Lines of Departure

^{CHAPTER 20} THE BATTLE OF NEW SVALBARD

The first pair of Shrikes come thundering in with no subtlety whatsoever. They overfly the town at high altitude, five thousand feet above the deck at full throttle. The lead ship has all its active transmitters turned off, but the trailing ship is putting out enough radio energy with its jamming pods to cook a soy patty from a klick away.

“Rogue flight and all ground units, hold your missile fire,” I warn over the guard channel. “It’s a Wild Weasel combo. They’re trying to get us to commit our MANPADs.”

The Shrikes stay at full throttle as they fly overhead. The booms from their supersonic pass roll through the streets and alleys like not-so-distant cannon fire. Both attack birds are spewing out ECM decoys, but no missiles rise in response. One of our Dragonflies raps out a burst of cannon fire as a statement, but the autocannon’s grenades can’t reach that high, and the tracers fall way short.

“I’m lodging a complaint with the fleet,” someone sends from the civilian ops center, and I recognize Chief Barnett’s voice. “Flagrant breach of air-traffic regs, going supersonic above the city like that.”

Someone else in the circuit laughs. “No kidding. That shit can cause hearing damage.”

“We have activity at Frostbite,” Rogue One warns. “Six—make that eight—Wasps, heading this way.”

I watch the plot as the gaggle of drop ships from Camp Frostbite splits up into four pairs. The Wild Weasel flight has disappeared to the south, but the other Shrikes from the Midway swoop down from the steel-gray clouds and take up escort positions beside the drop ships.

“Here we go. Four assault elements, two Wasps and a Shrike each. Designating Raid One through Four.”

“At least they’re not half-assing it this time,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Airfield team, they’ll hit you again. Don’t give ’em space for a foothold.”

“Copy that.” The commander of the TA company at the airfield sounds much more relaxed than I feel at the prospect of two SI assault platoons dropping on our heads in the next few minutes.

“Rogue flight, do not engage the drop ships yet. Use whatever missiles you have left on the Shrikes. You light up one of those drop ships, the Shrikes are going to tear you up.”

The remaining Dragonflies send their acknowledgments. All the assets are on the board, and now it’s a matter of playing out the first moves to see who had the better hand at planning the match.

“Get your ass into the ops center,” Sergeant Fallon sends from around the corner, where she is checking the deployment of the platoon tasked with defense of the building. “You’re our whole C3 section now. Nobody else can use that slick computer of yours.”

“I’m touched by your concern, Master Sergeant,” I reply.

“Just trying to preserve our limited stock of knuckleheads.”

I watch the red icons on the plot. They’re steadily advancing toward the town. Each of those icons represents thirty or more troops, people I’ve shared a mess hall with, men and women who wear the same flag we do. The universe is falling apart around us, and we still have nothing smarter to do than to try and kill each other. I don’t have any love for the Lankies, those strange, planet-stealing, casually genocidal creatures, but in four years of constant combat against them, I’ve never seen two of their kind fight each other.

Overhead, the formation of drop ships and attack craft splits into two groups. One turns to the east and stays at altitude. The other turns to the east and rapidly descends toward the expanse of the airfield and its acres of open space.

“Airfield, incoming,” I announce. “Four Wasps, two Shrikes, heading right for you.”

The Shrikes zoom ahead and take up stations on both ends of the airfield as the drop ships do a textbook combat descent, a high-speed corkscrew maneuver to deny enemy antiaircraft gunners a predictable trajectory for their cannons. The air is practically crackling with radio energy as the Shrikes support their charges with electronic jamming to mess with the targeting radars we don’t have.

The Wasps descending on the airfield have barely leveled out just above the ground when two blue inverted vee shapes pop up on my tactical display right in the center of the airfield.

“Goalkeeper, execute,” Rogue One sends.

The two Dragonflies that just popped into existence on the plot do a synchronized turn to the south and ripple-fire three short-range air-to-air missiles at the Shrike that took up station at the south end of the airfield. At such a short distance, the pilot doesn’t even have time for any evasive action. He has barely begun to pull his bird up and goose his engines when all three missiles hit him amidships, and his red icon disappears from my display in a blink. I can feel the shock of the resulting explosion through the soles of my boots from over half a klick away.

“Rogue flight, splash one,” I narrate automatically. “Second Shrike is breaking off toward zero-two-zero.”

The other Shrike goes supersonic and rapidly zooms skyward to get out of MANPAD range. Then he does a wing-over and comes barreling back toward the airfield on a reciprocal heading. At this distance, the multibarreled heavy assault cannon of the Shrike sounds like a Lanky with flatulence, if the Lankies had digestive systems like we do. Over by the airfield, the heavy armor-piercing grenades from the Shrike’s big gun carve a hundred-foot trench into the runway concrete.

As soon as the Shrike pulls up from its strafing run, half a dozen handheld MANPAD launchers disgorge their missiles after it. The pilot kicks out countermeasure pods like parade confetti and once again pushes his bird through the sound barrier. Then I hear more cannon fire even before I see the two blue aircraft icons for the pair of Dragonflies popping up on my display again. The drop ships have linked their fire-control computers to use their radars and gun turrets as a makeshift antiaircraft cannon battery, and their bursts perfectly anticipate the turn rate and vector of the fleeing Shrike. I bring up the video feed from their targeting cameras just in time to see a cannon shell chew into the left engine pylon of the Shrike, sending bits of armor flying. For a moment it looks like the Dragonflies just scored another air-to-air kill, but then the pilot of the Shrike rights his wounded craft and runs away at full throttle, trailing smoke.

“Fuck, those things are tough,” Rogue Two says. “Can’t believe the son of a bitch is still flying.”

“I’ve seen one make it back to the carrier with half its port wing gone and one engine shot off the airframe,” I say. “They’re built to take a beating. You guys did good.”

There are four hostile red carets left on my tactical screen. The image from the Dragonflies’ targeting cameras slews to show the quartet of Wasp drop ships disgorging troops by the side of the runway, only a few hundred feet from the control tower.

“Hate it for ya,” Rogue One says, with what sounds like genuine regret in his voice. Then the chin turrets and hull-mounted heavy autocannons of the Dragonflies open up at the same time. The Wasps and their infantry passengers are sitting ducks, caught in the most vulnerable phase of an assault landing. My stomach clenches as I watch.

The Wasps are armored against small arms and light cannon fire, but even their laminate hull plating isn’t designed to withstand the beating of large-caliber heavy antiarmor cannons at point-blank range. The first bursts from the Dragonflies tear into the flanks of the fleet drop ships like sledgehammers into sheetrock. The Wasps are in the middle of troop deployment, and the soldiers rushing to get clear are caught in a storm of exploding grenades and flying armor shards. Even though Rogue flight is selectively targeting control surfaces and engines, the carnage on the screen is shocking. In less than ten seconds of short cannon bursts, all four fleet Wasps are smoking wrecks, their vital parts blown to bits all over the runway. Around the immobilized gaggle of drop ships, there are at least a dozen fallen SI troopers who didn’t get out of the line of fire fast enough. The rest are rushing the hangars and heading for cover, but they’re clearly shell-shocked.

When our HD troopers open fire from their positions between the hangars, a short and violent firefight erupts. The SI troopers are caught out in the open, trapped between their burning drop ships and prepared defensive positions, and it doesn’t take long for them to realize the hopelessness of their situation. Then our Dragonflies move in behind them. As quickly as it started, the shootout ends, and the remaining SI troops put their weapons on the ground and raise their hands.

“Cease fire,” someone orders. “They’re packing it in.”

“First smart thing they’ve done today,” Rogue One replies. He has steered his ship away from whatever shelter he had used to hide from the Shrikes, and moves over to the burning Wasps, chin turret trained on the surrendering troops. “You know, these new fleet birds are all right. I think I’m gonna keep this one.”

“Casualties at the airfield,” I tell Sergeant Fallon. “Theirs, not ours.”

“Send some medics over there ASAP,” she tells the platoon leaders. “And for fuck’s sake, disarm those jarheads first. I don’t want them to change their minds about their winning odds.”

“We’ll find a quiet corner for them somewhere,” the airfield company’s CO replies.

“Andrew, where’s the other flight?”

I check the tactical display.

“Coming around and back in from the east. They’re still at five thousand. Hard to tell what they have in mind, but they sure as shit blew their chance for a surprise attack.”

“I’m tracking them optically,” Rogue Four says.

“Keep your active sensors cold,” I tell him, and tap into his camera feed.

“Yeah, roger that. I’m not interested in getting a HARM up my ass today.”

“They really ought to either piss or get off the damn pot,” Rogue One says.

When they’re right above the center of town, still high up and out of range of our infantry’s shoulder-launched MANPADs, Raid Two finally breaks cruise formation. The Shrikes take up close air support positions overhead, and the Wasps start their combat descents, spiraling groundward like a handful of overeager autumn leaves hurling themselves off a tree branch. My tactical computer shows their projected trajectory, and the dotted red line of their predicted flight path ends right on top of the spot where Sergeant Fallon and I are standing.

“Raid Two is dropping on the admin center,” I announce, much more calmly than I feel.

The Wasps swarm in from all cardinal directions of the compass rose. They pull up into position on all four of the intersections around the admin center, each only two blocks from where I am. They put their craft into a hover above the intersections and deploy assault lines out of their open tail ramps. A moment later, SI infantry start rappelling down the lines from fifty feet up. This time, there are no surprise Dragonflies breaking up the deployment with point-blank cannon fire, and the HD troops on the ground hold their missiles, for fear of sending a Wasp crashing down into the densely packed civilian housing. Then all four of their platoons are on the ground, and the Wasps streak skyward again with screaming engines, ejecting clouds of countermeasures along the way.

“We have a company on the dirt at the admin center,” I announce, even though my tactical computer has already shared the data with every battle armor and vehicle on our TacLink network.

“Admin center platoon, heads up,” Sergeant Fallon says. “We’ll hold ’em by the nose for the ass-kicking.”

The SI platoons break up into squads and start their rush toward the admin center. I run around the corner and join Sergeant Fallon and the squad that’s dug in by the corner of the building. There’s no actual digging on the permanently frozen ground, so the fighting positions are made from intermeshing parts of modular ferroconcrete barriers.

“About time,” Sergeant Fallon says when I leap over the low barrier and land next to her. “I was wondering if you were planning to take on those jarheads all by yourself.”

“Right,” I say. “And get two to the spleen again.”

The deployment pattern of our HD platoon fully anticipated a textbook four-pronged airborne assault from precisely those intersections. When the SI troops round the corners of the last block across the intersection, they’re faced with mutually supporting firing positions, and autocannons sheltered by concrete. On all four corners, fléchette rifles start chattering as the SI troops start a leapfrogging assault. On all four corners, the rifle fire is instantly answered by much more authoritative autocannon reports. The SI assault elements abandon their mad dash for the admin building and seek cover in doorways and behind garbage containers. Smoke rolls across the street as the SI troopers deploy smoke grenades, even though they have to be aware that our own helmet sensors can see right through most of it.

“Side alley, eleven o’clock, fifty,” Sergeant Fallon calls out over the din. I adjust my aim and see four SI troopers taking up firing positions in the mouth of a narrow alley between two housing units. The lead trooper is readying his rifle’s grenade launcher. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s preparing a smoke grenade or a proximity-fused frag grenade. Sergeant Fallon rasps out a burst with her rifle. The fléchettes tear the weapon from the SI trooper’s hands and send him sprawling backwards. His comrades drag him out of sight, firing at us as they do.

“Keep an eye on those drop ships,” Sergeant Fallon shouts.

My tactical plot is a mess of blue and red icons, five platoons of fighting troops duking it out in a four-block area around the admin center. The fleet Wasps are circling high above the fray, out of missile range, waiting for the close air support calls from their charges on the ground. All around me, I hear the din of rifle fire and the chest-pounding low staccato of the autocannons firing sporadic bursts.

More blue icons show up on the plot as one of our HD companies moves in and engages the SI troops from the rear. Now the attackers are sandwiched between two groups of defenders, caught between a hammer and anvil. I only have to look at my plot to know that the SI troops alone won’t be able to take the admin center away from us, not while having to defend 360 degrees just a few minutes into the assault. Without our autocannons, it would be a close call. With each of the building’s corners defended by a pair of them, the SI troops are in a very bad spot.

“Fast mover, bearing in from two-eight-zero true,” Rogue Four warns. “He’s making a gun run, the nutcase.”

In the distance, I hear the familiar banshee wail of a Shrike at full throttle. Then the first high-velocity cannon shells pepper the area around the squad fortification to our left. The small-arms fire all around us is drowned out by the thunderclaps of exploding dual-purpose shells. In just a second or two, the squad position on the southwest corner of the admin center is obscured by a cloud of frozen soil and pulverized concrete. Then the Shrike thunders past overhead, low enough for me to make out the markings on the armored fuselage. For a moment, there’s a lull in the shooting on the ground. When the smoke clears, half the concrete barriers on that corner of the building are gone, and there are a dozen impact craters the size of mule wheels in the thick concrete of the admin center’s wall.

“Those damn things are murder,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Another run like that, and we can pack it in.”

The SI troops at that end of the building pop smoke in front of the ruined position and come charging across the street. There’s return fire from the squad position, but it’s from just a rifle or two at the most. I slap down the face shield of my helmet, switch sensor mode to multispectral, and dump a whole magazine in fully automatic mode at the outlines of SI troops rushing through the smoke. Next to me, some of the HD troopers shift their fire as well, and the SI assault falters halfway across the intersection. Several of the SI troops go down, and the rest retreat to the cover of the buildings behind them.

“They’re not going anywhere,” one of the HD troopers says.

“If that Shrike makes a few more passes, they won’t have to,” I reply. “They can just wait and then stroll in to mop up our bits and pieces.”

“Keep that attack bird off our asses,” Sergeant Fallon tells the Rogue Dragonflies. “We just lost most of a squad. Don’t let him get in another one of those gun runs.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Rogue One says. “Fucker’s too fast for our cannons unless he’s close, and we’re Winchester on air-to-air.”

I hear more heavy gunfire in the distance—not the Devil’s Zipper sound of the Shrike’s massive antiarmor cannon, but the slower staccato of drop-ship autocannons. Somewhere in the alleys beyond the contested intersection, MANPAD launchers send their ordnance skyward. I can’t tell who launched them, or whether they’re aimed at our drop ships or theirs. My plot is a mess of red and blue icons in close proximity, the battle rapidly escalating into an unwise clusterfuck of epic proportions. One of the fleet Shrikes makes a low pass at full throttle, gun blazing at a target over by the airfield half a klick away. I shoot a hundred-round burst of fléchettes after it in frustration, even though I know that the little three-millimeter tungsten needles from my rifle won’t do much more than scratch the paint. The Shrike banks sharply to the left and roars away, dumping clouds of countermeasures in its wake.

The shock wave of an explosion shakes the earth under my feet so hard that I have to take a step back from the concrete barrier for balance. When the sound of the detonation rolls across the city, I know right away that whatever just went off was way too big for a conventional warhead. All around me, the shooting ebbs. I turn toward the source of the sound and see a massive plume of frozen earth and ice reach a thousand feet or more into the sky to the north. Some of the troopers next to me shout in surprise and confusion. Then the ground shakes again, another titanic thunderclap bounces the dust on the street in front of us, and a second plume of frozen ground and dust rises near the first one. Now all the shooting near the admin building has ceased, friendly and hostile fire alike. There are only two kinds of weapons in the task force arsenal that can throw frozen dirt half a klick high on impact like that, and I’ve had enough nukes lobbed into my vicinity to know that these are not nuclear warheads.

“What the fuck was that?” Sergeant Fallon asks in an almost comically quizzical tone.

“Kinetic strike,” I answer. “Someone sent down a little notice from orbit.”

“Now hear this,” Colonel Campbell’s voice comes over the fleet emergency channel. “All fleet units, listen up. This is Indianapolis Actual.

“I just fired two kinetic warheads at the ground between Camp Frostbite and New Longyearbyen. There are ninety-eight more of those in my magazine. All combat action against colonial units or civilian assets on New Longyearbyen will stop as of this moment, or I will launch the next pair right into the middle of Camp Frostbite. If you’re still shooting at your own people after that, I will shoot the rest of my kinetic warheads at every piece of fleet equipment down there that’s bigger than a belt buckle.”

In the brief pause that follows, some of the HD troopers nearby look at each other and laugh in disbelief.

“I also have all four of my nuclear launch tubes warmed up and dialed in on the Midway and her escorts. Rest assured that I will get my nukes off if you shoot missiles at me. I’ve also released both my stealth interceptors with nuclear ordnance, and those things are so sneaky that even I couldn’t find them.

“The fleet will cease all offensive ops on the moon, and recall all its birds to the Midway. Take any offensive action against Indianapolis or any of the civvie installations on the surface, and I will launch every nuke in my tubes at Midway. Then you can test if your point-defense systems from two modernization cycles ago can handle two dozen half-megaton warheads from short range.”

Sergeant Fallon shakes her head with a disbelieving grin and looks at me. “Did he just threaten to shoot nukes at one of our own ships?”

“He did,” I confirm. “But he does have a history of that.”

“I think I love that man. I want to meet him.”

“What you’re doing on that moon down there is reckless idiocy that’s costing lives,” Colonel Campbell continues on the emergency channel. “Consider putting someone in charge on that flag bridge who isn’t a clueless part-time warrior. Now recall those birds and cease fire, or the next brace of kinetic warheads goes out into Camp Frostbite in sixty seconds. Indianapolis Actual out.”

Nearby, some of the HD troopers clap and cheer.

“You think he’ll do it?” Sergeant Fallon asks.

“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second.”

“Gee, too bad they shuttled their entire space ape regiment into Camp Frostbite just a little while ago,” she says wryly. “I’d hate to be back there right now. Those kinetic rounds hit pretty hard. I bet they make big holes.”

All around us, dust and dirt from the massive impact plumes to the north of town have started to fall like dirty rain.

“Yes, they do,” I say. “All the punch of a low-yield nuke, without that nasty radiation.”

The terse reply from the fleet comes over the emergency channel well before the minute is up.

“Hold your fire, Indianapolis. All fleet units, stand down. I repeat, all fleet units, stand down. Airborne units, disengage, disengage.”

Within moments, all gunfire in the city ebbs. Across the intersection, the SI troopers withdraw into the warren of residential domes and narrow alleyways behind a rapidly thinning smoke screen. We track them with our rifle sights until they are gone from view. Someone turns off the fire-control system on the autocannon, and its electric servos stop humming. The sudden silence feels a bit surreal after the din of battle.

Sergeant Fallon slaps my shoulder pauldron and leaps over the concrete barrier into the road.

“The day’s looking up, Andrew. Let’s get some medics out to First Squad. Keep a watch, in case they change their minds.”