by Jay Allan
“Yes, sir.” Mink regained her composure. “On your screen now, captain.” A brief pause, then: “Transmission to Commnet complete, sir.”
Jacobs looked down at the screen, reading the reports. The news was grim. Adelaide’s militia had been shattered. There were no reliable casualty reports, but best estimates indicated loss rates in excess of 80%. The survivors had fallen back to the shelters with the enemy in pursuit.
Jacobs looked up from the screen for a moment. It was the same story they’d been hearing since all of this began, but this time on the ground. An overwhelmingly powerful enemy with weapons and equipment beyond anything the Alliance possessed. Any hope that the enemy’s advantage would be restricted to space combat had been dashed.
He glanced back at the reports. There was more data on the enemy ground forces. Finally, some good news, he thought. A militia sergeant had managed to escape from behind enemy lines, and be brought back a report and some video on the attackers. Jacobs read on, and he soon decided the news wasn’t so good after all. My God, he thought, the high command has to have this information.
“Lieutenant Mink, retransmit this report to Commnet.” He was still staring at his screen as he spoke. “I want redundant drones sent from the station.” He paused and took a deep breath. “This information must reach Admiral Garret no matter what.”
“Yes, sir. Transmitting again now.”
Jacobs looked up again from the report on his screen and wondered about this sergeant. His information didn’t say if he’d made it back or just gotten off a communication. He didn’t know if the man was dead or alive, but he was pretty sure this new war had its first genuine hero.
Chapter 11
AS Cambrai Approaching Planet Farpoint Epsilon Fornacis System
Cain stood on Cambrai’s observation deck, staring out at Farpoint. From this distance, the planet was a magnificent blue and white disk floating in the blackness. He was thinking quietly and, for once, not about battle or tactics. How many times have I looked out at something like this without giving it a second thought? It was easy to overlook the staggering beauty of space, especially when you were rushing from one desperate battle to another. One day, he thought sadly, maybe I’ll have time to see – to really see – some of the wonders of this universe. “Someday,” he muttered to himself. “But not today.”
Erik was troubled. It had been bothering him more noticeably lately, but when he’d really started to think about it he realized it had been there for a long time. A growing weariness, a disillusionment. He had always been a fighter, and he’d be one until that bullet with his name on it finally found its mark. But it was different now. Never a teary-eyed optimist, he’d still managed to believe that when he climbed into his armor and hit dirt for yet another battle he was fighting for some better future. Now, however, that belief was fading. That future always seemed to be another maelstrom, another war…more death and suffering, more waste. Duty had become obligation…obligation to his comrades, to the colonists he defended, to all those Marines who’d remained behind on one of those many battlefields. He’d do what was expected of him, what was necessary. But inside there was a growing emptiness.
He had accepted Admiral West’s invitation to ride aboard Cambrai. His inclination, as always, was to stay close to the troops, but this time he decided he would be extraneous at best. Colonel Teller was more than capable of running his brigade, and Cain’s presence on one of the transports could only undermine his authority. Erik wasn’t here to do Teller’s job or to give the impression he didn’t trust the colonel. His purpose was to get a firsthand look at what was going on and to make strategic decisions on the spot.
He had known Erica West for years. She’d commanded one of the big Gettysburg class transports that carried then-Major Cain’s battalion on several campaigns. She was a gifted tactician, though her years commanding troopships had threatened to set back her advancement as a combat commander. That is until Augustus Garret got a good look at her. Garret had a great nose for finding talent, especially when it was a bit unorthodox, and he put West on the fast track, leapfrogging her over a dozen officers with more seniority.
After the rebellions, he put her in command of the newly-organized Third Fleet, jumping her once again over a number of her colleagues. But Garret was sure of her ability…and her loyalty too, and that had become just as important a consideration. Since he had been kidnapped by Alliance Intelligence, Garret had developed a healthy level of suspicion – some close to him called it paranoia – and he was not about to give a fleet command to anyone he wasn’t 100% sure about.
Unfortunately, Third Fleet had been put together from the scraps left after Garret organized First and Second Fleets. Its ships were older and, put together from whatever was available, its battle order was less cohesive. Cambrai was the only capital ship on the OB. She was the oldest battleship still in service…and she had been for some time. Transferred to the Strategic Reserve after the war, she’d been seized by Alliance Intelligence along with the other mothballed ships. Because of her age she’d been slated to be manned last, and she spent the entire rebellion in drydock waiting for a crew that never came. That had been her salvation – Garret’s forces hunted down the other rogue ships, destroying them all in a bloody campaign. Afterward, he was grateful to find Cambrai still operational, and he ordered her recommissioned at once to help plug a hole in his battered fleet roster.
Stuck at Armstrong for the foreseeable future, with Compton tied down at Wolf 359, Garret had chosen West to lead an expedition that might very well turn into a heavy fight. She was shocked when he told her; she knew he had confidence in her, but she’d had no idea how much. Erik knew she was a little overwhelmed at the size of her new command and the uncertainty of the mission, but from what he could tell as a passenger, she had her people working like a finely tuned machine.
Cain took one last look through the observation window. A meter high and three meters long, the hyper-polycarbonate panel was a luxury not to be found on more modern vessels. Though the material itself was as strong as reinforced plasti-steel, the seams connecting it to the hull were a weak spot. Newer ships had dispensed with the observation decks, choosing greater strength over aesthetics. The beauty of space sacrificed to utility again, Cain thought wistfully, though he couldn’t argue with the logic. Perhaps one day men would spend more time stargazing and less trying to kill each other but, he thought again sadly, that day was not today.
He turned and walked slowly toward the hatch. He’d checked with Teller earlier, and everything was under control on the transports. He really didn’t have anything to do. He’d already reviewed all the new intel…twice. They’d lost two more colonies on the Rim. The report from Barrow was sketchier even than that from Newton, but they’d gotten excellent data from Wellington before the attackers took out the Commnet station. It was more of the same – overwhelmingly powerful weapons, missiles moving with unprecedented acceleration. It was looking less and less likely that this was some sort of ruse. Cain had spent a considerable amount of time trying to imagine comparably advanced ground weapons, but with no hard data it was a pointless exercise in science fiction.
The hatch slid open as he stepped out into the corridor. He turned toward his quarters then changed his mind and walked the other way, toward the gym. Might as well keep myself in shape, he thought. Even with the rejuv treatments, he didn’t have the body of an 18 year old anymore. The years of constant stress and wounds were starting to take a toll in spite of modern medicine’s best efforts. The stiffness he felt each morning told him that much.
He was about to enter the lift when his earpiece buzzed briefly. “General Cain…Admiral West here.” Her voice was tense, edgy. “We’ve received another transmission. I think we should go over it. My conference room…ten minutes?”
“Yes, Admiral…that will be fine.” Cain had to force back a sigh. It was bad news…almost certainly. The predictability of that was getting tiresome. “I’m on my way. C
ain out.” He flipped off the link and then he did sigh. Loudly.
The steward filled a glass with water from a small pitcher and set it on the table in front of Cain. He walked around the table and did the same for the admiral then he stood at attention. “Is there anything else, Admiral West?”
“No, that will be all, Crewman Smalls. Dismissed.” Enlisted personnel of the lowest rank on a naval vessel were designated simply as crewman. In the old wet navy Smalls would have had been called seaman, but the sea had nothing to do with interstellar fleets, and spaceman had seemed a bit silly to the founding officers of the service. Non-commissioned personnel tended to advance to various Specialist and Technician grades that defined both their rank and their area of expertise. A modern spaceship just didn’t need a lot of low-skilled crew. There were bots to swab the decks and load supplies.
Admiral West waited for the hatch to close behind Smalls. “Thank you for rushing right up here, Erik.” She was a spit and polish type, quite unlike Cain in that regard, and she sat bolt upright in her chair. “There’s been another attack.”
Cain didn’t look surprised. He’d just taken a drink, and he put the glass down in front of him. “I don’t suppose that should come as a shock now, should it?” He leaned back in his chair and looked across the table. “So what are the grisly details?”
“It’s Adelaide.”
Erik looked back, and for the first time there was a hint of surprise on his face. “What do we know? They must have put up a fight, at least.” The first three worlds attacked were undeniably soft targets, new colonies with no defensive capabilities to speak of. But Adelaide was different. “Cooper Brown commands the local forces there. I don’t know him well, but I remember him from Carson’s World.” Cain paused, trying to picture Brown’s appearance. He came up blank. When you fought in powered armor you got to know people without seeing their faces much. “He’s a fighter.”
West looked across the table, her face somber. “The 18 th Squadron was also there.” Her eyes drifted downward, looking at the table. “Admiral Garret ordered them to scout forward, and they ran into the enemy attack force near Adelaide.”
She closed her eyes, only for an instant longer than a blink, but Cain noticed, and he understood. “All lost?”
West looked up, her eyes finding Cain’s. “Yes. We presume so, though we only got two Delta-Z transmissions.” She looked across the table at him, her expression pained. “The third ship…” She paused, trying to recall the vessel’s name. “…the Hornet…she must have been destroyed so quickly the crew never got their final transmission out.” West took a deep breath and continued. “But the squadron sent up solid intel before they were wiped out. We have much more reliable information now.” She took another breath, exhaling hard this time. “And it’s not good, Erik.”
Cain hadn’t been expecting any good news – he’d already pretty much written off the theory that the advanced technology was a hoax, and it looked like West was about to confirm his conclusions. “Do I look like a man who is expecting good news?” He managed a weak smile.
West let out a short laugh. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Her levity quickly faded. “Anyway, we can now confirm a number of the things originally reported by the Northstar.” She ran her hands over a large touchscreen built into the table. “The enemy missiles are indeed capable of producing thrust levels in excess of 200g.” She briefly glanced up from the screen to look at Cain. “You can imagine the implications of this not just in terms of ordnance closing faster but also with regard to maneuverability. These missiles are able to execute vector changes much more quickly than our own. I hesitate to venture a guess on the numerical superiority we would need to have a chance of prevailing in any missile exchange.”
Cain was silent for a few seconds. While he understood the problem and empathized with the naval officers who were going to have to deal with it, he couldn’t keep himself from wondering what implications this new technology had regarding ground combat. Whatever those were, they were going to be his problem. His…and Holm’s and Jax’s and the rest of the Marines’. “How about the warhead yields?”
“A good portion of them were in the 3-7 gigaton range. Again, the same as Northstar originally reported.” There was no surprise in her voice; neither she nor Cain had expected anything different.
“Antimatter.” Cain was not a physicist, but six years of education during basic training plus all the courses at the Academy had given him enough of working knowledge to understand the potential power of antimatter weapons and drives.
West nodded. “It’s the only thing that can possibly explain those thrust capacities. Not to mention the warhead yields.” Her expression brightened slightly. “There is some good news as well…or at least potentially good.”
Cain looked across the table expectantly. “Well, we could certainly use some. What is it?”
“There were two waves of missiles, and the second group exhibited sharply lower thrust rates.” She paused, trying to decide how much of her conjecture she should share. “This is pure guesswork, but maybe they have a limited supply of the better weapons…the antimatter ones.”
Cain nodded slightly, but he didn’t answer right away. What she said made sense…antimatter was difficult to produce and store, and it was highly plausible that these ships only carried a certain amount. But his training, like West’s, had repeatedly warned against relying on wild guesses. They needed hard data, and a lot more of it, before they could even begin to guess how much antimatter-powered weaponry these ships carried.
West looked at Cain, reading his mind. “I know, I know. I’m taking a leap here. But we have so little to go on, Erik. I’m afraid we’re going to have to rely on our gut instincts in this fight.”
Cain nodded slightly, but he was silent. He was looking across the table at West, but he wasn’t seeing her – his mind was elsewhere.
West sat quietly for a minute, but when Cain remained lost in thought she spoke softly. “What is it, Erik?” She watched him for a few seconds, but when he didn’t respond she added, “What are you thinking about?”
He hesitated another few seconds before his focus returned to her. “I was just wondering what kinds of ground capabilities these attackers are likely to have.” He paused, but his eyes remained fixed on hers. “Whatever they are, I’m going to have to figure how to meet them.”
“Yes.” West spoke slowly, softly. “At least we have some intel on the space combat systems we’re likely to face. We’re totally blind on their ground forces.” She leaned back in her chair, but her gaze didn’t waver from his. There was something else on his mind; she was certain. “There’s more, isn’t there Erik?”
Cain shifted in his chair and took a deep breath. He stared at her wordlessly for half a minute before he said anything. “I was just thinking…” His voice was soft and calm, but there was an undercurrent there too. Concern, worry…maybe even fear. “It’s looking like these weapons are real, and I have a hard time buying the fact that one of the Superpowers made this kind of advance in total secrecy.”
She could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He was afraid…and that scared her more than anything she’d seen in a career full of combat and strife. “No.” She forced back a shiver. She was a veteran admiral, and she wasn’t going to let herself be overcome by fear. But she’d never seen Cain so nervous. “I can’t imagine how any of them could have managed that.”
Cain looked right at her, his blue eyes wide open. “That leaves us with one other question.” He sat frozen, barely even blinking. “Who the hell are these guys?”
Chapter 12
Western Alliance Intelligence Directorate HQ Wash-Balt Metroplex, Earth
Gavin Stark sat behind his desk in near darkness, the only light in the room coming through the windows from the nearby towers. There was a glass full of very expensive Scotch sitting untouched next to him. He stared out at the Washbalt skyline, but he wasn’t really seeing anything. His mind was f
ocused on his recent frustrations, and his thoughts were dark.
The rebellions had turned into a complete disaster for Stark. It was bad enough to be forced into accepting the Confederation Agreement, but he had also seen all his carefully assembled military assets destroyed. The Marines had beaten off all his strike forces, despite being surprised and low on supplies. He’d underestimated those damnable Marines again, and he’d paid the price for his arrogance. Now the Corps was less accountable than ever before, though at least its power and combat readiness were reduced. The Marines would have their hands full protecting the Alliance colonies from the other Powers. Stark would have time to prepare before they became a major threat to him again.
Even worse than the situation with the Corps, Augustus Garret had aggressively hunted down and destroyed every ship Stark had managed to seize from the Strategic Reserve. Millions of tons of warships were destroyed and all the crews Stark had carefully assembled were wiped out. Garret had refused any surrenders or negotiated agreements…he’d outright forbidden any communications at all with the target vessels. Stark’s kidnapping plan had backfired, and he’d turned the naval commander into a blood enemy and a raging paranoid. Augustus Garret had become more dangerous than ever, and now he was unpredictable as well. But just like the Marines, Garret’s navy was struggling to cover its basic defensive obligations with its remaining force. Augustus Garret hated Stark, but he didn’t have the time or resources to do anything about it right now. Again, Stark had time.
The Garret kidnapping had remained a secret at least, the admiral no more willing than Stark to publicize what he considered embarrassing carelessness on his own part. Garret had discussed the matter with General Holm and Admiral Compton, and they all agreed…without proof he’d just look like a madman making wild accusations.
