Terra Nova- the Wars of Liberation

by Tom Kratman

  “It’s absolutely possible, Monsieur le Capitaine,” Champlain replied. The friendly smile beginning to spread across DeGrasse’s smooth countenance froze as the lieutenant finished. “. . . that the terrified teenage prostitute accessed a hidden weapon in an already cleared room, attempted to murder us all and then somehow disposed of it after Gagnon gallantly defended us from her perfidy.”

  “It’s clear, DeGrasse,” Bin Ra’ad spoke into the long pause that followed. “This one is not reliable. We should return him to rot in your gaol, with the rest of the survivors.”

  DeGrasse watched Champlain patiently.

  “I’m not a hasty man, Colonel,” he said. “I will complete this interview first and offer Lieutenant Champlain every opportunity to complete his mission.”

  “Sir, Weapons platoon reports heavy resistance past the original LZ and Bowie at the roadblock wants you!” panted Royce. Following at Champlain’s heels as the men moved towards the next cluster of buildings, his message was delivered with the rhythm of his trotting.

  “Who wants me?” Champlain yelled back even as he accepted the proffered corded handset.

  “Sir, Sergeant Bowie,” the radioman replied, shouting to be heard over the now ceaseless background crackle of small arms.

  “Go for Charlie Six,” Champlain said, keying the handset.

  “Blocking force here, Lieutenant,” Bowie replied, eschewing radio protocol. “We got vehicles approaching—wheeled APCs. Looks like they got mounted machine guns. We used a few rockets t’ make ’em dismount and push on foot, but we can hold ten minutes, mebbee twice that. Then they work around ma’ flanks and I’ve got t’withdraw.”

  “Casualties?” the assault leader asked.

  “Light,” the noncom shouted over the sounds of combat. The Crack-Boom! that signaled the launch and nearly simultaneous impact of an outbound rocket testified to the short range of Bowie’s firefight. “One deader an’ one injured so far.”

  “The package has shifted.” Champlain informed him. “We’re searching, but the timeline holds. Even if you can hold longer, withdraw in time to get your casualties to the LZ.”

  “Copy.” Bowie said unceremoniously.

  Champlain passed the handset back and felt a heavy slap on his shoulder.

  Major Kuhlman wanted his attention.

  The broad-shouldered veteran moved lightly in his equipment and the friendly blow was only a reminder, but Champlain had seen him handle two of the worst Commando discipline cases by the simple expedient of picking them up at arm’s length until they quieted.

  Even Bowie approved of the Earther, and the senior noncom hated officers as a simple matter of principle.

  “We’ve got to hoof it,” Kuhlman not quite ordered. “Doesn’t matter if the kid’s at the club or library. His guards will know that there’s an attack underway, but they won’t know what we’re after.”

  “So we take this bunch,” Champlain said, gesturing at First platoon. “And bust the resistance that is pushing on Weapons platoon. From there we split First and Second and we each take a building. First person to find the boy calls the op and we move Weapons to back Third at the roadblock.”

  A bullet whirred overhead, the buzzing sound suggesting a ricochet instead of a sniper. Of course, a ricochet in the right place was still lethal.

  Standing next to Royce, Gagnon ducked. The other officers declined to notice.

  “I like it,” Kuhlman gave him a tight grin. “It’s a plan, Wil. Prevent the good colonel from exposing himself overmuch but keep him close, he’s a caution.”

  The faintest wink accompanied the last statement.

  On the run, the platoon shook itself out into a blunt wedge as Champlain directed the squad leaders towards the two-story complex. Ahead, they see could the irregular lines of muzzle flashes that demarcated the defensive lines of Weapon’s platoon, which was now pressed on two sides. The intersecting web of red Secordian and green Quebecois tracers dominated the exchange of fully automatic fire from both sides.

  The formation broke into an outright run as they passed a corral of horses that supplemented the base motor pool. The whinnies, snorts and overall movement covered the sound of assaulters as they approached.

  Champlain could see that his force had remained unnoticed. The Secordians were wholly absorbed by the action to their front as they gained fire superiority over the beleaguered Commandos’ Weapons platoon. Champlain caught Tremblay’s eye and gestured sharply toward one end of the line of Secordian skirmishers which was pouring fire into the exposed flank of raiders.

  Sucks to be you, boys, he thought.

  Tremblay pulled his men into a ragged halt, laying down a base of fire and carefully shooting past the remainder of the still running platoon. Their targets included almost a score of gaudily dressed Secordian Marines and one half-dressed officer. The brightness of their palace-ready uniforms didn’t reduce the effectiveness of their rapidly firing lever action rifles, which could maintain a much higher rate of fire than the bolt actions carried by Champlain’s men.

  As the first Quebecois rounds reached their targets, killing and maiming several Marines, Champlain could see the blank O’s of surprised faces as the Secordians turned to look behind them. Midway up the defenders’ line, one Marine horsed around a large gun. The disk-shaped magazine on top marked it as another example of an ancient design brought back to life on Terra Nova.

  The stuttering orange muzzle flash strobed, dropping several Rangers in moments.

  “Grenades!” yelled Champlain as he dove into cover face first. Too quickly for them to have been in response to his order, several explosions crumped along the line of Marines, the last centered perfectly on the machine gun. Unfortunately, the detonations were also uncomfortably close to the company commander. Nearest the enemy, Champlain felt the sting of gritty dirt and sand on his exposed neck, but he appeared to have dodged the shrapnel.

  His ears rang deafeningly. He must’ve lost a few moments, because Champlain suddenly registered that the Secordian machine guns had stopped firing. In fact, the entire enemy line was being mopped up. When he rubbed his neck, his hand came away with a smear of blood, underscoring two important lessons: he hadn’t dodged perfectly and grenades don’t have friends, after all.

  “You hit?” Kuhlman asked as he pulled Champlain up to his knees with one hand. The other held a very short, sleek looking gun while the American observer’s Quebecois MAS carbine dangled muzzle down from its leather sling. What Champlain had assumed was a binocular case swung open under Kuhlman’s left arm.

  The major noted Champlain’s look.

  “I decided to bring along Vera,” he explained. “Collapsible over and under pistol caliber carbine. Integrated microgrenade launcher, autoranging multiband laser-optics. Totally proscribed for use here, so don’t mention it in your report, all right?”

  Champlain shook his head again, and yawned, uselessly trying to reduce the overwhelming tinnitus.

  “Didn’t see nothing,” he answered muzzily. Over the other officer’s shoulder he could see desperate attempts at first aid.

  “Medic!” Tremblay called. “A moi! A moi!”

  His platoon had at least a dozen wounded and killed. As Champlain scanned his surrounding, some of the supine figures resolved into men clutching their wounds. Others lay with a limp finality.

  “There’s no time!” Champlain shouted, shocked by the losses. Despite the residual impact of the explosions, he continued on. “We have to take that building now! Royce! Royce!”

  “Sir!” Royce yelled into Champlain’s ear.

  “Pass to Weapons platoon that we are going to leapfrog into those building,” he gestured at the nearby structures. “They’re to hold security while we clear.”

  “Sir!”

  Champlain turned to Kuhlman as the latter fitted a matte black block of polymer into the action of his Earth manufactured weapon.

  “Where can I get one of those?” he asked.

  “Can I
get another cigarette, Major DeGrasse?”

  Wordlessly, the Secordian intelligence office slid the pack and a lighter over to Champlain. He looked up at Bin Ra’ad.

  “Were you aware that Major Kuhlman had imported advanced weaponry, Colonel?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” replied Bin Ra’ad, folding his arms. “What matters is the mission. We can presume that any evidence of Kuhlman and his weapon were both totally destroyed when the damaged tilt-rotor, imported at great cost by the UN and intended exclusively for medical evacuations I might add, crashed. And since the crash site lies in Quebecois territory, there won’t be any forensic evidence for Secordia to recover.”

  Champlain paused for a moment. Bin Ra’ad was clearly rehearsing the lines which he would use to finger the Rangers for an independent and unauthorized mission, should Bin Ra’ad’s scheme risk exposure.

  “Apart from the bullets,” the Commando lieutenant said, hoping to point out the obvious. “The major did a lot of shooting afterwards. By that point everyone had seen him use the thing and it was better than anything else we have. If we had one or two of those per squad, I would’ve gotten almost everyone out!”

  “Your job was to execute the mission with the weapons on hand, Lieutenant,” DeGrasse said, sharpening his tone. “That was the whole point.”

  “Well, you have Hebert back, don’t you?” Champlain answered, his voice strained. “So, the next order of business is for Secordian High Command to honor the deal.”

  “Not quite Champlain,” said Bin Ra’ad. “As I suspect you know. You see, we’ve already interviewed young Hebert.”

  It cost Champlain the rest of another squad before they reached the final room, having reduced the Communication building to a smoking ruin along the way. In front of Champlain, the lead commando staggered back, his arm riddled with pellets from a defender’s shotgun. The last two Secordians fought back tenaciously from behind the shelter of the thick steel radio room door which was jammed slightly open by the commando’s last breeching tool.

  Champlain decided to donate them a grenade in recognition of their vicious defense. If the kid was inside, tough. They’d retrieve his body, but Champlain was sick of losing men, his men.

  His remaining team huddled away from the door for a moment. Champlain straightened and withdrew the safety pin from a fragmentation grenade. He let the spoon fly and then very carefully underhanded the fist-sized metal egg through the partially open steel door. The crack of the grenade sounded different, contained by the heavy masonry and metal construction. The overpressure banged the door shut, springing the frame. Thin gray smoke drifted out from behind the security door, now hanging slightly askew. Despite the protection of the reinforced wall, the attackers were still rocked by the blast.

  Champlain took the lead position this time and pushed the door open, riding it closely all the way into the room, keeping his carbine up. Quickly, his number two and three men slid through behind him.

  There was no more resistance.

  He surveyed the room. No hostage. Just wrecked equipment, smoldering paper and death. Radios and maps were decorated with the blood spatter of the last two Secordians whose faces exhibited the gruesome injuries caused by the intense overpressure of the explosion.

  “We got him!” in the hallway Royce yelled triumphantly. He waved the handset at Champlain again. “Kuhlman says he’s got him!”

  Champlain’s heart lifted even as his minder sounded off in the hallway outside.

  “Where?” demanded Gagnon. “Where’s the boy?”

  Gagnon had elected to shadow Champlain’s detachment. The company commander didn’t dwell on the significance of Gagnon’s choice, but it did leave Kuhlman alone as he took another group into the adjoining recreation area.

  “The major says to come to him,” said the radioman, ignoring the Quebecois politico. “Says it’s easier than dragging the package directly to us.”

  “Right,” answered Champlain. “We’ll head that way. Colonel, stay closer to me this time and keep up. We have to move quickly.”

  He ignored the glare from the bandy-legged man.

  The real problem was the Secordian shelling. One of the armored personnel carriers pushing on Bowie’s defenders mounted a mortar. At the roadblock, the Rangers were pinned by the ever increasing small arms fire from the Secordians. Bowie had reported by radio that without overhead protection, they were steadily absorbing casualties from the high angle of attack weapons. The lethal HE shells were relatively inaccurate, but the Secordian design was fed by clips of three shells. The overlapping detonations of each stonk covered enough ground to offset the lack of pinpoint accuracy.

  One lucky hit could kill or maim his whole group, so Champlain kept them under as much cover as possible as they ran towards Kuhlman’s position.

  “Alors!” A voice rang out from a doorway ahead. They slowed clumsily, Gagnon rebounding from Champlain’s equipment harness before the group filed in, chased inside by a brilliant starshell.

  “Here’s our man!” Kuhlman brought their target over, effortlessly towing him despite Hebert’s seemingly reluctance. The burning magnesium shone through the windows to reveal the rapidly blinking eyes of a pale college age youth. Shadows tilted across his face as the Secordian para-flare scudded ahead of the breeze.

  Gagnon muscled through the press of troopers.

  “Do you have it?” he asked, his eyes greedily taking in the schoolboy pack that Herbert clutched to his chest. “Do you?”

  “Uncle Gagnon!” exclaimed the boy, clearly surprised. “I mean, yes, of course!”

  Champlain met Kuhlman’s eyes but the Earther only gave him a miniscule head shake in return.

  Hebert flipped open the pack, which was decorated with a Quebecois fleur-de-lis patch. The starshell died, so Champlain helpfully used his expensive, civilian pocket torch to illuminate the interior. Hebert’s shaking hands lifted a plastic sleeve. Four golden compact discs gleamed, each slotted individually into the transparent plastic.

  There was a brief murmur from the ranks. Most of the men had never seen in person what passed for advanced Earth technology.

  “CDs?” Champlain asked. “What do we care a—?”

  “Close that!” In a single motion, Gagnon slapped the pack closed and yanked the bag away from Hebert. “Classified!”

  “Master Hebert explained about the discs already, Colonel,” drawled Kuhlman. “He insisted on bringing them with him, you see. Took a bit since he hadn’t finished copying the last one over from the entertainment unit in the corner.”

  He nodded his head at a rare, but clearly damaged Earth made computer. It was plugged into the wreckage of a large televisor unit, and its housing and screen were cracked and starred from heavy impacts—marks about the right size to have come from the buttstock of a Quebecois carbine. A commando stood nearby, carefully holding one of their few demolition packs.

  “Also cost us another two dead and one more wounded,” he added, “Since the Secordians appeared to object to us fiddling with their video equipment.”

  “What gives, Colonel?” asked Champlain, turning towards Gagnon, anger tinging his words. “We have the hostage. What’s was the point of the discs?”

  Advanced technology was sharply limited outside the UN enclave at Atlantis. The optical CDs could be read only by scarce Earth supplied computers. Outside instances where the extremely wealthy could use them on smuggled entertainment units or inside the laboratories of very well funded universities, the number of reliably functioning CD readers and computers was infinitesimally small.

  “Although we tried to disable the equipment manually, it needs a little extra effort,” Kuhlman said, not quite answering Champlain’s question. “Master Hebert also explained the importance of destroying local copies and hiding his activities. Therefore, as soon as we move out, Private Cote will ignite the charge.”

  “Yes, well, fine,” harrumphed Gagnon, grudging approval apparent. “We have what we came for then!�
��

  Champlain looked the question to Kuhlman, who nodded.

  “All right, Craveaux,” Champlain said to the surviving corporal from First Platoon. “Do a quick head and ammo count, cross load what we have left. Royce!”

  “Right here, sir,” the tall radioman piped up behind him.

  “Get me the Senior Sergeant Bowie. Tell him to withdraw towards the LZ. We’ll meet him there after we collect Weapons Platoon outside. Tremblay!”

  “Sir?” The assistant rigger was also one of the squad leaders in Second.

  “Your job is to stay with Monsieur Hebert,” ordered Champlain. “His physical safety is your personal responsibility, which isn’t over until his feet touch Quebecois soil. You aren’t relieved till I relieve you. Understood?”

  “Sir!”

  Despite the casualties and his sense of confusion at the byplay between Gagnon, the hostage and Major Kuhlman, Champlain felt a growing sense of elation.

  By God we’re gonna pull it off!

  Then the windows blew in, ahead of a sleet of shrapnel.

  “The data! You have it!” exclaimed Bin Ra’ad. “Where is it!”

  “Not with me,” replied Champlain.

  “Lieutenant, or may I amend, Captaine Champlain, you are to be congratulated,” DeGrasse said, ignoring the outburst from his partner. “Not only did you extract the boy, but you have preserved the valuable information that young Monsieur Hebert happened to chance upon, as he informed us when we spoke with him.”

  “Yeah,” answered Champlain wryly. “We have the discs that young Jacques made.”

  “So give them over, now!” ordered the tall UN colonel, stalking over to Champlain’s side of the table. “They contain critical, potentially priceless military intelligence!”

  “Well, sir,” Champlain said, drawing out the last syllable again. “I have to agree that they might be priceless, but I’m not certain about the military part. And that bit about ‘chanced upon’ is what my old tactics instructor would call a polite fiction.”