'But sir, our suits will protect us from-'
'We don't know what kind of countermeasures this ship uses when compartments lose pressure, I don't want another surprise.'
'Yes, sir!'
'We rush in sixty. Heavy one through three, did you hear me?'
'Yes sir, ready to go.'
'All squads, form up around the corner, wait for the bang. When it goes off we rush the hallway, we fire until they're all down or are in full retreat.'
'Yes, sir!'
The soldiers moved into position; the most heavily armoured soldiers at the front with small grenade launchers at the ready, everyone else was sorted behind, shoulder to shoulder. Major Cumberland made his way into the middle. It was a necessary evil, without him the charge might not execute properly. Everyone knew that the taking of the Triton was going badly. They were gaining ground, but at the rate they were going they could name each corridor after a soldier who had lost their life aboard and they'd run out of hallways.
The heavies moved ahead, peeking around the corner only as much as they had to in order to launch three concussive grenades apiece. One of them caught a dozen rounds in the side and chest. His armour sparked and smouldered, he was dead before he hit the deck.
The concussive charges went off, sending a wave of pressure down the hallway that would have knocked a few of the Major’s men down the hall in the opposite direction if they weren't in formation. How those charges must have felt to the enemy, he could scarcely imagine. It was enough to kill a soldier in light protection within two metres.
'Go!' he ordered.
The first three lines rushed into the corridor. The first line knelt, the next stood fast as they opened fire. The third line was in reserve, ready to fire if someone in front was injured, killed or had to rotate out to reload.
Major Cumberland was in the second line, and he couldn't help but let the frustration of the last twenty-four hours wash over him as he opened fire. His particle rifle pounded his shoulder, a familiar, almost comforting feeling, a sensation of exertion, as he lined up target after target, trying to score a significant hit against the enemy who had cost him so many.
The Triton had cost them over a hundred lives, killed several commanders he'd sat down with in the Officer's mess, and destroyed two service people he had long respected. They wouldn't get him; they wouldn't win against his unit. He caught one woman full in the face with a round as she stood to run, another took several rounds in the chest, and as two of them stood to throw a thin circular device, he caught one in the arm and shoulder. The other managed to throw what was in his hand and as soon as it hit the floor an energy shield filled the hallway. It was the issyrian. He was their commander.
The shield stood up to the full force of their weapons fire. Sgt Cumberland could see four Triton soldiers break cover and hurriedly treat the wounded, administering medication with injectors mounted on their wrist units. Two of the wounded were able to stand. Three others were picked up and rushed down the hallway then around a corner.
'Hold your fire,' Sgt Cumberland ordered. There were no signs that the shield was about to diminish, and he realized why. The energy field most likely absorbed the energy exerted against it and recycled it into useful power. 'Unit C Theta, we've forced about six or seven of the enemy into retreat and can't pursue. They're headed in your direction.'
'I hope not, we're busy with a big push in our section. We’re finally gaining ground, not going to stop now. Any chance of pursuit, Unit G Alpha?' asked the commander trying to take the next section. He had been given command of a full unit as well, five squads of ten.
The enemy crewman looked straight at Major Cumberland with large, glistening green eyes and after a moment he nodded, as though in respect.
Sgt Cumberland returned the gesture and watched the issyrian disappear before his eyes. He was the only one wearing a black vacsuit with ranks on his cuffs, marking him as a Lieutenant Commander.
'Negative, they've erected a confinement field,' Sgt Cumberland replied at last. It was like an admission, like he'd failed to complete his mission. 'All right, get the wounded back to the secured section, the rest of you, with me. It’s time to see what they were protecting.'
The group moved ahead, crossing the fifteen meters that had been a no-man's-land only minutes before. A pair of heavy doors had been scorched and scarred from end to end during the prolonged fire fight. 'All right, get this open Loman. Everyone else, cover our rear and work on getting that field down.'
Sgt Cumberland took the time to check on the status of Unit C Theta and regretted it. They had taken cover in some kind of night club observatory, a sign against the wall said; Oota Galoona, and discovered more trouble than they could handle.
It looked empty at first, but when half of the Unit's remaining fighting men and women made it through the door it slammed down so quickly no one had time to react. What followed wasn't a fire fight. A number of issyrians and massive nafalli ambushed them using the bar and several booths as cover. They took no prisoners, raking the soldiers with pulse rifle fire until the nafalli moved in and literally tore them to pieces with traditional blades machined from deck plating and laser cutters.
When the slaughter was over the Triton crewmen took cover again. None of them had stealth suits, but they only opened the door, as though inviting anyone else who wanted to try and take that compartment. He didn’t know the commanding officer of Unit C Theta, but was relieved to see that he was about to order the doors to that section sealed, instead of taking it with the twenty-three troopers he had left.
As soon as welding torches were in hand, three side doors opened and a flood of the lesser armoured Triton crewmembers rushed what remained of the Unit. The issyrian appeared right behind the commanding officer and fired several rounds into his back as his own personal energy shielding absorbed the bolts of energy fired at him by frantic soldiers. A moment later, the issyrian was gone, having served his purpose, to cause a distraction and kill the commanding officer. The rest of the crewmen were rough around the edges in comparison, in thinner, lower quality vacuum suits than the rest of the crew with no ranks on their cuffs, and many had long hair, stubble or looked more haggard than the others they had encountered. Still, they were armed with what seemed standard weaponry for the Triton, heavy pulse rifles or pistols that could super heat his men's armour in two shots or less.
The fire fight lasted less than twenty-four seconds, and there was no hint of mercy. A message was being sent; go back the way you came.
He was only seeing the footage because Command had intercepted it on the local Triton crew announcement band. The enemy’s morale just leapt up several points, and he was sure at least a few officers would be having second thoughts about the boarding operation in Command. Or at least, he hoped they were having second thoughts.
The large double doors beside Major Cumberland opened and he ordered his scanning team, reduced to two soldiers, forward with a squad for cover using hand signals.
'Whoa, not good!' exclaimed Farrar, his lead scanning officer. She recoiled as though she had been physically struck. 'This is a torpedo room, picking up five fusion torpedoes ready to go, set for focused detonation and ready to go on an electrical hair trigger.'
'Confirmed! This whole room is linked to some kind of control node, if I knew more about the ship I'd be able to tell you where it goes, probably the bridge, but there's no telling.'
Major Cumberland looked across the room. The transparent hull was four meters thick in some places. He could see the lights of Battlecruiser 1009, it was directly in the torpedo room's line of fire and moored in place. The well polished floor and pristinely maintained equipment in the space told him things about the crew that didn't make him feel better. Whoever worked in that section was disciplined, skilled, and most likely loyal.
He was reminded of the crew members they had managed to capture, who told them nothing, worse than nothing. They provided misinformation, like the story of the ship's vault in the centre of the vessel. According to them it was a Botanical Gallery with family apartments, a park, gardens and small businesses. It was unbelievable; the most secure section of the ship couldn't have been occupied by personal quarters and plant life. Teams had been trying to cut into it for hours and had made little progress.
The maddening fighting skill and tactical execution of their movements were counter to a people who would
