Armored Tears (23 page)

The
battalion had mapped out multiple lines of fallback firing positions, besides
the "parallel" firing positions that they'd been dodging between so
far, and now it was time to trade ground for time, she thought.

The
War-Hammer lurched into motion, backing up at over 50 kph as Tara desperately
scanned for a target through the smoke.

The
thermal signature of a T-66 briefly stood out from the billowing chaos of the
smoke.

"Gunner,
target tank! Acquire and engage!" Tara shouted.
     

A
second later the forty-one spoke, hammering out a burst, but the T-66 evaded,
fading into a bank of its own concealing smoke. 41 megajoule shots tore into
the ground where the enemy tank had been.

A
burst of 44 megajoule fire streaked out of the smoke, back at them. A round
glanced off the left side of the turret with a sound like a sledge-hammer on a
steel drum. The shock snapped Tara's head into the back of her seat, only her
helmet saving her from a concussion or worse.

For
an endlessly long second, she could almost see the white flash, almost feel the
sudden, searing pain. She could feel, with sudden, exquisite exactness, just
where the stumps of her legs ended and her prosthetics began. What was it going
to cost her this time, she thought. All of it in a second.

"Get
the gun on him!" she shouted, banishing the thoughts. "Engage!"

Before
the gunner could comply, another Arcadian tank —the same one from
Feldman's platoon she had seen make a kill earlier— raked the T-66 with a
four round burst, penetrating twice. The UEN tank's turret was blown into the
air by an explosion that scattered fragments of burning debris for fifty meters
in all directions, briefly leaving a flower-like pattern of smoke trails.

Most
of the Arcadian tanks had reached their first fallback positions now, and
reemerged to fire on the still-advancing UEN tanks. Range was down to about two
kilometers, and shots crossed the space between gun and target in scarcely more
than a second.

"Bring
us into firing position," Tara ordered the driver, spotting, through the
sensors of one of the few remaining drones, the flash of an enemy's main gun in
the pervasive dust and smoke.

The
War-Hammer pulled forward from the cover it had just reached.

"Gunner,
acquire and engage!"

"Engaging!"
the gunner shouted, and the 41 megajoule gun spoke again.

The
enemy tank was less than two kilometers away, its own cannon pointed at a
different target. A four round burst streaked out, all four rounds hitting. Two
glanced, one shattered a track pod, and one punched into the armor of the UEN
tank's bow, next to the other forward track pod. The T-66 slammed to a halt
with jarring force. Slowly its turret began to traverse.

"Gunner!
Hit it again!" Tara shouted.

The
forty-one thundered a second time and the UEN tank flashed with the violence of
hypervelocity shots hitting armor, fragments of shattered projectiles and
shattered armor spattering in the dust for dozens of meters around the tank. The
UEN tank's turret continued to traverse, though.

A
second later, another tank, the #3 from her own platoon, Sergeant Hall's tank, fired
a short burst, hitting the stationary UEN tank again. 41 megajoule rounds
glanced off in showering cascades of sparks, tearing away external equipment.
Before Corporal Shalik, her own gunner, could fire again, all three turret crew
ejected from the stricken T-66.
      

"They're
pulling back!" came a shouted call from Younger. "We've got them on
the run!"

"Continue
engagement!" Tara ordered.

The
same War-Hammer from Feldman's platoon darted forward out of cover a third
time, pumped out a three-round burst angled into the side armor of a UEN tank that
left it stopped and venting fire from its crew hatches, and then pulled back
into cover before return fire could strike it.

"Damn
good, whoever that is," Tara said to herself. She'd have to find out which
tank commander that was. He or she was
damn
good.

The
retreating UEN tanks kept firing. A round slammed into the turret of a
War-Hammer from her own platoon, thankfully glancing off the armor, leaving
nothing worse than one smashed auto-smartgun and a briefly glowing gouge across
the tank's turret face.

Feldman's
ace tank commander pulled forward again to fire. The War-Hammer's burst caught
a UEN tank across both forward track pods, bringing it to a dead stop, but not
preventing it from shooting back. Two other T-66s added their fire, so that
three 44 megajoule bursts converged on the overly-aggressive War-Hammer. Half a
dozen rounds hit before the War-Hammer could reverse. Three or four penetrated,
reducing the War-Hammer to a burning wreck —spewing white-hot fire from
its gun-tube, its crew hatches and its exhaust vents— in less than a
second.

"Shit!"
Tara cursed. Whoever it was had
been
damn good, anyway.

"Gunner,
engage that pisser tank!" she ordered, setting the acquisition marker on
the immobilized T-66.

"Engaging,"
the gunner replied, carefully picking his point of aim and sending a burst of
41 megajoule fire into the stationary T-66. Fire and a single survival pod shot
out of the wreck.

Another
few salvos of fire flashed back and forth across the open space between the
battalion and the retreating UEN tanks, but by now the pissers were sending out
constant salvos of concealment grenades and evading so much they could barely
shoot back. As the range opened back up, targeting became less and less
effective.

Tara
selected a fleeting target in the dust and smoke, ordered her gunner to fire
again, but saw no evidence of a hit. Another War-Hammer was hit in the frontal
armor, but the armor held. And then the engagement was over.

"We
held them," Tara said, mostly to herself. "We stopped them."

"OK,
people," Tara sent on the all-units battalion push. "Damn good work!
We just smashed a whole UEN armored battalion's balls in. Now let's get back
into our firing positions. Damaged tanks back off into the rear positions. Any
intact tank who had to fall back, drive back forward. And sound off. Who's
still with us?"

There
were twenty functional tanks left in the battalion, if she counted the one that
was likely to be repaired and ready within the next few hours. Twenty tanks,
out of thirty-one she's started with this morning. Twenty.

It
made very little difference that a total of twenty-four knocked-out or burning
enemy tanks littered the ground in front of her position; most of them marked
with pillars of black smoke rising into a cloudless sky, scattered out over
half a dozen kilometers across which the battle had raged.

In
exchange she'd lost eleven tanks, and over thirty five men and women of her
battalion. An entire company worth of tanks lost. Everywhere she looked there
were burning tanks, hers and theirs, sending up wind-blown columns of smoke; a
nightmare forest of black tendrils against the brownish red of the desert.

She
felt exhausted, looking across the battlefield; tired on a level that went
beyond fatigue or sleepiness. It would be a while yet, Tara thought, before
there could be any rest.

"How
many have you got left, Feldman?" she asked as the major came over to
report in person; at times like this, both officers knew, meeting face to face
was worth the extra effort of walking.

"I've
got seven left, Tara," he said, looking, if anything, more weary than she
felt.

Tara
blinked. She could count the number of times Feldman had used her first name on
her hands.

"Your
company did good, Feldman," she said. "They gave a lot better than
they got."

Feldman
blew out a breath. "Yeah," he said. "They did. Three of the
seven are damaged, but all of them can still fight. Ammo is getting low,
though. Down below 50%, for a few of them."

"Younger,"
Tara said, turning to the huge captain as he came over and joined them,
"how about your boys and girls?"

"I
lost three, Boss," he said, and for just a second Tara could hear a hint
of anguish in his voice. But then his voice was calm and controlled again as he
went on. "One of those might be repairable, but no time soon. I've got two
more damaged but still in it. That gives me eight tanks; two platoons worth.
And since Lieutenant Wasserman got himself sprayed across a couple hundred
meters of terrain, I figure I might as well split up what's left of his platoon
and fill out mine and Lieutenant Wing's."

"OK,
Younger. It's your company. Do what you think best," Tara said. "And
tell 'em all 'good work.' The managed their part well. The whole battalion did
well. If I'd twigged to the missiles a few seconds sooner, we wouldn't have the
sorts of losses we do."

"Bullshit,
Colonel," Feldman said. "Pure bullshit. You're good. You're not
clairvoyant. Salvoing missiles over their own formation was a good move for the
pissers, and it cost us. That's all. Sometimes the enemy makes a good move.

"We
killed better than two to one, and that was with
your
plan, Colonel. And I didn't notice your tank holding back,
either. So spare me the bullshit guilt."

"Well,"
Tara said, blinking "Insubordination, profanity and emotion, all in a
single breath, Feldman. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"Yeah,"
Feldman said bitterly. "Hope. You know that tank in my platoon? The one
that took out four of the enemy?"
         

"Yeah,"
Tara said. "I saw that. He was good, whoever he was. Or she?"

"He.
It was my sensors operator, Corporal Velazquez. Hernan Velazquez. I put him in
charge of #2 tank in my platoon. I guess he was a natural."

"Yeah,"
Tara agreed.

"A
shoe-in for Officer's School... if he'd made it," Feldman said.

"Yeah,"
Tara agreed. "A good one. I'm sorry."

Feldman
said nothing.

30.

The
mood around the table was getting critical, General Stirling thought. Arcadian
forces were holding the UEN forces inside the perimeter, but since the
perimeter was centered on the gate dome, that only meant that it was a matter
of time before the UEN managed to get the gate open again and flood through
reinforcements.

It
could have been worse; a push from the UEN to take the gate power and control
facilities had been stopped cold, though Defense Force losses had been heavy.
The UEN's anti-tank missiles had improved in the previous seven years, and
though it seemed that only a single platoon of UEN tanks had been spotted in
the failed attack on the gate control facility, they had been a bad surprise to
the Defense Force troops. If the UEN forces had —or got— more
armor, it would be hard to hold them back.

Two
full Armored Corps tank battalions were on their way to the fight, but it would
be some hours yet before they arrived. Three more reserve battalions were being
mobilized, but that would take at least a day before they could even start to
move out.

For
now, the Arcadian line was being held with several companies of frame infantry,
a single, scattered understrength battalion of tanks, and a lot of troops from
other Corps acting as light infantry.

Both
sides had set up multiple anti-air laser emplacements, and nothing bigger than
a ground-skimming mini-drone could last more than a minute in the air. The
Aerospace Corps had tried to get 'ghosts' into the sky above the enemy
positions, but they'd lost two more of the expensive planes in the attempt.
There were only three more 'ghosts' left in the Aerospace Corps' active
inventory; reserve aircraft were being readied and would be on line in a few
days. No one at the table thought they
had
a few days.

"We
still don't know how the pissers opened the gate for the second time, do
we?" asked General Cooper.

"No,
sir," replied Major Villers, the Technical Corps liaison.

"So
we have no idea if they can do it again, or when? Right?"

"Yes,
sir, that's correct."

"Fan-
fucking
-tastic, Major," Cooper
said, glaring.

"Let's
keep this focused, people," General Stirling interjected. "We know
the UEN forces have deployed new technology. Bickering about it won't help.

"Now,"
Stirling went on, "what about our communications? That's hurting us worse
than anything else."

"Sir,"
said, the Aerospace Corps liaison, Colonel Farber, "we've confirmed that
the satellites are down. All of them. The comm-nav birds and the weather
birds."

Everyone
at the table looked grim. The loss of the communications satellites was a
present disaster, but the loss of the weather satellites had the potential to
be worse, in the long term. Arcadia's agriculture depended on warning to
protect its crops from the rare, mildly toxic rains. The water wasn't poisonous
enough to be dangerous to people caught in a rain storm, but it could destroy
crops, endangering the entire colony's food supply.

On
the other hand, General Stirling thought, it might be overly optimistic to
worry about a long term problem just now.
         

"How?"
he asked. "How did they manage it?"

"Sir,
we're not 100% sure, but we
are
pretty sure," Colonel Farber said.
       

She
was managing to keep her voice icy calm, Stirling noted, which was better than
General Cooper, the Infantry Corps liaison, was managing.

"We
think the UEN transited an OSV... an orbital security vehicle, a combat
spacecraft... through the gate," Farber said. "It was hard to spot it
in orbit; we don't have an extensive array of ground telescopes. But we think
we
have
found it. We think it's
deployed several UEN info-warfare satellites —which would explain the
jamming— and that it's been used to engage our own satellites, as well as
our 'ghosts.' An OSV would mount a very powerful laser array; enough to burn
down a 'ghost' or easily slag a satellite. And looking down from orbit would
give them a substantial positional advantage in terms of sensors placement, as
far as air superiority combat is concerned."

"Is
there anything we can do?" General Stirling asked. "We can't just
cede aerospace superiority to the UEN. Can we take it down with ground-based
lasers?"

"Not
with the anti-air lasers we have. It's too high and too well armored. OSVs are
built to endure high energy laser engagements. They're not as armored as a
tank, say, but a lot more armored than a satellite or a 'ghost.'

"But,"
Farber went on, "we do have an idea. But it's a desperate one."

"I'd
say
everything
is desperate, just
now, Colonel," Stirling replied.

"Damn
straight," echoed Cooper.

"Well,
sir," Farber said, "we think we have a way to shoot down the UEN OSV.
But it will cost us both of our remaining weather satellites. We have two
solid-fuel launchers and two reserve weather birds on hand. In case we had a
malfunction from one or more of our weather birds. We can launch them with not
much more than a few hours’ notice."

"We
need weather satellites!" exclaimed Major Villers. "We could starve
without them."

"We
could all be UEN slaves if we don't take down that OSV," Farber shot back,
her voice suddenly not at all calm. "If we lose the fight for the
gate..."

"Let's
keep it
focused
, people,"
General Stirling snapped, trying to keep his own voice controlled.

"Sir,"
said Farber. "In the case that we manage to win this fight, we can use our
remaining 'ghosts' for high altitude weather patrols. If we lose, what does it
matter if the rains kill our crops?"

"Damn
straight," General Cooper said again.

"What
is this plan, then, Colonel?" Stirling asked.

"Sir,
the UEN OSV is in a very low orbit. About two hundred kilometers high. That's
necessary for them to be able to use their lasers against our 'ghosts,' but
it's too low for safety in an orbital battle."

"As
far as I know, Colonel, there's never
been
an orbital battle, has there?"

"No,
sir," Farber agreed. "But there's been a lot of speculation, and
simulation, and doctrinal debates. And the Aerospace Corps has kept up with the
issue. In a low orbit, there's very little time to deal with something that comes
at you over the horizon. If they were up at a thousand kilometers, this
wouldn't work. We have no orbital weapons per se, but any satellite in orbit
has enormous kinetic energy. At orbital velocities, a fleck of paint has
enormous kinetic energy. And we can use that as a weapon.

"The
plan —and Aerospace Corps is getting it ready right now, in anticipation
of your permission, sir— is to launch the weather birds on a retrograde
orbit to that of the UEN OSV. We're in the process of fitting small bombs into
the weather birds..."

"You
said that the OSV is well armored," interjected General Cooper. "Will
small bombs be enough?"

"They're
not there as warheads, General," Colonel Farber said. "They're there
to break the weather satellites up into fragments. Hundreds of fragments, all
of which, because of the retrograde orbit, will be moving at
twice
orbital velocity with respect to
the OSV. It's not
that
well armored.
Nothing is."

"God
damn it, I like it!" exclaimed Cooper. "It's innovative, it sounds
effective, and the UEN isn't likely to expect it. Didn't the Earthers stand
down from an orbital battle a few years back, because they were afraid of the
cost in lost satellites?"

"Yes,
sir," Farber said. "China and India came pretty close to an orbital
space conflict, back in the late '60s, but both sides pulled back."
         

"Which
means the UEN probably won't even be
thinking
in terms of using satellites as weapons," Cooper said, grinning.

"We
certainly hope so, sir," Colonel Farber said, looking for a moment as
predatory as the Infantry Corps general.

General
Stirling was silent for many long seconds. "Very well," he said at
length. "The Aerospace Corps' plan is approved. Make it happen."

"Yes,
sir!" said Farber.

"Meanwhile,"
Stirling said, "we have to hope we can get enough forces in place to go on
the offensive and take back the gate. Again."

***

"UEN
OSV is over the horizon," reported one of the Aerospace Corps technicians.

"Very
well. Begin lasing all detected UEN satellites," ordered Major Patrick
Newman.

He'd
joined the Aerospace Corps to follow his dream of piloting a "ghost,"
and almost quit when that hadn't happened. Now he was glad he'd stayed in.
Satellite operations wasn't the glamorous job he'd wanted when he'd joined the
Aerospace Corps, but since it was
his
job, he was about to become the officer who launched the first counter-attack
in the first space war in human history.

The
trick, Major Newman thought, was to make sure the UEN didn't get enough warning
to do something about what was about to happen. Because one way or another,
there would only be once chance to do this.

"We
are lasing all known enemy sats," reported another Aerospace Corps
technician.

There
was no way to damage the enemy satellites with ground-based lasers... at least
not with the ground-based lasers
they
had; anti-aircraft arrays that lacked the power to project killing energy
density into orbit. But the glare of laser light would, the major hoped, be
enough to blind the enemy birds, which would be enough.

"Initiate
the count-down," he ordered.

"Count-down
initiated."

Almost
a minute's wait, while the launch computers ran a systems check and the
trajectory was checked one last time. And then the final ten-count. No one in
the control bunker counted with it.

The
count came down to zero.

Outside,
a few kilometers away, two rockets flared to life, briefly burning brighter
than Arcadia's huge, looming sun. Technicians working outside lowered
dark-tinted glasses and tracked the two rockets as they rose, but the major's
eyes were locked on his displays.

"Orbit
achieved on both birds," one of the technicians reported, about seven
minutes later.

"Very
good," replied Major Newman. "Is the detonation timer running?"

"Timer
is running on both birds," confirmed the technician.

"Then
that's it," the major said, suppressing a desire to run his hands through
his hair. "Now all we can do is pray."

***

It
was quiet aboard UEN OSV-11, the
Yang
Liwei
. The environmental system gave a constant background hum, but the
crew had learned to tune it out long ago.

The
commanding officer was watching his display with a certain degree of
relaxation. They were done with their latest pass over the Arcadian landmass.
They had confirmed the destruction of the one enemy satellite they had been
unsure of; it had been possible that it had not been fully destroyed, but this
last orbit had allowed them a good look, and now there was no question; all of
the Arcadian satellites were dead.

They
still hadn't found any more Arcadian aircraft, but by now it was increasingly
likely that the Arcadians had simply landed them and gotten them under cover.
There had been a burst of laser-blinding of his deployed satellites a little
while ago. It would have given the Arcadians adequate cover to land and hide
their remaining "ghosts."

Still,
the fact remained that nothing could now fly in the Arcadian sky, including
Arcadian orbit, without the permission of the
Yang Liwei
.

"The
first space war in human history," the commanding officer said to his
executive officer.

"Yes,"
the other man agreed. "Not only the first space war, but also the first
interstellar war as well. And we... you... have won it. Surely a great honor,
sir."

"Indeed,"
the commanding officer agreed.

"Sir!"
came a cry from one of the sensors operators. "Sir, we're picking up something.
Some sort of thermal signature. Maybe some debris. It looks like it might
intersect our orbit, sir!"

"None
of the destroyed satellites were this low," observed the executive
officer. "Do you have a clear signature?"

"No,
sir," the sensors operator replied. "Just a thermal signature rising
above the horizon. Indistinct."

"Hmm.
Shall we activate the radar?" the executive asked the commander.

"Yes,
very well. And stand by maneuvering thrusters. We might have to shift orbit.
How quickly is our orbit converging with the orbit of these supposed
debris?"

The
sensors operator looked into her display, activating the OSV's radar and
watching the results. The woman's eyes went wide as she read the results; there
was a cloud of debris heading at them, converging at two times orbital
velocity.