Stark’s Crusade

by John G. Hemry

  “I was hoping you’d know.”

  “Not me. I’ve never seen anything like those, and my onboard combat systems can’t provide an ID, either.”

  Stark glowered at the symbology that represented the new spacecraft, watching them slide into rigid formations as they boosted away from their cruiser mother ships. I’ve seen something like that before. What? Something about how they’re moving… damn. “Vic. Were you in Operation Ice Storm?”

  “No. Fortunately. I heard it was pure hell. Why?”

  “The way those new ships are moving reminds of something.” Stark swung his arm across the symbology as the small craft homed in on the blockade runners. “The Air Force tried some new uncrewed aircraft in that op. Latest and greatest thing. Robotic with a special tight, scrambled link. Some of ‘em crashed, some got suicided when they started shooting at friendly forces, and the rest were nailed by enemy defenses. But they moved like that.”

  Vic stared at the display. “Like that. You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Real precise. No hesitation or bobbles when they moved in formation. Just like that.”

  “Navy metal-heads. Autonomous robotic combatants designed for space combat. I guess your friend didn’t hear about them.”

  “Can’t fault him or her for that.” Stark keyed Wiseman’s circuit again. “Wiseman. Those new shuttles or whatever that the cruisers launched. They’re metal-heads.”

  “What? You sure?”

  “Sure as I can be without cracking one open.”

  “Oh, man. Things just got bad, mud crawler. Things just got real bad.” Stark frowned as he watched the course/speed vectors for Wiseman’s shuttles on the main display suddenly lengthen and shift. “Heading for intercept,” she reported.

  “Intercept? Negative, Chief. Pull back. You can’t engage all those things with four shuttles.”

  “Yeah. I know. But those things are headin’ for the shuttles full of kids, ain’t they? I gotta stop ‘em.”

  “We’re trying to straighten this mess out, Chief. The Navy’s not gonna push an attack once it realizes those shuttles have kids on board. There’s no reason—”

  “Wrong,” Wiseman interrupted. “With all due respect. Sir. I’m guessing these Navy metal-heads are like the ground ones we got word on. No control link. So we got metal-heads on the loose and ordered to attack those shuttles. You sure they’re gonna understand surrender? Sir?”

  “Oh, God.”

  Stark looked over at Reynolds, who shook her head in anger. “She’s right, Ethan. Those civs are being targeted by things smart enough to kill them, but possibly too stupid not to kill them if they don’t have to. Maybe that’s why the shuttles are running, now. Maybe they’ve heard rumors about those things. Maybe more than rumors.”

  “Campbell said the pilots were scared. Now we know why. Tran!” Stark spun and shouted in one motion. “We can’t wait any longer for word to get to those warships through official channels. Get on a direct circuit to those cruisers. Tell ‘em the shuttles are full of civs. Including kids. Tell ‘em the shuttles were officially scheduled but we’re ordering ‘em to surrender anyway. They gotta call off those metal-heads.”

  “Yessir. Immediately. We’ll use the universal distress frequency.” That frequency was reserved for life-threatening emergencies, but this case arguably fell into that category.

  Stark took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly adrenaline-charged system. Nothing I can do from here. Just try to get the word to the right people and hope they do the right things. “Vic, call Campbell and tell him what’s going down. If he’s got anyone who can make sure those shuttles stop running, he better get them talking fast.” Intercept vectors were shifting only subtly, now, the Navy metal-heads arcing in on intercepts guaranteed to nail the fleeing shuttles outside the range of the Colony’s defenses.

  “Is that the best advice?” Vic wondered. “Given what they’re up against, how do we know that wouldn’t just make those shuttles sitting ducks?”

  “I don’t know! But at least if they surrender those cruisers should help protect them from the metal-heads.”

  “Commander,” Sergeant Tran reported, “the civilian spaceport reports the shuttles have acknowledged orders to stop fleeing from the Navy, but refuse to alter their courses. The Navy ships have definitely received our messages, but have not responded to them.”

  “This could be incredibly ugly,” Vic murmured. “Are the shuttle pilots being stupid or scared, now?”

  “Maybe all of the above. Hell, if I had those things coming after me… Tran, what’d Campbell say?”

  “He’s threatening the shuttle pilots that he’ll arrest them and confiscate their ships if they don’t surrender to the Navy. But Campbell thinks they’re going to try to outrun the metal-heads. He says the pilots sound scared to death and are screaming for us to protect them from the metal-heads.”

  “So why’d they run in the first place with cargoes of kids? If they hadn’t, maybe the Navy wouldn’t have launched the things. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If I get my hands on those guys… and on those sorry bastards who were supposed to notify everyone about those shuttles coming in…”

  “For what it’s worth, Campbell looks like he feels personally responsible.”

  “A fat lot of good that’ll do anybody.”

  “The cruisers are transmitting something,” Tran reported. “Can’t pick it up. The beam’s too tight. Looks like they’re trying to call off their metal-heads.”

  Stark exhaled in relief, then waited with growing anxiety as the robotic combatants continued on course. “So why ain’t the metal-heads breaking off?”

  “Autonomous means autonomous,” Vic noted. “Like we feared. Somebody did a story about this a long time ago. Fail-Safe I think it was called. Some weapons got launched by accident and no one could figure out how to recall them.”

  “What happened?” Stark wondered, his eyes fixed on the display.

  “Some cities got blown away.”

  New symbology blossomed to life, radiating out from one of the Navy cruisers. “Now what’s happening?”

  “One of the cruisers is firing,” the orbital systems watch-stander reported.

  “Those bastards are shooting at the shuttles?”

  “No, sir. She’s firing on her own metal-heads. See the weapon trajectories? They’re trying to stop those things the hard way.”

  “Good for them.” It couldn’t have been an easy decision for whoever was in charge of that big ship to make. A commander interested primarily in protecting him or herself would have waited until the metal-heads actually committed an atrocity before firing, thereby ensuring any board of enquiry would exonerate them. But that wouldn’t do the civ kids any good. “They getting any hits?”

  “Uh, no sir. Odds are very low. Their weapons are in a tail chase. Low relative velocity so the metal-head point defenses are taking them out.” On the display, weapons symbology blinked out time and again as it neared the metal-heads.

  The civilian shuttles accelerated once more, pushing their lunar approaches into danger readings. If they didn’t slack off their speed soon, they’d be unable to brake in time for a safe landing.

  “Going in,” Chief Wiseman announced, startling Stark.

  “What the hell do you mean?” He searched for the four symbols representing her armed shuttles, catching them with vectors arcing up from the Moon to a point somewhere between the fleeing civilians and the metal-heads. “Those metal-heads have got to be too heavily armed for you to slug it out with. There’s too many of them. Break off. Get back here.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t copy your last.”

  “I said get back here!”

  “Say again?”

  “Wiseman—!”

  “Engaging enemy.” Weapon symbology separated from the armed shuttles, shooting past the fleeing civilian shuttles and adding to the confusing mass of vectors filling the display. As Stark watched, all the weapons converged on the two nearest metal-heads, overwhelming
their defenses. The two metal-heads were momentarily blocked from view by the detonation detections, then blossomed into expanding spheres of metal fragments and gas.

  “That’s two,” Tran stated. “But she fired every weapon on her shuttles to get them.”

  The remaining metal-heads came on, still focused on the civilian shuttles. “They’re not going to let go,” Vic stated. “Those damned things are going to keep after those civ shuttles until they blow them to hell.”

  Stark saw the acceleration vectors on three of Wiseman’s shuttles change as they altered course, angling back toward the Moon, but the armed shuttle carrying Chief Wiseman kept heading for intercept with the metal-heads. “Wiseman! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Gotta get those things’ attention,” Wiseman noted, her voice strained by the acceleration of her shuttle. “Draw them off the civ shuttles before they reach engagement range. And that’s any second now.” A moment later, the symbology of her shuttle seemed to glow twice as bright.

  The orbital systems watchstander stared at the display with a slack jaw. “She’s… she’s turned off all her countermeasures and is transmitting on every frequency.”

  Stark didn’t need that information interpreted. “That’s making her shuttle stand out like a target on a firing range.” Survival in battle often came down to not being noticed. Countermeasures were designed to hide things that might make weapons notice you, and systems were kept passive to avoid sending out signals that weapons could lock onto. Chief Wiseman was deliberately drawing the maximum possible amount of attention to her shuttle.

  Vic’s hand was on his shoulder, her eyes sick. “That’s the idea, Ethan. She’s turning her shuttle into a decoy, to draw off the Navy metal-heads. They’re bound to start shooting at her now, instead of those helpless civilian shuttles.”

  “A decoy.” Stark clenched his fists in frustration. “A weapons magnet. Wiseman!”

  “Here.”

  “Break off! That’s an order! Reactivate your countermeasures and get out of there!”

  “Got a job to do, ground ape.” The Chief sounded oddly calm, though Stark could detect the tension underlying her tone. “Gotta shield those civ shuttles. Damn the torpedoes. It’s a Navy thing.”

  “We’ve told the cruisers to break off! They know the civ shuttles’ cargo includes kids. They’re trying to stop their metal-heads.”

  “Stark, those metal-heads aren’t breaking off action, and those cruisers can’t stop ‘em. Not in time. I’m gonna hold these space bugs as long as I can.”

  It all sounded so familiar. Stark gazed helplessly at the display, where the metal-heads had altered trajectories and spat out a swarm of threat markers that were converging on Wiseman’s shuttle. He remembered his own stand to hold off pursuit of his platoon. Ages ago, and yesterday, it seemed. A miracle had saved Stark that day. A miracle in the form of reinforcements arriving at the last moment. And I ain’t got nothing else to send up there to save those squids. Please, God, if there’s anything you can do for that crazy sailor, please do it.

  Alerts sounded, pinpointing Wiseman’s shuttle. “They’re taking hits, Commander,” a watchstander sang out. “Incoming weapons are getting past their point defenses.”

  “Chief Wiseman, that’s enough! You’ve delayed the metal-heads! Break off!”

  “Receiving reports of cascading damage,” the watchstander continued. “Critical system hits.”

  “Wiseman! Get the hell out of there! Wiseman!” A hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the command center, back to Reynolds mutely pointing to the marker on the main display. A blossoming cloud of debris dominated scan for a few moments, its heat and fragments showing up brightly against the dead space all around. Then the scan system corrected for the noise, screening out the debris to concentrate on threats, and the remains of an armed shuttle and her crew vanished from the display except for a bright marker warning of hazardous wreckage radiating out from the center of the explosion.

  “Hell,” Stark breathed. “Good-bye, Chief. Now, there’s only one Wiseman left.” He slammed one fist onto the console before him. “Get the rest of those armed shuttles back down here now!” On the display, the fleeing civilian shuttles were closing rapidly on the boundary of the Colony’s antiorbital defenses. The metal-heads were still in pursuit, but their initial volleys of weapons had gone after Chief Wiseman’s shuttle, and the brief battle had delayed them just enough to shift intercept points inside the Colony’s defenses. “Those stupid bastards are gonna make it now, aren’t they?”

  Vic measured the vectors for the civilian shuttles with her eye, then nodded. “Looks like it. If the metal-heads keep coming, we can take them and anything they fire at the civ shuttles with the Colony’s defenses. Chief Wiseman bought them the time they needed.”

  “She paid too much. Tell Campbell I want those pilots the instant those shuttles touch down. They’re gonna pay for costing us a damn good ship and a damn good crew. And I’m gonna want to talk to Campbell about this. About losing good people and risking kids’ lives just because some idiots couldn’t send the right notifications to the right places. I’m gonna want to talk.” He paused, gritting his teeth. “And tell Chief Gunner’s Mate Melendez he’s not second in command of our naval forces anymore. He’s in charge, now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tran responded. “Anything else, sir?”

  The Navy robotic combatants were still coming, seemingly oblivious to the Colony defenses in their pursuit of the civilian shuttles. “Yeah. Tell the antiorbital defense guys I want those metal-heads blown into so many pieces that God Himself couldn’t put ‘em back together again.”

  He sat in his darkened room, a cup of coffee forgotten by his side, staring at nothing. “Ethan?” Vic stood in the door, waiting for his permission to enter.

  “Yeah. Come on in.”

  “Thanks.” She sat heavily, something weariness and sorrow could achieve even in lunar gravity. “I’ve confirmed that every metal-head followed those shuttles down and every one was blasted by our defenses. They won’t be going after any more kids.”

  “Great. Maybe the damn Pentagon will rethink how smart it is to use the flipping things.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.” Vic bowed her head. “Wiseman and I never got along that well, but she was a real professional. I’m going to miss that squid.”

  “Me, too. But maybe I needed this. Maybe I needed to fall off a mountain.”

  “Fall off a mountain? What does that mean?”

  “It means maybe I needed to be reminded how much it costs to win or to lose. And maybe to be reminded I can’t make anything I want to happen come true just because lots of people take orders from me.”

  “If you say so. Ethan, you’ve always cared about the people who work for you, and you’ve kept your head on pretty straight despite being in charge.”

  He shook his head, looking away from her. “Yeah, but. There’s so many of ‘em now, Vic. So many people. It’s not easy. You lead a squad, it’s easy. By comparison. You know every guy in it. You know their names, their faces, the names of their wives and husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends, the names of their kids. Every one of them is an individual. We’ve got a bunker to take down. Who do I send? There’s a sniper out front. Who’s the steadiest shot? Everything you do is based on who they are.”

  Stark took a long, deep breath, staring into a darkened corner. “But up here, at headquarters, they’re all symbols. And you don’t know them. Not really. Maybe a face here, a name there, but otherwise it’s just so many hundred or thousand privates, so many corporals, so many sergeants. They ain’t people anymore, not in your head. They’re units you shove around on a big map to do things for you. Vic, if you’re a squad leader and you lose five soldiers it rips you up. Almost half your squad is dead, and you’ll be writing to their families to say ‘damn, I’m sorry.’ But from here? You can lose five hundred and not really feel it, ‘cause you don’t know them, don’t see them die, and they’re
just a few. Just a few compared to all the other people you’re moving around.”

  Vic sat silent, as if sensing Stark had more to say.

  “And that’s just combat! Vic, at headquarters you got people falling over themselves to do stuff for you. You’re the boss. Get him some coffee, get him a beer, make sure he’s got a comfy chair, make sure he never has to wait for anybody else and everybody’s waiting for him. And if he gives some order that screws over the people under him, well, hell, you do it anyway because he’s the boss. After a while, if you’re not real careful, you can start thinking that’s the way it ought to be, that you’re somethin’ special and the treatment you’re getting ain’t special, just what you deserve.”

  Stark finally looked at her, his mouth a thin line. “It’s a helluva corrupter, Vic. Your soul disappears in little pieces, and you don’t even know it’s gone or even realize what you sold it for.”

  “I see. That’s why Wiseman’s death isn’t affecting you at all.” He glared back at her, but Vic continued, her voice scathing. “Ethan, if you’d let all this get to you like you’re saying, then you wouldn’t be so torn up by losing Wiseman and her crew. You’d cry some crocodile tears in public, then set up some grand ceremony to say great things about her sacrifice at the same time as you maneuvered to take credit for what Wiseman did. And if anybody raised any questions about screwups, you’d appoint an investigation with a wink-and-nod mandate to cover up what went wrong and blame any problems that couldn’t be covered up on somebody else.”

  Stark sat silent for a long time, looking down at his hands where they lay clenched in his lap. “That’s not the way I work, Vic. You know that.”

  “Duh. So do the troops. Why do you think the troops like you, Ethan? Excuse me, they respect you, which is a helluva lot more important. They think a lot of you because they know you care more about them than you do about yourself. Or your precious career.”

  “They’re just grateful I haven’t killed ‘em. How’s that for a great job? As long as you don’t kill too many of your own people, you’re a goddamn genius and your soldiers love you. Am I wrong to think maybe I oughta be judged by a different standard than that?”