“Probably drones,” the human answered. “I suspect our commanders intend to put a strike force right in amongst your orbital elements while you can’t respond. But don’t be surprised if there are a lot of missiles launched in the next few minutes, as well. Both at your ships and at us here in Java.”
Hu’urs Khraam thumped a claw. “But you said that Downing was moving slowly to give us time.”
“He was. He gave you time to consider the alternatives when both you and he had the ability to seriously injure each other.”
“And now?”
Riordan stood, bowed. “First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam of the Wholenest, I mean no offense in asking this, but how can you hurt us now? You can no longer hope to prevail on the ground, in the air, or in space. Without orbital interdiction or your PDF systems, our numbers—all those air units inbound from every point of the compass—will overwhelm your forces, even if they are technologically superior. And I must wonder if, deprived of their computers, your forces are still actually superior?”
First Voice’s ears flattened and quivered. “Riordan may be a liar—I remain uncertain—but he has more of a warrior’s mind than you, Hu’urs Khraam. He is right. The humans have the advantage and are capitalizing upon it. Swiftly.”
“And we have no means to counter,” Urzueth observed.
“We do,” First Voice snarled, “and we always have. There are still shuttles and reserve fighters on board our orbiting ships. Blow the landing bay doors with charges. Identify the craft that were powered down during the virus spike. Load them with nuclear weapons and sortie them.”
Hu’urs Khraam stared at the Hkh’Rkh. “That would be suicide, and pointless, besides.”
“It does not matter that it is suicide for those tasked to carry it out. And if the threat of additional attacks compels the humans to negotiate for something akin to our original terms, we will have salvaged this disaster. Your disaster, Hu’urs Khraam.”
Hu’urs Khraam rose up, and Darzhee Kut saw his antennae quiver into rigid anger—but then they drooped. “You are right in one thing, First Voice. This is my disaster. But what you propose will not work. Without orbital interdiction, the human defenses will overwhelm such an unsupported effort. And by the time we could mount the attack you propose, there will be no beachhead left to save. The human cruise missiles will be here in less than twelve minutes, their interceptors and troop-carriers right behind them. No. This debate is over. We must speak with Downing.” He turned to his communications specialist. “Have you reached the humans?”
“Hu’urs Khraam, my song is a sad one. The human jamming is absolute. What few systems we have left cannot penetrate it at all. We have no way of knowing if anyone is receiving our signals.”
Caine stepped closer to the command group. The two Hkh’Rkh who had rushed him earlier trailed him with a slow, menacing gait. “Urzueth Ragh, have you been making use of this building’s own satellite conference communication system?”
Urzueth Ragh seemed embarrassed. “No, we did not. It was too—” He stopped, seemed uncertain how to proceed.
Caine smiled. “The technology was too primitive to be useful. I understand. But that may be fortunate now. Because you didn’t use it, that system may yet save all our lives. So long as it was not connected to your electronics and was powered down, the virus could not have infected it. Similarly, it should have survived the earlier EMP bursts.”
“Riordan is right,” agreed Urzueth Ragh eagerly. “We can communicate with them using their own equipment.”
Hu’urs Khraam rose up, his antenna swinging erect again. “Are our personnel adept at the human controls?”
“Two of them are. They were specially trained to be able to recognize and operate human machinery.”
“Activate the system. We must reestablish contact with Mr. Downing before their aerial attack waves arrive.”
“Quite a view, eh, Dr. Wasserman?”
Lemuel, lost in his own private world of wonder and horror, nodded, forgetting that Captain Christine “Chris” Oakley, who was in the cockpit at the center of the attack delta, could not see into the forward observation blister where he was sitting.
They had crossed the Javanese coastline at the Anyer Light, staying low as the Arat Kur interceptors and even tac-air support systems spread out, preparing to take on the human aircraft despite being outnumbered twenty to one. Because Lemuel was precious cargo, Captain Oakley had kept her bird back in the rear of the formation, ready to cut and run at any second.
But then, everything had changed. Suddenly, the Arat Kur air vehicles were tumbling out of the sky, some ploughing into the overpopulated Javanese countryside, blossoming into roiling orange fireballs, setting off secondaries and torching whole kempangs in seconds. Others wobbled, swerved away like startled birds that flew without knowing where they might seek safety.
That was when the thin, original wave of human craft—the interceptors and fighters that had followed in behind VTOLs such as Dortmund’s and Thandla’s—raced forward, abandoning the careful, circumspect death dance they had been toeing through at the edge of the Arat Kur airspace. Like sharks detecting bloody prey thrashing in the water, they arrowed in without hesitation or apparent fear.
Moments later, there were so many friendly missiles in the air that the sky looked like a hyperactive child’s scribbling pad. The white lines and flashing pinpoints were literally everywhere. They rose from the ground, came from overhead, from behind, from in front, from the flanks—all seeking any airborne object that was unanointed by the UV sensitive dyes that they recognized as “friend.”
And now, rising up over the onrushing horizon like brooding entities of destruction presiding over the aerial slaughter, Lemuel could see three mushroom clouds, dispersing but still distinct.
Swallowing, unblinking, he could hear the radio chatter in the crew compartment just behind him:
“What’s the ETA on the fighters and the pathfinder transports in the main wave?”
“Twenty and twenty-two minutes respectively, Skipper.”
“And the follow-ups?”
“Second wave is ten minutes behind them. They’ve got fallback targets if the first bunch secures all the secondary airfields. Which is looking pretty likely.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m getting chatter now from rebel radio operators near those fields. Most of the remaining Indonesian forces there are signaling their rejection of Ruap’s government and allegiance to the Confederation. And we’ve got confirmation of the earlier reports that CoDevCo’s clone formation have deserted en masse.”
“And the other airstrips?”
“No word, although the bet is that their human garrisons are either planning on laying down arms or are already fading into the bush. Probably to bury their uniforms and then act like they never heard of Ruap or the Arat Kur.”
Wasserman was not used to such rapid reversals. This morning, it seemed likely that humanity would be perpetually in the thrall of the Arat Kur. Now, with Java’s secondary airbases all but secured, hundreds of transport aircraft were converging on them to begin delivering the steady stream of troops and weapons that would pour into Indonesia until it was firmly back in human hands.
And then another surprise: over the Bay of Banten, at somewhat lower altitude, there was a blinding white flash.
“Nuke!” shouted Captain Oakley. “Put your tail to it and go, Maretti.”
The pilot complied. About two seconds later, the buffeting hit them. It was bad—Wasserman thought they’d shake apart—but ultimately it left them unscathed.