Trial by Fire - eARC (58 page)

“Why? As a reprisal, an ‘example’?”

“Hell, no. For security. They’ll know that an ambush like this wasn’t mounted by the general insurgency. That makes us a high priority target. Firstly, we could be an intel goldmine. They’ll guess we’re not locals, so they’ll want to grab some of us to squeeze and debrief since they’ve got no idea—yet—what kind of coordinated efforts they’re up against today.”

“And what’s the second reason we’re a high priority target?”

She sealed the snoop scope back in its pouch “Given where they want to establish a safe perimeter—about five hundred meters out from their compound—we are a serious and organized rear-area security threat that got inside the zone they thought they’d cleared.”

O’Garran nodded. “So they’re going to come back and clean out what they missed: us. Okay, so let’s go back into hiding.”

“Whoa, there Little Guy. I didn’t say anything about hiding. I said we’re going back into yesterday’s positions, which are about four hundred meters back to the north, along the probable advance route of the Hkh’Rkh fire brigade.”

Wu looked over. “So you mean to attack them, too. A much larger force, and mostly unwounded.”

Opal heard the grim tone but ignored it. “That is correct. But we’re going to hit them from behind. I’m betting that four hundred meters north of this contact point, that fire brigade is still going to be moving fast, with minimal flank and rear security precautions. And you
did
leave the demo charges in yesterday’s positions, didn’t you Mr. Wu?”

“I did as you instructed.”

“And now you know why I did so. And now we’ve lost another minute we can’t afford to lose. Move.”

As they crouched into the stooped jog that was the fastest way of traveling through the fiber-optic conduits, O’Garran kept close behind her. Close enough to whisper, “Major, I’ve got to ask: what in the hell are we doing? I mean, why mount another ambush before we get the ‘go’ signal for the final attack? What will it accomplish—?”

“It will clear the path to the Roach motel, sergeant.”

“So you’re baiting them in to clear this sector. Why?”

“Because we don’t have enough forces to spare for a rearguard when we make our own assault.”

“Our own assault? What do you mean? Assault into what?”

“Assault straight into their compound, Sergeant. That’s the objective of the final attack, after all.”

The moment’s silence seemed to double the force behind O’Garran’s urgent, hissing whisper, “Into
their
compound? Major, particularly with our losses, we’d never survive an approach to their hardpoint, let alone fight through it into the Roach motel.”

“Who said anything about going
through
the hardpoint?”

“Well, how else—?”

“Little Guy, tell me. What are we in right now?”

“Uh…fiber-optic conduits. And the very occasional sewer.”

“And a number of buildings in the Arat Kur compound—particularly the ministries complex near the palace—were wired for fiber optic, weren’t they?”

The brief silence told her that he saw it. “So we’re taking out both these Hkh’Rkh forces to make the exos believe that we’re weakening this area in preparation for a frontal assault on their compound.”

“Right. And since they’re too smart to sit holed up, waiting for us to hit the compound—”

“—They’re going to send out a good-sized preemption force to break up any gathering attack, eliminate us, and then finish the job of securing their perimeter in this sector.”

“Right again. And where’s that force going to come from, given how overextended the Hkh’Rkh already are?”

Another pause; another tactical realization. “They’re going to tap the internal security detachment that’s covering this part of the compound. They can’t have anything else left as area reserves.”

“Exactly. They’re going to draw down this salient’s security complement to come out after us, try to take us out on the streets, before we can conduct a frontal assault.”

“But you said we’re
not
going to be assaulting frontally—”

“Because we’re not even going to be on the streets. While they’re out looking for us, we’re going to be in the conduits under the streets, and under them. All the way into the heart of the Roach motel.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth

Darzhee Kut bobbed when Urzueth Ragh pointed out the relayed sensor readings. “The human fleet is preparing to engage our own in cislunar space.”

First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam swiveled towards him. “It is the expected melody, but how can you tell?”

“They have discontinued the centrifugal spin of their habitation modules and are retracting the booms.”

“Earlier than at Barnard’s Star. Do our tactical analysts anticipate differences in this engagement?”

“Several, Hu’urs Khraam. Firstly, the human force is much larger than ours on this occasion, and the ships are not second echelon or decommissioned craft. It is the gathered cream of their several fleets, both in terms of hulls and personnel. Secondly, this time they are moving faster than we are, yet their trajectory will allow them to use Earth’s gravity to pull them tight around the planet and strike us again. Or, by changing when and how much they boost, they could use that gravity to slingshot them out of cislunar space at extreme velocity.”

“So they have far more control over whether there will be a second firing pass, a second phase to the engagement.”

“Your pitch is perfect, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam. They can either run and minimize their losses if things do not go well—”

“—Or come around to finish us off if the first engagement has gone in their favor.”

“Regrettably true, First Delegate. But I do not impugn our planning. We presumed that they had no such forces left. There was no reason for us to fear or refrain from being so deep in Earth’s gravity well.”

“You sing a soothing song, and I appreciate it, Urzueth Ragh, but I will have no lullabies. This was my doing. I was not cautious enough in our deployment. I split the fleet, and allowed us to sink deep into this gravity well, for which we will now pay. The force we have sent to meet the humans labors against Earth’s pull, while the rest of our ships must remain in close orbit, held fast by the planet’s heavy claws. Easy targets, should any of the human craft manage to engage us.”

Darzhee Kut raised an objecting claw. “With respect, Hu’urs Khraam, your deployments were optimal for forcing a swift conclusion to a war of occupation—”

“Perhaps, but those deployments were still wrong. Darzhee Kut, if you should find yourself burdened with the cares of the Wholenest in the years to come, I offer you the counsel of this day: in war, there is no surety. Now, no more on this. What other differences does the human fleet exhibit this time?”

“It is early to tell, but sensors indicate a far higher ratio of drones. Almost five times as many as the humans had at Barnard’s Star.”

“None of these differences sing in harmony with our hopes, Speaker Kut. How do you expect they will attack us?”

Darzhee looked over at Caine, who was pointedly absorbed in the act of tying his left shoe; no help there. “We cannot be certain, Hu’urs Khraam, but we expect that they will salvo missiles at long range, probably several flights of them in close sequence. As we come to shorter range and pass each other, missiles launched then will be less effective, because they will have less time to acquire targets, maneuver, and track. This is when we can expect our greatest advantage.”

“Because of our superior lasers?”

“Yes, Hu’urs Khraam, and particularly because of the X-ray lasers that form the spine of our shift-cruisers. If we elect to spend their drives’ antimatter reserves to fully charge those spinal weapons, they will have a devastating effect upon the human ships, particularly at close range.”

“And we are confident that the humans have no such system?”

Again Darzhee Kut looked at Caine. The human’s right shoelace was now the object of his undivided attention. “Not within their hulls, Hu’urs Khraam. They do not have the engineering acumen necessary to generate and sustain the necessary power levels. However, as we saw at Barnard’s Star, they do have a special form of drone that can briefly mimic our spinal weapons: their single-use X-ray laser missiles.”

“True, but our intelligence tells us that they do not have many of these systems. A handful at most. Five years ago, the human nations signed accords severely restricting the deployment of any weapon system that either uses nuclear weapons as warheads, or as power sources, as is the case with their X-ray laser drones.”

“This is indeed what our intelligence told us.”

“You are unconvinced?”

“I am—uncertain, Hu’urs Khraam.”

“Why?”

“Because every time the humans make such accords with each other, they immediately begin violating them in secret.”

“Agreed. But our information on these matters came from their own megacorporations. How could they be wrong? Do not the corporations produce the very drones of which we speak?”

“Hu’urs Khraam, the weapons of which we speak are produced by a special subgroup of megacorporations, called the industrials.”

“I cannot follow the melody you are trying to sing for me.”

“First Delegate, there is antipathy between the industrials and the megacorporations that have allied with us. It is conceivable that our collaborators were mislead, deliberately provided with false information via the industrials’ counterintelligence efforts.”

Hu’urs Khraam bobbed. “Darzhee Kut, you are learning the prime lesson of this day well: question everything. But our human sources took great pains to gather accurate data, for if we do not succeed, they will be executed as traitors. This is one set of data that we may trust.”

Or maybe not,
Darzhee Kut thought as he bowed a deep acquiescence.
We cast eyes back upon our path and realize that, since Barnard’s Star, we thought we were manipulating the humans—but all along, they were manipulating us. They play the linked games of war and deception better than we do. And the reason lies before us. They spend most of their time imagining how
we
would best fight a war against them, rather than how
they
would like to
resist us
. So of course they knew how to show us what we wanted to see, what seemed reasonable outcomes, gave us logical decision paths. All so that we would follow a course of action that they could predict, which would deliver us to this moment and this place where they would spring their carefully laid traps all at once.
Darzhee rose up higher, one claw raised to signal that he must share this last point—

But Darzhee Kut felt the pressure of a gentle yet firm claw clamp over his own, kept it from raising. He swiveled to the side, saw Urzueth Ragh, who lowered his eyes and diddled his mandibles. “Let it go, brother.”

Darzhee Kut considered, looked after Hu’urs Khraam, who was already deep in a teleconference with Tuxae Skhaas, the senior sensor coordinator for the command ship of the orbital flotilla. And with that brief pause, the moment to speak had passed. If Darzhee Kut brought up the issue of CoDevCo’s questionable reporting to the First Delegate once again, it would signal a much more serious, and possibly insolent, questioning of Hu’urs Khraam’s judgment. But, still…

Urzueth Ragh seemed to read his mind. “I know what you mean to do, to say, and I tell you it will be a tune sung to insensate antennae. You are right, of course. How can we be certain of the reliability of the human intelligence? But if we begin to question all our data, we have no basis for action, must lie on our claws, might as well concede. So, either way, we must make our best conjectures and move on. We must act rather than reflect. Alas, it is a hurried process that I like it no better than you. It is not our way.”

“No. It is war.”

Urzueth Ragh bobbed his agreement. “As I said, it is not our way.”

Flagship USS
Lincoln
, Sierra Echelon, RTF 1, cislunar space

“So what’s it going to be, Skipper?” asked Commander Ruth Altasso. “A stand-up brawl or a drive-by shooting?”

Admiral Ira Silverstein smiled at his XO, found his brain running on two tracks simultaneously: a blessing, or curse, amplified by Talmudic study.

Track one: Commander Ruth Altasso was a fine XO and knew her business well-enough to know that her question was no question at all. All three echelons of the fleet had stopped hab rotation, tucked in their booms, and were maintaining acceleration typical to interplanetary travel: they were going in hot. However the battle might unfold against the Arat Kur, it would be sharp, savage, and so fast that even if one wanted to give or call for quarter, there simply wouldn’t be the time. Today, there would be two kinds of combatants: the quick and the dead.

Track two: Ruth was almost a good enough actress to pull off the precombat bravado shtick. Almost, but not quite. She had never been in real combat before. Hell, none of her generation had. It had been almost twenty years since a US vessel had fired a shot in anger, more than thirty since a formal, brief, and almost wholly inconsequent declaration of war in the last of the many desultory posturings known collectively as the Sino-Russian Belt War. The training sims were realistic—nearly made Ira wet his own pants—and no one did a better job than the Commonwealth at creating authentic field training environments. But as any soldier knew, training was no substitute for paying your penny and seeing the elephant that was war, up close and personal. And the few recent veterans who had earned that distinction by both fighting and surviving at Barnard’s Star were now stuck in that system, so there were no “blooded” ratings to sprinkle among the hulls of Admiral Lord Halifax’s fleet. Now arrayed in three tandem echelons, it was, collectively, the hidden weapon that had been slowly forged via the covert sequestration operation code-named Case Leo Gap, but now known simply as RTF 1 or Rescue Task Force One. However, as will happen with acronyms, a rival label had become popular in the multinational armada: “Rag Tag Fleet Number One.”