Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(81)

“Four hours, thirty-five minutes.”



“How the hell did we not see them in our wake?” Lieutenant Colonel Decker asks. He looks like he wants to either punch something or throw up, possibly both at the same time. The Regulus’s CIC is awash in conversation at a noise level that is unusually undisciplined for a carrier’s nerve center, but considering the circumstances, I’m surprised it’s not complete chaos in here.

“Because they’re stealthy sons of bitches who don’t show up on radar. Because you can only pick them up on optics at short range if you know just where to look. Because we were hauling ass at full burn and blinded our own wakes,” Major Archer says. “Doesn’t matter right now, does it? They’re here.”

“Or they will be,” Colonel Aguilar says, and looks at his chrono. “In four and a half hours.”

“We need to get all the troops and civvies off the flight deck and down to Earth,” Lieutenant Colonel Decker says.

“They have little chance on the ground against those things,” I say.

“They have no chance at all sitting in that hangar while those things shoot us to pieces, Sergeant,” he says sharply.

“We have four drop ships in that hangar,” Sergeant Fallon interjects. “Get ’em warmed up and start hauling people down to Earth, right?”

“A round-trip from orbit takes a Wasp seventy minutes under ideal conditions,” Colonel Aguilar says. “Thirty people at a time. Forty or maybe fifty if we ignore every single safety regulation and risk a few broken bones. With only four ships—”

“We’ll get less than a third of them out of here,” Major Archer finishes.

The lightbulb that goes off in my brain is about the size and brightness of a tactical nuclear explosion. I have to restrain myself from bouncing up and down in a very undignified manner, but the idea that just popped up in my head makes for a better sudden high than a whole tube of Corpsman Randall’s magic painkillers swallowed all at once.

“How many drop ships can Regulus receive and launch at the same time?” I ask.

“She’s built for large-scale planetary assault, son,” Colonel Aguilar replies. “We can launch thirty-two drop ships simultaneously. But we don’t have those. Midway is already using hers for evacuating her own regiment. They’ll never be done on time.”

“I know where we can get a whole bunch of drop ships,” I say.



“Admit it,” Sergeant Fallon says in a low voice as we stand a way from the CIC pit to give the command crew space at the comms consoles. “You just came up with that so you can boff your cute little fiancée one last time before the world ends.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I reply. “No disrespect intended, ma’am.”

“No reply from Luna Control, sir,” the comms officer says. “It’s like nobody’s picking up. What the hell is going on over there?”

“I’m getting zip from the relay. Anyone know what kind of network the Combat Flight School birds are tied into?” the comms officer says.

Colonel Aguilar curses softly.

“We’re running out of time,” Major Archer says.

“XO, call flight ops,” the colonel says. “Tell them to get one of the Wasps ready. And tell them to do the fastest preflight they’ve ever done in their lives if they want to see another sunrise over Earth.”

Then he turns toward us.

“You,” he says to Sergeant Fallon. “Héroe de guerra. Take the staff sergeant here and a platoon of good troops. Race over to Luna and claim every single drop ship in the Flight School hangar on my authority as the acting commander of what’s left of the fleet. Anyone tries to stop you, shoot them twice.”

“Aye-aye, sir.” Sergeant Fallon grins.



The deck crews have already hauled the empty Wasp out of its parking spot and over to the refueling station when Sergeant Fallon and I arrive back on the flight deck at a run. Two thousand sets of eyes are on us when we come through the access hatch, with the older and slower staff officers a little behind us, still catching up in the passageway.

“Sergeant Benoit!” Sergeant Fallon shouts, and one of the NCOs standing near the tail ramp of our repurposed headquarters Wasp snaps to attention.

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Get first platoon of Alpha ready on the triple, full battle rattle. Two minutes,” she shouts.

“Yes, ma’am,” he shouts back. Behind him, in the nearby makeshift berthing area, the troopers of First Platoon, Alpha Company, are already springing into action without having to have the order relayed to them.

Behind us, the deck crew are pumping fuel into the Wasp as fast as the refueling unit will let them. I have a brief but intense flashback to another hasty refueling, this one on the flight deck of the doomed Versailles five years ago, shot full of holes and careening into the atmosphere of the colony planet Willoughby, Halley running through all the preflight motions with grim and focused efficiency.

The grunts are ready in a minute and a half. They assemble on the flight deck in front of Sergeant Fallon, armor sealed, helmets on their heads, rifles slung in front of their chests.

“Not bad for a shifty bunch of fucking slackers,” she says. “Now get on board. We have a few dozen drop ships to steal.”