“Much better safety here,” Lewis observed, as we removed a large crate of mines from the storage compartment. “They must have skipped those lessons for the people they sent to Charlie City.”
“Or it's just a different group,” I said. “The rebels don’t have a simple command structure, do they?”
“No,” Lewis said. “They know what we’d do to them if they did.”
I nodded. A military hierarchy is relatively simple, with orders flowing from senior officers all the way down to the grunts at the bottom; the chain of command, and the difference between a legitimate and illegitimate order, is easy to follow. An insurgency, on the other hand, is a distributed network of cells, operating semi-independently ... or it isn't long for this world. The average fighters we captured simply didn't know anyone higher up the food chain; the senior fighters, the ones who did, were careful not to allow themselves to be taken prisoner. We could crack an insurgent cell, capture or kill every last one of its members ... and get nowhere. The rebels would still be out there; we'd have to start again, breaking a whole new cell.
“They’d try to cut all the links from here to the rest of the warlords,” I said. “But we should be able to learn more from the captives.”
We finished moving out the supplies - the insurgents had an alarming number of weapons, including several dozen pinched from the spaceport - and piled them up near the defence line, where we could put them to use if necessary. The prisoners were recovering slowly, glaring at us; I shivered, despite myself, at the hatred written over one young girl’s face. I could practically see her life story in her snarl ... and bitter helplessness, now she was a prisoner. If things had been different, it might have been my sister looking at me like that.
“Douglas is missing,” Webb was saying, as I carried another box of supplies over to the marines guarding the prisoners. “He wasn't among the dead or wounded.”
“He might have been killed in the fires,” Singh suggested.
“We couldn't count on it,” Webb said. “No, he’s still out there somewhere.”
I heard the frustration in his voice, but I wasn't sure I shared it. Yes, we’d missed our prize - and that was irritating - yet we’d also wrecked one of Douglas’s bases, removed or destroyed a great many supplies that would take him years to replace and captured a number of his senior personnel. He’d have to assume they’d talk - perhaps they would, when the intelligence staff got their hands on the prisoners - and relocate every other base, no matter how small, for fear of us dropping a hammer on them. His reputation would take years to recover.
“Yes, sir,” Singh said. “Do you want to call for a pick-up now?”
“Do it,” Webb ordered. “See if we can get out of here before the sun rises.”
Singh made the call, then directed us on yet another search of the remaining buildings. The rain started to fall moments later, quashing the fires and drenching the prisoners. Their guards did their best to give the prisoners some shelter, although it didn't look as if any of them were grateful. The best they could expect, I suspected, was a hard labour camp - or, perhaps, a detention camp on an isolated island. I doubted any of them would be freed, unless Douglas was prepared to shell out millions of credits in bribes ...
“The flyboys are refusing to fly in this mess,” Singh said, over the radio net. “There’s a storm moving in from the north and they’re saying it’s too dangerous to fly until it passes overhead and vanishes. We’re going to have to hold out here.”
“Wimps,” Lewis snarled.
Singh cleared his throat. “The enemy hasn't launched a counterattack yet,” he said firmly, before anyone else could interrupt. “Put the prisoners in the cleared barracks, then mount guard on all possible angles of approach. We should be able to hold the line until the flyboys finally stop sipping their tea and get into the air.”
I cursed inwardly as we worked hard to strengthen the defences. The enemy might have scattered - no doubt someone as cunning as Douglas had contingency plans for the fall of his main base - or they might have decided to regroup and prepare a counterattack. There was much to gain, if they successfully forced us to expend our ammunition and then overran the camp. We’d take a black eye that would damage the reputation of the entire corps ...
... And kill us all, of course.
We checked the enemy crates, then removed machines guns and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition we could fire from our own weapons. Not for the first time, universal standardisation had worked in our favour; I smiled, remembering the lesson Bainbridge had taught us, years ago. There were advantages to keeping everything firmly standardised, even if it also meant keeping them simple.
“You’re smiling,” Lewis said. “What’s so funny?”
“I think I’m just enjoying myself,” I admitted.
Lewis gave me an odd look. “I sometimes think about taking up a less dangerous MOS,” he said, flatly. “And then I recall that I’m good at it and decide ... hell, at least it isn't picking pieces of metal out of a sucking chest wound.”
“True,” I agreed. EOD officers are the bravest men and women in the military and I’ll fight the man who says it isn't so. “Do you enjoy your job?”
“Sometimes,” Lewis said. “I just wish I wasn't fighting here, where ... where there isn't a real good side.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. The rebels weren't very nice people, but the Redshirts weren't any better and the off-worlders were only making things worse. “Maybe we should try to clean up Earth one day.”
“Not a hope,” Lewis said. He shook his head. “Deploy the entire corps to that cesspit and it wouldn't make any difference, even if we had half the army in support.”
I had a horrible feeling that he was right.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The refusal of the pilots to fly in (admittedly) bad weather was a direct result of the bureaucratic malaise that weakened (and eventually killed) the Empire. A squadron of helicopter pilots would be blamed for any losses they suffered, no matter what they were trying to do. There was no sense of the overall big picture when officers and bureaucrats could focus, instead, on the smaller issues.
And, on something the size of the Empire, there was literally no one who could see the big picture.
-Professor Leo Caesius
The attack started twenty minutes later.
I dived for cover, of course, as the first wave of mortar shells screamed down from all directions, smashing through what remained of the camp and triggering a dozen secondary explosions. Thankfully, between the trenches the enemy had dug and the foxholes we’d prepared ourselves, there was enough room for everyone, even the prisoners. But a direct hit would still be enough to kill anyone hiding in a foxhole.
The enemy threw in a ground attack shortly afterwards, at least three dozen men inching forward under cover of long-range mortar fire. We waited for them to come close, then opened fire, picking them off one by one. The first attack faltered, then the bastards settled down to sniping at us from a distance while we shot back. Dawn was starting to rise when they launched a second attack, this one carried out with a great deal more care. They were digging new trenches of their own and using them as cover, while they sneaked forward and into weapons range. We rapidly ran through our supply of grenades as we threw them back; if we hadn't recovered a number of weapons from the enemy stockpiles, we might have been in some real trouble.
“They’re attacking from all sides,” Rifleman Dudley reported.
“Splendid,” Singh said, trying to boost morale. “They can't get away from us now.”
I smirked - that was a saying older than the entire corps - and took a shot at an enemy fighter who’d sneaked too close. He darted back, not fast enough to save himself from a bullet through the head. One of his compatriots, who’d managed to remain out of sight, caught hold of his leg and dragged the dead body back into the undergrowth. Their determination to make sure we didn't take any of their bodies was touching, but it al
so served a practical purpose. It made sure we couldn't trace the bodies back to their families,
Not that it will stop the Governor printing wildly inflated kill-counts, I thought, sourly. If every claimed kill had been real, we would have exterminated the entire population several times over. Why hasn't anyone noticed that so far?
But I knew the answer. Moidart was important to the locals, because it was their homeworld, and important to us because we’d been sent there, but it was one tiny world set against the immense vastness of the Empire. The Grand Senate didn't really give a damn about Moidart - no one would give a damn, if the planet hadn't been a potential source of raw materials - and they wouldn't bother to check the reports. One day, I was sure, we’d be pulled off the planet, having accomplished absolutely nothing. And I was right.
The fighting only intensified as the sun rose in the sky, an endless fusillade of shells crashing down amidst us while the enemy sniped at us from the forest. We gritted our teeth and tried to endure, hoping the flyboys would get off their asses and come to our rescue. They could have flown now, but who knew how many HVMs the enemy had ready to turn on our attack helicopters? There was no hope of any relief, either; Webb kept a platoon back as a reserve, but it was no comfort ...
I swore as the ground shook, then exploded. They’d actually dug under our position while forcing us to keep our heads down. 5th Platoon was in deep shit ... the reserve ran forward to secure the lines, while the remains of 5th Platoon struggled to extract themselves from the remains of their trenches. It didn't look good for them.
“Four KIA, two WIA,” Singh reported, grimly. “Three more MWIA.”
The enemy, scenting victory, lunged towards the weak point in our defences. My fire team was plucked out of the trenches and directed to cover the crater, pouring fire into the oncoming enemy fighters. I marvelled at their dedication, at their willingness to throw their lives away just for a chance of killing one of us; maybe, just maybe, they thought they had nothing more to lose. It didn't matter, I told myself firmly, as I kept firing. It was them or us right now.
“Got something here,” Ferris reported, as we were pulled back to serve as a reserve. He was our ELINT officer, charged with monitoring enemy communications, what little there were of them. “There’s a place nearby which seems to be serving as a command post.”
“Douglas must be there,” Singh said. He looked at Webb. “Sir, I request permission to take my fire team and attack the enemy position.”
Webb didn't hesitate. “Granted,” he said. We had been taught to take the offensive at all times, even when we were pushed to the limits. “Good luck.”
Singh hastily reorganised his fire team, sending Lewis - the EOD expert - to 2nd Platoon while stealing Joker from Lieutenant Roscoe. I winked at Lewis - at least we were doing something more than sitting in the remains of an enemy base, fending off attack after attack - and then again at Joker as we prepped for action. The four of us - Singh in the lead, Bellman and me in the middle, Joker at the rear - headed to the rear of the base, where the tempo of attack had slackened off, crouched down low and sneaked through the network of muddy trenches. Once, I would have hesitated to crawl through the mud; now, I knew it was the only way to be safe. Better to be covered in mud than to be shot through the head.
I froze as Singh made a quick signal with his hands, then waited as he crawled forward and sprang. An enemy fighter, either slacking off or watching for a breakout, had no time to react before Singh snapped his neck, one hand covering the fighter’s mouth as he breathed his last. I glanced at him as we resumed our crawl - a young man, barely old enough to join the military - then left him behind. There was no time to hide the body.
“Keep very low,” Singh signalled, as we crawled onwards. “They’re patrolling intensely.”
He was right. We had several close encounters with enemy patrols as we made our way away from the base, including staying very low as a line of enemy fighters headed towards our comrades. The temptation to just stand up and start shooting was overwhelming, but I managed to keep it in check. Singh paused as we reached a stream running down from the upper hills - it looked small, but the rainfall had made it stronger - and then led us up the stream, keeping very low. The enemy didn't seem to be watching the tiny gully.
We paused at the top, hunting for the enemy command post. It was hidden in a small shack, some distance from the main base. I wondered absently why the enemy had chosen to use it, then realised that Douglas probably hadn't had a choice. He had made a deadly mistake when he’d allowed us to locate his main base; now, his only hope of remaining a warlord was to retake the base or - at the very least - destroy the marines who had been imprudent enough to capture it. I had a feeling he was throwing everything he had at us, up to and including the kitchen sink.
“Take him alive, if possible,” Singh signalled. He was eying his wrist terminal. “He’s in the building. Get in, grab him, get down.”
We signalled our agreement, then prepared ourselves. The enemy hadn't thrown up any real defences, but there were a number of men on guard. Douglas really had to be desperate, or he wouldn’t have been using a radio. No matter how low-power the signal, it could be detected and tracked from orbit.
“Go,” Singh signalled.
We rushed forward, weapons at the ready. The guards yanked their own weapons up, too late; we gunned them down and ran onwards, without even breaking step over their falling bodies. Singh crashed through the door, then grunted in pain as someone inside impaled him with a knife. Douglas didn't have an opportunity to take a second stab at it as Singh slammed him to the ground, breaking his arm.
“Lie still or I’ll fucking break the other one,” he snarled. Blood was dripping from his wound - the knife had managed to slip through a chink in his body armour - but he was holding himself together. “Don’t you dare shout for help.”
Douglas glared at him as we searched the rest of the tiny shack. It must have belonged to a hermit, I decided; there didn't seem to be much in the way of amenities. Hell, I wasn't even sure how the owner had managed to survive. Perhaps he’d been given treatments that allowed him to eat anything, even grass and bark. Or perhaps he merely carried food from the nearest town, seventy miles away. There was a reason Douglas had placed his main camp here, after all. It was a long way from any civilians.
“Check his radio,” Singh ordered. He turned his attention to Douglas. “Order them to surrender.”
“Fuck you,” Douglas said.
Singh picked the knife up from the ground and held it against Douglas’s throat. “I suggest you reconsider.”
“Fuck you,” Douglas repeated.
I was morbidly impressed. I’d been told that many terrorist leaders were cowards, but Douglas didn't seem to be willing to betray his people to save his skin. It might not have mattered, in any case; there was absolutely no chance the locals would let him live. Douglas would be given a show trial and then executed, probably by public hanging. Normally, I wouldn't have cared, but I felt an odd degree of kinship with the man.
And he’s carried out dozens of atrocities, I reminded myself, sharply. I’d seen the wounded children in the town, after all, and I’d heard of worse. You should know better than to feel any respect for him.
“No doubt,” Singh said. He glanced at the radio, then smiled thinly. “They won’t get any more orders from you in any case. They'll just keep hurling themselves against the defences and get killed.”
He tied Douglas up, then patched his wound with a quick-seal pack. I stepped outside with Joker and looked around, half-expecting to run into another enemy force. Who knew what the enemy would do now? We wouldn't let Douglas return to their side, not now. Yes, someone else would probably take his place, but at least he would be dead. In the distance, I could hear the sound of shooting growing louder. The enemy was still pressing the rest of us hard.
“There are helicopters inbound, finally,” Singh called. “One of them is being diverted here, with orders to p
ick us up. The others are heading for the base.”
I froze as I saw someone step out of the forest. “Incoming, sir,” I subvocalised, keying my radio. There was no point in trying to hide, not when the dead bodies were easy to see. “One tango visible; I say again, one tango visible.”
“Hold your fire,” Singh ordered. “Fire the moment you believe yourself to be at risk.”
Now, of course, I thought. I was seventy miles from the nearest safe place, surrounded by an unknown number of enemy fighters ... of course I didn't feel safe! I resisted the temptation to point that out and watched the enemy fighter warily. He looked back at me, then raised his hands and faded slowly back into the forest. I had a feeling I should have shot him right there and then.
First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) Page 37