Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(31)
There’s a long silence on the line. I imagine the major down in the stuffy bunker deep underneath Camp Webb, hope flaring up at a possible last-minute rescue, only to have it snuffed out just a few moments later. Almost a thousand people, and they are about to suffocate, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.
“A hundred thirteen troops down here, Colonel. Over seven hundred civilians. Almost a hundred of them are children. For the love of God, if there’s anything you can do, please do it.”
Major Renner curses quietly under her breath. Several of the CIC personnel groan audibly. Colonel Campbell is stone-faced.
“We are minutes from our burn,” the colonel says. “We are moving way too fast, Major Vanderbilt. It would take us two days just to counter-burn and reverse our trajectory, and we’d run out of fuel trying. I wish I could help you, but I physically can’t. I will relay your coordinates if we make contact with any other Commonwealth units.”
There’s another long silence on the tight-beam link. Then Major Vanderbilt comes back on, and his voice sounds almost toneless.
“Then give us a kinetic strike directly on our transmitter. Three rounds, sequential. Enough to reach down fifty meters.”
Colonel Campbell looks over at the tactical officer, who shakes his head.
“Not at this speed,” the tactical officer says. He looks like he’s ready to throw up on the console in front of him. “We’re too far for the gun, and we’ll be past the launch window too quickly. Can’t hit a bull’s-eye that small going this fast.”
“Two minutes until the comms window closes,” the communications officer cautions.
We can’t even give them the mercy of a quick death, I think. Reversing course would be suicide—hell, this close pass is almost suicidal as it is—and we would never get everyone off the surface even if we had the space and fuel, but speeding by and not being able to do anything for these people is like a physical punch in the gut.
“I’m sorry,” Colonel Campbell says. “I’m sorry.”
“Indianapolis, don’t let us suffocate like a bunch of—”
“Cut tight-beam,” the colonel says over the transmission from emergency shelter Sierra-Five. “Now.”
“Aye, sir. Tight-beam link terminated.” The comms officer complies with an ashen face, and Major Vanderbilt’s voice cuts off midsentence.
For a few moments, nobody in the CIC says anything, and the only sounds in the room are the soft audio prompts from various consoles and the faint, distant hiss of the environmental system that is pressurizing the room. The mood in the CIC is only slightly more upbeat than a funeral.
“Nothing we can do,” Colonel Campbell says into the silence. “Nothing except to push on, or our people back on New Svalbard are going to go the same way. Eyes on the ball, folks.”
“Periapsis burn for Earthbound leg in two minutes,” the tactical officer announces. The plot on the holotable updates with a time readout. We are going to get as close to Mars as possible before slingshotting around, to take maximum advantage of the planet’s gravity. There are much fewer seed ships in orbit than I had expected. We encountered half a dozen of them on the way here; I would have guessed to see many times that number above Mars. But as we hurtle toward our periapsis point a few thousand kilometers above the upper layer of the atmosphere on the currently dark side of the red planet, Tactical has plotted only four of them.
“We won’t see the minefields at this speed until we’re right in the middle of them,” the tactical officer cautions.
“We’re giving up the closest approach already,” Colonel Campbell says. “We should be far enough away for clearance.”
I’m in armor again—the ship is at combat stations for the approach to Mars—but the snug hardshell is less of a comfort than usual. If we run into a Lanky minefield at the speed Indy is going, nobody will be able to make the escape pods in time. Even without getting hit by their penetrators, the Lanky proximity mines will tear the ship into a billion fragments if we hit a few of them with Indy’s hull.
“Close enough for optical of the surface now,” the tactical officer says.
“Bring it up on holo,” Colonel Campbell orders.
Three new display windows open on the CIC’s central holotable, all displaying various feeds from the Indy’s high-powered optical surveillance gear. Mars is shrouded in thick, gray, swirling clouds almost from pole to pole. The Lankies had over two months to set up their terraforming network and flip the atmosphere to suit their preferences. I know that right now, the carbon dioxide levels on Mars are ten times what they used to be before the Lankies got there. If we ever get the place back, it will have to be terraformed all over again.
“Lots of radiation hotspots.” The tactical officer highlights a few locations on the holographic orb representing Mars. “One, two, three, four . . . That’s half a dozen just in this part of the northern hemisphere. Looks like fifteen-, twenty-kiloton tactical nukes.”
“Tried to stop them when they landed,” Colonel Campbell says. “Looks like it wasn’t enough.”
I see the familiar latticework of Lanky towns dotting the landscape below. Their shelters look nothing like human housing. They are interconnected, spreading out from a central point in what looks like a fractal pattern from above. Like everything else the Lankies make, their places look like they’re grown, not built—not a straight line or right angle anywhere. A Lanky settlement looks more like a coral reef than anything else. From the number and size of them, it’s clear that the Lankies have been busy, but Mars is a big place, and they haven’t settled even 10 percent of it yet.