Читать книгу The Complete Inheritance Trilogy: Star Strike, Galactic Corps, Semper Human - Ian Douglas, Matthew Taylor - Страница 59

“Fifty newdollars,” Gunnery Sergeant Charel Ramsey said over the squad com channel, “that the whole thing is called off and we get told to stand down.”

“There speaks the voice of experience,” Master Sergeant Paul Barrett said. “Didn’t you make the same bet on the way in to Alighan?”

“Well, hey. Cut me some slack, okay? I’m bound to hit it right someday.”

“You wish,” Corporal Takamura put in.

Still packed into his SAP, Garroway listened to the banter among the waiting Marines, and wondered if the old hands in his new platoon were as confident, as relaxed as they seemed. He certainly wasn’t able to hear any stress in their voices.

But then, perhaps they had more experience in masking it.

Shit. Did Marines ever admit that they were terrified? …

“Uh-oh,” Ramsey said. “Take a look at the tacsit feed. There’s something—”

A second before, the space around the squadron had been empty of all but Commonwealth ships. Now, though, something like a ripple spread across the electronic representation of the background starfield … and then the PanEuropean ships were there, in the Commonwealth squadron’s midst.

There were six of them. Alphanumerics appearing alongside each red icon identified them by name, class, and tonnage. Largest was the monitor Rommel, an 81,000-ton weapons platform mounting multiple plasma cannon banks, high-energy lasers, three massive turret-mounted antimatter accelerators, and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of missiles with high-yield nuclear warheads. A trio of frigates and two destroyers followed, minnows to the monitor’s shark.

Garroway stared into the feed for a moment, confused. The tacsit download now showed those six vessels in two places at once—here at AP Yankee, and still in orbit around the gas giant.

Then realization hit him. Of course. The gas giant was thirty light-minutes distant; the six PE warships had outpaced the radiations they’d been emitting in orbit, using their Alcubierre Drives to cross thirty light-minutes in an instant. As he watched, Samar’s AI updated the tacsit, erasing the obsolete data.

“Are we going to launch?” Sergeant Chu demanded. “When the hell are we going to launch?”

“Take it easy, Chu-chu,” Barrett said. “I don’t think any of us want to go out into that.”

The master sergeant indicated the tacsit feed, which now showed a confused tangle of ships as the two fleets engaged. Though spread across almost 200,000 kilometers, the view compressed battlespace to a small globe filled with moving ships, the rigidly straight lancings of plasma and laser fire, the arcing trajectories of missiles. In particular, the Commonwealth Marine fighters were plunging into the heart of battlespace under high acceleration. At the instant the PE ships had materialized, the carefully drawn globe of Marine aerospace fighters had dissolved like a swarming cloud of insects, sweeping out, around, and in toward the intruding vessels.

Each F/A-4140 massed 94 tons, most of that divided between its powerful Consolidated Aerospace KV-1050 plasma drive and the Solenergia ZPE quantum power transfer unit. Two Marines, a pilot and a weapons operator, were squeezed into a tiny dual cockpit forward. The Stardragon mounted a variety of weapons, interchangeable depending on the mission profile, but its primary was its spinal mount, running forward all the way from the aft thrusters to become the distinctive needle-slim lance extending for 10 meters beyond the nose.

That lance was a plasma accelerator capable of hurling tiny masses of fusing hydrogen at near-c velocities, inertia-shielded to bleed off the incredible recoil energies that otherwise would have torn the fighter to shreds. Range was limited to about 120,000 kilometers—less than half a light-second—but the combination of fusion temperatures and high-velocity kinetic impact could be turned against almost any target with devastating effect.

In terms of both tonnage and firepower, however, the PanEuropeans held the advantage. Both Samar and the Lejeune, while sizeable vessels, possessed only relatively lightweight armament—primarily point-defense lasers to engage incoming missiles or enemy fighters. Thor and Morrigan were more heavily armed, but they were two against six, and the enemy monitor was a behemoth, slow-moving and clumsy, but possessing a devastating long-range punch in its trio of turret-mounted antimatter accelerators.

The one advantage held by the Commonwealth lay in the sixteen Stardragons of VMA-980. The fighter squadron already was beginning to live up to their nickname, the Sharpshooters, a proud name born by other Marine aviation squadrons across the centuries. As soon as each fighter was aligned with a PE target, its on-board AI, closely linked with the Weapons Officer’s mind, calculated range and speed, adjusting the spacecraft’s attitude to permit interception shots across a range of almost 100,000 kilometers. Like miniature suns, packets of fast-expanding fusing hydrogen snapped across the void, penetrating magnetic shielding, slicing through hull composites, liberating flashes of starcore fury with each strike. The outer hull of the immense Rommel seemed to sparkle with the impacts.

The Rommel was clearly the key to the battle, the equivalent of the proverbial high ground in a conventional surface battle. The Commonwealth destroyers and Lejeune’s fighter squadrons could deal with the enemy frigates and destroyers easily enough … if the PanEuropean monitor could be neutralized. And if not, the monitor’s heavy weaponry would make short work of all of the Commonwealth vessels.

From the PanEuropean perspective, it was vital to knock out the two Commonwealth destroyers quickly, before they could combine their considerable firepower and cripple the monitor. Neither Lejeune nor Samar possessed heavy weapons—they were transports, after all, the first of Marine aerospace fighters, the second of Marines, and while they mounted considerable point-defense capabilities and some high-energy lasers for ship-to-ship actions, they lacked the more devastating firepower of antimatter accelerators or large plasma cannon.

Admiral Edan Mitchell was in command of the Commonwealth fleet, operating from his combat command center on board the Lejeune. He would be linked in to the battlenet now, Garroway thought, directing the Commonwealth fleet to focus its full attention on the enemy monitor. Already, fighters were issuing from the Lejeune’s ventral launch bays, accelerating at high-G toward the PanEuropean behemoth. Clouds of tiny, robotic probes were already scattering throughout the battlespace, each providing a steady feed of visual and electronic data for the Commonwealth C³, allowing the battle analyses staff to build up a coherent picture of the action.

On board the Samar, the waiting Marines could only watch the battle unfold around them, watch … and wonder if they would get to take part in the battle, or if a direct hit on Samar was about to end their careers in a single, sun-brilliant flash. Once, a plasma bolt struck Samar’s hull with a savage, burning snap and an explosion of vapor into empty space, and the transport had rolled slightly, staggered by the shock. There were no casualties; armor and an AI-controlled point-defense gun turret had been all that had been hit.

But the jolt had driven home the overwhelming sense of helplessness Garroway and the other Marines were experiencing right now. And it had led him to rather forcibly remember one of the battle simulations he and the other recruits of his training platoon had experienced at Noctis Labyrinthus, after their naked time, after they’d received their Corp implants.

The historical battle had been at a place called Tarawa, in Earth’s Pacific Ocean back in the late pre-spaceflight era. In that action, the U.S. 2nd Marine Division, with elements of the Army’s 27th Infantry Division, had made an amphibious assault against a tiny tropical coral atoll defended by 4,500 Japanese under the command of Rear Admiral Shibasaki Keiji.

Tarawa, according to the download data, had been a royal cluster fuck, an operation that had come that close to being an utter and complete military disaster. The preliminary bombardment had transformed the atoll into a fire-blasted landscape reminiscent of the cratered surface of the Moon, but had utterly failed to touch the defenders, dug in to a well-protected labyrinth of trenches, log forts, and five hundred concrete bunkers. Worse, much worse, the first Marine waves had gone in late, and the tides had been unexpectedly low, so the incoming landing craft had gotten hung up on the coral reef 500 yards offshore. The first waves of Marines had been forced to swim and wade ashore across a fire-swept lagoon, ideal targets for the Japanese mortars and machineguns.

A few amphibious tractors—amtracks—had made it over the reef and across the lagoon, then begun shuttling back and forth between the beach and the reef, carrying stranded Marines ashore, but the Japanese fire had been accurate and heavy. Within a few hours, half of the available amtracks had been knocked out.

For the Marines huddled in those vehicles, the crossing must have been hell. All the men could do was wait … crowded together, helpless, wondering if the next incoming round would be the one to score a hit on their wallowing vehicle.

Garroway had been there, standing on the reef next to a blazing landing craft, then on board an amtrack churning its way across the lagoon as mortar shells sent geysers of spray skyward on all sides. He’d charged bunkers with handfuls of Marines, had watched the battle slowly, slowly shift in the attackers’ favor, but only after three days of savage fighting, three days collapsed into several long hours by the simulation feed at Noctis Labyrinthus.

Not until now, however, had Garroway truly felt one with those long-ago, long-dead Marine brothers.

“Listen up, Marines,” Lieutenant Jones’ voice called over the command channel. “We have orders. Stand by to launch!”

“Shit,” Ramsey said. “This is it!”

“All you newbies,” Master Sergeant Barrett said. “Your trajectories will be AI controlled. When you get on board the target, just stay close and watch your feeds. Just like your training sims.”

“Yeah,” Ramsey added. “And thank the Marine-green gods of battle you’re not going up against the Xul first time out of the gate!”

“Let’s kill the bastards!” Barrett added.

“Ooh-rah!” chorused from the ranks of waiting Marines.

Garroway watched the data feed coming through. Samar was rotating to bring her SAP launch tubes to bear on the Rommel, now 12,000 kilometers off and hammering away at both the Morrigan and Thor. Garroway watched the numbers of the countdown flicker toward zero, bracing himself … and then his SAP slammed into the void under nearly twenty gravities of acceleration.

With inertial dampers on and his suit cushioned within the narrow constraints of the pod by a thick, almost gelatinous liquid, he felt only a few of those twenty Gs, but they were enough to crush the breath from his lungs and blur his vision. When it cleared, when he could focus again on his link feed, he could see Samar receding rapidly astern, against a sky lit by intense but utterly silent flashes of light. SAPs were too small to mount the heavy generators necessary for phase-shifting, so each pod was fully visible to the enemy’s fire-control radar and lidar systems. This visibility was offset somewhat by the pods’ absorptive and energy-scattering outer layers, and the pods were maneuverable enough to give any fire-control AI severe headaches as it tried to predict the myriad incoming vectors … but the enemy was tracking the Marine assault wave almost from the instant it emerged from Samar’s armored belly.

Point-defense lasers snapped out, crisscrossing the gulf between the Rommel and Samar. Those beams of intense, coherent energy were invisible in hard vacuum, but the AI governing the tactical feed was painting them in, presumably to reassure the Marines on the grounds that a beam you could see had already missed you.

Somehow, Garroway didn’t feel particularly reassured. It seemed as though the entire sky ahead had lit up with flashing, snapping threads of red light, that they were weaving a web of fire so thick and complex that the incoming assault pods couldn’t possibly avoid them all.

Then a brilliant, eye-twisting sun erupted over Rommel’s aft hull as a small fusion warhead went off. Morrigan and Thor both were firing everything they had at the monitor, including nuke-tipped missiles, trying to buy precious time for the Marine assault. The superheated plasma and EMP from the blast would provide the SAPs with a bit of cover, at least for a few seconds.

But the plasma cloud dissipated all too swiftly, and Rommel’s own point-defenses were simply too effective to allow more missiles to reach her. Abruptly, shockingly, PFC Dulaney’s pod was speared by a point-defense beam, a direct hit that vaporized half of the capsule, and sent fragments hurtling outward from within an expanding cloud of hot gas. An instant later, Sergeant Mendoza’s pod was hit, a glancing, slicing strike that sheared away part of the hull, and left the remnant tumbling helplessly through the void.

One by one, the enemy fire-control systems locked onto incoming pods. One by one, the pods were being slashed from the sky. There’d been forty SAPs in the first wave. Halfway across the gulf there were thirty-four left … then thirty-two. Garroway felt panic rising; none of them were going to make it across!

All he could do was hang there in space, a naked and helpless target.