Authors: Bennett R. Coles
To port he saw the bombardment batteries of
Jutland
pounding away at surface targets, and smaller, faster bolts of anti-attack guns shooting down incoming enemy missiles. The battleship herself looked like a Yuletide log, orange and red patches burning angrily across her charcoal surface. The three invasion ships loomed high above
Jutland
, their own point-defense guns fending off whatever attacks got through the battleship’s shield.
Far beyond, the buckled remains of Orbital Platform One twisted in the sky—the Goliath brought down by ninety Davids and their four torpedoes each. Jack searched for any straggling, injured Hawks. Then he tore his eyes away and pushed the throttles fully open, focusing on his mission.
The three supply ships were in the highest orbit of all, trying to keep clear of the Centauri defenses.
Protector
was the middle of the three and Jack quickly made contact with her landing controller. The big ship held a steady course and speed for his approach, and he lined up the wide hangar door without much trouble. He throttled back the main engines and tapped at his thruster control to glide in. At three hundred meters he put his engines to standby and thrusted back to kill the last of his momentum.
Protector
’s magnetic clamps grabbed the Hawk and pulled him inside. The supply ship’s hangar was huge, and surprisingly empty. As he was taxied in Jack counted the Hawks being serviced, knowing that there should be fifteen on this ship.
He saw three. And one of them had clearly taken heavy damage to its port side. There were racks of torpedoes standing by, and ground crew to load them.
He opened the cargo door while he was still turning in place. As soon as the door hit deck the first of the torpedo racks was wheeled up and locked down in his main compartment. At max carrying capacity a Hawk could haul ten racks of four torpedoes each, and
Protector
’s ground crew crammed in every last rack they could.
The Hawk-torpedo attack against the orbital platform had succeeded, but at such a high cost in casualties that there weren’t enough Hawks to make a full attack against Orbital Platform Two, which was even now moving into range. The next attack would employ the few remaining Hawks and all five destroyers. The destroyers had the ability to reload torpedoes, and thus could keep firing even after the Hawks had withdrawn. Hopefully enough weapons would get through before the destroyers themselves were blown to pieces by the orbital platform’s huge weapons.
Kristiansand
was low on ammo, and Jack was to bring back a full load. Every torpedo counted. If this attack failed, the Expeditionary Force would be fish in a barrel.
Someone shouted from aft that his cargo was loaded. Jack closed the Hawk’s door and taxied toward the waiting airlock. His controls jumped as
Protector
’s deck shuddered. The airlock sealed around him and he waited for depressurization in the near darkness.
Everything shook again.
Protector
’s landing controller shouted over the radio.
“Viking-Two—emergency evac!”
Jack hung on as the outer airlock doors flew open and the escaping air hurtled him free into space. He thrusted quickly to regain control and threw open his throttles again. Shimmering blasts of energy flashed by him and struck the supply ship. He cast a terrified glance to port and saw the massive shape of Orbital Platform Two looming near. Energy weapons fired from dozens of batteries up and down its hull, the beams cutting into
Protector
even as Jack sailed free.
He felt a moment of rage, and flicked the safeties of his hull-mounted torpedoes and targeted the platform. On an impulse, he set the implosion level to sixteen peets—the maximum they were rated to—and selected Weapon One. With a bang it launched free and disappeared into the Bulk. It was absurd, he knew, but at least he felt better, like he’d kicked the bully in the shin before running away.
Then he pulled hard to starboard and accelerated to full speed.
Kristiansand
was far below, her dark shape clear against the brilliant planet.
From the visual he scanned his flight controls and hunt controls. His 3-D display was crowded with contacts, and the gravimetric landscape was unreadable. He raised his eyes and flew visual.
He saw them coming fast from the port side, but barely had time even to look before the Centauri sentries opened fire. Rounds flashed past his cockpit. He yanked the stick to starboard. Twin bangs jarred his port side. The Hawk jerked violently, then spun end over end. Jack grunted against the g-forces and fought for control.
The view outside spun madly between Abeona’s bright surface and the blackness of space. He pulled back on the stick but could only slow his tumble. He scanned his controls. Aft lower thrusters were blasting at full. He struggled to reach the controls to shut them down.
No response.
New warning lights flashed. The display indicated incoming missiles. Somebody screamed. Then he lunged out to hit the chaff and flare buttons. He heard the rapid
bang-bang-bang
as the decoys fired, and jinked to port.
Nothing hit him, but the Hawk was tumbling in multiple axes. The aft lower thrusters continued to fire on full. He cut power to all maneuvering controls. The thrusters died. He pulled back on his stick and used the main engine power to flatten out his spin.
Within moments he had control again.
Quick check of visual, flight controls, hunt controls. Abeona loomed before him. Fighters and sentries off to port. 3-D revealed
Kristiansand
on his starboard quarter. He yanked back on the stick and turned for home.
Kristiansand
was banking hard, firing chaff and flares to avoid the attacking sentries. Several impacts bled smoke and precious air into space. Her self-defense guns fired wildly, filling the sky with rounds. Two sentries exploded as they flew into the virtual wall of bullets. The destroyer came around in another tight turn.
Jack looked up to starboard. Orbital Platform Two seemed farther away now, but a quick survey revealed all the EF ships fleeing east at full speed, trying to stay just out of range of its energy weapons. Farther east, he saw the invasion ships also turning to run, although
Jutland
stood her ground. Even from this distance he could see the damage to the battleship—there was no way it could withstand a toe-to-toe with the orbital platform.
Jack put his eyes back on
Kristiansand
. She needed his torpedoes.
“Longboat, Viking-Two. I am inbound at full speed. Request fully automatic recovery.”
“Viking-Two—no-can. Auto-recovery down. Manual approach, port side only.”
“Longboat, I have no maneuvering controls. Request emergency recovery.”
“Viking-Two, roger. Manual approach.”
Son of a bitch. They wanted him to fly his bird right into the hangar. The destroyer was still banking and rolling to avoid sentry fire. He needed her to steady up on a single course for him to vector.
“Roger. Report course and speed for recovery.”
A new, female voice came onto the circuit.
“This is Longboat Actual. I’m under attack and I can’t steady up for you. But I need those torpedoes, or the whole fleet is going down. Jack, I need you to land your bird and protect your cargo. Over.”
The destroyer was growing larger in his vision, pulling up so hard that he had to yank back his stick to keep her in sight. Commander Avernell was fighting her ship, and she was waiting for him to give her the means to die trying to destroy the orbital platform.
If she wasn’t afraid, what gave him the right to be? He located the opening hangar door on
Kristiansand
’s port quarter.
“This is Viking-Two—roger. Inbound for landing. Out.”
Alarms flashed on his console. He punched the chaff and flare buttons and jinked hard to starboard. His view shifted to reveal the orbital platform, missiles launching forth. He jinked back to port and released another set of decoys.
Kristiansand
filled his view again. She was rolling, and he lost sight of the hangar door. He touched left to intercept her, hoping for a favorable roll back.
She turned hard to port—his up—and he pulled back on both stick and throttles, cursing. She turned toward him. He banked to starboard and then swung back to port. His flight controls flashed with collision alarms. He saw her bow drawing left, and ignored his controls. This was flying by eye. His nose pointed at her midships as she passed five hundred meters in front of him. He accelerated and swung to port.
The hangar door was visible again—four hundred meters.
Kristiansand
banked to starboard. Fouling his approach.
“Shit!” He keyed the circuit. “Longboat, Viking-Two. I need you to hold steady for five seconds. Tell me when you can, and I’ll be ready.”
“Longboat roger!”
He accelerated and rose up above the destroyer, sighting the hangar door again. She banked slightly to port and fired her self-defense cannons. Something exploded off to Jack’s right. He kept his eyes on the door and pressed closer. Three hundred meters. She dove but he followed easily, back in station within seconds.
Two hundred meters.
“Viking-Two! Five seconds! Go!”
He pushed the throttles forward and eased to starboard, turning his nose to port and coming in at an angle. The hangar door loomed on his starboard bow, then his beam. He yanked the stick fully starboard and killed his engines. His view was swallowed by the inside of the airlock.
AG grabbed the Hawk and slammed it down sideways on the deck. The awful screech of metal against metal tore at his ears. He jolted in his seat as his nose hit something hard. Then everything was still. And black.
He blinked as the inner airlock doors opened—up and down, not left to right, he noticed curiously—and light from the hangar flooded in. He felt a strong, continuous pull to the right as the Hawk moved into the open space and he wondered if the ship was doing a long, steady turn. Then, as he saw all the people standing sideways in the hangar, he realized that the Hawk was resting on its starboard side.
Still firmly strapped in his seat, he hadn’t moved.
“Sit tight, Jack,”
a voice said over the circuit,
“we’re using the crane to right you.”
He heard several thuds against his hull, then gasped as the Hawk was yanked up and tipped back down on its landing gear. He heard the cargo door open, heard the clatter of boots and equipment as ground crew began to offload the torpedoes.
He sat and stared at his lap for a moment. Then laughed.
I
t was the shortest ride she’d ever had in a drop ship—two minutes up the road. It might have been absurd, except that it had saved her platoon an hour of walking uphill. Tactical repositioning at its best.
Her troopers spilled down the ramp as before, immediately forming a defensive ring around the ship under cover of the turrets. The black sky was clearing, and the landscape was bathed in a dim, red glow as Centauria B rose over the horizon. Katja descended quickly, noting a second drop ship just touching down thirty meters away. It disgorged Scott Lahko’s Second Platoon. Her forearm display indicated two friendlies approaching from the east, and she spotted the dark pair of hover tanks just as she heard their familiar, deep whirr.
She rounded the drop ship and scanned the tactical situation. They were on the ridge top, several hundred meters higher than the city that spread out to the north. The water of the round bay reflected the dull red of the rising star, and while there were few lights visible in the city itself, she could just make out the straight boulevards stretching away from the water like spokes, and the broad ring roads connecting them.
A cool, moist wind picked up, and she thought she detected a hint of the sea. On another day she might have thought the view was pretty, but today all she saw were the flashes of combat perhaps a kilometer from her position—probably the Spartan shock troopers taking out one of the artillery positions.
A kilometer or so to her right, she knew, the armored troops were massing on the ridge to commence their attack. And half a kilometer to the left was her target—a collection of large houses and local shops that currently housed the Centauri artillery spotters. The buildings clustered around a single crossroad, spreading about two hundred meters in every direction.
Lahko appeared at her side, his eyes intent on the village.
“Hey, Big K,” he said. “What’s your strength?”
“Thirty-eight troopers, fully loaded.” Her wounded troopers had willingly surrendered their ammunition before being evacuated, giving the survivors all the grenades and magazines they could carry.
“I’m at forty. And we have orbital bombardment standing by.”
“Finally.”
“All right. We’re gonna do this hard and fast. Take your platoon up the right flank. I’ll go up the middle with the tanks. Stay low and quiet—let us draw their fire. You pinpoint their location and call
Jutland
for bombardment.”
“Roger.” She manipulated her forearm display to bring up the Fleet Support circuit. A quick typed message to
Jutland
and an immediate reply from orbit confirmed her connection.
She gathered her platoon and quickly laid out the plan. As she did, a series of massive, orange bolts flashed by overhead, striking down into the Centauri city. She couldn’t help but pause for a moment to watch, never having imagined she would think orbital bombardment to be so beautiful. The Fleet was coming through at last.
It was jarring, however, to see the angle of the bolts. Bombardment was always done by a ship directly overhead, and the shots came down nearly vertical. These bolts were streaking through the sky at a forty-five degree angle. She imagined again the violence of the orbital battle. The Fleet had to be getting pummeled, if they were forced to provide support from half a globe away.
Whatever
, she decided, pushing the thought away.
Support is support.
She motioned her platoon forward.