Homeworld (Odyssey One) (71 page)

On the N.A.C.S.
Enterprise
, Captain Carrow was feeling edgy.

They’d ducked in around the edge of the Martian atmosphere and were now holding station just behind the
Odyssey
and Phobos. He’d recalled his Vorpal strike fighters for refuel and rest, but everyone on the
Big E
knew damned well that they were about to deploy into action for the first time ever.

Firing the guns earlier didn’t count, not as far as he was concerned.

The latest ship to be called
Enterprise
hadn’t been blooded in action yet, not really, and he had to admit that he was feeling the pressure. There was a name here to uphold, one of long honor, a line that went back before the birth of the Confederacy but held as much esteem under its new flag as it did under the old one.

His fighters were ready.

They were the best-trained aviators in the Confederation. He could have wished for a little more vacuum time, but they were ready.

Ready as any of the rest of them, at least.

Is it possible to be ready for the end of the world?

He didn’t know the answer to that. Honestly, he didn’t want to know the answer to that. No matter how you cut it, it was depressing, but that was the reality he was faced with. Quite possibly the final military action of the human race, and it was all going to end with an Alamo.

There’s a poetry there. Too bad I never liked poetry. Too bloody depressing.

“Alamo,” he said softly.

“Pardon?” Parker glanced over at him.

“We’re about to fight an Alamo.”

His first officer stared at him for a moment, then snorted softly.

“We should be so lucky,” she said derisively.

“Excuse me?”

“The men at the Alamo held off the enemy long enough for forces to be positioned to push them back. We don’t have any of those, sir. This isn’t an Alamo,” she told him flatly. “This is a damned Little Bighorn, and we get to play Custer. Too bad. I could stand dying for an Alamo, but dying for a Little Bighorn is just going to suck, sir.”

Carrow grimaced.

Andrea, I love you and you’re a great officer, but you need to stop cheering me up before I decide to shoot myself with my own service piece.

“Captain, the alien fighter screen is about to come in over the Martian horizon.”

“All hands, secure to general quarters. Stand by for combat operations,” he said automatically, training and reflex replacing all the thoughts that had been running around his brain. “Signal the flight decks to begin carrier operations.”

“Aye, sir!”

N.A.C.S.
ODYSSEY

“WELL, THIS IS it, then,” Roberts said tersely. “Our last stand.”

Eric sighed. “Oh, I think I can get us out of this one.”

“Does it matter if we go down fighting here or fighting over Earth?” Roberts asked quietly. “Either way we go down fighting.”

Those were the words that both had been thinking, but neither wanted to say to the other. Now they were out and in the open, there was no taking them back.

They could run, except that wasn’t really an option. It was the logical thing, Weston supposed. The
Odyssey
and the
Enterprise
were FTL capable, had large enough crews to maybe establish a sustainable colony, though they’d be better off joining the defense of Ranquil, he supposed. They could even be generous, pick up as many people from the orbital stations around Earth as possible, from the Marauder ships, even the
Weifang.

A real multinational bunch of logical cowards, running for the proverbial hills.

Wasn’t going to happen.

Not now, not ever.

Semper Fidelis.

Always faithful.

Eric shrugged. “Let’s not worry about when we go down, Commander. Let’s just worry about what kind of company we keep when we do.”

Roberts nodded slowly, smiling.

“Right you are, sir. Right you are.”

“Battle stations!” Eric snarled, leaning forward. “Stand by all weapons! Check fire until you see the white of their eyes….”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MARS.

Red planet.

Desert world.

The home of the Roman god of war himself, the rusty red dust that made up the surface of the planet was the bane of every human who had ever set foot on the planet and the source of a thousand myths across three thousand years and more. It was a world bathed in the blood of a billion imaginary armies, the land of mythical warriors and mythical wars, a world reined over by the god of war and watched by his dogs.

It was a world that had never seen a shot fired in anger until now.

The signal was the enemy fleet eclipsing the sun, pouring over the curve of the planet like an oncoming tide. From behind Phobos, dog of war, the
Odyssey
opened fire with medium-range point defense weapons consisting of lasers and light munitions—nothing CM enhanced, and certainly nothing that would be considered anti-ship, but still powerful enough to begin splashing fighters from a thousand miles away.

With the body of the moon and the planet below limiting the approach angles the fighters could use, it was a shooting gallery. The
Enterprise
joined a moment later, her own PD weapons adding to the general melee, spewing thousands of rounds of munitions into space and uncountable gigawatts of energy to join them.

Drasin fighters began dying by the dozens, then the hundreds, but they didn’t stop coming.

From the planet below, the god of war watched and laughed.

“Maintain fire! Point defense only!”

“Fighters are breaking through!” Waters yelled. “We can’t hold them back!”

“Launch the Angels!” Eric growled. “Signal the
Enterprise
that we need a fighter screen!”

“Signal sent!” Winger answered. “
Enterprise
confirms. Vorpals launching.”

“Their fighter screen is going to be one hell of a lot bigger than ours, Captain….” Waters gritted out, uttering a soft curse when another fighter slipped through his field of fire.

“Quality over quantity, Lieutenant,” Eric said. “Quality over quantity.”

“Last I heard, Captain,” Waters retorted as he worked, “quantity had a quality all its own.”

“Don’t quote Cold War anecdotes at me, Lieutenant. Just keep firing,” Eric said.