Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars Book 5) Page 31

  Longinus looked back, his face defiant. Whatever his former friend had become, Barron knew Hirtius Longinus had never been a coward.

  Vennius extended his arm, his hand gripped tightly on the pistol. He knew what he had to do, understood how Longinus had betrayed him…but fifty years of friendship welled up from the recesses of his mind, mixing with images of Calavius. He could handle battle, strife, pain…but not much more treachery from those close to him. Cynicism was his armor, but even that had a limit. He was a man who valued loyalty about all else, and staring into the hate filled eyes of one who had been as a brother to him pushed him near his limit.

  His finger tightened, defying every doubt, every pang of rage and sorrow inside. He felt the kick as the gun fired, the spray of blood, spattering over the two closest guards, and on him too…even as Hirtius Longinus fell to the deck with a sickening thud.

  Vennius looked down, the pistol dropping to his side, at the motionless form of his officer, his friend, lying on his back, open eyes staring at him in one last accusatory gaze.

  He looked for a long while, silent. The troopers standing around him were still, not saying a word. Vennius knew he was a dinosaur, a creature of a past that was gone. You damned old fool, still living in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. That probably never existed…

  He wondered how many old friends had harbored resentments and anger when he recalled only comradeship. He was tired, and he felt cold, alone. But still, duty called.

  “Take him away…throw the body out of the airlock.” A traitor deserved no ceremony.

  “Yes, sir,” the captain replied, just as Bellator’s klaxon’s sounded.

  The battle had begun.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  CFS Dauntless

  Approaching Planet Palatia

  Astara System

  Year 62 (311 AC)

  “Commodore, perhaps we should conduct a higher-intensity bombardment. Enough to be sure we’ve taken out any military forces that could respond in the short term to our operations.” Captain Eaton’s voice was crisp in Barron’s ear, firm, but he could also tell she was at least somewhat uncomfortable with what she was suggesting. Barron had created a short list of key ground installations to be targeted, for the most part, the ones that could shoot down the Confed landers. There was no shortage of other potential targets, though each one added to the list also increased the likely numbers of civilian casualties and collateral damage.

  “No, Captain, we’re not going to do that.” He caught himself before the words came out too hard, too accusatory. He suspected Eaton was the most conservative of his captains, that the rest of them wanted to unleash hell so the Marines could land in the middle of flattened target zones, without a live enemy in sight. He like the idea of reducing the losses of his ground troops as much as anyone, but he wasn’t about to flatten an ally’s capital city to do it.

  And, despite the current Red control, that was exactly what Victorum was, the capital of the Alliance, both Red and Gray, the home to millions of Palatian Citizens. He knew the vast majority of people on the ground were there by the vagaries of geography and politics, and not by passionate commitment to Calavius and his Union backers. Killing them, blasting their streets and buildings to rubble, would only increase the animosity. He needed to destroy the Red upper echelons, but he had to turn the rest of the warriors down there into future allies…which would be a lot easier if he didn’t blast them to cinders.

  “I want all of you to remember, this is not an enemy planet we’re attacking. We have to look at it more as we would a hostage situation. We must go down, gain control, and hold for as long as we need to…and we need to do it without blasting the place back to the stone age.”

  Barron couldn’t even imagine the mood on the ground. The Palatians down there, unopposed conquerors for three generations, coming to terms with the fact that their orbital defenses had been destroyed, that an invading fleet was in complete control of the space above the planet. Some cultures would surrender, but he knew the Palatians would never behave that way. They would fight.

  “But, sir, we just don’t have the forces to land in the teeth of heavy resistance and take and hold even the most vital of our objectives.”

  It was Captain Fitzsimmons who’d responded first, but Barron knew he spoke for all the others…and he was right, at least to a point.

  “I understand the difficulties, Captain, but we’re just going to have to do the best we can.”

  “Your officers are correct, Commodore.” It was Tulus. Barron had included the Alliance officer in the comm line for the conference.

  “Commander Tulus, those are your people down there. We can’t just blast them to bits.” Barron paused, not particularly liking the extent to which his empathy was coming from the goal of securing Palatian allies against the Union, and not from basic decency. “They will never be able to be allies with us if we do this.”

  “My ships will attack, Commodore. It will be Alliance forces against Alliance forces.”

  “I appreciate the distinction, Commander, but you don’t have the strength to take on every ground defense installation on Palatia, or even just those around Victorum.” Tulus’s ships had endured a vicious fight against the Red vessels. All three battleships had survived, mostly because Barron’s ships had finished off the orbital stations and intervened toward the end of the fight, but a trio of battered warships was simply not enough to make a difference, at least not without indiscriminate nuclear carpet bombing, which Barron wouldn’t allow even if Tulus were willing to do it.

  “My ships will target the main anti-assault batteries around the capital. There will be collateral damage, but it will be relatively controlled. Once those defenses are neutralized, we can launch fighter squadrons to attack ground targets with far greater precision that we could achieve with ship-based batteries.” Tulus paused. “I believe your Lightnings can be adapted to use in atmosphere, just like our Palatines.”

  “Yes, they can.” But none of my pilots have likely practiced atmospheric operations since their Academy days…

  “That could work.” It was Eaton again, a new enthusiasm in her tone. “Our squadrons took out all the defensive fighter squadrons before we reached orbit. Am I correct, Commander Tulus, that most of the planet’s wings were based in orbit?”

  “Yes, Captain Eaton, that is correct. There could be isolated ground-based squadrons, but not many. We’d need to keep a few wings on patrol, but most of our forces would be free to focus on vital targets.”

  Barron could feel the situation slipping out of his grasp. He was hesitant to send his pilots on a mission he knew they were ill-prepared for, but he quickly realized there wasn’t a choice. Unless he could soften up the ground forces for Rogan and his people, the ground invasion would be a massacre.

  “Very well,” he said, trying to sound less edgy than he felt. “But we’ve got to do it quickly. We have no idea what is happening at Sentinel-2, or how long it might be before fresh Red fleet units return…and we’ll need our squadrons ready and on alert when that happens.” A pause. “All captains, prepare your fighters for atmospheric operations. I want two squadrons per ship held back in reserve. You’ll have to drive your flight crews hard, because we launch in one hour.”

  Barron knew the timetable was a tight one, but he was pretty sure all of his ships could hit it with enough effort. And he wasn’t about to bet against Vian Tulus driving his own people to match that performance.

  “Commander Travis, I want attack plans ready with squadrons assigned to specific target lists. And I want mixed formations on this, with both Confederation and Alliance fighters assigned to each operational area. Wherever a Palatian is getting shot, I want there to be Alliance warriors there alongside our people.”

  “Understood, sir.” An instant later. “All captains will have operational plans within thirty minutes.”

  “All squadrons will be ready to launch in sixty minutes. And no screw-ups. Your flight crews a
re going to be rusty with atmospheric mods…I know they’ll be rushing, but they have to get it right too. I’ll skin anybody who messes up and gets a pilot killed through carelessness. Is that clear?”

  Barron didn’t wait for responses. He didn’t need any. He’d made his point.

  * * *

  “All right, I want everybody to be careful. It’s been a long time since most of you flew in an atmosphere, and you can get yourselves killed half a dozen ways if you’re not focused. You’ve got gravity to worry about, and when we get a little lower into the atmosphere, you’re going to be dealing with a lot of air drag. If you blast your turbos too hard, you can incinerate yourself damned fast, so forget all that hotshot stuff you pull in space.” Take your own counsel on that one, Raptor. “Oh yeah, and three dimensions only go so far…there’s solid ground down there too, and you’re not going to like it much if you slam into it.”

  “Roger that, Raptor.”

  “We’re good to go, sir.”

  Stockton listened to the wave of acknowledgements. His people were veterans—mostly, at least. Casualties like those Dauntless had taken over the last few years meant there were always a few replacements floating around. He just didn’t want them to get cocky, to let their confidence morph from strength into something harmful. He knew all about that, better perhaps than anyone. But his own belief in his invincibility, battered when he’d almost died crashing into Dauntless’s landing bay, was gone. He’d always known he could be overwhelmed by numbers, killed by mechanical failure or damage to his ship. But he’d never really believed his match was out there, a pilot who could take him one on one. Not until now.

  “Let’s go…and keep those insertion angles in line with mission parameters. No pushing it like in space, because here you’ll just burn yourself to slag.”

  Stockton eased his throttle down, watching as the glowing blue of Palatia grew in front of his eyes. He’d had the standard Academy training in atmospheric flying, but since then he’d only flown a few atmospheric missions, and none of them that promised to be as vital and difficult as this one. He didn’t expect much in the way of ground-based air defenses. According to Commander Tulus, almost all the Alliance squadrons had been based on the orbital forts. Most of the dedicated atmospheric craft were transport planes and the like. Since the Palatians had expelled their oppressors sixty years before, the thought of fighting again on their home world had become anathema to them, and their productive resources had been directed into their massive fleet and space-based squadrons.

  That didn’t mean there were no defenses. Tulus had laid out a detailed list, along with maps and notes. Stockton had reviewed it as much as he could in the twenty minutes or so he’d had, but the bottom line was, his people would be dodging missile launchers and rocket batteries all around the capital.

  His fighter shook hard, skipping on the upper atmosphere. It was a rough ride, the feeling completely different from that in space. He cut his thrusters, dropping back to one-tenth power, as he angled around into a bank of high-altitude clouds. He had to keep reminding himself he was in atmosphere, that his velocity would decline rapidly when he eased off the thrust. A quick glance at the ragged formation, a wild cluster of dots where his ordered and crisp squadrons should be, told him all his pilots were struggling with the change.

  His eyes flashed to the screen, where an altimeter readout had appeared next to his coordinates. He was coming down quickly. He checked the temperature readings. The skin of his ship was hot, over eight hundred degrees, but nowhere near critical yet. He took a deep breath and fired his thrusters again, and a few seconds later he popped out of the cloud cover, looking down over a wide valley, and behind the far range of hills, a coastline, with a mass of distant lights. Victorum.

  “We’re beginning final approach. All squadrons…you know your targets. We shouldn’t hit much in the way of resistance until we’re about ten kilometers out, but I want all of you keeping your eyes open. You’re going to have a harder time dodging incoming missiles in atmosphere, so you’ve got to pick them off right away.”

  He angled his controls again, changing his course to a direct approach. Blue squadron had the most important target, the fortifications right around the military HQ, and he was with them. “Optio Tillus, would you care to lead us in?” Tillus was a wing leader, and the commander of the three Alliance fighters attached to Blue squadron. Stockton wasn’t sure how much good it would do in the end. People getting blasted on the ground were unlikely to notice whose ships were firing. Still, Barron’s orders were clear. Alliance personnel were to take the lead in all attacks.

  “Yes, Commander. Commencing final run…now.”

  The three Palatine craft blasted their thrusters hard— at least, hard by atmospheric standards—and they shot to the head of the formation. “Let’s go Blues, follow them in.” Stockton fired his own engines, his fighter lurching forward after the three Alliance craft.

  The lights of Victorum grew closer, rapidly approaching as the fighters streaked in low, barely clearing the last range of hills before the coast. Tulus had recommended the tactic as the best way to undermine the defensive tracking systems, but in spite of the ground-hugging flight in, Stockton could hear his alarm systems going off. Missiles were coming in from the outskirts of the city. Only a few at first, but then dozens moved up, perhaps a hundred or more in total.

  “Incoming,” Stockton snapped as he angled his throttle, bringing in his ship into a sharp dive to the right. He only held it for a few seconds, the ground racing up at him, as he pulled back and reversed into a sharp climb. He looked across the display, at the fighters from Dauntless and the other ships. He was going to lose people here. His fighters were crammed together, mere dozens of meters apart, as opposed to the great distances common in space combat. The clustering of the approaching fighters made the missiles’ work easier, and Stockton was watching as his first ship went down. It was Righetti, a replacement in Yellow squadron, and he was followed quickly by another. Then two more. All across the line, the attacking fighters were slicing right across the frontage of the missile attack…and paying the price.

  Stockton hated the losses, whether they were his own, or more distant comrades from the other Confederation ships. Or even the Alliance pilots. He watched as one of his three attached Palatines was blown into two sections by a missile, each of them crashing in its own fireball a few seconds later.

  The cost was high, but perhaps not as bad as he’d feared. The defensive fire was heavy, but it was confused, disordered. Stockton knew those ground installations had sat idle for more than half a century, and he suspected the third line troops deployed to man them had never expected to see action.

  “All right, we should be through the frontline missiles, but watch out. Commander Tulus says there are short-ranged rockets deployed around the key installations. Stay sharp, let’s take out the targets we’re here for, and then let’s get the hell out in one piece.”

  Stockton flipped on the targeting computer, bringing up the designated ground installations. The city was just ahead now, but the vast sea of lights was gone, blacked out against the coming attack. There was a faint glow of moon and star light, but Stockton and his people would rely on their scanners, as they did in space. That was just as well. Half his targets were weapons systems, scanning towers, depots, communication nexuses…but the others were barracks and fortified infantry positions. Stockton knew he had to clear those away, slice through the fixed defenses if Rogan’s Marines were going to have any chance at all, but he’d just as soon be covered by darkness as he blasted hundreds of soldiers to charred crisps.

  “Arm missiles…prepare to engage against primary targets.” Stockton flipped the series of switches on his panel, arming the weapons. The missiles were primarily designed for ship to ship action, so he’d had his people hold them to the last moment. The closer in the launch, the likelier the birds would all hit home.

  His eyes were fixed on the targets he’d chosen for himse
lf, a cluster of scanning dishes tied right into the high command’s headquarters. If Tulus was correct, the destruction of those dishes would go a long way toward crippling planet-wide command and control. And since the rest of his fighters were slamming all the backup systems, with any luck, any defending officers who survived would have immense difficulty in calling in reinforcements…or directing whatever remained of their deployed formations.

  He squeezed his finger, firing the first missile, and a few seconds later, he sent the second one on his way. The weapons streaked across the sky, burning fuel at three or four times the rate they did in space. But it didn’t matter. They’d either hit or miss in the next fifteen seconds.

  Even as he watched the scanner, tracking his shots as they went in, he banked around, lining his ship up for its second attack run. The missiles had been locked on fixed facilities, but the rest of the raid would be a series of strafing runs, using his quad lasers to blast every defensive position, every bunker, every place Red troops could be hunkered down waiting for Rogan and his people.

  The thought of smoking corpses, lying in great heaps, roasted at knife range by lasers powerful enough to send great beams thousands of kilometers in space, sickened him. But he’d been sent there to do a job, and he was damned sure going to do it. He owed that to Commodore Barron, if not to the Marines who would be coming down any moment.

  And he owed it to Kyle Jamison, who would have been in his place if…

  Stockton struggled to hold his focus, to push aside the thoughts of his friend…and of the match up that still awaited him. He had no doubt the Red fleet would be back, that they would return to retake Palatia. And when they did, Stockton knew what he had to do.