by Jay Allan
Besides, Cain was the right man for the job. The grim Marine had a dark side, a coldness and a relentless determination Gilson knew she couldn’t match. Cain would follow every lead, and he would do whatever had to be done to track his prey. Whatever had to be done – those were dangerous words, ones she wasn’t sure she could back up with the brutal ferocity she knew Cain would.
“Admiral Garret, General Heath requests permission to commence his launch, sir.” Tara Rourke’s voice was clear and confident on the comlink. She’d been Garret’s flag tactical officer for several years now, and he’d declared more than once that she was the best junior officer who’d ever served under him.
Garret glanced across the desk at Gilson. “It’s your order, General.” He flipped a button. “Your link is live.”
Gilson nodded softly. “Attention all Marines, this is General Catherine Gilson.” The Marines had liberated a number of smaller worlds over the past six months, but this was the first major planetary assault since Arcadia and Armstrong, and she could feel the tension in her gut. “You are about to liberate one of the oldest and most populated colony worlds in human-occupied space, a planet that has seen more than its share of war and destruction in its century of human habitation.” She hoped it was still one of the most populated. The enemy had been there for 18 months, and the Columbians were well-known for their willingness to resist, whatever the cost. She was deathly afraid they had paid that price in blood.
“As always, you have my utmost confidence. You are battered and tired. We have all suffered terrible losses and grief. You have fought without rest, struggled from one end of human space to the other and even into the First Imperium itself. No men and women could be expected to do what you have done, let alone more. But you are Marines first, and men and women second. In the final accounting, that is all that matters. Marines are always ready to do the job, to fight whatever battles must be fought.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “And there are struggles yet to be won.”
She hesitated, pushing back the tears she could feel welling up in her eyes. “I know that General Holm would be proud to see you all today, ready to fight another battle for freedom. Know as you go forward into the fight once again that he is with you, as he will be forever. You are the Marines he helped to make you, and I know you will live up to that standard.”
She glanced over at Khaled. “In this fight, as in our last one, we have allies, men who once fought against us, but now stand at our sides as friends. They are honorable warriors who march to the fire alongside us, and they have earned our trust and our respect. We are grateful for their aid and proud to fight at their sides.”
She swallowed hard and sucked in another breath. “Go now, and fight with the valor all have come to expect from you. Go and free our people on Columbia and destroy the Shadow Legion invaders. Show the enemy just what Marines can do. Forward, to victory.” She cut the line and turned toward Garret and nodded. “Commence the landing.”
All around Columbia, men and women sprang into action at Gilson’s order. Transports fired their thrusters, moving into low orbits, positioning themselves to launch their Marine and Janissary contingents into Columbia’s upper atmosphere. Escort ships maneuvered to cover their movements, providing protection and close support. Farther out, the battlefleets and logistical trains were moved into position.
Columbia was surrounded by almost all the military might Garret and Gilson could muster. The combined fleet was divided into three task forces plus the former Caliphate ships under Admiral Abbas. It was an awesome display of naval power, and Garret was practically daring Stark to come out of hiding with his fleet and offer battle.
Taskforce One was commanded by Elizabeth Arlington, and it was in close orbit, protecting the transport armada. The troopships themselves were in a long line, ready to begin launching dropships into the upper atmosphere. The Marines and Janissaries onboard were suited up and loaded onto their landing craft, waiting for the final order. Arlington’s warships were in high orbit, covering the transports from any enemy that might slip past the heavier fleet units on station farther out.
Taskforce Two, under Admiral Michael Jacobs, had been the first units to approach the planet. They’d conducted a pre-invasion bombardment, blasting any enemy positions they could identify and target without undue danger to civilian populations. Jacob’s ships were on the move now, half pulling away from the planet to rearm, the rest taking position to provide support to the Marines on the ground.
Taskforce Three, under Camille Harmon, was the largest, with most of the heavy capital ships. Harmon’s force was organized for one mission, and one mission only, to blast the hell out of any enemy ships that tried to interfere with the invasion force. Her units were posted about three light minutes from the planet, along with Abbas’ Caliphate ships. They hadn’t detected any enemy naval presence, but they were on full alert anyway. Garret and Harmon were aware of Stark’s unpredictability, and they weren’t taking any chances. Harmon had scoutships patrolling the entire system, and her combat elements were ready to destroy any naval force that approached Columbia without authorization.
Garret stared at his screen, though he’d committed every detail of the fleet and operation to memory. He knew every ship under his command, and its position and its orders. His people were ready for whatever had to be done, and Gilson’s as well. That wasn’t what worried him. It was supply that most concerned him. They had managed to scrounge up enough to launch the Columbia invasion, but now the logistical situation was becoming dire. He was watching numbers scroll slowly across the screen, and his frown deepened as he thought about how low his stores had become.
Provisioning Gilson’s Marines for the invasion had almost depleted the fleet’s stores, and many of his own ships carried half-loads of missiles and other ordnance. He’d tried to contact the high command on Earth a dozen times, but he’d been unable to get through. There were no shipments of supplies coming through, no orders, no news. He’d tried to keep his focus on the crises at hand, but now he was really worried. What was happening on Earth?
“Good luck, Marines!” Captain Harlow’s voice echoed loudly in the helmets of the Marines of A and B companies of the 3rd Battalion. They were the leading edge of the first wave, the first 350 men and women scheduled to hit the ground on Columbia.
The tradition of the ship’s captain wishing the strike force luck had come down from the earliest days of the spaceborne Corps, and it had endured through three Frontier Wars, the struggle against the First Imperium, and now the battle to defeat Gavin Stark’s Shadow Legions.
Lieutenant Callahan gritted his teeth. He knew the captain’s address was the final thing he’d hear before the catapults fired and launched the heavy Liggett 10-man landers out into the edge of space above Columbia. Callahan was a veteran who’d fought in the rebellions as a private and the First Imperium War as a non-com. He’d received a battlefield promotion during the fighting on Armstrong, a reward bestowed on him by none other than the legendary Erik Cain himself.
He exhaled hard as the magnetic cannon accelerated his lander down the rails and through the open outer doors. His armor absorbed some of the g-forces, but he was still slammed back hard inside his suit, losing his breath for a few seconds before he adjusted. It was the same with every assault landing, but it was something you never got completely used to, no matter how many drops you made.
Callahan had no illusions about what he and his people faced down on Columbia’s surface. They were all veterans, and they would do what had to be done. But the honor of leading the advance guard carried a heavy price. He knew casualties would be high, very high. And if the first Marines down failed to secure a perimeter, they could all be overwhelmed before the fleet could send down enough units to strengthen the landing zone. If the invasion of Columbia failed, if the enemy put up too strong a defense and General Gilson called off the rest of the landings, Callahan knew his people would all be KIA. He knew that because he was damned sure none o
f them would surrender.
Callahan glanced at his display, watching the five landers carrying his platoon descend into Columbia’s atmosphere. The formation looked good, and they seemed to be right on schedule. If everything went according to plan, they’d be on the ground and in action in less than ten minutes.
He felt the lander bounce hard to one side as it tore through the thickening air. The Liggett landing craft was an improvement on the old Gordon, carrying ten armored Marines and a large cargo of ammunition and equipment. With four heavy duty laser turrets and enough ordnance to keep a squad supplied for hours, the Liggett was designed to land right in the teeth of an enemy position, blasting away in close support as its squad jumped right into battle.
“Projected landing in six minutes.” The voice was female, calm and pleasant, typical for a fleet AI. Callahan knew everyone in the first wave had gotten the same announcement. He took a deep breath, preparing himself once again for battle. He knew his people were ready, that all the Corps was prepared to do what had to be done. His heart had swelled with pride when General Gilson addressed them, when she had invoked the name of Elias Holm. The Commandant had been beloved by every Marine in the Corps, and Callahan and his people were ready to lash out at the enemy that had taken their leader from them. The Corps would fight on Columbia with its usual tenacity and professionalism, but there would be something else here too, a ferocity driven by their pain of loss. The Marines was here to do battle for Elias Holm, and God help any who stood in their way.
“Four minutes until projected landing. All Marines, complete final diagnostic check on weapons systems.”
Callahan’s visor plate opened, and he could see the bright blue sky above Columbia. He was held rigidly in place, but he managed to glance down toward the ground as he checked his weapons. There was water below, nothing but a seemingly endless sea stretching as far as he could see. He knew his people were still thousands of kilometers from the inhabited areas of the planet, tearing through the atmosphere at 40,000 kph heading for the LZ just outside the capital city of Weston.
He could feel the lander’s maneuvering thrusters kick in, and the small craft began to zigzag wildly. They were entering the inner defensive perimeter, and the Liggett’s AI was conducting evasive maneuvers, trying to avoid the incoming AA fire. He could see the laser turrets whipping around, and he caught the barely perceptible flash of one of them firing. He knew that had probably been a surface-to-air missile heading for his lander and, in the back of his mind, he suspected that laser blast had saved his life. His and those of the other nine Marines bolted in next to him.
There was land below the Liggett now, and he could see they were much closer to the ground. He could make out terrain features ahead, and he tried to match them with the maps he’d studied in the pre-mission briefing.
“Two minutes to landing.”
His own com unit activated, allowing him to contact the men and women of his platoon. He was about to speak when he saw a bright flash off to the extreme right. His eyes snapped back to his display, and he felt his stomach in his throat. There were only four Liggett’s displayed. Lander 4 was gone. Just gone.
The shock of loss hit him hard. He’d understood they were going back into the fight, but it never seemed real until somebody got hit. Now it was official. They were back in the shit.
“Alright, Marines. Stay focused. We’ve got a job to do.” But all he could think about was the crew of ship four. Hiller, Haggerty, Ash – Ash had saved his life on Armstrong. Now they were all gone.
“Thirty seconds to landing.”
The AI snapped him back to the present. He had a job to do, and that came first, before everything. Ten of his people were dead, but the rest were counting on him. It was time to make these sons of bitches pay. And now the men and women of A Company had one more reason to waste these motherfuckers.
He felt the Liggett’s braking rockets fire and then the slow, sickening drop as the lander floated down the last 30 meters, settling hard on the rocky ground. There was fire ripping all around them, the enemy already moving on the LZ determined to pinch it out before a second wave could get down.
“Let’s go!” he shouted into the com, leaping from the lander and whipping around his assault rifle. “Company A…attack!”
The Marines were back on Columbia.
Chapter 3
Front Lines
120 Kilometers East of Paris
French Zone, Europa Federalis
Hans Werner peered out over the trench at the blackened and shattered ground in front of his position. The stretch of rolling hills had once been covered with rich vineyards, but now it was a blasted hell where nothing lived. The civilians who’d survived the initial battles had long since fled, and the ruin of war was everywhere.
Werner couldn’t see the Europan positions from where he stood, but he knew they were there, a mere 3 kilometers ahead, a network of trenches as formidable as his, hidden by the low ridgeline. He’d assaulted that defensive position three times. Each of his meticulously planned attacks drove through the enemy defenses, only to bog down and falter for lack of supplies and reinforcements. The enemy had thrown themselves at his line as well, and each time his carefully positioned batteries and autocannons shredded the advancing formations, sending them back in disarray.
The casualties along the stalemated line had been almost too many to count. Werner had lost two million men in just the last six months, and he was certain the Europans had suffered even greater casualties. The CEL forces had seemed unstoppable on their initial drive toward Paris, but then the RIC allied with Europa Federalis and invaded the CEL’s eastern provinces, draining away the resources that sustained Werner’s offensive.
The Europan diplomatic victory was as effective as any battlefield success, and Werner lost almost a million men without a battle, legions of his veterans sent to the eastern front to meet the new threat. His supplies and reinforcements trickled to almost nothing as well, and he’d been compelled to halt his advance and reorganize. The CEL’s chance at a quick victory was lost, the victim of enemy diplomacy and the need to fight a 2-front war.
Werner had gained his fourth star during the early fighting along the Reims-Troyes Line, and he now commanded the four armies of 1st Army Group. He was the greatest hero of the war, at least in Europe, and the only CEL commander who had distinguished himself in the disastrous early battles. His steadfast defense along the southern edge of the front had likely saved the League from an ignominious defeat in the early months of the fighting, when the Europan forces surged forward shouting their battle cry, “Venger le sang de Marseille.”
The still-unnamed world war had begun in Europe, between Europa Federalis and the Central European League, ignited by the nuclear destruction of Marseilles, an act of terrorism in which the CEL still denied any involvement. Repeated statements to that effect from Neu-Brandenberg had fallen on deaf ears, and the Paris government repudiated the century-long prohibition against terrestrial warfare and launched a massive invasion of their hated neighbors. That war had been raging for more than a year now, and both Powers, already prostrate from the worldwide economic depression, were on the verge of total collapse.
The conflict may have started along the banks of the Rhine, but once open war broke out between Superpowers, the conflagration spread, and now there was fighting in every corner of the globe. The Tokyo-based Pacific Rim Coalition joined their longtime Western Alliance allies in the conflict with the Chinese-dominated Central Asian Combine. The Caliphate honored its treaty obligations to their CAC partners, and the Alliance and PRC were soon fighting their two greatest rivals. That struggle had raged across the seas, where the Alliance and PRC had been largely victorious, and in southern Asia and Africa, where the CAC-Caliphate armies had crushed most of their enemies.
The CAC and the Caliphate had won the diplomatic war as well, winning over both the RIC and the South American Empire as well as Europa Federalis. Hong Kong and New Medina had assemb
led their great power bloc with a combination of threats and promises, edging out the diplomats from Washbalt with the help of an extraordinary effort by Li An and her C1 operatives.
The Russian-Indian offensive against the CEL had been the price of bringing Europa Federalis into their league, and now five of Earth’s Superpowers were aligned against the other three. Werner’s attentions had been focused primarily on the theater where he commanded, but he knew the effects of the wider war would trickle down and affect his own armies. Already, his forces had been stripped of manpower and resources to support the tenuous defensive lines on the eastern front. He knew that would only get worse, as the Russians continued to mobilize and pour more troops into the combat zone. Eventually, he realized, if his forces became any weaker, even the battered Europans would reorganize and launch their own offensive.
He stared down at the orders he held in his hand. He’d read them three times already, but he found his eyes panning across the small ’pad again. He understood the reality behind the directive, but he still couldn’t bring himself to believe what he was reading. He was to launch an immediate offensive to take the Europan capital of Paris, and he was authorized to use unlimited tactical and intermediate ranged nuclear weapons against any military targets, without consideration to civilian casualties.
Both sides had used nukes in the war, but they had been targeted and sporadic. Werner’s orders called for a massive pre-attack bombardment, one that shattered the Europan defensive positions and their logistical centers behind the front. There would be millions of civilian casualties, no matter how carefully he targeted the strikes. He could only guess at the probable response, and how it would affect his advancing armies…and the rest of the world.
He felt a flush of anger toward the high command in Neu-Brandenburg, but he realized they had no choice. The CEL couldn’t fight the Europans and the RIC at the same time, and the Alliance wasn’t in a position to offer anything beyond minimal support. Taking out Europa Federalis was the only way the CEL could survive. If they knocked out their western enemy, they could consolidate their forces on the eastern front and hold out against the growing RIC pressure. It was a desperate plan, one he wanted to oppose. But he couldn’t think of an alternative.