Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike

by Doug Dandridge

  Baggett looked askance at the burning tube of vegetation that was pumping fragrant smoke into the air. He thought the habit of smoking nasty, even though so many military people indulged without any ill effects.

  “He and the other two divisions will be located around the other coast and their mountains, and he might have some command and control problems with your division. So you will be taking orders from this headquarters. Understood?”

  So we’ll be on our own over there, except for whatever support Sapatra might be able to give us from what he already has. “I understand, sir.”

  “Now I don’t want you playing it safe once they are down,” said Sapatra, putting a finger through the holo and onto the hard surface of the table. “I want you to hit them, and hit them hard. They will be exposed down here, and your heavy infantry should be able to rip them a new one.”

  “Do you think they’ll really come down here, sir? Seems to me that they would try to blast their way out of the system.”

  “From what I understand, they will see a force they can’t really blast through. I fully expect them to evacuate their logistics ships and those troop transports of theirs to the surface, since those ships will just be easy targets as they try to break out.”

  And they will hope for an eventual relief force for their ground forces, thought Baggett as he nodded. The wonderful thing about their not having instantaneous communications. They’ll likely think this is a local operation, and not know that there is no help available.

  “We’re going to ship one of the two wormholes up to you prior to the attack. I want you to get all of your heavy assets out and under cover, which means I don’t want them being spotted from space. So minimal power, and no crossing open spots.”

  “How long do we get to keep the hole?”

  “No more than two days, so get everything through that you think you will need. I know, you won’t get everything you think you need, like a year’s supply of everything. But get as much out as you can. Then ship the hole back here. I’ve got some other uses for it.”

  “And when will they attack, sir?”

  “We were expecting the ships to get here in five days,” said Sapatra, frowning. “But it seems that hyper VII is unavailable, so maybe eleven days.” The General turned the frown into a smile. “Which may not be a bad thing, since the Cacas won’t be able to use VII either, or so we hope. And we’ll have more of our own ships coming to the party.”

  The General stared at the holo for a moment more, his nostrils flaring as if he were already fighting the battle in his mind. He looked over at Baggett. “I know you won’t let us down, Samuel. So get your people in position and get ready to kick their asses.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Baggett, rendering a salute and turning to leave.

  “And don’t let me hear about a major general getting into hand to hand combat, Baggett. The Empire has too much of an investment, and you’re too much of an asset, to risk you killing a couple of Cacas eye to eye.”

  “How?”

  “After Action Report, Baggett,” said the smiling Planet Commander. “We see all, we know all. Now don’t act like a second Louie, and make sure the bastards pay.”

  * * *

  SAURON SPACE. DECEMBER 27TH, 1001.

  Captain Svetlana Komorov watched as the last ship in her wing came aboard, standing on the side of the hangar deck as the fifteen hundred ton inertialess attack fighter poked its nose through the cold plasma field that kept the atmosphere in. The ship cruised slowly along the open area and stopped, then vectored sideways into a slot between two other ships.

  “All craft are aboard, Captain,” she told the commander of the Akagi, watching as the heavy hangar doors slid shut. She was of equal rank with the ship’s commander, who was in charge of the care and feeding of the carrier, while Komorov was in charge of the aviation wing. There was a commodore aboard who exercised operational control over both parts of the combat team.

  The carrier was fully crewed. Unfortunately, her wing was not. With two more hyper VII carriers to assign fighters too, and losses across all the wings on the Congreeve operation, as well as some minor losses against the Fenri, there just weren’t enough ships to go around. Or, maybe more accurately, not enough negative matter to make all of the ships operational.

  The fighter she had been watching settled to the deck with a triple thump of landing gear. The engines powered down, and moments later a pair of hatches, one forward, one aft, slid open as the debarkation ladders dropped from craft to deck. The crew started coming out, the four bridge personnel and two engineers, while the ground team ran forward, looking over the outer skin of the ship, one climbing the top, making sure the fighter would be ready for combat when needed.

  “Welcome aboard, Commander Humphrey,” she told the officer leading the crew away from the craft. He was replacing one of the division leaders she had lost at Congreeve, and would be in command of forty-three fighters, nine less than he should have.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said the young man who had also survived Congreeve, and earned a command slot by taking over for his then wing commander after that Captain had been killed on the first pass of the Caca ships.

  “How’s your division shaping up?” was her next question.

  “I wish I had some more time to get the newcomers straightened out,” he said, looking back at some of the other fighters in his division, half of which occupied this hangar. The other half were in the other port side hangar, while those of Second Division were in the starboard hangars.

  “You and everyone else who’s in a command position,” said Komorov with a laugh. “I think you dispersed them as well as could be expected.” There had been some hard decisions to make with those dispersals. They had intact teams that had performed well at Congreeve. They hadn’t wanted to break them up, but it also seemed cruel and unusual punishment to send people into combat who hadn’t been through it before, without the leavening of experienced crew. The Admiral settled that, thought the Captain of the officer who commanded Akagi and two of her sisters.

  “Not a one of your original crews had any combat experience before Congreeve,” had said Rear Admiral Condalisa Perez. “The same as your new people. Your old hands,” and the Admiral had smiled at calling people who had been through one battle such, “have developed trust in their teammates. So I suggest, and a suggestion is all it is, that you keep the old teams together, and assign new teams in equal measure to each squadron.”

  And that’s what we did, thought the wing commander, who considered it the best choice of a bad position to be in. The best would have been for everyone to survive Congreeve. An unrealistic outcome, just as it would be unrealistic to think that everyone would survive the coming battle. That’s what this war is going to be about. Go into every fight, lose crews, then rebuild, just to do it again. Should have gone into battleships. At least there, when the ship comes through, so do most of the people. And when the ship doesn’t come through, it’s a total loss.

  “Prepare for jump to hyper,” called a voice over the intercom. The ground crews kept about their business, experienced spacers to which a translation was not much of anything. The only change was the people on top of the fighters getting down fast, so they wouldn’t fall if they happened to catch a bad reaction.

  “We have a staff meeting in ten minutes, Commander,” said Komorov after checking her implant clock. “The Admiral has passed down our targeting information, at least what there is of it. I want both the divisions ready, so you guys can drill your people on the simulators on the way.”

  The lights on the hangar dimmed for a moment, and the slight nausea of jump sat in Komorov’s stomach. They were on the way. Next stop, Massadara.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head.

  Euripides

  SESTIUS SYSTEM, DECEMBER 28TH, 1001.

  “Grandfather,” yelled the young man, running into the hidden cavern that was the Freeh
older guerilla movement headquarters on Sestius. “The Hunter is back.” He ran further into the cavern, to one of the smaller side caverns that were used as personal quarters.

  Former Marine Sergeant Major Montano Montero, the Patriarch of his clan, and leader of the Sestius resistance, looked up from the his meal to see his favorite grandson standing in the door of the cavern. Hell, one of my few surviving grandsons, thought the man who at one time had counted them in the scores. He put down the unappetizing meal, which consisted of military rations, not too bad in and of themselves, until you had to eat them every day, and stood up.

  “You talking about Walborski?” asked the Patriarch, walking to the entrance of his quarters and out into the main cavern. Fifty meters further back into the cavern was the wormhole, used to bring supplies in to people who could no longer farm and ranch, since those activities attracted attention from orbit, which normally was a terminal error.

  “Hello, Mr. Montero,” said the young man in Ranger’s passive cammo, a heavy chemical propelled rifle over his shoulder. Another, older man stood beside him, and a line of similarly clad men filed past.

  “Walborski,” said the Patriarch, a smile on his face, which turned to a frown when he saw the tan bars on the collar of his camo suit. “And you had to go and let them make you an officer. What a waste of a fine soldier.”

  “Sergeant Major,” said Walborski, using the rank for emphasis. “This is Colonel Tomas Suarez, my regimental CO.”

  “Colonel,” said Montero, holding out his hand. “And it’s retired Sergeant Major. So don’t expect any bowing and scraping.”

  “The Lieutenant told me all about you, sir,” said the Colonel, taking the hand. “He neglected to tell me that you were a condescending son of a bitch.” Suarez laughed, and Montero joined in.

  “And what are you here for, Colonel?” asked Montero, not sure why so many men, and they were still coming out of the wormhole, would come to Sestius. Especially special ops infantry, who really couldn’t do much about the Cacas in orbit.

  “We’ve come to clean out your infestation of roaches,” said the Colonel.

  “We don’t have many on the planet. And the ones we do have are holed up in the mountains, in hardened facilities.”

  “Then that is the first place we take out,” said Cornelius, looking at the Colonel, who was nodding.

  “Right you are, Lieutenant. And I think Captain Freemont’s company would be perfect for the job, don’t you.”

  Walborski smiled, and Montero didn’t need to be a genius to realize that Walborski was probably part of that unit.

  “And then we wait for the rest of the roaches to come down, where we can get at them.”

  “And how are you going to do that, Colonel? Did you bring a bunch of surface to space missiles with you? Long range?”

  “Nope. I’m leaving that up to the Fleet. They ought to be here in about eight days or so. Then we’ll see how many of them bail out of their logistics ships and troop transports.”

  Montero thought about that for a moment with a growing smile. “Will you need guides? I have the best people around for showing you the sights.”

  “I would appreciate that, Mr. Montero. And, first of all, Captain Suarez could use someone to show him that hardened facility in the mountains. Do you have someone in mind.”

  “Why, yes, Colonel,” said the old man, who was still in top shape from living on a planet where survival required fitness. “I think I’m up to it. Don’t you, Lieutenant?”

  * * *

  REPUBLIC SPACE.

  “We did what we could, Madame President,” said the Crakistan Admiral, her unemotional face looking out of the holo. “We struck their force with as much might as possible, but still half of it made it through.”

  “And your losses, Admiral?” said Graham, not really wanting to hear the news.

  “We sustained one third losses, Madame President. That includes the ships that were totally destroyed, as well as the percentage damage to our surviving ships.”

  Julia nodded, at a loss for words. She had followed the battle on holo while it was occurring. The ambush had seemed to go off perfectly, with missiles jumping up to hyper VII and hitting the oncoming force. The only problem was the lack of missiles capable of getting to VII. They were still scarce in the Republic, with the Empire giving all they could spare, which was nowhere near enough.

  And then the enemy force, missing over a third of their number, did the unexpected. They decelerated, turned around, and came after the combined human/Crakista force. They had plenty of missiles they could launch in hyper VII. Dual purpose missiles were the only ones the aliens carried. And launch them they did, just before jumping down to normal space and closing with the Republic force.

  We were lucky to get any of our force away, thought the President, looking into the face of the Admiral, still expressionless. And you don’t feel anything because of it. No sorrow, no regret. She shook that thought away, knowing that it was unfair. The Crakista had lost just as high a percentage of the ships of her own people as she had the human vessels.

  “Orders, Madame President?”

  “Bring your force back into Republic Space. I want all the heavily damaged ships to head to the New Rome naval yards. That includes the ships of your people, Admiral. All other vessels are to report to the logistics train at Mesa’s Star.”

  “Very well, Madame President. And who should take over command of the combined fleet?”

  “You are to retain command, Admiral. You fought a force almost as massive as your own and inflicted heavy casualties on that force. I don’t see how any of my people could have done better.”

  “Thank you, Madame President,” said the Admiral, the words coming out of her mouth as if she was tasting them for the first time.

  She’s learning how to deal with us emotionally flawed creatures.

  “And what about the ships that got past us?”

  “They’re the Empire’s problem now. The Emperor knows they are coming. And the Cacas might be surprised when they move a little further into the Empire.” Like they might have problems dropping out of hyper VII, if what Sean told me is correct.

  “Meanwhile, I leave it up to you to reorganize your fleet and prepare to go on the defensive, for now. I’m sure the Cacas will be back, and I want us to be ready for them.” Because I’m tired of losing so many of my citizens to the genocidal maniacs.

  * * *

  SPACE TO COREWARD OF CA’CADASAN EMPIRE. DECEMBER 29TH, 1001.

  “They’re closing on us, Commodore,” said the Science Officer who was the acting Tactical Officer.

  We really didn’t think we would need someone to run a battle for us when they built and crewed these ships, thought Commodore Natasha Sung, looking at the tactical holo that showed two groups of ships coming after her squadron. They had not been able to get away from the Caca force that had been tailing them for the last couple of weeks. And now another, larger force was coming up behind that one. With similar resonances as the following force.

  I should have slowed, she thought, considering the actions she could have taken weeks back. If we had slowed enough to translate into VI, we could have released our scout ships. Those ships were of similar size and capabilities as destroyers. Lightly armed destroyers, true, since they had been designed and built to scout the environs of the Galactic core, or the Magellanic clouds. They were science vessels, not warships, but they were better than nothing. Of course, with the three large mother ships in VII, the hyper VI ships were less than nothing

  The other course of action would to have been to have decelerated back down into normal space and found some place to hide. The problem with that solution was she didn’t know how many Caca ships would eventually be vectored to their location. Enough, searching long enough, and they would be sure to find the big, twenty-seven million ton vessels. And, dammit, I’m not accomplishing my mission if I’m sitting hiding in some gas giant moon system or nebula. The longer I hide, the longe
r it takes to get in touch with the people I’m supposed to see.

  The other possibility would have been to slow to under point ten light, and bring more hyper VII missiles through the wormholes, configured as cargo gates. Enough missiles could take out any force, as long as it wasn’t a fleet. Instead, she had decided to keep to hyper VII and her top speed, and now she was about to pay the price.

  “Force Alpha is accelerating, Commodore,” said the Tactical Officer. “They are closing to missile range.”

  “And force Bravo?”

  “Still coming on.”

  And when they get within missile range, we’re totally screwed. They’ll swamp our defenses and blast us out of space.

  “We have missile launch,” yelled out the Tactical Officer. “Missiles in space and accelerating at ten thousand gravities.”

  “What about force Bravo?” asked the Commodore just before the vector arrows appeared on the plot. She felt her mouth fall open as she saw the vector arrows, and how they were not pointed at any of her ships.

  “Missiles were fired from force Bravo,” called out the Tactical Officer, a confused expression on his face. “They fired on Alpha.”

  The ships in Alpha launched everything they had, aimed at Bravo.

  “Are you sure Bravo is Caca?”

  “Their resonances are similar, ma’am. But I can’t tell you they are an exact match.”

  So, feuding Cacas? Or someone else? And if someone else, are they friendly? Or are we trading one threat for another?

  Whoever they were, they were at least as advanced as the Ca’cadasans. The exchange of missiles blew all the Caca ships out of hyper. And three of the strangers were taken out as well, leaving nine of their ships still closing on the Imperial exploration vessels.

  “We have a visual on the unknown vessels, ma’am,” said the Tactical Officer, putting the view of the approaching ships on the holo.