Crimson Worlds Successors: The Complete Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  Even rifles and other equipment had been devastated by the Eagle’s surprise attack, the processors and circuitry that made the sophisticated guns work burnt out and useless. Davidoff didn’t care for the idea of sending his men to the front in pairs, with instructions for the second to grab the rifle after the first had been killed, but he hadn’t had any choice, not at first at least. But now he was finally getting a few weapons deliveries from the Citadel. He knew there were thousands of guns stored in the great fortress, along with grenades and ammunition. Most of it was old, ordnance that had been replaced with newer equipment but never discarded, but none of that mattered now. A ten year old gun was a hell of a lot better than no gun at all.

  He looked over and saw that the soldiers delivering the weapons were hesitating. They were Citadel guards, not his own troops, and his authority over them was questionable. Most of the men assigned to the Citadel got there through some sort of patronage or connections, and it was clear the soldiers on the trucks had no desire to see the front lines up close. And Davidoff was far from sure they’d follow his orders to do so.

  “Sergeant Patrillo,” he roared. His helmet was fully retracted, and he shouted across the blasted field.

  “Sir!” Patrillo was a grizzled non-com, a career Eldari soldier whose service dated back further than the Tyrant’s rule. He ran over and snapped to attention in front of Davidoff.

  “Sergeant, assemble a platoon and escort these gentlemen to the front line units. I want you to see to the distribution of these weapons personally.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “You have authorization to take any actions you deem necessary to ensure that these trucks get to the front. Do you understand me?” He spoke loudly enough for the cluster of men standing around the trucks to hear him.

  “Yes, General. I understand.” Patrillo’s voice left no doubt in anyone’s mind he fully understood what Davidoff meant by any actions. He turned and raced over to the trucks, shouting out commands to the stunned drivers.

  Davidoff stood and watched the non-com for a minute, turning away once he assured himself the Citadel guards were obeying. He turned toward a crew working off to his left, setting up a medium-sized dish. The equipment was from the Citadel, just like the assault rifles, more outdated stuff that had been stored instead of trashed. But once it was set up—and the hundred portable units he had were distributed to key units—the dish would give him at least some limited communications. It would be far from perfect, but enormously better than nothing, which was what he had now.

  The battle wasn’t going well. Indeed, it had been a debacle. Facing troops like the Black Eagles required organized and well-equipped veterans, but his men were in total disarray, most of them without communications, many even without functioning weapons. He had hoped to hit the LZs quickly and hard, to try to keep the Eagles off balance. But those legendary warriors poured out of their craft and snapped almost immediately into formation. Then they turned toward the masses of Eldari soldiers circling their landing craft and fell on them with an almost unimaginable ferocity. There were wounded streaming back all across the front, and without effective com, Davidoff could only imagine how many more of his men were dead or dying along the battlelines.

  He was pouring reserves forward as quickly as he got them, but so far nothing had even slowed the momentum of the Black Eagles. The new arrivals were generally better-armed, many units having re-equipped from the supplies trickling out of the Citadel. Still, the Eagles were sweeping them aside as quickly as he sent them forward. He figured he had numerical superiority of at least five to one, but it wasn’t going to matter, not unless he could get his troops rallied and reordered.

  He looked over the convoy, his eyes catching the nervous look in the drivers’ eyes. He knew they were trying to figure a way to just drop their deliveries here and dash back to the Citadel. No doubt they would have already, but Davidoff was radiating an aura of barely controlled fury…and Patrillo had managed to communicate without a spoken word that he was perfectly willing to put a bullet in each of their heads.

  Davidoff shook his head.

  This is why we have such trouble facing an enemy like the Eagles. They have discipline, certainly, but they fight because they are fighters, because they have pride and dedication. They will stay in the battle if their officers are killed, continue the struggle even as their ammunition dwindles to nothing. How do we fight that? With conscripted soldiers and corrupt officers? What do my men fight for? Eldaron? Or the Tyrant? Are they one and the same, as we all must believe? Is this war truly for our planet, our families? Or do we merely served some scheme of the Tyrant, some play he is making for even greater power?

  The Eagles have no such questions. They fight for themselves, and for their comrades. And they have Darius Cain at their head, not a man who seized power over the bodies of his betrayed allies. How can we hope to beat them?

  Davidoff shook his head, as if the motion would banish his dangerous thoughts. It was not his place to question such things, only to do what he could with the resources at his disposal. He had numbers…and that was all he had. He had to find a way to use that advantage, or the Eagles would run right over his army. Then he would die, either on the field…or at the hands of an enraged Tyrant.

  * * * * *

  The Eagles were professionals who had fought most of their wars as dispassionately as men and women can endure battle. But this one was different. The steely nerves and cool execution were still there, but the Eagles carried something else with them on this campaign, something fiery and uncontrollable. It was anger, pure rage. Erik Cain was a legend, not only to the Marine Corps, but to honorable fighters everywhere. And he was the father of the Eagles’ beloved leader. The very thought that the Eldari had kept Cain a prisoner for so many years filled the Eagles with indignant rage. Their battles had always been business, professional endeavors treated as such. But this one was personal.

  Jordyn Calfort was along the front line of the Eagles’ rapid advance. Her platoon had been one of the first to hit ground, and now they were with the forward line, heading toward the enemy Citadel. The fortress was still almost forty klicks away, nothing more than a shadowy mass off in the distance. Its weapons were engaged, but without its satellite tracking systems it was firing randomly. She’d had one casualty, a KIA, from the bombardment, but mostly the enemy’s long range fire was a nuisance and not a real danger.

  “Lieutenant Calfort, the enemy are trying to form a defensive line two klicks ahead. We’re attacking in three minutes.” Captain Tonn’s voice was high-pitched, very feminine-sounding. But that fooled no one who knew the veteran officer. Priya Tonn had made nine combat drops as a Black Eagle, and the diminutive company commander had racked up an astonishing number of kills, while also distinguishing herself, first leading a platoon, and now a company.

  “Understood, Captain. My people are ready to go.” They’ve been ready since we hit ground…

  No one seemed to know for certain, but it was the army’s worst kept secret that General Cain had led the Teams to infiltrate the enemy Citadel. Every Black Eagle knew the only way to help the General was to take that massive fortress and hook up with his trapped force…whatever it took.

  The Eldari had fallen back all morning, but now they were finally making a stand. They’d picked a good position, a high ridge slicing across the open plain, offering sweeping coverage of every potential approach. It was a first-class killing ground, just the kind of spot Calfort would have chosen to mount a strong defense if her people had been under attack. In most situations, it would be a difficult place to assault, one that offered few alternatives to a brutal frontal approach…exactly the type of situation that significantly negated the Eagles’ operational advantages and compelled them to accept heavy losses. But the Eldari forces were still severely disordered, their weapons and communications systems not yet recovered from the effects of the Eagles’ disruptive attacks earlier in the campaign.

  Normally
, Calfort would have hoped for orders to go around, to put up a skirmish line facing the enemy and execute a flanking maneuver. But the enemy’s numerical superiority made an outflanking move almost impossible. Besides, there were advantages to keeping up the continuous pressure, squeezing every drop of benefit from the enemy’s disorder. She knew the Eldari were shaken, that a hard attack now was the right move. But there wasn’t so much as a tree on that open plain…

  “Lieutenant Calfort…” It was Tonn again. “Commence your attack!”

  “Yes, Captain,” she said. Then she toggled the platoon-wide com. “Alright…let’s move. I want everybody across that plain as quickly as possible. Keep firing all the way…I want their heads down. And we get across as fast as we can. No stopping for anything.”

  She took a deep breath and hopped up over the small hillside in front of her. “Attack!”

  * * * * *

  The trio of fighters streaked through the dawn sky, leaving long white trails as they ripped over the city at almost four times the speed of sound. The birds had already fired their missiles, and now they were flying low, blasting what looked like a freight monorail line with their autocannons. They’d left a long line of blasted concrete pylons behind them, along with the smoking wreckage of one train unfortunate enough to have been traversing the line at the wrong moment.

  Kevin Darryk banked his craft to the right, angling for the meandering river that snaked past Eldaron’s second-largest city. Nordberg was a manufacturing center, the place the Tyrant had centered his heavy industry and basic materials production—all the dirty and polluting factories he hadn’t wanted marring his magnificent capital.

  “That’s enough on the rail line. It’ll take them long enough to replace a kilometer of tracks. I want to take out those bridges before we head back to rearm.”

  One glance at the display told him his wingmen were following him, their formation tight, as close to perfect as he’d ever seen. There had been no fighting in space to speak of on this campaign, but he was glad his fighter wing was earning its pay. Everyone knew the Eagles had been baited to attack Eldaron, and while just what was waiting for them was still a mystery, Darius Cain’s warriors believed they could handle anything that came at them. Still, confidence wasn’t the same thing as arrogance, and the Eagles’ battle plan had left no contingency unaddressed.

  It was clear the war on Eldaron would be won or lost around the capital, so that is where the Eagles landed. The invasion was a surgical strike, with everything landing right around Eldaron City…where Cain had expected the bulk of the defenders to be deployed. The plan mostly ignored the planet’s other cities, but not entirely. Darryk and his squadrons of fighter-bombers had been charged with attacking airports, rail lines, roadways…any transport assets that could be used to rush reserves and supplies to the capital. Normally, a campaign like that would be costly, forcing the fighters to fly close to the ground-based defenses. But most of those were still down, and the few that were operational lacked effective targeting data. The Eagles’ squadrons had been running constant sorties all night, and they’d only lost one bird—and that had been a lucky shot.

  Darryk angled his fighter down, diving at the first of a series of bridges spanning the two-kilometer wide river. There were four of them in total, connecting Nordberg with the rail lines and highways that led toward the capital, just over a thousand klicks to the west. Cutting them all would cripple the flow of troops and materials to the front lines.

  His eyes glanced at the ammunition readouts. Hmmm, lower than I’d like.

  “Okay, we’re running low on ammo, so let’s split up, each take out one of these things. Then we can hit the last with whatever we’ve got left.” Splitting up a three-ship formation was against almost every operating principal of fighter-bomber tactics…but it was the only way to completely cut the westward flow of armaments and reserve troops. Darryk was a fighter jock all the way, but he never forgot the thousands of Eagle troops around the capital…waiting to see what the enemy managed to throw at them. And taking out those bridges was the way he could help the ground pounders.

  “Strike Two, take the second target, Strike Three the third. Then we’ll reform and come back and hit the fourth before we head back to base.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Understood, Strike One.”

  Darryk smiled. He could hear the confidence in his pilots’ responses. “Break,” he said, pushing his throttle forward and accelerating toward the first bridge. His fighter ripped through the atmosphere, bouncing around hard in Eldaron’s thick air. But Darryk was focused, his mind on one thing…his target.

  The bridge was coming up in front of him, growing larger with each passing second. He’d been approaching at an angle, but now he tapped the throttle to the side, bringing his bird around until it was coming straight over the road that led to the crossing. His hand tightened around the firing controls as he angled lower, bring his guns to bear.

  The massive plasti-crete and hypersteel structure loomed ahead, an astonishing structure by the standards of man’s colony worlds, and a product of Eldaron’s massive and growing economy.

  Millions of megacredits, Darryk thought, more than most planets could imagine spending on a single project. But that’s not going to stop me from turning it into a pile of debris…

  He squeezed the trigger, and the dual autocannons of his fighter opened up, their hypervelocity projectiles leaving a glowing trail as they ionized the air around them. A single missile could have destroyed the bridge, but Darryk had fired them already, so he had to tear this new target apart bit by bit. He watched as the depleted uranium rounds tore into the surface of the bridge, chunks of shattered plasti-crete flying around, exposing the steel structure below. He angled the throttle after he zipped past the bridge to come around for a second pass. He could see the target was pockmarked with giant holes, but he hadn’t severed it…not yet.

  He looked down at the ammo readout. He had barely enough left for one more run…but he had to save something for the fourth bridge. If he left any connection from Nordberg to Eldaron City, there would be a steady flow of arms and men heading toward the front lines. And he knew his people were working on borrowed time. It would take at least an hour and a half to rearm and get back…and sooner or later, the Eldari would get at least part of their air defense network back online. His people had taken out a number of defensive installations, but he knew there were more, underground and in armored strongpoints. If they came back online, his next bombing run would come at a much higher cost.

  He stared straight ahead, his eyes focusing on the worst-hit section of the bridge. One of the structural supports was severed, and there was only one remaining. He angled the fighter, heading straight for that point. The targeting display was projected in front of him, and he nudged the throttle until the lines matched up. Then he pulled the trigger, spraying the exposed girder with fire, tearing the tortured metal to shreds. The middle section of the bridge seemed to hover in space for a few seconds. Then it collapsed, twisted girders and huge chunks of ‘crete falling into the murky brown water below.

  Yes! Darryk’s eyes moved to the ammo display. About 600 rounds left. Not much…but maybe enough…

  He brought his ship up, moving toward the rally point. He could see the distant white trail of one of his birds, heading toward the same position. A quick glance at the widescreen display showed him his other wingman, coming up on his six.

  “Report,” he snapped into the com. He could see that they’d both taken down their targets. What he really wanted to know was if they had any ammunition left to attack the fourth.

  “Strike Two, here. Target destroyed. I’ve got one short burst left in my guns then I’m out.”

  “Strike Three. Target destroyed. My guns are dry, Major.”

  He nodded. About what he’d expected. He figured they could still take out the fourth bridge, but there was no room for error. “Three, return to base. Two, on me. We’re going in.�
� There was no point in Strike Two staying around. With its guns dry, it couldn’t do anything even if the Eldari unleashed some previously unknown air force. Better they get back and get rearmed and refit…and clear the way so his bird and Two could get in and out that much faster.

  “Two, do you see those center supports on bridge four?”

  “Yes, Major. Got ‘em.”

  “It’ll take some serious accuracy, but I think that’s the easiest way to take the sucker down with what we’ve got left.” A short pause. “Follow me in, and finish off anything I leave standing.”

  “Got it, Major. On your six.”

  Darryk nudged the throttle forward, diving toward the last bridge. He came in lower, far lower than he had on the first attack. His bird was streaking across the river, barely a thousand meters over the rippling water. But he was going lower still, and as the target grew larger ahead of him, he pushed the throttle hard, dropping to five hundred meters…three hundred…one hundred…

  He could almost feel the river below, the torrent his fighter created as it zipped along barely thirty meters over the river. The bridge was just ahead, but now he dropped again, to twenty meters. The main support pylons were coming up, right in front of him as he came in ten meters below the bridge’s road surface. His hand tightened, and he stared intently at his targeting screen. He took a deep breath and held it.

  No room for any mistakes…

  The AI was aiding his targeting, but the final shot would be his. It was 99% math and 1% gut feel, and the intuition was his part, the last touch that made a good shot a great one. Now, he thought, as he pressed the trigger.

  The first pylon blew apart as the stream of hypervelocity particles took it dead on. Darryk’s finger loosened, saving the last of what he had for the second support. He pressed again, the rest of his rounds blasting out in less than a tenth of a second, ripping into the massive column of reinforced plasti-steel. His shot carved out a huge chunk, but about a third of its circumference remained. He didn’t know how, but the bridge was still standing. And his guns were bone dry.