That sight jerked him into motion. He thundered back down the stairs and into his communications center, and his lips drew back to bare his teeth as he flung himself into the chair before the console. He might never have seen Navy duty, but he’d always taken his responsibilities for the field more seriously than he chose to pretend to others. That was why he’d installed a certain landline link he’d never bothered to mention to anyone else.
He flipped up a plastic safety shield, punched in a three-digit code, then rammed his finger down on the big red button.
Fafnir One’s CO pounded on his command chair arm and spouted a steady, monotonous stream of profanity. The attack which had begun so perfectly had gone to hell in a handcart, and he was frantic to get back out into space before something else went wrong.
The communications arrays were down-that much, at least, had gone according to plan-but nothing else had. The two Fafnirs had docked with Matucek’s mother ship to take on the maximum personnel loads their life support would permit them to handle for an assault run, then made their approach from the planet’s southern pole. It was the long way to reach their main objective, but it had let them come in over largely uninhabited terrain and, as a bonus, deploy the two Golems to cover their southern flank if the plan to deal with the Bolo had failed.
As, judging by the evidence, it had.
The transport commander swore again, harder. His tactical readouts confirmed it; the single shot that killed Fafnir Two had come from at least an eighty-centimeter Hellbore. That meant it could only have come from the Bolo, and he didn’t even want to think about what else that might mean! His sensor section reported the Golems had separated before the attack, so they, at least, might have gotten down intact, but a quarter of the Marauders’ infantry, half their air-cav, and ten percent of their Panthers had gone up with Fafnir Two.
He darted another look at the status board and felt a stab of relief. Ninety percent of their passengers had launched. Another few seconds, and “Last man out!” someone announced.
“Go! Get us the fuck out of here!” the CO shouted. The Fafnir’s nose rose as it swung further north towards safety, and he glared at his com officer. “Tell Granger that goddamned Bolo’s still alive!”
Far below the hovering transport, a dozen slabs of duralloy armor slid sideways to uncover an equal number of dark, circular bores. Deep within the wells they had covered, long-quiescent circuitry roused as it received the activation command from Lorenco Esteban’s distant communications console. Targeting criteria were passed, receipted, evaluated, and matched against the huge energy source in the sky above.
My sensors detect a fresh burst of gravitic energy from the bearing of the Fleet Base. It is too heavy to emanate from any planetary vehicle and must, therefore, be the first Fafnir. It is accelerating away from the Base, but its commander appears to be no fool. Although I can detect his emissions, he remains too low for my fire control to acquire him. I compute a probability of 99.971 percent that his current maneuvers indicate the successful deployment of his assault force, but I cannot intervene.
“Missile acquisition! We’ve been locked up!” someone screamed. Fafnir One’s commander started to twist towards the technician who’d shouted, but he never completed the motion.
Twelve surface-to-space missiles launched on pillars of fire. Their target raced for safety as rapidly as its internal grav compensators permitted, so fast its bow glowed cherry red, but it never had a chance. The SSMs’ conventional boosters blew them free of their silos, and they tilted, holding lock, and then went suddenly to full power on their own counter-grav. They overtook their victim just over three hundred kilometers downrange at an altitude of thirty-three thousand meters, and twelve twenty-kiloton warheads detonated as one.
There was no wreckage.
The warheads’ glare was bright enough to bleach the brilliant sun of Santa Cruz even at three hundred kilometers’ range, and Esteban snarled in triumph. He didn’t know why anyone would want to attack his world, but he knew at least one bunch of the murderous bastards would never attack anyone else’s.
Not bad fer an old crock with no formal trainin’, he thought venomously, and then, Thank God Enrique an’ ‘Milla aren’t back yet!
He shook himself and climbed back out of the chair. Whoever those people were, they weren’t going to be very happy with him for wrecking their transport. On the other hand, he’d spent seventy years on this very hacienda. He knew places where an army of raiders couldn’t find him.
He paused only long enough to grab the emergency supply pack he kept handy for search and rescue operations, slung a four-millimeter military power rifle over one shoulder, and vanished out the back door at a run.
My sensors detect the EMP of multiple nuclear detonations at a range of approximately 392.25 kilometers, bearing 030 degrees relative. This coincides with the estimated locus of the second Fafnir, and the previously detected heavy gravitic emissions have ceased. I compute a probability of 98.511 percent that the Fafnir has been destroyed by defensive fire, indicating that my Commander’s friend Lorenco Esteban has managed to activate the Fleet Base defenses. I hope that he has not paid with his life for this success.
I detect two new emission sources. Their locations correspond to the projected landing loci of the previously observed assault pods. They match my files for SC-191(b) fusion plants, and are accompanied by narrow-band, encrypted communications transmissions. I attempt to penetrate the com link, but without immediate success. Analysis indicates a sophisticated, multilevel security system.
I devote 1.0091 seconds to consideration of available data and reach a disturbing conclusion. The energy signatures are consistent with the power plants of a Mark XXIV or XXV Bolo; no other mobile unit mounts the SC-191(b). I do not know how the Enemy could have obtained current-generation Bolos, but if these are indeed Mark XXIVs or XXVs, I am grossly overmatched. Despite the superiority of the systems Major Stavrakas devised for me, I compute a probability of 87.46 percent, plus or minus 03.191 percent, that I will be destroyed by two Mark XXIVs, rising to 93.621 percent that I will be destroyed by two Mark XXVs. Yet my duty is clear. However the Enemy may have obtained access to such war machines, I must engage them.
* * *
“Colonel Gonzalez, I have detected what may be two hostile Bolos,” the soprano voice said calmly, and Consuela Gonzalez’ olive complexion went sickly gray.
Bolos? In the hands of planet-raiders? It wasn’t possible! Yet she was receiving confirmation of nuclear air-bursts from outlying melon growers over the planetary com net, and the transmissions from Ciudad Bolivar were a babble of hysteria. Her com tech reported the sounds of explosions and heavy weapons fire in the background of the Bolivar transmissions. There could be no doubt that the capital-including her husband and children-was under heavy, ruthless attack, and no one had had even a hint of what was coming, not even a second to organize any sort of defense. Nausea twisted her stomach as she thought of all the civilians who must be dying even as her tank bucketed through the jungle a hundred kilometers to the south, and if the bastards had Bolos “What do you want us to do?” she rasped over the com.
“I will engage them, Colonel. Your own vehicles lack the capability to survive against them. Continue to the specified rendezvous, then advance at your best speed on a heading of two-six-three true for forty-two kilometers before changing to a heading of zero-three-niner. That course will pass to the west of the Enemy’s current location and take you to Ciudad Bolivar in the shortest possible time.”