Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (12 page)

“No sir.”

“Then why the interest in his welfare?”

“We served with Lieutenant Santana on LaNor, sir.”

Kuga-Ka, who had lapsed into a dull, semilethargic state by that time, took note of the question and sat a little bit straighter.

Santana felt dozens of eyes turn in his direction, swore silently, and waited for the axe to fall. “Yes,” Kobbi continued thoughtfully, “that's correct. And who submitted your name for promotion from corporal to sergeant?”

Dietrich could see where the questions were headed but was powerless to intervene. “Lieutenant Santana, sir.”

Kuga-Ka blinked, nodded knowingly, and grinned.

Kobbi nodded in agreement. “Based on your relationship with the lieutenant, did you approach him regarding the possibility of being assigned to his platoon?”

Dietrich swallowed. “Yes sir.”

“And what did Lieutenant Santana say?”

“He said that his platoon was full up—but that he would talk to Captain Gaphy about a transfer to Alpha Company.”

“And were you subsequently transferred?”

“Yes sir.”

“Which was when you came under Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka's authority and started to follow him around.”

Dietrich had never been so miserable. He looked down then up again. “Yes sir.”

Santana felt his spirits slide into an emotional crevasse and was wondering why Kobbi was siding with Kuga-Ka, when the questioning took another turn.

“Did Lieutenant Santana order you to follow the gunnery sergeant?”

“No sir.”

“Did he know what you were doing on his behalf?”

“No sir.”

“So, your efforts were not intended to undermine Gunnery Sergeant's career, but to protect an officer you had come to trust . . . Is that correct?”

Dietrich felt a sudden surge of relief. “Sir! Yes sir!”

Kuga-Ka, his hopes crushed, lowered his eyes.

“One more thing before you go,” Kobbi said ominously. “According to the statement that you gave, and subsequently signed, you were armed with a carbine when you took the gunnery sergeant into custody. I spoke with your platoon leader, and while the CA-10 had been issued some days before, none of my troops were authorized to have live ammunition at that time. How did you obtain ammo for your weapon—and where is it now?”

When Dietrich smiled, it was the Dietrich of old, the one who never lost his cool. “I didn't have any ammo, sir. I simply pretended that I did. One of the MPs took a moment to inspect my weapon and will verify that the magazine was empty.”

Rage mixed with a feeling of shame filled Kuga-Ka's chest. He of all people should have considered the possibility that the weapon was empty but had failed to do so. He stood, shouted, “You slope-headed bastard!” and charged. It took three MPs, one of whom was Hudathan, to bring the noncom under control.

The balance of the hearing went rather quickly. A panel consisting of Colonel Kobbi, Major Matala, and the transport's commanding officer found that there was sufficient reason to bind Kuga-Ka over for court-martial, and he was sent to the ship's brig.

Santana felt emotionally drained by the time he stepped out into the passageway. He was just about to return to his quarters when someone grabbed his arm. He turned to find that Colonel Kobbi was standing next to him. The jacker smiled. “So, did I scare the shit out of you?”

Santana nodded soberly. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Good. It's my opinion that most lieutenants need a laxative from time to time. Now that the material regarding Fareye and Dietrich is on the record, it won't come back to haunt you later. It's far better for us to document that stuff than wait and have a review board stacked with legal beagles do it for us.”

Kobbi eyed the junior officer. “It's pretty clear that the gunny was a very bad apple—so thanks for weeding him out. A bad noncom, especially one in a position like Kuga-Ka's, can destroy an entire company. A piece of advice though . . . We have a chain of command—try using it sometime.”

That being said Kobbi turned and left. And it was then,
as the short stocky officer walked away, that Santana realized something interesting. Even though the jacker had done most of the talking during the court of inquiry, he hadn't used the word “frigging” once.

In many respects the atmosphere within the
Javelin
's modest control room felt more like that of a well-managed multimedia library than the bridge of a vessel that might find itself fighting for its life within the next fifteen minutes. The command position was located at the center of the semicircular space with the first officer on one side and the navigator on the other. The rest of the bridge crew were seated one level below. All wore space armor minus the helmets racked nearby. The glow generated by their instruments gave their faces a greenish cast as the ship's pilot, wea
pons officer, and lead com tech exchanged information via their headsets.

Lieutenant Commander Amy Exton did her best to look professionally impassive as the ship's crew made final preparations to exit hyperspace, and reenter normal space. The good news was that 98.7 percent of all such transitions were successful. The bad news was that 1.3 percent were not.

All it took was the tiniest of navigational errors, a faulty hyperspace drive, or a random space-time discontinuity, and a ship could drop into the center of a black hole, wind up in an unknown galaxy, or never return to normal spa
ce at all. That's what the experts claimed, but the people who really knew were dead, or probably wished they were.

As a result most space travelers felt a little bit of apprehension every time their ship exited hyperspace, but that sense of tension was greatly heightened when a ship like the thirty-five-year-old
Javelin
prepared to not only drop hyper, but do so in what might be enemy-occupied space. The Savas system had been cut off for months, which meant it
was quite possible that Ramanthian naval units were in the area. The thought made Exton's mouth feel dry. The
Javelin
was her first command, and even though the naval officer was proud of the aging ship, she understood the destroyer escort'
s considerable limitations. The old lady was slow by modern standards, her shields were subject to intermittent phase problems, and her tiny flight deck boasted only six in-system fighters.

On the other hand, Savas system amounted to an interstellar backwater. So, given all the space they had to defend, there was very little reason for the bugs to put any resources there.
But,
Exton cautioned herself,
if the area is so insignificant, why drop a battalion of legionnaires on Savas?

Making the situation even worse was the certain knowledge that after the
Javelin
dropped in-system, two transports loaded with legionnaires would drop hyper about five minutes later. Exton had no idea what the troops were supposed to accomplish on Savas, only that it was her job to ensure that they landed safely and hold the high ground until they were ready to depart. And not just hold it, but “hold it at any cost,” which the naval officer took to mean that the brass were a good deal more concerned about whatever the Legion was up to than the fate of her ship and its crew.

But all of those thoughts were forced aside as Exton watched the final seconds melt away, tightened her grip on the seat's armrests, and waited for the telltale lurch at the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, previously dark screens came to life, the
Javelin
's NAVCOMP reported a successful transition, and was almost immediately subsumed by the Command and Control (C&C) computer.

“Three targets have been acquired, indexed according to standard threat protocols, and tagged with firing priorities. Target one is a 96.7 percent match with a Ramanthian Slith class destroyer. Targets two and three are an 87.3 percent match with Ramanthian Chak class patrol vessels. All targets
are accelerating to intercept. Estimated time to contact at extreme range is four minutes twenty-two seconds.”

Exton swore. She had hoped, no,
prayed,
that if the Ramanthians were waiting, their ships would not only be a lot farther away, but of a type that she might be able to destroy. Now it looked like she and her crew were severely outnumbered, outclassed, and outgunned. Her voice could be heard
throughout the ship. It was hard and cold. “We will engage. Launch fighters, bring the shields up, and give me full military power.”

Then, in a voice that only
she
could hear, the naval officer said,
And may God be with us.

It is upon the navy, under the good Providence of God, that the wealth, safety and strength of the kingdom do chiefly depend.

—Charles II

Preamble to the
Articles of War

Standard year 1670

Ramanthian Naval Commander Jos Satto made use of a single-tined fork to spear one of the large, sauce-drenched grubs inching around at the bottom of his bowl, watched it wiggle for a moment, and shoved it in under his beak. Then, having flipped a large white napkin up over his head, the officer bit down. The wormlike creature was delectably ripe. There was an audible
pop
as the Ramanthian bit through the grub's tightly stretched skin followed by the usual spray of blood and intestinal matter. The warm liquid hit the napkin and formed a large round stain. Though ship-grown, a
nd therefore less flavorful than its wild cousins, the taste was excellent.

Satto was still savoring the rich, mellow taste, when the destroyer's battle alarm sounded, and he felt the ship start to accelerate. A less-seasoned officer might have abandoned his meal at that point, or placed a call to the bridge, but Satto
did neither. To interrupt his midmeal would be unseemly, his executive officer was competent, and the Savas system amounted to an interplanetary backwater, which made it highly unlikely that an actual threat was in the offing.

Of course there was the possibility that Olthobo had located the human blockade runner—which would be good news indeed. The alien ship had dropped in-system three standard days before, given one of Satto's patrol boats the slip, and promptly disappeared. A gun smuggler most likely, intent on selling weapons to the indigenes on Savas, which ran counter to Ramanthian interests. Especially if the guns wound up in the wrong hands.

The blockade runner theory made sense, and Satto had so much faith in it, that he was still eating when he heard a staccato popping noise and repli
ed in kind. Olthobo shuffled into the compartment. The fact that he had chosen to leave his duty station rather than use the intercom indicated that whatever the situation was, the junior officer had it under control. Like all his kind, the naval officer had multifaceted eyes, a parrotlike beak, tool legs rather than arms, and a pair of narrow, seldom-used wings. He bowed his head to the exact point consistent with Satto's status and raised it again. “What appears to be a human destroyer escort dropped in-system, sir. We are moving to intercept.”

The older officer was surprised but took pains to conceal it. “Time to contact?”

“Three-plus units at extreme range, sir. The patrol boats are closing in on the target as well.”

Satto ingested a sip of water and brought a clean napkin up to his beak. All manner of thoughts swirled through his mind. “Extreme range” was defined as the point at which a torpedo would run out of fuel. Only a fool would fire that early—which meant he had plenty of time.

The decision to tackle the invading ship head-on was consistent with standard doctrine, which called for defending
units to confront an enemy ship as quickly as possible, thereby taking advantage of the brief period during which its systems and crew were orienting themselves to a new system. The whole idea was to seize the initiative, put the newcomers on the defensive, and prevent them from reaching their objective.

All of which was fine so long as the defenders had equal or superior throw weight. But what if the destroyer escort was little more than the tip of a spear? Backed by a shaft consisting of more powerful vessels? It was a sobering thought, and Satto reacted accordingly. “Reduce speed by 50 percent—and order the patrol vessels to do likewise. Let's see what sort of gift we have before we rush to accept it.”

Olthobo understood the nature of Satto's concern, knew that some of the crew might interpret the change as a sign that the commanding officer didn't trust his judgment, and felt a twinge of resentment. His head jerked forward, then back. “I understand and will comply.”

Olthobo left, Satto felt the ship decelerate and rose from his table. Five of the grubs remained uneaten. Unaware that death had already passed them by, they continued to struggle.

Lieutenant Commander Amy Exton watched the Ramanthian task force begin to slow and knew why. Her opposite number was worried that there might be a destroyer, cruiser, or battle group following along behind her. Had he been aware of the fact that the only vessels about to emerge from hyperspace were a pair of transports the Ramanthian would have hurried to close. “Full flank speed,” Exton ordered grimly. “We need to buy the freighters some time. Order the fighters to engage the patrol vessels.”

The orders were passed, and the
Javelin
leaped forward. “We're in range,” the weapons officer intoned.

“Prepare to fire launchers one and two,” Exton replied. “Fire.”

The
Javelin
was small enough that her crew could actually feel the destroyer escort lurch as the torpedoes left their launchers and sought the enemy. But the Ramanthians had launched as well, and it was only a matter of minutes before their antimissile missiles intercepted the human torpedoes and destroyed them. They blossomed like miniature suns.

Meanwhile, the
Spirit of Natu,
and the
Mothri Sun
dropped in-system. Exton felt a sense of emptiness at the pit of her stomach as she watched the two additional symbols appear on the screens and accelerate toward Savas. All her cards were on the table now—and it looked like a losing hand.

 

Lieutenant Commander Stef Anders dispatched Lieutenant Shoshawna McKay and the other two daggers in her flight to deal with the patrol vessel that the
Javelin
's C&C computer had arbitrarily tagged as “Bogey Two.”
His
target, and that of his two wing men, turned to meet them.

Though not equipped with cloaking technology that the more advanced 190s had, the CF-184 Dagger was a good fighter, and Anders felt his squadron had a slight advantage where the Ramanthian Chak–class patrol boats were concerned. Although the bug vessels were three times larger and heavily armed, they were less maneuverable.

The
real
problem, from the squadron leader's perspective at least, were the twelve fighters the Ramanthian destroyer had launched, and which were now wiping themselves ontohis HUD. Half had turned toward the Confederacy transports—while the rest came to the aid of the patrol boats.

But there was no time left in which to think as Bogey Three opened fire with its laser cannons, blips of light raced
past the dagger's canopy, and Anders went in for the kill. “Blue Leader to Blue Flight . . . There are more bogeys on the way. Let's take this bastard on the first pass. Over.”

“Roger that!” Lieutenant Kai Hoguto replied enthusiastically, and followed Anders in. Like the daggers that were trying to destroy them, the Chak-class patrol boats weren't large enough to carry the equipment required to generate a defensive screen, which meant that they were forced to rely on their weapons and thick hull armor.

Knowing that, Anders readied a pair of lancer missiles and picked them off. Hoguto and the third member of the flight did likewise, which meant that the patrol boat had six incoming targets to contend with.

Bogey Three's commander ordered his weapons officer to fire defensive missiles, blow chaff, and trigger the ECM generator. Two of the incoming weapons exploded harmlessly, and three were lured away from the actual target, but one was dead on. It struck the Ramanthian vessel in the side, blew a hole through the ship's armor, and sent a column of superheated gases into the starboard magazine. There was an explosion, followed by a second explosion, followed by a
third
explosion, which tore the vessel apart.

Hoguto yelled, “Yahoo!” pulled a high-gee turn, and ran into a burst of cannon fire from a Ramanthian fighter. The dagger exploded, Anders swore, and fought for position. Once he had it, the squadron commander triggered a pair of lancers, saw a flash of orange-red light, and flew through the resulting debris field.

Anders checked his six to make sure that it was clean, verified that it was, and Anders took a moment to check his HUD. He saw symbols for the Ramanthian destroyer, the surviving patrol boat, the destroyer escort, and two transports, but no sign of the green deltas that represented Shoshawna McKay and her flight. That was when he realized
that they were dead, that 80 percent of his squadron had been eliminated, and that the bugs were winning.

Like many transports, the
Spirit of Natu
had a fairly spacious bridge, which meant that Colonel Kobbi could sit toward the rear of the control room and observe as the ship left the nowhere land of hyperspace for the Savas system. Having made the transition, the battalion commander watched with a growing sense of horror as the
Javelin
traded torpedoes with a larger vessel, fo
ur of the destroyer escort's fighters were blown to bits, and a swarm of Ramanthian interceptors attacked the transports.

Both ships mounted a dozen laser cannons each, and burped coherent light as the dart-shaped fighters crisscrossed the bulky hulls and pounded the transports with cannon fire. But the freighters had shields,
good
shields, and as they flared the incoming energy was neutralized.

But the best way to ensure their survival was to reach Savas as quickly as possible. The planet was enormous by then, a white-striated, mocha-colored marble that hung huge in the sky. If the
Javelin
could hold, maybe, just maybe, the
Natu
and the
Sun
could enter the planet's atmosphere where the Ramanthian destroyer wouldn't be able to follow. It was all Kobbi and the others could hope for, and with nothing else to do, the jacker said a silent prayer.
God, I know you're busy, but if you would take a moment to kill the frigging bugs, I would sure as hell appreciate it
.

But God was not so inclined, or that's the way it seemed, because that was the moment when Lieutenant Commander Anders's dagger took a Ramanthian missile and blew up. Tor Obbo, the last member of the dagger squadron, died ten seconds later.

The two warships were relatively close by that time, too close from Lieutenant Commander Exton's perspective, but the bugs had closed the distance. The destroyer escort shuddered as another missile exploded against her shields. “They're going to overload!” the XO warned, and his prophecy quickly came true as the energy field that protected the ship flashed incandescent and went down.

Exton thought about her orders, the phrase “at any cost,” and felt a deep sense of regret for her ship, for her crew, and for herself. Her voice was hoarse. “Pass the con to me, delegate the rest of the systems to the C&C, and abandon ship. That's an order.”

Rather than place a large number of critical personnel in one place the way the humans did, Ramanthian naval architects preferred to distribute them throughout the ship, a strategy intended to ensure that a single hit wouldn't kill all of the senior officers. That was why the
Ravager
's control room was relatively small
. Commander Jos Satto, the ship's pilot, and a com tech sat side by side, their compound eyes scanning the screens arrayed in front of them.

There was a flash of light as the human warship's screens went down, and Olthobo, who was monitoring the action from a station toward the ship's stern was the first to comment. “Their screens went down, sir. We have them now!”

Satto felt a sense of jubilation and was just about to agree, when the enemy ship turned inward and started to accelerate. What looked like sparks, but were actually lifeboats, darted away. “They're going to ram!”

The pilot knew what to do. He applied full power and turned the ship to port. But the
Ravager
was big, which meant less maneuverable, and the destroyer's bow had just started to turn when the
Javelin
struck.

The destroyer escort was little more than a pile of scrap metal by then, having taken an incredible amount of damage during the minutes since her screens had failed. But her starboard in-system drive was still functioning, and Exton made use of it to propel what remained of her ship forward, and whooped into her helmet as metal touched metal.

The officer was gone after that, her space-armored body having been consumed by the white-hot gases of the resulting explosion, but not in vain. Because even as the human died, a significant chunk of the destroyer's bow was blown away, the
Ravager
lost a third of her offensive weaponry and a quarter of her crew.

The ship shuddered as secondary explosions strobed the blackness of space, fires burned for a matter of seconds before running out of oxygen, and those who had survived fought to save what remained of their ship.

“My God,” the captain of the
Natu
said, as the explosion lit up the control room's screens, “Exton rammed the bastard!”