Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  He didn’t want to cross the Rhine. He’d requested permission to fortify the eastern bank and form a defensive line, but he’d been denied and ordered to attack at once. The northern forces needed a diversion, and invading the enemy’s territory was the fastest way to provide one. If his attack made progress, he would quickly be in a position to threaten the Europan capital of Paris…and that would force the enemy to reposition strength from their own northern offensive.

  “Advise Major Kimmel he may commence fire.” There was no point in delaying. If he had to attack, it was best done while the enemy was still disorganized…before they could be reinforced and resupplied. “And the air wings are to begin their attack.” The battle for air superiority had turned into an exercise in mutual annihilation, and both sides had lost most of their effective strength. But the high command had diverted a few precious squadrons to support Werner’s attack, and he intended to get the most he could out of them.

  “Yes sir.” Potsdorf relayed Werner’s orders, his voice a little shaky.

  “Engineering companies are to commence bridging efforts immediately.” Crossing a major river into the teeth of the enemy was a difficult proposition. If his artillery and air strikes didn’t keep the Europans occupied, they would slaughter his engineers, and his attack would be stopped before it even got started.

  “Yes, Col…General…sir.” Potsdorf was still having trouble getting used to the rapidly changing situation. It had taken him 20 years of exemplary service to rise from the ranks and get his lieutenancy. Now, less than a month after the fighting began, he was a captain and Werner was a general. He had lived all his life under a stifling bureaucracy where everything moved at a glacial pace. Now the rules were changing. Rapidly.

  Werner turned toward his slightly discombobulated aide. He understood what Potsdorf was feeling…he was feeling it himself. “Don’t worry, Heinrich.” He put his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “We will get through this. Even if we have to figure it out one step at a time.”

  Potsdorf nodded, staring back wordlessly – and gratefully – at his commander.

  Werner flashed a brief smile and nodded. “Now let’s get the engineers up to the bridgeheads.”

  “I want the entire approach screened.” Admiral Young was leaning forward in his command chair barking out orders. “If that means we’ve got some damaged ships on the line, so be it.” He was angry and tired of getting excuses from his ship commanders. “And if the captains don’t like it, tell them I’ll see how the first officers feel about it.” The convoy from Australia was his main concern right now. The Alliance army outside Manila needed those reinforcements and supplies, and if the CAC was able to intercept them, the ground battle in the Philippines was as good as lost.

  “Yes sir.” Barrington was exhausted. Young was determined to do his duty, but most of the ship commanders were members of the petty political classes. They’d joined the service for reasons similar to Young’s, but they lacked the commitment of their admiral. Most of them were more concerned with getting back to their comfortable lives in one piece…and the savagery of the battle had shaken them up terribly. They’d been arguing with every command, driving Barrington crazy.

  Young’s ships had engaged the CAC fleet and driven it back, but not without cost. The ferocity of the battle and the losses incurred by both sides had come as a shock to all the combatants. Young’s victorious fleet was almost shattered, and the fact that the CAC forces were in even worse shape was cold comfort. War had come, and the horror of it had exceeded his worst fears.

  Despite the victory, he knew he had a tougher situation in the long term. The combat zone was close to the CAC’s main bases, while the Alliance fleet had to rely on the resources of the Oceania Sector for most of its support. Australia and the rest of the Alliance possessions in the southern Pacific had been virtually destroyed during the Unification Wars, and a century of moderate growth had still not restored its prior population levels. There were bases in the area, especially in Australia proper, but nothing sufficient to sustain major combat forces indefinitely. Not against a CAC that had all its mainland resources within supporting range.

  Young knew his enemy was going to be reinforced before he was, and that was going to be a big problem. His orders were to hold at all costs and support the ground forces around Manila. That job was likely to get damned difficult long before his own reinforcements could make the journey across the Pacific from the New Frisco Naval Base.

  He didn’t know when – or if – those reserves would get to him. The war was global, and Alliance Command would have calls on its resources coming in from multiple combat zones. The Alliance’s terrestrial military was a massive organization with considerable reserves, but ships and planes and troops were still finite. If there were enough hotspots around the globe, there simply wouldn’t be adequate support to go around.

  He had a better chance of getting help from the Alliance’s PRC allies. The Japanese-dominated Superpower was geographically closer, and it was a bitter enemy of the CAC. The PRC could be counted on to throw most of its strength against the Chinese-led Combine. But the Caliphate had entered the war too, and their relations with the Alliance were just as caustic as the PRC-CAC rivalry. They were likely to reinforce their CAC allies…and to attack the Alliance in other theaters, diverting forces from the CAC war zones.

  Young turned his focus back to the current situation. Making wild guesses about reinforcements and the progress of the war was a waste of time. All that mattered now was getting those reserves through.

  “Odds, fall back.” Captain Davies stood in the trench, knee deep in sopping mud and screaming into his comlink. The battle wasn’t going well…in fact, it was going like shit. The Alliance forces had been falling back for days, and the CAC troops kept coming. Davies knew the Alliance was outnumbered in the Philippines, but he didn’t realize by how much until he ended up on the front line facing charge after charge.

  Jungle fighting was brutal, and it was more than just the enemy. His troops had to deal with the heat, the constant rain, bugs the size of small birds…even poisonous snakes. It was the closest thing he’d seen to hell on Earth. And he had no idea what he was doing there.

  Davies’ father was a local Magistrate in the St. Louis Metroplex. The family was not particularly influential, but it was still part of the Political Class, and Davies had grown up surrounded by considerable luxury. He had attended a Political Academy, but the family held only a single office, and it was earmarked for his older sister when his father retired.

  Bored and not anxious to spend his life hanging around the family estate with nothing to do, he accepted a captain’s commission and joined the army. He was dazzled by the idea of a fancy uniform and seduced by the thought of ordering around a bunch of soldiers. But once he reported for duty he found the good assignments went to those from more influential families. He’d imagined himself in some pleasant posting in the US or English sectors, preferable someplace with good weather. If he’d known he would end up in the fucking jungle dancing around bugs and snakes – not to mention enemy troops – he’d have stayed home and lived on his family’s resources.

  His company was facing at least a CAC battalion, and they’d been falling back for days. The enemy had been attacking aggressively, especially since their navy got the worst of the offshore fighting. The first success had gone to the Alliance, and the CAC generals were determined to even the score. Besides, if the fight on the ground was lost, the naval victory would be rendered almost pointless. Davies tried to work himself up into a patriotic frenzy, but he just couldn’t get himself to give a shit about who controlled the Godforsaken Philippines. But he knew he didn’t want to end up a prisoner of the CAC…and the only alternatives to that unpleasant outcome were victory or death in battle. Victory sounded a lot better than death, so he resolved to be the best combat officer he could.

  “Odds, covering fire. Evens, pull back.” He climbed out of the muddy, rain-soaked trench, rea
ching down to pull his boots out of the muck. He could see most of the evens running to the rear. There was fire from the newly repositioned odds, but it was sporadic, maybe half what it should be. Davies knew that meant half his troops were cowering in their foxholes…or just running outright. His troops were well-equipped and organized, but the morale of the Alliance’s rank and file was poor. Drawn from the Cog populations, they received decent training and usually had enough to eat, but they had no combat experience…and few were commanded by officers who cared about much beyond their own comfort. The Alliance had fielded veteran armies during the Unification Wars but, like the armed forces of the other Powers, a century of peace had atrophied their effectiveness.

  He scrambled toward his fallback position, crouching low, giving the enemy as small a target as possible. The first time he jumped out into the open, he almost pissed himself with fear. It seemed an impossible thing…to flex his legs and leap out of the cover of a foxhole, to trust to fate that he wouldn’t be torn to shreds by the enemy fire crisscrossing the field. He knew he hesitated that first time…but he also realized he had only exposed himself to greater danger by holding back. Every second brought the advancing enemy closer, every instant he cowered in a trench instead of moving his ass only increased the fire he would have to survive. It was a hard lesson, but one Davies learned quickly…his first step toward become a veteran soldier.

  He swerved around, avoiding the water-filled craters and shell holes from the enemy’s bombardment. He lost his footing more than once, and with it, precious time. But he got back up and kept moving forward, doing his best to ignore the sounds of bullets streaking by.

  There was a small berm ahead…the target position. He lunged forward, leaping over the small bump in the ground. He landed behind the cover, sliding a few meters in the sopping mud before he stopped. He scrambled around and crawled back to the edge of the berm, looking out as the rest of his soldiers were jumping into the cover.

  “Evens, deploy. Prepare to provide covering fire.” It felt like his people had been leapfrogging back across the entire island, but he knew that was going to stop soon. They were barely a klick from the main defensive line in front of Manila. There was no way Alliance command was going to give up the city…not without a fight. And that fight promised to be a nasty one.

  “Evens, covering fire.” His voice was scratchy and raw. Their supply run was late, and his canteen was empty. He didn’t dare drink any of the water in this Godforsaken jungle…not unless he wanted the shits for two weeks. He cleared his throat and put more force behind his words. “Odds, fall back.”

  “Lieutenant Simmons, deploy your troops along this line.” Captain Wendell stood next to Simmons, staring out over the surreal landscape of lower Manhattan. He looked over the Crater, about a kilometer and a half south of their position, and beyond to the crumbling towers of the abandoned Financial District. It was a ghostly panorama, a visual record of a troubled and tormented history. It had been almost 150 years since the nuclear explosion that dug out the Crater, but the surrounding area was still moderately unhealthy…enough, at least, that Wendell’s troops wore their protective battlefield gear.

  “Yes, Captain.” He flipped his com to the unit’s command channel. “Form your lines,” he barked to his squad leaders. He was calm, almost relaxed. War was breaking out around the globe, and army units were being sent to some very unpleasant places. He couldn’t believe his own luck when the captain told him they were going to Manhattan to deal with a bunch of Cogs running wild. Facing an unarmed mob was a hell of a lot better than dealing with Caliphate or CAC regulars. He almost pitied the poor SOBs that were on their way to the war zones.

  The company was spread out in a long firing line. Gunning down a bunch of Cogs didn’t require complex strategy. A few volleys and the ignorant animals would lose heart and run. Not many of them would make it back across the river, though. Wendell’s orders were clear on that.

  He turned his head and looked south again. He could just about hear the roar of the mob as it approached. “Prepare to fire.” He had positioned his company about a kilometer south of the Wall, in a mostly-open area where the abandoned buildings had been levelled. It provided an ideal field of fire.

  The crowd was surging northward, pouring from the blocks of ancient, abandoned buildings and out into the open area. Wendell stared in shock for a few seconds. There were tens of thousands of them…hundreds of thousands. His arrogant calm began to slip away. “Fire,” he screamed into the com, a bit of panic sneaking into his voice. “All units, fire!”

  The line opened up, the deep blast of the assault rifles mixing with the staccato cracks of the autocannons. Along the front edge of the mob, hundreds fell, their bodies torn almost to shreds by the automatic fire. But the crowd surged ahead, trampling the bodies of the fallen, screaming madly for blood.

  Wendell was stunned when the mob kept coming. “Keep firing!” he shouted into the com. “Keep firing!”

  Hundreds more fell, thousands. But nothing broke the momentum of the screaming, incensed mass. One of Wendell’s soldiers fell…then another. The mob wasn’t totally unarmed. They’d killed guards on their rampage, and they took what weapons they’d found, mostly semi-automatic pistols and rifles.

  Wendell watched with growing panic as the rampaging Cogs got closer. Then it started. One of his troopers threw down his assault rifle and ran back toward the Wall…then another…and another. In a few seconds, the entire company, including its commander, was fleeing north, desperately trying to reach the relative safety of the Protected Zone.

  Wendell got to the Wall and looked up in horror. The gates were closed. His people threw themselves at the massive structure and clawed at the closed portal, screaming for the guards inside to let them in. But there was no response.

  Then the mob reached them. Dozens of hands grabbed each of his men, pulling them back into the crowd like some hideous beast dragging prey to its fanged mouth. The cries of the dying soldiers were drowned by the screams of the bloodthirsty mob. Wendell felt the hands on his shoulders, on his arms. He was pulled back, thrust upward and carried into the depths of the crowd.

  He felt the blows, hands first, and then he was on the ground being kicked and stomped. The pain was unbearable. He curled up, protecting himself as well as he could, but it was hopeless. He screamed in pain and mindless terror, and then he felt the darkness begin to take him.

  Chapter 17

  Field Hospital

  North of Astria

  Planet Armstrong

  Gamma Pavonis II

  “Sit still, or I’m going to fuse your shoulder to the side of your head.” Sarah Linden’s voice was cold, emotionless, her mind focused on what she was doing.

  Cain was lying on the table, stripped out of his armor and wearing only a pair of blue Marine Corps shorts. Sarah was leaning over his shoulder, moving the cell-rejuvenator slowly over his wound. He twitched as the rays worked their magic, accelerating the repair and healing process. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it was an uncomfortable feeling. And it tickled. The rejuvenator couldn’t repair a major wound, but Cobra’s shot had gone right through the fleshy tissue of Cain’s shoulder. There was no bone or nerve damage, and with a quick rejuv treatment, he’d be able to get back on the line almost immediately. Not that Cain would have stayed off the line even if he had multiple slugs in his chest. Not now. His people were about to make their final stand, and healthy, sick, or dying, Erik Cain would be with them.

  He angled his head so he could see Sarah…or the back of her mane of red hair, at least. He’d tried to get her to take some time to herself, told her that one of the other doctors could fix his shoulder, but she wouldn’t have any of it. “I’m fine,” was all she had said, in a tone that didn’t invite further comment.

  Cain knew the kind of pain she was feeling. He’d lost countless friends, as well as the thousands of his Marines who had died following his commands. The guilt from that responsibility was immense, a
nd over the years it had made sleep a very hit and run affair. But one had been worse than the others, orders of magnitude worse. Darius Jax had been a brother to Cain, closer even than most siblings. The two had fought together, risen through the ranks together…lived, ate, and slept together. Corporals Cain and Jax had been friends…just as they remained when both wore general’s stars. Then Jax died, killed in action early in the First Imperium War. Marines die, and losing a friend is never an easy thing. But Jax’s loss was uniquely painful, not just because they were so close, but because his death was Erik Cain’s fault.

  Cain hadn’t listened; he’d let his arrogance get the better of him. And Jax paid the price. He plunged into the gap, saving the day…but at a terrible cost. Cain never forgot the crushing grief and guilt. He never really dealt with it either. Like he usually did, he buried the pain, focusing on the battle ahead rather than the heartache from yesterday. He knew he would pay for it all eventually; one day he would have a reckoning with all the sorrow and anger he’d submerged deep in his mind. And General Darius Jax would lead that charge.

  Cain could face the prospects of his own emotional reckoning, but he couldn’t imagine Sarah suffering that way. He had long ago resigned himself to his fate…he deserved his torments. He was a butcher, a stone cold killer. All he knew how to do was kill, destroy. He didn’t warrant anything better, not in his own estimation. But Sarah Linden had spent the last 20 years saving lives, often putting her own in grave danger to do it. He couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering such pain, and he raged against the unfairness of it all.