Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (50 page)

“The Glatun are conquered,” Gorku said, sadly. “What else did you expect me to do?”

“So you didn't really escape,” Tyler said. “Is the Admiral aware?”

“No,” Gorku said. “No, he's not. He thought it was all valid. The order was. My escape, though, was provided courtesy of the Rangora High Command.”

“I recall you had Rangora servants,” Tyler said. “So all that hooey about being a Glatun patriot was so much bullcrap. You were a spy all along?”

“No,” Gorku said. “I didn't give the Rangora a thing before the war. That didn't mean I didn't leave my options open. I saw that we could never face the Rangora. I did what I could to prevent the war and even to find allies, like Earth, that might help. But in the end . . . What would you had me do?”

“I guess . . . trust us,” Tyler said. “But that was yesterday. For today, these gentlemen will escort you to slightly less comfortable quarters while we crush another Rangora fleet. And tomorrow . . . we will see what we can do for the Glatun.”

“We are on vector for the enemy fleet, sir,” Captain Pohlman reported.

The Troy was finally flying straight now that the enemy's missiles were so much space dust.

“Finally,” Admiral Kinyon said.

“We were getting a lot of alternative delta from the missile hits, sir,” Pohlman pointed out. “But we're headed for them, now.”

“Keep North pointed at them,” Kinyon ordered. “Tactical shift targeting to the AV. All tubes, all laser. Hold fire for my command.”

“All tubes, all laser, target the AV, aye,” Sharp said. “This is gonna be fun.”

“How are the Marines and parasites doing?” Kinyon asked.

“Nominal,” Commodore Marchant said. “Just getting in range to start boarding actions.”

“Holy crap,” Dana said, maneuvering to dodge incoming laser fire. “Can we get some fire suppression here?”

The space docks had “only light defenses.” Light defenses were enough to take out a shuttle. As had already been proven too many times.

“Roger,” Hartwell said, firing their own pop-gun. “Carter, this is Thirty-Three. Could we get some fire suppression, over?”

The shuttles were working in tandem with the cruiser battle groups. Each flight, supposedly, had a CruRon covering it. So far, it seemed like most of the covering was coming from their onboard lasers.

“Roger, Thirty-Three,” the Carter responded. “Can you pin-point it for us?”

The exterior of the three kilometer long space dock was not smooth, it looked like the skyline of a city. Which meant that fire was coming from a dozen angles.

“Try following the line of my fire,” Hartwell said, firing another burst of lasers. “Good enough?”

“Roger, got it. Incoming fire from the Warrington.”

The surface structure, whatever it was, vanished in a flash of light. The Warrington had apparently fired a missile.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” Hartwell said.

“You are welcome. Please consider us for all your future weapons of mass destruction needs.”

“And they made a nice LZ,” Dana said, banking around to head for the destroyed structure. It was still outgassing which meant the Marines wouldn't have to cut through a bulkhead.

“Whoa,” Hartwell said as they entered the structure. It hadn't been obvious how large it was from a distance. The blast from the Warrington had opened up a large support corridor of some sort. Large being defined as large enough for multiple shuttles to fit.

“We're taking fire,” Dana said as the hull rang.

“Can't spot it,” Hartwell said.

“Thirty-Three, Thirty-Two. Fire coming from ten o'clock, low.”

“Got it,” Hartwell said.

A group of Rangora were clustered around a semi-portable laser. It had about the same output as the shuttle's, but was manually targeted.

Hartwell laid the auto-karat on the group and walked laser fire across them. The power-pack from the laser blew up in a flash of actinic light, taking out the survivors of the crew. And a section of bulkhead and deck.

“EM Hartwell, Staff Sergeant Pridgeon.”

“Go, Pidge.”

“We going to take any more fire? I've got a guy down and we're evacuated.”

“Don't know,” Thermal answered. “But you're about to get to fire back. Ramp coming down.”

“We have an entry near quadrant four engineering control,” Major Ward said. Eric C. Ward was the operations officer of the 2nd Marine regiment which was tasked with capturing both the space dock designated SO Two as well as its support ship, Sierra Two Eighteen.

It was one hell of a task for a bare two thousand Marines.

“It's the main engine transfer corridor,” Ward continued. “There's enough space to put down a Flight.”

“Let's maximize that,” Colonel Bolger said, moving his chew from one cheek to the other and spitting into a receptacle in his helmet. “Put in Two Batt.”

“Two Batt to LZ Charlie, aye,” Major Ward said, sending the orders.

“Time to move forward,” Bolger said. “Get me a shuttle to saddle.”

“Two-thirty there,” Staff Sergeant Pridgeon said, pointing to the side. “Get me some covering fire down this corridor!”

Rammer grabbed one handle of the crew-served laser and hefted as Lassie got the other.

“Let's rock,” Rammer said, humping the laser down the ramp.

The “corridor” was about as high as a gymnasium and seemed to stretch forever. Whatever it was for, the steel bulkheads and deck were scuffed up and scratched as if something big was normally moved through it. Arrayed along the sides were more hatches than he could count. And all of them seemed to be disgorging armed Rangora who seemed strangely upset at the unexpected visit from the Terran Marines.

Laser fire seemed to be coming from everywhere and he really had no fricking clue what they were doing. But the staff said set up the laser and give covering fire and that was good enough.

He powered up the laser as Lassie latched down the tripod in case they lost gravity. It was about that time he realized the gravity was above Earth normal. Which just made him glad that was what they normally trained in.

He scanned the vector for targets and caught a burst of fire from a hatch down the corridor. He swept the laser across the hatch and was rewarded by the sight of a burst of volatiles. A moment later a part of a Rangora tumbled out of the hatch.

“We're taking fire,” Lassie said as the bulkhead next to them flashed into gas. The laser had a shield but it wasn't much good against heavy fire.

“Where?” Rammer snapped. Rangora were pouring into the corridor, taking cover behind the debris left by the strike from the ships. The fire could be coming from anywhere.

Rammer walked the laser into the groups he could spot, getting some, missing others. He felt a punching sound to his side and looked over.

“Frack,” he muttered. “I need a new AG, Staff! Lassie's down!”

“Missile, Missile, Missile,” the battle comp chimed.

“Crappity, crappity, frack, frack,” Rammer said, sending another burp of coherent light downrange.

“Thirty-Three, pull out and go pick up more troops,” Mutant commed. “Ware fire.”

“Roger, Mutant,” Thermal said, firing a burst of lasers into a group of Rangora about a hundred meters down the corridor. The bastards were big but they had a remarkable ability to hide in the rubble that the missile strike had caused.

“Pulling out,” Dana said, lifting off.

The shuttle almost immediately went into a spin which slammed it into the bulkhead of the corridor. Dana corrected and got it limping back into space but it was hard. Something was broke.

“What just happened?” Dana asked.

“We got hit by Thirty-One,” Hartwell said. “Damage to starboard maneuvering control. Get us out of this cluster and I'm on it.”

“What about Moose and Charlie?” Dana asked, crabbing out of the opening as another shuttle came in.

“Thirty-One's toast,” Hartwell said. “Ate a missile.”

“Crap,” Dana said. “These had better be worth it.”

“We're taking some serious fire from down-corridor, sir,” Captain Silver said. Benjamin “Streak” Silver was the commander of Alpha Company, Second Battalion, Second Marine Regiment and had found himself on point of the regiment's assault. Which meant that his company, in particular, was soaking up the casualties. “Is there any way we can get some heavy fire support? The shuttles are doing what they can, but we're getting slaughtered in here.”

“Roger, Ben,” the battalion commander commed. “We're working that exercise. Just maintain your Operational Status. I'm sending in Charlie company as force addition.”

“Gung-ho, sir,” Silver said, trying not to sigh. Lieutenant Colonel Maddox was a great guy and a good commander. But he had a real problem with buzzword bingo. The company commanders had bets whether it would last in combat. Which meant Silver had just made ten bucks. If he lived to collect it.

“Roger, Two-Two . . .” Booth said, looking at the schematic of the battle area. The corridor the battalion commander was talking about was clearly highlighted and they even had good locations on the heavy enemy concentrations. “I can open that up like a tin can if you want. Tell your boys to hunker down for incoming.”

“Can you actually open that like a tin can?” Kepler asked.

“Roger, sir,” Booth said, sending the commands. “I'm going to use the main gun on the Monaghan. They're in best position. Permission to fire?”

“Stand by,” Kepler said, double checking the vectors. The main gun on the Monaghan was a one hundred terawatt system. A near miss would cook the Marines. “Roger, permission to fire.”

“Permission to fire, aye,” Booth said, pressing the firing button. “Eat coherent light, lizards.”

“Bloody hell!” Father Patricelli said as the overhead of the corridor flashed into gas. The metal went white hot for just a moment, filling the corridor with a light bright enough to be a nuke.

Despite being evacuated, the pressure of the gaseous material could be felt on their suits. And it was hot.

“So much for resistance,” Rammer said, poking his head out from behind the shield.

The length of corridor where the Rangora had been gathering was now so much twisted and melted metal. What hatches remained were probably welded shut.

“We won't be going that way,” Father said.

“Which we ain't,” Pridgeon commed. “We're holdin' the LZ for Charlie and Bravo. Just make sure nobody comes that way no more.”

“Gotcha, Staff,” Rammer said. “Las . . . Chaos, we need more ammo!”

“Got that, Rammer,” the private said, heading back to the LZ.

“And watch out for . . .” Rammer said just before there was a truncated scream.

“Bloody hell,” Father said, shaking his head. “Corpsman!”

“Bits of hot metal . . .” Rammer finished. “That can puncture your suit.”

“Looks like he's gonna live,” Father said, turning to observe the private being carted away.

“Boy needs to join the Army or something,” Rammer said. “And, by the way, we still need more ammo.”

“On it,” Father said. “Hope we don't run out. Nearest resupply's the Troy.”