by Jay Allan
He had walked among the troops, rallying them and urging them forward. The CEL’s military hadn’t had any real veterans when the war began…no nation’s had. Yet his people had pushed relentlessly forward, fighting battle after battle and suffering devastating losses. He didn’t know how he was going to keep them going. He’d been assigned internal security companies, special formations intended to follow the army and round up and summarily execute any soldiers who ran, but he had no intention of deploying them. His people deserved better.
But that meant he’d have to keep them moving himself. If the army failed to advance, the high command would compel the use of brutal force to push them. And the thought of his soldiers rounded up by death squads and executed in front of their units was more than he could bear to imagine.
Jim Larson crouched down in his foxhole, peering cautiously over the edge. He was waist-deep in muddy water, holding his rifle out over the soggy ground. He’d been one of the lucky ones in the convoy…his ship had escaped the nuclear attack and landed safely at Manila. But he had friends who weren’t so fortunate. At least half a dozen guys he knew well from the barracks were on one of the destroyed vessels. He hadn’t had time to mourn…or even think much about it, though he knew intellectually, at least, that they were dead, lying 4,000 meters below the ocean in a dark, watery tomb.
His unit had been hustled off the ship and loaded right onto transports bound for the front. Three hours after landing he was crawling through the sopping mud, falling back the way he had come along with the rest of the army.
Crawling through a steaming, muddy, insect-infested jungle…he didn’t think it could get much worse than that, but now they’d gotten the orders to don their CBN suits. He reached around, pulling the rubber pouch off his pack and unzipping it. He couldn’t imagine how hot it would be inside the heavy rubber of the protective suit, but he knew damned sure he didn’t want to be caught without it if the enemy hit with enhanced weapons.
He climbed clumsily into the suit, splashing muddy water inside as he did. He was right…it was hot as hell, and wet and heavy too. He zipped it up and took a deep breath, inhaling the industrial smell of new rubber and the pungent odor of his air filter. If something had been designed specifically for discomfort, he thought, it couldn’t have hit the mark better than this piece of shit.
“Larson, team status?” It was Sergeant Garcia, the squad leader.
Larson turned his head, trying to check to see if the four privates in his team had gotten their gear on properly. He should have done it already, but it had taken him forever to get his own suit on, and he’d completely forgotten.
“Yes, Sergeant. We’re all set.” It was a lie. Grover and Litton were both still struggling to climb into the unwieldy suits. But Larson didn’t want an ass-chewing, and he figured the two slowpoke privates would pull it together in another few seconds. They did, but it took a few minutes, not seconds.
He flipped to his team com line. “Let’s go you two fucking idiots! How many times did you practice putting those suits on?”
The two snapped back excuses while frantically slipping resisting limbs into the heavy rubber. Larson was staring back at them when he heard the barrage begin. It was coming from near Manila, from the heavy batteries emplaced there. The shells sounded strange to him, different than the explosive rounds he’d heard since arriving at the front. Then the impacts…soft, muffled. Not like high explosives at all.
He wondered for a few seconds then suddenly he realized. The Alliance forces were firing nerve gas at the CAC positions. He self-consciously checked the seals on his suit. If the Alliance was using gas, it wouldn’t be long before the CAC responded in kind.
Larson laughed caustically. “And you didn’t think it could get any worse,” he muttered softly to himself.
“Squadron 117 reporting. Approaching southern tip of Manhattan Island.” Squadron Captain Raymond Marston gripped the controls of the lead gunship as he guided the squadron into attack position. “Request authorization to commence attack run.”
Marston was looking ahead, over the shattered wreck of the Statue of Liberty toward Manhattan itself. The crumbling skyscrapers of the abandoned financial district blocked his view of The Crater, but he knew it was there. That had almost certainly been the deadliest day in New York history…perhaps until today, he thought darkly.
Marston was a member of the Political Class’ bottom rung, and the lowest-ranked of the privileged were often the most arrogant, clinging desperately to their status. So it was with Marston, and he regarded the Cogs now rioting outside the walls of the Protected Zone with utter contempt. One thing he was certain about…in a few minutes they would learn their place again.
“Squadron 117, this is central command. You are cleared to begin your attack.”
“Alright, people. We’re going in.” He pushed forward on the throttle, guiding the heavy gunship forward. The large aircraft zipped over the waves, and angled around the ghostly towers, streaking northward. Marston could see the surging masses camped just south of the southern wall of the Zone. They were milling around, but there were small groups making runs at the Wall and taking potshots at the police manning the defenses.
“All weapons armed, Captain. The squadron reports ready for action.” Sergeant Sanger was the chief gunner on Marston’s bird, a job that came with the task of monitoring the status of the other ships of the squadron. Sanger’s voice was strange, tense, angry…but Marston was too focused on the mob of Cogs to notice.
The ship whipped around the financial district towers, flying over the Crater and swinging around 180 degrees to set up the east to west attack run. The crew felt the g forces as the craft swung around over the East River and began descending rapidly.
“Commence firing…all ships.” Marston’s voice was anxious, excited. He hated the Cogs, and resented their willingness to rise up against their betters. Now they were going to get their lesson.
He flew the gunship just above the mob, but the fire from the squadron was sporadic…and nothing at all from his own craft. “I said commence fire, Sergeant!” His tone was sharp and angry.
He heard the quad autocannons open up, spraying the mob with 4,000 rounds per second. On the ground, the helpless Cogs died in their thousands, bodies torn to shreds by the heavy 20mm rounds. The crowd panicked, a million terrified Cogs running in every direction, fleeing the death raining down from above.
Marston smiled as he brought the gunship around for another run. He repositioned, lining up the run over the densest group. “Fire!” he screamed. Nothing. “Fire,” Marston repeated. Still nothing. He turned around and opened his mouth to yell again when he froze. Sanger was staring right at him, a pistol in his extended hand.
“No, sir.” Sanger was in tears. “We’re not going to massacre any more of these people.”
“Sergeant, you will put that gun away at once and follow my orders.”
“No, Captain…I won’t.” Sanger stared back at the enraged officer. His hand was shaking, but he didn’t back down. “We’re not murdering anymore people.” Marston was from the Political Class, but his crew were all Cogs.
Marston looked at the other two crew members. “Arrest the sergeant immediately.” No one moved.
“I order you to arrest Sergeant Sanger! Corporal Fring! Corporal Javin!” Marston was apoplectic with rage, but the two crewman just sat at their stations.
Marston felt the rage boiling over. He lunged from his chair toward Sanger, reaching for the pistol. The sergeant stared right into his eyes and fired twice, both shots slamming into his chest. The stunned captain fell back against the controls, blood pouring from the two wounds.
He reached his hand out behind him, vainly struggling to grab the controls, but he had no strength. The ship spiraled out of control and slammed into the ground, erupting into a large fireball.
The crowd cheered as the gunship came down, thousands running toward the crash site. Thousands more stood transfixed, looking up into t
he sky as each of the gunships in turn spiraled out of control, their Cog crews following Sanger’s example and killing or disabling their Political Class officers.
Two of the crews managed to take the controls and bring their craft down safely. The other ten crashed hard…and as each one slammed into the ground the mob howled with feral satisfaction.
Chapter 28
North of Astria
Planet Armstrong
Gamma Pavonis II
“General Holm…it really is you.” Cain couldn’t keep the emotion out of his voice. “It’s so good to see you.” He jogged the last few meters toward the Commandant. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here, sir.”
Cain felt like he’d been punched in the gut when the scanners picked up landers coming in a full day ahead of projections. His people were still pushing the enemy back toward the Graywater, and they needed every second of that day to have any chance to face a new invasion force. Then, he got the report he couldn’t believe. The troops coming down were Alliance Marines, not Shadow Legions. And the biggest shock of all…General Holm was in command.
“It’s good to see you too, Erik.” Holm could hear the exhaustion in Cain’s voice, the hopelessness. No one except Sarah Linden knew Erik Cain as well as Holm. “From what I’m hearing, Armstrong is going to occupy a place of honor in your battle history.” He paused. “Seriously, Erik…you’ve done a tremendous job here.”
Cain looked down at the ground. “Another bloodbath…that much, at least, fits my profile.” He sighed and glanced back up a t Holm. “But how did you get here, sir? We had a report of enemy transports inbound.”
Holm was going to respond to the bloodbath remark, but he caught himself. He’d known Cain long enough to realize there was no way to change his point of view. Erik would blame himself for the losses while resisting any credit for holding out against overwhelming enemy forces. It was just how he was wired.
“We came in from Kruger-60…a lot closer to the planet than the enemy’s entry point. Camille Harmon is fighting the enemy fleet as we speak, and we made a run with the transports to get here as quickly as we could.”
“Well, I still can’t believe it is you, General.” Cain’s voice was a mix of confusion and relief. “But I’m sure glad you’re here.”
“It looks like you already got some help.” Holm had been surprised to find Janissaries fighting on Armstrong. “How did that happen?”
“Long story, sir. The short version is, the Caliphate tried to execute most of its top field commanders on jacked up treason charges. Ali Khaled and Admiral Abbas took the fleet and the Janissary corps renegade and fled Caliphate space.” Cain’s voice was matter-of-fact, despite the bizarre nature of the story. “Apparently, they spent a considerable time trying to find Admiral Garret and, when they were unable to locate him, they decided to intervene on one of the worlds where we were fighting.” He paused and allowed himself a tiny smile. “I believe they came to Armstrong instead of Arcadia or Columbia by sheer luck, sir. Perhaps the Caliphate version of a coin toss.”
“Well, it looks like they got here just in time, Erik.”
Cain let out a long breath. “That is an understatement, sir. The Janissaries really saved us. It was a miracle.” He turned his head, looking off to the south. “We’d all be dead by now if they hadn’t come…” – his voice became grimmer – “…and they’re still bearing the brunt of the battle as we speak. My people are worn down to their last strength.”
“Well, Erik, I’ve got Cate Gilson and 5,000 Marine veterans with me.” Holm offered Cain a smile. “So let’s get them into the fight before Khaled and his boys finish things without us.”
“Everyone is exhausted and low on supplies, Commander Bayram.” Farooq’s voice was raw, harsh. They had the enemy on the run, but if they gave the Shadow forces any respite at all, Farooq knew they’d slip across the Graywater and reform. That would prolong the battle indefinitely. “Do not trouble me with excuses. You are to attack again. Immediately. And again, if necessary, but you are not to stop until you reach the river.” Farooq was crouched behind one of the massive trees. He’d moved too far forward, as he often did, and the enemy fire was heavy. “If you feel that you are incapable of executing my commands, tell me now so I can replace you with someone who knows how to follow orders. Do you understand me?” Farooq knew they had a chance to end the Armstrong bloodbath if they pushed hard enough, and he wasn’t about to let lackluster commanders throw the opportunity away.
“Yes,” came the sullen reply. “I understand, sir.” Bayram was not Farooq’s favorite officer, not by a longshot. He considered the orta commander to be lazy and a poor example for his men. Bayram wasn’t exactly a coward; not even Farooq would say he was. But he was insufficiently audacious by Farooq’s fanatical standards. He shrunk from challenges and lacked the aggressiveness of his more capable peers. He preferred simpler, safer strategies, and he never understood the time and place for bold action.
“Then see to your duties, Commander.” Farooq cut the line. His eyes moved to the tactical display projected inside his visor. His forces were less than 2 kilometers from the river on the left of the line, and General Merrick’s command on the extreme right was even closer. In another few minutes, the enemy would be penned in…pressed up against the river with no alternate escape route. Then it would be time for the final push.
The opportunity would be extraordinary but also brief. The enemy infantry was fully armored, and they could cross the Graywater submerged if they had to, making their way slowly across the bottom to the south bank. But their retreat would be delayed by the crossing…and the Marines and Janissaries would have a chance to hit them hard while they were disordered and backed up on the riverbank.
Farooq flipped his com to the general frequency. “Attention all units.” He spoke Arabic, but the Marines under his command heard perfect English, courtesy of their AIs. “We have driven the enemy back over a hundred kilometers from our last ditch defense line…through the streets of Astria…from one end to another of the Sentinel.” His volume was rising slowly as he spoke. “Now we find ourselves at the moment of truth. The enemy is trapped against the river, exposed to our attack.”
He pulled his rifle out of the harness as he spoke, sliding a clip into the magazine and prepping the weapon for action. He was about to order the final attack, and one thing was absolutely certain. He was going in with the troops.
“The time is now. Now. We either give all we have to the battle, or we watch our enemy, so closely pursued, so hard fought, slip away across the river. It is up to us, my soldiers. We attack the enemy now…or we watch them regroup and reform. Then this battle will go on for months, and thousands more of our comrades will die.”
Farooq felt the tension in his legs, the impulse to lurch forward and run into battle. “Marines and Janissaries…the plan is simple. Attack! Throw yourselves at the enemy! Drive them into the river! And don’t stop until the war on Armstrong is won!”
Farooq thrust himself forward, running through the thinning trees and into the band of open plain between the forest and the river…the ground Erin McDaniels’ Obliterators had consecrated with their blood weeks before, when the battle on Armstrong was young.
“Attack. Janissaries…Marines…attack! Follow me!”
“The battle here is lost, General.” Stark was staring at Rafael Samuels, his eyes as cold and deep as space itself. “It would appear that the Alliance naval forces in the system have driven Admiral Liang away…along with our reinforcements.”
Samuels stared back, expending every ounce of courage he could muster to meet Stark’s withering gaze. “We still have considerable forces under arms.” He was reaching, and he knew it. There was, indeed, a large body of troops still in the field, but they were scattered and disorganized. They had lost three-fourths of their number, and the survivors were broken. None of Samuels’ units remained combat effective, and there was no chance the Marines and Janissaries were going to all
ow them time to regroup.
“No, General. There is no time.” Stark’s voice was calm, not at all what Samuels had been expecting. “The battle is lost, and if we do not act immediately, the survivors will be captured.”
Samuels understood immediately. He’d reluctantly followed the directive to terminate the badly wounded, though as he saw the troops continue to fight so steadfastly and obediently, he regretted the policy. They deserved better. But now Stark was talking about murdering 15,000 of his soldiers…survivors of one of the toughest battles ever fought. “Sir…”
Stark’s eyes bored into Samuels’ like lasers. “Do you have a way to get them off-planet, General?” He paused, continuing when Samuels didn’t respond. “So what do we do then? Allow them to be captured and studied by the enemy? Do you wish to face another clone army? Do you want the enemy to discover weaknesses in the Shadow troops and use them against us? Do you want the enemy to figure out how to undo our conditioning?” He paused then added, “Do you think the people we are fighting are stupid, General? Do you think they will fail to exploit opportunities that we give them?”
Samuels stood stone-still, staring back wordlessly at Stark. The spymaster’s logic was flawless, his justifications for massacring his own soldiers utterly logical. But there was more to consider than just simple facts. Those men had earned better treatment. They had fought bravely, and almost 3 out of 4 had been left behind, dead on the field.
“No answers. Just as I expected.” Stark’s voice was still calm, but there was a hint of disgust there now. “As with all who make their decisions based on arbitrary morality and emotion, you cannot respond with facts.” Stark paused for perhaps ten seconds. “So, General, if you have nothing of substance to offer to the discussion, kindly give the order.”