by Unknown
The admiral turned his attention back to his audience, “We must now act quickly. I am ordering the First Fleet to deploy itself along the Kuiper Asteroid Belt, this to create a delaying action
195
against the first wave. The Second Fleet is still stationed in Attayan space, and will provide transit for our Marine forces when that order comes down. Third Fleet is to encircle Earth along the outer satellite paths, as a last wall of defense. Individual mission packets will be direct-beamed to our star-subs once they are underway.”
“General Towers?” He offered, taking his case, and moving aside.
Towers took the podium, and pulled a file from his own briefcase. He made a motion to the aide, indicating he did not need the projector. As the image faded, and the lighting returned to normal, the general closed the file, and leaned on his elbows with hands clasped together. For an instant, Robert wondered if the man were about to lead them in prayer.
“It’s imperative that no one in this room hold the misconception that we’re going to hold off an invasion.”
The statement was so matter-of-fact, and brutally honest that it took a moment for everyone to really absorb his words.
“We’re facing forces that are superior in number, strength, and experience. I’m not discounting what our Space Navy is capable of, but we have to swallow the fact that in the end, the Storians are going to break through. Landfall is going to happen. We’ll fight, we’ll do our damndest, but Earth is going to be occupied.”
The general held up a finger, “But, what matters is what we’re going to do about it. Taking Earth will be no easy task. Occupying it, and holding that ground is going to require monumental support, especially if you consider that he already has large portions of his First Army committed to holding Pala, and Denmoore. Once he is in that position, we will have our best opportunities to exploit those weaknesses.”
Towers stood upright, pointing toward the ceiling, “The Attayans have officially entered into the war as our allies, and have
196
considerable assets to contribute. Grozet might win the first few battles, ladies and gentlemen, but it will be we who win this war. We must, because if we fail, the human race faces certain genocide.”
Admiral McKee cleared his throat, and pitched in.
“Current intel suspects that the initial ground invasion will likely be focused on the seat of the Global Union, as well as the chief supporting countries. This means the United States faces possibly the worst of the attacks, with the European, and Asiatic Alliances being right behind. This is a turning point in our history. Let’s make it one that is ultimately in our favor.”
General Towers sighed, and folded his arms, “At the risk of sounding preachy, what we are facing is beyond a simple war. This is the precipice of extinction. The future of mankind literally depends on us right now. This is where we make our stand.”
The admiral, with a stern face, took a last look at what represented his entire space navy.
“Officers, man your vessels!”
The room came to its feet, and the officers saluted proudly.
Kuiper Asteroid Belt, Section 17
November 4th, Earth Standard Calendar
The bridge of the USS Belleau Wood was deathly quiet.
Captain Robert Corbin loomed over the illuminated plotting table, mug of coffee in hand, reading navigation data with suspicion. The numbers that he had been seeing over the past hour made no
197
sense to him. Nor could the CIC glean any use from it, either. What should have been simply wasn’t there. What was unlikely, and lacked any logic, was.
What the hell are they up to? He thought.
Across the narrow space from him, First Officer Ghent stood behind the shoulder of the Operations tech, the two of them listening to comm traffic bouncing from ship to ship some several thousand clicks away. There were pitched battles being fought across a wide spectrum of the belt, in what appeared to be completely random locations. There was not a single, concentrated push being attempted anywhere.
“This is insane!” Ghent complained. “Why are Grozet’s ships so spread out?”
Robert sipped his java, pondering that very question. The markers on the table reflected chaos. The Storian groups had broken formation, and dropped from Anderson at all points of the Kuiper belt, scattering so that the Goliath task force was forced to busy itself in one individual scuffle after another. None had yet to break through, despite there being several gaps that were wide open.
“They’re feeling us out,” Robert finally said.
Ghent looked at him incredulously, “Testing for weak spots? They’re blind if they can’t see them!”
The captain nursed his coffee, slowly shaking his head, “Not testing the perimeter. Testing us. They’re getting a feel for how we can fight.”
Ghent moved over to the plotting table, “And, here we’ve sat for the better part of an hour, ignored.”
Robert pointed at the indicators, “All of the carriers, and LHA’s are being passed by. The Storians are hitting the cruisers,
198
and destroyers. Plus, by following their hit-and-run tactics, they’re preventing us from launching the air wings, because we wouldn’t know where to send them. Too long of a range, anyway.”
“Sir?” The Ops tech called out.
Ghent returned to her station to see what she was pointing at on her monitor. He mumbled a curse, and looked over at Robert.
“The Trent Lewis just launched her buoy.”
Robert winced, as if pained. He sat his cup down in a nearby holder, and leaned on the table. The missile cruiser doing so meant that she was on the verge of destruction. The data buoy was intended for transmitting a ship’s last known position, event definition, and crew count in the hopes that a rescue mission could find the lifeboats in time.
This was their fifth such loss in only three hours.
“Any lifeboats?”
Ghent examined the data scrolling down the screen, gritting his teeth. He then shook his head no. The Storians had been firing on the escape craft all morning. No prisoners taken, no chances of survival given.
A shrill tone began to sound from the Tracking station, drawing everyone’s attention. The young petty officer manning it shouted, his eyes wide.
“Captain! Heavy contact dropping out of Anderson, right on top of the Lunar lanes!”
Both senior officers descended on that station while gasps went out around them. The computer had already identified it as a full carrier. Four medium contacts appeared behind it, in a wide V pattern, its destroyer escort.
199
“They’re making their move.” Ghent stated.
“Star Harbor, Jesus!” Robert breathed.
There was a minimal defense force stationed around it. Being a civilian structure, it was the assumption that the harbor would be ignored. Earth was supposed to be the primary target.
“There’s only half a dozen fast-attack boats there,” Ghent said. “They don’t stand a chance by themselves.”
The comm box over the command dias began to buzz. Robert stepped up to it, and grabbed the receiver from its cradle, “Bridge.”
“CIC watch officer,” a voice replied, sounding tinny over the phone system. “We’re receiving flash traffic.”
“Patch it to me,” Robert told him, replacing the receiver, and sitting at his command console. The over-monitor began to chatter, its screen going red as encrypted data began to open for him.
---From Galactic Command Authority to all able vessels---
---No drill---No drill---Emergency Action Orders---
---Lunar Array and Star Harbor facing imminent attack---
---Disengage, and offer assistance---
---Release of nuclear weapons has been authorized---
Robert let out a slow, measured breath, and forced himself to project calm. Every eye on the Bridge was on him, eyes that were young, and frightened. He stood, and stepp
ed to the rail, facing them.
200
“Tracking, give me a sweep.”
The tech ran off another check, “One heavy contact, four mediums. Bearing is two-one-one, true. Fifteen degrees lateral. I.D. confirmed, Storian carrier task force in attack formation. Strike range on Star Harbor in twenty-nine minutes.”
Ghent had joined Robert on the dias, and spoke low in his ear so as not to be overheard, “We’ll be outgunned five-to-one.”
Robert nodded, first answering him, “I know.” He then spoke more loudly to be heard by everyone.
“Helm, time to intercept?”
That tech had anticipated that question, and already had the information ready, “Fifteen minutes, best speed.”
“Commander Ghent, sound the general alarm.”
The commander swept up the handset, and slapped a toggle. His voice resounded throughout the ship, followed closely by the gonging of the alarm.
“On the 1MC! General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations! Move forward to starboard, and aft to port! Set Condition Zebra throughout the ship! This is not a drill!”
After a full minute, that alarm ceased gonging, and the commander spoke again.
“Flight Quarters, Flight Quarters! Air Department personnel man your flight quarters stations! Pilots, man your aircraft! Prepare for combat launch!”
Unseen from the Bridge, crew members were running for their assigned stations. Air
201
tight doors swung shut, and sealed. Damage Controlmen donned firefighting suits. The medical bay prepared for mass casualties. Weapons batteries were manned, and sealed off. Various support departments brought inert systems up to full capacity. All of this was completed in less than three minutes, thanks to endless drills.
The CIC buzzed, and Robert picked up.
“All action stations report ready, Sir.”
“Thank you,” the captain acknowledged, looking over toward the navigation officer. “Plot a course, and get us the hell into the action.”
The lieutenant practically shouted at the helmsman, who was seated mere feet away. Adrenaline was flowing freely.
“Bring us to port, two-one-one, true! Indicate All Ahead Full!”
“Turns to port, Aye!” The young man repeated, pulling on the yolk. “Two-one-one, true! All Ahead Full!”
As the Belleau Wood executed its hard turn, gaining incredible speed, Robert disconnected the CIC, and dialed Engineering.
“Initiate Anderson Drive!”
In one instant, the flat-deck was there, and in the next gone, leaving only a fading trail of glowing plasma in its wake. Space was returned to darkness, backlit by its infinite sea of stars, unaware and uncaring of the struggles going on within it.
202
Empire of Storia super-carrier Elsys
Outer Lunar Traffic Lanes
Storian Rear Admiral Arham stood tall, and utterly still on the bridge of his flag ship, his reptilian-like eyes watching the Terran moon grow in size as they drew steadily closer to it.
In a fixed orbit above its sunlit side, the gleaming spires and piers of Star Harbor reflected Sol’s glow. He admitted grudgingly that it was a beautiful sight to behold. A jewel of engineering prowess. On the lunar surface below it jutted the Lunar Array, a colony of atmospheric domes, and towering antenna.
Arham wondered how a race could construct things so fantastic, yet fail to possess a military capable of defending them. It was testimony to the weakness of this particular breed of human. Even worse than the inferior Storian bloodlines of Pala, at least they had fought with all of their might, as incapable as they were. Worthy of a respectful death. In so far, he remained unimpressed with the Terrans. Hiding as they were behind the more adept Attayans, who would be a force to be reckoned with, when that time came.
“Give me a sweep,” Arham spoke in his native tongue.
The ship’s captain repeated the order, making a feeble attempt to retain an air of authority. The admiral could understand the resentment of having a flag officer take over one’s command. He remained silent at the gesture, allowing it. So long as the captain did not tread too far over the line, there was no harm in allowing her to save face with her crew.
The Tracking tech gave the same report as before, “Six light cruisers in a defensive position dead ahead, range…two thousand.
203
No major naval contacts so far. Range to Star Harbor…twenty-four hundred.”
Arham permitted himself a grin. His tactics were working as he had believed they would. The inexperienced Terran navy was beside itself trying to make sense of his fleet’s apparently random maneuvers. They had allowed themselves to be drawn apart, and were now spread so thin that an organized response to his attack on the harbor would be impossible.
The Tracking station began to bleep, interrupting his prose.
“New contact, Admiral. A heavy, bearing port-aft, range four-two-five, closing fast.”
“A heavy. Is it a carrier?” That could present a problem.
The tech was frowning, confused, “If it is, Sir, it’s a smaller one. Perhaps an LHA.”
A helicopter support platform had every bit of bite as a full carrier, just with a smaller air wing. It would be to his advantage to disable their flight deck, above all else.
Arham cast his gaze on the captain, “Order one of the escorts to break away, and engage.”
Arham returned his attention to the forward view port, his smile restoring itself. The dawn of a new battle always did make him feel spry.
204
USS Belleau Wood
Robert drummed his fingers on the dias rail, mulling calculation over in his head.
It was true, what his First Officer had told him. They were charging headlong into odds stacked against them. He was not foolish enough to believe that his ship would be able thwart the strike force singlehandedly, but he did plan to at least hold them at bay until other ships could reach them.
The overhead comm box buzzed, and he answered it quickly, “Captain.”
“CIC watch officer. One medium contact has broken formation, and is maneuvering to intercept us. We’ll be in mutual firing range in under two minutes.”
“Thank you.” Robert disconnected, and leaned over to look at the Air Boss seated in his own over-monitor in the Pri-Fly. “Launch the Alert Five!”
The Air Boss nodded, and began speaking rapidly into his headset. On the flight deck below them, the yellow shirts began making frantic hand gestures to the pilots sitting in their jet-shuttles. The Alert Five were fighters stationed right on the launch line, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Their job was to provide additional security for the ship until it was in a position to launch the entire attack wing.
The compact jets screamed form the deck, one after another, the roar of their engines cut abruptly off as they breached the Anderson field that created the atmosphere around the ship. The deck crews cheered, and waved as they took off. The kids had ambition. That was a good sign.
205
The captain punched in a number, and waited through only a single buzz.
“Missile room.”
“This is the captain. Spin up missile tubes one and two, prepare for nuclear release on my order. Also prep a pair of MAC-7’s.”
“Aye, Sir.”
Robert replaced the handset, and locked eyes with the Helm officer, “Adjust our course to meet this contact head-on.”
“Aye, Sir.” The lieutenant again shouted the order to the nearby tech. “Come right hard, ten degrees! Fifteen degree down-plane!”
“Hard to Starboard! Ten degrees! Fifteen degree down-plane, Aye!” The kid acknowledged.
“Weapons!” Robert ordered. “Program Launch One to target the carrier flight deck! Launch Two for its forward escort!”
“Aye, Sir!”
Ghent leaned in close again, “You’re not leaving us time to fire an advance salvo against this interceptor.”
“The Alert Fiv
e will have to take the brunt for us. We need to get ourselves between the harbor, and that carrier.”
The weapons officer turned, “Torpedoes programmed, and ready for release!”
As the tempo of the situation grew, so did the volume of people’s responses. Adrenaline was flowing freely, mixing with an element of fear. This would mark the first actual combat engagement for the entire crew.
206
“Launch them all!”
From the exterior of the Belleau Wood, missile breaches opened, and four bright trails lanced forward, cutting paths in the direction of Earth’s moon. Slightly to the ship’s right, the form of the enemy destroyer loomed.
Proximity alarms sounded on the Bridge as sensors reacted to the attacker bearing down on them. The Alert Five fighters reached it, and began firing both rockets, and their gatlings. Blazer fire erupted from anti-aircraft batteries at the jets as they swarmed deftly around the hull. The ship did not falter in its charge.
“Storian destroyer has achieved firing range!” The Tracking tech announced.
As if to punctuate the words, the destroyer’s forward 20-inch guns let loose. Rounds blazed out, short-tailed comets of raw energy that slammed into the starboard stern line, rocking the Belleau Wood violently. The durable plating held, but had been buckled inward where the rounds struck.
“Rail guns, fire at will!” Robert ordered, bracing himself on the dias rail. “Helm, maintain heading and speed! We have to catch up to that carrier!”
Defense batteries along the starboard side lit space, pouring fire across the destroyer’s bow even as its cannons fired again. Rounds arced slightly higher this time, three of them walking forward toward the upper lip of the flight deck. The fourth missed, sailing past to crash against the middle section of the island. The explosion flashed outward across the deck, blowing men off of their feet, and sending equipment flying. A heavy-duty power cart used for moving ordinance tumbled against a parked helo, hard enough to shift it several feet. Aviation fuel began pouring from a gash in the shuttle-chopper’s tank, and immediately ignited from the shower of sparks still falling from the hit on the command tower.
