Chains of Command (7 page)

“Weapons free. Alpha mount, ten-shot burst, fire for effect.”

“Firing Alpha in three, two, one. Fire.”

We are watching the optical feed trained on the
Agincourt
in high resolution. When the main gun of the battleship fires, nothing spectacular happens. There’s no muzzle blast dissipating into space, no launch trail, no fireworks at all from the sending end. For one brief moment, it looks like the space in front of the cannon mount on the ship’s centerline distends a little, like a heat shimmer on concrete on a hot day.

A millisecond later, a small, new sun blots out the optical feed momentarily.

The filters of the optical sensors kick in to protect the electronics from the searing intensity of an explosion fireball out in space over a hundred kilometers in front of
Agincourt
. In
Berlin
’s CIC, everyone present utters some declaration of surprise or amazement.

“Direct hit on target,” Perry Control sends after a few seconds, quite unnecessarily.

“Holy shit, that thing is gone,” Halley says next to me.

“Ten- to fifteen-kiloton range,” the tactical officer of
Berlin
says from behind his console. “Target One is stardust. X-ray readings are off the charts.”

Where a few seconds ago the sensor feed showed an old thirty-thousand-ton hull floating in space a hundred-odd kilometers away, there’s only an expanding cloud of superfine debris and the plasma glow of a high-energy release. There’s nothing recognizable left in the part of space where the target hulks used to be. The main gun on
Agincourt
just did to an entire group of target vessels in a millisecond what even a Hammerhead cruiser would need five minutes of concentrated salvo fire and her entire ammunition load to do.

“That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a game changer,” Lieutenant Colonel Renner says with a satisfied-looking smirk. “Ten times the energy release of an Orion missile, and seconds between shots instead of hours.”

“Perry Control,
Agincourt
. We just lost main reactor power.”

We all look at the section of the screen showing the massive battleship. Most of the illumination on her hull has gone out, and the fusion engine on her stern is no longer glowing with an exhaust plume. She’s slowly drifting backward at maybe ten meters per second, with only her positional lights blinking slowly.

“Uh-oh,” Halley says.

A flurry of hectic messages between Perry Control and
Agincourt
follows.
Agincourt
has lost all reactor power and is coasting on emergency auxiliary juice, a bad status for a warship. Without her weapons, sensors, or main propulsion, she would be dead meat in actual combat, regardless of how much power her main armament packs in theory.

“Guess they have some bugs to work out,” Lieutenant Colonel Renner says wryly. “Hope they included tow hooks for the tugs.”

The end of the live-fire exercise is entirely anticlimactic. Several deep-space tugs and maintenance ships coast out to the helpless
Agincourt
to render assistance. Thirty minutes after the firing of the main gun, the battleship is still under emergency battery power, unable to arrest her slight backward drift.

“Show’s over, I guess,” Lieutenant Colonel Renner declares. “Helm, get in touch with Perry Control and request departure pattern instructions.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

On the comms station, a discreet alarm chirps. The comms officer on duty looks at his display and frowns.

“Priority One flash traffic on the emergency channel, skipper.”

Lieutenant Colonel Renner frowns.

“Out here? Put it on speaker.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

The overhead speakers pop to life with a terse and harried-sounding voice.

“All Fleet units, all Fleet units. This is AEGIS.”

Halley and I trade glances. AEGIS is the new umbrella acronym for the international planetary defense network. They would only send emergency flash traffic for one specific emergency. The air in the CIC feels like it instantly dropped five degrees in temperature.

“We have a picket breach from the Mars approach. One confirmed bogey coming in at high speed. Time to Orion engagement range is t-minus two hundred minutes. All available units, make emergency speed to Fleet Assembly Point Golf and contact Antarctica Approach for defensive formation assignment. I repeat, we have a picket breach . . .”

Lieutenant Colonel Renner does not wait for the full repeat of the message.

“Plot me a course to AP Golf for a maximum-burn least-time trajectory. Comms, announce our departure to Perry Control. Bring her about and get the reactor up to max. I want every last watt out of that plant.”

The CIC crew springs into action, every person in the room attending their duty stations with a sudden urgency. Halley and I look at each other, and I know she is feeling just as anxious and useless in this spot right now as I do.

“Ma’am, I request permission to go down to flight ops and make myself useful,” Halley says to Lieutenant Colonel Renner.

“Go ahead, Captain,” Lieutenant Colonel Renner says. “See if they can warm up the spare bird for you just in case.” Then she looks at me.

“If this blows up and the Lankies make footfall on Earth again, we will need all boots on the ground. Why don’t you report to grunt country and see if you can scrounge some armor and a rifle.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Who’s in charge down there?”

“We only have a short squad on board. Sergeant Quinones is the senior NCO.”

“Understood.”

Halley and I leave the CIC and head to the main elevator at a brisk pace. I eye the hatches for the CIC escape pods on the wall of the passageway.

“You don’t think she’s going to follow Colonel Campbell’s lead, do you?” Halley asks when she sees what I’m looking at.

“I don’t know. Let’s just say I’m glad we’ll be in suits and with a drop ship nearby if the Orions miss.”

Before we get off the elevator on the flight deck level, Halley pulls me close and kisses me briefly, but with intensity.

“Watch your six. All goes to shit, I’ll get us off this thing.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Let’s,” she agrees.

The SI ready room has a disconcertingly small group of troopers in it, all suiting up in battle gear and cross-checking equipment. I count six troopers, one and a half regular fire teams, not even half the normal SI detachment on a frigate. They all turn and look at me when I step through the hatch.

“You Quinones?” I address the trooper wearing sergeant-rank insignia on the chest plate of his battle armor.

“Affirmative,” he says. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“I’m drop-qualified,” I say. “Combat controller. Shit goes down and you need to drop, I want to tag along. Got any spare armor I can borrow?”

Sergeant Quinones shrugs. “We got nothing but spare gear these days.” He points at one of his troopers. “Corporal Channing,” he says. “Go help the sergeant first class here with his gear when you’re all latched up.”

The SI loaner armor isn’t fitted to me, so it’s too snug in some places and too loose in others, but latching the hardshell sealed over my battle dress fatigues is a comforting routine nonetheless. The corporal helps me get suited up and then double-checks all my latches.

“Good to go, Sergeant,” he says. “Can’t set you up with an admin deck ’cause we ain’t got any.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We drop, it’s Sergeant Quinones’s show. I’m just tagging along to bring an extra rifle.”

“Copy that,” Corporal Channing says.

“You ever done a Lanky drop before?”

The corporal shakes his head. “Just made corporal two months ago. I was in SOI when that shit went down last year.”

Shit, I think. School of Infantry is an SI grunt’s first assignment after boot camp. If Channing is a corporal already, we are promoting unseasoned troops to junior leadership ranks after less than a year in uniform right now.

“Well, you can’t fucking miss the sons of bitches, so there’s that, anyway. Just aim for the weak spots and unload until they drop. Nothing to it.”

“Right,” the corporal says, but his nervous smile tells me he’s not buying the notion that there’s nothing to dropping a Lanky.

I don’t like facing battle without knowing what’s happening around me. On a regular drop, I’d be tied in to the tactical network beyond the squad or platoon level, but this isn’t my unit, and I’m not wearing my own armor. When Sergeant Quinones’s short squad are all geared up and ready for action, we go down to the flight deck and file into the hold of
Berlin
’s Ready Five drop ship. As we tromp up the ramp, ordnance handlers are busy loading the external wing pylon hard points with heavy ordnance. The drop ship is a Wasp, the older and less capable model still in service, and this one looks about as well worn and tired as its host ship.

“Driving the bus.” Halley’s voice comes over my helmet headset on a direct channel.

“You bump their pilot out of the right seat?” I ask, relieved to hear her voice.

“Didn’t have to. He offered. I have seniority. He was one of my students in Combat Flight School just last year.”

“If he graduated last year, he’s never done a combat drop,” I say.

“Nope. And that’s why I’m driving the bus.”

“Can you give me a data downlink from Tac so I can see what’s going on? I hate being just a blind mudleg.”

“Only for you,” she says.

A few seconds later, there’s a new data stream on my helmet display, and I breathe a small sigh of relief. Then I tap into the TacNet feed and bring up the situational display. I’m only an observer and unable to do all the stuff my regular combat controller gear would let me do, but at least I can see what the CIC holotable is displaying.
Berlin
is accelerating toward the turnaround point, shooting back to Earth at full emergency power. Behind us, more ships are in the return chute toward Earth orbit, but Lieutenant Colonel Renner barreled out of the gallery space first and fastest, so there’s a lot of empty space between us and the next ship in line.

“Here we go again,” Halley says.

It’s been a year since my last combat, but the anxiety returns as easily as if it had merely been lurking on standby mode in the dark recesses of my mind. I watch the icon representing
Berlin
shooting along the trajectory to Fleet Assembly Point Golf and find myself wishing just a tiny bit for the structured boredom of my predictable job down at NACRD Orem, where they are finishing the midday chow in the mess hall right now.