by Jay Allan
“I’m Sarah Linden’s sister, General Cain,” Alex shouted, just as he was trying to figure it out. “I killed your assassin. I want to help.” She ran the rest of the way toward Cain, her clothes soaked in blood. Some of it was hers, but most was Cobra’s. She’d hit the assassin with two rounds from her assault rifle and then finished the job with her knife. The two had struggled mightily until Alex managed to shove the blade into her adversary’s neck. He fell back, choking on his own blood and she finished him off, driving the knife deep into his chest. She’d neutralized the enemy…but he’d gotten two shots off. Her first thought was to get to Cain…to see if Cobra’s aim had been true. She felt a wave of relief when she saw him moving.
“I’m relieved you’re still alive, General. The man sent to kill you rarely misses.” She heard a noise to the south, and her head snapped around. It was a long sleek craft, some kind of transport vessel. She reached for her pistol, unsure if these were friends or enemies arriving…
The hovercraft’s hatch opened and Sarah leapt to the ground, followed by her six Marines. She stood there for an instant, the wind taking her hair and blowing it back in a confused tangle. She looked across the 50 meters of flat ground, and her blood ran cold. There she was…her sister Alex, crouched over the fallen form of an armored Marine. There was a gun in her hand.
“NO!” she screamed, her arm reaching down for the pistol at her side. “Get away from him.” There was anger in her voice, uncontrollable rage. She ran toward Alex, pulling the gun up in front of her as she did.
Alex looked up, seeing her sister running toward her. “Sarah…” Her eyes caught the gun in Sarah’s hand. “No, Sarah…”
The first shot took her in the chest. She fell to her knees, wide eyes looking right at Sarah as the second hit her neck.
“Sarah, NO!” The voice was familiar, but it took a second to work its way through her rage, her focused fury. It was Erik. He was alive. But why was he shouting no?
“NO!” he screamed again. “It wasn’t her. She saved me, Sarah. I’m OK.” His voice was weak, but he put every bit of strength he had into his scream.
Sarah stopped, looking down in front of her in horror. Erik was lying on his back. He had a nasty-looking wound on his shoulder, but she didn’t see anything else. Alex had fallen on top of him. She was lying face down across the legs of his armor.
My God, she thought, what have I done? She ran over and turned Alex onto her back next to Cain.
“Stark sent an assassin, Sarah…this woman saved me.”
Sarah felt the tears welling up in her eyes, the awful realization of what she had done. Her instincts took over, decades of experience as a battlefield surgeon directing her every move. She leaned over Alex, tearing open her shirt, surveying the wound. There was blood everywhere.
Her hands moved rapidly. She tore off a section of Alex’s shirt, wadding up the material and pushing hard on the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. She knew it was hopeless, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. She had to save Alex. She just had to.
She felt something against her arm. She looked down, seeing Alex’s hand reaching up to her. Sarah was still leaning forward, pressing hard on the makeshift bandage, but Alex was slowly shaking her head.
“It’s…ok…Sarah.” Her voice was weak…it took an enormous effort to speak, and there were gurgling sounds when she did. Her neck wound was bleeding too, and she was struggling to breathe.
“I’m so sorry, Alex. My God, I’m so sorry.” Sarah was leaning on the wound with all her weight, but the shirt was soaked in blood. There were tears streaming down her face. “You’ll be OK.”
“No…” - she grabbed onto Sarah’s arm and squeezed gently - “…it’s…over…Sarah…”
“No,” Sarah yelled, “No…”
“Sarah…I…am…sorry.”
Sarah looked at her stricken sister. Her face was soaked with tears. She’d shot her sister…for no reason. And Alex was apologizing to her?
“I…did…terrible…things…Sarah.” She spasmed hard, spitting blood all over herself. She coughed, struggling to speak. “I...hated…you…for…so…many…years.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked up at Sarah. “I…saved…him…” She sucked in a deep breath, coughing and trying to clear her throat. “I…saved…him…for…you. Be…happy…Sarah…I…love…you…sister.”
“I love you too, Alex.” Sarah grabbed onto her sister, holding her tightly. “I love you too. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She was sobbing uncontrollably. She felt Alex draw a last deep breath and then fall back, lifeless.
Sarah held onto her sister’s body, still sobbing and repeating, “I’m so sorry…”
Chapter 13
Front Line – Europa Federalis-CEL Conflict
25 Kilometers West of Stuttgart
Baden-Wurttemberg Sector – Central European League
Earth – Sol III
Hans Werner poked his head out of the massive Leopard Z-9a command tank. He had a full scanner suite inside the armored protection of the behemoth vehicle, but sometimes nothing replaced a good old fashioned look around.
The CEL army was a week into its first war in a century, and they’d been driven back by the invading Europan forces. The army of the German-dominated CEL had long considered itself more than a match for its enemies, but that confidence had been seriously shaken by the ferocity of the Europan attack. The CEL had repeatedly denied any involvement in the nuclear destruction of Marseilles, but the incident proved to be a rallying cry for the Europan forces nevertheless.
Half his initial tanks were gone, but he’d received reinforcements the day before. The new vehicles were Leopard Z-7s, older models operated by reservists. They weren’t a match for the tanks and crews he’d lost, but he was glad to have them anyway.
He watched as a platoon of infantry repositioned, moving into supporting range of his front line of tanks. Armored vehicles were primary targets on the battlefield, and serving in one was difficult and dangerous. But right now he pitied the foot soldiers more. He couldn’t image how miserable they were in their heavy rubberized CBN suits. The war hadn’t gone chemical, biological, or nuclear yet, at least not on the south-central front. Still, everyone knew it could at any moment, and they had to be prepared at all times. Both sides were massively armed with enhanced munitions, and all it would take was a single order from the high command to unleash their fury on the battlefield. The tank crews could button up and seal off their monster vehicles, but the infantry had to be ready for whatever happened.
There were rumors the two sides had exchanged tactical nuclear strikes to the north, but nothing was confirmed. Communications had been spotty, with few reports on the status of other battle fronts. Werner’s people had very little idea what was going on outside their small section of the battlefield, but if things were just as bad everywhere else, he knew the CEL was in trouble.
“I’m getting a recon drone report, sir. We’ve got enemy tanks moving up the old E52 highway.” Lieutenant Potsdorf was yelling the warning from inside the tank. Potsdorf was in charge of the command tank, and he doubled as an aide to the battalion commander. “It looks like a large move, sir.”
Werner didn’t respond immediately. He took a last look around and ducked back inside the tank’s cockpit. “Close hatch.” He snapped out the order to the armored vehicle’s AI as he eased back to his command chair. “OK, Lieutenant…” – he turned to face Potsdorf – “…let’s get the battalion ready for action. I want all units at full alert.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Potsdorf had proven to be a good aide. He’d come from the working classes and, lacking any substantial patronage, he’d advanced largely through his own ability…a rarity in any of the Superpowers. Obtaining a commission was a huge burst of upward mobility for someone from his background, one guaranteeing him at least a sustenance-level pension when he retired. Few of the lower classes in the CEL had any kind of retirement income or safety net. When they became too old or sick
to work, they were forced to rely on their families. Those without children or relatives who could care for them often starved…or reported to one of the population control centers for voluntary euthanasia. But a veteran of the Heer with a lieutenant’s stipend was guaranteed a modestly comfortable retirement. The CEL took reasonably good care of its soldiers, unlike powers like the Alliance where disabled and discharged veterans were sent back home with a few credits and virtually no continuing support.
“All units report ready, sir.” Potsdorf turned from the scope and looked back at his CO. “Project contact imminently.”
“All units are to fire at will.” Werner’s voice was firm. He entered the war as a colonel with no combat experience, but six days in hell had changed all that. He’d heard of other commanders losing control over the last few days, panicking in action. Werner and his colleagues were drawn mostly from the lower echelons of the privileged families, usually younger siblings with no other prospects. Few of them were truly prepared to face the harsh realities of battle. But Hans Werner felt invigorated by combat. He was scared too, but the tension and the fear honed his mind. His battalion had suffered heavy losses, but they’d held firm. In the end, his people had only been forced back because the units on their flanks retreated.
Potsdorf repeated the order over the unitwide channel. “Here they come, sir.” The lieutenant had been cool under fire, but Werner could hear the tension in his voice now. “Looks like regimental strength. As far as I can tell, they’re all Napoleons, sir. C-class.”
Damn, Werner thought. Where are they getting all these tanks? The Napoleon Class behemoths were the Europans’ state of the art main battle tank, and they just kept coming. His front was supposed to be a secondary one, with the real battle fought to the north. But it was starting to look like the enemy had different ideas.
He heard a loud crack…one of his Leopards firing. It was followed by another…and another. He smiled. The CEL’s railguns made a distinctive sound. His people had gotten off the first shots. They had performed well since hostilities began, his focus on peacetime training paying benefits now that war had finally come.
Now he was hearing Europan fire too, though only regular shells. The Europan tanks had railguns too, but those were line of sight weapons, and he had his people hull down in good cover. The Europans were going to have to get close – very close – to get good shots with their primary weapons. He stared at the tactical display. He had a company of tanks deployed at the end of a small ridge…good cover that offered line of sight to targets moving up the highway. It was an obvious trap, but the enemy was over confident, and they blundered forward right into it. Werner’s forward position took out three of the enemy tanks in a few seconds…and stalled the entire advance.
“Lieutenant, put in another request for air support.” Werner didn’t expect anything to come of the request, but it was worth a try.
“Yes, Colonel.” Potsdorf’s voice suggested he was no more optimistic about seeing CEL planes any time soon.
No one in Werner’s battalion had seen an aircraft – either CEL or Europan – for days. They’d heard rumors the two sides were locked in a titanic struggle for air superiority up in the north, and every resource had been committed to that battle. Werner didn’t know what was going on, but if the CEL air force would defeat the Europans and gain supremacy in the skies, it would go a long way to stabilizing the crumbling front.
“Infantry teams forward…NOW!” He snapped out his order and listened as Potsdorf relayed it. Running around MBTs wasn’t a safe place for infantry to be, but the Europan tanks were disorganized, trying to reposition from the highway and bypass Werner’s forward positions. His rocket teams would have a good chance to take out a few more of the monster battlewagons, and Werner needed everything he could get to even the score. If he could hit the enemy hard enough before they reformed, maybe he could stop them here. If not, Stuttgart was as good as lost.
“We’ve picked up another contact, sir.” Lieutenant Barrington was staring at the scanner as he spoke. “That makes 42. Including 9 heavy battleships.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Admiral Dave Young sat in the command chair on Chicago’s flag bridge. “The fleet will continue on the same heading.” Young was nervous, but he was trying not to let it show. He’d been in the navy for 25 years, but he knew he owed his position to his family’s political influence more than any particular aptitude. He’d been given a ship command after only 12 months service, and he took over a task force within five years. He’d been commanding fleets ever since, and he eventually worked up to the largest of all, the South Pacific Command. The fleet had a single but crucial role…to fight the CAC if war broke out between the two powers. But aside from hunting down a pirate or two, Young had never seen a shot fired in anger.
The Alliance’s wet navy differed enormously from its fleets in space. The interstellar navy was mostly a frontier organization now, drawing the majority of its recruits from the colonies and, since the rebellions, operating largely independently of Alliance Gov’s day to day influence. Since Augustus Garret had taken command – and achieved living legend status defeating the First Imperium – few in the Earth government dared to challenge him. But the sea navy, like the rest of the Earth-based forces, was firmly under Alliance Gov’s thumb. And that meant patronage and corruption governed virtually every aspect of its operation, including who filled its officer postings and top commands.
Young’s family was among the most influential in the Alliance, one of the original political dynasties. The family controlled an almost unprecedented three seats in the Senate, as well as a complex collection of Directorates and judgeships. Dave Young was the youngest of seven, however, and his cousins were almost as numerous as his siblings…and all older than him. With no suitable political office available, Young had opted for a military career. His position and influence had almost guaranteed him a quick route to an important command.
Young’s exalted rank was predominantly the result of his fortunate birth, but he had at least made an effort to learn his craft, something few of the other officers from prominent Political Class families bothered to do. He’d studied naval history and the campaigns of the great admirals. But mostly, he read and reread every account of the last war he could find. It was often hard to filter out the lies and political adjustments made to the records, but he knew the fighting those navies had done was the closest to what his might be called on to do. The fleets that fought in the early stages of the Unification Wars had been much like those from past battles, consisting largely of surface vessels. But destructive power had outpaced defensive capability, and by the end of the wars, barely a naval vessel was still in action. The fleets the Superpowers rebuilt consisted entirely of hybrids…capable of fighting on the surface, but designed primarily for submerged operations. So, for all Admiral David Young gleaned from the histories, the next war would likely be a dramatically different affair from any that had preceded it.
“The lead elements of the fleet will close to the 20 kilometer line in three minutes, Admiral.” Barrington’s tone was edgy. The fleet was about to cross the border the CAC had drawn across the South Pacific. The Alliance and the CAC had disputed ownership of the Philippines for over a century, and they’d had soldiers deployed facing each other across artificial borders for that entire time. The CAC controlled roughly two-thirds of the land area, but there were over 100,000 Alliance soldiers dug in all around Manila and southern Luzon, and Young’s fleet was offshore, facing the CAC’s assembled naval strength. The CAC had issued an ultimatum, a line they would not allow the Alliance fleet to cross. But Barrington’s orders were clear. He was to call their bluff, to lead his fleet over that line…and if so much as a single CAC ship fired on him he was to engage and destroy the entire enemy fleet.
“Very well, Lieutenant.” He struggled to keep his voice firm. Young took his position seriously, but he wasn’t a warrior at heart. He’d grown up surrounded by almost unimaginable luxu
ry, and the transition to military life was a jarring one. He had managed to learn his trade, at least after a fashion, but he’d never really expected to put those skills to the test. Now he was 1200 meters below the surface of the ocean…and possibly minutes away from the first major naval battle in a century. He was trying to play the role of the fearless commander, but deep down he was scared shitless. “Order all ships to battlestations. Attack boat crews to their positions.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Barrington passed on the order, some of his own fear pushing through and showing in his voice. A few seconds later, Chicago’s battlestations lamps lit, casting a reddish glow across the bridge.
The CAC was still denying any involvement in the attack on Alliance Intelligence HQ in Washbalt, but relations between the Powers had continued to fray…and the crisis only escalated further when Alliance operatives discovered that the CAC had previously begun mobilizing a portion of its Earth-based military. News of the military buildup cast further doubt on Hong Kong’s protestations about the Washbalt bombing. The two powers were already at war in space…and it seemed like fighting would break out on Earth at any time.
“We will cross the red line in one minute, sir.” Barrington was staring at his scope, counting the seconds. An instant later: “Sir, all attack squadrons report ready to launch.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Young strapped himself into his command chair. He stared ahead, breathing deeply, trying to ignore the sweat pouring down his back.
“Thirty seconds, sir.”
Will they fire, Young wondered…do they really want war? Is there a commander over there who thinks I am bluffing? He sat rigidly, holding his body motionless. I guess we’re going to find out, he thought nervously.