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  Outpost

  Line of Battle No. 2

  W. P. Brothers

  Alena Publishing

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Thank You

  Also by W. P. Brothers

  About the Author

  Outpost

  Line of Battle No. 2

  Published by Alena Publishing, 2017

  * * *

  Cover Design by Brutal Disorder Logos

  * * *

  Copyright ©2017 by W.P. Brothers

  All Rights Reserved

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s permission. Please do not encourage or participate in illegal file sharing or piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s copyright. No one likes to work at their job without being paid. Please purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN: 978-0-9977394-2-8

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgments

  The expression goes that it takes a village to raise a child. I think the same could be said for supporting a writer. I’d like to give my heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped me through this project:

  Jenna Christophersen, Ben and Taylor Smith, Sebastian Morrisseau, and Pierre Néri for encouraging me to keep going through some very difficult times.

  Christopher Wu, for his help with military procedure and protocol; and Benjamin Collins, for his engineering and physics knowledge. If this book manages to seem realistic, it is thanks in no small part to these two gentlemen. Their unwavering friendship has been a wonderful gift to me through the years.

  Merry Cutler, for her helpful feedback and suggestions on the very first draft of this manuscript.

  My parents, Vincent and Pamela. Your advice has always been invaluable, and I can’t imagine where I’d be if you both had not nurtured my love of reading and learning. Thank you for always pushing me to take risks and be my best self.

  My family, above all. Without you, what’s the point?

  To Grandma Rachel, who did not live long enough to see this book completed. Wherever you are, I hope you can read a copy.

  Chapter One

  Aboard the RAS Barracuda

  Wet-docked at Kensington Station

  It was a measure of how far Captain Jordan Edwards had fallen that even the warmth of real sunshine couldn’t improve his mood. Then again, shining a light into a hole didn’t make it any prettier. Jordan shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare and scanned the coastline spread out in front of him.

  Endless blue-grey docks, washed with rust, lined the beach to the horizon, small cargo tenders bobbing in the surf in front of them. The still forms of cranes bristled from the metal platforms, their cables smacking their lift arms in the breeze. Behind them, bulky warehouses and maintenance bays glowered, their camouflage paint bleached from the sun. A crescent of dark green forest stretched to the horizon, hugging the sides of jagged hills, blue in the distance.

  Jordan had visited Kensington Station once before, a few months after the war. The dockyards had been crowded then. Army units waiting to catch the next transport to their home worlds, Navy personnel loading supplies amidst the blue-white flicker of repair teams and their welding torches. Jordan had been a lieutenant, and he’d been glad to be moving on. He’d known as soon as peacetime came and the politicians got their hands on the national budget, stations like this would be a dead end. He’d wanted to keep moving fast, and he’d looked at the station personnel with pity. A few months, and they’d be sitting on their thumbs. A year, and they’d be reassigned, long after the choice billets were taken. Jordan had been right — these old wartime stations were practically abandoned now, staffed and protected by a handful of units that serviced the odd ship on patrol.

  Ships like the Barracuda, Jordan’s ship.

  Jordan turned to look down the length of the hull, the reflection of the sun off the superstructure’s view ports like beams from a magnifying glass. He’d accepted the command of the destroyer with joy. Finally, he’d had his own captaincy. It was only after the first few months of duty in this backwater sector that he’d realized the trap he’d fallen into. He was far away from the action, stuck on an old tub endlessly patrolling supply lines.

  A dumpy, insignificant ship.

  His ship.

  Andrew had told him it was part of paying his dues. Everyone started with a boring, easy command. But Andrew, a captain only three years his senior, had already moved on to a cruiser.

  Despite his mood, Jordan couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his crew. Some of them were slogging through their planetside work details, inspecting the hull, cleaning the gun turrets, and assembling air-capturing units. But others were sprawled out in the sun, their heads thrown back, their dark blue uniform shirts unbuttoned in the heat. Jordan would reprimand them in a minute. Even if the Barracuda was only a destroyer, she was his destroyer, and he would keep her in order.

  But not right away.

  “No contact with the supply teams since touchdown, sir.”

  Jordan jumped at the sound of Commander Agrum’s voice and turned to see his second-in-command standing in the hatch behind him, the inside of the launch control room black next to the blinding light of the Kensington sun.

  “We expected as much.” Jordan shook his head.

  Indeed, dealing with the station had been one disappointment after another. First, they hadn’t been able to make contact until the Barracuda had landed in the water. No doubt a malfunctioning communications relay somewhere in the solar system or in orbit was to blame, a clear sign of neglect. Second, when they’d finally caught the station on the radio, the operator on the other side of the line had made it clear that the Barracuda would wait.

  “We’re loading the trains now,” she’d said. “You can expect them to reach the docks within an hour of splashdown.”

  “We’re not here for shore leave,” Jordan had said, leaning beside his radio operator. “Expedite your operations.”

  “We have limited staff here. Within an hour.” She’d ended the exchange before Jordan could respond. Apparently, the yokels manning the station had forgotten they were in the military.

  “Shall I deploy the marines? Secure the shore?” Agrum’s brown eyes flicked to the coastline, his mouth pressed into a frown.

  “No need, Commander.” If the situation hadn’t been pathetic, Jordan would have laughed. Here they were, far from any enemy and in the middle of nowhere, and Agrum wanted to send the marines to run around in the woods looking for someone to shoot. More than likely, they’d
just harass the wildlife. Besides, Jordan could see the entire detachment of marines sunbathing near turret two, their cool grey uniforms contrasting with the dark blue of the rest of the crew.

  “Very good, sir.” Agrum’s frown deepened. He’d had multiple deployments during the war, some of them quite harsh. Jordan had been jealous when he’d read his service record before taking command. Jordan had missed most of the action, and if his current career path was any indicator, he’d never get any.

  Jordan turned back to survey the landscape. “If they don’t arrive soon, we’ll raise the fort again. Until then, relax.” Jordan pointed to the jade-colored water below. “Organize a swimming detail.”

  “Sir?”

  Jordan turned to face Agrum again. “You’re supposed to laugh, commander. It was a joke.”

  Agrum grimaced, though Jordan supposed it was a smile. “Yes, sir. A joke, sir. Very funny.”

  Jordan clapped Agrum on the shoulder. “If you’d like to go by the book, take a stroll on the deck and maintain the uniform standard.” Jordan pointed to the crewmembers below, who had completely removed their uniform shirts now, their white undershirts blinding in the sunlight.

  Agrum nodded, saluting stiffly before disappearing inside the landing bay. Jordan turned back to the coastline. He supposed he ought to enjoy the sunlight while he could. In a few hours, they’d all be on patrol again, and he’d be stuck with artificial light and recycled air for another three months.

  Jordan’s eyes caught movement, and he watched as swarms of people filtered between the warehouses and onto the docks. About time.

  “Button up your jackets and get the tenders moving!” Agrum had appeared on the deck below, shouting orders to the lounging crew. “Let’s get these supplies loaded.”

  Crewmembers rushed into the lower landing bay entrance, directly below Jordan. He heard the bark and whine of a fusion drive starting up, and a second later, the Barracuda’s five cargo tenders flew out of the bay door. Jordan held his cap on his head as the hot backwash from their engines whipped over him. The tenders circled the ship, then hovered in place as they began to lower themselves one by one into the water.

  Jordan looked at the docks again and saw the people climbing into the numerous cargo tenders. It seemed like the station was going the extra mile after all the delays. They must have pre-loaded the tenders with supplies, because the people at the docks were already starting their engines. With that many rigs, perhaps sixty in all, the Barracuda would be re-supplied within the hour.

  Jordan turned and walked through the hatch into the flight control room, blinking to adjust to the sudden darkness. Several crewmen were arranged in front of glowing, green scanner screens while Ensign Hong, the flight control officer on duty, looked out the windows with his binoculars.

  “Call our tenders back in,” Jordan said, leaning over one of the scanning screens. “I think the station’s crew has it handled.”

  “Aye, sir.” The shipman closest to Jordan nodded and picked up the radio handset. “Baker units, Launch control. Standby for new instructions.”

  A second later, the sound of a radio squelch signaled that the tenders had heard and were ready for new orders.

  “Baker units,” the shipman continued. “Cancel shore operations. Station personnel are handling supplies.”

  Another squelch confirmed reception.

  “They’re in one hell of a hurry.”

  Jordan turned to look at Hong, who was looking out the door. “They ought to be, after making us sit on our hands.”

  “Just as long as they don’t crash into anything.”

  Jordan walked back outside to the railing, holding a hand in front of his eyes to block the sun. The last of the Barracuda’s tenders was lifting out of the water while the others rumbled back into the landing bay. The station’s craft were only a hundred yards away now, leaving white foam behind them as they raced toward the Barracuda. Jordan was just about to shout to Hong to raise the station’s craft and instruct them to slow down when he saw flashes erupt down the length of the approaching fleet. Half an instant later, something thwacked into the hull behind him and searing pain lanced through Jordan’s neck.

  “Son of a bitch!” He cupped his neck as the crackling boom rolled over the water from the station’s tenders. Jordan looked at his hand and saw blood. Bullet fragments.

  “General quarters! Take cover!” Below, Agrum was running along the deck, shouting at the confused crewmembers, who ran for the nearest access hatches, their unbuttoned shirts billowing behind them. Jordan heard screams, saw a red mist burst from a woman’s chest as she fell. Bullets scythed among the frantic crew, dropping them here and there. The marines were scrambling behind the turret for cover.

  “Sir, get down!” Hong was squatting behind Jordan.

  “They’re firing at us!” Jordan gaped at Hong, his mind spinning.

  Who the hell would do this?

  “Down!” Hong dragged his captain to the metal grille of the deck and started pulling him toward the hatch.

  Jordan turned to see the Barracuda’s tender, hovering now, turn to face the firing craft. Its heavy machine gun ripped into action, two rockets screaming from its launcher ports. One of the station’s craft exploded. Jordan smashed his hands against his ears, trying to stop the deafening noise.

  “Sir, we need to get you inside—” An ear-splitting blast interrupted Hong.

  Jordan looked in time to see the Barracuda’s tender shudder as rockets struck it. A wave of heat washed over Jordan, his sinuses compressing painfully. He blinked, realized that he was lying on his back a few feet from the hatch. The tender was gone. Had it exploded? Jordan tried to roll over and get to Hong, couldn’t get his leg to move. He looked down and saw a jagged piece of metal embedded in his left shin. He dragged himself backward as more explosions blossomed over the hull of the Barracuda. The station’s tenders were right against the hull now, their top gun turrets ripping through the people still on the deck, bunched around the access hatches. Jordan touched Hong’s hand, but Hong didn’t seem to realize it.

  “Take hold of me!” Jordan shouted. He turned to see Hong leaning against the frame of the doorway, several massive shrapnel splinters protruding from his chest. He stared at Hong’s empty eyes. The hull shuddered with another terrific explosion. Jordan covered his head, and peered through his fingers at a massive plume of smoke and fire that unfolded into the air from the ship’s side. The lift thrusters. The Barracuda would be trapped planetside without them. He heard shouts and saw people climbing up mesh ladders from the enemy tenders to the deck of the destroyer, rifles on their backs.

  Jordan dragged himself over Hong’s limp legs and into the control room. The crewmembers were shouting into their radios over the wail of the alert klaxon.

  “Baker units, lift off and engage enemy units. Fighters prep for launch!”

  One of them — his name patch read Owens — turned and saw Jordan. The young man ran over to him, dragged him to his feet, and kicked the hatch controls. Hong’s body toppled outside as the hatch clanged shut.

  “They’re boarding,” Jordan panted, his leg suddenly hurting. “Deploy counter-boarding parties and seal all hatches.”

  Jordan heard the shipman Williams, manning the radio, pass on the orders to the bridge. The deck lurched, and Jordan felt his insides shift as the ship began to lift.

  “Get me to the bridge,” Jordan shouted.

  Owens nodded, and Jordan had to suppress a groan as the shipman carried him toward the hatch to the corridor.

  Another explosion, and the deck rocked beneath them. Jordan and Owens crashed to the ground and rolled across the floor, smacking into the bulkhead below the windows.

  “Sir, they’ve destroyed all our starboard launch thrusters,” Williams shouted from somewhere. “We’re in the water again.”

  Jordan felt Owens dragging him to his feet. He looked out the window. Another wave of tenders was headed toward the Barracuda from the shore. At least tw
o hundred enemy soldiers were on top of the ship. Many more were splashing in the water, no doubt thrown clear in the ship’s attempt to lift off.

  He squinted at them, trying to identify the attackers, unable to get a clear view through the smoke and confusion.

  Could the Milipa have made it this deep into the Alliance?

  Some of the ship’s defense emplacements spun around and began firing at the enemy tenders. Explosions peppered up and down the line of the approaching craft as the turrets hit their mark. With a throaty rumble, the Barracuda’s tenders flew from the landing deck below, over the heads of the attackers. Jordan saw one of the hostiles point a rocket launcher in the direction of the bay. A missile burst from the weapon and streaked toward the bay, colliding with one of the tenders as it emerged. The craft burst into flames as it flew over the hull in a great arc. It crashed into turret four, and the ship rocked again as a massive explosion raced toward the sky. The attackers were pushed flat onto the deck, and some, set on fire by the blast, ran frantically toward the water.

  The lights flickered out, and the defense emplacements outside sputtered to a halt.

  “Sir, I’ve lost communications!” Williams’ voice cracked with what could only be panic.

  Below, groups of attackers were rushing into the open landing bay. Jordan turned to face Owens.

  “Are there sidearms here?”

  Owens nodded, and ran to a locked cabinet in the corner. The clank of boots on stairs echoed from below. Williams and Jordan looked out the hatch toward the corridor.

  “Shit!” The color drained from Williams’ face, and he tore off his radio headset. “Shit!”

  He ran to the open hatch, Jordan limping after him. They pushed the door shut together and grabbed hold of the manual lock wheel. Jordan heard a bang behind him, and turned to see Owens throwing chairs into a barricade. Pain sliced through Jordan’s leg again, and he’d have fallen to the deck had Williams not caught him. They shuffled together around the end of the barricades to where Owens knelt. Williams eased Jordan to the ground.