First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11)

by Christopher Nuttall

  And the Governor’s forces weren't much better. The orders they’d been given were masterworks of contradictory mealy-mouthed evasion. I wasn't a JAG - there were hardly any JAGs in the corps - but no matter how I looked at the orders, they seemed written to allow the Governor to suggest that the outcome, whatever happened, was what he’d been ordered to do all along. On one hand, he was to suppress the rebels and support the corporation; on the other, he was to create the framework for a lasting peace. (It took me some time to realise that Hammersmith’s enemies had helped write the Governor’s orders, as any lasting peace would involve Hammersmith being kicked off the planet.) Faced with such indecision, the Imperial Forces had occupied most of the remaining towns and cities, then tried to exterminate the rebels. So far, they were failing miserably.

  Not that you would have known it, I realised, from the official news bulletins. The contrast between the marine briefings and the Governor’s bombastic statements could hardly be more pronounced. He claimed that hundreds of thousands of rebels had been killed, or brought over to support the royal forces; the marines claimed that, if anything, the rebellion was growing stronger. The warlords might have disliked each other just as much as they disliked King Fredrick, but the prospect of being snuffed out by off-world forces pretty much condemned them to work together.

  “They can't win the war, but they don’t dare lose either,” Whisper commented. I’d come to know her pretty well over the three weeks we’d spent in transit, along with the others. She had a cynical view of the universe that was pretty close to my own. “So they keep spinning every little engagement as a victory and hope they get relieved before it’s too late.”

  I suspected she was right, but before we could continue the discussion we were called to the shuttlebay. Us CROWs - and a number of engineers who had been summoned to Moidart - were going to be the first down to the surface. Judging from the reports of rebels launching HVMs - which they shouldn't have had - at shuttlecraft, I had a feeling it wasn't really a honour at all. I considered, briefly, suggesting we jumped through the atmosphere, then dismissed the thought. We didn't have the equipment that would make a jump possible.

  “When you get down, move into the nearest hardened shelter,” the crew chief told us. That didn't sound encouraging. “You’ll be collected as soon as possible.”

  We exchanged glances, checked our weapons and boarded the shuttle. The flight down to the surface was hellishly unpleasant, although not as bad as some of the flights on the Slaughterhouse. I think the pilots must have known the dangers, because they kept jinking from side to side and launching flares every time their sensors squealed an alert. We didn't come under fire - a HVM might have killed us before we knew we were being attacked - but we didn't miss any of the experience. By the time the shuttle crashed to the landing pad, we were feeling unwell despite our training.

  The hatch banged open, allowing us to take our first step onto Moidart. I took a breath and shuddered as I tasted strange - and unpleasant - scents in the air. Hammersmith claimed its mining operation wasn't polluting, but the marine briefing had made it clear that they were causing untold amounts of ecological damage. They could have cut down on the pollution, simply by shipping in more expensive equipment ... if, of course, someone had thought the long-term investment was worthwhile. Given the situation on the ground, I rather doubted that anyone would consider Moidart a decent investment opportunity. Chances were the corporate sharks running the operation were among the worst of the worst, sent to Moidart merely to get rid of them.

  We sprinted for the nearest shelter as alarms howled over the spaceport, announcing the arrival of a hail of mortar shells. Laser defence units opened fire, swatting most of the shells out of the air, but a handful made it through and struck the runway. The damage seemed to be minimal, from what I could tell - the runway was designed to soak up a great deal of damage and be easy to repair - yet it was only a matter of time until the rebels got lucky and hit a moving aircraft. I’d learned enough about logistics to be sure there was no way to replace any helicopters without shipping them in from out-system.

  “I don't think much of their security,” Joker said, as the alarms finally wound down. A pair of attack helicopters passed overhead and out of sight, but I didn't hear them launching any weapons. The rebels might just have preset the mortars to fire - the spaceport was large enough that the shells would be bound to strike home - and then legged it. “In fact, I feel rather exposed.”

  “There's only one major spaceport on the planet,” Hatchet pointed out. In the distance, I saw an explosion rising into the air. “Everything we need to maintain ourselves has to be shipped through here.”

  We paused to contemplate the problem. There was no shortage of shuttles that could land without a dedicated spaceport, but the heavy-lift craft that carried most of our supplies needed a proper set of landing facilities. If the spaceport happened to be overrun, the forces on the ground would find it much harder to call on reinforcements and eventually run out of ammunition. Moidart could produce simple ammunition - the factories were heavily guarded, according to the briefing notes - but anything more complex than a simple RPG was beyond them. I could easily see the royal forces deserting the moment they ran out of ammunition.

  “Fuck me,” Joker said, finally.

  “Not on duty,” a new voice said. We straightened to attention as a newcomer, wearing the combat uniform of a Command Sergeant, strode into the shelter. “Welcome to hell. I am Command Sergeant Singh, Webb’s Weavers. I understand that three of you are bound for the Weavers and the other three are assigned to Robertson’s Rangers?”

  “Yes, sir,” we said.

  “The Rangers are currently on deployment to Kilkenny,” Singh said. In all my career, I never learned his first name. It should have been in his file, but when I looked it turned out that it was marked as restricted. He’d probably served in one of the more secretive units before transferring back to a conventional company. “You three” - he looked at Hatchet, Sawdust and Whisper - “will be assigned to perimeter security until they return. The others will start their service as soon as we reach the FOB. Follow me.”

  He turned and strode out of the shelter, heading straight for a large armoured car. We followed him and, at his command, climbed into the rear of the vehicle. It was uncomfortably cramped with six marines and their gear, but I had a feeling it was better than trying to walk to the FOB. Singh started the engine and drove past a set of hangers onto a throughway, then right past a man in a red uniform who shook his fist at our retreating backs.

  “Traffic warden,” Singh said. I thought he was joking at the time. It wasn't until later that I realised he was deadly serious. “They have a habit of bitching when we drive past the speed limit.”

  The spaceport grew more crowded as we reached the gates. Armed soldiers watched, nervously, as a convoy entered; they waved us through without hesitation, clearly more concerned about anyone trying to get into the spaceport. A long line of local workers were being searched before they were allowed to enter, their faces set in expressionless masks that told me they were as resentful as hell. I didn't blame them - some of the guards were clearly enjoying themselves - but what choice did we have? A single suicide bomber who got through the gates could cause a great deal of trouble if he blew up the right building.

  “We’re based some distance from the regulars,” Singh said, as he gunned the engine. “Their security sucks shit through a straw. Don’t trust anyone who isn't a marine and you might just stay alive long enough to learn what you’re doing.”

  I nodded, keeping my eyes on the environment. The fields surrounding the spaceport might have been pretty once, but someone had cut down every last tree and bush within five miles, just to prevent them being used for concealment. It looked very much as though they’d followed up by spraying the area with something that had killed the plants, leaving it barren even at the height of summer. Or maybe it was just the pollution drifting through the air. The road
itself was solid workmanship, easily wide enough to take three tank transporters running abreast. I doubted anyone could place an IED in position without it being noticed. It would be much harder to see them once we got off the roads.

  Whisper leaned forward. “Do they have a habit of getting close to the spaceport?”

  “They fire off mortars every time a resupply ship arrives,” Singh grunted. “No HVMs so far, although it’s only just a matter of time. They have the local system command network thoroughly penetrated, even though it’s run by Hammersmith. Many of the local bureaucrats are interested in keeping on the good side of the monarch and the rebels, so they kiss the ass of the former and slip information to the latter. Expect them to know what we’re doing as soon as we do it.”

  Joker had a different question. “How reliable are the royal troopers?”

  “Some units are good; mostly, the ones that have good reason to fear the worst if the rebels win,” Singh said. “Others just crap their pants and run away when the shooting starts. There isn't any sort of vetting procedure for recruits, so the rebels manage to slip quite a few moles into the forces. They’re so desperate for manpower that they don’t even carry out basic checks.”

  He refused to be drawn any further until we reached the FOB. It had started life as a warehouse on the edge of Charlie City; now, it was surrounded by barbed wire, murder holes and prefabricated protective shields. It looked flimsy, but I knew from training that the shields could soak up anything short of an HVM. On the roof, there was a mounted radar set and a laser defence system, covered by a set of sniper hides. The rebels might be able to storm the FOB and kill us all, but they could be sure we’d sell our lives dearly. Like the spaceport, the ground around the FOB had been cleared; dozens of buildings had been knocked down, just to make it harder for anyone to sneak up on us. I couldn't help wondering just how popular that had made us with the locals.

  Probably not at all, I thought. I wouldn't have been too pleased if someone knocked down my home either. But what choice did we have?

  The FOB was far more secure than the spaceport, thankfully. A guard checked our fingerprints before allowing us to enter; Singh ordered us out the vehicle and pointed us right into the warehouse. Inside, the hard concrete floor was covered with sleeping pallets; dozens of marines, trying to catch a few hours of sleep, lay everywhere. I couldn't help feeling as if I didn't belong, not really. They had months, perhaps years, of experience, while I had almost none.

  “The Rangers are to report to Corporal Little,” Singh said, gruffly. He glanced at the sleeping marines, then nodded to himself. “The rest of you, with me.”

  Captain James Webb didn't look like someone who had stepped out of a recruitment poster, to my private disappointment. He looked short, with brown hair an inch or two longer than the haircuts inflicted on us at regular intervals. Indeed, I would have mistaken him for a doctor or a bureaucrat if he hadn't had a muscular body, sharp eyes and mannerisms I’d seen on several other senior marines. Singh saluted - we copied him, quickly - and withdrew, leaving us alone with our new commanding officer.

  “Welcome to the Weavers,” he said, without preamble. His voice was warm, but there was no hint of weakness. I’d read his record and it was clear he had over two decades of experience. “You’re replacing popular men, I’m afraid; one dead, two badly wounded. You won’t have an easy time of it. However, we expect you to cope with it. We’re going to be going back into the field in four days, unless we get called forward early. You have that long to fit into your new platoons.

  “You’ve had a chance to read the briefing notes, so you know what to expect. The war is stalemated at the moment, without any real chance of either side making a breakthrough, but we will keep the pressure on until the enemy cracks. Or until we get pulled out and sent elsewhere.”

  He looked at each of us, one by one. “Sergeant Singh will see to your combat assignments,” he concluded. “Welcome to Moidart.”

  And that was our introduction to our new commanding officer.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Moidart was, of course, a classic example of an ongoing problem. The local forces couldn't take the burden of security from the outsiders, the outside forces didn't have the numbers to impose peace and the rebels didn't have the ability to actually win. Absent something that changed the balance of power, the war was doomed to stalemate. There was no hope of coming to an agreement to end the war because the different sides were simply too far apart; the royalists wanted a return to a monarchy, the corporations wanted to rape the land and the rebels wanted to destroy the monarchy and evict the corporations. How could anyone propose a workable compromise?

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  Captain Webb had been correct, I discovered, as I worked to integrate myself into 3rd Platoon. (Formally, 3rd Platoon, 453th Company.) Rifleman Yates, who had been killed in an IED strike two months ago, had been popular, very popular. I was a newcomer, a CROW; I knew it would take them time to warm to me, but it was still disheartening. The week I spent prepping for operations with the platoon was, perhaps, the most depressing week of my life.

  “You’re not too bad, for a cherry,” Singh conceded, after we ran through a series of exercises in teamwork. “Could do with a little more refinement, but Moidart will knock the edges off you soon enough.”

  I nodded. I’d been in danger before, of course, but I’d always known it wasn't quite real, that precautions were taken to minimise the risks of serious injury. Now, everyone pointing a gun at me would have murderous intentions ... and the bullets would be real, rather than pulses of laser light or deliberately aimed to miss (but only by a few inches). The fire team - Singh had assigned me to his own team - was good, very good. But Yates had been good too.

  “Remember to watch for anything out of place,” Singh warned, as we marched out to the muster ground. “The locals have bugger all in the way of services, so there are piles of rubbish everywhere. Expect the rebels to use them to conceal IEDs.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” I said. I’d called him ‘sir’ once and had been forcibly reminded not to do it again. Sergeants were rarely addressed as anything other than ‘Sergeant’ outside Boot Camp or the Slaughterhouse, where there were few officers for us to practice on. “Do they snipe at us on patrol?”

  “Sometimes,” Singh warned. “Charlie City is supposed to be secure, but there are gaps in the defences everywhere. Watch your back.”

  I nodded to myself as the gates opened, allowing us to march out and into Charlie City. I’d seen some of the city when we’d been driven from the spaceport, but this was different; a number of buildings looked abandoned, while others were heavily guarded by private security forces. The mercenaries looked tough, but nervous; they knew they were perhaps the most hated soldiers on the planet. I’d heard that the rebels maintained a special hatred for them and any mercenary who fell into their hands could expect a slow and unpleasant death.

  “They’re not good for anything, but defending their bases,” Rifleman Lewis told me, as the platoon spread out. “Don’t expect them to come to your aid if we get into shit.”

  “Understood,” I muttered. Lewis hadn't been bad to me - none of them had been bad - but he hadn't warmed up to me yet. I had a feeling I’d been assigned to Singh’s team to make sure the sergeant could step on me if I turned out to be a weak link. “Is there any good news here?”

  Lewis snorted. “Not really, Stalker,” he said. “The locals either hate us or are too scared to do anything to help us. Either way, we're screwed.”

  He had a point, I realised, as we walked onwards, into a housing estate. The locals, many of them clearly too poor to buy new clothes, watched us warily, too listless even to get their women and children out of the line of fire. I couldn't believe just how poor they were, not when they were surrounded by land and boundless opportunity. But a combination of bad government and endless war had made investment impossible, trapping countless civilians before they could make something of themse
lves. I found my heart going out to a handful of children who were kicking a tin can around, laughing in the midst of hell. They didn't deserve to be caught up in a nightmare.

  “That’s probably a good sign,” Lewis told me. “If there was an ambush planned, they would have gotten the children out of the way.”

  I nodded in agreement. Terrorists - and insurgents - liked using women and children as human shields, but the locals tended to take a dim view of it. Even the most listless population - the most terrified population - would turn on the terrorists if they weren't allowed to protect their young. Smart terrorists gave them the chance to remove their children before the shooting started.

  A young man - probably around fifteen, although it was hard to be sure - glowered at me as we passed, his dark eyes challenging me. Judging from his skin colour, he was probably a bastard son, perhaps the child of a miner and a local woman. I’d never quite understood the point of racism - in the Undercity, there are all shapes and colours - but I had a feeling the locals probably treated him as a pariah. Someone like that would have a burning urge to prove himself. No doubt, if things had been different, he would have made an excellent marine. Instead, he was probably trying to decide if he could get away with shouting insults or squeezing off a few rounds at us. The pistol concealed under his shirt wasn't invisible to me, not after months at the Slaughterhouse. I’d seen people conceal weapons in far more awkward places.