Pausing for an instant, he called up a hologram of his wife and extended family, smiled for a split-second at the image, then dismissed it with an almost imperceptible sigh. He watched intently as his suits AI began building inside his helmet a 3D image of the surrounding area, combining data from the individual suits of his Marines. Motion and heat sensor data were combined in real-time to filter out the majority of still falling debris, focusing instead on living targets. Several hundred signals, many not moving and rapidly cooling, were automatically tagged as bodies by the AI, turning them semi-transparent in the display as it downgraded their threat level. In the event any should come to life and begin moving towards his current position, the AI would automatically re-tag them as potentially hostile.
As this wasn’t a rescue mission, Plewa ignored the pitiful cries coming from the rubble and focused on identifying the best place to await the pickup he knew was coming. The main thing that bothered him, however, was the inability of his suit to get through to Dauntless although he knew the flagship had certainly been able to track their flight and subsequent crash-landing on visuals. In addition, the plume of smoke still rising into the morning sky was signalling their whereabouts as plainly as any beacon.
Plewa debated with himself for a few moments whether to move further out into the undamaged streets surrounding the crash site, or to stay within the debris field. Each had its own advantages. The streets afforded ease of mobility and the ability to take hostages if required, but would make them easier to pinpoint and move them further from the shuttle. Staying within the debris would provide cover and a degree of protection from weapons fire, but meant they were a sitting target.
“Which one to choose?” he quietly asked himself, before remembering the old adage, “a good Sergeant has the ability to make quick decisions. If they happen to turn out to be correct, so much the better.” He quickly decided on the latter option, his suit began picking up and displaying multiple potential hostiles moving rapidly to their position.
Scene 5, Bombardment
On the bridge of Dauntless, Admiral Frith watched the translucent holographic 3D image of the shuttles impact site expand and resolve into finer detail as ships sensors and drones relayed more and more information into the AI. The life-like image of the crash site, now thirty foot across, hung in the middle of the room, providing a real-time view of the unfolding scene. Hostiles were tagged in red and friendlies in blue. On the ground, a red wave was already converging on the crash site, indicating either a massive response by emergency services or more likely an angry mix of soldiers and general population looking to massacre any survivors before any rescue could take place. The massed crowds awaiting the ceremony had begun moving away, but a large proportion were heading towards the crash site. Sensors showed almost one-hundred, ground-based enemy aircraft had already been taken out by drones and hover-missiles launched earlier from Dauntless, severely degrading the enemies’ ability to hit the crash survivors. Able to withstand far higher acceleration than a human pilot, the drones and missiles had reached the landing zone within minutes and had begun clearing the skies long before the rescue shuttles would arrive on scene.
It annoyed Frith’s professionalism that despite their precautions, a substantial build-up of military equipment and personnel had obviously taken place at or near the official landing site before the Ascension ceremony, hidden in plain view amongst the civilian population. With the benefit of hindsight, it was apparent that homes and buildings had been constructed over armoured vehicles and VTOL aircraft, whilst large numbers of soldiers had been disguised as guests of honour and distributed amongst the crowd.
Although all incoming data to her implant was filtered by the AI of Dauntless to stop her becoming overwhelmed with information, with such a volume coming in there was always a risk something important being missed or inappropriately flagged, hence Frith regularly asked each of her officers to provide verbal summaries of the most important developments, rather than relying solely on the AI.
The Weapon Master to her left confirmed the nuclear-tipped missiles sent to intercept them had all been taken out harmlessly by point defences, long before they could pose a threat to Dauntless. In the vacuum of space, irrespective of the missiles size, there were no concussive or destructive forces to worry about, especially as the ship’s shields could easily handle the short-lived radiation spikes from any resulting nuclear explosions. A few warheads had been allowed to detonate harmlessly at their last known position, for Frith hoped the resulting Electro-Magnetic pulses would play havoc with the native’s planetary communications.
“Admiral, Medical stations are standing by,” reported her Second Officer, Commander Mark Campbell, who had left his station and walked over to where she was standing. “Navigation has plotted us several potential solutions to a number of alternative orbits and await your instructions. We are ready to break our current orbit on your command.”
“Thank you, Mark, please pass on my compliments to them. What news of Captain Stuart-Jack’s shuttle? Any survivors?” asked Frith.
“No Ma’am, the drones we sent down reported minimal wreckage as would be expected from such close proximity to the blasts,” reported Campbell. “In all probability they wouldn’t have known what hit them. There’s not enough left of the shuttle or our technology to be of any use to the people here, although I recommend we sterilise the debris field from orbit to make sure. To allow for debris scatter, a thirty-mile radius should suffice.”
Frith thought for a moment then nodded. “Please see to it and begin sending power down to the Ambassadors crash site the moment we break through the jamming. Prepare to sterilise his crash site once our people are rescued.”
For a second, Frith’s thoughts turned to the civilians that would be caught up in the sterilisation. There would be massive loss of innocent life on the ground which grated on her professionalism, rather than any misplaced sentimentality over innocent life.
“They brought this on themselves by their unprovoked attack,” she thought to herself, “People ultimately get the leaders they deserve and have to live with the consequences of their actions, good or bad.”
A few moments later, Frith could sense, through her implant and connection to the AI, Dauntless firing its main laser batteries, followed by the tremble of railguns as Campbell instructed the Weapons Officers to proceed. She slowly shook her head, knowing deep down that tonight’s dreams would probably be uncomfortable. In fact, she would probably not sleep well now for several days as thoughts of the innocents would come unbidden to trouble her sleep, despite knowing she had no other choice. Old memories surfaced as she briefly wondered if the Emperor would order the planet sterilized completely, as Remdale 4 had been by his father. Thankfully, that had happened long before her time but she’d seen the aftermath, as had all Admirals and Officers of Command Rank, for it was part of their education in war.
To her right, Ian Gomez, her First Officer, walked over.
“Ma’am,” he begun as Frith turned towards him, “since shortly after the first explosion we have had no contact with the fifteen diplomats on the ground who were attending the ceremony. Our AI confirms that just before the signal blocking started, telemetry from six of the diplomat’s biosensors confirmed their life functions had ceased. Sudden loss of neural activity indicated severe head trauma.”
“Your assessment?” asked the Admiral.
“Loss of readings are symptomatic with a shot or blow to the head and I would assume further that, in light of the dense crowds, it would have been relatively simple for the assailants to have simply approached them from the rear and shoot them once the signal was given, especially if the local authorities were in collusion. It would indicate there were individual assassins for each diplomat and that the other nine are dead too, shot just after the blocking of our telemetry began. We have no proof, however.”
“Agreed, thank you Ian,” Frith replied, nodding slowly. She turned back to her previous position and view
ed again the 3D image. The crashed shuttle was now clearly defined in blue, as were the positions of the Marines on the ground. It looked to Frith they were using the debris field as cover and had taken up a defensive perimeter ring to await rescue or attack. The wash of red indicating the approaching enemy was slowly closing in on the small blue ring and it would not be long before the two made contact with each other.
“Incoming, look sharp,” Master Sergeant Plewa’s warning sounded loudly in the Marine’s helmets. Instinctively, they all shrank down a fraction lower in their foxholes and secured positions. Alone in her shallow foxhole, Harris instructed her suit to form a helmet, hoping that once the fighting began it would afford some protection against flying splinters or gas attacks, in addition to letting her fully tap into the comms channel used by the Marines around her.
The crack of incoming munitions could be clearly heard over the increasingly loud and angry murmuring of the huge mob as it advanced on their position.
“Fire at will if you see targets of opportunity,” Plewa told them. “Use high explosive rounds sparingly and only on buildings. If you can demolish them with the enemy inside, then so much the better. Make it hard and costly for the bastards to approach.”
Gallagher instructed his suit to detach the shield from his back, then fixed it in place over the shallow foxhole the four Marines had hastily made for Harris to hide in.
“This will afford you a bit more protection, Lieutenant,” he said to her, making sure she was covered by it. “With these fine Marines looking after me I have more than enough protection.”
Although their faces were armoured, Gallagher could see from the Marines body language that at least two of the assigned bodyguard had looked briefly in his direction and fancied he could sense them smiling.
“That’s right Ambassador,” responded DeGrizzo, “We’ll keep you and the pilot safe, don’t worry.”
“Well, I hope your bloody aim has improved from the last set of scores you posted in practice,” came the voice of Sergeant Plewa, cutting through the good-natured banter, “otherwise it will be the pilot protecting you four”.
DeGrizzo chuckled to herself, as did quite a few of the Marines, knowing full well that at the last practice she’d only just missed beating by one point the Cohort record for targets hit in a single session. “Yes, Master Sergeant Sir!” responded DeGrizzo, laughing. The confidence and humour of the Marines went some way towards reassuring Harris she would get out of this alive, but even so, waiting impotently in a fox-hole, having to rely on others for her safety, was nerve-wracking. She would feel much safer with a weapon in her hand, but as Gallagher had pointed out, her flight suit was incapable of accepting smart-metal weapons, even if any had been available.
The first of the enemy came into view, clambering over debris and shouting incomprehensible words in the local language as they tried to get at the Marines. No obvious firearms could be seen in this first wave, but everyone carried a variety of sticks or dangerous looking objects. All of the attackers were dressed in the local fashion with flowing multi-coloured robes, tied in at the waist by belts. Debating whether these attackers were any real threat, the Marines hesitated for a second before firing. In the magnified images of their helmets, the hatred of these people could be clearly seen, making their intentions crystal clear. Irrespective of what the natives were carrying, they were clearly looking to take the Marines apart even if it meant using their bare hands. Almost at once the Marines began to fire.
Master Sergeant Plewa watched as an anti-personnel weapon finished forming above the wrist on his right gauntlet. No matter how many times he saw the smart-metal reshape itself into one of the many weapons templates his suit contained, the fascination never faded. He knew that tiny flechettes of smart-metal were formed on demand within the miniature railgun, ready to be discharged singly or on auto fire as required. Limited only by the suits ability to carry mass for conversion and power to drive the process, the flechettes were less than a centimetre in size and weighed only five grams. When the weapon accelerated them to hypersonic speeds they impacted on their target with devastating effect, pulverising flesh and bone in an instant as they disintegrated. The railguns were normally only used when the armoured suits were braced, thereby absorbing and converting the ferocious recoil into energy, which limited their usefulness on the move. However, from a static firing position they were deadly effective.
The angry crack of accelerated flechettes started up around him, the sound caused by air rushing in to fill the vacuum created by their passage. Swiftly the volume increased, merging with cries of pain from the attackers, as the Marines began to acquire targets and fire. Taking aim at a large, burly individual dressed in scarlet robes who was clambering towards his position, Plewa set his weapon to single shot and fired. At this range, there was no need to allow for gravity and he watched the man fly backwards, his midriff mostly vapourised by the kinetic energy as the flechette instantly disintegrated on contact into a deadly mist of tiny accelerated particles. Two more natives took his place, one a slightly built woman in blue robes and carrying a firearm, the other obviously a soldier of some sort. Without hesitation, Plewa fired again. The man’s head vanished in a red mist while the woman fell screaming as her entire right leg and part of her hip was destroyed by the force of impact. She instantly went into shock and the look of horror faded from her face as the effects of blood loss and trauma rapidly took hold. Plewa knew she would quickly bleed out and pose no further threat.
Setting the suit to auto-fire for a few moments, Plewa checked the readouts on his men. “No casualties yet,” he noted thankfully, turning next to the tactical display showing the deployment of his Marines and the enemy. The colour red was now a dense mass, indicating the sheer numbers they faced.
Sitting in her foxhole, as the fight raged around her, Harris could hear and feel the crump of heavy weapons and falling masonry. She desperately wanted to do something, anything except stay behind the shield letting others fight on her behalf. She was nervous, realising her vulnerability compared to the Marines around her. A solid projectile struck the leading edge of her shield, making it ring loudly, drawing an involuntary curse from her. She felt the impact of the blow through her hands and wished again she had more protection and a weapon to fight back with.
In front and to the right of Harris’s shield, DeGrizzo was calmly snapping off single shots from the gun on her left gauntlet, its recoil being absorbed by her suit and converted into energy. To the front and left, Eames had switched to rapid fire, sending out streams of flechettes in a wide arc as he steadily moved his right arm from side to side, bracing his suit against the low wall behind him. At close quarters the crack of their guns almost drowned out the constant screams and cries of those hit and not fortunate enough to be killed outright. As the bodies piled up it became harder for the attackers to advance. Slipping and sliding in the blood and gore, they became slow moving targets that were easily picked off by the Marines. The coppery smell of blood mixed with the stench of ruptured and spilled intestines, added to the scene of carnage unfolding in front of the Marines.
Gallagher was yet to fire, having instructed his suit to switch to close combat mode. A small buckler had formed against the side of his left forearm along with a flechette launcher. On his right, a four-foot sword was now gripped tightly in his armoured fist. Studded along Gallagher’s right forearm were a row of four inch, razor sharp spikes that were ideal for close quarter work and would rip through most light-weight armour when delivered by the power of his armoured suit.
His four Marine guards were all firing steadily from their positions, but Gallagher could see that it was only going to be a short time before their position would be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers. At that point, his suit should enable him to stay fighting for a while longer. “If I stand my ground over the shield it might buy Harris a few more moments when they manage to break through. Maybe enough time until help arrives,” he thought to himself.
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Suddenly, the mass of screaming, charging civilians dwindled to nothing as the last of the robed attackers was cut down, only to be replaced by the grinding sound of heavy machinery smashing its way through and across the debris field. Small arms fire, mainly in the shape of solid slugs fired by chemical propellants, began peppering their positions. Although Marine armour was capable of withstanding multiple impacts from rounds of this calibre, eventually the cumulative damage would degrade even its ability to function. In front of the Marines, hundreds of dead bodies lay draped over the rubble like a gory carpet. A few bodies were feebly twitching or crying out until well-placed flechettes or bullets from their own side silenced them forever.
Suddenly, the Marine’s suits all began registering power increases instead of falls, as Dauntless finally broke through the surprisingly capable and sophisticated jamming and began beaming power to their location. A few seconds later, full contact and telemetry was restored between Dauntless and the Marines.
“Patrick, glad to see you made it in one piece,” the Emperors familiar face and voice came through on a private channel. “I’m personally coming to extract you all in the other shuttle, just keep them at bay for a few more minutes.”
Gallagher smiled back at his friend, a rueful expression on his face. “I never doubted it for one minute, Alex. You never could resist an excuse to get away from behind your desk and this was too good an opportunity to turn down. Make it quick please, we have heavy armour about to hit us.”
At that, Gallagher cut the link, then called on the nearest Marines to follow him, springing out from behind his cover and sprinting at full speed towards the tank-like vehicle beginning to emerge through the walls of a partially destroyed building. Bullets from small arms fire rang off his armour, only slightly slowing his forward pace. Using the power inherent in the muscle fibres of his suit, he leapt forward onto the upper cowling of the tank, bringing his sword down in an arc that cut through the barrel of the main gun which had been traversing towards his previous position. Using the downward momentum of the blow, he swung the blade upwards again, then brought it down on top of the turret, slicing away a portion of the foot-thick reactive armour, leaving a gash into the interior. He pushed his left hand up to the gash and fired a rapid stream of flechettes inside the turret. The kinetic energy of the flechettes bounced them around inside, slicing and liquefying its occupants in moments. Behind him, Walker and Tommaso had also called up their swords and were following his example, going after another tank which had pushed its way through into the Marines kill zone. Using the tank as a brace and the few seconds grace he had bought by his attack, Gallagher switched from flechettes to larger, heavier slugs and increased their launch speed to maximum.
Imperium: Betrayal: Book One in the Imperium Trilogy Page 5
