In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  “Our first objective must be to finish clearing the enemy from low orbit,” Lefevre said decisively. “I believe that with your ships, we can now do that. Then, perhaps, we may consider our options against the force in high orbit.” He paused, frowning. “But I must confess, amiral, that I do not understand the enemy’s tactics or their overall objective.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Tiernan asked.

  “They had enough superiority to sweep us from the skies,” Lefevre told him, his voice filled with a mixture of indignation and anger. “Their ships seem to be similar enough to ours, not nearly so powerful or advanced as the information provided us by your attaché indicated from your survey vessel’s encounter. But...” he pursed his lips and shook his head. “They had a full two-to-one advantage over us, amiral, plus the advantage of surprise. They held the high ground with a superior force. They held every major tactical advantage. Yet...they simply threw it all away. Pfft. They fight with great ferocity and spirit, but it is as if we have been in a giant brawl, not a modern space battle. They have taken no more than a one-to-one ratio in any of our engagements, save the first surprise encounter, and seem to prefer to disable our ships rather than destroy them. They have not molested the deployment of our troops to the surface, when they have had plenty of opportunity to do so.” He again shook his head. “Tell me, amiral, who would possibly turn away from such a target, especially when they must know that I would have to split away forces to defend the transports? Yet they did. It is as if they want those troops to land. But for what purpose, I cannot understand.”

  That gave Tiernan pause. He glanced at the flag tactical display and saw that his four carriers and their destroyer escorts were nearing the drop zones over Keran. And while there were no Kreelan ships in the immediate vicinity, there were plenty in higher orbit that could easily have made a play for the carriers, not to mention all the Alliance starliners that, even after the hours it had taken Tiernan’s fleet to get here, had still not unloaded all their troops. In all that time, the only casualty among them had been the one McClaren had destroyed. He tried not to wince at the thought.

  “And then there are the boarding parties,” Lefevre said, his face darkening. “We did not take this information from your attaché seriously. Who would, in such an age as this? And we paid the price. We lost fifteen ships to those devils, including my flagship.” He held fast his expression in front of the Terran admiral, but Lefevre inwardly shivered at the hell the compartments and passageways of Victorieuse had become after the Kreelan boarders had breached the hull.

  “That, sir,” Tiernan assured him, “I believe we are prepared to handle.” He thought of Lieutenant Sato, who had suffered so much to give them the information that formed the core of the planning and preparation that had been put into action over the last year, and who now was as dead as the McClaren. He felt a deep sense of bitterness at the young man’s loss. “Every ship in my task force has Marines aboard, along with a few other surprises for any would-be boarders. I don’t think we have enough Marines for all of your ships, sir, but if you like, we have enough to at least put a full platoon aboard each of your cruisers to help provide some on-board defense.” He hadn’t brought extra Marines for the purpose of helping the Alliance ships, but he could thin out the companies aboard his cruisers by a couple of platoons without compromising the security of his own ships. It was clear from Lefevre’s expression that he feared the boarders more than anything else. If giving up some Marines would boost the morale of the French fleet, then it was a small but worthwhile sacrifice on his part.

  “Thank you, amiral,” Lefevre said, his voice nearly cracking with relief. “You have no idea how much that would mean to my crews.”

  “It’s the least we can do, sir,” Tiernan told him. “If you’ll have your flag captain coordinate with mine, we’ll have our cutters start transferring the Marines immediately. And we’d also better see what we can do about integrating our maneuvering orders and fire control...”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There had been very few occasions in her career when Steph had questioned her sanity, but this was definitely one of them. Strapped into a sling chair aboard an assault boat deployed from the carrier Subic Bay, she felt like she was on the bobsled ride from hell as the boat plunged from the carrier’s belly into Keran’s atmosphere. She was one of half a dozen journalists embedded with the two heavy divisions Tiernan’s fleet had brought along to shore up Keran’s defenses, and was attached to the headquarters troop of the 7th Cavalry Regiment under the 1st Guards Armored Division. That division was an odd mix of American and Russian lineage, but together with its sister 31st Armored Division, which had its roots in the old Indian Army, they were the best-trained heavy divisions Earth could muster. The 7th Cav, as it was often known, was famous - or infamous, depending on one’s point of view - as the last command of General George Armstrong Custer, who led the regiment to defeat and massacre in the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Traditionally it had the job of providing reconnaissance and security to its parent division. On the modern battlefield, the decision had been made many years before to convert it to a heavy armored brigade. The unit’s traditional title had stuck, and it had also retained its reputation as one of the first units sent in to stir up trouble for the enemy.

  True to form, the regiment would be the first on the ground on Keran, the lead element brought in by the assault boats that would then return to the carriers for a second load. And since they would be on the bleeding edge of the ground campaign, assuming the Kreelans landed, Steph had immediately decided that she wanted to be with them.

  But now, as the assault boat screamed through the atmosphere, bouncing and jarring its occupants and cargo like it was flying through a tornado, she had to wonder just what the hell she had been thinking.

  She also wondered about the fleet battle going on above. From the brief exchange she’d been able to have with the regimental commander before the boats deployed, the Terran fleet had jumped into the middle of a naval meat grinder that had already left dozens of burning hulks in its wake. No enemy ships had maneuvered to intercept the carriers as they raced from their in-bound jump points to the drop zones over Keran, for which everyone was thankful. But there were still plenty left that were hitting back at the Terran fleet and what ships were left of the French Alliance, and Steph felt herself uncharacteristically worried about Ichiro.

  The thought of him gave her a momentary pause from her contemplations of falling through the atmosphere in the company of a bunch of suicidal cavalry troopers. What exactly did she feel for Ichiro? she asked herself. While the two of them had certainly become more than friends, could she say that she loved him? Even if she did, assuming that both of them survived this, what could they do about it? Ichiro had made it clear that he wanted to stay in the Navy, and the war would almost certainly mean extended service for everyone in the military, and possibly even a draft if the president could get it approved by Congress. Despite the series of events that had linked her fate to Ichiro’s over the last year, her own career would no doubt take a separate road from his. Her being aboard this ship and not with the fleet above them was already proof enough of that. Looking beyond any love the two of them might share, even if she decided to settle down and start a family - a bridge she was not yet prepared to cross - did she want to be a Navy wife, with Ichiro off on deployment for months at a time?

  She frowned inwardly, for she had no answers to those questions. But she cared enough about him that she felt they needed to have that conversation. If they mutually decided that they were better off as friends, fine. But she didn’t want to pass up even a one in a thousand chance that they could be something more. He was as close as she’d ever come to finding someone who really cared about her, and she didn’t want to throw it away.

  While she was going into harm’s way herself, she silently prayed for the Lord of All to keep him safe.

  * * *

  Lieutenant General Arjun Ray was furiou
s. As the commander of the Terran Army’s I Corps, the parent corps of the two armored divisions now plummeting toward the surface of Keran, Ray had been given the task of leading the ground portion of the battle. He was subordinate to Tiernan, who was in overall command of the expeditionary force, but once the admiral’s carriers got Ray’s troops to the surface he would largely be on his own. His greatest concern had been the threat of Kreelan attack against the carriers before his troops could even hit dirt. But soon after the boats had deployed for the surface he discovered that he had another battle to fight.

  “My apologies, general,” the brigadier of the Keran Defense Forces repeated sternly, and not sounding very apologetic at all, “but you have no clearance to land your troops. Our diplomatic service is already sending a démarche to the Terran embassy here to protest the presence of your fleet.” He shook his head. “We will not allow, under any circumstances, Terran ground forces to land on Keran soil.”

  “My god, man, do you have any idea what is happening right over your heads?” Ray asked him, trying desperately to rein in his anger. “The Alliance Fleet has taken serious losses and may very well not be able to prevent the enemy from attempting a landing if they should choose to. If we don’t get our troops on the ground now and consolidate our defenses, we may not get another chance. I’ll speak to the Alliance commander and try to get him to convince you-”

  “General,” the brigadier rudely interrupted, enjoying the opportunity to tweak a superior officer from another planet’s service, “the Alliance has no say in this matter. They are here simply for exercises with our own navy. We have received no reports of enemy activity-”

  “I can hear the bloody raid warning sirens going off in the background of your transmission, you idiot!” Ray shouted, finally losing his temper. He had already been in contact with Ambassador Pugacheva of the Terran Embassy and so had some idea of the disarray the Keran government was in at the moment. But this was simply too much. Calmly dickering with this imbecile while strapped into a combat chair in an assault boat as it screamed toward the surface was simply beyond the patience of anyone but a saint. “Brigadier, let me make this clear to you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am landing my troops at the coordinates we sent you earlier, with the intention of taking up positions on the left flank of the Alliance Foreign Legion troops that have deployed on the outskirts of Foshan.”

  Foshan was the largest population center on the planet, although the planetary capital was a smaller city to the north. It was a bustling metropolis that had a nearly perfect balance between the Arabic and Chinese populations. The city center had an impressive skyline of high-rise office buildings sporting garish video banners, countered by the graceful spires of minarets from the many mosques that lined the downtown area. The city’s main roads radiated from the downtown area like spokes of a wheel, serving a colorful hodgepodge of neighborhoods and shopping districts that were a mix of pagoda-style buildings and white- or tan-faced stone structures with intricate scrollwork that were typical of many of Earth’s cities in what was once the Middle East.

  Ray knew that three more French divisions would be deploying to Foshan, while the remaining five would be divided up among the three other largest population centers. It was scant coverage in terms of defending against a planetary assault, but it was all they had to work with. They would be leavened with men from the Keran paramilitary forces, but that was about all the support the off-world troops could expect. Like their navy, the Keran military had little actual combat capability, amounting to a total of three light infantry brigades and some antiquated aerospace defense systems.

  “And let me make sure that you understand something,” Ray continued. “You are dealing with the commander of two heavy armored divisions. If my troops or the assault boats transporting them are molested in any way by Keran forces,” he growled as he leaned closer to the video pickup, “I will have those divisions blow you little fuckers to bits and grind what’s left into fertilizer. Do I make myself clear, brigadier?”

  The other man’s darker skin, be it from Chinese or Arab descent, Ray could not have cared less, visibly paled. Beyond the insult, he must have immediately come to the conclusion that Ray wasn’t bluffing. On that count, he would have been quite correct. “I will let my commander know that you intend to force a landing on our sovereign soil,” he protested with as much indignation as he could muster, “and convey your threats against our forces. And I will lodge the strongest possible protest with your embassy, general!”

  “Go right ahead, you little bastard,” Ray spat dismissively as he killed the connection. “Just don’t get in my way.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant-Colonel Lev Stepanovich Grishin, commander of the Première Régiment étranger de cavalerie, or 1er REC, of the Alliance Légion étrangère watched with professional interest as the Terran assault boats swept down to their drop sites to the south of his unit’s position. He had briefly listened to the local Keran military liaison rant about the Terran “invasion” and orders he had for Grishin to fire on the boats before they landed. Making no attempt to conceal his contempt, Grishin kicked the fool out of his command vehicle and had him escorted out of the regiment’s defense perimeter. He knew that not all Keran military officers were idiots, but there were enough in key positions to be causing trouble when they desperately needed to be pulling themselves together. The Legion operations staff had been keeping track of the hammering that the Alliance fleet had taken, and Grishin himself had given up a cheer when the Terran ships had appeared. While the Legion had been his home for nearly twenty years and he fully expected to die in uniform, he would prefer that he and his men not be wasted unnecessarily by incompetent bureaucrats.

  “Have we made contact with them?” he asked his adjutant.

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied immediately. “We can only speak in the clear, mon colonel. The communications security systems are not compatible. Their commander is waiting to speak with you.”

  Nodding, Grishin spoke, his voice picked up by the tiny microphone embedded in his helmet. “Terran ground commander,” he said, “this is Lieutenant-Colonel Grishin, commander of the First Cavalry Regiment of the Alliance Foreign Legion. To whom am I speaking, please?”

  “Bonjour, colonel,” came a gravelly voice that was unmistakably from the American South. While he appreciated the gesture, Grishin winced at the man’s pronunciation of the traditional French greeting, hoping that the Terran officer would prefer to speak English. While his own French carried an unmistakable Russian accent, it was pure Parisian compared to this man’s speech. “This is Colonel James Sparks, commanding the 7th Cavalry Regiment, 1st Guards Armored Division. We’re going to be operating on your left flank, and I wanted to stop by and coordinate our lines and fire plans with you, if I may.”

  “Certainly, colonel,” Grishin told him. “My command post is at-” he read off some coordinates, “-and I will be waiting for you.”

  “Thank you, colonel,” Sparks said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Sparks, out.”

  Grishin looked at his adjutant, who shrugged. “At least they will have tanks,” his adjutant said. “That must count for something...”

  Exactly ten minutes later, Grishin tried to keep the dismay from showing on his face as the Terran regimental commander dismounted from the wheeled reconnaissance vehicle that had pulled up in front of Grishin’s mobile command post. Sparks looked as if he had walked off the set of an ancient American “western” movie. While he was dressed in the standard combat uniform of the Terran Army, the wiry man wore a cowboy-style black cavalry officer’s hat replete with an insignia of crossed sabers and a gold acorn band, along with a matching bright yellow ascot showing from the vee of the neck of his combat tunic. And under his left arm, carried in a matte black leather shoulder holster, was the biggest handgun Grishin had ever seen. The huge weapon was nickel plated with contoured grips that he would have wagered a month’s pay were made of mother-of-pearl.


  But the most ridiculous thing, Grishin thought, aghast, was what the Terran wore on the heels of his boots: riding spurs, which made a ching-ching-ching sound as the Terran colonel strode purposefully toward him.

  The man was simply outrageous.

  “Mon Dieu,” Grishin’s adjutant whispered, desperately trying to hold his face rigid and not burst out laughing.

  Grishin shared the sentiment right up until the moment that Sparks took off his sunglasses and tucked them in a pocket as he drew to within hand-shaking distance. While Grishin did not believe that the eyes told everything about a man, in some cases they could tell a great deal. And in this case, Sparks’s piercing blue eyes and no-nonsense expression told him what he needed to know. A Hollywood dandy, this man might be. But Grishin suspected, and greatly hoped, that he was a formidable combat commander, as well.

  Rendering a sharp salute, Grishin said formally, “On behalf of the men of the 1er Régiment étranger de cavalerie, I welcome you, sir.”

  Sparks snapped a salute that was parade-ground perfect, then said, “Thank you, colonel. I appreciate the hospitality.” As Grishin lowered his salute and shook the Terran colonel’s extended hand, noting how strong the smaller man’s grip was, Sparks went on, “But if it’s all the same to you, I suggest we get down to business over a glass of whiskey.” Like magic, he produced a small silver-plated flask and held it up with a devilish grin on his face.

  Grishin could no longer help himself. Laughing, he gestured for Sparks to accompany him into the command post. “Come, colonel,” he told Sparks. “If you have whiskey, there’s no time to lose...”

  * * *

  Steph stood in the background, recording the coordination session and making verbal notes as she watched the two commanders and their small staffs huddle around the map display in Grishin’s command vehicle. Of the two men, she wasn’t sure which one was more unusual. Sparks was outwardly an extreme stereotype of the romantic cavalryman, but even in the short time she had been with his unit she had discovered that the men and women who served in his regiment would go to hell and back for him without a second thought. He was polite, thoughtful, and unquestionably loved the men and women who served under him as if they were family. But he could also be ruthless and absolutely merciless to those he found lacking in the will to do their best, or who in any way dishonored his regiment. And from hearing him speak, ruthless and merciless would be the lead traits of his personality that he planned to direct at the enemy.