by Jay Allan
“Let’s go, people.” Clarkson spoke on the unitwide com, his voice raw, angry. “These bastards killed General McDaniels…now let’s show them what that’s gonna cost. The rest of the Marines on Armstrong are counting on us…General Cain is counting on us.” His fingers were curled up into fists, and the servo-mechanicals transmitted the movements to the suit’s massive hands. He raised an arm in the air, shaking the huge fist as he shouted into the com. “General McDaniels is watching us, people…she is with us as she has been since the start. Are we going to let her down?”
The com line erupted, the raw screams of hundreds of Marines all saying one thing. “No! Never!”
McDaniels had organized the Obliterator corps from its inception, and she’d been its only commander until she fell in the fighting along the Graywater. Her Marines had fought savagely that day, destroying the bridges the invaders had erected across the river then turning north and tearing through the enemy forces until none were left on the northern side. They’d run out of enemies before anger, and they still lusted for vengeance. Clarkson was as bitter and angry as any of his Marines, but he knew he was also using their emotions to manipulate them, to work them into a battle frenzy. There was no finesse in the plan, no elaborate tactics. They would achieve their goals with aggression, courage, raw savagery. They were death incarnate, and they would kill until the last of them fell.
“Obliterators…attack!” Clarkson surged forward, shifting the bulk of his huge suit to avoid the trees. His people were on the very edge of the Sentinel, about to burst out into the open. The trees were smaller than the ones in the deep forest, but they were still at least 100 meters tall. In a few seconds his people would leave them behind, and plunge into a death struggle with the enemy.
The Obliterators were fearsome killing machines, four meters tall and bristling with weaponry. They burst out of the woods into the open fields, smashing into the enemy’s flank like a scythe. They pushed forward, stopping for nothing, firing away with all their weapons, leaving hundreds of enemy casualties behind them as they did.
Clarkson was in the van, blazing away with his dual autocannons. The massive hyper-velocity rounds tore apart even powered armor, firing a thousand rounds a minute, wiping out entire squads in seconds.
They’d caught the enemy by surprise. The rest of the Marines had been retreating north, abandoning all their positions south of the capital, and the battle had entered a brief lull. The sheer audacity of Clarkson’s attack shocked their adversaries, and they caught hundreds of them strung out, advancing to the north. In the first ten minutes, the Obliterators took down thousands and sliced deep into the enemy formations.
For a few minutes it seemed as though Clarkson’s people might win the battle by themselves. But the enemy was trained to Marine standards, and they outnumbered the Obliterators 100-1. They suffered heavily, but they kept their discipline and followed their training. They began to form lines facing Clarkson’s people from all sides. Slowly, steadily, the Obliterators were flanked, then surrounded.
The Marines kept moving, driving deeper into the enemy’s position. They knew what they had to do. If they didn’t disorder the invaders enough to slow their pursuit, the rest of the Marines wouldn’t have enough time to build a defensive position. They’d be hit, outnumbered and in the open…and the last of the Corps would be destroyed.
“Keep moving!” Clarkson’s voice was strained. He’d been hit twice, and he was trying to hide the pain. “To the south! Take out their supply dumps!” He angled his hulking suit, jogging south, favoring his injured leg. His people were almost through…it wouldn’t be long before they were wiped out. Hitting the enemy’s logistics would slow them down more than a few extra casualties. If his people could get to the LZ they could make a real difference. It was the best chance to buy Cain and the rest of the Marines the time they needed.
Clarkson was down to one autogun; the other had taken a hit. It was just as well. He was running low on ammunition, and what he had left would last longer with a single gun firing. He glanced at his display. Less than half his people were still in the fight. Some of them were scattered around, isolated and pinned down in firefights with clusters of enemy soldiers. They were going down quickly as the Shadow forces got themselves organized and brought enough force to bear on each of them.
It looked like maybe 80 were still with him, moving toward the LZ. They were being pursued, but they’d broken through the heaviest resistance to their front. “Arm your grenades.” Clarkson couldn’t hide the weakness in his voice anymore. He’d be on the ground already if his AI hadn’t given him a near-lethal dose of stimulants. “All of them.” The grenades were a marginal weapon against powered infantry, but ideal for taking out crates of supplies and ammunition.
He heard a smattering of acknowledgements and glanced again at the display. The Marines at the back were taking heavy losses from the pursuing enemy. He was down to 50 effectives. But the supply depot was just ahead…almost in range. Only a few more seconds…
He lurched forward even before he felt it. He stumbled two or three steps and fell, his massive suit slamming face first into the ground. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and when he tried to inhale he felt a shooting pain, like a blade piercing his chest. The wound was mortal…he didn’t have to check his med scanner to know that. His vision was failing, and every shallow breath was agony.
He flipped on the com. “Keep…moving…all…” He coughed, spraying blood all over the inside of his helmet. His voice was weak, throaty, every word a struggle. “Take…out…those…suppl…” His chest spasmed, and blood poured out of his mouth.” The pain wasn’t bad, but he knew that was only because his AI had flooded his system with painkillers. His eyes caught a glimpse of the tactical display. His Marines were running forward, launching their grenades. He didn’t think they would last much longer, but maybe, just maybe, they’d do enough damage.
He lay there another minute, maybe two, unable to speak…unsure, even, where he was. Armstrong, he thought, yes…the battle. He felt himself slipping away into darkness…his last thought…take out those supplies…
Alex scanned the terrain ahead. It was open ground, mostly, and she was trying to stay out of sight. She’d started out stalking Erik Cain, but now she had a different agenda. There was another Alliance Intelligence assassin on Armstrong…she was sure of it.
Stark must have written her off, she thought bitterly, and if he had someone else here already, he’d sent him weeks before, if not months. Alex Linden was nothing if not a realist. Whatever chance she’d imagined she had of getting near Stark was gone. Killing Cain wouldn’t do her any good. Most likely, Cain’s would-be assassin had her as a secondary target.
She’d had a moment of panic, of uncertainty. Alex Linden always had a plan, but when she first realized what was going on, she didn’t know what to do. There was a flash of rage, then frustration…but she quickly cleared her head and began analyzing the situation. Bit by bit, she formulated a new plan. She wasn’t going to kill Cain; she was going to save him. She was going to kill the assassin.
Her quarry had to be one of Stark’s best, as she had been. The brilliant psychopath wouldn’t send anyone but an elite killer to go after Erik Cain. That meant she was pursuing a very dangerous foe, one she couldn’t underestimate. He wouldn’t be an easy target, but then, of course, he wasn’t expecting to be stalked by another of Alliance Intelligence’s crack killers. Indeed, he had been careless, not expecting to be a target himself. He left behind a trail she could follow. It wasn’t much, but Alex was one of the best trackers to emerge from Alliance Intelligence’s killing school, and she didn’t need much.
Her adversary was better equipped than she was. His rifle was designed specifically for assassinations. He could take out a target, even an armored one, from at least 3 klicks. She hadn’t been able to smuggle any weapons into the refugee camp, so she’d been unarmed when she headed south to find Cain. She couldn’t scavenge anything from the d
ead Marines she’d come upon. They were armored infantry, and their high-powered weapons required the output of the nuclear power plants they carried on their backs. But finally she found a cluster of dead planetary regulars…unarmored troops with standard weaponry. She grabbed an assault rifle and a pair of pistols, along with a particularly nasty-looking survival knife. Her arsenal was a weak one to face powered infantry, but more than sufficient to kill a single unarmored target.
She moved cautiously, stopping every couple hundred meters and listening carefully. There were more Marines passing by and larger groups than before. The army was clearly retreating. That was bad news for the battle…and for her prospects of escaping from Armstrong when her job was done. It was also slowing her down, forcing her to spend precious minutes staying hidden. She needed to make better time. If she didn’t, her enemy would get to Cain first.
She was struggling to stay focused, to keep her emotions in check. She had killed hundreds of times, coolly and without remorse. But now she was anxious, upset. She thought she’d been ready to kill Cain, but now she wondered if she would have gone through with it. Alex wasn’t sure who she was anymore, but it was clear the cold-blooded Alliance Intelligence operative was gone. She had doubts someone like her had any kind of chance at redemption…she wasn’t even sure she wanted it. But she knew one thing. She was going to save Erik Cain.
“We’ve got him stabilized, Doctor Linden.” Elaine Samitch was one of the Corps’ best doctors, and she’d effectively commanded the field hospital while Sarah was busy trying to unravel the mystery of Anderson-45 and his cohorts.
Sarah walked down the neatly graded path, heading toward the critical care ward. The field hospital had been hastily erected at the new location. It was a cluster of prefabricated shelters linked by a series of pathways. The setup was only half done, and many of the non-critical patients were still outside, lined up on portable cots.
“And he asked for me?” Sarah had been busy at the old hospital site when the patient was brought in. He’d come down in an escape pod and crashed just north of Astria. He didn’t have any identification, and all he said was he was looking for Erik Cain. When they told him Cain was unavailable, he asked for Sarah.
“Yes.” Samitch hurried her pace to keep up with Sarah’s purposeful gait. “I came to get you immediately. I thought you’d want know.”
“Of course, Elaine. You did the right thing.” Sarah slapped her hand on the palm reader. She was impatient and didn’t make enough contact. The reader flashed red and rejected her ID. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath as she pressed her palm against the glass and held it firmly in place.
The door slid open, and she ducked through. She strode swiftly down the corridor and into the last room on the right. The patient was lying on the bed, his eyes closed. He was connected to half a dozen machines and his face was deathly pale. He’d been critically injured in the crash, but he was out of danger now. It would take some time to recover fully, but Samitch had treated all his major injuries.
“Hello, I’m Sarah Linden.” She was stressed and impatient, but she’d been treating wounded men and women for years. The harshness in her tone fell away, and she spoke softly, kindly. “You wanted to see me?”
The patient opened his eyes and slowly turned his head, staring up as if trying to reconcile her appearance with a description. “Colonel Linden?” His voice was weak, his breathing labored. “I am Captain Duncan Campbell, Martian Confederation Navy. I have a message for you from Roderick Vance.” He was trying to speak louder, but all he could manage was a tortured whisper.
Sarah felt her stomach clench. Roderick Vance was a trusted ally, but not one to waste time or resources. If he had sent one of his people into a war zone to find Erik, something was wrong…probably disastrous. “Yes Captain?” She was trying to stay calm, but the tension was obvious in her voice. “What is it?”
“It’s about your sister, Colonel.” He took a deep breath, trying to focus his strength. “Alex Linden is an Alliance Intelligence agent. She is Number 3 on their Directorate…or at least she was.”
Sarah stared in disbelief, almost unable to process the words she was hearing. She had known there was something in Alex’s past, something dark. But she’d never have imagined her sister had been Alliance Intelligence. Is that why she’d turned up looking for her long-lost sister? To spy for Gavin Stark and his band of murderers? What had she reported on? Had Marines died because of things Sarah had let her learn? She felt sick…she wanted to drop to her knees and vomit.
Her first thought was to doubt what Campbell was telling her, to argue that it was some kind of mistake. But somehow she knew it was true. It all made sense. She took a deep breath, struggling to regain her composure. “So she is here to spy on us and report back to Gavin Stark?”
Campbell looked up at Sarah, his watery eyes meeting hers. “No, Colonel.” He took a deep raspy breath and continued. “She is here to assassinate General Cain.”
The slim figure hovered over the dead Marine. He was at the very edge of the Sentinel forest, watching, waiting. Once, his name had been Vincent…Thomas Vincent. But for two decades he’d been known only as Cobra. He was an assassin, one who could boast he’d never failed to kill a target. For 20 years he had murdered at the orders of Gavin Stark. He’d taken out politicians, scientists, soldiers…but this would be his greatest kill. General Erik Cain was famous throughout the Alliance, the Marines’ invincible veteran commander, a warrior of unquestioned ability.
Cobra felt a kinship with his target. By all accounts, Cain was as cold-blooded as any assassin, a man who killed en masse…who unflinchingly sent his troops to march off to certain death. Anything to secure victory. Cobra felt he could understand a man like that. But whatever kinship he felt toward his victim it wouldn’t affect the job. Cobra never let anything get in his way…no more than Cain himself ever did.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small egg-shaped device. It was a miniature hyper-EMP generator. Its battery could only power it for a few minutes, but that would be enough. It would interfere with all communications and create chaos over a 500 meter zone. He’d find a suitable vantage point, a firing position with good coverage of Cain’s HQ. Then he’d activate the jammer…and wait for Cain to show himself.
Marine armor looked alike…officers didn’t strut around the battlefield advertising their presence to snipers. But Cobra had Cain’s transponder code. Alliance Intelligence and the Marines were on the same side, at least they were supposed to be. There were advantages to going after your own. Even through the jamming, Cobra’s scanner would confirm Cain’s presence…and an instant later, the veteran assassin would put his target down.
He scrambled slowly down a small hillside, crouching low, his camouflage blending with the scrubby grass and fallen leaves of the forest floor. He paused, looking around the last few trees and out into the open plain. There it was…Marine HQ. It was small, almost deserted. The Marines were pulling back, and it looked like most of the command personnel had already gone.
Cobra wondered if he was too late, if Cain had already left, but he quickly dismissed the concern. Everything he knew about Erik Cain suggested he would be among the last to leave. Being on the retreat, staring defeat in the face…it had to be the Marine general’s worst nightmare. Yes, he thought, Cain will still be there.
He jogged up a small rise and crouched behind a large spur along the trunk of one of the trees. It was a good spot, giving him a view of the small central quad between the HQ structures. He checked and double-checked his rifle. Everything was ready. It was time to kill Erik Cain.
He scanned the area, cold eyes acclimating himself with the layout of the HQ, covering every centimeter, every possible contingency. Then he took a deep breath and pressed the button on the jammer.
Chapter 8
Brooklyn Docks
Midtown Protected Zone Cargo Terminus
American Sector – Western Alliance
Earth –
Sol III
“There’s a huge crowd just outside the fence.” Bill Quinn walked back onto the dock where his crew was unloading a massive cargo barge. They’d been listening to the screams and chants while they worked, and his people were nervous. He’d tried to ignore it, but finally he went to make sure the security forces had things in hand. “But the guards have it under control. The gates are closed and locked.”
Things had been deteriorating rapidly. The crash spread quickly beyond the financial markets, and economic activity of all sorts was coming to a halt. Throughout the Alliance, money flows had ceased entirely. The Cogs who did the menial work weren’t getting paid, and when their income stopped, their families began to starve. Few of the Alliance’s lower classes had any type of savings, so when their pay stopped, they ran out of food almost immediately. The ghettoes where they lived became even more dangerous than they had been. Walking down the street with a bag of groceries was enough to virtually guarantee an assault. Then the food stopped coming entirely. The workers began to stay home to try to protect their families instead of reporting to jobs that had ceased to produce income.
Things were bad in Brooklyn, and riots had swept from one neighborhood to another. Even for those few who had money, there was no food to be found. The stores had been looted, cleaned out by the gangs. The rioting mobs got what little the gangers had left behind. And no shipments were making it to the ghettoes…none at all.
Quinn and his people were lucky. Their jobs were necessary to maintain the flow of food and other materials to the privileged classes in the Midtown Protected Zone. Their pay wasn’t coming through either…all monetary transactions in the Alliance had come to a halt. But they were being paid in food, enough for them and their families to survive. And they were picked up at their homes and dropped off by armored security vehicles.