Unless they screwed up the timing instead, he thought. He shook his head. I cannot afford to allow myself to believe it.
He cursed himself under his breath. He should have been out there, commanding from a battlesuit or a command vehicle somewhere along the front lines. He’d lost touch with the facts on the ground. He was no better than a snooty army officer who’d gotten his post through connections, rather than competence. He’d allowed his surroundings to lull him into a false sense of security. And ... he told himself to stop woolgathering. The Commandant would deal with him, if the post-battle analysis decided the blame was his. He didn’t have time to worry about it. Right now, he had to get his men out of the trap.
His eyes found Captain Jalil’s position on the display. Jalil’s men had been guarding the flanks, watching for insurgents or infiltrators rather than a full-scale enemy offensive. They’d been lucky to survive the opening blows ... Gerald suspected they’d only survived because the enemy hadn’t realised the company was there. Or maybe they’d been more intent on crushing the antiaircraft defences rather than dealing with a lightly-armed body of men. They’d claimed air superiority over the battlefield, if not air supremacy. Gerald knew it was just a matter of time until that changed.
“Order Captain Jalil to hold out as long as possible, then order his unit to break up and sneak through enemy lines,” he said. He knew he was sending good men to their deaths, but there was no choice. They had to slow the enemy. “Tell him everything relies on him.”
He knew, as he continued snapping orders, that it might already be too late. The enemy was pouring on the pressure. He’d never seen anything like it, even on Hameau. But then, he supposed the enemy had never been given a real chance to do something that hadn’t happened for hundreds of years. Take on a marine division in open battle and give it one hell of a thrashing, perhaps even destroy it completely. He shuddered to think of how many men - and how much equipment - was going to go into the fire. They’d have to abandon anything that couldn’t be moved quickly ... thankfully, there wouldn’t be much ammunition for the enemy to capture.
“We need to set up defence lines here, outside Roxon,” he said. The megacity had never been fully in his grip. Now ... he made a mental bet with himself the enemy had already slipped troops into the city. “And we need to stop them dead ...”
A thought crossed his mind. The enemy had done everything right, so far, but ... that might be about to change. If he was careful - and lucky - he might just have a chance to turn the battle around. It would be chancy - he disliked the idea of relying on the enemy making a mistake - but he couldn’t think of anything else. He couldn’t afford a long, drawn-out campaign. The enemy, hopefully, felt the same way too.
“Get me Captain Stumbaugh,” he ordered. His staff could handle the retreat, although there was little they could do. Events had already moved out of their hands and there was no point in pretending otherwise. “I need to talk to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
Alan Beresford-Briggs lay on the ridge and peered towards the road below. He’d never expected to snipe at real humans, instead of wild animals in the forests, but his shooting was first-rate. Even his stepmother, bitch that she was, admitted he was a good shot even as she moaned about him spending all of his time hunting instead of climbing the corporate ladder. He felt a flicker of hatred for the wretched woman, even though he had no idea if she was alive or dead. The corporate ladder was driving his father into an early grave. Why would Alan waste his time trying to get onto the first rung when he could spend his days enjoying himself instead?
He lay very still as the first enemy troops came into view. They looked to be in retreat, running for their lives ... he thought he spotted a handful of treacherous civilians accompanying them. He was tempted to shoot them first, but he had very clear orders to take out as many of the marines as possible instead. His eyes narrowed as a pair of vehicles drove into view, a truck and an armoured car ... a tank? He’d never been particularly interested in the military. He loved shooting, and he enjoyed eating his kills, but the thought of marching around on a parade ground horrified him. It would be dreadfully dull ...
Alan allowed himself a tight smile as he took aim, pointing his rifle directly at one of the enemy soldiers. He’d made harder shots. He’d picked off animals that could run at the speed of light ... or close enough to it to make no difference, not to him. He squeezed the trigger, feeling the rifle jerk as the bullet left the barrel. The bullets were designed to take down wild animals. The target’s head exploded. Alan blinked - he’d never shot a human before, not with a hunting rifle - and then moved to the next target. The tank moved forward, its guns rapidly turning toward him ...
There was no time to run.
***
General Jim Gilbert studied the first set of reports with a flicker of pronounced satisfaction. It was clear to him, even if his superiors were in denial, that the datanet had been compromised. The messages that had been sent to everyone in the system, including military officers like himself, were proof that something was very wrong. He’d worked overtime to conceal his plans as much as possible, to the point of briefing trusted officers in sealed - and unmonitored - rooms and sending sealed orders to the men on the front lines. He hadn’t really hoped for complete surprise, no matter what he’d told the director, but ...
He nodded to himself. The marine lines were crumbling. They were putting up a stiff fight, but it was clear they’d been caught in the open. Some of his officers were already chattering about a rout, about the marines throwing down their guns and running for their lives. Jim knew better. The marines had realised the trap and done the only thing they could. He was almost relieved. Trapping thousands of marines in a cauldron might well have been akin to catching a tiger by the tail.
“Continue the offensive,” he ordered, as he turned away from the displays. The first stage of the operation had proceeded smoothly, better than he’d expected. It was time to move to stage two. “Don’t give them a moment to catch their breath.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
Haydn took a moment to rig an IED in hopes of slowing the enemy troops a little - a trick he’d learnt at the Slaughterhouse, back when the universe had made sense - and then resumed the march east. The lines had been thoroughly broken. Dozens of tanks, self-propelled guns and antiaircraft vehicles had been turned into burned-out ruins. He forced himself to keep moving, trying to decide if he had a front-row seat to the greatest disaster in the history of the Terran Marine Corps. There’d been other defeats - other disasters - but nothing quite as bad. And most of them had been nothing more than tactical defeats.
He motioned for his men to keep moving. The enemy shelling hadn’t abated, although he wasn’t sure what they were shooting at. They were tearing up the landscape, but little else. Perhaps they were monitoring the retreat, trying to harass the marines and keep them on the move ... it was impossible to know. The command datanet had become strikingly patchy over the last few hours. He’d thought that was impossible.
They’re probably tracking the communications nodes and taking them out, he mused, as they trudged onwards. The enemy forces were trying to trap them. He had no idea if they’d escaped the trap or not. They keep us from talking to each other, they keep us from plotting a counterattack.
His legs ached. Sweat poured down his back. The marines barely spoke as they kept moving, trudging through ground that had been torn up by the offensive and then churned up again by enemy shellfire. He felt dreadfully exposed. There was no sign of the enemy, but he was sure they were all around him. He hoped Major-General Anderson and his men had started setting up defence lines, somewhere close to the city. They’d need an anvil to stop the enemy hammer before their tanks got into the rear areas. If that happened, they were thoroughly screwed. The corps would be looking at the greatest disaster in its long history.
He turned as he heard an explosion behind him. A small enemy force wa
s coming into view, driving up the road as if they didn’t have a care in the world. He swore under his breath, ordering his men to take cover. The enemy was chasing them with light units ... he was sure their tanks and other support vehicles were being held in reserve. His lips curved into a cold smile as he plotted an ambush. They could give the enemy a surprise before turning and resuming the retreat.
Mayberry tapped his shoulder. “There’s a drone up there ...”
Haydn glanced up. Nothing was visible in the blue sky, but he knew that was meaningless. The latest drones - and he was certain the corprats would have the very latest - flew high enough to be unseen by the naked eye, yet low enough to pick out the hairs on his head. Mayberry wouldn’t have seen the drone without his optical sensors ... Haydn put the thought aside as he thought, quickly. The drone had to be taken down. They couldn’t hope to pull off the ambush while it’s unblinking eyes watched the battlefield before.
“Hit it,” Haydn ordered. “And then run.”
Mayberry nodded and unslung the HVM launcher from his back, then crawled away. Haydn watched him go, trying not to wonder if he’d sent the sergeant to his death. The HVMs were single-shot weapons, and the enemy would gain little by trying to shell the sergeant’s position, but there was no way to know if the enemy actually knew it. They might fire a salvo just to be assholes. Hell, the drone - or its controller - might spot the sergeant as he took aim and shot first. Drones weren’t supposed to engage targets automatically - Haydn had yet to see a battlefield IFF system that worked perfectly - but the enemy might have disengaged the safety systems. They needed to keep their eyes in the sky.
Even at the cost of firing on their own people, Haydn thought. That won’t do wonders for morale ...
The sergeant fired. Haydn watched a streak of light shoot from the launcher and stab into the blue sky. The HVMs were fast. He’d been assured that any aircraft targeted by a launcher would be dead before the pilot realised it was under attack, although he knew better than to take it for granted. The drone was very high. He thought he saw a puff of smoke in the sky, then dismissed the thought as he raised his rifle. The enemy knew they were approaching the marines. His lips quirked. If they’d doubted it before the HVM had been fired, they didn’t doubt it any longer.
“Fire,” he snapped.
He squeezed the trigger. The lead vehicle skidded to a halt, two men jumping out and diving for cover. The driver slumped forward, dead. The two following vehicles evacuated themselves with commendable speed, too late. Haydn felt a flicker of cold delight as the enemy soldiers died, only a couple surviving long enough to return fire. They must have expected the marines to keep moving, rather than turning long enough to give them a bloody nose. The drone should have warned them. Perhaps someone hadn’t kept his eye on the terminal.
Or perhaps their superiors didn’t pass on the alert, he thought. They don’t believe in letting their junior officers have direct access to intelligence reports ...
“Keep walking,” he ordered Mayberry. “I’m going to check out the enemy position.”
He drew his pistol, then hurried forward. He knew he shouldn’t go alone, but he wanted to get his men out of the trap as quickly as possible. A pair of enemy soldiers were moaning ... he checked their wounds, then left them. Their reinforcements would arrive shortly, when their superiors realised the patrol hadn’t reported back. Or something ... he checked the vehicles quickly, unsurprised to find a complete lack of useful information. The vehicle’s datanode had been smashed beyond repair. He scooped up a handful of grenades, then turned and hurried back to his men. They were waiting for him further down the road.
“We have to keep moving,” he said. In the distance, he could hear aircraft. Friendly? It wasn’t likely. “The jaws are slamming closed.”
***
“That’s all we can give you,” the load officer said. “We’re bugging out in half an hour.”
Lieutenant Patel nodded, curtly, as she powered up the Raptor. She’d returned to the makeshift base, just in time to discover that Major-General Anderson had ordered a general retreat. Her records had been taken and analysed by the spooks, who’d told her she hadn’t so much as slowed the enemy down. She was surprised she hadn’t been ordered to fly vital personnel out of the trap. Instead, she’d been resupplied and ordered to attack targets of opportunity.
She glanced at the datanet terminal and frowned. The enemy had done well. She’d expected them to kill the drones, but they’d also managed to kill ninety percent of the active and passive sensors the marines had emplaced during the march up. There was hardly any coverage left ... she shook her head as she steered the Raptor into the air and set course for the enemy lines. She’d just have to take potluck. It helped she had a rough idea of where the enemy were ... and where friendly forces weren’t.
Slow the bastards down, she thought. She stayed low, all too aware she was flying into the teeth of enemy air defences. It wouldn’t take more than a single HVM to really ruin her day. Again. She tried not to think of the possibility of a blue-on-blue. To be shot down by the enemy again would be bad, but to be shot down by friendly forces ... Slow the bastards down, and then get out alive.
Her passive sensors hummed as they picked up more and more radio and datanet chatter. It was difficult to localise the microbursts, but she had a rough idea of their location. She could get close enough to spot the troops visually, then hit them hard before running for her life. If she hit them hard enough, they might not even have time to aim a missile at her before she showed them her heels and rocketed out of range. Ginny checked the pistol at her belt, just in case. The last time she’d been captured had been quite bad enough. This time ... she intended to make the enemy hurt.
Suddenly, far sooner than she’d expected, she saw a line of enemy tanks heading west. They crashed through the terrain, chewing up the remains of the farmland as they tried to trap the marines. She activated her missile launchers, firing a volley of antitank rockets into the enemy armour. A couple of tanks exploded, the remainder bringing their weapons to bear as quickly as they could. She evaded a handful of misaimed shots, then rocketed away. The threat receiver screamed a warning, a second later. A HVM shot past, so close she thought she could read the serial number on the wing. Thankfully, the missile was moving too fast for its own good. The explosion was too far away to do more than shake her craft.
Time to run, she thought, as she ducked low and fled back to friendly territory. She knew where the next airbase was supposed to be, but ... was it there? The Raptor could fly all the way to Roxon, yet ... there was a very good chance the air defences would see her as a threat and open fire. She didn’t want to turn on her IFF. She’d be telling the enemy precisely where to shoot. Go low, go fast.
She glanced at the smoke rising behind her and shuddered. She’d hurt the enemy, but had she slowed them down? It was hard to tell. And even if she had ...
We lost this one, she thought, tiredly. All we can do is get out of the trap and regroup.
Chapter Thirty-One
Capitalism, in its purest form, is about rewarding people for producing. First, through hard work. This speaks to human nature. A person who works hard and is rewarded for it is incentivised to keep working hard. Furthermore, he sets a good example for everyone else. If Bob the Builder can work hard and earn enough to eventually start his own business, William the Wannabe can try too. He may even succeed.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Rise and Fall of Interstellar Capitalism
Rachel had never felt quite so helpless before.
She knew, now, what General Gilbert had been planning. She knew, now, just what he’d done to ensure the secret remained so, even from his staff officers. She had to admit he’d done a very good job of hiding the truth until it was too late for her to do anything, using the chaos Rachel and Phelps had caused to conceal his plans. The more she looked at the stream of reports flowing in from the battlefield, the more she wished she’d taken the opportunity to kill Gen
eral Gilbert when she’d been on the anchor station. She might have died shortly afterwards, gunned down by his guards, but ... the enemy CO wouldn’t have lived long enough to plan and execute a counteroffensive.
Her thoughts raced as she tried to devise a way to slow or stop the offensive. She was prepared to sacrifice her cover, to throw away everything she’d done, but nothing came to mind. She thought she could get into the general’s office, perhaps even into the director’s headquarters, yet ... it wouldn’t be enough. General Gilbert’s death wouldn’t save the marines from the trap steadily tightening around them. All she could do was lose some orders and delay others, hoping there’d be enough gaps in the enemy lines to give her comrades a chance to escape. She had the uneasy feeling she might have lost everything. Her planned conspiracy wouldn’t work so well if the conspirators thought they were joining the losing side.
And there are limits to how much damage the civilians can do, she thought. They just don’t have the weapons or supplies to pose a long-term threat.
She cursed under her breath. She’d rerouted more trucks of weapons to the underground, but the enemy was starting to catch on. They’d started to insist on orders being checked and rechecked before they were actually followed, making it impossible for her to forge the correct paperwork and expect people to follow orders without question. There was a silver lining - checking orders took time - but it wasn’t enough to make a real difference. She considered, again, simply walking into the general’s office and opening fire. With a little preparation, she might even get out alive.
The Halls of Montezuma Page 29