Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (32 page)

Widowmaker
sat waiting for him, its massive brooding shape filling the tunnel. Michael patted it affectionately before he started his preflight walk-around. Strictly speaking, the whole business was unnecessary—
Widowmaker
’s AIs had already told him everything worth knowing about the lander’s flight status—but he was old-fashioned. He liked to see things for himself, so he walked around, checking everything he could see and touch.

The lander—brand new when delivered to
Redwood
—was fast losing its pristine good looks, the ceramsteel armor scarred by shrapnel from Hammer missiles that had come too close. They had been lucky; none had made it past the lander’s defenses, thankfully, but for how much longer? The Hammers must be getting very pissed by now, and in Michael’s experience, pissed people could be very creative. Somebody out there would be spending a great deal of time and effort trying to work out a way to hack the Fed landers out of the sky.

Michael worked his way methodically around and underneath the lander before climbing the ladder to check the upper hull. It was a tight squeeze, the armored blisters housing
Widowmaker
’s electronic warfare equipment and defensive lasers close to scraping the roof of the limestone tunnel. A quick scan confirmed that nothing was untoward.
Widowmaker
was in good shape: not the 100 percent he wanted, more like 95 percent, but with the nearest Fed heavy maintenance team hundreds of light-years away, that had to suffice. A final check confirmed that the tug assigned to drag the lander to its new launch position was hooked up and ready to go. Michael commed Ferreira.

“Sir?” she replied.

“My walk-around’s done,” he said. “No surprises. Okay to confirm we’re ready to go?”

“Affirmative. All systems are nominal except the port cooling
pump. It’s holding up, but Chief Fodor says don’t be surprised if it blows.”

“Roger, that. I think we’ll have to strip it out after this mission. I don’t fancy flying ops on one engine. Call us in when ready to launch,” he said. “And while you’re at it, download any crew mail.”

“Uh, ENCOMM won’t like that, sir,” Ferreira said. “We’re only authorized to access operations bandwidth.”

“Screw it,” Michael said; the NRA’s rules were too petty for him to worry about. “Just do it. Who knows,” he added, “you might have something from that ugly NRA captain who’s been stalking you.”

Ferreira face creased into an indignant scowl. “Sir!” she spluttered. “Captain N’duma isn’t ugly. Well, yes he is … but only by Fed standards. Anyway, I like him, and he isn’t stalking me … sir!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael said with a grin. Ferreira’s blossoming love affair with one of ENCOMM’s operations staff was a soft target he and the rest of
Widowmaker
’s crew enjoyed taking potshots at. “Just call us in and get the mail.”

“Sir.”

Michael climbed
Widowmaker
’s ramp to where Petty Officer Morozov was waiting. “All set?”

“Yes, sir. It’s one hell of a tight squeeze.”

Michael looked around
Widowmaker
’s cargo bay; the brilliantly lit space had been stripped back to bare metal to accommodate its load: a containerized Hammer mobile air-defense battery. Michael shook his head in wonderment at the sight. Reportedly, the whole lot had been handed over to the NRA by a PGDF air-defense battalion when it deserted en masse to the NRA: radar, fire control and missile guidance computers, launchers, Gordian missiles, everything. He shook his head again, marveling at the NRA’s ingenuity … and luck.

“It sure is,” he said, “though I’ll be glad to see the last of all this mass”—he patted one of the battery’s scarred matte-green containers—“not to mention all those war-shot missiles. Makes me nervous, having all that Hammer ordnance onboard.”

“Shit, me, too, sir. Hope the buggers work the way they’re supposed to.”

“They should. If there’s one thing the Hammers are good at, it’s building missiles. Close her up, Chief. We’ll be moving in five minutes. Don’t want to keep ENCOMM waiting.”

“Sir.”

Michael walked through the cargo bay and climbed the ladder to the flight deck. That was as far as he got, any further progress blocked by the enormous bulk of Chief Bienefelt engaged in what looked like a life-and-death struggle with a combat space suit, a struggle made harder by the cramped space. Assault lander flight decks were never designed with spacers as large as Bienefelt in mind.

“Jeez, Matti,” Michael said, hands up in a theatrical display of despair. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I won’t … bother to … get on, you sonofabitch, not you, sir, the suit … bother to answer that question, sir,” she muttered. “Bloody thing … ah, that’s it,” she said as her suit gave up the fight and flowed into place. “Why the hell didn’t it do that the first time?”

“I know the answer to that one, Chief, but—”

“A burning desire to live long enough to see retirement persuades you to silence?” Bienefelt said, grabbing her helmet from an overhead rack.

“About sums it up, yeah. Now, to be serious. The new cannon shells. I’ve seen the results from the test firings. What do you think?”

“Well, sir. In the end, one 30-mm cannon shell is much like any other.”

“That’s true, but only because the Hammers stole the design from the same place we did, Matti.”

Bienefelt laughed. “Please!” she said. “We licensed it. The Hammers stole it, and why wouldn’t they? When it comes to cannon, the Henschel HKS-30 is one of the all-time classics. The big problem’s the propellant; the one the Hammers use is not as good as ours—it burns too slow—but it’ll do. We’ve adjusted the fire-control system to compensate, so we’ll be fine.”

“I agree. The Hammers are good at dumb ordnance. Right, time to go, I think.”

Suiting up, Michael squeezed his way past the seats of his crew and climbed into his seat. He crammed his helmet over
his head and dropped it onto its neck ring, where it sealed with a soft
ffffttt
, and strapped in. Wriggling around in a futile attempt to get comfortable, he allowed the seat AI to flow crash-resistant foam around his combat space suit. He was ready; a quick scan of the system status boards confirmed that
Widowmaker
was, too.

“All stations, command. Suit integrity checks. Okay, let’s go. Mother, clear to start the tow when ready.”

“Ready.”

With a series of shuddering lurches,
Widowmaker
started on its way down the tunnel. Michael turned to Ferreira. “So, Lieutenant, your man get in touch?”

“Yes, sir,” Ferreira said, a touch tartly. “He has. He’s well, thanks for asking. So did one Trooper Anna Cheung Helfort, 120th NRA.”

“Well?” Michael demanded.

“Well what?” Ferreira asked, eyes wide open in innocent inquiry.

“You know what. Will you comm me her message or do I have to throw you off this lander?”

“And miss all the fun? Hell, no! Comming it to you.”

Michael scanned the vidmail, uncomfortably aware that this was not the time to think about Anna. He was relieved to discover nothing new, struck again by the look of grim determination on her face. That was a worry. With the 120th Regiment an integral part of Operation Tappet, it was clear that she had no intention of sitting back while others worked their butts off; Michael had spent a great deal of time and energy trying not to think what that might mean. He cursed under his breath and closed the message. Why, he wondered, was life so damn complicated? More to the point, why was Anna so damn stubborn?

Putting Anna out of his mind, he turned his focus back to the command plot. Tappet might have been the most complex operation ever put together by ENCOMM, but
Widowmaker
’s part in it was straightforward: deliver the Gordian battery to the landing zone, take off, and provide air support for the NRA assault before making a fast run for home before the Kingfishers and their Alaric missiles arrived. Simple, straightforward, and he hated it because the Fed landers were leaving
the field before the battle was over, leaving Anna and the rest of the NRA to hold Perdan against the inevitable—and always ferocious—Hammer counterattack.

“At launch position,” Mother said after what seemed like a lifetime trundling through a succession of limestone caves and laser-cut tunnels.

“Command, roger.” Michael said, scanning the cave mouth and the ground beyond for obstructions. “Okay, we are clear to launch. Tac, do we have the feed from ENCOMM?”

“No sir, not yet.” Michael swore under his breath; the NRA’s communications were a million light-years from what he was used to. “Working on it,” Ferreira said, head down over her workstation. “Hold on. Okay, we’re in. Update’s on the operations plot.”

Michael studied the plot before nodding his approval. Things were running well. Problem was, most NRA operations started off that way. The average PGDF trooper hated the NRA’s trademark mix of suicidal bravery and animal ferocity; invariably it was enough to persuade them that discretion, not valor, was the order of the day. Already, the two diversionary attacks were well under way, leading elements of the NRA’s ground assault already deep into the towns of Bretonville and Daleel, their PGDF defenders reeling back in confusion. That was the good news; the bad news was that the usual Hammer response was on its way: heavy ground-attack landers from Amokran carrying marines—tougher and better disciplined than even the best PGDF battalions—supported by Kingfishers from McNair spaceport.

Michael said a quiet prayer of thanks for the persistent refusal of the commanding general of marines to station his precious landers any closer to the Branxton front. General Baxter’s bloody-mindedness was a priceless contribution to the NRA’s war effort; the man should get a medal for it. Even so, things around Perdan were going to be difficult; the assault there was just getting under way, and he had to hope the Hammers were slow to work out that Perdan was the primary objective.

“Command, tac. Stand by launch. Ground crew is clear and safe. We’re good to go.”

“Command, roger. Mother, you have control, weapons free. Faceplates down, everyone.”

With a subdued roar, Mother brought
Widowmaker
’s main engines up to power, the air behind the lander dissolving into a maelstrom of flame-shot dust. She held the lander with the brakes for an instant before easing
Widowmaker
on its way.

The heavily loaded lander started to move, sluggishly at first, then gathering speed fast.
Widowmaker
moved out of the cave and into the gloom of a rain-soaked Commitment night. Shifting power to belly thrusters and deploying the wings, Mother drove the lander into the sky; the instant the lander was clear of the canyon, Mother transitioned it to winged flight, twin pillars of flame shredding the air behind
Widowmaker
while it accelerated hard into the night. Michael breathed easier as the speed built, the lander steadying in the race to get to Perdan before the Hammers sent Kingfishers to deal with it.

“Hatchet Two Four, Bushmaster Six,” Ferreira said. “Airborne and nominal.”

“Bushmaster Six, Hatchet Two Four. Roger. Chopping TACON to Grapple Three Three. Over.”

“Hatchet Two Four, roger. Chopping now. Two Four out.”

“Command, tac,” Ferreira said. “Perdan command, call sign Grapple Three Three, has tactical control.”

It was a short ride. Swinging to starboard in a max-g turn that had the status board lighting up in protest, Mother chopped the power, easing the lander’s nose skyward to let the speed bleed off, the foamalloy wings biting deep into the rushing air.

“One minute,” Michael said. “Tac, confirm clear to land.”

“Grapple Three Three confirms landing zone is clear,” Ferreira said.

“Command approved to land,” Michael said.

He peered at the holovid feed from the forward-facing holocams, eyes flicking to and from the threat plot while he waited for any response from the Hammers. There was nothing to see: the thick cloud over Perdan, the gray-black murk turning to white when Mother fired the belly thrusters, the lander easing down, breaking through the cloud seconds before it thumped down onto Perdan’s municipal airport, the brakes screaming in protest while Mother brought the lander to walking speed
before turning to follow
Alley Kat
and
Hell Bent
, shapeless black masses in the darkness.

“Where the fu—” Michael flinched when a stream of yellow-gold tracer fire wound its way lazily out of the darkness before whipping past
Widowmaker
’s nose, the insult silenced with brutal ferocity by the lander’s lasers. “Like I was saying,” Michael continued, “where the hell is the NRA? Petty Officer Morozov.”

“Sir?”

“Go take a look and make sure we keep the ramp up until I’m happy the area is secure.”

Michael was beginning to worry.
Widowmaker
was not the lander it once had been: an elusive, fleeting shadow cloaked by its chromaflage skin and active stealth systems, flanked by decoys to confuse and mislead, orchestrating swarms of attack drones in an orgy of death and destruction across tens of square kilometers. The relentless pace of operations, a desperate shortage of spares to repair battle damage from too many near misses, and an increasing reliance on whatever ordnance the NRA could steal from the Hammers had seen to that. Now
Widowmaker
fought its battles the way ground-attack landers used to fight: up close and in person.

Michael’s concern was well founded; the Kingfishers’ targeting information came from the battlesat radars overhead, radars the AI controlling
Widowmaker
’s stealth system was struggling to defeat. By now the Hammer commanders would know that there were three Fed landers squatting on Perdan airport’s apron like big, fat sitting ducks. He shivered; Kingfishers were the least of his problems. The Hammers might be tempted to ignore the prohibition on using orbital kinetics to attack targets in towns and cities. Three Fed landers might be a target too tempting to resist even if it meant destroying much of Perdan, the enormous political cost a price worth paying. The thought that Hammer kinetics were being retasked to take the landers out chased yet more shivers across his skin. Come on, come on, he urged the absent NRAs.