“This is darker than a Fangrin’s armpit,” he said.
“I’d rather be smelling dog sweat than the crap that’s out there,” said the other pilot.
Griffin didn’t want them to lose focus and he cut across them. “We’re not going to reduce speed until the last moment,” he said. “We’ll find you a landing place and you dump those rust buckets straight down on it.”
“Yes, sir, you just point.”
The Hurricane flew deeper into the smoke and the sensor image gradually cleared up enough that Griffin could see what lay ahead. He guided the spaceship into the exclusion zone, aiming directly for the origin point of the transmissions. It already seemed strange to view a part of Qali-5 that was completely intact. This area was filled with many huge buildings, with wide roads between them. Sporadic traffic travelled these roads and the sensor image was clear enough for Griffin to identify the vehicles as similar to the ore trucks he’d seen underground on Reol.
A target lock light appeared on Griffin’s console and stayed amber. “Something’s looking for us.”
“Ground launcher,” said Lieutenant Jackson. “Ultor-VIs fired.”
White dots of missile propulsions appeared on the front feed and then vanished into the smoke. The Gradior was a second behind and it launched a wave of its own missiles, which raced across Griffin’s tactical.
“Got inbound. Launching Shredders.”
The exchange was brief. One enemy ground launcher was destroyed and the incoming Ragger missiles were taken out by interceptors. With each passing moment, the risk increased that a ground launcher would be able to fire from such a short range that Lieutenant Jackson or the weapons officer on the Gradior would have no time to respond.
“Come on,” Griffin muttered off comms. “We don’t need any more of this shit.”
“I’ve locked onto the place where the signal came from, sir,” said Dominguez. “I don’t know what the hell it is.”
The sensor image sharpened as the range fell. Griffin narrowed his eyes and tried to understand what he was looking at. The target structure was far larger and taller than the ones around it, with a domed roof and four cylindrical towers – one on each corner. The building reminded Griffin of ancient architecture from Earth, like a king’s palace made of alloy.
“Getting some strange readings, sir,” said Shelton. “I’m not sure what the hell they are.”
“Find out and tell me,” said Griffin.
With the structure still twenty klicks north-east, Dominguez caught a hint of something far more threatening than a ground launcher.
“Railgun charge up, two sources,” she said.
Griffin’s instinct yelled at him to bank the Hurricane to make his ship a harder target. He knew the transports were close behind and much more vulnerable. With gritted teeth, Griffin held steady.
“I have made the escort ships aware,” said Kenyon. He paused a moment. “Damn, the Vichun has taken two railgun hits.”
“Enemy missiles in the air,” said Shelton.
“I see the bastards,” said Jackson. “Ultor-VIs fired. Targeting our upper railguns. Awaiting Shredder lock. They’re above the smoke and it’s making the targeting slow.”
“I’ve detected another railgun charging.”
The new charge up came from a source directly overhead and there was no way the Hurricane was going to prevent this shot from hitting the transports if those were the Raggers’ target. Griffin banked the spaceship hard and increased its altitude. At this kind of range, evasive maneuvers were almost useless - a railgun slug travelled so damn fast it was impossible to avoid one unless you got lucky or the enemy couldn’t aim straight.
The Hurricane took a thunderous impact topside. The warship was angled with the turn and the railgun slug ricocheted into the ground far below. Griffin turned again and increased speed to meet the Raggers head-on.
“The Gradior has fired its own railguns,” said Dominguez.
“Negative hull breach from that impact,” Kroll reported. “Just a big old dent in the armor.”
“More ground launchers,” said Jackson. “Shit, too many.”
The Raggers had given away their positions by launching missiles and every captain and every weapons officer was trained in how to take advantage of railgun coil detection. A fusillade of missiles and railgun shots came in rapid response. The Fangrin crews were skilled and experienced, and they gave it everything. Lieutenant Jackson was determined that she wouldn’t be found wanting and the Hurricane’s bridge was filled with the sound of missile launches and railgun discharge. All the while, Griffin did what he could to make his spaceship as hard a target as possible.
“We’re being drawn away from the target area,” said Dominguez.
“Ah crap, I think we got more hostiles, sir,” said Shelton at the same time. “Three, maybe four.”
One of the first two vanished from Griffin’s tactical as it was blown apart by a wave of missiles and railgun shots. The second was at an altitude of forty klicks and it closed in fast. If the Raggers decided to target the transports, there’d be nothing the escort could do to stop them.
“Maybe they got wind that we were interested in that building over there,” said Kroll.
Griffin had a suspicion that his engine man’s assessment was a good one, which meant that the Raggers would do whatever it took to get more of their fleet to this part of Qali-5. It was time for drastic action.
“Tell those transport pilots to get ready,” said Griffin. His fingers tapped out a rapid series of commands, which he sent to the weapons console. “Firing Ultor-mounted nuclear warheads,” he said.
His thumb pressed the trigger and four missiles streaked away to join the dozens of others already in flight. Griffin watched them from the corner of one eye, willing them to their targets. The Ragger interceptors took out many of the conventional weapons, while their own missiles rained down upon the four heavy cruisers and the transports. Lieutenant Jackson swore profusely and launched interceptors as quickly as they would reload and the Fangrin fired swarms of their own.
“Three, two, one…” Griffin intoned.
The four nuclear missiles were programmed to detonate at a set altitude. Three went off as planned, but Griffin had the timing wrong on the fourth and it was lost in the combined explosions of the others. The overlapping blast spheres were clearly visible through the smoke layer and the Ragger ships disappeared from the tactical with satisfying finality.
“Let’s find a place these troops can deploy,” he said. The straps of Griffin’s harness dug into the material of his flight suit as he brought the Hurricane onto a new heading and his eyes roved across the sensor feeds.
Before he was able to identify a suitable landing place, Lieutenant Dominguez added another shovelful to the heap. “Got more incoming, sir. Two railgun coils charging, sixty klicks east.”
Griffin swore at the news. Whatever the rest of AF2 was doing to keep the Raggers away from here, it wasn’t working. He threw the Hurricane starboard to interfere with the aim of the enemy spaceships and searched desperately for a place the transports could set down.
Chapter Nine
The interior of the armored transport was as dismal as it got. Lieutenant Tanner Conway sat on a hard bench in one of the troop bays, with the grubby straps of his cloth harness holding him tightly enough to make breathing difficult. It was so cold that a layer of glistening ice covered the walls and so badly-lit that it was difficult to see the end walls. The usual stench of burnt grease and oil was joined by a damp muskiness. Left, right and opposite, human and Fangrin soldiers waited to see what the future had in store for them.
The ride was a bumpy one and the propulsion was right underneath the floor. The roar of the engines made conversation difficult, even in the squad comms channel. Conway clutched his rifle like he was strangling a child murderer and kept his expression calm.
“We get to rescue the big guy, huh?” said Corporal Kim Barron, opposite and one further along.
“Yeah and when they give us all a medal, I’m going to pin it to my ass so I don’t forget it’s there even when I’m taking a crap,” said Private Kemp.
“You damn disrespectful bastard, Kemp,” said Private Warner.
“I already got a bunch of medals for my shoulder, Chucky Boy. In a couple of years I’ll get me a suit made of nothing but medals.”
“You’ve got to live that long first, Elvis. Now how’s about you give us a song? Don’t step on my blue suede boots – that one’s my favorite.”
“It’s shoes, you asshole. And how’s about you spin on this?” asked Kemp good naturedly, lifting his middle finger.
A few of the others joined in and Conway let it wash over him. He’d been given command of four Fangrin soldiers and twenty-six humans as part of this joint exercise. The hulking aliens looked comfortable enough in their grey-yellow combat suits, but they didn’t give the impression they wanted to join in with the bullshit talk.
“How long until we land, sir?” asked Barron.
“Let me check.”
Conway was the only officer in this bay with authority to speak directly to one of the transport’s two pilots and he requested a channel.
“What is it Lieutenant?” asked Lieutenant Sherman Buchanan, the backup pilot. The stress in the man’s voice wasn’t something Conway wanted to hear.
“Just looking for an update.”
“It all went to crap for a moment there. Someone launched nukes and took out the Raggers. We’re trying to get you boys and girls down as close as possible to the target area.”
“Easy like it always is.”
“I thought you’d be used to it by now.”
“Yeah, you’d have thought.”
Conway closed the channel, tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. He wasn’t scared being on the transport, but nobody wanted to get shot out of mid-air. Death could come in many forms and Conway had preferences on how he’d like to meet his end. Being killed by a plasma missile wasn’t high up on the list.
“Sir?” asked Barron, reminding him she’d asked how long until the transport set down.
Conway didn’t get an opportunity to answer. Something hit the transport with tremendous force. Nobody had time to brace themselves before the reverberating shock and the incredible ringing sound of it swept through the troop bay. The microphones in Conway’s combat suit shut themselves off to protect his hearing, but still much of the sound reached him and he gritted his teeth against the pain in his ears.
The shockwave passed and the transport’s engines increased in volume. Conway was pulled against the straps and he knew the pilot was taking evasive maneuvers. A different noise became audible over everything else and it was a shrieking sound which he guessed was tearing metal.
“Railgun,” said Sergeant Denver Lockhart, his voice taut.
“We gotta set down,” said Kemp. “We can’t shoot Raggers if we’re dead.”
“Given how much you talk, the Raggers will hear you coming long before you shoot them, human,” said Hacher in the growling tones of his species.
Kemp wasn’t thrown and he responded loudly enough to be heard over the creaking of the hull and the screaming of the engines. “I can shoot one of those alien bastards – no disrespect meant – clean through the eye from ten klicks in vacuum conditions.” He nudged the Fangrin’s assault rifle with the toe of his boot and had to shout louder still when the noise level increased yet again. “With that thing you can’t hit the underside of a battleship when it’s ten meters above your head.”
The transport was struck again and this time Conway heard the deep blast of a plasma warhead going off. A moment later, the sound was lost in the vessel’s wake, but he knew the damage had been done. He tried to figure out how much it would take to bring the transport out of the sky and quickly realized it wasn’t worth thinking about.
“Speak to the pilot again?” asked Barron. Her gaze was steady, though she tapped her fingers constantly against the barrel of the rifle she had across her knees.
Conway shook his head. “Not a time for distractions.”
He heard another screech of splitting metal and looked sharply to his left, expecting to see light from outside coming through a breach. The bay was sealed up as tight as the moment he came through the door. He glanced around – a few of the soldiers had the fixed stare, whilst others acted unconvincingly nonchalant. Private Kemp continued making wisecracks, seeing if he could get a rise out of the Fangrin. The aliens weren’t paying him too much attention.
A second plasma missile hit the shuttle with the same booming as the first one. Conway turned his head, trying to identify the direction.
“Just like the good old times, eh?” said Private Lola Torres, squeezed in between Nixil and Hacher, and looking tiny in comparison. She gave each of the aliens a sharp elbow. “Like when we were fighting each other.”
“I would not describe it as a fight,” said Nixil. “More a distraction.” The Fangrin uttered a harsh growling sound which Conway recognized as laughter.
“In time, we’d have kicked your furry butts,” said Torres.
“Your legs are too short to kick higher than my knee, human,” said Hacher. “Unless you had the assistance of a ladder.”
Conway smiled inwardly. The Fangrin sense of humor didn’t exactly align with that of the soldiers but it was close enough and the aliens were willing students when they wanted to be. He opened his mouth to speak, not really sure what he intended to say. The transport was hit by another railgun slug, this one sounding even louder than the first. The shock of it drowned Conway’s words midway through and the pain in his head made him swear.
“Ah shit!” said Kemp.
The shrieking of metal came again and much worse than before. It sounded like the transport was breaking up and Conway was pretty sure that’s exactly what was happening. He asked for a comms channel to the cockpit and his request was automatically blocked by the comms system.
“Not speaking?” asked Barron, perceptive as ever.
Conway shook his head. The screeching resumed and didn’t stop. The engines became louder yet, as though they were in competition with everything else. A little way right, Warner struck his fist angrily against the side of his helmet as if berating himself for being scared and even the Fangrin hunched their shoulders as if they were suffering too. The ducts began pumping in dark smoke, thick with the odor of burnt metal, plastic and whatever the hell else the transport was built from.
With a final ear-splitting snap, the left-hand bulkhead and half the bay vanished, taking fifteen soldiers with it. Private Hans Lundbauer stayed inside, but he was cut in half so quickly that Conway didn’t see what had caused it. The man’s blood fountained from his severed torso, turning the walls and Private Berg a deep, rich crimson.
Conway looked in horror through the opening. This passenger bay was midway along the transport’s length and it seemed like the half of the vessel had sheared off and become lost far behind. Outside, the skies were an almost indescribable chaos of smoke and white-grey clouds from a dozen or more nuclear explosions.
The transport’s comms opened. “Ladies and gentlemen, you might have noticed a slight turbulence,” said Lieutenant Buchanan, his bad joke made even worse by the cracking of his voice. “We are about to make an enforced landing wherever the hell we manage it. Hold on tight, folks.”
“I knew I should have stayed in bed,” said Kemp.
If he said anything else, the words were lost in the renewed din of the propulsion. This time, there was no way to be heard over it and Conway felt sudden isolation. He was surrounded by men and women he’d fought alongside many times, yet he was denied the opportunity to speak with them. Lockhart sat directly across and he met Conway’s eyes, before giving a sad half-smile that spoke volumes.
The computer in Conway’s suit helmet was able to estimate the altitude and the figure it put onto his HUD sped inexorably downwards. He looked outs
ide again and this time he could only see industrial smoke. The ducts continued pumping the stuff as well and the interior of the bay was hazy with it.
“Any second,” said Barron.
With impact only moments away, the transport’s pilot did something to the damaged engines which extracted both noise and thrust. Conway felt the drag of much harder deceleration and the muscles in his neck strained to keep his head upright.
The transport crashed into a surface or an object which nobody in the bay could see. They felt it and heard it. Conway was shaken in his harness, suddenly glad it was holding him so tightly. He tried to look through the opening to see what was going on. The forces of the landing were too strong and Conway didn’t have enough control over his head. He gritted his teeth and waited for it to end.
Another impact came and then a third, each jarring and painful. The last one felt solid and Conway wondered if the transport had struck the ground. He managed to turn enough that he could see outside, though everything was too confused for him to be sure what was there. He saw grey, with different shades and uneven lines.
One more shuddering thump shook his body and the engines shut off. Their failure didn’t bring silence, rather the propulsion note was replaced by a rumbling, shuddering scrape. It lessened quickly and Conway realized they were coming to a halt. He had full control over his head and looked at what lay to his left. It was half-dark, though with sufficient light to betray the presence of broken Ragger steel and alloy.
The transport’s journey came to an end and Conway unclipped his harness with unsteady fingers. His other hand clutched the barrel of his rifle and he couldn’t stop himself from flipping the weapon in order that he could see the ammunition readout. 40/40.
“Everyone up!” he shouted. “Check your squadmates!”
Lundbauer was dead as well as fifteen others from the aft part of the bay. That left fourteen including Conway, all alive and coming to terms with the reality. The transport’s life support system had lasted long enough to keep them from perishing when the vessel hit the ground and Conway was infinitely glad for it.
Death Skies (Fire and Rust Book 4) Page 7
