Angles of Attack (38 page)

Two cruisers and a supply ship gone. One hell of an admission fee to get back into the solar system. But the
Minsk
made it, which means that Dmitry is still alive.

Battle Plan Romeo was a success, tactically speaking. Most of the task force got past the Lanky guarding the transition node, including all three of the valuable carriers with their flight decks packed full of people. But their escorts have taken a brutal mauling doing the jobs they were designed to do: shielding the carriers. Of the three cruiser escorts, two were destroyed. Only
Regulus
’s bodyguard cruiser, the
Avenger
, is still with us. In terms of tonnage, we lost less than a tenth of our task force, but it sure doesn’t feel like we got off lightly.
Long Beach
was an older design, not as heavily automated as the new cruiser classes, and half a thousand souls went with her when she blew up. We’ve been trading slaps with the SRA for decades, but the casualty counts were small in comparison—an infantry platoon here, a frigate there. Against the Lankies, we lose people at a far more prodigious rate, and in much shorter engagements.

“Are we in the clear?” Lieutenant Colonel Kemp asks.

“For now,” I say. “He can’t keep up with us because we can accelerate just a little faster. Unless there’s another seed ship lurking on Red Route One somewhere, we should have a clear shot home.”

“But we don’t want to stop and smell the flowers,” Sergeant Fallon says.

“No, we don’t. It was a smart idea to fill everyone up before the transition. We won’t have time to slow down for refueling ops. Not if we don’t want to get overtaken. You saw what kind of life span our ships have against theirs.”

Sergeant Fallon takes her helmet off and puts it on the drop-ship deck by her feet. Her forehead is shiny with sweat.

“I used to think we grunts had the dirtiest, most dangerous job in the service,” she says. “After today, I gotta say I’m pretty fucking glad I’m a ground pounder.”

CHAPTER 23

I can already see Earth through
Regulus
’s high-magnification optics when we encounter the first picket ships. We are less than a million kilometers out from the lunar orbit when we get swept with search radar and pinged with an IFF interrogation.

“Approaching vessels, this is Captain Vigdis Magnusdottir of ICGV
Odinn
. Identify yourselves, or you will be fired upon.”

“ICGV?” Sergeant Fallon asks.

“Icelandic Coast Guard vessel,” I supply.

“Iceland? I never knew they even had a space-going fleet.”

“They don’t, really. They have two or three orbital-patrol boats. Nothing that can even make Alcubierre.”

“And she’s threatening us with that little tin can,” Sergeant Fallon says with a wry smile. “I like her pluck.”

“Oh, the Icelanders are hard warriors,” I say. “Vikings to the core. I have no doubt she’ll start shooting if we don’t answer the challenge.”

Luckily, our acting task force commander isn’t taking any unnecessary chances.

“
Odinn
, this is NACS
Regulus
, flagship of Task Force Fomalhaut, coming home to Earth with six Commonwealth ships. We have five SRA units with us as well. It’s very good to see you.”

“Affirmative,” Captain Magnusdottir replies. “It is very good to see you,
Regulus
. Our picket is a bit thin, you see.”

If anything, the
Odinn
’s captain has understated the defensive situation around Earth. We pass the picket force, which consists of
Odinn
and one other ship, the South American Union corvette
Barroso
. Together, the two picket ships have maybe two thousand tons of displacement between them, less than half that of the oldest and smallest frigate in our battle group. But as Task Force Fomalhaut coasts into the space between Luna and Earth a few hours later, there isn’t much else out there. I see even fewer ships than we did when we had our brief pit stop at Independence a month ago. Almost all the military vessels patrolling the Earth defensive perimeter are from smaller nations and coalitions: South American, European Union, African Commonwealth. Only a handful are SRA or NAC fleet units, and none are larger than a corvette or frigate.

I take control of one of the external camera arrays and point it toward Independence Station as soon as we have a clear line of sight to it. There’s not a single ship on any of the docking outriggers, military or otherwise. The section where
Indy
tore loose, the docking berth that took a direct hit from the destroyer
Murphy
’s missile fire, is half-obscured by the bulk of the station, but I can see buckled and torn hull plating and long streaks of scorch marks around them.

“Something isn’t right with the comms,” I say to no one in particular.

“Why is that, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Colonel Kemp asks.

“Do you have a connection on your PDP, sir?”

The CO of the 330th looks puzzled for a moment, as if he has a hard time remembering just what exactly I am referring to. Then he takes his PDP out of the gear pouch on his leg armor and turns it on.

“Connection, yes.” He taps the screen with the thumb of his armored glove. “But I am not getting any updates. Not even the time sync.”

Sergeant Fallon takes her own device out and tries it. “Same here.”

“I had that problem when we got here a month ago,” I say. “Network’s up, but it’s like it’s throttled to death. And I get a ton of comms chatter from a hundred different sources, but I’m not getting shit from the main comms relay. The one above Luna.” I point in the general direction of the relay, invisible at this distance in its orbit over the optical sensors. “That thing and the one above Mars route every scrap of comms and data in the inner solar system. We know the Lankies blew the other one up. If this one’s gone, too, comms are going to be all kinds of fucked up from here to Titan.”

“HD command staff, to the flag briefing room. Command staff, to the flag briefing room,” the announcement comes over the 1MC outside.

“I guess we’ll find out what’s going on,” Sergeant Fallon says, and gets up from her seat. “Nice of them to think to keep us in the loop.”

“May I come along?” I ask. “I know I’m not part of the command section, but . . .”

“Do come along, Staff Sergeant,” Lieutenant Colonel Kemp says. “Least we can do after you rigged us up with eyes and ears down here.”

I shut down the display and get out of my chair. Outside on the flight deck, dozens of troopers look over with interest as the senior battalion staff come tromping down the cargo ramp and start the long walk to the access hatch in the flight deck’s forward bulkhead.

“The situation is a gigantic Charlie Foxtrot,” Colonel Aguilar says, his Spanish accent putting a little trill into the
r
’s. “Nobody—and I mean nobody—is in charge. I’ve contacted Gateway Control, Fleet Command down in Norfolk, and the orbital-ops center, and they are all giving me different instructions.”

The briefing room isn’t as spacious as I had expected for a ship the size of
Regulus
, but it’s more than big enough for the four NCOs and two staff officers that make up the senior command staff and—in my case—hangers-on. Colonel Aguilar has his XO with him, a tense-looking female major named Archer.

“Truth be told, I’d just as soon ignore everyone right now,” the colonel continues. “
Midway
has started to load up her drop ships, but we have no place to unload troops. Can’t put them all into Gateway, and planetside . . . Well, take a look.”

He gestures to Major Archer, who picks up a controller and turns on the holoscreen on the bulkhead. We’re treated to a panoramic high-definition camera feed of the northern hemisphere. It’s mostly cloud-covered right now, but there are enough clear spots down by the Gulf of Mexico and the southern part of the Eastern Seaboard to know we’re looking at most of North America.

“Goddamn,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s a lot of heat.”

Even through the cloud covers, we can see the ember-like glow of multiple massive conflagrations in several spots on the continent. The NAC’s metroplexes have finally erupted on a grand scale.

“Half the PRCs down there are ablaze. We have riots from California to Florida down in the South, and halfway up the East Coast. Looks like New York–Boston and the northern cities are fairly quiet, but the South and West look like they’re in the middle of World War Four right now.”

“Bet you they had a bit of time to regret that they shipped off two full battalions of trained riot troops to the asshole of the galaxy,” Sergeant Fallon says dryly. “Looks like what was left wasn’t enough to keep a lid on.”

“I don’t know about that,” Lieutenant Colonel Kemp says. “We’re looking at the apocalypse. I don’t think we ever had much of a chance keeping a lid on that.”

“What about the task force we spotted at that deep-space anchorage?” I ask Colonel Aguilar. “All those cargo ships?”

“I think Colonel Campbell was correct,” the
Regulus
’s CO says with a resigned shrug. “I think whoever put that fleet together is already gone. So they won’t have to deal with that.” He nods at the holoscreen. “I sent
Indianapolis
ahead to scout out the anchorage again. Colonel Campbell says he left something behind, and he wants to collect it.”

“The recon drones,” I say. Sergeant Fallon looks at me quizzically.

“We left a mess of stealth drones at that anchorage,” I explain. “We left them on station and with their drives shut down.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Lieutenant Colonel Decker asks. “Between us and Colonel Kemp’s troops, we have three thousand people sitting on their asses on the flight deck while that is going on.” He nods at the display, the clouds-and-fire tapestry of our home continent spinning slowly in space a hundred thousand kilometers in the distance.

“You want to have them jump into that?” Sergeant Fallon asks. “Be like trying to piss out a million-acre wildfire.”

“We can land at—” Lieutenant Colonel Decker begins, but then the lighting in the room switches from white to crimson, and the alert begins to trill.

“Combat stations, combat stations. All hands, combat stations. This is not a drill. I repeat: combat stations, combat stations. Commander to CIC immediately.”

Colonel Aguilar dashes to the hatch with a speed that belies his stocky build. We almost fall over each other getting out of our chairs, and follow him at a run.