by Jay Allan
Holm felt a rush of adrenalin, his battle instincts kicking in. But he knew he was trapped, and fighting now would be futile. His mind raced, rapidly analyzing the possibilities. He decided to play along; maybe there’d be an opportunity later. He stood still and unthreatening, motioning for his aides to do the same.
The gunmen wore generic gray jumpsuits with no insignia and helmets with visors down. The apparent leader walked up to Holm, his hand slowly moving to his helmet, raising the dark visor to reveal his face.
“So, we’ve captured the famous General Elias Holm!” He turned and ran his eyes around the room before pulling off his helmet and looking right at the general. “The special action teams at your service, sir.”
Holm looked like he’d seen a ghost, but the shock lasted for just a moment, before his stunned expression gave way to a broad smile. “Erik! What are you doing here?”
Cain smiled back, letting some of his tension drain away. Not all of it – they still had to get off the station and out of the system. But at least they’d gotten to Holm first - he hadn’t been at all sure they’d get here in time. And if they hadn’t gotten here first, he didn’t think they had much chance of pulling off another rescue mission into Alliance Intelligence HQ.
“We’re here for you, sir.” Cain was gesturing to his troopers as he spoke, directing them to cover the doorway. “I have a lot to tell you, but I think you trust me by now, so I suggest we get out of here first.”
Holm could feel the tension from Cain, and he could only imagine the issues they were facing. “Yes, I suppose I trust you by now.” He smiled, mildly sarcastic. “A little.”
Cain smiled. “Come on, sir.” He gestured toward the door. “We need to get to our ship. It’s not far.”
“We can take my shuttle, Erik.” Holm pointed over his back, toward the closed hatch. “Your crew will all fit.”
“No, sir.” Cain was already moving toward the door, weapon at the ready. “We’ve got something fast waiting. Really fast.” He glanced back at Holm. “We may need to outrun whatever they send after us.”
Holm just nodded. Erik Cain knew what he was doing. He took his pistol out of the holster and held it at the ready, and he followed Cain out into the corridor.
“We have some work to do, sir.” Cain spoke softly as he made his way down the hallway cautiously. “We have to rally the Corps.”
Chapter 27
Coastline North of Weston
Columbia - Eta Cassiopeiae II
The orange sun was setting slowly over the rocky coastline, soft light rippling off the gentle waves. Night was coming, but the noisy activity continued unabated, as it had for a week now. Transports arrived day and night from Weston, bringing the equipment of war to the invasion force. The operation had been plagued by difficulties from the beginning – logistical problems, poor organization, and constant raids by the rebels. The invasion date had been pushed back twice, and Cooper had ordered that it would not be changed a third time.
The Columbian seas were a treasure trove of valuable resources, and a large fleet of submersibles explored those oceans and harvested the most valuable materials. Early in the war Marek had ordered this armada pressed into service and armed. Now, the waters around the main rebel stronghold on Carlisle Island were patrolled around the clock. The fleet had also allowed the rebels to insert strike teams anywhere along the coast, something they had been doing with great effect since the beginning of the rebellion.
After Jax’s raid took out the atmospheric fighters, the federals deployed a large force to hunt down his team. Outnumbered 20-1 by the forces pursuing him, Jax kept on the move and continued his hit and run campaign, taking out one target after another and slipping away before the enemy could trap his small group. Finally, hemmed in and worn down by losses, he’d had no choice but to withdraw to Carlisle Island, joining the rebels for the final defense of their stronghold.
Jax’s disruptive tactics had delayed the federals for months, buying the rebels a bit more time, but the hard fact was they were losing. The rebellion on Columbia had gone fairly well at first, but the federals had poured in troops and equipment until they overwhelmed the Columbians. Slowly, steadily, the entire planet had been pacified…all except Carlisle Island.
The Martians had made a second supply drop, which included some heavy weapons as well as desperately needed ammunition. Jax had managed to transmit coordinates, and the Martians were able to land most of the supplies on Carlisle Island or in the nearby waters.
The rebels had known there was some type of expeditionary force giving the federals fits, but when Jax set foot on Carlisle, Marek looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He and Anton had served under Jax on Carson’s World during the climactic battle on the Lysandra Plateau. His shock was only increased when he saw Sarah step out of the ATV right after the giant colonel. Marek and Jax had been badly wounded on Carson’s World, and Sarah Linden had saved them both. It was a surreal reunion, but a joyful one.
The arrival of Jax and his veterans gave the Carlisle Island defenders a much needed morale boost. They had been trapped on the island for months now, unable to even continue raiding the vastly superior federal forces. Arlen Cooper had pacified most of the planet, inflicting severe punishments on areas that had supported the rebellion and imprisoning thousands in his concentration camps. The remnants of the rebel army bristled at the inaction, but they lacked the strength to do anything. Even with Jax’s troops and supplies, there was little they could do but wait for the final assault…and make the federals pay a price when they came.
“Tonight.” Jill Winton’s voice was cold, dripping with venomous hate. “We move tonight.” Like everyone in the camp, she was filthy and malnourished, her hair crusted with mud, tattered clothes hanging loosely on her emaciated frame. But she had found sustenance in her hatred of the federals, and it kept her going…it kept her warm.
“It’s too soon, Jill.” Tyler Hanson spoke softly, tentatively. Since Jill had formed the resistance cell in the camp she’d become driven and merciless. Few of her people had the guts to question her, but Hanson worked up the courage to speak. “We’re not ready.”
She looked at him, her eyes blazing. “There is no more time.” She stared at him with such intensity he wilted under the withering gaze. “We do it tonight.”
They’d been planning this for months, building up their numbers, hiding what bits and pieces of scrap they could use as weapons. Waiting could accomplish nothing; it could only get them caught. They will sit and plan forever, she thought with disgust. But it is time for action.
Tonight the camp would rise. Tonight they would kill the guards, with bare hands if need be. No longer would they huddle together like sheep, waiting to be selected for execution or die from the exposure and mistreatment. Now they would extract the price in blood for all those who had suffered and died.
She knew Tyler and the others were worried, concerned about how many people would die. But that wasn’t a consideration for Jill. She knew things would be bloody, but hurting the federals was all that mattered to her. They were a disease, an infestation…and she would do anything in her power to destroy them. Anything.
The federals had gone too far, they had left these people nothing. Not hope, not even self-delusion. They were virtually dead men and women already, half-starved, stripped of all dignity, suffering an existence that had no value. What did it matter if they died under the guns? They had nothing left to lose, and vengeance to gain.
Yes, they would strike.
The guns were lined up along the coast, all the heavy artillery batteries from the Alliance army divisions. Cooper had lost his atmospheric fighters to that cursed Jax and his raiders. They had been thorough too, blowing every one of the planes to bits. Even worse, he couldn’t get more…he couldn’t get anything. That traitor Compton had not only refused him support, he and his treacherous fleet had blockaded Columbia, cutting off Cooper’s supplies and reinforcements.
The artillery hadn’
t been much use yet; it was heavy and too immobile for the type of war they had fought. But the rebel seagoing fleet controlled the 16 kilometers of open water between the mainland and Carlisle Island, and without his fighters to engage the enemy submersibles, the job had fallen to the gunners.
The guns had opened up before dawn, bombarding the southern coast of Carlisle, targeting the rebel rocket launchers and defenses. Most of the emplacements were heavily fortified, but the constant shelling sapped morale and scored an occasional hit.
The first transports left four hours later, carrying the initial wave of assault troops. They would suffer heavily, this first group, but the rebel submersibles and rocket batteries would give up their positions when they fired, and when they did the artillery would make them pay.
The hovercraft glided in swiftly, just over the waves. The submersibles were waiting to intercept them, and they began to surface, firing rocket barrages at the incoming formations. The rebel vessels had not been built as warships; they were hastily-armed civilian craft. They had to surface to fire, and when they did they became easy targets for the big guns. Their crews weren’t experienced military, but they were well aware of the risks. They were a forlorn hope, there to pick away at the enemy, to damage them enough to give their friends and comrades a chance, however fleeting, to hold the last stronghold of the rebellion.
Kevin Clarkson stood in the small control room of his submersible. He’d inherited The Blue Lady from his father, who had named her for Kevin’s mother. Ellen Clarkson was still alive, and she still wore blue almost every day, though she could never have imagined her namesake vessel would one day go to war. The ship had provided two generations of the family with a very comfortable living. The work was hard, and it could be dangerous as well, but it was lucrative.
Now, Blue Lady was the flagship of a small fleet, and Clarkson was the commander of that fleet. All the ships had been modified, the specialized equipment they used to scour the seas for resources torn out, replaced by whatever weapons systems could be improvised.
The hovercraft were sitting ducks at this range, and the massive rocket barrage took down more than half. A few were direct hits that blew the hulking transports apart, showering burning wreckage across the churning waves. But the rockets weren’t precision weapons, and most of the hits were glancing or peripheral impacts that disabled a craft, causing it to spiral down and crash into the water.
The elation of the submersible crews was short-lived. The surviving transports painted the now-surfaced ships with laser sights, relaying the targeting data back to the artillery batteries. In less than 30 seconds there were heavy shells landing all around the submersibles. Clarkson ordered the fleet to dive, but they had to retract the rocket launchers before they could submerge. Blue Lady made it, though she suffered significant damage before she did. More than half the ships were less lucky, some blown apart by direct hits, others crippled by damage from nearby explosions. Only three remained fully operational. The invasion force had paid a price, but now the sea route to Carlisle was clear.
Jax took cover in a cavern along the rocky cliffs on the southern Carlisle coast. The shelling was relentless, the heavy explosive rounds impacting all around. The south cliffs were too difficult for the invasion force to navigate – they’d go around and hit the eastern or western beaches. But the rocky heights offered the best vantage points for the rebel missile launchers…the last line of defense before the invaders set foot on the island. The rebels needed to take out as many troop transports as they could, but the federal artillery was making that difficult.
Jax and Dave Sawyer had come over to direct the missile launchers personally. They moved over some of their experienced heavy weapons crews to replace Marek’s less seasoned teams. They had to make the first shots count…the incoming artillery fire was only going to get worse when they gave up their own positions by launching.
“These damned things are too heavy. They take forever to move.” Jax was frustrated. Normally he’d have his crews fire once, maybe twice, then pack up and move to a secondary position. Of course, typically his troops would be suited up and have no problem throwing 500-kilo rocket launchers over their soldiers. That was a harder proposition using only the flesh and blood muscles they were born with. He’d doubled the crew sizes, assigning two of Marek’s people to two of his veterans. That would let them move the things, but it would still be slow going, taking vital firepower offline while they hoisted the bulky launchers over the steep rocky ground. There was no way to move after every shot or two, not while maintaining the volume of fire they needed. Jax had to compromise, and he ordered each launcher to take five shots and then bug out. It was better than remaining stationary, but five shots was more than enough time for the artillery to target a position and blast it. He was afraid his rocket crews had some hard duty ahead.
“They’re a bitch, sir.” Sawyer was fairly plainspoken. “But I think you’re right about moving them after five shots. It will cut down firepower, but if we leave them stationary they’ll all be knocked out in twenty minutes.”
Jax looked down at his foot as he kicked a pile of small stones. “We need a rotation though. I don’t want every launcher relocating at the same time.”
“We can have half the launchers hold fire until the other half move.” Sawyer looked up at Jax, squinting and putting his hand to his forehead. The early morning sun was rising bright just behind the colonel’s head. “But that will cut our initial output. They’ll get transports through, no question.”
“Dave, they’re getting transports through no matter what we do.” Jax moved to the side, turning so his companion could look at him without staring into the sun. “We just need to wear them down as much as possible.” He looked out over the sea as he spoke. He didn’t have any reports on losses to the fleet, but he knew the fragile submersibles most likely suffered heavily. They shattered the federal first wave, though…so badly that Jax and Marek agreed to withhold fire from the missile launchers as the survivors approached the island. The plan was to stay in cover and hit the transports of the second wave with everything they had. If all went well, the first wave troops would be overwhelmed on the ground before they were reinforced.
“Troop transports incoming.” Sawyer turned instinctively to look out over the ocean, though he knew the approaching craft wouldn’t be visible yet. “At least a few of the submersibles survived…I’m getting reports from three different ships.”
“Ok, let’s make this count.” Jax reached out and put his hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “This is your show, Dave. You’re in charge here. Marek and I agree.” Sawyer had been a heavy weapons man for years in the Corps before he got bumped up to platoon sergeant. He had a lot more experience with this sort of thing than Jax…and certainly than any of Marek’s people.
“Yes, sir.” Sawyer turned to face Jax, but only for a second. Then his head snapped back to the sea, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
Jax smiled. “I know you will.” Time for me to leave, Jax thought, and show him he really is in charge. “I’m going to the north command post. I need regular reports.” He started walking slowly down the gravel path.
“Yes, sir.” Sawyer’s voice was distant, distracted. He was already planning his attack. “Attention heavy weapons teams. This is Sawyer. Odd numbered teams will fire on my command. Even numbers are to remain inactive. Repeat, evens, do nothing to give away your position until the odds have fired five rounds.”
He got a rapid series of acknowledgements. “Odds, shout out your targets as you fire. I don’t want everybody shooting at the same transports.” Sawyer was used to sophisticated AI-assisted targeting systems. If this had been a Marine op, they’d have the AI feeding each team its assigned targets based on range and trajectory. But the rebels didn’t have that kind of equipment. Even the launchers themselves were old out-of-date units, probably bought surplus for the Columbia militia. They needed visual sighting to get a lock, which meant they’
d only get a few shots at each craft as it flew by.
Sawyer could see a slight glint in the sky…then another. “Here they come.” He shouted the warning into the comlink, but it wasn’t necessary. His veteran crews were already firing.
“Sam, get outside.” Sarah’s voice was calm and cool, though most of the people around her were panicking. “Now. There are more barges coming in. I need you on triage.” The hospital was full of wounded, and it was just getting worse. The fighting was heavy across the island, and wounded were pouring in.
“I’m on it, Sarah.” Samantha Jordan was just as steady. The two were veterans of the Carson’s World campaign, which was as close to a living nightmare as either of them was likely to come. Sarah Linden’s field hospital had worked miracles despite being overrun with wounded. As crazy as things were here, they were nothing like Carson’s World. At least not yet.
Sarah’s white suit was soaked in blood, her arms wrist deep inside a patient as she barked out orders. As usual, she thought…though at least we don’t have to cut them out of their wrecked armor with plasma torches this time. They were short on supplies, though, and it was approaching the critical point.
She was frustrated. They were going to lose a lot of people here…people she could save with the right equipment and supplies. But she had no critical care units, no evac, no backup, no resupply. It was the waste of it all that got to her. She knew the reasons for this fight; she even agreed with them. She knew soldiers too. Her friends, her lover, everyone important to her…they were all combat Marines. She was a Marine too. She understood the reasons they fought. But every time she found herself neck deep in bleeding, broken bodies all she could see was the horrific, stupid waste of it all.