by Rick Partlow
And about thirty meters behind the Hopper, there was an overturned cargo jack-a compact, remote-operated forklift; someone must have been using it to unload equipment from the shuttle when the attack came and in the battle it had been knocked on its side and partially buried in the dirt. Without hesitation, McKay sprinted straight for the cover of the cargo loader, legs pumping as he put every ounce of speed he had into crossing the fifty or sixty meters of open ground. The skinny private passed him up like he was standing still, sliding into position behind the loader before McKay was halfway there. He made a mental note to be embarrassed about that when he had the time.
Once all five of them were behind the cover of the loader, McKay grabbed Sergeant Manuel by the arm and pulled her close enough to hear him over the din of unceasing gunfire. “You have grenades?” He asked her.
“Private Toma and I have rifle launched grenades, sir!” She responded, patting a pouch on her chest.
“Load ‘em up,” he instructed her. “At my signal, launch them into the Gomers position, then stay here and provide cover fire.” He pointed to the Corporal and the Security NCO. “You two follow me.”
He watched Manuel and Toma load the rocket-assisted grenades into the launchers below the barrels of their rifles, then edge out around the end of the cargo loader to aim them. “Fire!”
The grenades exited the launchers with a puff of coldgas and then their onboard rocket motors ignited, taking them across the thirty meters in an eyeblink to slam into the Protectorate biomech troops with twin blasts that McKay could feel in his sinuses. Shrapnel pinged musically off the casing of the loader and a shower of dirt and debris showered them even thirty meters away.
The last bit of shrapnel was still ricocheting when McKay shouted “Go!” and bolted from behind the cargo jack with the Marine and Security guard trailing close behind. The grenades had taken a toll on the biomech attackers, scattering four of them into component pieces and incapacitating a few others, so McKay concentrated his fire on the ones still standing, particularly the ones who were turning to face the new threat from behind.
Bringing his carbine to his shoulder as he ran, he began pumping controlled bursts into the necks and heads of one biomech after another, hoping fervently that the others with him were doing the same, and that his people at the shuttle would take advantage of the distraction to attack.
If they don’t, this will be the shortest counterattack in Republic history, he mused, coming even with the footpad of the downed Hopper’s twisted, charred right leg, nearly tripping over a dead biomech trooper there. He could see the remaining Protectorate biomechs rising up from cover and turning to deal with the new threat; he downed one with a burst that emptied his magazine and then was forced to duck behind the footpad.
He could hear the Protectorate 9mm rifle rounds spanging off the metal of the Hopper’s leg as he dropped the empty mag from his carbine and fished another from his chest pack, seating it with a slap of his palm and then racking a round into the chamber. Instinctive movements, repeated thousands of times in training…his hands didn’t even shake. What came next was harder…bullets were still ricocheting off the footpad above him, making it unwise to stand up. He looked around and saw Corporal Bill and the Security NCO moving up nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, firing steadily and considered yelling at them to cover him while he moved…and then the Security Tech-Sergeant went down with a bullet through his knee.
“Sonofabitch!” McKay muttered under his breath.
He gathered his feet underneath him and jumped out from behind the footpad, making himself ignore the rounds impacting in the dirt around him as he rolled to a crouch beside the Tech Sergeant, who was laying prone, writhing in agony. Emptying his fresh magazine in the direction of the enemy, he slung the carbine and grabbed the Fleet NCO by the back of his armored vest, then hauled him backwards toward the cover of the Hopper’s footpad. He’d almost got the man to safety when he felt a sledgehammer slam into his chest and the air went out of him in an agonized gasp.
Somehow, he stayed on his feet and yanked the wounded Tech Sergeant behind cover before he collapsed next to him, struggling to breathe. He patted at his chest and felt a pair of ragged holes in the armor there, but couldn’t tell if the slugs had penetrated through to his flesh.
Dammit, just gonna’ have to assume they didn’t, he told himself.
Still fighting to take a breath, he rolled over and grabbed in his pockets for a smart bandage, ripped it open and wrapped it around the wounded man’s leg. The Tech Sergeant relaxed as the bandage injected him with painkillers and coated the wound with clotting agents. Satisfied that the man was not in immediate danger, McKay grabbed his carbine off his shoulder and painfully reloaded it, then rolled onto his knees and tried to lever himself back to his feet..
Things had changed since he’d been shot, he saw instantly. The biomechs were down and even as he watched, Sgt. Manuel and Pvt. Toma were rushing past him to finish off the ones still moving. The friendlies who’d been firing from the shelter of the shuttle’s landing gear had moved up and circled around the downed Hopper and were advancing warily, led by Sgt. Sean Watanabe, the Special Ops team’s senior NCO after Jock. He was a short and stocky man with an open face and dark hair worn a bit longer than when he’d been a Marine; like McKay, he was wearing body armor but no helmet.
“Are you okay, sir?” Watanabe asked as he jogged over to McKay.
“All I need’s a clean pair of shorts,” McKay snorted. “Situation report, Watanabe.”
“They attacked out of the woods while we were offloading, Colonel,” the Sergeant told him.
“While I was supervising offloading,” Commander Villanueva interjected, coming up from behind Watanabe, a pistol in her right hand, her left arm hanging limp with her forearm wrapped in a blood-soaked smart bandage.
“Yes, sir,” Watanabe nodded confirmation. “The flight crew wasn’t on board, just one of the junior enlisted they sent down from the Decatur to help with unloading. He apparently shut the boat up tight to keep the Gomers out. The Hopper was gonna’ take out the shuttle, but Gunny Dzvonik and one of her Corporals jumped into the assault vehicle and took it out.” His face went grim. “Then a couple of the biomechs blew up the assault vehicle with a crew-launched missile before we could nail them.”
“The biomechs don’t operate with this sort of organization without a controller,” McKay interrupted. “Hold on.” He pulled out his ‘link and keyed in Vinnie’s frequency. “Vinnie, this is McKay, do you copy?”
“Read you, sir,” came the immediate reply. “We have the Investigation team secure at the outpost, heading to the LZ now with the Marine platoon.”
“LZ is secure, Vinnie,” McKay told him. “But we do not have a fix on the biomech controller…unless they’ve come up with something new from what we saw during the war, they don’t have much range, so they’re going to be in this area. I want you to take the Marines and cover the area between the outpost and here. We’ll run a search the other direction.”
“Roger, Colonel,” Vinnie replied. “I’ll shout if I see anything. Out.”
McKay turned back to Watanabe. “Casualties?”
“Besides Dzvonik and Corporal Ash,” the Sergeant told him, “we lost Lt. Dodd, the platoon leader…he was trying to get to the vehicle to look for survivors and got caught in a secondary explosion. Couple of Fleet techs got killed when the whole thing started, along with Givens.” The last with a sigh. Givens was one of the Alpha team and had been a friend of Watanabe’s. “We also have three members of the shuttle crew unaccounted for, unless they’re on board and didn’t tell anyone. We have five wounded, not counting you; nothing life-threatening but a couple are going to need treatment for burns and broken bones.”
“Commander Villanueva,” McKay turned to the pilot. “Get a hold of whoever’s inside the shuttle, get it opened up and have the medics get the wounded on board, then get powered up and get in the air…I want a patrol up to make sure we don’t ha
ve any more enemy inbound, and some air support.”
“Aye, sir,” she nodded, then holstered her pistol and pulled out her ‘link to call the shuttle.
“Sean,” McKay turned back to Watanabe. “Get the Marines organized and run a search in a kilometer radius from here out,” he waved away from the path to the outpost. “If that controller is still here, I want him taken, alive if possible. We…”
His thought was interrupted by a burst of gunfire in the distance, back towards the outpost: the stutter of a submachine gun and the rapid booms of a handgun.
“Vinnie,” McKay keyed his ‘link. “Is that you?”
“Negative,” came the immediate reply. “I heard it, though.”
“Podbyrin,” McKay muttered. “On my six, Sean!”
Not waiting to see if the NCO followed, McKay took off running back into the forest toward the fallen tree and the pit where he’d left the Russian and the Security guard. This time, his adrenaline spike was gone and he was feeling every bit of the exhaustion and fatigue of the last half hour, as well as the pain of his bruised chest. He pushed through it on sheer force of will, knowing he’d pay for it later.
It seemed like it took twice as long to get back to the pit as it had to come the other way, and he snagged his feet on roots and brush over and over, but finally he saw the massive fallen tree looming ahead of him, its bare roots clawing the air in death.
D’mitry Podbyrin sat on the ground with his back against the tree trunk, Jock’s borrowed pistol held loosely in his hand, sobbing quietly. The Tech Sergeant McKay had left to guard him was sprawled half-in and half-out of the pit, the faceplate of his helmet shattered, his face a bloody ruin, his submachine gun at his side. And laid out in front of the pit was a tall, powerfully built Russian in Protectorate battle utilities, his head half blown away by multiple gunshots at point blank range. At his feet was a Protectorate battle rifle and strapped to his back was a transmission unit with a small broadcast dish attached.
McKay came to a halt in front of the former Protectorate Colonel, noting peripherally that Watanabe was moving around to the other side of the pit to check on the Tech Sergeant. “D’mitry,” he said softly, leaning over to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“Sergei,” Podbyrin responded, not looking up. McKay blinked, wondering if the little man was hysterical and thought he was someone else. “Lt. Sergei Luzhkof,” he expounded. He looked up, glancing back at the dead Russian officer, agony in his eyes along with the tears. “He was…he was my friend.”
“I know, D’mitry,” McKay nodded, offering him a hand up. “But we have to go.”
The Russian looked up at his hand, sighed deeply and took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “I should have stayed on the ship,” he muttered half to himself.
“Colonel McKay,” Jason heard over his ‘link.
He touched a button on his earpiece and responded, “McKay here.”
“Sir, it’s Commander Villanueva,” the pilot transmitted. “I’m up, and I’ve got contact with the combat patrol shuttles from the Decatur. It’s the ship, sir…it’s under attack.”
Chapter Twelve
Joyce Minishimi had been a starship captain for eight years, had done interdiction patrols against the Belt pirates for two of them and had been in command of the cruiser Bradley during the war with the Protectorate. She commanded a warship with more destructive power at its disposal than any other device built by man. And yet, she realized abruptly as she watched the sensor icons in the command holotank, she had never once been fired upon. The Belt smugglers had always run at the first sign of trouble, realizing they couldn’t outgun a cruiser; and during the war, they had basically ambushed the Protectorate ships in Earth orbit, destroying them before they even realized they were being attacked.
All of that was about to change. She could see three enemy ships inbound in the sensor display, their fusion drives lighting up the black as they exited the orbit of Peboan’s moon. They had been concealed there, powered down and running cold, until less than an hour ago; they’d gone active immediately after she’d received McKay’s warning and powered up the drive field. She whispered a prayer of thanks for that warning, and for the insight that had made McKay give it. Without the drive field up, the Decatur would have been a sitting duck, vulnerable to a sneak attack. One round from a Gauss cannon fired from lunar orbit would have cored her ship like an apple,
“Bogies are accelerating at two g’s,” the Tactical officer announced from his station to her left. He was half-surrounded by holographic displays and she could barely see him, but Commander Gianeto was a solid, dependable officer. The traditional part of her missed the older setup on the Bradley with flat-panel screens that let her look him in the eye when she gave commands. “At our present speed, we’ll be in direct fire range in twenty-two minutes.”
“We’re still at one g acceleration, ma’am,” the Helm reminded her. “Do you want to increase acceleration?” Lt. Witten was on his first cruise, she remembered. Very intelligent young man, but lacking experience.
“No, I think we can stay comfortable for now,” Minishimi shook her head. “Tactical, target all three bogies and launch Shipbusters.”
“Aye, ma’am, launching Shipbusters. Helm, drive field shutoff in ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds to drive field shutoff, aye,” Helm responded.
Gianeto hit a series of controls on his board and on the Decatur‘s starboard weapons pod, three launch ports slid open and three deadly wedge shapes, each the size of an assault shuttle, moved forward into the launch bays. “Missiles are targeted and ready for launch,” Tactical announced. “Commence drive field shutdown.”
“Drive field shutdown commencing,” Witten nodded, powering down the Eysselink generator. The gravimetic field that had been expanding the space-time behind them and contracting it in front ceased and the ship was suddenly in zero gravity.
“Launching three Shipbuster missiles now,” Gianeto declared, touching the three launch controls at once. They could feel the ship lurch as the three huge missiles were shot free of the weapons pod by the electromagnetic launch racks, kicking out several miles from the Decatur before their on-board fusion drives ignited. “Missiles out, you are clear to reinitialize the drive field.”
“Drive field initializing,” Witten said, feeding the generators a trickle of antimatter, beginning the reaction that produced the Eysselink Effect. He stared intently at the display, waiting for the waves of distorted space-time to once again cloak the ship in its protection. “Field initialized, engaging to one gravity analog acceleration.”
Joyce Minishimi breathed a little easier as the apparent gravity returned, a side-effect of the build-up of gravito-inertial energy by the drive. Nothing could touch a ship with the drive field around it, except a sufficiently strong gravitational field or, of course, another Eysselink drive. They knew the Protectorate had pirated a few Eysselink drive ships, but she couldn’t imagine how they could produce the antimatter needed to fuel them.
“Helm,” Minishimi ordered, “take us out past lunar orbit; I want a hundred klicks between us and the closest of their ships when those missiles hit.”
“Aye, Captain,” Witten acknowledged, changing their course.
“Bogies are launching countermeasures,” Gianeto announced. He squinted at the displays with amused disbelief. “Awfully big ones too…Damn, it looks like they’re shooting Shipbusters at our Shipbusters!”
“That makes sense in a Russian kind of way,” Minishimi mused. “If they have enough to spare…”
“Should we launch again, ma’am?”
“Not yet, Commander…no use throwing good money after bad. Let’s see what happens. How long till their missiles intercept?”
“Not long, ma’am,” he temporized, checking the readings. “Ten minutes, twenty four seconds.”
“What heading are the enemy ships following?”
“Two of them are chan
ging course to follow us, ma’am. One is breaking from the others and seems to be heading into planetary orbit.”
“Helm,” Minishimi snapped urgently. “Immediate drive cutoff. Communications, get a message to the patrol shuttles and to the landing party that they have possible incoming enemy spacecraft. Tactical, target the ship heading for the planet and fire off four Shipbusters, overwhelm their defenses.”
“That will only leave us with four, ma’am,” Gianeto reminded her as her officers scrambled to obey.
“Understood, Commander, carry out the order.”
“Drive shutting down,” Witten said loudly, and the apparent gravity disappeared, sending stomachs lurching throughout the ship.
“Launch ports open, missiles running out,” Gianeto announced, drowning out the voice of the Communications officer on the other side of the bridge trying to hail the shuttles. An alarm sounded from the Tactical station, one Minishimi had never heard before outside of a drill. “Ma’am, they’re targeting us with a weapons laser…it’s extreme range right now, not penetrating the ship’s armor. Looks like it’s a continuous wave weapon, probably a gas laser, nuclear powered. Launching missiles now,” he added, hitting the control. They all felt a significant jolt as the four weapons were ejected from the ship. “They’re away. Laser is causing significant heating on the forward hull, ma’am.”
“Communications?” Minishimi demanded.
“Message delivered,” Lt. Higgs reported from her station.
“Reinitializing drive field,” Witten shook his head, blowing out a breath. “Reestablishing course.”
“Missile drives have ignited,” Gianeto told her. “The first flight is closing on target, and the countermeasures are still inbound.”
“We are clear of lunar orbit,” Witten said. “Drive field set at station keeping, negative g burn coming.” Minishimi felt herself coming up against her seat restraints as their acceleration ceased, and with it the faux gravity. There was a warning klaxon and then there was a brief, punishing burst in the opposite direction that pushed her forward against the restraints as the drive field braked them at three gravities for a couple minutes to slow their forward velocity before they were once again in zero gravity.
