Falcone Strike (37 page)

“Captain,” Roach said, “the enemy CO is demanding to speak to the destroyer commanders.” “That’s torn it,” Kat said. She’d hoped to get closer before the enemy smelled a rat, but if they weren’t already suspicious, they would be the moment the destroyers also claimed to have communications problems. She glanced at the timer, then back at the main display. A dozen shuttles were closing in on the formation, their sensors probing at the ECM. “Are the missile pods online?”

“Yes, Captain,” Roach said. “They’re ready.”

“Fire,” Kat ordered.

It wasn’t common to bolt orbital missile pods to freighters, let alone

warships. The pods rarely survived the launch sequence, while the missile drives could do considerable harm to the starship’s hulls. Indeed, Kat had seen several concepts for towing missile pods that had come to grief on the simple fact that any interaction with the starship’s drive field would be utterly disastrous. But if she didn’t care about losing the motherships, she could bolt hundreds of missile pods to their hulls and fire at will.

“Missiles away, Captain,” Roach reported. His voice turned darkly humorous. “I think the shuttles flinched.”

“Ramp up the drives, as planned,” Kat ordered. Her unmanned ships were unlikely to reach the orbital facilities before they were destroyed, but they’d give the enemy a fright. “And take out the shuttles before they get into engagement range.”

“Aye, Captain,” Roach said.

Commodore Malian stared in horror at the display, unable to move or speak. One moment, the convoy had been advancing into orbit; the next, hundreds—perhaps
thousands
—of red icons appeared, each one representing a missile heading towards his facilities. Most of them would burn out before they could enter terminal attack range, but there were so many missiles that it was unlikely his facilities would remain unharmed. And even if they went to purely ballistic trajectories, without a hope of altering course, they were
still
certain to hit the planet.

“Commodore,” the tactical officer said. “Request permission to engage with point defense.” Malian had to fight to compose himself. “Granted,” he said. He’d never been in combat before. Was it always like this? “Take as many of them out as possible.”

He watched, grimly, as the red icons roared closer. Most of them appeared to be targeted on the repair yards, although a handful were definitely aimed right at his station. That made sense, he reluctantly admitted; wrecking the yards and the industrial nodes would render Aswan completely unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. His handful of ships was forming up into a single unit, but it was too late. The only good news was that none of them appeared to have been targeted.

“The shuttles are being engaged, sir,” the tactical officer said. Malian glared at him. Compared to the storm roaring down on his facilities, bringing with it certain death for him personally, who cared? Admiral Junayd would order his immediate execution once he heard the news. If he’d kept the superdreadnoughts an hour longer . . .

But I sent the courier boats after the admiral
, he thought. It was something to cling to, even as his command was ripped apart.
At least he might make it back in time to take revenge
.

“The cripples are engaging the enemy ships,” Roach reported. On the display, one of the cripples vanished, followed rapidly by a second. “I don’t think any of them are going to get through.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kat said.
None
of the ships were manned, save for
Lightning
herself, and she had no hope of getting them back home. And even if she did, they were too old and expensive to repair. Better they soaked up a handful of missiles rather than being scrapped or sold to poorer worlds. “Just keep watching the missiles.”

She smiled coldly as the stolen missiles homed in on their targets. The enemy point defense crews were good, she had to admit, and her missiles were starting to go ballistic, which made them easier to hit, but there were just so
many
of them. If only she had antimatter warheads, when even an intercepted missile could be deadly.

“The repair yards are taking hits,” Roach reported. Brilliant explosions flashed up on the display as the nukes started to detonate. “The enemy command station is under attack, but defending itself . . .”

He broke off. “The repair yard has been destroyed, Captain,” he added. A handful of icons winked out of existence. “Seventeen industrial platforms have been smashed.”

And, no matter what happens, they will know what we’ve done
, Kat thought, feeling cold hatred pulsing through her mind. It was a shame the command post was likely to survive, but it would be immaterial with the system’s facilities destroyed.
They’ll never feel safe behind the lines again
.

Captain Patrick James Davidson braced himself as he plummeted through the thin atmosphere, surrounded by his comrades. He’d practiced skydiving from orbit into the teeth of enemy defenses, or even sneaking through gaps in the enemy’s sensor network, but the enemy didn’t seem to be watching for incoming threats. They seemed to have relied completely on the orbital defenses, all of which were now gone. Patrick gritted his teeth, then triggered the antigravity system moments before he would slam into the ground. His fall stopped, allowing him to drop the last few inches to the icy surface.

“Over that ridge,” he snapped as the Marines fanned out. There was no incoming fire, which was both good and bad; he had time to deploy his forces, but at the same time, he knew the enemy might be keeping some forces in reserve. “Advance!”

The Marines advanced forward, weapons at the ready, until the POW camp came into view. It looked like a bubble, a dome of glass surrounding a handful of barracks; Patrick couldn’t help wondering just who had decided that such an insecure place was actually a good idea, even though it did have its advantages. Anyone who felt like running away would be able to get an eyeful of the unprepossessing terrain surrounding the prison camp. He led his men towards the small installation near the shuttlepad, then charged forward as a pair of enemy guards came into view. The guards had no time to react before they were knocked down and flattened to the ground.

“Get through the hatch,” he snapped. A Marine leaned forward, hacked into the control module, and took command of the system. The hatch hissed open, revealing a processing center that looked as though it belonged in a prison. A handful of guards were running forward, carrying projectile weapons that wouldn’t have a chance of getting through Patrick’s body armor. Patrick lifted his rifle, switched to stun, and started to mow the guards down before they could react. Their stunned bodies tumbled to the ground, waiting for pickup. Patrick strode over them and led his team through the small complex, towards the other set of hatches. Despite his fears, he had to admit it didn’t
look
like a torture chamber.

He opened the second hatch and stepped into the dome. A handful of prisoners stared at him, their faces widening with shock. Did they think he was an enemy soldier? It was possible, he had to admit; the black armor carried no logos or insignia. He hesitated, then cracked open his suit. The POWs relaxed, very slightly, when they saw his face.

“I’m Captain Davidson,” he said, using the suit’s systems to boost his voice. “We’re here to get you out of this shithole. Get into lines and ready yourselves for the shuttles.”

The prisoners broke out of their trance and hurried towards the hatches, several dozen more pouring out of the barracks. Patrick glanced at a man who looked like a soldier, probably someone from one of the planetary militias, then motioned for him to join the Marines. He’d need to pick the man’s brain, if only to find out just how many people there were in the camp.

“Get the shuttles down to the hatches now,” he ordered. He sucked in his breath as he glanced at the time. Twenty minutes before Aswan could pick up a radio signal from Redemption—assuming, of course, that there hadn’t been a watchdog in orbit. It wasn’t going to be easy to evacuate the complex. Unless he’d missed something, he hadn’t seen any spacesuits in the guard complex, save for the two worn by the guards on the outside. It might be hard to get the POWs into the shuttles unless the two airlocks could be mated, a depressingly effective security precaution none of them had considered until it was far too late. They might have to take the risk of cutting through the dome, praying it wasn’t rigged to shatter if the atmospheric integrity was broken.

“All right,” he said. “Name, rank, serial number
?”

The POW looked badly shaken. “Corporal Wallis, Highland Brigade,” he said. “Planetary Militiaman M-482762.”

“Very good,” Patrick said. “Now tell me, how many prisoners are there in this complex and how many of them can move under their own power?
”

“
Twelve hundred,” Wallis said, after a long moment. “Some of the prisoners in the final barracks can’t move, sir; they were kept in isolation. They were never allowed to mingle with the rest of us.”

“We’ll deal with them,” Patrick promised. Lines of prisoners, male and female, were forming in front of the hatches. Thankfully, despite his nightmares, the guards didn’t seem to have molested any of the women. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any sex slaves in the guard complex either. “Was anyone planning an escape?
”

“
I don’t think so, sir,” Wallis said. “I heard when I arrived that the complex is bugged to the nines. There was no way to plan anything without them hearing of it.”

A POW’s duty is to escape
, Patrick thought. He’d been taught that, back at boot camp, and it had always stuck in his mind.
But these POWs had nowhere to go
.

He pushed the thought aside as the first shuttle came in to land. “Get in line,” he ordered as he keyed his communicator. “Platoon One: with me. Platoon Two: sort the prisoners and get them into the shuttles.”

Platoon One fanned out around him as they jogged towards the final barracks. It looked pretty much identical to the others, save for the sign on the front barring anyone from entering without special permission. Patrick checked the door, then smashed it down with one kick from his armored suit. Inside, it was dark, illuminated only by red lights positioned in the metal ceiling. Patrick switched his visor to night-vision mode, then advanced forward. Instead of a set of bunks, as he’d been expecting, there were a handful of doors, each one firmly locked. It was a set of prison cells within the prison.

“Open that door,” he ordered, picking one at random. A Marine wrenched the door off its hinges, allowing him to peer inside. “Who are you?
”

A brown-skinned man looked back at him, blearily. It was clear, given the number of bruises on his skin, that he’d been beaten repeatedly before being shoved into the cell. Patrick winced, then muttered commands. The prisoners in the barracks would be freed, then transported back to orbit. There would be time to sort them all out later.

“Roger,” the man croaked. “Roger Mortimer.”

The name was completely unfamiliar. Patrick considered it for a second, then checked the name against the files. His suit found nothing, but it relayed the request to the ships in orbit and came back with both an answer and an ID file. Lieutenant-General Roger Mortimer had been an officer in the Commonwealth Army, stationed on Cadiz. He’d been listed as missing, presumed dead in the chaos that had overwhelmed the planet when the Theocracy attacked. No one had considered the possibility that he’d survived.

The Theocracy separated the prizes from the common herd,
Patrick thought as one of his Marines assisted Mortimer to leave the cell.
They wanted to use Mortimer for . . . for what?
He shook his head. “Get the next shuttle in ASAP,” he ordered as he called for reinforcements. If Mortimer was any guide, it was quite likely that most of the remaining prisoners in the barracks couldn’t walk for themselves. “We need to get them off the planet as quickly as possible.”

The first shuttle took off, rocketing into the sky above the dome. A second one was already landing, extending its airlock towards the hatch. His men were well trained, thankfully; they hadn’t had any time to practice. He watched as two more prisoners were helped into the light, then half carried towards the waiting lines. They’d be taken onto the next shuttle and boosted to orbit, where they would be put in stasis. The next thing most of them would know, he hoped, was that they were back home.

He glanced at the timer. Seven minutes left . . .

“Get a move on,” he snapped. Another shuttle landed, ready to take the next consignment of former POWs. “Time is not on our side.”

“The Marines report that some of the prisoners were high-value targets,” the tactical officer said. “So far, they’ve recovered two colonels, a commodore, and a general. None of them are in good shape.”

“Get them into stasis tubes when they arrive,” William ordered. He suspected the Theocracy would have wanted to interrogate the prisoners, but most senior officers were equipped with implants designed to counter the effects of interrogation or, as a last resort, to kill them. “I don’t think we have time for a complete breakdown.”

He scowled as he looked at the near-space display. It was empty, but he knew that could change at any moment. Even if Captain Falcone had managed to distract the enemy, they could still spare a ship or two to respond to a distress call. There were five minutes left before they ran out of time.

“Tell them to hurry,” he ordered, finally. William forced himself to relax, thinking hard. There was something about the whole system that didn’t make sense, not to him. If the POWs—or some of them, at least—were high-value targets, they should have been kept somewhere with more security. Or had the Theocracy assumed that no one knew where Aswan was? Or would dare to attack it if they did? He fretted for a long moment, then tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. The puzzle would be solved, sooner or later, perhaps after the prisoners were interrogated. Their captors might have had good reasons for wanting to keep them near the front lines.

But anything they knew would be outdated quickly
, William thought.
We’d deactivate their command codes from the datanets, even if we thought they were dead. Trying to use a deactivated command code would sound the alarm.

The timer bleeped. “Commander,” the tactical officer said. “We’re out of time.”

“Keep moving the shuttles,” William ordered. There was little else they could do, not when they needed to wait for the Marines. “And see how many more shuttles there are to come.”

“Three more,” Patrick said. “I’ve got fifty-seven prisoners still to move, then the guards and us.” He cursed under his breath. The broken and battered prisoners had been moved onto the shuttles, thankfully, but many of the remainder were still waiting for a slot. His men had searched the entire complex, finding very little of any use. The Theocracy hadn’t mistreated anyone who had not been in the last barracks, as far as he could tell, but they hadn’t been very accommodating either. Even Commonwealth POWs were granted books and other forms of entertainment.

At least we took the datacores from the guard complex
, he thought. He had a feeling they would be next to useless, but intelligence might be able to produce
something
interesting from them.
And the guards them selves may be able to shed light on the complex and its purpose
.

He watched the remaining prisoners depart, then motioned to his Marines to transport the guards into the final shuttle. None of the guards had recovered; they were secured, tossed into the shuttle, and finally latched to the deck to keep them still. Patrick took one final look at the POW camp, then followed his men into the craft. Moments later, the shuttle’s drives surged and the craft threw itself into the air.

“Mission accomplished,” he said, keying into the datanet. “All POWs recovered, sir; the POW camp is empty.”