09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  She looked at the marines, wondering how they could be so calm. Didn't they know they could die at any second? Didn't they know they could be utterly vaporised by a single hit, before they even knew they were under attack? Didn’t they know ... she wanted to undo her straps, march forward and take the controls for herself. It would be better to die flying the shuttle than remaining trapped in a small box, waiting to either land or die. But she knew she couldn't do anything of the sort. She could only wait and endure it.

  You flew in shuttles you didn't pilot before, her thoughts mocked her.

  Yeah, she answered. But not through unfriendly skies.

  The shuttle lurched, violently. George had no idea what had happened, but her imagination offered all sorts of possibilities. The pilot might have altered course to avoid a piece of debris, a warhead might have detonated far too close to the hull for comfort ... she knew she’d never know, not until it was far too late. She gritted her teeth as the shuttle shook, repeatedly, as if the pilot was deliberately seeking out the worst patches of turbulence he could find. She’d flown a shuttle down to Tadpole Prime, a flight that had been thoroughly nightmarish, but this was worse. At least no one on Tadpole Prime had been trying to kill her!

  She glanced at the marines. Some of them looked half-asleep, as if they didn't care what was happening; some of them were listening to music or audiobooks through their earpieces. A couple even looked to be praying silently; Sergeant Tosco was leaning forward, his eyes half-closed. George wasn't too surprised that the sergeant was unfazed by the bumpy flight, even the moment when the shuttle threatened to heel over completely just long enough to scare her to death. She couldn't imagine anything that could scare the sergeant.

  “Landing in two minutes,” the pilot warned. “Departure window is in five, so hurry.”

  “Understood,” Sergeant Tosco said. He raised his voice. “Two minutes to landing!”

  George nodded, even though sweat was dripping down her back. They’d practiced unloading the shuttle at speed, but she knew it was going to be an absolute nightmare. Sergeant Tosco had grumbled that the exercise planners always left out the emergency, even though the marines were all veterans of multiple combat drops. Hell, even George had experience on Unity, although she hadn't planned to crash-land. She hastily catalogued her share of the work as the shuttle bounced, so badly she almost threw up, then crashed down hard. Her straps snapped loose a moment later.

  No one would have cared if I threw up or wet myself, she thought, as she pulled herself free and stood. Her legs felt weak. They’d only care if I couldn't pull my weight any longer.

  “Go, go,” Sergeant Tosco snapped. “Out, now!”

  George settled her rucksack on her shoulders, then picked up one half of her box and half-dragged it towards the hatch. Sammy took the other handle and hefted it up, somehow managing to make it look easy. George rolled her eyes, feeling an odd flicker of envy. No matter how hard she worked, she’d never match any of the marines for raw strength. And even they were in awe of artillerymen. Sergeant Pink, who’d drilled unarmed combat into her head, had warned her never to get into a fistfight with an artilleryman. They were strong.

  The smell struck her as soon as she emerged from the shuttle, a musty scent that reminded her of a garden hothouse. It was hot and moist, the wind shifting constantly to blow a multitude of smells towards her. She couldn't help thinking that the Foxes would probably find the heat uncomfortable, although she knew that might be wishful thinking. The warmth would have been more enjoyable in a bikini than body armour and BDUs.

  She glanced around as Sammy pulled her out of the makeshift shuttlefield, towards a couple of markers that had been hastily erected by the first wave. They’d landed in the countryside, in the middle of what she assumed had once been a farm. A couple of dead bodies - both Cows - lay on the ground as they reported to the logistics officer, who checked their crate against a list and then pointed them towards a tent, surrounded by a number of mobile sensor systems. The first wave had also set up ground-based defence stations, including laser antimissile and antiaircraft systems. She hoped - prayed - that it would be enough to keep them safe.

  “Seems reasonably organised,” Sammy muttered, as they passed the crate to another logistics officer and hurried back towards the assembly point. “I’ve been in worse places.”

  George glanced at him, then looked around. Hundreds of shuttles were landing, unloading and taking off ... the average time spent on the ground, it seemed, was barely five minutes, if that. Thousands of soldiers from a dozen different nations were running around, shouting in five or six different languages as the military police tried to sort them out. Behind them, a small row of light tanks and men in combat armour were making their way towards the edge of the spacehead. And, in the distance, she could see plumes of smoke rising into the air.

  She shivered, despite herself. Each of those plumes marked a KEW strike, a place where a rock had fallen from orbit and destroyed its target. She knew the importance of crippling the enemy’s ability to mount an immediate counterattack, but ... she looked back at the dead aliens, lying on the ground. It was hard not to feel sorry for the poor creatures. They’d been minding their own business on their homeworld - and it was their homeworld, not a replacement - when they'd suddenly found themselves at ground zero. And yet ...

  War is hell, she thought, as she heard a trio of explosions in the distance. A missile lanced up, aimed at one of the shuttles. And we’re here, in the middle of it.

  She caught sight of Major Andres, barking orders as his men gathered around him. Sammy pulled her towards the major, just as two more senior officers appeared. One of them was a stranger, but the other was all too familiar ... she had to keep herself from going up to him and saying hello. Brigadier Percy Schneider was, technically, her cousin. Adopted cousin.

  And he’s also a hero, she reminded herself. That’s why he was promoted so quickly.

  “All right, marines, listen up!” Schneider bellowed. “The Yanks have pushed out the engagement envelope as far as possible, so we’re going to back them up and dig trenches for weapons positioning! I want two companies holding the line here” - he jabbed a finger around him - “and two more advancing forward to inspect the alien farm. Watch yourselves - the Yanks have already lost five men to improvised booby traps.”

  George shivered. The British military had a great deal of experience in finding and removing IEDs, but terrorists, insurgents and the just plain desperate kept coming up with interesting ideas to maim or kill British soldiers. Getting caught by a mock-IED on the training field was one thing - soldiers who set one off were often roundly mocked by their comrades - yet getting caught by a real IED would be far worse. She’d heard all the horror stories about soldiers having their legs - or genitals - blown off, about wounded soldiers who couldn't be rescued because they were trapped in a field of IEDs ...

  “Grab your tools,” Sergeant Tosco ordered. “You have trenches to dig.”

  “Ouch,” Sammy muttered.

  George shrugged as she unhooked her entrenching tool and went to work. She would have preferred to search the alien farmsteads too, but there was no point in arguing. General Ross had plotted out the defences in some detail, according to the constant set of updates; fixed weapons and mobile tanks were moved forward as trenches were dug, ready to defend the spacehead. She needed to do her part before all hell broke loose.

  She glanced up as she saw a series of flashes in the sky. The enemy were shelling them from a distance, trying to smash the spacehead. She was surprised they hadn't managed to mount a ground-based offensive yet, although maybe that wasn’t a surprise. The continent was large, larger than Europe and Africa put together. Predicting their landing site would have required precognition, even if one assumed the spacehead had to be near to a city. The aliens would need time to get their forces assembled, then marched off to war.

  Who gets there the first with the most, she mused. That’s who’ll win the engage
ment.

  ***

  “And now it's a race,” General Ross mused. “Who gets there the first with the most wins.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brigadier Percy Schneider said. “And they’re already scrambling to muster their forces.”

  He peered down at the live feed from dozens of stealth drones, spreading out in an ever-increasing radius around the spacehead. The Foxes were proving depressingly good at shooting them down, but they - and the orbital platforms - were still sending back enough imagery to confirm that the aliens were readying themselves for war. Nowhere in Britain - and perhaps not even in America - would have been quite so heavily armed. The aliens only needed a little organisation before they mounted their counteroffensive.

  And a few hundred heavy weapons and tanks too, he added, silently. They’re going to need them before they have a hope of breaking our lines.

  “The scouts have already skirmished with the aliens,” Ross commented. “They’ll be forming a defensive line now.”

  He glanced at Percy. “You’ve served on Vesy,” he said. “Do you have an opinion?”

  “Nothing we haven’t already discussed in the pre-landing briefings,” Percy said.

  He found it hard to keep his irritation out of his voice. Vesy was an alien world, true, but it wasn't Vixen. What was true of the Vesy might not be true of the Foxes - and the simple fact that two races lived on this world changed everything. The interaction between humans and Tadpoles had already produced all sorts of ideas, some of them remarkable. Who knew what the Foxes and Cows had produced?

  “Warn the men, if you wish, not to take anything for granted,” he added. “An alien weapon might not look like a weapon. Or something might set them off quite by accident ...”

  He shrugged. General Ross - a relative of the famed Rhino Ross, who had served with Percy’s father - was a tough, competent officer. But he had the American prejudice against aristocracy in spades ... prejudice Percy had to admit he would have shared, if he hadn't benefited from it so much. Being the son of a war hero and the adopted son of another had done wonders for his promotion prospects, but so too had his success on Vesy and Clarke.

  “The plan is sound, General,” he said. “All we need to do now is hunker down and wait for their response.”

  “Yeah,” Ross agreed. “And what if they decide to launch nuclear-tipped missiles at us?”

  Percy nodded, sourly. It was the great wild card. The xenospecialists insisted that the Foxes instinctively assumed that all races thought along the same lines as themselves - a mistake humans had been known to make too - but they could be wrong. And if they were wrong ... if the Foxes had decided that humans didn't deserve the courtesies of war, thousands of soldiers might be caught in the blast and killed.

  And we draw lines too, he reminded himself. We think nothing of bombing villages in Africa, but refuse to kill Indian POWs.

  He scowled, inwardly, as he checked the latest set of updates. It was a common debate, usually raised by civilians who knew nothing of war. And Penny, he admitted quietly to himself. The villages in Africa harboured terrorists and insurgents, terrorists who paid no heed to the laws of war and were thus denied their protections; Indian POWs had fought - and been captured - according to the rules, therefore mistreating them was a war crime deserving of harsh punishment. It wasn't fair, Penny had argued years ago. The villagers were rarely given a choice when the terrorists moved in.

  And perhaps she’s right, he thought. But no one cares any longer.

  “The shuttles have taken heavier losses,” he said, “but we should be able to get everything set up by the time the enemy mount their counteroffensive.”

  “Quite,” Ross agreed. “And if we assume the projections are accurate, we have two days - three at most - before the alien reinforcements arrive.”

  Percy nodded. He’d served on enough starships to understand that ETAs were precisely that - estimated times of arrival. There was no guarantee that the alien reinforcements would arrive on schedule. They might have decided to gamble and push their drives to the limit, risking a drive failure, or they might have decided to take it slowly and draw off reinforcements from other bases as they returned home. And the analysts might have fucked up the analysis completely ...

  “We can't help it, sir,” he said, finally. They’d been committed from the moment they’d landed on Vixen. Pulling out now wasn't an option, unless the Foxes could be convinced to let them go. “All we can do is dig in and hope for the best.”

  “Then keep mustering the defences,” Ross ordered. “I’ll keep the scouts probing forward.”

  Percy saluted as he turned and left, although he wasn't sure just how effective Ross’s tactics were going to be. Standard doctrine for dealing with a spacehead was to seal it off, bleed the landing forces and finally thrust forward to crush it below dozens of tank treads. But no one had ever actually tried the tactic in real life, not until now. Normally, anyone in a position to land troops and mount a ground offensive controlled the high orbitals. And that meant ...

  We’ll find out, he told himself. Outside, he could hear explosions as alien shells were intercepted in midflight. So far, the aliens hadn't managed to bring enough artillery to bear on the spacehead. And if they come at us before they’re ready, all the better for us.

  ***

  Night was falling by the time George and the marines were called back to the heart of the spacehead, passing lines of freshly-arrived soldiers, tanks and pallets of supplies. George felt sore and grimy - and yet oddly happy - as they were given rations and told to find somewhere to set up a stove. Corporal Rawlings collected the ration packs while Corporal Flynn produced a stove, a pot and a large kettle, then mixed them all together with various spices and sauces. The result - the compo - looked ghastly, but George had to admit it tasted better than the ration packs.

  There were no tents, she discovered, as she used the makeshift facilities. She was too tired to give a damn that she was sharing the latrine with a bunch of men from far too many different nations. Given that she was covered in mud - and probably smelt foul - she rather doubted that any of them had noticed anything different about her. She stumbled back to the squad, then lay down on the mushy ground next to Sammy. The skies were alive with pieces of debris, falling into the atmosphere and burning up before they hit the ground. It was almost hypnotic, if she chose to ignore what it was. Pieces of junk that might survive the passage through the atmosphere, dust that would affect the planetary ecosystem, dead bodies - human and alien - falling to their destruction ...

  She sighed as she closed her eyes. If they were lucky - she hoped they were lucky - the orbiting fleet would have smashed anything that could pose a threat. If not ... she’d been a child when the Tadpoles had attacked Earth, but she still recalled the fear. The entire world had come far too close to collapse. And now, with a genuine alien invasion underway, who knew how the Foxes would react?

  And, on that thought, she fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “The enemy are definitely keeping their distance,” Jean reported, as Susan peered over her shoulder. “But at least they don’t pose a threat.”

  Susan wasn’t so sure. It was true that the handful of enemy starships remaining within the system couldn't liberate Vixen, but it was also true that they could harass the task force or intercept and destroy any independent detachments that might be sent out to raid the remainder of the system. Merely bringing the fleet train into the system had been risky, even though there had been no choice. Engineers were, even now, scrambling over Vanguard and the other ships, transferring missiles and making - once again - hasty repairs.

  “Keep an eye on them,” she ordered, finally. The entire conflict seemed to have stalemated, for now. But it wouldn't last. Enemy reinforcements were already on their way. She didn't need an FTL communicator to know that. “Mr. XO?”

  “The basic repairs have been completed, Captain,” Mason said. “But Mr. Finch isn’t confident that the makeshif
t armour will hold, if we engage the enemy a second time.”

  Susan scowled. “There’s no way to improve it?”

  “Not without a shipyard, Captain,” Mason said. “We’ve locked the armour in place, but the hull plates aren't melded together. We can’t do that here.”

  “We need a mobile shipyard,” Susan grumbled.

  She shook her head in annoyance. She’d seen proposals for something along those lines, but they’d never got off the drawing board. They would be too ungainly, the designers had said, too easy for a prowling enemy to pick off from a distance. And while she knew the naysayers were right, she had to admit a mobile shipyard would have been very helpful right now. There were limits to what Mr. Finch and his wonder-workers could do.