“You’re saying that their weaponry will match ours?”
“The classes of weaponry will match,” the Bolo corrected, “but the capabilities are indeterminate at this stage.”
Rheinhardt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If your assumptions are correct, they are planning to occupy this planet. That means they’ll have colony equipment in addition to combat gear.”
“Obviously.”
Rheinhardt heard condescension in the Bolo’s tone. He cast a measuring glance at the spot he regarded as the Bolo’s brain. “That limitation will affect how long they can afford to engage us in combat.”
“You are moving towards a conclusion,” the Bolo observed. “I must ask you to move quickly as time is in short supply.”
“For how long can they engage us?”
The Bolo pondered the question for a long time. “It is difficult to say with any accuracy”-a series of screens full of data and graphs scrolled rapidly before Rheinhardt’s eyes-“however, the normal distribution would indicate that the enemy has combat supplies for somewhere between three hours and three weeks, given standard engagement tactics.”
“And how long-”
“A median estimate is that it will take the enemy less than five hours to destroy all Noufrench and Bayerische armed forces,” the Bolo said, answering Rheinhardt’s half-asked question.
Rheinhardt swore.
“Your invective confirms my projections,” the Bolo observed. “Without some extraordinary occurrence, there is little likelihood that your combined forces will withstand the enemy assault.”
“Gott im Himmel, where did they come from?” Leutnant Otto, right wingman of the IXth Bayerische Flug Grüppe shouted over his radio. The sky had been clear horizon to horizon only seconds ago.
“And where are they going?” Capitan Freiherr, his wing leader wanted to know as he kicked in his afterburner to thrust after the rapidly diminishing craft.
The two men were half of IX Flug Gruppe.
“I’ve been acquired! They’ve got a lock! I’m-” the wingman’s exclamation broke off just as a brilliant burst of light erupted behind his wing leader. The wing leader broke right, diving deeply, pushing his plane in a torturous outside loop.
“They got my wing man!” the Captain radioed back to base as he levelled out of the loop and peeled off sharply to the left. “I’ve taken evasive action-they’re on my tail! Must be five or more! How could they-”
When the first reports came in, General Marcks rounded sharply on Sliecher. “Where the hell did they get that?”
The elderly Intelligence officer was at a stuttering loss to explain the sudden appearance of the new high-speed aircraft. Face white with dread, he grimly reviewed the stream of incoming battle reports.
“They’ve knocked out most of two wings already, sir,” an aide reported. The room was full of be-medalled orderlies and aides scurrying about with an air of competence overlaying an odor of fear. Something had gone wrong, no one needed to actually see the reports to know that much.
“Survivors report they escaped by diving near friendly anti-aircraft batteries,” another aide added, handing a fresh report to General Sliecher.
“How many?” General Marcks demanded, holding out his hand irritably for the report.
“Three so far, sir,” the aide said, passing the report over with an apologetic look towards his superior.
“Out of twenty,” Marcks muttered to himself. He turned to Major Krüger. “Krüger, have they started their ground offensive yet?”
Major Krüger looked up from his position over the terrain computers. “No, sir,” he replied with a shake of his head, “their forces are holding steady.” He frowned. “There’s an awful lot of traffic flowing, General Sliecher’s boys are convinced we’ll crack their battle codes soon.”
“Just in time to surrender,” an indiscreet orderly murmured too near his commander. General Marcks raised his head and silenced him with a glower. The General of the Bayerische KriegsArmee could not hold the look for long.
“Try to raise the ‘french command again,” he ordered the tactless orderly. “See what terms they are proposing.” He rubbed a hand across his face wearily.
“Herr General, the enemy is still jamming our communications,” a comm tech announced despondently.
“General, it is hopeless,” General Lambert advised his superior over the vid-link. He was trapped at the satellite communications center, hastily turned into a makeshift operations center. His eyes were bleary, his face unshaven. “Whatever they’ve got, it’s better than our fighters.”
“How come we never found out about these?” General Cartier demanded of General Renoir, his Intelligence officer. They were gathered in the mobile command center that formed the brains of the Armée du Noufrance. The command center was camouflaged with newly cut foliage and smelled of uprooted forest. But Cartier had no spare thought for the devastated ecology.
General Renoir shook his head, “I cannot believe they developed these in secret. Perhaps their Bolo was a ruse to distract us but my men were very thorough-”
General Cartier cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It does not matter now,” he said. “Can we fight them?”
“We have lost half of our attack fighters already, sir,” an aide reported. “Those who survived did so by diving towards our AA and letting the ground-based troops get the attackers.”
“I want one for analysis!” General Renoir barked.
The aide nodded. “I have already seen to it, General.”
General Cartier had paid no attention to the interplay going on around him. Instead he lifted a brow meaningfully at the vid-link and his Operations officer. Lambert interpreted the gesture correctly and shook his head despondently. “Gentlemen, we must contact the Bayerische for their peace terms,” his announcement brought silence upon the gathering. “I shall inform the Emperor.”
“We have destroyed over forty percent of their air craft!” Scratche growled triumphantly to his admiral.
“D’ya hear that, Pierce? Forty percent already!” the Admiral barked exultantly to his Flag Captain.
Captain Sir Creve Pierce looked up from his battle console and managed an acknowledging nod. “Most credible, milord.”
Admiral Baron Rastle Speare glanced sharply at his Admiralty-appointed Captain, wondering vaguely whether the Captain had tendered him insult, and decided to ignore it in favor of his good fortune. The Captain, Scratche noted to himself, could be dealt with later.
Pierce turned to the Midshipman of the watch. “Is the second wave prepared?”
“It is, Captain,” the young midshipman replied. His eyes did not meet the Captain’s.
Pierce growled deep in his throat, “And?”
“There is some concern about casualties among the first wave and-”
“What, are they not Jyncji, did they not die honorably?” Speare rasped.
“Indeed, milord,” Pierce agreed. “But our group sent to destroy their communications satellites are overdue and have not reported. If they are counted as lost-”
“Our probes mentioned no problems with the comsats.”
“They were too close to the planet itself to get good surveillance, milord.”
“Bah! Someone forget to call back in the heat of victory, so? Shall we let that spoil ours?”
“But if it were not so, milord-”
“Send the second wave!” Admiral Speare roared. “Send them, now, Pierce!”
“Aye aye, milord,” Pierce responded. He turned to the midshipman, “Note in the log, if you would, that in the twenty-second moment of the engagement, milord Admiral has ordered the second wave to the assault.”
“Aye, sir,” the midshipman responded hesitantly. He was puzzled-his Captain had specifically instructed him on a very routine affair. “The second wave is engaged.”
“Thirty moments to bacterial seeding,” the Special Weapons Officer added.
“The Barb is on orbit?” Speare growled.
“Aye, Admiral,” the Special Weapons Officer responded. “Coming up on the terminator in ten moments.”
“Terminator?” Speare muttered to himself.
“I think he means the horizon, Admiral,” Scratche elucidated.
“I know that, damn ye!” Milord responded with rightful irritation and not a little pleasure at having drawn blood on his small ploy. The midshipman started, bristles flaring but quickly brought himself under control.
“I beg your pardon, milord,” Scratche replied with a sigh, “I meant that as a hypothesis-was I right?”
“Captain, see to it that this Mid-ship-man of mine gets remedial drill in orbital nomenclature,” the Admiral barked, basking in the additional pleasure of having absorbed the Captain into his small game.
“I shall instruct your Flag Lieutenant, milord,” Pierce responded unflappably, “clearly he has been remiss.”
Speare hid a snarl with a dismissive wave of his hat. Drat the prickly old beast, he swore to himself.
A lieutenant with a worried look passed a dispatch to the Captain. Pierce read it hastily. “Milord, it grieves me to report that our first wave casualties have reached thirty-five percent. Shall we call off the attack?”
“Call off the attack?” Speare barked. “Never!” His yell turned the heads of all on the bridge. “We still have a strike force and the second wave is committed. We shall succeed.”
Pierce looked worried. “Milord, our orders were to withdraw if-”
“I know the orders, Captain!” Speare returned hotly, bristling visibly. “My Lords of the Admiralty sent me to carry them out! The attack continues.”
“Aye, milord,” Pierce responded steadily. He glanced at the dispatch officer, “Keep milord abreast of further developments, Spyke.”