Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(30)

“What the hell is left at this point?” Colonel Campbell wonders out loud.

“Still nothing on active fleet comms,” the XO says. “We could go active, see if we can get anyone to talk back. There have got to be some surviving units in range somewhere. Ours or theirs.”

“That’s a negative,” Colonel Campbell replies. “If there’s Lankies out there in the dark, I sure as shit don’t want to broadcast a quarter-million-watt flare for everyone in this corner of space to see. Passive listening gear only, unless we know we have someone to talk to nearby.”

“Understood, sir,” the XO says. “Remain at full EMCON. Ears only for now.”

“Visual contact, Lanky seed ship,” the tactical officer calls out. “Bearing zero-nine-zero by positive zero-zero-three. Distance eighteen hundred kilometers, heading one-two-zero relative, speed two hundred meters per second. Designate new bogey Lima-8.”

“We’ll be passing a little too close for comfort. Correct our course, XO. Nudge us three degrees to port so we pass his stern with some room to spare. Son of a bitch is damn near right across our trajectory.”

“Three degrees to port, aye,” the XO says. “Helm, give me a two-second burn on the starboard-bow thrusters. On my mark. Three, two, one. Burn.”

I watch as the trajectory on the holoscreen simultaneously updates with the position and trajectory of the Lanky bogey catalogued as Lima-8 and that of Indianapolis as she fires her bow thrusters, nudging us onto a slightly different course to avoid swapping hull paint with the Lanky patrolling not too far ahead of us. The bow thrusters do their quick, controlled burn, and the line representing our trajectory bends to port very slightly. Physics being what they are, spaceships hurtling along at hundreds or thousands of meters per second can’t just turn or stop on a dime when something pops up in front of them. I’ve never paid enough attention in physics to be able to begin to make sense of conning a ship like Indy, but I know that in space, steering and braking require a lot of calculating and planning.

Colonel Campbell watches the plot correction and nods. “Steady as she goes, helm. XO, countercorrect to the original trajectory when we have this bastard at least a thousand kilometers aft of our stern.”

“Aye, sir,” Major Renner replies.

The more time I spend in fleet CICs, the more I realize that there is no real control in a starship’s control center, just an illusion of it, and that we are merely hanging on to an angry dragon by the tip of its tail. I may have even less control as a grunt on the ground, but with a rifle in my hands and a map on the display in front of me, I feel better equipped to determine my own fate than standing on a rubberized deck tile and holding on to a handrail while watching a hologram.

“Have you regretted your desire yet to switch to the navy all those years back, Mr. Grayson?” Colonel Campbell asks when he sees me studying the plot, as if he could read my thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” I reply. “Every single payday. This deep-space combat shit—they ought to pay us a ton more. Too hazardous.”

Major Renner chuckles softly. “Ain’t that the damn truth.”



“All Commonwealth units, please respond. This is Camp Webb, emergency shelter Sierra-Five. One hundred thirteen military personnel, seven hundred ninety-five civilians. Low on food and water, oxygen level critical. All Commonwealth units, please respond. This is Camp Webb, emergency shelter Sierra-Five. One hundred thirteen military personnel . . .”

We started receiving the distress call a little while ago, and right now I feel myself wishing Colonel Campbell would just take the repeating message off the speakers in the CIC. Camp Webb is one of the NAC’s main military installations on Mars, ten kilometers from Olympus City and its enormous civilian spaceport. It houses the School of Spaceborne Infantry, where SI assignees fresh out of boot camp learn the ropes of off-Earth ground combat.

“Almost eight hundred civvies,” Major Renner says. “Christ.”

“We can respond on tight-beam for the next four minutes,” the comms officer says. “Low power, probably won’t even make a blip on the Lankies’ radar.”

“Give me a link,” Colonel Campbell orders. “The second you see a Lanky heading our way, you cut comms, tight-beam and all.”

“Aye, sir. You have a link.”

“This is NACS Indianapolis, in approach to Mars, Indianapolis Actual. Broadcasting party, please identify yourself.”

There are a few seconds of line static. Then the voice comes over the speakers in CIC again.

“Indianapolis, thank God. This is Major Vanderbilt. I am holed up in emergency shelter Sierra-Five with almost a thousand people. The Lankies own the surface. They’ve taken out most of the infrastructure. They seem to target the radio transmitters and radar stations in particular. We are down to five percent oxygen. They have gassed the base and the city. We need immediate evacuation, Colonel.”

Colonel Campbell closes his eyes and exhales slowly before replying.

“Sierra-Five, Indy Actual. I’m sorry, but that’s a negative. We are in stealth approach for a high-orbit periapsis burn toward Earth. We are just an orbital combat ship, and a damaged one at that. We have one drop ship, and there are multiple Lanky seed ships in orbit. We can’t stop. Should have counter-burned seven hours ago for that, and then we’d have no fuel left for the burn to Earth. And even if we could stop on a dime, we can’t shuttle nine hundred people up to Indy with one drop ship, through the Lanky minefields. I’m sorry, Major,” he says again.