Heart of Steel: Book II of the Jonathan Pavel Series Read online

  Colonial casualties were heavy. One hundred-twenty Marines fell before they reached their objectives, along with two of the MCVs. In the vacuum of space on Dawson’s rock, death was not quick nor was it pleasant. Mens’ blood boiled, their eyes melted in their broken helmets, the lack of air was the only thing that suppressed their screams. One by one though, the Solarian AA batteries and chain guns fell silent as the Marines destroyed them. This cleared the way for the Colonial fighter bombers and cruise missiles. The Solarian Navy men retreated from their bunkers deeper into the base as their Orbital Denial defense died behind them. Then a Colonial MCV got through the kinetic barrier, and knocked out one of the projectors. With one projector gone, the others followed quickly. The barrier was gone, and the Solarian base was open to attack. With that, the Colonial gunships launched from their Planetary Attack ships. Soon, the entire inner surface of the crater was covered with Colonial troops. Each Planetary Attack ship held a brigade worth 5,000 men in total. There was no way 250 Solarian Marines and the surviving Navy personnel could defeat that many. Of course Colonel Talbot didn’t intend to defeat the Colonials, but he did intend to make them pay. After some effort, the Colonial ground troops blasted into the hangar bay. As their lead forces entered the darkened bay, they found it empty except for the six shuttle craft the Solarian’s had sabotaged to prevent them from falling into Colonial hands. The Colonial unit at the vanguard, the first and second companies of the Army battalion, the 131st Novi Virou Rifles moved cautiously into the interior of the base. The Colonial Marines, most of whom were still at the rim of the crater, had kept the heavy combat armour for themselves. The Colonial Army grunts wore ‘light’ vacuum armour. These were space suits with reinforced plates and heavy kevlar. It offered much less protection than the plated combat armour. They carried M-22 laser rifles with grenade launchers, and those were augmented by rocket launchers and tripod mounted light rail guns touted by their heavy weapons platoons. Behind them were 1,200 other army grunts similarly equipped from their own battalion, and the 311st Lome Grenadiers. They were nervous, but confident. The Solarians were proving as tough as everyone had said they were, but they couldn’t have much left at this point. That of course was going to prove to be a miscalculation. From the hangar bay, the Colonials entered a large open and empty storage bay, which was the only way into the large base. It had one entrance and one exit, both were airlocks though it was currently depressurized. The Colonials fanned out and began moving toward the base entrance their weapons ready. As they approached the large bay door on either side storage doors slid open revealing a full 250 Solarian Marines in full combat armour. Or as the Solarian Marines prefered to call it Testudo armour. Each Marine was essentially a walking tank fully protected from anything short of a rail gun, and equipped with a standard .50 caliber cannon, retrofitted with a magnetic trigger to fire in the vacuum. They also each carried a grenade launcher and a heavy weapon, rail guns, missile pods, combat claws, and a few touted viro swords - massive tungsten carbine blades, a few molecules thick capable of slicing through battle steel.

  The lead Marine, Colonel Talbot, wielded one such sword. He raised it as he stepped forward, and broadcasting in a clear frequency so every radio in the system could hear him he bellowed,

  “FOR THE REPUBLIC!!!”

  “THE REPUBLIC!!!” his men echoed charging into the exposed Colonials.

  It was a massacre.

  The Colonials fired in vain, but the Solarian Marines closed within seconds. With their computer assisted targeting, each time their shoulder mounted .50 caliber fired, another Colonial dropped with a bullet through his head. Those were the lucky ones. Viro blades slashed men in half and combat claws crushed them or tore through their helmets leaving them choking in in vacuum. The Colonials weapons were less effective. The laser shots glanced off the Solarian plate armour. The only thing which proved effective were the shoulder mounted rockets, and tripod rail guns and those were the first thing the Marines targeted. The Colonials fell back to the hanger bay loosing 300 men, while the Solarians had lost six. It was a stunning defeat, but it couldn't last. The Marines, having sprung their ambush, now fell back and dug in behind steel blast plates, while the Colonials brought up reinforcements including their own combat armoured Marines. The fighting was brutal and went own for nearly eight hours. Men died from sword wounds, from suit breaches, laser fire, rockets, and gun shots. Finally, the Colonial engineers widened` the doorway enough for a MCV to break through, backed by Colonial Marines and Army troopers touting shoulder rockets, the last fifty Solarians fell back into the base. They left 200 of their number behind, including Colonel Talbot. Around their fallen comrades lay more than 1,000 Colonials. Another three hundred Colonials had been lucky enough to survive their suit punctures and resulting wounds. If lucky was what you could call men who lost limbs from glancing blows, or were rendered brain dead by lack of oxygen. In vacuum combat, it was a zero sum game - you killed or were killed.

  LP-115 fell three hours after the Marines fell back. The Colonials suffered more losses as they swept their way through the rabbit warren of the bases tunnels, but the remaining Solarians mostly Navy personnel with BG-150 laser carbines were little match for the Colonials. Morris Yung died in the control room, where he was gunned down with Lt. Jackson Sung and the three technicians who stayed at their stations. None of them were armed. After shedding so much blood to get through the front door, the Colonials were not in the mood to take prisoners. All told, only 76 Solarian Navy personnel and two Marines survived, and that was only because sixteen were the staff of the medical bay and the rest were their patients. Even they only survived because of the intervention of a Colonial officer, who just barely managed to restrain his men. In the heat of battle, the Colonials had neglected to disable the Solarian lasercom transmitter. All throughout the battle it had been broadcasting to a series of relay satellites, which had been beaming the information to the rest of the Solarian space. In addition to the sensor data the broadcast had included every scrap of data from LP-115, personal transmissions to families, closed circuit security footage including images of the Marines heroic stand and Colonial troopers seeking retribution.

  Chapter III

  Singking, Solaria Prime, Solarian Republic

  Grand Horton Hotel on First Street

  September 21st 844 AE 8:30am

  When the knocking began, it barely registered in Jonathan's unconscious mind. It was an abstract annoyance, which his overly tired brain worn by the combination of an excessive amount of alcohol, and a full night of very acrobatic sex had left Jonathan with about three and a half hours worth of sleep. He subconsciously dismissed the knocking as a byproduct of a dream, but it was the insistent, constant yet eerily polite knock that hotel staff learned early in their careers and employed often with great effect. Jonathan who was used to the peripheral noise of starships ignored it. Bethany was not so deluded, nor was she predisposed to answer it herself. The knocking didn’t rouse Jonathan, but Bethany’s knee in his side did.

  “Ufff..” Jonathan said awaking from his slumber. “Whaa?”

  “Door,” Bethany said.

  Slowly, Jonathan pulled himself from the bed and picked his way through the wreckage of the room, where they had tried to make love on every available surface, until finally he managed to find the remains of his dress uniform. While Jonathan was pulling on his trousers, the knocking continued at its steady, polite rate. Jonathan shuffled toward the door fully intent on murdering his would be rouser, then ordering a complete breakfast for two and an ungodly amount of coffee.

  Opening the hotel’s heavy door, Jonathan saw a smarmy looking man in a purple and black hotel uniform with the cross keys of the concierge on his lapel. Flanking him though, were two well-muscled young men in the khaki undress uniform of the Navy. In addition to the double chevrons on their sleeves denoting their rank as Specialist 3rd, each of them wore the red beret, pistol and cutlass shoulder patch of the Navy Provost. Jonathan groaned audibl
y.

  Both of the Provost saluted smartly. The slightly taller one on the left said,

  “Good Morning sir. We’ve come to escort you to the Admiralty.”

  “Whaaa?” Jonathan said scratching the back of his neck not fully awake.

  “We’ve come to escort you to the Admiralty,” the other Provost said with a straight face.

  Working the Singking beat, they were use to pulling VIPs out of bed. Jonathan at least had remembered to put on pants.

  “Who's there?” Bethany asked.

  “It’s the Provost love, I think I’m being arrested.” Turning back to the Provost, Jonathan asked, “What are the charges?

  The provost looked at each other. “No charges that we’re aware of sir,” the slightly taller one said again. “We’ve just been ordered to bring you at your convenience, so long as your convenience gets you there by 0900.”

  Jonathan looked at his Chrono it was 0846. “Oh for god sake!” he said his head pounding.

  “Okay,” he continued, “You boys wait here, and you,” he said pointing at the all too smug concierge, “Bring food and coffee, and if its not here in 10 minutes, I’ll have the nice Provosts here shoot you.”

  With that Jonathan closed the door and began searching for pieces of his uniform. From the bathroom he heard the sound of running water, and looked up to see Bethany standing there in a robe.

  “You can’t go to the firing squad dressed like that Johnny. Go take a shower, I’ll put your uniform back together.”

  Jonathan in his crankiness felt like protesting, but relented. It was the logical thing to do. He headed to the bathroom, but Bethany blocked his way.

  “No pants in the shower Johnny,”

  Jonathan looked down to see he was indeed still wearing his pants.

  “Please don’t call me Johnny,” he said handing her his pants.

  Bethany took them in her left hand, and with her right she tweaked him in a rather intimate place.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to him. He did a good service last night, and I was hoping to have him all to myself to day.”

  Jonathan blushed.

  Bethany moved aside, “Go on, you don’t want to keep the Provost waiting.”

  Jonathan retreated into the shower closing the door behind him. Jonathan had a love of hot showers. They were a real luxury not often found on spacecraft. As the hot water cascaded over him, he closed his eyes and did his best not to bury his head into his hands.

  ‘Sleeping with your best friend's sister, Jonathan what are you doing,’ he thought to himself.

  The thing was, he wasn't sorry he'd done it, not really. Mortally embarrassed yes, but sorry no. Bethany and he were both consenting adults after all, and it had been fun.

  “Jonathan,” Bethany called over the sound of the shower “you need to see this.”

  Jonathan turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

  Bethany was standing in front of the holo, which was tuned to The National News Network, 3N for short, one of Solaria’s leading Republic news services. On the holo images flashed, Jonathan instantly recognized the nose camera footage of an interceptor drone about to collide with a Colonial battleship, the image cut to what looked like CCTV security feed showing men in Solarian Navy utilities fighting hand to hand with Colonials in light vacuum armour.

  “Now more of these images are coming in by the minute,” the news anchors voice said. “The Navy and Premier’s office are reviewing them and releasing them to us and other outlets. Some obviously need to be classified to protect military secrets, but if you are just joining us we can confirm that this is footage from a Colonial Confederacy attack into the Ozawa system. The battle is taking place at a small Navy base known only by its designation as Listening Post-115.”

  “Oh god this is horrible,” Bethany said turning to see Jonathan buttoning the last button on his uniform and pulling on his cap.

  Jonathan pulled her close and gave her a passionate kiss.

  “Call your brother and tell him he needs to move up his wedding, I’ll be back.”

  Bethany looked at him. There was something in her eyes. He realized it was fear, she was afraid for him, and for her brother.

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  Jonathan gave her one last squeeze and then marched briskly out the door.

  “Let's go boys,” he said to the Provost snagging a cup of coffee off the tray the concierge was bringing up. The Grand Horton was about three miles from the Admiralty. Fortunately, the Provost had brought their ground car. Normally, early morning on First Planting was devoid of traffic. Not today, cars were everywhere as were people. It was obvious to see why, from the news sheet hawkers on the corner crying out.

  “Extra extra, Colonials commit act of war.”

  “Premier recalls Quorum, Speaker does the same for Senate.”

  The Colonial incursion into Republic territory had kicked the hornet's nest and the hornets were waking up. The whole massive infrastructure of the Republic’s military and civilian bureaucracy was coming alive to prepare for war. As they sped through traffic on First Street toward Parliament Hill, they passed a Civil Defense van driving slowly down the street with loudspeakers announcing,

  “ALL RESERVISTS TO STAND BY..” The van might have seemed a bit of an anachronism considering the same alert was going out by e-message and broadcast, but better not to leave anything to chance.

  The Mets were out in force. They passed at least three companies of police in red and white riot gear, setting up checkpoints at strategic positions. Jonathan noted most of those checkpoints guarded roads, which led to the Diplomatic quarter. He wasn’t surprised. One of the things that had started the Second Dominion war was a mob of angry citizens descending on the Thaos embassy, after a Dominion ship had destroyed a Solarian flagged merchantman. Clearly, the Government didn’t want a repeat. Parliament Hill was already becoming fortress hill. The Premier’s Own, a normally ceremonial unit, was also charged with security of the center of the Solarian Government. All 9,000 Premier’s Own from officers to the lowliest private were veterans with at least ten years of experience. They also were not short on modern kit. They had traded their ornamental uniforms and obsolete rifles for modern weapons and combat armour. The ground car slowed as it eased between two menacing looking APCs that were guarding the checkpoint on First Street. Pulling up to the Admiralty, Jonathan practically lept from the ground car and hurried into the marble and stone structure. Jonathan was mentally calculating what exactly had warranted his early morning rousting by the Provost. The most likely scenario was that recent events had undone the bureaucratic inertia and freed him from his limbo. On the other hand, some Landed glit who held a nice cushy desk job and was a dear friend to a certain senior member of the Conservative Party, was going to give Jonathan a good tongue thrashing for showing such blatant disrespect to his betters. It was possible. Even with all that was going on, the Republic wasn't immune to the short sighted idiocracy which permeated any government or society. To Jonathan’s delight, though, the Provost led him not up the grand staircase to the warren of offices that housed the administrative machinery of the Fleet. Instead, they went down into the sub levels where in an equally vast warren of offices and departments the Navy made ready for war. The Solarian Fleet’s primary headquarters was actually on Macran the massive space station, which orbited Solaria secured to the planet by a elevator tether. But while Macran housed numerous vital Navy command and control sections not to mention large contingents from the Office of Personnel and the Office of Ship Building, it lacked the space and resources to adequately house the backhaul. In times of war, the Fleet was under the command of the Admiral of the Fleet, who in turn relied on the Chief of Fleet Operations, who was referred to as 1st Admiral, to plan and carry out the grand strategy. The 1st Admiral in turn relied on his deputy the Head of the Office of Operations, who was called the 2nd Admiral, to execute the minutiae of waging a war. That minutiae took sta
ff power, and the secure bunkers under Parliament Hill held more than enough space to fill with the necessary staff. This part of the Admiralty had an inordinately high amount of activity today. The place was buzzing at a frantic pace, junior officers and MOD bureaucrats scrambled about taking old war plans out of storage, updating them to suit revised estimates of enemy strengths and weakness, while also ordering supplies, calling up reservists and doing everything else necessary to mobilize a nation for conflict. The Provost finally led Jonathan to a door buried deep within the labyrinth with a plaque which read Vice Admiral Hopper, Commander Fifth Fleet. Straightening his jacket best he could, Jonathan strode into the office while the Provost waited outside. The air in the office was thick with smoke. Harry Hopper, who for good reason was known as ‘Hatchet’ Hopper, was an avid user of fumigin. The noxious weed, which was native to Solaria, had a similar effect on humans as tobacco, but was less harmful. Modern nanites could mitigate the side effects of smoking, but fumigin actually had helpful side effects since it oxygenated the blood. Despite the helpful byproduct, it stank to high heaven and the Admiral’s office reeked of it.

  ‘Hatchet’ Hopper was sitting behind his desk puffing away on a thick fumigin cigar, and seemed to be carrying on three or four conversations at once with the three Captains, four Commodores, two Group Captains, and a Rear Admiral circled around his desk.

  Jonathan stood quietly off to the side doing his best not to puke again at the overwhelming stench of fumigin smoke.

  Noticing Jonathan’s arrival, Hopper finished what he was saying.

  “Right that's it then, we'll resume this on the shuttle. Now out, all of you.” the Vice Admiral said, “Except you El-Cap Pavel.”

  The senior officers filed past Jonathan on their way out.

  Jonathan saluted and began to say, “Lieutenant Captain Pavel reporting..”