MissionSRX: Ephemeral Solace

by Matthew D. White

  “So what did we just see?” Sergeant O’Hare quietly asked Allen in the back of the group.

  “I’m not sure, but the commander must have a deeper rapport with General Raley than I thought. You ready to do this again?”

  “Ready as ever. I can’t believe we left them there. How do you make that kind of decision?”

  “Beats me,” Allen replied, “but if it weren’t for them I’d say let the aliens have the shithole. I’ve walked those halls enough; I don’t need to see them covered with bullet holes every day too.”

  “I hear ya.”

  Commander Fox swung the airlock door shut after the last soldier passed and closed the connection. “Bridge, commander on deck. Set immediate course for Mars. Prepare for engagement upon entering orbit.”

  Through the glass, the team watched as the Flagstaff pulled away from the Lexington and left it once again floating in a sea of black. Gordon turned to the rest and addressed them again. “Commander Grant, I’ll need your input for our plans once we get back to Mars. As for the rest of you, get some rest while you still can. I don’t know what we can expect on the other side.”

  ***

  Grant followed the ship’s commander through the door of the briefing room and took a seat facing him.

  “I hope you understand the position the general has placed me in,” Fox began.

  “Absolutely.”

  “If he trusts your judgment, that’ll have to be good enough for me.”

  “Thank you. I wish there was another way, but I don’t think there will be.”

  Fox looked back over crossed arms. “Let me say this once: if I think you are placing my ship and my crew in undue danger, I will override you, and I will see you thrown back to the wolves. That said, I will also not harbor some personal vendetta against you, even though I may so far disagree with this entire cluster of an escapade you’ve drawn us into.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “This, of course, hinges on us finding more than a smoking crater on Mars when we arrive. If you’ve cost me half of my force at the hands of bottom-of-the-barrel Aquillians, I will finish this much sooner.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. I’m not done with them yet.”

  “Speaking of which,” the commander leaned back, “how do you propose we reengage?”

  “We’ll only know for sure once we drop into space. Zero intel has made it back to Earth, so I can’t give you a plan. We’re going to need every available ship, pilot, and soldier ready to move the second we get a vector.”

  “On the ground or in the air?”

  “That’ll be the big trick. If they’re still in the outpost, we’ll clean the air and stage another infiltration. If they’re in orbit, we give them cover to dock and be on our way, but we shouldn’t assume that the Aquillians haven’t brought reinforcements nor have more troops hidden in the base.”

  “Agreed. I’ll have all forces on alert, and you’ll need to be on the bridge to make the final call.”

  Grant turned his head slightly. “You’d let me do that?”

  “Of course, it’s your ass on the line for this one. It wouldn’t hurt to roll Sergeant Mason in on this too. He’d probably be a better choice to assess what Kael needs from us.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s there.”

  “Good. That’s all I’ve got for now.” Fox returned to his feet. “I’ll see you up here in eight hours.”

  41

  A short time later, Grant had cleaned the majority of the dirt and debris from his armor—as well as the blood and cuts underneath—and taken his two main weapons to the armory wearing the standard service coveralls. Both the customized ZiG and M14 were functional, but he didn’t want to give them the chance to develop problems. He passed through the first set of doors, then around the corner to a long wooden table adorned with pressure vices, mats, and bins of cleaning gear and took a seat at one of the stations.

  He looked up as Allen, O’Hare, and Scott followed him in and set their weapons up on the facing stations. Grant gave the group a quick nod before continuing with his work, unloading the multiple magazines from the ZiG and attaching it to the central post on the bench. Even though he had carried it through the entire engagement, most of the firing had been done with the M14.

  With the ease of a seasoned professional, he pulled the four captive pins across the top of the receiver and slid the firing block out of the way before scrubbing the chamber with a wire brush. From the corner of his eye, he watched the others follow suit and help the engineer along the way. When the instrument came out clean, he replaced the cover, magazines, and pins and switched to the larger battle rifle.

  “If I can ask, sir,” Allen began, “why do you carry that old thing?”

  “That’s reasonable,” Grant replied, releasing and pulling the trigger group free from the weapon’s wooden stock. “During the First War, I was part of the first battalion flying into Sol Charlie. They had an isolated planet that was thought to only be moderately defended and we were going to take their spaceport,” he continued while removing the receiver. “The thought at the time was that we could disable ports and cut entire planets off from the war. Not a bad idea, but far from foolproof.”

  “We all carried first-gen ZiGs, but the Aquillians found a way to remotely disable them. If I hadn’t insisted we take alien weapons along the way, it would have been a total loss.” Grant tapped the hatchet on his waist before continuing, “I had a ship captain later on tell me that every ship in the fleet keeps a few cases of these on hand just in case they come up with more countermeasures.”

  “That’s gotta be why the flash report came out six months back to have us retrofit all of them,” Allen remarked to himself.

  Grant nodded in response. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe our designers missed that.”

  “Well the aliens are pretty crafty. We should keep that in mind when we go out to annihilate them,” the soldier clarified as he pulled a rag through the weapon’s breech. “I brought it as a fail-safe, but I’ve been using it right along.”

  “It’s better than the ZiG?” Allen asked.

  “Altogether, probably not. It can’t sustain such a high rate of fire and it kicks a whole lot worse. It does have an edge on range and stopping power, plus the sound will knock one of those pieces of shit right off their feet,” Grant smirked, replacing the stock. “I still like the peace of mind that it’ll fire no matter what as long as there’s a bullet in the chamber. Even if you can only find a sidearm, I’d definitely tell you to carry something mechanical as a backup.”

  The commander prime stood his rifle up on the table and cycled the action, the clean and dry-oiled rod slipping in place effortlessly. “Anyway, it’s all personal preference. If we ever get some breathing room, we can all go out shooting and you can make your own determination. I wouldn’t suggest changing things up now.”

  Scott dropped the magazines from the rifle Grant had lent him back on Mars. He followed Grant’s lead and removed the top panel to reveal the firing chamber within the receiver. “You don’t think it’s over yet?”

  Grant shook his head. “No. Not by a long shot.” He looked over at the engineer then back at the muzzle of his weapon. “I think we can still save Major Kael and the battalion, but it’s going to be rough. Just keep your head down and your eyes open. You all did well today and have got what it takes to survive.”

  The words gave Scott a shred of belief, but he kept the rest of his comments to himself. He was too tired to keep it up anyway. Commander Grant picked up his weapons and left the room without another word. The soldier and security officer continued the discussion a few minutes longer.

  “I wonder what he’s expecting,” Allen asked the others.

  “I can’t say for sure, but it’s not looking good.” The armorer had appeared the doorway. “He just checked out two thousand rounds of rifle ammo and another three hundred for his forty-five caliber ha
nd cannon.”

  Silence fell on the room and the lieutenant waited, but broke the awkwardness. “Good luck out there.”

  ***

  After a few less-than-restful hours, the forces of the Flagstaff stood ready for their orders with only minutes to go. Commander Fox had taken the gamble of a drop just beyond the planet’s thin atmosphere to give the element of surprise, but it also left mere minutes for planning and zero room for error. Throughout the ship, the soldiers prepared for execution.

  Each fire team remaining from Sergeant Mason’s battalion stood ten meters off the loading ramps of their personal shuttles. The sparse population would reduce the attrition probable with each individual ship, as well as provide room to load the remaining soldiers from the ground. The transports were parked only a meter back from the edge of the deck, ready to blast into the dark on a second’s notice.

  Every fighter was similarly fueled, loaded and a moment from ignition should the need arise. Only Grant’s SR-X sat apart from the rest, parked at the end of the row of shuttles. Unlike the others, its pilot was not with the ship. On the bridge, Commander Prime Grant and Sergeant First Class Mason waited alongside Fox and the rest of the staff to get the first look at the mess they had left behind. Their pilot, a captain occupying the same seat as the battleship commander only a few years earlier, counted down the last ten seconds before reentry.

  “. . . Three, two, one. Disengaging sub-light engines,” he reported, and dropped a series of switches on his workstation’s panel. The Flagstaff’s engines shuddered, changed in frequency, and gently rocked the ship as it fell back into real space. The haze outside the envelope cleared to reveal a massive portrait of their target planet.

  One second after the drop, the first wave of scans was already emanating through the surrounding vacuum. Four seconds after that, the ship had cataloged and identified fifty targets on the ground. The bridge’s main screen filled the map surrounding the outpost with alien signatures. The audio processors adjusted as well, sending the static-filled shouts, screams, curses, and gunshots of the ground team echoing through the room before the operator cut it back.

  As the screen populated, Grant compared the layout to the dozens of scenarios cataloged in the Aquillians’ battle plans and pulled a strategy together. Four ships, each about two-thirds the size of the Flagstaff, encircled the outpost. From their fifty degree angle from the target, the nearest was directly in line. Multiple other crafts and smaller ships filled the space closer to the base.

  “Major Kael! Are you there?!” Mason shouted back through the channel.

  “Mason! Gaddamnit it’s about time you got back,” the response came immediately. “We’re at fifty percent capacity, rest are wounded or K.I.A! Flagstaff support lost all shuttles and fighters! We’ve got most of their survivors . . .” static built and subsided, “. . . barricaded in landing bay! Trucks are positioned outside but haven’t been supportable!”

  “Just hang on, we’re on our way!” the sergeant yelled back at his commanding officer. Looking over, Grant was halfway to the door.

  “Listen up!” Grant ordered forcefully through his radio, replacing the black and blood-red fighter’s helmet on his head. “Fighter squadron launch in plus-sixty-seconds! Primary target is the nearest destroyer! Shuttle crews one through six, load and launch at plus-one-twenty! Follow fighters through corridor! Land at west platform, and prepare to lay cover and take on all survivors! Once loaded, Flagstaff crew prepare for danger-close pickup! Ready, Mark!”

  Fox looked between Mason and the superintendent. “Well, that was easy. You’d better get moving,” he added while Mason turned to follow Grant to the bay.

  “Commander! Is that all you’re going to say?” Mason caught up to Grant as they hit the stairs. “That’s no plan!”

  “It’s as good as we’ll get. All we’ve got is surprise and we need to use it,” he explained. “Major Kael did us all the service he could by describing his situation. I’ll take care of that ship and cover your approach. You get the shuttles to the ground and get them mobile.”

  Mason brought his heart rate back in check and saw the logic. “Copy that, sir. We’ll get them out of there.”

  “I know you will,” Grant said simply, and approached his fighter with Robins standing at the ladder. As was their custom, the pair exchanged salutes.

  “Give ‘em hell, sir!” the chief offered, fully loaded with a heavy flak vest and ZiG of his own. “Nukes are on the rails!” he added, and stepped back from the active flight line.

  Looking up at the carriers below the nearest wing, Grant saw they had indeed added a half dozen silver missile tubes, marked on all sides with the telltale black and yellow radioactive labels. There’s no way he’d be dying alone this time. He dropped into the cockpit and ignited the engines with ten seconds to spare as the canopy sealed itself shut.

  Every light on the console glowed green as the SR-X floated lightly into the air. Grant pulled his training from the dusty corners of his mind, slid the twin controls forward, and the bay around him became nothing but a memory.

  Two hundred meters above, the rest of the fighter squadron rocketed from its perch and locked onto Grant’s ship. The commander watched as the nearest alien destroyer, still out of visual range, continued its orbit unabated. “I don’t think they’re tracking us yet,” he relayed to the rest of the flight. “Put the heaviest shots you have in it. I want it down before they can react!”

  Scrolling through the SR-X’s armaments, the commander found the six tactical nuclear warheads: four were rated at five kilotons, while the others pushed the envelope at one-half megaton each. At the current range, the larger nukes would kill every man and alien in the valley; they’d only be useful on isolated targets in space. Conversely, the five-kilo would be plenty to get the enemy’s attention, Grant surmised, and armed it on his left control.

  “Loading five kilo shot for first strike,” he reported. “Will launch eighty klicks off target.”

  ***

  “Launching in thirty seconds!” the pilot for shuttle one forcefully reminded through his cabin’s address system. Scott got the last point of his harness attached and cinched down both sides to keep himself from sliding on the narrow ledge of a seat. The rest of his fire team consisted of three security officers who previously fought with Othello on Bravo, plus Sergeant Allen who was to be their leader. Since they had lost so many, their remaining members were reassigned to fill out the remaining teams on Alpha.

  “Here we go!” Allen reported as the ramp lifted and sealed shut, giving Scott a thumbs-up from his seat on the right side. The engineer returned the sign and held his weapon tighter. The scenario was similar to their last drop onto Extortion, but Scott still felt as scared as he’d ever been. Evidently, it’d take more self-control to keep the rush in check.

  The ramp closed, the engines fired, gravity adjusted, and the shuttle was on its way. Scott’s only visual indicator was the small window above Allen’s head that was awash in white light while docked on the Flagstaff flicker instantly to black as they left the bay. He felt the ship accelerate up to speed and rock sharply to reach their position in the formation.

  As red light from the Martian surface began to reflect through the window, Allen was the first to break radio silence. “Listen up, we’ve got our orders! Kael’s forces are pinned in the west bay. They’ve got the entrance to the base blockaded and defended, as well as a couple trucks for cover outside. The destroyers aren’t attacking, but they keep sending ground patrols over land or through the base to try to dislodge our guys.

  “They’ve got five trucks parked outside to act as fighting positions. As soon as we land, we’re taking the southernmost one and shoring up the defense. It should only take minutes for them to move the rest of the battalion onto the shuttles, and after that, we just have to get an opening to meet the Flagstaff for pickup.”

  He stopped as a flash outside the tiny windows blasted the interior of the ship with brilliant white light
. No audible explosion accompanied the nuclear detonation, but a roar similar to a wave crashing upon a ship’s hull made the room shake. “First one is taking a dive. We’re going in!” Allen continued as their shuttle rocked side-to-side over the last few kilometers—a standard combat approach—before spinning 180 degrees and slamming hard onto the dusty tarmac.

  The ramp dropped like a free-falling ton of steel, and the fire team unhooked and bounded out. The wall of the service bay was only a few meters away.

  “Cut right! Cut right! Allen gestured, and sprinted straight at the assault vehicle parked at the perimeter. On their way to the truck, they passed two dead aliens and a Space Corps soldier killed by gunshot before they dove for cover behind the machine’s massive tires.

  Allen looked beyond and saw only bodies and blowing dust. “Eyes up! Human!” he called, and climbed up the forged steel service ladder to the roof of the vehicle. One of Kael’s soldiers remained in position on top, laying prone and checking the horizon for the next wave of attacks. Allen looked out and saw the landscape before them was littered with at least a hundred more alien corpses. He dropped and took a position mirroring the soldier.

  “Evac’s here!”

  “It’s about effing time you got back,” the soldier growled, “these gaddamn things don’t stop.”

  Allen glanced sideways and immediately noticed the man held a thick hunting knife between his palm and his weapon’s stock, with his hand soaked in blood past his wrist. “They only need minutes to move the wounded out.”

  “You’d better hope we make it that long,” the soldier said as he scanned the horizon again, “no one’s alive out there. Shoot everything that moves.”

  42

  Grant pulled back from the pursuit as his target, a moderately-sized alien destroyer, nose-dived into the plain in a ball of fire and thick black smoke. The nuclear shot had disrupted their engines enough to make the ship lose control. “We’re not going to get a chance to do that again,” he advised as he looked at his display. Their other three targets had already pulled back their orbits and switched to defensive posturing: maximum shields, countermeasures, and deployed fighters.