Across Enemy Space Read online

  ACROSS

  ENEMY SPACE

  L. J. SIMPSON

  Text Copyright © 2019 L. J. Simpson

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed in any format, electronic or otherwise, without the prior consent of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, either alive or dead must be considered entirely coincidental.

  No soldier ever really survives a war.

  ― Audie Murphy

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: War Without Victors

  Chapter 2: Haalikon

  Chapter 3: I, Spy

  Chapter 4: Skytrain 101

  Chapter 5: Dead Drop

  Chapter 6: Breaker

  Chapter 7: Stalemate

  Chapter 8: Intelligence

  Chapter 9: Force Z

  Chapter 10: Drunk and Disorderly

  Chapter 11: Sjhakar

  Chapter 12: Nobody Home

  Chapter 13: The Gambit

  Chapter 14: Winds of Change

  Chapter 15: Allies

  Chapter 16: The Recruit

  Chapter 17: Offensive Action

  Chapter 18: LC225

  Chapter 19: Strategy and Tactics

  Chapter 20: Lost Contact

  Chapter 21: Serving the Alliance

  Chapter 22: The Volunteer

  Chapter 23: The Raven

  Chapter 24: The Crossing

  Chapter 25: The Game

  Chapter 26: The Imposter

  Chapter 27: Relieved of Duty

  Chapter 28: One Last Hurrah

  Chapter 29: Blown

  Chapter 30: The End of the Line

  Chapter 31: End Game

  A message from the author

  Also by L.J. Simpson

  Chapter 1: War Without Victors

  Admiral James Tarr rose slowly from his seat at the head of the conference table and stood to his not inconsiderable, full height. Allowing his hands to rest lightly on the table top, he gazed at the faces of the assembled Joint Chiefs of Staff, wondering how many times he’d assumed this pose at the meetings he’d chaired over the years. As often as not they were meetings of the mundane – logistical reports, training schedules or production estimates. On occasion there might have been news of a victory somewhere, though of late it was generally news of a defeat, another reverse in the Alliance’s fortunes of war. Tarr brushed his fingers gently over the polished oak as he began his final address.

  “Gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of my decision to step down as commander in chief. In the light of the most recent reverses, and in particular the failure of Operation Zealous, I feel I have no other recourse but to relinquish command.”

  He raised his hand for silence as one of the officers around the table began to voice his objections. “It is time to leave. I spoke this morning with the First Minister who agreed to accept my resignation, effective immediately. The decision is final, gentlemen. May I take the opportunity of thanking you for your unfailing loyalty and support during my tenure, a measure of which I trust you will transfer unconditionally to my successor.” He paused to look at each officer in turn. “Good day to you, gentlemen. Good luck to you all.”

  Three of the officers sat in stunned silence as Tarr left the room without a backwards glance. A fourth looked on in sadness more than surprise. A four star general, he had, in one capacity or another, served under Tarr for fifteen years. And now, thanks to the Admiral’s patronage, he was about to receive a fifth star and succeed him as Commander in Chief, Alliance Defense Forces.

  General Jonathon Torrance watched as Tarr gently closed the tall, oak doors behind him. The admiral had led the Alliance for ten long years and like so many commanders before him, he’d experienced both the rush of victory and the bitter taste of defeat. It was a taste that was still fresh in his mouth. In everyone’s mouth. Operation Zealous hadn’t just been a failure – it had been a disaster.

  Intelligence had revealed that the Combine had begun construction of several forward bases adjacent to the border with Alliance space, any of which could be used to launch an incursion into Alliance territory. With the ability to resupply, a successful incursion could quickly become a major invasion. Those bases had to go – it was that simple.

  Admiral Tarr had approved a plan to send a force of cruisers and fast attack craft to assault the bases. Relying on speed and surprise, they would hit hard, hit fast and then withdraw, the destroyers taking out the defenses and the cruisers pummeling the base facilities.

  “Get in and out quickly,” were Tarr’s instructions. “Keep the enemy at arm’s length and do not get into a bar fight.”

  Two light carriers, ten cruisers and thirty six smaller vessels assembled at Latona Base, two light years inside the border. They fuelled and muntioned under the tightest security and set out for Combine space under the command of Rear Admiral Finch, one of the Alliance’s best fighting admirals.

  They were never heard from again. According to intelligence reports, the force had been ambushed by a superior fleet almost as soon as it entered Combine territory. As Admiral Finch began arranging his units into attack formation, a Combine battle group had dropped out of hyperspace directly in front of them. With two divisions of battle cruisers, a squadron of fighter carriers and dozens of escort vessels, the Combine force enveloped Finch’s squadrons even before they had the chance to withdraw.

  None escaped. Some ships were lost with all hands, others were disabled and forced to surrender, their crews taken into captivity. For the Alliance, the simple arithmetic was that forty eight ships and twelve thousand good men and women had been lost in an afternoon. When told of the news, Admiral Tarr simply nodded and retreated to his office, his face a mask. On the outside he remained as resolute as ever but Torrance knew that the news had devastated the old admiral. Loved by his men and peers alike, it was a feeling that he reciprocated in full.

  For twenty years Tarr had fought in the vanguard, first as an ensign and then rising through the ranks to become a commodore; always in the firing line, always leading from the front. Promotion to rear admiral had meant trading the bridge of a battle-cruiser for a desk, a poor bargain for a fighting sailor. A bargain that meant leading from the rear, sending young men and women out on missions from which they might never return while you stayed behind in safety, drinking port in the Officers’ Club before retiring to a comfortable bed with crisp, clean sheets.

  How long could you go on sending the young out to die? How long was too long? How many young men and women were too many? Torrance didn’t know, but Tarr did. Finally, he knew, the twelve thousand letters of condolences, at once too terrible to contemplate, deciding the matter for him. Mind made up he took Torrance aside and told him of his decision. He also informed him of his intention to recommend him to the War Council as his successor.

  * * *

  The conflict between the Alliance and the Combine was an old one, reaching back over decades. The one hundred ninety three colonies scattered over dozens of light years at the outer reaches of the Orion spiral arm had, over the years, coalesced into three distinct groups: The Southern Alliance, located at the tip, or southern end of the arm, The Combined Worlds which lay in the center and The Northern Territories, situated still further along the arm. Originally, the split had come about through practical considerations rather than through ideological or religious differences. The distances involved were just too great for all the colonies to be governed efficiently by one central administration. However, once the split had been made, there occurred a natural divergence i
n cultural, political and social philosophy.

  For decades the camps had lived in harmony but like so many wars before, hostilities began with a small, local dispute on the border. Perhaps by accident, perhaps by design; who could say? The root causes of the conflict were still a subject for debate; a perceived insult, a disagreement over mineral resources, a wrangle over who owned this or that particular lifeless rock, inflated import taxes, whatever.

  The other great debate was how – once hostilities had opened – the combatants had managed to divest themselves of their humanity so hastily and irrevocably. For what was absolutely certain was that the opening exchanges had been so brutal as to shock the senses, and that the savagery had only increased with every subsequent encounter.

  In years to come, many would say that the initial incident could and should have been resolved by diplomacy, but with neither side prepared to compromise, a few warning shots off someone’s bow had somehow escalated into a regional conflict. At one point a ceasefire was agreed upon but just as quickly broken – each side accusing the other of firing the first shots. By that time, both sides had mobilized all their available forces; the shackles were cast aside and so began a full blown war of attrition. With neither side able to gain the upper hand, each had retreated to lick their wounds and build up their forces in preparation for the next campaign… and then the next one… and the one after that.

  Some thirty years later, only the most senior crewmembers could recall a time without war. At fifty three years of age, Torrance could remember; he could remember the long summer days in his final year at college, studying hard for the final exams which, said his tutors, would decide his future. Then the war had come along and he’d found his future decided for him. He took solace in the fact that at least he’d lived long enough to enjoy some kind of future. Along with the fighting, killing and mourning, he’d also found time to fall in love, marry and raise children, which was more than could be said for many of his contemporaries.

  On the wall of his office was a photograph of his passing out parade at War College; forty fresh, young faces, twenty men and twenty women, all standing proudly to attention in full dress uniform, their insignia shining brightly on their epaulettes. Torrance sometimes studied the faces on the photograph. Most proud, a few apprehensive and one or two – his own included – almost devoid of expression.

  Almost a third of those faces were now gone. Some shattered by missile strikes or incinerated by proton beams. Others, the life sucked out of them by the vacuum of space. Some had never even made it off the surface, killed by aerial bombardment in the first days of the conflict. And of those still alive, almost all had suffered some kind of family loss – a father, sister or brother. War without end.

  Torrance was reminded of the words spoken by a statesman centuries before. As his nation teetered on the brink of war, he’d asked how one army of several million combatants could possibly defeat another army of several million, especially considering the bewildering array of firepower they had at their disposal. It would be the most devastating kind of war, he claimed, a war without victors. And so it came to pass.

  Torrance was faced with a similar dilemma, except that his battle was being fought over light years of space rather than a few hundred yards of mud filled, rat infested trenches, the iron and shot replaced by far more formidable weapons – particle beams, anti-matter mines and nuclear tipped missiles – so mighty to behold and so terrible to contemplate they would have caused the long dead statesman to shudder in his grave.

  But for the present, Torrance had his own statesmen to contend with. With the fifth star on his collar just hours old, he gazed through the window of his shuttlecraft as it descended through the cloud layer and began its final approach to Loyola Field, the air base on the outskirts of the Alliance capital of Tycho City. His aide, Major Seagers, was busy arranging the documents he’d need for his upcoming meeting with the Alliance War Council. A veteran of twenty five years – many of them spent serving alongside Torrance – Seagers’ active career had been cut short by an inopportune meeting with a frag grenade. Had his injuries not taken him out of the front line prematurely, he might well have made general himself by now, but with his fighting days over, he’d spent the subsequent years perusing documents with his one good eye and moving them around with his one good arm. But if the war had taken its toll on his body, his sound judgment and steely determination remained. For those reasons alone, he had long since earned Torrance’s trust and respect, which is precisely why he’d been chosen for his present tour of duty. And apart from the fact that he in any case cut an imposing figure, his visage would serve to remind the politicians of the realities of war. The black eye-patch and battle scarred face spoke far more eloquently than a page of statistics could ever do.

  Seagers ceased his paper shuffling and passed the file over to Torrance. “I’ve arranged everything as you requested. On top is a breakdown of the forces currently at our disposal – front line and reserve – complete with all the relevant readiness reports. That’s followed by the latest estimates of present Combine assets and their own operational status. After that there is a breakdown of projected losses assuming that present trends continue, and finally, the projected production estimates for both us and the Combine.”

  Torrance took the proffered file and ran his eyes down the lists and tables before him. They were figures he knew well enough and reading them again was unlikely to make them any better.

  “Not exactly cheerful reading, is it?” ventured Seagers.

  “It could be better,” said Torrance. “But it is what it is. We just have to tailor our strategy accordingly. I doubt that this war is likely to end anytime soon.”

  “Then let’s just hope the War Council doesn’t request your recommendations for bringing it to speedy conclusion.”

  “The only way I can foresee achieving that particular aim would be to surrender,” said Torrance with a grunt.

  “Hardly a popular choice.”

  “Either that or gamble everything on a throw of a dice and hurl all our forces in a desperate lunge at the enemy’s capital, an offensive which would guarantee my place in the history books, but I imagine for all of the wrong reasons.”

  “How not to lose the war in an afternoon…”

  “Something like that,” said Torrance as the shuttle neared touchdown. The escort – a pair of Ares fighters – peeled off to starboard and hurtled skywards once more. It was more for show than anything else; if the enemy ever got this close, the war was as good as lost anyway.

  The shuttle maneuvered neatly to its designated landing spot and touched down with the barest of jolts. By the time the doors had opened, Torrance had donned his jacket, set his hat straight on his head and was already making for the exit, Seagers in tow.

  “I think I could get used to this,” said Seagers as they reached the door. Lined up on the concrete pad outside was a squad of marines in full dress uniform, all standing rigidly to attention.

  “Speak for yourself,” said Torrance. “This is one part of the job I could well do without.”

  “With respect, General, it’s the price you pay for being promoted. And my, don’t they look the part. Proud and tall, one and all,” said Seagers as he and Torrance descended the shuttle’s steps. Torrance stopped to salute the guard and then paused to look the ranks up and down. With a nod of approval he turned and entered the waiting car, settling himself down on the rear seat. Once the car had moved off he allowed a small grunt to escape his lips.

  “Anything the matter, sir?” asked Seagers.

  “Is it just me, or are they getting younger all the time?”

  “No younger than you or I when we first joined the ranks. It’s true that we’re asking a lot of young men and women to grow up very quickly, but we’re not asking them to do anything we haven’t done ourselves. And did you see the expressions on their faces, sir? It was pride. Pride in the uniform, pride in who and what they are, and – if I’m not mistaken
,” he said lightly, “pride at being the guard of honor for the man who’s going to win us the war.”

  Win the war… three small words so easy to say but in the meeting that was soon to follow, the members of the War Council were going to be asking him precisely how he intended to achieve that aim. Torrance doubted very much if they’d like his answer. But he’d make his case; he’d offer them his honest appraisal of the situation, explain the possible courses of action, tell them of his intended course of action and then leave the politics up to them… and hope they’d have the courage to make the right choices.

  The stark truth was that the Alliance was facing a very formidable enemy. The Combine was showing an ever increasing appetite for the war. They’d always been well led, with fine generals and well marshaled forces. Perhaps most importantly, they enjoyed widespread public support for a war which – for whatever reasons – was seen as a fundamentally righteous one. They fought hard and were prepared to take losses to achieve their objectives. In that respect at least they had earned Torrance’s grudging respect.

  Meanwhile, a sense of gloom had of late descended on the Alliance government, and with it came apathy. It would require but a nudge to turn it into defeatism, a foe more dangerous than a fleet of enemy battle-cruisers and as destructive as any of the weapons in the Combine armory. Wars could be fought by the most valiant of soldiers but without the necessary political will, Torrance knew that there could be only one possible result – defeat.

  He also knew that the best way to stop the rot and bolster morale was to provide a victory. A resounding triumph, one that would put a smile back on the faces of the public… and maybe a little much needed steel in the backbones of the politicians. A victory, any victory… but right now he’d settle for just stemming the tide and putting an end to the string of defeats.

  Operation Zealous had been but the culmination of a series of reverses which started when the Combine had begun launching destructive raids into Alliance territory. Their objectives had been simple: destroy infrastructure – shipyards, industrial complexes, transport hubs, anything to hinder the Alliance war effort, anything to sap morale. A Combine assault force would suddenly appear – generally someplace an Alliance fleet wasn’t – make its attack swiftly and efficiently and then withdraw. By the time an Alliance fleet arrived on the scene, the invaders were usually long gone. It was like chasing shadows, and on the rare occasions when it wasn’t, the Combine fought a robust rearguard action as they retreated back to their own territory. Operation Zealous was intended to beat the enemy at his own game. Unfortunately, the enemy had just had more practice.