The assault commander’s face betrayed him; he was angry, frustrated, and embarrassed, all at the same time. “Well, sir,” he said, “yes, they are only civilians, but they are civilians with nothing to lose, they are well armed, they understand urban combat, they know how to fight, and their damn houses are the closest things to bunkers I’ve ever seen. No, Kraa damn it! They are bunkers. Every one is a steel-reinforced ceramcrete fortress, mostly underground, with small windows protected by plasteel shutters, all interconnected by a tunnel network with access to the streets. I’ve never seen anything like it, and needless to say, we are having to take them the hard way, meter by meter, house by house.”
“Wait, General,” Tu’ivakano said, puzzled. “That makes no sense. Bunkers for houses? Who’d want to live in a ceramcrete bunker?”
“It’s simple, sir, not that anyone considered it important enough to include in the intelligence briefings. The few prisoners we have tell us that they have storms here like nothing you’ve ever seen, wind gusting 350 kilometers an hour. The buildings have to be tough to survive. Problem is we didn’t know that.”
“Kraa damn it! Why? Why didn’t we know? What’s the point of an intelligence briefing that misses something this important?”
“I wondered the same thing, sir.”
“Have you considered sending in the ground attack landers?”
“We tried that, sir. Doesn’t help. Landers just make our job harder. Everything above the ground gets reduced to rubble, and the minute the marines go in, the heretics pop up out of their basements like nothing’s happened and start shooting again.”
“Kraa!” Tu’ivakano said as the seriousness of the problem sank in. Thin tendrils of fear twisted their way through his body as he contemplated what would happen to him if he failed to carry off what was supposed to be a simple, fast in-and-out operation. “Armor?”
“Armor’s no better than landers. Ceramcrete blockhouses and armor don’t go well together. We end up having to blast our way through, which means more collapsed houses, more piles of ceramcrete rubble, and even more ambush sites. We’ll push on, sir. It’s all we can do.”
Tu’ivakano nodded. “Understood. But remember, we have less than thirty-six hours to wrap this up. Finished or not, that’s when we’re leaving. I don’t think the Fed attack this morning was an accident. Some of my staff think our operational security has been blown, in which case more Feds will be on their way.”
“We’re doing our best, sir.”
“I hope so. For both our sakes, I hope so. Kraa, I wish we were able to nuke the damn place. That would solve the heretic problem once and for all.”
The assault commander said nothing. Tempting though the idea was, Tu’ivakano knew that even the Hammers would not stoop that low.
Sunday, February 18, 2400, UD
Salvation deepspace
Coasting in at 150,000 kph, Reckless hung in deepspace, 4 billion kilometers out from Salvation planet. In station around her were the ships of the dreadnought force, with the planetary assault vessels Madison and Nelson and their escorts following a million kilometers behind. The virtual conference room was silent, the faces of Vice Admiral Jaruzelska’s captains grim as they watched the holovid recordings of Commodore Kumoro’s task group attempting to head off the Hammer attack on Salvation.
When the last Fed ship died, nobody said a word, every last spacer overawed by the insane bravery of the attack.
Except one.
Michael sat unmoving, his mind paralyzed by a gut-gnawing fear, by the ice-cold certainty that Anna must be dead, her chances of getting clear of the dying cruiser remote at best. The hurt of her loss was physical, slivers of pain stabbing into his chest, his stomach cramped into a ball of undiluted white-hot agony, his mind a maelstrom, tormented by an unruly flood of memories of Anna, always smiling, her bottomless green eyes sparkling and dancing.
The agony of her loss ignited a slow-burning rage that flared in an instant into an all-consuming fury. Why would Fleet deliberately send good ships and their crews to certain death? Why? What sort of cold, callous bastards were they?
With an enormous effort, he wrestled himself back under control.
He always knew that Kumoro’s mission was doomed, but to see it fail on a holovid display, knowing that Anna and Damishqui were condemned, too, was pure torture. The agony was made all the worse by the fact that there was not a thing he could do-or could have done-to change the outcome.
In a matter of minutes, eleven precious ships-Damishqui; the light escorts Kukri and Yataghan; the heavy patrol ships Agache, al-Badisi, Huari, Electric, Dunxi; and Beaumaris; and the heavy scouts Unukalhai and Tarantula-along with far too many of their irreplaceable crew-were blown to white-hot gas. Michael did not fault the sacrifice-it was in the Fleet’s finest traditions-but he did fault the commanders who had sent Commodore Kumoro and his ships to certain death, a sacrifice whose only purpose was political, an empty gesture that would tell the rest of the neutral planets in Fed space that even though they might die, they would not die alone.
The brutal fact was that Kumoro’s sacrifice was utterly pointless: Only two Hammer ships suffered mission-abort damage, and only twenty-seven assault and ten ground attack landers had been hacked out of the assault stream by Fed missiles. Not nearly enough to stop the Hammer operation.
Jaruzelska’s voice splintered the shocked hush. “You know what we have to do.”
Michael did not move.
“Skipper,” Ferreira said softly, “I’m sorry … what can I say? Damishqui-”
“You can damn well say nothing, Junior Lieutenant Ferreira,” Michael barked, his voice trembling with pain and anger, harsh and unforgiving. “Nothing, so shut your damn mouth. What you can do is your duty. Is that understood?”
Ferreira flinched. “Aye, aye, sir … all stations, this is command. Faceplates down, stand by to depressurize. Secure artificial gravity.”
“Goddamnit to hell,” Michael muttered, wishing he could take back every last hurtful word. Jayla Ferreira deserved better. He flicked a glance at her. His executive officer was turning into one of those officers every captain dreamed of: smart, tough, resourceful, steady under pressure, not afraid to ask the hard questions, not afraid to admit her mistakes. Damishqui’s loss, the loss of Anna, was not her fault; he should not take his suffering out on her. He waved Ferreira over; he put his helmet to hers.
“Sorry, Jayla. I was out of line,” he said.
“Don’t sweat it, sir. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. Hang in there and we’ll get this done. And there’s always a chance Anna made it off. I counted thirteen lifepods from Damishqui.”
“So few,” Michael said; Anna’s chances of survival were less than one in ten.
“I know, but there’s always a chance she made it, sir.”
Michael shook his head in despair even as a tiny spark of hope burst into life before dying away. He remembered what it had been like when Ishaq was destroyed, the frantic scramble to get to a lifepod through the carnage of a dying ship; how could he forget it when the nightmare of Ishaq’s loss still haunted him most nights? Knowing that Anna had been through the same hell was close to unbearable. Not knowing if she had made it off was …
He pushed all thoughts of Anna away and forced himself to concentrate. He had his own ship and crew to worry about. “Duty calls, Jayla, and Admiral Jaruzelska waits for no man, so let’s get on with it,” he said.
“Yes, sir … I have all green suits, ship is at general quarters, ship state 1, airtight condition zulu, artificial gravity off, ship is depressurized,” Ferreira said.
“Roger. Warfare, you have command authority. Weapons free.”
“Warfare, roger,” the AI replied. “I have command authority. Weapons free. All stations, stand by to jump.”
While he waited, Michael commed Rao and Machar, their AI-generated avatars good enough to betray a blend of fear and anticipation. “Okay, guys,” Michael said bluntly, “let’s
do this right. Any last questions? Kelli?”
“No, sir. None,” she said with a confidence her face did not reflect, the shock of the loss of Commodore Kumoro’s task force showing in staring eyes and stress-tightened lips.
“Good. Nathan?”
“Same. Dreadnought Squadron Three is ready.”
“Okay. Stick to the plan and try to bring all your ships home. I think we’re going to need them for something a touch more important than poor old Salvation. I know it’s an approved tactic, but no ramming Hammer ships unless you absolutely have to. I’ve done it, and it’s not fun.”
Rao and Machar glanced at each other. “Sir,” they chorused.
“Good luck. Reckless out.”
A quick glance around Reckless’s combat information center confirmed that all was well. Michael pushed back in his seat, and the AI tightened his safety straps securely across his space-suited body while the seat molded itself to his shape, restraints extending to cushion his helmeted head. He was ready, the familiar adrenaline rush beginning to take effect, anger and hurt fading away as discipline and duty took over.
“Command, warfare. Stand by to jump … jumping.”
With the unmanned ships to the fore, the dreadnought force microjumped, dropping close to the Hammers, deliberately close to give the enemy ships little time to react, the dreadnoughts’ massive frontal armor shrugging off missiles and rail-gun slugs while their own salvos ripped through the Hammer task group with devastating effect, ship after ship shuddering under the repeated impacts of hundreds of slugs and missiles. In a breathtaking, savage display of raw power lasting only a matter of minutes, the dreadnoughts reduced the ships of the Hammer task group to smoking, broken carcasses spiraling away into space, spewing air and life-pods, ship after ship losing the unequal battle to explode in blue-white flashes of raw energy. Stripped of their escorts, the two Hammer planetary assault vessels, their massive spherical shapes unmistakable, were left, two big, fat sitting ducks.
The planetary assault vessels were no match for the dreadnoughts. Transfixed, Michael watched the command holovid. It filled with the flame-shot wrecks of Kerouac and Mitsotaki as they tumbled through space, blazing balls spun from strands of fire, a nightmare ripped from the imagination of a drug-crazed madman, spitting lifepods in all directions.
“Command, Warfare, sensors. Assault Group dropping. Datum confirmed Red 180 Up 0.”
“Command, roger.”
Michael commed his two captains. What a difference being on the winning side made: Their faces spoke volumes. Rao and Machar were still on adrenaline-fueled highs, the unalloyed joy of success there for all to see. “Well done, guys,” he said. “Plan the fight, fight the plan, and for once that’s how it went, I’m happy to say.”
“Thanks, sir,” Machar said, unable to stop grinning. “That was my sort of operation. Short, brutal, and with the Hammers on the losing side.”
“Mine, too,” Rao said. “I hope Opera’s that easy.”
Michael grimaced. “Sorry, guys. I’d be lying if I said it would be,” he said. His stomach did a lazy backflip at the prospect. Opera showed all the signs of turning into a bloodbath, but unlike the Salvation operation, the Feds would be doing their share of the bleeding. “Okay, that’s it. Remember, it’s not over yet, so stay sharp. Reckless out.”
Michael allowed himself to relax a touch. Provided that the Hammers did not come back spoiling for a fight-part of him hoped they would-the dreadnoughts’ job was largely done. He had turned his focus to the command plot tracking the incoming Fed planetary assault vessels and their escorts while they decelerated into orbit when Jaruzelska’s face popped up on his personal holovid.
“Welcome to Salvation, sir,” he said.
“Thanks. Nice job, Michael. Those dreadnoughts of yours certainly get the job done.”
“They do, sir. That they do.”
“And Michael, I’m sorry. I know what Anna means to you. You okay?”
“I am, sir,” Michael said. “One of the Hammer auxiliaries was missing; I’m hoping she got clear of Damishqui and the Hammers shipped her out before we arrived.”
“I hope so, too. Jaruzelska out.”
Patched into the holocams carried by the marine tacbots that swarmed across the battlefield, Michael watched the bloody struggle to dislodge the Hammers unfold. The Hammers had not made much progress; thanks to a combination of stubborn resistance and nearly indestructible houses, their attack had ground to a halt. Queued up behind them, DocSec shock-troopers waited in sprawling groups, unable to start the job they had been sent light-years to carry out.
The Hammers faced annihilation. Trapped between Fed marines and Salvationists, unable to move forward or back, the Hammers did the only thing left to them: fight back with mindless ferocity. Not that it bothered the Fed marines. Directed by superior battlefield surveillance, coordinated by combat management AIs, and backed up by marine light armor, ground attack fliers, and combat drones, the Feds had an overwhelming tactical advantage. In the rubble of New Hope’s outer suburbs, Hammer counterattacks were ripped apart before they even crossed their start lines, DocSec shock-troopers and Hammer marines dying in the hundreds alongside one another, as close in death as they had been implacable enemies in life, their bitter hatred drowned in a sea of blood.
By the time Jaruzelska ordered the dreadnoughts to head for home, Fed marines had punched huge gaps through the Hammers’ perimeter, cutting them up into isolated groups. Michael watched the final stages of the ground operation as Reckless accelerated out of Salvation nearspace with mixed emotions. It had been a good operation for the dreadnoughts: They had survived to return home, some damaged, but none so badly that they would have to be pulled out of Operation Opera. His untested captains had dealt well with the pressure of combat, and his command team in Reckless had handled the responsibilities of dreadnoughts without breaking a sweat.
Oh, yes, he reminded himself. There was more news, some good, some bad. The Fed survivors from Commodore Kumoro’s task group had been tracked down. Transferred to a Hammer support ship, they had been shipped back to the Hammer Worlds before the Fed attack had wiped out all the Hammer ships left in Salvation nearspace. All things considered, they had been lucky. A Hammer prisoner of war camp was better than ending up collateral damage any day.
All that was positive … but only if Anna had been one of those shipped back.
The bad was a small thing, a stupid thing, something every shred of common sense told him he should ignore. But he could not ignore the fact that he was leaving behind thousands of DocSec troopers alive. Not getting the chance to send one to hell burned inside him, a cold-burning flame generating anger but no heat, an anger that now reached out to encompass not only the Hammers and all their works but also the gutless scum at Fleet who would send so many good ships and spacers to their deaths. And why? To placate the politicians!
Something profound had changed, and for a moment Michael struggled to work out just what it was. It came to him: A fleet that did not treasure the lives of each and every spacer was a fleet that deserved no loyalty. The sacred trust between commanders and commanded-to risk the lives of a spacer only when military necessity demanded it-had been broken, perhaps irrevocably.
Holding his breath, he forced the anger down. Their day will come, he vowed; their day will come.
Friday, February 23, 2401, UD
Private dining room, flag officers’ mess
Comdur Fleet Base
Vice Admiral Jaruzelska lifted her glass of wine and toasted each of the dreadnought captains in turn. “Well done, all of you. You did well,” she said.
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, returning the toast, horribly aware that he might be toasting the success of an operation that had killed Anna. “Always good to remind those damn Hammers they don’t own all of humanspace just yet.”
“Wasn’t the toughest operation of all time, though, was it, sir?” Kelli Rao said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Jaruz
elska said, “but you guys had to start somewhere, and Salvation was as good a place as anywhere.”
“Ironic,” Machar said, “rescuing a bunch of lapsed Hammers. Never expected to be asked to do that.”
Jaruzelska nodded. “It’s one of the stranger missions I’ve been involved in, I have to say, but not the strangest. That would have to be the time I was sent to assist a ship attacked by pirates. It was one hell of a shock when we boarded the ship to find that the pirates had released the stars of Mister Almaghedi’s Amazing Alien Circus before they left. All three hundred of them. It was absolute chaos.”
The table erupted in laughter, and Machar launched into an account of one of his father’s trips to an obscure fringe world 300 light-years beyond the Delfin Confederation.
Michael let the conversation flow on around him, content to let Machar make the running. Ironically, the Salvation operation was one of the best things to happen to them. The chances of the dreadnoughts surviving everything the Hammers would throw at them while they fought to keep the Feds away from their precious antimatter plant must have improved now that his captains were blooded.
Or so he hoped. Apart from Fleet’s stupidity in sending Commodore Kumoro’s task group in early, Salvation had been a simple operation, an operation that should always have gone the way of the Feds.
Operation Opera would be an entirely different matter. Facing a dangerously resurgent Hammer, only a fool would try to predict how it would go, so he had given up trying. There were simply too many unknowns. Michael watched Jaruzelska, her face animated by the simple pleasure of listening to a good story well told. Assuring the security of the Federated Worlds decades into the future was a responsibility few Fed military commanders had ever been given; he wondered how she coped.
He had enough trouble coping with the demands of each day, his mind endlessly distracted by the ghost of Anna reaching for him out of a nightmare of smoke, flame, fear, and panic as Damishqui died a terrible death around her.
The battle of Devastation reef hw-3 Page 21
