Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  He looked up and caught Carter’s glance. The young officer had been standing silently while Cain was absorbed in his thoughts. “Yes, Jason. Send Captain Leach and her people in.” He paused, thinking quietly for a few seconds. His young self would have behaved quite differently…he would have placed respect for freedom over all things. But now he had to weigh freedom versus extinction, and it wasn’t as simple as naked ideology. The Marines were loved by the Alliance colonists, and had been for a century. Cain wondered if they wouldn’t be hated before this war was over…but he wasn’t going to let that dictate his decisions either. “Instruct her to make sure her people are respectful to the civilians, but her primary mission is to insure that all the designated personnel are conscripted. We need those technicians.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carter snapped to attention and gave Cain a crisp salute. He turned to leave but stopped and swung back around. “Sir?”

  “Yes, captain?”

  “What should we do if they resist?” Carter was tentative. The whole topic of herding civilians around was an uncomfortable one.

  “Persuade them, captain. Gently, if possible.” Cain’s voice was becoming firmer. “But nothing is to interfere with the execution of my order.”

  “And if anyone continues to resist, sir?” Carter was clearly nervous, but he’d been in the camp himself, and he knew things were likely to get out of hand. “How much force do we employ?”

  Cain stood silently for a few seconds, staring off at nothing in particular. “Captain Leach is to do her best to maintain control and explain the situation to the civilians in question and seek their cooperation.” He paused again. “However if anyone continues to resist, and their actions jeopardize the operation…” Cain turned and stared right into Carter’s eyes, his expression as cold as ice. “…tell her to shoot them.”

  Chapter 5

  Flight Squadron 7

  “Scarlet Hawks”

  Point Epsilon

  Approaching First Imperium Vanguard

  “Squadron leaders, prepare for your attack runs.” Greta Hurley’s birds were in the lead. There had been 12 of her Scarlett Hawks when they’d launched from Bunker Hill, but there were only eight in the formation now. Two were damaged, decelerating as quickly as they could to turn and try to limp back to the fleet. One of them at least, she thought, had a decent chance. The other two had been blown to bits by the enemy point defense. As bad as that was, she’d expected it to be worse. “Key on my squadron at 20 second intervals, starting in two zero seconds.”

  She’d led the squadrons of the strike force here stacked up one behind the other, a formation intended to confound the enemy point defense. So far it had done just that. Her lead formation had taken 33% casualties, but the squadrons farther back were largely intact. The force as a whole had lost less than 10% so far…vastly fewer than the most wildly optimistic projections. Now they were ready to attack, starting with her squadron.

  “Ok, Hawks, let’s score us a Gargoyle.” The strike force had targeted nine enemy vessels, a full squadron going in against each. “These things are tough as shit, boys and girls…so I don’t want anybody firing until you’re right on top of them. Only a direct hit will count in this attack.” Of course, she thought, going all the way down their throats would do nothing to increase a bomber’s chance of survival. But her people were veterans, and they knew the score. If they didn’t do enough damage, the fleet would be toast…and if the fleet went, so did they. Better to die out here, taking on the enemy, than cowering in the launch bay as your mother ship explodes around you.

  “Ten seconds to attack run. Arm plasma torpedoes.” Prepping the torpedoes was easy, just flipping a switch. No one was likely to forget, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “Five…four…three…two…one…now!” She felt the pressure slamming her chest, pushing the breath from her lungs. Even in the acceleration couch and doped up on the meds, 30g of acceleration was hard to handle. Her ship’s engine blasted full, modifying her vector to directly intersect with the target ship.

  The system was pumping oxygen into her helmet, increasing the pressure to partially compensate for the tremendous gee forces, but she still had to struggle to force air into her lungs. The burn would last a little more than four minutes; then the ship’s engine would shut down, and the crushing force would be replaced with weightlessness. That was Hurley’s plan. She wanted to be alert and aware when it was time to launch. The ship’s AI could execute the attack too, but Hurley wanted to do it herself. She knew the targeting was pure mathematics, but her many battles had taught her not to ignore intuition either.

  She was woozy and out of it. The drugs and the pressure were hard on cognitive thought. But then she felt the pinprick, the couch administering the drugs to counteract the anti-pressure meds. Then another shot and, a second or two later, clarity. The stims…a triple dose.

  “Optimal firing point in 30 seconds.” The ship’s AI had a slightly tinny, mechanical voice, and it rattled and buzzed. The ship had taken a couple minor hits on the way in, and the speaker was damaged.

  Hurley nodded, a pointless gesture. “Countdown from ten.” She flipped her com to the squadron line. “Good luck, Hawks!” The status monitor showed that all her ships had completed their burns. Now it was just 30 more seconds. Her squadron would run the gauntlet of the enemy’s close in defenses for half a minute. Then, the survivors would launch.

  She felt the ship lurch, first slightly, then harder. They were hit. The internal alarm sounded, and the vessel shook again. “Hull breach in rear compartment.” The AI’s voice was getting worse, but fixing a speaker wasn’t the top priority for the bomber’s lone repair bot. “Damage control underway.”

  It could be worse, she thought. All her people had their suits on and buttoned up. There was nobody in the rear compartment anyway. But if that breach was large enough to suck everything out into space, all their med supplies and spare parts were gone.

  “Firing point in ten seconds.” She flipped the switch to route the AI through her earpiece. “Seven…six…five…” Much better, see thought as she listened to the clear sound. “Four…three…two…”

  She launched the torpedo. The bomber lurched wildly as it fired. The torpedoes were small sprint missiles, and they blasted out of the launcher with some serious kick. She launched two seconds early by the AI’s count, but that’s when her gut told her to pull the trigger. The target ship was rapidly changing its thrust output, making it tough to calculate an exact firing solution. An educated guess was as good as a precisely programmed solution.

  Hurley couldn’t see it, of course, but she knew what was happening. The torpedo accelerated directly toward the target. It was basically a canister of compressed gas and a fusion reactor strapped onto a large engine. Just before impact the engine shut down and the reactor’s energy was diverted to superheat the gas. The resulting plasma slammed into the target at a temperature in excess of one million degrees. In most cases, even a near miss could inflict massive damage, but against a First Imperium hull, a direct hit was a must.

  She was counting down in her head, impatient for the scanning result. She leaned back in her couch, waving for the rest of the crew to do so as well. As soon as she got the damage assessment, the couch would activate, and the engines would execute an extended burn, altering their vector away from the enemy fleet and, ultimately, back to the base ships. Assuming the landing platforms still there when the squadrons got back.

  “Direct hit amidships.” The AI’s voice was calm, but Hurley herself was anything but.

  “Yes!” Her scream reverberated in her helmet, hurting her ears…but she didn’t care. “Take that you scumbag motherfuckers!” Hurley was a fairly straitlaced officer, particularly by the wilder standards of the bomber corps. But she tended to be a bit less restrained during combat, especially when she got a chance to hit back at the First Imperium.

  “Initial scan indicates significant internal damage. Secondary explosions detected.” The AI would
continue to update the assessment, but first it was time to get the hell out of there.

  “Execute thrust plan Delta.” She closed her eyes as the system gave her the injections and the couch activated and closed up around her. She could feel the air pressure in her helmet increasing…then the sledgehammer as the bomber’s engine ignited and blasted away at 30g.

  She could quickly feel herself losing coherence, but she still felt the elation at scoring a solid hit. Now, she thought, they were in the hands of the AI. With luck, she’d survive to fight again another day. With luck.

  Compton’s staff was generally calm and highly professional. But the flag bridge erupted into cheers as the damage assessments flooded in from Hurley’s attack. The bombers had performed beyond Compton’s wildest hopes. They’d targeted nine of the mid-sized ships…the ones the Alliance spacers called Gargoyles. Five of them were hit multiple times and destroyed outright. The other four were seriously damaged. Even better, almost 70% of the strike force cleared the interdiction zone. It would be hours before they could change vectors and return, but Compton was relieved that any of them were coming back at all. Losses of 30% would normally be considered heavy, but against the First Imperium, it was better than he’d dared to hope.

  A little smile crept on his face as he listened to the wild cheers of his staff. He normally conducted himself in a fairly formal manner, but there were always times for exceptions. When an update came in reporting that two of the damaged ships were effectively dead in space he decided to join in. For the first time ever, his officers saw their fleet admiral jump out of his seat and shout out loud. “Way to go, Greta!”

  His missiles were coming in right behind the bombers. He’d timed the launch carefully, so the enemy wouldn’t have time to react. He wanted to overwhelm their point defense right after the suicide boats attacked. That meant giving Greta’s people the minimum possible time to clear the missile detonation zone, but she assured him she could get them all away in time. He frowned a little as he thought about it, wondering if he would have changed his plan even if she’d told him they couldn’t escape. His expression darkened for an instant as he answered himself. Nothing was more important than defeating this enemy. No matter what the cost.

  “Full damage control protocols, all ships.” Compton was waiting for the results of his own missile attacks, but Second Fleet was facing a significant barrage itself. At least they’re all just nukes, he thought…who would have thought I’d be grateful one day to be staring at a wall of incoming thermonuclear warheads?

  Force Q had been a decoy, though the men and women operating its ships didn’t know it. It was getting more and more difficult to strip the enemy of its antimatter weapons. When they started sending the Gremlins through ahead of their fleets, Compton began working on a new plan…Force Q. Second Fleet was here to engage the lead wave of First Imperium ships…and wipe them out if possible. He had no intention of staying to face the Leviathans and the 30+ Gargoyles of the second group. That meant time was limited. If he stayed too long he’d never escape in time…and that would mean no one from Second Fleet would leave Point Epsilon.

  Compton would already have ordered the fleet to withdraw, but they weren’t going to outrun the enemy missiles no matter what they did. He decided to stay put and face the volley before withdrawing - they were better positioned where they were for point defense. As soon as they’d dealt with the missiles, Compton would order the bug out. He didn’t think the Leviathans could catch him before the transit, but that was pure conjecture. He was just guessing at the thrust capacity of those monsters.

  “All ships report full damage control protocols in effect.” Commander Harmon’s voice was like ice.

  Like mother like son, Compton thought with a smile. Camille Harmon was a cool customer too, known in the fleet for being rock solid in combat situations.

  “Enemy missile volley has passed through long-range interception zone.” Harmon again, just as calm. “Estimate 40% of remaining missiles destroyed.”

  The point defense mines laid by the second wave of bombers took out at least half the incoming warheads, and the ECM buoys positioned in front of the fleet threw almost half of those remaining critically off course. Second Fleet was conducting a model layered point defense, but there were still a lot of weapons inbound. The robot ships of the First Imperium didn’t need food storage, gymnasiums, sickbays, and all the other support facilities human crews required. They carried a lot of missiles, at least twice as many as an Alliance ship of comparable size.

  “Shotguns and laser batteries firing, admiral.” Harmon glanced down at the board, calculating an updated estimate. “Project detonations commencing in two minutes, sir.”

  Compton sat quietly imagining the space around his fleet. Dozens of missiles were closing on his ships, each one splitting into multiple warheads. Many were targeted and blown apart by laser pulses and obliterated by clouds of metallic projectiles from the shotguns. But some of them got through. Too many of them.

  “Commander Harmon, I want real time damage reports from the fleet.” He hesitated then added, “Issue an advisory to all ship commanders to prioritize damage control efforts to power and propulsion systems.” He’d already sent that directive, but he wanted to pound it into their heads. Any ship that couldn’t keep up when the fleet bugged out was going to be left behind. Compton didn’t like it, and he knew it would tear at him…but he would do it. The Alliance couldn’t afford to lose Second Fleet. Humanity couldn’t.

  “Missile detonations reported, sir.” Harmon’s voice was slightly distracted. He was trying to monitor the status of 117 ships while reporting to Compton in real time. “The cruiser Somerset reports heavy damage, sir. Drives appear to be operational, however. The attack ship Rapier was destroyed. We’re also getting a Delta-Z signal from the light cruiser Hampton. The…”

  “Just send it to my board, commander.” Compton sighed. The rest of the staff didn’t really need to hear Harmon recite the butcher’s bill. Besides, Compton already had Joker feeding him the same info. He thought it would help Harmon to keep busy instead of thinking about the warheads bearing down on them. Elizabeth’s people were all occupied manning their battlestations, but the admiral’s staff had nothing to do but wait to see if a missile got close enough to Bunker Hill to vaporize them all.

  Compton could see the list on his screen growing as more ships were damaged or destroyed. He felt the familiar cold feeling inside as he stared at the lengthening roster. One night, about a year before, when they’d both had a little too much to drink, he’d had a long talk with Erik Cain. They’d spoken of how they dealt with the weight of leading so many men and women to their deaths. Neither of them had figured out how to handle the guilt…they both shoved it deep down, pushing off the day of reckoning. They knew they’d have to face it one day, but that time had not yet arrived for either of them. There were still wars to fight and crises to face. One day, when the wars were over and the battles won, they would both look inside themselves…and see what was left.

  Compton had envied Cain one thing. The Marines fought on the ground and, while the commander might be back from the front, he was close to the battle, or at least part of it. While Cain’s men and women were fighting and dying, their general could hear the explosions, see the smoke. Sitting in his chair on the flag bridge watching ship names scroll by was so damned…analytical. Death distilled down to a spreadsheet. Somehow, it just made it worse for Compton. It didn’t seem real somehow, watching a cruiser’s name appear on the list, knowing intellectually that over 300 crew had just died. Death in space was silent.

  This time, however, his introspection would be short-lived. Bunker Hill had been targeted by a dozen warheads. Her inner-perimeter point defense systems took out ten, but two closed to the damage zone. The first detonated 5.5 kilometers above and to the port. The damage was minor except for some small secondary explosions near the hull. Compton felt the ship lurch and start to spin. He reflexively gripped the armre
sts of his chair, but it was an unnecessary effort…he had the safety harness bolted securely in place. The feeling of spinning slowly stopped as Bunker Hill’s positioning thrusters fired, stabilizing the vessel.

  Compton held his head still, waiting for the dizziness to pass. “Joker, dam…” He paused for a second. “Never mind, Joker.” The urge to micromanage the ship was strong, especially in the thick of the fight. But all he could do was interfere with Captain Arlington’s efforts. Bunker Hill had one of the best skippers in the fleet, and she had his total confidence. Let her get the ship under control, he thought…she’ll update you as soon as she has anything useful to tell you.

  His thought was almost cut short by the second detonation. This one was closer, just over 3 kilometers to the starboard…well within the catastrophic damage zone for a 650 megaton warhead. Bunker Hill’s starboard side was bombarded with massive amounts of ionizing radiation. The three-layer hull was superheated, and sections melted, then vaporized. Where breaches occurred, lethal radiation poured into the ship.

  Crew members in the most exposed sections received radiation doses so massive they doubled over almost immediately, taken by uncontrollable vomiting and diarrhea. The worst hit suffered almost instantaneous seizures and died within a few minutes. Others, slightly less exposed, quickly lost cognitive function and lay on the deck, unable to even call for aid.

  All but the most heavily shielded electronic systems on the ship failed immediately. The reactors scragged automatically, a safeguard to insure against critical failures caused by instrument malfunction. Throughout the ship, secondary explosions occurred, causing more damage and, when close to the hull, blowing atmosphere into space and causing the ship to spin wildly.