Battle Pod

bars beside her and then clenched her teeth.

BANG!

BANG!

The gigantic, Orion ship lifted from an underground launch-bunker in Kazakhstan Sector.

It was a crude booster and one of the most powerful propulsion systems known. Weapons-grade U-235 was the fuel, nuclear bombs. A bomb detonated under each booster. An immensely thick metal plate absorbed the blast as it was blown spaceward. It looked like a city block, with tall buildings, lifting out of the Earth and heading for the clouds. Those ‘buildings’ were supply spaceships. Lisa Aster peered at a screen in her ship and saw the clouds jump nearer at each bone-crushing BANG! After the Orion ship’s thick metal plate, was tons of hardened ablative foam. The foam’s single purpose was to cushion the shock to the riding spaceships clustered and perched at the front.

Each nuclear blast poured x-rays, heat and neutrons onto the planet. It had been a hard decision, a terrible choice, but the Orion ships had several key advantages. The weapons-grade U-235 moved the boosters fast. Each exploding warhead tremendously increased velocity. If the convoy fleet was to get past the waiting Doom Stars, it would need velocity. The other gift the Orion ships gave was the ability to lift tons of mass. No other propulsion system in the Solar System provided as much quick lift out of the Earth’s gravity well as nuclear bombs.

In the center spaceship of the second Orion ship, the original clone of the late Madam Director endured the explosions that hurled her closer to the waiting Doom Stars.

* * *

On many of the screens in the Joho Command Center, the Orion ships exited the stratosphere and headed into the space of near-Earth orbit.

“Your gamble is paying off, sir,” Captain Mune whispered.

Hawthorne wasn’t ready yet to accept that.

“They’re attacking,” someone said.

Hawthorne and Captain Mune walked to a different vidscreen. It showed a kilometers-huge Doom Star, a spherical spaceship of outlandish size. Its primary lasers stabbed into the darkness of space. They could fire a million kilometers accurately. No other surviving warship had such range. Once, Social Unity had possessed the experimental Bangladesh. Its range with its single weapon had been 30-million kilometers, a breakthrough in space combat technology.

The Orion ships had two protections against the deadly lasers. The first were packets of prismatic crystals. The normal procedure was to accelerate and then shut off the engines and drift toward the enemy. Only then would spaceships spew the prismatic crystals in their tanks to form a cloud of shiny particles that floated before, beside and behind at the same velocity as the spaceship. Unfortunately, because the Orion ships still accelerated, any prismatic crystals spewed out were soon left behind. In such a situation, combat procedures called for the spewing at carefully timed intervals. The second defense against the lasers was the massive metal plate of each booster and the hardened ablative foam behind it. For those to come into play, however, the Orion ships had to be flying away from the Doom Stars, not toward them. At this point, the supply ships clustered on the boosters were in the direct-line of laser fire.

“Estimates?” Hawthorne demanded.

The uniformed captain at the console tapped computer keys. “At this rate, sir, it seems like seventy to eighty- five percent destruction of the convoy.”

Hawthorne kept his features stoic. He could accept thirty percent destruction, could endure thirty-five and grudgingly go with forty percent. This was the only supply convoy he was going to be able to launch from Earth. The scattered SU warships in the voids had been operating on their own for far too long. They needed re-supply. They needed these munitions.

Hawthorne glanced at Captain Mune. The bulky, bionic soldier watched the staff, not the screens. Mune was more interested in the personnel than the battle. His hand was on the butt of his gyroc pistol. If anyone thought to assassinate the Supreme Commander, that potential assassin would die.

Hawthorne took a deep breath and then another. His insides seethed. He could not accept a seventy percent destruction of the supply convoy. There was only one way they might be able to defeat the Doom Star that was sure to join the battle. The risks, however, were terrible. It was not a present risk, but a future one. This was a dreadful moment. Hawthorne’s shoulders slumped. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. He waited, unwilling to give the order. He risked billions of lives. He risked his position as Supreme Commander. He risked even his life giving the order. Did he believe his own rhetoric? Had it all been a sham? He desperately wanted to ask someone else his or her opinion. His stomach seethed. He realized that no one else on Earth could help him. The terrible command decision was his alone. He would never be able to shift the blame onto someone else. How would history regard this decision?

No. He couldn’t worry about that. The Great Captains in the past had taken awful risks. Hannibal had lost the war against Rome because he’d been afraid to risk his splendid cavalry on a hell-ride to the gates of Rome after the annihilating Battle of Cannae.

Seventy percent of the convoy destroyed.

Supreme Commander Hawthorne lifted a trembling hand. He willed it still. Then he put his hand on the captain’s shoulder at the vidscreen. The woman looked up at him in alarm. “Issue Code Valkyrie.” Hawthorne was grateful his voice remained firm.

“Sir?” she whispered.

“Now, Captain.”

The woman leaned toward her microphone. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and spoke harshly. “Initiate Code Valkyrie,” she said, and then she added a string of numbers and letters to verify the command.

The Space Command Center grew deathly quiet as others realized the dreaded order had been given.

The order went out via radio beams. The seconds ticked by. Then select personnel on gigantic farm habitats at far-Earth orbit began to initiate desperate code sequences. Over a period of many months, they had emplaced heavy lasers onto the habitats. Social Unity had been able to achieve this feat because of the open farm habitat policy of both sides. That policy would no doubt change very soon because of Hawthorne’s order. The lasers were only supposed to be used if Earth was in imminent danger of being overrun.

There would be starvation in parts of Earth if the Highborn destroyed or captured the many habitats. Many would question the order. Hawthorne knew that. Some would believe him mad, but the full impact of his decision would not occur until months from now.

Maybe by that time, he could give Earth the news of a stunning victory at Mars. This entire campaign was a terrible gamble. Hawthorne had recognized that from the start and it had only weighed more heavily on him as the days passed. One thought gave him the strength to continue. Social Unity was losing. If they couldn’t turn the tide of the war soon, nothing would help.

Showing on countless vidscreens deep in the Space Command Center in the Joho Mountains, lasers from many farm habitats began to chew into the thick hull of the Hannibal Barca. The vast warship had massive particle shields composed of asteroid rock. Lasers chewed into that rock so dust, stones and even boulder-sized pieces began to slag off.

“Enemy lasers have changed targeting,” the captain said at her console.

The minutes ticked by as the Orion ships accelerated hard. The needed bombs dribbled one after another under the metal blast pans. The gigantic boosters gained velocity and freedom from the fierce gravity well that was the Earth.

Then, “Taping Habitat is under attack.”

Several minutes later: “Chicago Seven Habitat has taken a direct hit to its fusion core.”

“Caesar Chavez Habitat is breaking up!” someone else shouted.

Supreme Commander James Hawthorne closed his eyes. He was consigning millions to their deaths. Millions more on Earth might come to curse his name.

“There is a burn-through in Taping Hab.”