My after Hellbore elevates to 026 degrees. I acquire lock, and then I rock on my treads as for the first time I fire a full-powered war shot.
“Madre de Dios!”
Consuela Gonzalez flinched as the self-polarizing direct vision blocks of her Wolverine’s hatch cupola went dark as night. Even so, the searing flash from somewhere astern of her made her eyes water, and it was followed almost instantly by an even bigger midair explosion.
“Hellbore!” her sensor tech screamed. “That was a Hellbore, Connie! My God, what’s that thing shooting at?!”
My fire impacts on my target’s primary drive coil. Destruction is effectively instantaneous, but I cannot relay my Hellbore in time to engage either assault pod. They go to evasive action and disappear into the jungle; 4.0673 seconds later, I detect ground shocks consistent with the heavy “daisy-cutter” charges used to clear pod landing zones in heavy terrain. The Enemy has landed successfully, but the detonations provide me with reliable bearings to their LZs.
I continue my efforts to contact my Commander. The depot communications computer responds to my demand for a diagnostics check and declares all systems nominal, but still my Commander does not reply. His continuing silence is a dagger of ice within me, but with or without him, I am a unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. It is my function to defend human life at all costs, and I must act to protect the citizens of Santa Cruz.
I attempt to contact the Fleet Base over my secondary com channel, but without success. I attempt to transmit a subspace attack warning to Sector Central, but the orbital communications arrays do not respond. Radar indicates that they no longer exist, indicating a deliberate Enemy move to isolate Santa Cruz. I attempt to access the planetary surveillance system, but without my Commander’s assistance from the depot’s Command Center, I can work only through my permanent telemetry link to the Maintenance computer. I begin the reconfiguration of the system to download tactical data to me, but the interface is clumsy. It will require a minimum of 5.25 minutes to access the reconnaissance satellites.
I alter course to a heading of 026 degrees true to close on the assault pod landing sites while I consider my other options. The presence of the SCM detachment grants me a greater degree of tactical flexibility, and I activate my tertiary com channels.
“Colonel Gonzalez, please respond on this frequency.” Consuela Gonzalez shook her head. The rain of debris pouring from the cloud of incandescent gas which must once have been a spacecraft had not yet hit the treetops when a soprano voice she had never heard in her life spoke from her com.
“Colonel Gonzalez, please respond immediately,” the voice said. “Santa Cruz is under attack. I say again, Santa Cruz is under attack by forces operating in unknown strength. Please respond immediately.”
She forced her eyes down from the holocaust in the sky and punched a new frequency into her com panel with trembling fingers.
“Th-” She cleared her throat. “This is Gonzalez. Who the hell are you?”
“I am Unit Two-Three-Baker-Zero-Zero-Seven-Five NKE of the Line,” the soprano replied, and Gonzalez heard someone gasp.
“You’re the Bolo?” she demanded in shock.
“Affirmative. Colonel, I have detected a kinetic strike in the low kiloton range at the approximate coordinates of Santa Cruz Fleet Base. I have attempted to contact Fleet Ops and Sector Central without success. Further, I have established that Santa Cruz’s subspace communications arrays have been destroyed. I have also detected two Fafnir-class Concordiat Navy assault ships on an attack course for the Fleet Base. On the basis of this data, I believe Santa Cruz is under attack. I-”
“But… but why?” Gonzalez blurted.
“I have no information as to the attackers’ motives, Colonel; I simply report observed facts. May I continue my SitRep?”
Consuela Gonzalez shook herself once more, then sucked in a deep, shuddering breath as her merely human mind began to fight for balance.
“Go,” she said flatly.
“I have engaged and destroyed one Fafnir-” Nike said.
“Christ!” someone muttered.
“-but not before it detached two Dragon Tooth-class assault pods. I estimate their LZs lie approximately forty-five point three and fifty-one point niner kilometers respectively from my present position. I am currently en route to locate and destroy any hostile forces at those locations.”
“How can we help?” Gonzalez demanded.
“Thank you for the offer,” the soprano voice said, and Gonzalez’ eyebrows rose as, even through her shock, she heard its genuine gratitude. “If you will shift to Condition Delta-Two, I will download my own tactical data to your onboard computers, but a Dragon Tooth pod is capable of landing up to a Mark XXV Bolo. It is therefore probable that the Enemy has deployed a force too heavy for your own units to engage successfully. I request that your battalion rendezvous at map coordinates Echo-Seven-Niner X-Ray-One-Three and stand by to assist my own operations.”
“You’ve got it, Bolo. Watch yourself.”
“Thank you, Colonel. If I may make another suggestion, it might be wise for you to broadcast a planet-wide alert of hostile action.”
“We will.” Gonzalez nudged her com tech’s shoulder with a toe and jutted her chin at the panel while her own fingers darted over the master computer console. “Delta-Two on-line,” she told Nike, and looked at her driver. “You heard the lady! Take us to the rendezvous coordinates-fast!”
* * *
Esteban was still staring at the explosion when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He snapped around, staring further south, and shock gave way to the fury of understanding as he saw the huge spacecraft sweeping towards the field. It went into low-altitude hover almost directly above the old fleet base and began shedding AFV assault pods. Huge hatches gaped in its flanks, and a cloud of air-cavalry mounts erupted from them, followed within seconds by the first infantry assault vehicles on counter-grav drop rings.
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.