by Jay Allan
“Come here, Major.” He shouted to his longtime aide.
Potsdorf had been with him since his days as a battalion commander. Then a lieutenant, he had followed Werner through his meteoric rise in rank, continuing to serve as his aide at each level of command.
“Yes, General.” Potsdorf was running over, moving as quickly as he could in the deep muck of the trench. The aide was a tall man, with close-cropped blonde hair and a grim face. He stopped in front of the theater commander and stood at attention.
“Read this, Potsdorf.” He handed the ’pad to his surprised aide.
“My God, sir.” Potsdorf was still reading, but he’d gotten the gist of the order in the first few seconds. “This is a massive escalation.”
“Indeed it is, Major.” There was a sadness in Werner’s voice. He was a soldier, and he would carry out his orders, but he couldn’t help but think he was committing suicide as well. For him and for his soldiers, and possibly for the civilians back home too. The Europans would almost certainly respond in kind, and a battlefield that was already a nightmare would become a blasted, radioactive hell. What happened next rested with the politicians, but that was cold comfort to Werner. “But those are our orders, so we’d better do everything we can to make sure the troops are ready.” He took a deep breath. “Because we’re about to unleash hell.”
Ryan Warren’s head was pounding. He reached around and massaged the back of his neck, feeling the hard tightness of the knotted muscles under his fingers. He glanced at the chronometer. He’d been at his desk for almost 15 hours, but he wasn’t even close to done. There was a half-eaten sandwich sitting off to the side of workstation, the only food he’d touched all day. It had been there for hours, and the edges were dried out and stale. A stone cold cup of coffee, missing only a few sips, sat next to the plate, equally forgotten.
Warren had lost 10 kilos since he had taken over Gavin Stark’s job, and he wondered how that master spy had seemed to handle his myriad responsibilities with such effortless grace. He suspected now that had been at least somewhat of a façade, that Stark’s brilliant leadership had come at its own cost. Still, it had been weeks since he’d managed to sleep all night, and he wondered how any man could do this job for as long as Stark had.
For years Warren had dreamed about being Number One, a goal that had seemed unattainable from his mid-level position in the massive spy agency. Now that circumstance had made his wild ambition a reality, he longed only to flee from the crushing responsibility, to go back to his small office and his old manageable portfolio of work. He’d once ached for the power he imagined Stark wielded, but now, with war raging across the globe and revolution and disorder at home, he saw nothing but endless obligation. No matter what he managed to accomplish, another ten problems were waiting for his attention.
Things were going downhill. Fast. He’d been Number One for ten months now, but he was still trying to rebuild an Alliance Intelligence ravaged by the nuclear destruction of its headquarters. The personnel losses had been severe, and key agents were missing, even those who shouldn’t have been in Washbalt when HQ was destroyed. There was something wrong, something he couldn’t explain fully. He was sure of that. But he couldn’t figure out what it was.
The devastated and massively shrunken Alliance Intelligence had only a fraction of its earlier resources, and more problems than ever to address. There was war raging across the globe, and the Alliance had suffered some key defeats, making its position ever more precarious. Warren wouldn’t characterize the war to date as a disaster, but he couldn’t say things were going well either.
The navy had gained control of the seas, largely as a result of Admiral Young’s extraordinary leadership, but the naval victories had been costly, and losses had been high. The remaining fleets were strong enough to control the oceans themselves, but too weak to project force close to land, where the enemy’s ground batteries and missiles could come into play.
The Cog pacification program had begun to achieve some sporadic successes. The initial implementation had been nothing short of a disaster, the Cog enlisted men disobeying their officers and refusing to execute their kill orders. Warren had overestimated the discipline of the armed forces, assuming the Cog soldiers would do as they were told, out of sheer self-preservation if nothing else. They’d all known the price of disobedience, but many of them had mutinied anyway, and the initial attacks against the rioting Cogs had been a stunning failure.
Warren’s people had since reestablished control over the kill units, transferring in more crew from the middle classes and the lowest ranks of the political class. His people had taken charge of the captured mutineers from the military authorities, executing them with extreme brutality in front of their fellow soldiers. He knew there was a limit to what such harsh measures could accomplish, that if he pushed too hard, he would only feed rebellion. But time wasn’t on his side, and if he couldn’t scare the soldiers into submission, all would be lost. He’d actually had contingency plans to nuke several cities where the Cog rebellions were the most severe, but President Oliver had put those on hold.
Oliver had a reputation for strength and intelligence, one Warren now realized was entirely undeserved. The Alliance’s longtime president was a bully with some instinctive political skill, but nothing more. He had maintained power for so many years through momentum and threats, and he’d been lucky not to encounter a capable adversary in that time. The current crisis had entirely overwhelmed him, and he’d lost his nerve more than once when risky actions were called for. Warren had thought about making a move to unseat Oliver, but he hadn’t pulled the trigger. He had no doubt it was the move Gavin Stark would have made, but the last thing Alliance Intelligence’s new chief wanted was more responsibility.
He had more pressing matters than planning a coup. He’d managed to pacify most of the cities, but there were several problem spots remaining. Manhattan was the worst of all, and the Cogs had rampaged through the Protected Zone in an orgy of rape and murder. The enraged lower classes had fallen on everyone they’d encountered, members of the middle class as well as the Political families and Corporate Magnates. The entire city had been shut down, and the bodies of the unburied dead filled the streets. Even the secure areas occupied by the highest levels of the political classes had been ransacked, their pampered inhabitants brutalized and tortured to death in the streets.
He’d repeatedly sent in kill flights, but the rebellious Cogs had taken refuge underground in the vast network of old rail tunnels that crisscrossed the city. The problem had festered for months now, but he simply didn’t have enough ground troops available to clean out the entrenched Cogs, not with the demands for manpower coming in from the combat zones. Starvation would do his job for him eventually, at least once the surviving Cogs exhausted the dwindling food supplies.
Diplomacy had been a black mark on his record as well, and he could find little accomplishment there to celebrate. His decimated agency had failed to provide the covert support the Alliance diplomats needed. He knew Li An had gotten the better of him in the race for allies, and her manipulations had helped the CAC assemble a bloc of five Powers lined up against the Alliance and its allies. He’d been an operative all his life, but it still amazed him how far a little sex and blackmail could go toward directing international affairs.
Warren had known the ancient CAC spy was a master manipulator, and he realized she had taken him to school in the frantic espionage that surrounded the various negotiations. The prelude to global war had seen the Powers scrambling for allies, and Li’s CAC had decisively won that struggle.
The ancient Li An had been a match even for Stark himself, or at least nearly so. No other adversary had challenged Alliance Intelligence’s brilliant master so effectively. Indeed, Warren thought, she may have even gotten the best of him in the end. The perpetrator of the attack that destroyed Alliance Intelligence headquarters and killed Gavin Stark had never been identified, but C1 and its brilliant leader were at the
top of everyone’s suspect list. Even without proof, the incident had been a major factor in provoking the war now raging across the Earth.
“Number One, we have a priority one communication for you from Chancellor Schmidt.”
His head whipped toward the com unit on his desk. Otto Schmidt was the Chancellor of the Central European League, President Oliver’s counterpart in the CEL.
“Put him through immediately.” Warren felt a knot in his empty stomach. He could speculate on a number of reasons the CEL Chancellor would contact him, but none of them were good news.
“Mr. Warren?” He could hear the exhaustion in the voice on the com, and he could tell immediately there was no AI translating. The Chancellor spoke flawless English with only the slightest accent, a major improvement over Warren’s poor mastery of German.
“Yes, Mr. Chancellor. This is a rare honor. How may I help you?” His voice was tentative, confused. Schmidt should rightfully have contacted Oliver, not him.
“I have been unable to reach President Oliver despite several attempts, and it is vital that I speak to someone at the top levels of your government immediately.” They both knew the head of Alliance Intelligence was one of the most powerful members of the government, despite being ranked fairly far down on official lists of seniority.
Warren held back a sigh. He knew Oliver was nearing a total breakdown, but he couldn’t imagine the fool being unavailable to an allied head of state during wartime. “I am sure I can help you, Chancellor.”
“Conditions on our eastern front have been deteriorating rapidly as the RIC continues to mobilize and reinforce its armies.”
“We are aware of the pressure your forces are experiencing on both fronts. As you know, we are increasing our shipments of…”
“Pardon my interruption, Mr. Warren, but I am aware that your government is doing everything possible to aid our war effort. Unfortunately, the sum total of this is insufficient to alter the tactical situation.” He paused. “Unless we take immediate drastic measures to defeat Europa Federalis, we will be crushed between two enemies.”
Warren felt his stomach roll at the word drastic. He knew immediately what the Chancellor was going to say, and his mind raced at the likely consequences.
“As per our treaty obligations, I am advising you that at 11PM Washbalt time, General Werner’s First Army Group will launch an offensive to break through the Europan lines and capture Paris. The attack will be preceded by a hurricane bombardment, including unlimited tactical and intermediate-range nuclear and chemical ordnance.” Schmidt paused for an instant, the gravity of what he was saying laying heavily on him as he spoke. “I have authorized and instructed General Werner to restrict the bombardment to targets of military significance, however, I have also advised him that potential collateral damage resulting from his attack is not a consideration.”
Warren took a breath. In less than two hours, the CEL’s army was going to unleash a massive bombardment that would kill hundreds of thousands, and probably millions, of Europan civilians. His mind was running wild with the potential consequences. He knew there was no way to stop the CEL from following through. It was their only chance. If they didn’t knock the Europans out of the war, they were finished. If they won a complete victory on the western front, they could rush General Werner and his veterans to the east. Werner was their star commander, and his troops the best they had. Maybe they could at least stalemate the invading RIC armies.
“Thank you for the notice, Chancellor.” He swallowed hard. “My best wishes to General Werner and his men.” He paused. “And to all of us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Warren. You will of course pass this on to President Oliver and the other members of your Cabinet?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Of course, Chancellor.” Schmidt cut the line. Warren sat still for a few seconds, trying to organize his thoughts. He had to get Alliance Intelligence locked down, in case this thing escalated wildly. He punched at his workstation, pulling up the emergency protocols for potential worldwide nuclear exchanges. All the years he’d longed for Stark’s job, and now that he was here, he might find himself presiding over the biggest catastrophe in human history.
He put his face in his hands. There was one thing he had to do first. He hit the com unit. “I need to see President Oliver. Now.” The fool couldn’t have gotten too far. They were all locked down deep under the Virginia countryside, with Stonewall protocols in full effect. “All personnel are to stop whatever they are doing and locate the president immediately.”
Warren sighed. The fool was probably drunk or strung out somewhere. Perhaps he had to revisit that coup idea. Oliver was losing his shit, and the Alliance couldn’t afford a leader right now who was caving under the pressure. Warren didn’t want Oliver’s job, but he was beginning to realize he might have to take it anyway.
Chapter 4
Base Omega
Asteroid Belt
Altair System
Gavin Stark sat at his desk, a half-finished Scotch sitting neglected alongside his workstation. His mind was in a dozen places at once, reviewing reports, examining force deployments, updating supply manifests. His paranoid mind was virtually incapable of trusting anyone, and he micromanaged every aspect of the massive campaign now underway.
Stark was a true genius, his brilliant mind an accident of genetics, an unlikely mutation that gave him analytical ability far in excess of most humans. He was different in other ways as well, a man with few true emotions. He could feel rage, certainly, but even that was only a manifestation of his singular focus, a direction of frustration toward those who interfered with his plans. But emotions like love, loyalty, friendship – they were mostly beyond his ability to feel or understand. He’d only ever had one friend. Jack Dutton had been his mentor and confidante, and the old man’s death had severed the only connection Stark had to his humanity.
For all his evil, for the millions of deaths he’d caused and the countless more who would die as his plans progressed, Stark wasn’t really a sadist. He would torture a captive without hesitation or pity, but only to gain information he needed or to instill useful fear in those who witnessed such brutality. He rarely tormented enemies simply to gain satisfaction from their suffering, and he rapidly lost interest in those who had opposed him once they were no longer a threat. He was cold, determined, almost robotic in his actions, and he rarely allowed himself to pursue pointless vendettas that did nothing to further his plans.
Only a few adversaries, those who had truly and repeatedly interfered with his efforts, those who had thwarted him and stood in his way again and again, earned his lasting enmity. At the top of this list, two men stood above all others, and they were both the target of Stark’s eternal wrath. He hated Augustus Garret and Erik Cain with a passion utterly inconsistent with his normal cold-blooded demeanor, and his temper flared when he even thought of his greatest enemies.
He’d taken an unacceptable personal risk to attempt an assassination of Cain on Armstrong. He had missed his nemesis but ended up killing Elias Holm instead. He’d been frustrated that Cain escaped him, but Holm was another enemy, and Stark knew the Marine Commandant’s death would shatter Erik Cain. He reveled in the hurt he had caused, even as he scolded himself for taking such a terrible risk. It was unlike him, and he was beginning to realize that his enmity for the Marines and their allies was affecting his normal calm and rational demeanor. He struggled against the hatred he felt and forced himself to remember his priorities. Power was what Stark truly craved, the total domination of all those around him. He knew he had been born to rule mankind, and now his plans were in their final stages. He was resolved to remain focused, to execute his plan meticulously, to follow through until humanity was his forever. Men would bow to him and beg his favor, and he would be their overlord.
He was using every facet of his malevolent intelligence, carefully analyzing his plans, reviewing the reports coming in from all across occupied space, trying to decide what to do
next. Many of his schemes were progressing nicely, but he’d suffered setbacks as well, mostly at the hands of his old nemeses, the cursed Marines and Augustus Garret and his navy.
He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a smile. Garret and his Marine allies were about to invade Columbia. Indeed, he thought, they are probably beginning their attack even now. It would be a brutal fight, he knew, one that might very well end in the defeat of his occupation forces. He’d managed to get significant reinforcements to his Shadow Legions there, and they controlled most of the planet’s inhabited areas. The population had fled to the swamps and wilderness areas, continuing the fight with a futile, but annoying, partisan struggle.
Still, despite the strength of his defenders, he’d seen the Marines in action too many times to discount their chance of success. They were worked up into a frenzy by the death of their leader, and Stark knew they would hit the ground on Columbia like avenging angels, slaughtering all who stood in their way. But none of that mattered. However the battle turned out, it would be a win for Stark, at least in the long run.
Garret and the Marines were cut off from Earth, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding there. The Alliance navy and Marines were the best fighting forces in space, but they needed supplies to maintain their effectiveness, and soon they’d be down to throwing rocks. Stark’s plans were long term by nature, and he knew he could eliminate even a victorious Marine Corps and navy by forcing them to expend their supplies and cutting them off from any replenishment.