A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) (34 page)

“There has been a battle,” the Indian Governor said, once he’d called for attention.  “The situation is still fluid.  However, this moon may come under attack ...”

***

“So,” Lewis said.  “Are you still mooning over your girlfriend?”

Percy ignored the sergeant’s sally as he peered through the binoculars towards the Indian patrol.  The Indians had been patrolling more and more over the last couple of days, although there was no way to know if they’d detected the SAS troop or if they were just being paranoid, following the naval defeat.  It hardly mattered, Percy knew; they’d had to abandon the first camp completely and slip over five kilometres from the colony before they dared set up a second.  If this went on, their ability to keep an eye on the Indians would be seriously impaired.

“It’s quite understandable,” Lewis jibed.  “She might have forgotten you.”

“I don’t think she’s my girlfriend,” Percy said.  He’d made a full confession, of course; Drake had chewed him out in no uncertain terms, then warned him that the whole affair would be added to his post-mission report.  “She was just ...”

“Desperate,” Lewis finished.  “I suppose she would have to be, if she made love to you.”

Percy felt his cheeks heat.  The hell of it was that he knew the sergeant had a point.  Everyone - male or female - wanted to forget their troubles and bury themselves into someone else, even if it was just a brief one-night stand.  He’d had them himself during his short stay in a refugee camp and his stint on a recovery crew; a brief loveless encounter, only galvanised by the shared desire not to spend the night alone.  There was nothing to suggest that Lillian would be interested in him once the colony was liberated. 

He kept his attention on the Indians, trying to ignore the steady stream of jibes.  Troopers had to keep their tempers at all times, he'd been told; it wasn't uncommon for prospective recruits to be teased and bullied, just to see if they’d lose their temper and deck the tormentor.  Some of the troopers had been quite free with their advice, pointing out that he’d be lucky not to see suggestions his sister was a slut or his mother had been a whore.  He couldn't quite avoid wondering if SAS training sergeant was among the most dangerous positions in the entire army.  A sergeant charged with running the Combat Infantryman Course would be far better trained than any raw recruit, but anyone who tried out for the SAS would already be very well trained, perfectly capable of landing a punch before he was dragged off and binned. 

“They’re turning back towards the colony,” he said.  “I think they can see the incoming storm.”

“They probably can,” Lewis said, shifting effortlessly into businesslike mode.  “It’s just coming over the mountains.”

Percy nodded.  “Should we follow them?”

“Probably not, unless we want to go ducking around the observation post,” Lewis said.  “We’re going to have to take that place out, once your friends start to land.”

“Understood,” Percy said.  “We could toss a missile at them.”

Lewis snickered.  “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Safer,” Percy pointed out.

“I’ll have you know I was once hidden so close to a wanker that his piss splashed down around me,” Lewis informed him.  Percy shuddered.  He hadn't believed
all
of the stories he’d heard, until he’d checked the files.  So far, he hadn't caught anyone in a lie.  “I dread to imagine what would have happened if he’d taken a shit.”

“You’d have beaten the crap out of him,” Percy said.

“He wouldn't have had any crap left in him,” Lewis said.  He glanced up at the darkening sky, then motioned for Percy to follow him.  “We’d better get back to the camp.”

It was nearly thirty minutes of hard walking before they reached the hidden tents, just as the first flakes of poisonous snow fell from the sky.  Drake was waiting inside, reading a datapad; the remainder of the troop was either catching up on their sleep or watching, weapons in hand, for an Indian attack.

“They’re not patrolling past a kilometre, so far,” Lewis reported, once he’d taken off his helmet.  “That may change, of course.”

“Of course,” Drake agreed.  He looked at Percy.  “Was there any sign that they’d detected us?”

“None, sir,” Percy said, bluntly.  He knew Lewis would have said something if he’d been wrong.  “They looked to be on a standard patrol.”

“They’re also randomising their patrol patterns,” Lewis added.  His face darkened.  “Isn’t it fun dealing with professionals?”

“Not really,” Drake said. 

“Even the Vesy know to randomise their patrols,” Percy injected.  “It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

Drake snorted, then held out the datapad.  “The task force intends to begin sniping the orbiting defences within six hours.  Our reinforcements will be landed then, if things go according to plan; we'll be moving out within nine hours to target the outposts.  If we’re lucky, we can improvise one of the attacks; if not ...”

“Percy’s girlfriend can be helpful,” Lewis said, mischievously.

“We take whoever we can get,” Drake said, firmly.  “Get some sleep, both of you.  I want to be ready to move out thirty minutes before the navy begins the attack.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Clarke III, Pegasus System

“Captain,” Tara said.  “
Ardent
has uploaded targeting data to the fleet datanet.”

“Understood,” John said.  “Prepare to fire ARMs.”

“Aye, sir,” Tara said.

“Helm, keep us on our evasive course,” John added.  “I don’t want us to follow a predicable trajectory.”

“Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.  “One round of space-sickness coming up.”

“Better space-sickness than a projectile to the belly,” Howard observed.  “We’re coming into effective engagement range now.”

John nodded, tightly.  Space-sickness wasn't a real problem - the compensators would ensure that the crew wouldn't
feel
any of the erratic manoeuvres - certainly not when compared to taking a direct hit from a mass driver. 
Warspite
would be smashed to rubble if she was hit, no matter how much armour the crew bolted to her hull.  The only real hope was to avoid being hit in the first place.

But they’ll have some real difficulty in targeting us
, he thought, savagely.  The task force was surrounded by a haze of ECM, while a dozen drones projected false images of starships to draw enemy fire.  Some of them would probably be recognisable - the Indians were sweeping space pretty thoroughly - but others would definitely soak up a projectile or two. 
And that gives us a chance to take down their defences
.

“Signal from
Ardent
, sir,” Gillian reported.  “Fire.”

John smiled.  “Tactical, launch ARMs,” he ordered.  “I say again, launch ARMs.”

He watched, grimly, as the first missile flashed away from
Warspite
, joining countless others on their flight towards the planet.  Every spacer knew that lighting up an active sensor would reveal the ship’s location and draw fire - it was why starships generally relied on passive sensors in wartime - and ARM missiles were specifically designed to home in on active sensors.  The Indians, he suspected, must have intended to keep a handful of ships - or weapons platforms - in orbit at all times.  Without them, the active sensor platforms were sitting ducks.

“Incoming fire,” Tara reported, grimly.  “None inbound on our position.”

“Watch them,” John ordered.  The mass driver projectiles, thankfully, would follow a ballistic course, but they moved so rapidly that their window for interception would be very narrow.  “Be ready to snap off a shot at a moment’s notice.”

He allowed himself a grim smile as the first active sensor platform was hit and vanished from the display.  The Indians must not have built them to be very solid, although trying would probably have been a waste of time.  One by one, the platforms vanished from the display ...

“
Disraeli
is gone, sir,” Tara reported.  “They scored a direct hit.”

John nodded.  There would be time to mourn later.  “Keep us moving in an evasive pattern,” he ordered.  This time, at least, he didn't have to worry about deploying a stealth shuttle.  The troopers would be launching from
Ardent
.  “How many active platforms are left?”

“Four, sir,” Tara said.  “But our own active sensors are picking up several passive sensor platforms.  The flag’s updating to compensate.”

“There's also the sensor arrays on the ground,” Howard pointed out.  “We can't get at them so easily.”

“True,” John said. 
That
would be in the hands of the SAS.  “We’ll do all we can.”

The final icon vanished from the display.  “All platforms destroyed, sir,” Tara reported.  “The flag is ordering us to hold formation.”

Insofar as it can be called a formation
, John thought, wryly.  A standard formation would rapidly lead to the destruction of every ship in range. 
But as long as we keep moving, we should be reasonably safe
.

***

“Admiral,” Sally said.  “The platforms are gone.”

“Understood,” James said.  The time delay was turning into a problem again, but at least he’d been able to bring
Theodore Smith
into position on the other side of Clarke.  They might have to send messages through a handful of relay stations, yet the immense bulk of the gas giant would shield the carrier from the mass drivers.  “And the shuttle?”

“She’s on her way,” Sally said.  “The enemy is still sweeping space with their ground-based sensors.”

And firing off projectiles at a terrifying rate
, James thought.  It wasn't as if producing mass driver ammunition was difficult, but even so ... the Indians had to be burning through their supplies alarmingly quickly.  In their place, he suspected he would have done the same.  If they thought they could hold out long enough for help to arrive, they really didn't have much choice. 
How long will it be until they run out
?

“Keep monitoring their ammunition expenditure,” he ordered.  It was risky - it was impossible to tell if the Indians were running out without a good idea of just how many projectiles they’d started with - but a reduction in their weight of fire might just indicate that they were feeling the pinch.  “Inform me if it slacks significantly.”

“Aye, sir,” Sally said.

James nodded and returned his attention to the display.  There was no need to hurry, even though he knew the politicians would want him to get on with it.  He could afford to wait two or three days before landing his forces, or however long it took for the Indians to shoot themselves dry.  They’d probably converted the ore processors the original colonists had established to produce more ammunition - it was what
he
would have done - but they’d still have to get the new projectiles to their outposts.

And the SAS will be waiting
, he thought. 
We might not be able to survive a mass driver strike, but we can make damn sure they run out of ammunition
.

***

“We’re running out of ammunition,” the officer reported.  “Outposts Four, Five and Seven report that they only have two hundred projectiles left apiece.  The remainder are not in a better position.”

Colonel Vasanta Darzi gritted his teeth.  He’d already ordered his outposts to reduce their rate of fire, but the British kept offering his gunners tempting targets.  The analysts believed they’d hit at least three starships, yet it wasn't enough to keep the British from advancing on the planet.  And when the outposts ran out of projectiles, the British would be able to enter orbit and start landing troops.

He turned his attention to the production officer.  “How many projectiles do we have ready to go?”

The man flinched at his tone.  Vasanta felt a stab of guilt - the officer had done an excellent job with the resources available to him - which he pushed aside.  They were on the verge of losing their most powerful defences.  There was simply no time to be polite.

“Five thousand, sir,” the officer reported.  “We just need to get them to the mass drivers.”

“Get them loaded onto the transports,” he ordered.  In hindsight, he should have made sure his men knew how to drive the local transports.  Now, he had to rely on British settlers to transport ammunition to the outposts.  “Put a couple of soldiers in each cab, just to make sure the drivers don’t have any heroic thoughts.

“Aye, sir,” the officer said.

Vasanta nodded and looked at the display.  The British were hovering right at the edge of his effective range, goading the gunners into taking shot after shot.  They had to have known about the mass drivers, either through stealthed probes or someone talking out of turn.  He was fairly sure his men had rounded up everything that could be used as a tight-beam transmitter on Clarke, but the British were known for being revoltingly inventive.  They'd even branded it ‘muddling through.’

Not that it matters
, he thought, coolly. 
We’re not done yet
.

***

Lillian was jerked awake by the sound of someone banging on her door. 

For a moment, she believed - honestly believed - that the Indians had worked out what she’d done and come to kill her.  She thought frantically, trying to identify something in her tiny quarters that could be used as a weapon, then gave up, clambered out of bed and opened the hatch.  The Indian soldier on the far side gave her an appreciative look - her nightgown concealed almost nothing - and then pasted a more businesslike expression on his face.

“You are ordered to report to the transport bay, at once,” he said, stiffly.  “Grab your clothes and go.”

“Yes, sir,” Lillian said. 

She closed the door - the last thing she wanted was a soldier ogling her as she dressed - tore off her nightgown and pulled her uniform on.  On impulse, she pocketed the pen the SAS had given her, grabbed a ration bar to chew on the way and hurried out of the door, down towards the transport bay.  A handful of other drivers were heading the same way, their faces tired and worn.  It wasn't easy to sleep soundly when their colony was caught in the middle of a war.

“If I could have your attention, please,” an Indian said.  Lillian knew him, vaguely, but she’d never bothered to learn his name.  “You are being charged with transporting various items to the outposts.  Those items are already being loaded onto your vehicles.  You’ll be taking them directly there, without any unnecessary delays.”

Ammunition
, Lillian guessed.  It hadn't been hard to deduce that the ore processors had been converted into ammunition forges.  Majors had been looking for a way to sabotage them for the last two days, although he’d found nothing.  They were very solid pieces of machinery.  It might have been possible to cripple the processors, but the Indians could have replaced them within the hour. 
They’re wanting us to ship ammunition to the outposts - again
.

“Two soldiers will be accompanying each of you, just to make sure all goes well,” the Indian continued.  “Please don’t cause them any problems.”

Lillian said nothing as she was pointed towards her vehicle.  The Indians must have liked her, she decided; she was being charged with transporting the ammunition to Outpost Four, rather than one of the outposts that was considerably further away.  At least
she
would only have to endure a day with the Indians - perhaps less, if the soldiers stayed at the outpost.  It crossed her mind that, with a little luck, she could put the transport in the ocean before the Indians even realised something was wrong, but it would be suicide.  Besides, the SAS might be waiting for her. 

She scrambled into the cab and glanced around.  The Indians were already there, wearing basic environmental suits.  They looked composed, but she thought she could detect an undertone of fear.  She kept her expression blank as she took the driver’s seat, allowing herself a moment of relief.  There would be no risk of having to sleep in the same vehicle as two young men.  The Indians
seemed
disciplined - and she hadn't heard of any sexual harassment - but that could change.

“We’re off,” she said.  She started the engine, then felt the pen in her pocket.  Did she dare turn it on?  Perhaps she could fiddle with it, turning the signal on and off, to alert the SAS that she was not alone.  “Stay in your seats.”

The Indians, thankfully, didn't seem inclined to argue.

***

“That’s your girlfriend,” Lewis said, as the vehicle came into view.  “But the signal keeps flickering on and off.”

“It could be a warning,” Percy said.  If only there had been time to give Lillian some proper tools and instruction in how to use them.  But if she’d been caught, she would probably have been shot out of hand.  “She might not be alone.”

“Maybe,” Lewis said.  “She's heading for the outpost, definitely.  We need to take that vehicle.”

Percy nodded.  The second shuttle had made it down, bringing another SAS troop and plenty of supplies.  Now, Drake had led the remaining troopers towards one of the enemy outpost, while the newcomers had headed for another.  And Percy had been told to handle a third ...