The shift ended. Rachel joined the throng as the staff officers hurried down to the canteen. It was better to remain in a group, if only to make a show of hiding from Commander Archer’s roving eye. Her comrades had been sympathetic... she might have preferred it, almost, if they’d hated her for attracting his attention. Sympathy was often harder to duck. The giant viewscreen was displaying enemy propaganda, informing anyone who cared to watch that millions of marines had been killed. Rachel doubted anyone in the room believed the nonsense. They knew how hard it was to land even a thousand marines on a hostile world. There weren’t millions of marines in the landing force. The offensive couldn’t have killed anything like so many.
Idiots, she thought, coldly. Do they really think people believe them?
The thought bothered her. She knew she’d have to send out another email and soon, even though she had a feeling the searchers were getting closer. Perhaps that was why Commander Archer hadn’t called her to his rooms ... or perhaps he’d just decided she was no longer a challenge and moved on to someone else. Or ... she smiled. Perhaps he’d just had an attack of competence. General Gilbert wouldn’t hesitate to remove him if he fucked around - literally - during the grand offensive.
She ran her hand through her hair as she collected her tray and settled down to eat. The food had grown steadily worse, something that alternatively amused and annoyed her. The growing underground had managed to impede food supplies, for better or worse. The local government had made a mistake when it set up a rationing system. Keeping the population one or two missed meals from starvation had alienated nearly everyone.
And now they’re looting the stores openly, she mused. What’ll they do next?
Her lips quirked. The handful of reports she’d seen - or read, through the datanet - had suggested over a hundred marines were loose in the megacity. She knew there was only one, two if she counted herself. Phelps had moved quickly from place to place, regularly changing his appearance to ensure that no two people saw the same person. There was little hope of turning the dissidents into a proper army, but ... it didn’t matter. They had to do nothing more than upset the enemy and keep them off balance. If they knew how few marines were really within the city ...
She finished her meal and stood. She had to move fast, before the enemy realised where she was and what she was doing. If she could get everything in place, she could mount a coup and win overnight. And if she failed ...
At least I’ll take their self-confidence down with me, she told herself. The enemy was starting to question the datanet, but they hadn’t realised - yet - just how easily it could be manipulated. She was steadily collecting a small army’s worth of fake IDs. It’ll be enough to give the troops on the ground a chance to rally and resume the offensive.
***
“Shit!”
Haydn swore as the enemy shells crashed down around them. He hit the ground, then started crawling rapidly towards a ruined farmhouse. He’d broken up the platoon, when they’d reached the crossroads, but he still had thirty men with him. He glanced up, into the darkening sky. Was there a drone up there? Were the enemy tracking them? He knew it was unlikely to matter. They didn’t have any HVMs left. The drone could direct the hunters towards them from a safe distance.
Mayberry joined him as they took cover. “They’re closing in ...”
“Looks like it,” Haydn agreed. The company had shot its way through a handful of ambushes, exhausting their ammunition in the process. It felt as if they’d been singled out for special attention, although he was fairly sure it was unlikely. The enemy troops didn’t know him from Adam. They couldn’t know it had been his unit that had boarded Hammerblow and forced the battlecruiser to surrender. “I think we’re in trouble.”
He snorted, grimly, as they counted their remaining supplies. They were right down to the dregs, without a hope of surviving long enough to break contact and get back to friendly territory. The terminal had flashed up warnings of everything from snipers and insurgents to enemy aircraft roving on the wrong side of the lines. Haydn was grimly sure they were trapped. He could practically feel the enemy soldiers closing in.
His heart twisted. His men had been pushed right to the limit. It felt as if someone was going to snap. Haydn knew his marines were better trained than regular soldiers or guardsmen - the latter had a reputation for breaking and running whenever they ran into real danger - but even marines had their limits. He didn’t need to hear grumbling from behind him to know morale was in the pits. He was pretty short on morale himself.
He surveyed their surroundings. The farmhouse wouldn’t provide more than a few moments of cover ... less, perhaps, if the enemy called in air support or simply dropped a handful of shells on the damaged root. The fields around them had been burnt and then flattened, ensuring there was almost no cover. They might be able to escape after dark ... no, he shook his head at the sheer absurdity of the thought. The enemy troops would have night-vision gear, if they didn’t have enhanced eyesight. There was little hope of getting out alive.
And that left ... what? Surrender?
He scowled. He’d grown up in a universe where insurgents, rebels and terrorists offered no mercy to surrendered soldiers. There were more than enough horror stories of prisoners being raped, tortured, mutilated or simply killed out of hand for him to have second and even third thoughts about surrendering. Better to be killed in battle than die in a POW camp. And yet ... the Corprats hadn’t been complete assholes to their prisoners. He knew a handful of men had been taken prisoner during the last campaign, only to be treated well and released after the fighting. Did he dare surrender?
If I don’t, we die for nothing, he thought. A final desperate stand would be pointless. Worse than pointless. The enemy would simply drop a bomb on their position and move on. If we surrender, we’ll live to fight again.
He looked at his men. He couldn’t help feeling as though he was betraying them. If it had just been him ... he would have fought, he would have tried to take a handful of men down with him before the end came. But he was responsible to the men under his command. He couldn’t get them out, he couldn’t hide them, he couldn’t even sell their lives dearly. He ...
“Stack arms,” he ordered, harshly. The first moments of surrender were always the most dangerous. It only took one idiot to start a slaughter. The enemy troops would be jumpy as hell. He hoped they had orders to accept surrender. They should have orders, if only to encourage more surrenders, but ... there was no way to be sure. “And wait.”
He keyed his terminal to send the final message and self-destruct, before he stood, holding his hands up as he walked into clear view. There was no time to remove his armour, let alone strip naked. He’d been in places where forcing the locals to strip before they were allowed to leave had been the safest course of action, even though it humiliated the poor buggers and provoked resentment and hatred. The safety of his unit came first. He knew the enemy commander would feel the same way too.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” a voice barked. “And don’t move!”
Haydn remained still as two men rushed towards him, moving with the squeamish determination of trained but untried troops. He winced inwardly - inexperienced men were not likely to prove good captors - and then kept his mouth firmly closed as they searched him roughly. They didn’t really know what they were doing - he could have snapped their necks with ease - but it didn’t matter. He was sure there were enough guns covering him to blow him to bits if he offered the slightest resistance. Strong hands gripped him, yanked his hands behind his back and bound them in place with a plastic tie. He winced, inwardly, as he was pushed back towards the enemy lines, forced to march into captivity.
The war isn’t over, he told himself, sternly. We aren’t dead yet.
But he knew, as they were pushed into walking faster, that he might well be wrong.
***
“Their troops have linked up, sir,” Lieutenant Yu said. “The jaws have slammed shu
t.”
Gerald nodded as he studied the map. The enemy lines had closed, sealing the trap shut. Anyone caught within the cordon would have a very hard time getting out before it was too late. The last - and probably the final - set of reports had made it clear the enemy were sweeping the cauldron, trying to make sure the marines didn’t have a chance to dig in and fight to the death. Gerald made a face as he cursed his own mistake. Pushing the advance so hard had given the bastards a clear shot at his supply lines. And they’d taken full advantage of it.
He turned his attention to the datanet. The forward defence line was taking shape, but it just wasn’t anything like strong enough to stop the enemy from punching through. They’d know it too. Probably. He was uncomfortably aware there were too many enemy spies within the occupied zone, poking and prying into everything between the two cities. It wasn’t a bad thing, but he knew he was gambling. It would be a bad moment for the enemy to play it cool.
“Keep moving our men back to the defence line,” he ordered. Too many of his people were exhausted. That, and the simple fact they’d been defeated, would gut them. They were trained to keep going, whatever happened, but ... he had no idea if they would. Even the best men had their limits. “And get the relief forces into place before it’s too late.”
He sat back in his chair, forcing himself to think. The enemy had taken a page from his book, damn it. They knew what had happened during the last campaign and set out to duplicate it. There was no lake for them to turn into a weapon, no dam for them to destroy, but ... it didn’t matter. They’d taken advantage of their resources and used them masterfully.
And they’ll want to keep the pressure on, he thought. If they do ...
He checked the last set of logistics reports and scowled. The flow of troops and men to the surface was continuing, but ... he shook his head. They’d need to use the dumpsters again and again, if they wanted to launch another planetary invasion. It was just impossible to get enough men down to the ground, if the enemy controlled the PDCs. It was ... he shook his head, curtly. There was no point in worrying about it now. They’d learnt enough lessons, over the last few months, to fill a book. Three books. They’d spend the next year or so learning from them, adapting to the new universe. He’d worry about it when - if - they brought the campaign to a successful conclusion.
“The enemy tanks appear to be halting, for the moment,” Lieutenant Yu said. New images flickered on the display. “Our drones report they’re rearming.”
“Night is falling,” Gerald said. The enemy was presumably trained in night-fighting. They wouldn’t want to give the marines a break. “They’ll rearm and then resume the offensive. They have no choice.”
And we’ll be waiting, he thought, grimly. Let them make one tiny mistake. Just one.
***
Haydn relaxed, slightly, as the prisoners were marched to a mobile command unit and forced to wait as row upon row of enemy troops drove past, heading in the other direction. They laughed and jeered at the prisoners, but did nothing else. Haydn had no trouble recognising them as men who hadn’t seen combat, yet thought they knew what was coming. He would have smiled, if he hadn’t been so tired. The tie binding his wrists was starting to hurt.
He kept his face under tight control as a trio of trucks arrived, driven by men in unmarked uniforms. The green tabs on their shoulders meant trouble, if he recalled correctly; security troops, rather than real soldiers. Some things were universal. They had the finest uniforms, the finest equipment ... he couldn’t help noticing their boots were new, rather than worn out through constant use. He’d never understood why headquarters troops got the best equipment, even though they were rarely expected to do more than stand guard and look good. The few times they were sent into action, they never did well.
The security officers hauled him and his men to their feet, searched them again, then pushed them into the trucks. Haydn offered no resistance. There was no point. If the enemy was using trucks, without an escort, they presumably considered it safe. He groaned, inwardly, as the truck rattled to life. It was possible they were being watched from a distance, but unlikely. The front lines had been shattered. It was hard to believe his superiors were putting together a recovery operation. Did they even know Haydn and his men had been captured? He’d sent a message, but he had no way to know if it had been received.
We have a duty to escape, he reminded himself. They might have surrendered, but they hadn’t given up. We just need a chance.
He studied their surroundings as they drove towards the megacity, burned-out towns slowly giving way to enemy strongpoints and deserted buildings. There were no civilians on the streets, just men in uniforms and armoured vehicles. Someone had been clearing lanes through the defences, allowing more and more men to join the offensive. Beyond the township ... there was another road, leading up to the megacity itself. It looked like a giant old-time fortress, intimidating buildings towering over the people like gods looking down on men. Haydn knew it was deliberate, a trick to overawe civilians, but it still nagged at his mind. It was hard to force himself not to feel intimidated.
The poor bastards who grow up here are probably used to it, he thought. He’d been in uncomfortable places. He’d gotten used to them. And it’s clear some of the locals have had enough.
Haydn turned his attention to the security troopers, silently gauging their worth. They were good at pushing unarmed civilians around, he decided, but would probably be hopelessly out of their depth on a real battlefield. It wasn’t them who’d taken the marines captive.
But they’ll probably take the credit, he thought. The troops looked alert, but not as alert as they should be. If they give us an opening, we’ll give them a nasty surprise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Second, through rewarding innovation. An experienced man may find a newer and better way to do something. If he is rewarded for his insight, he will be - as above - encouraged to innovate more as well as setting a good example for his peers.
- Professor Leo Caesius, The Rise and Fall of Interstellar Capitalism
“The offensive was a total success,” General Gilbert said. There was a hint of boasting in his voice, and who could blame him? “The invaders are in full retreat.”
Julia frowned, uncomfortably. The map looked impressive - the occupied zone had shrunk rapidly - but she knew from grim experience that the marines were very good at recovering from their defeats and striking back. She’d watched a panorama of marines retreating, of prisoners being taken, of an endless procession of burnt-out vehicles and destroyed enemy strong points, yet ... she found it hard to feel reassured. The enemy was tough. Sure, they’d been hurt ... but they’d been hurt before, on Hameau. It hadn’t been enough to keep them from striking back.
“Good,” the director said.
“Our forces are poised to continue the offensive,” General Gilbert said. “We can drive them all the way back to Roxon and beyond ...”
“No,” Julia said, without thinking.
The director looked at her. Julia cursed herself, silently, as she realised her mistake. She was very junior ... she would still be very junior even if she wasn’t in disgrace. It wasn’t her place to speak first, not unless she was called upon by her superiors. She’d been lucky to get away with it last time. And yet ... the grim certainty they were on the verge of making a terrible mistake welled up within her. She knew she had to speak.
“Explain,” the director ordered. “Now.”
Julia took a moment to compose her argument. She needed to convince them. She needed ... she felt her heart sink, the realisation dawning on her that they’d probably refuse to listen simply because she’d spoken out of turn. Again. They were amongst the most powerful men and women on the planet. She’d failed to wait.
“During the last war, the landing force drove the marines away from Haverford and chased them back towards their original landing sites,” she said, carefully. “They kept falling back until our forces walked right into a tr
ap, then drowned them. They blew a hole in a mountainside just to cause a flood and ...”
“There are no dams between here and Roxon,” General Gilbert said, tartly. “They have not had time to set up any kind of traps. If the reports are accurate, they are in full retreat. We cannot afford to give them time to regroup and establish new defensive lines. We have to push them back now.”
“The longer they remain on the surface, the greater the chance of losing control of a city or two,” McManus added. “We need those troops on the streets.”
“And if we lose the next battle,” Julia asked, “what will it do to us?”
“Poppycock.” McManus looked at her as if she was something nasty he’d scraped off his shoe. “Once bitten, twice shy?”
“I learnt from my mistakes, sir,” Julia said. “I should never have authorised the last offensive. We are on the verge of repeating the same mistake.”
McManus shook his head. “We cannot give them time to recover, nor can we keep our troops on the front lines when we need them back here.”
“We should be able to drive them all the way back,” General Gilbert said. “If our figures are accurate, and we worked a considerable margin for error into the calculations, the marines are operating on a shoestring. They simply haven’t had time to land enough supplies to set up a defence line and eventually resume the offensive, but that will change. We cannot afford, from a purely military point of view, to give them the chance. We have to act now.”
“Quite.” McManus sounded irked, as if he disliked the idea of agreeing with the general. “If we don’t move now ...”
Julia sat back in her chair, wondering what sort of hammer would fall. Exile? Death? Or ... or what? Resentment burned in her gut. She’d given them her advice and they’d chosen to ignore it because she was the one who’d given it. She cursed her own mistake as the board moved to discuss other matters, wishing she’d had the sense to raise the matter with the director privately. He’d be much more reasonable, she was sure, if no one was watching. He certainly wouldn’t be afraid of looking weak, just for listening to plainspoken advice.
The Halls of Montezuma Page 30