The corrosive sounds of the lander retros died suddenly, and the anguished refugees removed hands from ears as if they were one being. The silence was deafening. Oily black smoke poured upwards from the expanded ring of destruction and was lifted and rapidly dispersed by a steady breeze from the northwest. Pebbles and small rocks, shaken loose from their precarious resting places, tumbled from the mountain behind them.
"A frigging piece of cake," O'Toole moaned.
"Hell! They got reinforcements!" Petit cried.
"What're we going to do?" Gordon whined, holding his shoulder. The surface of his leather poncho was blackened and shot with ragged holes. He was lucky to be alive.
MacArthur turned abruptly. "So what? So frigging what? What's a few more? There'll never be enough of them," He swept his arm across the verdant valley. "This is only one small valley. We'll hide. We'll fight! We'll use bows and arrows! Spears!" He looked at Buccari, his pewter-gray eyes shining like headlights from deep within a drawn, soot-blackened face.
Buccari looked back at the determined Marine, and her own spirits surged. "Mac's right," she said. "And don't forget—the fleet's up there. If nothing else, these clowns will draw attention our way. I'm counting on getting rescued, but if we can't be rescued, then by God, we'll fight!"
"Lieutenant," Shannon said quietly, as he limped from the group, his back contorted. "I'm with you all the way, but if you don't mind, I'm going to lay this old body down. I recommend everyone rest up as much as possible, 'cause we'll be needing it."
Chapter 42. Conflict
Runacres, in full battle armor, scanned a simulation of the fleet defenses, gaming his alternatives. He glanced at the main situation plot as the last corvette to reach station glided into position. A signal illuminated on his panel.
"Yes, group leader?" Runacres responded, clearing his screen.
"Screen commander reports all corvettes on station, Admiral," the corvette commander announced. "Countermeasures plan Beta Two implemented. Enemy engagements imminent."
"Very well," Runacres said stonily, cinching his harness. "All units cleared to fire, Franklin."
"Aye, Admiral. Weapons free," Wells replied. The operations officer punched an interlock release and warning lights flashed.
"All 'vettes report maximum readiness," the group leader said. "No exceptions."
"Very well," Runacres snapped, switching circuits to screen tactical. Transmission density was high, but radio discipline was sound; terse position and target commands flashed from ship to ship. Runacres watched and listened with grim pride as the disposition of picket units changed dynamically, flowing subtly to counteract the movement of the approaching foe.
The spearhead of the attack dove directly for the heart of the corvette screen. The initial engagement was like the first drop of rain hitting a metal roof. Eagle One, the flagship's lead corvette, called "weapons away," and the tactical status board depicted a spread of kinetic energy weapons being fired at the leading alien units. A kill was indicated. Runacres heard dim cheers echoing beyond the Legion transmitters, but exultation was brief; the onslaught—the downpour—pounded on their metal roof. Fierce engagements cluttered the radio as confusion and anxiety replaced order and control.
Directed energy weapons sparkled in the immensity of space; laser pulses arced at the speed of light to collide with oncoming warheads; missiles exploded in tremendous fireballs; yet the explosions and laser blasts were but faint blooms and razor-thin coruscations in the overwhelming vastness of the lightless vacuum. The widely dispersed corvettes, arrayed in a three-dimensional stack, slashed and parried, striving desperately to keep the flood of targets from passing, but the stream of enemy rockets approached too rapidly and across too wide a front. Runacres watched with approval as the screen commander initiated a large sag vector, but the defenses could not handle the rate of engagement or the enemy's speed advantage. It was over quickly; the incoming attack swept through the screen at time-distorting speeds.
"Attack has penetrated. Thirty enemy destroyed," the tactical officer reported. "Screen units in pursuit. Now thirty-three enemy destroyed. Now thirty-four."
Electronic icons representing more than sixty surviving enemy attackers streaked across the main situation display. Targeting computers designated each blip with codes: symbols for range and arrival times, velocity and size, probable destination target, and defensive responsibilities. Tasmania, lead ship in the column, was being tagged heavily as a primary target. Eire, second ship in the column, the flagship, was also lighting up.
"Tasmania's on the bull's-eye," Runacres said. "Order her back to half interval. Direct Baffin and Novaya to hammerhead the column. Close up the gaps."
"Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells replied, keying his console.
"Forty-two enemy destroyed, Admiral," the tactical officer reported. "Screen units have closed to main battery range and are disengaging."
"Tasmania's opening fire, Admiral," Wells said.
Motherships having clear fields of fire engaged the enemy interceptors with main batteries, their ordnance employment indicators flashing cheerfully on the status panels, but radio transmissions on the tactical circuits were deadly serious. Fifty-eight alien interceptors made it through the corvette screen. All but one were destroyed before reaching lethal weapons range.
Tasmania, in the van of the formation, was engaged by the highest density of incoming missiles. Her defensive systems saturated. One last enemy drone, mindless, yet with a singularity of purpose, breached the gauntlet of fusion beams and kinetic needles—a meteor streaking malevolently close aboard Tasmania, where it finally dropped from radar. Tactical plot signaled enemy ordnance detonation.
Runacres stared belligerently at the status panels. With the explosive destruction of the last drone, all enemy missiles and decoys had been accounted for. The first wave of attacks was over.
"Sir, Tasmania has taken a hit," the tactical officer said. "Damage control reports are coming in. Radiation levels have been contained within radtox critical, but she's been hurt. Overpressure shields were penetrated, and hyperlight generators are seriously damaged. She's drifting."
"Captain Wells, bring Tasmania down the line," Runacres ordered. "Keep her in the grid and maintain HLA links. Order Eire to take the guide."
Planetary Defense Council convened, decreeing all global disputes suspended.
"Our first wave has engaged the enemy fleet," reported the Planetary Defense Force briefer, a senior officer with a pronounced southern hemisphere accent.
A rumble of excitement arose from the audience representing the thirty-three nations of Kon. Emperor-General Gorruk and the ten northern hemispheric governors, all under Gorruk' s imperial hegemony, reclined in prominent front row lounges to the left of the center aisle, their staffs and retinues filling in behind. Chief Scientist Samamkook, silent and brooding, sat behind Gorruk. On the right side of the briefing center sat the southern hemispheric leaders. The southerners had squabbled over seniority and protocol, causing Gorruk to grind his teeth in frustration. How could his armies have been defeated by such rabble? The presence of Marshall Et Barbluis, his battlefield nemesis, as a member of the southern delegation particularly rankled.