Part 9
Treize nodded for the Colonel to begin, and sat forwards in his high-backed chair.
The Colonel took one look around the conference room, taking in the military commanders assembled around the large world map that dominated the center of the room, and then cleared his throat.
"Sirs, As you all will undoubtedly know, the enemy force has yet to engage in a ground landing. They have concentrated all their efforts on the destruction of the remaining space installations, including the Lunar Base, and even the Colonies themselves.
"The Colonies were attacked with a weapon of unknown type, mounted on three of the enemy space craft – on the largest, presumably the flagship, and two smaller cruisers. In all cases, a single shot was enough to cause sufficient damages to the Colonies to render them uninhabitable, if not outright destroy them. Colonies L3 and L5 are the only two that could be considered salvageable. The others are damages so severely that they are little more than floating scrap.
"However, there are two elements that are unnacounted for: the Peacemillion, now believed to serve as the base of operations for the Gundams, and the Libra. How the Libra managed to escape destruction is unknown, but it is likely that it took shelter in the mass shadow of the moon. If this was the case, then its energy emissions would have been obscured by the backlash of the Lunar Base's destruction."
The Colonel paused, and tapped a key on the bottom of the wall-mounted screen behind him. An image of the Earth appeared, taken from space. Superimposed over it were a series of crimson markers, spread over the entire surface..
"The markers show the rough positioning of the enemy ships, as best we could determine. Our analysts are of the opinion that their formation, spread thin to cover almost the entire surface from high orbit, is a containment formation, intended to intercept and destroy any space-borne forces that we deploy."
He raised an arm and pointed to a group of smaller marker, huddled together between two larger ones.
"These smaller craft are likely to be transports for troops, or possibly Mobile Suits. However, data from the instances of enemy contact suggests that the enemy do not make use of Mobile Suit technology, instead preferring massed ordnance and assault craft. The transports are gathered here, in geostationary orbit above Africa. It is there that their ground landings should take place."
Treize lifted a hand, and the Colonel retreated a few steps towards the door. "Thank you, Colonel," he said.
He turned to the other personnel around the map table. "Generals," he said, and they turned to face him. "We have had ample time to witness the power of these enemies in space combat. It has become clear that, even if the Libra could be utilised, we could not defeat them there. So we will not."
He swept a hand up to the display. "We know where they will make planetfall. We can even begin to guess when. What we do not know is the extent of their ground firepower, or the degree to which their space craft are capable of supporting their ground troops."
General Bosun, a tall, stocky man with close-cropped grey hair, stood. "So you want us to gamble everything on a counter attack after they have landed? When we don't even know what troops they have?"
Treize smiled grimly. "Not after they have landed, no. While they are landing. We will never have a greater advantage. I mean to commit all our available forces to this battle, Generals. We will strike them while they are still disorganised and disorientated, and wipe them from the Earth."
Bosun faltered. "All our forces? That would leave everywhere else undefended! What if they defeat us in Africa, or land somewhere else?"
"If they defeat us in Africa, when we have nearly all our strength gathered, then how could we defeat them anywhere else?" countered Treize. "There will be elements of our forces that are unready, or simply too far away, to take part in the battle. If the battle is unsuccessful, then they will provide a defence force."
Bosun sat down grudgingly. "Very well, Commander Kushrenada. But let it be on your head if this kills us all."
Treize nodded. "This is our only chance, Generals. We have to stop them before they can get a foothold in Africa. You are to assemble all the Mobile Suits that you are able to, at the airbase. From there, we shall be moving out to Africa, and the projected drop site. You have ten hours. We leave in twelve."
"Zechs is gone."
Heero turned. Trowa stood in the doorway behind him, impassive. "I know," he said simply.
"Don't go after him. We need you here if we are going to try this," Trowa said. "If we are going to go after that ship, then we need every one of us, especially now we've lost Zechs and Noin."
Heero looked back at the Gundams. The five Mobile Suits lined one wall of the large hangar, fully repaired and gleaming in the bright lights. Wing Zero was in the center, resplendent in its shining white and blue paint. He stared into its eyes. "We have to go now."
"Now?" asked Trowa.
"L4 was destroyed two hours ago. Completely annihilated. That's the last of the Colonies. They will land on Earth soon."
A slight hiss sounded, and the door at the other end of the hangar slid open. Quatre entered, and jogged over to Heero and Trowa. "So why not attack while they're distracted?" he asked. He had obviously overheard their conversation, or at least some of it. It was easy to forget how quiet the Peacemillion was.
Heero shook his head. "Right now, their ships are scattered. When the drop begins, they'll bring them all in close to make sure the smaller transports aren't in danger. Remember what Zechs said. We can kill one of them, but not the entire fleet."
"So which one?" asked Trowa.
"We're headed for one of the medium-sized ones – if you can call something that big 'medium-sized'," said Quatre. "It's the one that destroyed L1." He looked at Heero. "I take it that's the one we're after?"
"Yes. We should be nearing it in the next half hour." He walked from the hangar, pausing at the door. "Get ready," he said, and then walked out.
Captain Vaelor Romana stood in the command pulpit of the Leviathan. The Tyrant-class Cruiser was one of the most powerful in the fleet, outstripped only by the In Gloriam Annihilatum and the Deus Mechanicus. Ten kilometres of gothic death, the Leviathan had the power to destroy any threat that arose from this puny world.
Vaelor sneered as he studied the viewscreen showing the planet below. This insignificant world did not warrant the attentions of the entire fleet. The Leviathan alone would be more than sufficient to pound the surface flat and kill every living thing down there.
"Captain!"
Vaelor looked down at the crew pit. The voice had come from one of his sensor officers. "What is it?" he snapped.
"Enemy ship spotted, vector two-eighteen. It is out of main weapons range, but closing with us."
A vicious smile twisted his lips as Vaelor thought this new development over. It was time to show these rebels, these heretics, the true power and might of the Imperial Navy.
"Bring us about to face them," he ordered. "Arm torpedoes, charge dorsal lance batteries. Bring the void shields up to full strength. Sensors, are they in Nova Cannon range?"
"They are sir," buzzed an anonymous crewman.
Vaelor straightened and clasped his hands behind the small of his back. "Excellent. Prepare the Nova Cannon to fire. I want that ship wiped out."
"Preparations underway, Captain," said Lieutenant Wochal, his second-in-command. "Manoeuvres complete in eighty six seconds. Torpedoes already armed."
"That was fast," said Vaelor. "Commend the torpedo team's overseer. And the dorsal lances?"
"Twenty-nine percent charged."
"Good. Dispatch security teams to the gun decks. I want no mutinies on this vessel, especially once we have engaged. Any disturbances are to be resolved instantly, with lethal force if necessary."
"Yes sir," said Wochal. "Anything else, Captain?"
"Inform the Deus Mechanicus that we will be temporarily leaving our station to deal with an enemy craft. Make it clear that we will not be long, and the landing schedule will not be affected."
"Very good sir." Wochal saluted smartly, and turned on his heel. As he marched from the command pulpit down to the crew pit, Vaelor looked again at the viewscreen. It had changed; now it displayed sensor telemetry and energy readings from the enemy ship. A small section in the lower left corner was running comparisons with all known Imperial ship types.
His eyes wandered past the screen, and on to the two Techpriests beside it. Both were clad in the heavy crimson robes that signified the Mechanicus, and one carried a brazier of burning incense. "Adepts," he called. "A moment of your time."
The turned at the sound of his voice, and ascended the wide steps to the pulpit with jerking, mechanical steps. Their snake-like mechadendrites coiled around them, sensors and pincers checking their surroundings.
"What is it?" asked the lead one. He was the only Techpriest of the Leviathan who retained his biological vocal chords. The others had to resort to using mechanical voxcasters.
"Ensure that the Leviathan's Machine Spirit is willing to fight this battle. Inform it that I ask for its blessing in this combat."
"Very well," said the Techpriest. They two robed figures walked back down from the pulpit, and exited the Bridge.
"Captain, we are fully oriented on the enemy ship!" called the same sensor officer that had alerted him to its presence initially. Vaelor would have to find out his name, and commend him.
"Weapons," Vaelor barked. "Status of the Nova Cannon?"
"Ready to fire in seventeen seconds, Captain," came the buzzing reply of the mostly-augmetic weapons officer.
"Launch torpedo salvo," Vaelor ordered. Barely ten seconds after he had spoken, two torpedoes speared from the Leviathan's armoured prow, travelling at thousands of kilometres per hour. The torpedoes were each over ten meters long, and contained an immensely destructive plasma warhead, capable of burning entire decks to slag, and gutting lighter craft. Vaelor could only relish what they would do to this enemy.
"Enemy craft manoeuvring!"
"What?" he snapped, turning his head sharply to look at the viewscreen again. Sure enough, the marker representing the enemy craft was changing course, moving diagonally downwards and left, relative to the planet's surface.
"They're going to evade the torpedoes!" called the sensor officer. "Torpedo one… overshot. Damn, that thing can turn. Torpedo two, approaching…"
Vaelor snarled in anger. "Status of the dorsal lance batteries, now!"
"Ninety-one percent charged, Captain," said the weapons officer, his mechanical voice devoid of any emotion.
"Torpedo two, missed," reported the sensor officer. "Enemy craft is deploying… fighters, I think. They don't match any data we have."
"Nova Cannon ready to fire," put in the weapons officer.
Vaelor smiled a predator's smile. "Fire."
The Nova Cannon ran the entire length of the ship, an eight kilometer mass accelerator capable of propelling a projectile at close to light speed. At such speeds the projectile was highly unstable, but that hardly mattered. The sheer destructive power was enough to rip apart capital ships, shields included.
The recoil of the shot was more powerful that the ship's massive thrusters, and the Leviathan visibly slowed with the shot. The projectile crossed the distance between the two ships almost instantly, and detonated less than a thousand meters from the enemy craft's aft in a tempest of blinding light and roaring energy.
The enemy craft disappeared. The blast swallowed it up, and when at last it faded, the craft had simply disintegrated, melted to less than slag by the incredible energies of the shot.
Vaelor took a long, satisfied look at the aftermath of the shot. The blast had been clearly visible, even from the leviathan's bridge, tens of thousands of kilometres away. Such was the wrath of the Imperium.
"Captain, enemy craft approaching!"
"What?" Vaelor snapped, caught off guard. How could anything have survived that?"
"It's the fighters that were deployed just before the Nova Cannon shot, sir! Five of them, but they're moving far too slow to be Furies or Starhawks. In fact, they don't match anything, sir, not even each other."
"Explain."
"Their energy readings vary immensely, but all of them are significantly higher than any other ship of their size we've encountered before. And that's another thing; they're tiny. Sensor echoes suggest smaller than twenty metres each."
"Then they'll just die easier," said Vaelor. "Helm, bring us about on a broadside to them. We'll show them our teeth."
"No time sir!" called the helmsman. "Their approach speed gives their ETA at fourteen seconds. At maximum burn, we could swing about in sixty, maybe fifty-five, seconds."
"Fine," Vaelor growled. "We'll play it their way. Acquire firing solutions for the dorsal lances."