential part of what allowed a man or woman to crawl into the cramped cockpit of a fighter and launch into a battle.

  “No bullshit, Kyle. I need those fighters kept away from Dauntless. Whatever it takes has to mean just that. Whatever it takes.” Barron knew he was telling his officer that the mission was more important than any—all—of his pilots’ lives. He hated it, but he meant it anyway.

  Jamison’s looked right into Barron’s eyes. His look was cold, serious. “I understand, sir. Whatever it takes.” He paused for a few seconds before turning back toward Stockton. “We’ll have to go in waves…maybe three. We’ll need birds positioned farther back to cut off any enemy fighters that try to run through our interceptors.” Another pause. “That means we’ll be outnumbered at the point of contact. Our lead forces could take losses. Bad losses.”

  “I’ll take the lead, boss.” Stockton’s words were emotionless. The patina of arrogance that usually surrounded him was entirely gone, replaced by a grim determination. “Give me my Blues…and Ice and half his Yellows. You and Lynx can take the Reds and the rest of the Yellows and form two reserve lines.”

  He turned around and stared back toward his rival. “That good with you, Ice? You game to fly with me? I’d bet between us, we can do what has to be done.”

  Krill had been sitting quietly in the back of the small briefing room. He stared back for a moment, silent. Then he said, “I’ll fly with you, Raptor.” There was warmth in his normally frigid tone, and he even managed a rare smile. “And you bet your ass we’ll do what has to be done.”

  “I’ll take the second line.” Olya Fedorov spoke up now. She had been standing along the back wall listening to the discussion. “I’ll take most of my Reds.” She looked at Jamison. “If you agree, sir, you can take the third line. The surviving Greens and the rest of Ice’s Yellows…plus a few of my best Reds. You’ll be the final defense, the last chance to take out anything that gets through us.”

  Jamison shook his head. “I’ll fly with the lead group.”

  “No, Kyle…you can’t do that.” Stockton snapped at his friend in a tone that verged on insubordination. “I mean, you’re the commander, sir. We don’t know what’s going to happen, how they’ll come at us. We need you where you can see things happening and react. It’s our place to be in the front lines, not yours.”

  Jamison looked as if he was going to argue, but Barron held up his hand. “I’m afraid Raptor is right. Your place is in the rear line…just as my place is here, and not in a fighter out there. I need your command abilities, Kyle, not senseless bravery that gets you killed. I need to know I can count on you, that you’ll keep those fighters from getting through and launching any attacks on Dauntless.”

  The pilot sat for a few seconds, staring down at the floor. Then his head moved up and said, “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  Barron looked out at his four squadron leaders. “I can’t express how fortunate I am to have such gifted and capable squadron commanders. I know what you went through in the first battle…” Barron hesitated. His fighter squadrons had lost half their strength already, and now he was sending them on another desperate mission. He knew the need to stop the bombers would put his people at a disadvantage against enemy ships fitted for dogfighting. And that meant more casualties, probably a lot more.

  “We understand, sir,” Jamison said. “We’re ready to do our jobs, Captain, whatever it takes. You worry about Dauntless. We’ll keep those bombers away.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Planet Santis

  Krillus IV

  307 AC

  “I’d say it’s one company, Sarge. They’re lined up on the ridgeline, and it looks like the enemy is moving to attack.” Thoms was breathing hard as he forced out the words, each exhale turning into a cloud of white condensation in the frigid morning air.

  “Enemy strength?” Hargraves was cold too, probably more even than Thoms, who’d run several klicks back from his scouting mission.

  “Looks like two hundred or more to me, Sarge. I’d guess they want to pin down the reinforcements before they can get into the hills.”

  Hargraves nodded. “I’d wager we drove the bastards damned near crazy. The last thing they want is a hundred more Marines hidden in these hills.” The sergeant was proud of what they had accomplished over the last month, the way they had held out against a much larger forc
e. But his satisfaction was tempered by the losses they had suffered. All the civilians were dead…and so were three quarters of the Marines they’d started with. They’d been on the verge of annihilation when the reinforcements arrived out of the blue.

  “We should get moving. We gotta go around those hills to link up with the…” Hargraves paused. “Wait…think, Thoms. Did the enemy have their whole force out there? All of them?”

  The Marine looked right back at Hargraves. “It sure looked like it, Sarge. Had to be most of ’em if not all.”

  Hargraves turned and looked behind him, staring out over the rolling ground to the south.

  “Whatcha thinking, Sarge?”

  Hargraves didn’t answer. He just stood still, looking off into the distance. Finally, he turned back toward Thoms. “Get everybody up and ready to go, Private.”

  “Yessir. We movin’ around to link up with the Marines on the ridge?”

  “No.” Hargraves could see his answer was a surprise to the Marine.

  Hell, it’s a surprise to me too…

  “Where we goin’ then?”

  “We’re heading south. We’re gonna see just how many troops they left behind in their camp…and we’re gonna blow the place to hell. Their food, ammo…everything.”

  Hargraves knew it was a daring plan—some would say crazy—but if his people could pull it off they’d do a hell of a lot more for the cause than adding eight guns to the troops on the ridge. The fact that Confederation reinforcements, from wherever they’d come, had been able to land meant that the enemy no longer controlled Santis’s orbit. And that meant the troops on the ground had no source of resupply.

  “Shit, Sarge…even if they took almost everybody, there’s no more than eight of us. You gotta figure they left more than that.”

  “Maybe so, Private. But they won’t expect this. If we move fast enough…”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. His people were Marines. All they needed was the order to go.

  * * *

  “Forward, all forces. The longer we wait, the more time they have to dig in.” Millius was walking forward, watching his three centuries—what was left of them—shake out into an assault formation. Frontally charging an enemy on high ground wasn’t an act of tactical brilliance, he knew that. It would be difficult and costly. But anything else took too much time, and after the last month he wasn’t about to let another hundred of these cursed Confed Marines to break out loose into the countryside. He’d managed to keep the tritium production facility mostly operative, despite several attacks, but with so many fresh troops, he knew the Confeds would hit it again and again…and if they had enough chances they’d get lucky.

  Casualties are bad enough, but if I let them destroy the production facility, I’ve singlehandedly blown the whole mission…

  No, there was no time. It had to be a frontal assault, and whatever the cost in blood to crush the enemy, he was prepared to pay it.

  The way is the way…

  He watched as his forward units surged up the slope…and were cut down by the deadly fire. They pushed forward at first, ignoring their losses. He expected nothing less. They were Alliance stormtroopers, after all.

  But the troops dug in on the heights were good too. That was no surprise. He’d spent a month trying to hunt down a single platoon, and whatever arrogance and sense of superiority he’d had when he landed was long gone. He didn’t know what was happening in the space above Santis, but the arrival of enemy ground troops and the failure of Commander Rigellus to communicate in over a week weren’t good signs. Had the intel been wrong? Had the Confederation been able to send a strong enough force to overwhelm and destroy Invictus? The intel reports had certainly failed to warn on the effectiveness of the enemy’s ground troops.

  He saw his lead elements, about halfway up the rise. They were slowing…in places they were stopping entirely. But they weren’t running…he swore the day he saw an Alliance force rout would be the day he met his death in battle. They were firing back at the enemy, scrounging for the miserable few bits of cover available on that mostly open hillside.

  No…

  He knew he had to keep his forces moving. They couldn’t win a firefight, not against a dug in enemy on higher ground. They had the numbers to win by sheer force of weight…but they had to keep going.

  He grabbed his com, but then he clipped it back on his belt. Words weren’t the answer, he decided. Deeds would win this fight. He reached around, grabbed the assault rifle strapped to his back. Then he started forward, a brisk walk at first, but then almost a run.

  His forces would push those last few meters, take that position. And he would lead them there himself.

  * * *

  “Hold! Maintain fire.” Rogan was bent low, keeping himself behind the ridge as he moved along the line. The enemy attack had shown signs of petering out, the enemy troopers stopping, looking for cover, firing back at his forces. He’d been worried the attackers would keep coming, heedless of the casualties his Marines were inflicting…and indeed they almost had. For a brief moment he’d considered ordering a retreat, but something had held him back. And the slackening of the enemy attack had put the thought out of his mind completely.

  Then something changed. The enemy was moving again, rallied, driven forward. His best guess was his people had taken down seventy or eighty of the enemy. But his forces had taken losses too, and the enemy still outnumbered him close to two to one. They were right below the ridgeline now. If his fire didn’t drive them back in the next few seconds, they would be up and over.

  And then it will be hand to hand…

  Numbers would tell in that kind of fight. Every enemy his Marines took down now was one less when it came to close quarters.

  He hadn’t known what to expect from the enemy, but he was wary about underestimating them. Their tactics were crude, wasteful of lives…but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t prevail. The troops were clearly well-trained and courageous, and that meant this was going to be a bloody day.

  He glanced down and saw two of his Marines lying on the ground, both dead. His people had good cover, but the enemy fire was hot and heavy, and even behind the makeshift fortifications, more of his people were starting to fall.

  He crouched low, going prone and bringing his own rifle to bear. There wasn’t a single one of his people to spare, including himself. He stared out, keeping his head as low as he could. There was an enemy trooper approaching, less than thirty meters ahead, he guessed. He stared down the sight, taking aim. Then his finger tightened, and a single crack rang out. The enemy fell backward, shot dead center in the chest.

  Rogan sucked in a deep breath, struggling to focus, to stay calm. He’d been in a few fights before, but this was the first time he’d commanded this many Marines in battle.

  Just do what you were trained to do…

  He scanned the field in front of him, searching for another target. Then he stared down the sights and fired again.

  * * *

  “Let’s move it, Marines! Surprise is what we got!” Hargraves ran into the center of the enemy camp, his rifle grasped tightly in his hands as he looked back and forth for targets. His people had taken out six guards, and now it was time to finish the job. The camp had been lightly protected, the approaches not nearly as carefully watched as normal. He’d known the enemy had deployed most of their strength to attacking the newly-arrived reinforcements. But he was still shocked at how open they had left their camp.

  They’ve underestimated us from day one…otherwise they’d have wiped us out weeks ago…

  He jerked to the side, firing a three-shot burst as an enemy soldier ran out of one of the shelters. The man fell back the way he’d come, blood pouring from a trio of holes in his chest. Hargraves fired again…and again, whipping his weapon upward, firing over the dead man’s shoulder and taking the trooper behind in the side of the head.

  He ran toward the building, standing to the side of the door. He doubted the walls
of the light, semi-inflatable shelter would provide much protection against bullets, but he was acting on training now, on instinct.

  He swung around, moving through the door and into the shelter. It was some kind of storage facility. Food, he guessed, looking around at the stacks of crates, confirming that he was the only one left alive in the room.

  We could sure use this food…

  He shook his head. No…his people were there to destroy the enemy camp. His eight Marines couldn’t hope to hold the place, or even carry off any of the supplies. They’d had enough trouble carrying the lieutenant with them. Hargraves’ thoughts shifted to Plunkett for an instant. His people had left the sick and wounded officer about a kilometer from the camp, in the most sheltered spot they could find. He’d been nearly unconscious, and Hargraves wondered if Plunkett would still be alive when he got back.

  You won’t get back at all if you don’t stay sharp here…

  He reached around, pulling a small sack from his belt. It was the last of the explosives, enough to take out this building for sure. But finishing off the camp would require finding the invader’s own weapons. He pulled the bomb up and looked down at it, his fingers flipping the timer to thirty seconds. Then he set it down on one of the crates and moved back out, looking in all directions before he lunged out into the makeshift street.

  “Fire in the hole,” he yelled as he jogged forward, away from the storage hut. He counted down to himself. He’d gotten to three when the explosion erupted, sending debris all across the camp.

  My timing’s off…

  He was pelted with a few pieces of the shelter and the crates inside, enough to sting, but nothing that did any real damage.