The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX

by Jay Allan

  “But the LZ is surrounded, General.” Arch Mantooth had been with Gilson since the beginning of the First Imperium War. She’d given him his eagles at the beginning of that conflict and his star after Arcadia. “You think we suffered heavy losses to the landers in the first wave, fresh after the bombardment and with whatever level of surprise we had?” His voice was raw. He hated counseling caution when fellow Marines were in trouble, but it wasn’t going to help the men and women on the ground if they got another wave blown out of the sky.

  “So what do we do, Arch? Send down a load of bodybags and say, ‘so sorry! We can’t get any help down to you?” Her voice had been harsher than she’d intended. She knew Mantooth would be the last to abandon fellow Marines. And he was right. Getting a whole new batch of men and women shot to pieces wasn’t going to do Heath’s people any good.

  Mantooth took a deep breath. “So what do we do, General?” There was a brittleness to his tone, a sensitivity that told Gilson her outburst had found its mark.

  “We go in.” The gravelly voice came from the far end of the table. Sam Thomas stared right at Gilson as he spoke. “It’s what we do. We don’t count the cost, we don’t worry about shit we can’t change. Liberating Columbia is important enough, but by God, there are Marines down there under fire.” His volume had risen steadily, and now his roar practically shook the table. “That’s all we need to know. That’s all that’s ever mattered.” His eyes remained locked on Gilson’s. “That’s all Elias would have needed to know.” Thomas knew he wasn’t being fair using Holm’s memory to manipulate Gilson, but he didn’t care. He was too old for bullshit games, and he’d be damned if they were going to leave those Marines down there to be overwhelmed and destroyed.

  “Sam, you know I would never abandon our people down there.” Gilson knew he was working her, but that didn’t stop his words from having exactly the effect he’d intended. “But how can we drop more troops into a pinpoint zone like that with the enemy on all sides?” She was staring at the map projected onto the table. “We’ll have to set up a new LZ.”

  “For that to do any good, we’d have to set up the new zone at least 200 klicks from the first. Otherwise, we’ll still be coming down right on top of the heavy enemy concentration.” Mantooth was staring at the map as he spoke. “We’ll just end up with two groups surrounded.”

  “There’s no choice.” Sam Thomas flashed his eyes toward Mantooth then back to Gilson. He slapped his hand down hard on the table. “We have to reinforce the original LZ.” Thomas was well into his 80s, but years of rejuv treatments had taken at least 20 of those off his effective age. Still, he had every one of those years’ worth of ornery stubbornness. “This is like Persis all over again.”

  Everyone present knew the history of the battle that ended the Second Frontier War, but Sam Thomas had actually been there. “It was Elias Holm and his battalion trapped down on the planet then, and by God, Viper Worthington wasn’t about to leave any of his Marines behind, and damned the cost.” He didn’t add that Worthington had been killed in the final stages of his rescue mission, but everyone knew that already. Worthington’s story was woven deeply into Corps legend, and first year boots knew the story of Persis.

  Gilson sat quietly for a few seconds. “If only we had some atmospheric fighters,” she said quietly. “A few squadrons could lay down a bombardment to provide close cover to the transports.” She shook her head. It was pointless to wish for something she knew they didn’t have. All their fighter wings were gone, destroyed in the endless series of battles they had fought.

  “I can give you close support.” Elizabeth Arlington had been sitting quietly in the corner while the Marines debated their next move, but now she spoke up.

  Gilson turned to face her longtime friend. “How, Lizzie? There’s not an atmospheric fighter in the fleet.”

  “No, but we’ve got plenty of fast attack ships, especially the Lightning-class birds.”

  Gilson looked confused. “Those ships aren’t streamlined for atmospheric flight, Lizzie.”

  Arlington just stared back at her friend. “Not officially, no. But they’re pretty sleek craft, and they have a tougher frame than most ships their size. With a good enough pilot…”

  “You can’t be serious. The risk would be…”

  “No more than your Marines are taking, Cate.” Arlington looked around the table. “I came up through the suicide boats, and my piloting stats were the best in the wing.”

  “You want to go yourself?” Gilson’s tone was one of shock. “You’ve got a whole task force to command, and you’re talking about taking a suicidal run in a fast attack ship?”

  “I’m the least essential officer in the fleet. I’ve got Admiral Garret on my flagship. That makes me as extraneous as an appendix.” She took a deep breath. “And I’d wager I could find 3 or 4 other volunteers to pilot some additional ships.”

  “Lizzie…” Gilson’s voice was hoarse, her throat dry. Arlington was one of her closest friends, and she was talking about throwing her life away on a desperate strafing run. But the men and women on the ground were her Marines, and they needed help.

  “I’m OK, Cate.” Arlington knew her friend was worried about her, as she had been since Terrence Compton and his people were trapped behind the barrier, stuck in First Imperium space facing almost certain death. Her halting and fitful romance with Compton had been one of the worst kept secrets in the fleet, but only Gilson and a few others knew just how much she had loved him, and how badly his loss had hurt her. “I can do this.” She locked her eyes on Gilson’s. “And I will come back. I’m not trying to commit suicide.”

  Gilson closed her eyes and nodded. There wasn’t any other choice. Without some close air support, her second wave would be decimated before it even hit the ground. And if she did nothing, Heath and his people would be wiped out.

  “OK, Lizzie.” She fought to get the words out. “When can you be ready?”

  Chapter 6

  Flag Bridge

  MCS John Carter

  Near the Saturn Relay Station

  Sol System

  Duncan Campbell stood on the flag bridge of John Carter, staring at the incoming vessels on the plotting screen. Carter had been his ship, and he’d captained her for two years before Roderick Vance sent him to Earth to destroy Gavin Stark’s main clone production facility. He’d completed that mission without a hitch…unless you considered hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians dead from radiation poisoning to be a hitch.

  Vance had known the consequences of his orders, and Campbell had as well. John Carter’s ex-skipper had done what had to be done, and the nightmares that had invaded his sleep since were his problem, one he kept to himself. The scar on his soul was no less a battle wound than a bullet would have delivered, and he knew he would carry it the rest of his life.

  Campbell had completed another mission for Vance, a wild, all caution to the wind race to the planet Armstrong to deliver a warning to Erik Cain. He’d burnt out his ship in that one, barely managing to get through to the planet and crash land. He was badly injured, but he delivered his message as ordered. Sarah Linden had tended to his wounds, saving his life and putting him back together with remarkable efficiency. Now he was back, and his reward was waiting for him when he arrived. Admiral’s stars and command of the main fleet.

  Campbell wondered if the massive promotion was based on his skill as a naval officer or the fact that Roderick Vance could count on him to follow his orders no matter what, even to slaughter millions if his command required it. He didn’t know, but he suspected it was a combination of the two, with a bit of his father’s influence thrown in as well.

  He leaned back in his chair, shifting, trying to find an angle where his back didn’t hurt. Dr. Linden had done remarkable work just saving his life, and she’d wanted him to stay in the hospital for at least another month. But duty called, and Campbell insisted on leaving as soon as he was able. The ride back to Mars, trapped in the tanks while
another one of Vance’s Torch speeders tore through space at almost 50g, hadn’t helped his partially healed spine any, and now he often found himself in considerable pain.

  “Scanner report?” He glanced at the communications console. He’d taken Lieutenant Christensen with him when he moved to the flag bridge, bumping her up to Lieutenant Commander in the process.

  “The unidentified ships are still on an intercept course, Admiral.” She paused, looking down at her workstation. “Estimated time to extreme combat range, 23 minutes.”

  Unidentified my ass, Campbell thought. Those are Gavin Stark’s ships. Vance had warned him they might be coming, a sudden and urgent communique that was short on details. He’d managed to concentrate the fleet just in time.

  He’d been surprised at first, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Admiral Garret was at Columbia with his combined fleet, supporting the Marine invasion of the planet. It was a perfect time for Stark to make a move against Mars, and there he was, right on schedule.

  “Bring the fleet to red alert, Commander.” Campbell took a deep breath. Stark’s fleet outnumbered his by a considerable margin, but Campbell had faith in his people. They were free Martians, defending their planet against a tyrant who would make them into slaves. They would do whatever had to be done.

  “Yes, Admiral.” She paused a few seconds before continuing. “All ships report red alert status.”

  He stared at the screen watching the enemy ships approach. The formation was standard, unimaginative, but it was also solid, right out of the textbook. John Carter and its twin, Sword of Ares, were bigger and stronger than anything the enemy fleet had, but Campbell only had another 4 battleships. The incoming armada had 12, and enough punch to take out every ship in Campbell’s fleet.

  “I want every weapons crew on the fleet to conduct full diagnostics on their targeting systems.”

  “Yes, sir.” Christensen relayed the command.

  Campbell could practically hear the groans on the other ships. Naval crews hated routine tasks, especially right before entering battle. But Campbell didn’t give a shit. A minor recalibration of a targeting system could be the difference between a miss and a critical hit, and if the Martian Fleet was going to survive the next few hours, it was going to need every pinpoint shot it could manage. Besides, he’d rather have them scrambling to run superfluous tests than sitting in their seats for 20 minutes staring at the massive enemy fleet bearing down on them.

  He looked down at his workstation, punching the keys to bring up a tactical map. He knew he was facing a hell of an introduction to fleet command, and if he was going to win, he had to think outside the box. His two massive battlewagons had the heaviest laser armaments of any ships in space. If he could get them close enough, their x-ray lasers would cut Stark’s older capital ships into scrap. But the enemy knew that too. The Carter and the Sword of Ares would attract missile fire from every ship in the enemy fleet. They’d be gutted before they entered laser range.

  His eyes moved to the large circle on the edge of the battle map. Saturn. Maybe, he thought…just maybe. He punched in some calculations, programming a simulation. It was close, but if he timed it just right, and if the enemy didn’t alter their trajectory, it just might work.

  “Commander Linken, plot a course for John Carter and Sword of Ares directly toward Saturn.”

  Linken was another refugee from Campbell’s old bridge crew who’d followed his commander to his new post. He turned and glanced back at the admiral with a quizzical look on his face. “Yes, sir,” he stammered.

  “Transmit your course calculation to the helm and to Sword of Ares when you are ready.” He turned his head and looked over toward Christensen. “Commander, get me Captain Oswald on Sword of Ares.”

  Maybe, he thought. Just maybe this will work.

  Liang Chang stared at the main display. The enemy fleet was dividing into two sections. Its two biggest battleships were detaching from the main force, heading for the protection of Saturn. Their battleline was already outnumbered; without the superbattleships they didn’t have a chance.

  “All ships, increase thrust to 4g.” Chang wanted to close and finish off the Martian fleet before their heavy units could reverse course. Once the rest of the fleet was destroyed, he could hunt down the giant battlewagons at will. He knew the two ships were awesomely powerful, but they wouldn’t stand a chance against his whole fleet. Whatever the Martian commander was thinking, Liang was sure he had made a mistake, one that would cost him his fleet.

  He was tempted to zip everybody up and blast away at full thrust, closing the distance that much faster, but he didn’t want to fight the battle from the tanks. The Martians were outnumbered, but they had a reputation for professionalism, and he wasn’t about to underestimate them. He knew his crews were no match for the Martians man for man, and he wanted them at their best for the battle. Naval commanders told themselves various things, but Liang knew that no crew ever made was as effective operating from the acceleration tanks, drugged up and half-crushed to death.

  “Admiral Liang, we are approaching launch range.” Vladimir Lugarin’s voice was deep, his Russian accent thick. Stark had mandated English as the language to be used on his fleet, but there were many crew members, Liang himself, who were native to other tongues. Those who couldn’t speak English used portable AIs to translate, but Lugarin thought he spoke English better than he did, and his AI was rarely activated.

  “All ships prepare to launch externally-mounted ordnance.” Liang spoke excellent English, like most of the elite classes in the CAC. It was an idiosyncrasy of CAC culture. The English-speaking Alliance had been the enemy for more than a century, and the United States and its allies before that. Yet, despite the almost xenophobic ethos the CAC had developed, and the mandated respect for ethnically pure culture imposed on the masses, it remained the custom for the upper classes to learn other languages, particularly English.

  Lugarin worked his controls, sending the pre-fire orders to the ships of the fleet. Weapons crews were entering final missile plots and preparing to launch their deadly ordnance. In a few seconds, hundreds of gigatons of nuclear death would blast forth toward the Martian ships, and those vessels would respond with their own deadly volleys.

  “All vessels report ready to launch, Admiral.”

  Liang sat quietly for a few seconds, inhaling deeply. He’d spent most of the past two years dreading his ultimate confrontation with Augustus Garret. Liang had been the CAC’s senior admiral, the battle commander of its entire navy, but his inability to defeat the Alliance’s brilliant combat leader had cost him his rank and position…and almost his life. Li An had promised him an unpleasant death as the price of his final failure, and Liang’s only escape had been to throw himself on the mercy of her nemesis, Gavin Stark. He’d spent the years after in comfortable but total seclusion in Alliance Intelligence headquarters.

  At first he’d thought Stark kept him alive just to annoy Li An, but one day the master spy came to visit, and he offered Liang an opportunity to return to fleet command. Liang jumped at the chance, but the realization that sooner or later he would have to face his old nemesis had weighed on him since. Liang was an experienced commander, but he knew he couldn’t beat Garret, not without a massive superiority he was unlikely to have. When he got the order to ready the fleet, he felt a flush of panic ripple through his body, but then he realized they were moving against the Martians and not Garret.

  Relieved of the burden of facing the brilliant Alliance admiral, he welcomed the chance at a battle to redeem his reputation. Now he was back in the Sol system, facing the last major spacefleet other than his and Garret’s. When it was destroyed, the Shadow Legions would be one step closer to total victory. Liang wasn’t comfortable relying on Stark’s gratitude, but he was sure it was preferable to enduring his wrath.

  He stared over at Lugarin. “All ships are to launch at once.”

  Stark sat quietly on Spectre’s cramped bridge, a
s the ship zipped past the asteroid belt bound for Mars. The two other vessels of her class flanked her in a tight formation, moving at the same velocity on matching trajectories. Wraith and Ghost were on their maiden voyages, the two newest additions to Stark’s fleet.

  The Martian Confederation controlled most of the outer solar system, and they had outposts and scanning stations on every planet and moon. But Spectre and her sisters were very special vessels, virtually undetectable to any known scanning technology. They had slipped past the Confederation’s detection net, and now they were heading straight for the Red Planet itself.

  He twisted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Stark hated space travel. In fact, he hated being off Earth. He wanted to rule mankind’s colony worlds, but he didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary. The colonists were an unruly lot, prone to ask a lot of questions and argue when they were told what to do. That was something he would deal with decisively when he took control. The colonials would learn to obey their master, those who survived the transition, at least.

  The one part of his plan he regretted was the complete destruction of Earth’s cities. He’d initially hoped to preserve some level of civilization, but Roderick Vance had wrecked that plan with his nuclear attack on the Dakota facility. In an instant, Stark lost more than two-thirds of the manpower he had to move against the Superpowers. His original idea had been to seize control when the Powers’ armies were on the verge of collapse, but before they started nuking each other’s cities. He’d had close to 1.5 million fully-armored clone soldiers ready to go, but Vance had cost him a million of those. The Dakota facility had been completely obliterated, and everyone there had perished.

  He could still succeed with the 350,000 he had left, but he needed the Powers to destroy each other first. His remaining troops would simply sweep down over the post-apocalyptic hell and impose his rule on the scattered and stunned survivors. A few government installations would survive the holocaust, but 350,000 powered infantry was enough to deal with those. He would dig the surviving politicians out of their ratholes one by one, and when he was done, all mankind would serve him and his clone descendants forever.