09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Signal from the task force,” General Ross said, as Percy ran into the command tent. “The enemy has been sighted and a battle is expected at any moment.”

  “I see,” Percy said. “And the enemy on the ground?”

  “No sign as yet, but we expect that to change,” Ross said. “They timed it well.”

  “Very well,” Percy agreed. It was almost dawn. “At least we’re ready to face them.”

  “Let us hope so,” Ross said. “They’ll never have a better chance to crush us than now.”

  Percy nodded in agreement. “We’ll stop them, sir.”

  “Spread the word,” Ross ordered. “If they come at us, we hold.”

  ***

  We should have had more training on Vesy, Lieutenant Charles Baskerville thought, as the small patrol inched forward. It would have taught us more about alien worlds.

  He gritted his teeth, scanning from side to side with his night-vision goggles. Vixen was hot, muddy and thoroughly unpleasant, as far as he was concerned. Charles had fought in Mexico, Iran and North Korea, but Vixen was the worst place he’d ever served. There were no friendly natives, no safe bases behind the wire ... in hindsight, perhaps it had been a mistake to join the USMC instead of the National Guard. The Guard didn't have to go off-world and fight aliens.

  And the aliens are just as devious as the fuckers on Earth, he reminded himself, as he caught sight of an alien habitation. It looked like an earthen hovel, one of the stupid homes designed by freaks who wanted to get closer to nature. The marines had explored two of them, then ruled the remainder off limits after a dozen jarheads had been killed in an explosion. We can't take anything for granted here.

  He tensed as he heard something moving in the shadows, then relaxed - slightly - as he saw the bird. The local animals didn't seem to be particularly scared of humans, although that might be because the humans didn’t shoot at them. A couple of the bat-bird creatures had been shot, in the early stages of the landing, and checked by the medics. They’d warned everyone that the creatures were probably dangerously toxic. The marines had joked that that was true of the rest of the planet too.

  His earpiece buzzed. “Watch your backs,” a voice said. “The enemy may be advancing.”

  Charles resisted the urge to sneer as he glanced towards the darkened trees and fields. The enemy knew how to sneak around, just like any other reasonably modern combat force. He’d had basic caution hammered into his head at Boot Camp. An enemy that controlled the high orbitals could see a hell of a lot ... and what they could see, they could kill. Hardly anyone realised just how sophisticated the military’s sensors had become over the last two hundred years. And yet, they still needed boots on the ground to actually win a fight ...

  Something moved, in the darkness. Something too big to be natural ...

  He toggled his mouthpiece. “Control, I have movement,” he subvocalised, as he ducked low and motioned for his men to do the same. The enemy should have shown up on his goggles, but humans had been inventing ways to fool them for centuries. “I have ...”

  The Foxes opened fire. Charles hit the deck, firing a burst in their general direction to force them to keep their heads down. His men dropped with him, one clearly wounded. His comrade slapped a medical patch on the wound, then covered him as best as he could. There was no hope of getting a proper medic out here, not so far from the front line. Charles searched for targets, trying to find the enemy in the shadows. Bullets were cracking over his head ...

  “Control, I have contact,” he said. He peered into the darkness, but the enemy refused to show his face. “Enemy contact ...”

  Something crashed down beside him. Alarm ran through him as he realised it was a grenade, an alien grenade. There was nothing to hide behind, nowhere to take cover ... he reached for the grenade, hoping to toss it away, but it was too late. The grenade exploded ...

  ... Someone was shouting; no, screaming. It dawned on him, somehow, that it was his voice screaming. He was in pain, immense pain. His entire body seemed to be on fire. And yet ... and yet he felt almost as if he was detached from it, as if it was happening to someone else ...

  ... And then the darkness reached up and swallowed him.

  ***

  “Got contact reports all along the line,” the operator reported. “Our patrols have been driven back or caught.”

  Or killed, General Ross translated silently.

  He felt a flicker of guilt, but ruthlessly suppressed it. He’d put out the patrols, knowing there was a very real risk of losing them. But he needed as much warning as he could get before the Foxes launched their main offensive. His men were rushing to defensive positions, reinforcing the line ...

  “General,” another operator snapped. “We just lost three of the orbital platforms!”

  General Ross swung around. “God damn it - how?”

  “I think they slammed stealth missiles into the platforms,” the operator said. “Three of them are gone. The fourth may be taken out at any moment”

  “Shit,” Ross said.

  He took a breath. They’d planned and trained on the assumption the platforms would be taken out, but ... but they’d grown far too used to having orbital support on call. Who needed bombers or long-range artillery when one could call KEWs down from orbit? No one cared much for collateral damage these days. Only one platform meant that they couldn't hope to cope with all the problems coming their way ...

  “Order the fourth platform to be held in reserve,” he said. “It is to be used only if there is no other choice.”

  And if it lasts long enough to help, he added, silently.

  ***

  “Incoming fire,” Sergeant Tosco snapped. “Get down and stay down!”

  George ducked into the trench, silently cursing the rain as the first shells whistled through the air. Dozens - hundreds - were picked off by ground-based defences, but there were so many of them that a number were certain to get through. The trench wasn't that bad, she knew, yet the rain had pooled at the bottom. It soaked through her uniform as she heard the sound of explosions echoing through the air, the ground shaking moments later as a handful of survivors crashed down. She was grimly aware, all of a sudden, that a shell landing directly on the trench would be fatal. There was no way any of them would know they’d been hit before they died.

  Mud and water trickled down into the trench as the firing intensified. She rolled over, despite her sodden kit, and peered upwards, spotting flashes and flares of light in the sky. The platforms had been hit, according to a very brief update. Her terminal wasn't useless, but she couldn't call on fire support unless they were in deep shit. And yet, as she felt the ground shuddering beneath her, she couldn't help thinking that they were already in deep shit.

  Probably literally, she thought. What’s going to happen if one of the latrines breaks its banks?

  It would have disgusted her, once upon a time. Now ... crawling through mud and filth was preferable to being killed.

  “They’re mounting a mass offensive,” her earpiece buzzed. “Tanks are engaging the enemy now.”

  George tensed as she heard engines, the sound rumbling through the air. She’d met a few of the tankers, when she’d been carrying messages for Major Andres. The Royal Marines had sneered at them, yet there had also been a hint of respect too. George didn’t pretend to understand it, but she knew the tankers - British, American, Chinese - were good. Maybe, just maybe, they could stop the enemy tanks from reaching the spacehead.

  And if they can't, she told herself, we’re all in the shit.

  ***

  “The tanks are engaging the enemy,” the operator reported. “They seem to be evenly matched.”

  General Ross nodded. He’d been worried about that - fast-moving tank battles had been a thing of the past for over a century - but his men seemed to be holding their own. The Foxes hadn't had time to muster more than a few hundred tanks, thankfully. They might feel the battering their
infrastructure had taken constituted cheating, but it might just have saved the spacehead. If the battle in space was won ...

  “Route what fire support we can to ...”

  The shell struck the command tent and exploded. There were no survivors.

  ***

  “Brigadier!”

  Percy cursed, savagely. The real command tent hadn't been marked. It hadn't been enough to save it. The Foxes had scored a lucky hit and taken out General Ross, as well as half the command staff. Percy was the next in line to command, but with the network so badly damaged ...

  “Inform all units that I am assuming command,” he growled. The shelling was intensifying as the Foxes steadily located the point defence systems. A hundred shells to take out one of those vehicles would be a better than even trade, for the enemy. “And get me a status report from the tanks!”

  “Enemy infantry is advancing to support their tanks,” the operator said. “They’re coming at us from all sides.”

  “Order the tanks to pull back,” Percy said. The original plan had gone splat. That much was obvious. He didn't know if he had time to fix the situation before the battle came to a sharp end. “And order our infantry to cover their retreat.”

  He forced himself to think as the command network rebuilt itself. There was no longer any point in trying to hold back a large force in reserve, even though he knew he’d need it sooner rather than later. The enemy was trying to break through the defences at multiple points at once, making it impossible for him to hold the line for long. He who would be strong everywhere was strong nowhere ... he’d been taught that, back in basic training. And now, as his lines contracted, he was seeing the proof of it right in front of his eyes.

  “Sir, the tanks are retreating under fire,” the operator warned. “But they’re heavily damaged.”

  “Get them reorganised as soon as they’re through the inner lines,” Percy ordered. The original formations had been shot to hell. “And hope to hell they can work together.”

  ***

  “Get up,” Sergeant Tosco roared. “Fix bayonets!”

  You must be fucking joking, George thought, as she rolled over and stood. Water dripped down her legs and pooled in her boots. When did we last fight hand-to-hand?

  She snapped her bayonet into place as the marines hurried forward to take up their position in the lines. There were meant to be two other lines before them, but it was clear - as the sound of battle grew louder - that the enemy had overrun them. She caught sight of a smoking tank slowly inching back through the lines ... it seemed to be alone. There were no other tankers heading back to the spacehead. She hoped that they’d found other lines through the trenches, but she feared they hadn’t ...

  “Here they come,” Sergeant Tosco shouted. “Fire at will!”

  Sammy stuck up a hand. “Which one of the bastards is Will?”

  George giggled, feeling some of the tension dissipate as laughter rippled up and down the trench. Poor joke or not - it was an incredibly lame pun - it had made everyone smile, despite the constant barrage of shellfire. And yet, as she peered over the trench towards the enemy positions, half-hidden in smoke, she couldn't help feeling cold. There was some room behind them, some empty trenches that were probably being manned even now, but there wasn't much beyond them. If the trenches broke at any point, the spacehead was on the brink of destruction.

  A hand fell on her shoulder. She jumped.

  “Get your terminal ready,” Sergeant Tosco ordered. His voice was very cold. “We may need it.”

  We will need it, George thought, as she pulled the terminal off her belt and linked into what was left of the fire control network. The sheer speed with which the terminal linked to the network confirmed that very few FACs were still alive and active. They’re coming at us out of the smoke. We won’t even see them until it’s too late.

  The ground shook, time and time again, as more shells crashed down behind them. George couldn't help feeling that was ominous, even though she wasn't in immediate danger. The enemy commanders wouldn't want to shell their own men, would they? They’d certainly prefer to keep any prospective human reinforcements keeping their heads down, well away from the trenches. And ... she winced as she saw a number of marines carrying antitank weapons and positioning them on the edge of the trench. Were they going to be needed?

  “Here they come,” a voice shouted. “Fire!”

  George shuddered as the aliens came out of the smoke, running forward and firing short bursts towards the human positions. She couldn't help thinking they were crazy, even as they zigzagged from side to side to avoid human shots. And yet ... a machine gun opened fire, its loud chatter-chatter echoing over the battlefield. A dozen aliens collapsed, hacked into bloody chunks by the hail of bullets; the remainder dropped, then started to crawl forward, tossing grenades ahead of them as they moved. The marines threw grenades back, firing shots of their own into the advancing enemy troops ...

  “Tanks,” Sammy shouted. “Tanks!”

  Three enemy tanks appeared, racing forward with terrifying speed. Their main guns fired, blasting shells into the distance; their smaller machine guns fired long bursts of death into the trench. George threw herself down, hugging the mud as the antitank weapons opened fire, launching three missiles into the enemy vehicles. Moments later, she heard thunderous explosions ...

  A boot connected with her bottom. “Get up,” Sergeant Tosco snapped. He caught her by the back of the neck and hauled her up until she was on her hands and knees. “Get to the next trench!”

  George hesitated, feeling too shaken to move. He kicked her again, harder this time. George somehow found the strength to rise and crawl to their escape line, just as more missiles and shellfire echoed over her head. The gunners were practically dropping shells on their own trenches, just to keep the enemy back for a few more seconds. She caught a glimpse of a line of advancing enemy soldiers, wiped out in a second, then turned her head away. The remainder of the marines followed her into the next trench ...

  She shivered. How many familiar faces were missing? How many marines were dead?

  The noise - impossibly - grew louder as the enemy forces continued their offensive. George took up a position behind a prefabricated barrier, sniping at the enemy soldiers. The aliens seemed intent on keeping up the pressure, even as they climbed over their dead comrades to continue the attack. Five more tanks appeared, followed by a vehicle that had to be some sort of armoured troop carrier. All five tanks were taken out within seconds, but not before one of them had managed to land a shell further down the trench. A chain reaction of explosions blew a colossal hole in the defences, just waiting for the enemy to charge through it. The force of the impact threw her to her knees ...

  George stumbled up and continued to fire until her rifle clicked empty. She hastily removed the magazine and searched for a new one, only to discover that she’d used them all without even realising. She turned, hoping to cadge a full magazine off Sergeant Tosco or one of the others, only to discover that they were wounded or dead. For a moment, her mind refused to believe what she was seeing. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could kill the sergeant. He’d been the toughest man she’d ever met; now, blood was leaking from a head wound. She hoped, as she scooped up his rifle, that it had been immediately fatal. A quick death was the best he could hope for ...

  She turned ... and froze. The enemy was taking full advantage of the devastation. An entire line of infantry, backed up by tanks, was pushing through the gap, far too close to her for comfort. Her fingers tightened on the rifle, but she knew it was futile. There were too many of them for her to kill. Numbly, she reached for the terminal and keyed her command code into the system, then added a second code. It wasn't one she’d used before, outside simulations.

  Danger Close, she thought.

  There was little hope of escape, perhaps none. Calling a strike down on her own position was an act of desperation. The impact would devastate the remainder of the nearby trenches and kill any s
urvivors, if there were any left. She didn't want to do it, but ... the situation was desperate.

  She braced herself, then sent the order. The terminal bleeped once as the countdown began.

  The aliens kept swarming forward, three of them plunging over the barrier and spinning around to face her. George stared back at them, fighting a very primal urge to turn and run as they showed their teeth. It was a challenge, she knew, a challenge she couldn't answer. She allowed her rifle to drop to the ground, knowing there was no point in trying to fight. They expected her to surrender. They thought she was going to surrender ... she wondered, suddenly, what else they would expect from her. Had they realised, yet, that humans didn't play by the same rules?

  “Go to hell,” she told them.

  The world went white, then faded away.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “They’re taking out the missiles,” Jean warned. “But some are bound to get through.”