Goddess of War (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

  Dieter glanced over. If that sound was the leading wave of the attack, they were also ahead of schedule, and deeper into the base than they should have gotten.

  They might also all be dead now. That was the sound of an ambush springing, like a loop trap catching a rabbit and flipping it into the air.

  Those men were forlorn. Hopefully they had extracted a good price for their death. Shortly, Phase Three would come into play, as the attackers finally met a solid resistance and immediately began to withdraw to the back of the base, where the second wave would be lightly dug in to bloody the nose of counter–attacking troops. He would need to get back to the radio in another five to seven minutes to coordinate the many teams in motion.

  Dieter smiled coldly at the night.

  Sacrifice a pawn to draw out a bishop. Weaken the entire defensive line.

  Strategy.

  The ground began to give way at his feet as Dieter rushed up on the ditch. He fired a short burst at the darkness, just in case, but his foe had already fled.

  Movement on the left drew his eye. Assholes and elbows racing away in the drainage ditch, and then only a head as the man rounded a curve before disappearing completely.

  Dieter considered the map of the base he had constructed by daylight.

  Yes. He will come out over there, but not directly. First, a long loop around, staying out of sight and effectively blind.

  I can cross directly and cut you off.

  Dieter’s smile turned to a cold snarl.

  You will not survive this night. I promise you that.

  He set himself a hard pace across the uneven ground, a man–killing stride that lesser men would fail at.

  They did that.

  Fail.

  Dieter Haussmann did not. He would prove himself the master of all men.

  Chapter LV

  Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Robisson Waypoint

  Varga’s Flag Bridge was not one Kozlov had commanded from before, but he had no doubts that it would work out. His own Flag Crew had spent better than a week integrating with Varga’s staff and working out various idiosyncrasies on the flight here.

  And if Varga wasn’t quite the equal of the battleship Amsel, Wachturm’s legendary Blackbird, she was still a close enough second. He would be able to improve on the master and do something the Red Admiral had not.

  Beat Jessica Keller.

  Admiral Saveliy Kozlov took the seat at the head of the big conference table and looked at each of his captains individually. He knew some commanders would hold an electronic conference before an attack such as this, but he believed in maintaining the personal relationships. That required these men getting off of their comfortable bridges and taking a shuttle here.

  That would be doubly important at Thuringwell. Every day that woman held the system, she grew more powerful, more dangerous. There was not time for a long, leisurely cruise, mixed with combat simulations and training missions.

  Already, she had been running rampant for three months. Creator only knew what kind of damage she had done to the planet. At least she had not bombed it into oblivion. Intelligence reports indicated she was leaving the planet itself largely alone, so obviously she was lying in wait for him.

  She would not be prepared for this onslaught.

  Saveliy rapped his knuckles on the table top to draw all eyes.

  “You have read the mission, gentlemen,” he said in a smooth, baritone voice. “Instead of organizing at the edge of the system, where she might spot us before we are ready to attack, the entire Task Force is assembling here, tuning everything, and then we will jump right to the edge of Thuringwell’s gravity well and initiate our attack.”

  Saveliy looked around at his commanders.

  Jessica Keller was the stuff of nightmares to men like this. Everyone had read about her exploits, her luck. Her legend.

  Frankly, the woman was insane.

  And her vessel, the Aquitaine Star Controller Auberon, was Varga’s equal in pure firepower. But she was limited to a single flight wing on her ship, and probably a reinforced squadron of fighters. At most, forty fighter craft.

  This Task Force would field forty–eight melee fighters alone, plus twelve medium and six heavy bombers.

  In addition, he had Varga’s wolfpack, a Light Cruiser and then three battle frigates that were each at least the match of one of Aquitaine’s Destroyers. He could charge down the gravity well at her with Varga and the cruisers, with all seven frigates out front, and leave the smaller D–hull escorts behind to protect the Fleet Carriers.

  It would truly be a battle fit for the legends, like an avalanche of fury racing down the mountain, looping once around the planet, and hitting them again while climbing out. He would have enough momentum on his side, after a gravity slingshot, to catch any vessel that thought to escape by running for the edge of the gravity well.

  The only thing that would save them would be to scatter to the winds and hope a few survived. Certainly, the lesser vessels could be largely ignored at that point, in favor of destroying her.

  And then Admiral Saveliy Kozlov would be a name all the Empire would know.

  “Questions?” he continued.

  “Are we ceding tactical initiative by coming in at this speed, Admiral?” Captain van Aakken inquired politely.

  That sort of thinking was normal from a Flag Cruiser. Their job was usually more diplomatic in nature, rather than the pure combat of Varga and her wolfpack, or the two Fleet Carriers and their escorts. Novo Daysahn was a lone vessel much of the time, pursuing missions along the Fribourg Empire’s frontiers and borders.

  Trade, diplomacy, exploration. Not combat.

  “On the contrary, Novo Daysahn,” Saveliy replied. “We will be seizing the initiative. They must respond to us.”

  “I appreciate that, Admiral Kozlov,” the man continued. “We will charge at them, make a fencing pass, and then circle and catch them as they try to flee. But we cannot slow down enough to respond to surprises.”

  The man was at pains not to sound like he was challenging his Admiral’s expertise. Kozlov would grant him that. But he obviously did not understand fleet tactics.

  Saveliy leaned forward and smiled to soften the blow of his words. An admiral who did not listen to his captains would eventually lose them.

  “They cannot stand the amount of firepower we will bring to bear,” Kozlov reiterated. “Their formation will be shattered on our first pass. The only thing that will save them will be to try to run. At that point, we will have a stern chase, our speed against their head start. It will probably be close, but the siege will have been broken and Keller’s fleet in disarray.”

  “As you say, Admiral,” van Aakken replied, ceding the point.

  The man was the stranger here, anyway. Varga’s five ships, and the carrier Task Force, had each operated together for a long stretch. Fleet High Command had determined that adding a full cruiser to the mix would be enough to push them over the top, being the equal of at least any one of Auberon’s cruiser escorts and able to fight either of them to a standstill while the fighters swarmed and stung them to death.

  Saveliy looked around to the other captains at his table. Their faces were marked by hunger, rather than doubt. And he would only need to deal with van Aakken for today. Perhaps he would put the man on point, just to give him a taste of the true glory of battle.

  Jessica Keller was doomed.

  Chapter LVI

  Date of the Republic July 18, 396 Ramsey Starport, Thuringwell

  Okay, adrenaline wearing off. Times t’breathe.

  Moirrey stopped as she crossed a small side cut where a concrete drain pipe appeared. It were cover, of a sort. Good enough, anyway.

  She squeezed her tiny frame into the barely–larger pipe and let her lungs catch up. In her mind, she had crossed almost one hundred meters of ditch from her tower. If goofball was still chasin’, he might run right by without realizing she was there.

  If she could breathe
quieter–like. Not an easy task, right now. At least her pistol didn’t wobble as she pointed it. But nothing jumped out.

  After a bit, her breath started to come back t’normal, as wells.

  He’d’a been here by nows, if’n he were comin’ this way. Must not.

  Slowly, Moirrey crept out of her tunnel and peaked around the edge of the ditch.

  Nothing coming.

  She turned and gargoyled her head up and over the top of th’pipe molasses–like.

  There.

  Damn it, he’s good.

  I’d’a run smack dab inta him if’n I’d kept goin’.

  Moirrey watched the man stop and creep up to the edge of the ditch, down ’rounds the farther corner.

  Yup. Deaded but good.

  He were too far ’way to shoot from here. An’ he knows I dinna make it that fer, so he’s like to come back this way.

  She watched the man vanish from sight suddenly, like hell had opened up and took him.

  An’ none too soon, neithers.

  Crap, he’s in the ditch wit’ me. Ain’t gots nowhere to run, ’less I turn tail and head back inta his folks.

  Not good.

  Moirrey looked at the pipe beneath her. It were dark and wet, and prolly runned straight fer a piece.

  Just bouts perfect fer a death trap. Mine. But he thinks he’s all that an’ a chocolate sundae.

  Moirrey considered her options.

  She could sprint across the open field now, while he was down, and maybe get away. She could sit down here in her little pipe an’ wait fer him to pass, hoping he dinna look too close.

  That bastich killed City of Brani. He donn gets ta get away.

  Moirrey smiled as she swapped powerpacks in her pistol and considered glitterbombs in the darkness.

  Chapter LVII

  Imperial Founding: 174/07/18. Aquitaine’s New Starport On Thuringwell

  Dieter knew he was close. Explosions and lights to his left revealed the dark emptiness where the drainage ditch ran. He crept close, auto–carbine sniffing like a bloodhound.

  Nothing.

  The man could not have gotten past him. Ergo, he was still back up the way, probably resting and plotting his next ambush, expecting Dieter to continue chasing.

  You have another thing coming, young man.

  He skulked forward and hopped into the ditch, landing with a barely audible squelch in the mud. He was safe from stray fire here, as long as he let his ears become his eyes, confident that the sound of steps and gasping breath would alert him in time.

  The auto–carbine was pointed forward, just in case, but he was the hunter tonight.

  The Aquitaine centurion might have destroyed Dieter’s command squad, but he would never defeat Dieter Haussmann. He was simply prolonging his death by running, not escaping.

  Death was his only escape now.

  Dieter let his mind become one with the canal. His foe was here. He knew that. Now it remained but to find the man, and kill him.

  Slowly he moved, letting the sounds of fighting elsewhere mask the sound of his steps in the mud, the rasp of air in his lungs from running so hard.

  Movement would be death. A slight twitch on the trigger and a pulse of fire would erupt, perhaps even before his conscious mind registered the man.

  His only fear was that they would both reach a corner at the same moment and be to close–combat in the mud instantly. Dieter considered pulling a trench knife, but the path straightened out and led like a plumb line. No one would find him off–guard.

  Constantly, he scanned the rim above him. Sometimes, the soil was above his head, sometimes low enough that he could peer into the semi–darkness.

  The ambush across the way had apparently been thwarted. Fire from that quadrant of the base had tailed to almost nothing. For the briefest moment, Dieter considered letting this man live and retreating to where his radio corporal had been killed.

  This attack was more important than one man. His troops needed him in command right now, moving pawns and knights with authority and conviction.

  And yet, he was in too deep now to simply walk away.

  Honor demanded blood. He would not be bested by any man from Aquitaine. Ever.

  A deeper darkness intruded as he slid forward.

  There was a cross–canal feeding into this one. Just the perfect space for his foe to lie in wait, probably hidden and waiting for him to appear at the mouth of the intersection.

  Dieter considered leaving the ditch. He paused and looked above.

  Nothing but grass in any direction. Either he is there, or he has managed to escape.

  So be it. One last duel and we will consider it good. You will die now, or you will be the one that got away from Dieter Haussmann.

  He slithered down, belly–flat into the muck, and approached the fateful corner. Human eyes would be looking at man–level. They would not be looking for a viper coming around the bend.

  An ear. An eye. A barrel came around the edge of the mud and rock.

  Nothing.

  Well, nobody. There was still a concrete tube running into darkness. A grenade now would be perfect, but would expose himself too much if the man was crouched in the dark waiting, as Dieter would be.

  Silently, he confirmed the fire select on his auto–carbine at fully automatic.

  Pull the trigger and empty the rest of the powerpack until I release it. Fill that tunnel with death.

  Dieter drew a breath and exploded to his knees, leaning into the weapon as it pulsed repeatedly. There was so much fire going into the tunnel at one point that he could actually see the concrete itself reflecting the pulsed red light.

  Nothing.

  False alarm.

  Still, a worthy idea. Anything in the tube would have died.

  He snapped the depleted powerpack from his weapon and stuffed it into his pocket before reaching for a spare.

  “Good idea,” a voice chirped at him from the darkness. “Bad lucks.”

  Before Dieter could move, eyes appeared at the top of the ditch, above the tunnel, where the man had laid in wait, face down and skin covered in mud.

  The hand appeared as if in slow motion.

  Dawn exploded, a golden pulse of energy liberating itself on his chest plate like a hammer. A second struck him in the shoulder. The third caught him in the face.

  Darkness began to engulf him.

  A voice began to carry Dieter Haussmann’s soul to hell.

  A woman’s voice.

  “Ya killed City of Brani, you sombitch,” she said.

  Hell claimed him.

  Chapter LVIII

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 Somewhere, Thuringwell

  Vo knew better than to grumble. In space, you had a year of boredom that would get punctuated by an hour of insanity. Hopefully, with the bad thing happening to the other guy.

  Right now, night was thinking serious thoughts about giving up and letting day have a little fun.

  Then the serious stuff would probably happen. And probably pretty quickly.

  It was a story as old as organized warfare, from all his studies and personal experience.

  Hurry up and wait. Everybody get ready for the ball to drop, for the rocket to go up.

  Wait.

  Nothing happens.

  At least they had a nice view and fresh tea. The terrain hereabouts was a series of rolling hills. It reminded him of a fuzzy green blanket laid out flat, and then pushed together from one side. Maybe frozen waves. He’d never been far enough north on any planet where he served or visited to see eternal ice.

  Maybe.

  Morning would be coming soon. He couldn’t wait to rack out and sleep, assuming everything worked out.

  Cayenne had dropped them to one side of the high end of a valley midway between the new Ramsey starport and Cydelmynster’s coordinates for the main Imperial base, with explicit instructions to steer clear of that place until all of Fourth Saxon and LVIII Heavy could be brought to bear.

  I
ntelligence at HQ suggested a hundred men had come over the wire before being repulsed. Or maybe annihilated, from the descriptions the Legate had passed along.

  Digger and his folks had apparently been sandbagging a little.

  The Imperials had made it as far as the main rugby pitch when a whole squadron of angry repulsors–scouts with twin autocannons popped up from cover.

  That was the price of warfare.

  Another hundred had been dug in along the fence waiting to rescue the first group. They would be waiting for a long time.

  Something had apparently gone wrong with the attack. One of the first times Vo could say that in all honesty. Up until now the Imperial troops had been dangerous wraiths in the darkness. This was the first time Fourth Saxon or LVIII Heavy had been able to inflict significant casualties.

  And it was Auberon’s marine detachment and Digger’s Construction Ala that had done most of it.

  Vo grinned to himself. Not a topic the rest of his current team would probably find nearly as funny as he did. Army troops could be like that.

  The sun was just about to come up over the hill behind him.

  Scout Patrol was dug in like a nine–pointed star. Well, close enough. Nine deadly arrows pointed outward, surrounding the four combat tanks of 1/1/1 plus Bloodhound. The nasty air defense chassis was pointed west with the barrels raised, protecting the two support tanks tucked in behind it.

  He doubted they were putting out any emissions, but Bloodhound would fire up the targeting radar at the first hint of incoming fire and let loose. Rebekah’s team had shown themselves to be every bit the crazy counterpart to Dash’s.

  Freefall got his attention, twisting her turret around with a noisy, grinding squeal, maybe ten degrees and depressing the barrel enough that any shot was likely to sunburn any part of Scout Patrol that wasn’t dug in deep enough.

  Good reason to put the horses at the center, with the support tanks.