by Jay Allan
“We’re falling back now, sir.” Storm sounded exhausted. “I’ve got the remaining Obliterators covering the flank as we retreat.” The Obliterators had proven to be extremely effective against standard powered infantry. The four meter tall suits had been designed to counter the First Imperium’s giant Reaper robots, and the war on Armstrong was their first matchup against normal armored troops. The massively-armed behemoths had proven their worth, spearheading the assault that destroyed the bridges over the Graywater and cut the enemy force in two. It had been the turning point of the first phase of the battle, but the victory had been bittersweet. It cost the unit its first and only commander, General Erin McDaniels, mortally wounded as she led the final assault on the Graywater bridges to cut the enemy army in two. McDaniels was one of the most popular officers in the entire Marine Corps. Erik Cain had considered her one of his few true friends, and the pain of her loss was hard to bear.
Now the survivors were moving into position, forming a rearguard to cover the retreat of their comrades. The Obliterators were lusting for revenge, straining to get at the enemy that had killed their beloved leader. Cain had whipped them into a frenzy earlier, invoking McDaniels’ memory in an emotional – but coldly mercenary – speech, one intended to turn her grieving Marines into relentless killing machines. They would fight better for his manipulation, and probably to the bitter end as well. Cain was repulsed at the idea of using his friend’s death as a tool to get her people to fight harder…but he did it anyway. One more reason to hate himself.
“Very well, Colonel.” Cain’s voice was hoarse, overuse and fatigue beginning to take their toll. “But make sure your withdrawal is speedy. We’ll try to cover your retreat, but you don’t have much time. Cain out.” He flipped off the com channel and turned to look at the ragged line in front of him. It looked weak. It is weak, he thought grimly…that’s why it looks that way. But we’ve got to slow them down. We’ve got to hold for a while.
He moved forward slowly, glancing at his tactical display. The shimmering blue symbols projected inside his visor gave him an accurate flow of information on unit strengths and positions, but it couldn’t tell him what he most needed to know. It couldn’t show him the morale of his men and women…which units were faltering…which were most likely to break. It didn’t communicate the fear his people felt, the despair and hopelessness…the realization that their cause was already lost, that courage and determination weren’t going to be enough this time.
Cain had led thousands of Marines in every manner of desperate stand, but in the end he knew only one way to draw the last scraps of resolve they kept buried deep inside. His men and women followed him for different reasons. Some thought he was invincible, that no enemy could defeat him. Others were driven by the force of his iron will, more afraid of failing him than facing any foe. But one thing they all shared – they knew at the last stand, when all was crumbling to dust and defeat, and destruction surrounded them on every side, Erik Cain would be there, rifle in hand, shoulder to shoulder when death came for them. For all his rank and the legends that preceded him, no Marine doubted that when Erik Cain finally fell it would be in the front lines, standing with his Marines.
He pulled his assault rifle off the harness and checked the cartridge, walking forward toward the line as he did. His people would stand here…they would hold long enough for Storm’s Marines to escape from the pocket that threatened to become a death trap. And Erik Cain would stand in the front line with them and make sure they did and, if necessary, die there with them.
Alex Linden crouched down behind the giant tree. She’d never seen a forest like this. The Sentinel was one of Armstrong’s great natural treasures, its gargantuan trees reaching hundreds of meters into the open sky. It was not the kind of thing she would have noticed in the past, but she was different now. She didn’t completely understand the changes of the last few years but perhaps, given time, she would. But for now, despite the stress, the fear, the uncertainty gnawing at her insides, some part of her mind noted the magnificence of the towering trees. Vast sections of the amazing wood now bore the scars of war, for it was another of the battlefields where man had come to wage one of his many wars. Still, the Sentinel was enormous, and there were thousands of hectares that remained untouched. Alex had taken a wide route around the battlefield, traveling mostly through virgin forest. She’d been stalking Erik Cain, but wandering too close to the fighting and getting blown to bits wasn’t going to help her complete the job. Neither was getting picked up by a Marine patrol and sent back to the refugee camp.
She’d resolved to carry out the assassination. She hated the idea. She wanted to stop and drop to her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach on the cold ground. But she didn’t have a choice. It would buy her time with Gavin Stark…maybe enough for her to get close to him. Killing Stark was her only chance to survive; she was sure of that. He’d shown uncharacteristic weakness in letting her come back to Armstrong, but she knew she couldn’t count on that a second time. Even if she completed her mission, he’d never forget that she’d failed him before. His momentary weakness would pass, and she’d never see it coming. She knew enough from years as one of Alliance Intelligence’s deadliest assassins…you couldn’t stay vigilant all the time. Offense and defense were not equal forces. With enough persistence, you could get to any target. And no one had more raw stubbornness than Gavin Stark. No…killing the bastard was the only way. And taking out Erik Cain was a necessary step to reaching Stark.
She wasn’t sure exactly where she was, but she knew she was getting close to Cain’s headquarters. It didn’t look like the battle was going very well. She’d ducked into cover half a dozen times as worn looking groups of Marines passed by, heading north, away from the front lines. Most of them were bringing wounded comrades back with them, some staggering along with minimal assistance, others being carried. Their fighting suits were blackened and pitted with the scars of battle.
Maybe the invaders will do the job for me, she thought. She couldn’t imagine the legendary Erik Cain surviving a battle where his army was destroyed. If he was killed in the fighting, it would be the same, wouldn’t it?
She shook her head slowly. No, that won’t work, she thought, feeling the fleeting hopefulness drain away as quickly as it had appeared. She was going to need Cain’s rank insignia, ID badge, video of the body, DNA sample…something. If she was going to get close enough to Stark to kill the bastard, she need to be able to prove she had carried out his orders. If he thought she was still defying him, she’d never get in the same room. Gavin Stark had never taken anyone’s word for something important in his life. No, I have to get to Cain myself…and I have to do it before the enemy does.
She crept around the tree, moving steadily west toward her objective. She was hungry and tired, but she had a tremendous inner toughness, and she pushed aside her doubts. She’d seen far worse depravation wandering the slums and badlands as a child. She’d survived those hardships to become one of the most powerful operatives in Alliance Intelligence. After the horrors she’d endured, the repulsive things she’d done to climb from the gutter…she wasn’t about to let anything stop her now.
She knew she was getting closer. The bands of retreating troops were getting larger and more frequent. They moved slowly, with leaden footsteps. There was a pall over them, a plodding look she hadn’t seen before. She watched from cover as each group passed. My God, she thought, they look beaten. They are losing. Erik Cain’s legendary Marines are losing the battle.
That could be a complication. How would she get off of Armstrong if the enemy won? What kind of controls would they establish? Could she blend in with the civilians? Should she? Or would the victorious invaders fall upon the helpless population in an orgy of rape and pillage?
She watched the last group move out of sight to the north and then continued on her way. She’d gone 100 meters, perhaps 150, when she saw. It was a Marine, dead, lying behind one of the large trees ahead. There wa
s a smooth, round hole through his helmet. She almost ignored it, but something didn’t seem right, and it caught her attention. She’d seen plenty of wounded passing by, and a few bodies too…Marines who’d obviously died of their wounds on the way back from the front. But this wound had been immediately fatal…there was no questioning that. As far as she’d been able to tell, there had been no fighting back this far. Not yet at least. So who had killed this Marine?
She knelt down and examined the body. There was something about the look of the wound that made her edgy. She reached around, trying to pop open the armor. He was lying on his side. He weighed well over a ton in his suit, and she couldn’t budge him at all. After a few minutes she gave up and just stared at the entry hole in his helmet. The look was familiar, characteristic…then realization set in. No other weapon left a mark quite like that one. It wasn’t military issue; it was highly specialized, developed in great secrecy and used by only one organization. A weapon she’d fired dozens of times…to assassinate well-protected targets.
She looked all around her, scanning the trees carefully…even more so than she had. She felt a wave of cold sweep through her body. Her situation had just changed. There was another Alliance Intelligence assassin on Armstrong.
Chapter 4
Officer’s Wardroom
AS Yorktown
Sandoval System
“As we have discussed, the situation is extremely confused.” Camille Harmon’s tone was hard as steel. “We’ve sent coded communiqués to Arcadia and Armstrong, but we haven’t gotten any responses yet.” The frustration was thick in her otherwise emotionless voice. “That means we have to be flexible, prepared…with very little knowledge of what we are facing. You’re all going to need to be ready to go on an instant’s notice. We can’t know what to expect or what we will be called upon to do…and that means your people will be prepared for anything.” She turned and stared at the officers seated opposite her, fixing her eyes on each for as long as it took to make them uncomfortable. For most of them, that wasn’t very long.
“I don’t have to remind you that we appear to be moving directly from one crisis into another.” She was standing at the head of the table. Her stare was cold, penetrating. “I know you have all been through a great deal in the war with the First Imperium, but as of now that means exactly nothing. You may feel you have earned joyful celebrations and extended leaves, but what you are getting is another war…one we are ill-prepared to fight.” Harmon had always been considered somewhat of a cold fish, but now every ounce of pity, of humanity, was gone. “I remind you all that where material and supplies fail, men and women must plug the gap. We will not falter, nor shrink from any fight. Ill-prepared or not, this fleet will do its duty, if every crew member has to climb out on the hull and throw rocks. Do you all understand me?”
There was a short pause before a ragged reply began. “Yes, Admiral,” they responded in a ragged chorus. None of them had ever seen her like this. Cold, robotic, relentless. They all knew she’d lost her son in the last battle with the First Imperium. Max Harmon had been stranded with his boss, Admiral Compton, facing almost certain destruction at the hands of a massive enemy fleet. She’d been forced to man her post, to command her task force as it withdrew along with the rest of the fleet, disrupting the warp gate as it did…stranding Max Compton, and 40,000 naval and Marine personnel.
It was a nightmare scenario for a mother, almost impossible to bear. But they hadn’t seen a tear from her, nor the slightest sign of sadness or heartbreak. Only a frigid determination driving her relentlessly onward since that day. She didn’t eat or sleep that any of them had noticed, and she expected everyone under her to work almost 24 hours a day like she did.
“Then, if there is nothing else, I want you naval officers back at your stations now. We’ll be doing complete diagnostics on all systems. This fleet has been through a lot, but it’s going right back into battle, and we’re going to be absolutely sure everything is first rate and ready to go.” Harmon turned her head and gave a slight nod toward Catherine Gilson. “General Gilson, if you would care to further brief your personnel, the room is yours.” The Marine general wasn’t subordinate to Harmon, but ground commanders usually ceded the top authority to the senior naval officer when aboard ship. Gilson had been silent through the meeting, respectfully listening to Harmon’s comments.
“Thank you Admiral Harmon.” Gilson rose, nodding back to her naval counterpart then turning her gaze to Harmon’s stunned officers. “You all heard the admiral.” Gilson’s voice was like the sound of a blade drawing from its sheath. The naval officers jumped to their feet and hurried to the door. Admiral Harmon was hard enough for them to take, but Catherine Gilson had been terrifying Marines with her legendary temper for decades now. The two iron-fisted officers together were too much for the naval personnel to handle, and they scuttled quickly into the corridor, grateful to flee back to their stations and the 24-hour shift that almost certainly awaited them.
“I’ll be on the bridge if you need anything, General Gilson.” Harmon turned and followed her people into the hallway. Gilson caught a glimpse of the admiral’s face as she turned, and she could have sworn there was a tiny hint of amusement there. She hoped so. She knew Harmon couldn’t keep going the way she had been forever…not without losing her mind. The two of them had long been friends, and now they shared something else. They were bringing back the remaining units that had been left on station at Sigma-4…and that meant they commanded the last significant uncommitted naval and ground forces the Alliance possessed.
She turned back, facing the rest of the Marine commanders present as she spoke. “We don’t know where or when we’re going to land, but you can be damned sure we’ll be doing it somewhere…and it’s probably going to be a fucking disaster.” Gilson had a reputation for unfiltered speech, one she had more than earned over years of command. She stared at her officers as she spoke. “I know your people are all tired and strung out from the campaign, but our comrades were just as exhausted when they shipped out…and now they’ve been in the new fight for months. So that makes us the fresh reserves.”
She paused, trying to get a read on morale. She didn’t expect them to be straining at the leash for more action, not after all they’d been through. Like many senior officers, she tended to believe Marines could do anything if pushed hard enough. But she also knew the Marine Corps that fought and won the Third Frontier War was almost gone, its elite warriors sacrificed in one brutal fight after another. The grim veterans out there fighting somewhere under Cain and Holm were the last of that victorious stalk. Them…and the 7,000 men and women on her transports.
The faces staring back at her were grim, lifeless. These were some of the most seasoned warriors ever to walk a battlefield, but even Marines had their breaking point. They would fight, she knew that…especially to rally to the aid of their brothers and sisters. But she needed that fire, that indomitable spirit that had led them to victory again and again over the years. And she was afraid that spark was almost extinguished, doused by seas of blood. Training, tradition, élan…they were powerful forces. But in the end, men and women were just that, and the last measure of devotion had to come from within, from the stuff that made them who they were. She needed to find that place in each of her people.
“Look,” she said, her voice softening a bit. “We don’t know what’s waiting out there. We’ll be outnumbered, for sure…probably substantially. We’re worn out, used up, under-supplied. By every reasonable measure, we have no place going into another battle.” She paused, her eyes darting from one officer to another. “No place save one. There are Marines already in the fight. Our brothers and sisters who faced the soldiers of the First Imperium at our sides.” She stared at each of her subordinates in turn, starting with Colonel Heath. “They are dying, Rod. You know that, just as I do.” Heath struggled to keep his eyes locked on Gilson’s, her brutal intensity almost overwhelming.
She turned her head slightly. �
��Our friends, Jack.” Her eyes bored into Colonel Mantooth’s. “Our comrades. Erik Cain is in the fight as we speak. And General Holm. And all their Marines. They are in the shit right now…while we sit here and talk and moan about how hard the fight on Sigma was.” She looked up at all of them. “Are we finished? Used up? Too beaten down to rally to our brothers and sisters?” Her eyes blazed as she stared at each of them in turn. “Do we abandon them?”
“No!” Mantooth shouted first, followed by the others an instant later. “Never!”
She slammed her hand down on the table with such force everyone jumped. “Then don’t just say it. Mean it!” She picked up a ’pad and hurled it at the wall. It exploded into a thousand pieces, shards of shattered plastic landing all over the table. The softer, gentler voice was gone, replaced by a thundering crescendo. “Quit this whining and mooning around. You’re fucking Marines, God damn it to hell. Act like it!”
The room was silent, the officers stunned by her outburst. “Are you ready to do your fucking jobs now?” Her glare was unrelenting, boring into each of them as her scowling face panned across the table. Her voice became quieter, but no less cold and menacing. “Are you ready to stop acting like a bunch of pussies and do what has to be done?”
The stunned heads around the table all nodded slowly.
“Did you all forget how to answer a superior officer?” Her tone was caustic. “I repeat…are you ready to do your motherfucking jobs?”
“Yes, General.” The response was crisp and clear this time, in almost perfect unison.