Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  Half his initial tanks were gone, but he’d received reinforcements the day before. The new vehicles were Leopard Z-7s, older models operated by reservists. They weren’t a match for the tanks and crews he’d lost, but he was glad to have them anyway.

  He watched as a platoon of infantry repositioned, moving into supporting range of his front line of tanks. Armored vehicles were primary targets on the battlefield, and serving in one was difficult and dangerous. But right now he pitied the foot soldiers more. He couldn’t image how miserable they were in their heavy rubberized CBN suits. The war hadn’t gone chemical, biological, or nuclear yet, at least not on the south-central front. Still, everyone knew it could at any moment, and they had to be prepared at all times. Both sides were massively armed with enhanced munitions, and all it would take was a single order from the high command to unleash their fury on the battlefield. The tank crews could button up and seal off their monster vehicles, but the infantry had to be ready for whatever happened.

  There were rumors the two sides had exchanged tactical nuclear strikes to the north, but nothing was confirmed. Communications had been spotty, with few reports on the status of other battle fronts. Werner’s people had very little idea what was going on outside their small section of the battlefield, but if things were just as bad everywhere else, he knew the CEL was in trouble.

  “I’m getting a recon drone report, sir. We’ve got enemy tanks moving up the old E52 highway.” Lieutenant Potsdorf was yelling the warning from inside the tank. Potsdorf was in charge of the command tank, and he doubled as an aide to the battalion commander. “It looks like a large move, sir.”

  Werner didn’t respond immediately. He took a last look around and ducked back inside the tank’s cockpit. “Close hatch.” He snapped out the order to the armored vehicle’s AI as he eased back to his command chair. “OK, Lieutenant…” – he turned to face Potsdorf – “…let’s get the battalion ready for action. I want all units at full alert.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” Potsdorf had proven to be a good aide. He’d come from the working classes and, lacking any substantial patronage, he’d advanced largely through his own ability…a rarity in any of the Superpowers. Obtaining a commission was a huge burst of upward mobility for someone from his background, one guaranteeing him at least a sustenance-level pension when he retired. Few of the lower classes in the CEL had any kind of retirement income or safety net. When they became too old or sick to work, they were forced to rely on their families. Those without children or relatives who could care for them often starved…or reported to one of the population control centers for voluntary euthanasia. But a veteran of the Heer with a lieutenant’s stipend was guaranteed a modestly comfortable retirement. The CEL took reasonably good care of its soldiers, unlike powers like the Alliance where disabled and discharged veterans were sent back home with a few credits and virtually no continuing support.

  “All units report ready, sir.” Potsdorf turned from the scope and looked back at his CO. “Project contact imminently.”

  “All units are to fire at will.” Werner’s voice was firm. He entered the war as a colonel with no combat experience, but six days in hell had changed all that. He’d heard of other commanders losing control over the last few days, panicking in action. Werner and his colleagues were drawn mostly from the lower echelons of the privileged families, usually younger siblings with no other prospects. Few of them were truly prepared to face the harsh realities of battle. But Hans Werner felt invigorated by combat. He was scared too, but the tension and the fear honed his mind. His battalion had suffered heavy losses, but they’d held firm. In the end, his people had only been forced back because the units on their flanks retreated.

  Potsdorf repeated the order over the unitwide channel. “Here they come, sir.” The lieutenant had been cool under fire, but Werner could hear the tension in his voice now. “Looks like regimental strength. As far as I can tell, they’re all Napoleons, sir. C-class.”

  Damn, Werner thought. Where are they getting all these tanks? The Napoleon Class behemoths were the Europans’ state of the art main battle tank, and they just kept coming. His front was supposed to be a secondary one, with the real battle fought to the north. But it was starting to look like the enemy had different ideas.

  He heard a loud crack…one of his Leopards firing. It was followed by another…and another. He smiled. The CEL’s railguns made a distinctive sound. His people had gotten off the first shots. They had performed well since hostilities began, his focus on peacetime training paying benefits now that war had finally come.

  Now he was hearing Europan fire too, though only regular shells. The Europan tanks had railguns too, but those were line of sight weapons, and he had his people hull down in good cover. The Europans were going to have to get close – very close – to get good shots with their primary weapons. He stared at the tactical display. He had a company of tanks deployed at the end of a small ridge…good cover that offered line of sight to targets moving up the highway. It was an obvious trap, but the enemy was over confident, and they blundered forward right into it. Werner’s forward position took out three of the enemy tanks in a few seconds…and stalled the entire advance.

  “Lieutenant, put in another request for air support.” Werner didn’t expect anything to come of the request, but it was worth a try.

  “Yes, Colonel.” Potsdorf’s voice suggested he was no more optimistic about seeing CEL planes any time soon.

  No one in Werner’s battalion had seen an aircraft – either CEL or Europan – for days. They’d heard rumors the two sides were locked in a titanic struggle for air superiority up in the north, and every resource had been committed to that battle. Werner didn’t know what was going on, but if the CEL air force would defeat the Europans and gain supremacy in the skies, it would go a long way to stabilizing the crumbling front.

  “Infantry teams forward…NOW!” He snapped out his order and listened as Potsdorf relayed it. Running around MBTs wasn’t a safe place for infantry to be, but the Europan tanks were disorganized, trying to reposition from the highway and bypass Werner’s forward positions. His rocket teams would have a good chance to take out a few more of the monster battlewagons, and Werner needed everything he could get to even the score. If he could hit the enemy hard enough before they reformed, maybe he could stop them here. If not, Stuttgart was as good as lost.

  “We’ve picked up another contact, sir.” Lieutenant Barrington was staring at the scanner as he spoke. “That makes 42. Including 9 heavy battleships.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant.” Admiral Dave Young sat in the command chair on Chicago’s flag bridge. “The fleet will continue on the same heading.” Young was nervous, but he was trying not to let it show. He’d been in the navy for 25 years, but he knew he owed his position to his family’s political influence more than any particular aptitude. He’d been given a ship command after only 12 months service, and he took over a task force within five years. He’d been commanding fleets ever since, and he eventually worked up to the largest of all, the South Pacific Command. The fleet had a single but crucial role…to fight the CAC if war broke out between the two powers. But aside from hunting down a pirate or two, Young had never seen a shot fired in anger.

  The Alliance’s wet navy differed enormously from its fleets in space. The interstellar navy was mostly a frontier organization now, drawing the majority of its recruits from the colonies and, since the rebellions, operating largely independently of Alliance Gov’s day to day influence. Since Augustus Garret had taken command – and achieved living legend status defeating the First Imperium – few in the Earth government dared to challenge him. But the sea navy, like the rest of the Earth-based forces, was firmly under Alliance Gov’s thumb. And that meant patronage and corruption governed virtually every aspect of its operation, including who filled its officer postings and top commands.

  Young’s family was among the most influential in the Alliance, one of the original political dynasties. The f
amily controlled an almost unprecedented three seats in the Senate, as well as a complex collection of Directorates and judgeships. Dave Young was the youngest of seven, however, and his cousins were almost as numerous as his siblings…and all older than him. With no suitable political office available, Young had opted for a military career. His position and influence had almost guaranteed him a quick route to an important command.

  Young’s exalted rank was predominantly the result of his fortunate birth, but he had at least made an effort to learn his craft, something few of the other officers from prominent Political Class families bothered to do. He’d studied naval history and the campaigns of the great admirals. But mostly, he read and reread every account of the last war he could find. It was often hard to filter out the lies and political adjustments made to the records, but he knew the fighting those navies had done was the closest to what his might be called on to do. The fleets that fought in the early stages of the Unification Wars had been much like those from past battles, consisting largely of surface vessels. But destructive power had outpaced defensive capability, and by the end of the wars, barely a naval vessel was still in action. The fleets the Superpowers rebuilt consisted entirely of hybrids…capable of fighting on the surface, but designed primarily for submerged operations. So, for all Admiral David Young gleaned from the histories, the next war would likely be a dramatically different affair from any that had preceded it.

  “The lead elements of the fleet will close to the 20 kilometer line in three minutes, Admiral.” Barrington’s tone was edgy. The fleet was about to cross the border the CAC had drawn across the South Pacific. The Alliance and the CAC had disputed ownership of the Philippines for over a century, and they’d had soldiers deployed facing each other across artificial borders for that entire time. The CAC controlled roughly two-thirds of the land area, but there were over 100,000 Alliance soldiers dug in all around Manila and southern Luzon, and Young’s fleet was offshore, facing the CAC’s assembled naval strength. The CAC had issued an ultimatum, a line they would not allow the Alliance fleet to cross. But Barrington’s orders were clear. He was to call their bluff, to lead his fleet over that line…and if so much as a single CAC ship fired on him he was to engage and destroy the entire enemy fleet.

  “Very well, Lieutenant.” He struggled to keep his voice firm. Young took his position seriously, but he wasn’t a warrior at heart. He’d grown up surrounded by almost unimaginable luxury, and the transition to military life was a jarring one. He had managed to learn his trade, at least after a fashion, but he’d never really expected to put those skills to the test. Now he was 1200 meters below the surface of the ocean…and possibly minutes away from the first major naval battle in a century. He was trying to play the role of the fearless commander, but deep down he was scared shitless. “Order all ships to battlestations. Attack boat crews to their positions.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Barrington passed on the order, some of his own fear pushing through and showing in his voice. A few seconds later, Chicago’s battlestations lamps lit, casting a reddish glow across the bridge.

  The CAC was still denying any involvement in the attack on Alliance Intelligence HQ in Washbalt, but relations between the Powers had continued to fray…and the crisis only escalated further when Alliance operatives discovered that the CAC had previously begun mobilizing a portion of its Earth-based military. News of the military buildup cast further doubt on Hong Kong’s protestations about the Washbalt bombing. The two powers were already at war in space…and it seemed like fighting would break out on Earth at any time.

  “We will cross the red line in one minute, sir.” Barrington was staring at his scope, counting the seconds. An instant later: “Sir, all attack squadrons report ready to launch.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant.” Young strapped himself into his command chair. He stared ahead, breathing deeply, trying to ignore the sweat pouring down his back.

  “Thirty seconds, sir.”

  Will they fire, Young wondered…do they really want war? Is there a commander over there who thinks I am bluffing? He sat rigidly, holding his body motionless. I guess we’re going to find out, he thought nervously.

  “Lead elements crossing the red line now, sir.” Barrington stared into the scope. The seconds passed by, each one slow, agonizing.

  Young sat in his chair, looking over at his tactical officer. He was waiting for the word the enemy had attacked…that they were at war. But there was only silence.

  “No readings, sir. The entire fleet has passed the red line, and I’ve detected no…” Barrington stopped abruptly. “Sir…scanners are picking up multiple launches from the enemy fleet.” There was urgency in his voice now, and unmasked fear. His head spun toward Young. “It’s confirmed, sir. The enemy has fired torpedoes.”

  Young sat silently for a few seconds. He felt like he was going to vomit, but he clamped down on his emotions. Now, he thought…now is your test. Are you really an admiral worthy of leading this fleet? Or are you just the spoiled youngest son of a wealthy family, good for nothing at all? He took a single deep breath and exhaled hard. “All ships are to open fire immediately. All attack boat squadrons…launch.”

  The Alliance and the CAC were at war.

  “We’ve got to keep going. We’re still way too close to the city.” The sun had been down for half an hour, and dusk was giving way to total darkness. Axe was walking along the crumbling wreckage of what had once been a major highway. It was mostly broken chunks of ancient asphalt now, with huge sections of exposed dirt showing in places. There were deep holes in some areas, where the upper structure had collapsed to reveal utility lines and other mechanicals below.

  He would have preferred to head west from the city, where they would have had more choices on where to go. But it just wasn’t an option, not from where they started out. His small band would have had to cross two rivers just to get out of New York, and the old New Jersey waterfront was a notoriously violent slum, even worse than Brooklyn…and run by rival gangs instead of his own. Besides, the mobs of angry Cogs were rampaging all along the Brooklyn waterfront…and there were still dangerous radioactive hotspots in lower Manhattan. In the end he decided heading east, farther out onto Long Island was the only practical thing to do.

  The lands east of Brooklyn had once been a massively-populated suburb, inhabited by millions, but it had long since been virtually abandoned. Alliance Gov liked to keep people centralized where they were easier to watch, so they encouraged people to move to the cities. At first, they used persuasion and enticed them with promises of better jobs and homes. But eventually they just withdrew all civil services and unleashed the gangs on the holdouts. The areas of the island east of the city had been virtually abandoned for close to a century. The perfect place to hide…and wait and see how things played out.

  “What the hell is going on, anyway?” Tank was loyal to Axe; there was no question about that. It was why he was part of the small group the former gang leader took with him when he fled Brooklyn. He was a hulking bull of a man, which Axe knew would come in handy if they ran into any fighting, but no one was going to confuse Tank Jones with a genius.

  Axe sighed. Sometimes he wished Tank would just shut up and not try to think. “The economy is crashing. Everything’s shutting down. They’re having trouble keeping the Politicos fed and supplied…which is why the Cogs in places like Brooklyn are getting nothing. And that’s why they’re in the streets.” He paused, feeling a chill when he thought of the staggering rage now ruling the mobs back in Brooklyn, and probably everywhere else. The Cogs had been so docile, so easy to intimidate. But that was when they still clung to their miserable but sustainable lives. They never had much, but it was enough for most of them to survive. Now they were truly desperate, faced with the prospect of watching their families starve to death. All the anger they’d repressed, the hatred that had grown deep inside them…it was all coming out, erupting like a volcano that had long been building pressure. “He glanced over his
shoulder back toward Brooklyn. “And that’s why we’re getting the hell out while we can.”

  Chapter 14

  Martian Command Bunker

  Garibaldi Base

  Mars, Sol IV

  Roderick Vance sat at the end of the table rubbing his temples with considerable force. His head was throbbing. The bad news just kept coming, like water pouring from a broken floodgate. Vance had a reputation for being cold and efficient, but he was worn down and exhausted…and that was something he knew he couldn’t afford. If someone was going to stop Gavin Stark it was probably going to be him, and he’d need to be at his best to have a chance. Garret, Holm, and Cain were incredibly capable warriors, but Vance was the only spy in the group. A psychopath as brilliant as Stark couldn’t be beaten by force alone…not without overwhelming superiority Vance knew his allies didn’t have. Stark was too smart, too careful…his plans would have backups and contingencies to cover the backups.

  Vance looked down at the table, his expression grim. He had come to the realization that even he had underestimated Stark. He’d known the Alliance spy was ruthless, willing to sacrifice thousands to achieve his goals. But now he saw there was no limit to what the bastard would do. Stark was willing to see millions die, even billions, if that’s what it took to secure his final victory. Vance realized he faced an enemy who would do literally anything to accomplish his goals.

  To make matters worse, war was breaking out on Earth, largely through Stark’s machinations. Vance had hoped to leverage the good feeling from the victory against the First Imperium to usher in a new era of greater cooperation between the Powers. But Stark had masterfully manipulated the situation, destroying Vance’s work and turning the camaraderie and good feeling into mistrust and hatred.