Attack Plan Alpha (Blood on the Stars Book 16)

by Jay Allan

  It would be a danger to Admiral Barron.

  Rogan looked down at the makeshift bandage on his arm. It was so soaked through with blood, it was pooling over the top. But it looked like it had slowed somewhat. Perhaps more importantly, it didn’t matter. Rogan had to get back into the fight. He had to take charge of the desperate battle.

  He turned back down the corridor. The main position was in a large chamber about fifty meters from the control center. There were three hallways leading in, and three leading out. The invaders were on one side, and the Marines on the other.

  Rogan crept down the corridor, hunched forward, keeping his profile as small as possible. He was too far back to be exposed to most of the fire, but the occasional shot ripped down past him or slammed into the wall nearby.

  He moved forward, the sounds of battle growing louder with each step. He came up to a line of Marines, about fifteen of his people in the corridor, right by the entrance to the open room. About half of them were wounded, to one degree or another.

  He slipped past, moving right up to the end of the hall, and he lurched into the room, dropping to his knees behind a pile of old equipment his Marines had stacked up to create some cover. There were half a dozen of his people there, trading fire with the enemy.

  The room was a nightmare, the workstations and equipment it had once held reduced to shattered wreckage. Fighters from the two sides crouched down, trading fire, and in between them, the room was littered not only with debris, but with the bodies of at least fifty combatants.

  Rogan was troubled, not so much by the macabre scene, but by how little it affected him. He’d fought too many battles, seen too much death and carnage. He wondered what kind of a man he would be when it ceased to disturb him at all.

  “Status, Captain?” He leaned down next to an officer, even as he aimed his rifle, and added his own aimed fire to that of the other Marines.

  “We’ve been holding our own, sir. I’d say we’re taking down two of theirs for every one we lose. But that’s not a winning exchange for us, not in the long run. And it looks like they’ve got more troops coming up. It’s hard to be sure, but my guess is they have a fresh platoon at least.”

  Rogan heard the words, and more discouragingly, he understood just what they meant. The Marines could inflict punishment on the invaders, even hold them for a while longer. But the attacking Thralls were going to break through…the only question was when. That meant Bryan Rogan had a decision to make. Should he dig in his heels, fight where he stood to the last man?

  Or should he pull back while he still had at least a moderately effective force and make once last effort to repel the enemy…right in the middle of Striker’s command center, with Admiral Barron and the rest of the officers in the thick of the fighting.

  * * *

  “We’re okay over here, Atara. I just want you ready to help Clint Winters out if we get cut off or if Striker loses comm capability for a time. The fleet’s deep in the fight now, and we can’t afford any mistakes.”

  Atara Travis sat on Dauntless’s bridge, shaking her head as she listened to Barron on her headset. She knew him as well as anyone did, better than almost anyone. She damned sure knew when he was lying to her, and she realized almost immediately things were far from ‘okay’ on Striker.

  “Don’t worry, Admiral. The fleet’s deep in command personnel.” That, at least, was one benefit of almost endless conflict. The military of the Confederation and its allies had immense combat experience, something that made a huge difference in both the command structure and the rank and file. “We’ll keep the fight going…whatever happens.”

  Atara knew the main problem on the fortress wasn’t battle damage. Striker had been battered in the fighting, there was no question about that, but the giant station was still heavily in the battle, its batteries lancing out, visiting death and destruction on the attacking Highborn ships.

  It was the boarding action that posed the gravest threat to Striker. Barron hadn’t said that, not exactly, but Atara was no fool. Three of the station’s launch bays were out of action, and it only took a quick check of the scans to see those areas of the structure had not been knocked out by enemy fire.

  “Okay, Atara…thank you. I’m glad you’re out there. You’ve always been close to me, and that has been a great aid and comfort over the years. But there is no one I trust more to lead than you. Remember that.” A short pause. “I have to go…carry on.” The line went dead.

  Atara felt a renewed wave of tension. She’d already been worried about the situation on the fortress, but Barron’s last words had shaken her up. They sounded far too much like ‘goodbye’ for her tastes.

  The boarders were winning the fight on Striker. That was all it could be. Barron hadn’t said that, but she couldn’t think of anything else to explain the admiral’s deep concern for leadership in his absence. Or for what he’d said to her before he’d cut the line.

  Or the fact that she was almost sure she had heard faint gunfire in the background when Barron was on the comm.

  She looked down and tapped at the comm controls, opening a line to Winters’s flagship. “This is Admiral Travis. I need to speak to Admiral Winters immediately.”

  Almost at once, a familiar voice flooded her headset. “What is it, Atara?”

  “It’s Admiral Barron, sir. And Striker. I think the boarders are more of a threat there than we thought.” The fighting on Dauntless had been fierce for a short while, but the battleship’s Marines had defeated the attackers handily, as they had on most of the fleet’s targeted vessels.

  “You think?”

  “It’s Admiral Barron…I just know him very well. He didn’t tell me the Marines on Striker were losing the battle, but he…well, he said goodbye to me.”

  “He what?”

  “I don’t think he expects to get through the battle, Admiral. And apart from the normal concern we all have about such things in battle, I can’t think of anything that would have him thinking that way…except the fear of losing the station.” A short pause. “Admiral, I’ve got about a hundred Marines on Dauntless still fit for duty. I’m going to cram them into any shuttles I’ve got left that can fly and send them over to Striker. I think we should have every ship in the fleet do the same, any vessel that’s got both Marines left, and a way to get them over there.”

  “That will leave every ship almost defenseless if the enemy tries another series of boarding actions.”

  Atara knew Winters was only speaking the truth, but she didn’t care. It was very likely any forces she could send would be too little and too late anyway, but she had to try. “We’d see them coming, Admiral. The enemy can’t use that Sigma-9 maneuver now, not without blinding their whole battleline as well as us. I think it’s a risk worth taking. One we have to take.”

  “You’re right, Atara. I’ll issue a fleet order. Any ship with combat-capable Marines and viable transport are to send those forces to Striker at once.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She took a deep breath. She felt a little better, for a few seconds. Then the dark thoughts streamed back. Will this be enough? Can we get there on time? And even if the newly sent Marines managed to stabilized things on Striker, the battle was still raging. The second fighter strike was about to launch, and this time Reg Griffin’s pilots weren’t going to have the enemy evasion routines. The fleet had performed well so far, at least holding its own. But the Pact forces were still outnumbered and outmatched. Final victory seemed as elusive as ever.

  One problem at a time…first we have to save Striker.

  “Commander, I want all Marines capable of carrying a weapon down in beta launch bay…and I mean now!”

  * * *

  Dirk Timmons felt the familiar pressure of the high g-forces of launch. The new Lightnings had the latest dampeners, an improvement that not only vastly increased the comfort of flying, but also enabled the ships to utilize thrust levels that would have turned pilots in the old craft in bloody mush. But the miraculous
devices were only partly effective during the fighter’s short journey down the tube, and Timmons could feel the force slamming into him. It was something one never got entirely used to, no matter who many times he or she went through it.

  But the pressure really pushing down on him was that of command. Reg Griffin had just landed, and while she would almost certainly commandeer another fighter rather than waiting for hers to be refit, she wasn’t there yet. Olya Federov was still on her way back to Dauntless, along with the remnants of her battered wing, and none other than Jake Stockton himself. Timmons had found it difficult to accept that his old friend and rival was still alive. He’d wanted to stay on Dauntless, wait for Stockton to land…but duty came first. Timmons had pushed all thoughts of his friend out of his mind with brutal force, and he’d slammed down a wall. There was only one thing he could think about…leading the squadrons forward.

  A grim fatalism had established a firm grip. The wings had won the first round, but that had been a near-miracle, one apparently courtesy of none other than Stockton himself. The Highborn would have reworked their evasion routines before they’d launched their second attack…and that meant Timmons was leading a force that had to face twice its number, with no offsetting advantage of its own.

  Timmons had been proud in his younger days. Proud? You were an arrogant ass. But combat and death and wounds—including the loss of his legs—had forged in him a pillar of the wisdom the youthful ace had lacked. He had retained much of his flying skill, but his reflexes had slowed a bit, and as miraculous as his artificial legs were, they lacked the subtle instinctive moves that marked a true natural pilot.

  “Listen up, all of you…” He leaned down toward the comm, a needless gesture, he realized. The microphone was sensitive enough to pick up what he was saying without him hunching over and pressing his lips almost against it. “I’m not going to lie to you…this is going to be a harder fight that the last one. You all know that. By now, you also know that ‘Raptor’ Stockton is alive, that he has returned to us. That it was he who gave us the codes that secured our victory. For five years, we’ve fought to avenge our leader…but now, I call on you all to ramp up your focused rage. Raptor did not die in battle, but he was imprisoned and tortured and used by the enemy. I say, we make them pay for that, and we do it now! Full thrust ahead. Let’s hit those Highborn squadrons, and let’s blast every one of them straight to hell!”

  * * *

  “How did you get up here?” Tyler Barron stared with disbelief as Akella climbed out of the access hatch, followed in turn by six Kriegeri warriors.

  “The access tubes, mostly.” She stretched out her arms as she spoke. “I’m a little sore…those were a lot of ladders to climb.”

  “I was worried. I thought Sigma Sector would be about as safe as you could get on Striker, but I didn’t expect the enemy to land thousands of troops to board us either.”

  “We managed to get through the enemy-held sectors and make it up here. It wasn’t without cost, though. I had twelve Kriegeri with me when we started out…so only half of us made it.”

  Barron noticed suddenly that the shoulder of Atara’s shirt was red with blood. “You’re hurt…”

  “It’s nothing, Tyler.” A pause. “I just figured I should try to make it up here. But it looks like the enemy’s threatening the control center, too.” She glanced over toward the three doors leading out from the room. She turned toward one of the Kriegeri. “Commander, your warriors are to join the Marines here and prepare to help defend the control center.”

  The officer looked uncomfortable. He paused for a few seconds, but he didn’t speak.

  “Commander, you can’t protect me by standing here at my side. If we don’t hold the control center, we’re all dead. So, do as I say.” Her voice was soft, but there was a force of command in it that surprised Barron.

  The Kriegeri nodded. “As you command, Number One.” He turned and gestured to the other soldiers, and they moved toward the officer commanding the Marines positioned around the control center.

  Barron’s eyes caught a pistol slung at Akella’s side. He waved toward one of the Marines, and he said, “Lieutenant, bring an assault rifle over here for Number One.” He looked at Akella. “If you’re going to be here, you might as well have some real firepower.”

  Akella smiled, and she reached out an took the weapon from the Marine. “Thank you,” she said, somewhat amorphously to both Barron and the Marine.

  Barron was about to ask if she knew how to use the weapon, but she spun it around into a ready position, quickly checking that the clip was properly seated in the magazine and then flipping the gun to full-auto mode.

  She knows how to use it…

  Barron gestured toward a workstation near his. “Sit, if you’d like. The Marines just may hold the perimeter outside.” Barron tried like hell to sound like be believed that, but he suspected he came up short. “If it looks like we’re going to have a fight in here, though, get yourself into cover right away…okay?” He waved toward the rows of crates and other extraneous equipment the Marines had fashioned into several barricades.

  “Count on it, Tyler. I didn’t come all the way up here to get shot by the first Highborn Thrall to come charging through that door.” Her expression hardened, and Barron saw a strength in her, and a cold malevolence he’d never before sensed from the Hegemony leader. “I came up here to help hold this station.”

  She paused, and she turned and looked right at Barron. “I came up here to help you kill Highborn.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  CFS Dauntless

  Vasa Denaris System

  Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

  “Jake…I still can’t believe it is you.” Olya Federov stood in front of Stockton, her eyes moving up and down as if she was still trying to convince herself it was actually him. He looked the same more or less. He had a worn look to him now, a haggard visage that was difficult to fully evaluate. She had some idea of the torment he had been through, but she knew she could never truly understand. Even as she struggled to forget all he had done, the countless pilots dead in battles against the Highborn Thralls he’d trained, she sympathized with him, too. Nothing he had done to harm the Confederation had been willing, she was absolutely sure of that. And just trying to imagine what Stockton felt like, how much guilt was likely assaulting his psyche, made even the cold fish of the fighter corps ready to burst into tears.

  “Olya…I…I…” Stockton looked away from her, his eyes trained down on the deck. He was shaking uncontrollably, and as he hunched forward, she saw the dark metal construct protruding from his neck. It looked like some sort of parasite, a chunk of metal that somehow radiated a sense of darkness and misery. She tried to look away from it, but she couldn’t force her head to move.

  She could hear the sounds of boots on the deck, and a cluster of other figures swarmed around her. There were two medics, dressed all in white. They moved slowly toward Stockton, clearly trying not to upset or scare him. One of them reached out and put her hand on his arm, but there was no reaction at all. Stockton was staring down at the deck, his eyes seemingly focused on a single spot. He continued to shiver, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t react to the medic’s touch at all.

  “Admiral…we’re here to help you.” The medic turned and gestured, and a pair of orderlies pushed up a stretcher. “Admiral…”

  Stockton didn’t move, no motion at all save for the shakes that had taken his entire body.

  “Admiral Stockton…we’re going to take you to sickbay.” The medic exerted a bit of pressure on Stockton’s arm, but he remained motionless and nonresponsive. The medic waved for the orderlies to bring the stretcher closer, and then she put both hands on Stockton and pushed him back onto the padded matt. He didn’t resist, and in a moment, he was lying on the stretcher. He recoiled as they laid him back, and the thing jutting out from his neck—a Collar, Federov remembered it was called—hit the stretcher. The medics helped turn him
more to the side, and they pulled two straps across his body, buckling them in place.

  Federov watched, putting most of her strength into holding her tears back. She felt sadness and sympathy for her friend, but the rage was still there, too. She didn’t know what to do, what to think. And she didn’t know what would happen with Stockton. What state was he in? Could he come back? Could he even retain his sanity after all he’d been through?

  And what about her, about all the others? Could they get past all that had happened? Was understanding, a realization that Stockton had never willingly aided the enemy, enough to get them past the anger and the resentment?

  She didn’t have any answers, and as she saw the four Marines standing just back from the medics—two of them carrying stun guns, and the others fully-armed with assault rifles—she realized Atara Travis had none either. Travis had always been fond of Stockton, but she clearly harbored some suspicion as well.

  Federov watched the medics move the stretcher toward the bank of lifts, the Marines taking up position all around. She didn’t know what was going to happen, or how she would deal with her own feelings. But she knew one thing.

  Whatever he had done, whatever he had been through, she was glad Stockton was back. They’d been through so much together…and she resolved, however difficult it might be for her to learn to accept all that had happened, she was going to help him get through it all. Somehow.

  She turned and took a deep breath, reaching out and grabbing her helmet from the table where she’d set it down. But that would all be tomorrow’s task. Just then, she had a battle waiting for her. Timmons and Reg Griffin had taken the wings back out…and one thing was damned sure.