The fall of Union (Rise of the Union Book 1)

by Niall McGrath

  He firmly believed luck was a finite resource...he just hoped he had a little left in his back pocket before his did.

  XII / Senate plaza

  Ryder, followed by Bravo Company, burst from side streets into the plaza with no warning, guns blazing and voices raised sprinting into the throat of hell itself.

  Forces had surrounded the decorative walls of the senate and were lobbing explosives towards the last defenders, explosions of green fire swirling in the midst of the defending troops and swallowing sections of the wall.

  He raised his rifle and snapped off a shot at the closest unit to them, his visor’s built in magnification letting him track the shot as it caught a Shark below the knee as it made to climb through the debris and over the senate walls. Lucky shot.

  He waved the company with him, urging them forwards into grounds that 24 hours earlier had been a meticulously maintained garden, with trees lined up guiding sheltered paths from pond to pond.

  The blasted remains of trunks were the only sign the trees had ever been there. To the north, fires continued to rage with the after effects of the orbital strike, a strike designed to cripple the city's infrastructure & industry.

  He followed as the company charged down a slight hill towards their enemy firing as they went. Several of the wounded soldiers were there, adrenaline pumping, fury at the day's events not letting them sit back and miss the fight.

  Grenades launched from specialists in the company, landing with dull booms amongst the Sharks. There had to be at least three or four thousand of them covering the Plaza. Hundreds of bodies lay still on the ground, Shark and Human alike, blood mixing with the muddy earth.

  As Ryder advanced behind his company's LAV’s he could see small splashes of crimson threaded through the attackers - the soldiers he was sure were elite forces. It looked like they were directing the attack.

  The LAV nearest to him let loose with it’s assault cannon, unleashing a torrent of brilliant white fire on the Sharks pushing the nearest gatehouse of the senate building and tearing them to ribbons.

  As he ran towards the remains of a nearby tree, the LAV he’d been standing beside was blown into the air, a bright white line connecting it to a small knot of enemy soldiers for a microsecond. Some kind of directed energy weapon, he figured, but a microsecond was all it needed to cut apart the LAV.

  He slid into the shade of the trunk feet first and wrapped his arms over his head as red-hot shrapnel shot past him, a piece embedding itself in the trunk inches from his head. A fine mist had started to fall from the skies, carrying ash and dirt and marking uncovered faces and armor with streaks of grey.

  Looking up with his rifle ready, he could see two dozen dull, boxy vehicles on articulated legs standing behind the attacking force. Aircraft most likely - they appeared to have four large engine pods, two on each side glowing with a dull green light. They were big - bigger than comparable vehicles in Union forces.

  Pack them in like sardines and you’d fit 300-400 troops, he considered, before looking back at the senate building. This is the end game. They’re at the walls and they’re looking to decapitate the Union’s leadership.

  Scanning the area, he spotted some of the attackers dragging supplies up from their ships and closer to the senate building - ammo, maybe explosives. Prime target. Rising to one knee, he took aim at the closest soldier with crimson markings directing the effort and fired, but all he achieved was taking the corner off a large crate about two yards away from his target.

  As he sighted another shot, flickers of electrical discharge spat out from the stacked crates he’d hit and a swirling globe of green tinged fire burst outwards at least fifty foot wide, engulfing the nearest troops and blowing those not caught in the fire clean off their feet.

  When the flames cleared, there was no sign of the crimson marked soldier - or the crates that had been sitting out.

  “Specialist!” He yelled, waving over a neighby trooper with a grenade launcher. “Crates, high explosives, now!” He pointed towards the supplies being dragged over by the enemy soldiers. The specialist saluted and began lobbing high explosive grenades towards the stack of crates, the dull rumble of the explosions mingling with the general noise and confusion of the battle.

  A chain of bright green explosions followed in the wake of the grenades cooking off, hundreds of Sharks dying as their own explosives went off and green fire flowed outward, drowning them in incandescent cascades of heat & light.

  His jaw dropped in awe - massive gaps had opened in the enemy's lines, their numbers diminished. The specialist with the grenade launcher flashed him a brief grin and gave him a thumbs up.

  Bravo company cheered as one, spirits renewed at the damage they had wrought and began to pick their targets, their fire finally beginning to have some effect as they kept up the pressure on the Sharks.

  Waving the company forward, he sprinted towards a keep crater further ahead and checked the squads range markers in his visor - they were keeping their formations tight and advancing by squad, cover fire reaching out at the Sharks in front of them. Bernard would have been proud of them.

  “Your 10 o’clock Sir!” came a shout from behind. Ryder looked to his left and winced.

  A line of the Shark’s special troops had formed 200 meters away and were marching in their direction, 50 abreast and 4 deep with weapons raised, their charcoal grey armour indistinct in the murky haze of the battlefield and bold crimson sigils proudly displayed on every chest.

  “Bravo company, take down those arseholes in the grey and red!” he yelled, and as one the remains of the entire company opened up with every weapon they had at the advancing line of soldiers. His railgun added it’s own high-pitched snap to the rolling wave of noise his company was hurling towards the attacking force.

  The attackers walked straight through their defensive fire without flinching, returning shots of their own, precise and economical.

  In a flash of understanding, the answer to a question he hadn’t even vocalised came to him - they’re like medieval knights. They aren’t elite troops at all. They’re behaving like a feudal army! No wonder we had so little bother taking down their force on the highway, he thought, they probably weren’t even trained soldiers.

  The troops around him began to fall, one by one. Gaps began to open in the enemy's line as they advanced but they didn’t slow. They weren’t immune at least, as he watched a small number of attackers stumbling and falling.

  It wasn’t enough, he thought, they’re too tough and there are too many of them.

  XIII / The endgame

  “Grenades!” he yelled in desperation, maybe 50 yards left between the two forces. Pulling one of the small red grenades from his combat webbing, he pulled the arming pin and threw the grenade overarm at the Shark closest to him.

  The blast sent it sprawling, but it rolled back up into a fighting crouch, eyes locked on him. He noticed a gold icon over the hand on it’s chest and a dull red cloak clasped to its shoulder - rank of some sort, maybe. Had he just lobbed a grenade at an enemy officer? He sure as hell hoped so.

  With a piercing cry boosted through built in speakers in their armor, the Sharks broke rank and sprinted straight at Bravo company over the broken ground, clumps of mud kicking up behind them as they bounced towards them.

  He heard a ragged cheer go up from off to his left but before he could worry, he was toe to toe with an armored figure, it’s eyes level with his own unlike their foes in their first skirmish on the highway.

  He drew his combat knife and lunged in swinging overarm, catching it a glancing blow on the shoulder but his knife screeched along the armor plates and slid off without breaking through. The figure backhanded him, knocking him clear off his feet.

  He rolled sideways to avoid a swinging foot, working his jaw which ached from the force of the strike - a strike that was far harder than he’d expected. As he made it to one knee and started to rise, the attacker kicked out again but this time he was ready, catching its a
nkle in his hands and twisting sharply.

  He was rewarded with a sharp snap and a cry of pain before he dragged the soldier to the ground and jammed his knife between the two armored plates on it’s chest and twisted. The soldier went limp.

  He drew his sidearm and rose back to his feet - his company was suffering, at least ten were down for an equal number of enemies, and more soldiers - not elites, thank christ - were charging towards them.

  Turning, he found himself toe to toe with the enemy officer. He took a step back and raised his pistol but his foe didn’t flinch. It reached up and unclasped it’s helmet - he realised in a direct challenge to him.

  Blood red eyes flickered as it’s mouth opened wide. Rows of large triangular teeth dominated and the rigid nostrils in its wide, flat nose flared in what he thought might have been anger.

  “Well, you’re a right ugly bastard, so you are.” he said, raising his voice over the din of battle, hoping for some sort of response. The melee continued to swirl around them unabated, bullets whining past and fingers of white light staining his vision.

  It tilted its head sideways and its nostrils flared. “SODAN!” it roared, it’s voice deep and as rough as its skin. “SODAN!” it roared again, beating it’s chest with one hand.

  “Am I supposed to understand that, arsehole?” He replied, grinning at it, the mud and dust on his face rendering his expression demonic. “If that’s your name, I’ll be sure to tell everyone who I killed.”

  It tossed its gun onto the ground and drew a dark blade with a blueish sheen, yelling again. “SODAN!” It pointed at him with the knife, raising it towards him, intention clear. Knives it was. He holstered his own sidearm and gripped his knife overhand, knuckles white, his heart beating rapidly in his chest in anticipation.

  They lept at each other, weapons flashing. A thrust towards his opponent's heart blocked - did they even have a heart there? - and an elbow to the temple in return. He spun to the side by instinct and the dark bladed knife held in an iron grip whistled past his ear. Grabbing Sodan’s wrist, he rolled his foe over his hip and into the ground, following it down with his knee.

  Sodan rolled and his dropping knee missed its target. Ryder lunged from a crouch, his knife pointed towards his opponent's groin but Sodan had seen the move coming and swept a leg out, connecting hard with his wrist and following through with an overhand punch. His knife tumbled out of reach and he was knocked flat onto his chest.

  Sodan’s eyes narrowed and nostrils flared as Ryder raised himself up on his elbows, head swimming - was that a smile? It didn’t matter now. Stepping towards Ryder, Sodan spun his blade in his hand as Ryder stared upwards at him, frozen.

  “Well, fuck this.” Said Ryder, his indecision vanishing as he pulled out his pistol and fired in one smooth motion. His shot took Sodan through a gap in the armour around his left knee. Sodan fell, bellowing out in pain.

  Climbing to his feet and walking over to his fallen opponent, he aimed the pistol straight between Sodan’s eyes. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but let me make one goddamn thing clear - this is for Union City.”

  His finger squeezed the trigger.

  XIV / An escape

  A dry metallic click echoed from his pistol. “Shit!” he exclaimed, fumbling for a fresh magazine in his belt. Closing his hand on one, he began to fit it into his pistol when a weight smashed into him from the side and sent him tumbling away from Sodan.

  Another elite had tackled him from the side. Grimacing as it tried to pin his arms, he headbutted it between the eyes and sent it reeling back in pain before he put a single bullet between its eyes.

  As he threw the body off, he turned to look towards Sodan. Several elites had ran over, picking him up him under the arms and dragging him backwards. Sodan roared at him wordlessly, the noise punctuated by a series of clicks and rasps - their language, Ryder presumed - as the distance began to open between them.

  Still on one knee, he raised his pistol and aimed it towards the screaming figure of the enemy officer but his visor radio crackled to life and the distraction cost him his chance, Sodan disappearing between his own lines and other soldiers blocking Ryder’s view.

  “Lieutenant, this is Jansen. Do you copy?” crackled the radio in his ear.

  “Copy, Jansen. Where the hell are you?” he replied, snapping off shots with his pistol and forcing the soldiers facing him to keep their distance.

  “Look to their ships, sir” came the curt reply.

  As Ryder looked east, five of the slab sided airships were consumed in flames, tilting to one side and crashing down in a cloud of smoke. “Was that you?” asked Ryder, letting out an appreciative whistle. The enemy in front of him were stunned, heads snapping round to look behind them.

  “Yes sir, demo charges. We’re in position in the hotel lobby just north of the east entrance to the plaza. Opening fire.”

  As Ryder watched, fire began to spit into the rear of the enemy troops, throwing their attacking line into disarray. Looking around, he could see around thirty of his own men still standing - half the company he’d started with.

  More gunfire lanced out into the plaza 200 meters from his right - Oscar Company had arrived, and just in time. Trails of smoke hung in the air from missiles launched by Oscar, their confused and surrounded enemy falling back towards the remaining aircraft in good order and leaving a trail of broken and bleeding bodies.

  Punching the air, he let out a whoop of joy and shouldered his railgun, firing again and again with a rapid snap snap snap into the retreating troops. Hundreds of soldiers poured out of the senate building and began to advance in support of Ryder and Oscar company.

  More fire arced from his left into the retreating troops - Echo Company had arrived in the middle of the melee and he hadn’t even noticed. Looking around, he realised there were over 100 elites lying dead at their feet, many blasted apart by close range gunfire - Echo Company had saved their backsides.

  Their forces surged across the muddy battlefield,outnumbered by enemy forces but with momentum on their side - and recent experience had shown that only the enemies elite forces could stand up to them in a fight. Lesser enemy soldiers were beginning to break and flee despite vocal - and violent - attempts made by the elites to turn them back to the fight.

  As the retreating enemy force made it back to the ships and began to pile on, he linked his scope to his visor and could see Sodan, being dragged away and struggling to get back into the fight. So, he’d made it. That kill would have made him famous.

  “Wish I’d gotten a clean shot at him,” Ryder said to himself, “might have been a bit dirty but damned if I’m going to sit still and let someone stab me to death.” He watched Sodan being dragged up one of the aircraft ramps. Ryder knew he was outmatched in the fight, but at least he’d survived - he’d even won, if dishonourably.

  Pillars of red fire blasted rings of dust and debris into the air as the aircraft's engines kicked into life and they began to rise. Looking up, several aircraft he didn’t recognise were circling, guarding the rising transports as they rose.

  Ryder sank to his knees, removing his helmet and took in a deep lungful of air and around him Bravo Company paused and lowered weapons. They had been battered, bruised and bloody but they were still standing.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Looking round, he saw an officer walking towards him, his own helmet removed and grey hair slicked back and shaved on one side. “Sir.” He said, saluting.

  “Captain Ramos, Echo Company. I see we made it here just in time - and so did you.” Said Ramos with a strong accent. Spanish, Ryder suspected, though Ramos had taken an injury and his regional patch was covered in a bloody bandage.

  “Sir. We were able to pull troops from their assault just in time. Close goddamn thing too so it was.”

  “It was good enough to stop them breaking into the senate building. From what I’m told, the President of the Union and majority of the cabinet are still in there. Enough chit-chat, I’m s
ending echo out on the field to round up any survivors. Since you’re acting CO of Bravo Company, get your company together and get over to the senate building and wait for further orders.”

  “Sir.” Ryder replied, saluting again. Looking up, he watched as the Shark’s aircraft boosted into the sky, faster than any Earth ship could manage and, presumably, towards space.

  Waving Bravo Company to their feet, he began walking towards the hotel Jansen had taken up position in, first platoon regrouping out front. The hotel itself was a five story tall plaster faced building, surrounded on all sides by tall skyscrapers of tinted glass and shining steel. It looked out of place, like a wooden hulled ship in a harbour of ironclads.

  Jansen walked straight over to him and on impulse, Ryder grabbed him in a bear hug. “Well now, you were a sight for sore eyes - how did you get over here?”

  Jansen offered him a slight smile. “Old subway tunnels. When we split, our route went right past the old station at the aviation museum - and I remembered there was another station just behind these buildings. Wasn’t an easy trek - our way was blocked a few times and we had to take service tunnels - but it worked.”