planet for the next Sivar."
"There are a hundred other worlds to choose from once this is done. A
squad of Imperial Marines will now escort you to your ship, Baron."
Baron Jukaga looked coldly at the Prince and then spat on the floor.
Prince Thrakhath merely laughed in reply as Baron Jukaga was escorted
from the room.
"My lord, there are significantly more ships than intelligence
indicated."
Thrakhath looked back at the main screen and ordered the forward picket
ships to send back enhanced optical scan. He waited for the visuals to be
returned, watching the display of the two fleets being deployed. More and
more blips of enemy ships were appearing, moving out from behind other ships
which had been masking them. He had his suspicions as to what the new ships
were and did not feel overly worried. One of the advantages of having had an
embassy team on Earth was the ability to conduct reconnaissance. It was made
even better by the fact that their own Foreign Minister had become a
traitor. Too bad she was under arrest.
"They're civilian ships, my lord. Numerous light craft, personal ships,
light business ships of corvette size, shuttle craft, and civilian
interplanet transports."
Thrakhath nodded.
"They're throwing everything in as a screen to waste our weapons on.
Order the outer wave of fighters to ignore them and to concentrate on the
incoming Broadswords and Sabres. Once their offensive capability has been
smashed we can turn our attention to this chaff they throw out and destroy
them."
"We're also detecting Marine assault and landing ships, my lord."
Thrakhath stirred, ordering that this new sighting be highlighted on
the main display. Several hundred of the blips started to blink bright
yellow.
What were they up to?
"A diversionary effort, my lord?"
He looked over at his chief tactical officer.
He still had over seventeen hundred fighters at his disposal, almost
all of them already launched and moving towards position. The first
offensive strike wave was already committed, four hundred strike craft
moving out past the outer line of picket ships with four eights of corvettes
and light frigates in escort. Long range Confederation patrols were already
moving to intercept, a pitiful six eights of fighters.
He was holding back over a thousand craft, assuming a more defensive
posture than in the last battle. One of his carriers was gone, another
slightly damaged. He would absorb and totally destroy the offensive strike,
eliminating the final threat. Then he would smash through with a totally
annihilating second strike, smashing whatever was left of the enemy fleet.
They could no longer retreat and regroup, they would have to stand and die.
But the Marines? What were they for? To draw fire, obviously, while the
last of the Broadswords went in.
"Still concentrate on the Broadswords," he said. "Then we slaughter the
rest."
Kevin tried to purge the anguish, to block it out. His friends, his
comrades were dying. Flickers of light filled space straight ahead and to
starboard a hundred and fifty clicks away. The Broadsword strike was going
in. His tactical screen traced the attack. The first wave of Broadswords,
what few were left, was slowing, hovering. Going through the agonizing
thirty second countdown to launch. And one after another their transponders
winked off, the blue blips replaced by brief flashes of light and then
disappearing.
He switched to strike two's main comm channel.
"Ten seconds, nine, keep Сem off, keep Сem off. . ."
"I can't eject, I can't get out, oh God I'm burning . . ."
"Six on your tail, Maria, break, break . . ."
"Yellow three, torpedo lock failed, am . . ."
The signals became fewer, space ahead flashing with hundreds of points
of light.
The second wave, going towards the carriers, was straight ahead,
slashing into the storm of defense. A hundred Kilrathi fighters were now
hitting into his own attack column and ships were dying, but the main blow
had not hit yet.
"Blue One, we've got company coming."
Kevin tore his attention away from the dying attack and saw a wave of
fifty fighters coming in from above and slashing into the column behind him.
He held course, looking over his shoulder.
Nearly a thousand craft were spread out around him. Off his port
quarter he saw a civilian transplanet liner trying an evasive and disappear
in an explosion after a single burst of neutron bolts from a light fighter.
It was suicide and he had to harden his heart to the realization that
was precisely what the pilots flying the civilian craft had signed on for.
They were nothing more than sitting ducks, unshielded, totally defenseless.
Having been given pressure suits and rescue transponders, the pilots were
told to bail out if things got too hot. But they were serving their purpose.
The first waves of Kilrathi fighters, wading into the hundreds of targets,
had become drunk with the thrill of killing. He watched as a flight of
Krants shot right through a line of Marine transports, not even bothering to
fire, racing ahead to smash a cruiser size liner, a dozen fighters tearing
into the defenseless ship until it split apart. And each fighter that took
thirty seconds to line up and fire on a useless ship was one less fighter
engaged in the real fight, while the hidden weapon drew even closer.
"My lord, we might have a tactical analysis on what they are doing."
Thrakhath looked over at his tactical officer.
Even as the officer started to offer his analysis the truth of what he
was saying sunk in.
All fighters strike them now! Strike them now. Order all carriers into
full evasive!"
"Here we go! All ships pick your targets. If you can't get to a
carrier, nail a cruiser. Charge!"
General Duke Grecko leaned forward, looking over the shoulder of his
assault craft pilot. A recorded charge blared on the assault craft's loud
speaker and Grecko grinned with delight.
Behind him, in the aft personnel bay, a hundred assault troops cheered,
thumping the butts of their laser rifles on the floor of the ship.
Space around him was pure chaos. Hundreds of Kilrathi fighters were
swarming in, escort ships moving to intersect the attack. Dozens of ships
and assault craft were vaporizing every second in the slaughter, so that he
thought for an instant that his plan was exactly what Geoff, and for that
matter everyone else from the President on down, had declared it to be: pure
suicide.
The only advantage he could now see in being head of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff, was that he didn't have to convince anyone Ч he simply had to give
the order, and then go.
A civilian liner twisted in front of him, blocking the rush of three
incoming Dralthi, diverting their shots. His own pilot dived under the liner
as it exploded and then lined back up on their target.
"The carrier, go for the carrier!"
"We'll never make it. Let's nail the destroyer to port!"
"Damn it, son, I'm the general here. Anything less than a carrier is an
insult, now move it!"
Kevin weaved his way through the melee, moving up to protect an assault
wave of twenty Marine landing craft, a full brigade of troops packed inside.
They were breaking through.
A Kilrathi destroyer was moving in towards the group and he saw three
of the landing craft turn towards the destroyer. The destroyers defensive
batteries nailed two. The third closed in, letting loose with its ground
bombardment armaments which leaped across space, exploding across the bow of
the enemy ship. The rounds were designed for area suppression, not shield
and hull penetration, but they nevertheless blinded the ship. The landing
craft swung across the top side of the destroyer, matching speed and then
slammed down on its main cargo hatch. Explosive shape charges mounted to the
bottom of the landing craft detonated, blowing the destroyer's main access
hatch open.
The landing craft edged forward, gaining magnetic lock on the
destroyer's hull. No matter what the ship now did as evasive, the Marine
assault craft was glued to its side like a lamprey eel on the side of a fish
Ч and it was just as deadly.
The back hatch of the landing craft blew open and assault troops
streamed out, wearing magnetic-soled shoes and swarmed in through the
ruptured cargo door, firing RPGs, miniguns, and assault recoilless flechette
launchers.
Kevin shot past the destroyer.
The damn plan just might work!
The seventeen assault ships ahead pressed in, Kevin now riding herd
above them. He tried to ignore everything else: the hundreds of ships
fighting and dying around him, the total chaos, as all tactical formations
were lost. Kilrathi fighters, now fully committed to this new threat,
swarmed in, space so thick with them that he witnessed half a dozen
collisions between turning fighters, their own ships, and Confederation
craft.
Five of the Marine ships disappeared a full battalion of five hundred
men winking out of existence. In any other situation their loss would have
been viewed as a disaster. Here, with the final desperate defense of Earth,
it was the mere incident of a second's time. Three Jalthi turned in on the
group, ignoring Kevin. He slashed two out of existence, while the third took
out three landing craft and then broke hard down and to the left,
disappearing.
The Marine craft pressed on in, dodging past a lumbering cruiser, with
the lead landing craft pushing up and over.
"Come on, take it, just take it before you're all killed," Kevin
thought, wanting to scream at the assault unit's commander. The cruiser fell
astern, taking out three more craft as they shot past, with a mass driver
burst shutting down his own aft shields and slicing deep into his armor. Six
craft were left and then he saw the target straight ahead as he looked up
after dispatching yet another fighter Ч a Kilrathi heavy carrier turning in
evasive.
The carrier, with a mix of twenty civilian and assault ships behind it,
was going through a slow, ponderous turn, its aft, top, and bottom batteries
all engaged, slaughtering their pursuers. Within seconds the twenty ships
were gone.
They were racing straight in on the carrier. The six craft he was
escorting opened fire, sixty area suppression bombardment missiles
blanketing the ship's bow.
"Fighter following me, we're going for their topside forward bay, match
speed and give us suppressive!"
Startled, Kevin looked at his comm screen. It was Duke Grecko on a
laser link line.
The order was insane and yet he followed it. He leaped ahead of the six
landing craft, even as two more of them exploded, then slammed in reverse
thrusters, coming to a dead stop fifty meters in front of the launch bay.
Kevin toggled through every weapon he still had, dumping out IFFs, dumb
fire and then mass drivers. The spread exploded across the airlock bay,
which shimmered and glowed red, part of the concentrated blast kicking
through the shielding, blowing apart a mass driver turret above the bay. Two
landing craft came streaking past and headed in. An explosion rocked his
ship, spinning it over in a cartwheeling pivot away from the carrier. A
quick scan of his instruments told him the worst and he reached down between
his legs, grabbed hold of the ejector ring, and pulled.
"Switch IFF transponders now!" Grecko roared.
The pilot flipped the switch to the preprogrammed Kilrathi IFF, which
intelligence claimed would get them through the airlock if they activated it
at the last second before the deck officer could toggle the channel to a
different frequency.
He closed his eyes as they hit the field. If intelligence was off, the
landing craft would not be able to handle the head-on collision and would
vaporize on the shield.
An explosion rocked the ship and he was slammed forward by a jarring
blow. He opened his eyes. They were skidding down the length of the flight
deck, the Kilrathi launch crew scattering in every direction.
"Blow rear hatch!"
The rear hatch swung open even as the landing craft continued to skid
down the deck in a shower of sparks.
Duke, unbuckled from his jump seat, stood up clenching a laser gun and
started for the rear.
"Let's kick ass!" he roared
The Marines closest to the hatch were already up, leaping out the door,
rolling on the deck coming up and firing. Grecko hit the back edge and
jumped, deliberately rolling on to his new artificial arm which could take
the blow better. Gaining his feet he nailed a furball pilot coming at him
with a drawn pistol, cutting him in half, then dropped a ground crew coming
out from under a Krant.
The landing craft skidded to a stop and Duke raced towards it. He
looked back at his other landing craft. It was on its side, burning,
survivors struggling out from the wreckage.
"Get that mine out now! First platoon with me on the advance. Second
platoon knock out their launch bridge and secure a perimeter, then help any
survivors from the other landing craft. Third platoon escort the demolitions
team."
Duke looked around, trying to figure out where to go next. Intelligence
had never said anything about the internal layout of the ship. But then
again, what the hell did intelligence know about these damn ships anyhow,
other than that they were big? The only plan they had was to board and then
get as deep into the ship as possible.
He saw an oversized door. Hell, they were all oversized given the size
of the Cats. Flight deck personnel were fleeing through it and it looked as
good as any.
"First platoon, let's go!"
He raced for the door, firing as he advanced, dropping Cats, their
bodies piled up at the entryway. He hit the corridor, started to step in,
and then ducked back from a flurry of laser shots. Two of his Marines leaned
in, firing a suppressive spray while a third held up a minigun. The
explosive roar of the gun drowned out all other sound, filling the corridor
with fire, smoke, and a hundred rounds a second. Another Marine threw a
concussion grenade in; it detonated and they waded through. Each door that
they passed was kicked open and a grenade dropped in.
They reached the end of the corridor which broke into an intersection
of four hallways radiating outward.
"We have to get down, damn it, into the guts of the ship!"
He sent sections running up each of the corridors and thirty seconds
later a runner came back.
"Access hatch to lower levels, sir, this way."
"First section, first squad, secure this point. Get the demo team up
here and move them in after us."
He looked back at the rest of his team.
"I'm getting too old for this crap," he grinned. "Come on, let's go!"
"My lord, they've boarded the ship through the topside launch bay!"
Stunned, Prince Thrakhath looked over at the ship security officer.
It was madness, absolute madness. And brilliant. Why could he have not
seen that in desperation this would be a final tactic?
"How many Imperial Marine guards are on board?"
"A security detachment of fifty, my lord, not counting your own
security squad."
"Where are they heading?"
The security chief toggled through a schematic of the ship and traced
out a line.
"They're moving down into the second level already. Reports are
sketchy."
"They're going to set mines and blow them," Thrakhath said coldly and
he looked over at his damage control officer.
"What can they do?"
The damage control officer looked at him wide-eyed.
"All our calculations of damage containment were based upon external
torpedo and missile strikes. Our armor is layered, through several sectors
of the ship, strongest outside, with two internal belts. Into the core
there's no armor at all, my lord."
He paused.
"If they blow a demolition charge in the middle of the ship, the armor
will actually act to contain it, making the damage far worse." He swallowed
hard. "It'll destroy the ship, my lord."
Prince Thrakhath roared with anger, slamming his fist down on a
console.
"Get everyone who can carry a weapon forward. Block them off!"
The security chief ran from the bridge.
"Boarding parties now reported on two other carriers, my lord, as well
as twenty-nine other ships."
"And the enemy fleet?"
"Still holding position, my lord. Two of their carriers have been
destroyed, all the others damaged."
"Press the attack press it in!"
Prince Thrakhath looked back up at the main tactical display. Hundreds
of his fighters were now circling around his carriers, nearly all of the
enemy strike waves destroyed. There was nothing for them to go after, their
armaments expended in the mad shooting match.
"Order all on defensive to prepare for second strike on enemy
carriers."
The combat commander looked up.
"Their armaments have nearly all been expended, my lord."
Prince Thrakhath growled angrily. If he landed them and any of the
carriers were destroyed by the boarders he'd lose his pilots.
"Order the fighters to hold until boarders are disposed off, then land
and rearm."
He looked up at the internal security display and saw a white line
tracing the enemy attack into the second level of the ship.
"I'm going to the forward launch bay," he announced coldly. "The attack
to finish their fleet I'm personally leading
He started off the bridge and then paused.
"Order the cruisers to break through and finish Earth now!"
In anguish Geoff Tolwyn watched the flickering two dimensional image on
the tactical display. All holo displays were now off line as was primary
shielding jump engines, and port launch deck. Concordia had survived two
more torpedo hits and was crippled, barely able to make twenty percent
speed.
The offensive strike waves had simply disappeared into the heart of the
enemy fleet. He knew some successes were made, with more than a dozen
frigates, destroyers and cruisers gone. But the carriers were still intact.
Whether any of the boarding parties had even gotten into the heart of the
fleet was merely a guess at this point. The computers handling the hundreds
of comm channels was down, as was burst signal link to Earth.
They had fought the enemy offensive strike to a stand-still. Not fifty
of the enemy fighters out of the four hundred that had come in had survived.
Two more of his carriers were gone, the surviving three damaged, with
Lexington threatening to blow from internal fires Ч and there were still
close to a thousand enemy fighters left along with a hundred escort ships.
But what was worse, far worse, was the cruiser squadron that at the
opening of the action had flanked far out to port by more than five million
clicks and was now plunging straight in towards Earth, scoops closed and up
to flank speed. Not even his fastest ships could close with them now. The
light picket line of a cruiser section, Earth orbital defenses and moon
ground based defenses and a handful of obsolete frigates would have to stop
them. It had been assumed that at least one section of enemy ships or more
would go for a straight breakthrough under the screen of the fleet-to-fleet
action. Earth was on its own now.
He thought for a moment of a distant ancestor of long ago, who, when
contemplating the invasion and destruction of England, announced that even
if England fell, the Empire, and with it the fleet, would still continue the
fight.
England. No, he didn't want to think of that now.
"Get me Polowski on laser link."
The image flickered on the screen.
"Mike, they're going to come in to finish us off. We still need to keep
our carriers alive. I want you to close and see what you can do to knock
them off balance."
"What I've been waiting to hear," Mike replied, his voice sounding
distant and strained.
"Take care, and God's speed to you, Mike."
Mike did not even reply. Seconds later Destroyer Squadron Three leaped
forward into the attack.
Duke Grecko, his good arm shattered by a blast from a grenade, sat
against a bulkhead wall. A lone runner came back from the point squad.
"The bastards are insane up there. At least a hundred of them charged
when we hit the next deck. It was hand to hand."
The runner was panting hard.
"Your platoon?"
"Finished, sir," and she paused "I got out because Lieutenant Flory
sent me back just before they overran us."
"It's all right, Marine. How long before they get here?"
"I lasered the door shut, sir. Not more than a minute or two."
Duke brought his laser up with his artificial arm at the sound of
running. From around a corner a Marine appeared, gun down low, ready to
fire, and relaxed at the sight of Grecko. He looked back and waved on his
unit and came up to Grecko.
"Demo team reporting, sir. How's it up ahead?"
"As far as we're getting son."
"Only three levels down, sir. Can't we get one more?"
Duke looked at the young woman who had been on point.
She shook her head
"Then it's right here, son," and as he spoke the survivors of the demo
team and the platoon escorting them came up, pushing a steel crate,
maneuvering it with null gravity handles.
"Open her up," Duke said quietly, and the team lowered it down, popping
the lid open.
Duke looked at the detonator for the thermonuclear warhead.
"All right, now get the hell out of here. I'm giving you five minutes,"
and he reached over, first arming the device and then turning the timer on.
The demo team looked at him and grinned
"Let's go, sir."
"I'll be along in a minute," Duke said quietly.
The surviving corporal of the team hesitated.
"That's my job, sir."
"I'm not going to play hero, son. Now get the lead out of your butt and
that's an order. I'll be along shortly."
The Marine looked at him, hesitating. A thin smile creased his
features. He saluted and then turned, heading back down the corridor,
leading his team with him.
Duke settled back against the wall and sighed. He simply couldn't admit
that he was played out and exhausted. Perhaps the president was right, he
had never really recovered from his wounds taken at Vukar. He should have
stayed at his desk rather than running off to play commando. Since someone
did have to stay behind, just in case the Cats got through and knew how to
disarm the weapon, it might as well be him.
"You all right, sir?"
He looked up. It was the young woman who had been on point.
"Marine, get the hell out of here."
"Like hell, sir," she said quietly. "I'll hold point." He smiled sadly.
"I thought you might want some company," and her voice was almost
childlike.
"What's your name, Marine?"
"Jenny McCrae, sir."
"That's my girl's name too," he said, a fatherly tone evident in his
voice. "She's with the Fourth Marine."
He didn't want to think about that now. She was somewhere in the
assault.
"I know, sir, we went through boot together. She was awfully proud of
you."
"Really? I wondered. I haven't seen her in years. Her mother and I . .
."
"I know, sir. It's all right though."
They heard the door down the corridor burst open a thundering roar
filling the corridor. He looked down at the chronometer ticking off on the
bomb. A minute forty-five to go. The squad just might have made it back by
now and gotten off.
I'll give them a few more seconds.
The first Cat turned the corridor and Jenny dropped him. And then a
swarm of them came on. He started to slam his fist down on the firing button
when a solid blow knocked him off his feet, slamming him against the
bulkhead. He tried to get back up, barely seeing the Kilrathi Imperial Guard
trooper closing in on him from behind.
The Cat fired again, stitching a burst across his chest and the world
started to go warm and hazy.
He looked up and saw Jenny standing over him. She looked like his
daughter, or was it his wife, or mother Ч filled with gentleness.
She looked at him, a smile lighting her innocent face, and then her
fist slammed down on the ignitor.
Kevin Tolwyn flung his hand over his visor as a sun ignited before him.
They got it!
He knew he was getting dosed but he didn't care. Not now. The entire
top forward half of the carrier was engulfed in the fireball, the lower and
aft parts of the ship tumbling down from the shock of the explosion. The
rest of the ship appeared to hold together for a brief instant and then
fractured open, the engine cells igniting, the fireball racing outward.
Another flash detonated to his right followed by half a dozen more. He
guessed that two of them were cruisers, the others, he wasn't sure of.
But two more of them were heavy carriers! The glare of the explosions
filled space across hundreds of cubic kilometers. His dose meter clicked
off, beeping an alarm. He didn't care. He just didn't care anymore. They had
finished the bastards.
He closed his eyes, feeling at peace.
Stunned, Prince Thrakhath turned his fighter around, looking back at
his flagship as it blew apart, a dozen clicks behind him.
He knew that those on the deck had thought him a coward for leaving the
ship, seeing through his excuse that he was going to personally lead the
next wave into battle.
Well, they were dead now and he was still alive.
His heart filled with mad rage as more detonations let go, two more of
his prized ships disappearing, and he howled with insane fury.
The explosions died away. He scanned through his tactical.
He still had one old carrier and Craxtha intact.
He punched into Craxtha's main channel and called in the commander of
the ship obviously startled.
"We feared you were dead, my lord."
"I was off ship, preparing to lead the next strike."
"Sivar be praised. She guided you thus, my lord."
"The status of your ship?"
"She is fully operational, my lord. We repelled all boarders Ч my
fighters stopped them long before they closed."
He could detect the pride in the commander, as if he were saying that
the other ships were lost through negligence.
"Yes, of course, praise to Sivar. Order all heavy strike fighters from
all ships to land on your carrier and rearm immediately for a killing strike
on the enemy fleet. We will still win this action."
The commander hesitated.
"We have reports of an incoming strike of enemy destroyers, my lord.
And besides, you are talking about turning around over five hundred strike
craft on this one ship
"Your ship is designed to handle that. Now pass the order. Let the
remaining fighters and our escorts block the destroyers."
"As you command, my lord."
Thrakhath turned his fighter in towards Craxtha, which within minutes
was surrounded by swarms of fighters who were lining up for recovery on the
six launch bays.
Thrakhath cut into the front of the landing pattern and came in,
touching down in the forward portside landing bay.
Inside the hangar deck was mass confusion, the bay crammed from one end
to the other with fighters. Fuel lines were snaked across the deck,
armaments lockers were open and torpedoes were being hoisted out. Crews
struggled with long energy cables, hooking them into ships, recharging
neutron guns, batteries, and shielding systems.
There was no semblance of order: pilots and ship crews from the other
three heavy carriers milled about, most of them in obvious shock at the
sudden reversal.
Thrakhath stepped out of his fighter and instantly the deck went
silent.
"Keep working," he snarled. "We will still finish the scum before this
day is done."
He felt the ship start to heel over, the starfield outside the entry
lock shifting. He could imagine the confusion this sudden maneuver was
causing with the hundred or more fighters and strike craft still lined up
for recovery. Angrily, he strode across the deck into the launch officer's
operations office.
"Put the bridge on," he thundered.
"What are you doing up there?" he shouted. "We need to get these
fighters in as soon as possible and turned around."
"Five destroyers have broken through the inner screen and are coming
straight in on us."
"Enemy carrier turning away, sir.
"Keep on closing," Mike said calmly.
He looked over at his helm officer and smiled.
"Just like the Battle of Leyte Gulf," Mike said.
"I was thinking that," the helm replied "One of my illustrious
ancestors commanded a cruiser there. We should have won that day."
Mike nodded.
"Torpedo room."
"Torpedo room, sir."
"Have lock yet?"
"Twenty-two seconds and counting, sir."
Mike looked back up at his tactical. Of the twelve destroyers in his
squadron only four were left. There was a flash of light on his main visual
and he realized he was down to three.
"Hell of a day to be a destroyer skipper," and then he focused back on
the enemy carrier, a dozen clicks ahead as it turned hard over, now
presenting a full amidships shot and then started to present its stern.
A swarm of Kilrathi fighters shot in, stitching his destroyer with
everything they still had. Four of them elected to simply come straight in,
one of them kamikaziing through the shield as it struggled to recover from
the repeated hammer blows. The kamikaze hit just aft of the bridge, blowing
into the center of the ship, knocking Mike to the deck. Decompression alarms
sounded off, the damage control board sparkling with red lights.
"Torpedo room."
"Twelve and counting, sir. What the hell happened back there?"
"Never mind, just get those birds launched."
Another string of fighters swooped in, concentrating on the bow of the
ship.
"We've lost lock, sir. Torpedo guidance control off line."
"Damn it!"
To his right, Roger Young launched its torpedoes just before blowing.
The spread of a dozen rounds leaped forward
"Helm, follow those torpedoes in," Mike shouted, and then he reached
over, punching the abandon ship alarm.
"This is the captain speaking. If you wanna see your families again,
you've got thirty seconds to get to the escape pods and the hell off this
ship!"
He looked over at his helm and fire control officers.
"I hate to ask this of you two."
"It's all right, sir," the helm officer said. "This time the family
wants to be on the winning side."
Mike looked at the rest of his team.
"You heard me, get the hell off this ship."
They hesitated.
"Damn it, you fools. You've got something to live for, now move it,"
and he grabbed hold of his damage control officer and pushed her towards the
door.
She looked at him, wide-eyed, torn.
"For God's sake, Elaine, you've got kids back home. Now move it!"
She struggled to hold back the tears and then, turning, ran down the
corridor to the nearest escape pod, the rest following.
"Helm, follow those torpedoes in."
Aye, sir.
Mike stood, watching the screen, ignoring the fighters that swarmed
around his ship. A staccato series of hammer blows blew the main generator
off line, dim emergency battle lamps coming back on. All but two of the
torpedoes launched by Young were gone as well.
"Torpedo room, still with me?"
"Still here, sir. Figured we should hang around for the fun.
"Get ready for blind fire. Set fuses at point one seconds!"
"Point one seconds, sir?"
"Shut up and do it!"
"Point one seconds, sir, and we'll see you in hell."
"Helm, do your job right. Bring us in on the landing bay an instant
after Young's birds hit."
The helm officer grinned as he delicately worked the controls, weaving
the destroyer in, as it came up directly astern of the enemy carrier.
The carrier's point defenses tore into his ship and he felt her dying,
letting go.
"Helm, full speed ahead now!"
He felt the final surge of his ship thundering under his feet.
"Torpedo room, ready, ready, fire!"
The one surviving torpedo from Roger Young hit the carrier's aft
starboard launch bay and blew, distorting the phase shielding. An instant
later a dozen more torpedoes fired at point blank range detonated.
The last thing Mike Polowski saw were his own torpedoes blowing less
than fifty meters ahead of his own ship. He thought of the warm hills of his
now dead world and smiled as the blast wave blew his ship apart. The forward
momentum of what had been the aft end of his destroyer, however, continued
on, even as it died, adding its thousand tons of mass into the detonating
firestorm of the torpedoes impacting against the carrier's overloaded
shields. Most of the mass was repelled away, but the aft end of the ship,
engines still pulsing, even as the ship ahead of it vaporized, continued
onward, driving through the shattered hull, pushing before it fragments of
bulkheads, decking, and those few still on board. The engine mounts, made of
solid durasteel, were all that was left a hundredth of a second later as
they impacted through the landing bay's airlock. Several dozen tons of
molten durasteel blew into the vast hangar bay, vaporizing flesh, cutting
into fuel lines, igniting ammunition, and ripping open the hundred and three
fighters being readied for launch.
The entire bay exploded in a white-hot fireball of destruction.
Prince Thrakhath staggered through the wreckage and onto Craxtha's main
bridge. The room was choked with smoke, half the bridge crew dead or
wounded, open fires still licking out of shattered equipment. The ship's
commander was dead, slumped in his chair, the top of his head gone.
"Who's in command here?"
The crew looked at him, stunned.
"I think I am now, sir," and Thrakhath saw the green tabs of damage
control on the officer's collar.
"Can you save her?"
"We've lost two aft bays, my lord," the officer reported. "The
explosion started in starboard aft bay, then leaped through an open access
elevator to topside bay."
"Why was it open?"
"The commander ordered it. They were out of torpedoes in the lower bay.
We were shifting them down from above."
Thrakhath looked back at the commander and silently cursed. If he were
still alive, he would have him executed on the spot for such stupidity.
"Two of our main engines are gone as well, sir. We're lucky the main
fuel cells didn't go up. I'm purging out the three cells closest to the fire
right now. I've also ordered all armaments in the aft topside bay dumped
overboard"
"Do that and we have to run with scoops full open!" Thrakhath roared.
"We'll lose whatever offensive capability we have left. With half our
remaining armaments gone, we're finished!"
"Sire, if you don't like what I'm doing then execute me and do it
yourself," the officer snapped. "We're lucky to be alive as is. If we don't
purge those cells now they'll blow. It's an inferno back there."
Thrakhath stood silently, looking over at the flickering display on the
damage board and finally lowered his head.
"Tell me what we can still do."
"We still have more than five hundred of our best fighters out there,
my lord. They have no offensive strike capability left; they're mostly light
fighters. I think it's time we landed them, my lord, to get our pilots back.
We won't have enough room for them, so the craft will have to be dumped
overboard as fast as we recover them."
Thrakhath looked up at him, unable to speak.
"It's time to go home, my lord. We've done all we can do today. One
more hit and we ll lose this ship as well. We've got to save our pilots now,
my lord. There'll be over a thousand of them on board here. They'll still
give us victory once we've repaired this ship, and the rest of the new
carriers come on line."
Thrakhath looked around the bridge. He knew the young officer was
right. He had to save his pilots; he had lost too many already.
The only satisfaction left now was the fact that within a matter of
minutes the cruiser squadron would close on Earth. At least with Earth
destroyed, this would still be a victory.
"Launch fighters now!"
Jason Bondarevsky leaned forward in his chair, wishing now more than
ever to be back in a fighter.
The first fighter, piloted by Doomsday, cleared the bay.
The blue-green home of his race filled the forward screen.
The run in from jump point 12Y, the line leading back towards the
Landreich, had been with scoops fully closed. Kruger had even committed the
ultimate madness of doing the final jump at full speed. A third of the fleet
had missed the Jump point completely, forcing them to decelerate, turn
around and come back in. They were now several hours behind. They were the
lucky ones. Two frigates had only achieved partial jump, hitting the point
as fast as they did. Part of the two frigates had come through, the other
part had simply continued on back in the last system. The crews never knew
what hit them, their molecules spread between Alpha Centuri and Earth.
The maneuver, however, had gained them precious time, and moving at a
good fraction of the speed of light they had closed from the jump point to
Earth in under three hours.
They were too late for the main battle, but the threat closing in on
Earth was all too obvious and Kruger had ordered them in to head it off.
He could only hope that they would be there in time.
Baron Jukaga watched as the three escort carriers came up over the
northern pole of the planet, a spread of fighters leaping ahead of them.
He had but one cruiser left with him, seven falling to the inner
defense line. The other two cruisers had turned to bombard the naval yards
of the Earth's satellite, the bright flashes of explosions tearing through
the military bases and construction yards spread out on its barren airless
surface and in orbit above it, smashing dozens of ships of the fleet
including the carriers still caught in drydock. Both were destroyed by point
defenses but they had successfully smashed a military target Ч an action
which, at least for the moment, had filled him with pride.
That, at least, he approved of. It was a target worthy of being hit, a
fitting vengeance for the raid on the moon of Kilrah.
He stood silently behind the cruiser's captain, ignoring the Imperial
Marines standing to either side as his guards.
"We'll only have time for one pass," the commander said quietly,
looking up at the tactical display in rage. They had detected the small
fleet of escort carriers and destroyers only minutes before, the enemy ships
coming from the direction of another jump point at full speed with scoops
closed.
"We have first target solutions and locks," the captain announced.
"After our first hit and destruction of their defensive centers, we drop the
thermonuclears."
"First wave, antimatter warheads ready for firing."
The commander grinned, looking over at his weapons control officer.
"For the glory of Kilrah, the Emperor, and the Empire. Fire!"
Baron Jukaga watched as the first weapons leaped forward, tracking
downward, racing in towards the North American continent and Northern
Europe.
"Incoming fighters!"
"No!"
Doomsday screamed with impotent rage as he saw the heavy antimatter
rockets streak away.
A light screen of enemy fighters, launched from the cruisers, moved to
intercept, and with a wild frenzy Doomsday slashed into them, killing them
with a mad insane glee, while behind him, four modified Sabres lined up for
the first torpedo launch.
The torpedoes leaped out, tracking in on the first cruiser, and seconds
later detonated. Kruger's fighters swarmed in, slamming the cruiser, which
appeared for a second to collapse in on itself before bursting asunder. The
comm link was filled with mad screams of hatred and rage as the strike team
turned towards the other cruiser.
Down in the Earth's atmosphere Doomsday could see pinpoint winks of
light as point defense systems fought to knock down the incoming wave of
more than a hundred missiles. And then there was a flash of light over the
center of the North American continent. It looked like Chicago going up,
followed seconds later by a dozen more: Pittsburgh, Boston, Miami, Quebec,
then across in Northern Europe: Amsterdam, Berlin, Stockholm, Constantinople
and Paris. Other flashes detonated over the primary control center; for
Earth's American and European space defenses at Omaha, Rio, Tripoli, and
Kiev.
He started to close towards the next cruiser, knowing in his heart that
it would be too late.
"We have incoming, still closing."
The commander looked up at his tactical screen and could see that
within less than a minute he would be under attack.
"First strike report?"
"Primary strategic defense centers over target areas destroyed, ground
to space anti-missile defensive system seriously damaged except for point
defenses."
"Second weapons load," the commander announced with a cold glee.
"Prepare thermonuclear strontium clad weapons for air bursts."
He looked back at the Baron.
"We might not have the pleasure of first pounding their cities to
rubble, but we'll poison them all anyhow. In a month their world will be a
charnel house."
"And you call this victory," the Baron hissed. "May Sivar spit on you."
"No, I call it revenge," the commander said coldly and he turned away.
Behind him he heard the cold laughter of his guards who stepped forward
to look at the screen.
"Weapons ready for launch."
The commander held up his hand, talons extended.
Baron Jukaga lunged forward, grabbing at the commander's holster and
pulled out his pistol. The commander turned, wide-eyed, even as Jukaga
brought the gun up, jamming it up under the commander's jaw and squeezed the
trigger. The laser burst streaked through his head, the top of his skull
erupting a boiling mass pouring out.
The Marine guard to his left started to turn, startled, and Jukaga
dropped him in turn. He then swung about, killing the weapons officer, the
blast knocking him backwards and away from the firing switch.
A stunning blow knocked Jukaga to the deck, and he realized with an
almost detached emotion that he could no longer feel his legs. The shot must
have severed my spinal cord, he thought, even as he brought his gun up,
toppling the other guard over.
Jukaga lay back, wide-eyed, looking at the rest of the bridge crew. One
of them tried to lunge for the firing panel and he dropped him and then two
more. The two surviving bridge crew members stood still.
"You filthy traitor, Sivar will roast you in hell forever," one of them
hissed.
Jukaga laughed softly. It was all such a wonderful joke, he realized.
Just what was a traitor to a traitor, and who exactly had he betrayed? It
was an interesting logic question to be certain.
He looked up at the main visual screen.
Earth actually did look beautiful; in a sense far more beautiful than
Kilrah.
And then the explosion of the impacting torpedoes washed over him.
Stunned, Prince Thrakhath sat alone in the wardroom of the Craxtha's
now dead commander.
The long range opticals showed the end of the drama. Their moon bases
were totally shattered, but that was not the ultimate prize. Less than three
eights antimatter warheads had hit Earth. The final wave of thermonuclears
had never been launched.
He looked at the status reports of his losses. But one more carrier
here and we could still press through to victory. But one more carrier.
All the if's started to play out in his mind. If only he had waited but
five eights more days, he would have had his sixth ship, but Jukaga had to
be contended with.
He looked back at the visual, glad at least that Jukaga was dead.
Another explosion shuddered through the ship and he held his breath,
waiting. The explosion rumbled away.
A piping call sounded and he connected into the bridge. It was his
chief navigation officer.
"Go on."
"Sir, your orders. With the engine speed we now have, we'll only be
able to make it to the next jump point with less than four eights of minutes
to spare ahead of those new ships coming up from Earth orbit."
Thrakhath nodded silently. They had at least crippled the human fleet:
three of their five carriers gone, the third exploding only minutes ago, at
least three more smashed at the moon base along with the construction yards
and several eights of other ships. Nearly two eights of their major cities
were now smoldering ruins. He could still pull back, his one remaining older
carrier covering him, repair the damage sustained on his two surviving heavy
carriers. His precious pilots would be brought back as well to fly once more
off the new carriers still coming on line. If he stayed now, chances were
good that they would finish this carrier off, and everything would be lost,
including himself.
He looked back at the screen.
"Order the fleet to retreat," he hesitated. "The battle is over.
Geoff Tolwyn, in spite of his exhaustion, forced a smile as the shuttle
craft door swung open. He walked forward, extending his hand as President
Kruger, followed by Jason, Paladin, Doomsday and Richards, stepped down.
Kruger hesitated ever so briefly and then took Geoff's hand.
"Damn it all, Kruger, thank you."
"I'm rather surprised myself that I did it," Kruger said. "It was your
young commodore there who just kept badgering me until finally, to shut him
up, I said all right."
Geoff looked at the group and though he was afraid to ask he had to.
"Ian?"
Jason shook his head.
Geoff sighed and then came up to shake Jason's hand.
"How are you doing, sir?" Jason asked.
"A terrible day, Jason."
Jason hesitated and then finally asked.
"Kevin?"
"Missing in action," Geoff said quietly.
"He might still turn up, sir."
Geoff nodded, unable to reply.
Jason looked around at the smoke-filled flight deck.
"Looks like it was kind of rough here."
Geoff couldn't even reply. He had lost three carriers, Lexington
finally succumbing to internal explosions, and over seventy percent of his
pilots. First reports indicated that the Marines had suffered over ninety
percent casualties. Duke Grecko was confirmed as dead, his landing craft
crew telling what happened. As for the civilian pilots, their casualties
were almost at one hundred percent. The primary bases on the moon were all
gone, as were the drydock yards and three carriers hangared there. The
casualties on Earth, he didn't even want to think about that. The only
bright spot was that for some reason the Cats had not launched a wave of
strontium clad thermonukes. England had been spared as well, though it
seemed at the moment to be an almost selfish thing to think about.
Geoff led his guests down to his wardroom and without even asking,
pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch, six tumblers and poured out six
very stiff drinks, draining the bottle dry.
"To our comrades," he said quietly, and they silently drank the toast.
Geoff settled back in his chair and looked around.
"If this is victory," Geoff finally said, "I sure as hell would hate to
see defeat."
"You stopped the bloody Cats at least, sir," Jason replied. "Hell,
three of their super carriers blown apart, more than half their best pilots
gone, forty other ships crippled. I heard the report coming in that they're
dumping fighters off their carrier as they retreat, not even enough room to
haul them all out."
Geoff nodded, fighting an exhaustion that had all but robbed him of any
ability to do anything beyond sitting in silence and staring.
"I heard about Polowski, sir," Doomsday said.
Geoff looked over at him. When he had ordered Mike in, he knew in his
heart that Polowski would get his revenge and die doing it. If the Cats had
miscalculated anything, it was that. They had pushed the intimidation a
notch too far, and rather than terrorize it had aroused every pilot, spacer,
and Marine in the fleet to a willingness to die rather than submit. He
suspected that Jukaga had realized that but it was obvious that Thrakhath
never would.
The war had changed, changed far from anything that either side had
ever anticipated. The manipulation of the human desire for peace had
backfired, their collective rage turning the enemy back, though at best it
was a Pyrrhic victory.
The Cats still had seven more heavy carriers close to completion. If
they came on again, he dreaded to think what would happen. They had shot
their bolt in turning back the attack. Perhaps the new dreadnought-class
battleship under construction on the far side of the Confederation might
reverse that, but in his heart he doubted if it would be ready in time to
repulse the next attack.
All he could be certain of now was the fact that those who had survived
this attack would stand united to the end. He could even see that in the
eyes of Kruger, who, upon seeing him, lifted his glass in a salute.
"To the Confederation Fleet," Kruger said.
"And to comrades gone," Paladin replied softly.
"Admiral Tolwyn."
Geoff looked over at the comm screen, dreading that it was yet another
battle report stating that the Kilrathi had turned about and were coming
back.
"The Kilrathi?" he blurted out.
"Their carriers have already jumped through in retreat, sir, still
trailing abandoned fighters. Cruisers are now jumping out as well. Picket
squadrons are reporting no further action."
He let out an audible sigh of relief. The battle was really over.
"Admiral, sir, you're wanted on the port flight deck."
"Why?"
"Don't know, sir. Launch officer requested your presence, that's all."
"On my way."
Geoff stood up, his knees suddenly weak and Jason rose from his chair
coming up to his side.
"I'll go down with you, sir."
Geoff smiled a thanks and looked back at his guests.
"There's another bottle in the cabinet. Finish it off," he said
quietly.
"Best advice I've had in weeks, "Doomsday replied even as he reached
into his pocket and pulled out the chewed on remains of the cigar Ian had
given him.
"Geoff, for heaven's sake," Kruger interjected, "would you order him to
get rid of that god-awful cigar? It's enough to turn my stomach."
"Hell, he's still officially Landreich," Geoff replied. "He's your
responsibility, not mine."
Doomsday pulled out a lighter and puffed the cigar to life, Kruger,
Richards and Paladin cursing him while they poured out another drink.
Geoff left the wardroom and headed back to the launch deck, pressing up
against the wall as a med team came past, bearing a stretcher, a bloody
towel draped over the body's face.
Geoff watched it silently as they passed.
Jason reached out, and put his hand on Geoff's shoulder.
"No matter what you might think, you did good, sir. Earth is still
alive, the Confederation still lives."
"And how many did I lose, Jason?"
"I once asked the same thing after Vukar Tag, sir. It's the nature of
war, you told me. Even when you win, it still breaks your heart and will
crush your soul if you let it."
"And you call this winning?"
"It's a damn sight better than what the Cats wanted. You turned them
back and you brought us time."
Geoff nodded and then continued on, reaching the flight deck. The
launch officer was by the door.
"I thought you should come down here, sir. We just brought some
casualties in."
Geoff looked at him, confused, as the officer pointed him over to a
flame scorched landing craft. Its back hatch was open, pilots and Marines,
most of them wounded and still in their pressurized flight and combat suits,
being helped out.
Geoff looked back at the launch officer who smiled and nodded.
Geoff ran to the back of the landing craft, Jason at his side, and
climbed in.
On the flight deck was a bundled up form, two medics working over him,
one holding an IV, another injecting an anti-radiation dose straight in
through his suit.
Geoff knelt down by their side.
A blood-stained medic looked up and she smiled softly.
"Picked him up an hour ago. He caught a hell of a dose, sir, over four
hundred rem. He's gonna be a sick fighter jockey for awhile but we got him
anti-radiation dosed in time. He'll be all right."
Geoff nodded and looked over at Jason.
Kevin Tolwyn opened his eyes and saw Jason first.
"Hi ya, Jason. What the hell you doing here?"
"Came to save your ass, boy, that's all."
Kevin smiled weakly and then saw his uncle kneeling by his side.
"Did we win?" he whispered.
Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn nodded, no longer able to fight back the tears.
"Yes, son, we won."
"There are a hundred other worlds to choose from once this is done. A
squad of Imperial Marines will now escort you to your ship, Baron."
Baron Jukaga looked coldly at the Prince and then spat on the floor.
Prince Thrakhath merely laughed in reply as Baron Jukaga was escorted
from the room.
"My lord, there are significantly more ships than intelligence
indicated."
Thrakhath looked back at the main screen and ordered the forward picket
ships to send back enhanced optical scan. He waited for the visuals to be
returned, watching the display of the two fleets being deployed. More and
more blips of enemy ships were appearing, moving out from behind other ships
which had been masking them. He had his suspicions as to what the new ships
were and did not feel overly worried. One of the advantages of having had an
embassy team on Earth was the ability to conduct reconnaissance. It was made
even better by the fact that their own Foreign Minister had become a
traitor. Too bad she was under arrest.
"They're civilian ships, my lord. Numerous light craft, personal ships,
light business ships of corvette size, shuttle craft, and civilian
interplanet transports."
Thrakhath nodded.
"They're throwing everything in as a screen to waste our weapons on.
Order the outer wave of fighters to ignore them and to concentrate on the
incoming Broadswords and Sabres. Once their offensive capability has been
smashed we can turn our attention to this chaff they throw out and destroy
them."
"We're also detecting Marine assault and landing ships, my lord."
Thrakhath stirred, ordering that this new sighting be highlighted on
the main display. Several hundred of the blips started to blink bright
yellow.
What were they up to?
"A diversionary effort, my lord?"
He looked over at his chief tactical officer.
He still had over seventeen hundred fighters at his disposal, almost
all of them already launched and moving towards position. The first
offensive strike wave was already committed, four hundred strike craft
moving out past the outer line of picket ships with four eights of corvettes
and light frigates in escort. Long range Confederation patrols were already
moving to intercept, a pitiful six eights of fighters.
He was holding back over a thousand craft, assuming a more defensive
posture than in the last battle. One of his carriers was gone, another
slightly damaged. He would absorb and totally destroy the offensive strike,
eliminating the final threat. Then he would smash through with a totally
annihilating second strike, smashing whatever was left of the enemy fleet.
They could no longer retreat and regroup, they would have to stand and die.
But the Marines? What were they for? To draw fire, obviously, while the
last of the Broadswords went in.
"Still concentrate on the Broadswords," he said. "Then we slaughter the
rest."
Kevin tried to purge the anguish, to block it out. His friends, his
comrades were dying. Flickers of light filled space straight ahead and to
starboard a hundred and fifty clicks away. The Broadsword strike was going
in. His tactical screen traced the attack. The first wave of Broadswords,
what few were left, was slowing, hovering. Going through the agonizing
thirty second countdown to launch. And one after another their transponders
winked off, the blue blips replaced by brief flashes of light and then
disappearing.
He switched to strike two's main comm channel.
"Ten seconds, nine, keep Сem off, keep Сem off. . ."
"I can't eject, I can't get out, oh God I'm burning . . ."
"Six on your tail, Maria, break, break . . ."
"Yellow three, torpedo lock failed, am . . ."
The signals became fewer, space ahead flashing with hundreds of points
of light.
The second wave, going towards the carriers, was straight ahead,
slashing into the storm of defense. A hundred Kilrathi fighters were now
hitting into his own attack column and ships were dying, but the main blow
had not hit yet.
"Blue One, we've got company coming."
Kevin tore his attention away from the dying attack and saw a wave of
fifty fighters coming in from above and slashing into the column behind him.
He held course, looking over his shoulder.
Nearly a thousand craft were spread out around him. Off his port
quarter he saw a civilian transplanet liner trying an evasive and disappear
in an explosion after a single burst of neutron bolts from a light fighter.
It was suicide and he had to harden his heart to the realization that
was precisely what the pilots flying the civilian craft had signed on for.
They were nothing more than sitting ducks, unshielded, totally defenseless.
Having been given pressure suits and rescue transponders, the pilots were
told to bail out if things got too hot. But they were serving their purpose.
The first waves of Kilrathi fighters, wading into the hundreds of targets,
had become drunk with the thrill of killing. He watched as a flight of
Krants shot right through a line of Marine transports, not even bothering to
fire, racing ahead to smash a cruiser size liner, a dozen fighters tearing
into the defenseless ship until it split apart. And each fighter that took
thirty seconds to line up and fire on a useless ship was one less fighter
engaged in the real fight, while the hidden weapon drew even closer.
"My lord, we might have a tactical analysis on what they are doing."
Thrakhath looked over at his tactical officer.
Even as the officer started to offer his analysis the truth of what he
was saying sunk in.
All fighters strike them now! Strike them now. Order all carriers into
full evasive!"
"Here we go! All ships pick your targets. If you can't get to a
carrier, nail a cruiser. Charge!"
General Duke Grecko leaned forward, looking over the shoulder of his
assault craft pilot. A recorded charge blared on the assault craft's loud
speaker and Grecko grinned with delight.
Behind him, in the aft personnel bay, a hundred assault troops cheered,
thumping the butts of their laser rifles on the floor of the ship.
Space around him was pure chaos. Hundreds of Kilrathi fighters were
swarming in, escort ships moving to intersect the attack. Dozens of ships
and assault craft were vaporizing every second in the slaughter, so that he
thought for an instant that his plan was exactly what Geoff, and for that
matter everyone else from the President on down, had declared it to be: pure
suicide.
The only advantage he could now see in being head of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff, was that he didn't have to convince anyone Ч he simply had to give
the order, and then go.
A civilian liner twisted in front of him, blocking the rush of three
incoming Dralthi, diverting their shots. His own pilot dived under the liner
as it exploded and then lined back up on their target.
"The carrier, go for the carrier!"
"We'll never make it. Let's nail the destroyer to port!"
"Damn it, son, I'm the general here. Anything less than a carrier is an
insult, now move it!"
Kevin weaved his way through the melee, moving up to protect an assault
wave of twenty Marine landing craft, a full brigade of troops packed inside.
They were breaking through.
A Kilrathi destroyer was moving in towards the group and he saw three
of the landing craft turn towards the destroyer. The destroyers defensive
batteries nailed two. The third closed in, letting loose with its ground
bombardment armaments which leaped across space, exploding across the bow of
the enemy ship. The rounds were designed for area suppression, not shield
and hull penetration, but they nevertheless blinded the ship. The landing
craft swung across the top side of the destroyer, matching speed and then
slammed down on its main cargo hatch. Explosive shape charges mounted to the
bottom of the landing craft detonated, blowing the destroyer's main access
hatch open.
The landing craft edged forward, gaining magnetic lock on the
destroyer's hull. No matter what the ship now did as evasive, the Marine
assault craft was glued to its side like a lamprey eel on the side of a fish
Ч and it was just as deadly.
The back hatch of the landing craft blew open and assault troops
streamed out, wearing magnetic-soled shoes and swarmed in through the
ruptured cargo door, firing RPGs, miniguns, and assault recoilless flechette
launchers.
Kevin shot past the destroyer.
The damn plan just might work!
The seventeen assault ships ahead pressed in, Kevin now riding herd
above them. He tried to ignore everything else: the hundreds of ships
fighting and dying around him, the total chaos, as all tactical formations
were lost. Kilrathi fighters, now fully committed to this new threat,
swarmed in, space so thick with them that he witnessed half a dozen
collisions between turning fighters, their own ships, and Confederation
craft.
Five of the Marine ships disappeared a full battalion of five hundred
men winking out of existence. In any other situation their loss would have
been viewed as a disaster. Here, with the final desperate defense of Earth,
it was the mere incident of a second's time. Three Jalthi turned in on the
group, ignoring Kevin. He slashed two out of existence, while the third took
out three landing craft and then broke hard down and to the left,
disappearing.
The Marine craft pressed on in, dodging past a lumbering cruiser, with
the lead landing craft pushing up and over.
"Come on, take it, just take it before you're all killed," Kevin
thought, wanting to scream at the assault unit's commander. The cruiser fell
astern, taking out three more craft as they shot past, with a mass driver
burst shutting down his own aft shields and slicing deep into his armor. Six
craft were left and then he saw the target straight ahead as he looked up
after dispatching yet another fighter Ч a Kilrathi heavy carrier turning in
evasive.
The carrier, with a mix of twenty civilian and assault ships behind it,
was going through a slow, ponderous turn, its aft, top, and bottom batteries
all engaged, slaughtering their pursuers. Within seconds the twenty ships
were gone.
They were racing straight in on the carrier. The six craft he was
escorting opened fire, sixty area suppression bombardment missiles
blanketing the ship's bow.
"Fighter following me, we're going for their topside forward bay, match
speed and give us suppressive!"
Startled, Kevin looked at his comm screen. It was Duke Grecko on a
laser link line.
The order was insane and yet he followed it. He leaped ahead of the six
landing craft, even as two more of them exploded, then slammed in reverse
thrusters, coming to a dead stop fifty meters in front of the launch bay.
Kevin toggled through every weapon he still had, dumping out IFFs, dumb
fire and then mass drivers. The spread exploded across the airlock bay,
which shimmered and glowed red, part of the concentrated blast kicking
through the shielding, blowing apart a mass driver turret above the bay. Two
landing craft came streaking past and headed in. An explosion rocked his
ship, spinning it over in a cartwheeling pivot away from the carrier. A
quick scan of his instruments told him the worst and he reached down between
his legs, grabbed hold of the ejector ring, and pulled.
"Switch IFF transponders now!" Grecko roared.
The pilot flipped the switch to the preprogrammed Kilrathi IFF, which
intelligence claimed would get them through the airlock if they activated it
at the last second before the deck officer could toggle the channel to a
different frequency.
He closed his eyes as they hit the field. If intelligence was off, the
landing craft would not be able to handle the head-on collision and would
vaporize on the shield.
An explosion rocked the ship and he was slammed forward by a jarring
blow. He opened his eyes. They were skidding down the length of the flight
deck, the Kilrathi launch crew scattering in every direction.
"Blow rear hatch!"
The rear hatch swung open even as the landing craft continued to skid
down the deck in a shower of sparks.
Duke, unbuckled from his jump seat, stood up clenching a laser gun and
started for the rear.
"Let's kick ass!" he roared
The Marines closest to the hatch were already up, leaping out the door,
rolling on the deck coming up and firing. Grecko hit the back edge and
jumped, deliberately rolling on to his new artificial arm which could take
the blow better. Gaining his feet he nailed a furball pilot coming at him
with a drawn pistol, cutting him in half, then dropped a ground crew coming
out from under a Krant.
The landing craft skidded to a stop and Duke raced towards it. He
looked back at his other landing craft. It was on its side, burning,
survivors struggling out from the wreckage.
"Get that mine out now! First platoon with me on the advance. Second
platoon knock out their launch bridge and secure a perimeter, then help any
survivors from the other landing craft. Third platoon escort the demolitions
team."
Duke looked around, trying to figure out where to go next. Intelligence
had never said anything about the internal layout of the ship. But then
again, what the hell did intelligence know about these damn ships anyhow,
other than that they were big? The only plan they had was to board and then
get as deep into the ship as possible.
He saw an oversized door. Hell, they were all oversized given the size
of the Cats. Flight deck personnel were fleeing through it and it looked as
good as any.
"First platoon, let's go!"
He raced for the door, firing as he advanced, dropping Cats, their
bodies piled up at the entryway. He hit the corridor, started to step in,
and then ducked back from a flurry of laser shots. Two of his Marines leaned
in, firing a suppressive spray while a third held up a minigun. The
explosive roar of the gun drowned out all other sound, filling the corridor
with fire, smoke, and a hundred rounds a second. Another Marine threw a
concussion grenade in; it detonated and they waded through. Each door that
they passed was kicked open and a grenade dropped in.
They reached the end of the corridor which broke into an intersection
of four hallways radiating outward.
"We have to get down, damn it, into the guts of the ship!"
He sent sections running up each of the corridors and thirty seconds
later a runner came back.
"Access hatch to lower levels, sir, this way."
"First section, first squad, secure this point. Get the demo team up
here and move them in after us."
He looked back at the rest of his team.
"I'm getting too old for this crap," he grinned. "Come on, let's go!"
"My lord, they've boarded the ship through the topside launch bay!"
Stunned, Prince Thrakhath looked over at the ship security officer.
It was madness, absolute madness. And brilliant. Why could he have not
seen that in desperation this would be a final tactic?
"How many Imperial Marine guards are on board?"
"A security detachment of fifty, my lord, not counting your own
security squad."
"Where are they heading?"
The security chief toggled through a schematic of the ship and traced
out a line.
"They're moving down into the second level already. Reports are
sketchy."
"They're going to set mines and blow them," Thrakhath said coldly and
he looked over at his damage control officer.
"What can they do?"
The damage control officer looked at him wide-eyed.
"All our calculations of damage containment were based upon external
torpedo and missile strikes. Our armor is layered, through several sectors
of the ship, strongest outside, with two internal belts. Into the core
there's no armor at all, my lord."
He paused.
"If they blow a demolition charge in the middle of the ship, the armor
will actually act to contain it, making the damage far worse." He swallowed
hard. "It'll destroy the ship, my lord."
Prince Thrakhath roared with anger, slamming his fist down on a
console.
"Get everyone who can carry a weapon forward. Block them off!"
The security chief ran from the bridge.
"Boarding parties now reported on two other carriers, my lord, as well
as twenty-nine other ships."
"And the enemy fleet?"
"Still holding position, my lord. Two of their carriers have been
destroyed, all the others damaged."
"Press the attack press it in!"
Prince Thrakhath looked back up at the main tactical display. Hundreds
of his fighters were now circling around his carriers, nearly all of the
enemy strike waves destroyed. There was nothing for them to go after, their
armaments expended in the mad shooting match.
"Order all on defensive to prepare for second strike on enemy
carriers."
The combat commander looked up.
"Their armaments have nearly all been expended, my lord."
Prince Thrakhath growled angrily. If he landed them and any of the
carriers were destroyed by the boarders he'd lose his pilots.
"Order the fighters to hold until boarders are disposed off, then land
and rearm."
He looked up at the internal security display and saw a white line
tracing the enemy attack into the second level of the ship.
"I'm going to the forward launch bay," he announced coldly. "The attack
to finish their fleet I'm personally leading
He started off the bridge and then paused.
"Order the cruisers to break through and finish Earth now!"
In anguish Geoff Tolwyn watched the flickering two dimensional image on
the tactical display. All holo displays were now off line as was primary
shielding jump engines, and port launch deck. Concordia had survived two
more torpedo hits and was crippled, barely able to make twenty percent
speed.
The offensive strike waves had simply disappeared into the heart of the
enemy fleet. He knew some successes were made, with more than a dozen
frigates, destroyers and cruisers gone. But the carriers were still intact.
Whether any of the boarding parties had even gotten into the heart of the
fleet was merely a guess at this point. The computers handling the hundreds
of comm channels was down, as was burst signal link to Earth.
They had fought the enemy offensive strike to a stand-still. Not fifty
of the enemy fighters out of the four hundred that had come in had survived.
Two more of his carriers were gone, the surviving three damaged, with
Lexington threatening to blow from internal fires Ч and there were still
close to a thousand enemy fighters left along with a hundred escort ships.
But what was worse, far worse, was the cruiser squadron that at the
opening of the action had flanked far out to port by more than five million
clicks and was now plunging straight in towards Earth, scoops closed and up
to flank speed. Not even his fastest ships could close with them now. The
light picket line of a cruiser section, Earth orbital defenses and moon
ground based defenses and a handful of obsolete frigates would have to stop
them. It had been assumed that at least one section of enemy ships or more
would go for a straight breakthrough under the screen of the fleet-to-fleet
action. Earth was on its own now.
He thought for a moment of a distant ancestor of long ago, who, when
contemplating the invasion and destruction of England, announced that even
if England fell, the Empire, and with it the fleet, would still continue the
fight.
England. No, he didn't want to think of that now.
"Get me Polowski on laser link."
The image flickered on the screen.
"Mike, they're going to come in to finish us off. We still need to keep
our carriers alive. I want you to close and see what you can do to knock
them off balance."
"What I've been waiting to hear," Mike replied, his voice sounding
distant and strained.
"Take care, and God's speed to you, Mike."
Mike did not even reply. Seconds later Destroyer Squadron Three leaped
forward into the attack.
Duke Grecko, his good arm shattered by a blast from a grenade, sat
against a bulkhead wall. A lone runner came back from the point squad.
"The bastards are insane up there. At least a hundred of them charged
when we hit the next deck. It was hand to hand."
The runner was panting hard.
"Your platoon?"
"Finished, sir," and she paused "I got out because Lieutenant Flory
sent me back just before they overran us."
"It's all right, Marine. How long before they get here?"
"I lasered the door shut, sir. Not more than a minute or two."
Duke brought his laser up with his artificial arm at the sound of
running. From around a corner a Marine appeared, gun down low, ready to
fire, and relaxed at the sight of Grecko. He looked back and waved on his
unit and came up to Grecko.
"Demo team reporting, sir. How's it up ahead?"
"As far as we're getting son."
"Only three levels down, sir. Can't we get one more?"
Duke looked at the young woman who had been on point.
She shook her head
"Then it's right here, son," and as he spoke the survivors of the demo
team and the platoon escorting them came up, pushing a steel crate,
maneuvering it with null gravity handles.
"Open her up," Duke said quietly, and the team lowered it down, popping
the lid open.
Duke looked at the detonator for the thermonuclear warhead.
"All right, now get the hell out of here. I'm giving you five minutes,"
and he reached over, first arming the device and then turning the timer on.
The demo team looked at him and grinned
"Let's go, sir."
"I'll be along in a minute," Duke said quietly.
The surviving corporal of the team hesitated.
"That's my job, sir."
"I'm not going to play hero, son. Now get the lead out of your butt and
that's an order. I'll be along shortly."
The Marine looked at him, hesitating. A thin smile creased his
features. He saluted and then turned, heading back down the corridor,
leading his team with him.
Duke settled back against the wall and sighed. He simply couldn't admit
that he was played out and exhausted. Perhaps the president was right, he
had never really recovered from his wounds taken at Vukar. He should have
stayed at his desk rather than running off to play commando. Since someone
did have to stay behind, just in case the Cats got through and knew how to
disarm the weapon, it might as well be him.
"You all right, sir?"
He looked up. It was the young woman who had been on point.
"Marine, get the hell out of here."
"Like hell, sir," she said quietly. "I'll hold point." He smiled sadly.
"I thought you might want some company," and her voice was almost
childlike.
"What's your name, Marine?"
"Jenny McCrae, sir."
"That's my girl's name too," he said, a fatherly tone evident in his
voice. "She's with the Fourth Marine."
He didn't want to think about that now. She was somewhere in the
assault.
"I know, sir, we went through boot together. She was awfully proud of
you."
"Really? I wondered. I haven't seen her in years. Her mother and I . .
."
"I know, sir. It's all right though."
They heard the door down the corridor burst open a thundering roar
filling the corridor. He looked down at the chronometer ticking off on the
bomb. A minute forty-five to go. The squad just might have made it back by
now and gotten off.
I'll give them a few more seconds.
The first Cat turned the corridor and Jenny dropped him. And then a
swarm of them came on. He started to slam his fist down on the firing button
when a solid blow knocked him off his feet, slamming him against the
bulkhead. He tried to get back up, barely seeing the Kilrathi Imperial Guard
trooper closing in on him from behind.
The Cat fired again, stitching a burst across his chest and the world
started to go warm and hazy.
He looked up and saw Jenny standing over him. She looked like his
daughter, or was it his wife, or mother Ч filled with gentleness.
She looked at him, a smile lighting her innocent face, and then her
fist slammed down on the ignitor.
Kevin Tolwyn flung his hand over his visor as a sun ignited before him.
They got it!
He knew he was getting dosed but he didn't care. Not now. The entire
top forward half of the carrier was engulfed in the fireball, the lower and
aft parts of the ship tumbling down from the shock of the explosion. The
rest of the ship appeared to hold together for a brief instant and then
fractured open, the engine cells igniting, the fireball racing outward.
Another flash detonated to his right followed by half a dozen more. He
guessed that two of them were cruisers, the others, he wasn't sure of.
But two more of them were heavy carriers! The glare of the explosions
filled space across hundreds of cubic kilometers. His dose meter clicked
off, beeping an alarm. He didn't care. He just didn't care anymore. They had
finished the bastards.
He closed his eyes, feeling at peace.
Stunned, Prince Thrakhath turned his fighter around, looking back at
his flagship as it blew apart, a dozen clicks behind him.
He knew that those on the deck had thought him a coward for leaving the
ship, seeing through his excuse that he was going to personally lead the
next wave into battle.
Well, they were dead now and he was still alive.
His heart filled with mad rage as more detonations let go, two more of
his prized ships disappearing, and he howled with insane fury.
The explosions died away. He scanned through his tactical.
He still had one old carrier and Craxtha intact.
He punched into Craxtha's main channel and called in the commander of
the ship obviously startled.
"We feared you were dead, my lord."
"I was off ship, preparing to lead the next strike."
"Sivar be praised. She guided you thus, my lord."
"The status of your ship?"
"She is fully operational, my lord. We repelled all boarders Ч my
fighters stopped them long before they closed."
He could detect the pride in the commander, as if he were saying that
the other ships were lost through negligence.
"Yes, of course, praise to Sivar. Order all heavy strike fighters from
all ships to land on your carrier and rearm immediately for a killing strike
on the enemy fleet. We will still win this action."
The commander hesitated.
"We have reports of an incoming strike of enemy destroyers, my lord.
And besides, you are talking about turning around over five hundred strike
craft on this one ship
"Your ship is designed to handle that. Now pass the order. Let the
remaining fighters and our escorts block the destroyers."
"As you command, my lord."
Thrakhath turned his fighter in towards Craxtha, which within minutes
was surrounded by swarms of fighters who were lining up for recovery on the
six launch bays.
Thrakhath cut into the front of the landing pattern and came in,
touching down in the forward portside landing bay.
Inside the hangar deck was mass confusion, the bay crammed from one end
to the other with fighters. Fuel lines were snaked across the deck,
armaments lockers were open and torpedoes were being hoisted out. Crews
struggled with long energy cables, hooking them into ships, recharging
neutron guns, batteries, and shielding systems.
There was no semblance of order: pilots and ship crews from the other
three heavy carriers milled about, most of them in obvious shock at the
sudden reversal.
Thrakhath stepped out of his fighter and instantly the deck went
silent.
"Keep working," he snarled. "We will still finish the scum before this
day is done."
He felt the ship start to heel over, the starfield outside the entry
lock shifting. He could imagine the confusion this sudden maneuver was
causing with the hundred or more fighters and strike craft still lined up
for recovery. Angrily, he strode across the deck into the launch officer's
operations office.
"Put the bridge on," he thundered.
"What are you doing up there?" he shouted. "We need to get these
fighters in as soon as possible and turned around."
"Five destroyers have broken through the inner screen and are coming
straight in on us."
"Enemy carrier turning away, sir.
"Keep on closing," Mike said calmly.
He looked over at his helm officer and smiled.
"Just like the Battle of Leyte Gulf," Mike said.
"I was thinking that," the helm replied "One of my illustrious
ancestors commanded a cruiser there. We should have won that day."
Mike nodded.
"Torpedo room."
"Torpedo room, sir."
"Have lock yet?"
"Twenty-two seconds and counting, sir."
Mike looked back up at his tactical. Of the twelve destroyers in his
squadron only four were left. There was a flash of light on his main visual
and he realized he was down to three.
"Hell of a day to be a destroyer skipper," and then he focused back on
the enemy carrier, a dozen clicks ahead as it turned hard over, now
presenting a full amidships shot and then started to present its stern.
A swarm of Kilrathi fighters shot in, stitching his destroyer with
everything they still had. Four of them elected to simply come straight in,
one of them kamikaziing through the shield as it struggled to recover from
the repeated hammer blows. The kamikaze hit just aft of the bridge, blowing
into the center of the ship, knocking Mike to the deck. Decompression alarms
sounded off, the damage control board sparkling with red lights.
"Torpedo room."
"Twelve and counting, sir. What the hell happened back there?"
"Never mind, just get those birds launched."
Another string of fighters swooped in, concentrating on the bow of the
ship.
"We've lost lock, sir. Torpedo guidance control off line."
"Damn it!"
To his right, Roger Young launched its torpedoes just before blowing.
The spread of a dozen rounds leaped forward
"Helm, follow those torpedoes in," Mike shouted, and then he reached
over, punching the abandon ship alarm.
"This is the captain speaking. If you wanna see your families again,
you've got thirty seconds to get to the escape pods and the hell off this
ship!"
He looked over at his helm and fire control officers.
"I hate to ask this of you two."
"It's all right, sir," the helm officer said. "This time the family
wants to be on the winning side."
Mike looked at the rest of his team.
"You heard me, get the hell off this ship."
They hesitated.
"Damn it, you fools. You've got something to live for, now move it,"
and he grabbed hold of his damage control officer and pushed her towards the
door.
She looked at him, wide-eyed, torn.
"For God's sake, Elaine, you've got kids back home. Now move it!"
She struggled to hold back the tears and then, turning, ran down the
corridor to the nearest escape pod, the rest following.
"Helm, follow those torpedoes in."
Aye, sir.
Mike stood, watching the screen, ignoring the fighters that swarmed
around his ship. A staccato series of hammer blows blew the main generator
off line, dim emergency battle lamps coming back on. All but two of the
torpedoes launched by Young were gone as well.
"Torpedo room, still with me?"
"Still here, sir. Figured we should hang around for the fun.
"Get ready for blind fire. Set fuses at point one seconds!"
"Point one seconds, sir?"
"Shut up and do it!"
"Point one seconds, sir, and we'll see you in hell."
"Helm, do your job right. Bring us in on the landing bay an instant
after Young's birds hit."
The helm officer grinned as he delicately worked the controls, weaving
the destroyer in, as it came up directly astern of the enemy carrier.
The carrier's point defenses tore into his ship and he felt her dying,
letting go.
"Helm, full speed ahead now!"
He felt the final surge of his ship thundering under his feet.
"Torpedo room, ready, ready, fire!"
The one surviving torpedo from Roger Young hit the carrier's aft
starboard launch bay and blew, distorting the phase shielding. An instant
later a dozen more torpedoes fired at point blank range detonated.
The last thing Mike Polowski saw were his own torpedoes blowing less
than fifty meters ahead of his own ship. He thought of the warm hills of his
now dead world and smiled as the blast wave blew his ship apart. The forward
momentum of what had been the aft end of his destroyer, however, continued
on, even as it died, adding its thousand tons of mass into the detonating
firestorm of the torpedoes impacting against the carrier's overloaded
shields. Most of the mass was repelled away, but the aft end of the ship,
engines still pulsing, even as the ship ahead of it vaporized, continued
onward, driving through the shattered hull, pushing before it fragments of
bulkheads, decking, and those few still on board. The engine mounts, made of
solid durasteel, were all that was left a hundredth of a second later as
they impacted through the landing bay's airlock. Several dozen tons of
molten durasteel blew into the vast hangar bay, vaporizing flesh, cutting
into fuel lines, igniting ammunition, and ripping open the hundred and three
fighters being readied for launch.
The entire bay exploded in a white-hot fireball of destruction.
Prince Thrakhath staggered through the wreckage and onto Craxtha's main
bridge. The room was choked with smoke, half the bridge crew dead or
wounded, open fires still licking out of shattered equipment. The ship's
commander was dead, slumped in his chair, the top of his head gone.
"Who's in command here?"
The crew looked at him, stunned.
"I think I am now, sir," and Thrakhath saw the green tabs of damage
control on the officer's collar.
"Can you save her?"
"We've lost two aft bays, my lord," the officer reported. "The
explosion started in starboard aft bay, then leaped through an open access
elevator to topside bay."
"Why was it open?"
"The commander ordered it. They were out of torpedoes in the lower bay.
We were shifting them down from above."
Thrakhath looked back at the commander and silently cursed. If he were
still alive, he would have him executed on the spot for such stupidity.
"Two of our main engines are gone as well, sir. We're lucky the main
fuel cells didn't go up. I'm purging out the three cells closest to the fire
right now. I've also ordered all armaments in the aft topside bay dumped
overboard"
"Do that and we have to run with scoops full open!" Thrakhath roared.
"We'll lose whatever offensive capability we have left. With half our
remaining armaments gone, we're finished!"
"Sire, if you don't like what I'm doing then execute me and do it
yourself," the officer snapped. "We're lucky to be alive as is. If we don't
purge those cells now they'll blow. It's an inferno back there."
Thrakhath stood silently, looking over at the flickering display on the
damage board and finally lowered his head.
"Tell me what we can still do."
"We still have more than five hundred of our best fighters out there,
my lord. They have no offensive strike capability left; they're mostly light
fighters. I think it's time we landed them, my lord, to get our pilots back.
We won't have enough room for them, so the craft will have to be dumped
overboard as fast as we recover them."
Thrakhath looked up at him, unable to speak.
"It's time to go home, my lord. We've done all we can do today. One
more hit and we ll lose this ship as well. We've got to save our pilots now,
my lord. There'll be over a thousand of them on board here. They'll still
give us victory once we've repaired this ship, and the rest of the new
carriers come on line."
Thrakhath looked around the bridge. He knew the young officer was
right. He had to save his pilots; he had lost too many already.
The only satisfaction left now was the fact that within a matter of
minutes the cruiser squadron would close on Earth. At least with Earth
destroyed, this would still be a victory.
"Launch fighters now!"
Jason Bondarevsky leaned forward in his chair, wishing now more than
ever to be back in a fighter.
The first fighter, piloted by Doomsday, cleared the bay.
The blue-green home of his race filled the forward screen.
The run in from jump point 12Y, the line leading back towards the
Landreich, had been with scoops fully closed. Kruger had even committed the
ultimate madness of doing the final jump at full speed. A third of the fleet
had missed the Jump point completely, forcing them to decelerate, turn
around and come back in. They were now several hours behind. They were the
lucky ones. Two frigates had only achieved partial jump, hitting the point
as fast as they did. Part of the two frigates had come through, the other
part had simply continued on back in the last system. The crews never knew
what hit them, their molecules spread between Alpha Centuri and Earth.
The maneuver, however, had gained them precious time, and moving at a
good fraction of the speed of light they had closed from the jump point to
Earth in under three hours.
They were too late for the main battle, but the threat closing in on
Earth was all too obvious and Kruger had ordered them in to head it off.
He could only hope that they would be there in time.
Baron Jukaga watched as the three escort carriers came up over the
northern pole of the planet, a spread of fighters leaping ahead of them.
He had but one cruiser left with him, seven falling to the inner
defense line. The other two cruisers had turned to bombard the naval yards
of the Earth's satellite, the bright flashes of explosions tearing through
the military bases and construction yards spread out on its barren airless
surface and in orbit above it, smashing dozens of ships of the fleet
including the carriers still caught in drydock. Both were destroyed by point
defenses but they had successfully smashed a military target Ч an action
which, at least for the moment, had filled him with pride.
That, at least, he approved of. It was a target worthy of being hit, a
fitting vengeance for the raid on the moon of Kilrah.
He stood silently behind the cruiser's captain, ignoring the Imperial
Marines standing to either side as his guards.
"We'll only have time for one pass," the commander said quietly,
looking up at the tactical display in rage. They had detected the small
fleet of escort carriers and destroyers only minutes before, the enemy ships
coming from the direction of another jump point at full speed with scoops
closed.
"We have first target solutions and locks," the captain announced.
"After our first hit and destruction of their defensive centers, we drop the
thermonuclears."
"First wave, antimatter warheads ready for firing."
The commander grinned, looking over at his weapons control officer.
"For the glory of Kilrah, the Emperor, and the Empire. Fire!"
Baron Jukaga watched as the first weapons leaped forward, tracking
downward, racing in towards the North American continent and Northern
Europe.
"Incoming fighters!"
"No!"
Doomsday screamed with impotent rage as he saw the heavy antimatter
rockets streak away.
A light screen of enemy fighters, launched from the cruisers, moved to
intercept, and with a wild frenzy Doomsday slashed into them, killing them
with a mad insane glee, while behind him, four modified Sabres lined up for
the first torpedo launch.
The torpedoes leaped out, tracking in on the first cruiser, and seconds
later detonated. Kruger's fighters swarmed in, slamming the cruiser, which
appeared for a second to collapse in on itself before bursting asunder. The
comm link was filled with mad screams of hatred and rage as the strike team
turned towards the other cruiser.
Down in the Earth's atmosphere Doomsday could see pinpoint winks of
light as point defense systems fought to knock down the incoming wave of
more than a hundred missiles. And then there was a flash of light over the
center of the North American continent. It looked like Chicago going up,
followed seconds later by a dozen more: Pittsburgh, Boston, Miami, Quebec,
then across in Northern Europe: Amsterdam, Berlin, Stockholm, Constantinople
and Paris. Other flashes detonated over the primary control center; for
Earth's American and European space defenses at Omaha, Rio, Tripoli, and
Kiev.
He started to close towards the next cruiser, knowing in his heart that
it would be too late.
"We have incoming, still closing."
The commander looked up at his tactical screen and could see that
within less than a minute he would be under attack.
"First strike report?"
"Primary strategic defense centers over target areas destroyed, ground
to space anti-missile defensive system seriously damaged except for point
defenses."
"Second weapons load," the commander announced with a cold glee.
"Prepare thermonuclear strontium clad weapons for air bursts."
He looked back at the Baron.
"We might not have the pleasure of first pounding their cities to
rubble, but we'll poison them all anyhow. In a month their world will be a
charnel house."
"And you call this victory," the Baron hissed. "May Sivar spit on you."
"No, I call it revenge," the commander said coldly and he turned away.
Behind him he heard the cold laughter of his guards who stepped forward
to look at the screen.
"Weapons ready for launch."
The commander held up his hand, talons extended.
Baron Jukaga lunged forward, grabbing at the commander's holster and
pulled out his pistol. The commander turned, wide-eyed, even as Jukaga
brought the gun up, jamming it up under the commander's jaw and squeezed the
trigger. The laser burst streaked through his head, the top of his skull
erupting a boiling mass pouring out.
The Marine guard to his left started to turn, startled, and Jukaga
dropped him in turn. He then swung about, killing the weapons officer, the
blast knocking him backwards and away from the firing switch.
A stunning blow knocked Jukaga to the deck, and he realized with an
almost detached emotion that he could no longer feel his legs. The shot must
have severed my spinal cord, he thought, even as he brought his gun up,
toppling the other guard over.
Jukaga lay back, wide-eyed, looking at the rest of the bridge crew. One
of them tried to lunge for the firing panel and he dropped him and then two
more. The two surviving bridge crew members stood still.
"You filthy traitor, Sivar will roast you in hell forever," one of them
hissed.
Jukaga laughed softly. It was all such a wonderful joke, he realized.
Just what was a traitor to a traitor, and who exactly had he betrayed? It
was an interesting logic question to be certain.
He looked up at the main visual screen.
Earth actually did look beautiful; in a sense far more beautiful than
Kilrah.
And then the explosion of the impacting torpedoes washed over him.
Stunned, Prince Thrakhath sat alone in the wardroom of the Craxtha's
now dead commander.
The long range opticals showed the end of the drama. Their moon bases
were totally shattered, but that was not the ultimate prize. Less than three
eights antimatter warheads had hit Earth. The final wave of thermonuclears
had never been launched.
He looked at the status reports of his losses. But one more carrier
here and we could still press through to victory. But one more carrier.
All the if's started to play out in his mind. If only he had waited but
five eights more days, he would have had his sixth ship, but Jukaga had to
be contended with.
He looked back at the visual, glad at least that Jukaga was dead.
Another explosion shuddered through the ship and he held his breath,
waiting. The explosion rumbled away.
A piping call sounded and he connected into the bridge. It was his
chief navigation officer.
"Go on."
"Sir, your orders. With the engine speed we now have, we'll only be
able to make it to the next jump point with less than four eights of minutes
to spare ahead of those new ships coming up from Earth orbit."
Thrakhath nodded silently. They had at least crippled the human fleet:
three of their five carriers gone, the third exploding only minutes ago, at
least three more smashed at the moon base along with the construction yards
and several eights of other ships. Nearly two eights of their major cities
were now smoldering ruins. He could still pull back, his one remaining older
carrier covering him, repair the damage sustained on his two surviving heavy
carriers. His precious pilots would be brought back as well to fly once more
off the new carriers still coming on line. If he stayed now, chances were
good that they would finish this carrier off, and everything would be lost,
including himself.
He looked back at the screen.
"Order the fleet to retreat," he hesitated. "The battle is over.
Geoff Tolwyn, in spite of his exhaustion, forced a smile as the shuttle
craft door swung open. He walked forward, extending his hand as President
Kruger, followed by Jason, Paladin, Doomsday and Richards, stepped down.
Kruger hesitated ever so briefly and then took Geoff's hand.
"Damn it all, Kruger, thank you."
"I'm rather surprised myself that I did it," Kruger said. "It was your
young commodore there who just kept badgering me until finally, to shut him
up, I said all right."
Geoff looked at the group and though he was afraid to ask he had to.
"Ian?"
Jason shook his head.
Geoff sighed and then came up to shake Jason's hand.
"How are you doing, sir?" Jason asked.
"A terrible day, Jason."
Jason hesitated and then finally asked.
"Kevin?"
"Missing in action," Geoff said quietly.
"He might still turn up, sir."
Geoff nodded, unable to reply.
Jason looked around at the smoke-filled flight deck.
"Looks like it was kind of rough here."
Geoff couldn't even reply. He had lost three carriers, Lexington
finally succumbing to internal explosions, and over seventy percent of his
pilots. First reports indicated that the Marines had suffered over ninety
percent casualties. Duke Grecko was confirmed as dead, his landing craft
crew telling what happened. As for the civilian pilots, their casualties
were almost at one hundred percent. The primary bases on the moon were all
gone, as were the drydock yards and three carriers hangared there. The
casualties on Earth, he didn't even want to think about that. The only
bright spot was that for some reason the Cats had not launched a wave of
strontium clad thermonukes. England had been spared as well, though it
seemed at the moment to be an almost selfish thing to think about.
Geoff led his guests down to his wardroom and without even asking,
pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch, six tumblers and poured out six
very stiff drinks, draining the bottle dry.
"To our comrades," he said quietly, and they silently drank the toast.
Geoff settled back in his chair and looked around.
"If this is victory," Geoff finally said, "I sure as hell would hate to
see defeat."
"You stopped the bloody Cats at least, sir," Jason replied. "Hell,
three of their super carriers blown apart, more than half their best pilots
gone, forty other ships crippled. I heard the report coming in that they're
dumping fighters off their carrier as they retreat, not even enough room to
haul them all out."
Geoff nodded, fighting an exhaustion that had all but robbed him of any
ability to do anything beyond sitting in silence and staring.
"I heard about Polowski, sir," Doomsday said.
Geoff looked over at him. When he had ordered Mike in, he knew in his
heart that Polowski would get his revenge and die doing it. If the Cats had
miscalculated anything, it was that. They had pushed the intimidation a
notch too far, and rather than terrorize it had aroused every pilot, spacer,
and Marine in the fleet to a willingness to die rather than submit. He
suspected that Jukaga had realized that but it was obvious that Thrakhath
never would.
The war had changed, changed far from anything that either side had
ever anticipated. The manipulation of the human desire for peace had
backfired, their collective rage turning the enemy back, though at best it
was a Pyrrhic victory.
The Cats still had seven more heavy carriers close to completion. If
they came on again, he dreaded to think what would happen. They had shot
their bolt in turning back the attack. Perhaps the new dreadnought-class
battleship under construction on the far side of the Confederation might
reverse that, but in his heart he doubted if it would be ready in time to
repulse the next attack.
All he could be certain of now was the fact that those who had survived
this attack would stand united to the end. He could even see that in the
eyes of Kruger, who, upon seeing him, lifted his glass in a salute.
"To the Confederation Fleet," Kruger said.
"And to comrades gone," Paladin replied softly.
"Admiral Tolwyn."
Geoff looked over at the comm screen, dreading that it was yet another
battle report stating that the Kilrathi had turned about and were coming
back.
"The Kilrathi?" he blurted out.
"Their carriers have already jumped through in retreat, sir, still
trailing abandoned fighters. Cruisers are now jumping out as well. Picket
squadrons are reporting no further action."
He let out an audible sigh of relief. The battle was really over.
"Admiral, sir, you're wanted on the port flight deck."
"Why?"
"Don't know, sir. Launch officer requested your presence, that's all."
"On my way."
Geoff stood up, his knees suddenly weak and Jason rose from his chair
coming up to his side.
"I'll go down with you, sir."
Geoff smiled a thanks and looked back at his guests.
"There's another bottle in the cabinet. Finish it off," he said
quietly.
"Best advice I've had in weeks, "Doomsday replied even as he reached
into his pocket and pulled out the chewed on remains of the cigar Ian had
given him.
"Geoff, for heaven's sake," Kruger interjected, "would you order him to
get rid of that god-awful cigar? It's enough to turn my stomach."
"Hell, he's still officially Landreich," Geoff replied. "He's your
responsibility, not mine."
Doomsday pulled out a lighter and puffed the cigar to life, Kruger,
Richards and Paladin cursing him while they poured out another drink.
Geoff left the wardroom and headed back to the launch deck, pressing up
against the wall as a med team came past, bearing a stretcher, a bloody
towel draped over the body's face.
Geoff watched it silently as they passed.
Jason reached out, and put his hand on Geoff's shoulder.
"No matter what you might think, you did good, sir. Earth is still
alive, the Confederation still lives."
"And how many did I lose, Jason?"
"I once asked the same thing after Vukar Tag, sir. It's the nature of
war, you told me. Even when you win, it still breaks your heart and will
crush your soul if you let it."
"And you call this winning?"
"It's a damn sight better than what the Cats wanted. You turned them
back and you brought us time."
Geoff nodded and then continued on, reaching the flight deck. The
launch officer was by the door.
"I thought you should come down here, sir. We just brought some
casualties in."
Geoff looked at him, confused, as the officer pointed him over to a
flame scorched landing craft. Its back hatch was open, pilots and Marines,
most of them wounded and still in their pressurized flight and combat suits,
being helped out.
Geoff looked back at the launch officer who smiled and nodded.
Geoff ran to the back of the landing craft, Jason at his side, and
climbed in.
On the flight deck was a bundled up form, two medics working over him,
one holding an IV, another injecting an anti-radiation dose straight in
through his suit.
Geoff knelt down by their side.
A blood-stained medic looked up and she smiled softly.
"Picked him up an hour ago. He caught a hell of a dose, sir, over four
hundred rem. He's gonna be a sick fighter jockey for awhile but we got him
anti-radiation dosed in time. He'll be all right."
Geoff nodded and looked over at Jason.
Kevin Tolwyn opened his eyes and saw Jason first.
"Hi ya, Jason. What the hell you doing here?"
"Came to save your ass, boy, that's all."
Kevin smiled weakly and then saw his uncle kneeling by his side.
"Did we win?" he whispered.
Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn nodded, no longer able to fight back the tears.
"Yes, son, we won."