“We think so,” Oshiro said seriously. “We built Area 51 because we wanted a trump card if we actually stumbled into a Great Power War; they built their base – it’s not a shipyard, unfortunately – because they wanted to prevent more rebellions on their asteroids. The good news is that there are thirty additional warships prepared to join Admiral Waikoloa’s fleet; the bad news is that there won’t be any more from that source.
“In all, the current fleet from Area 51 comes up to about two hundred and ten ships, although several of them are converted civilian ships. He’s put a call out to the various Mars Squadrons – ours, the Russians, the Chinese, the Japanese, the British, the Europeans – inviting them to join his force, but even if they all make it in time, there will only be two hundred and thirty ships at most.”
He paused. “Regardless, Admiral Waikoloa has signalled his intention to move against the main alien fleet at once,” he continued. “In two weeks, there will be a battle above Earth to determine the future of the human race.”
It was, Cardona felt, the sort of statement that should have been underscored by a rumble of thunder, but there was nothing, apart from the background hum of the command centre and the faint echoes of marching feet somewhere within the complex.
There was only one question of importance: “Can we win?”
“The tacticians on Area 51 have been analysing every engagement we’ve had with them since the start,” Oshiro said. “They believe that we may have a chance – maybe. Too much depends on unknown variables.”
“The problem with battle plans is that they tend to last until you run into the enemy – that dirty dog – and his battle plan,” Denny observed.
“Victory can never be guaranteed,” Oshiro said flatly. “Now, however, we know just how much the aliens have brought with them. They now know that there is something hiding in the belt. Given time, they will be able to mount a second attack and… stamp on Area 51, once they find it; while they’re searching, they can destroy the Rockrats by shattering their asteroids. What we have to do, now, is find a way to help put the pressure on the aliens…because if they don’t surrender, we are going to have to slaughter two billion intelligent creatures as the price for saving our world and our lives.”
The President nodded. “Please, see to it,” he said. “If there is anything we can do when the battle commences, I want to be able to do it.”
* * *
“Don’t worry,” a woman’s voice said. “You’ll be fine; just open your eyes slowly and you’ll be fine.”
Christopher Fardell felt red pain jangling along his nerves. His eyes hurt, as if some devilish monster had lit red coals at the base of his eyelids, or had replaced his eyeballs with glowing coals. The pain was sickening and horrible; he wanted to cry out, seeing only darkness ahead of him. The woman’s voice was calling to him from a great distance; he could barely reply…
“I can’t see,” he said. It came out a strangled moan. “What happened to me?”
“Just open your eyes,” the woman said. Fardell somehow managed to open his eyes, seeing a torrent of blinding light before it dimmed down to very faint levels. A woman, short, Chinese, pretty, with long dark hair, was bending over him. At the moment, she was the most wonderful girl he had ever seen. “See, that was easy?”
Fardell felt his body shift.
“Down, boy,” the woman said. Fardell blushed with embarrassment. He was naked, he had to be naked, which meant…
“They’ve taken me prisoner,” he said. “What sort of collaborator are you?”
The girl laughed. “This is a secret government facility some distance from the front lines,” she said. “You’ve been out of it for nearly three weeks, ever since you were injured and the remains of your unit brought you here. We kept you under to allow us some time to repair the damage caused by the alien weapons and the feedback cycle in your suit.”
She paused. “I’m Jenny, by the way,” she said. “Doctor Jenny Stratford. I know you’re happy to see me, but wouldn’t you like some pants?”
Fardell blushed again. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he tried to stand up. A wave of dizziness swept over him for a moment, and then faded as he finally made it to his feet. “How did you get a name like that?”
“My father fled China for some reason and took the name of the man who had helped him escape,” Jenny said. “Now, how are you feeling?”
“I have felt better,” Fardell said slowly. His body ached; the patchwork of pale skin and strange marks on his body suggested that there had been some intensive surgery performed on his body. “What happened to me?”
“You were wounded during the Washington balls-up,” Jenny said, confirming his fears that the Americans had lost the battle. “Your suit was penetrated in several places and some of the systems malfunctioned; ironically, it would have been a lot better if the suit had failed completely. Your neural network took a major feedback oscillation from the suit’s interface with your body; the failsafes prevented it from doing you permanent harm, but the feedback damaged your body. And perhaps your mind.”
Fardell stared at her. “But I feel fine,” he protested. He glanced down at his body, which she studied with professional detachment. “What did you do to me?”
“We repaired most of the damage,” Jenny said, studying him thoughtfully. “Your body should make a complete recovery, but we warn you that you require bed rest and a considerable program of exercise and tests before we can certify you to return to duty. There may be damage that we have not discovered, Captain; if we put you in a stressful situation, there may be…consequences.”
Fardell laughed. “Doctor…ah, Jenny, I have been in stressful situations since I was an eighteen-year-old boot,” he said. He’d been in the Army almost two decades, starting as enlisted infantry. “What do you think I’m going to do? Panic?”
“Quite possibly,” Jenny said. Her dispassionate voice killed his libido with more efficiency than a cold shower. “The medical data on your dog tags says you’ve never been seriously wounded in combat. Hurt twice in training exercises, but exercises allow you to be pulled off the field before the game ends so as to avoid permanent damage. Actual combat is different; your agony lasted for hours and was profoundly linked to the most delicate regions of your body and mind. You stay here until we’re certain that you are fit to return to duty.”
Fardell recognised a hopeless situation when he saw one. “Yes, Doctor,” he said. He lay back and tried to smile. “Is there any good news?”
“You’re alive,” Jenny said. Her face tightened for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was grim and bitter… and touched by grief. “My fiancé was with the National Guard and marched off to fight the aliens… and never came back. Count your blessings, Captain. At least you’re alive.”
Chapter Fifty-Three: Marching to Armageddon
USS Enterprise, Deep Space
The ship had had to be named Enterprise.
It was an honoured name in the American fleet, from one of the first ships to fight under the American flag, to the carrier that had proven indestructible in the war against Japan, to the nuclear-powered carrier that had avoided destruction from orbit in the skirmish over Taiwan, to the stealth ship that had carried out dozens of successful operations against the Wreckers. The USN hadn’t wanted to allow the USSF to use the name, but the protests of thousands of Star Trek fans still loyally hoping for a series that lived up to the originals, had ensured that an Enterprise went to Mars, an Enterprise became one of the first constant-boost ships, and an Enterprise became the second warship to operate in space. It had also been destroyed in space; the aliens had shattered it in the Battle of Earth.
Admiral Paul Waikoloa leaned back and studied his tactical display as the fleet started to finally shake down as it departed from Freeport One, assembling itself into something closer to a tactical formation. The Enterprise had been designed as a command ship; it was larger and better protected than the other ships in the fleet, but at the s
ame time, her unique nature meant that she would certainly tip the aliens off to the intent behind her design. They’d done what they could to spread out the command responsibility to other officers, but he was nervous; a single run of bad luck could leave the fleet leaderless at just the wrong time.
The aliens had to know they were coming; if they had taken basic precautions like seeding spy probes through the Belt, they might know exactly what ships made up the fleet. They might even know the location of Area 51; one slip at the wrong time and sufficiently-sensitive sensors might lead the aliens right there. Waikoloa had never considered himself a religious man, but he prayed silently that they hadn’t made any mistakes. If they failed, Area 51 would be needed to support Message Bearer as humanity’s first and only interstellar craft headed out towards the stars.
And he was nervous. He had command experience, true, but no one had ever been in a battle of such scale, or with so much hanging on the outcome. There would have been a time, he remembered, where the loss of one ship would have been a major disaster; how many ships had been killed in the war with the Oghaldzon? The USSF had lost nearly seventy ships, all in all; the other Great Powers would have lost around two hundred between them. Area 51 had been working on newer weapons and tactics, but how many surprises had the Oghaldzon kept in reserve? They had done all the attacking so far; what were they keeping under wraps for defence? How many of their own people would they consider acceptable losses? Would they surrender or would they force him to launch an attack that would slaughter two billion of them?
And how would the Moon react?
He’d been trying without much success to push his worries aside; there were just too many complications associated with the coming battle. He had taken the risk of sending a direct note to the new Lunar Government, warning them not to interfere, but he knew that some factions on the Moon would trust the aliens more than the USSF. Privately, he had to admit that some of their concerns were justified – but Bova and his separatists could not be allowed to interfere with the operation. Too much was at stake; would they agree to trust him, or would they back the aliens? His battle plan allowed for a certain amount of ambiguity; they would be out of range of known Moon-based weapons but in the long run, the moon’s attitude could determine just what would happen after the war was won. Or lost, he thought grimly.
He looked up from his acceleration chair as an image flickered to life on the display. “Callie,” he said. “Have we received the update packages from the ground?”
“Yes, Admiral,” said his flag captain, Callie Brown. “President Cardona has sent you a message wishing you every success… and has agreed to ratify the treaty with the Rockrat Association that you proposed. Enough of a Senate quorum was able to meet virtually to approve it.”
“Good,” Waikoloa said, relieved. The Rockrats hadn’t been happy to discover that the new spacecraft had come straight from the USSF, rather than their own industries, and Kyle Short had been threatened with removal from his chairmanship. By a narrow vote he’d held on to it, following a treaty that had offered the Rockrats considerable benefits from America and the American installations – including the use of the industrial stations that had been launched out to the Belt – in exchange for their support in the operation.
A few cynics had pointed out that America was in no condition to make good on its promises, but after the attack on Freeport One, the Rockrats as a community had accepted that the aliens had to be stamped on. That worried him, too; Rockrats weren’t big on concepts such as accepting surrenders, either. “Have you forwarded it to Kyle?”
Brown nodded. “He was rather relieved, I think,” she said.
Waikoloa grinned. “He asked you when you intended to depart?”
“In an hour,” she said.
Waikoloa lifted an eyebrow; as flag captain, she’d known that as well as he had. She could have told Short without having to ask her commanding officer; the information would have done the aliens no good if they overheard the signal… or if, although the chance was remote, someone in the Belt sent the aliens a warning. “Did the President say anything about the lunar situation?”
“Very little,” Brown said. “He said that they were willing to discuss, in principle, lunar independence, but only after the moon takes a side and stuck to it. On a different note, he noted that the IAU seems to have vanished without trace, so the Rockrat demand that it be abolished won’t be needed. If the other Great Powers want to resurrect it, the US will oppose any agreement that would substantively restore its old powers. They can look at the stars all they want.”
Waikoloa nodded. “Rockrats’ll be happy to hear that.”
He studied the display again; Doctor Kelly Jorgensen had outdone herself. Enterprise and her sisters carried enough firepower, some of it in a new and original form – as least, there had been no sign that the aliens had deployed such weapons, although Kelly had been careful to note that that didn’t mean that the aliens simply had them and hadn’t used them – which he hoped would give his fleet an advantage. “They might end up creating a new organisation to ensure fair play, but at least the Rockrats will feel that they have gained something.”
He shrugged. “How is the fleet shaping up?”
Brown’s skin flushed slightly. “The Chinese are fitting in better than I’d thought; it helps that we all use the same protocols and similar designs,” she said. “Commodore Qiu has gracefully accepted his position as third-in-command of the fleet; he has also informed me that he intends to file a formal complaint about the existence of Area 51 as soon as he returns to China.”
“Humourless son of a bitch,” Waikoloa commented with no real heat. It hadn’t been a jab at America; the Chinese officer was manoeuvring for position and influence in his own country’s postwar order. He could almost feel sorry for Qiu; coastal China had been wiped out by tsunamis from the rock that had landed in the East China Sea. Depending on the assumptions he gave the data modelling, anything from a tenth to a third of China’s population was dead – and the country’s most prosperous and industrialized regions wiped out.
Even if Qiu’s force survived the coming battle, they were going to have a nightmare of reconstruction, and it was quite possible that they would discover that the people on the ground no longer wanted the rule of the Party. “How’s he fitting into the command structure?”
“So far, so good,” Brown confirmed. “The Russians and the others from Mars have done the same; they are eager to join the battle and are looking forward to destroying the alien blockade of Earth. The Combined Fleet will be the most powerful space force humanity has ever fielded.”
Waikoloa clicked on the display to switch back to the overall view. Two hundred and fifty ships, most of them warships and the others armed civilian craft, no two of those the same.
Dozens of staff were spreading over the fleet to ensure that the data network and the internationally-interlaced tactical coordination systems held together to make the fleet’s disparate elements work as a unified entity. Other staff officers were desperately reviewing information that spy probes had gathered from Earth; some of them picking up the latest data on the positions of the alien ships, others picking apart at earlier records to work out particular ships’ armaments. It would be humanity’s finest hour…
If an imaginative person had looked at the situation they might have called it the Grand Fleet, or perhaps another name fit to convoy an idea of majesty, power, and capability. The IAU would have come up with some nicely bland and inoffensive name, the Multinational Fleet, or the Interplanetary Fleet, that would have neither pleased nor offended anyone.
Waikoloa himself was awed; there was little time to, but personally he would have tended towards Last Hope Fleet, or maybe Redemption Fleet. Historians in the belt had been reminding everyone who had the time to listen that if humanity had even probed into space ten years earlier than the first determined attempts to place a base on the moon, the aliens would have had their asses soundly kicked when t
hey tried to get into Earth orbit. The Combined Fleet seemed so…weak a name for the force that, one way or the other, would determine the future of the human race.
He smiled. If future schoolchildren were going to get bored reading the name of the Combined Fleet, they would not be bored when they looked at its ship names, particularly the ones chosen by the Rockrats themselves.
FlameWar. Jihad on their Arse. Ying Tong Iddle I Po. Pointing Finger. Fuck the Man. Overcompensating Bastard. We Come in Peace; Shoot To Kill. Any schoolchild would have laughed; Blame Thande – no one knew who Thande was anyway – RADICAL_NEUTRAL, Landshark Slywanker, Motherfucker, Billy Butcher’s Boys…the list of names went on and on, many of them even more unprintable. One particular crew had wanted to name their ship the Arse-Bandit, but he’d been shouted down until he’d given in and settled for something just a little less stereotypical. Captain Kit Rebury had been very upset.
“I think that we have a chance to win,” he said, finally. He thought – hoped – that it was more than that, but the spy probes had made a few things clear, such as the orbital stations the aliens were deploying to start constructing additional ships. Once they started churning out ships, it would become a battle of production, one that he feared they would lose. They had a window of opportunity; a window that would soon close…and it would never reopen in his lifetime. “Have you sent the activation signal to the other ships in the fleet?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Brown said. Her voice radiated confidence and determination; Waikoloa could only hope that it was not misplaced. She knew her work, they all did, but the aliens were still partly an unknown factor. Who knew what surprises they might have up their sleeves. “The fleet is as ready as we are ever going to get.”
Waikoloa placed his doubts into one corner of his mind and smiled. “Inform the fleet,” he said. “We leave in precisely one hour…and may God help those who help themselves.”
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