by Jay Allan
They’d run for almost an hour when they came to a hole in the ground, surrounded by a pile of displaced sand…and mixed in, several chunks of concrete. On closer inspection, Blackhawk realized it was some kind of underground pipe…and the debris from a hole that had been dug through it. A pipeline, a conduit of some kind. And in an instant, Blackhawk knew how the raiders got around undetected, confounding Ghana’s efforts to track them down.
The group had slipped through the opening into the pipe one by one, the last of them pulling as much dirt and sand as possible back over the hole as they did. He knew it was far from perfect camouflage, that a close inspection would reveal there was something there. But the desert was large, and the makeshift entrance to the conduit was small…and in a matter of hours, a day at most, the wind would blow more sand over the hole, erasing the last hints that the Grays had a secret tunnel less than an hour from Ghana’s headquarters.
He was surprised by the turn events had taken, by the unexpected rescue operation. He’d only had a moment to speak with Cass, and all she’d told him was they had been on the way to break her people out when they saw the floodlights, heard the sounds of combat. They’d halted at once, created what cover they could, intending to ambush any of Ghana’s soldiers that came their way.
Whatever the sequence of events, Blackhawk knew he owed his life to these raiders. That wouldn’t have mattered to him once, but now it did. He might have called it even…Jarvis and his people would never have gotten out of Ghana’s stronghold without his leadership and combat abilities, and as capable as Cassandra seemed to be, her people would never have succeeded in some desperate rescue attempt from outside.
But there was more than an analysis of who did more for whom at play. He was intrigued by Cassandra—and more than a little stunned at what he perceived in her. She was beautiful, all the more because he knew he was seeing her in her combat garb, crawling around in the desert, her face covered with dust and sweat, her hair tied up in a greasy ponytail. He felt the stirrings of affection, something new to him. Before, his women had been amusements, enjoyable diversions certainly, but nothing more. Indeed, he’d spent most of his life conditioned to view all those around him for their practical worth…whether that was for a romp in bed or their capabilities on the battlefield. He’d never had a real friend, nor a woman he’d cared for on any level beyond the physical. But he pushed it all back…now was not the time for such thoughts. Perhaps later…
He realized it was more than just physical attraction he felt, even affection. He was a leader. It had been bred into him, it lived in every fiber of his being. And he knew immediately, she was one too. He suspected she was in over her head, that she didn’t have the training, the knowledge to prevail. Yet, she had done precisely that, apparently for a considerable period of time…and he felt his respect growing.
He wanted to know more about her…and he felt the urge to help her. He didn’t like the idea of leaving her on her own, of taking off once they’d cleared the immediate danger zone. She was smart, and her people were clearly devoted to her. But Blackhawk had seen enough rebels and raiding operations to realize that eventually they would all be wiped out. And the thought of Cassandra Cross lying in the desert, her pretty face shattered by a spray of bullets, was upsetting to him.
If I leave, she will die. Perhaps tomorrow, next week, next year. But she will never leave this desert. None of them will.
He struggled with himself, his resurgent apathy trying to push back his new thoughts, feelings.
It isn’t your fight. Cassandra is an attractive enough woman, but she and her people will live or die…and it has nothing to do with you.
He could feel the argument in his head, the debate between himself and…himself. There was coldness, the old feelings stirring, the frozen rationality, the disregard for all those around him, for everything save victory.
And victory here is unlikely. Besides, you have your own agenda. Vengeance on the man who betrayed you. And then to leave this miserable rock…and its Warlords, raiders, downtrodden people. None of it has anything to do with me. Their problems are their own…not mine.
He continued crawling forward, mostly ignoring the worsening pain from his leg. He listened to the old thoughts, and he saw the cold logic in them. But that wasn’t him anymore. And he couldn’t stop thinking about Cass and her people…and the anger he felt at the thought of them all dying.
* * *
“The first flights will be arriving within the hour, General. Marshal Carteria didn’t want to waste any time in rushing support to you.” Varn Eleher sat in the guest chair, perched uncomfortably on the spare wooden seat. Ghana’s stronghold was a field fortress, not an ancestral castle, and comfort was a relative thing.
Ghana sat in his own, slightly plusher, chair, staring across the desk at the Carterian officer. He understood what he was hearing, but he was still having difficulty accepting it. He’d sent Jinn Barkus to negotiate additional funding, hard currency that would enable him to hire enough mercenaries to vanquish Lucerne’s army. He’d been prepared for a refusal, for the need to find a way to prevail on his own. He’d even considered the possibility that Carteria would take his anger out on his longtime aide, that Barkus would never return from his desperate mission. But this…this was something he’d never imagined.
“Colonel Eleher, I…ah…appreciate the marshal’s show of confidence…and his willingness to help in so significant a manner, but I requested financial support. The mercenaries of the river cities are a short march from here. We could have reinforcements in position before the truce expires. Marshal Carteria couldn’t possibly have enough soldiers here in time to…”
“Your information is inaccurate, General. You underestimate the Marshal’s capabilities and his commitment to your cause. The incoming flights will deliver combat troops, fully supplied and ready for action. And they will continue to arrive, around the clock. In three days we will have five thousand men on the ground. In two weeks, a combat ready force of twenty-five thousand will be fully deployed.” Eleher paused, clearly trying to suppress—slightly—the arrogance he felt as one of Carteria’s top commanders. “Armored vehicles and heavy equipment will take more time to transit, I’m afraid, thought I submit even the light infantry forces will be rather better equipped and trained than your men…or General Lucerne’s.” Ghana knew the words were an intentional jab, a boast meant to remind him of Carteria’s power. But he was well aware they were also the truth. The Northern Continent Warlords couldn’t match the financial resources of the Marshal, and that showed itself in a number of areas, including providing leading edge equipment to field forces.
Ghana bolted himself to his chair, his posture upright, radiating pride…and not a little of his own controlled arrogance. He wasn’t about to show this lackey of Carteria’s how unnerved he was at the actions his plea for aid had unleashed. Bako Ghana had been a warrior all his life, starting as a common soldier in the army of General M’tara almost four decades earlier. He’d risen steadily through the ranks, and one day he caught the eye of M’tara’s daughter. The ensuing marriage had made him heir to all the lands south of the River Caragian, and it had given him the Warlord’s stars less than four years later when an enemy sniper killed General M’tara on the eve of battle.
Ghana had avenged his father-in-law, not only winning the battle, but killing both of the allied enemy Warlords responsible. And he had proven to be a competent commander, if not a brilliant one. For thirty years he had steadily expanded his domains, defeating all those who stood against him. Until he ran into Augustin Lucerne.
Lucerne was nothing, a petty general from a forgotten backwater. But Ghana had never seen anything like his army in action. The Warlords generally commanded a combination of retainers of varying degrees of loyalty along with mercenaries fighting for pay. But there was something different about Lucerne’s soldiers. They were devoted to him, in a way that transcended even the generational loyalty of longtime retainers. He’d
seen images of them on the eve of battle, or after a victory. Thousands of them, arms raised in the air, screaming Lucerne’s name, carrying the Warlord on their shoulders.
And they were skilled, trained to a level Ghana had never seen before, their discipline almost indestructible, even in the most desperate battles. He’d seen units of Lucerne’s army, surrounded, hopelessly outnumbered, fighting to the last man. He’d learned to respect Lucerne’s soldiers. To fear them.
Ghana had never been one to seek help before, and certainly not from a man like Carteria. But he’d been unnerved by his first encounter with Lucerne, and he had reached out, driven by fear as much as logic, offering trade concessions in exchange for financial backing. But even with Carteria’s coin, he continued to lose to Lucerne, and now he was on the verge of total defeat, his position far weaker than was generally known. His battered army hadn’t even been able to stamp out the bands of raiders and smugglers that had plagued the trade moving through the Badlands, choking off his largest source of revenue. When the struggle resumed, he knew his army was doomed. But he hadn’t been idle. He had a plan, a way to strike at Lucerne, to paralyze his army. And it had nothing to do with Carterian troops pouring onto the Northern Continent.
“Perhaps we should limit the number of troops for now, Colonel. Say, ten thousand. That should be…”
“The twenty-five thousand are already in transit or preparing for departure. The Marshal’s orders are clear.”
Ghana fought back against the anger trying to bubble out at this Carterian lackey for daring to interrupt him…and at the thought of Carteria’s orders dictating affairs on the Northern Continent, in Ghana’s own occupied lands. But he knew rage would only undermine him now. Even now, his machinations were in progress, his scheme to overcome Lucerne. But he still needed more troops to be assured of success. And there was no way to stop Carteria’s soldiers from coming, no way save attacking them as they land. Rage or no, Ghana wasn’t about to start a war with the most powerful Warlord on the planet.
“Perhaps we can feed the arriving units into our OB, replacing losses in many of the frontline units.”
“The Marshal was quite clear. The expeditionary force will fight as a whole.” Eleher paused. “The Marshal does not wish to see any degradation of combat capabilities. I’m sure you are aware, our forces have different doctrines, equipment.”
It was a small concession, an explanation where Eleher might have offered none. But Ghana knew it was bullshit too. Carteria had a hidden agenda, almost certainly. But what? Ghana’s mind raced, trying to analyze things from every possible direction.
What does Carteria want? Is he looking to force better terms, a larger share of trade revenue? Or is it something…worse?
* * *
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Eight hundred men, more than a hundred vehicles, a dozen airships on constant patrol duty…and we’ve found nothing.” Jangus Sand was angry, not just normal anger, but the frantic rage that only fear could feed. Ghana had been straightforward, the general had given him a chance to redeem himself, to rescue his career. And he’d been very clear. Find the raiders. But Sand’s people had been searching for days, and they hadn’t found a trace.
He’d had airships covering the area within hours of the escape, patrolling a radius far beyond what the escapees could have covered in that time. But there was nothing. Just endless, open desert. Rolling hills, sand. And not a soul to be found.
It didn’t make sense. They had to be out there somewhere. He’d ordered the airships to continue their sweeps, flying lower, overlapping each other’s search areas. But still, there had been nothing. He’d even airlifted ground patrols, dropping them at intervals far beyond what the raiders could have covered on foot. But still it was the same. Nothing.
“Sir, the patrols are still…”
“The patrols are going to have to do better, Lieutenant,” Sand said, his voice cold, angry. “Even if these raiders had some vehicles hidden out here, there have to be some signs. Tracks, discarded food and water canisters…even a makeshift latrine. Something!”
The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, moving his weight from one leg to the other, struggling to maintain Sand’s angry gaze. He was about to speak when the captain continued.
“Your men had better look harder, Lieutenant…because no one is going back to base until we find these criminals. Do you understand me?”
The lieutenant looked back, hesitated. Then he said, “Yes, Captain. I understand.”
Sand turned and looked out over the desert, silent for a moment. Then he said, “We would have found them if they were out on the open desert…even your lackluster, lazy patrols couldn’t have missed them. The airships would have had a sighting by now.” His voice trailed off, as he stared intently, looking at the endless sandy, rolling hills. “They would have had a sighting by now…” he repeated.
“Sir?” The lieutenant had a confused look on his face.
“Double your patrols, Lieutenant. I want them to scour this desert step by step. The raiders must have a hideout somewhere…a cave, something. If they’d continued across the desert we’d have found them by now. That means they didn’t just keep marching. They went somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
“Yes, Lieutenant…somewhere. There must be a refuge out there…and judging from how quickly the escapees disappeared, it has to be close to our base. No more than a day and a half’s hard march.” He turned and stared at the still-confused officer. “I want all units equipped with seismic detectors. There’s a cave out there somewhere, or an old underground complex of some kind. And our escaped prisoners are hiding there. It’s the only answer.” He paused. “And you’re people are going to find it, Lieutenant, or by Chrono, I will hang every one of them up by his heels and sit and watch as the sun bakes them to death.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dark Shadow Valley
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
“I said focus! Those are your comrades up there, counting on you to cover their moves. If you let them down, they die.” Blackhawk stood looking down the line of raiders lying in the sand in a rough formation. They had weapons extended in front of them, an assortment of modern assault rifles mixed with a few backcountry shotguns and pistols. It was far from ideal armament for a fighting force, but it was what they had.
He turned his head to the left, watching another line of men and women, moving forward swiftly, crouched down, their own weapons at the ready.
“Evens stop,” Blackhawk yelled. “Covering position.” He turned back to the line of raiders on their stomachs right next to him. “Odds, forward.” He saw them scrambling to their feet, their paces varying widely, the whole line taking on a disordered look. “Now!” he yelled, dissatisfied at the effort he was seeing. Leapfrogging was infantry tactics 101, and the Grays looked like shit trying to manage it. But he had to admit, they had shown a lot of improvement. Three days before they’d been an uncontrollable mass, resembling a wild mob rather than a military unit. But Blackhawk still shuddered to think of how they would perform under fire…or even when they were shooting themselves. The Grays didn’t have enough supplies to expend ammunition on exercises, and besides, too much shooting in the desert only increased the chances of detection by one of the armies.
They don’t look like soldiers, but they were good enough to pull your ass out of the fire at Ghana’s fortress…
He looked out at the odds, moving forward, toward the rough line the now prone evens had formed. The advancing troops moved up to their comrades’ position and then beyond. No one was firing, but all Blackhawk could see was phantom friendly fire, men and women dropping as their scared and confused comrades fired wildly, carelessly. He’d seen it with trained and experienced troops, and for all Cass had done with her people, at heart they were still farmers, young men and women far more at home with a plow in their hands than an assault rifle.
He watched as the odds moved up, about as
far ahead of the evens as they’d been behind. “Stop,” Blackhawk screamed, loud enough for his words to carry across the valley. That was another problem…the Grays didn’t have much in the way of coms, just six units, of varying types and in marginal condition. Worse, they could only use those in emergencies. They had no stealth capability…they transmitted wide, easy to intercept signals. One careless transmission, and they could find a thousand enemy troops moving on their hideout.
Which is going to happen anyway. These Grays are good, and Cass is a strong leader…but they’ve been lucky too. And that always ends. Eventually.
“They’re not used to anyone like you.” The voice was friendly, almost affectionate. Cassandra Cross walked up behind Blackhawk, quietly, carefully. He had to admit, she had a light step. He’d heard her, of course, and he’d monitored her movements from the instant she’d come out of the small opening in the ridge, from the tunnel that led from the Grays’ headquarters out into the valley. But he didn’t let on, even giving her a quick look of surprise.
“You are quite the special ops master,” he said, doing something he hadn’t done in years, smiling. Blackhawk certainly wasn’t a romantic, not by any means. But the grim, morose depression that had ruled his life for the last few years had lifted, at least a bit. He still had guilt, and nightmares that would have driven a normal man to lose his sanity. But Cass was different than most of the people he’d known. She had a little of what he’d recognized in Lucerne…and some other things too. He respected her. And he liked her.
“Stop bullshitting me, Ark. You knew I was here…you probably had me the instant I poked my nose out of the tunnel.”
“Maybe, he said. But you’re still pretty sneaky.”
“You know just what to say to a woman, don’t you?”