Fleet Action (wc-3) William Forstchen (fox in socks read aloud .txt) 📖

the tactical display. All holo displays were now off line as was primary shielding jump engines, and port launch deck. Concordia had survived two more torpedo hits and was crippled, barely able to make twenty percent speed.

The offensive strike waves had simply disappeared into the heart of the enemy fleet. He knew some successes were made, with more than a dozen frigates, destroyers and cruisers gone. But the carriers were still intact. Whether any of the boarding parties had even gotten into the heart of the fleet was merely a guess at this point. The computers handling the hundreds of comm channels was down, as was burst signal link to Earth.

They had fought the enemy offensive strike to a stand-still. Not fifty of the enemy fighters out of the four hundred that had come in had survived. Two more of his carriers were gone, the surviving three damaged, with Lexington threatening to blow from internal fires — and there were still close to a thousand enemy fighters left along with a hundred escort ships.

But what was worse, far worse, was the cruiser squadron that at the opening of the action had flanked far out to port by more than five million clicks and was now plunging straight in towards Earth, scoops closed and up to flank speed. Not even his fastest ships could close with them now. The light picket line of a cruiser section, Earth orbital defenses and moon ground based defenses and a handful of obsolete frigates would have to stop them. It had been assumed that at least one section of enemy ships or more would go for a straight breakthrough under the screen of the fleet-to-fleet action. Earth was on its own now.

He thought for a moment of a distant ancestor of long ago, who, when contemplating the invasion and destruction of England, announced that even if England fell, the Empire, and with it the fleet, would still continue the fight.

England. No, he didn't want to think of that now.

"Get me Polowski on laser link."

The image flickered on the screen.

"Mike, they're going to come in to finish us off. We still need to keep our carriers alive. I want you to close and see what you can do to knock them off balance."

"What I've been waiting to hear," Mike replied, his voice sounding distant and strained.

"Take care, and God's speed to you, Mike."

Mike did not even reply. Seconds later Destroyer Squadron Three leaped forward into the attack.

Duke Grecko, his good arm shattered by a blast from a grenade, sat against a bulkhead wall. A lone runner came back from the point squad.

"The bastards are insane up there. At least a hundred of them charged when we hit the next deck. It was hand to hand."

The runner was panting hard.

"Your platoon?"

"Finished, sir," and she paused "I got out because Lieutenant Flory sent me back just before they overran us."

"It's all right, Marine. How long before they get here?"

"I lasered the door shut, sir. Not more than a minute or two."

Duke brought his laser up with his artificial arm at the sound of running. From around a corner a Marine appeared, gun down low, ready to fire, and relaxed at the sight of Grecko. He looked back and waved on his unit and came up to Grecko.

"Demo team reporting, sir. How's it up ahead?"

"As far as we're getting son."

"Only three levels down, sir. Can't we get one more?"

Duke looked at the young woman who had been on point.

She shook her head

"Then it's right here, son," and as he spoke the survivors of the demo team and the platoon escorting them came up, pushing a steel crate, maneuvering it with null gravity handles.

"Open her up," Duke said quietly, and the team lowered it down, popping the lid open.

Duke looked at the detonator for the thermonuclear warhead.

"All right, now get the hell out of here. I'm giving you five minutes," and he reached over, first arming the device and then turning the timer on.

The demo team looked at him and grinned

"Let's go, sir."

"I'll be along in a minute," Duke said quietly.

The surviving corporal of the team hesitated.

"That's my job, sir."

"I'm not going to play hero, son. Now get the lead out of your butt and that's an order. I'll be along shortly."

The Marine looked at him, hesitating. A thin smile creased his features. He saluted and then turned, heading back down the corridor, leading his team with him.

Duke settled back against the wall and sighed. He simply couldn't admit that he was played out and exhausted. Perhaps the president was right, he had never really recovered from his wounds taken at Vukar. He should have stayed at his desk rather than running off to play commando. Since someone did have to stay behind, just in case the Cats got through and knew how to disarm the weapon, it might as well be him.

"You all right, sir?"

He looked up. It was the young woman who had been on point.

"Marine, get the hell out of here."

"Like hell, sir," she said quietly. "I'll hold point." He smiled sadly.

"I thought you might want some company," and her voice was almost childlike.

"What's your name, Marine?"

"Jenny McCrae, sir."

"That's my girl's name too," he said, a fatherly tone evident in his voice. "She's with the Fourth Marine."

He didn't want to think about that now. She was somewhere in the assault.

"I know, sir, we went through boot together. She was awfully proud of you."

"Really? I wondered. I haven't seen her in years. Her mother and I . . ."

"I know, sir. It's all right though."

They heard the door down the corridor burst open a thundering roar filling the corridor. He looked down at the chronometer ticking off on the bomb. A minute forty-five to go. The squad just might have made it back by now and gotten off.

I'll give them a few more seconds.

The first Cat turned the corridor and Jenny dropped him. And then a swarm of them came on. He started to slam his fist down