by Jay Allan
That last comment hit Jacobs like a sledgehammer. He immediately saw the logic of Spark’s conclusion, but the thought of fighting against even more powerful forces was overwhelming. More than overwhelming…it scared the hell out of him. If Sparks was right, the war was as good as over. As good as lost.
“Admiral Jacobs?” It was Hooper, calling him from the bridge.
“Yes, lieutenant?”
“The Seals are here, sir. They are requesting permission to dock.”
“Granted.” He put his hand to his ear, tightening his comlink. “Instruct them to land. We’ll meet them in the bay.” Turning toward Sparks: “The Seals are here. Let’s go.”
Jacobs had notified Compton immediately when Mondragon’s message arrived. His ships had engaged a flotilla of enemy Gremlins and captured one! Jacobs had read it three times before it sunk in. The Gremlin had taken a single hit from a plasma torpedo, and it just stopped dead in space. No thrust, no fire, no detectable energy output…nothing. It was a freak hit, most likely some bizarre damage that deactivated the entire ship’s control system…probably a one in a million event. And an unprecedented opportunity.
Compton immediately sent two Seal teams out to assist in taking the First Imperium vessel. Boarding of enemy warships was almost non-existent in space combat, but the Seals were the only ones with skills remotely suitable to such a crucial and dangerous mission. Trained to operate effectively in a vacuum, the Seals did as much rescue work as fighting…though they were among the best trained combat specialists the Alliance possessed.
Sparks tucked the ‘pad under his arm and nodded. He followed Jacobs out into the corridor and down to the landing bay. If all went well, in 12 hours Sparks would be aboard a ship of the First Imperium.
“Remember, we have no idea what to expect in there. Scanners can’t penetrate that godforsaken armor, and we’ve never been able to get an idea of the interior layout from the scraps that are left when they’re finally destroyed.” Sparks was lecturing the Seals, and they looked impatient, anxious to get going. He was familiar with the type. A lifetime spent trying to get Marines to sit still long enough to learn how to use the new weapons he built for them had prepared him perfectly for this.
There was a loud bang. Captain Walsh had slammed his fist down on the table. It the thing hadn’t been a nearly indestructible hydro polycarbonate polymer, Jacobs was sure it would have cracked down the center from the force of the blow.
“I expect everyone to be an expert on this material by the time we leave this room.” Walsh was the Seal commander. He’d have been a colonel, at least, if he’d switched over to the regular Marine units, but he insisted on staying with his team. “I swear to God I will shoot any one of you who tanks this mission because you weren’t prepared.” He scanned the room. “Understood?”
“Yes, captain!” Twenty men and four women snapped back the reply as one.
“Good.” He looked back at Sparks. “Please excuse my team, general.”
Sparks suppressed a laugh. Walsh was being insubordinate too, of course, even though his intentions were good. But Sparks knew that no veteran unit, and especially not a Special Forces team, was going to think of a research engineer as a real officer in the chain of command…despite the stars on his collars. And he didn’t care…he didn’t think of himself that way either. He’d spent his life equipping these men and women, giving them the tools they needed to fight – and survive – their wars. He had no use for pulling rank, not unless he really had to.
The ancient warriors who were the namesakes of these Seals had been a navy force, not Marines. Modern Seals were part of the Corps, having been named for their predecessors both out of respect and because of the vague similarity in their combat roles.
“Why don’t you continue, General Sparks?” Jacobs wanted to move things along, but he also took the chance to remind everyone of Sparks’ rank.
“Yes, admiral. Thank you.” He turned back toward the assembled Seals. “As I was saying, we don’t even know if there are corridors in that ship, and if there are, where they lead or how they are laid out. It would be wild speculation to assume the interior of a First Imperium vessel is in any way similar to those of our own.”
Sparks paused and looked out at the rows of seated men and women. “We don’t even know if these ships were built to allow for organic crews or passengers. You may find it is one giant machine, one that is almost impossible to navigate once you are inside. Even if there is room for you to get around, don’t forget the hull material is extremely hard and difficult to cut…and there is no way to know if interior structures will be any easier to manipulate.”
He paused for a few seconds. “You may have to blast or cut your way through in various places, and that’s going to take a lot of educated guessing.” Another pause. “Which is one of the reasons I am coming with you.”
There was a stir among the Seals, and even Jacobs sat with a stunned look on his face. Captain Walsh looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. This was Sparks’ call. Scientist or no, he was a Marine general, and Walsh and his team would follow his orders. The only other officer on Indianapolis of comparable rank was Jacobs, but he recognized this as Sparks’ area of command and stayed silent.
“Don’t look so surprised, gentlemen.” Sparks was mildly amused. He wondered, do they think developing and field testing things like x-ray lasers and Obliterators is safe? “We Marines do what we have to. All of us.” He turned and walked up to the workstation set up in the front of the room. “So let’s get back to reviewing what we do know about First Imperium vessels. If I’m going to be with you, you guys are damned well going to be prepared.”
The shapes moved slowly, at least they looked that way on the monitor. The Seal armor was bulkier than regular Marine gear, and that added to the illusion, making them seem slow and cumbersome to anyone watching. Designed for operations in deep space, the Seal suits were almost miniature ships. They carried tanks of highly compressed gas to power small maneuvering jets, allowing them to move around in space without tether lines.
Four of them were guiding a large mechanism toward the hull. It looked like a heavy plasma torch, but it was something different, something Sparks had just put together. The standard plasma torches weren’t strong enough to cut through a First Imperium hull, at least not quickly. The mission called for something more powerful, and Sparks had provided it.
The Seals guided Sparks’ creation toward the ship, using their AI-controlled gas jets to maintain their bearing. They slowed as they approached the hull, coming almost to a stop as the device glided the last few meters into place. They sprung into activity, affixing it securely with a series of powerful magnets.
Sparks’ invention was ingenious, simple but brilliant. A plasma torch was too weak to cut through the hull and a plasma torpedo would do significant damage to a target they were trying to keep intact. So the Marine engineer designed a compromise, basically a small plasma torpedo held in place by strong magnetic fields. Once activated, it would burn through the hull with the power of a plasma torpedo, but the fields would hold it in place and prevent it from penetrating deeper into the ship. If it worked, it would bore a 3 meter-wide hole in the hull of the enemy vessel.
With no accurate scanner readings, Sparks didn’t know if there would be atmosphere inside or vacuum, and there was significant danger of explosive decompression. He sat patiently in the shuttle, waiting for the Seals to finish emplacing the weapon and get back before he blew the charge. The Seals had urged him to activate the mine as soon as they were clear, but he thought it was too risky with anyone still out in space, so he waited until they made it all the way back.
“All personnel are secured, General Sparks.” It was Captain Walsh on the com. He’d been outside with his people, but now they were all back in the assault shuttle’s bay.
“Very well, captain. Detonation in one minute.” Sparks flipped open a small cover on his control panel, exposing the activation button
for the charge. “Have your people ready to go in five minutes, captain.” Sparks didn’t want anyone rushing in right after the charge went off…the area would need a few minutes to cool before it was safe. Safe being a relative term, of course.
He watched the chronometer count down, the large blue numbers dropping below 30, then 20…finally 10. “Detonation imminent.” He made the announcement on the shipwide com, and a few seconds later he pushed the button.
Ten kilometers away, a small, unimaginably hot plasma flared to life. Most material substances, including the armor on any human warship ever built, would have instantly vaporized and turned to plasma themselves. But the mysterious First Imperium alloy resisted…for the merest fraction of a second, but long enough for Sparks’ instruments to record it. Long enough to challenge half the laws of physics that the human sciences were based upon. But scientific study would have to wait. Sparks’ ingenious plasma charge had worked exactly as he’d intended, blowing a nearly perfect 3 meter hole in the enemy vessel’s hull.
Sparks hit a second button, triggering a series of small charges positioned along the structure of his device, and the cradle, the still raging plasma suspended within its magnetic fields, blasted away from the hull and into space.
The display was showing a close up view transmitted from a series of drones Sparks had positioned around the enemy ship. He smiled as he stared right at the perfectly round, 3-meter hole his device had neatly drilled through the hull. It was time to go in.
Chapter 18
Hill 84
18 Kilometers South of Enemy Base
Planet Sigma 4 II
“Commander Farooq, the enemy has committed additional forces. Still no Reapers, but at least a thousand battle bots, possibly more. They are flanking Colonel Brown’s regiment.” Sub-commander Mustafa was forward on the hill, directing the scouting effort on the enemy positions. He’d launched half a dozen drones, but it was hard to keep them in the air against the enemy’s interdictive fire. Only one was still up, feeding him fresh intel. “It’s way over on the flank…we’re too far away to plug the hole. General Cain will have to send in the Obliterators.”
Farooq listened to his deputy’s report, his face impassive. “Negative, sub-commander. General Cain does not want to commit the Obliterators until we can confirm the enemy has no Reaper units present.” He paused briefly, adding, “And we are going to operate in accordance with his decision.” Stating it that way would head off a continued discussion, one that could only end up with Mustafa urging him to try and convince Cain to change his mind. That was something Farooq wasn’t going to do for a number of reasons, not the least of which was he agreed completely with Cain.
The front of the hillside was an exposed position, a section of chopped up ground almost a klick ahead of the forward line. It had once been covered with the ubiquitous yellow ground cover, Sigma 4 II’s version of grass, but the shelling had left only a few burnt patches. Mustafa was crouched in a small foxhole with two of his troopers, hunkered down and out of the enemy’s line of fire. Getting there had been a little rough, and making it out didn’t look like it was going to be any easier.
“I just lost my last drone, but from the data I have collated so far, I do not see how Colonel Brown can possibly hold his position.” Mustafa was concerned, and it showed in his voice, even over the com. “And if his regiment pulls back, our own flank will be exposed.”
Farooq was reviewing the drone feeds Mustafa had been sending him. The danger was definitely real; the enemy attack was heavy, and there were reserves coming up from the rear. If Brown thinned his line enough to cover that added frontage, the enemy would be able to easily punch through at almost any point. “Colonel Brown will not pull back, sub-commander.” He was still reviewing the maps, but he’d already decided what he was going to do. “We’re not going to let that happen.”
“Commander, it’s not possible. The enemy will have outflanked the Marines by the time we can get there…and we’d have to virtually abandon our own section of front to do it.” Most of Farooq’s Janissaries were still in reserve, but a detachment had taken over a small section of front line as well.
“We’re not relocating, sub-commander.” Farooq’s voice had remained calm, almost monotone through the entire exchange. “We’re going to advance and drive through the forces in front of us. Then we’re going to swing right and launch an enfilade attack.” Let’s see how these bastards like getting hit in their flank, he thought. “Order the reserves forward. Now.”
The valley in front of the Janissary position was quiet; neither side had forcefully advanced, each being satisfied to remain in their respective lines. But that quiet was about to be shattered.
Farooq stood in his forward command post, counting down slowly to himself. “All units…commence firing Smoke.” His voice was calm; he might have been ordering dinner. But inside he felt the fire; his guts were burning with hate for the enemy. This was his third battle against the First Imperium, and he’d lost more than half his strength in each of the first two. His dead soldiers screamed from their graves for vengeance, and he was going to see they got it. “Your souls will rest, brothers. This vengeance is for you.” His words were quiet, barely a whisper. They were for him…for him and the honored dead of the Janissaries.
He was looking forward across the battlefield, his visor projecting the input from the forward observation posts. There was a small explosion in the center of the field, almost a soft popping sound…then another…and more, all along the line. The shells released a sickly, pale green vapor into the air. The superheated steam was radioactive and highly toxic, its mix of chemicals and heavy metal dust designed to confound every known type of scanner.
Within a minute, the field was covered with a line of the bilious Smoke, obscuring all view of Farooq’s forces from the enemy. He waited, a few seconds more. Then he gave the order. “First wave, advance.”
Along the front, a line of armored warriors climbed over their trenches and out of foxholes, moving crisply across the field. The Janissaries favored a little more pomp and ceremony in their method of warfare than the Marines, and their formations were tighter, more regular. The Caliphate’s elite soldiers tended to be more tolerant of losses than the Corps, and their fighting style reflected that. It was a cultural difference, not any measure of the respective élan or courage of the two services. The Janissaries were raised in their corps from childhood, indoctrinated from youth into a monolithic way of thinking. Unlike the Marines, they had no life outside the service, nor any prospect of one.
An old Marine could muster out to a nice colony world and, with his or her rejuv treatments, even have a family and live a long and pleasant retirement. A Janissary who survived the battlefields would find himself in an administrative job or a training position, but he’d never leave the service. An officer may acquire a favorite in the regimental brothel or even a personal concubine, but there would be no retirement, no family.
Farooq’s men moved forward quickly, foregoing the zigzag approach the Marines executed so well. Accustomed to advancing behind their screens of Smoke, the Janissaries emphasized speed of advance over cover. They began to fall almost immediately…one here, one there. The Smoke provided strong cover and prevented the enemy from aiming effectively, but it didn’t stop them from shooting randomly. With weapons firing over 3,000 rounds a minute, there were going to be hits, whether the attacking units could see their targets or not.
Farooq himself moved forward, just behind his forward line. It was a risky place for the force commander to be, but that was the Janissary way as well. There were always replacements for fallen leaders, as those who survived their time in the junior ranks advanced. Where a Marine colonel or brigadier might retire after a successful career, making room for younger officers to advance, a Janissary remains in the service, waiting for a vacancy at the next command level. Farooq and his peers knew it was their unspoken duty for most of them to die gloriously on the field, to make room for
the next wave of commanders. After his close contact with the Marines, Farooq had begun to question some of the things he believed, but a lifetime’s indoctrination is a hard thing to escape.
“Cluster bombs incoming.” The warning came in on the unit-wide com. Farooq wasn’t sure who it was until he checked his display. Sub-commander Sharef…over on the extreme right. The enemy cluster bombs were a nasty weapon, one that had cost the forces of the Pact greatly. There was nothing enormously advanced about the basics of the system, but the accuracy and control of the enemy weapon were well beyond Earth capabilities.
“All units, continue advancing at full.” Farooq knew his troops would ignore the bombardment and keep moving, but he felt better specifically ordering it anyway.
“Commander Farooq…report.” The voice on the com was unmistakable.
“Yes, General Cain.” Farooq knew he was pushing his orders to the limit by advancing without specific authorization. He considered it crucial if he was to support Cooper Brown’s position, which is how he justified it. In truth, he should have asked for permission…but he was afraid Cain might order him to stay put if he did. “My forces are advancing. It is my intention to push forward and then att…”
“And then you are going to attack the flank of the forces facing Colonel Brown.” There was something odd in Cain’s voice. Amusement? “That’s what I would have done too, but I need you to hold off. I’m about to hit the forces attacking Brown with the new PBS drones. I don’t want your people getting caught up in that.”
