Chapter 24 - Confrontations

“Here it comes,” remarked Ensign Wattie, preparing to button up. Three more Rommels had been delivered to their location, First Squad. The impossibly young ensign was happy to have the commander of the lead tank, Lieutenant Satterthwaite, there to back them up. They'd also received another platoon of infantry and a brace of SPT-301 medium missile launchers, bringing the self-propelled artillery up to two full, if mixed, batteries.

“Prepare to move out!” the Lieutenant called. “Wattie, take your squad off to the right. I'll take my squad off to the left, we'll hit them in a pincers movement. We'll take one squad of infantry with each of us.”

“Aye, Sir!” Wattie replied enthusiastically. He tried to swallow his terror as he prepared to take on the Swarm for the first time.

Sergeant Viletti was far less eager, and far more cynical. He knew from first hand experience in battles against his fellow humans back on Earth that men, good men, could get killed by some green-as-grass officer becoming overly enthusiastic. Besides, he'd already had the privilege of taking on the Swarm, and would happily have postponed a second engagement indefinitely if it meant an indefinitely longer life.

Viletti didn't share his concerns or preferences with his ensign or with the crew of his tank. Instead he simply slammed his visor down and ordered, “Squad two, button up! Sir, ready to move out!”

Ensign Wattie stuck a thumb up, and then raised his arm over his head. As he chopped his arm off to the southwest, he ordered, “Wagons ho!”

'Not terribly military,' Sergeant Viletti thought sourly as his tank shuddered to life and boiled out of its dug-in position, 'but it gets the job done.'

Swiftly two lines of Rommel tanks, each line trailing an LAVT-102 armoured personnel carrier, went forth to meet the enemy as dark storm clouds began to gather.

Captain Schlemmer of the fire support ship CSS Barnegat waited nervously for a response to his latest message. He'd heard the increasingly desperate requests from the troops ashore for his services, and he was close to being finished with that list of targets that the mad scientist from the CSS Arthur C. Clarke had foisted upon him. Now he'd requested reassignment of targets to concentrate on the hive sphere and its environs.

He didn't like letting the Marines down, on this, his first mission. His crew was growing puzzled and restless at this apparently pointless act of blowing random holes in the sandy stretches of Hesperus. At this rate they would shortly be ready to mutiny unless they were given the chance to make a much more direct and clear contribution to the ground forces - that was, after all, the purpose of the Barnegat and her Absecon-class sisters. Their primary mission was certainly not this civil engineering using orbiting artillery pieces.

Unfortunately, at the moment the only officer who could countermand the last orders to the Barnegat was incommunicado. Nobody knew where the Clarke or her fellow ships had gotten to. They only knew the four craft had escaped the accidental encounter with an unknown number of Swarm vessels.

Coming to a conclusion about his next action, Schlemmer slammed his fist against his seat arm. His voice was clipped. “Communications, message to Commodore Swanson. Copy to 123^rd Marine Brigade. 'Mission under Operation Foxhound has been completed. Request permission to immediately provide Marines fire support.' Message ends.”

Andrew Swanson happily responded with, “Permission granted for immediate fire support of Marines. Contact Colonel Waterman, currently located planetside.”

Schlemmer's visage took on a predatory gleam. “Acknowledge message received and understood, and contact this Colonel Waterman.”

“Sir, Colonel Waterman sends his regards and requests you target the Hive Sphere.”

Lieutenant Rodegard, the Barnegat's chief weapons officer, called out, “Target acquired, ready to fire!”

Obviously, Schlemmer mused, his own crew were like him in being impatient to lob some shells down on the heads of their hated enemy. “Three rounds, then let's reassess what damage that does. SHOOT!”

As fast as the gunnery crew could reload the ponderous main gun, three shells reached out to touch the Swarm in a loving embrace of death. Aboard the Barnegat, the entire ship's company held its collective breath.

Captain and crew of CSS Pendennis Castle were holding their collective breath, too. Alone and crawling at sub-light speed, with all weapons systems off-line and shields still not up to full strength, they would not prove any challenge whatsoever to a determined Sa'arm foe. The rest of the battle fleet had gone off chasing the Swarm, leaving this one solitary corvette to make a rather poky 'best speed' to the nearest outpost where, hopefully, they'd be able to secure replacement superluminal drive engines.

And just off her bow, a superluminal trace indicated something was emerging. And the trace indicated that the 'something' was big enough to be a warship. With most of the Confederacy warships either chasing the remnants of the hive sphere's escorts or in orbit around Hesperus, that left the likelihood of a friendly ship appearing in Pendennis Castle's neck of the woods quite low.

Captain Wygant had removed her battlesuit some time back, as everyone turned their hands to damage repair. Now she could only mentally curse the luck that found her entire ship's company in duty dress, with no time to change – not that battlesuits would have had any noticeable impact on her longevity should they prove to be nose-to-nose with a Swarm frigate.

Impotently the Bridge crew stared ahead through the view screen, hoping against hope.

“Sir!” the communications rating called. “Contact pinging IFF! Friendly! She's the La Grange!”

Captain Wygant felt a wave of relief wash over her as the disturbance in the star-field resolved itself into the form of a Haskell-class attack transport. Wielded to her hull were a pair of superluminal engines, of the kind used by corvettes.

“We were told you could use a pair of these?” read the message from the La Grange's captain. “Outpost zero-zero-niner had them just sitting around, so we decided to take them with us.”

As her bridge crew hooted and hollered around her, Captain Wygant permitted herself a small smile. Things were going her way, at least for now. It looked like CSS Pendennis Castle would survive to fight another day.

The mushroom-shaped cloud from the third round was beginning to dissipate above the hive sphere's landing zone. Slowly, painfully slowly, the interference from the flying debris began to dissipate so that the sensors could start reading the results. The shock wave flying across the planet's surface prevented drones from coming in close, lest they be batted from the sky.

Visuals were no good at the moment, especially from orbit. Storm clouds filled the area where the ground battle was to take place. In fact, the storms were building around the planet. At this rate, in about another 84 hours it was likely that the entire planet would be covered by a massive storm. Temperatures were beginning to plummet and lightning lit up the clouds in an impressive display of pyrotechnics.

Because the battle was technically still in progress, Captain Matt Schlemmer was stuck in his acceleration couch, belted in and battlesuit plugged into the Barnegat's internal communications and life support. Otherwise he would have been hovering over the shoulder of his sensor technician, Corporal Klesmer. As it was, the corporal could feel the pressure coming not just from his captain but from every other fellow crewman. Like every other crewman on board and all the concubines, he had his visor closed as protection against hull breach.

Suddenly six tiny objects passed the Barnegat, moving toward the surface of the planet with impressive speed.

A voice broke onto his bridge – one familiar to him, but not to his bridge crew. “Thanks, Captain, give us a second and you'll have your data,” came the calm voice of a Southern patrician gentleman.

“Thank you, Clarke!” he replied, his communications rating relaying the message.

“No trouble. I see you've fulfilled your instructions. Good job, Barnegat. Must have been frustratin' for you.”

“Like you wouldn't believe.” He then added to the communications rating, “Copy the Admiral's compliments to the crew.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The six sensor drones were much more powerful than the standard drones used by the Marines, being capable of taking readings not only of potential targets but also of weather and some idea of the geology and topography in the area as well. They arrowed into the atmosphere with wings folded back, like the Barnegat's shells but nowhere near as fast, only spreading those wings out when they reached air thick enough to glide. They spiralled around the hive sphere's landing zone, each weaving an independent track hopefully far too random to be predictable by any surviving Swarm anti-aircraft artillery.

What they revealed was shocking, even to the most battle-hardened soldiers and sailors.

The Voluptas had shattered like an egg. Scattered pieces of hull plating and warped and twisted stretches of internal support beams lay around the landing site. Where the ship itself once sat, a crater had been dug deep. The rim of the crater was unstable and falling into the deep caldera.

The few tunnels that the naturally subterranean Sa'arm had managed to punch through the shifting sand and brace with cannibalized hive sphere parts were completely destroyed, having been within the zone now occupied by the vast nothingness of the caldera itself.

Not a living thing moved. Not a single biological organism was detectable as far out as the three caravels still heading arrow-straight for the fire base that Sergeant Viletti and his comrades had occupied not four hours previous.

When Payne had sent CSS La Grange to the outpost to pick up a replacement pair of superluminal engines for the Pendennis Castle, he'd sent the other attack transport CSS Lanier to a convenient parking orbit around Hesperus – not a parking orbit for the Lanier, but rather for several rather sizable chunks of space ice – comets. Using her main engines and a specially adapted force field brace, she shoved five of the diamond-hard chunks of frozen water into a death spiral into Hesperus' atmosphere.

“Sir,” a still shaken communications sergeant aboard the Barnegat reported, “orders from Admiral Payne. We're to use SABOT shells and break up the incoming comets.”

Captain Matt Schlemmer raised his eyes in surprise, but ordered, “Mr. Rodegard, target the incoming comets.”

Lieutenant Rodegard was already on the job. “Main gun reloaded with SABOT. Target solution acquired.”

“Shoot!” Matt called.

The deck shuddered as the SABOT round left the Barnegat's main gun's muzzle. The jacket that kept the diminutive shell from rattling uncontrolled down the barrel bisected. As Hesperus' gravity caught them, they began an arcing fall toward the planet.

Four more times Barnegat sent the comparatively small shells to break up the incoming comets. By the time this stage of the operation was finished, the atmosphere of Hesperus held a lot more moisture.

The news that the hive sphere itself was now toast was good to the two knots of marines, but at the moment they couldn't afford to celebrate. They had a more important priority: the trio of caravels heading toward them. These Swarm were still alive, and therefore still a threat.

The movement of the caravels mystified Lieutenant Satterthwaite. He voiced his concerns to all six tank crews through the subvocal circuit. 'We've destroyed their hive, so they should be stunned, making random motions. That's what they've done before when we did major damage to the gestalt. But right now they're still heading for us, straight as an arrow.'

Ensign Wattie might have been green as grass, but he was no dummy. 'AI,' he asked, on the same subvocal circuit as his commanding officer and fellow tankers, 'they've been getting faster. Is this acceleration a constant rate?'

'What's their speed got to do with it?' demanded Satterthwaite.

'Not speed, Sir,” Wattie responded apologetically. 'Acceleration. The rate of change of speed over time.'

The AI came on line, having crunched the numbers. 'Ensign Wattie, the acceleration has been constant since just before the destruction of the Voluptas hive sphere. There is no evidence of guided input since that point.'

Lieutenant Satterthwaite realized the implications right away. 'They're stunned. Their caravels are taking them wherever they were last pointed. How long until they start thinking for themselves?'

'Lieutenant Satterthwaite, based on previous encounters, we can anticipate at least thirty minutes, possibly longer.'

'And how long until they get here?'

'Lieutenant Satterthwaite, if they maintain their present course and rate of acceleration, the caravels will arrive at the midpoint of this valley in approximately twelve minutes.'

Satterthwaite growled in appreciation. 'Then here's where we make our stand.'

“Here” was a rocky-floored valley with tall sand dune sides. With less than a quarter of an hour before the slaughter commenced, the only thing they could do was set their tanks at the tops of the cliffs on either side of the valley, dig in some infantry slit trenches, and wait for the trio of caravels to come to them.

Before long, the soldiers could make out the thundering of the mighty caravels. With a mindless, purposeless determination, the three-legged monsters barrelled down the dry arroyo in a triangular formation, destination uncertain. From the thirty-foot cliffs, six mighty cannon roared, sending blobs of energy smashing into the sides of the craft. The two trailing caravels were taken out by the first pair of tanks on each side, with the third tanks in line crushing the leading beast in a crossfire.

The Marines were surprised to learn that the Sa'arm ground transports were not armoured. The tank rounds cut right through the hulls like they were tissue paper.

The explosions were satisfactory, if not as fiery as one might desire. The fuel being a form of biodiesel meant that it didn't immediately catch fire, but the contents of the caravels' cavernous main bays were not so non-flammable.

As soon as the last of the three machines had stopped rolling across the valley, the infantry raced down to, as they put it, “take prisoners”: to be more precise, to shoot the wounded. Living Sa'arm, even intact Sa'arm heads, tended to attract Sa'arm rescue teams.

They need not have bothered. The tank guns had turned each caravel into a blender, shrapnel shredding the organic cargo. For the second time in six months, Sa'arm on Hesperus were an extinct species.

Carefully, the six tanks and two armoured personnel carriers approached the twisted remains.

The officer in command of the infantry platoon, Lieutenant Prichard, raised his visor, took a whiff of the barbecued bodies from the caravels, and swiftly lowered it again. “What an incredible smell you've discovered, Satterthwaite,” he observed darkly.

Lieutenant Satterthwaite's mock-outraged reply caused laughter across Hesperus: “What, don't you like your Christmas present? After all the effort your mother and I put into it....”

From the skies over their heads, the Marines noticed it was beginning to snow.

That left only the survivors of the space battle to deal with. To the relief of everyone, word was coming back from the orbit of the system's largest gas giant that the last of the hive sphere's escort had been reduced to scrap.

The door to Toddy's ready room chimed. “Enter,” he commanded.

The hatch opened to reveal the lanky, smiling form of Alex Payne. Today, Alex wore a proper Confederacy uniform. As he entered, he removed his black kepi.

“This is your real uniform, isn't it?” Toddy asked, not entirely surprised. “And your real rank? Some have been calling you 'admiral', and we've been thinking that it had to do with your old United States Navy rank, but it's not, is it?”

Payne shook his head. “No, it's not,” the patrician-voiced Virginian agreed. “I'm retired from the U.S. Navy, with the rank of vice-admiral, but that's not why they call me that. I truly am a Confederacy Navy admiral.”

“Why the subterfuge?” Toddy supposed he should have felt outrage, but found to his surprise his attitude was one of mere curiosity.

Payne shrugged his shoulders. “Your superiors thought it best to brevet me a lieutenant in the Fleet Auxiliary. That way, you'd feel less intimidated haulin' around the godlike presence of a flag officer.” He gave a good-natured scowl. “Plus, as admiral, I'd have to put up with a lot of silly social protocols, receptions, that sort of thing. As a Fleet Auxiliary lieutenant, I could stick to my job.”

“Which is?”

“Research. I'm actually the Number Three man in Central Command's Research and Development arm. I come by it honestly: before I was extracted, I was a professor at a southeastern university.”

“I'd thought your job was to drive me insane,” Toddy chuckled. “What happens now?”

“Actually, that act was just to keep you off-balance and from looking too closely at records we really didn't want you to even try to access.” Payne flashed the Clark's captain a gentle, winning smile. “We'll keep on doin' what we do. We'll head back to Thule to pick up our other concubines and our kids, then we'll decide whether that archaeologist comes with us. If he does, he heads back to Earth for onward shipment to a nice research colony. Otherwise, we can leave him here, where he's nice and close to what's left of the Hesperus ruins, and can study them to his heart's content.”

Toddy nodded in comprehension.

“And now,” Payne concluded, “I need to get into my mufti again.” With that, he shrugged off his Navy black jacket with the admiral's rank badges and dropped his Navy black pants. He then fired pants, jacket and the black kepi into the replicator. In a second the replicator presented Payne with a replacement uniform in Fleet Auxiliary light blue, with lieutenant's bars.

As he settled the light blue kepi on his head, he advised Toddy, “We don't need to tell anyone else of our little conversation we had here today, do we?”

“No,” Toddy agreed. “As far as the rest of the crew are concerned, you're just another mad scientist.”

“I wouldn't want it any other way,” Payne replied. He gave Toddy the first salute he'd ever given his captain, albeit a playful two-fingered Boy Scout salute, and left the ready room.

Toddy stared at the hatch that Payne exited through, lost in thought.