“What about all those targets?” said the General, waving a hand at the holo and walking toward it. “There seem to be targets aplenty, more than you can possibly strike.”
“That is a best guess representation,” said the Admiral, walking to stand on the other side of the holo. He made a gesture to another officer. “This is what we’re really seeing.”
The holo erupted into a mass of static, the surface of the planet almost totally obscured, the symbols of units jumping here and there, fading out completely, then fading in again for a moment.
“What the hells is that?” yelled the General, staring at the screen.
“That, my fine General, is the result of jamming by both sides, mixed in with heavy smoke, dust and other atmospheric disturbances. As well as multiple hundreds of blazing fires interfering with infrared.”
“And that’s the best you can do?”
“That is the best we can do, at this time,” said the Admiral, giving a head motion of acknowledgement. “Their electronic warfare suites are very good. Not quite as good as ours, but they serve.”
“But I need ground support,” growled the General, glaring in anger at the Admiral as if the whole thing was that officer's fault. “And I need it now.”
“And where would you like this ground support?” asked the Admiral, gesturing to the tech, who set the screen back to map view.
“Here, at the edge of this landing field in the capital,” said the General, pointing to the city in questioned, then pointing to the edge of the field when the view zoomed in. “Then here, at this cluster of hills on the main highway.” Again the view zoomed in on the terrain feature in question. “And this area here,” said the General, pointing to the second largest city on the planet, then at an area near to a river that flowed through the eastern area.
“You’re sure?” asked the Admiral, a look of doubt on his face.
“I’m positive,” said the General, baring his sharp carnivore’s teeth. “Smash them flat, and I’ll be able to conclude this campaign.”
Chapter Three
Ground warfare has not changed much over the ages. The support of warships, aircraft, and heavy vehicles are still the forces that sometimes swing a battle. But the real fight is that between infantry, to take and hold the ground that the enemy wishes to deny them. True, the weapons of that infantry have changed, as has the protection they strap on their bodies. No longer are pikes employed to keep the enemy from coming to grips, or are breastplates, shields and helmets used to protect the bodies of soldiers. One heavily armored Marine could take on and destroy an entire regiment of pikemen, possibly even a battalion of twentieth century infantrymen, though those worthies might employ weapons heavy enough to destroy even powered armor. But one thing has remained the same. The heart of a warrior is necessary to use the weapons to defeat an enemy, especially if that foe is similarly armed and armored. Anything less than courage and dedication to the cause will lead to defeat.
Speech of Field Marshal Joris Carmichael to the Graduating Class of the Imperial Army Officer Academy, Harris Scarp, Jewel, year 886.
SURFACE OF SESTIUS IV, MARCH 18TH, 1000.
“This is going bad quickly,” said Sergeant Major Terry Zacharias over the com.
“I see what you mean, Terry,” agreed the Colonel, looking at the feed from the front lines as the large forms of the Ca’cadasans closed on the river. The aliens were laying down heavy fire, both from their personal weapons and from artillery to the rear. The human soldiers were hunkering down in the cover they had made, but still a round would come down right on a position to blot the occupants out of existence. Or the Caca soldiers would pick off a human trying to fire at them.
Even through the heavy suppression fire the humans were getting in their licks. Ca’cadasan soldiers fell from spot on rifle or beam shots, while mortar and artillery rounds came down from above. The counter battery was beginning to make that activity dangerous for the human gunners, and the Colonel could see that half his organic indirect fire was already gone, with more joining every second.
“Maybe we ought to pull back,” yelled the Sergeant Major over the com.
“Hell no,” roared the Colonel, looking at the battlefield map in his mind. “First Battalion still needs some time to dig in, or this bunch will roll right over them, and push us out of town.” And that means running across the farmlands with these assholes on our tails the whole way.
“They’re going to do that anyway,” said the Sergeant Major over the roar of incoming projectiles. “We’re losing the artillery duel. And after that we’re really screwed.”
“All companies are to hold their ground at all costs,” yelled the Colonel, sending the command over the circuit at the same time. “No retreat until I issue the order.” The acknowledgements came back over the net, most sounding none too happy. Well tough. If they don’t hold I could lose the entire regiment. No matter what one major and a couple of captains think.
Baggett watched the enemy advance on his HUD, almost cringing himself at the sight of the big warriors moving forward in rushes. Some were still getting knocked down, but not enough. Then a bright flash blotted out the picture, which when it adjusted showed the big warriors being blown off their feet like leaves caught in a tornado. A mushroom cloud was rising, and then three more flashes came, all on the open area on the other side of the river. His own troops ducked into their trenches and holes, but they were protected by their armor and the earth, and weathered the strikes just fine, while the enemy force was obliterated.
“That has to be friendly fire,” said the Sergeant Major over the com. “I mean friendly fire from their perspective.”
A couple more kinetic rounds came down from space, striking further back into the city, causing more damage to the Ca’cadasan brigade. The artillery fire slackened, then slackened some more before stopping entirely. Troopers cheered, then cheered louder as a quintet of ground attack craft came roaring over, wagging their wings in greeting to the soldiers. Behind them thick columns of smoke rose into the sky, the result of their bombing run on the disorganized enemy artillery parks. A red particle beam lashed out from the city, missing, missing, then hitting one of the fighters, which dropped low, trailing smoke. Its pilot bailed out over the human positions while the aircraft did a turn in the air on autopilot, flying back over the city. It was hit again and crashed where it would do the human force the most good, right where the enemy was.
And then everything went still, except for the crackling of distant flames. Baggett looked out over the carnage through the take from the Sergeant Major’s suit. There was too much dust to see much, but from what could be seen there were no Ca’cadasan bodies on the sward across the river. They had all been blown away from the open area by the kinetic blasts. He checked his status board and saw that second battalion still had three hundred and twenty-seven effectives, or about half their initial strength. That figure was deceptive though, since the unit had lost all of it heavy and indirect fire weapons. With a thought the Colonel commanded first battalion to move back to the river and take over second’s positions, while second moved back to rest, reorganize and become the reserve. He hoped that the Cacas would give him time to rearrange his lines. It didn’t take long to figure out that they wouldn’t.
* * *
“Fuck this shit,” hissed Cornelius Walborski, trudging through the woods, the road in sight. The road would have made for much easier treading. The road also would have led to a quick and early death.
The militia private looked back at the man following him, then forward at the back of the soldier he followed. He hadn’t seen anyone he had recognized for over an hour. As far as he knew he was the only survivor from his platoon. Maybe the only survivor from his whole company. And for what? he thought, shaking his head. His unit had gone down to the invaders like wax in front of a laser torch. He really didn’t see what they had done except attract the enemy to where the regular infantry could attack them.
And attack them they had, huma
ns in medium and heavy battle armor, they had killed the enemy in a flank attack that had saved that part of the city, until more of the enemy came. And then it had been time to run.
The ground rumbled underfoot, then again, until Cornelius had counted seven of the strikes from kinetic weapons. At least nothing like that one from the other day, he thought, keeping one foot moving in front of the other in the obsolete armor that only gave him enough of a strength boost to carry itself and his equipment. That one was something else. He had heard that it was a missile that had slammed into the planet at near light speed, and had killed a small continent in the process. Don’t know why they didn’t hit us with a whole bunch more of them, thought the private who knew little of the strategy of warfare, space or planetary.
The dust was heavy in the air around him, and he looked over at one point at the body of a small native arboreal dweller, this planet’s version of a squirrel. It lay still, and Cornelius knew that it must have smothered in the same dust that would be racking his own lungs if not for the filters on his helmet mask. It can’t be doing too much good for the livestock, he thought, which brought thoughts of Katlyn to mind. I’ve got to get out of here, he thought, looking around and seeing no way out for the moment. But now his mind was made up. His wife needed him. She would be safe and secure enough in the basement of the house, breathing filtered air, but there was no guarantee that the room wouldn’t be breached. And she was more his responsibility than the rest of the damned planet.
A hand went up in front, relayed down the line, telling everyone to stop in place. Walborski knelt on a knee, his rifle cradled in one arm while the butt stock went under the other. The ground rumbled yet again, a steadier sound like something heavy moving over the earth.
“Move out,” yelled a voice of command over the com. “Get your asses to cover. Now.”
People to front and rear began to move, no two along the same path, as the command did not give an indication of which way to go. The whistling sounds of incoming ordnance came through the audio sensors of the suits, and Walborski was only sure of one thing, that being right here right now was not a good thing.
Cornelius was thinking about leaving the ranks while choosing his path. Something exploded behind him and made up his mind on which way to go, whichever direction took him away from the barrage the fastest. The ground was still rumbling underneath, from what he didn’t know. He did know that he would prefer to not meet up with whatever was causing that. He ran through the woods for what seemed like an hour, but his suit clock and internal link told him was less than ten minutes. He came to a fence line and climbed over, crouching down and taking stock of the situation.
The field looked like a pasture, and beyond was a house that looked like many of the farms on the planet. There were several brown and white lumps scattered across the field which the man could not make out. Something was glowing on the horizon to the north, and a pair of mushroom clouds rose into the sky to the west. Some sonic booms above caused him to look up to see the contrails of a couple of aircraft high above. There was a flash and one of the planes started to fall, and a louder crack sounded seconds later.
Walborski removed his helmet mask for a moment, wishing he hadn’t as soon as he breathed in the dusty air. Air that smelled of death, decay and loosened bowels. He walked in a crouch toward one of the lumps, gagging as the strong odor hit him. It was a horse, once a beautiful animal, and he realized all the other lumps around him were also dust and ash covered horses. Their noses had a bluish tint, indicating suffocation as the cause of death. He quickly placed his own breathing mask back over his face, trying to keep his stomach from heaving its contents back into the face piece. He looked at the once beautiful animal with tears in his eyes. He had always loved animals, one of the reasons he had wanted to become a farmer. And the evil bastards from the past had done this to these precious babies.
The rumbling sounds came again, something moving heavily over the ground. Cornelius stayed low and made his way to the edge of the field. Before he got there something big poked its nose into the open, a long barrel that proceeded the body of the vehicle that carried it. Walborski did not recognize the configuration of the vehicle as it moved into the open, its heavy treads crushing brush and fence underneath the weight of the mechanical monster. That it was a tank there was no doubt. That it wasn’t one of the human’s vehicles was also of no doubt.
The tank was out in the open now, and Walborski expected any minute to be taken under fire by the machine. He hunched down as far as he could go, using the body of a horse for what concealment it offered. A second barrel came into view, followed by another tank. Both looked to be in the two or three hundred ton range, a little larger than an Imperial light tank. And then a trio of what looked like robots came jogging up beside the tanks, and Walborski recognized them for what they were.
Mecha, he thought, seeing the canopies that contained their operators. The machines were about eight meters tall, the five meter body mounted on four meter long legs that sprouted from the sides. Cornelius had seen pictures of them in history books, machines that, though heavily armed, were too difficult to conceal and not heavily armored enough. But the Cacas still used them, which made sense since they were a conquering force and not a defensive one, and more portable firepower was of great use to them.
Please don’t see me, he prayed in his mind, wishing his low tech armor had some of the stealth features of the heavy suits. Even a medium suit or a high tech light armor panoply would do to get him out of here. If he stood up and ran the armor he wore would compensate for the gear he carried, including its own weight. And he would still move like a slow running man to be picked off at leisure.
A loud, almost deafening clanging sound brought his attention back to the tanks. A glowing track showed along the turret of the vehicle, a turret that was turning to seek a target. There was another heavy clang, but this time something penetrated into that turret and blew it off of the body of the tank. The other tank began to back up, too late, as something slammed a hole through the side of its turret and pushed it off the road. The Mecha turned to run, but a particle beam lanced out and took them one after the other, leaving their smoking remains on the ground. One Mecha lay on its side, the half cooked body of its operator falling out of the hole the particle beam had carved through the canopy.
Walborski turned in shock to see a shimmering image pull back and out of a revetment that had been dug in the field beyond the farmhouse. It was stealthed, under an invisibility field that camouflaged it well, if not perfectly. It moved smoothly out of the revetment that was now a target, its treads a couple of meters above the ground as it maneuvered on its grabbers. The field shimmered for a moment, revealing the entire vehicle to the militiaman’s sight. A heavy tank, over a thousand tons of mass, and like nothing the Cacas had been seen to employ, yet.
Cornelius ran from the field, not wanting to get caught up in this war of giants. Something went by behind him that knocked him from his feet, followed by a loud crack, then a clang. He turned where he lay to see a red mark on the turret of the heavy tank through the break in its invisibility field caused by damage to the turret. The tank continued to move, then spat a fast moving object from its main rail gun. There was a series of loud cracks and red streaks leapt into the sky. Walborski looked up to see a group of atmospheric craft coming down at the tank. Two of them exploded in the air and fell in pieces, while the remaining four started rippling off missiles at the tank while sweeping it with their lasers, shining visible through the atmospheric dust. Most of the incoming missiles exploded as if striking a wall, the defensive lasers of the tank taking them out. Another of the aircraft exploded, and the three remaining fried off another swarm of missiles.
What the hell am I doing? thought the farmer turned militia soldier. I could get killed watching the show. He picked himself up and ran for the nearest wood line, hoping that he would be too inconspicuous for the battling war machines to take notice. Another blast sounded
from behind and the militiaman was lifted from his feet and propelled toward the wood line that now looked less like a shelter and more like something hard to splat against. He was bracing himself for impact when his trajectory changed and he fell to the ground, hitting hard, all the air going out of his lungs.
It took a few moments to roll over and look back at the source of the blast. The heavy tank sat there, its treads on the ground, invisibility field off. The turret was skewed and was wrapped in a mass of flames. Walborski picked himself up from the ground and stared at the armored vehicle that had seemed so invulnerable from his infantryman’s perspective. He thought the enemy had won that fight, since they could field more of their lighter tanks, Mecha and aircraft. While that heavy unit was wiped from the Terran order of battle on the planet forever.
With one more backward glance he headed into the woods, glad at least that he was in one of the terraformed section of the planet, and the vegetation was all Terran normal or adapted.
“Meet at these coordinates,” came a transmission through his helmet, and the map display on the faceplate showed a position about ten kilometers outside of Frederick. I can’t see going back into the line now, thought the farmer. I got more important things to think about. Like a wife with child.
The farmer sat down on a nearby log and took off his helmet. He pulled a few small tools from his belt pouch and went to work on the helmet, disconnecting the transmitter and tracker, leaving the receiver functioning. Might need that, he thought as he put the helmet back together, letting out a hacking cough. And I can always reconnect the transmitter if I need it. Satisfied that the job was done he put the helmet on his head, took a couple of breaths of clean air, and started on his way.
Within minutes he came to the road, and a hundred meters further up was a Y junction he recognized. Left went to the rendezvous point the message had indicated. Right went to Neu Romney, and then to his farm. Without a moment’s hesitation he crossed the road and headed up the wood line next to the right hand road. He walked steadily, ignoring his fatigue, knowing that he had to get to his wife and make sure she was all right.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm Page 7