Graham Paul - The battle for Commitment planet

"At launch position," Mother said after what seemed like a lifetime trundling through a succession of limestone caves and laser-cut tunnels.

"Command, roger." Michael said, scanning the cave mouth and the ground beyond for obstructions. "Okay, we are clear to launch. Tac, do we have the feed from ENCOMM?"

"No sir, not yet." Michael swore under his breath; the NRA's communications were a million light-years from what he was used to. "Working on it," Ferreira said, head down over her workstation. "Hold on. Okay, we're in. Update's on the operations plot."

Michael studied the plot before nodding his approval. Things were running well. Problem was, most NRA operations started off that way. The average PGDF trooper hated the NRA's trademark mix of suicidal bravery and animal ferocity; invariably it was enough to persuade them that discretion, not valor, was the order of the day. Already, the two diversionary attacks were well under way, leading elements of the NRA's ground assault already deep into the towns of Bretonville and Daleel, their PGDF defenders reeling back in confusion. That was the good news; the bad news was that the usual Hammer response was on its way: heavy ground-attack landers from Amokran carrying marines-tougher and better disciplined than even the best PGDF battalions-supported by Kingfishers from McNair spaceport.

Michael said a quiet prayer of thanks for the persistent refusal of the commanding general of marines to station his precious landers any closer to the Branxton front. General Baxter's bloody-mindedness was a priceless contribution to the NRA's war effort; the man should get a medal for it. Even so, things around Perdan were going to be difficult; the assault there was just getting under way, and he had to hope the Hammers were slow to work out that Perdan was the primary objective.

"Command, tac. Stand by launch. Ground crew is clear and safe. We're good to go."

"Command, roger. Mother, you have control, weapons free. Faceplates down, everyone."

With a subdued roar, Mother brought Widowmaker's main engines up to power, the air behind the lander dissolving into a maelstrom of flame-shot dust. She held the lander with the brakes for an instant before easing Widowmaker on its way.

The heavily loaded lander started to move, sluggishly at first, then gathering speed fast. Widowmaker moved out of the cave and into the gloom of a rain-soaked Commitment night. Shifting power to belly thrusters and deploying the wings, Mother drove the lander into the sky; the instant the lander was clear of the canyon, Mother transitioned it to winged flight, twin pillars of flame shredding the air behind Widowmaker while it accelerated hard into the night. Michael breathed easier as the speed built, the lander steadying in the race to get to Perdan before the Hammers sent Kingfishers to deal with it.

"Hatchet Two Four, Bushmaster Six," Ferreira said. "Airborne and nominal."

"Bushmaster Six, Hatchet Two Four. Roger. Chopping TACON to Grapple Three Three. Over."

"Hatchet Two Four, roger. Chopping now. Two Four out."

"Command, tac," Ferreira said. "Perdan command, call sign Grapple Three Three, has tactical control."

It was a short ride. Swinging to starboard in a max-g turn that had the status board lighting up in protest, Mother chopped the power, easing the lander's nose skyward to let the speed bleed off, the foamalloy wings biting deep into the rushing air.

"One minute," Michael said. "Tac, confirm clear to land."

"Grapple Three Three confirms landing zone is clear," Ferreira said.

"Command approved to land," Michael said.

He peered at the holovid feed from the forward-facing holocams, eyes flicking to and from the threat plot while he waited for any response from the Hammers. There was nothing to see: the thick cloud over Perdan, the gray-black murk turning to white when Mother fired the belly thrusters, the lander easing down, breaking through the cloud seconds before it thumped down onto Perdan's municipal airport, the brakes screaming in protest while Mother brought the lander to walking speed before turning to follow Alley Kat and Hell Bent, shapeless black masses in the darkness.

"Where the fu-" Michael flinched when a stream of yellow-gold tracer fire wound its way lazily out of the darkness before whipping past Widowmaker's nose, the insult silenced with brutal ferocity by the lander's lasers. "Like I was saying," Michael continued, "where the hell is the NRA? Petty Officer Morozov."

"Sir?"

"Go take a look and make sure we keep the ramp up until I'm happy the area is secure."

Michael was beginning to worry. Widowmaker was not the lander it once had been: an elusive, fleeting shadow cloaked by its chromaflage skin and active stealth systems, flanked by decoys to confuse and mislead, orchestrating swarms of attack drones in an orgy of death and destruction across tens of square kilometers. The relentless pace of operations, a desperate shortage of spares to repair battle damage from too many near misses, and an increasing reliance on whatever ordnance the NRA could steal from the Hammers had seen to that. Now Widowmaker fought its battles the way ground-attack landers used to fight: up close and in person.

Michael's concern was well founded; the Kingfishers' targeting information came from the battlesat radars overhead, radars the AI controlling Widowmaker's stealth system was struggling to defeat. By now the Hammer commanders would know that there were three Fed landers squatting on Perdan airport's apron like big, fat sitting ducks. He shivered; Kingfishers were the least of his problems. The Hammers might be tempted to ignore the prohibition on using orbital kinetics to attack targets in towns and cities. Three Fed landers might be a target too tempting to resist even if it meant destroying much of Perdan, the enormous political cost a price worth paying. The thought that Hammer kinetics were being retasked to take the landers out chased yet more shivers across his skin. Come on, come on, he urged the absent NRAs.

He commed Sedova in Alley Kat. "Any luck?"

"No, sir," Sedova said. "How long do we wait?"

Michael blew out hard in frustration. "One more minute… no, wait." Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he decided. "We have to assume they're on their way," he said, "so ramps down. Start off-loading."

"You sure, sir?"

"No, but do it anyway. Widowmaker, out. Loadmaster, ramp down, start off-loading. Jayla?"

"Sir?"

"You, Bienefelt, Fodor, and Carmellini. Get out on the apron. I don't want us getting surprised."

"Sir."

A moment later, Widowmaker's flight deck was deserted. His anxiety growing by the second, Michael kept his eyes on the threat plot; still nothing new and no sign of any Hammer Kingfishers. Their time on the ground was-

"Command, tac. Our friends are here."

"Authenticated okay?"

"They have. A Colonel Nussli, like we were briefed. I'm glad we started off-loading early."

"Me, too," Michael said, relief flooding through him. "Matti, get your team back onboard."

Off-loading was a quick business. Widowmaker's AI-controlled cargo handlers rammed the containers out onto the apron, and each was hustled away into the rain-drenched darkness by a small army of NRA troopers.

"Command, loadmaster. We're done. Closing up. We can go."

"Roger, sir. Flight deck crew's on their way back."

Michael wasted no time waiting for them to take their seats. With a quick check to make sure Widowmaker's main engines would not incinerate anyone, he commed Mother to take control; seconds later they were rolling back onto the runway and into the air, followed by Alley Kat and Hell Bent.

"Welcome back," he said to Ferreira when she dropped into her seat alongside him, spraying raindrops in all directions. "The forward controller's given us our first target, so let's do it. Weaps?"