CHAPTER 18

 

“The Golkos have divided into two forces, Alexander,” Augesburcke reported. “One is entering orbit around Terra while the other is reforming above them.”

Alexander stepped up to the tactical hologram and with a slender pointer selected one of the Golkos battleships in the latter formation. “We missed him. It will take some time to identify the Nived Sheur, Khandar’s flagship. Until we do the focal point of our attack will be the highest concentration of Golkos capital ships outside the bombardment orbits. The “Big E” will take charge of our attack squadrons and engage and destroy the Golkos bombardment fleet. The “Enterprise” and her dreadnoughts will maintain support our attack on the Golkos covering fleet. We need to keep the Golkos off the back of our B-52’s and fighter-drones, and give them a chance to deliver their payloads. Inform the pilot’s that they are cleared in. All planetary projectors on Terra are cleared to fire at will.”

Admiral Augesburcke hit a single coded switch, sending the Terran defenses into full motion.

“Ladies and gentlemen here we go.”

Beyond the terminator, for the moment out of sight of the Golkos bombardment squadrons, two hundred and twenty-three “Stratofortress,” “Bear,” and “Vulcan” bombers hung in space awaiting orders. Each of the bombers carried up to twenty nuclear tipped weapons. Above them a similar number of fighter-drones waited. Though the fighters carried but a single nuclear charge their purpose was to ram, and hopefully detonate the bomb at close proximity, or if possible within the Golkos ships. In the lead B-52 Colonel Johnny Page waited impatiently for his name to be called. As had every member of the Terran defense force he had the Iowa’s battle-bridge frequency tuned up. It was an idea uniquely his own, sprouting from his days as one of Alexander’s advisors. His thinking was that the overall situational awareness of every member of the defense force could be heightened immeasurably if they saw what Alexander saw. That would allow them to act with some reference to the overall scheme of things and act all that much quicker to opportunities. As Alexander depended upon the initiative of his troops he fully embraced the idea, and even expanded upon it.

Within the nerve center of the Iowa, and every command ship in the fleet, there were etherlinks set up to receive the battle-displays from every other squadron and contingent in the operation. Only the most hard-bitten and trusted officers were assigned to coordinate the information from these nerve centers, as it was their responsibility to pass on crucial information to Alexander on the bridge. Many of these officer’s came from what became known in the military as Alexander’s “warrior” list. It was a list of people who had won Alexander’s admiration and respect in his previous military experience. It was definitely a kudo to an officer’s career to be so considered, and certainly much more advantageous than being on the “gallows” list. If Alexander remembered those whose qualities he appreciated he also recalled those political and bureaucratic officers whose talents, he thought, were detrimental to the cause. Alexander had those individuals tracked down and either put into positions of responsibility or relieved of them, depending on his opinion. There was very little argument either way.

General Page, who had flown B-52’s with Alexander, felt himself fortunate indeed to be suddenly rescued from a dead-end desk job at the Pentagon, promoted and assigned to Alexander’s staff. From there he was quickly put in charge of his own brain child, serving as Alexander’s SCO, Strategic Coordination Officer, on the Iowa. It was a prized position, and Page appreciated the opportunity. As soon as he had the system working to his satisfaction, however, he asked for a different assignment. Being tucked away in the bowels of a battleship, however prestigious, was simply too far from the fight.

Alexander of all people could understand Page’s desire, and he promised to think about it. As he told Page at the time, “I’ll look around and see where you might be most suited Johnny, but I’ll tell you right now you’re too valuable to me where you are to just stick you in the trenches. If I hear of something, though, I’ll let you have first crack at it.” Page agreed, and for the next several weeks he slaved at his job, tinkering and improving. When Alexander turned up during one of the Colonel’s innumerable battle drills he knew his opportunity had come, and that Alexander was not happy about it at all.

“Johnny, something’s opened up,” Alexander told him, and he put his hand on Page’s shoulder. Alexander was silent for a moment, and he didn’t take his old comrade’s eyes for quite a while. Page wondered what was up, but Alexander finally looked him in the eye and told him, “I know I told you I’d give you first crack at something, but I’m afraid what we’ve worked out has your name written all over it. It’s dirty Johnny, really dirty. I’ll tell you up front I don’t think many of you will come back.” Then Alexander told Page of the plans for the B-52’s. The idea, when fully explained, was a tough one; and it almost turned Page’s coal black features as cold white as Alexander’s. In the end, though, he simply saluted and smiled.

Page looked around him at the mass of bombers. Despite his predicament he could not help but grin. They were his babies, and it was time to do a job. True the situation was even more desperate than Alexander had envisioned. The bombers only defense was their small size and speed. Since they carried only minimal shielding the bombers had to make their runs as fast as the pilot’s dared. Full impulse was out of the question as there was no way the pilots, or the computers, could navigate through formations of ships at those speeds. Furthermore, the bombardiers needed time to target and launch the weapons. There was no time to automate the systems, and the attempts they’d made thus far fell far below the capabilities of Terran-computer hybrid systems. Therefore, the bombers carried an extra crewmember to handle the weapons. Further complicating matters was the actual time it took to get the weapons away. The bombers started their runs at a range of one thousand kilometers, out of range of all but the biggest projectors, and slowed to a sobering eleven kilometers per second when within a couple hundred kilometers of the target and finally to about five hundred meters per second for launch. Even so the actual attack run lasted twenty seconds at most. The maximum number of weapons the bombers could release during that time was two. This meant a necessity of four runs for the “Bears” and “Vulcans,” and a staggering ten runs for the B-52’s. Each run meant the bombers had to endure ship-to-ship fire, collision and negotiating their own minefields and planetary batteries. There was no safety margin built into the attack profiles or the rules of engagement. Results were all that mattered.

Colonel Page could appreciate Alexander’s reluctance to send an old friend on so hazardous a mission. Alexander, who was single at the time Page knew him, volunteered to sit alert for Johnny every Christmas and Thanksgiving so Johnny could be home with his family. Alexander then enjoyed post holiday dinners with Page, his wife and three daughters. It was a tough thing to command, but both Page and Alexander knew it and understood its priorities. When General Page saw his panel turn red with the alert warning he simply kissed the picture of his family which he always carried on the glareshield. Then he pressed his mike switch.

“Alright this is the big show; let’s not disappoint the home crowd! All bombers follow me!”

When Page led the bombers around the terminator the entire panoply of battle opened up to his eyes. The massed Golkos bombardment squadrons were already opening up on the planet below. The enormity of the Golkos fleet was such that at any one moment Page could count fifty or more projectors firing on specific points on the planet’s surface. The planetary shields over North America pulsed and glowed as they absorbed the innumerable hits. Streams of plasma leapt from the clouds to stab at the warships above. There were fewer of these, two to three at the most at any moment, but they were obviously far more powerful than the ship based projectors. Even at this early stage Page could see several Golkos ships staggering beneath the weight of the projector fire. Adding to the conflagration was the staccato fire from the asteroid batteries. Like machine gun tracers they sprayed the Golkos fleet from above, cutting through invader’s dorsal shields with telling effect. It seemed an eternity before the surprised Golkos diverted power to deflect this unexpected attack. Just above the orbiting Golkos, Page could see the remainder of the Golkos fleet and the Seventh Fleet locked in battle. The Golkos hovered over their charges, but the Terrans maneuvered in wide swinging arcs, engaging and breaking off continuously. It was an awesome sight, and there was so much blaster discharge that fireworks paled in comparison. Soon a dim veil of red and blue plasma congealed over the space field, like powder from some ancient land battle.

“Here we go! All wings engage attack profiles! Good luck!” Page ordered, throwing the throttles up to the attack gate. He glared into the screen on his cockpit console which offered him a variable telescopic view of the path ahead. Without computer guidance he had to pick and fly his own path far in advance. The controls at such speeds were far too sluggish to effect quick maneuvers, so it was imperative that he choose a free path through the target ships as far in advance as possible while still maintaining the required firing parameters. Page chose his route and held the yoke firmly on course. “Take that big bastard low on the left and the cruiser above!” He ordered, as the ships bloomed in his scope. He switched the magnification to a lower scale, and then still lower. Ducking, dodging and weaving like a race car on ice Page fought to maneuver the unwieldy spacecraft through the most hazardous maze imaginable. Finally the window opened and the nose pointed at the battleship. In the frantic melee of light and eerie silence he locked his course.

“Steady!”

Plasma streamers wove around the B-52 in a deadly intoxicating dance. The ship bucked and shook, but it stayed the course.

“Steady!”

A huge flash of light blinded the displays, and Page involuntarily turned his head away, but his hands gripped the yoke firmly. When the glow faded the battle scene returned. The battleship loomed, a huge rounded tube of mottled steel and ugly blaster projectors. It pounded away at the planet below.

“Missile away!” called the bombardier.

“That’s one!” Breathed page, pulling up over the dorsal spine of the shark nosed Golkos battleship, and then ducking beneath an escort. Immediately he was in the center of the formation, surrounded by the alien leviathans, and innumerable blaster streams both friendly and otherwise. He fought the urge to ram, instead sighting his course on a small patch of stars beyond the maelstrom.

“Number two’s away! You’re clear Johnny!” The bombardier called.

Page jammed the throttles past the attack gate, and the bomber lurched forward. Suddenly he was in a tunnel and the enormous Golkos ships passed by all around him, like ghost ships riding the winds of a hurricane. They rushed by too quickly for him to focus, and his eyes darted uncontrollably at the flashing rust torpedoes. Blaster plumes surrounded him, buffeting the bomber and blurring his screens. It was too fast. He simply could not take in all the sensory input at once. His fists gripped the yoke harder and his teeth ground in his skull. Space turned completely white, and for a moment everything disappeared. Then suddenly he was through the plasma cloud and in the midst of the whirlpool again. Desperately he sought for a visual cue; a debilitating vertigo gripping him. There was too much, too fast; but then he caught that tiny patch of stars again. He grasped it with his sight like a drowning man and willed his ship to it. He found the safety of the tunnel again, steadfastly ignoring the blurred visions of the enormous alien warships as he flew by them. Lights and explosions danced all around, and shock waves shook the B-52’s frame wildly; but all he saw was the faint patch of stars. The eternal span of time ticked away like drunken drums in his head and suddenly they shot out of the battle and into the blackness of space.

Page pulled up and around the planet, returning in a few moments to the relative safety of the opposite side. He breathed again. The adrenalin rush faded, leaving him feeling like he’d flown a ten hour mission. He closed his eyes, now wanting only to land and go to sleep, but the crackling of battle over the ethernet said otherwise. Wearily he punched his comm switch.

“All bombers prepare for the next attack run!” He bellowed. Then softly, only to himself, he whispered; “Only nine more and you can go rearm, Johnny!”

#

Doggedly the battle dragged on through the Terran day. As the terminator swept across the Americas the Nived Sheur rocked; her shields absorbed a full broadside from yet another Terran battleship squadron. Grand Admiral Khandar doggedly ignored the flickering lights, the acrid smoke and the flurry of the medical techs as they pulled burned crewmembers from their shattered panels. His one goal at the moment, his only goal, was to try and keep pace with the Terran battleship on his screen and trap it within the crushing arms of his fleet. The initial confusion of the melee settled into a cauldron of seething combat. Here and there individual engagements flared, as pieces of the Golkos fleet became entangled and separated from the main body. These elements could not realize their mistake at first, bent on pursuing stricken Terran ships, but the end result was always the same. Rarely were the Terrans so wounded as they seemed, and when the Golkos advanced beyond the covering fire of their fleet the Terrans would turn upon them. The brave Golkos showed no dismay at this sudden turn of events, but soon found themselves engaged not only with the Terran capital ships but surrounded by an angry swarm of the damnable Terran subs. The Terrans seemed to have a knack for noting any sudden weakness of the Golkos, and more ships would join the slaughter on their own initiative. To make matters worse Khandar couldn’t respond in kind. Grand Admiral though he was Khandar was helpless to react. The Golkos were simply not flexible enough in either execution or initiative to deal with the impulsive and aggressive Terrans. Even now his tactical hologram was centered on a doomed packet of twenty of his ships cut off from escape. He could not help them, and they could no longer help themselves. The morbidity of it drew a wry twist upon his lips, showing sharp canines biting down and drawing his own blood. With the sobriety of a commander he accepted that their loss would at the very least bleed the Terrans, and bring them one step closer to ultimate triumph.

Almost as maddening were the Terran heavies. The squadron of Terran dreadnoughts did not disperse into the Terran squadrons after their initial rush through the Golkos fleet. Rather they stayed together in a potent hammer of devastating firepower. Alexander used them as a mobile and deadly reserve. Any time one of his squadrons got into trouble there were the heavies to extract them and turn the momentum. Five times in the first tenth of a decurn Khandar watched his superior numbers isolate a Terran squadron, but as soon as the “Enterprise” and her sister ships arrived the tide turned decidedly and irrevocably. The Golkos had nothing to stand against them. Khandar had no choice. The heavies were wreaking havoc on his covering fleet and from all reports his bombardment fleet was being effectively repulsed. Alexander’s strategy was working to perfection. The planet could defend itself admirably, and the Seventh Fleet was using Alexander’s hit-and-run attack mode. Theoretically the Seventh could hammer away at Khandar’s forces without coming to grips with his superior numbers. Terra and the Seventh would fight a running fight, jabbing at Khandar until the firepower of the Second and Fifth could arrive to finish him off. Khandar was in a quandary. He could not maneuver with the Terrans, and he could not overwhelm them in isolated packets. Khandar needed to centralize the battle. Only then would his numerical advantage come to bear. Strategically the decision was a sound one, but it would work only of the Terrans wanted it to.

Khandar’s view returned to the main screen where he watched a Terran battleship slowly pulling away. A hail of fire followed her and her consorts, but the Terrans likewise fired in response with their rear turrets. Khandar bit back a curse. They would get away again! The damned Terran style of fighting kept his gunners busy and drained his shields. They, on the other hand, due to their superior speed and their use of maneuver, had the distinct advantage of disengaging for as long as it took to recharge their capacitors and accomplish battlefield repairs. As it had in the past the Terran maneuvers were showing distinct advantage in combat. Unable to alter the course of the battle in space Khandar hailed the commander of his bombardment force. The grim hologram of Admiral Jekruul spoke otherwise.

“It has been difficult thus far, and I beg to report we have made little headway against the Terran shields,” she told him grimly. “The planetary shields are greater in number and significantly more powerful than any we have experience with. It will take some time to get through them. The Terran planetary projectors are also significantly more powerful than we anticipated. A battleship or cruiser can absorb one or two simultaneous hits, but the Terrans are quite adept at fire control. I’ve lost six of my battleships to coordinated volleys. One moment they were there and the next they were gone. We are also facing significant nuisance fire from smaller batteries. In itself it is not overly dangerous, but the secondary fire is just potent enough to prevent us from recharging our shields in between volleys. Beyond these conventional defenses the Terrans are using extremely small ships to make torpedo attacks on us using the same form of fusion weapons we experienced upon entry to the system. We have decimated the attacking forces, mostly through blind volley fire from our secondary batteries, but we have taken damage. Some of these small vessels have foregone torpedo attacks and proceeded to ram our ships. The Naghat took a suicide attack to her bridge. She should have survived it Grand Admiral, but the Terran was apparently carrying a fusion bomb. Once he penetrated her hull she was literally consumed in a fusion fireball. In addition we have taken extensive damage from Terran fusion mines. They are extraordinarily plentiful, and nearly undetectable. Our sensors are nearly useless against objects so small with all the interference and debris of the battlefield.”

Khandar kept a tight rein on his temper, telling her, “I appreciate the difficulties you are facing Admiral Jekruul, but this is war in all its terrible splendor. We are trying to deprive the Terran race of their Homeworld, and they are fighting us with all of their strength. That is the challenge. Persevere, Admiral. Fight their ferocity with equal fortitude, for if we do not, if we fail here, then it will be our people who fight to the last in defense of our homes.”

Admiral Jekruul bowed her head sharply at the unnecessary reminder, assuring her commander, “You shall have all of our efforts Grand Admiral!”

“I expect no less,” he told her, “now what is your situation?”

Jekruul snapped to rigid attention and reported, “Terran shields are still holding, Grand Admiral, but we are concentrating our firepower on a single shield generator on the lesser continent in the northern hemisphere of the planet. There we see the highest concentrations of industrialization on the planet, but the Terrans have for some reason not concentrated their shielding there. The shield generators blanket the planet homogenously, and therefore this area is relatively weakly protected. We expect to penetrate the shielding in one half of a decand. Fully one third of the planet’s most advanced industrialized areas will then be at risk.”

“That is a logical strategy, Admiral, you may continue with your attacks. What are your losses thus far?” Khandar asked.

“Fifty-seven warships, thus far Grand Admiral, of which six are battleships,” Admiral Jekruul answered.

“At your current attrition will you meet your projections against the Terran shields?” Khandar asked.

“No, Grand Admiral,” she answered truthfully. “Excuse me, Grand Admiral; elements of the Terran Seventh Fleet are now engaging my squadrons!”

Khandar punched in Jekruul’s bridge viewer just in time to see a Terran battleship spiral down beside Jekruul’s flagship Lur-Shenur. The Terran was amazingly adept for its bulk. Like a playful leviathan it set its sight on the Golkos battleship and proceeded to barrel roll towards her prey, all the while training all nine of her huge forward guns on the bridge of the Lur-Shenur. Upon completing her roll the Terran battleship unleashed a full volley on Jekruul’s ship.

Jekruul grasped the arms of her seat as her ship rolled under the concussion. The Lur-Shenur returned only sporadic fire from her main batteries, most of her effort already being spent on the Terran shields below. Jekruul braced for the inevitable volley from the rear turrets of the Terran battleship but as she passed, the name Rodney emblazoned on the fantail, she was relieved to see the Terran had no aft turret. All of her firepower was concentrated on the fore of her deck.

“An interesting if rather ungainly configuration,” Jekruul noted as the Rodney performed another barrel roll and sailed off to recharge her capacitors. Turning back to Khandar she straightened and said, “We now have elements of the Terran Fleet to deal with. You see my situation, Grand Admiral. We will succeed, I assure you, but it will take time.”

“Time is a luxury we cannot afford, Admiral Jekruul. Dire actions are required.”

“I understand, Grand Admiral,” she replied soberly, and then she saluted. “Glory to Golkos! Glory to the Empire!”

Khandar paced away from his chair, noting that another battleship squadron was slicing through the Golkos formation, spraying fire and destruction. The Grand Admiral watched impassively as the huge Terran battleship floated lazily through his formation trading bright volleys of lethal fire. As he gazed with professional interest at the strange ship Admiral Moltor approached him. The Grand Admiral nodded absently, signaling that it was alright for Moltor to report.

“Grand Admiral, we have just received word that Admiral Jekruul has transferred her flag to the light cruiser Muwoc. However, her former flagship has suffered only minimal damage.”

“An interesting decision,” Khandar acknowledged. “Put the Muwoc on the main viewers!” This was done, and the rusted shark appeared in the center of the bridge viewers. She left the security of her fleet and drifted down towards the planet, shining against the darkness of the Eastern Seaboard. Her slender bulk gleamed like an orange sliver against the nighttime backdrop that was Terra, but just as swiftly her silhouette cut a dense hole in the swaths of colored plasma which splashed off the planetary defense screens. Her shields glowed now red, now gold from the impacts. Hulks and debris drifted by her, victims of the stalwart Terran defense, but she floated lower and lower towards the surface, unconcerned.

Moltor listened with agitation to a report from his First Officer, and without wait reported it to Khandar. “Grand Admiral the Muwoc’s superluminal engines are coming to power!”

“That would be the way,” Khandar mused, and they all watched the Muwoc’s nose dip towards the planet’s surface. It was almost gentle, the great ship’s fall, and in so being it escaped the notice of the planetary batteries who thought it just another stricken ship. The Muwoc continued her final descent, and fifty miles from the planet’s surface she came in contact with the shields. She stopped at the unseen barrier, but even the bridge viewer could pick up the struggle that now took place. The Muwoc did not skip from the barrier as did the other hulks; she buried her nose in the energy screen and tried to muscle her way through. Slowly she made headway, her own shields glaring a ruddy gold in their effort. The “Muwoc” shuddered visibly, far beyond the capacity for her inertial dampeners to overcome, and she hung there for a long terrible moment. Finally a blinding red beam stabbed up through the clouds, searching for the “Muwoc.” In the blink of an eye the Golkos warship shot through and disappeared into the mists, leaving the Terran projector fire quivering like a rapier which overshot its mark, conscious of the fatal implications of its misstep. A ruddy glow erupted underneath the cloud cover, and the shock wave was shortly visible, radiating outwards ever so slowly from the epicenter of the explosion. A deadly stillness followed.

The entirety of the Golkos fleet watched the cataclysm unfold, and in the end the silence was broken by a single report by a simple sub-lieutenant: “Sir, the Terran shield in the northern subcontinent is down.”

Grand Admiral Khandar smiled. “Now let Alexander comes to me! Put me on an open channel, Moltor. Let Alexander know where I am. To all Golkos warships, this is your Grand Admiral; victory stands a quiver before us. All ships concentrate their firepower on the exposed Terran subcontinent! Commence the destruction of the Terran Homeworld!”

The stars wheeled sharply, and the planet swam into view. The main viewer of every Golkos warship showed the same target, and in each the same sight could be seen: Golkos warships already in orbit pouring fire onto the unshielded hemisphere of the Terran Homeworld.

#

“Alexander! The shield generator on the North American continent has been destroyed!” Augesburcke exclaimed. The resultant scowl from the Overlord of the Terran Empire demanded embellishment. The blood drained from Augesburcke’s now white face as he told him, “A Golkos cruiser made a suicide attack through the planetary shields. The gunners didn’t realize it was a calculated attack until too late. The entire North American continent is unshielded!”

Alexander scowled, but his hesitation lasted only as long as it took to punch his fleet wide communications switch. “This is Alexander to the Terran fleet. All ships are to immediately engage and destroy the Golkos warships in orbit around Terra!” Then he turned to Augesburcke. “Admiral, I want every ship that can fire a blaster on those Golkos ships. We’ve got twelve hours before the Second Fleet arrives, and we cannot wait while the Golkos pound Terran cities to dust. We’ll bleed them dry, even if we’re not around to witness Admiral Cathcart’s annihilation of the remainder of the Golkos fleet!”

Augesburcke recognized the fever in his Overlord, but he nonetheless approached his command chair with firm resolve. Alexander’s eyes narrowed, daring his most trusted military advisor to talk him out of his course of action. The Australian would not be dissuaded.

“Alexander, as second in command of all Terran forces it is my duty to request you to transfer your flag. This assault will almost assuredly result in the destruction of the greater part of the Seventh Fleet. Cathcart will be here in under twelve hours. It is my duty to hold the Golkos at bay until that time. I have the heavy cruiser Astoria standing by. Transfer your flag, Alexander, and lead the counter-attack yourself when Cathcart arrives. Allow Terra the benefit of your leadership in our final victory.”

Nazar stepped up to his brother-in-law.

“Alexander, listen to what your Admiral is saying, it is not necessary for you to die a warrior’s death now,” Nazar added soberly. “Were the death of the Terran race imminent then you should fall with your people, but you have seen to your final victory. The Terra which survives this war will need the guidance of Alexander, not the martyr.”

Alexander stewed on their words, staring off into space as if his mind wrestled with itself between what was logical and prudent, and what his instincts felt. At length he raised his arm, motioning the spherical metal probe to his seat.

When the probe arrived he told the Communications Officer to open all channels and allow all transmissions to leave the Iowa unsecured.

“That’ll highlight us quicker than a neon sign in the middle of the Outback,” Augesburcke reminded his Overlord.

“Exactly Admiral, thus far we’ve had no luck finding the Nived-Sheur. Maybe Khandar will have better luck finding us.”

The probe floated speedily to him and Alexander told it, “I relieve you of your programming constraints. You may delete all censorship requirements. I want these hours to pass unhindered to the galaxy. Terra stands at a precipice. We have assured our final victory, as the remnants of the Golkos invasion fleet cannot hope to escape annihilation from my approaching Second and Fifth Fleets. Yet the Golkos are here in strength to threaten Terra. Let our resolve be a lesson to any who threaten Terra or her peaceful neighbors. We did not ask for war, but war was nonetheless brought upon us. We shall finish it, regardless of the personal consequences. Now be silent and witness the battle for the rights of Terran space, and the future of the galaxy!”

Alexander rose from his chair, and with Augesburcke and Nazar in tow studied the tactical hologram. “We can no longer afford our hit and run fight. This must now end. The key is Khandar. If we can find him we can end this.”

Captain Thomas interrupted him, “Overlord! Grand Admiral Khandar just gave the order for all Golkos ships to enter bombardment orbit. The order came over an open channel. We have the location of his flagship the Nived Sheur!”

A single battleship in the hologram obediently glowed red not two thousand meters from the Iowa.

“There you are Darius and right next door too! We’ve been trading punches all along and never knew it! Gentleman let’s strike the head off this snake! The Enterprise and her dreadnoughts are to join on the Iowa and the Bismarck squadrons and strike at the Nived Sheur. It is time to pull alongside their flagship for the final confrontation. The Big E shall lead all remaining squadrons in an immediate attack on all enemy warships in Terran orbit. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Alexander,” Augesburcke nodded, adding, “we’ll make this one for the history books!”

“We’re not done yet, Admiral,” Alexander growled, “When the last Golkos ship perishes in flames we shall still be standing, I swear it!”

Augesburcke took the eyes of his Overlord. “What shall I tell the Astoria?”

Alexander sighed, “Pull us back a bit, Admiral, and tell her to come alongside.”

#

“Grand Admiral, three Terran squadrons are closing on the Nived Sheur! The heavy battleship reserve is joining on Alexander’s flagship!” Admiral Moltor reported.

“Just as he promised! Finally Alexander himself comes to me!” Khandar exclaimed, turning sharply from the main communications board. He’d just watched Alexander’s broadcast to his fleet, and now he seethed with anticipation for the programmed Terran response. His eyes glowed with the realization that the initiative was now his. Khandar, not Alexander dictated the battle. The Terran Overlord was now forced to throw himself at the strength of the Golkos fleet, and Khandar was determined to hold the advantage until it should end the Terran’s fantastic career. He settled comfortably, confidently, into his seat. His brows knit with pent up excitement he had to fight to control his glee. Forcefully, but without hurry, he ordered, “Allow him to close unhindered, then close the trap about them! How many ships have they?”

“There are only forty-three warships including the Iowa, Alexander’s flagship, Grand Admiral. However, over half their number are battleships or heavy-battleships. Our count is three standard battleships, nine heavy cruisers, assorted destroyers and frigates, and twenty-two Terran heavy-battleships,” Moltor said. “We cannot equal the firepower of his capital ships, Grand Admiral, even with our advantage in support vessels. We must divert at least some of the attack force to defend the flagship, or we face swift annihilation!”

“Very well, Moltor,” Khandar relented. “Have the Kundoor, Har-took, Plom, Jernak and Gerod squadrons rejoin on the Nived Sheur. All other squadrons assume bombardment orbits.”

“The bulk of our covering force is already entering orbit, Grand Admiral. The remainder of the Terran fleet is engaging our orbiting warships even as we speak. They are engaging ship-to-ship, Grand Admiral, and foregoing their usual maneuvering. Although our bombardment squadrons have taken heavy losses we still retain a two-to-one advantage.”

“We have them!” Khandar nodded, settling further back into his chair. In short order two distinct battles developed. One hundred and twenty kilometers above the planet the Golkos and Terran fleets fought toe-to-toe amidst blaster streams from the planet and the nuclear detonations of mines and torpedoes. Fifty kilometers above them the Nived Sheur prepared to face the Iowa. The “Enterprise” and her dreadnought hammers rushed to the aid of their Overlord while a halo of Golkos battleships likewise sped to the aid of the Grand Admiral.

Khandar strode to the main viewer, relishing the slow but steady approach of the mighty Iowa. The Terran battleship hesitated initially, and Khandar almost asked aloud what Alexander could be thinking. Then the heavy cruiser beside the Iowa shuddered with a direct hit. She veered off and a Golkos battleship shouldered its way between the two Terrans. The Iowa and her cruiser let go broadsides at point blank range, bracketing the interloper. The bold, but aged battleship, gave in. Her shields imploded and she went up in a blinding flash of light. The Iowa’s shields glowed under the firestorm, but they held. The shields of the cruiser flickered, and jets of flame penetrated. The cruiser stayed intact, but ran drunkenly away from the fight with two thirds of her superstructure burned away. Khandar simply shrugged. The Iowa shook off the sting and seemed to find her resolve again. She set her course for the Nived Sheur.

The Grand Admiral showed none of the tension which gripped the bridge crew as they watched the enormous Terran flagship pulled ever closer. The Iowa held her fire as well, as if realizing that this was the final decisive battle, and wishing to wait until the highest pitch of drama could be reached. Around the two ships battle was already joined, and Terran and Golkos warships traded deadly volleys from their blaster projectors at point-blank range. The violence of the light show was as incredible as it was chaotic, but nothing disturbed the two behemoths. They sought each other out as two champion fighters, resolved that one and only one should remain standing.

The agitation of the bridge crew was palpable as the broadside cameras revealed the Terran monstrosity appearing alongside, the impossibly huge barrels of the guns pointing directly at them. Closer and closer they came, and every member of the bridge crew knew with a certainty that no shields could repel firepower of that magnitude at such close range. Still they closed; the black holes of the muzzles were no longer objects of fascination; they were pits from which only death could come. So distracted was Khandar and the Nived Sheur that none noted another ship on the point of crossing her bows. Like the Iowa it was a battleship, but upon its decks amidst crimson and black was an enormous Maltese cross surmounted by a bird of prey; the ancient blazon of the Imperial German Navy.

“Emergency power to the bow shields!” Moltor cried, being the first to ascertain their danger. He rushed to Khandar’s side. Khandar started violently at the Admiral’s warning, immediately recognizing the trap, though too late to prevent it.

“The impudence! To distract me with his own body! What a fool am I to be crossed at the bows! Bloody Hell, Alexander, will you not even give me the honor of dying at your hands!”

Khandar’s fist spouted blood as he pounded the console, ordering every battery of the Nived Sheur to fire. It was far, far too late. In deadly unison the eight main blaster projectors of the Bismarck bloomed along with each of her secondary batteries along her port flank. The Nived Sheur’s visual screens dimmed in the face of such energy, but they revealed enough to make veterans cringe behind their boards. A brave destroyer Captain saw the danger to his flagship and dove his vessel in the face of the “Bismarck’s” fury. The small warship lost its shields instantly in the cataclysm. The stunned crew of the Nived Sheur watched the destroyer vaporize, and the battleship projector beams pass through unhindered. The projector fire overwhelmed the bow shields of the battleship. They buckled, allowing washes of unfettered energy to score and burn the conical prow to a blunted stump. The flagship lurched as if she’d struck a reef, and the groaning of tritium plates reverberated along the length of the hull. The bridge was in a maelstrom of sound and motion, and for a moment it seemed as if the very ship would come apart. Galactic warships were designed to withstand bombardment, but the Bismarck crossed the Golkos bows by scarcely a three hundred meters before she opened up.

“Fire damn you! Fire all batteries!” Khandar roared as he clutched bridge rail.

The Fire Control Officer stabbed at his board, but his eyes registered only the mighty guns of the Iowa as they finally flowered. The Nived Sheur responded just as the raging torrent reached the Golkos shields. The Fire Control Officer’s board erupted in his face. Blue bolts of plasma writhed up his arms and clutched at his chest, and then he disappeared in an exploding cloud which consumed a full span of the Nived Sheur’s weapons board. His corpse, still burning, cartwheeled from the cloud as the Nived Sheur’s gravitational generators failed. Khandar watched the board disappear, mouth agape. The visiplate image of the Iowa’s broadside hung in the smoke for an instant like an apparition. Then the battleship melted from sight in a flash of heat and light. A blinding arc of flame opened a crack along the bulkhead, hypnotically drawing Khandar’s eyes to the wound. The crack widened and suddenly there was a rush of molten wind and a flash of blinding light. A moment in time disappeared, and Khandar saw the bridge from afar. Like an egg cracked in a tumult and then cast into the flames. The bridge was a mausoleum, shaken to distraction by the tremors of the Underworld and then loosed into the cold tomb of space. When his sight returned he found himself standing amidst the wreckage frozen on the bridge, looking amidst the horror for some sign of life. After what seemed an eternity a hint of motion caught his eye, and he looked up. Through the soft focus of the bridge’s emergency force field Khandar watched the silver belly of the Bismarck blotting out the stars.

#

Johnny Page glanced over his shoulder at the remains of his bomber fleet. Sixty three ships, barely twenty-five percent his original force, now gathered on the far side of Luna after rearming. Their part of the defense should have been over, but the desperation of the Terran situation demanded every available resource. The loss of the North American shields, and shortly thereafter the African shields, spurred Page, and every Terran, to their utmost. The Cradle of Civilization and the New World were even now under relentless bombardment, and each moment meant another bomb, another blaster stream unleashed upon an unprotected planets cape.

“All ships to me,” Page ordered. “We’re going in hot, and we’re going in fast. You know the game now, but it’s going to be even more dicey. Every Terran ship we can spare is mixing it up with the Golkos in orbit, and the planetary guns are shooting at every Golkos ship that moves, regardless of our position. Get in there quick, release as late as you can and get the hell out of there! Now let’s go to it!” Page muscled the blaster scarred B-52 around the shoulder of the Moon and shoved the throttles up.

A glaring, “yee-hah!” erupted from his exuberant bombardier. A young man of twenty-seven from Alabama, the boy was happily excellent at this sort of thing. In the general’s opinion the kid was simply too new to this to be scared.

“Ignorance is bliss,” he muttered, but then asked, “Johnson, boy, you got me a target?”

“Right you are boss,” the bombardier smiled, hunched over his screen. “We’re running out of fat cats, but there’s a big bastard over New York way whose taken some hits. I’ve got him centered if you want to finish him off.”

“Let’s get him!” Page answered, and immediately a crosshair appeared on his heads-up-display. “Centered!” Page said simply, and he began his eleventh run of the day. Page was now used to the pell mell maniacal frenzy of the space torpedo run, and he was now veteran enough to be aware of what was going on about him. He was surprised at the activity that surrounded him, as this time the scene was mightily transformed. In their earlier attacks the bombers were met by a hail of fire from the Golkos secondary batteries. This danger was conveniently absent now, as the Golkos were fully engaged by Terran warships as well as planetary projectors. The bombers now hurtled virtually forgotten into midst of the melee. The chief dangers now, and they were still extreme, were collision and absorbing fire meant for someone else. They were, in a way more worrisome to Page. He didn’t mind so much being shot down, to borrow an inexact term, but he certainly didn’t want to go down as the victim of a collision or an accidental hit.

“One missile Johnson, one only!” Page ordered against the buffeting of the ship through the war torn space. “We don’t have time to go back and rearm. We need to make each shot count!”

“One missile, one ship, you got it boss!” Johnson acknowledged. Warships sped by their windows at dizzying rates. The clock blinked redly.

“Standby! Hold her steady! I got him, I got him, missile away!”

A glow out of their right window announced the ALCM launch. The missile, already benefit of the B-52’s velocity, sped away from the bomber as its Scythian thruster gave it increased impetus. Page hauled back gently on the yoke and banked away from the weapon, shooting for his exit gate and creating the precious gap of distance between himself and his deadly messenger. There was so little time to get free, and even as he settled the aging giant on her escape course the familiar flash and turbulence of the ALCM shock wave signaled a strike.

“Impacted her shields,” Johnson reported, assessing the strike through his cameras. Patiently they waited for the glow to die down so they could see what lay beneath. The clouds of plasma dissipated quickly enough so that Johnson could report. “She’s still intact, though I see some superficial damage. Hold on, we must’ve taken her shields out! An “Alpha” class sub is diving in on her! That’s it baby, bring it on home! They’re finishing her off! Scratch one battleship!”

“Nicely done, Johnson,” Page sighed. “Let’s bring her around again.”

#

Admiral Sergei Konstantinov could hardly complain about the action he’d seen this day. It more than made up for all the weeks of frigging around and shooting blindly into space.

“Bring her hard about! Fire all tubes as we come to bear! Let’s finish that bomber’s work for her; I’ll not have them catch their breath!” The orders came sure and sharp, but with the hours of the battle dragging on even Konstantinov felt his frenetic energy on the wane. The Gagarin rolled in on the stricken battleship like an angel of death. Blaster fire poured into the helpless amidships of the battleship, blowing huge voids in the skin and melding deck, skin and ribs into a mindless jungle of twisted metal. Konstantinov’s gunners were adamant in their aim, not random. Under the fused decks were the powerhouses of the ship: her engines. Their blasters burned into those cavernous halls buried deep in the ship’s bowels and Konstantinov rolled his head with pleasure as a golden aura pushed its way outwards from the dying ship.

“Ah, now isn’t that a sight to see; like sunrise in the South Pacific! Nice shooting, you B-52! I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but nice shooting! Chalk us down for half-a-one First Officer. We’ll share that with our comrades in arms!”

“Aye, aye sir!” The First Officer agreed, but then he informed Konstantinov, “Sir, the Iowa is taking quite a beating. We’ve been monitoring the battle above. It started favorably, but over the last two hours the Golkos numerical advantage has begun to tell. The Iowa is surrounded with only half her squadron remaining. The Bismarck and the dreadnoughts have joined her about the Golkos flagship, the Nived Sheur, but all have suffered heavy damage. The Golkos flagship is just about dead in space, but the Golkos have many more support ships.”

Konstantinov closed his eyes. “I have my orders direct from Alexander himself,” he said.

“Admiral, reports indicate that the Iowa has been boarded,” the First Officer added.

Konstantinov cut him off, “We have our orders!” He said, adding somewhat more soberly, “Let us have faith that Alexander knows what he is doing.”

#

The fight had long since deteriorated into a slugging match. Gone were the deft maneuvers Alexander so admired. All that remained was the order to fire at will at everything which moved or showed even the remotest sign of life. The Iowa led three other battleships, thirty-seven ships of the line, and twenty-two dreadnoughts into mortal combat with the Nived Sheur and the one hundred and eighty-nine Golkos ships, of which twelve were battleships. The odds were even at first glance, but for the seven Terran cruisers which started the fight there were sixty-one Golkos cruisers; and for the thirty destroyers and frigates there were one hundred and seventeen Golkos ships. The blow dealt by the Bismarck and Iowa to the Nived Sheur at the onset of the engagement changed the face of the battle immensely. What at first appeared to be a face off turned into a fight for the corpse of the Golkos flagship. The Nived Sheur still lived, though by the intensity of her few remaining batteries it was by a thread. It was obvious to all that the Golkos flagship would never leave the Terran system under her own power. Her mains were down, and her feeble fire was merely to assure all that she would not surrender. The Nived Sheur was a stalwart but barren lady. She no longer had teeth, but she would not, could not retreat. Her consorts risked all to save her, and suffered greatly from dangerous efforts to somehow extricate their Grand Admiral from the floating coffin of his flagship. The Golkos battleships were the first to wade in, but one by one they died under the superior firepower of their Terran adversaries. When only a handful of Golkos capital ships remained the destroyers and frigates took over the fight. To their credit the Golkos captains threw their overmatched vessels relentlessly at the huge Terran ships. The fight turned into a swarm of Golkos destroyers and frigates stinging the titanic Terran ships. It was a testament to Golkos courage, and after some time it began to show success.

That the Terrans suffered immensely from the innumerable Golkos guns was obvious, but what was equally plain was the stubbornness with which the Terrans died. The thick tritanium treated steel of the Terran warships was many times the strength of the thin skinned Galactics; designed as they were to be almost wholly dependent on shielding. When shields failed the Terrans fought on when their Galactic counterparts broke up. Still, the Terrans took an enormous pounding. Four of the “Enterprise’s” turrets were quite literally blown off her deck. Bereft of all but one of her main batteries she became a ram, burying her sharp Terran prow into the midsections of one after another Golkos ships. At long last, when her remaining guns were gone and rampant streams of energy spewed from her ruptured bowels, the “Enterprise” could not withdraw her battered ram. She floated, impaled on the dying wreck of a cruiser; a twisted monstrosity of steel trading flickers of flame with her torn prey.

The Bismarck lived in brief glory only to die again. Transfixed between eight cruisers and innumerable destroyers she traded fire for almost two hours, destroying twelve of her foes before finally bowing out in a pulsing cloud of fire and plasma.

The remaining combatants, surrounded by glowing gas, derelict hulks and a swarm of life pods, continued to wrestle. Like exhausted boxers they leaned upon each other’s shields, clutching closer in their efforts to score a final fatal blow. Relentlessly they pounded each other. Wheezing and grunting, their projector fire now bright with patience, now dim with desperation. Shields fluctuated visibly under overloaded generators and drained engines. Yet no one stopped. No calls for quarter were heard, none were asked for. Lifepods clawed beyond the fringes of the battle. With nowhere to land the survivors milled aimlessly, conserving energy and awaiting the outcome of the slaughter.

Over the last two hours Alexander had no opportunity to issue orders, follow the battle or see to anything but his own survival. When the Astoria rolled away out of control approaching Golkos battleships cut off any chance of extracting the Terran Overlord. Alexander refused to allow the Iowa out of the fight. With the North American shields down and then the sudden loss of the African shields he could not afford to lose the Iowa’s firepower. In short order the battle turned into a scrum. There was no room for maneuver. The Golkos hovered over every metropolis their scanners could find. Terran warships threw themselves at the invaders with reckless abandon. Numbers, size, damage; nothing mattered. It was a slugging match with no élan, grace, glory or quarter. The battle became static. Then the first boardings began. It was strictly a Golkos offensive, as the Terran fleet was not equipped to reply in kind. Still, it was not altogether unexpected, and a healthy contingent of marines waited upon each vessel for just such an occasion. Alexander ordered Admiral Augesburcke to the battle bridge. No sooner had the Admiral checked in than the first announcement of a boarding on the Iowa took place.

He was back in his own tiny world of red fury; the hand-to hand fighting on the Iowa was not so much savage as it was extreme. Although his commanders begged him to take shelter in the battle-bridge Alexander refused to leave. Nazar would not leave his friend and brother’s side. He informed a crusty Alexander that to do so would forfeit his honor and the love of his sister. The Terran Overlord left it at that. The Golkos boarded the Iowa from a score of ships, and while the remnants of the Iowa and Bismarck squadrons pounded the attackers mercilessly they could do little else. The Terran fleet had no boarding pods. The Iowa and her Overlord where quite alone.

Alexander’s worry had always been his soldier’s brevity of training for space borne hand-to-hand combat, especially when the inevitable occurred and the gravitational generators failed.

He needn’t have wasted the energy.

The Terrans took to their blasters and knives with a relish of ferocity their ancestors would have smiled at. Their planet was in peril, and all of Terra rose to the occasion. It was not so much heroic as it was desperate; it was not so much glorious as it was bestial. The Iowa became the focus of the hard cold reality of existence, and the endless struggle to perpetuate the species. Eons into the future neither the Terrans nor the Golkos would leave a trace to tell the universe that they ever existed, but here and now they fought for every last breath of their civilization and their species. Blood smeared bulkheads on the most powerful battleship in the known galaxy. It bore a testament to the will to live, and though the Terrans were the more terrible the Golkos were the more numerous. Just when the ever shrinking number of Terrans would clear the bridge of invaders a fresh surge of Golkos would erupt from the torn corridors. Several times in the last hour the Terrans were surrounded, gathering in a small kernel in a corner of the bridge. Just at the point of final defeat a sortie from the bowels of the Iowa would change the tide. The battle for the bridge was the rallying point of both forces, and from everywhere on the ship the call to a last stand drew any being with breath left in their body. The bridge was a dying place, devoid of all but the red emergency lights, the staccato discharges of plasma, and eruptions of blasters. The wan illumination made it all the more ghoulish and confusing. Venting gases mixed with blood globules, floating bodies and torn equipment. The only sign of life on the bridge was the red number counting down in the corner of the main screen: the chronometer which foretold the arrival of Admiral Cathcart and the Fifth Fleet.