Ghost fleet constellatio.., p.7
Ghost Fleet (Constellation Book 3), page 7
“That’s what we’re up against, son,” he said before glancing up at what they could see of the air battle.
ICWIS stations danced back and forth, struggling to intercept drones and missiles. Fighters danced and wove between buildings. Though the F-35s were fast and deadly, they were still multi-role fighters, whereas the Mustang had been built to be the king of the skies. Still, the F-35s would dive on the crowds outside, forcing Mustangs to drop from their air screen and defend the refugees.
Major Card waved them down and jogged over. The man looked out of place in his battle rattle, but he seemed to know what was going on.
“The Feds are trying to seize the spaceport,” he said. “They’re massing loyalist law enforcement a few towns over, and according to satellite recon, they have an armored brigade forming up on the other side of those hills—” He jerked his head back east, but all they could see was the walls of Sally Ride. “We’ve got word from both Florida sites and Galveston that they were able to get everyone who came into space before the Feds came, but none of them are getting swarmed like us.”
Another rocket lifted off. It raced away from the planet, to safety ad freedom, when an F-35 managed to lose its pursuer just long enough to hit it with a pair of missiles. The lift unit exploded miles away, but the concussion swept Sally Ride all the same.
The F-35 wouldn’t live to take any more lives, however. His pursuer downed the aircraft in seconds, and it spun wildly to the Earth. Good, fuck him.
“Probably a bad time to mention Vadenburg and its lift site are gone. Feds leveled it with cluster bombs,” Card added. “We’ve got an assault shuttle for you guys to get into space, but you’re going to have to wait. We’ve got a few big vessels to transport children, the elderly, and the injured, but we need to exhaust our shuttle capacity first, otherwise it’ll take too long to reset.”
“We may not have that time,” Oliver growled. “Send them now, before they send an airstrike capable of leveling this place.”
“But we’d risk leaving a lot of capable people behind,” Card said.
“But children are the future,” Theresa snapped. “And if you leave them behind, what good are the capable people you sent?”
Jim stepped forward. “Pull fighting-age men from the refugees, volunteers only,” he said. “We can hold off the loyalists and buy time for dependents to escape first.”
“Not going to bother asking the women, huh?” Theresa asked.
“Lifeboat ethics, hon,” Oliver said.
“But how will you know you have enough people?” Miss Davis asked.
“Because every man’s thought about it at least once,” Jim replied. “Dying heroically while your loved ones get to safety.” He turned to Baker. “Take care of the wounded, okay? We’ve got a lot of people counting on you.” With that, he turned and followed Card with the rest of the Constellation’s crew.
“Sure you don’t want to stay?” Jim asked Zhou as she and Ogden followed behind him.
“Where Bob goes, I go,” the sniper said. “Besides, someone needs to watch your backs. I’ve seen the way all of you devolve into reckless idiots anytime something heroic needs to happen. Maybe it’s rubbed off a little.”
Stan stepped up next to Oliver.
“Son, no,” he said firmly.
Stan squared his shoulders and looked his father firmly in the eye.
“Dad, I don’t want to chance it in a shuttle. If I go down, I wanna go fighting.” Jim grimaced, Stan’s words echoing his father at Nagalu, something the kid likely didn’t know. “I don’t want Mom or Gary or any of them to go up in flames like those people did.”
Oliver sighed.
“You can protect your family by being there in case something happens to me,” he replied. They stared at each other, silent for a moment. A Mustang streaked overhead, using its own flares to stop a missile that had slipped through the ICWIS ring.
Finally, Oliver sighed.
“Guess you can’t teach a fish to climb a tree,” he said. “Let’s go, but you stick close and do exactly as I do, alright?”
“Yessir,” Stan replied with a grin.
They resumed their pace and entered a long hallway towards an armory.
“You know, if Stan had maybe ninety pounds of muscle, he’d be your spitting image, Ollie,” Ogden said. “Maybe we could get him there if he ate Private Cai.”
“Don’t recommend that,” Cai said. “Just ask the last guy who tried.”
The armory allowed them to stock up on ammo and things they weren’t easily going to replace. They also were able to fit them with Espatier armor.
“Interesting,” Gregor purred as he shifted his arms. “I don’t feel the additional weight at all. It’s amazing the difference between this and a KDV suit.”
“Nah, that’s new,” Oliver said. “Our old suits weren’t this good.”
“Micromotors in the joints increase your strength and load-bearing capacity by a factor of 45%,” Card informed them. “The power supply is also lighter and more efficient, as is the cooling and environmental controls.”
Oliver yanked a spare nametape out of his sleeve and slapped it on Stan’s chest.
“There, your callsign is Grizzly Cub if you need to use the radio,” Oliver said. “Should work like your computer’s headset.”
“I think I got it,” Stan said. He began checking his radio, which prompted them to all check their radios with each other.
“Let’s just stick together as a big squad,” Jim said. “We’re understrength as it is, considering how many wounded we have.” He looked around the room. Oliver and Stan Knight. Himself, Private Cai, Les, and Prince. Zhou, Bob Ogden, Gregor, and George Teller.
“Our people are getting organized outside,” Card said. “In the courtyard, we’ve got people passing out rifles, ammo, and plate carriers.”
“Any anti-armor weapons?” Oliver asked. “Since they’re throwing a brigade at us?”
Card shook his head.
“We can get to the top of the wall and get eyes on them,” he said. “We’re going to have to form some kind of battleplan around dealing with them anyway since I think our aircover is going to be about spent by the time they engage them.”
They followed Card up the rickety metal staircase, all the way up the wall until they got to what was clearly a maintenance catwalk for the ICWIS units.
Jim used the binoculars built into the Esaptier helmet to check out what waited for them just beyond the rolling hills. Tanks, self-propelled Howitzers, and infantry fighting vehicles sat under camouflage nets among tents filling the perimeter.
“Damn,” Jim growled. “That is at least a brigade, maybe a reinforced one. Looks like almost a hundred tanks from right here.”
“We can’t hold off that kinda firepower,” Oliver said. “Good God above, it’s me, Oliver. If we ever needed a pillar of fire or thunderbolt from heaven, now would be a good time.”
Evidently, God must have heard Oliver’s prayer and forwarded it to Minerva and General Nellis.
A crash like thunder filled the air, as if a bolt had struck near them. A violet beam split the sky, cutting it open and reminding Jim of a boy holding a magnifying glass over ants. The earth shook, and they had to grasp the railing around them as a second beam struck the armored brigade, then a third.
The armor’s enhanced imaging revealed a mushroom cloud rising from the remains of the armored brigade’s encampment. Molten metal and fire covered the tortured ground, and as he blinked in shock, the clouds around the camp crackled with lightning, having picked up significant electrical charge from the particle blasts.
“Ya know, I had a picture in my head of what the wrath of God looked like,” Oliver said. “This ain’t it, but it’s pretty damn close.”
“We should set up our defenses quick,” Jim suggested. “They’re going to be reeling from that since Minerva just took their ace in the hole off the board.”
“You’re mixing analogies,” Oliver said as he followed him back downstairs. “Also, don’t think I missed that, earlier, with Mel.”
“Missed what?” Jim asked.
“That you have a really convoluted way of saying you love someone,” Oliver replied. “You could have just come out and said it.”
“Didn’t seem appropriate,” Jim said. “But I had to let her know somehow.”
Oliver shook his head. “Coward.”
“Let’s focus on the opening Minerva gave us and less on my love life,” Jim replied. “It might not last as long as we’d like.” Weather he mean his love life or the opening, he wasn’t sure, but did it really make a difference?
THIRTEEN
Seeing more Espatiers getting their volunteers organized gave Jim a shot of confidence, just before he saw another Mustang go down outside the perimeter.
“Our top cover isn’t going to last much longer,” he mused. “Those pilots are getting worn down, and their fuel and ammo isn’t gonna last forever.” He checked the crowd outside and looked back at the launchpads.
He found himself working against two timers: how long it was going to take them to get as many people into space as they could versus how long their air cover could hold out. Neither looked good, but that was battlefield calculus. You did the math, and people died either way. Take a bite of the shit sandwich like everyone else and try to live with your choices.
“I wish we could just ask Minerva how long we need to hold out,” he grumbled. “If she had sensors on the ground or looking at the site, I’m sure she could give us an estimate.”
“Thirty-five mikes,” Major Card said. “Ten to get the last of the shuttles in the air, twenty-five to get the bigger ships with the vulnerable dependents.”
“And our ticket out of here?” Oliver asked.
“We’ve got Chief Lane getting your assault shuttle ready,” Card said. “It’s docked on the mass driver underground, it just needs to stay powered. Once you’re onboard, you can just go.”
“I thought that thing hadn’t been approved for testing yet,” Ogden said.
“Technically it hasn’t,” Card replied, “but your shuttle was rebuilt with Constellation’s tech. She has more than enough thrust even if the mass driver’s not powerful enough to send a normal payload into orbit.”
Jim was about to reply when a screaming roar filled the air. Ogden must have seen it first, as he tackled Zhou and Jim to the ground. He caught a glimpse of everyone else going flat except Card, who seemed stunned.
An F-35, burning and having lost altitude control, launched a spiteful missile as it plummeted to the earth outside the wall. The ICWIS’s gun threatened to rupture his eardrums, even in his Espatier armor. The point defense system struggled to engage the missile coming so close.
Finally, its stream of airburst 35-mm made intercept, but the warhead detonated far too close for Jim’s liking. The pressure wave washed over them, and when Jim stood, Card was gone. A glance over the side of the wall told him all he needed to know—he wasn’t getting back up.
Jim debated whether he wanted situational awareness or to go down and get involved in the fighting. Leviathan Group forces hadn’t organized a serious battle line. They drove around in technical trucks—pickups modified for combat—and took potshots at crowds of people and defenders before driving away. And there was still the larger force in the nearby town.
They’re going to move all of their forces right up on us to avoid Minerva erasing them from the map. Their reinforcements will be here soon.
“Stan, Bob, Z, I need you guys to provide top cover,” Jim said. “Grab the M110s from the armory and go to work. Ollie, I need you to run C&C since Card’s dead. Everyone else, we’re grabbing M250s and some Carl-G’s and going to make those technicals go home.”
After a rushed trip to the armory, they descended the stairs in quick order. Jim spared a glance upwards to see their air cover thinning out even more. On the plus side, it looked like the enemy’s was getting depleted as well and part of Jim wondered why they hadn’t received reinforcements. Getting through the gate was madness as people tried to press through, but spotting Espatiers packing serious firepower gave Jim’s team the opening they needed.
Technicals sped around—no pattern, no plan, just kicking up dust and shooting at people. Ducking down, he opened the SAAB tough box and tossed the casing aside. Prince loaded the round just like he’d been trained years ago, and he warned people to clear the backblast area.
Jim had owned a SAAB convertible years ago—maybe all the car talk earlier had steered his thoughts that direction. Now all they made were guns and jets. What a shift in strategy.
The concussion wave from the Carl-Gustaf rang his bell, even with the protection from his armor. What the round did to the technical was spectacular. The Carl-Gustaf had been made to give dismounted infantry a chance against the heavily armored main battle tanks rolling around in the late 80’s. 84-milimeters of high explosives in the form of a shaped charge meant to pierce through the hull of a T-80 did catastrophic damage to a Chevy Colorado Crew Cab. The pressure wave ripped apart the carbon-fiber and aluminum frame and flung hapless Leviathan Group fighters across the rocky ground.
Then emerging from the flames was a lone individual who seemed to be more machine than man. Because of fucking course.
“Prince, reload me,” Jim called out. “Everyone else, spread out and deal with the trucks. I’ll deal with this cyborg.” And I’m getting real tired of them.
So the Leviathan Group’s psychotic super-soldiers could survive a new pick-up being dissolved like tissue paper, but could he survive a direct hit? The round could chew through a tank—why not a roided-up psychopath?
The wounded cyborg spotted his anti-tank weapon, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out his plan. He sprinted towards him, crossing the distance in seconds. Jim rolled out of the way, flipping the safety so he didn’t reflexively blow himself to pieces.
The cyborg slid to a stop a few feet away, and Jim got his first decent look at him. He was wearing Crye Precision pants, and he’d probably had a matching top, but it had been vaporized by the pressure wave. What flesh he could see was burnt, torn, and cauterized, exposing the cybernetic components underneath. The metal covering the left side of his jaw and skull was exposed, revealing a gleaming red optic.
Jim dove to his side as a metal foot came down where his head had been. To his chagrin, he’d ended up with the cyborg between him and Sally Ride, putting civilians beyond his target. Card said these had micromotors. Maybe it’s time to see how strong they are. He slid the Carl-Gustaf away from him as the cyborg charged again.
This time, he dug deep, sinking his hips and entering a fighting stance. He let the cyborg follow through with his punch, side-stepping and seizing the man’s arm. Pivoting across his waist, he sent the cyborg sprawling with his own momentum.
The cyborg recovered quickly, twisting his limbs at odd angles and righting himself before springing at Jim. Blows rained down on him, beating the air from his lungs as the STF plates went rigid and dispersed the impact.
Jim swung at the cyborg’s head, the impact making the STF inserts in his arms go rigid, but the micromotors enhanced his strength enough that the cyborg’s head rocked. The machine-man grasped at his left arm and began to push it back into Jim’s face. He put up some stiff resistance, and the cyborg was clearly straining to shift him, but his suit was telling him the micromotors in his arm risked damage if they maintained their current output. Slipping his free hand to his pistol holster, he drew the issue M17 and shoved it into the fleshy underside of the cyborg’s head. He squeezed the trigger twice, and the rounds ricocheted off a plate in the roof of the man’s mouth, but the hollow points shattered his jaw on the right side.
The cyborg backed away, grasping at his mouth where it partially hung from his face. For the first time since he’d been dealing with the cyborgs, Jim saw a bit of humanity in one of them, although it took irreversible damage to the man’s body to remind him of his own mortality.
And it gave Jim the opening he needed. Seizing the Carl-Gustaf from its spot on the ground, he rolled away from the cyborg and came up in a kneeling position. The cyborg still grasped stupidly at his ruined mouth in the iron sights as Jim pulled the trigger.
The cyborg’s torso vanished in a cloud of debris.
Damn it. What happened to these people? What drives them to become this? McAllister and Mamonov had more or less always been the monsters they were—he could have figured that from their records—but how many cyborgs did the LG have? There couldn’t have been enough psychopaths to fill out a company. Could there?
“Hey Jim, link up with Huey and Dewey—they just trashcanned another tin man and need some help clearing their sector of hostiles,” Oliver said. “T-trucks are backing off, but drone recon’s got more vics in the town. The last of the shuttles are departing now. Ground Control is rushing to get some of these spaceliners ready as fast as possible.”
“Any more cyborg sightings?” Jim asked.
“Outside the two you know of, one more, and he’s down too,” Oliver confirmed.
A screaming peal tore overhead, and Jim looked up to see the last Mustang enter a fatal spin after taking a missile that would have landed inside the perimeter. Somehow the pilot managed to level off and punch out.
“Change of mission,” Jim muttered. “I’m going to try and recover the pilot if he’s still alive.”
“Got it,” Oliver said. “We can kite you over there. I’m redirecting Cai and Les that way as well.”
Jim hesitated as he recovered a rifle from a fallen soldier.
“Did you call them Huey and Dewey earlier? Like the ducks?” he asked.
“Yeah? Rami would be Louie, but he’s out of commission right now,” Oliver replied.
Jim chuckled and shook his head. Checking the magazine in his rifle, he ran at a brisk pace. The micromotors in the suit’s legs made him feel like he was running on an elliptical, and he raced across the field much faster and more easily than he would have otherwise.
