The Nelson Touch

Chapter Twenty-One

“We’ve got them on the run,” North snapped. “Now we just have to run them down.”

“Don’t get cocky,” the Wing Commander snapped back. “They’re not panicking, they’re withdrawing in good order.”

Henry couldn’t disagree with her. The alien carriers were retreating — slowly, but surely — and yet their starfighters were carefully positioning themselves to block the human advance. It suggested they didn’t want to pull back too quickly, just avoid contact as long as possible… but it wouldn’t be very long at all. No carrier could match a starfighter’s rate of acceleration.

“Prepare to engage,” the Wing Commander ordered. “Concentrate on scattering their formation rather than punching through to the carriers. Leave them to the bombers.”

“Understood,” Henry said. The other pilots chimed in seconds later. “We’re ready.”

He found himself wondering just what the alien commander was thinking. The slow retreat suggested either a trap or a simple bout of indecision. If the aliens held their ground, they would be destroyed; if the aliens retreated, their commander would be accused of lacking Moral Fibre. Did the aliens worry about reputations and suchlike too? He honestly didn’t know, but it seemed likely. The alien commander might want to put up a good show for his superiors without actually risking his ships. But it was already too late for that.

Carefully, he activated the automatic gunner as the alien starfighters lunged towards the human craft, then concentrated on evading incoming fire. As always, the alien starfighters filled space with countless bolts of deadly plasma, with two human pilots vanishing in tiny explosions because they’d accidentally dodged straight into a streak of light. He noted one of the alien craft vanishing as his starfighter scored a direct hit, then swooped around as one of the aliens targeted him personally. Moments later, North picked the alien off and let out a cheer. Henry grinned and made a mental note to buy North a beer during their next period of shore leave.

“The Japanese are breaking through,” the Wing Commander said. “Cover them.”

The aliens had made the same observation, Henry realised, as he broke off from his engagement and swooped after the Japanese bombers. Almost all of their fighters were racing for the bombers, ignoring the human starfighters snapping at their heels. Seven Japanese bombers were wiped out in quick succession, then the aliens scattered as the human starfighters blew right through them. Enough Japanese bombers survived to mount an attack run on the closest alien carrier, but only one missile managed to detonate. Damaged, bleeding plasma, the alien carrier continued to limp away from the battlefield.

“They’re tougher than they look,” an American voice observed.

Henry barely heard him as one of the alien pilots locked on him and opened fire, forcing Henry to throw his craft into a dizzying series of spirals and evasive tricks. The alien was good, he realised numbly, good enough to almost burn his craft out of space twice. By the time the alien broke off in search of easier prey, his uniform was completely soaked in sweat.

“Line up on me,” the Wing Commander ordered. “Another flight of bombers is coming through.”

Henry nodded, then fell into a protective position around the American bombers. The aliens, depleted slightly, seemed hesitant for a long moment, then swooped down on the bombers, forcing the human fighters to cover them. Henry picked off one of the alien fighters, then dodged another fighter as the American bombers started to launch their missiles. Moments later, an alien carrier had been blown into flaming debris.

“That’s two,” an American voice carolled. “We got the…”

His voice cut off with a sudden terrible finality. Henry didn’t need to glance at the overall display to realise that the American had been killed, picked off in a moment of carelessness or distraction. He gritted his teeth as the recall order came in, summoning them back to the carriers. Like some of the other pilots, he wanted to argue, but there was no time. Besides, the planet-side fighters were closing in on the human fleet from the rear. The CSP might well be overwhelmed…

“The alien starfighters are closing in,” Farley reported. “They’re going after the American carriers.”

James nodded, unsure if the aliens knew they were targeting Americans or if they were merely going after the biggest ships in the human fleet. Not, in the end, that it mattered, he knew. One good strafing run and there would be nothing left of the carrier, but an expanding ball of plasma. And the human fleet would be seriously dented.

“Order our guns to cover them,” he ordered.

He gritted his teeth as the storm broke over Franklin Roosevelt. The Americans fought back savagely, surprising the aliens with the plasma cannons attached to the carrier’s hull. They hadn’t expected anything of the sort, James realised, even though they should have been prepared for it. But it wasn’t enough to force the aliens to pull back. A hundred plasma bolts slammed into the carrier’s hull, burning through her thin armour and blazing through her innards. James didn’t want to imagine what sort of hell her interior had become, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the carrier died.

“Get to the lifepods,” he muttered, urgently. The Americans might be saved if they abandoned ship. “Get to the lifepods…”

The American carrier exploded. For a moment, the alien craft hung in space — a gesture of respect or contempt; James couldn’t decide which — and then went hunting for other targets. The remaining American fighters tore into them, followed rapidly by French and British fighters from the CSP. James let out a sigh of relief as the aliens scattered, then either fell back to the planet or died under vengeful human fire. But they’d already scored one big victory, he knew. Five thousand American spacers had just died.

“Franklin is gone, sir,” Farley said. “I’m picking up a handful of lifepods.”

“Detail a SAR team to pick them up,” James ordered. The aliens didn’t make a habit of going after SAR operations, as far as anyone knew, but most of the previous battles hadn’t lasted long enough for anyone to find out for sure. “And then bring them back to the ship.”

He sighed, watching grimly as the alien carriers made their escape. The two sides had each lost a carrier, with one of the alien carriers badly damaged. But the aliens were much closer to their reinforcements, everyone assumed, than the human ships. There was no way to be absolutely sure…

Bracing himself, he keyed a switch to call the Admiral. “Admiral,” he said. “The fighters are returning to the ship.”

“Good,” Admiral Smith said. “Order them to rearm, then prepare for redeployment. We have a planet to target.”

“Aye, sir,” James said.

Henry had always been raised to think of carriers as the queens of space. They were immense warships, even the smallest carrying over two thousand officers and men, seemingly invincible as they prowled through space. Even hearing about the first Battle of New Russia hadn’t really convinced him otherwise, particularly after tactics were adapted and Ark Royal gave the aliens a series of bloody noses. But now… an American carrier, the largest in the fleet, had simply been blown into dust. He couldn’t help feeling subdued as he slotted his starfighter into the landing deck and waited for the techs to go to work.

“We’ll get the bastards,” North said, softly. Even he sounded subdued by the sudden evidence that even a fleet carrier was not invincible. They’d known about the two British carriers lost at New Russia, but it hadn’t been quite real. It was now. “For Roosevelt… and for the others.”

“Yes,” Henry muttered. “For them all.”

He braced himself as the fighter was dragged through the landing tube, hastily reloaded with new weapons and fuel cells, then slotted into the launch tube. It didn’t look as though they would be shot back out into space at once, much to his relief, but there would be no time to relax. They’d be going back out soon enough. Absently, he keyed his way into the datanet and looked through the information gathered by the drones. Target One supported a vast alien population, perhaps one numbered in the billions. In fact, one of the analysts had noted, if the aliens had cities that were completely underneath the waves, the population could be a great deal higher than any human world.

It was an odd thought, but Henry had to admit it made a certain kind of sense. Target One’s oceans covered three-fourths of the planet. There was no shortage of food in the seas, as he’d learned on one of the few holidays he’d actually had a few days to relax before the reporters showed up to spoil his holiday by writing long articles about how the Prince was shaming himself by fishing in the sea. If the aliens lived underwater, it was quite possible that they never had to worry about food shortages. Hell, the oceans still helped feed millions of humans on Earth. What sort of society would that produce?

“We launch in twenty minutes, unless the aliens attack earlier,” the CAG informed them. “I suggest you try to relax.”

Easier said than done, Henry thought. I couldn’t relax right now if you paid me.

“We pulled thirty-two crewmen out of the lifepods,” Lopez reported. “None of the others were recovered.”

Ted nodded, fighting to keep the emotion off his face. Five thousand men and women had just died on his watch, including a large number of experienced officers. He hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent it from happening, but he had a feeling the board of inquiry would feel differently. There were just too many civilians who believed they had the right to pass judgement on the military, even though they knew nothing about it. Ted was a firm believer in civilian control of the military — military-ruled states rarely worked very well — but there was a difference between civilian control and searching for a scapegoat.

“Make sure they’re returned to the American ships, if they don’t want to stay on the Old Lady,” he ordered. At least Admiral Shallcross hadn’t called him for the express purpose of accusing him of deliberately losing an American carrier. He’d known British officers who would be less understanding. “Have the fighters rearmed?”

“Yes, sir,” Lopez said. “They’re currently held at two minutes to complete launch and dispersal.”

Ted nodded. If they had to suddenly launch their fighters within seconds, they could do it… if, of course, nothing went wrong. The Demon Murphy was still alive and well in space, he knew; something always went wrong. But the trick was to adapt, react and keep going, no matter what happened to impede progress. Stopping long enough to remove all the element of risk — if possible — invited disaster.

He keyed the display, looking up at Target One. It hung in front of him, surrounded by a small galaxy of tactical icons. Some orbital stations were obvious problems, armed to the teeth and protected by starfighters, others were of uncertain capabilities. He had a feeling that some of the seemingly innocent stations were civilian, rather than military, but it was impossible to be sure. The problem nagged at his mind as he worked his way through the data the drones had assembled, wishing he could just talk to the aliens. He could issue warnings, threats and demands for surrender to humans, but how could he say anything to the aliens?

“Call the Marines,” he ordered, as the remaining alien ships kept heading towards Tramline Two, heading — he assumed — towards reinforcements. “They have some targets to occupy.”

He paused, wondering if the aliens could understand English. They’d captured a number of teaching machines from Vera Cruz, he knew; they should be able to use them to put together the basics of English, even if they hadn’t pulled it from the Heinlein colony. And yet they seemed completely unable — or unwilling — to talk to humanity. He found it impossible to believe that the aliens were truly unaware that humanity could talk, or that they couldn’t overcome the language barrier. There hadn’t been any attempt to classify the bare bones of English on Vera Cruz.

“Record a message,” he ordered. “This is the human commander. We intend to secure the orbital space surrounding your world. Any station that fires on our forces will be destroyed. Any station that does not fire on our forces will be occupied, but not destroyed. We suggest that you remove the civilian population from your orbital facilities.”

“They may not understand, even if they speak English,” Lopez pointed out. It was her job to point out when he might be making a mistake — or, in this case, dubious assumptions. “Or they may think we’re asking them to show us which stations are safe to occupy.”

Ted shrugged. If he’d been facing a human opponent, a standard warning to evacuate the facilities would have been demanded by the ROE. And, if the enemy hadn’t heeded the warning, any deaths would be on their heads, not on his. But no one really knew if the aliens could speak English.

He smiled, rather coldly. If the aliens started abandoning their facilities, he knew, it would be evidence that they did understand English. It would prove that they were ignoring humanity’s attempts at communication. And that meant… what? That they were determined to fight the war to the bitter end anyway or that there was something else going on?

And besides, he was not going to commit any atrocities if they could be avoided.

“Send the message,” he ordered. He wished, not for the first time, that someone had managed to get the alien POWs to talk. They’d shown a fortitude human prisoners would have a hard time matching. Trapped hundreds of light years from their homeworld, captives of a strange alien race, they still said nothing. It would have been impressive if he’d hadn’t been so desperate to actually talk to their superiors. “Let’s see what happens.”

There was no response for nearly ten minutes, then shuttles started to break away from some of the asteroids, heading down towards the planet’s surface. Ted stared, feeling an odd mixture of relief and fear; there didn’t seem to be enough of them to convey everyone down to the surface. If they’d been human… he shook his head. Humans showed enough different patterns of behaviour that it was often difficult to tell what a single human would do in a given situation, yet along a handful of aliens.

“They did understand,” Lopez said. She sounded astonished, as if she didn’t quite believe her own words. “They knew what we were saying.”

Ted nodded, slowly. He didn’t blame her for being stunned. The aliens had been silent for so long that some humans had given up hope of being able to talk to them. But now there was very definite proof that the aliens understood at least one human language. It opened up all sorts of possibilities.

“Record a second message,” he ordered. He waited for her nod, then continued. “This is the human commander. We would like to speak directly to your leaders. If you do not open communications within five minutes, we will commence offensive operations.”

He looked over at Lopez. “Send the message,” he said. “We’ll give them ten minutes before we start engaging the orbital defences.”

Lopez blinked. “Ten minutes?”

“They might not understand our time measurement system,” Ted pointed out. Even explaining minutes, seconds and hours to the aliens would be tricky. They’d have to show the seconds ticking by, then match them to names… which the alien timing system could be very different. For all Ted knew, their version of hours could be three or four human hours long. “We’ll give them time.”

The minutes ticked by slowly. There was no response.

Ted let out a long breath. It would have been nice to have opened proper communications, if only to discuss the planet’s surrender. They could have moved on to other matters of mutual interest, starting with just why the damn war started in the first place. But, after their telltale response to the first message, the aliens had just fallen silent again. Now, though, they had a piece of data for the analysts to study. Who knew — maybe they could find the aliens on the planet’s surface who understood English and speak to them.

But there was no time for that now.

“The Marines are on their way,” he said. The Rhino wasn’t dawdling either, or bothering with stealth. His ships would reach the fleet in just under an hour. “Signal the fleet. It’s time to start clearing the way.”

He paused, gathering himself. “The known defensive stations are to be engaged with extreme force,” he added. “Stations that have not revealed any weapons or the willingness to use them are to be left alone, hopefully so they can be boarded. Any large chunk of debris that might impact the planet’s surface is to be smashed before it can enter the planet’s atmosphere.”

It was a risk, he knew. The orbital stations might all be armed — or they might be rigged to explode when humans forced their way into the stations. Or, if the alien leadership was trying to drum up support for the war amongst its people, it might have rigged the stations to cause an atrocity, perhaps by knocking one of the asteroids out of orbit. There was no way to know without taking the risk of triggering any booby traps the aliens might have left behind. He shook his head; like so many other things when it came to dealing with the aliens, they were facing riddles wrapped in mysteries and enigmas. If only they could talk!

“Order the fleet to engage,” he said, quietly.