Authors: Bennett R. Coles
* * *
Abeona Traffic began to query the EF ships as they entered the controlled zone around the homeworld. Thomas listened carefully to the casual radio chatter, waiting for any hint of trouble. It took twenty minutes for all of the EF ships—each on a unique heading and speed—to enter the controlled zone and be queried. By then Abeona had grown into a visible orb, shining to the left of
Jutland
’s dark bulk.
“Commodore, this is Drop Command. All three ships report first wave ready for drop.”
It was Brigade Colonel Korolev, forced to stay behind and coordinate the invasion from orbit. It was a bitter blow to any trooper, Thomas knew, to have to stay behind while his comrades went into battle. And it was a bitterness he shared, especially as the reports came in that the EF’s eight serviceable fast-attack craft were ready for the drop.
There was no doctrinal role for FACs in a drop, but with the EF under-strength Chandler had pressed them into service as catchall support vehicles. Capable both in space and in atmo, they helped fill in the ranks of the star fighters and strike fighters, and with their strike pods they were the perfect vehicles for medevacs and quick troop redeployments. Theirs would be a dynamic, dangerous, and pivotal role.
It was the kind of battle experience that would make a FAC captain’s career. And Thomas was stuck on
Normandy
’s bridge, a nameless staff officer in the rear echelon.
He still wore the star above his two bars, but hardly anyone addressed him as “lieutenant commander” anymore.
Rapier
sat broken in the hangar—even after weeks of repairs, her hull breaches rendered her incapable of penetrating atmo. And even if Thomas had been able to get her into the orbital battle, who would have crewed her? He and Breeze were both Fleet staff. Katja and the surviving strike team were all loading into the drop ships. Even Chief Tamma had been sent back to the carrier, to pilot a star fighter.
Thomas was the commander of an empty wreck.
“Echo-Victor
, King Alfred.
I am in visual range of Orbital Platform Three.”
The knot in his stomach clenched. Radio spoofing was only good if the enemy couldn’t actually see you. The EF ships were all now well within the Abeona Traffic controlled zone, and it was only a matter of time before somebody noticed that those mining ships weren’t mining ships. That the luxury liner was, in fact, a Terran carrier.
“Roger,
King Alfred
. Alter your course to maintain standoff distance.”
The platform was huge, a kilometer in radius and several kilometers long, and it became visible long before a ship the size of
King Alfred
, but that wasn’t to say that there weren’t telescopic cameras aboard.
Things were going to start happening fast. He sized up the priorities.
“All units, Echo-Victor,” he said. “Stand by for final drop orders.” He began assigning stations and targets on his internal display, but didn’t transmit them yet.
Abeona Traffic made a call to the yacht
Dunsinane
, querying its position.
Cape Town
responded. There was a pause, then another call from Traffic, laced with doubt.
Another minute passed. Abeona was large enough now that Thomas could make out the Great Sea. The EF ships were all slowly converging. At current speed
Jutland
and the invasion ships were eight minutes from the primary drop point. Three minutes until the highest point where the drop ships could conceivably be launched, if necessary.
Abeona Traffic called again, a clear question in the operator’s voice.
“
Dunsinane
, this is Traffic. Your registration lists you as a thirty-meter yacht… Please confirm, over.”
Thomas increased the pace of his inputs.
Cape Town
was more than a hundred and twenty meters long—even with her signature-reducing form there was no mistaking her for a yacht at this range. Even as “
Dunsinane
” responded to Traffic,
Cape Town
signalled
Normandy.
“Echo-Victor
, Cape Town.
I am being probed by an interrogation radar.”
On the 3-D display, one of the Space Guard cutters altered course to close
Cape Town
.
The game was up. Thomas sent a quick acknowledgement to
Cape Town
then turned to Chandler. “Commodore, Echo-Victor.
Cape Town
is being probed. Recommend all units take up drop disposition.”
Chandler’s gaze bore into Thomas. “Echo-Victor, deploy the EF into drop disposition.”
Thomas transmitted his orders. There were three landing zones, one for each regiment.
Normandy, Troy
, and
Quebec
would all launch simultaneously and use the same upper drop corridor. Surprise was the key, so drop ships and strike fighters would hit atmo together—there would be no strike fighter sweep prior to the first wave.
Jutland
would remain on point defense for the invasion ships and provide bombardment for the upper corridor.
Artemis
would launch her star fighters to clear the orbital approaches.
The three regiments would split at archons one-zero—low enough to hide below all but local Centauri tracking systems—and slow to supersonic for extreme low-level approach.
Each cruiser was assigned to a specific regiment and would provide bombardment for the lower drop corridor and the landing zone. The destroyers would take the Space Guard cutters—
Baghdad
and
Kristiansand
hostile three-eight,
Cape Town
and
Miami
hostile three-niner.
Goa
would provide close ASW and AVW support to the invasion ships.
The supply ships would blare out with every EM emitter they had, in order to draw Centauri attention and hopefully sow confusion. Then they’d sprint for cover under
Jutland
’s protective sphere. And the stealth ships would do whatever they could, wherever they were.
K
atja cinched down her straps, preparing for a rough ride. It was hard to sit comfortably with the full complement of drop gear strapped to her back.
She checked again that her rifle was secure beside her seat, and that all her combat equipment was in place. Her armor was colored a dull, mossy brown, and the black webbing around her waist blended well. She listened absently to the Fleet chatter from the pilots’ console ahead, surprised at how much she actually understood after her months on
Rapier
’s bridge.
She recognized Thomas’s voice too easily, and felt a pang of regret for not having made the effort to speak to him before the battle. She pushed it aside and let herself get angry at the thought of him and Breeze, cozying up in
Normandy
while she went into battle.
Fleet pussies.
Chang was already in his seat on her left. Rao entered the cockpit and wordlessly handed them each a medical injector. Katja pulled off one glove and stabbed the injector into her wrist. There was a slight tingle as the combat cocktail rushed into her system, but otherwise she felt no immediate effect. Experience had taught her that the effects of the drugs were hard to detect in the moment, but easy to remember later. If nothing else, she felt reassured.
“All units,”
Commander Vici said over the radio,
“prepare for drop.”
They were words she’d heard dozens of times in simulation, but this was the real thing—a hostile drop into the heart of the most powerful enemy Terra could face. Despite the amount of action she’d seen recently, Katja felt her stomach tighten in fear. It didn’t help that she was still haunted by Thapa’s ghost, and the idea that she was personally responsible for this war.
She felt a jolt as the drop ship rolled forward into its airlock. Faint clunks and hisses suggested depressurization outside the hull, and through the cockpit windows she saw the outer doors slide open. She expected to see the bright surface of Abeona greeting her, but was met instead by a field of stars.
Well, maybe she
was
responsible, in a small way. But then, she was her daddy’s girl after all—she was a fucking soldier. Maybe it was the first effects of the combat cocktail, but she felt a cold clarity settle over her troubled heart, and swore to herself that no ghosts were going to get in her way today.
Not Thapa, not Thomas, or Breeze.
Not Father.
She was going to prove to every last one of them that she had what it takes. When this day was done, either she’d be a warrior beyond doubt, or she’d be dead.
A gentle tug toward her left suggested that
Normandy
was accelerating faster than the inertial dampeners could compensate. She saw a distant flash of light through the cockpit windows. A huge, invisible force pulled her forward against her straps, and the dazzling surface of Abeona hove into view.
Her drop ship was fifth on the port side. When the first ships went, hers would be two seconds behind. The Saracens were the first wave, and they were point. Along with the Spartans they would be the very first to hit dirt.
Katja had the landing zone burned into her brain, knew every feature and every obstacle. Her first job was simple—clear the landing zone so that the tanks could get down. There were other objectives, to be sure, but none of them mattered if that landing zone wasn’t secure.
Abeona’s surface drifted by right to left, the features growing visibly larger. The bright colors faded to blackness as
Normandy
raced eastward over the terminator. The plan was to drop over the night sky. They were close.
“All units, Sierra-Five,” she said. “Stand by for drop.”
The voice of Drop Command sounded on the cockpit speaker.
“Fifth Brigade: drop now… now… now!”
Four distant thuds shuddered the hull, then her seat slammed up into her as the drop ship leapt free. She gripped the armrests as they swung hard into a starboard turn, caught a glimpse of
Jutland
and the stream of fiery blasts bursting forth from her bombardment batteries. Her stomach rose into her throat as the drop ship dove and her vision filled with the dark surface far below.
The fires of engine exhausts from a pair of other drop ships moved into view as her pilots tucked into formation for the descent. Off to the far left, she saw the twin burners of one of their escort strike fighters. The pressure against her back said that they were still accelerating. Corps doctrine spoke of sending in the strike fighters first to clear a path for the vulnerable drop ships, but Korolev knew that their only chance against the Abeona defenses was complete surprise and had sent everything all at once. With luck, the first wave of troopers would be on the ground before the Centauris could even get themselves organized.
Being first wave might actually be safer than second or third.
The first glow of super-heated gases formed around the drop ships and strike fighters ahead. Then she felt the frantic vibrations in her seat, and saw the fires begin to form in front of her own ship.
“This is Sierra-Five—into atmo!” She hoped her voice sounded cool and reassuring. Her fingers already ached from gripping the chair so tightly.
Flame enveloped her ship. The pilots struggled to keep on course as they plummeted through the sky like a meteor. She concentrated on her breathing, ignoring the feeling of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her. The high drop corridor was the most dangerous, with the ship practically blind and still high enough to be an easy target. Their only defense was speed, and faith that the Centauris were caught unawares.
She pursed her lips tight and hung on. The ship lurched violently to starboard. Was that turbulence, or evasive maneuvering? The pilots’ voices were lost in the roar. They fought their controls and Katja felt a hard turn to port. Something impacted the starboard side hull. The jolt shook her in her seat. Another long, wrenching turn to port, and the fires outside began to fade.
She had a glimpse of yellow light reflecting off cloud tops, then the world outside plunged into blackness. The ship began to shake constantly, a steady, pounding rhythm.
The darkness lifted as the ship dropped from the clouds and pulled out of its dive. Then she saw the drop ship exhausts ahead, and the scattered, distant lights on the surface. The night sky was lit up with tracers from below, flickering past her view on both sides. Orange bolts flashed down from above. Explosions lit the surface but were instantly astern as the drop ship rocketed forward.
In a moment of sudden clarity, she saw the surface of Abeona laid before her. The ground fire was panicked and uncoordinated. There were no enemy aircraft. She felt a surge of excitement, fueled by aggression. She was actually doing it—she was actually invading the Centauri homeworld. No Terran soldier had ever done something this bold. Not even her father.
Through her clenched jaw, she grinned. Now those motherfuckers were going to learn what the Astral Force could really do.
She keyed her mike, unable to contain her excitement.
“All units, Sierra-Five. Low drop corridor, on final approach: when we land you smash anything that moves. Clear that landing zone!”
The single strike fighter off her port bow loosed a hypersonic missile and banked away. The drop ships dipped and hugged the ground. A low rise on the horizon was lit up by irregular flashes of fire—the landing zone was this side of the rise.
One of the pilots shouted back to her.
“Twenty seconds, Lieutenant!”
The landing zone was a major industrial park just outside Abeona’s second city. A valuable target in its own right, it was expected to be lightly defended with lots of open space for drop ships to put down. The low rise to the north provided cover for the regiment to mass before attacking the main objective. The city itself.
Enemy fire was concentrated on the top of the rise. Tracers whipped past the ship as it jinked left and right. Orange blasts struck down from
King Alfred
overhead. Katja was pushed against her straps as the ship decelerated and slammed down for landing.