Thrust Vector - Log 9: Battle for the Zone
“Hostile Fleet, visual contact confirmed. One five three degrees west.” The crow’s nest spotter aboard the towering superstructure of the Decimator reports.
Operations nods as his console ignites. “Radar contacts, hostile fleet. Confirmed heading at one five three degrees west.”
The Communications Officer turns into to the information warfare channel. “Decimator incoming report: full contact on hostile Fleet one five three degrees west. Prepare for tac-link data download.”
The central holographic dias updates, deep yellow contacts appearing across the western side of battlespace as a wall of salvaged metal and weaponry.
“Good download.” The Operations Officer aboard the electronic warfare cruiser Battlemaster confirms with the Decimator’s report. “Uploading to Central Command.”
The nerves of war connect. From a thousand miles away, the 3rd Fleet center on Ledenoft bustles with heavy activity.
“Overlord to all units.” Fleet Command’s smooth voice, distorted by the Zone and through the wire thin satellite connection, smothers the entire upper division radio channel. “Operation Colossus Phase One is in progress.”
Slaved over countless hours. Perfected through endless days. The entirety of Operation Colossus was meticulously planned and prepared for. Words of experience were sounded across fleets through wavelengths of the air itself, the greatest minds of the Broken World coming together to form the basis of a plan. Every factor anticipated and every snag ironed out.
Beyond the haze of the Zone to the north, the frames of 87th Outlaw Hunters becomes ever so visible. Formed together in a wedge, the fast destroyers and frigates lead the charge in, followed by a rear guard of cruisers and capital ships.
Closer to the Covenant Fleet, the 91st Task Force pins in from the south. Her heavy tonnage organized in a more conventional manner; a ovoid sphere where smaller warships escorted the heavy fire power of her capitals.
Both Forces close in on the Covenant. In the corrupted air, the metal amalgamations of unstandardized salvage lock together. A thinly veiled bulwark of faith and steel protecting their mothership in the beyond.
On the Bridge of the Decimator, the officers all take in the battle space. The holographic tactical display zooms out as more and more units enter the operation area, Consortium Units in blue against the Covenant in deep yellow.
“Can’t believe they sent two task forces.” The Tactical Officer speaks through large binoculars. “We could’ve taken them down with the Decimator alone.”
“Objective changes Lieutenant Commander.” The Operations Officer comments as he looks at his console as the final checks roll through. “If we needed to destroy the Covenant entirely then we’d be enough. All we got to do is force a surrender. Take down most of the fleet, leave the City.”
“As if.” She scoffs at him. “These nutjobs will fight to the last man.”
“If that’s the case then this’ll be easy.” Captain Ano interrupts, squinting his eyes as he steps back from the bridge windows. He turns to the bridge as he sounds the voice of Command. “Level Five combat alert. All hands to battlestations.”
The klaxon rings across the vessel, its pulsing noise a shrill, familiar drive towards war. Decimator’s soul changes, her body shifts as the factors within her are tuned to overdrive. The movement of bodies within steel construction morphs into a droning beat of marching flesh and moving metal; every dial turned, every shell loaded into its chamber, every command yelled, and every nod of the head.
Captain Ano moves towards his command chair, continuing the final battle checks of the Decimator. “Tactical, bring all weapons to bear. Engineering prepare to flash cool secondary reactors for internal dampening. Comms, final tactical link check.”
The world of the Decimator runs, then slows as each step of a lost process is completed, and reported.
“All stations report combat ready Captain.”
Captain Ano takes the microphone from his chair. “Overlord, this is Decimator Actual. The Decimator is cleared for combat.”
“Overlord copies.” Fleet Command returns. “Overlord to all units. Acknowledge combat readiness.”
Across both Task Forces, every vessel prepares for war. In the hazed green sky, ancient machines from a Lost Era grind to their once created purpose.
Captain Ano listens in closely as each vessel in the massive roster is called upon, and answered to.
“This is Overlord to all units, all naval forces are combat ready. Tactical Air Controllers, confirm Vector Team status.”
“Commander Dalsma.” Captain Ano turns to the station at the very back of the Bridge. “You’re up.”
Commander Dalsma adjusts the headset on his head as he takes in the airspace. In front of him, a massive display of the entire Operation Area was broadcast in real time. Every vector, every vessel was given to the Masters of Information. Wireframes of naval warships were matched with the arrows of dozens of vectors, a data stream on the verge of overload to the human mind.
On the Controller Frequency, a female voice speaks. “Tactical Air Controller Lieutenant Commander Sainz reporting as Centurion.”
“Overlord confirming Centurion.”
The half machine, half human speaks. “This is Herd, callsign: Wolfram.”
“Confirm Wolfram in airspace.”
The bridge listens as their personal arbiter to battlefield gods speaks to the sky’s fiber. “Commander Dalsma, callsign Archangel at your service.”
“Copy that Archangel. All units, Tactical Air Controllers in Operation. Handing over Level Five control to Tac Air.”
The Three Tactical Controllers give silent acknowledgement through the fibers of morse. Jittering noises that strung together created the secretive language of information warfare sent exclusively to each other.
“All units, General Broadcast from Board representative incoming.”
In all frequencies a voice rings out above all. Admiral Balmer’s smooth, carefree tone is gripped with focus as he speaks. “To the Covenant of Medeterria, I am a representative of the ruling power of the Consortium, callsign is Jericho. The Consortium understands the sanctity of the Medeterrian Zone to your people. However, your hostile actions towards all allegences of humanity have forced us to intervene. The Consortium seeks a diplomatic resolution to hostilities. Our terms as are follows: surrender your Fleet and city state and the Consortium will guarantee the safe relocation of your people. If you do not comply, we will be forced to destroy you. This message will repeat until further correspondence.”
“That does not sound friendly…” Someone comments.
“Wasn’t meant to be.” Captain Ano retorts. “They accept, or they die.”
“God, I hope we see some action.” The Tactical Officer says. “We need to fire these guns or they’ll rust.”
“Don’t wish for casualties.” Captain Ano carefully responds. “If we get into combat in here it’ll be chaos.”
Commander Dalsma’s voice cuts in from between jabs of radio broadcasts. “If we do get into combat here its a Vector’s playground. Slow fighter craft and poor anti-vector weaponry, all we have to do is watch as they get to have all the fun.”
“Some light entertainment wouldn’t be that bad of a trade off I suppose.” The Tactical Officer retracts.
Captain Ano nods. “Well let’s just hope the Cardinal doesn’t do anything stupid. If he does decide to fire first we’ll be the ones testing reactive armor.”
Forty kilometers was a distance short enough to theoretically engage a target, but long enough to never accurately hit it. Both sides were strewn in formation, within each other’s reach but long enough away that any actual attempt at attack would be easily dodged.
Captain Ano looks at the tactical map on his tablet again, going over the Operation that was drilled within him. Battleships, cruisers, carriers, and everything else, their armaments, their positions, their tactics, against those that fate would pit them against.
All seemed to be going according to the plan.
Though something was off about this.
The Communications Officer interrupts his train of thought. “Call for you from Akula Actual Captain.”
Captain Stiz was here as well, her vessel’s place in the 87th was dead center, prepared for a high speed breakthrough in case such was needed.
“Patch her through.” Captain Ano waves.
In the dial noise, her voice follows. “Captain Ano.”
“Captain Sitz.” Ano returns.
“You ready for this Captain?” Sitz asks.
“Yes, but I hope that this doesn’t come to combat. Decimator’s going to draw a lot of fire from a lot of vengeful gunners.”
“That’s the point, if I remember…” Captain Sitz looks over to her Operations Officer, who hands her his binoculars. “Lots of fire for lots of armor.”
“You didn’t call me to just talk to me.”
Sitz laughs as she tracks the Decimator with magnified eyes. “You’re right, I didn;t just call to talk.”
“Then why’d you call?”
“To tell you this:” She adjusts her view to the enemy fleet. “Don’t be afraid to push the Decimator beyond what she’s capable of. She might be fast, but she can be faster. She can take hits, but can tank a lot more than you think.”
“I suppose she can punch harder than what she already can.”
“That is too be seen of course.” Sitz blinks as she sees the frames of incoming fighter craft. “That has to be seen.”
The Announcement comes online across all fleets. “Overlord to all units. Incoming fighter squadrons. Cleared to engage level 9 authorized.”
“They’re making a direct run for us!” The Operations Officer yells as he spots them.
Captain Sitz sighs. “Well, if you need the Akula to drag your ass out of anything, just call.”
Captain Ano has no time to gawk at Sitz’s calm reaction towards incoming fire as he scrambles to prepare the Decimator for War.
“Gunners are at the ready.” Tactical reports as her relaxed statue turns stiff. “Automated weapons systems online.”
“Good luck Captain Ano, can’t wait to see the Decimator in action.” Sitz finishes.
“Hostiles entering tertiary caution zone, distance thirty kilometers.”
“Yeah yeah.” Captain Ano hangs up.
“Captain!” Commander Dalsma turns from his station.
“Not yet!” Ano yells.
“Twenty kilometers.” The update comes.
“Outer perimeter has engaged incoming fighters.” Tactical reports.
Across the sky, tracer rounds light up. The spotters aboard the frigates point and shout as a cloud of firepower rushes towards them. In chaos, there was coordination. The quad barrels of the manual anti vector guns fire in a cacophony of violence, twenty millimeter rounds splitting the sky in visual bursts of flak.
An attacker squadron dives towards the Escort Frigate Aalen in a direct assault, the wailing of air creating a shrill tone that echoes across the sky.
“Take them down!!!” Someone yells.
The lead attacker craft is torn apart underneath a single burst of armor piercing munitions, the flaming wreckage passing only a few meters away from the vessel in a final attempt of violence.
Rounds shatter across the deck as the rest of the attacking craft open fire, the gunners ducking behind thinly armored gun shields. A spotter takes a hit, the massive metal round severing her arm in a blast of blood and gore.
“Medic!!!” Her Gunner screams over roaring lead vengeance.
As the group of craft pull away, the automated gun focuses. Within mechanical minds, the noise of running motors stops. The scream of small caliber rounds breaks the air as a solid stream of fire cuts right into the formation of craft. Immediately, half of the group is ripped apart underneath concentrated lead, with the rest breaking away.
The Battlemaster’s Tactical Controller speaks through the distortion of the zone. “Incoming fire incoming fire.”
Wild, unaimed shells crash through the 91st Task Force. From such a distance and at such target spacing, the chance of an actual impact were close to impossible, but such psychological warfare was staple in warfare.
The Covenant were yelling obscenities at the face of an annoyed dragon. Such tactics demoralized for certain, however, was not effective in any chance against raw, brutal firepower.
In the middle of the Task Force’s Formation, a destroyer class vessel executes a hard turn towards the Covenant. “This is the Linebacker, be advised we are taking the shot.”
Beyond conventional artillery, forty kilometers was a range incredibly far. Packed explosive upon shell casing could only do so much when propelling the shell the size of a housing unit. But the long ago, humanity solved this problem with technology now lost to time.
“T-minus three to fire.” The Linebacker’s Tactical Officer takes a deep breath as he checks the final targeting solutions. “Firing.”
A plume of superheated metal and gas erupts from the vessel spanning railgun, a lance of light crossing the distance between Consortium destroyer and Covenant cruiser in less than a millisecond.
The synapses of man couldn’t even comprehend the speed of such ordnance, merely the trails left behind by it. First, there was nothing. Then, a single line of molten air bridged towards a massive expanding plume of white hot metal. In a time span only a machine could comprehend, the Covenant Cruiser is turned into nothing.
Debris from the impact smash into the rest of the Covenant Fleet, their retained kinetic energy enough to penetrate superstructure and splatter exposed crew. The nearest vessel, a destroyer class with the shape of a winged bomber, is sundered underneath the shearing power of the shockwave.
Every single vessel on both sides reel back at the raw energy expelled, and aboard the Decimator, the crew all advert their eyes, then hang on as the pair of shockwaves pass over them.
The Tactical Officer looks on with shock. “Well that’s something to add to the weapons wish list…”
Linebacker is shot out of formation, the entire vessel recoiling at such a exhaustion of power. “Reloading, require cover.”
In a single moment, the unbreakable fortress of faith and flesh was shattered. Like a group of cockroaches underneath light, they scatter from formation. Engines crash burn as chaos grips the untrained personnel of the Covenant. Across the corrupted sky broken vessels break and run in total panic.
“Overlord this is Kronos Actual, Covenant Fleet is breaking.”
“Copy that Kronos Actual.” Overlord verifies. “All Units, Operation Colossus Phase Two is activated.”
Captain Ano calmly points to the back of the Bridge. “Dalsma.”
“Understood Captain.” Commander Dalsma grins as his hands roll across his control panel. “Phase Two is in progress.”
Across the airwaves, the call is sounded.
Short phrases spoken through ancient microphones echo across battlespace, a signal that turns the heads of gods.
The power of the Tactical Controllers was never their own, instead, it lied in the unstoppable force they were given to direct.
Beyond the clouds, they stand ready; a legion of the Old Word, the demons of a lost era.
As Commander Dalsma speaks, he hears the other controllers echo his words to their respective Combat Wings. “This is Archangel, Gaea Wing advised: Phase Two of Operation Colossus is in action. Cleared to engage Covenant Forces at your discretion.”
Breaths follow on tight oxygen masks. Colonel Perez takes one more lungful of canned air before responding. “This is Gaea Leader, all copy.”
Vectors breach the clouds, their lazy circle beyond the sensor range of the hostile fleet bringing them a full view of the battlefield.
“God this is our playground.” Gaea Two mutters through a pinned smile.
“Flight, this is Gaea Leader. Hades Team, cover Gaea Three with me, keep those capitals busy. Lightning Squadron, you’re with Gaea Two, take down as many vessels as you can before they get into weapons range. Rest of you, cover the Task Force…”
The Colonel Pauses. “Oh and try not to get into Markov’s way.”
The Thirty two vector pilots of the wing acknowledge in light laughter. A single flight among three, where one was enough to completely shatter the hostile Fleet.
Colonel Perez’s eyes focus on the meeting battle before them. “Alright people, I don’t want anyone getting killed today. Let’s get this done and let’s get it done clean.”
With no objections from those beneath him, the master Pilot grips the control stick. “Engage.”
Black slick shapes thunder across the sky. Across bows of Consortium warships, topside crews duck underneath the roar of god engines.
Three formations of vectors break past the Consortium line, the empty space between factions euphoric for just a single second of untamed acceleration.
Within cockpits, the final prayers are spoken and beating flesh meshes with salvaged metal. The Vector Pilot ceases to exist, now a mere monster of war unleashed like a rabid dog.
In screaming silence they separate, the sky shattering from the explosion of their arrival.
Untrained flak batteries open up against untouchable shapes, shrapnel detonating across the breaking Covenant formation as gunners try and land a single hit.
Vectors crash into enemy lines, the brutal psychological warfare sending the already splintering fleet into fatal trajectories. A sixty meter long cruiser accidently rams into a destroyer as it dives away from an incoming fleet tackler, sundering the salvaged construction of the smaller vessel. Fires rage across the Covenant as vectors rush into the chaos, the shifting close quarters environment the very thing they were designed for.
“Vectors are engaged.” Archangel reports through the chaos of war. “Phase Two is in progress.”
In Consortium lines, mortals watch the rage of gods.
Gaea Leader swings their craft across the deck of a Covenant frigate at maximum acceleration, the jet wash of the cold fusion engines inadvertently throwing crew right off, leaving the screaming bodies falling towards the Earth below.
The Master Pilot links up with Gaea Three, who barrels down towards the Covenant capital fleet. A fighter pulls into a head on pass with Case’s armored vector, situating itself between it and its master. Machine gun fire shatters against plated alloy as the push propellor powered craft opens fire against the incoming monster.
Gaea Three doesn’t even slow down as the game of chicken turns lethal, the massive thirty ton vector smashing head on against faith and steel.
Into the smoke and fire, the engineered creature guts it’s way across the salvaged construct by brute kinetic force, and the less sturdy craft is instantly shattered underneath it.
“Hostile destroyed.” Case mutters through their suit.
Across the Tactical Controller board, warnings ring out. “Gaea Three, missile lock on you.”
From the bleeding frigate behind them, dozens of shoulder mounted homing missiles are launched. Warheads fly towards the pair of targets, the once solid target indiscriminate as the heat signatures of two craft combine.
“Flares, Flares.” Gaea Leader pulls between Gaea Three and the incoming projectiles, dumping countermeasures as he passes the terminal path.
Sensors fail as each missile tracks a thousand signatures. In their unguided world, they crash into false vectors in massive explosions.
Vector contrails cross as Gaea Two screams past her two comrades. The banshee cry cracks the air as a cloaked demon charges towards a loose destroyer formation.
An insane laugh ripples within the cockpit as blue eyes flash with anticipation. Demonic plasma erupts from twin barrels aimed towards vessels of false faith, super heated slugs splitting the sky as they impact their targets with intense precision.
Post gaseous rods of scattering matter penetrate armor, utterly bypassing the hastily welded steel constructs of the Covenant. Molten metal spalls within tight corridors, sheared metal fragments splintering across vessel internals as the raw velocity of plasma bolts transfers into separated shards.
A damage control Adept watches the Initiate next to her get shredded in half by a loose bolt the size of a fingernail traveling at terrifying speeds, a scene repeated a thousand times over across the destroyer formation. Blood and bone is splattered across ancient hull plating as hundreds of casualties are brutally painted on walls by metal debris. The invisible demon roars past them as shell shocked crew try to recover from total carnage.
Lightening Team is right behind Gaea Two, ten vectors pushing through the dirty air of their paragon to finish the job. Vectors loop around as they blast overhead, each pilot masterfully throwing their craft into an attack pattern aimed from every possible angle.
Lead and missiles fill the air, the origins of such firepower completely drowned out in the black pitch of combat. Anti Air crews fire blindly into the sky as the pieces of comrades rain down upon them in blood red gore, the battlefield gods’ wrath brutal and unending against mortals.
The blue hues of the swarm missile match with the deep greens of the tracer round, the contrails of rockets blown apart by the sheer thrust of vector engines. In their small section of battlespace, there was only chaos.
Hades Leader echoes in the command channel, the battleship of the Task Force’s distress obvious. “Decimator, do you need assistance…”
“Hades Team, Decimator requests assistance.” Archangel replies, then pauses. “Hold that order, we have friendly vector asset incoming.”
Aboard the Decimator, the crew scramble against a focused strike of Covenant attackers. Automated anti vector guns spit out streams of lead that rip into structure effortlessly, and the gunners shatter armored attackers with ease, but the swarms of salvaged steel and faith seem to be utterly endless.
A single hostile attacker gets through the bulwark of the Decimator only for a second, its strafing run cut short by a flak shell that tears right through the lightly armored cockpit and detonates within the twin engined frame, erupting the craft in a biofuel powered fireball.
The craft falls, but not before its fury is unleashed. Fired rounds scatter across the super structure of the Decimator, and topside crew scramble for cover. A gunner is hit in the leg, the relatively small round not enough to penetrate steel but enough to severely wound flesh.
“Fuck!!!” She yells as she turns the gun to face another threat. “MEDIC!!!”
The medical officer on duty scrambles over to her position as he trips over the thousands of spent shell casings littering the deck. He half slides, half trips into a position next to the patient as he breaks out the medical supplies within his flak jacket.
“Shit we gotta get you into surgery!” The Officer yells over the screaming of a dying craft breaking apart.
She squints as her targeting sights are filled with the flashes from her quad barreled weapon. “Shut the fuck up and patch me up here!”
“You’re gonna loose your fucking leg if you stay up here!!!” He orders back.
“I don’t use my fucking leg to aim, now patch me the fuck up before I bleed the fuck out!”
The medical officer gives an exasperated noise as he takes out the self sealing bandages.
On the bridge, all windows were sealed by the armored blast covers. Underneath the dim glow of light emitting diodes, the entirety of the Decimator’s command crew were throwing orders and reports at each other.
Captain Ano stands at the front of the central holographic table, right in the middle of the chaotic barrage of information. Through snippets of yelled sentences and warnings laid out upon the three dimensional broadcast, Captain Ano’s nerve center was also at the literal center of the battle. The vessel’s sensors systems were sharper than any Electronic Warfare Frigate, her communications a century beyond those of a Command Cruiser, and her crew, better trained than any mustered force in the history of the Consortium.
An explosion rocks the bridge. The dumbfire rocket from a Covenant Attacker breaching the outer wall of defensive fire stopped cold against monumental, almost magical metal.
The armor was also pretty nice. Ano thinks to himself.
“Dalsma!” The Captain turns, his voice cracking as he yells. “We can’t just sit here and take it!”
Commander Dalsma’s eyes were wide, unblinking as he absorbs information rolling across his world. The Tactical Air Controller’s response was almost lost amongst the chaos of the bridge. “Understood Captain, backup is coming.”
Four engines upon one frame shatter skies. Unending chaos falls away, mere mortals staring at the living embodiment of war as it passes them. The noise of the god vector was of a full nuclear detonation, sheer and raw power ejecting behind him as the craft powers through the aetherial medium.
Lieutenant Alek Markov’s face is covered by his piloting helmet, in his eyes the stream of targeting data echoed in deep red.
The god Pilot’s voice is harsh and filtered through the piped oxygen of the mask, radio static making his tone barely perceivable. “This is Gaea Four. Engaging.”
Gunners watch as a barrage of fire crashes into the Covenant attackers, armored craft annihilated in a bloom of pulverized metal.
The pitcher roar of the thirty millimeter rotary cannon sounds seconds later, a noise that is immediately shattered by the arrival of a god.
Hostiles break immediately at the shapeless blur, the nightmare of memories returning for its final showdown.
Gaea Four thunders over the top deck of the Decimator, the silent communion of the crew to god deafened as the machine mercilessly gives chase after fleeing hostiles.
Twin heavy machine guns open fire, the scream of lead echoing as craft are ripped apart within the jaws of raw fire power.
The god pilot screams between the formation of Consortium warships, each burst of munitions taking down craft in a mindless fury.
A group of fighters separate behind Gaea Four, sights trained upon the twisting and turning vector.
Tracer rounds fly towards the shape, lead passing through an ever shifting after image.
The nose of the god craft lifts as Gaea Four throws away acceleration for maneuvering control, the chest thundering noise of the fusion engine dying to an ear splitting shrill. The vector loops across the top deck of the Consortium Cruiser Francisco, the blast of air behind the craft scattering spent shell casings across the deck.
Covenant fights give chase, though, against an Earth Tech cold fusion engine their velocity was comparatively lethargic. One of the fighters miscalculates their trajectory, his wing clipping the edge of the cruiser’s structure as he ascends upward. The frame spins out of control as it shears apart underneath it’s own centripetal force. Biofuel lines separate, and the red hot engine blasts the splashed gasoline in a fireball.
Gunners duck as flaming debris scatter across the rubberized deck, the fires of the explosion broken as Covenant fighters cross the sky seconds later.
The vector rips through the battle torn airspace as an entire fighter squadron guns right for him.
“Gaea Four…” Archangel begins to warn, but realizes the uselessness of obvious information to the embodiment of the battlefield.
Behind the vector a Covenant fighter sends a scattering of scrap metal through shotgun barrels, a blanket of steel shot at lethal velocity in an attempt at catching the after image with just a single hit.
The god pilot pitches his machine up, the thin air crossing the engineered surface of the craft suddenly turned solid as it crashes against its flat belly. The vector bleeds incredible speed in mere seconds, falling behind the hostile craft as the creature within levels the craft.
Dozens of armor piercing high explosive munitions roar from the nose mounted rotary cannon in a short burst, all impacting a single Covenant attacker within the center of the formation. The craft is blasted apart as its missile load is force detonated, the sky in front of the vector’s cockpit filling with fire and death.
A severed engine from the hostile craft is shot loose, the entire construct crashing into a fighter as it tears apart under impact. Shrapnel from the destroyed craft plumes everywhere. The tight, untrained formation is broken by lethal metal shards, cockpit glass is shattered, engines set ablaze, munitions detonated, and air crew sliced apart.
Gaea Four dives away from the carnage, screaming down past the Consortium Carrier Kronos as he moves to richer hunting grounds.
All the while, the two fleets move ever closer.
“Hostile Cruiser in weapon’s range.” The Decimator’s Tactical Officer reports.
“All primary gunnery positions at ready.” The Operations Officer adds. “Smart rounds loaded.”
“Clear to fire turret one, two guns only.” Captain Ano tries to keep level as he attempts a joke. “Don’t miss. Each of those shells costs more than frigate.”
“Aye aye.” The Tactical Officer replies.
Within cramped turrets gunnery officers take aim. On their displays, the stream of targeting data endlessly updates as numbers beyond comprehension flood into their minds.
One of them blinks their real eye, clearing the still natural organ of debris. In the other, the machine directly updates the final firing solutions into her brain.
“Turret one, firing.”
With the largest guns in the entire task force, the Decimator outranged any other warship. The sheer recoil from firing of the two massive guns in succession is enough to tip the flying vessel’s angle by at least ten degrees, a gut wrenching moment as the deck turns before her artificial gravity system forces her back to level.
As well, the power of the muzzle flash is seen across both factions, a blinding light that travels across corrupted air. A warning of the incoming destruction that is to come.
Two shells soar towards a Covenant Cruiser at unholy speeds, the contrails left by them breaking the sky.
In the Covenant force, vessels scramble. Against normal munitions, such maneuvering could easily force a miss. And the targeted Cruiser follows that doctrine well as jet wash blasts across its aft at full flank speed.
The shells reach their terminal arc, awakening in the dead gravity. The machine within the coffin of heavy metal and high explosive opens its eyes, sensing the universe around it.
In a moment, software and mechanisms acquire target, the black, blurry shape of a hostile vessel within the monochromatic sensors is plastered against the dark colors of the zone.
In the shell, raw machinery activates. And the entire shape of the massive round moves as it adjusts its vector towards its final objective.
Like a homing missile, the ordinance tracks its target through the entire shell arc. Covenant Crew scream prayers as they watch the pair of shells travel towards them in a lazy curve, guns fire at nothing as desperate lives try to extend themselves for one more second.
At the very last moment before impact, the leading shell locks up, suddenly forcing itself in a tumble. Instead of full pinpoint penetrating power, the entire construction slams into the median point of the cruiser flat side on.
Within the shell, the high explosive load detonates, pancaking the metal as far as possible on the point of impact.
Raw kinetic energy is transferred onto salvaged steel, and the cruiser’s lateral armor belt is crushed as the entire vessel folds on itself.
The second shell hits mere milliseconds later, crashing into the exact point of the first shell’s impact. With the Cruiser’s structural integrity already compromised, the explosives within the second impact finish the job.
The entire Covenant Cruiser is split right in half, its gravity generator’s coverage breaking apart as the debris falls to the Earth below.
“Target destroyed.” The Tactical Officer reports.
“Good kill, good kill.” Tactical Air Controller Centurion sends in the private channel. “That was awesome.”
“Centurion gives her regards Captain.” Dalsma mindlessly reports.
“Centurion also sends it over the private channel Archangel.” She repeats. “Bitch.”
“Understood Centurion.” Dalsma looks to the updating tactical screen as he observes the battlefield.
In Covenant Lines, vessels were retreating. On the Tactical map the entire Fleet was burning towards the slowly closing gap between the two Consortium Task Forces.
Captain Ano spots it first. “Overlord, this is Decimator Actual, Covenant Fleet is attempting to disengage through tactical grid 4B. How copy?”
“Full copy Decimator Actual.” Fleet Command replies. “Wolfram, direct vectors to block escape.”
Aboard the Carrier Kronos, the mind nods. Paralyzed underneath the movement of implanted metal and life support, the Tactical Air Controller speaks through artificial vocal cords. “Loki Squadron, redeploy sector 4B.”
Within the heavily armored vectors, they respond. “Loki Leader, copy that.”
Dalsma turns up the Tactical Controller Channel. “Wolfram, this is Archangel. Do you require assistance at 4B?”
“It would be appreciated.” Wolfram replies quickly.
“Understood.” Dalsma returns to the Vector combat channel. “Gaea Three, Hostile Fleet is attempting to escape via grid 4B. Loki Team is inbound, can you assist?”
On Case’s heads up display the tactical map zooms into the location mentioned. “Acknowledged. I am redeploying.”
“Right behind you Case.” Gaea Leader replies.
Two vectors form together as they carve their way through the Covenant Fleet. Rockets fly from the barrels of the Master Pilot and solid slugs are shot from the armored Monster as slick shapes pass towards the front of the Hostile Force.
Alongside them, twelve vectors move. Loki Team’s armored frames intersect with those of Gaea, the brutality of their battles concluded as they roar past burning vessels.
As the sky clears of the salvaged hulls, vectors swing around. A solid wall of gods and salvaged steel forms, the one singular avenue of escape bricked off in a single motion.
To the south, the 91st Task Force. To the North, the 87th. And to the west, the wall of battlefield gods.
“Overlord this is Kronos Actual. Hostile Fleet is blocked off.” The Admiral Updates.
“Overlord copies.” Fleet Command acknowledges. “Prepare for Jericho transmission.”
Admiral Balmer speaks. At the center of the 3rd Fleet Operational Center in Ledenoft, his voice booms across battlespace and the center. “This is Jericho to all Covenant Forces. We have you surrounded. Do not prosecute this battle any further. If you choose to continue, we will have no choice but to destroy you.”
For just a second, the rounds fired from the Covenant ebbs.
Then, a shell crashes right through the formation of vectors.
“Archangel, Covenant is still engaging.”
Dalsma grimly shoots a glance at Captain Ano, who stares at the display with the same expression.
“Understood Gaea Leader.” Archangel replies. “Wolfram, copy check.”
“Wolfram copies. Loki Team, Gaea One and Two, continue to engage.”
“Understood Wolfram.” Gaea Leader replies.
No matter how far the separation went, the world of those directors for battlefield gods was always the same. Easily replicable, yet utterly precious.
“Loki Nine, hostiles have target lock.” Wolfram informs as the status board lights up with vicious red.
“Don’t move kid!” Gaea Leader bursts his vector’s maneuvering thrusters, throwing his hovering craft across the battlefield.
The Master Pilot rips control back from the tumbling vector, activating the electronic warfare equipment as he passes through the rear of Loki Team.
Missiles and automated anti air guns fail as the air itself ceases to inmaterium, entire wavelengths becoming useless as the hunter programs within hardware gaze into the chaotic universe of pure, jammed madness.
The untrained gunners of the Covenant either didn’t care, or didn’t understand. Or perhaps, were too much in carnage to even think of the possibility of the invisible war.
Crew wielding shoulder mounted missile launchers fire into the air in an uncoordinated frenzy. Without targets, the anti air launchers default as every projectile wildly spins out of control.
Adepts scream for more ammo as they fail, and the crew members rush with munitions in hand.
Launcher barrels are opened as rockets are slammed into salvaged frames, the untrained motions suddenly stopped as a thirty ton vector roars overhead.
In thundering silence, they stare down the barrels of a monster.
“Engaging.” Case mutters through suit filters.
The twin shotguns roar as the pilot within pulls the trigger. Buckshot scatters across the cruiser’s winged deck as crew run towards cover. Massive steel bearings rip and tear into flesh and metal in the merciless randomness of the wide choke blast.
Rockets fly as corpses tighten their death grips on launcher triggers, and the explosions domino across the entire vessel. Gaea Three pushes their vector to a better angle, the shotgun fire pausing as fresh rounds are injected through the auto loader.
“Stay still Case!” A voice rings out through the vector coms.
The lance of blue plasma cuts right into the cruiser’s armor. Munitions force detonate as the entire hull blows outward, the corpse of the vessel shattering when faced with the weaponry of the lost world.
Mei ascends the vector between the falling wreckage, her radio broadcast filled with the haze of combat. “Didn’t think you’d start a party without me!”
“Watch out Major!!!” Loki Four yells.
A pair of Covenant fighters pass over a friendly frigate, guns trained right on the clocked machine. In a single movement, the Warrior spins the craft around to face the incoming threat, plasma rifles locked directly on target.
Underneath the roar of the autocannon, the frames in front of her are utterly pulverized. Gaea Four rockets past them as he dives towards the incoming mass of Covenant fighters and attackers. In his jet wash nothing more than fire and feasting carnage.
“Wouldn’t be a party without its backbone.” Loki Leader echoes to Gaea Two.
“Gaea Team has redeployed.” Archangel informs. “Tactical Grid 4B is locked down.”
“God damn this is a slaughter.” The Decimator’s tactical officer comments on the bridge. “We haven’t lost a single craft and we’ve already grinded halfway through’em.”
“Don’t jinx it…” Ano stares at the battle in the distance.
On long distance radar, dim contacts appear in the Far East of the battlespace. The Decimator’s ears automatically update it to the tactical map, her nerve center stopping as contacts arrive from the Operations Station.
“What the hell?” The Communications Officer squints at the incoming fleet. “More Covenant?!”
“Upload that to the Database.” Captain Ano orders. “Overlord this is Decimator Actual. Unknown contacts Eastbound, prepare for tactical data.”
“Copy that Decimator Actual, we’re taking a look at it now.” Overlord pauses. “All units, be advised, unknown radar contacts inbound to A.O. via eastbound Zone, presumed hostile. How copy?”
The two Task Forces copy.
On the central tactical display of the Third Fleet Command Center, the entire battlefield was exposed. Consortium marked in a light, easy blue while the Covenant Forces in a much more hostile yellow. Within the mass of hostiles, the blue arrows of Vectors carve their way through pitiful mortals.
It was a textbook asymmetrical warfare situation, at least for Admiral Balmer. The classical concept of overwhelming firepower was playing out like the lines of an ancient tactics book, ordered and utterly simple.
Though, the incoming fleet was an issue. A unknown variable in a formula where precision and utter care were valued beyond anything else.
“Lieutenant.” Admiral Balmer locks eyes with one of the officers in the Command Center. “Tactical map of Europia on the central viewer. Mark all city states on the Continent. Separate by allegiance, legend to the right.”
“Aye aye sir!” The Lieutenant gets to work.
From the battlespace, the map turns towards the entire continent of Europia. The ancient land dead and barren from the ravages of the wars before, the only bit of life the current City States that were passing through the area.
Chadession, Ryoko, Ledenoft, Kyoto, New Beijing, among others, were of the Consortium laid out in blue. In the north, the neutral states of no allegiances were marked in grey. There were also a few red in the continent at current, the Syndicate had their cities all nicely avoiding those of the Consortium.
The state of Ural was, however, a point of interest. Paved in red, the city of three million was in line to the east of the Zone, the perfect striking point for a third party assault to the current battle.
“Give me satellite photos of the Syndicate build up on the Eastern Zone.” The Admiral demands.
Upon the main viewer the dark frames of the Syndicate fleet were plastered against the green air of the zone. They were, as usual, still unmoving.
There was only one real possibility, yet it was the most highly unlikely.
A tactical analysis of the Syndicate forces would mean almost a guaranteed defeat if they attempted an intervention at this time. The sheer numbers of two Consortium task forces were above anything that could be cobbled together in a week, and the technology backing the might was unmatchable. The Decimator, not to mention Gaea, should be enough to utterly break an entire Syndicate Strike Fleet if sent on a suicide mission.
There was no logic to a Syndicate Intervention.
But when was the last time the Syndicate did something expected?
“How Old is this recon?!” Balmer yells.
“This was taken yesterday sir.”
“Display the one from ten days ago.”
“Yes sir.”
In the same vein, the photos were quite similar. Though, with some minor changes in fleet position, easily chalked up to natural wind .
“Have intel run an image fake test on that.” Balmer orders.
“Sir?” The Intel officer blinks. “It’s our satellite. I don’t see the reason why it would be faked.”
“Just run it please.” Balmer points. “And make it fast.”
“Yes sir.”
“Overlord, we need update on unidentified Fleet.” Kronos Actual requests.
“Kronos Actual, please hold.” The voice through the satellite connection responds.
“Copy.”
The Intel Officer finishes the software run through, deconstruction of false imagery much easier than the actual creation of such. His eyes widen as a result, the result of such a search a deep red.
Again, with the same result.
“Admiral…” The Officer turns. “It’s a fake.”
He sends the image up to the central viewer, and takes out his electronic pen to draw upon his tablet. In real time, the image is manipulated. “The lighting on each vessel is off, as if it was illuminated in the differing directions of the sun. Here, several vessels in this Frigate group seem to be illuminated by a source in the north, while the battlecruiser to the south has its source to the east.”
Each probable direction is drawn over the image. The Officer continues. “Also, the clouds that make up the image background seem to be cloned in succession. Here are some parts that are repeated.”
As each part of the reconnaissance data is deconstructed, it seems utterly obvious that such a creation was falsified. Through the software analysis, hard physical labor was utterly broken.
The Intelligence Officer shrugs. “This seems like a rush job overall. I’d give it a four hour working time for each one.”
“Four hours is when each new recon photo is uploaded to the central database.” The Central Operations Officer on duty points out.
“But why the hell would this be fake?” Someone asks. “It’s our satellite.”
“How many orbital platforms are above the Zone at current?” The Admiral demands.
“One sir.” The Ops Officer replies. “That’s the one handling all the recon and remote communications.”
“Oh my god…” The realization hits Balmer.
With no time, the Admiral communicates directly. “Jericho to all units, how copy?!”
On the connection, there was only static.
“Jericho to all units, please respond.”
Like a fiber line being broken, the entire battlefield was cut off from its central system. Command, control, everything was now under the hands of a power that should never even be there.
“I have negative coms.” The Communications Officer in the Fleet Command Center says. “We’ve lost connection. Adjusting satellite.”
“That’s not our satellite.” Balmer stops. “Not anymore.”
The entire Command Center slows, then stops.
“Oh fuck…” Someone says.
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