Homeworld: A Military Science Fiction Novel (13 page)

The Reality of the Situation

President Stripling sat at the head of the oversized briefing table in the middle of the war room. He hadn’t shaved in three days and hadn’t bathed in one. Creator only knew the last time he’d caught some sleep as he was running on stimulants. There was too much to do, and even with the time that the new technological marvel protecting their planet from enemy ships Nulling in had bought them, there still wasn’t enough time to do it in. Admirals Clarkson and Patrick sat to his sides looking as crisp, clean and refreshed as if they’d just returned from a two week leave in the Caribbean. The recruiting poster worthy hulking, square-jawed General Temple, the head of Earth Republic Infantry, and Ambassador Kal, filled out the rest of the table.

“Gentlemen, please tell me at least one of you has a plan?” Stripling asked in a voice that sounded like it had traveled over sand paper before exiting his mouth

“Mister President, we just went over the plan, sir,” Admiral Patrick reminded him.

“I meant the plan that doesn’t end with Earth’s orbit left with the flooded debris left over from the ships of our Fleet and the bloated bodies of their crews. A plan that doesn’t entail Earth’s cities burning while our citizens are dying by the billions in the streets,” President Stripling growled, rubbing at his already bloodshot red eyes.

The room was silent. Clarkson finally spoke up first. Calmly rewording, but basically repeating what he had been saying to the Earth Republic’s Supreme Commander for the past fifteen minutes. “That is the best we can hope for, Mister President. We should be thankful that the Coalition wants to take Earth relatively intact; otherwise, we wouldn’t have a prayer. They have enough firepower to level every city and kill every citizen of the Earth Republic on Earth without ever landing a single soldier on the ground if they choose to do so.”

“What about the ships we recalled from the frontlines?” President Stripling asked knowing the answer to the question already because he vaguely remembered asking it twice already but he had hoped that had been part of the waking nightmare his life had become.

“They are a minimum of two days out at max speed. That is with every Captain redlining their drives, and that is assuming they won’t run into other Coalition forces on their way here sir,” Clarkson said. “What we’ve got is all we’re going to have until they do get here and intel suggests the Coalition fleet will arrive within the hour.”

“Kal, please tell me you have something?” President Stripling pleaded, wheeling in his chair to face the ambassador while using the table to prop his head up by placing his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

“The Darians have yet to give us an official reply to your offer, sir. Until that time, we can’t count on help from that front either.” Ambassador Kal said with deep regret.

He had hoped somehow Xarn and his people would have been moved by their offer to make a decision and mobilize faster, but every time he asked Xarn, his friend would simply tell him that he had not received a decision from his Emperor.

However, he answered Kal’s latest plea for a response while being fully dressed in Darian battle armor, which unlike the human equivalent, was far more form fitting and allowed the wearer greater mobility. According to his sources, the armor also offered the wearer the same protection as the much heavier and cumbersome human battle armor. It also had one further, very significant, difference from Earth Republic Infantry battle armor and that was a chameleon like ability that allowed it to take on a camouflage pattern of the colors behind the wearer.

His friend also had a machine rifle of Darian design slung over his shoulder. It had a much shorter barrel than human style rifles and it too had the strange chameleon abilities. Under normal circumstances, Kal would have set a group to the task of learning exactly how this technology worked and if they could acquire it but these were not normal circumstances and the resources normally at his disposal were needed elsewhere.

Kal’s mind wandered for a moment as he remembered the Darian offering him a strangely smelling tea and having told him that he had evacuated his staff off planet days ago but he himself had stayed just in case his Emperor decided to respond in time.

He remembered how Xarn had held him by the shoulders as he had been about to exit the Darian diplomat’s office and looked him in the eye as he said, “I will not be leaving Kal. I have lived a long life as my species count the years and I would be honored to die beside your people if you have need of me.

If you do not, I will wait for the Coalition forces to find me here and I will make them wish they never had. If your duties do not require you elsewhere, I welcome you to return here when it is time and we will see what kind of damage two old warriors, back to back, can deliver to those who oppose us.” His friend had then shown his teeth in the manner of a Darian smile and Kal, whose family had been evacuated almost a month ago to an outer colony, had said, “Unless I am ordered to the defenses elsewhere, I would be honored and I will return here armed and armored for battle.” Those were the last words the two had shared.

Stripling slumped forward onto the table and the melon like thump his head made as it hit the table had snapped Kal from his reminiscing. A man in the white apparel and bearing the insignia of an Infantry doctor had stepped up from behind him and injected something into his neck. The President had slowly risen from the table, nodded in thanks, and waved away the doctor before slumping back in his chair, his shoulders sagging but looking slightly more alert. “In case I have failed to make my position clear, we are not going to surrender,” he said flatly.

“No one has suggested that, Mister President,” Admiral Patrick assured him. “I fully believe our available ships can hold the Coalition in a prolonged space battle regardless of the odds. Give the order as I have suggested, sir, and we can stop them.”

President Stripling’s eyes cut into Admiral Patrick. “Ordering our ships to fight a fair fight is one thing, Admiral. Ordering them to commit suicide is something else. I will not now or ever give that order.”

Clarkson felt pride in Stripling’s decision and he gained some measure of respect for the tired, wrung out rag of a man he took his orders from.

Patrick’s plan called for the ships around Earth to use themselves as weapons, ramming into the enemy, all guns blazing.

It might or might not work but one thing it would do was assure that none of the brave men and women aboard those Earth Republic Fleet ships would survive. Most of them would die in the battle that was about to take place, but at least some of them would escape in lifeboats or simply turn tail and run. To himself, and President Stripling, the life of every Republic citizen counted and the President was showing that boldly with his refusal to give into Admiral Patrick.

“We’ve done all we can do, sir,” Clarkson nodded, “short of that,” he cocked his head at Admiral Patrick, “All we can do at this point is stick to our guns and hope we catch a break that we can exploit as things go down.”

“I suppose this meeting’s over then?” Patrick asked feeling wholly defeated. “I’d like to urge you once more, Mister President, to please consider leaving Earth.”

“I agree,” General Temple cut in. “You’re staying here on earth will only put you in danger. I can’t guarantee your safety here, sir, and we can‘t afford to lose you at a time like this.”

President Stripling glanced at Clarkson. Clarkson nodded his approval. “Fine, if that is the consensus, then I have no choice but to leave earth,” he sighed at last sounding like a man utterly defeated. “As I am sure that is apparent to men of your caliber I would be no good in a fight, other than for someone else to hold up and use as a meat shield and I will not burden any of our fine Infantry with trying to heft my dead weight to do so.”

“The Brynhilder is standing by in orbit, sir,” Patrick informed him as he stood from his seat.

“I can have you on board and underway in ten minutes.”

“Correct me if I am wrong, Patrick, but The Brynhilder is a battleship and one of our finest. I cannot. I will not have you pull her off the line just to see me to safety,” Stripling protested, pointing an index finger at the admiral.

As Patrick began to protest, President Stripling cut him off by slapping his palm on the table and barking, “Damn it, man, I know I am a symbol and a voice that what is left of the Earth Republic, after this massacre, can rally around but I will not contribute to making it more of a massacre!”

Despite his years of distaste for his Commander in Chief, Admiral Clarkson couldn’t help but begin to like the man. He seemed to understand his role as a President well and while he may have only served his compulsory years in the Earth Republic Fleet and then gone into politics, Clarkson was beginning to think that he wouldn’t mind serving aboard a Fleet vessel with him some day. After he had taught him which side was port and which side was starboard that is. He might even vote for him this time come the next election, if there ever was one.

“There’s no other choice, Mister President,” Admiral Patrick pressed him. “Whether you’re on her or not, we send her as an escort to whatever ship you do use, she’ll be with you. She’s fast enough to get you through the Null Point and return before the Coalition fleet is expected to arrive. Her Normal Space engines are top of the line and have recently under gone a major overhaul giving her twenty five percent more speed than even a typical ship of her class and better acceleration to boot.”

“God be with us and forgive us all,” Stripling told the others as he stood with the help of his medical attendant and let Admiral Patrick lead him towards the room’s exit.

Symbolism

The Brynhilder was indeed a mighty craft. Two years out of the Earth Republic Fleet Alpha Centauri shipyards the Brynhilder was both her name and her classification she was 75,000 tons of thickly armored reinforced plastisteel, Pulse Missile Mark 1 tubes, and Ceramic weapon emplacements. The second that President Stripling and his entourage of advisors and security personnel were rushed aboard, her engines flared to life, burning hard for the Null Point.

She would make the leap to the Alpha Centauri system, pass the President off to the Dawnstar, a smaller, and faster cruiser already waiting there to receive him, and then leap back to join the defensive force orbiting Earth. Or at least that’s what Worley’s briefing had told him but it would not be the first time that the Earth Republic Fleet had broadcasted such messages out in the hopes of the enemy intercepting, decoding and being deceived by them.

Captain Worley watched as the Brynhilder streaked away from the battle group in orbit around Earth from the bridge of the Myrddin. Worley had been placed in command of the Earth Fleet battle group, and his nerves were frayed enough without this extra move by Earth Republic Government to get the President to safety. His battle group had already started picking up the incredibly massive Coalition Super Dreadnaughts on their long-range scans.

Still if the Brynhilder was everything it was said to be then the President should have no problem getting out ahead of their armada. Hadn’t the President decided to stay on planet? If he was leaving now even aboard the Brynhilder they were cutting it awfully close. Worley wondered why the last minute change of plan was happening but that was all he could do; wonder.

A mere Captain wasn’t privy to decisions made on that high of a level. Admiral Patrick was supposed to be aboard the Brynhilder as well. He worried that the Admiral would assume command of his battle group when the Brynhilder returned. Worley had nothing against the Admiral but that was probably because he knew nothing about the man other than his last name and rank. Admiral Patrick was responsible primarily for the Earth Republic Fleet vessels closer to the home world.

Captain Worley typically served near the outer colonies under the direction of Admiral Clarkson, a man he knew well and whose direction he would gladly follow, but the Myrddin had been called back for refit at the Alpha Centauri shipyards about a month ago.

When it became clear that a direct attack on Earth itself was unavoidable, the refit was cut short and he had Nulled to Normal Space around earth where Admiral Clarkson had seen to it personally that Worley was put in charge of the battle group. Because of all the captains of all the vessels assembled, he had the most actual combat experience.

If the Admiral Patrick did decide to take command, as would be his right, it would make Worley’s battle group less effective in the coming engagement. It didn’t matter how skilled the admiral may be, he was outside of the existing command structure of the group that been learning to work together since it had been formed weeks ago.

All of the captains up here knew each other and through the practice maneuvers and mock combats they had run through, they could anticipate, up to a degree, what to expect of the others. Admiral Patrick wouldn’t have the “feel” of how the group functioned.

As the Brynhilder reached the Null Point, Worley turned to his Executive Officer, but whatever order he was about to give was quickly cut off as his Helmsman’s call quickly cut him off. “Sir, the Brynhilder is reporting anomalous readings from their forward scanners.” There was a brief pause as the Helmsman tapped at his vid. “Sir, they’re Coalition fighters and there are hundreds of them!”

“Damn,” cursed the captain through clenched teeth. The Coalition armada must have sent them through Normal Space ahead of rest of the Coalition vessels inbound. With their decreased mass, they would be much easier to accelerate than the rest of the Coalitions armada.

Worley quickly moved the Virtual Array to maximum zoom and resolution on the Brynhilder and he saw the space in front of the mighty Battle Fortress filled with tiny points. The violet glow of the Null Point began to flare and Worley held his breath praying that the ship would make it out.

Seconds before the Brynhilder’s Null Point was fully opened the Captain watched in horror as pieces of the Brynhilder’s hull spun away in all different directions. The combined acceleration of hundreds of the fighter’s Ceramics compounded by the Brynhilder’s tremendous speed in Normal Space had created an impact too strong for the armor of any Battle Fortress in the Earth Republic, or any, Fleet to survive and it had turned the capital ship into so much floating detritus.

“Battle stations!” Worley howled, plopping into his command chair.

“All vessels deploy countermeasures!” Worley commanded over the ship-to-ship com. For two weeks, ever since they first learned of the Coalition’s fighters, cargo ships had been ferrying not only essential supplies and armament to the battle group but something else as well. Earth Republic scientists had calculated that a craft as small as the Coalition’s new one manned fighter craft could only generate a magnetic shield array capable of deflecting objects up to five kilogram. While it would serve the maneuverable fighters well enough for travel through Normal Space, it would not serve it at all for what Captain Worley and the other captains among his battle group had thought up.

In the battle for Mars, the fighters had been served well by being able to quickly move in on a capital ship and concentrating their fire as they strafed the length of her. “Well here’s a surprise for you, you Coalition bastards,” thought Worley. His Virtual Array showed him all the metallic refuse the Earth’s remanufacturing centers had been able to send him, filling Space in all directions around his battle group and slowly spreading outwards as more and more pieces of junk left every craft in the small portion of space where the Earth Republic Fleet had assembled for this brawl. If any fighter tried to displace one of these chunks of metal with his puny magnetic array, he would find itself becoming a new chunk to deter his fellows. Meanwhile, his battle group would have no problem maneuvering through it due to their far more powerful arrays.

He had no doubt that if the fighters tried some of the fighters aboard possessed the skill to maneuver through the dense manmade asteroid field but not all of them and those who got through could be quickly picked off. If the fighters decided to attempt to sit at a distance and launch their Ceramics at the E.R.F. forces in front of them that was fine by Captain Worley too as their much smaller projectiles would probably be shattered by the space junk while the Myrddin’s Ceramics would power through them like so much water through a sieve. He smiled as he wondered if someone’s kitchen sink was floating out there in the debris field.

Blaring alarms rang in Worley’s ears as the Myrddin prepared to fight and it was then that it sank in that the President of the Earth Republic had been killed right before his eyes. These fighters had been sent ahead of the fleet to soften up or outright destroy Earth’s defenses and the plan had worked.

While President Stripling was just a man he was also a powerful symbol to the citizens of the Republic, a reassuring voice they had come to rely on these past five years as they had huddled in their shelters while the Coalition fleets above their worlds had launched a Kinetic Impact Assault to soften up their world’s ground defenses. His face on the vids also proved to the rest of the citizens whose worlds were not being attacked that the Earth Republic was still functioning, still fighting and so should they! Now he was gone and while a new President could be elected, it would not be the same voice and face that the citizens had come to trust and rely on. The Coalition had scored a great victory today and they didn’t even know it.

“Captain!” snapped his X.O., breaking Worley’s attention from his brooding. The captain looked up and saw the fighters had decided to come through the field and were firing their Ceramics at the same time. His Virtual Array informed him that he had 485 fighters and falling inbound as some smashed against the very obstacles meant to keep them at bay.

“All ships open fire on targets of opportunity!” Captain Worley called on ship to ship.

As he felt the thrum of the Myrddin’s Ceramics being launched, he knew these fighters would be quickly mopped up. Worley only wished the same could be said about the armada that followed behind them.