Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  “I have had extensive discussions with Admiral Chen.” Deng turned from Li and looked out across the huge conference table. “As you are all aware, our fleet suffered a considerable defeat off the coast of Luzon.” He paused, his face twisting into a scowl. “A travesty for which Admiral Dao’s incompetence was fully to blame. And for which he has paid the price.”

  Li winced slightly. Her thoughts drifted away, Deng’s ongoing monotone reduced to a barely perceptible buzz in the back of her mind. Admiral Dao had been dragged off his flagship and shot without trial, his body unceremoniously dumped into the sea. Li hadn’t agreed that the admiral was to blame for the lost battle. The Alliance fleet had the edge in both hulls and tonnage. But Dao was another victim of expediency. Li knew she couldn’t defy the Committee’s orders, not without provoking a power struggle she would almost certainly lose. So she had done what she had to do and dispatched the kill team as ordered, just as she had with Fleet Admiral An when he and his officers were proscribed. That had been another mistake, she thought, though that one had been Chairman Huang’s alone.

  “The Alliance fleet is carrying substantial reinforcements and supply from Oceania bound for their armed forces manning the Manila battle zone. Without these fresh troops, I am assured the Alliance lines will collapse within the next several weeks.” Li An was listening again, certain she’d missed nothing important. “We must prevent these forces from reaching their destination.” He paused, staring at a few key members of the Committee as he did. “I therefore propose that Admiral Chen be authorized to launch a targeted nuclear strike against the Alliance vessels carrying the reserve force.” Another pause, and more pointed glances around the room. “Since Admiral Dao’s failure left the fleet in no condition to launch another attack, I do not believe we have a useful alternative. If we do not act and the Alliance troops on Luzon are successfully reinforced, we will be bogged down in an ongoing stalemate in the Philippines…and any longer term offensives against Australia and the rest of Alliance Oceania will be stillborn.”

  Li listened grimly, surprised at Deng’s audacity. Nuclear strikes? Invading Alliance Oceania? He was speaking of massive escalations of the conflict. She felt the tension in her gut, and she knew they were marching toward the cliff…just as Stark wanted. She knew Deng’s plans were foolish, a series of tragic mistakes. But she was also aware she couldn’t stop them. It was time to look to the next crossroads. If she had another chance to stop things before it was too late she resolved to be better prepared. But for now, she waited silently for the proctor to call her name. She couldn’t stop what was happening, but just maybe she could position herself better for next time. “Yes,” she said quietly, unable to mask the despair she felt as she voted to authorize the nuclear attack.

  Chapter 22

  North of Astria

  Planet Armstrong

  Gamma Pavonis II

  Cain walked across the blackened, battle-scarred ground, his visor retracted and a rare smile on his face. “Farooq, you son of a bitch, it’s good to see you.” He took the last few steps toward the Janissary commander and threw open his arms.

  “And you, my friend.” Farooq returned Cain’s embrace, as much as that was possible in powered armor. I am pleased to be fighting at your side once again.”

  Cain winced as he extended his arm. The shoulder wound was still a little tender. “I don’t know where you came from, but you got here just in time.” Cain released the Caliphate officer and took a small step back. “But what the hell is going on? What are you doing here?”

  “It is a long story, my friend, and one that requires more time to tell than we have to spare at present.” Farooq nodded slightly. “For now, let me just say that the Caliphate fleet and the Janissaries it carries have – how shall I say? – severed themselves from the Earth government.”

  Not much surprised Cain, and even when it did he rarely showed it. But his mouth dropped open and he stared back at Farooq. “I know I’ve been cut off here, but…”

  “The Caliph ordered a proscription against the senior officers of the fleet and the Janissary corps. Lord Khaled and Admiral Abbas found out in time to thwart the effort, and they took the fleet renegade rather than submit a rather large list of officers…” – he gestured toward himself – “…including this humble personage…to summary execution.” Farooq looked a little uncomfortable as he returned Cain’s gaze. He still had mixed feelings about the whole thing.

  “I am sorry, my friend.” Cain’s expression softened. “I know that must have been a difficult time.” He was very fond of the Janissary commander, and he could see the pain in Farooq’s eyes. Cain had gone into the struggle against the First Imperium with deep prejudices against his former adversaries. But years of struggling against a common enemy had forged strong bonds, especially between Farooq and Cain.

  “We will speak of it in greater detail one day, Erik.” Farooq managed a fleeting smile. “But for now, let us focus on ridding Armstrong of the enemy.”

  “Fair enough, my friend.” Cain nodded. “Are your units ready for action?”

  “We are ready, General Cain.” Farooq was standing rigidly at attention. “Where do you want us?”

  “The 6th Legion will pull back immediately. We are abandoning the capital and moving back to the Sentinel.” Rafael Samuels stood on a small rise, staring off toward the south but seeing nothing except his own grim thoughts. The battle had gone on far too long. When he arrived with the second wave, he’d expected to sweep the battered Marines from the field in a matter of days. But it was one thing after another. The Marines fought for every centimeter of ground as they pulled back, and then they sent in their giant Obliterators and devastated his supply base.

  Samuels knew it was going to be a bad day when he finally found himself standing before Gavin Stark. Number One did not take bad news well…he’d seen it many times. Samuels had at least expected to have the chance to complete the conquest before he had to deal with Stark. For all the delays, he never doubted his forces would ultimately prevail. Until the Janissaries landed.

  “Yes, General Samuels.” Anderson-5 was Samuels’ field commander and second-in-command. “The 4th Legion is reporting enemy forces moving around its flank. The enemy is advancing behind a barrage of Smoke shells.”

  More fucking Janissaries, Samuels thought, clenching his fists in frustration. The first landing had been bad enough…4 ortas, about 5,000 troops. Like the Marines, the Janissaries were all veterans of the brutal battles of the First Imperium War, and they went immediately into action. He’d finally had Cain and his fucking Marines on the brink when the Goddamned Caliphate troopers slammed into his legions and halted their advance. Then more Janissaries landed…wave after wave. By the time they were done, there were almost 25,000 of their elite powered infantry on the ground, backing up Cain’s 10,000 remaining effectives.

  Samuels didn’t understand. His last communique had confirmed that the Caliphate had joined the CAC in its war against the Alliance. What the hell were the Janissaries doing on Armstrong fighting alongside the Marines? It didn’t make sense. He’d had no word from Stark, not since that fucking Alliance naval detachment burned his satcom. What was going on?

  But sense or no, it was reality, and Samuels didn’t know what to do. He still had a slight numerical edge, but his forces were exhausted, and the destruction of his supplies cut down on his options. The Janissaries were fresh, and they were hitting his positions hard all across the line.

  Samuels doubted he could win an even battle. His legions were supposed to be as good as the Marines, but despite Stark’s assurances, it just wasn’t the case. The clones were good soldiers, reliable and well-trained. But they weren’t the equals of the Marines, not by a long shot. And not of the Janissaries either, Samuels suspected he would soon find out.

  He’d had his doubts all along. Samuels had been a Marine too, one who’d served almost 40 years. Stark’s manufactured soldiers were a technological marvel, and his ability to pro
duce them in large numbers made them a very potent weapon. But they still needed numerical superiority to defeat the Marines, an advantage they’d had until the Janissaries intervened.

  He looked up at his tactical display. His people were retreating across the line, but there were no routs, no breakdown of discipline. The Shadow Legions were falling back, but they weren’t beaten. Not yet. Conditioned from ear to ear to ignore pain and fear, his battered units still had fight left in them.

  His eyes moved toward the large dark area on the edge of the display. The Sentinel. That’s where he would make his stand. Erik Cain had used the forest’s cover to tremendous effect earlier in the campaign. Now it would be Cain’s turn to drive an attack through the dense, towering woods, while Samuel’s people defended behind every tree and hillside.

  “Let them come,” Samuels whispered to himself. But, despite the forced bravado, he could feel the fear in the pit of his stomach.

  “Move it! Deploy and commence firing immediately!” Jake Carlson was waving his arms, directing his newly-arrived autocannon teams into position. The enemy was pulling back all across the line, and Carlson’s people were right on their tail. They were just north of Astria now. This was the last vantage point for his heavy weapons before the enemy reached the city. Carlson had intended to pursue them right through Astria, but General Cain had put a hold on that. There were Janissaries poised to attack and retake the capital, and the Caliphate troops were fresh. But whether it was Marines or Janissaries going in, Carlson wanted to take out as many of the enemy as possible before it came to street fighting.

  He switched his com to the support channel. “This is Major Carlson. Commence air attack immediately.” The Caliphate fleet that landed the Janissaries had already left the system to search for Admiral Garret and the Alliance naval forces. But before they departed they sent down two squadrons of atmospheric attack craft…all they had left from the bloody campaigns on the Rim. And now those fighter-bombers were going to hit the enemy as they retreated to Astria.

  Carlson looked down and saw his reserve teams were already in place and firing, sweeping the plain north of the city. The approach to Astria was mostly flat, open ground…the primary reason Cain had fallen back so far from the city when his forces were retreating. Carlson’s gunners were raking the withdrawing enemy troopers, taking down hundreds of them and reducing their formations to disordered mobs.

  Carlson couldn’t keep a wicked smile from his lips. Only a few weeks before he had been leading the forlorn hope, a few hundred Marines trying to hold back the enemy advance while their brethren escaped the crumbling position south of Astria. Now they were pursuing the enemy back through that same country, gunning them down as they ran back the way they had come.

  Once, his pride would have rejected utterly the notion of the Marines being rescued by the Janissaries. It seemed almost an absurdity. But now he was glad for friends…any friends. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how the universe worked at times. If there was a God out there somewhere, he had a twisted sense of humor.

  “This is White Tiger Squadron leader to Marine commander. We are commencing our attack run.” The Caliphate pilot’s voice was loud and clear as it blared from Carlson’s helmet speakers.

  “We’ve got incoming air support,” he snapped on the unit-wide com. “Keep your heads down.” His people were pretty close to the enemy, especially for what he knew was about to come down. “Those birds are dropping FAEs, and I don’t need any of you barbecued.”

  The Caliphate atmospheric fighters were slightly smaller than the Alliance models, with a sleeker, more attractive form. They looked like great birds of prey swooping down on a herd of fleeing animals as they vectored toward the retiring enemy formations.

  They came in fast, and it was hard to follow them visually. Carlson watched on his display as the small triangles moved across the tactical map. One by one, a line of tiny dots appeared on the display just behind each plane. FAE canisters.

  “Everybody grab some dirt.” Carlson shouted into the com as he dove forward, sliding himself down as far as he could behind the small berm his people were using as cover. “Now!”

  The FAEs came down all along the disordered enemy line, exploding in a series of massive fireballs. Anything unarmored out on that plain, any enemy soldiers whose suits had been holed or compromised, died instantly from the pressure wave and subsequent vacuum.

  The powered infantry, sealed up in their suits, had some chance to survive the attack. Those caught in the center of the firestorms literally roasted in their armor, as the intense heat overloaded their suits’ capacity to compensate or the temperatures exceeded the melting points of their osmium-iridium alloys. The ones on the fringes of the primary impact area survived, their blackened and pitted suits enduring the ferocity of the onslaught. The survivors ran toward Astria, leaving half their force behind, dead on the scorched plain. Carlson was impressed as he watched the withdrawal. They were running toward the cover of the city, but there was no panic, no crazed stampede. They were not routing, despite an air assault that would have sent most formations into panicked flight.

  He saw something that looked like a streak of fire rising up from the enemy position and the last of the bombers pitched to the side and tumbled end over end, slamming hard into the ground in a massive explosion. Neither side had much anti-air capability, but the enemy had managed to draw blood with one of their small handheld launchers. It was a lucky shot, and it cost the Marines and Janissaries one of their precious aircraft.

  “Major Carlson, this is Commander Farooq.” The Janissary commander’s voice blared out of Carlson’s helmet speaker. “My forces are ready to advance.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Carlson turned and looked out over his line. He flipped his com to the unitwide frequency. “Cease all fire.” He paused, listening to the sound of the shooting subside before he flipped back to Farooq’s channel. “You’re clear to go, Commander. And good luck to you.”

  Anderson-112 ducked behind a section of shattered building, looking out at the strange green clouds floating across the field. He knew it was Smoke, and he had shadowy memories of facing it before, though the fighting on Armstrong was his first campaign. They weren’t his own recollections, not really, but they were real nonetheless. It was confusing, unsettling. But still, somehow he couldn’t quite explain, he understood how to deal with the situation.

  “Concentrate fire on the clouds.” He snapped out the orders, almost by reflex. The army was retreating south, but his regiment had been ordered to hold the northern perimeter of Astria while the rest of the units made it through the city. “They’re inside those clouds. Keep firing.”

  He looked out over the blasted plain. The Janissaries were advancing across the blackened ground where he’d lost two-thirds of his strength to the enemy’s devastating air attack and murderous autocannon fire. He felt strange about losing over 1,200 of his soldiers in matter of minutes. There was the usual detachment, the normal cold analysis. But there was something else too. Not in the forefront of his mind, but deeper, where the other memories resided. It was unsettling, an unfamiliar feeling, unpleasant and distracting. A horror at watching so many of his troops die in such a terrible way. Anderson-112 tried to push it aside. But it was still there, just on the periphery of his consciousness.

  He’d been on the edge of the FAE bombing run. His armor was blackened and scarred, but he’d been outside of the primary kill zone when the bombers struck. Unlike most of his men. He tried to focus on his training, his conditioning. But the sight of so many of his soldiers writhing in the flames as they roasted inside their armor was still there.

  The Janissaries started to emerge from the Smoke clouds, rushing his positions. They were shooting as they advanced, raking his shallow foxholes with deadly-accurate fire. But his people were firing back, and the Janissaries were out in the open. They started falling in clumps as the Shadow troopers savaged their lines with autocannon fire.

  Expl
osions erupted all along the Shadow line…incoming grenades from the attacking Caliphate troopers. The Janissaries were well-trained in the use of grenades, a weapon the Marines regarded as a secondary system. They didn’t inflict heavy casualties on powered infantry – it pretty much took a direct hit to take out an armored combatant with a grenade. But it made lots of noise and churned things up. The Janissary way of war was a highly theatrical one, designed to instill terror in the hearts of the defenders. It was highly effective against colonial units and second line troops, but less so when they had fought the Marines. The Shadow troops were conditioned to feel no fear, nevertheless, they found it distracting.

  Anderson-112 could see immediately his lines weren’t going to hold. The grenades were more effective than expected against his unit’s shallow foxholes and the wrecked buildings they were using as cover. They were taking casualties they couldn’t afford…not after the devastating losses inflicted by the air strike and Carlson’s autocannons.

  The Janissaries were assaulting in considerable strength. Fresh units were advancing behind the battered first line, and it looked like a second full orta was emerging from the Smoke clouds behind the vanguard. They swept forward, quickly closing the distance between the bilious green clouds and Anderson-112’s thin line.

  The defenders maintained their discipline, firing at the advancing Caliphate forces. They were making the Janissaries pay, but they weren’t going to stop them. They might have driven back a militia unit or a force of colonial regulars, but the Janissaries were every bit as elite as the Marines…and their Shadow Legion imitations. They took their losses and grimly advanced, firing point blank into the foxholes and storming the small defensive clusters around each building.