by Jay Allan
Her eyes slowly focused. Captain Mandrake was leaning over and looking down at her. His visor was open, and he called to her again. Kara, it’s Craig Mandrake…can you hear me?”
“Craig?” She was looking up at him, but she was still disoriented.
His eyes dropped to her wound. Her hand had slipped off, and the makeshift bandage had fallen to the ground. It was soaked with blood. “Sergeant, get me a spare medkit.” He reached behind him as one of his companions handed up a small pouch.
He ripped open the kit, pulling out a vial with a long needle at the end. “Sorry, Kara, but this is going to hurt.” She looked back at him dreamily, not really understanding what he was saying. He jammed the needle hard into her side. She screamed and tried to jump up, but his armored hands held her rigidly in place. “It’s OK, Sarah. Just try to relax.” He knew she wasn’t understanding him, but he continued anyway. “That was a nanobot injection, Kara. It will stabilize the wound.” He stared into her eyes for a few seconds, but she didn’t respond.
He turned toward the hulking figures standing behind him. “Corporal Lasky, take General Sanders to the aid station.” It was the first time anyone had called Kara ‘general.” It wouldn’t be the last.
“Yes sir.” The heavily armored Marine scooped her up like a feather.”
Mandrake watched him head back toward the field hospital. “And hurry, Corporal.” He paused, a worried expression on his face. “Hurry.”
General Catherine Gilson felt the locking bolt retract, and she hopped off the lander, reaching around and pulling her assault rifle from its harness. She looked down at her tactical display, scanning the immediate area for enemy contacts. She knew her AI would have warned her if there were hostiles near, but Gilson wasn’t the trusting sort, and she was a relentless double-checker. She tended not to believe anything unless she saw it for herself. And even then she was suspicious.
Her caution was particularly justified on this drop. Gilson was bringing her forces down right in the center of the action. It was a high risk strategy, but her scanner reports had shown her just how outnumbered and against the wall Holm’s and Teller’s people were. That was all she had to know. Any risk was worthwhile if it saved other Marines from being overrun.
Most of her people were down, but the last waves were still landing. In another ten minutes all of her 7,000 Marines would be on the ground. The enemy still had overall numbers, but they were exhausted and strung out from months of combat. Gilson knew her Marines were the last reinforcements coming to Arcadia…and she had no interest in simply prolonging the struggle. She was there to win. And that meant there was only one strategy that she’d considered. Attack.
She expanded the tactical display to cover most of the primary battlefield. She could see her forward elements were already on the move, advancing on the enemy positions. They would be engaged in a few minutes. The plan was simple…attack, attack, attack. There was no elegance, no needless complexity. Her people were fresh and fully supplied, at least compared to their enemies. Now they had to do the work.
She checked the clip in her assault rifle and headed up toward the front. Back in the shit, she thought as she jogged forward. Back home.
Chapter 16
Rhine Bridgeheads
Baden-Wurttemberg Sector – Central European League
Earth – Sol III
Hans Werner was still getting used to the shiny new stars on his collar. He’d just gotten word that his battlefield promotion had been approved by the high command. As of the day before he was officially a brigadier, though he’d already been acting in that capacity for two weeks…ever since his battalion had stood firm, breaking up the whole Europan southern advance.
Things up north were still bad. The Europan forces had lunged across the border from the Belgian Federal Zone and cut deep into CEL territory. The CEL northern armies had been twice defeated, and now 1,200,000 demoralized and exhausted troops were trapped in the Dusseldorf-Cologne pocket. The high command was throwing in everything it had up north, trying to break the siege before the encircled troops were forced to capitulate.
Werner’s success in the south was a welcome piece of good news, and the high command was determined to make the most of it. The CEL finally had a genuine hero in a war that had so far been an almost unmitigated disaster. They were determined to make the most of it…through Werner’s promotion, and his subsequent orders to go on the offensive.
There were troops moving forward in a steady stream, reinforcing his growing command. He’d had a brigade equivalent before he even gotten his stars…now that his status as brigade commander was confirmed he was leading a heavily reinforced division…almost a small corps.
“Major Kimmel’s batteries are in position, sir.” Potsdorf was standing right behind Werner, monitoring the attack force’s communications. Werner had pulled his erstwhile aide from his tank and taken him along when he was promoted. He tested his newfound influence by requesting – and receiving – a bump up to captain for his assistant.
Werner stood silently, staring off toward the river. The last of the Europan forces had pulled back to their side, destroying the bridges behind them as they fled. The retreat had become somewhat of a rout as Werner threw fresh forces into the pursuit as quickly as they reached the front. In the end, the Europans had abandoned tanks, vehicles, and supplies as they fled for the relative safety of their side of the Rhine.
Werner had been surprised when he saw how quickly the victorious enemy had collapsed into a fleeing mass of fugitives. Now, staring across the river and contemplating his own imminent attack, he understood. There wasn’t a real combat veteran in either army. The forces were well equipped and trained, but the Superpowers had not fought a war on Earth in over 100 years. All the training, all the equipment in the world cannot fully prepare men and women for the realities of combat. The armies fighting this new war were large, and they had immense stores of weaponry. But they were fragile instruments. Victory would sustain them, but defeat would shatter their morale quickly. He’d seen it happen with the Europans…how rapidly their momentum had broken when his people stood firm. Werner knew his own forces would be just as brittle.
He didn’t want to cross the Rhine. He’d requested permission to fortify the eastern bank and form a defensive line, but he’d been denied and ordered to attack at once. The northern forces needed a diversion, and invading the enemy’s territory was the fastest way to provide one. If his attack made progress, he would quickly be in a position to threaten the Europan capital of Paris…and that would force the enemy to reposition strength from their own northern offensive.
“Advise Major Kimmel he may commence fire.” There was no point in delaying. If he had to attack, it was best done while the enemy was still disorganized…before they could be reinforced and resupplied. “And the air wings are to begin their attack.” The battle for air superiority had turned into an exercise in mutual annihilation, and both sides had lost most of their effective strength. But the high command had diverted a few precious squadrons to support Werner’s attack, and he intended to get the most he could out of them.
“Yes sir.” Potsdorf relayed Werner’s orders, his voice a little shaky.
“Engineering companies are to commence bridging efforts immediately.” Crossing a major river into the teeth of the enemy was a difficult proposition. If his artillery and air strikes didn’t keep the Europans occupied, they would slaughter his engineers, and his attack would be stopped before it even got started.
“Yes, Col…General…sir.” Potsdorf was still having trouble getting used to the rapidly changing situation. It had taken him 20 years of exemplary service to rise from the ranks and get his lieutenancy. Now, less than a month after the fighting began, he was a captain and Werner was a general. He had lived all his life under a stifling bureaucracy where everything moved at a glacial pace. Now the rules were changing. Rapidly.
Werner turned toward his slightly discombobulated aide. He understood wh
at Potsdorf was feeling…he was feeling it himself. “Don’t worry, Heinrich.” He put his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “We will get through this. Even if we have to figure it out one step at a time.”
Potsdorf nodded, staring back wordlessly – and gratefully - at his commander.
Werner flashed a brief smile and nodded. “Now let’s get the engineers up to the bridgeheads.”
“I want the entire approach screened.” Admiral Young was leaning forward in his command chair barking out orders. “If that means we’ve got some damaged ships on the line, so be it.” He was angry and tired of getting excuses from his ship commanders. “And if the captains don’t like it, tell them I’ll see how the first officers feel about it.” The convoy from Australia was his main concern right now. The Alliance army outside Manila needed those reinforcements and supplies, and if the CAC was able to intercept them, the ground battle in the Philippines was as good as lost.
“Yes sir.” Barrington was exhausted. Young was determined to do his duty, but most of the ship commanders were members of the petty political classes. They’d joined the service for reasons similar to Young’s, but they lacked the commitment of their admiral. Most of them were more concerned with getting back to their comfortable lives in one piece…and the savagery of the battle had shaken them up terribly. They’d been arguing with every command, driving Barrington crazy.
Young’s ships had engaged the CAC fleet and driven it back, but not without cost. The ferocity of the battle and the losses incurred by both sides had come as a shock to all the combatants. Young’s victorious fleet was almost shattered, and the fact that the CAC forces were in even worse shape was cold comfort. War had come, and the horror of it had exceeded his worst fears.
Despite the victory, he knew he had a tougher situation in the long term. The combat zone was close to the CAC’s main bases, while the Alliance fleet had to rely on the resources of the Oceania Sector for most of its support. Australia and the rest of the Alliance possessions in the southern Pacific had been virtually destroyed during the Unification Wars, and a century of moderate growth had still not restored its prior population levels. There were bases in the area, especially in Australia proper, but nothing sufficient to sustain major combat forces indefinitely. Not against a CAC that had all its mainland resources within supporting range.
Young knew his enemy was going to be reinforced before he was, and that was going to be a big problem. His orders were to hold at all costs and support the ground forces around Manila. That job was likely to get damned difficult long before his own reinforcements could make the journey across the Pacific from the New Frisco Naval Base.
He didn’t know when – or if – those reserves would get to him. The war was global, and Alliance Command would have calls on its resources coming in from multiple combat zones. The Alliance’s terrestrial military was a massive organization with considerable reserves, but ships and planes and troops were still finite. If there were enough hotspots around the globe, there simply wouldn’t be adequate support to go around.
He had a better chance of getting help from the Alliance’s PRC allies. The Japanese-dominated Superpower was geographically closer, and it was a bitter enemy of the CAC. The PRC could be counted on to throw most of its strength against the Chinese-led Combine. But the Caliphate had entered the war too, and their relations with the Alliance were just as caustic as the PRC-CAC rivalry. They were likely to reinforce their CAC allies…and to attack the Alliance in other theaters, diverting forces from the CAC war zones.
Young turned his focus back to the current situation. Making wild guesses about reinforcements and the progress of the war was a waste of time. All that mattered now was getting those reserves through.
“Odds, fall back.” Captain Davies stood in the trench, knee deep in sopping mud and screaming into his comlink. The battle wasn’t going well…in fact, it was going like shit. The Alliance forces had been falling back for days, and the CAC troops kept coming. Davies knew the Alliance was outnumbered in the Philippines, but he didn’t realize by how much until he ended up on the front line facing charge after charge.
Jungle fighting was brutal, and it was more than just the enemy. His troops had to deal with the heat, the constant rain, bugs the size of small birds…even poisonous snakes. It was the closest thing he’d seen to hell on Earth. And he had no idea what he was doing there.
Davies’ father was a local Magistrate in the St. Louis Metroplex. The family was not particularly influential, but it was still part of the Political Class, and Davies had grown up surrounded by considerable luxury. He had attended a Political Academy, but the family held only a single office, and it was earmarked for his older sister when his father retired.
Bored and not anxious to spend his life hanging around the family estate with nothing to do, he accepted a captain’s commission and joined the army. He was dazzled by the idea of a fancy uniform and seduced by the thought of ordering around a bunch of soldiers. But once he reported for duty he found the good assignments went to those from more influential families. He’d imagined himself in some pleasant posting in the US or English sectors, preferable someplace with good weather. If he’d known he would end up in the fucking jungle dancing around bugs and snakes – not to mention enemy troops – he’d have stayed home and lived on his family’s resources.
His company was facing at least a CAC battalion, and they’d been falling back for days. The enemy had been attacking aggressively, especially since their navy got the worst of the offshore fighting. The first success had gone to the Alliance, and the CAC generals were determined to even the score. Besides, if the fight on the ground was lost, the naval victory would be rendered almost pointless. Davies tried to work himself up into a patriotic frenzy, but he just couldn’t get himself to give a shit about who controlled the Godforsaken Philippines. But he knew he didn’t want to end up a prisoner of the CAC…and the only alternatives to that unpleasant outcome were victory or death in battle. Victory sounded a lot better than death, so he resolved to be the best combat officer he could.
“Odds, covering fire. Evens, pull back.” He climbed out of the muddy, rain-soaked trench, reaching down to pull his boots out of the muck. He could see most of the evens running to the rear. There was fire from the newly repositioned odds, but it was sporadic, maybe half what it should be. Davies knew that meant half his troops were cowering in their foxholes…or just running outright. His troops were well-equipped and organized, but the morale of the Alliance’s rank and file was poor. Drawn from the Cog populations, they received decent training and usually had enough to eat, but they had no combat experience…and few were commanded by officers who cared about much beyond their own comfort. The Alliance had fielded veteran armies during the Unification Wars but, like the armed forces of the other Powers, a century of peace had atrophied their effectiveness.
He scrambled toward his fallback position, crouching low, giving the enemy as small a target as possible. The first time he jumped out into the open, he almost pissed himself with fear. It seemed an impossible thing…to flex his legs and leap out of the cover of a foxhole, to trust to fate that he wouldn’t be torn to shreds by the enemy fire crisscrossing the field. He knew he hesitated that first time…but he also realized he had only exposed himself to greater danger by holding back. Every second brought the advancing enemy closer, every instant he cowered in a trench instead of moving his ass only increased the fire he would have to survive. It was a hard lesson, but one Davies learned quickly…his first step toward become a veteran soldier.
He swerved around, avoiding the water-filled craters and shell holes from the enemy’s bombardment. He lost his footing more than once, and with it, precious time. But he got back up and kept moving forward, doing his best to ignore the sounds of bullets streaking by.
There was a small berm ahead…the target position. He lunged forward, leaping over the small bump in the ground. He landed behind the cover, sliding a few meters in the sopping
mud before he stopped. He scrambled around and crawled back to the edge of the berm, looking out as the rest of his soldiers were jumping into the cover.
“Evens, deploy. Prepare to provide covering fire.” It felt like his people had been leapfrogging back across the entire island, but he knew that was going to stop soon. They were barely a klick from the main defensive line in front of Manila. There was no way Alliance command was going to give up the city…not without a fight. And that fight promised to be a nasty one.
“Evens, covering fire.” His voice was scratchy and raw. Their supply run was late, and his canteen was empty. He didn’t dare drink any of the water in this Godforsaken jungle…not unless he wanted the shits for two weeks. He cleared his throat and put more force behind his words. “Odds, fall back.”
“Lieutenant Simmons, deploy your troops along this line.” Captain Wendell stood next to Simmons, staring out over the surreal landscape of lower Manhattan. He looked over the Crater, about a kilometer and a half south of their position, and beyond to the crumbling towers of the abandoned Financial District. It was a ghostly panorama, a visual record of a troubled and tormented history. It had been almost 150 years since the nuclear explosion that dug out the Crater, but the surrounding area was still moderately unhealthy…enough, at least, that Wendell’s troops wore their protective battlefield gear.
“Yes, Captain.” He flipped his com to the unit’s command channel. “Form your lines,” he barked to his squad leaders. He was calm, almost relaxed. War was breaking out around the globe, and army units were being sent to some very unpleasant places. He couldn’t believe his own luck when the captain told him they were going to Manhattan to deal with a bunch of Cogs running wild. Facing an unarmed mob was a hell of a lot better than dealing with Caliphate or CAC regulars. He almost pitied the poor SOBs that were on their way to the war zones.