Authors: Bennett R. Coles
“Orbital defenses are too strong to risk another closure. Request denied.”
Thomas squeezed his console and bit his lip. There were troopers on the ground! With a full force of fighting ships to provide cover, what threat could possibly be too much?
Over his shoulder he could still see the red disk of Cerberus, clear among the stars. A small cluster of blue symbols was visible along almost the same bearing—the lone surviving drop ship and its star fighter escort.
A Corps officer suddenly appeared at Thomas’s side. He glanced up and recognized her as Commander Vici, commander of the Saracens and thus of both platoons that had dropped. Her sharp features were taut and her eyes burned past Thomas toward his boss.
“Commodore, Drop Command,” she declared loudly.
Everyone around the command console looked up in surprise. Usually communications between the two command centers were over the circuit.
Chandler looked up from his discussion with the ASW controller. His expression was cold. “Yes, Drop Command?”
“Sir, Drop Command formally requests the EF to close Cerberus once again. We still have a platoon planetside.”
“The drop ship was shot down in heavy fire,” Chandler said. “I am not going to risk this entire force to try and recover some bodies.”
“I say again, sir, we think they may have been able to land.” She wasn’t actually shouting, but her voice filled the entire bridge. “That means we have fifty troopers—possibly with wounded among them—stranded on Cerberus.”
“We have no proof that anyone’s alive.”
“Then we need to get in for a look,” she pressed. “Sir, all I ask—”
Chandler slammed his fist down on the armrest.
“The answer’s
no
! I’m sorry, Commander! That’s it!”
Thomas could see Vici’s jaw clench tight as her entire face went red. She stared in impotent rage for a moment.
“Yes, sir.”
She turned away. Thomas ignored the curse she muttered not quite under her breath. Chandler looked pointedly at the 3-D display for a moment, his lips a thin line.
“Controllers, report your status,” he said.
“AAW condition white,” the commander on Thomas’s left reported. “No hostiles inbound.”
“ASW condition white,” the lieutenant on Chandler’s other side said. “No stealth contacts.”
There was a pause, until Thomas realized that everyone was waiting for him. He glanced quickly at his display to confirm his status.
“AVW condition white,” he said. “No hostile vessels within range.”
Chandler took in the tactical situation for a moment longer. Then he addressed the operations officer seated at the display.
“Commander Erikson, secure from battle stations,” he said. “Inform the EF.”
“Yes, sir.”
The message went out on the Command Net circuit. A few moments later
Normandy
’s internal loudspeakers stood the ship down from battle stations, and reverted to the wartime one-in-two rotation, where half the crew was on watch at any time.
Thomas relaxed in his seat, watching as the symbol that represented the returning drop ship merged with
Normandy
’s own, and disappeared. Out of three that had launched, one drop ship had made it out. More than a hundred personnel had left
Normandy
, and thirty were returning. Thomas could understand why Commander Vici wanted to go back.
The AAW controller beside him got out of his seat and stretched. He tapped Thomas on the shoulder.
“Good work, Lieutenant,” he said. “Was that your first time controlling?”
“First time for real,” he replied. Everyone now seemed to ignore his appointment to Lieutenant Commander, even though he wore the star above his two bars. He was technically still the commanding officer of a fast-attack craft, but his ship was permanently grounded and held together pretty much by gun tape. He figured it was courtesy to an old student that had stayed Chandler’s hand in permanently reassigning him and thus removing the honorific. If the rest of the staff wanted to ignore it, who was he to argue?
Especially after a performance like that, kind words from the AAW controller aside. Perhaps a qualified AVW controller—and not a hastily reassigned FAC skipper—would have made better use of their assets in fending off the attack.
The current command staff was a real patchwork. The AAW controller, the commander who had just spoken to him, had been the XO of the battleship
Lepanto
, which had burned up over Laika still locked together with one of the supply ships. The ASW controller was from the destroyer
Kiev
—a grizzled old lieutenant who had probably long since given up on promotion and had been coasting to retirement. He knew his stuff, though.
The only one with actual EF command team experience was the operations officer, Commander Erikson. He’d been part of the admiral’s staff and had been lucky enough to have been aboard
Jutland
assessing UNREP techniques when the battle over Laika had begun.
Chandler’s new chief of intelligence—easily the most junior member of the team—seemed to have gained the commodore’s complete trust and attention, however. Thomas was just pulling himself up out of his seat when he noticed Breeze enter the bridge. She crossed straight over to the commodore, her eyes alight with excitement. Thomas stood in place behind his chair and listened as she quickly briefed Chandler on the fact that the drop ship had returned with a Centauri prisoner.
“Sir,” she said, “thank you so much for authorizing this mission. The sacrifices made by our troops to capture this spy will give us the information we need to turn the war around.”
Chandler brightened considerably, his surly frown vanishing at her words. Thomas turned away, trying to shake off the bitterness. But watching Breeze, he felt like he was seeing her with new clarity. She had been so supportive after the orbital battle, he’d even wondered if what he’d first taken to be innocent flirting was actually a come-on.
But as he stood back and watched her interact with men in power, he saw the same behavior playing out, again and again. Sean Duncan thought that Breeze must be easy, but Thomas disagreed—she was way too smart for that. She was dangerous, and he was lucky things hadn’t gone any further between them. He could barely stand to think about it, but he’d suggested to Breeze they meet in her cabin in
Rapier
to go over some data, intending fully to see if he could get her out of her coveralls. Katja’s unexpected presence had saved him, one way or the other.
He shook his head and stepped away from the command console, staring out at the projection of the stars. He’d done enough lately that he wasn’t proud of—no need to ruminate on things that he hadn’t done. Better to focus on what he could do to redeem himself.
Being placed on the EF command staff had been an unexpected honor, but being the AVW controller was a role for which Thomas had no formal training, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that he was the man for the job. Still, with
Rapier
grounded this was his opportunity to shine—a second chance to not screw things up.
He licked his lips, anticipating the taste of whiskey when his watch was over. He’d intended to talk to Katja after this mission, but now… a cold pit formed in his stomach.
He stepped back over to the command console and assured himself that the AVW picture was clear. He let Commander Erikson know that he was leaving, then made his way quickly to the aft end of the bridge and through into Drop Command.
Drop Command was much smaller than the bridge, with several large 3-D displays dominating the space. One showed the ground picture, another the atmo picture, and a third the orbital picture. Two rows of consoles would be manned during a full drop, but today only a quarter of the stations had dedicated bodies. And those bodies were still focused on their work, in stark contrast to the relaxed afterglow on the bridge.
He spotted Commander Vici immediately, speaking earnestly with Brigade Colonel Korolev. Thomas held back, not daring to interrupt two senior Corps officers. The conversation lasted another minute or so, and seemed to end to the satisfaction of both.
Korolev nodded politely to Thomas as he passed him en route to the bridge. “Mr. Kane.”
“Sir.” He was impressed that Korolev remembered his name.
Vici was momentarily unoccupied and Thomas grabbed the opportunity.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Do we have a confirmed list of survivors on the returned drop ship?”
She glared at him, more in surprise than anger, he thought.
“All of Second Platoon are out, although some of them are in pieces,” she said. “I don’t yet have the names of the casualties.”
“What about
Rapier
’s strike team?” he pressed. “They were with Second Platoon.”
Her anger was growing again, he could see. Her voice turned to ice. “Is there any particular reason the commodore is requesting such specific information? If not, then get out of my face.”
Petty politics were really starting to piss him off. “I’m
Rapier
’s CO, ma’am. Are my people on board that damned drop ship?”
Vici’s glare softened. Her eyes suddenly revealed a glimpse of respect, even sympathy.
“No,” she said quietly. “I think they were in the ship that crash landed.”
Thomas looked immediately to the boards, his heart sinking. “Do we know where?”
“Not exactly.” She stepped forward to point at the ground display. “We lost tracking on them right about here. This region is a known stronghold for the Free Lhasan warlords—it’s where one of their biggest armies is based.”
He felt sick. “Oh my God…”
Vici glared at him again. “Wipe your tears away, skipper. We might have a plan.”
“What?”
She nodded past him. He looked back toward the bridge door just as Korolev, Breeze, and Chandler entered Drop Command.
“Colonel Korolev tells me we have special assets on the ground that might be able to help,” she said, but didn’t offer any additional details.
Korolev glanced at Thomas and Vici, but he was clearly focused on Breeze.
“Last contact with the drop ship was here,” he said, pointing at the display. “There are two assets with lift capability based out of New Ngari.”
Breeze nodded. “They pose as independent merchants. Low key and enough capacity to get the troopers out.”
“Make it happen,” Korolev said without seeking permission from the commodore.
A curious look passed between Chandler and Korolev, then the commodore turned and left without ceremony. Korolev and Vici both moved away.
Thomas took one last look around Drop Command, then returned to the bridge. That whiskey was going to taste particularly good this evening.
K
atja dove to the ground as another shell wailed down.
It struck behind her position with bone-jarring impact. Dirt and rock rained down on her battered armor. She was up again in a heartbeat, crouching behind the pair of boulders that were her only cover. Sakiyama was at her side, blindly firing over the rocks. Among the cracks in the hillside troopers picked themselves up and took their positions again.
But there was no movement where the mortar had hit. She didn’t dare order anyone to leave cover to check on wounded—the snipers at the top of the hill had proven their deadly accuracy.
Once again she lifted a spare helmet just over the lip of the rock, ignoring the ache in her ribs. Her own helmet was linked to its camera, and that gave her a quick view of the battlefield. Shots cracked from above and below but none struck home this time. The camera was exposed for less than five seconds, but that was enough to paint the grim picture in the gray morning light.
APRs had advanced as far up the hill as they could before the ground became impassable for them. Cerberan soldiers were massing behind this mechanized line, trying to work up the courage to advance on her platoon. More APRs held the ridgeline behind her, unable to approach but blocking any escape. Enemy bodies littered the rocky slope from two previous attempts to overrun the Terran position.
At least three aircraft circled overhead.
It was dawn. They’d been trapped in this broken collection of boulders and fissures for twelve hours, taking casualties and bleeding ammunition in the hot, black air. Darkness had given her high-tech troopers the advantage. The dazzling light of the Dog Star would soon bring that to an end.
“Air attack! Look east!”
The shout came over the platoon circuit.
Katja crouched lower, raising her eyes skyward. One of the aircraft had cut down and was in a shallow dive on their position. Dazzling points of light fired along its wings. Seconds later, high-velocity rounds struck the position, punching through solid rock and trooper armor. There were screams heard over the roar of the aircraft as it flashed overhead.
Before she could even speak, another strafing run riddled the position. Chunks of rock smacked against her armor. She covered her face with her arms. A quick glance up revealed a third aircraft lining up for an attack run.
“Tango-Two, this is Sierra-Five,” she said into her comms. “Do we still have ammo for the cannon?”
“About a hundred rounds,”
Chang replied from thirty meters away.
“Take air hostile to the east.”
“Roger.”
The third aircraft steadied on course, coming closer, lining up its target. Katja heard the welcome
thud-thud-thud
of the last remaining turret cannon, being manually aimed and belt-fed. For a long moment the aircraft grew larger and larger. A pair of sparks danced off its underbelly.
It wobbled and veered off to the north trailing smoke.
Cheers went up from the troopers, but they were immediately drowned out by a chorus of wails as enemy mortars began to rain down again. Katja curled into a ball and endured the onslaught. She tried to recall how many clips of ammo she had left, and how many grenades.
Her medical kit had already been used up on other casualties, and her rations were long gone—the plan had been for a lightning raid, and so the troopers had packed light. They hadn’t even taken the doctrinal combat cocktail of pre-invasion drugs. As another barrage of mortars struck, Katja thought to herself that a healthy dose of “valor valium” would do a lot to keep her head clear.