Alien Death Fleet [Star Frontiers 1]

by Robert E. Vardeman

“That took another ten percent of them, the sneaking bastards,” said Bendo. “But it's not the major assault. Gordon, are they turning to the new attack?”

  “Half rotated their weapons outward, sir,” came the immediate reply.

  “Take them out.”

  A new barrage of particle beams from containment-chamber, measured-detonation nukes licked upward. The bombs exploded, the searing radiation contained by rock and force fields, then funneled outward. As the first wavefront left, a new bomb detonated. By the time the chamber was reduced to force-field-backed slag, eight devices had been fired, the last one sealing the tunnel-barrel.

  The planet shook and quakes racked the buried headquarters.

  “We've destroyed half their attacking fleet, Admiral. The ships beaming the planet are reforming. Computer analysis is working, working, working. Can't identify this new attack formation.”

  “What do you make of it, Norlin?” asked Bendo.

  “This isn't any pattern for space bombardment. They're protecting the ships moving in to reinforce what's left of the initial force. They might try to duplicate the attack they used on Murgatroyd.”

  He heard Barse's teeth grinding together when he mentioned her home world.

  “The back of their attack is broken,” pointed out the admiral.

  “They're going to invade,” Norlin concluded, not thinking. “No,” he said quickly, “that's absurd. They can't land without having reduced the planet to rubble.”

  “Your instincts are good. Don't try to correct yourself. They're forming a shield to protect landing craft.”

  Try as they might, the ground defenses could not penetrate the tight shielding of ships around the huge cargo vessels in the center of the Death Fleet. Norlin watched in helpless fascination as the sky rained thousands of alien war machines.

  They had been defeated in space. So, the aliens intended to triumph on the planet's surface, where the ferocious space-aimed lasartillery and missiles couldn't be used.

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  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Stop them. Now!” bellowed Admiral Bendo. He used his controller to activate half a world of lasartillery. The fierce anti-ship beams found too few of the falling invaders.

  “We can't track them once they land, Admiral,” came the distressing report. “They're blocking our fine-sighting radars. Most of them will land at a point fifteen klicks southwest of the Pit's main entrance.”

  “They can set up mining operations there and drill through until they get into the southern corridors,” Bendo said, after a moment's thought. “That's the shallowest point in the base. How'd they know that?”

  “Who sold us out, you mean,” said Barse.

  She looked at Norlin. He had the same thought running through his mind. Mutiny and treason were cousins. Even worse, the aliens might have captured some of the ships trying to flee and interrogated the crews. He had been told at the academy of drugs that made anyone babble endlessly. The only defenses against them were ignorance and death.

  If the aliens were telepathic, they might not even need drugs to interrogate their prisoners. And he doubted the aliens cared much if their prisoners died during questioning—that might even be desired.

  Bendo swung around in his chair and preempted the base's main computer. Norlin blinked when he saw how powerful the computer was and how much of its capacity Bendo's tactical problem took. Several minutes later, the admiral released the machine for other uses.

  He had aged a dozen years in the span of those minutes of computing.

  “It's not good. We can shut off the section, but it's like cutting off our noses to spite our faces. Those are mostly storage rooms.”

  “We can live off...” Barse's voice trailed off when she understood the aliens’ strategy.

  “It's a war of attrition now,” said Norlin, coming to the same conclusion his engineer had. “They cut off our supplies and wait for us to starve. They're in no hurry.”

  “We need a fleet to bombard them from space,” said Bendo. “Without it, we're helpless to strike decisively. We've got almost no army to fight on the surface.”

  “The fleet's run off with its tail between its legs,” said Barse. “So, turn the lasartillery on the spot. You can use the fighting mirrors on the moon.”

  “It's not that simple,” said Norlin, understanding how the Pit's designers protected it. No one wanted the planetary weapons turned against the home base. The fighting mirrors would never—quite—be in position for a direct hit on the buried base. “What provisions were made for ground defense?”

  “Not much,” admitted the admiral. “Space-born invasion is impossible. Emperor Arian's best gen-hanced strategists agree on that point.”

  “Too bad they're not here to check their theories against reality,” said Barse, a sour expression on her face. “We're not going to sit here and let them starve us to death. Give me a laserifle, and I'll hunt them down like the pigs they are.”

  Her fervor brought a short laugh to Bendo's lips. “We'd have them by the short hairs if we had a thousand more like you, Lieutenant. There are a few CAVs in a position to do us any good. Transporting them from the rest of the planet leaves the remainder of the world vulnerable.”

  Norlin tried to remember what he had heard about planet-based military operations. A Complete Attack Vehicle carried cyclic-fire laser cannon, some small nuke capability and enough lanxide armor to withstand anything short of direct nuke hits and the lasartillery used by the base for its defense. He couldn't remember much else about its performance characteristics. He had focused on space systems, not ground-grippers’ war toys.

  “Check out the specs, Cap'n,” said Barse. Bendo had brought up the efficiency data for the CAV at the engineer's request. Norlin looked over her shoulder.

  “It doesn't look much different from the cruiser controls.”

  “They were designed by the same research team. The controls are similar, and the computers are identical in many systems. The life support is different, but not by much. The armament is lighter, and the variety of missiles is limited.”

  “How many CAVs do you have, and how many crews are trained to use them?” asked Norlin.

  “Fifty vehicles, half that many officers able to roll them out and into battle.”

  “Let me try, Admiral,” said Norlin. “It looks enough like the Preceptor for me to give the aliens hell, at least for a while.”

  “I think we can keep their fleet at bay now that they've landed ground forces. They'll let the surface fight rage on and possibly divert us. We don't know what they've brought down. This is a new stage of the conflict for us.”

  “This is a snap to run, Cap'n,” Barse assured him. “You can do it with your eyes closed. Let's go burn a few aliens, and then I can get back to my ship.”

  Norlin's light-purple eyes locked on the admiral's. “It will be my ship if we get through this?”

  “The Preceptor? Why not? You're a better commander than half my fleet captains.”

  “Which half? The ones remaining or the ones that ran off?” Barse thrust out her chin truculently.

  The admiral laughed harshly.

  “The ones who matter, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “It's a damned shame a lowly sublieutenant has to command a line vessel,” continued Barse. “He ought to be at least as exalted as any of his crew.”

  Bendo scowled then tapped a button and studied the vidscreen for a moment. “All right, Commander Norlin. Get your crew into a CAV and blow the hell out of them. Then you can get back to your cruiser after you've won this battle for us.”

  “That's the way we operate, Admiral,” said Barse. “We can do two impossible things before breakfast and kick ass all the way to lunch.”

  “What's the battle plan, Admiral?” Norlin's head spun. He felt as giddy as he had when he'd found himself so unexpectedly in command of the Lyman IV station.

  “Get the CAV out of storage, find the enemy, destroy.
”

  “That's it?” Barse snorted and shook her head. “Get the others down here. We'll put together a real plan. How much different can this be for Sarov? CAVs instead of cruisers. Two dimensions instead of three. He can do it standing on his head. He's the tactical officer.”

  Norlin barely noticed Bendo nod in agreement. He drifted toward a computer and began putting his own problems into its electronic maw. Tapping into the full battle knowledge of the base helped; remembering the way Pavel Pensky approached tactical problems aided him even more. The genhanced officer had been more insane than not, but his flashes of genius had given Norlin tremendous insight into outrageous tactics that worked against the aliens.

  The layout of the Pit bothered him. Getting to the alien landing force would be easy. However, if they penetrated into the storage area, they could race along, drill back to the surface and cut off any hope of retreat.

  “We can't match them in the tunnels if they break through. They'll have armor and superior support. Admiral, how many soldiers can be stationed there?”

  “Five hundred. No more. All they have are sidearms and laserifles. There aren't any heavier weapons inside the Pit.”

  Again Norlin saw the influence of the genhanced planners. The underground base need not repel invad-ers. That meant they had no reason to require heavier equipment.

  “We have to stop them from penetrating. Once they do, they can flood the Pit with poison gas, water, anything they can bring down from the surface. They don't want to occupy this post; they want to destroy it and everyone in it. How much armored shielding is there above those rooms?”

  The admiral shook his head. “I can't find those blueprints. We've sustained some computer damage from quakes. The best anyone recalls is a klick of solid rock and as much as three meters of lanxide laminate.”

  The rock might melt away in seconds with the proper laser drilling equipment. The lanxide ceramic neither cracked nor melted easily. The aliens would have to sublimate it, and Norlin wasn't sure if that could be done with portable laser drills.

  “They'll blast,” he said suddenly. “They'll nuke the area then return and come inside.”

  “That's dangerous for them,” said Barse. She turned as Miza and Sarov entered. “Where's Liottey?”

  “He's trying to get reassigned to something less dangerous,” said Sarov.

  “He wants to be a sanitation engineer and spend his hours watching shit flushed through the pipes,” Miza added. “He'd be great at it. All he has to do is match up what's in his head.”

  “There he is,” said Norlin. “Look this over. Tell me what you think.” He brought his crew into a tight circle at the console and began working out his battle plan. Sarov made revisions, which Norlin accepted. Miza scoffed at it all; he ignored her. Barse gave a list of material needed. He passed this along to the admiral. Gowan Liottey almost wept as he pleaded to be let out of the mission.

  Norlin considered having the man shot. Only the need for a decontamination officer on the CAV deterred him.

  “I've got the program ready.” He pulled the ceramic memory bar from the computer and tossed it to the admiral. “Have this programmed into the other CAVs. We'll need as much coordination as possible with the initial attack. Then it's going to get messy and no plan is likely to succeed. We just shoot at anything moving that doesn't look like another CAV.”

  “You're in charge, Commander. Good luck.”

  Bendo thrust out his frail hand. Norlin hesitated, unsure of himself. Then he shook it. The admiral's grip was surprisingly strong.

  He stepped back and saluted. Curious feelings of exhilaration and dread mixed in him. He was in command of Empire Service ground forces entering a major battle. Responsibility weighed heavily on him, but a more elemental worry turned him hollow inside.

  He would never survive this battle. Fifty poorly piloted CAVs against an unknown alien force was a suicide mission.

  “Forty-two CAVs are assembled on level three,” said the admiral. “Get into the field as quickly as you can, Commander.”

  The three crew members who didn't know about his promotion earlier looked startled. Sarov and Miza accepted it. Liottey tried to protest. Barse shut him up with an elbow to the ribs.

  “Come along, Gowan,” she said as he gasped for breath. “I'll show you what you have to do. And heaven help you if you make even a teensy mistake.”

  Norlin checked a last time to be certain the other CAV battle computers carried his attack plan. Only forty-two functional, manned vehicles. This mission had become increasingly suicidal and less likely to succeed.

  He would die trying to repel the aliens. His death might stop them from raping and plundering other human worlds.

  He walked onto the glasphalt staging area where the CAVs huddled like huge ceramic bugs. The hull design and composition turned away radiated energy throughout the spectrum and protected against acids, poison gases and many types of shaped-charge projectiles. The stubby laser snout showed four cylinders; once rotating, each shared a quarter of the prodigious total energy output. Small lumps hid the mag-rail missile launchers.

  “No nukes,” reported Sarov. “I checked. They never allowed any storage within the Pit.”

  “We're going out naked, then,” Norlin said. “That doesn't change the battle plan. Let's see what the interior is like.”

  “Yeah, we should be able to pick our own coffin,” Miza commented.

  Norlin dropped through the hatch and crawled forward. The cockpit proved more spacious than he had anticipated. The computer controls were a simpler version of his command chair on the Preceptor. He donned the heads-up display helmet and looked around. The HUD gave a full exterior view while showing small summaries of their weapons systems. Tilting his head in different directions brought up sensor readouts and target coordinates.

  “Everyone at their stations?” he ordered, using the throat mike. He adjusted the tiny button earphones and settled into the overstuffed couch, letting its arms reach up and cradle him. Using the HUD, he controlled the entire CAV.

  Acknowledgments flashed across his display. He switched to the inter-vehicle comlink and got the small defense force moving. He held on to his nerves. Curiously, even though he knew he would never return from the battle, he wanted to get started.

  The force rolled up three levels onto the glasphalt runway he had used to land the shuttle. The staunch ship had been reduced to a molten puddle during an alien ray bombardment. Norlin swallowed hard and sent a crackle of static over his throat mike when he saw a hovertruck with the front section blown off.

  He hesitated about commenting on it. Then, Barse said, “That's one date I won't have to keep. Hell of a way to keep from seeing me, though. Joe could have been one of the good ones.”

  Her cynicism settled his nerves, letting him concentrate on learning the layout as the CAV whined toward the kilometers’ distant site where the aliens fought to establish their beachhead.

  He had less than a minute to study the CAV before Sarov shouted, “Incoming!”

  The vehicle lurched as a countermeasures missile blasted from its tube.

  “Destroyed,” confirmed Miza. “Proper radio static burst of primary and secondary detonations received.”

  “Any chance of a retaliatory barrage against their launchers?” he asked Sarov.

  “We don't have enough firepower for that, Captain—or is it Commander?”

  “Captain is fine. This hunk of junk isn't the Preceptor, but it's close enough and I'm still in charge.”

  “It leaks,” complained Liottey. “We'll never withstand a gas attack. I know they'll try to gas us.”

  “Secure the damned seals,” snapped Barse. “Do your job, and we'll all live to brag about this.”

  Norlin ignored them. He studied the advance of the other CAVs. Two had been disabled when they neglected to counter alien missiles. Forty against untold numbers with incalculable strength and capability. He needed more information.

  “Miza, can you
patch through to the Preceptor? Comlink and tap into the ship's sensors. See if you can't get a picture of the ground and the alien troop placement.” He had to keep telling himself this was the same as space warfare, except for the dimensional limitation. Norlin swore because he had neglected to get the recon earlier. The pix from the Preceptor relay showed him the gross features, but nothing in the detail he wanted.

  “Sorry, Captain,” said Miza, anticipating his next request. “All the survey satellites have been destroyed. The Death Fleet scouts are good at what they do.”

  “We know enough to get started.” He tapped in instructions that were microbursted to the other CAVs over continuously changing frequencies. Even with their broad communications spectrum static the aliens couldn't block all the orders.

  The CAVs rolled into attack formation. Norlin's fingers twitched in anticipation as he paused above the button that would issue the command.

  He stabbed his finger down decisively. Forty cyclic laser cannon began firing simultaneously as the vehicles advanced into hell.

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  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  They never saw where the missiles came from. One instant Norlin was shouting for them to charge and firing the heavy cycle lasers on the CAVs’ turret. The next instant the ground turned to jelly under the heavy tracks.

  The sudden disorientation as the barrage melted the rock under the CAV and hammered it with one shock wave after another caught Norlin by surprise. His space training enabled him to recover quickly.

  “Just like orbiting over an unexpected masscon, isn't it, Cap'n?” called Barse. “We got problems, though. The right track is jammed. A bit of molten rock oozed in then hardened.”

  “Work on it. What about air supply? I taste something bitter, metallic.”

  “Burning metal odor from outside,” reported Liottey. “I can't seem to filter it. The entire vehicle is a sieve, I tell you. We have to turn back.”

  “Shut up, Liottey, and do your job. The filters have to work better than this. If not, I'll use your skin for a filter. Sarov, what can we do to make life miserable for them?”