Duty, Honor, Planet: 02 - Honor Bound

by Rick Partlow

  “Lieutenant Bryant!” He radioed, trying to reach the Marine platoon leader. “Lt. Bryant, report!” Silence. “Any Marine personnel report!”

  “No way they could have made it through that, sir,” Vinnie said from where he was crouching by the back door.

  “Sean,” McKay said to the NCO, “they’re going to know we’re here. Get them out of here before…”

  “Contact left!” Vinnie shouted, immediately opening fire.

  McKay spun around and caught a glimpse of grey-armored biomechs coming around the corner of the house before incoming fire began cutting through the ruined door and windows, forcing him back. Vinnie emptied a magazine at the biomechs but then fell backwards heavily as a pair of rounds smacked into his chest armor. Jock surged forward, firing his carbine with one hand to suppress the enemy as he ducked in and grabbed his friend by the handle built into the back of his body armor, dragging him back behind the relative cover of an exterior wall.

  McKay didn’t see any blood and Vinnie seemed to be moving, if gingerly. He moved to check on him when the front windows exploded inward with a withering barrage of gunfire that sent everyone flat to the floor. McKay cursed as he tried to watch the front and back simultaneously, swinging his carbine back and forth.

  “Commander Villanueva,” he transmitted to the lander’s pilot. “This is General McKay, do you read?”

  “Got you, sir,” he barely heard her voice in his earphones over the enemy gunfire. “What’s your situation?”

  “Dominguez didn’t stay in the cabin,” he told her. “He went outside and took out the Marines with the KE satellites. We’re trapped inside the cabin with the Senator and her daughter.” He hesitated for a breath. “Launch the Bunker Buster, Commander.”

  He waited for a reply, but none came. “Commander?” He called. “Commander Villanueva, do you read me?”

  Nothing.

  “Goddammit!” He hissed. He’d just have to hope she’d received the transmission. He switched to the general frequency. “Everyone load up a grenade,” he ordered. “We’re making a break out the back, making for the lake. Vinnie, are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine, sir,” he heard the man’s strained voice. “Armor stopped the shots…mostly.”

  “I want you to take Val and Natalia and run for the lake while we provide suppressive fire,” he told the man, pulling a grenade from his vest pouches and loading into the launcher beneath his rifle barrel. “Once you get them to the water, grab a life jacket out of the boat and a line off the dock…you tow them across the lake and get them out of here.”

  “Let Jock do it,” Vinnie argued. “He’s got muscle where his brains oughta’ be, he can get them across faster than me.”

  “This isn’t a democracy, Major Mahoney,” McKay said with finality in his tone. “Follow your orders.” He turned to Valerie and keyed his external helmet speaker, turning the volume up to be heard over the gunfire. “Valerie, get ready to make a run for it! Vinnie’s going to take you and Natalia across the lake.”

  She didn’t say anything, but McKay could see the terror in her eyes when she nodded to him in acknowledgement.

  McKay raised his carbine and took the safety off the grenade launcher, trying to ignore the bullets tearing through the air all around them, smacking angrily into the furniture and the interior walls. He looked back at the other five in his squad and saw that Sean Watanabe was bleeding from a wound in his left arm, trying to bring up his grenade launcher one-handed, while one of the other two men in Sean’s team-he couldn’t tell if it was Brent or Timmons-was face-down and motionless, a pool of blood spreading beneath his shattered faceplate.

  He tried to put that image and everything else aside as he aimed through the rear windows at the advancing biomechs.

  “Fire…” he began to exclaim, but before the word was entirely out of his mouth, a burst of 8mm slugs tracked upward across his chest, not penetrating the hard armor there but slamming into his clavicle like a sledgehammer and snapping it, then slicing a line of fire across his neck before chewing a gouge in the side of his helmet and nearly ripping it off his head. His finger squeezed the trigger of the grenade launcher convulsively and the round actually fired true, hitting in the ground only a meter in front of a group of three biomechs and bursting with a brilliant fireball. McKay barely noticed it as he fell flat on his back, agony coursing through his right shoulder and stars flashing across his vision.

  “Get them out!” He tried to yell the command, but it came out as a strained whisper instead. He still couldn’t see anything but the ceiling and the flashes from the blow to his head, but he heard the explosions and felt the concussion through the floor. For a moment, he thought that it was the others launching their rifle grenades, but then he felt the whole cabin shake and saw pieces of the front door flying over his head, blown out by a powerful shockwave that sent tongues of flame licking through the doorway and windows into the living room.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, neck and head, McKay rolled to his left and yanked aside his broken faceplate, trying to see what was happening. Smoke was drifting across the lake from over the cabin, where…whatever it was had happened, but through the smoke he could still see four of the biomechs moving, their rifle barrels swinging to and fro in confusion.

  He heard the whine of turbines first, then saw the exhaust spraying ripples across the surface of the lake, and then the sleekly angular grey bulk of the assault lander swung into view from overhead, bristling with weapons’ hardpoints, and a chin cannon swung around towards the surviving biomechs. The burst of fire was brief, just a “chuff” of smoke and a spark of muzzle blast that lasted an eyeblink, but the biomechs just…disappeared. There was an explosion of dirt and smoke and blood and the four artificial soldiers were gone, leaving in their place scattered armor and body parts.

  The lander hung there in the air, its jets screaming in the night, then it lurched forward and swung back around towards the front of the house. There was the distinct sound of another burst from the chin cannon, then an explosion that made the roof timbers tremble.

  Another missile, McKay realized. The explosions had been from ground-support missiles, he now understood. Son of a bitch, he thought with irrational irritation. Commander Villanueva had disobeyed his orders.

  Still half in a daze, McKay pulled his damaged helmet the rest of the way off with his good arm, then tried to get his feet beneath him to stand. Jock Gregory was suddenly there by his side, carefully helping him up and then pressing a smart bandage to the side of his neck. McKay abruptly realized that his armor was stained with way too much blood and that the neck wound had been much closer to being fatal than he would have liked.

  “Valerie…” McKay rasped, looking around.

  She was half-under a table just a couple meters away, with Sean Watanabe draped over her and blood staining the floor around them. McKay stepped quickly over and grabbed the armored man by the shoulder, rolling him off of her. Watanabe was clearly dead. He’d taken a burst through the neck and faceplate that had cut his jugular and taken off the left side of his face. Valerie and Natalia were lying motionless on the floor, covered in blood and McKay felt gorge rising in his throat…and then he saw her move, heard Natalia crying.

  “Oh Jesus God,” he breathed, kneeling down beside her. “Are you all right? Is Natalia all right?”

  Valerie didn’t answer immediately, her eyes blinking Sean Watanabe’s blood away. She seemed to have to pry her gaze away from his body to check on Natalia, slowly and lovingly patting at the little girl’s dress and making sure that she was unharmed. Natalia was sobbing, but seemed to calm down as she saw that her mother was all right. The little girl’s eyes went to McKay and got a bit wider-he must be a sight, he thought.

  “Are you okay, Natalia?” he asked her, trying to keep his voice light.

  She nodded, thumb going towards her mouth before Valerie automatically pulled it away.

  McKay let out a sigh of relief a
nd nearly collapsed, since the worry had been about the only thing keeping him going. He rose slowly from the crouch, looking around. Jock was helping Vinnie up from the floor, while Sgt. Timmons had his carbine up and was keeping a watchful eye out the back entrance. So it’s Brent that got hit, McKay thought.

  “Timmons, check on Brent,” he told the man. “Then keep an eye on the Senator and her daughter. Jock, Vinnie, with me.”

  McKay’s carbine was tight against his chest, pulled there by its retractable sling after he’d let it loose, but he left it where it was rather than trying to wield it one-handed. Instead, he reached around with his left hand to his right hip and yanked his sidearm from its holster, letting it hang at his side. The painkillers in the smart bandage were starting to take effect, but he still didn’t want to try doing anything with his right arm just yet.

  He didn’t so much walk out the front door as step through what was left of the front wall, into a storm of swirling smoke still being stirred by the jets of the assault shuttle as it landed on the dirt road, next to the burning wreckage of the flyer and the tiltrotor transport that Dominguez and the biomechs had flown there.

  The dirt road was cratered and torn, littered with bodies and body parts barely discernible in the flickering shadows from the fires, and the woods beyond the road simply didn’t exist anymore: a square acre of trees had been uprooted or blown apart by the KE barrage and a haze of black smoke and dust hung over them like a shroud.

  “Over here, sir!” He heard Vinnie calling him from behind the wreckage of the small flyer and he turned and carefully made his way over there, trying not to step on anything squishy.

  He found the Captain…no, the Major, he corrected himself…standing over a body. The corpse was charred almost beyond recognition, flash-burned by the explosion of the missile that had taken out the flyer, but half-concealed beneath it was a small tablet…

  McKay shoved his pistol into his belt and pulled a flashlight out, then pushed the smoking remains aside with his boot, clenching his teeth at the sickly-sweet smell and the crunchy feel of the burned flesh under his foot. Kneeling down, he shone the flashlight beam on the tablet.

  “Goddammit,” he hissed, feeling hope desert him.

  The tablet was nearly ripped in half by shrapnel and what remained was warped by the heat of the explosion. Their only hope of regaining control of the defense satellites was gone. Without the tablet, it could take weeks to cleanse the system of the virus Dominguez had uploaded, and Shannon needed help now. He paused. Shannon needed help, but so did the Sheridan and the Bradley.

  McKay stood, jogging over to the assault shuttle: it had touched down and the boarding ramp was lowering. Commander Villanueva stood at the top of the ramp, framed in the light from the interior.

  “Commander,” McKay said as he climbed the ramp, “I distinctly recall ordering you to launch that Bunker Buster.”

  “Reception was bad, sir,” she said, spreading her hands. “You were breaking up. I could have sworn you told me to come in low and provide fire support.” He saw her eyes looking past him to where Vinnie was coming up the ramp, and she smiled in a very unprofessional way.

  “I’ll yell at you later,” he promised her, moving past her toward the cockpit. “Get us in the air and get me on the radio.” He glanced back and saw Vinnie grabbing her hand, squeezing it. “Vinnie, get in if you’re coming…tell Jock to call for a transport for Val and Natalia.” He waved a hand impatiently. “Let’s go, people…we still have a war to win!”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “He’s not making this easy for us, is he?” Drew Franks commented, watching the enemy cruiser changing course on the Tactical screen.

  “If it was easy,” Captain Minishimi replied quietly, “they wouldn’t be paying us the big bucks, would they?”

  Franks barked a laugh. “But why is he stalling?” the younger officer asked. “Doesn’t he want to try to take us out?”

  “Maybe he’s not as hardened as he thought he was,” Commander Gianeto theorized. “After all, it’s not like he’s ever done this before either.”

  “Then let’s not give him any more time to get ready,” Minishimi said. “Lt. Bevins, accelerate to 1.5 g’s and set a collision course.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” Bevins said, sounding the acceleration alarm. “Thirty seconds to field intersect.”

  “Engineering,” Minishimi called to Commander Infante, “we will be intersecting fields in thirty seconds. Get your people away from the main trunk lines and get them strapped in.”

  “I am way ahead of you, Captain,” Infante said, sounding satisfied with herself. “Engineering is good to go.”

  “Maybe she’s as smart as she thinks she is,” Franks murmured. Minishimi heard it and raised an eyebrow at him, but he could see the smile fighting to emerge on her face.

  “Everyone hold on,” Gianeto said, strain evident in his voice, and not just from the one and a half gravity acceleration. “Here we g…”

  * * *

  Admiral Patel watched with a horrified fascination as the Bradley touched fields with the enemy cruiser. The computer was simulating the two ships, and the enemy ship looked suspiciously like file footage of the Sheridan…but when the field intersection occurred, the simulation was replaced by feeds from the exterior cameras as well as the views from satellites in orbit nearby and Patel saw the globe of light that was the visible manifestation of the burst of raw gravimetic energy that escaped when the fields of warped space-time interacted with each other and the thin ionosphere.

  Left behind in the wake of the collision were the two star cruisers, drifting aimlessly in high orbit, their momentum absorbed by the Eysselink field collapse. The enemy ship was looking a bit the worse for the wear: she had taken several hits from the Brad after the Sheridan had knocked her out of warp previously, and now she had experienced two field collisions in a very short span. The thermal scans showed multiple hotspots on the cruiser’s drive pods and significant fluctuations in its fusion reactor, as well as atmosphere leaks from the hangar bay.

  If the enemy cruiser looked as if it had been in a fight, though, the Bradley had obviously lost one. Her drive pods had been completely sheered away by the gravito-inertial feedback and their mounts were twisted wreckage, coolant spraying white into the vacuum from severed feed lines. Her reactor was cold and inactive and her hangar bay spewed burning atmosphere, set alight, he guessed, by a shuttle explosion. She was helpless and not much more now than a stationary target.

  Her Shipbuster missiles, however, were still active and now burning towards the enemy cruiser behind flares of fusion fire. Patel urged them on with his fervent hopes, running a quick check with what sensors the Sheridan had left to make sure that the lifepods and shuttles from his ship weren’t going to be too close to the blast, but unlike the Bradley, the enemy cruiser wasn’t powerless. From the weapons pods on either side of the ship shot two identical Shipbusters, moving away from the cruiser before their fusion drives ignited, taking them on intercept courses with the Bradley‘s missiles.

  Patel swore softly and looked down at the control board beneath his fingers. The holographic displays weren’t working, but the backup physical controls were folded out and operational. He made a decision and touched the button to activate the fusion drives. The Sheridan lurched forward, shaking violently as the fusion drive came to life fitfully, its electromagnetic bottle taking a moment to stabilize. Then Patel felt a full one gravity of acceleration pressing him back into his command couch as his ship lumbered toward the enemy cruiser.

  Hundreds of kilometers away from the starships, the two pairs of Shipbuster missiles converged and detonated, and all of the Sheridan‘s external and satellite feeds whited out at once, leaving only the computer simulation: a huge white globe, a second sun that outshone the real one that was emerging from the Earth’s terminator. Patel worried for a moment about radiation, then had to chuckle to himself as he realized what he was about to do.

  “Try to
do anyway,” he mumbled, correcting himself.

  The cameras came back online and he could see the enhanced visual image of the enemy cruiser. They had to have the noticed the Sheridan accelerating by now… As if the captain of the enemy ship were reading Patel’s mind, two more Shipbuster missiles nosed out of the cruiser’s weapons pods and kicked free, their fusion drives igniting.

  “Well damn,” Patel said, shoulders sagging. There was no way the Sheridan would reach the enemy ship before the missiles intercepted him. And once he was gone, there would be nothing left to stop that ship.

  * * *

  Drew Franks had imagined the worst, but somehow it was so much worse than he imagined. It was different both qualitatively and quantitatively than their previous field intersects with the ramships. It seemed like he was hanging forever in a grey limbo where there was no physical sensation and yet he still felt an incredible almost psychic discomfort. He could think, in that he was able to perceive what was happening to him, and yet he was unable to conceive a single coherent thought.

  Then, after a subjective eternity, reality crashed down like a twenty foot wave into coral and rocks, with him in-between. The pain-nothing localized, just a general, intense soreness everywhere-was breathtaking and blinding, but in moments it retreated into a dull ache and he was able to open his eyes.

  “Medical? Do you read me, medical?” He could hear Captain Minishimi’s voice before he was even able to bring his vision into focus.

  How the hell is she back up and moving around so fast? he wondered enviously.

  Then he saw what she was doing and he no longer felt any envy for her position. Captain Minishimi was out of her seat and hovering in the zero gravity, anchored to the navigation console, where Lt. Bevins was hanging against his restraints, blood pouring from his nose and trickling steadily from an ear. But even in the flickering shadows from the sputtering holographic displays, Franks could tell that Bevins was still breathing…