Shen Yang turns into the trajectory of the Lanky seed ship, which looks massive even at this distance, a streamlined and yet strangely asymmetric matte black shape that has wormed its way into my nightmares years ago. There are only sixty or seventy kilometers between us and the Lanky, and Shen Yang’s speed adds to that of the seed ship as she closes the distance rapidly. I know what the Chinese skipper is about to do, but I can’t avert my eyes, and from the gasps among the 330th grunts in the cargo hold, I know that they are aware of what’s about to happen.
As the Lanky ship rushes out to meet her, the Shen Yang starts launching missiles. The covers for the bow launchers fly open, and ship-to-ship ordnance streaks from the launchers, first singly and then in pairs. The rail gun mount on the dorsal line of the destroyer never stops firing at the Lanky. The missiles stream toward the seed ship and explode against its hull, huge white-hot fireballs that blot out the optical feed momentarily when they hit. There are still missiles coming from her launch tubes when the Chinese destroyer rams the seed ship head-on and instantly disappears in a violently expanding cloud of debris.
So close, I think. They were so close. Already we’re increasing the distance, and it’s clear that the Lanky ship with its millions of tons of mass can’t match our acceleration rate. Twenty seconds more and Shen Yang would have been out of the seed ship’s reach.
All protocols of station-holding and battle-group formation are suspended as every remaining ship in the task force makes maximum acceleration along the same general bearing, away from the Lanky seed ship. We are running for our lives, and we are slowly pulling ahead kilometer by kilometer, but the price we paid is staggering. Between the two ships we lost in the span of three minutes, a thousand sailors, marines, and Spaceborne Infantry troopers are dead, all men and women who had survived the Battle of Mars and the assault on Fomalhaut b.
Thirty minutes later, we are still alive, and still running away. The Lanky seed ship is ten thousand kilometers behind the task force, still pursuing but falling behind more every minute. On the optical feeds, I count only seven other ships of our task force remaining, rushing along at full burn in a procession that stretches for a hundred kilometers.
The infantry soldiers in the cargo hold of the drop ship all seem more than a little shell-shocked by what they just witnessed on the makeshift situational display projected against the bulkhead. Outside, beyond the open cargo ramp, there’s a sort of tense calm among the troops on the flight deck, who know that we are in battle but blissfully unaware of just how close we all came to dying a few minutes ago, and how many people did die.
“All units, proceed to assembly point Alpha at best speed,” Regulus sends over the task force’s tactical channel. One by one, the remaining ships radio in their acknowledgment of the order: Midway. Avenger. Neustrashimyy. Minsk. Gomati. Tripoli. Portsmouth.
Then, after a long delay of maybe ten seconds during which I hold my breath, Major Renner’s voice comes over the channel to acknowledge for her ship.
“Regulus, Indy. Proceeding to assembly point Alpha.”
I let out a long and very shaky breath.
The sudden relief I am feeling doesn’t last very long. A few moments later, someone else chimes in on the ship-to-ship channel. The voice has a heavy Russian accent.
“Supply ship Ivan Donskoi has been destroyed also. Total loss, none survived.”
Two cruisers and a supply ship gone. One hell of an admission fee to get back into the solar system. But the Minsk made it, which means that Dmitry is still alive.
Battle Plan Romeo was a success, tactically speaking. Most of the task force got past the Lanky guarding the transition node, including all three of the valuable carriers with their flight decks packed full of people. But their escorts have taken a brutal mauling doing the jobs they were designed to do: shielding the carriers. Of the three cruiser escorts, two were destroyed. Only Regulus’s bodyguard cruiser, the Avenger, is still with us. In terms of tonnage, we lost less than a tenth of our task force, but it sure doesn’t feel like we got off lightly. Long Beach was an older design, not as heavily automated as the new cruiser classes, and half a thousand souls went with her when she blew up. We’ve been trading slaps with the SRA for decades, but the casualty counts were small in comparison—an infantry platoon here, a frigate there. Against the Lankies, we lose people at a far more prodigious rate, and in much shorter engagements.
“Are we in the clear?” Lieutenant Colonel Kemp asks.
“For now,” I say. “He can’t keep up with us because we can accelerate just a little faster. Unless there’s another seed ship lurking on Red Route One somewhere, we should have a clear shot home.”
“But we don’t want to stop and smell the flowers,” Sergeant Fallon says.
“No, we don’t. It was a smart idea to fill everyone up before the transition. We won’t have time to slow down for refueling ops. Not if we don’t want to get overtaken. You saw what kind of life span our ships have against theirs.”
Sergeant Fallon takes her helmet off and puts it on the drop-ship deck by her feet. Her forehead is shiny with sweat.
“I used to think we grunts had the dirtiest, most dangerous job in the service,” she says. “After today, I gotta say I’m pretty fucking glad I’m a ground pounder.”
CHAPTER 23
I can already see Earth through Regulus’s high-magnification optics when we encounter the first picket ships. We are less than a million kilometers out from the lunar orbit when we get swept with search radar and pinged with an IFF interrogation.
“Approaching vessels, this is Captain Vigdis Magnusdottir of ICGV Odinn. Identify yourselves, or you will be fired upon.”
“ICGV?” Sergeant Fallon asks.
“Icelandic Coast Guard vessel,” I supply.
“Iceland? I never knew they even had a space-going fleet.”
“They don’t, really. They have two or three orbital-patrol boats. Nothing that can even make Alcubierre.”
“And she’s threatening us with that little tin can,” Sergeant Fallon says with a wry smile. “I like her pluck.”
“Oh, the Icelanders are hard warriors,” I say. “Vikings to the core. I have no doubt she’ll start shooting if we don’t answer the challenge.”
Luckily, our acting task force commander isn’t taking any unnecessary chances.
“Odinn, this is NACS Regulus, flagship of Task Force Fomalhaut, coming home to Earth with six Commonwealth ships. We have five SRA units with us as well. It’s very good to see you.”
“Affirmative,” Captain Magnusdottir replies. “It is very good to see you, Regulus. Our picket is a bit thin, you see.”