BtH62

==Chapter 62 - By the Horns==
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TDF Field Headquarters
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
November 23rd, 3025
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Edward and Arden entered the communications room at a run, and the young Taurian saw the ashen looks on the assembled officers and staff as a frantic voice continued to emerge from the speakers.
“Look, I don’t have much time—this is an atrocity that I cannot let happen. You have to stop the fighters! You have to!”
Cory lifted the transmitter and the fury of his expression caused Edward to wince. “Colonel Bragg . . . you claim that Michael Hasek-Davion is going to use a nuclear weapon on his own men? On Taurian soil? And blame us for it?”
“Yes, yes, you damned fool! That’s what I’ve been telling you! The fighter strike is getting ready to launch right now—you’ve got to stop to this! I can’t! He’s going to kill them all—our own people! And then you will respond and we will all die in this miserable damned desert!”
Ardan cursed and Edward’s face blanched.
There was a pause, and in the background a faint voice was heard. “BRAGG! You traitor!”
“No, I can exp- . . .,” but the voice was cut off with the sound of gunfire . . . and then the radio transmission ended.
“Are the Fusiliers launching fighters?” Edward asked.
Cory nodded. “Two strikes—one is inbound against the southern flank of our defensive lines and the second is still forming up,” he paused and looked at the map. “Recon reports that Fusiliers are moving en-masse towards the 1st Hyades Lights,” the old man shook his head. “Are they deliberately trying to get us to split our response? Make us chase after this smaller force of ASF while they pummel our lines undisturbed?”
Ardan shook his head. “No. This is just like Michael—he sees the men who surrendered as betraying him personally . . . and he wants to exact his revenge,” he winced. “And Colonel Russert has confirmed that Michael has a dozen Alamos at his disposal, taken from the Strategic Weapons Depot on New Syrtis.”
“Can our fighters intercept theirs?” Edward asked.
“It’ll be tight,” Cory said after a moment. “The big problem is their base is almost a hundred klicks closer to the surrender point than our fighter bases—and our fighters will have to move through their incoming strike to get to the second flight. Fifty-fifty,” he finished with a shrug.
Edward shook—it wasn’t fear that was causing the young man to shake, Ardan realized, but absolute, implacable fury. “We have four thousand of our own people—three-quarters of them civilians!—there to provide medical care and security for those who quietly stood down. What about in orbit? Where’s Fleet Marshal Vickers?”
“Sam suffered an engineering casualty after her jump,” Cory said with a sigh. “She’s making her way from the jump point to orbit—but she’s limping and still an hour out. Those guardships are in orbit, however, and they carry four fighters each.”
“Michaels got twelve Corsairs and eight Stukas in that strike,” Ardan pointed out. “Not good odds at 5-2.”
“Better than nothing,” Edward growled. “Get them moving, Marshal Calderon,” and he stood up straight and took a deep breath. “As Ambassador Plenipotentiary for Protector Thomas Calderon, and acting as the Protector’s Heir, I, Edward Calderon, do hereby instruct you, Marshal Calderon, that the retaliatory use of nuclear weapons has now been authorized.”
Ardan’s head snapped around; his jaw dropped and he began to protest.
“NOT NOW!” Edward barked. “Michael Hasek-Davion wants to unleash the nuclear genie on Taurian soil? In order to intimidate us? He will kill civilians—and his own captured personnel—just in an attempt to intimidate and cow ME? Not today, Colonel Sortek—not today nor ever will any Calderon submit to nuclear blackmail.”
The command center was silent. “Cory,” Edward said in a softer voice. “You have a squadron of Stingrays on alert, do you not?”
“I do—armed with F61s,” the old Marshal answered.
“Do we have a fix on Michael’s headquarters?”
One of the staff officers nodded. “It’s on the move—but we have it.”
“Marshal Calderon—show Michael Hasek-Davion the errors of his judgment,” Edward ordered in a dead flat voice. “I want maximum yields on the devices, mind you.”
Cory smiled and he nodded, then began to bark orders.
“Just his command headquarters?” asked Ardan quietly, in a voice that was somewhat relieved. “Not the entire combat formations of the Sixth?”
“They haven’t ordered the detonation of a nuclear weapon on Taurian soil, Ardan—Michael has. And besides,” Edward smiled grimly, “the forward elements of the Sixth are too close to risk using nukes unless I want to accept heavy losses from collateral damage.”
“With Alamos? That’s the only fighter delivered ordnance,” Ardan asked in a skeptical voice. “Even six might not take out his HQ if he is dispersed.
“Alamos are the only fighter-deployable nuclear-tipped missile in service, Ardan,” Edward corrected. “The F61 is a gravity bomb—capable of adjusting the yield from a minimum of 10 kilotons to a maximum of approximately 200 kilotons.”
“TWO HUNDRED KILOTONS!” Ardan barked. “That’s the yield of four Santa Annas!” He paused and then he shook his head. “Your crews are going on a suicide run, Edward.”
Edward snorted. “Bombers have delivered nukes like this for centuries, Ardan—ever hear of the loft bombing technique? The aircraft approaches the target very fast at low level—and then it climbs steeply on maximum thrust. At a certain point, the pilot releases the bomb, which continues up and forward on an arc as the aircraft rolls over and retreats,” Edward smiled. “It’s very effective at delivering ordnance when you don’t want to be in the neighborhood at detonation. Our pilots practice that—for just such an occasion as this.”
And then the smile faded. “Damn Michael for making me do this,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to, Edward,” Ardan said just as quietly. “We have the firepower to take the Sixth conventionally.”
“No, Ardan—I have to do this. I cannot—literally can not—let this go unanswered. If I did, the public would demand my head . . . and Father would give it to them.” Edward paused. “And the Old Man would be right in doing so. We’ve warned everyone since the fall of the Star League—use a weapon of mass destruction on our soil and we WILL retaliate in kind and with an order of magnitude greater destruction. I won’t be the Calderon who showed the galaxy that threat was a bluff, Ardan—I won’t. I can’t.”
Cory walked over the two men and he nodded. “They’re airborne—it’ll be about twelve minutes, my Lord,” he said with a bow of his head.
“And Michael’s strike?”
Cory paused and then he shook his head. “They’ll be in range of Alamos in seven minutes—our own fighters will take at least eight to catch up; well, except for the ones in the orbit, but as your friend here said, five-to-two is long odds.”
“SIR!” one of the enlisted technicians yelled out. “IT’S TITAN! She’s diving into the atmosphere alongside her fighters!”
“WHAT?” shouted Cory, Edward, and Ardan at the same time. “She’s not rated for atmospheric operations!” screamed the Taurian Marshal.
“Space Master Liam Zahra on-speaker, Sir,” the com tech reported—and Cory snatched up the microphone.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, Zahra?” he thundered.
“Going to the sound of the guns, Sir,” a distorted voice broke through the static. “She’ll hold together.”
“She wasn’t designed to fly in an atmosphere, you damn fool!”
Static hissed, “. . . –ck about what she was designed to do, Marshal, she can take it! She’ll hold toget- . . .,” and the speaker crackled with static again.
“Can she? Can that ship get in range of the incoming strike?” Edward asked.
“If she doesn’t break up in the upper atmosphere? If she doesn’t lose control over the target? If she doesn't shear off her radars and fire control systems—and weapons—during reentry?” snapped Cory. “If she holds together—she might. She just might.” Cory paused, and then he nodded. “Damn me if I wouldn’t have done the same,” he said with a sigh. “I think, my Lord Calderon, that if Zahra survives—and if I don’t throttle the imbecile—he might be worthy of the Standard of Taurus.”
“If he stops that nuke, I’ll recommend the Brand myself,” Edward replied, and Cory nodded.
“Just let me sear it into his flesh. Damn all pilots—doesn’t matter that he is flying twenty-five thousand tons of ship, he still thinks and acts like a fighter jock!”
“Stand in line, Cory—stand in line,” Edward said with a grim chuckle that held no humor . . . but his hand was caressing the beads of his rosary and cross.
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