by Jay Allan
The Caliphate would probably ally with the CAC. If they did, Garret would be outnumbered and cut off from his major bases. It would be an almost impossible situation, but Stark didn’t underestimate the Alliance’s brilliant admiral. He was betting Garret would find a way to win, despite his disadvantages. Stark smiled. Augustus Garret would perform one last service for Stark, clearing away the CAC and Caliphate navies. Then the Shadow forces would dispatch Garret’s battered survivors…and Gavin Stark would be on the cusp of total control of human-occupied space.
He drained the last few swallows of coffee and turned to look through the window. There was a smile of satisfaction on his face as he looked out at the towers of the Washbalt Core. He felt a bit odd looking at the familiar skyline. It was something he enjoyed doing, staring out at the kilometer-high spires of the city…but not for much longer, he thought. He didn’t expect the Alliance’s capital to survive stage three. Total war between the Superpowers was the final act of the great play he was mounting. It was a radical step, one that would almost certainly involve hundreds of millions of casualties. He was about to unleash an unimaginable horror on mankind, but he thought of it only coldly, in logical terms. He would rid himself of the troublesome ruling classes, and sweep away the vast slums full of useless Cogs, those who were nothing but a liability to a modern society.
Yes, he thought, the Superpowers will destroy each other, as they almost did a century before. This time there would be no pact, no treaty to stop the slaughter. Stark would see to that. This time, they would fight their war to its conclusion…and that finish could only be the total collapse of every one of the Superpowers.
It was a plan of vast and unfathomable scope, one that could be the product only of a mind utterly devoid of conscience and human emotion. But it was the only way Stark could be sure there would be no adversary strong enough to interfere with his plans. When Earth’s nations had ground each other into dust, Stark would release the rest of the Shadow Legions, almost a million troops, fully-armored and trained to the standards of the Marine Corps. His soldiers would quickly sweep away any battered remnants of the Superpowers’ forces…and Gavin Stark would achieve what no human being had ever accomplished. He would be the absolute and unchallenged ruler of all humankind…both on Earth and throughout space. Then he would rebuild the shattered Earth in his own image, an ordered society controlled so rigidly it would be inconceivable for his authority to ever be seriously challenged. Men would do as he commanded, think as he commanded.
His smile widened as he contemplated his ultimate victory, blissfully unaware of the madness consuming him, destroying whatever tiny scraps remained of his humanity.
Chapter 12
Orbital Defense Perimeter
Planet Armstrong
Gamma Pavonis III
A warhead exploded in space. Like most of the bombs used by warships in combat, it was a 4F, a multi-stage fission-fusion-fission-fusion model, a more sophisticated version of the basic design used since the 20th century. When the missile reached the desired detonation point, a highly efficient conventional explosion compressed a shell of U-235, initiating a chain reaction. The initial stage was boosted, with strategically placed packets of tritium gas situated where compression would ignite supplemental fusion reactions.
The localized fusion released neutrons, vastly increasing the efficiency of the fission and increasing the yield enormously. A significant portion of the energy produced was channeled to the primary fusion stage, compressing it, vastly increasing the temperature until a fusion reaction ignited. The fusing hydrogen released enormous additional quantities of high-energy neutrons, which triggered a secondary fission reaction in the normally stable U-238 of the bomb’s casing. This energy, in turn, was channeled to compress and heat a second fusion stage, repeating the process. In substantially less than a second, all stages had detonated, producing a combined yield of 573.4 megatons.
The warhead was 6 kilometers from Gimble’s HQ fortress. On land, an explosion of this magnitude would have utterly destroyed any physical construct at such a short distance, but in space, without an atmosphere to carry heated air or a shockwave, the destructive range of the warhead was much lower. A detonation at 6 kilometers was best characterized as a near miss, and the weapon inflicted only minor damage. It bathed the heavy shielding of the orbital station with neutrons and gamma rays, producing a few local penetrations. In those areas, electronic equipment was overloaded and exposed crew received heavy doses of radiation, incapacitating at least and, in many cases, lethal. There were a few secondary explosions inside the fortress, but that was the worst of it.
Gimble sat in his command chair, following the progress of the battle. He hadn’t expected to survive this long, but he was still there, and his battlestation was better than 70% effective, despite the massive bombardment. The enemy was going to overwhelm his forces, but it was going to be numbers, not skill that sealed his fate. They may have captured Alliance warships, he thought, but their personnel are nowhere near the proficiency of Garret’s navy. His platforms were stationary targets, and despite their extensive point defense, a fleet that size should have taken them out in one barrage, perhaps two. They were in the middle of the third now.
“Prepare to fire all remaining missiles.” Most of his forts had already flushed their magazines, but the heavy platforms had one volley left…and Gimble wasn’t going to let any of it go to waste. “Concentrate all fire on Concord.” It cut at him to fire on an Alliance ship, even if she had been hijacked and crewed by the enemy. But he knew taking out a battleship would hurt more than anything else his people could do. And she was already in rough shape, one of her reactors down and her defense systems highly compromised.
“All platforms report remaining missiles armed and ready to launch.” Jones didn’t sound as calm as he had before, but for a rookie two hours into an all-out battle, he was holding up pretty well.
“Launch immediately.” Gimble gave the order coolly. He was watching the wall of missiles coming at his stations, and he wasn’t about to risk losing any weapons in their launchers. “Cut point defense fire in missile transit corridors.”
Jones turned to look at Gimble for a second. His expression was doubtful, but he didn’t say anything. After a brief pause he replied, “Yes, sir.”
Launching a full missile volley required disabling much of a station’s point defense to allow the friendly missiles to escape the interception zone. Laser turrets would continue to fire, directed by “friend or foe” targeting systems, but the defensive missiles and shotguns would be silent. They weren’t precision weapons, and they were as likely to take out the station’s own missiles as the incoming warheads.
Gimble leaned back. He caught a sigh before it escaped his lips. His crew didn’t need to see his negativity. The warheads now approaching carried his death with them, he knew that. His and hundreds of his people. He couldn’t do anything about it, but he decided no more than necessary would die.
“Ensign, issue Code 2 evacuation orders to all personnel except point defense crews, laser battery gunners and support specialists.” The laser crews would get their shots at the enemy if the station survived the incoming barrage. And the point defense would try to buy them that chance. Gimble didn’t know if any of them would make a real difference in the battle, but duty compelled him to pursue every option to inflict damage on the enemy. Their jobs sealed their fates. But he was out of missiles, and he couldn’t see any reason why those crews…or some steward from the mess hall…had to die.
“Yes, sir.” Jones hesitated, surprised. There were no provisions in the regs for a partial evacuation. Crews were authorized to abandon ineffective battle stations, but to leave their friends and comrades behind to die while they climbed inside the escape pods? It didn’t feel right. “Code 2 evac in progress, sir.”
Gimble sighed…and this time it burst right past his lips. He knew his people wouldn’t feel right about leaving some of their number behind, but he was
damned if he was going to let them die just so they could feel like they were doing their duty. The station was doomed, and absolutely nothing would be served by keeping the non-essential personnel aboard.
“And ensign…issue the order to all stations.” He paused, watching Jones lean over his workstation, transmitting the command. He stared at the young ensign. “That means you too, Ian.” He waved his hand across the control room. “All of you. Report to the escape pods immediately. The AIs and I can manage this old rust bucket.”
Every eye was on him, but not a crewmember stirred. The control room was silent, except for the soft voices of the AIs making various reports.
“Now!” Gimble slapped his hand hard on the side of his chair. “When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed!”
The control center crew jumped to their feet, and began moving slowly, reluctantly toward the exit, eyes still fixed on their CO…the man who was saving their lives, even as he sacrificed his own.
“Go!”
The slow move toward the hatch continued, each officer looking back, taking one last glance at their commander before stepping into the corridor.
Gimble didn’t return the glances. He stared straight ahead at the tactical display. He didn’t know if they’d make it off and to the surface safely, but if they did, he suspected they were far from out of danger. General Cain would almost certainly draft them for some type of duty…and knowing the Marine general’s reputation, that could be defending the command post, armed with nothing but frying pans. Gimble didn’t know what kind of force was going to land, but he knew Erik Cain would defeat it…or every man and woman on Armstrong would die in the fight.
“It looks just like one of our landings.” Cain was speaking softly, to himself more than anyone else. “And where did they get all those Gordons? Who the hell are these guys?” If Cain didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he was watching a Marine division landing.
“Sir, the last of Commander Gimble’s ‘non-essentials’ are accounted for. That makes over 1,000 safely evacuated.” Isaac Merrick was standing behind Cain. He thought the C in C hadn’t noticed him, but Cain had been watching him since he walked into the room. No one snuck up on Erik Cain. Twenty-five years of battle reflexes and a lifetime of paranoia had given him a tremendous awareness of the space around him.
“Good.” Cain’s voice was soft, somber. He’d watched Gimble’s station blown to bits an hour before. He and his remaining crew fought like caged devils to the last, and one thing was certain. No one else made it off that fortress. Still, the orbital commander had saved a thousand of his people without degrading combat effectiveness. All in all, Cain thought grimly, not a bad last order.
Cain turned to face Merrick. “Let’s get them all down to medical before everything goes crazy. Have them all checked out and cleared for reassignment.” He paused for an instant. “And download their duty files into the tactical AI. I want recommendations for alternate duty.” Cain knew Gimble’s people had been through a lot already, but he didn’t have the luxury of wasting 1,000 trained personnel. He suspected this fight would come down to the wire, and he was determined to hold Armstrong at all costs. All costs.
He waved for Merrick to go and see to the disposition of Gimble’s crews himself. The former federal general nodded and turned to walk back toward the door. He and Cain meshed so well, they barely needed words to communicate.
“Hector, get me an updated strength estimate on the landing.” Cain’s AI had been with him since he’d left the Academy…more years ago than he wanted to think about. They’d had a somewhat dysfunctional, but highly productive relationship over that entire time. Cain hadn’t really noticed, but his electronic assistant had performed exactly as it was designed to, changing to suit the Marine’s needs. It had molded to Cain’s personality…and evolved over time. The snarky, mildly obnoxious persona that had engaged the young junior officer had slowly changed to a calm and supportive assistant…a match for the older, grimmer Cain.
“It is still difficult to model a specific strength, but assuming 4-6 waves comparable to the first, I would speculate that we are facing a corps-sized force at minimum.” Hector’s tone changed slightly as he delivered the report.
At least 35,000 troops, Cain thought, shaking his head slightly. Nearly twice what he had…and almost certainly better-supplied. He wondered if the whole force was powered infantry. Certainly the entire first wave landing in those Gordons was fully armored.
“Hector, get me Jack Winton on the line.”
The AI replied promptly. “Yes, general.” A few seconds later: “Admiral Winton on your line.”
“Jack, how’s it going down there?”
“Better than you expect, Erik…I’ll bet you that much.” Winton’s tone was cheerful, self-satisfied. “All you needed was a real pro on the job.”
Winton had been a transport mogul of sorts on Columbia before he got swept up into the rebellion there. The years of bitter fighting and deprivation had changed him, and he couldn’t bring himself to go back to his old life. His daughter, Jill, had suffered terribly as well, spending most of the war in one of the federal concentration camps. She’d endured all she could take, and then she went mad…ultimately leading a group of escaped prisoners on an indiscriminate, murderous rampage. By the time he found her she was almost catatonic, and completely unaware of what she’d done.
Sarah Linden sent her to the hospital on Armstrong for psychiatric care, so when Admiral Garret offered Winton a job there as the navy’s chief of logistics, he jumped at it. He’d spent the years since helping with Jill’s recovery and honing the navy’s supply systems to a razor’s edge.
“Numbers, man…I need numbers.” Cain almost laughed at his own mock-annoyed tone.
Winton let out a soft chuckle. “Please, mon général, pardon your wayward servant.” He paused, but only for a second. He knew Cain was joking, but he also knew the Marine general was not a patient man. “How does 1,177 operational Obliterator suits sound?”
Cain couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “It sounds pretty damned good, Jack. I could run down there and kiss you.” A short pause. “Great job.”
Cain had put the navy’s logistical wizard in charge of the rehab operation on the Obliterators. His own people had needed, as he was inclined to put it, “a good kick in the ass.” Winton provided that…and he’d scrounged up every type of part or supply the effort required. There seemed to be no material or device Winton couldn’t find under some rock someplace on Armstrong.
“Thank you, Erik.” Winton and Cain didn’t know each other well; their battlefields had been different ones for the most part. But Winton had a lot of respect for the Marine, and he smiled at the general’s praise. “We’ve got them all hidden, as you requested. I had to split them up, but they’re all in underground bunkers and shielded against scanning.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “When you’re ready, they should be one hell of a surprise.”
Maybe, Cain thought, his caution outweighing his hope. “Possibly, Jack. But remember, we have no idea who these people are, and it is hardly a secret that we had Obliterator units with us. We can’t even guess at what this enemy knows, or what intelligence gathering capability they have.” Cain sat silently for a few seconds, thinking. “If we hold the Obliterators back long enough, they may assume we don’t have any left…even if they know about them. But a small tactical surprise is all we can reasonably hope for, I’m afraid.”
Winton answered after a brief silence. “Still, it’s a lot of extra firepower, surprise or not.”
“It is that.” Cain let a small smile creep across his lips. “And I guarantee the enemy will underestimate them. Not many people have seen upclose what they can do.” Especially with Erin McDaniels in charge, he thought. The talented officer had become the foremost expert – the only one, really – in commanding Obliterators on the ground. “And I suspect we will all be surprised at how hard they can hit regular infantry without a bunch of Reapers to deal wi
th.”
“General Cain, the leading units of the first wave are projected to land in four minutes.” Hector’s voice was calm, unchanging.
“Gotta go Jack.” Cain was already staring at the tactical display, watching the formations approaching landfall. “I’m counting on your people to keep our supply situation under control. I know you’re navy, but I’m officially designating you a Marine now.”
“I’ll keep your boys and girls fed and armed, Erik.” Winton’s voice was a little forced…he knew the supply situation wasn’t good, especially for a protracted campaign. “Whatever I have to do.”
“Thanks, Jack.” Cain was already sliding his hands over his ‘pad, issuing small repositioning orders to some of the front line units. “I’m gonna hold you to it.” He cut the line. “Hector, get me Colonel Brown.”
“Colonel Brown on your com, general.”
“Coop, are your people ready to go? Looks like we’re back in the shit.”
Chapter 13
Columbia Defense Force HQ
Weston City
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
“Die, you scumbag motherfuckers.” The tone in Reggie White’s voice was almost one of glee as he raked the advancing enemy troops with the heavy auto-cannon. The invaders were fully-armored, wearing Marine fighting suits, but the massive hyper-velocity rounds tore them apart anyway. White and Paine had been falling back steadily with the company, but at each place they’d stopped to fight, he picked a perfect vantage point to maximize his fire. He’d twice run out of ammunition, but General Tyler had been working wonders getting supplies to the front lines…a task that had to be getting easier as the army got pushed back closer to its logistical hub in Weston City.
