Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

“And Admiral Arlington?”

  She stopped and looked back. “Yes, sir?”

  “Our first order of business is to get this fleet moving full speed to join Terry.” He stifled a small laugh. “I hope you still have some energy left for kicking ass, because we’re going to push everyone like they’ve never been pushed before.”

  She smiled broadly. “Oh yes, sir. I have some energy left.”

  Catherine Gilson sat quietly in Pershing’s officers’ mess nursing a cup of tea. Gilson was one of the toughest commanders in the Corps, respected by her troops and feared by her enemies. When the situation called for it, she could out-swear the most grizzled career sergeant. But sitting at the small table, reading her ‘pad, teacup in her hand, she looked like something entirely different.

  Gilson had devoted most of her life to the Corps. A workaholic, filling most of her hours tending to the needs of the Marines under her command, she didn’t have much time for relaxation. When she did have time to herself, she spent it quietly, not at all in the ways her Marines would have guessed of their iron-fisted commander. She didn’t drink, rarely took leave, and mostly kept to herself when not on duty. She enjoyed reading trashy novels, a guilty pleasure she kept to herself with the aggressiveness she employed to protect the Corps’ darkest secrets. She could only imagine the amusement it would give her veteran Marines to get a glimpse at what their foul-mouthed, blood and guts commander chose to read in her free time.

  Gilson was one of two four-star generals in the Corps…Erik Cain was the other. She’d outranked Cain for most of their careers, but they got their 4th stars simultaneously, just before taking command at Garrison and Sandoval. The politicians on Earth tended to look on the military with disdain…until they needed protection from something. But they were great at thinking up rewards and decorations. The Commandant of the Corps had never had more than four stars…no Marine general ever had. But they decreed a five-star rank and gave it to Holm, clearing room to make full generals out of Cain and Gilson.

  None of it mattered much. Holm was still in overall command, as virtually everyone agreed he should be. Gilson had never seen a Commandant so universally acclaimed as a hero every other Marine was proud to follow. The Corps wasn’t immune from political maneuverings, especially at the highest ranks. Rafael Samuels was the most recent disastrous example. The Corps’ great traitor should never have been Commandant…and he should never have risen high enough in the ranks to be a candidate for the job. But foolishness and corruption existed everywhere. Even in the Corps, Gilson thought sadly.

  They were lucky in one respect, she thought. If they were going to face something like the First Imperium, at least they were doing it at a time they had someone like Holm to lead them…and he had subordinates like Erik Cain and Isaac Merrick to back him up. She didn’t include herself in that list, though almost everyone else would have. The Corps was battered from years of war, and many of its veterans were gone, fallen on one of its many battlefields. But there had never been a time when its leadership was stronger or more devoted. She didn’t know if they could win this struggle – if anyone could - but she was sure they would fight to the last.

  She picked up the teacup and took a drink. It was something new she’d tried, tea grown on Columbia, laced with cinnamon…really good, she thought. She had to admit, the newest Yorktown class vessels had vastly improved food service over the older ships. The troopships and other craft she’d served aboard earlier in her career had offered their own version of the stereotypical, barely-edible slop that seemed somehow ingrained as a part of military history. She’d always thought they kept it that way so the pre-drop intravenous feedings seemed more attractive.

  Her thoughts weren’t dwelling on Pershing, though, or any of the ships of the massive fleet surrounding her. She was thinking of Erik Cain and the Marines he commanded…the Marines who were already lightyears forward of Pershing’s position, already in the battlezone.

  Gilson was annoyed with Cain. She knew she shouldn’t be. He’d done the right thing; she was sure of that. But she didn’t like being left behind. It wasn’t entirely rational, but that’s how she felt. She knew one of them had to stay to lead the rest of the ground forces, but she still hated being so far to the rear when there was a fight going on. She told herself she’d be there soon enough, but she had an odd feeling that the battle was being decided already…that Pershing and her Marines, and the rest of the fleet would be too late. She tried to dismiss it as nonsense, but it continued to nag at her.

  “Do you mind if I join you, General Gilson?” A tall man clad in an ornate silk uniform stood just inside the doorway. He had a grim and imposing look to him, but there was a friendly smile on his face.

  “Of course, Lord Khaled.” She returned the smile, though her mood made it difficult to match the genuine grin Khaled wore. “It would be an honor.”

  He walked slowly to the table, gently pulling out a chair. “May I propose that when we are off duty, you refer to me as Ali, and I to you as Catherine?” Khaled had always appeared to be very stiff and formal when in the field or at a public event, which was the only way she’d ever seen him. Now he seemed different, friendlier, more relaxed.

  “Certainly, Lor…Ali.”

  He sat down in the chair, letting out a soft sigh as he did. “I am afraid I am quite fatigued. It will be pleasant to sit for a time and speak with a valued colleague.”

  Gilson found it odd to be sitting in a wardroom having a friendly chat with the Supreme Commander of the Janissary Corps. Gilson had fought on a dozen worlds against Khaled and his troopers. He had been on Carson’s World during the climactic campaign of the Third Frontier War. Their forces had fought savagely for weeks in one of the bloodiest fights in history. Now they were sitting and chatting like old friends.

  She’d been surprised how well her people had integrated with Khaled’s forces. It had been difficult at first, of course. Very difficult. But then something unexpected happened. The forces began to gel, to develop a nascent mutual trust. The enemy they were facing was totally alien…an enemy of all mankind. The politicians back on Earth still argued and debated – and some of the highly-ranked commanders bristled with pride and arrogance – but the rank and file had begun to accept each other, as allies, even as friends. She wondered what would happen now, if the war was won and the First Imperium threat was gone. Would she and Ali Khaled be enemies again, facing each other across some battlefield? Would the Marines and Janissaries again be bitter enemies, massacring each other on a dozen worlds?

  “Have your troops been satisfactorily billeted?” Gilson’s mind, as always, went to business first.

  Khaled smiled again. “Your reputation is much like mine, Catherine. I’m afraid our fellow-officers consider us to be…what is the term in English? Workaholics.” He paused for an instant and added, “And yes, thank you, my forces are well-tended.”

  “I’m afraid you are right about how we are viewed. Though I doubt you let that bother you any more than I do.” She took another sip of her tea. “Your English, by the way, is extraordinary. Far better than my Arabic, I’m afraid.” Not entirely truthful…Gilson spoke accentless Arabic as well as passable Mandarin and Russian.

  Khaled laughed. “That is not what I have heard, my good friend. I think you underestimate your skills. But we are on your nation’s vessel, so we will use your tongue.” He leaned back as he spoke. “If we have cause meet on a Caliphate vessel, then we shall converse in mine. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” She nodded. Khaled was a surprise to her. She had known who he was for years, but she hadn’t imagined him to be so charming and polite. Gender roles in the Caliphate were considerably different than those in the Alliance. There were no women at all in the Caliph’s military, but Khaled seemed to have no difficulty relating to a female general as a peer.

  A steward came in swiftly. “General Gilson, Lord Khaled, may I bring you anything?”

  Khaled glanced at Gilson, but she shook her head. “I b
elieve I will have a cup of tea myself.” He looked briefly at Gilson’s cup. “Whatever the general is having will be perfectly satisfactory.”

  The steward nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned and hurried through the door.

  “It is odd, isn’t it? To discover that one’s old enemy is more than a name on an order of battle.” Khaled’s expression had grown pensive. “Your General Cain was not what I expected.”

  Gilson laughed. “Yes…well, Erik is quite an enigma to most of us. I’m not sure anyone really knows him. Colonel Linden comes closest, of course. Jax was his best friend; he probably had the clearest insights.” She stared off into space for a few seconds, a somber look on her face as she thought of Jax.

  “Yes, I was devastated to hear of General Jax’s death on Farpoint. It was a terrible loss.” Khaled knew more about Jax’s final battle than Gilson. He’d died trying to hold off the enemy long enough for the rest of the expeditionary force to evacuate. There had been Janissaries in reserve on Farpoint, but General Cain didn’t trust them and wouldn’t give the order for them to advance. Jax had died trying to plug the gap the Janissaries could have filled, and Cain had blamed himself ever since for his friend’s death.

  Some good had come of the tragedy, however. Cain finally sent the Janissaries in, and he watched them hold the line while the rest of his forces embarked. The Caliphate troopers lost over three-fourths of their strength, but they held firm…and won Erik Cain’s respect and admiration. His open acceptance of the Janissaries set an example for the whole Marine Corps and was crucial to the development of the growing trust and cooperation between the forces. Khaled wondered if, in some ways, General Jax’s sacrifice hadn’t been the most important factor in the successful defense of the Line.

  “I’ve never had tea with a lord before.” Gilson wanted to change the subject. Jax had been one of the most popular officers in the Corps, and the wound was still too fresh for her to speak casually of him. Even after years of war and death, it never got easier to lose a friend.

  Khaled understood immediately. “I’m afraid that is more of a rank than a real title, Catherine. I was born the bastard son of a housekeeper in New Cairo. Had I not been recruited by the Janissary Corps, I would no doubt be cleaning the gutters…or, more likely, dead by now.”

  She smiled. “Well, I think I will still count you as my first lord.” Her face turned more serious. “Would you mind talking shop for a while?”

  His eyes found hers. “No, of course not.”

  “Good. Because I have a feeling Erik Cain is going to get himself into trouble, and I want to be ready for whatever we run into when we get to Sigma 4.”

  Chapter 12

  Bridge – AS Midway

  Sigma 4 System

  Approaching Sigma 4 II

  Terrance Compton sat in the command chair on Midway’s flag bridge, his mind focused like a laser, despite the tension gnawing at his guts. The newest of the Yorktown class battleships, Midway was the ultimate expression of the Alliance’s might and power. In a war against another Superpower, she would be an almost irresistible weapon, an unmatchable instrument of military strength. But this fight wasn’t against other humans, and Midway would have a massive fight on its hands facing off against a First Imperium Gargoyle, a vessel barely one-third its size. Compton couldn’t shake the feeling he was a mortal in some ancient myth, steeling himself and his warriors to challenge the gods themselves. But now he and his people weren’t struggling to survive some divine onslaught on their homelands…they were assaulting Olympus itself.

  The enemy base lay ahead, the small enemy task force deployed to defend it. Mike Jacobs and his entire fleet had scoured the system for three days, and they didn’t find so much as a single additional vessel. The 21 ships formed up ahead of Midway and her cohorts seemed to be the only enemy presence in the system…besides whatever fortifications waited in orbit and on the surface of the planet itself.

  Compton still had doubts. His gambler’s instincts had told him to go for it…that the forces of the Grand Pact needed to take risks if they were going to find some way to defeat the First Imperium…or at least force some type of peace on the xenophobic enemy. When he’d gotten word from Jacobs that the enemy strength at Sigma 4 was far below expectations he realized this might be the chance they needed. Maybe luck had smiled on them for once; perhaps they’d caught the enemy redeploying or repositioning. His caution, built up over a lifetime at war, was there too, urging him to be careful…but restraint wasn’t going to win this war.

  He was nervous about attacking with only half of Grand Fleet, but if they had stumbled on an opportunity, they had no way of knowing how long it would last. He knew it was a risk, but Compton was resolved to attack now, with the forces he had available. If he waited for Garret they could end up facing a massively reinforced enemy.

  He did have the elite of the human navies, the newest ships and most experienced crews. Even without the forces Garret was now leading forward to join him, Compton commanded the most awesome array of naval power that man had ever assembled. Midway and her two sister ships were the first Yorktown B’s, upgraded versions of the Alliance’s newest battleships, extensively modified and equipped with all the advanced weaponry Tom Sparks and his researchers had developed from examining First Imperium technology.

  Compton had 31 capital ships in all, including 3 Yorktown A’s backing up Midway and her newer sisters. That massive battleline was supported by over 200 cruisers, destroyers, and other escorts…the newest, fastest, and best the allied Superpowers had to offer. Compton had been reviewing the OB constantly during the trip to Sigma 4, and he kept coming to the same conclusion. The fleet was so massive, it was going to be nearly impossible to effectively command.

  His plan was straightforward. First he was going to take out the enemy fleet and the base’s orbital fortifications. Unfortunately, he didn’t have as much data on them as he would have liked. Jacobs’ scouts couldn’t get close enough to the planet to perform an effective scan. The truth was, no human force had ever assaulted the First Imperium’s fixed defenses, and no one had any idea what types of weaponry and defenses they’d be up against. Any thoughts on what his fleet was about to encounter were the wildest guesses. Many on the admiral’s staff were confident, feeling they’d caught the enemy with their pants down. Compton was considerably more circumspect…he assumed he faced a significant and dangerous fight, not a walkover…and his gut agreed.

  After the enemy space forces were destroyed or forced to retreat, Compton was going to drop Cain’s Marines onto the planet and then move toward the outer system and the single egress warp gate Jacobs’ people had been able to find. Depending on what scouting reports came back from the adjoining system, Compton planned to deploy on one side of the warp gate, setting up a defensive position between the planet and any possible relief from deeper into enemy space. With any luck, Garret and the rest of the fleet would get there before they faced a second battle. And there wasn’t a doubt in Compton’s mind there would be another fight.

  “We are approaching Point Blue, admiral.” Max Harmon’s voice was sharp and crisp. He sounded calm, but Compton knew otherwise. Anyone who was truly calm minutes before launching an attack on a First Imperium world was either heavily medicated or outright insane.

  Compton smiled. He knew exactly where the fleet was, but Harmon had done his job in reminding him, and he’d done it right on time. “Very well, Commodore Harmon.” He took a deep breath. It was time. “Bring the fleet to condition yellow. And please instruct Admiral Hurley to bring her wings to pre-launch status.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harmon relayed Compton’s orders. An instant later, the flag bridge glowed with a soft yellow hue as Midway’s status indicators reflected the upgraded readiness condition. “Admiral Hurley acknowledges, sir.”

  Compton nodded. “Very well.” Hurley was the last one he was worried about. He hadn’t even planned her strike with her. He’d told her what he wanted to achieve and left her alon
e to work it out. Greta Hurley was the greatest expert on fighter-bomber tactics he’d ever known…far better than he was, Compton realized. He’d given her total control over the fleet’s massive force of fighter-bombers, and he was grateful to have her to lead it. In a few minutes, the largest bomber strike in history would launch.

  “All fleet units report condition yellow in effect, admiral.”

  “Very well.” Compton sat quietly for a few minutes, his mind reviewing every aspect of the battle plan. He didn’t like launching an attack against a base with no idea of what kind of defenses it had. But that couldn’t be helped. There was no way to get close enough to scan with the enemy fleet in position…and no way to get rid of the fleet without attacking. It was just another risk; a necessary one. He knew the die was cast. They were going in.

  Admiral Greta Hurley sat in the specially installed command chair, trying to keep track of the massive strike force displayed on her screen. It was cramped in the cockpit, even more than usually. Fighter-bombers were not built to accommodate an extra passenger, even an admiral in command of the entire strike force. Admiral Garret had wanted her to run the squadrons from a control room on one of the capital ships, but she’d looked him right in the eye and told him she’d refuse the star he was offering if that was the condition of accepting. There weren’t many people who could claim to have stared down Augustus Garret and gotten their way, but Hurley was one of them. Garret finally relented and agreed to allow her to command strike force operations for Grand Fleet from a fighter’s cockpit. No one in any of the navies had anything close to Hurley’s skill or experience at fighter-bomber tactics. She was the greatest living expert on fighter operations, especially against the First Imperium, and Garret had to respect her insistence on being out there with her crews.

  The fleet admiral hadn’t surrendered entirely, however. Hurley’s craft was heavily modified, stuffed full of electronic gear, most of its weapons removed to make room. There would be no more high-velocity attack runs for the strike force commander, no personally targeting plasma torpedo shots from knife-fighting range. Hurley had strict guidelines on how close to the enemy she was allowed to fly…and the pilot of her ship had strict orders - directly from Fleet Admiral Garret - to ignore Hurley if she attempted to supersede those restrictions.