by John F. Carr
He had tried to explain his plan to Enoch Redfield personally by radio, but then an EMP blast had detonated over the Satrapy, and Kettler had lost contact. He was now one-hundred percent on his own, more than five thousand kilometers from home. It would take a miracle to get him back. Hell, it had taken him several to get here. Three unauthorized stops at airstrips, if you could call them that, at cities technically enemies of the Satrapy. But now, thanks to the Saurons, Haven was one world again and, unless everything had turned topsy-turvy, Cummings was the only man left on Haven who could successfully take the fight to the Saurons.
Brigadier Cummings looked at him impassively for a long moment, taking a deep pull on his pipe before he spoke. “Colonel Kettler,” he said simply.
Kettler saluted. “At your service, Brigadier.”
“I understand you have information regarding the identity of the Sauron warship.”
“Yes, sir. The orbiter crew was able to make an identification of the Sauron battlecruiser, it is the Fomoria. As of their most recent data, some six standard years old, it is commanded by Vessel First Rank Galen Diettinger.”
Cummings let out an audible groan. “That’s not good. I’d like to hope that he’s been transferred, but everything we’ve seen so far indicates a superior commander.”
“Are you familiar with this Diettinger?” Kettler asked.
“I’ve never had the misfortune of facing him in battle, but he’s been long considered one of the enemy’s most innovative and brilliant commanders. For all our sakes, I hope your information is outdated.”
Kettler nodded.
“Colonel, you have a personal request for me, I believe?”
“Yes, but first, where’s Fort Fornova?”
The Brigadier’s eyes hardened. “We evacuated it four standard days ago. Yesterday it was occupied by a company of Sauron Soldiers and EVA Commandos. If we’d stayed, you’d now be talking to my replacement.”
“Understood, sir. If I may speak bluntly, sir?”
“You may. Such times call for setting aside the polite forms of address. Please continue.”
“My question, Brigadier, concerns Fort Fornova’s ‘secret’ stock of nuclear weapons.”
Brigadier Cummings laughed, grinning broadly. But there was no amusement in his eyes. It was strict Imperial policy to never allow nuclear capability on any world not directly under Imperial rule. When the Empire left, all nuclear weapons left with them. To be allowed any nukes showed either just how much clout the Brigadier had with the Throne, or just how devious he really was. Kettler wasn’t sure which answer he preferred.
“I think I’d trade fifty gauss riflemen for one of Enoch Redfield’s Protectorate Ministry spies,” the Brigadier said. He gestured for Kettler to sit and pulled out a rolled map of the Shangri-La Valley. An aide spread it out on the table before him.
“Now,” the Brigadier said, “let’s see what we can do.”
Chapter Twenty
I
Pilot Rank Stahler tightly gripped the stick as another updraft swatted the small scout chopper hard to the left. Deathmaster Quilland, in the observer’s seat, moved efficiently and safely with the yawing, pitching craft. Stahler compensated, trying to watch for evidence of the torturous winds before they reached them. He was an excellent pilot, his reflexes beyond the imagination of any human norm, but here he felt his abilities tested nearly to their limits.
The Karakul Pass, as the cattle called it, was a small cleft between two major mountain ranges, the Atlas Mountains to the west and the Girdle of God—tip of the Miracle Mountains range—to the northeast. From the air it was obvious that the two ranges had been joined together at one time. Whatever split those two mountains must have been the mother of all earthquakes, he thought, fighting a sudden downdraft.
The turbulence was brought about by the colder, dryer air of the higher northern steppes trying to descend through the Pass and into the warmer and wetter air mass of the Shangri-La Valley that stretched below for millions of square kilometers. Buffeted by massive air pressure systems, sometimes the air rushed through the Pass with all the force of a runaway locomotive. Flying a small helicopter in this kind of turbulence was like flying a supraorbital fighter through one of Cat’s Eye’s plasma storms. And just as dangerous.
The tilt-rotor gunships following behind were having less difficulty with the turbulence because of their greater size and weight, but they were harder to correct once caught in an updraft or downdraft. A minor course miscalculation or over-correction could result in a sudden collision or being slammed into the eastern wall of the pass. Stahler didn’t envy those pilots; on the other hand, they were used to piloting rotary craft. As a Fighter Rank, he wasn’t; it had been years since he’d last taken a helicopter up. But then, as a fighter pilot, he was expected to be able to fly anything and usually could. What would it be like to take up one of those Havener kites? he wondered.
It had been his decision to volunteer to fly on this mission. He was well aware that his days as a Fighter Pilot Rank were quickly coming to an end. It was unlikely there would be more than half a dozen more flights before all the fighters were permanently grounded. There was nothing in their class left to fight, never had been on this dismal moon. The score of out-classed Invictas were either destroyed or in hiding—and they were Haven’s best. Most importantly, the Sauron fighters, even the atmospheric craft, used too much of their limited stock of fuel. One thing they had quickly learned was the scarcity of liquid hydrogen or even petroleum on Haven; most motorized vehicles used alcohol instead of gasoline.
In the distance he could see the multi-layered compound called Fort Stony Point. This fort controlled access to the only viable northern pass into the Shangri-La Valley. A few antiquated anti-aircraft guns began to boom and he saw the sputtering smoke trail of a slug-throwing, multi-barreled mini-gun. Most of the walls and emplacements were empty of men or weapons. A score of men were running between the inner tower and the first walled emplacement.
Deathmaster Quilland pointed to the ground. “This must be a ruse,” he said, as they banked left to avoid an antique missile.
Stahler fired off an answering missile, and saw a satisfying blossom of flame and smoke rise from a missile battery. Some of the tilt-rotor gunships spat bullets, some complex frequencies of sound waves, from just beyond the range of the defenders’ weapons. Half a dozen of the defenders fell to the ground.
According to some captives from outside Evaskar there was only a company or so of under-supplied city militia garrisoned in the fort. With modern weapons, a battalion of good troops, and plenty of supplies, this fortification could hold out forever. It would take a nuke to put it out of commission.
It was hard to believe that the Haveners had left it almost deserted. He knew this world was a backwater, but this strategic travesty was just plain irresponsible.
The winds were not so tricky high over the fort. Stahler watched as one of the gunships landed, troops rolling out and into the inner courtyard. There was sporadic fire from the defenders, but the circling gunships returned fire before the Haveners could change position. More missiles flew up, one of them almost grazing a gunship. The return fire was devastating, clouds of smoke rolled through the fort.
As they circled above the carnage, the Deathmaster studied the screens and called out orders in Battle Tongue into a microphone.
“This place is nothing less than a gift to the first well-armed invader,” Stahler said.
“And here we are,” Quilland agreed quietly.
As Stahler watched, more of the tilt-rotors landed and discharged troopers. The missile batteries appeared to be silenced, for now. Soldiers dashed into doorways, flew across the courtyards, climbed up sheer walls and towers as they stormed the fortress. Occasional pockets of Evaskar militia returned fire, but as soon as they began to group into fire teams the gunships opened up on them.
Within minutes firing had almost ceased. Organized squads of Saurons now patrolled the courtyard
s and held the walls of Fort Stony Point. An occasional shot rang out, but for the most part the fighting appeared to be over.
“Objective secure,” came the first reports.
Less than seven minutes had elapsed, from the time the first Soldier had hit the ground.
Quilland turned on the ship communicator and reported their success to First Rank Diettinger. He finished with: “Opposition has ceased, First Rank. No prisoners. I’ll leave a company to hold the fort from any cattle counter-attack.”
“Good,” Diettinger answered, satisfied. He signed off.
Quilland said, “Let’s check the southern end of the pass.”
The rotor swept in ever-larger circuits of the battleground, then broke away to the south. They moved down the steep southern slope toward the cattle outposts that guarded the lower end of the Karakul Pass. At the northern end, the Karakul Pass held giant stone and concrete walls, earthworks, even towering wooden gates, to guard the Shangri-La from the nomads of the northern steppes, while at the southern entrance, there were only a few crumbling stone walls and a bunker with half a dozen small figures outside, all wearing Sauron battle armor.
Quilland tapped his shoulder.
Stahler carefully piloted the craft through the strong winds, landing in front of the outpost, which up-close was more of a shack than a bunker. About half a dozen sprawling blood-soaked Haveners lay still in the dim sunlight.
A Ranker ran over to the rotor. “Most of them were asleep, Deathmaster. Twenty-seven enemy casualties, no prisoners. No friendly casualties.”
“Any sign of alarm in Evaskar?”
“None, Deathmaster,” the Assault Leader answered.
“Carry on.” Stahler turned southward toward the city of Evaskar. It sat atop a series of descending plateaus; the city’s one hundred thousand inhabitants as ignorant of the coming holocaust as their nearby herds of sheep. Stahler set himself against a fierce chill breeze; Quilland seemed unaffected by the cold. “It’s a good day,” the Deathmaster said, climbing back into the rotor.
They flew up into the orange sky, and the city of Evaskar sprawled out below them. The stepped expanses of ramshackle stone buildings were surrounded by a low rock wall. A wide road leading to the Karakul Pass bypassed the city.
“A stone wall,” Quilland muttered, more to himself than to Stahler.
From above, it was obvious that the city had once been much larger and that buildings and houses had extended for kilometers beyond the stone walls to the south. All traffic into or out of the Shangri-La Valley had to travel past Evaskar. Once this city had been the heart of a mighty kingdom, perhaps during early Imperial rule.
It’s seen some hard times since the Empire left, Stahler thought. But not as hard as some, he added, thinking of bomb-swept cities in the central Valley.
“Return,” Quilland ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Between Evaskar and the mountainside redoubt Fort Stony Point was Firebase One, the landing site for shuttles, as well as the staging area for the upcoming ground invasion. Stahler studied the firebase, its Landing Zone a clean scar on the ground, its carefully laid out bunkers and buildings as familiar as any and every base camp he’d ever lived in. This time, he thought, it’s different—this time, it’s home.
He had never thought he’d call any place but Sauron home, but Sauron was gone—forever. Damn you all to hell! You bastards may have won the war, but I hope it costs you everything!
They circled through the winds back to the airspace above Fort Stony Point, where Stahler and Quilland saw smoke here and there, and Soldiers fighting fires. No more cattle to fight, thought Stahler. The Soldiers were using shovels and dirt. Only one team was using a fire hose.
The Deathmaster monitored the Battle-Tongue situation reports, occasionally mentioning some pocket of resistance. Quilland, supremely confident of his troops, only offered advice when he had something to bring to the fight. Stahler was impressed by the Deathmaster’s complete and instant grasp of almost any tactical situation.
“There,” Quilland pointed to a pitched battle that had just ignited. Stahler took the tilt-rotor over the courtyard where the small engagement raged, shrapnel pinging against the fuselage. He caught an updraft and took the tilt-rotor away from the fighting.
He checked his display readouts and listened to his craft’s turbines and rotors carefully. “No damage showing.”
The Deathmaster grunted in answer; he was busy checking the readouts himself. Hailing the three teams in the courtyard, Quilland ordered. “Southeast corner, grenade.”
He nodded for Stahler to proceed to the next spot-check on the list, not even pausing to watch the grenade’s devastating effect on the fort’s few remaining defenders.
Occasionally rifle bullets rang against the fuselage, but the battle for Fort Stony Point was over almost as quickly as it had begun.
“Secure,” came up from the two-man teams, one after another, as they reconnoitered the remaining buildings and fortifications.
“This place is vast, a labyrinth,” an Intel Ranker reported.
“Circle the fort once more,” Quilland ordered.
As they flew over the complicated, ring-walled, much-ruined and much-repaired tier of structures, the Deathmaster studied them with the intensity of a Sauron Nightfang eyeing its prey. Quilland had Stahler fly closer here, fly slower there, hover over this or that courtyard. He nodded to himself now and then.
“We can use this,” he muttered.
The Deathmaster often turned to look at the Karakul Pass, which narrowed a third of the way through, dog-legged, then widened and doglegged again before narrowing to about a kilometer of bumpy hillocks. The pass’s western side was almost sheer, straight up for about ten kilometers, while the southern side gradually ascended through a series of foothills to the Atlas Mountains looming above.
Fort Stony Point commanded the pass, yet remained inaccessible to almost any ground force that didn’t have good air cover. Even Stahler could see that, properly defended, this enormous fortification would be virtually invulnerable to attack; certainly by any force that the beaten and disorganized Haveners could put together.
“It’s a citadel,” he heard Quilland mutter under his breath. Stahler could only agree; he suspected the Deathmaster had plans for it even now.
II
Water had been brought aboard the Dol Guldur and Diettinger was sure he had never tasted anything so wonderful. The recycled water aboard the ship was metallic and sharp even to Sauron taste buds. It had been too long since their last planetfall.
Twenty standard days had passed since the bombardment of Haven had ended and the ground forces had firmly established their beachhead at Firebase One. Diettinger was speaking with Deathmaster Quilland planetside. Quilland’s forces had just consolidated their position to the south of a small mountain pass in the northeast corner of the Shangri-La Valley.
“By your leave, First Rank.” Quilland’s image looked fit and well, if a little flushed. Haven’s thin air took its toll, he had reported, until one got used to it. That he and his men were “getting used to” air pressures that rendered human norms delirious was immaterial; they were Saurons, after all.
“Speak, Deathmaster. You seem pleased.”
“I am, First Rank. I have the final report on the settlement area nearby Firebase One. The hard data is being uplinked to the Dol Guldur, but you asked for a verbal briefing when available.”
“Proceed.”
“The large valley below us, in addition to being almost completely protected by the surrounding mountain ranges, is centered on the equator and thereby enjoys higher atmospheric density than most other areas on Haven, as well as a more temperate climate. As expected, the early inhabitants concentrated their settlements within the Shangri-La Valley. Captives report that females frequently have birthing problems elsewhere on Haven, especially on the northern plains, due to the thin atmosphere. When the outlying districts need to bring their women into short-
term leased areas within the Shangri-La Valley for birthing purposes, the Upper Valley cattle have established a taxation system for passage.”
Diettinger found the information encouraging. Sauron genetic engineering did not extend to providing maximum birthing capabilities among their females; in fact, quite the opposite. With high genetic standards for approved births and constant experimentation in gene crossing, Sauron women often had difficulty in carrying fetuses to term. The advanced technology of the Sauron State had dealt with this problem through massive artificial reproduction, exo-genesis programs and embryonic vats. These options were no longer available to Diettinger’s people. He had a good idea about what Quilland was getting at.
“I understand your command now occupies one of the major way stations built by the locals to regulate such access.” Diettinger gestured to the towering structure of natural stone and heavy timbers looming behind Quilland, a stronghold if ever he had seen one.
“Better than that, First Rank. This fortification, which the cattle call Fort Stony Point, is the major way station into the Valley. The air in the upper reaches of these mountains is too thin for most of the cattle to tolerate, save for a handful of passes such as this one. Of these passes, only a few are open during the summer thaw, and of those, only this one is wide enough to allow mass transportation of personnel and trade goods.
“I recommend establishing a citadel here, with material from the Fomoria and most of our troops. There are few heavy elements here in the northeastern Shangri-La Valley, and every scrap of metal we can salvage from the ship will be of great value. It is also close to Firebase One and the city of Evaskar, a trading center we can use for our own purposes. This fort is located in a position to regulate the flow of cattle to and from the Shangri-La Valley and its critical safe-birth zones. This provides us the opportunity to exact whatever tribute we require while culling the indigenous population as we see fit.”
