Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(79)
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.”
If anything, the Odinn’s captain has understated the defensive situation around Earth. We pass the picket force, which consists of Odinn and one other ship, the South American Union corvette Barroso. Together, the two picket ships have maybe two thousand tons of displacement between them, less than half that of the oldest and smallest frigate in our battle group. But as Task Force Fomalhaut coasts into the space between Luna and Earth a few hours later, there isn’t much else out there. I see even fewer ships than we did when we had our brief pit stop at Independence a month ago. Almost all the military vessels patrolling the Earth defensive perimeter are from smaller nations and coalitions: South American, European Union, African Commonwealth. Only a handful are SRA or NAC fleet units, and none are larger than a corvette or frigate.
I take control of one of the external camera arrays and point it toward Independence Station as soon as we have a clear line of sight to it. There’s not a single ship on any of the docking outriggers, military or otherwise. The section where Indy tore loose, the docking berth that took a direct hit from the destroyer Murphy’s missile fire, is half-obscured by the bulk of the station, but I can see buckled and torn hull plating and long streaks of scorch marks around them.
“Something isn’t right with the comms,” I say to no one in particular.
“Why is that, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Colonel Kemp asks.
“Do you have a connection on your PDP, sir?”
The CO of the 330th looks puzzled for a moment, as if he has a hard time remembering just what exactly I am referring to. Then he takes his PDP out of the gear pouch on his leg armor and turns it on.
“Connection, yes.” He taps the screen with the thumb of his armored glove. “But I am not getting any updates. Not even the time sync.”
Sergeant Fallon takes her own device out and tries it. “Same here.”
“I had that problem when we got here a month ago,” I say. “Network’s up, but it’s like it’s throttled to death. And I get a ton of comms chatter from a hundred different sources, but I’m not getting shit from the main comms relay. The one above Luna.” I point in the general direction of the relay, invisible at this distance in its orbit over the optical sensors. “That thing and the one above Mars route every scrap of comms and data in the inner solar system. We know the Lankies blew the other one up. If this one’s gone, too, comms are going to be all kinds of fucked up from here to Titan.”